Meghan: Cows

“God damned hippies.” The chubby Farm manager spat, “You aren’t a hippy are you?”
“No sir.” I replied curtly, trying my best to look as if I hated the earth, “Can’t stand them.”
He brightened as if I had just blessed his firstborn, “Well, I see you come highly recommended Ms…Deina?”
I could feel his eyes probing me for some hint as to my name-story, but I kept my face carefully blank. If he wanted to know, he could ask, rude as the question was.
He made a harrumphing noise deep in his chest and folded the papers he had been reading. If he could read. No one really knew.
“You’ll start work tomorrow.” He said, “Be here at 5am sharp, the cows get angry if they have to wait.”
“Of course.” I said, smiling brightly while inside my head I was stabbing his chubby gut with scissors, “I’ll be here.”

5am really is too early. I shuddered in the morning chill and trudged towards the barns. A wiry, strangely awake Farming assistant fell in step next to me and began chattering about the duties that I was to fulfill on the Farm. Every once in a while I nodded but was mostly focusing on becoming more awake myself.
“The cows are housed in here.” He said, patting one of the barns that lined a quarter of the Farm. I bristled internally at his language, but had heard the slang so much since my arrival that I was starting to get used to it. Perish the thought.
Clueless to my internal turmoil, he continued on, “Since you’ll be mostly working with them, the Boss said to take you for a look around.”
I rolled my bottom lip between my teeth, daunted at the prospect of seeing the ‘cows’ for the first time with this skinny assistant ready to report every misstep to his boss man.
“I’d like to see them for the first time alone.” I said in what I hoped was a commanding tone.
“Well, I don’t know if—“
“Of the two of us, which has been hired for this job? If you have a degree in cows (I spat the word angrily) I’d like to see it.”
He looked like he might cry and I felt bad, but quickly crushed the bad feelings before they could weaken my bitchy tirade.
I sighed, “If I bring other people in with me it’s going to make them skittish. I can’t do my job if they’re skittish.”
“Of course, I’m sorry go right in.”
Twinges of guilt
Stop that
I took a deep breath and pushed open the barn doors.

The room was dark and musty and smelled strongly of hay and horse manure. I stepped forward cautiously into the gloom, wincing slightly as dim lights flicked on to illuminate the room. I walked slowly forward, trying not to startle them, but of course that wasn’t possible. Hooves stamped, nostrils flared, and eyes rolled in rage as yet another person invaded their space. And what a little space it was. I walked down a narrow hallway between two rows of gated wooden pens. Hooves slammed into the wall of a pen on my left and I flinched away from it, suddenly feeling very human and very fragile. More slamming started on the right, then more and more hooves over and over. I covered my ears against the thunder and splintering of wood, screaming for them to stop. But of course that had no effect. So I sucked in a deep breath and screeched out the words that he had taught me. The thundering stopped and the silence that followed was thick with suspicion, rage, and other nasty feelings.
“What did you say?” a deeply bass voice thrummed from one of the pens. I repeated the phrases I had been taught, words slithering and tripping over each other as they were not meant to be pronounced by a human mouth.
“What do you desire?” The voice asked tiredly.
“She is one of them!” a different voice hissed with rage.
“Please—“ I croaked.
“Shut up, human.”
“She knows the words. We must give her what she wants.”
An angry whinny echoed across the high ceiling. I took the silence that followed as permission.
“I’m looking for Eury.”
Another snort, “Why would one of you seek one of us?” I walked over to the stall that the angry voice came from and placed my palms against the wood of its door
“He is mine and I am his.”
I felt air blow through my fingers as he sniffed my palms. A peal of laughter came from the stall and I fell back in surprise.
“I can smell him on you, gods, I never would have thought.” He smothered his laughter to quiet snorts, “He’s in the third section, sixth stall down. And tell him—“
But I never heard what to tell him, because I was running. With every step that pounded against the floor and every row of stalls that I passed my heart pounded harder in my chest. Finally, finally, finally, I was so close. I skidded past his section, grabbing onto the corner of the hall to steady myself before I walked shakily down to the sixth stall. I regarded the door for a moment, not daring to think what I would do if I was wrong again, then rocked forward to lean against the wood.
I rubbed my cheek against the wood for good luck then whispered, “Eury?”
The answering whisper broke my heart.
“Deianira?”
God, how could someone sound so hopeless?
I dug frantically through my purse and came up with a packet of flat metal tools. I took the lock on his door in my hands and pried at it delicately.
“I’ll have you out in a minute.”
“Why did you come for me?” Of all things, he sounded angry.
“Why did I come for you!?” I hissed back, “I’m your lover, I’ll rescue you whether you like it or not.”
“We are a dying race little spitfire.” He said quietly, “You would do better to go live your life without me.”
“Go to hell.” I muttered as I twisted frantically at his lock.
“Soon.” He said wistfully.
The lock clicked open and I swung his door open with such force that it bounced against the wall.
He stood a torso length taller than me, standing on a floor covered with hay and shit; four legs shaking like he’d been standing for days.
I scowled up at him, “If you dare leave me for death I’m going to march down to river Styx and drag your furry ass right back.”
He smiled and I saw a trace of my old Eury flickering in his eyes. He bent down to my height and laid a cheek against my hair
“I have missed you.”
I wrapped my arms around his neck and buried my face in the side of his neck, breathing him in. He braced his hooves and lifted me up so I could wrap my legs around his waist. He whispered words of his native tongue, into my ear. I just held him like I used to, not looking forward to the moment when we both remembered to be reasonable.
“We have to go.” He finally said.
I grinned at the ‘we’, “Yep.”
“But we have to come back.”
I let my head fall on his shoulder again, “Yep.”
I felt his muscles shift under my hands as he breathed in my scent again.
“You smell different.”
“Mmmmhmmm.”
He leaned me back so he could look at my face, “No, I’m serious, what changed? It’s not just your shampoo unless you’re mixing it with some sort of hormone…”
I watched him, innocently blank while the thoughts ticked across his face.
When he finally got it his whole body shuddered, and I clenched my legs even tighter around his waist in case he let me go.
“Y—y—you---you---“
“Yeah that was my reaction too.” I said calmly.
He swung me down to the floor and knelt so he was about my height. After looking into my eyes for permission he slid my shirt up and laid his face against the flat surface of my stomach. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. Once. Twice. Three times.
His eyes flew open and he was spinning me, kissing me all at once.
“When? How?” he asked between kisses.
“Soon after you left. And…the traditional way.” I touched his cheek, “But then all this happened and I wasn’t sure you even wanted children.”
“Of course I do.” He said passionately. Then his eyes flicked to our surroundings and reality sucked back in. “We must leave.”
I nodded and he swung me from his arms to ride on his back. It was considered a mortal offense to ride them like horses, and the rider who tried was often killed, but he was mine and I was his.
We clopped through the maze of pens while I whispered directions in his ear. I pushed open one of the back doors to the barn and was relieved to see the transport van that I had paid dearly for parked close by. The driver would leave in a half hour, taking us with him. But we would be back. And trust me when I say that a woman pregnant with a centaur’s child is not one you want to mess with.



-M

Meghan: Emo

Dear Diary

Mood: Apathetic

My life is spiraling downward
I couldn’t get enough money to go to the Blood Red Romance and Suffocate Me Dry concert
It sucks cause they play some of my favorite songs like “Stab My Heart Because I Love You” and “Rip Apart My Soul” and of course “Stabby Rip Stab Stab” And It doesn’t help that I couldn’t get my hair to do that flippy thing either…Like that guy from that band can do...Some days, ya know...

I’m an emo kid, non-conforming as can be.
You’d be non-conforming too if you looked just like me
I have paint on my nails and makeup on my face
I’m almost emo enough to start shaving my legs
Cause I feel real deep when I'm dressing in drag
I call it freedom of expression, most just call me a fag
'Cause our dudes look like chicks, and our chicks look like dykes
Cause emo is one step below transvestite

Stop my breathing and slit my throat
I must be emo

I don’t jump around when I go to shows
I must be emo

I’m dark and sensitive with low self esteem
The way I dress makes everyday feel like Halloween
I have no real problems but I like to make believe
I stole my sister’s mascara now I’m grounded for a week
Sulking and writing poetry are my hobbies
I can’t get through a hawthorne heights album without sobbing
Girls keep breaking up with me, it’s never any fun
They say they already have a pussy, they don’t need another one.

Stop my breathing and slit my throat
I must be emo

I don’t jump around when I go to shows
I must be emo

Dye in my hair and polish on my toes
I must be emo

I play guitar and write suicide notes
I must be emo

my life is just a black abyss... ya know..it’s so dark. And it’s suffocating me, grabbing a hold of me and tightening its grip, tighter than a pair of my little sisters jeans...which look great on me by the way.

When I get depressed I cut my wrist in every direction
Hearing songs about getting dumped gives me an erection
I write in a live journal and wear thick rimmed glasses
I tell my friends I bleed black and cry during classes
I’m just a bad, cheap imitation of goth
You can read me “Catcher in the Rye” and watch me jack off
I wear skin tight clothes while hating my life
If I said I like girls, I’d only be half right.

I look like I’m dead and dress like a homo
I must be emo

Screw Xbox I play old school Nintendo
I must be emo

I like to whine and hit my parentals
I must be emo

Me and my friends all look like clones
I must be emo

My parents don’t get me ya know
They think I’m gay just because they saw me kiss a guy… Well, a couple guys. But, I mean it’s the 2000’s. Can’t 2…or 4 dudes make out with each other without being gay?
I mean, chicks dig that kind of thing anyways.
I don’t know diary, sometimes I think you are the only one that gets me. You’re my best friend.



I feel like tacos



-M

Sarah: So Frustrated

I'm so frustrated with people not understanding who I am. So upset. I have told them. I really have, but I am still so alone. No one has been where I have been or seen what I have seen and I mean that quite literally. In a world where children grow up in America with similar surroundings and experiences, I traveled around the globe, developed a different view and have thoughts that no one can guess or interpret. People think that I make the actions that I make because of some manner that they have rationalized in their brains with what they know. I don't smoke weed because I don't want to, not because I've passed any judgement on those who have or think that they use it as a crutch to deal with the world. I don't. They could just smoke it to smoke it. I just don't because I don't. This extends beyond simple reasonings. This extends to Simon thinking that I believe in God because my parents do, not because I have seen his miracles around the world and the breath of God in every living thing on the world. This extends to those who believe that I am environmental because I care about recycling and doing right - no rather I've seen the rainforest in Malaysia burnt to the ground for agriculture, for the shit we consume every single day. For the people who think that I cut every detail of what I feel into little pieces, that I worry to much about decisions that they think are normal or "not a big deal," they cannot look at my life through their eyes, because they do not know what its like to have this disorder this depression. Simply separating reality from my mind is difficult, is why I talk so much, is why I'm so open. Being in lock-down emotionally is what fed my sadness without reason. I have come to the conclusion that while a few people can understand, can see me just for who I am, they are not like me. I feel alone. However, I love them more than anyone else who cannot even see me. See me the way that I am, not the way that their littles minds must think that I feel or exist. Thank you for few of you that can see me. I'm sorry that you have a hard time feeling me. I'm different.
And for the rest of you. Just leave me alone. I'm tired of tryting to explain myself to you. Live your life and stop messing with mine. Or if you must try and understand, at least make an honest go of it. Don't just look for what you expect to see. Just look and see.
This is why I'm so incredibly lonely.
I am that different. Deal with it.

Jasmine: My Eyes Hurt

This has been a good weekend.

Friday my aunt, uncle, and I went to the natural history museum to see an Imax or… dinomax about mummification. The film also included lots of general facts about Egypt and the deciphering of the hieroglyphics. The whole film basically served as a reminder of how much I loved Egypt in middle school. It wasn’t the mummies, though dead people definite plus. (Random fact: because New Mexico is so dry sometimes if a person who isn’t overweight dies and isn’t found for a while they mummify. This happens more often whey you die outside but it can happen in your apartment too. That’s how they made the first mummies they just buried them in the sand for a while and nature dried them its when they wanted fancy tombs that they had to come up with a chemical way for drying the bodies.) what I’ve always loved about Egypt were the hieroglyphics, I’m an alphabet freak. Not so good with the languages, but I love symbols and thing standing for sounds and being able to pronounce the sounds…

Saturday… found out about white sands… Jarrod is bad for information, if you can get your information from someone other than Jarrod do it

Saturday night I read outlander. I was already a couple hundred pages into it and by 430 the next morning I was like 850 pages into it and wonder where I could find the next book thinking it probably wasn’t in my parents’ house but almost getting up to look for it. Morpheus is smarter than I am sometimes and I woke up some five hours later still wanting to find the next book. Outlander is a historical fiction novel. Married British woman in 1940s touches a rock in Scotland which takes her back to Scotland in the 1740s. Chaos ensues. Doug’s mom suggested it to Meghan and I some time ago (thank you Eve) and Meghan got it somewhere read it and gave it to me. I love doing that. Reading all night. Reading till staring at the page is physically painful, your eyes are throbbing begging you to turn off the light, and for some reason your body begins to ache, your head is all sluggish and because of the pain in your eyes you start to get a headache. Sometimes you fall asleep reading wake up a few hours later book still in hand, hopefully still open to the right page. Other times you can force yourself to keep going like I did last night.

Sunday… I got up too early… my head still hurts from reading into this morning. But after getting back to my apartment I made some awesome spaghetti sauce and some garlic bread. I took a four hour bath and reread The Thief while I was at it. I have discovered a trick to reading in the tub. You need to not care about the book. I’ve never dropped one but the pages wrinkle sometimes the cover gets water spots and begins to curl away from the book. And now I sit here typing this with some hot chocolate in a mug.

This post wasn’t a story, it wasn’t my position on some idea like love or political assassination, it was just a little slice of life thing… cause we haven’t posted in a while. This is only the fourth post for February. Doug, Meghan, you’ve both posted this month good job. Sarah, you can easily post your writings on this blog as well as your own… in fact I will start posting them for you if you don’t. Abe… no idea what’s happened to you, no time? I don’t care this took me 20 minutes or so… glare.

(Another random fact: I don’t remember where I heard this, whether it was on some show or from a teacher… I’m betting Ms Lydon… anyways Ramses the Great was thought of as so great because out of all of the pharaohs he built the most temples/monuments up and down the Nile. In actuality he just had enough foresight to write his name on everything he could. Smart… yes in the sense that he is immortalized forever and ever as the Great… but he didn’t build everything he wants us to believe he did)

Meghan: Jacked in

Her left hand curled around a tea mug while the right typed the story of her life. How does someone put down all that they are, all that they hope to be, into words? It seemed too simple, that a person could be broken down into these little marks on her screen. Gold rimmed glasses slid down her nose and she wrinkled it, trying to push them back up but only succeeding in making them slide further. She glanced at the clock and choked when she saw the numbers glowing at a much later hour then she thought. She set the mug on the table and resumed typing double-speed. Must finish, must finish…she chanted to herself. Sentence after sentence marched across the screen but the process was still too slow. Her eyes caught on the computer jack, coiled next to her wrist. She bit her lip and hesitated, but then shook her head as if to clear her thoughts and continued. She wouldn’t do it again. She had promised herself that she wouldn’t do it again. But… Her eyes flicked to the clock again. Damn it. She traced the lines of wiring along her computer with a contemplative finger, just this once. Just one more time wouldn’t hurt, and she really had to finish this book. Quickly, before she could change her mind, she pulled a knife from her pocket and flicked it open. With a grimace she dug it into her wrist, holding it away from her so the blood wouldn’t drip down her clothes. Gasping at the pain, she scooped up the jack and slipped it into the hole that the knife had left behind. When it connected, a small involuntary noise squeaked from her throat and she gripped the arms of her chair. It felt good to be alive again.

The information fizzed through her brain like a carbonated beverage and crackled on her tongue with miniature lightning. A million voices whispered, a million tastes, sights, and smells were all jammed into her neurons at once. Her back arched against the chair and she made a mewling sound deep in her throat. It had been far too long since the interwebs had whispered in her ears; it was like some kind of high, to be jacked into the motherboard. Words were spinning across the page at a rapid pace now; page upon page was sucked out of her mind with the ease of breathing. Unfortunately such easy work took a heavy tole on her body. With a titanic effort, she reluctantly pulled the chord from her flesh. It left with a dry sucking sound that made her shudder. With the information gone she felt like a dry husk of herself, swiveling weakly in her chair. She drew a shaky hand across her face and was startled to come away with blood. She had forgotten the terrible nosebleeds that she used to get when this was a daily occurrence. Staunching the flow with some tissues, she looked back at the screen to see what her mind suck had produced. She was surprised to see the story written in third person, as if it were a biography about some distant figure rather than her own autobiography. She read her childhood, smiling absently at the memories that came with the words. She flipped through her middle years to the ending, which was what she had been having trouble coming up with on her own. There was her work with the hospitals, the new developments in research, and… She frowned and leaned closer, sure that she had misread.

“The young scientist died early and tragically. Found in her apartment on the night of February 7, 3010, it was never determined whether she committed suicide, as many believed, or was murdered.”

She scowled at the screen, “Ha ha, very funny.” She muttered under her breathe.

She reached for the bloody jack and angrily stabbed it back into her arm. She swiped her gaze over her obituary passage to delete it, but nothing happened. She tried again, but still nothing. She bit her lip as more words began to flick across the screen, beginning to feel the bite of fear because she hadn’t told it to type anything. It wrote a note addressed to her editor. It begged for forgiveness and understanding, telling him that it was all for the best and he would someday understand. When it signed her name at the bottom of the note she gaped wordlessly as she started to get it.

“No. NO!” She croaked as she stood up, knocking her chair over, “DELETE!” She screamed at her computer, “DELETE!!!”

The bitter taste of metal filled her mouth and she put a hand to her face to find her nose bleeding freely again. She grabbed tissues to staunch it but they were soaked in seconds. She reached frantically for the chord in her arm but her fingers wouldn’t close on it, it had dug too far into her veins and the blood made it slick. She spotted her knife still lying open on her desk and reached desperately for it. Choking on the blood that ran down her face from her nose, she stabbed and dug at the jack in her arm, trying to get it out. With a wet popping noise, it fell from her wrist and she laughed in relief. But her laugh was weak and she felt so dizzy, she needed to sit down, to rest. She leaned back in her chair and stared back at the screen where a bloody handprint was smeared across the suicide letter that the computer had written for her.

“You’re out, it’s out.” She wheezed. The screen in front of her was getting blurry and dark.

“That was the last…time.” She said tiredly as her eyes slid shut.

-Meghan

Jasmine: Moving Sidewalk

I woke up leaning against a railing on one of those moving sidewalks feeling as if I were sliding just under walking speed away from where I was supposed to be going. There was a girl leaning on the railing opposite me staring listlessly at the ground.

“Are we moving backwards?”

The girl blinked and shook her head as if to clear it. “Uh… who are you?”

I looked down at myself. A pair of red plaid pajamas, and a sweatshirt I had the feeling wasn’t mine. But this is not who I am. I am not some clothes or hair tied up in a pony tail. I am not these short clipped fingernails. Who am I? When you’ve forgotten who you are and all you have to remind you is what you see in the mirror who do you become?

“I don’t remember. Do you remember who you are?”

The girl gives a sad smile and shakes her head no, and stares back at the ground.

“This isn’t right. What are we doing here? It feels wrong. Don’t you feel it?” I reach across the distance to grab the girl by the arm and shake her back into focus. “Don’t you feel it?”

She stares into my eyes, and shaking pulls out of my hands. “I don’t feel anything.”

I look at that patch of ground wondering if there’s something there that she finds so completing, but there’s nothing. Nothing there, nothing for me leaning here letting this sidewalk take me away from wherever I need to be.

The railing is a short hop and I’m on solid ground watching that lonely figure slowly fade away.

“Goodbye strange girl”

Doug: The Silk Road

I live for mornings like this. It’s daybreak, about seven thirty local time and the sun is bursting over the mountains to the east, making it seem as if an inferno is rising behind them. The sparse clouds add purples and oranges to the gold, turning the sky into a tapestry of morning. I rein my horse, Signe, in as we crest a small rise and take a moment to enjoy the sunrise.

We are currently in northwest China, in the middle of the Taklamakan Desert, which roughly translates to mean “Abandonment place”. The mountains to the south and east, the ones the sun is currently rising over, are called The Kunlun Mountains. The Kunluns supposedly are the source of the very first Chinese Dynasty, and contain the mythical Jade Palace of Huang-Di, the Yellow Emperor. We passed through those about two weeks ago.

The mountains to my north and west are called Tian Shan, and we’re going to have to cross them in a few days. I’m not looking forward to it. The Kunlun range was more like a series of small hills, and valleys. Tian Shan is a real mountain range, an extension of the Hindu Kush, which forms the border between Afghanistan and India and is one of the most inhospitable mountain ranges on the planet.

Signe whinnies a little bit and I reach down to pat her shoulder. “I know, I know, we’ll find the least nasty way through those mountains. I don’t care what Jordan says.” The horse snorts doubtfully.

For now I’m just focusing on enjoying the sunlight. I’m about a kilometer ahead of the group. Our local “guide” (politician for ‘spy’), Sima Qian, doesn’t mind if I range out a little bit, as long as I’m still in sight range. There’s a sort of mutual respect between us. He’s seen my Force Reconnaissance tattoo, and I’ve seen the PLA Special Forces patch. I’m not sure, but he and I might have actually shot at each other at one point during some quiet operations in the last brushfire war. It would fit the public deployment record the Chinese government furnished us with when they made him our “guide”. Makes for a weird kind of bond.

Jordan and Ian are sticking close to Rachel, my pregnant sister in law. The brother in me is quite pleased, but the grunt Marine inside is rolling his eyes and kicking breakable objects. The sheer idiocy of it, bringing your wife on a horseback trip across Asia and forgetting to bring birth control. I could shoot Jordan over this mess.

We are about two months into our journey. We started in Shanghai and made our way west, staying north of the Himalayans and keeping our nose out of the Gobi Desert. Countries don’t like it when your tourist publicity stunt spills into their missile testing range. Besides, the Gobi isn’t a pleasant place in the late summer.

Neither is the Taklamakan, if it comes to that. Desert nights are cold, hovering around 40 degrees, but the days get up to around a hundred. This would be a problem but for modern satellite technology and my friends in the Department of Defense. One of the little gifts I had received from the CIA when news of our little venture was made public was a highly advanced GPS tracking and mapping system that looked like a small tablet PC. Naturally the Chinese had confiscated the damn thing the second I entered the country, but gave it back later, probably after taking it apart and installing a few tracking devices.

I didn’t care. The system wasn’t classified, just highly expensive. It used real time imagery from a number of nonmilitary satellites to provide me with a full in theatre picture of everything around me. The display and machine itself was weather and bullet proof, and ran on fiber optically gathered solar energy. In addition to that, it had a rudimentary holographic emitter that could project a 3D terrain map if I wanted it to. I loved it. I know field commanders that would have sacrificed their career for one of these, and I got it for free.

With high tech toys like this, finding things like shade, water, and grazing land were reduced to mere moments studying a display. Which wasn’t to say the trip hadn’t been hard. Riding a horse across the majority of China is no joke. There are more than a few logistical problems, not the least of which is how to feed and water a dozen animals that weigh over a ton. After feeding your mount comes feeding yourself, and clothing, and equipment. With logistics comes strategy, do I cross this desert? Or pass through these mountains? Do I have enough food and water for either? Where can I resupply?

In wartime this gets really complicated, but fortunately no one here is trying to shoot at us. My bet is that lasts until we get to Kazakhstan. Fortunately, the Kazakhstanis have opted to let us travel armed, and my Bushmaster ACR is waiting at the border. Unfortunately, they have opted out of giving us a guide, essentially leaving us at the mercy of the local tribes. I’m going to pose the question to Jordan sometime tonight about hiring our Chinese spy on as permanent muscle for the duration of the trip. He speaks most of the languages where we’re going, and doesn’t seem to harbor any homicidal anti-American sentiment.

If the trip makes it that far. He just yesterday discovered that he was going to be a father, and I could hear the echoes of the thought bouncing around in his skull from a half a kilometer away.
It could be done. Rachel could carry this baby to term during this trip. Ian is a doctor, and we’re expecting to be done in just less than three months anyway. Tack on a month to that in case something doesn’t go to plan (and it never does) and she’ll still only be four or five months along. Nomadic tribeswomen have walked thousands of miles while pregnant, and Rachel would be riding a horse. At the very worst we could drop her off in a major city and have her fly home to the States while we finished the trip.

But doable isn’t the question. I knew she wanted to stick with us. Jordan knows it too. Ian, our doctor and Jordan’s best friend really gets the deciding vote though. If he says it’s a bad idea, which it is, well, Jordan’s going to put the safety of the fetus and his wife first.

While watching the sunrise I silently thank all the dark gods I can think of that I’m not married. Not that I’m exactly single either, but at least mine had the good sense to stay home and coordinate our daily webcasts.

Cameras are mounted to the pack horses, and we’ve each got a digital camcorder which uploads everything it records via satellite transmitter twice a day. Mine is mounted to my pack, which is strapped to Signe. I dismount and hit the record in the same movement.

“Hey honey.” All my webcasts are addressed to her. Fuck all the other people watching. “It’s August 1st, the time on deck is…” I check my watch, a gift from her, “0743, and it’s a beautiful morning here in the Taklamakan. Reminds me of some of the nicer days in Afghanistan, minus the IEDs and constant indirect fire from Taliban insurgents…” I trail off and then refocus. “So, decided I needed some alone time after Rachel’s little announcement last night. I’m about half a klick out, doing some basic terrain recon. Mostly this desert is sand, but occasionally the little magic map,” I indicated my CIA toy, “tells us there’s an oasis. No girls in grass skirts, or even a drink with an umbrella, but there’s usually some kind of running water, and something the horses can munch on. Ain’t that right Signe?” The horse whinnied softly at its name, and swatted a fly, shaking the camera a little. “Easy girl.” I patted her a little. Horses are just like women, if you don’t pay attention to them they kick you the next time you try and ride them. “Anyway, that’s the general low down. I’ll probably write you another letter soon, and by write you a letter I mean send one of these. Hope you and Mara are well; I’ll be back in no time. Keep the bed warm.” I smiled as I reached to turn off the camera. When the red recording light dimmed I swung back up onto Signe.

“All right girl. Time head back. We’ve got some miles to make.” I tipped my field hat to the rising sun, kicked Signe into a trot, and headed back to the small pillar of dust that marked out main party. Just another day on the Silk Road.

-Doug
"If faced with overwhelmingly superior forces the best option is usually simply to disengage and deny the fight. If you cannot deny the fight, up the ante to an unacceptable level of losses for both you and the enemy. Be the asshole who brings the nuclear bomb to the knife fight."
-Maj Crowe