The Feelings that Linger Past the Beeping

The climb to the top of the sand dune is arduous. But we know, all Rudds know, all Michiganders know, that sand dunes are always worth the payoff.

Past all the sweaty exhertion. Past corralling small children to keep trecking up the narrow wooden stairs or through the hot sand. Through the sparse trees that form a small woods just before the ridge of the sand dune. After carrying this Igloo Cooler with both hands, awkwardly bumping against your thighs with every step up. Past all the strained attempts at conversation with your parents who haven't come to the beach with you in years, but feel chatty today, now because they have.

We crest the dune and the payoff is there. Lake Michigan spreads as wide and beautiful as it always is. It is just this beautiful no matter when we return to it. Even if we visit when we're awake.

And my dad had just begun to spread out our old wool picnic blankets here at the top of the dune and the kids were already digging in the sand when we noticed a crowd reaction. First far away, and then, immediately, all around us. People were screaming and pointing. Classic crowd panic.

We followed their pointing and gazing conversation. My parents pointed out that policemen were ushering people back down the dune toward the parking lot. Policemen and lifeguards. Lynn gathered Jaelyn and Addison together. Ready.

"Oh look," I pointed out, relieved, "it's a tornado."

Tornados. I have seen countless tornados like this one barrelling toward me and sometimes large groups of people. I know that we have plenty of time to slide down the dune and duck. I start to point out the beauty and grandeur of the swirling clouds to Jaelyn and Addison. I want them to love and embrace the beautiful violent parts of nature.

But before I can explain to them about the tornado I look again. The crowd hysteria around us is worse. It's not a tornado.

It'a a fleet of foreign bombers flying directly toward us just above the coast below. At any moment they may start dropping their bombs.

I change my demeanor toward my children. I stoop down to prepare them for running and bombs and maybe death, but always love. I know that I need to be gentle as i explain this to them. But also clear and fast. They should feel more love than fear when this is all over, I purpose as I lean toward them.

The alarm clock goes off. And I wake up violently. I cannot return to the dream to explain to my children what I need to. The ugliness of impending horror lingers as I grind my coffee beans.

Could you write half a novel in nine days?

The dramatic stakes around the writing of this novel are rising. Rising stakes are good right? For Dramatic Tension. For Character Development.

here's an unrevised snippet:

I boiled water in a dingy large pan and added boxed macaroni noodles to the boiling bubbles. Two boxes even though there probably wouldn’t be enough water to boil them all well. I sat on the edge of Dee’s cot and rubbed her back. She was chanting into her pillow: She has to come back, she has to come back, she has to come back. There’s something about hearing magical spells repeated – no matter how non-proficient the magic -- that starts to work on the non-believer. For a moment as I listened to the mechanical repetition, I started to believe that there may just be an incantational power in the rhythm or belief of her words. And though, I still hadn’t given much thought to how I was feeling about Kathleen’s departure (she had, after all, left quite a bit of chaos in her wake), I was quite certain that, were she to return by magic, then there would be no question about how happily I would welcome her. After all, at that point, Dee would finally stop sobbing. Brian might, finally, open the covers of his bed which he had been hiding beneath since I crept up the stairs, and frankly, I was beginning to wonder how long it could possibly be until he had used up the residual oxygen under all that cotton and fiber. so you can see why I had an investment in believing in the magical power of in Dee's chant.

It may be hard to imagine that a grown man, dependable, stable, with occasional moments of wisdom could give himself over to the delusion that the incantation of an eight year old could transport his wife across time and space back to their presence. And all those years of responsibility, stability and careful consideration did tether me back just slightly from full-on-delusion. On the other hand, the delusion seemed magical and the perfect diversion, from an otherwise not-so-perfect set of circumstances

Can you breathe, Brian? I called across the big sleeping room. The mountain of covers shifted slightly.

She has to come back. She has to come back. She has to come back. And possibly it was the annoying whiny tone of the creed, sobbed repeatedly into a pillow, which may have motivated my participation in Dee’s fantasy. Whatever the rationale, I did start to believe, along with my daughter that Kathleen might actually re-appear. When characters in books and stories and movies were summoned by magic, they most often appeared with a (nicely dramatic) puff of smoke. I felt just slightly miffed that Kathleen’s puff of smoke started out so incredibly slowly. It was a gentle burning scent in the nostrils didn’t have any of the majesty that puffs of smoke and magical returns were supposed to have.

Actually, it was the macaroni burning downstairs.

22,000 / 50,000 words.

9 days remaining.

tick. tick. tick.