Except, like most of us, you open your mouth, and no words come out. Perhaps you manage a small, bleated yip before freezing up completely. Then you just stand there, dumbfounded and uncertain, with all eyes on you.

But what is this? Why is this happening? Here you are  your own private God, no? Why, the words should just spring forth–Let There Be Story–and then the page should just automatically fill up, or perhaps the keyboard should just starting clicking away on its own, or the pen should spring to life, scribbling furiously across entire reams of paper, yes?

If only.

Relax. We all get the jitters from time to time. And isn’t that really what this is? Rather than facing off against an expectant audience, though, we’re facing off against an internal audience–and our fears, doubts, and misgivings all have season tickets in the box seat. They sit up there, munching on their popcorn and their candy, slurping soda while spilling it on the floor, and the whole time they’re yelling “Give it up!” or “You’ll never make it, Fatso!” or whatever deflating insult your mind can cook up for them to shout. Even if you manage to quiet their little voices, you can never quite escape the feeling of their eyes, constantly zipping all over you–judging you, evaluating you, provoking you into feeling that maybe they’re right, maybe this is foolish, maybe I should give up.

Except, there are no eyes, are there? Your fears, doubts, and misgivings–those are just figments of your imagination, aren’t they? So, what’s really happening, and what can you do to stop it?

I’ve used the analogy of a stage performance because I feel it’s an appropriate comparison, and hopefully one that gives some semblance of what’s really going on inside the mind of your friendly neighborhood writer. Both are situations where you have an entertainer trying their damnedest to amuse an audience, to wow them with some brilliant and unexpected bravura performance. And, in both situations, it’s entirely possible that at any point your may spiral into despair and want to curl up into a ball in front of everyone and bawl your eyes out.

It’s stage fright, pure and simple. The blank page is terrifying to most writers. Now, I’m sure there are a few daring souls out there who look upon the their word processor or notepad and feel no fear–perhaps exhilaration, even–but I have not met them (and probably never will).

So what to do? Just start typing whatever comes into your head? Fill the page with endless rhetorical questions? Perhaps give in and actually do curl up into a ball?

I’m not brazen enough to declare there is one end-all correct answer here. There isn’t, or if there is, then it’s known by one guy, and he ain’t sharing. Maybe he’s the son of a bitch who looks at his notepad with boundless enthusiasm. But for the rest of us, down here on Earth, we turn to  little tricks to get the juices flowing–writing prompts, workshops, daily goals, and an endless stream of sugary snacks and gut-rotting soda.

Tiny crutches, I think of them. They ultimately help you, or they don’t. Whatever yours is–and I know you have one–if it works, I say do it, and do it without guilt. Me, personally, I love sour lemon candies. I work with a big bag of them in my drawer. Some days, they’re a reward for hitting the 1000-word mark. Other days, they’re encouragement to keep going until I hit the 20-word mark. No matter what, they’re there to keep me going.

I hope you have something that keeps you going–a personal totem, or sorts. A fount of power or a direct line to your Muse if you’re the poetic source. But something that keeps you going, keeps you writing. Something that keeps you standing on that stage, staring right back at all your fears and doubts, because believe me pal, they’re not going to be the ones to blink first. They never quite go away, either, but don’t let that stop you. In a way, they’ll keep you honest, but only if you have the wisdom to know when and when not to listen to them. It’s an interesting notion–that fear and doubt can be positive forces. It’s one of those ideas that sits right on the edge of your awareness, but we’ll have to save that discussion for another day.

For now, the key lesson to take away from this is that no matter what, you’ve already gone to the trouble of creating your stage, hiring your orchestra, and selling the tickets, so there’s no turning back now. It may start with a yip, but if you can push that to a second one, and then a third, you might just be on your way.

Keep going. Maybe you end up a ball on the floor at the end of the day, but you have to start somewhere, right?

Keep going. You never know where a yip can take you.

More importantly, Samuel was a wizard.

Wizards were born with the means and talent to create food, a skill once found in every kitchen and over every stove. But over the years, people had forgotten how to create genuine meals, dishes of incredible flavor and incredible satisfaction. These days, only wizards could be said to be proper chefs, and what few remained had the time, the energy, or the inclination to prepare anything grander than what could be called a snack.

Samuel descended from his room down into his lab. Along the worn walls rested wooden shelves of mixed spices, oils, and herbs. He scanned the shelves and drew down several containers:

-Garlic powder

-Garlic Salt

-Steak Seasoning

-Parsley

The aging mage set the containers on his oak table and walked over to the corner, where a bag of potatoes lay lazily propped against the ruined remains of pots and pans long since scorched beyond usefulness. He withdrew seven large potatoes and placed them on the table next to the spices. Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew a vegetable peeler and went about his work.

He skinned all seven potatoes and placed them next to a deep pot. Reaching into his robes he withdrew a large knife, sharpenedd on an enchanted stone and honed to a fine precision. He quickly cubed all seven potatoes and placed them into the pot, filling it then with enough water to cover. He added two cloves of minced garlic from a small jar he kept cooled, and set the pot onto a large fire.

While the water approached boiling he prepared the rest of his ingredients. Into a small bowl he measured one teaspoon of garlic powder and another of garlic salt. Setting this aside for the moment, he prepared a second bowl the same, but added to it a teaspoon of parsley, a teaspoon of the steak seasoning, and 1/4 cup of heavy whipping cream. The water had reached a boil. He added the first bowl of garlic salt/powder and he let the potatoes cook for ten minutes. Afterwards he strained the potatoes and added them into a large bowl with 1/2 cup of butter.

“Stompodorus,” he said with a wave of his hand. A potato masher appeared and began to work furiously on the contents of the bowl. After the butter had melted he added the cream-salt-spice mixture  and set to mixing the contents together furiously. Wizards could not use electric mixers, as most people would have done. Instead, he wielded the primal forces of existence to blend the the potatoes with air and cream. When he was done, the wizard beheld a full bowl of Garlic Mashed Potatoes.

“Heavens be,” he said, pulling a wooden spoon from his robes. “It worked.”

* * *

Congratulations! Everything you ever hated about who you were is gone. Not having all that baggage really puts you ahead of everybody else walking around. I’m jealous.

You should probably eat. If somebody is around ask them politely to get you a cheeseburger. If they are on the phone wait quietly until they are done. Make sure to ask for bacon on it.

It’s unclear when you might wake up, so if it’s dark outside, stay where you are until the sun comes up, and be sure to listen for any sudden noises. Loud noises could mean trouble. Or the mailman. Also you have two cats and they are probably hungry, and you can’t share your cheeseburger with them. You’ll find a tub of cat food in the pantry.

You should be in your own house. You will need to confirm this. Look around for pictures of you with your wife. Also the black and white cat hates you, so don’t be surprised if she runs from you or growls when you’re near.

You decided a long time ago that you wanted a beard, and you’ve had one for several years. Do me one favor and keep it, ok? Thanks.

* * *

Prompt from Jorge Evans, Managing Editor of RockSaw Press.

Dramatis Personae:

Clay, our Hero
Kat, non-impartial observer, wife to Clay
Ticket Crank, an employee, steward of admittance to the Wehrenberg Theater, complete tool
Second Ticket Attendant, a well-mannered employee, a fellow steward.
Couple #2, a young man and woman also attending the theater this evening.
Lords, Gentlemen, Officers, Soldiers, Murderers, Attendants, and Messengers; the Ghost of Banquo, and other Apparitions

Scene: Bloomington, IL, the Galaxy Cine 14. Nighttime.

ACT I SCENE I – The Theater Lobby, wherein our Hero approaches a bay of Fandango Kiosks.

Clay: I say, I believe I will use the auto-mated ticketer to retrieve our tickets for tonight’s performance!

Kat: Yes, let us! I forgot these fine devices were present.

(Clay pushes various sections of the touchscreen. A troubled look appears on his face).

Clay: I find myself befuddled, wife. There is no “Pick Up Ticket” option on the interface! Has this always been the case?

(Couple #2 approaches the neighboring kiosk. They too express discontent and confusion with their kiosk. Clay continues to press buttons on his screen).

Kat: (peering at screen) I do not see it. We have used this device before, have we not?

Clay: Indeed we have used them in the past for ticket retrieval. Let us try again (pushes buttons). Alack, the crux of this infernal device’s operation, to dispense tickets upon evidence of purchase, eludes me this night!

Kat: How unsettling. Let us approach the attendant at the box office window.

(Clay and Kat approach the box office window. They are soon followed by the second couple, who has continued to experience their own difficulties and appear equally displeased. There is a small wait while a crowd slowly gathers).

Ticket Crank: I can help the next person in line over here! (Clay and Kat approach. Ticket Dick switches off his intercom and leaves his post. He returns several beats later).

Clay: Hello, I–

Ticket Crank: (spying the Fandango receipt in Clay’s hand). Give me the credit card you used for purchase, SIR.

Clay: (Caught off guard, fumbles for his card).

Ticket Crank: SIR, your CARD.

(Clay hands the card to the Ticket Crank, who promptly swipes it in his register screen. Two tickets pop out and he hands them to Clay along with his credit card).

Ticket Crank: Here you go, SIR. And just so YOU KNOW, when there is A LINE, please use the KIOSK OVER BY THE DOOR.

Clay: (Visibly unsettled). Yes, about that–

Ticket Dick: HAVE A GOOD DAY SIR.

Clay: Hang on, the machine didn’t–

Ticket Crank: SIR, HAVE A GOOD DAY. ENJOY YOUR SHOW.

Clay: I–

Ticket Crank: SIR.

Clay: (Now visibly angry at this continued treatment) YES THANK YOU. I APPRECIATE YOUR FINE SERVICE THIS EVENING AT THE FABULOUS WEHRENBERG THEATER (Enters theater, Kat follows).

Ticket Crank: WHY THANK YOU SO VERY MUCH, SIR.

Second Ticket Attendant: (handing tickets to the second couple) here you guys go. Sorry about the kiosks. Sometimes they aren’t in the right mode. Enjoy your show.

-fin-

* * *

Lightning jumped down from the storming night sky and cracked along the side of the Antelope. The old sloop-of-war tilted leeward, threatening to dump the men down the deck over the scuppers and into the black, icy depths of the sea. Rain hit the deck violently with a split-splat sound as the crew struggled to secure the riggings, the rope pulled taught around the mooring mast, double wound in an attempt to keep hold. The younger boys scurried to close the gates over the lower deck access. A few of the older men hurriedly tried to roll the powder kegs into the Captain’s quarters, the old man himself up at the wheel, grasping it with all his might. His hands were low, down by his hips, yet he never lost his grip. The rain fell sideways–or had the ship almost capsized? Which was vertical, and which was steady?

The ship heaved leeward, and the men fell to the deck. Hail began to fall, pelting them. The sea was angry. Icy water swept over the deck before dropping out the scuppers. The men clung to whatever was in reach–nets, masts, cannons. The Captain braced himself and clutched the wheel, the sound of his laughter carrying over the sound of the storm. The ship settled with a tremendous whump. The men shook from their perches. The rain fell from the sky again, rather than from the windward side. The ship steadied on the angry waves.

The men were quick to resume their work. Powder keys still rolled across the deck—the older men nested them into the Captain’s quarters, before finally slamming the door shut and dropping the lock-plank. The lower-deck access were gated over, and the younger boys hurried to join the other crew sheltered down in the galley. The Captain never left the wheel, all through the storm, as though him and Neptune had some great debate that needed settled before the dawn.

* * *

* * *

The evening light struggled through the woods. It pushed through the rows of oak and elm, over the fallen leaves and dead twigs and the occasional raccoon out gathering. It bounced off the shore of the lake, scattering tiny reflections over the ripples of the cold water. Autumn had arrived early that year, and the lake was already going dormant. Bluegill and bass swam closer to the bottom, seeking out warmth and shelter among the catfish in the sunken cars along the bottom of the lake.

The dock creaked in the wind coming off the lake. A few leaves jumped up from the rake piles, flipping into the air before landing silently on the surface of the water, creating only the slightest ripple. The smell of burning leaves floated down from the pavilions where the groundskeeper was working. Crickets chirped quietly. Cicadas buzzed.

Across the lake small campfires broke out among the trees, campers enjoying the early arrival of the cool weather. Rocks littered the slope from the campgrounds down to the surface of the lake. A few children played along the top of the slope, occasionally throwing small rocks into the lake. Hotdogs and marshmallows roasted over several of the small campfires, the smell rolling down to the kids near the slope, making them run back to their families around the fires.

The trees near the dock shivered as the evening light fell back across the lake, back towards the campfires, and then past them over the woods and finally the horizon. In the dark the cicadas became louder. The air felt numbing. The lake was silent.

Fireflies appeared up around the pavilion. Their tiny lights puncturing the dark, only to disappear a moment later before reappearing again somewhere new. More fireflies appeared in response, gathering until the area around the pavilion appeared to be sparking quietly. Behind the pavilion the parking lot lights kicked on, buzzing loudly and flooding the parking lot with a harsh yellow light. Moths buzzed around the bulbs of the lights, completely lost within a pointless orbit. They stayed close to the light, occasionally a single moth would make an erratic turn and flit off into the dark into parts and fates unknown, never to be singled out again.

The trashcan by the center light pole overflowed with garbage. Fast food bags spilled out the top and loose soda cans rolled around the lot. It was nearly empty, the day campers and hikers had pulled out and fled when the light had begun to fade. A raccoon poked his head out from under the dumpster near the service road entrance. His eyes caught the light for a moment before the whole creature became a silhouette again. A smaller shadow moved behind the raccoon, a young raccoon following its mother. Together they crept along the edge of the parking lot, the mother picking up small pieces of trash and smelling them. The younger raccoon stayed close to the its mother, keeping in her shadow as they walked along the edge of the darkness.

* * *

* * *

Howard asked her if she knew Marcy, the chick who lived at the house. Joanna replied that she didn’t, that she had come with her friend Jane, who knew the people having the party. Howard told her that he knew Jane, that they had worked together a few years ago at the same Blockbuster on the far side of town, across from the mall. Joanna asked for a cigarette.

He searched in his jacket pockets for a lighter. She told him she had one that she had picked it up from Jane’s car. Howard said he didn’t know Jane smoked. Joanna puffed on her cigarette quietly, listening to music coming from inside the house. He leaned against the deck railing, looked up at the stars, and asked her where she lived.

She didn’t answer right away, she was focusing on the music. She finally replied she lived in the apartments behind the mall with a friend she had met in the dorms her freshmen year. He didn’t ask about her roommate. He was tapping buttons on his cell phone. He asked for her number. She didn’t respond. She asked what he had said. He repeated his question.

She flicked her cigarette butt off the deck and rattled off a string of numbers. He repeated them as she spoke. She told him her roommate’s name. He said he knew a girl with that name and asked a few questions about her appearance. Joanna described her roommate in more detail: her short brown hair, her brown eyes,  and her heart tattoo on her ankle. Howard said he knew her, that they had a class together his junior year.

Joanna told him about their apartment, how they were subletting it from a friend who had graduated, and how they weren’t allowed to paint, so they were stuck with three black walls with a checkerboard pattern across the top until August at least. Howard asked if they were renting from a friend of his named Chris, but Joanna said the guy’s name was Jon. Howard asked if it was the building for the complex out in the front, but she told him it was the building in the back. Howard lit a cigarette and asked if she wanted a drink from inside. She told him no thanks.

Howard came back a few minutes later with a plastic cup in his hands. He found Joanna and told her the music inside was really loud, but that he liked it. He told her that house bands were usually better than just playing CDs. She told him of a DJ she used to date and how she use to go to his performances in the downtown area. She told Howard about the nightclubs in the downtown area and which ones she liked and which ones were too dark or too smelly. Howard mentioned some of the bars he liked and how he knew a few bands that played the in-town circuit. He mentioned a band he knew was going to be playing that Friday.

Joanna stepped away for a minute to answer a phone call. Howard leaned over the deck railing and puffed on his cigarette. It was down to the filter, so he flicked it into the yard and was lighting another while telling himself that confidence was key to making connections with other people. He saw Joanna back on the deck and asked her if it had been an emergency. She told him it was her roommate and while she was taking out the trash their cat had gotten outside. She told him she had to leave as she was dialing a number on her phone. He told her good luck finding the cat.

* * *

* * *

Sergeant John woke up to the feeling of sun on his face, sand under him, and the sound of waves crashing on the beach around him. He smelled gasoline. He felt heat.

Sergeant John sat up and opened his eyes. The reflection of the sunlight off the white sand burned his eyes. He smelled burning. He heard metal creaking. He stood up. Pain shot up his right leg–not enough to stop him from walking, but too painful to ignore entirely. Limping, he turned around to face the waves as they tore around the wreckage. He saw the wreckage of his cargo plane partially buried in the surf. Smoke billowed from the fuselage into the air.

Sergeant walked away from the wreckage. He moved inland, into the tree line, where he sat in the shade, feeling himself over for injuries. His right leg throbbed. The bone didn’t feel broken, though Sergeant knew the role adrenaline could play in times of crisis.

The sounds of the jungle overwhelmed the noise from the beach. The sergeant heard a snap in the bushes behind him.

Soviet colors flashed in front of him. The sergeant fell backwards–he felt a large weight on his chest. Hands grabbed his neck. He instinctively grabbed and felt a man on top of him. The man shouted in Russian.

The sergeant held the attacker close to him and swung his good leg up into the man’s stomach. Any survivor would have their own injuries. Sergeant just had to find them before the Russian found his.

John felt lightheaded. He groped along the ground until he felt something heavy. The coarse surface felt like rock. John seized the object and swung it into the Russian’s ribcage.

The Russian fell off of John. He shouted again. John didn’t understand him.

“Get away from me!” John yelled. He backed away from his attacker and sat down. He held onto the rock. He didn’t want to fight unless necessary.

The Russian laid on the ground, holding his ribcage. John determined he had chanced upon one of the Russian’s weak spots from the crash.

“What,” John said, “is your goddamn problem?”

The Russian lifted his head and looked at John. The man eyed the rock. John set it down. The Russian’s head fell back against the ground. He spoke quietly, taking shallow breaths. John wondered if the man had a punctured lung.

“How bad are you injuries?” he asked. The Russian didn’t respond. He laid on the ground, mumbling, apparently to himself.

“Hey,” John said, “You attacked me. You…you started this. All of this. We wouldn’t be here if it hadn’t shot first.” John stood up. His right leg throbbed. “You started this. Not us.”

The Russian didn’t move. John limped over to him. His eyes stared off into the distance, past Sergeant John. His breathing had stopped.

John watched him for a moment, then spoke the only Russian he knew.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

* * *