It was one of those exceptionally rare early January days where the snow would gently fall in great flakes, covering Portland in a blanket of soft white. Schools were closed, work places unreachable due to the ice. Families drank cups of creamy hot chocolate with half melted marshmallows while snuggling into thick, warm blankets and watched daytime TV together. Children played, imaginary ice worlds brought to life by the dry, cool snow.
Adam Moxley Kamma, who always went by Moxley, was one such child, although he had no imagination of ice worlds in his mind. His younger brothers, Tim and Morgan, played wildly in the wintry front yard, hiding behind makeshift forts of snow and hurtling snowballs at each other. Their laughter, shrill and contagious, was muffled in that way that only a snowy day can do. Moxley, however, simply stood in the middle of the yard, hands thrust in his heavy jacket’s pockets. The snow drifted around him, falling gently, but he only seemed to stare with his intense green eyes. A gentle, if bitter, winter wind tugged at his hair and scarf, nipping his cheeks.
An errant snowball flew past his face, inches from his forehead. He glared at his two brothers playing in front of him, whose laughter and joy seemed to stop almost immediately. He looked at them, shifting his eyes between the two of them, while they, petrified, dared not move.
In a flurry of once settled flakes, Moxley turned his back to his two younger brothers, and stormed to the path to their front door. Stomping his boots, he shook snow off of himself and opened the door. Midway inside, he turned and looked outside again. His brothers, still staring after him, remained motionless. Once he closed the door, they returned to playing.
Inside, the smell of homemade chicken noodle soup filled the entry way. It was warm, warm enough for Moxley to remove all but his shirt and pants and still feel comfortable. His mother came into the entry way, seeing which of her children had come inside.
“Well. If it isn’t the birthday boy?” his mother said, coming over to him and hugging him. “Ten years old. You’re practically a young man,” she said, muffling his hair.
Moxley’s cheeks flushed. He felt embarrassed. He hated being embarrassed. With all his strength, he shoved his mother off of him. “Don’t,” he said, “I don’t like that.” His voice was sort of melodic, it ebbed when he spoke, and the words were always staccato.
“What? You don’t want to celebrate your birthday?” His mom asked, playfully.
Moxley just left the entry hall, walking up the stairs and down the hall to his bedroom. He softly shut the door behind him, then rested against the closed door, breathing softly. He hated birthdays. He hated the attention, the cheering, the presents, the singing. He hated the love.
Moxley sat at his small desk and looked at the picture of his father and him that sat atop it. Neither of them were smiling in the picture, even though the beach was behind them, and the sun was shining. His dad had left two years ago. Through the open window, Moxley could hear his brothers outside, playing and laughing in the snow.
Holding the picture of he and his father, Moxley’s hands started to shake, gently at first, then more violently. He tried to restrain them, tried to stop the shaking, but he couldn’t. His fingers tensed, tightening on the frame. His hands were out of control, shaking hectically. He closed his eyes, took a long, deep breath and squinted his eyes. Slowly, deliberately, his hands stopped shaking. He dropped the frame. Where his hands had been, the metal looked muddled, slightly melted.
---
“Make a wish, Mox,” the boys’ mother said, the flicker of the candles reflecting in her eyes.
Moxley, his head hung, listing slightly, stared at the cake. Adorned with ten candles, the light of flame danced around the room. His dark, intense eyes were affixed to the tiny fires. He didn’t move. His eyes shifted from the various candle tips to his brothers and mother, sitting around the table.
“Mox,” his mother said, shattering his intense stare. “Make a wish and blow out the candles, honey. Then you can have presents,” she said, smiling. Moxleys brothers squirmed in anticipation. New toys for Moxley meant that they could raid his old ones.
Moxley tried to think of what he wanted to wish for. The light in the kitchen, adjacent to the table where the family sat, celebrating his birthday, suddenly flickered and went out.
Moxley’s mother left the table to replace the bulb, muttering under her breath about having just replaced that bulb. Tim leaned forward, towards his older brother, and asked him, “hey Mox, what’cha gonna wish for?”
Moxley leaned in towards Tim in the same way, the flames of the candles on his birthday cake between them. “I’m going to wish that you were dead,” he said, his ebbing voice dotting the words unnaturally. Tim started to cry.
---
“Why would you say something like that to your own brother, Moxely?” His mother asked, after grounding him to his room. Moxley just sat, cross-legged on his bed, and stared at her. “What is with you these days? Ever since…” She crouched down, kneeling to be eye-to-eye with her son. “You’ve turned into this dark, brooding child. You stare off into space all the time, you never smile, you make your brothers cry… They’re terrified of you, you know.”
Moxley looked into his mother’s eyes, surprised. His mouth cracked open.
“I’m starting to be scared of you too…” she said, cocking her head to the side. Guilt suddenly washed over her, looking at her son, her misunderstood child, watching him struggle with emotion, or so she assumed. “You know… you know I love you, right?”
“…no.” Moxley’s voice was grim, scratchy.
“No matter what, your mommy loves you,” she said, reaching out to hug him.
“No,” Moxley’s voice said again.
Embracing her child, Moxley’s mother started to cry. She felt lost, unaware, unknowing. She had no idea how to handle her child, who was once a shining, smiling boy, but who had become so dark, so distance, so… She looked into his eyes. “I know you think your father doesn’t love you, since he left us, but he does. He does love you, too.”
“No…”
“Let me help you, Mox. Tell me what’s going on, why you’re so upset. Let me love you.”
“No!” Moxley said. His head rolled back for a moment, and when he pulled it forward and opened his eyes, they were a brutal, sickly yellow.
His mother, shocked, jumped back from him. “M- Mox?”
He stared at her, through her, his head hung to the side. He didn’t move.
Moxley’s mother shook him gently. “Moxley, what the hell is going on?” She noticed then, on the wall next to them, a tiny flicker of flame. It began to grow, silent. “Moxley, the wall- ” The flame started to spread, getting wider, spreading unnaturally. Thinking of her other two children in the house, she started to panic. “Moxley, we have to get out of here. Now!” She yelled.
Moxley stood up. “I don’t need your love,” he said slowly. The wall was suddenly completely consumed by fire. “I don’t want your love,” he continued. The next wall in his room was engulfed. Searing hot air filled the room.
Moxely’s mother stared at him pleadingly. “Mox, are you-” she stared at him for a second. “Come with me, we have to get out of here!”
“I’m going to wish that you were dead,” Moxley said. The light in his room flickered then shattered. His mother flung open the door and ran out of the room, calling after his two brothers. Moxley looked around and, for the first time in years, smiled.
The room exploded into flame.
Thursday, October 16, 2008
Monday, October 6, 2008
A Letter
From the desk of David T. Burke, M.D.
Laughing Clouds Pediatrics Clinic
Beaverton, OR
Shawn,
I had a strange case come in this week, and I need your expert help. The mother said her boy was suffering from regular pain in his right hand. When prompted, the boy never knew why the hand was hurting him. In addition, he seemed to suffer from acute amnesia. He failed to recall events just before an incident of pain in his hand started.
The mother insisted, after an incident where the child was apparently able to break a car window with his hand, on having various x-rays done. The results (attached) are inconclusive altogether, but I noticed two strange things:
1, there is no visible source of pain. The boy's hand is completely intact and normal. Everything appears to check out.
2, if the child did in fact break a car window with his bare hand, there should have been more severe damage. The mother reported bleeding from a few cuts, but other than that, the hand is completely intact. No breakage, no bruising, no nothing.
After the mother and her son left my office, I took another look at the x-rays, and noticed something. I can’t quite figure out what it is.
Please, old friend, have a look at these x-rays, and tell me what you see. Do you notice the strange way the bones are reflecting? They look normal, and yet, have some kind of…property. I can’t quite put my finger on it.
Thanks,
David
Laughing Clouds Pediatrics Clinic
Beaverton, OR
Shawn,
I had a strange case come in this week, and I need your expert help. The mother said her boy was suffering from regular pain in his right hand. When prompted, the boy never knew why the hand was hurting him. In addition, he seemed to suffer from acute amnesia. He failed to recall events just before an incident of pain in his hand started.
The mother insisted, after an incident where the child was apparently able to break a car window with his hand, on having various x-rays done. The results (attached) are inconclusive altogether, but I noticed two strange things:
1, there is no visible source of pain. The boy's hand is completely intact and normal. Everything appears to check out.
2, if the child did in fact break a car window with his bare hand, there should have been more severe damage. The mother reported bleeding from a few cuts, but other than that, the hand is completely intact. No breakage, no bruising, no nothing.
After the mother and her son left my office, I took another look at the x-rays, and noticed something. I can’t quite figure out what it is.
Please, old friend, have a look at these x-rays, and tell me what you see. Do you notice the strange way the bones are reflecting? They look normal, and yet, have some kind of…property. I can’t quite put my finger on it.
Thanks,
David
Monday, September 29, 2008
Episode 00 - August, 2001
Shane played diligently with a pile of Lincoln Logs in the corner of the waiting room. His mother, Lisa, stood impatiently while Doctor Burke discussed the exam. She clicked her fingernails while he talked.
"Mrs. Harrington, I've looked him over as thoroughly as I can. There's nothing wrong."
"But Doctor-"
"Lisa,” Doctor Burke said, putting his hand on her shoulder. “I understand why you're so worried about him. I really do. But if there's nothing wrong, there's nothing wrong." He tried to smile, tried to reassure her. The waiting room echoed as her nails clicked.
The heavy buzz of an overhead florescent light added a strange gravity to the pediatrician's words. It was hard for Lisa to understand that nothing was wrong. It just didn't make sense.
"Did he say anything about his hand?" She asked, looking at her son. He was seven, with sandy brown hair and green eyes. He had been constructing an elaborate home, but had run out of Lincoln Logs before the job was done. He cocked his head as he appeared to contemplate the roofless house.
Doctor Burke looked over at Shane as well. "He hasn't really said anything. He doesn't express pain or discomfort. Even emotionally, he seems stable."
"He doesn't remember," Lisa reminded him.
"And maybe that's OK," Doctor Burke said, pausing. He began to lead her out of the waiting room. "There are no signs of abuse, not physical, not sexual. He hasn't a blemish on him that wasn't there before. In short, Lisa, go home. Go to bed. Stop worrying."
Lisa began to wonder if Doctor Burke was right. Everything with Shane seemed to be completely normal. Except...
She turned, stopping. “His hand. Doctor, he complains about it-"
"Oh? Does he do something to it, or does it just seem to hurt him?”
"I don’t know. When I ask him, he... doesn't remember. If he hurt it, how, nothing. It's- It's the strangest thing.” Lisa felt like she was walking on the edge. The problems with her son had gone further than she could have imagined. She was happy he was OK, of course, but she couldn’t let go of the fear of something wrong.
A voice came over the loudspeaker, "Doctor Burke, your next appointment is ready."
Doctor Burke turned to Lisa, and said, being firm but gentle, "Go home. Get some sleep, stop thinking about it. If the hand thing persists, we'll get it checked out, we can get it x-rayed, whatever you need, OK? For now, I have to get to my next patient, and you have to start moving on."
Lisa just looked at him for a moment, and then turned to her son. "Come on Shane, let's go," she said after a moment. They walked out of the pediatrician’s office, into the bright sunlight of a late August Oregon day.
---
In the van, on the drive home, Lisa asked her son how his visit with Doctor Burke was. Trees whipped past as she drove down the highway. She was anxious to be home, to have a smoke, to mix a drink, to fall asleep.
"Fine," Shane said. He was particularly interested in a toy car he had found under his seat. He held it tightly in his right hand. So tight, his knuckles were turning white. Lisa noticed.
"Shane, why are you holding that car so tight?"
"It's supposed to change colors. Like those rings. When it gets warm, it's supposed to change colors." There was a strange anticipation in his voice.
Traffic was relatively light on the freeway. Lisa put the van on cruise control and breathed a long, heavy sigh. She was starting to feel relief. Maybe Doctor Burke was right. Maybe nothing is wrong with him. But if that was the case, why... Lisa’s mind began to wander.
Minutes passed as she tried to clear her head. The hum of the van and the blur of colors as she drove down the freeway were somehow soothing. Some kind of normal. It seemed like it had been forever since ‘normal’ was a word Lisa could use. Getting into the passing lane, she thought about how fucked up everything really was.
In the passenger seat, Shane dropped the car from his hand. Its color had not changed. He hung his head in a strange way, his eyes looking around almost trance-like. He stayed that way, swaying gently as if in a breeze, occasionally letting his eyes focus on his right hand. Lisa figured he had nodded off.
Suddenly, with primal tenacity and almost infinitesimal speed, he smashed the window with his right hand, shattering it. The sound of air surging past filled the van, and the sound of Lisa’s voice was drowned by it. A stack of folders, filled with Shane’s medical records and receipts, erupted into a wind-driven frenzy.
"Shane!" Lisa's call was a scream of rage, confusion, and worry. "What are you doing?" She half asked, half demanded. Shane's head lolled back, and he looked at his mother. She looked at him, only for a second, and saw his eyes were a bright, liquid yellow, before he closed them and passed out.
Lisa panicked, pulling into the right lane, nearly smashing into the car she had passed only seconds before, then off onto the shoulder. The sound died and the papers settled as she slammed to a halt. Lisa flung her seatbelt off and shook her child.
“Shane! Shane!” Her voice cracked.
Finally, Shane’s eyes opened drearily, normal. “Mom?” he said. Lisa sobbed and hugged him hard. “Why are we stopped?” He asked.
Lisa pulled back and looked at him, her cheeks hot with tears. “Shane, why did you-”
Her son looked at his right hand, suddenly wincing in pain. “Mom! My hand, it’s hurting again! Why is it hurting again? Why?” Tears streamed down his own face, as he gripped and cradled his bloody hand.
Lisa looked into her son’s eyes, and she knew. Fucked up was only the beginning.
"Mrs. Harrington, I've looked him over as thoroughly as I can. There's nothing wrong."
"But Doctor-"
"Lisa,” Doctor Burke said, putting his hand on her shoulder. “I understand why you're so worried about him. I really do. But if there's nothing wrong, there's nothing wrong." He tried to smile, tried to reassure her. The waiting room echoed as her nails clicked.
The heavy buzz of an overhead florescent light added a strange gravity to the pediatrician's words. It was hard for Lisa to understand that nothing was wrong. It just didn't make sense.
"Did he say anything about his hand?" She asked, looking at her son. He was seven, with sandy brown hair and green eyes. He had been constructing an elaborate home, but had run out of Lincoln Logs before the job was done. He cocked his head as he appeared to contemplate the roofless house.
Doctor Burke looked over at Shane as well. "He hasn't really said anything. He doesn't express pain or discomfort. Even emotionally, he seems stable."
"He doesn't remember," Lisa reminded him.
"And maybe that's OK," Doctor Burke said, pausing. He began to lead her out of the waiting room. "There are no signs of abuse, not physical, not sexual. He hasn't a blemish on him that wasn't there before. In short, Lisa, go home. Go to bed. Stop worrying."
Lisa began to wonder if Doctor Burke was right. Everything with Shane seemed to be completely normal. Except...
She turned, stopping. “His hand. Doctor, he complains about it-"
"Oh? Does he do something to it, or does it just seem to hurt him?”
"I don’t know. When I ask him, he... doesn't remember. If he hurt it, how, nothing. It's- It's the strangest thing.” Lisa felt like she was walking on the edge. The problems with her son had gone further than she could have imagined. She was happy he was OK, of course, but she couldn’t let go of the fear of something wrong.
A voice came over the loudspeaker, "Doctor Burke, your next appointment is ready."
Doctor Burke turned to Lisa, and said, being firm but gentle, "Go home. Get some sleep, stop thinking about it. If the hand thing persists, we'll get it checked out, we can get it x-rayed, whatever you need, OK? For now, I have to get to my next patient, and you have to start moving on."
Lisa just looked at him for a moment, and then turned to her son. "Come on Shane, let's go," she said after a moment. They walked out of the pediatrician’s office, into the bright sunlight of a late August Oregon day.
---
In the van, on the drive home, Lisa asked her son how his visit with Doctor Burke was. Trees whipped past as she drove down the highway. She was anxious to be home, to have a smoke, to mix a drink, to fall asleep.
"Fine," Shane said. He was particularly interested in a toy car he had found under his seat. He held it tightly in his right hand. So tight, his knuckles were turning white. Lisa noticed.
"Shane, why are you holding that car so tight?"
"It's supposed to change colors. Like those rings. When it gets warm, it's supposed to change colors." There was a strange anticipation in his voice.
Traffic was relatively light on the freeway. Lisa put the van on cruise control and breathed a long, heavy sigh. She was starting to feel relief. Maybe Doctor Burke was right. Maybe nothing is wrong with him. But if that was the case, why... Lisa’s mind began to wander.
Minutes passed as she tried to clear her head. The hum of the van and the blur of colors as she drove down the freeway were somehow soothing. Some kind of normal. It seemed like it had been forever since ‘normal’ was a word Lisa could use. Getting into the passing lane, she thought about how fucked up everything really was.
In the passenger seat, Shane dropped the car from his hand. Its color had not changed. He hung his head in a strange way, his eyes looking around almost trance-like. He stayed that way, swaying gently as if in a breeze, occasionally letting his eyes focus on his right hand. Lisa figured he had nodded off.
Suddenly, with primal tenacity and almost infinitesimal speed, he smashed the window with his right hand, shattering it. The sound of air surging past filled the van, and the sound of Lisa’s voice was drowned by it. A stack of folders, filled with Shane’s medical records and receipts, erupted into a wind-driven frenzy.
"Shane!" Lisa's call was a scream of rage, confusion, and worry. "What are you doing?" She half asked, half demanded. Shane's head lolled back, and he looked at his mother. She looked at him, only for a second, and saw his eyes were a bright, liquid yellow, before he closed them and passed out.
Lisa panicked, pulling into the right lane, nearly smashing into the car she had passed only seconds before, then off onto the shoulder. The sound died and the papers settled as she slammed to a halt. Lisa flung her seatbelt off and shook her child.
“Shane! Shane!” Her voice cracked.
Finally, Shane’s eyes opened drearily, normal. “Mom?” he said. Lisa sobbed and hugged him hard. “Why are we stopped?” He asked.
Lisa pulled back and looked at him, her cheeks hot with tears. “Shane, why did you-”
Her son looked at his right hand, suddenly wincing in pain. “Mom! My hand, it’s hurting again! Why is it hurting again? Why?” Tears streamed down his own face, as he gripped and cradled his bloody hand.
Lisa looked into her son’s eyes, and she knew. Fucked up was only the beginning.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
A Newspaper Clipping
The Oregonian – July 2000
SEVEN CHILDREN STILL MISSING
The seven children abducted during the weeklong Portland area kidnapping spree last month are still nowhere to be found, and locals worry that the police are falling desperately behind. Scared families behind locked doors know that no news in this case is definitely not good news.
While Portland Police Chief Investigator Gayle Rhames believes “beyond a shadow of a doubt” that all seven abductions are connected—in fact, done by the same, single perpetrator—she admits that “we have little in the way of evidence of who was behind the kidnappings, or why those kids were taken.” She assures us detectives are working night and day in an effort to find the missing children and their abductor.
Almost two full weeks have passed since the last kidnapping occurred, and the pressure is certainly on local law enforcement to investigate further. Rhames has only one other thing to say on the case: “whoever it was that was doing the kidnapping wasn’t caught or confronted. He wasn’t stopped, he was too good. The kids stopped disappearing because he wanted to stop taking them.” Chilling.
Please see KIDNAPPING, page A6.
SEVEN CHILDREN STILL MISSING
The seven children abducted during the weeklong Portland area kidnapping spree last month are still nowhere to be found, and locals worry that the police are falling desperately behind. Scared families behind locked doors know that no news in this case is definitely not good news.
While Portland Police Chief Investigator Gayle Rhames believes “beyond a shadow of a doubt” that all seven abductions are connected—in fact, done by the same, single perpetrator—she admits that “we have little in the way of evidence of who was behind the kidnappings, or why those kids were taken.” She assures us detectives are working night and day in an effort to find the missing children and their abductor.
Almost two full weeks have passed since the last kidnapping occurred, and the pressure is certainly on local law enforcement to investigate further. Rhames has only one other thing to say on the case: “whoever it was that was doing the kidnapping wasn’t caught or confronted. He wasn’t stopped, he was too good. The kids stopped disappearing because he wanted to stop taking them.” Chilling.
Please see KIDNAPPING, page A6.
Monday, September 22, 2008
The Story
This will be an entirely new piece of fiction for me. I do not want to build on what I have already written, or even on ideas I have brainstormed in my mind as of late. I want this first story to be a new creation.
So, I'm open to ideas and genre requests from interested readers. I would like to decide on a genre and plot by the middle of this week, so that I can post the first episode this weekend or so.
Comment away!
So, I'm open to ideas and genre requests from interested readers. I would like to decide on a genre and plot by the middle of this week, so that I can post the first episode this weekend or so.
Comment away!
An Outlet
Creating a blog about my quest to lose weight and get in shape has virtually jump-started my writing drive, which is an amazing and very welcome change to my daily routine. It's nice to be writing again, writing something, anything. Anything, that is, besides what I write for work.
I noticed, however, that my weight-loss blog was likely to be very quickly bloated with non-weight-loss-related content, so I decided it might be a good idea to create a second blog, one that will focus on things beyond my new daily battle against food and sedentary life.
So, Accidental Creativity is born. Here's the idea: I'll start writing a story, and make posts once a week that contain a piece of the story. This will be my creative outlet.
Look for the first piece of this story soon.
I noticed, however, that my weight-loss blog was likely to be very quickly bloated with non-weight-loss-related content, so I decided it might be a good idea to create a second blog, one that will focus on things beyond my new daily battle against food and sedentary life.
So, Accidental Creativity is born. Here's the idea: I'll start writing a story, and make posts once a week that contain a piece of the story. This will be my creative outlet.
Look for the first piece of this story soon.
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