For My Mom

I mentioned this on my Facebook status today, but today is the 10 year anniversary since the passing of my mom.  She was an incredible woman.  I have many fond memories of her.  It's really hard to believe that it's already been a decade.  At this rate, I guess it won't feel so long before I can talk to her again.

Back home in California, I'd take some time today to go down to Laurel Cemetery to visit her.  But the last two years I've been in Idaho, so I've had to find other ways to commemorate the day.  This year, I thought I'd record a song for my lovely mother.  I figured you might like to hear the end result.

So I've linked this to a Google Document.  Hopefully you guys won't have any problems opening it.  When you reach the page, in the top left corner, there's a down arrow icon - you can use that to download the file.  It should run in any major audio player (Windows Media Player, iTunes, Quicktime Player, etc.).  If not, send me a message or something.  I'll see about helping you out.

Enjoy!

https://drive.google.com/file/d/0B1UWix0l4yxneGpQLXlOOTFBYzQ/edit?usp=sharing

A LONG overdue short story

Hi everyone!

Well, it's definitely been a while since my last post.  I've been distracted of late.  Nevertheless!  I bring something extra special today!

So a few months ago (near the end of 2013), some roommates, friends and I had a boring night, and we decided to do what we called "flash fiction".  This basically meant that we would write a work of fiction with a certain time or length restraint on ourselves.  For some, we had to sum up a fictional situation in just three sentences.  In others, we had ten minutes to write our story.

At any rate, I was not very good at it.  I tended to take too long.  When I decide to write, I can't really just sum up a story; my natural tendency is to be as detailed as I can.  This was my bane for the first flash fiction we did.  The time limit was 20 minutes;  I took the entire time writing three purely descriptive paragraphs.  But I liked what I had written, and so I endeavored over the next few months to finish writing what I had started.

Today, friends, you get the finished product.

Enjoy.

---------------------------

THE FAR END

A Short story by

Caleb Sorensen

For my siblings:  Craben, Caridad and G.  It’s your fault I like writing.

            The rain was coming down in droves.  The clouds were menacingly dark, their edges hazy as they pummeled the earth below with drops the size of bullets.  The asphalt shimmered under a film of water, appearing to all the world like a great, black river.  The shops lining the sides of the street were closing down, and people rushed from their doors; some stopped to open umbrellas, others pulled their raincoats tighter around them.  The weather had held this pattern all day, and now it was time for the working man to make his way home.

            One of these was a young man, no older than 21.  He wore a too-large dress shirt, a slightly faded navy-blue coat, and a striped, brown tie with the knot loosened from around his neck.  His shoulder-length brown hair hung down in his face, thoroughly soaked by the downpour falling on the streets of St. Abagail’s.  He jogged at a lively pace through the rain toward the nearby subway station.  Quickly descending the stairs, he shook his hair out, grateful to be out of the cold rain, if only for a few minutes.  He made his way more deliberately over to the southbound platform.

            The Red Street station was much the same today as it ever was (and he frequented this particular stop regularly).  It was a smaller station, not as large as Main Street, or Blackman’s Crossing; but despite this it was nonetheless longer than its wider neighbors.  Graffiti covered the walls, plastering them in reds, greens, and oranges, depicting unusual names and the occasional vulgar image.  The station was not particularly well-kept; litter was strewn about, especially near the corners and on the tracks themselves.  Red Street station never suffered from heavy traffic, and thus the maintenance crew apparently did not find it expedient to pick up the garbage left by those who boarded there.

            The station had only two platforms: one that ran south, and one that ran north.  The total length of the platforms was, as previously observed, impressive for so small a stop; it ran nearly 400 feet from one end to the other.  The stairs from the street were situated at the north end; the south end of the platform, 400 feet away, was always obscured, as the lights about halfway down had long since ceased to function.  It left a dark curtain that shrouded what lay at the far end of the platform.

            The young man approached his platform, and checked his watch.  He sighed and rolled his eyes; his train had departed 3 minutes ago, and wouldn’t come again for another half hour.  Briefly he considered walking home instead, but quickly dismissed the idea; it would take longer to walk home than it would to wait for the next train, and besides, he was exhausted after what had seemed a never-ending day of school and work.  Resigning himself to the wait, he stood alone on the platform.

            A few moments passed, and boredom began to set in, slowly gnawing away at his patience.  The young man began to look at the same surroundings he had seen a million times, all the while knowing that his search would yield nothing new.  His eyes wandered, eventually settling on the deep darkness toward the south end of the platform.  He had only once ventured into those shadows.  It had been a day like this, cold and overcast; that day he had also been alone, and his curiosity had overpowered him.  He had only wanted to see what lay in the blackness, to find something new in an environment he knew thoroughly.  But there is something foreboding about the dark; it stirs fear and alarm in the heart, especially when that dark is unfamiliar.  And so it was with his single foray into that darkness; he had felt the hair rise on the back of his neck, and the shadows had turned from intriguing mysteries to sinister fiends flitting just out view, flanking him, pressing in around him on every side.

            The young man shifted uncomfortably.  It was silly, but the memory was an unsettling one; he wasn’t afraid to board at Red Street station, but he preferred to stay on the comfortable, dimly lit side of the platform.  He glanced at his watch again – 21 minutes.  He cast one last uneasy glance at the far end of the platform.

            He was no longer alone.

            He blinked hard, did a double take.  He couldn’t explain how he knew – he could barely see into the veil of blackness obscuring the far side – but he perceived that someone was standing on the south end of the platform now.  He shook his head, looked back toward the stairs, and slowly turned toward the south end again; silently, he prayed that it had only been a trick of the mind, that stirring up that old memory had given his discomfort temporary form.  He was disappointed.  The far end was still occupied, and the being present there was no longer still.  Squinting to see more clearly, the young man’s head jerked back toward the tracks before him with a start, as he saw two pinpricks of light; the one on the far side had caught him staring, had turned to look at him.

            He fought to keep down a growing feeling of dread.  It was nothing, he thought.  It was just someone else waiting for the train. 

But wait all the way over there?  Maybe he got bored with the waiting. 

Why not stay where it was lit?  Maybe the light hurt his eyes. 

But why hadn’t I noticed him before?  He got here before you, naturally. 

But he didn’t board the train you just missed? ... 

He had no reply for this last thought.  His unease was growing, even as he fought to keep it suppressed.  Was the other still watching, peering at him through the shadows?  He did not dare to look again, but he knew he must chance it.

            Warily, moving his head as little as possible, the young man looked up again.  The pinpricks of light were still there, the stranger’s eyes reflecting the dim light on his end of the platform. He looked down at the ground again.  The one in the dark had not stopped watching him.  The young man could almost feel eyes searching him, probing him.  He felt a chill run down his spine, and he shuddered involuntarily.  He took a few deep breaths, trying desperately to calm himself.  After a moment, he felt himself calming down a bit.  He had overreacted.  It was nothing; the stranger on the far side had simply wanted a good look at him.  He felt foolish for having let his irrational thoughts get the better of him.

            Tap…tap…tap…

            The dull sound instantly ripped the young man from his peaceful reverie.  His breath caught in his throat; his eyes automatically darted toward the darkness.  Those eyes, reflecting the dim light, were still there… but were they closer?  He couldn’t really tell; at best it had been only a few steps, but the sound was unmistakable: footfalls on concrete.  The one on the far side was approaching.

            His discomfort surged up from his gut again, this time filling him completely.  He had to keep calm.  He tried the slow breathing again, but each breath sounded shallow and weak.  It only made him more uneasy; he did not like the feeling of lacking control over something as simple as breathing.

            Tap…tap…tap…tap…tap…

            Footfalls again.  As the young man watched, there was no doubt anymore:  the tiny dots of illumination swayed slightly in the blackness, ever fixed upon him.  The other was moving slowly, deliberately, as if there was all the time in the world.  The young man tried to swallow the growing lump in his throat; his breathing was becoming too loud, far too loud.  Now he wanted only to look away, to forget the approach of the one in the dark.  He hastily twisted his wrist out of his coat sleeve, glancing down at the face of his watch.  8 minutes ‘til the train came. 

            Tap…tap…tap…tap…

            This time he twisted his whole head toward the sound.  The other’s pace had not quickened at all.  Yet still he drew closer.  Why?  Why this deliberate, gut-wrenching approach?  Did the one in the dark, the one with the dimly lit eyes know that each ponderous step made the young man choke on his own breath?  Could the one from the far end sense his dread, feel it radiate from him like heat from a furnace?  With each consistent step, the young man felt his heart rate spiking.  He had to leave, he had to go.  But he felt his courage slip away from him; his feet stood fixed like nails to the ground.  His own legs would not rescue him.

            And still the tapping continued.

            The young man’s mind was frantic now.  Blasted train!  Where was it?!  His eyes tore to his watch again, and again.  Had the hands stopped moving?  How could there still be 3 minutes?  He knew – the horrid pit in his stomach told him so – that that was time he did not have.  Not enough…not enough to evade the terrible, unfaltering approach of the one from the far side!

            He had not forgotten the footfalls, for now each step echoed in his ears like tolling iron bells, so loud to him that not even his ragged breathing could drown them out.  He could see the other taking a form more definite, more substantial.  Still only a being of shadows, but a being nonetheless.  The young man finally managed a staggering step backward, toward the stairs.  The illuminated eyes, still fixed on him!  Too close now!  Those lights!  Those lights! ...

            And then they were there, approaching on a sound like rushing air: headlights, the bright eyes of the train.  Slowly the doors slid open; nobody exited.  The young man, as if released from some terrible grip, leaped through the nearest portal.  Now he was under bright lights.  Now he was surrounded by people; people he did not know, but somehow, they were not strangers to him.  A brief moment passed, and then the doors slid closed again, shielding him from the platform, boxing him safely inside the passenger car.  Taking a few deep breaths, he pulled himself over to a nearby vacant seat, against the wall that faced the platform he had just left behind.  Resignedly, wearily, he threw himself into it.

            He only vaguely registered his nearest neighbor’s voice, inquiring if he was feeling well.  The train began to move, slowly at first, but gradually picked up speed.  The young man gave one last hesitant glance out the window at the Red Street station.  Were those pinpricks of light he perceived in the dark of the southbound platform, just beyond the reach of the dim lights?

            He exhaled deeply.  No matter.  It was behind him now.

            Still, as he sat slumped in his chair, head back, eyes fixed on the ceiling now, he couldn’t help but think that maybe walking home from Red Street from now on would do him some good.

------------------------------

Happy Valentines Day to Everyone!

It's February the 14th once again.  Valentines Day.

Historically, I tended to refer to today as "Single Awareness Day".  I never meant it in a sour or wistful sort of way.  I didn't really do any dating in high school (I'm still not exactly great at it); but I must confess, some of the displays of Valentines affection you see on a high school campus are absolutely nauseating.  With that in mind, I chose to celebrate the day my own way - in celebration of my being single.  And so I carried out the February 14's of my adolescence.

And I find myself in the same scenario this year.  Not much has changed.  I'm older, in a new home, and I have done more dating than...well, none.  Once again, Valentine's Day is just another day for me.  I'm not complaining.  I hope it doesn't sound that way.  I'm not bummed or anything - this year, I just didn't find someone I wanted to share my Valentines Day with.  So life will go on, and the search for next year begins.

I've found it interesting that there are so many who are embittered today.  Those who find themselves single today often react by moping and making their pitiful plight known to anyone who will listen.  Some poke fun at the holiday itself, or at those who DO happen to be celebrating it with a significant other.

Normally I wouldn't care.  But as the day has approached, and I've watched my four roommates and my closest friends prepare special somethings for those who they're celebrating with, I've gotten to see how Valentines Day (while often a commercial whore of a holiday) is, at its core, a day to celebrate finding happiness.  Finding it through someone special is what we tend to celebrate today; but I'm convinced that those who are single like me don't have to take today as a day to remember that they're alone this year, or that they haven't found someone to shower with gifts, or to wonder if there's something wrong with them.  Today can be a happy day for the single folks, too.  Look at the good things you have.  Think of the friends and family you do have good relationships with.

So, I will no longer be referring to February 14 as "Single Awareness Day".  Nobody needs to be made aware of their single status today.  Chances are they already know (hopefully...).  Valentines Day is a good enough name.  After all, surely something in your life makes you happy, no matter how you're spending the day.

So to everyone, paired up or single:  Happy Valentines Day!

(And to the single folks: hang in there guys.  We've always got next year.)

Moments

Tali and EDI climb off of the shuttle and stand next to Commander Shepard.  It's quiet.  The land surrounding them is desert, all red rock formations and sparse, spiny plants.  The environment is similar to Joshua Tree National Park, in southern California.  As they begin the walk toward their objective, Tali stops for a moment.  She gets on one knee, reaches out her hand, and touches the soil beneath her.  The dawn is just breaking over the rocks, bathing the environment in warm light.  She is quiet; only a peaceful, ethereal series of notes can be heard behind the scene.  Just for one silent moment.

Some of you are familiar with Mass Effect, I'm sure.  This is a scene from the third one.  Tali is one of the first of her race to stand on the Quarian homeworld, Rannoc, in over 300 years.  Her people have dreamed about the simple experience of touching that soil for centuries.  There are a thousand different things the writers, director, and animators could have done in that scene.  A speech could have been given.  An exultant cry could have been scripted.  But the writer chose a moment of silence.  A moment for the audience to consider just how important this moment is within the scope of the game, how important it is to Tali as a character.

A perfect, beautiful moment.

As a race, particularly in the realm of the arts, we strive to create moments.  Moments like the one I just described:  just a brief few seconds where the audience internalizes something beautiful or insightful.  It's why we pause when we look at Van Gogh's "Starry Night".  It's why we have the scene where Luke sees his own face behind Vader's mask in the cave on Dagobah.  It's why The Return of the King ends with a line as simple as, "Well, I'm back."  All of these moments are meant to create a chance for the audience to consider.  What we consider in that brief span of time is different for each of us.  Some consider what it means within the plot; others take that chance to simply feel, emotionally, the scene; others draw a meaning to the real world, to their own lives.  But we all feel something; the moment touches us on a personal level.

I went and saw The Secret Life of Walter Mitty today (excellent film, by the way).  At the very end of the movie (no spoilers, don't worry), I had one of these moments.  And in that few seconds, I considered what I personally took away from the film.  I can only poorly describe what I felt.  But in that moment, I thought about how important it is to create those moments for ourselves - not just on a page, or on the big screen, but in our own lives.

It's been said that a life is made up of many moments - but it wasn't until tonight that I really considered what that meant to me.

Happy Haunting and Merry Maliciousness!

October 31st, historically, marks my favorite day of the year.  Words cannot describe how much I love Halloween.  The various histories of the holiday (according to different cultures), jack-o-lanterns, late nights splurging on candy, and the costumes.  The costumes!  Without a doubt, my favorite part of All Hallows' Eve is the costumes.  I love making them (alas, I was unable to do anything terribly creative this year...) and seeing what others come up with.  It's an awesome holiday.

Tonight, however, is not as wonderful as Halloweens of the past.

Why?  I came down with a sore throat on Monday, and it just wouldn't go away.  It led, on Wednesday, to my voice going out on me (just in time for a Battle of the Bands audition...oi vey...); and today I now suffer a mighty and persistent head cold.  Suck.

There's something magical about a sickness as simple as a cold.  It didn't seem very intimidating when I woke up this morning.  But gradually, it sapped my strength as I loaded boxes onto a conveyor belt at work, leaving me absolutely and completely exhausted after a relatively easy 4-hour shift.  Once it had me weak, it caused me to ooze from every orifice in my face, which in turn made me cough and sneeze in sudden, explosive fits every 20 minutes or so.  The sniffling still hasn't ended, and as a consequence, I now enjoy the lovely company of a friend I call Angel Soft.  There was a ward Halloween party, but I didn't know anyone, and it was stuffy.  If you don't know me very well, suffice it so say that I don't really enjoy large social functions.  Just not my cup of tea.

...Under normal circumstances, I'd pretty much write tonight off as time not really enjoyed.

But you know what?  There are 4 pint-sized Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles in my living room, being led around my my older brother (sporting a sweet Casey Jones costume), and his wife (pulling off a great April O'Neil); and they're laughing and enjoying this night of vampires, mummies, ghouls and all that other fun, spooky, thrilling stuff.  Not much that could ruin my night now.

Happy Halloween, everyone.

One Morning in Rexburg...

An interesting thing happened to me on Saturday:  for the first time in about 4 weeks, I picked up my guitar and played it.  Nothing really special or unusual about that, perhaps.  But I had that feeling that morning when I woke up - I just felt like I should mess around on the ol' six-string.

It felt good.  I always feel good when I pick up and strum out a few songs - something about it is relaxing and fun.  The effect is magnified when I haven't played for a while.  You can imagine how euphoric it was when I got home from my mission, after 2 years of playing almost no guitar.  To a lesser degree that's how I felt Saturday.

I started playing guitar when I was 12 years old.  My family and I were visiting the home of my oldest sister and her husband, Sean.  Most of us were sick as dogs that week, so we were all bumming around their house, finding ways to amuse ourselves in between the horrible puking sessions.  It was a day or two into this that I saw Sean's guitar.  Just a simple acoustic, but it caught my attention; so I dinked around with it a bit.  Sean saw me messing with it, and he offered to show me how this cool instrument was played.  Being a young boy who had a habit of listening to Boston's Greatest Hits and wishing he could rock like that, I readily accepted.  And that's where a deep-rooted passion began for me.  I don't know that I've ever properly thanked Sean for that.  He gave me something priceless that day.

A couple years later, I eventually got a guitar of my own, and I practiced tirelessly.  Which, for me, is incredible.  I'm not the kind of guy that applies himself to rigorous, daily training in..well, almost anything.  I'm generally pretty content to get by being okay at things on minimal effort.  But something drove me in learning to play the guitar.  The better I got, the more I enjoyed it.

Eventually, I got to put my skills to work.  My younger brother, two friends and I started a rock band together.  We practiced a lot, played a few shows.  It was during that time that I began songwriting.  I... well, I've never considered myself a poetic person.  I feel like I slip over my words constantly.  I have trouble expressing myself to others.  But I found I could do that in songwriting.  It was...quite a release, actually.  It's hard work, definitely.  But I rarely feel as accomplished as I do after I finish a song that I have labored over and struggled with for days upon days.  Those days in the band, writing music and just enjoying the whole experience of "music making" are some of the fondest memories I have in my life.

So why did this all come back to me on a Satuday morning while I played guitar (a bit rustily, I might add)?  My bandmate Pace and his wife April moved up to Rexburg that day.  I didn't actually remember that when I picked up that guitar.  But apparently, my subconscious decided I should properly celebrate the occasion.  That Saturday, my mind, my hands, and a six-string had something to sing about.

Oh...and Sean:  thank you.

A little poem

I wrote a poem today.  I thought you might enjoy it.

Friends, Perhaps?

I've seen you a few times

I imagine you've seen me

It seems that when were both around

We're in close proximity

I've checked you out a few times

I know - it's weird, but true

I've wondered if a friendship

Could occur for me and you

But usually I decide,

"No, maybe not today."

And I separate myself from you

And go along my way

Now, normally it's not too bad

My life still goes just fine

But still the feeling nags at me

To approach you sometime

So today I reached deep inside

To do what I have feared

And chose to try things out with you

So - can we be friends now, beard?