A Christmas Legacy

As we enter the wee hours of Christmas Eve, my mind can’t help but conjure images of Christmases long past. I mean, they certainly don’t feel so long ago, but alas, calendars don’t lie.

We used to have a family tradition of going to a movie on Christmas Eve. The theater would typically be empty, so it was like getting our own V.I.P. showing of “Home Alone” or “Ernest Saves Something.” We would then go visit my grandmother, who gave my sister and I each one present to open. I can still picture the little Christmas tree with all of its bright colors that sat on a table next to the couch.

Eventually, it was time to go home, and get ready for that famous “You-Know-Who.”

“Oh no, it’s storming! Will Santa and the reindeer be okay?” I remember being worried that particular year, but I also had faith, because nothing in the ‘verse could possibly diminish Santa’s vast stores of magic. Plus, you know, there’s literally an entire song about Rudolph in precisely that very predicament, and it turned out okay, so I wasn’t too worried.

Even thinking about sleep on Christmas Eve was laughable in those days. I recall my sister and I trying to force ourselves to unconsciousness, yet unable to achieve a single wink due to the ever-mounting excitement of the morning to come. (Sugar plum visions never even got the chance to dance in the Graves house. Just like Goodpasture’s prom, come to think of it.) I can see, using the undiminished eyes of my memory, the glow of our outdoor Christmas decorations reflected off the television screen in Steph’s room. I would stare at it for hours upon hours, wondering how much longer I had to wait.

After an agonizing night of eternal torment and so...much...waiting..., the “first wave” of presents finally appeared. SANTA CAME! Good ‘ole reliable, that guy. Let’s go wake up mom and dad! I mean, it’s only 4:30 in the morning; LET’S GET THIS PARTY STARTED, YO! Ugh, why are they so slow to get up?!

Finally, dad—blinking bleary, sleep-deprived eyes—would get the camcorder set up on a tripod and a trusty point and shoot, and he was ready to capture some memories At the mark, get set, GO!, we would eagerly tear in to the seemingly mountains of wrapping paper beneath the twinkling lights of the Christmas tree. After the morning tornado settled down somewhat, our parents would suppress a few yawns, bid us a “Merry Christmas,” then zombie shuffle back to their bedroom, whilst we played with the latest acquisitions to our ever-growing “stuff collection.” (Incidentally, present-day me wonders where I ever got so much energy on so little sleep.)

Later in the day, we would all pile in to the car and drive over to my other grandparents’ house, where an entirely new slew of gifts would await my eager little paws. I can still smell the delicious fragrance wafting out of the kitchen, and hear the crackle of the fire in the fireplace. After all of these years, I can hear my grandmother humming in her reclining chair; a constant, trustworthy soundtrack to so many of my earliest childhood memories.

I miss being a kid. I miss feeling that level of excitement about, well...anything. I miss many of my old family members, who despite being quite alive in my memories, have long since passed on. In the case of my sister and my cousin especially, they went well before their time. But, such things are not ours to decide, much as I often wish otherwise.

What I wouldn’t give to wait up all night with my sister just one more time, or talk with my cousin for hours over the phone about the latest video game. I’d pay a handsome admission just to hear that humming again, even if in those days, I might have paid her to stop.

Again, such things are not ours to decide. The only thing we can do is to cherish the moments laid before us. And while my personal story has lost a few characters over the years, I’ve gained quite a few as well. I now have an entire flock of young nieces and nephews. I get to witness that old magic shining in their eyes every Christmas, and that brings me a measure of joy—even if it doesn’t bring me a Xbox.

Maybe, someday, they’ll look back and have fond memories of me. That, I think, would make quite an endearing legacy.

The Force Was Always With Us

Back in 1999, when I was an enviable twenty years old, the first new Star Wars movie in sixteen years arrived in theaters, called “The Phantom Menace.” In those days, movie tickets weren’t sold in advance, so my mom dropped me and my then-girlfriend off at the Indian Lake Cinema just before noon, to wait over TWELVE HOURS (ugh) in the hopes of nabbing tickets to the midnight premier.

Mind you, this was twelve straight hours of sitting on a concrete sidewalk. We didn’t have the foresight to bring any board games, books, or literally anything to occupy us during that miserable wait. (We were still several years away from the dawn of the smartphone era and ubiquitous WiFi.) We were literally on our own with nothing but our imaginations, and our excitement over what was to come.

(Side note: Later that evening, I do recall that my dad and sister joined us in line, which by then was wrapped all the way around the cinema.)

The time finally arrived for our long-awaited anticipation to be sated. We got our tickets! We had our seats! WE MADE IT, YOU GUYS; WE’RE HERE! Look, those dorks are swinging their lightsabers around at the front of the movie theater, tee hee! (*This was a few years before I would own my own lightsaber, thus joining the ranks of those noble dorks.)

The lights went down. Unwanted previews played, to quite a few “boos.” At long last, the familiar 20th Century Fox fanfare began to blast out of those Dolby surround speakers.

And that crowd...went...insane. Lucasfilm logo? You’d think your team just won the championship. “A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away” fades in, and a few dudes in the front row spontaneously creamed in their pants, then fainted from too much stimulation.

The Star Wars theme blasted our eardrums, and the famous logo careened off into uncharted space, presumably to rendezvous with other famous film logos. People shot to their feet, hootin’ and hollerin’ like Oprah just showed up to give everyone free mansions for life.

The turmoil finally settled down a bit as the crawl began rolling. The roar faded to a few scattered claps, then one last dude shouted a half hearted “woo,” then silence finally descended over the theater.

The remaining run time of the film was spent in similar silence. Even at the closing credits, a somber crowd ambled out of the theater, blinking their bleary eyes in the bright, neon lights of the lobby.

Maybe it was waiting so many hours on the cold, hard cement. Maybe it was due to having to go to work in a few hours. Or, maybe, it was because the film didn’t quite live up to our expectations at the time. (But hey, intergalactic politics, amiright? We all had fun...while learning!)

I’ve never done anything quite so extreme since. Even with the final "Skywalker Saga" movie arriving in cinemas later this week, I won’t be waiting in line for hours. I already have two tickets (for me and my now-girlfriend) for a 2:30 am showing at the local IMAX. I even have my seats already assigned. I’m in the fourth row from the back, in case you’re curious.

I’m excited to see the movie. I’m excited to not have to wait outside on the sidewalk for several hours. I’m excited to have a smartphone now for the few minutes I do have to wait, because I’m older now, and these cat videos on YouTube won’t watch themselves.

The Force is definitely with us...this time.

What's in a Decade?

It is natural while standing on the precipice of a new decade to gaze back upon the past one—whether we wish to or not.

This decade began with the death of my sister. Like any major life event, the gravitational waves from that incident completely altered my trajectory in ways that continue to affect my orbit today.

In the past ten years, I have met an entirely new cast of characters in my personal story. I have re-acquainted myself with my childhood love of the written word. I have moved more times than I can remember; in fact, I spent the holidays in a tent just a few winters ago because I couldn’t afford anywhere else to live. (Pro Tip: Heavy plastic sheeting helps keep tents warm during cold nights.) While I haven’t become a success by any “traditional” metric, I am quite wealthy by virtue of my collection of experiences, family, and friends. (That means you. Awww.)

The theme of this past decade was not “stability.” It was “transition.” I’ve failed, I’ve succeeded, I’ve learned, I’ve failed again, I've made a complete ass of myself on multiple documented occasions…and after decades of relationship mishaps, I found love. (Technically, it found me.) All the while, I was constantly endeavoring to figure out just who I am and my ultimate life purpose. After many long, arduous years of research, I can officially report: I still have no freakin’ idea. Maybe I'll adopt another cat.

In any event, expect more wacky Topher tomfoolery in the coming decade, and definitely more fedora pictures.

The 2010 Topher model looked very sleek and snazzy.

The modern Topher has completed the facial hair accessory, but the fedora remains spot-on.

la Década de los Muertos

I took this picture back in 2011: my first Día de los Muertos celebration. Then, I was just starting my journey of getting to know myself, symbolized by my transition from "Chris" to "Topher." My sister died a year prior, and my cousin passed a year before that. (My aunt passed around this time as well.) My sister's death in particular directly inspired my current writing trajectory, so in a strange way, I'm grateful for that gift—I just regret the cost.

As I look back on my personal journey over the last few years, it is amazing how much the dead have influenced how I've lived. That is why I cherish this time of year in particular. Those of you who read "Three Short Ghost Stories" discovered they were written with love in mind...not fear. (Well, the hotel might have been one minor exception, but it can be argued that those ghosts were simply being eternally hospitable, right?)

In fact, I try to do everything now with love in mind, first and foremost. In the end, it is all that will matter. 

Happy Day of the Dead, for all of you, no matter which side of the veil you inhabit.

The Screamer in the Woods

The town where I live (White Bluff, TN) is home to not just one but two local supernatural legends.

I’m referring both to the “White Bluff Screamer” and “Werewolf Springs,” respectively. (A quick Google search will yield more information about these old legends than you could possibly want.)

It is with these stories in mind that I recount a recent experience of my own. A few nights ago, A. M. and I were driving down the back road which leads to the house. It was after dark, and since this is the middle of the country in a heavily wooded area, we typically drive with our headlamps on high beam. As I began to slow down in preparation of turning, a sudden shape appeared on the road.

Swerving, I narrowly avoid hitting...a raccoon. Apparently, it decided to have its fine evening dining right there on the asphalt.

The story would end rather anticlimactically right there, but for what happened a couple of minutes later. We pulled into the yard. Extracting a few sacks of groceries from the back of the Trailblazer, we walked across the pitch black yard towards the house—and that's when we heard the noise.

It sounded like a woman's scream, only it was distorted somewhat. I can't describe it any further other than saying it sounded like it was not of this world. (Yes, that sounds crazy, but if you heard it, you might be at a loss to desbrite it yourself.) We both looked at each other and whispered, "did you hear that?" Fumbling with the house keys, we ran into the house, and because we were obviously concerned with our neighbors' safety and well-being, we quickly locked the door and closed the blinds.

I posted about what we heard in a local Facebook group. We received several responses from people who have heard a similar noise before, so naturally we began to discuss the famous White Bluff Screamer of local lore. There were also other (perhaps more rational) explanations offered, such as the mating cry of foxes and other nocturnal critters. We listened to a few YouTube recordings, and while certain animal cries are certainly unsettling, it wasn’t quite what we heard.

Yes, it might have been our collective imaginations. We both really get into the spirit of Halloween, after all. Maybe it was simply a wildcat, or a coyote, or a fox. (What foxes really say, after all, is far more troubling than the song suggests.)

All I can tell you for certain is that we heard a scream coming from the forest near the house, and we aren’t likely to soon forget it.

Bumps in the...Daytime?

I have lived here for around a year and a half at this point. In that entire time, the ceiling fan in the bedroom has been completely non-functional. This is fine, because I normally use a bedside fan anyway. No worries.

Earlier, all three cats were running around the bedroom, looking intently around at nothing I could see, as cats do. We get a lot of mice out here, and the felines are proven hunters. There’s nothing particularly noteworthy about this behavior.

A few minutes ago, I was cleaning out their water fountain, when I heard an odd whine from nearby, accompanied by a whoosh of air. I didn’t think much of it—that is, until I looked up. The ceiling fan, long rendered impotent, was happily whirling about with reckless abandon.

There’s been a lot of weird stuff going on in the last few weeks, such as the feeling of “being watched” (there’s a lot of wildlife, so that’s probably accurate), footsteps crunching through the leaves in the darkened yard (wildlife again?), the cats constantly seeming agitated, and the occasional smell of an old woman’s perfume (um...saucy wildlife?) Old Pagan legends speak of the thinning veil between the realms of the living and the dead during this time of year, and I’ve always been a believer in the unexplained, having experienced such oddities before.

Of course, it all could easily be nothing more than a string of coincidences and well-timed electrical happenstances. That is, in fact, the likeliest explanation. 

But you know me and my imagination. I like to picture an old resident, returned to see her old place once again, and very likely disappointed to find the likes of me and mine living there.

...I hope she likes cats.

The Learning Curve

As of today, A. M. Fields and I have not just one, but two published works to our names, with even more to come.

Yes, they are self-published titles, which technically anyone can do, but not everyone does.

The process for us included doing every aspect of the books ourselves: Writing, formatting, illustrating, designing covers, writing the synopsis, learning how to use several different types of software, and infusing love and pride into every project.

They say you never write for money. That's true. Both of us write because we love it. To have created a thing that's now available to the world is something I have personally dreamt about since I was a kid, but never had the confidence to actually attempt...until recently. (This blog helped kick-start that confidence.)

So, to those of you who have supported us, thank you.

The Journey has Just Begun!

As proud as A. and I are of our "Three Short Ghost Stories" (which incidentally is now available as a print-on-demand paperback on Amazon), the primary purpose of publishing the little volume was one of experimentation. We have had to learn many things along the way, such as:

* Formatting manuscripts ("The Smashwords Style Guide" was immensely helpful for this, as it made everything else a breeze. Utilizing your word processor's "styles" feature is absolutely essential.)
* Editing graphics and illustrations. (I've colored many sets of Elf ears recently, so yea, stay tuned for that.)
* Creating eye-catching cover photos. (I knew I would get a lot of mileage out of my Facebook cover photo!)
* The best hours to use McDonald's free Wifi. (For when you don't have home internet because you're poor, lulz.)
* My poor 'ole, out-of-date laptop really is a trooper. Hang in there, buddy. (See "current economic status," above.)

Now, we're learning about the wacky world of promotion. Ugh. This is the biggest headache, because we're both extreme introverts with high levels of social anxiety. (A huge thank you to those who are pushing our writings out there! Props to you, with a cookie or two!*)

*Cookies only available only while supplies last.

All of this is to say "thank you" for all of the support everyone has shown us recently. It is really appreciated, as we have put a lot of work into making these projects as enjoyable for you as possible. We're excited to bring you our upcoming Christmas book, and that novel I keep teasing! (If you read "The Strange Tale of Top Hat Jack," the third short story in our little collection, then you're already slightly ahead of the curve on that one.)

Stay tuned, because there is definitely more to come!

Three Short Ghost Stories: The Prelude to a Self-Publication Adventure

It all started with a gathering of magical elves. (No, I wasn’t taking any hallucinogenic substances at the time.) Last year, Amanda had the idea to make a gift for both of our families: a fully illustrated Christmas book, featuring the elves of the North Pole. We finished the project right before Christmas, and showed it to everyone in the form of a slideshow presentation.

The feedback was pretty much unanimous. “Y’all need to publish this!” We looked at each other and shrugged, and decided that maybe, just maybe, we would eventually do just that.

In the meantime, we began working on a novel. It was originally intended to be a short story, but it just kept growing and growing, much like Audrey II in Little Shop of Horrors. It demanded to be fed, so we kept feeding it, much to our delight (and occasional dismay.)

So, it is with some humor that the first thing to actually see publication is a project that was put together in less than a month. Taking a brief respite from the novel, Amanda came up with the idea of writing a couple of short, Halloween-themed ghost stories. She pitched the first two stories, I expanded on her outlines and wrote them, then we edited and revised them as needed.

It was then that I had an idea of my own: If we wrote a third short story, we could potentially publish the collection. Since we wanted to self-publish the Christmas book and the novel anyway, this would be a good opportunity to get a “feel” for the entire process.

“I came up with the first two stories, so you can do the third one,” Amanda said. “You need to write one from a ‘guy’ perspective.”

Well, shit. Okay. I thought we were supposed to be a team, but whatevs! (I’m kidding, Amanda!) With my best friend Caffeine sitting quietly next to my laptop, I went to work.

My initial draft was titled Dave the Wizard and the Halloween of Destiny—but Dave’s adventure just didn’t seem to fit the tone of the other stories. I buried Dave back to the bottom of my idea drawer, told him to stay quiet, while I tried to think of a different idea.

Then it came to me: why not write a self-contained, short story that occurs just prior to the events of our novel? Thus was born The Strange Tale of Top Hat Jack, which introduces a magical town and a mystical creature (who, presumably, has been trained to use a celestial litter box.)

“You clever son of a so-and-so,” I said to myself while cackling maniacally, trying not to cuss around the cats. (I have to be a positive role model for my kids, after all.)

So, it is with some pride that I now present to you the first of several projects. This is a small collection of short stories which all take place around Halloween. The only thing they have in common is that they are stories about people—some of them just happen to be dead. The tales are not intended to be scary, because ghosts aren’t supposed to be scary. (There are horrors elsewhere, but they don't appear in these tales.)

The book, entitled Three Short Ghost Stories, is currently available for the Amazon Kindle e-reader and associated apps. (A print-on-demand paperback version may be available soon, but due to additional printing and shipping costs, it will be a bit more expensive.)

As for the elves? They'll be frolicking in a Kindle near you in a few weeks.

Click HERE for the Amazon listing!

Bumps in the Night

The disembodied voice of a small child laughs in a house where no children ever play. An unplugged organ emits a single, sustained chord in the middle of the night. A muddy footprint appears to pass through the middle of the hallway, passing out of one wall and vanishing into the next. Tiny handprints suddenly manifest all over the passenger window during a cold, Autumn evening. The sound of quickening footsteps give chase over a wooden bridge, only to stop halfway across. A rhythmic tap-tap-tapping repeatedly clicks on a full-length closet mirror, which only stops several days later when the cats finally take it upon themselves to break the glass. (Goodbye, security deposit.) Scratches appear on my then-girlfriend's back while she is in the shower. A locked-from-the-outside basement door handle begins to rattle at 3am, accompanied by a loud knocking, as though something trapped down below desperately wants to get out.

These phenomena sound like creations of fantasy—at best, the products of an overactive imagination, at worst, the misfired neural detritus of a delusional mind. It is easy to understand why I don’t often speak of these things, given my family's well-documented history of mental illness.

I assure you, the occurrences mentioned are no mere conjuring of imagination. I, Christopher A. Graves, do firmly attest that I personally witnessed each one of these phenomena in a clear minded, wide awake, definitely non drug induced state of absolute, assured lucidity.

With those events in the back of my mind, several years ago I created a Facebook group called Shady Hollow. It was originally intended to be an online gathering place for people to discuss all things paranormal―or at the very least, unexplained and mysterious―in an open, supportive environment. It didn’t really take off the way I hoped. Instead, it became a dumping ground for spooky memes and online articles. I still have hope it will someday take off the way I always imagined, but it typically only peaks around Halloween, when most members (and its creator) suddenly remember it even exists.

A short time before her death in January of 2010, my sister confided something in me that was quite surprising at the time, because it was something she had never spoken of before. All of her life, she always kept a special chair in her room. At night, the spirit of an old Native American (a chief, presumably) would come into her room and sit in the chair. That’s it. He just sat in the chair, every night, for years and years and years while I snored blissfully away in the next room, and I never once heard about it. Uncharacteristically for me, I didn’t follow through with any additional questions, and my curiosity has not stopped bugging me for years wondering what it all meant. Regrettably, I no longer have a chance to ask her about it.

Eventually, I realized I’m not supposed to know. It wasn’t my experience―it was hers. But it did serve to assure me that my own occurrences were nothing to feel any shame or embarrassment about.

Since then, many of the folks I’ve met in my worldly travels have shared similar tales of the unexplained. Often, they worry they’ll be considered nuts, or simply not taken seriously. I usually invite them to Shady Hollow, where I hope they’ll share their tales. For most people, however, it is intimidating to share in front of a large group. As someone who writes, often baring my own thoughts and feelings before a large audience, I completely understand that mentality.

As we approach the time of year when the veil between realms is supposedly at its thinnest, it is of interest to be aware of many of the wonders, mysteries, and phenomena that surround us in this vast, unexplained Universe.

That tapping you hear? It might simply be your cat chasing a wayward bug up the mirror. Or, just perhaps, it may be something else altogether, desperately trying to get your attention...

All That Remains

Standing in what is now the front yard, protruding a meager nineteen centimeters above the earth, is a simple gas line connector―the sole remnant of a home that once stood on this exact location.

In March of 1992, the natural gas pumping station up the street exploded, sending out a massive fireball that propagated down the line and destroyed or severely damaged several of the homes in the neighborhood. The house that once stood here was among the casualties. Five people were injured, some requiring hospitalization, but fortunately there were no fatalities. Unfortunately, their homes were not so lucky.

This spot, which was once a home full of memories, has been relegated to a small hazard I cautiously avoid with the lawnmower, lest I accidentally experience a similar fate.

All too often, each of us gets so wrapped up in trivial (read: unimportant) matters of day-to-day existence, that we forget to stop and appreciate the things that we have. The old adage "You never know what you have...until it's gone" rings with so much truth it's nearly deafening.

In our modern world, it is hard to avoid the negativity that seems to permeate the very air we breathe. Whether it's the current newscycle, traffic, kids acting up, cat vomiting on the freshly vacuumed carpet (I'm looking at you, Knyght), or the air conditioner going out on a hot day, it is easy to get trapped in a perpetual cycle of negativity. For those of us who often experience depression or anxiety, this can be even worse.

After that disaster so many decades ago, a new home was eventually placed on the property (several yards away from the gas line and utilizing electric heating), and I currently call it home. I try to make it a point each and every day to be thankful for what Life has given me, because it can all literally disappear in a flash. Some of you already have experience with this, and my heart goes out to you.

We are here for such a brief moment in the Cosmic scale of things. Some might consider this reason enough to be grumpy about their existence, but I find it reason to celebrate. My moment may be simply a brief flash in the eyes of the Universe, but it's my flash.

May it (and yours) burn ever bright.



(The source article about the accident can be found by clicking here.)

Turning Forty-One can be Forty-FUN!

"Finally, I'm 41! I can keep doing adult things!" said no one ever. Still, even as my hair slowly receeds from my scalp and reappears in other...places, as far as birthdays go, this one rocks.

Forget the fact that we're literally camping out in the parking lot of a convenient Wal-Mart, slowly marinating in our own sweat while mosquitoes fly through the open car windows to feast on our blood, this 24-hour supercenter has working toilets, air conditioning, AND free WiFi, no purchase necessary! The soothing tones of the street sweeper as it passes by the car is a pleasing lullaby, the hypnotic flashing light singing us to a morning full of promise. (And, likely, stiff necks.) All of these wonders, plus it's way cheaper than a hotel. They don't put that in the brocure!

Life really is what you make it. And when life gives me sweat, I'll make hot Topher juice. I don't know what that is, and I really don't want to know, but surely some idiot will buy it on eBay. So, please, tell your friends.

Depression: The Rocket Ship Analogy

Living with Depression is a lot like piloting your own rocket ship. Occasionally, you'll break through the top of the cloud cover and feel the warmth of the sun reflected on your visor. However, just when you're about to break free of the planet's gravitational pull, your engines crap out and you descend back down into the turbulent darkness.

The rest of the time, you're just spiraling down through the clouds, with no instruments and alarms blaring, wondering if you're going to finally impact on the surface below, or if your engines will miraculously reignite. Usually, they do, and the cycle repeats itself.

Perhaps you're reading this (that much at least I think we can agree on), and you're suffering in silence. Most people don't want to hear you're depressed, because they don't really understand, so you bottle it all away and act like nothing is wrong. Or, maybe you do speak out, but you feel as though you're shouting into the void. Or, well-meaning friends recommend throwing medication at it so it just "goes away," perhaps so you don't bother them with it anymore. Sound familiar? If it does (and I sincerely hope it doesn't, but Life can get pretty bumpy along the way―for all of us), please just bear in mind that there are many of us who share your pain. Depression makes us feel isolated, like we're cut off from everyone else. (And let me tell you, social media does not help. You have to remember you're seeing a highly curated slice of other people's lives, presented in the best possible light. #allthefilters #allthetime.) 

I'm not writing this to preach at you about what you should do, because different tactics work for different people. I'm just here to remind you that you are not alone. You would be surprised to know who else is in the same boat you are. That's oddly encouraging when you honestly stop to think about it. (Although, overthinking is usually the culprit in the first place. I write from experience.)

It's a harsh world, or so it sometimes appears. Personally, I try to avoid the news whenever possible, because ultimately their mission is to sell ad space. And drama gets those ratings, kids. The real world isn't really good or bad, ultimately, it's just the stage upon which we act our little parts, trying desperately not to flub our lines or trip through the curtain. And, of course, we do all of those things, and then pray that no one notices.

Such is life, my friend. You are not alone. There is a Universe filled with beauty and love out there, even if it feels like your rocket will never launch again. The Sun is always there, even on a cloudy day, and it will definitely appear again.

...at least until it explodes a billion years from now, but you probably didn't need to hear that.

The Choices of a Lifetime

“This is not a dream,” the Angel says. My doubts are more than justified, I feel, because nothing else could possibly explain the scene that is frozen all around me.

I am literally standing inside a photograph. A single, pivotal moment, paused forever in time. Standing in front of me is an 18-year-old version of myself, dressed in the cap and gown that meant I was a high school graduate. I am surrounded by my friends and family; smiling an awkward smile to an unseen camera.

From my perspective, I’m smiling at me. I look down at my present, 40-year-old version. I immediately envy my younger counterpart’s slimness, his full head of wavy hair, and the years of stories and possibilities that still lay ahead of him.

Of course, I already know how many of those stories end, but not quite all of them. I mean, I’m not dead―only dreaming. At least, I think I am.

The Angel says, “What lays before you now is a choice offered to only a few, but envied by most.”

My eyebrows chase each other up my forehead. I am...intrigued.

“You can choose to return to this moment, if you wish. You can live your life all over again, to correct your mistakes and make different choices. We Angels have heard your prayers asking for another chance. Now, it is laid before you.”

If this is true, it is a tempting offer. Having the opportunity to undo all of the mistakes I’ve made in my life, and change my own future? How can I resist?

“Before you choose,” The Angel says, “I have a gift for you. Behold, I present the Book of Your Life.” The Angel is holding a comically large, leather-bound book. It is currently open to a scene describing this very moment. Already, it mentions the fears and doubts my younger self has about approaching adulthood. 18-year-old me has absolutely no idea what is to come in the road ahead, and he is terrified.

40-year-old me flips through the pages, reading events that have happened since the moment frozen in front of me. I see many of those fears realized: failed jobs, failed relationships, friendships I’ve lost. I see my sister, full of life and healthy, so proud of her little brother, unaware of the sickness that will claim her life just a few short years from this moment.

All of that is still in the future. A future I have a chance to change.

Even this encounter with the Angel is partly written, the words filling in as the events unfold. The pages that come after are still blank.

I’m being offered the chance to erase half of these pages and re-write my own history. I can go back and make different choices! Perhaps I’ll go to a different college this time around, and choose a different major. Maybe this time around I’ll study business accounting, or computer programming, or even astrophysics. 

Maybe I can be a “Science Guy!” Now meet Topher, the Science Gopher! (Um, well the good news is at least I have time to write a much better catchphrase.)

Maybe I’ll even be a writer. I've always loved to write.

Heck, why not just be all of the above! The sky's the limit...all over again!

The 18-year-old standing in front of me doesn’t yet know what he wants. Already, I see the small seeds of doubt and worry in his eyes. They are feelings I know will only grow and multiply in the coming years. Maybe I can change all of that.

I’m aware of the paradox that my choice will bring. The person I am now will cease to exist, but so too will my failures. I have a chance to give a great gift to younger me. I will give him the chance to live a different life, without suffering so many moments of depression. Without experiencing all of those feelings of never being good enough.

Maybe this time, I’ll even figure out my actual purpose.

“I’ve made my choice,” I tell the Angel. “I accept your offer. I wish to return to this moment.”

The Angel’s voice booms, and I cower in fear. “Know this. Erasing what was offers no guarantee. Your life can be whatever you decide, but be warned, you will carry no memory of who you are today. Everything you now know will be gone forever, and cannot be undone. Make your choice wisely. Decide only when you are certain.”

I am terrified, but I desperately want a second chance. I may never get this kind of opportunity again. I tell the Angel I am certain.

“So be it!” The Angel booms. “All that was written before shall be unwritten, and you will once more live on from this moment.”

A bright light shines all around us, and I prepare to experience my life all over again. The earth shakes, the picture starts to move, and suddenly―

I wake up in a very familiar bed. Glancing down, I am still in my 40-year-old body. 

Of course, it was just a dream. I collapse back onto my pillow, feeling disappointed. Some dreams feel so real that they leave a profound emptiness upon awakening.

“I told you that was not a dream,” The Angel says.

I bolt upright in bed. The Angel is standing right there, in the doorway of my closet. (I might have cleaned up a little if I knew I'd have a celestial visitor, but unfortunately, they rarely make reservations.)

“I don’t understand,” I say, trying to hide a pile of laundry under my comforter.

“That was not a dream,” The Angel repeats. “That was a memory. You were given a choice many years ago to return to a specific moment in your life. You accepted, and your wish was granted. You have again lived to the age when I first gave you the choice.”

My shock is swiftly replaced by anger. “But, I am still the same person I was before! Nothing has changed!”

The Angel is sympathetic. “You cannot truly change what has been, even if you are given the chance to try. You made the same choices as before because you could not remember making them the first time. You are who you are because of your failures as much as your successes."

I am angry―not at the Angel, but at myself. Even after a second chance, I am still every bit as worthless as I was before. To me, my life has only ever been a string of failures.

The Angel again offers the book. “You were in a hurry last time, and skipped much of your story. I thought you might want to read some of the other passages.”

I take the book and once again thumb through the Book of Your Life. Again, I see those moments of failure and doubt. Each and every one is neatly inscribed in breathtaking, angelic calligraphy, to be thus preserved for the rest of eternity.

But, I now see many other pages I skipped over before.

Here, I see an entry with myself and some friends laughing hysterically over something not at all funny, but in that moment it was hilarious. I smile at the memory. I wonder if they can still remember this moment, wherever they are now.

On a different page, I see myself offering words of encouragement to a heartbroken friend. I can't even remember this moment―in fact I barely remember the friend―and the words I'm speaking sound like tired old clichés. But, I'm saying them with sincerity, using some of my own personal experiences as examples. 

Surprisingly, the book shows me more than just my own deeds and thoughts; it also shows those with whom I've interacted. I read on with my eyes slowly beginning to fill with tears.

The friend I comforted decided not to commit suicide that same night. “Someone cared,” I read in her thoughts. “Maybe others will, too.” I skip ahead in the book out of curiosity, and smile. Today, she is married and has a family of her own. Her heart is full.

I am crying as I read other moments. There are far too many to read all in one sitting―after all, there are literally decades worth of entries. But I now see an entirely different story than the one I thought I already knew so well.

The Angel says, “You were so preoccupied about your own failings that you were willing to erase most of your life. Among those failures, you also failed to see your entire story."

I immediately think of Clarence in It’s a Wonderful Life, and I laugh, despite myself. I think I should go ring a bell.

“Who do you think inspired that story?” the Angel says with a wink, then vanishes. Who knew Angels had a sense of humor?

The Angel is gone, but I am still holding the Book of My Life. My hands are trembling, but I can’t resist reading ahead. I mean, maybe this thing has some future lottery numbers in it, right?

Of course, you already know what I find. There are hundreds of blank pages, all still waiting to be written...

A Bittersweet Birthday

Today would have been my sister Stephanie's 46th birthday.

Because of her, everyone already knew me when I was a tiny new marcher nervously clutching my saxophone the summer before entering 8th grade, afraid of all of the intimidating "big kids." Those kids instead took me under their proverbial protective wings, for which I'm eternally grateful.

I would probably had a really difficult time otherwise, introverted geek that I was (and am), and perhaps I would have quit long before my senior year. Instead, the band became a kind of surrogate family that has been difficult, if not outright impossible, to replace in all the decades that have followed. In fact, my band friends are the main reason I still have a presence on social media. Again, all of this was because I had a big, cool sister who paved the way for me all those many years ago.

My sister has now been gone for nine years, and I often wonder what life might be like if she were still around. A lot of my modern memories are tainted with sadness, and though we move on, we never fully recover. Not really.

You can pave over paradise with a parking lot, but you'll always have the pictures.

In years past, I've said much on the topic of what I owe to my big sister, who left this Earth long before her time. I still can't believe that I, the awkward little brother, have now outlived my much cooler, older sibling. I mean, I'm cool and all, but I'll never be "Stephanie cool," and neither will you.

You kind of just have to learn to live with that.

"Pika Pika?"

It is fascinating how sometimes life will toss us into completely unexpected situations. Just last week I found myself being the driver and chaperone for a high school prom, despite the fact that I don't have any kids. (That came out quite a bit creepier sounding than I had intended, but I'll offer no further explanation.)

Today, I find myself at an anime convention working on the rough draft to a ghost story, all while nerds dressed as anime and video game characters stoll by being uniquely weird and awesome. (It is a kind of pure Nirvana, if I'm being honest.)

I couldn't make this stuff up if I tried, which I sincerely hope isn't a commentary on my forthcoming fiction writing abilities. That, I suppose, remains to be seen.

But the point is...I'm wearing a Pikachu hat in a hotel lobby while writing a book surrounded by geeks, and this really isn't such a bad life.

The Unity of Infinity

I don't know who may need to read this, but...

When you gaze up into the sky on a clear night, and you realize you're literally staring into an infinite abyss, the idea may occur to you that compared to the rest of All That Exists, we humans are indescribably small and utterly insignificant. This thought is humbling, as it should be. We need humility.

Yet, amongst all of that seemingly incalculable creation, we exist. We are literally assembled from the very dust as forms the entirety of the Cosmos-all that we can possibly perceive or even imagine-itself.

We aren't merely standing at the edge of a vast emptiness; we are Infinity itself. We are connected to something so much bigger than at first appears confined as we are to our mortal shells. Put simply: we are not alone.

And that, my friend, I find pretty encouraging.

Valentine's Day: A Brief Personal History

I was an awkwardly shy kid growing up, so I never had a "real girlfriend" (what with the kissing and the boobies and the hey-hey-hey) until I was 20 years old. I met her, as many of us introverted pre-Millennials tend to do, in an Internet chat room.

My real life inspired cinematic masterpieces.

Fun fact! Upon hearing that I was going to meet this mysterious internet girl in person, my mom’s sage maternal advice went exactly as follows: “Thank God! You’re finally going to get some.”

Good talk, Mom. Therapy is expensive. 

Thus, for the first two decades of my life, I had a pretty hateful relationship with this so-called "holiday." I was always on the sidelines, looking over at all of those happy couples, with their flowers, balloons, S.T.D.s, and utter such bullshit.

My dislike ran so deep, in fact, that when I eventually had dates of my own in later years, I still hated the day, because you are always expected to do something. Personally, as I've discussed before, I prefer spontaneity. Surprises for the sake of surprises. Obligatory holidays suck because they're not, at least in my view, genuine.

Oh, and if you go all-out one year, assuming you are still with the same partner the following year, you feel like you have to up the ante the next go round. Fortunately (I guess) for me, my relationships never really lasted that long. Score one for poverty, I guess.

Anyway, many years later, I finally just gave up on all of it. I adopted a personal mantra of accepting myself for myself, and not being "desperate for love."

You tell 'em Short Round, you terrible 80's racist stereotype, you.

It actually worked. I felt content and happiness on a scale I hadn't felt in years. There was no longer a missing piece in my life. I was all of the pieces. 

Oh, I also watched a lot of porn. 

Lots...and lots...of porn.

See? Star-Lord gets me.

So, as cliché as it sounds, that's when I finally met a special someone.

Warning: Mushy shit ahead. You've been warned.

I was first introduced to Amanda several years ago, in a hook-up attempt by some well-meaning mutual friends. We clicked on a friendly level, having many shared geeky interests, but neither one of us was ready for anything more. Also, both of us are painfully shy even as adults, so that doesn't help our charisma level much. 

Roll for initiative. Ouch, looks like you're going to die alone in a house full of cats. 

Eh, I could definitely do worse.

But, we talked. And talked. For years we've been talking, and occasionally hanging out, and getting to know each other.
A few months ago, it all came out. We were attracted to each other.

Whoo-hoo! Go Topher, Go Topher, it's your birthday!

Ahem.

I'll spare you the details, but I will say that when it does work, it is amazing. I should know; I'm certainly an expert on when it doesn't work, based on years of experience. References provided upon request.

My advice to everyone, including myself, is to never try to force relationships.* Have fun all by yourself. Be content with who you are first. If something is meant to be, it will be, but in any case you'll already have peace and personal fulfillment in your heart.

*And guys, if a girl you like says NO, then STOP. She has given you her answer. Respect her choice, and her, and let it go. This is very important. Forget how movies and society tells men how to act in these situations, and learn some decorum. It is a dying art.

Long story short, this year I'm finally having an amazing Valentine's Day, because I'm spending it with my best friend, collaborator, and partner in crime.

It has definitely been worth the wait. ♥♥
♥

Why Earth-Bound Time Travel is Extremely Impractical (but still looks cool on film)

The following was originally written and posted to my Facebook "Notes" page on November 19, 2010. It has been re-posted (and edited) here for posterity, and also because I mentioned it in the "Welcome to the Realm" post. I owe much to this writing.

Sure, I love a good sci-fi flick as much as the next guy. A favorite shtick of the genre is the good 'ole time travel story (or, perhaps more accurately, the good 'ole confusing subplot). However, there is an inherent problem with time travel, at least time travel on Earth, that has bothered me for years and I'm surprised no one has ever caught this glaring discrepancy. (At least, that I have ever heard.)

Let's start with the basic movie scenario. Marty hits the gas, accelerating the Delorean up to 88 miles per hour, timed perfectly with the lightning bolt of fate, thus sending him instantaneously into the year 1985. The concept is that the time vehicle moves through time, but not space. Makes sense, right? When the time displacement occurs, after the blinding flash and three sonic booms, the car is still in the Hill Valley town square, at the exact same location, albeit a few decades later. 

Marty's parents are also now freakin' loaded, but I digress...)

"Now what, Mr. Picky Geek, is the flaw with this design?" You might ask. "The Delorean looks cool, what with the stainless steel construction and flippy-uppy doors and all! I get transported in time just by looking at it...to the glorious 1980s!" 

First of all, they made that car for, what, a year? Time to move on, people. Second, here is what would REALLY happen:

Marty hits the pedal, accelerating up to 88 miles per hour. The lightning bolt enters into the flux capacitor, sending the car into...empty space. Marty, after a very brief moment of shock, soon dies of asphyxiation as the Delorean drifts through the eternal vacuum of space. Those gull door wings look cool, but they are absolutely useless for space travel.

Why? What went wrong? The Doc could never be that stupid, right? He's the Doc, for cripes sake! It is actually very simple, which is why it has bugged me for years. A fixed point in space doesn't exist on Earth, due to the fact that Earth is hurtling through the infinite cosmos like a crazed bowling ball towards my ex-girlfriend's picture. Therefore, if you only traveled through time, but not space, the Earth would not be in that same location at a different point in time! 

Suck it, Biff, and your mighty alternate reality gambling empire!

That's right, on any given afternoon, while you're crashing on the couch watching Star Trek reruns, that couch, the Enterprise, and your butt are still moving at incredible speeds. Even traveling in time no more or less than a single hour would have serious geographical repercussions.

Now, if you were to, say, slingshot around a nearby star, then perhaps your time travel would be met with less surprises. 

Just make sure to pack extra plutonium and grab a hoverboard; just in case.

TL;DR: Hollywood, I'm available as a script doctor. Call me.