Where Were You?

Where Were You?
D. Paul Angel
750 Words

Yesterday was the 25th anniversary of the Loma Prieta Earthquake.  This is an autobiographical #FridayFlash of the 16 year old me’s experience of the 6.9 Earthquake.

I found myself in midair. Literally.

One second I was laying in bed watching the start of Game 3, the next second I was leaping out of bed. I was looking down at the floor feeling my legs kick around for landing as I became aware of my actions. I had just enough time to wonder what I was doing when I found out why.

That’s when the earthquake hit.

There was no build up, no gradual intensifying; it just was. I could hear the walls move as they fought against their foundation bolts. The floor was undulating so violently that I almost fell several times crossing the 6 feet to my door. Once there I had to brace my back against the frame with my legs to stay in place. Mom was headed towards me from the front room. I watched her fight her way to me across a floor that was oscillating at seemingly impossible angles. When she was close we reach out for each other, only to just miss as the shaking staggered her backwards. She tried again and soon we were both in the doorframe, holding and bracing each other to stay upright, wrapped in the thunderous roar of the earthquake.

It lasted a long 15 seconds.

We knew there would be aftershocks so we we hurried out of the house as soon as we could could gather ourselves. We were shocked to find our kitchen floor, a mere dozen feet away, covered in broken plates and glasses. The cabinets had opened throwing everything inside crashing to the the Kitchen’s tile floor. The earthquake was so loud we hadn’t heard anything break. We saw cracked stucco as we headed towards the driveway, making us wonder at the structural soundness of the house.

We turned the corner to the garage and saw the rollup door and fallen off of its rails and was hanging on the Volkswagon van in the garage. Shelves had fallen in the garage too, the various hazardous liquids and chemicals all now mixing in a pool to the far right of the van. Through the narrow gap between the spill and the van our dog Sunshine came walking out. She was old enough to be completely deaf deaf and almost blind, and seemed more upset at having been woken than frightened.

A neighbor came by a short time later to check on us and ended up helping us free the van from the garage door. “Oh my God!” he exclaimed, causing mine and my Mom’s heads to snap up. “look at how scratched the roof of your van is.”

My Mom told me later all she could think at that was, “Have you seen my house!?

With the Van free we waited. It was, except for the earthquake, a beautiful middling October day. We sat on the bench at the edge of the driveway, far enough from the house to be safe, Sunshine at our feet. A large aftershock rolled though, and we could see trees on the other side of the valley surreally sway with the roll.

With the immediate danger passed, aftershocks not withstanding, I was suddenly chilled by the magnitude of the event. We didn’t know we were less than 5 miles from the epicenter, so we had assumed that this was the Big One, with its epicenter 100 miles North in San Francisco. We had friends at the game and though we hoped they were safe, down deep I knew there was no way the stadium could still be standing; anymore than the rest of San Francisco. The phrase, “Wrath of an angry God,” became both immediate and distant.

Dad came and checked on us sometime late that night. He was head of the County’s 9-1-1 center so his visit was both wonderful and brief. We found out at last that the epicenter was here, in Santa Cruz, and that while San Francisco took damage, it wasn’t catastrophic. More importantly to us, we knew he was safe, and he knew were. In the those early hours after the quake, when there was no other way of knowing, it was a Godsend of relief.

The next week was a blur, but we got things cleaned up and fixed, as did the rest of town. For the next several months everyone you met was an instant friend. The stories were many and varied, from funny to scary; from sad to miraculous. And the question was always the same, “Where were you?”


Re Beginnings Chapter 2 — Overboard

King of Swamp Castle: When I first came here, this was all swamp. Everyone said I was daft to build a castle on a swamp, but I built it all the same, just to show them. It sank into the swamp. So I built a second one. That sank into the swamp. So I built a third. That burned down, fell over, then sank into the swamp. But the fourth one stayed up. And that’s what you’re going to get, Lad, the strongest castle in all of England.

–Monty Python and the Holy Grail

Beginnings Chapter 2 — Overboard” came about after I read Mark Gardner’s “Beginnings.” In the comments he indicated that he wasn’t going to take up anything else with the story, so I inquired if I could give it a shot. He gave me the go ahead and I wrote away. Within a couple days I had a draft, did a revision and had what I thought was a final draft.


My ex wife regularly reads my stories before I post them. I gave this to her for a read and she really did not like it. Some of the criticisms I didn’t necessarily agree with, but I certainly saw where she was coming from. The first version took up the events immediately after Steve went through the door. There were, I think, some cool concepts in my draft that I can use later, but I started to see how this wasn’t the right place for them. We talked about it for awhile more, but when she summed it up as, “You can do better,” I knew I needed to give it another go.

I decided to take her advice to heart and I tried going in a different direction with the second version. It was wholly different from the first, but still didn’t pass muster. This one took place on the dock the day after Steve received the coin from James, early in the morning, but it spent far too much time giving detail, and not enough time exploring the relationship between the two characters.

So I started again. This time I only made it halfway through before shitcanning it myself. If the first two were merely collapsing in the swamp, this one truly had burned down and fell over and sank into the swamp. While I let her read it, I already knew it was past the point of saving. She didn’t think it was as bad as I did, but she definitely thought it needed work.

So, on it was to the fourth one. Much like Swamp Castle, this one was firmly built on the rubble of the previous four. Where I had struggled to write the first three (two and a half?) this one flowed naturally, and I was happy with it at the end. It didn’t try and do too much, but it gave a more solid base to both James and Steve, and opened a window into their relationship. Her smile after reading it was a reward in itself. All the things that my former wife had recommended were very much the perfect fit for the second chapter, and it shows.

The moral of the story being, more than anything else, honest beta readers are a Godsend, but only if you listen to them.

The story is now in the hands of Miss Alister, and I am excited to see where it goes after giving it my own solid nudge.


Beginnings Chapter 2 — Overboard

Beginnings — Chapter 2
#FridayFlash Overboard
D. Paul Angel
658 Words

This is a continuation of “Beginnings,” Mark Gardner’s #FridayFlash from 26 September 2014 on his fantastic blog Article 94. Mark wrote it as a stream of consciousness piece on an old school typewriter. In the comments he gave me permission to continue to the story, and you’ll find that below. Having added my piece, I would now invite someone else to take on the next chapter and see how this story unfolds.  Let me know in the comments below if you’d like to write the next chapter!

My body hung in the life vest, gently bobbing with each swell. If I turned my head far enough I could just see James turning the Zebedee in a slow arc to come back and pick me up. I’d been working with him for almost a year now, but this was easily my biggest mistake. And I’d made plenty.

I remembered a lot of the mistakes, and just how many of them James caught before they could escalate. It was frustrating at first. Well, at second and third too; probably more so because he never seemed angry or upset by anything. It was always either a nod, a few words of correction, or a quick tap on the shoulder. It had been frustratingly incessant the first couple weeks. I couldn’t turn around without him telling me something I was doing wrong. Always patient, always firm: always there.

I realized as I was floating that he hadn’t hardly corrected me at all for days. Weeks? I couldn’t even remember for sure, but at least a awhile. And then I up and fall off the damned boat.

I could only imagine what he was going to say when he got me back on deck. I went through everything again: getting tangled in the line, trying to haul up more net than I easily lug, and so on down the list. Well, at least I’d already have the answers when he started asking me about doing things different!

He eased the motors to idle and the boat drifted by slowly. Down on one knee he reached out and clasped my arm. He possessed deceptive strength for an old, scrawny guy and easily hauled me up.

“Thanks,” I said, truly grateful. Nothing really gives you a sense for the size of the ocean so much as drifting in it, even for a short time. “I know what I did wrong, James,” I began, but he cut me off.

“Of course you do, Steve. But I’d wager you’d like to have dry clothes on. Off you go, then back to work. You had your break for the day,” he added with a twinkle to his eye before lighting another cigar.

“Um, uh, thanks again,” I stammered. I ducked into the cabin and came out a few minutes later far dryer and with clean clothes on.

“Do you want to know what happened?”

“I know what happened,” he said, “I watched it.”

“Then why didn’t you stop me? You’ve been on me about everything else the last year.”

“Has it really been a year already? Time flies, doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” I said, feeling some of the old frustration from rarely knowing how he was going to react to anything. “But that has nothing to do with why you suddenly stopped correcting me just before I went overboard.”

“Ah. That.”

“Yes!” I admit I snapped a little, “That.”

“Did you like being in the water?”

“Of course not!”

“Are you going to do it again?”

“Well, no. I know what I did wrong. I had some time to think about it while bobbing up and down in the wake.”

“Then you didn’t really need me to teach you anything, did ya? You got the lesson all on your own.”

“But everything else was so much smaller.”

“At the time, yeah. But those little mistakes could quickly become big ones, and, really, how many of them were obvious mistakes to a greenhorn?”

I found myself there for a little bit, looking up and remembering many, many such lessons. He was right. What he had caught me on weren’t necessarily obvious blunders, but in hindsight they could have turned out far worse than an unexpected, late afternoon salt-water bath.

“Huh,” I finally replied, taking it all in.

“‘Huh,’ indeed. Just remember Steve,” he said poking me square in the chest with his index finger firmly wrapped around his stogie, “you can’t rush ready. So don’t get cocky.”


#FridayFlash: When the Stars Appear

When the Stars Appear
D. Paul Angel
303 Words

He sat in the camping chair looking up past the trees at the end of his neighborhood. He raised his wineglass to the darkening sky, lifting his index finger to point, “That’s Venus I think. It’s always the first this time of year. But you can just see another dot almost straight above it.”

He smiled, enjoying the Summer warmth that had lingered into early Fall. “There’s one,” he said, pointing again, “They just seem to appear. Poking through the dark after traveling for thousands and thousands and thousands of years.

“I think this is the best time to see the stars. I don’t know why, maybe because everything else is still just a little lit, but this is when you can almost feel their distance, ya know?”

He sipped a little more Rosé, watching the stars appear one by one as the sky darkened, each one making him smile anew. He watched a jet silently fly over, waiting until it was lost to the far horizon before talking again, “It’s so high up we wouldn’t even know it was there if it wasn’t just dark enough to see its lights.”

He distractedly swirled the wine around his glass as he became more pensive, “Maybe it’s just me, but I can’t see a plane like that and not think of all the lives on board, ya know? Half leaving home and half coming. Some lost in their own thoughts. Some reading, some asleep, and some…” he grinned as he looked up, trying to find another jet. “Some are making friends with the passenger next them- just like we did, all those years ago, remem-” he stopped mid-word, choking up as he turned to see the empty chair next to him; a summer’s worth of leaves and pine needles still piled on its seat.


Finding Jesus

#FridayFlash: Finding Jesus
D. Paul Angel
99 Words

“Good morning, Ma’am.”

“Why, good morning! Don’t you young men look nice in your matching suits? I expect you’re here to sell encyclopedias. Well, you can still have some hard licorice… but only two pieces each, mind.”

“Thank you Ma’am, but we’re not here to sell you anything. We’re here to talk to you about our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. Have you found Him, Ma’am?”

“Why, I did just yesterday.”

“Yesterday? Our timing must be his blessing then! Would you mind sharing your testimony of how you found him?”

“Oh I just used the Google. It finds everything.”



D. Paul Angel
881 Words

Grunting, Kristoff heaves the last stone into place. He knows full well how close he is cutting the time, but each of the five stones weigh at least 600 lbs and their wooden carriages are unwieldy at best. Sweat runs in rivulets between the well toned muscles down his bare back as he leans against the last stone. He only just catches his breath before cladding himself in a heavy, dark cloak. His full beard just emerges from underneath the hood; but his dark eyes remain hidden within its shadow. He walks around the stones three times clockwise, and once counter-clockwise as he rallies his remaining breath and energy.

He walks to a cabinet by the door, opening its intricately carved doors to reveal thick, knotty shelves. He grabs five well burned candles, their sides undulating wildly from the wax runoff of their burning, and places them in between the stones. He then grabs a sixth candle. Its sides are so smooth it requires extra concentration and dexterity just to hold. Its wax is so black that it doesn’t even catch the glare from the room’s harsh, portable work-lights. He stands between the stones, carefully judging their distance, before setting the large, final candle equidistant between them.

Returning to the cupboard, he draws out a coarse, brown sack. Ever so slowly he tips the bag to let a stream of fine, white salt pour into a steady line on the bare floor. He carefully draws a pentagram, with each vertice pointing to a stone, and with the black candle in its very center. He sets the bag of salt down and carefully positions each of the gnarled candles within each of the pentagram’s five triangles. He makes the minutest of adjustments while checking their positions before nodding in the satisfaction that comes with repeated perfection.

With the bag of salt in hand once more he lays a circle completely around the stones, leaving a foot long gap in the direction of the cabinet. Carefully walking through the gap he returns to the cabinet to bring three large mason jars back into the circle. He exits the circle again, making one final circuit, just to be sure; before setting a timer on each of the work-lights and returning to the circle. He pours the last of the salt across the gap and completes the circuit just as the work-lights click off, one after another.

He smiles to himself in the complete darkness of the room. Although he can see no difference, he still closes his eyes before inhaling deeply and beginning to chant, “Ignis, Incado, Cumbusto!” flaring the of the smaller, irregular candle closest to him to life.

Ignis, Incado, Cumbusto!” he repeats four more times until all five of the white candles are burning.

With another deep breath he begins a new chant, “Lucemeho! Lucemeho! Lucemeho! Lucemeho!” he thunders, his arms outstretched above his head, bringing the black candle to life with an audible roar of flame. Sourceless light, well beyond what the the candles can cast, floods into the circle.

His chants continue; his inflection, voice, timbre, and cadence ever changing  as he speaks arcane words feared since antediluvian times. He opens the three jars at his feet in turn, and one by one flings their powdery contents into the air.

He waits patiently  in silence.

Soon, shadows begin to stream through the ghostly light. Outlines of faces coalesce as wisps of smoke swirling through the cylinder of light bound by salt.  Faces cast in fear, in anger, in hatred; in torment.

He moves his hands as a conductor before a score of orchestras. Gestures both familiar and unfathomable flick through his hands and arms as he turns his attention to each stone in turn. Soon the shadowed shapes of smoke no longer move freely through the air, but instead race only between the five stone’s precisely hewed edges.

As his hand gestures slow, he kneels before the pots. Once more he grabs a bit from each, but instead of tossing the powder, he begins to mix them in the air between his hands. His chant grows in force as he bellows, “Scelero! Scelero! Scelero! SCELERO!!!” over and and over again. Standing as he mixes and shouts, he raises the powdered mix above his and casts it down on the black candle with all of his might roaring, “Perpetuii!!!!!” His words echo through the room as all six candles extinguish themselves simultaneously.

The reverberations fade and soon the room is dark and silent once more, save for the ragged gasps of him catching his breath. Mere moments later the work-lights come back on with a sharp click. He sags where he stands, but he doesn’t quite fall. , The floor is bare again, with all the salt simply gone.


“I wish I knew where your mine was, Kristoff, I would pay a fortune for it.  The veining in your marble is incredible. Its intricate, its fluid, Hell, sometimes its almost like you can even see faces! You sure you won’t sell? You name the price, however high.”

“I’m sorry old friend, I have paid a higher price than you can imagine to bring these stones to you. Just remember, what ever you do, don’t ever let the slab crack, eh?”


The Call of Parcel Post

The Call of Parcel Post
D. Paul Angel
23 May 2014
295 Words

“Anything hazardous, liquid, perishable, or fragile?”

“Just a die.  An aptly named, Cthuhlu Dice.  Through arcane rituals darker than a moonless night I have secreted deep within it a sliver of the tormented soul from the First Priest of the Elder Gods.  With the right roll it will awaken the Old Ones from their dreams in ancient R’lyeh, returning them to the human world.”

“So it’s fragile then?”

“It is cast from a singe piece of nickel, it is next to unbreakable.  The Old Ones shall rise again! Enslaving the weak and cleansing the Earth to rebuild it in their horrible visage.”

“So.  It’s not fragile then?”

“Not as such, no, but-”

“Is it liquid?”

“It’s a die! A Dice! Of course it’s not liquid!  It is touched with an ancient evil so powerful that it will open the floodgates of insanity in a world unready to feel the Old One’s indifferent wrath!”

“Uh-huh. Is it perishable?”

“The only things that will perish are the minds of the weak and the souls of the strong!”

“And nothing hazardous?”

“Hazardous?  Hazardous!?  Of course it’s hazardous! It shall beckon forth an antediluvian evil that existed before God himself to enslave humanity, melt our minds in a crucible of horrors, and then recast the dregs in their own hideous image!”

“Is that what the MSDS says?”

“The N-D-S? The wh-?”

“MSDS.  Material Safety Data Sheet.  Does it have one or not?”

“Well, no, of course not.  Words do not exist to describe the horror within.”

“Then it’s not considered hazardous.  Do you want Overnight, priority, or parcel post?”

“I just-”

“A line’s forming.  Overnight, Priority, or Parcel Post?”

“Overnight, of course!”

“Fine, that’ll be $34.73.  Fill out this form and stand over there.  Next!”

“WAIT!  How much is, uh, the Parcel Post?”