Captain's Log, Day 131: A Little Lake Lounging

          “What is he doing with the radio?” Dale demanded.

          I shrugged, not even bothering to look up. Well, down—I was gazing at the sky. “I dunno. Looking for music?”

          “He stole it!” Dale pointed out.

          I could have pointed out that Dale was in Skipper’s customary spot, but opted to stay out of this one. “Hey, it gets better reception down here,” Skipper pointed out, as he found an oldies song--"Hard Day's Night," to be specific.

          “Keep it riiight there,” Dale told him as he fumbled for his phone. “I gotta get a video of this.”

          I laughed—I knew exactly what he was talking about. I leaned back again to enjoy the eighty-degree day, wishing the water was a little warmer than the 32.5 degrees Fahrenheit it was currently at.

          “See, this is why we like taking you out on the lake,” Dale told me as he finished his panoramic sweep of the boat.

          I was feeling too lazy to even attempt to make the obvious joke about me buying gas. (I’d beaten Dale to the register earlier.) “Why’s that?”

          “Because you get it,” Dale expounded.

          “Just reliving the old days,” Skipper chimed in.

          I did get it. We were on a 1956 Crestliner, powered by a ’63 Evinrude, listening to sixties swing on the transistor radio Noah probably had on his ark. The only really modern thing that was currently with us was Dale’s phone, and I figured we wouldn’t have that for much longer—if he kept gesturing with it, it was going to end up in the drink.

          I stretched a little and took in the view. It was, admittedly, gorgeous. The leaves were just beginning to change, as benefited the norm for late September; the day was warm, which was decidedly not the norm, but I wasn’t going to complain. Also, we pretty much had the lake to ourselves.

          We sat in mostly silence, punctuated by brief, half-hearted disputes about which station to listen to next and whether the AM stations needed the antenna or not. (They did.) After about a half an hour, Dale stretched.

          “We should probably get in one last round of waterskiing,” he suggested. “This might be the last good day for it.”

          I looked at the water. “You first,” I offered. Dale and I had each done a round before Skipper had joined us, and, while waterskiing was fun as always, the preliminary dunking of my kiester in cold water had elicited a shriek from me at an octave I didn’t know my vocal cords had been capable of making.

          “Sure thing,” Dale agreed, making a weird hissing sound as he wrapped the still-freezing life jacket around his torso.

          “Skipper, you should probably drive,” I added.

          “You got it,” Skipper nodded, finally popping up off of the back bench seat. “Why, you don’t want to?”

          “It would probably be easier for Dale to ski if I wasn’t driving,” I explained. “Last time, I forgot to check which direction the motor was pointing before throttling up. ‘Bout spun us in a circle.”

          Skipper laughed as he took the wheel. “Yeah, I’ve done that a few times myself.”

          “Remember, take off quick,” Dale ordered as he prepared to lower himself in.

          “Basically, don’t let you sit around freezing?” I joked.

          Dale glared at me. “Exactly. YAAH—that’s cold!”

          I couldn’t help laughing as Dale hung half in and half out of the boat. “Want me to push you in?”

          “Don’t you DARE,” Dale threatened me as he dropped the rest of the way. He took the cold water with more grace that I anticipated that I would. “Skipper, start it up!”

          Skipper moved the boat forward; Dale had his ski on in record time and was waiting impatiently even before Skipper got the line tightened. “You ready?” Skipper yelled.

          “SKI OR FLEE!” Dale yelled back.

          I’d never seen him get out of the water that fast once the boat started moving. I think he defied physics.

          Skipper took the boat on a long looping course around the edge of the lake, where the water was calmest. Dale did pretty well until the rope somehow snagged on the engine. The ensuing jerk of it coming free took the rope out of Dale's hands. He handled that gracefully, sliding to a halt in the water while Skipper brought the boat back around to pick him up.
          Surprisingly, Dale opted for the path of greatest frigidity and requested the rope back. After a few mishaps with miscommunication (Dale missed the rope the first time around), the skier was back up, the captain was dragging him around the lake, and the spotter in the copilot's chair was completely forgetting that he was supposed to be watching for mishaps out the back and was enjoying the lake scenery.
          Fortunately, I wasn't so enamored with the view that I missed the big splash when Dale finally decided he was done.
          "I think it was warmer where I wiped out!" Dale complained as I got the ladder set for him to climb back aboard. "You wanna go again?"
          "Sure, but maybe we should go back to where it was warmer?" I suggested hopefully as I accepted the life jacket from him. A moment later, I squeaked a little. "Geez, didn't you warm this up at all?"
          "There's probably not that much difference between there and here," Skipper pointed out. "Dale probably just got warmed up."
          I shrugged and checked the skis, handing them to Dale. "Whichever, I suppose. I'm gonna freeze my kiester off again anyway. What the--dude, don't throw them in!"
          Dale had automatically chucked the skis overboard for me. The slight wind set them on a leisurely drift towards the stern. He grinned. "Oops, guess you're gonna have to swim for it. Better get in quick."
          "Ahh, shut it," I muttered, lowering my legs into the liquid ice and hissing at the cold. "You may have to push me in."
          "Really?" Dale asked with entirely too much eagerness.
          "No," I snorted. "You can just stay over there."
          Dale reached out, probably to pat me on the head. I have a bit of a thing about people messing with my head, so I hurled myself backwards off the boat. "Get your flea-picking paws away from meeEEEEE!!!"
          That last word scaled up to an octave I had no idea that I could produce, and definitely outside the range the human ear was designed to pick up. This was probably a good thing, because I dropped several expletives that I was really hoping the twins wouldn't pick up.
          "Cold?" Dale asked, grinning.
          I yanked the skis on my feet so fast I thought I gave myself a friction burn. "I GOT THE ROPE GET A MOVE ON HOLY *BLEEP* IS THIS COLD!!!!"
          Skipper tightened the rope up. "Are you rea--"
          "SKI OR FLEE ALREADY!!!!" I shrieked.
          There was a helpful tip that Dale always told me: stay in the ball in the water until the boat was up to speed. Well, screw that. I popped up almost instantly, trusting the boat's motor to keep going. Fortunately, it did. Whew. I started doing a little victory jig and almost fell over.
          I started zig-zagging back and forth across the wake again, pulling goofy stunts (like "Tebowing," the splits, and crouching so low I was almost sitting down) until Skipper put the boat into a turn. I tried to stay in its wake, before remembering something. Skipper was driving, and he liked turning hard. I flew out to the side. Whoops.
          Fortunately, it wasn't too hard to recover, and I made it without wiping out. I managed to snag a leaf on the way to the next turn, holding it up for boat inspection and dropping it as Skipper made a hard left. I cut hard, trying to get behind and inside the boat, so when it turned hard, I'd be...able...to...
          ...okay, he took this one slower.
          Not good.
          The rope got so slack, it hit the water. I slowed down; leaning back, I tried to keep the tips of my skis above the water. (I'd learned the hard way what would happen if I got them caught underwater. Think really fast faceplant.) Skipper throttled up, but fortunately not hard enough to yank the rope out of my hands...and a few seconds later, I was back up!
          However, now I was tired, so I rode the wake back over to where Dale had wiped out earlier and bailed. What do you know--the water did seem warmer over here.
          "Nice recovery," Skipper greeted me as he pulled the boat up.
          "Yeah, did you see the rope hit the water?" I asked, kicking my skis off and passing them up to Dale.
          "That's why I didn't take off too fast. I figured that'd help," Skipper explained.
          "You wanna turn?" I suggested mischievously as I began boarding.
          "I don't think he's gonna," Dale laughed.
          "No swim trunks," Skipper explained with the cheerful air of one who would be keeping his kiester in a relatively unfrozen state.
          "I could lend you mine," I joked.
          Dale laughed. "Well, we should probably get back for dinner."
          "Mind if we go cruising for a bit first?" Skipper asked.
          "Hey, fine by me," I shrugged, grabbing a towel and trying to dry off.
          Once Dale had the gear stowed, Skipper started the motor and we cruised out onto the middle of the lake. I couldn't help grinning. "I gotta get me a boat. Whaddaya think, Dale?"
          "THIS IS THE LIFE!!!" Dale whooped.

Captain's Log, Day 130: Secret Agent Man

          The year was 2006. The place? Deep in enemy Russia.
          I kept a tight grip on my gun as I crawled up the hill, undergrowth poking me in the stomach. It took all of fifteen feet for me to get thoroughly sick of that, so I stood up and charged up the hill in an awkward crouch that was undignified in the extreme but kept me effectively invisible.
          I reached the top, only to discover that--oh crap--the guardhouse was populated by watchmen!
          WHAM. I belly-flopped. Then I sprang back up, stifling a yelp, and hurled myself onto a less thorny patch of earth. From this new concealment, I pulled the thorns out of my frontside and tried to figure out how to bypass the guards.
          "See anything?"
          I almost shot my fellow agent, who had snuck up on me. "SHHHH! Yeah, they got guards over there."
          Agent Zam Corsello cocked an eyebrow at me. "Is that why you dove into the briar patch?"
          "Shaddup," I muttered, pulling out the last of the thorns. "We can duck back into the forest and take the creek route to their headquarters, or we could try the ridgeline here. That would be riskier, though--"
          "I vote ridgeline," Corsello voted, scratching himself. "Fewer insects."
          "Wuss," I snickered, shoving him. He shoved me back unexpectedly.
          I climbed back up the hill and we crept along the ridgeline. After a few yards, I tucked my gun back into my pants so my hands-and-knees crawl would work better.
          "Hey, what is our plan?" Corsello asked from behind me.
          I stopped abruptly. He ran into my backside. "Don't you ever listen at mission briefings?" I demanded.
          "I was working on my samples," he responded in a huff. "They weren't reacting."
          I rolled my eyes. "We're trying to break in here for food because our supplies ran out," I hissed. "Also, we need to plant a new bug so we can listen in. They found our last one."
          "Oh." Corsello shrugged. "I didn't miss much."
          I groaned softly. "Please tell me you brought the bug."
          Corsello reached into his pockets and pulled out a bug. As in, a six-legged one. He shrieked and dropped it. I almost kicked him. "Keep your voice down!"
          Corsello sheepishly and gingerly dove back into his pocket and came up with a penny-sized object. "Here it is."
          "I'm gonna die with a moron," I complained to the heavens. "Come on, let's go!"
          We made it to a good observation point a few minutes later. "So how should we do this?" Corsello asked.
          "Pay attention during the mission briefing!" I ordered him. "We gotta brush off and infiltrate through the back door there. I have the key hacker."
          "So I went camo for nothing?" Corsello demanded.
          I turned to look at him. He was literally covered in leaves and sticks. I sighed. "There's a bug on your head."
          Corsello shed his disguise faster than I could publicly disown him. We crept towards the back door, when suddenly--
          "Get down!!" I hissed, diving for the side of the house. We barely made it around the corner before it opened fully. We both flatted out and held our collective breath.
          A jingle. Door slam. More jingling. And then a dog was licking Corsello's face. I snickered. "Apparently they let out the guard dogs."
          "How do we get rid of it?" Corsello asked, shoving it towards me.
          I scooped up a rock. "It's probably a pretty stupid dog. Let's try this."
          The dog tore after the rock I'd just hurled into the woods, probably thinking I wanted to play fetch. I figured he'd find the dead raccoon in the creek and be occupied for the next few hours. "Coast is clear! Let's go!"
          "Got it." Corsello drew his gun as we scurried over to the door.
          "Are your feet clean?" I questioned him over my shoulder as I pulled out the key hacker and held it up to the lock.
          "Yeah, yeah, I know--if we track mud through the house, we'll get shot," Corsello muttered. "I'm not an idiot."
          "Could have fooled me," I shot back, turning the handle and slipping inside before he could come up with a suitable retort.
          We dove into enemy territory, guns drawn and communicating with hand signals. Corsello was all for slipping the bug into someone's unattended boot. I replied with a rude gesture communicating his ignorance and pointed towards the meeting hall, which looked a bit like a dining room. We crossed silently over to it and slipped the bug underneath it.
          I gestured towards the kitchen, indicating that I would go check it out. Corsello tried to beat me to it, but I ordered him to stay by smacking him in the chest. Fortunately, the kitchen was unattended, because the impact might have been a bit louder than I intended.
          I opened the pantry and surveyed it with the eager eye of the desperately hungry. I shoved a chocolate bar in my pocket before pilfering some of the more substantial items and--
          --oh crap, footsteps!
          Knowing that a new unit of time would be needed to measure my life expectancy should I be caught (milliseconds was years too long), I chose the path of least resistance and dove into the pantry, pulling the doors shut after me and hiding under the bottom shelf. The footsteps marched around for a while. I heard water being poured. Then the person walked back out.
          I shot out of the pantry like I'd found a hornet's nest under there, snagged Corsello, and hightailed it out the backdoor to the relative safety of the woods. We caught our breath in a thick clump of shrubbery, where I shared the crackers and chocolate with him and we patted ourselves on the back for a job well done.
          Corsello wiped crumbs off his face. "Now what?"
          "Now we go spy on the guardhouse--" I was cut off by a yell. from the general direction of enemy HQ. "What was that?"
          "Sounded like something about lunch," Corsello mused as we shot back up to see what was going on.
          Across the way, we saw the guardhouse open as our sisters spilled out of it, chatting animatedly as they ran for the house. We heard the call again. "Boys come in, it's time to eat!"
          "Good thing we left the crackers back there," my brother laughed as we ran to answer the call.
          "Yeah," I mused. "By the way, Nemesis, you suck as a lookout. Why didn't you warn me Mom was coming in the kitchen?"
          "I didn't know what our signal was!" Nemesis protested.
          I groaned. "Nemesis, pay attention during the mission briefings!!!!"

Captain's Log, Day 129: New (Watery) Frontiers!

          I was totally freaking out and cheering as the Starcraft throttled up and skimmed out onto the surface to the lake--even though I maintained a death grip on the boat, confident that the next turn would capsize us like a turtle in an earthquake. Give me a break. It was my first time out on a speedboat.
          I was freaking out for an entirely different reason a few minutes later.
          "...so you're going to want to remain in the ball until the boat comes up on plane. You'll feel it," Dale reassured me as I tried to figure out a graceful way to decline what I saw as a session of inevitably-get-dragged-around-on-my-face-behind-the-boat-for-a-while. Besides, the water looked cold. And the life jacket was a little too big. I gestured at it. "Um, I don't think this is gonna work for me. Got any others?"
          Dale came over and yanked on a strap, which grudgingly tightened to fit. Crap. "There you go. Are you ready?"
          I tried to give an enthusiastic "Heck yeah!" before walking over towards the side of the boat. The boat rolled alarmingly. I retreated back towards the middle. "Oh, I hope I don't flip this, though."
          "You can't," Dale's brother and twin, Skipper, announced from the captain's chair. "See?" They both began rocking the boat until I swear we were perpendicular to the water and balancing on edge. Needless to say, I reestablished my death grip on the nearest object. Well, the second nearest--the nearest happened to be Dale's leg, and I figured I was having enough of a hard time maintaining my calm-in-the-face-of-certain-drowning image without clinging to THAT. How do I get myself into these things?
          This whole adventure started back in early spring, actually, when I saw Dale's homescreen on his computer and casually mentioned, "Hey, that's a neat-looking boat." It turned out that the Starcraft was a boat that the twins had bought and restored for the purpose of waterskiing, of which they were both avid enthusiasts. After talking up the finer points of waterskiing and boating with me for a while, they casually asked if I ever wanted to try. I admitted that it certainly sounded fun while privately deciding that the odds of me faceplanting my way to a watery grave were probably high enough for me to want to avoid that sport like the plague. I did, however, definitely want to go out on the boat and said as much. They promptly extended an invitation, which I promptly accepted and then forgot about...until closing time at lab that afternoon a few weeks later, when Dale had casually asked, "Hey, what are you up to tonight?"
          "Nothing that I can think of," I grumbled, privately wishing that I'd had the courage to ask that cute girl I'd seen at church yesterday out on a date.
          My thoughts otherwise occupied, Dale's next comment surprised me. "Well, it's finally warm enough, I think. Let's go out on the lake, maybe get some waterskiing in!"
          I thought about it for a second. It was maybe 70 degrees out, so the odds of actually waterskiing were pretty low (in my estimation); however, I never actually thought that the twins would trust a klutz like me out in their boat, so my ability to gauge odds was obviously flawed. Still, I didn't want to spend the night playing Halo again (87 nights and counting), so I agreed.
          However, as I lowered myself over the side of the boat, I was now deeply regretting my decision. I tried hard to keep from screaming like a little girl, opting to gasp out instead, "Did this melt yesterday??"
          Dale tossed one of the skis over the side, either ignoring or not listening (given the superfluousness of my comment, unsurprising). "I got them set for you. Just slide the skis under your butt and kinda sit on them while you get them on."
          Having worn a life jacket maybe twice during my entire life (one of which times, I managed to ditch it as soon as the Hawaiian reef tour guide had his back turned), I was not expecting it to actually keep my skinny kiester afloat. Needless to say, trying to tread water while trying to jam a ski onto my foot led to my inevitable capzation.
          "Just let the life jacket hold you up," Dale suggested when I'd righted myself and he'd stopped laughing.
          Violent wobbling aside, I got the skis on like a pro and managed to grab the rope he threw me with a minimum of juggling. Skipper cranked up the throttle and tightened up the line before throttling down. "Are you ready?" he yelled back.
          I sighed. Might as well die trying. I took a deep breath and courageously shouted back their own catch phrase. "SKI OR FLEE!!!"
          The boat took off like a tiger with its tail on fire. I curled up into a ball and maintained a death grip on the rope, trying to figure out when I could stand up. Come on, Radar, this is basic physics! Suddenly (and I'm not entirely sure how), I was standing up!
          "Hmm, not bad," I muttered to myself, trying to balance in the rocky wake of the boat. Skipper suddenly waved an arm over his head in a circle. I wanted to wave back, but before I could get up enough courage, the boat suddenly spun. Apparently, the arm-waving had been a signal and not a friendly greeting to the courageous soul being towed at ungodly speeds towards an epic faceplant.
          "COME ON!!!" I yelled. "You said nothing about TURNING!!!" I quickly ran though available options and tried to figure out the physics here, finally deciding on leaning out, away from the boat, and angling my skis out. I shot out to the side,considerably faster than I thought I was going to, and hung on for about three-quarters of the turn (the twins informed me later) before freaking out and bailing.
          By all accounts, the wipeout was impressive--and yes, I faceplanted in a rather epic fashion. I'd forgotten about the life jacket again, which cheerfully and speedily brought me back to the surface almost before I realized I wasn't, in fact, destined for Davy Jones' locker.  I could hear the twins cheering and laughing as they brought the boat around to pick me up. Dale was standing up and waving both arms over his head, yelling something like "That's how you do it!" Skipper, by contrast, was simultaneously congratulating me for my first attempt and apologizing for turning so hard.
          I managed to collect the skis before they reached me. "So how exactly do you turn?" I demanded, laughing as I snorted lake water through my nose as I tried to get the skis back on.
          "Like you did," Skipper assured me. "You just stay with it!"
          "And don't get freaked out," Dale added before dissolving into laughter again.
          I laughed as well as they pulled the boat back out, grabbing the rope handle again and yelling "SKI OR FLEE!!!" as loudly as I could. The boat took off and I popped right out of the water again, this time pushing out of the boat's wake into the calm water off to the side.
          It was, of course, considerably easier to stay upright now. I felt confident enough in my balance to let go with one hand and wave to the twins. Dale made a swooping motion back, which I correctly interpreted as "cut across the wake to the other side." I glanced at the wake, decided oh what the heck, and carefully navigated the treacherous waters to the other side. I angled as hard as I could once I got to the calm waters, ending up next to the boat.
          ....okay, this was getting fun.
          I started swooping back and forth from side to side, managing to navigate Skipper's next turn without bailing out (thanks to much shouted direction from Dale). I was starting to get a little tired, though, so I straightened out and tried to signal Dale to tell Skipper to stop...only to discover that I didn't know what the proper hand signal for stop was. Palm out looked like a wave, and I couldn't make a classical "time out" sign without dropping the rope. I settled for a chopping motion across my throat. Dale looked confused for a moment before holding both fists out straight in front of him and opened his hands, miming let go of the rope.
          It was my turn to be confused. Dale repeated the signal a few times before finally hollering, "Let go!" I looked from him to the handle, shrugged, and let go. Jesus, take the wheeeEEEEELLLLL.......
          God apparently was my copilot. I coasted gently to a stop, gradually sinking until I was back in the water. Didn't even get my head wet...ter than it already was. I started laughing.
          "How'd you like that?" Skipper yelled as he brought the boat back around.
          I punched both fists in the air. "THAT. WAS. PHENOMENAL!!!!!" I yelled at the top of my lungs.
          "Someone got bit by the ski bug," Dale remarked parenthetically. "We're going to have to do this again."
          "Darn straight," I agreed, laughing. "Who's up next?"

Captain's Log, Day 128: The Midway Golfing Incident

          Mom and Dad were gone on date night.
          Food had been eaten.
          The Midway siblings were looking for a game to play, but bored with the usual entertainments.
          That's when Radar (the typical instigator of new adventures) came up with an idea in his predictably crazy manner.
          "Let's play golf! I found Dad's golf bag yesterday when I was cleaning out the garage!"
          Quill looked dubious. "Yeah, I'm thinking not. We're not allowed outside, remember?"
          "Plus, we have no idea how to play golf," Nemesis pointed out.
          Radar waved their objections away. "Puh-leeze. We play indoor golf--like, say, downstairs--and I think we can figure the rules out."
          "You hit a ball into the hole. Right?" Squirrel asked.
          "Yeah, and then challenge other people's shots if they're too good," Radar expounded eagerly. "The loser has to put his ball back."
          "How do you know who the loser is?" Quill asked.
          "You duel," Radar explained, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.
          "Uhh...I don't think that's how it works," Nemesis began.
          "Please. They're called clubs," Radar snorted. "What else would they be good for?"
          Such logic was unassailable. The others quickly dispersed to collect the clubs. Nemesis, by good fortune, remembered a small mini-golf practice mat that would serve well as their hole. The siblings retired to the basement to set up their course, sticking the hole halfway down the furnace room hallway and started two corners away, over in the TV room.
          Radar opened up the festivities, as befitted the mastermind. His shot bounced off the couch and rolled to a stop next to the bookcases. Quill's shot was a bit worse; she hit the couch as well, but hers ricocheted backwards, netting her about three feet of gain. Nemesis's shot was far better; he managed to skim between the couch and coffee table, ending up in the great room with almost a straight shot to the hole.
          "I challenge that!" Radar yelled and lunged at his brother. The outcome seemed inevitable, as Radar was the better of the two at swordfighting; but the eldest got cocky and tried to get fancy with a spin/thrust combination. Nemesis slid under his guard and clocked him across the side of his leg.
          "You win," Radar grumbled, rubbing his thigh.
          "In that case...I CHALLENGE!!" Quill whooped, charging her brother. After a brief clashing of clubs, Quill managed to graze Nemesis's arm, earning her the win and forcing Nemesis to retake his shot. He missed this one, bouncing it over to where Radar's ball lay.
          Squirrel, being the non-violent person that she was, decided to quietly take her shot while the eldest siblings yelled at each other. She'd previously been amusing herself by taking pictures of the unfolding conflict, getting some marvelous pictures of the sword--er, club-fight. It was discovered later, upon examination of the pictures, that the fight had taken place next to some rather breakable picture frames, but thanks to insane luck and divine intervention, none of them had been taken out in the fracas. Her shot actually went further than her older sister's, but not by much.
          Radar opened up round two by banking his shot off the game cupboard and getting it behind the trampoline leaning up against the wall. As he'd previously declared it illegal to move any furniture, it was decreed that he would have to play it where it lay. Needless to say, his siblings refused to challenge his shot, leaving him no choice but to concede. Quill couldn't navigate the couch again, bouncing it over to the bookshelves. Nemesis smacked his off the cupboard and down the hall, almost to the hole. This was such an unreasonably good shot that Radar screeched, "CHALLENGE!" and charged. This time, a quick twirl-thrust combination on Radar's part planted his club's head firmly in his brother's stomach, netting him a win. Nemesis retook his shot, duplicating his earlier feat. Quill challenged him; Nemesis defeated her handily, letting him keep his position. Squirrel stayed stuck behind the couches, possibly by design; the bloodthirstiness of her siblings was a constant source of wonder for her, and she possessed the swordfighting capabilities of a sick sponge (she preferred pretending to be the cook whenever they played pirates or Robin Hood, so she never practiced the noble art).
          For round three, Radar managed to clip his ball weakly and roll it about halfway down the hall to the hole. Quill and Nemesis promptly challenged him...simultaneously.
          "Oh, come on!" Radar protested in a volume that would have been heard over a jet's engines. "How is this legal?"
          "Nowhere in the rules says it isn't!" Quill pointed out, parrying a thrust.
          Radar looped a strike over his head towards his brother, cancelling it midway to block a jab from Quill. "We've been making up the rules, you doofus!"
          "Exactly! Oof!" Nemesis pointed out cheerfully, before taking a club to the midsection. Radar grazed Quill on the arm moments later, ending the contest and glaring at Squirrel. "Are you going to challenge me too?"
          Squirrel held up her hands in the universal sign for "Do I look like an idiot?"
          Quill made it to the mouth of the hallway. Nemesis missed the hole. Squirrel stayed safely put behind her couch barricade, snapping pictures.
          Radar missed the hole. Quill missed the hole. Nemesis missed the hole. Squirrel stayed behind the couches. For the next five rounds.
          "Got it!" Radar finally announced triumphantly, spinning to confront his siblings. Given the the hallway was too narrow for them to attack him together and given the deranged light in their eldest sibling's eye, they opted for the path of sanity and lengthened life expectancy and declined to challenge him.
          Squirrel gave up. Quill and Nemesis took repeated shots at the hole. Quill finally made it about ten shots later. Nemesis challenged her; for a wonder, Quill won, leaving Nemesis to take repeated shots at the hole, getting madder and madder. Finally, he scooped up the ball, slammed it in the hole, and yelled, "STAY THERE!!"
          His siblings were convulsed with laughter on the floor. Nemesis gave them the evil eye.
          "We should play again," Radar suggested when he caught his breath.
          "We can't," Quill told him, a little sadly. "Mom and Dad are supposed to be back soon."
          Radar sighed. Well they knew Mom and Dad's prohibitions against anything remotely fun, such as indoor golf. "We should clean up, then," he lamented.
          And clean up they did...so well, in fact, that Mom and Dad didn't know about the game for several years; until Radar mischievously put some of the pictures in his brother's graduation slideshow.
          Needless to say, their mother did not approve. Fortunately, the statute of limitations of punishment had expired on the event!!

Captain's Log, Day 127: Any Port in a Storm!

          I've always loved catching small furry things. Actually, I've loved catching basically anything that moves, which has proved interesting on the occasions I've gone after snakes, spiders, and wild cats. (I'm surprised I still have a face.) I've even caught birds and bats. Today, though, I looked out the window to see a cat stalking a chipmunk, one animal I've never yet managed to get my hands on. (The chipmunk, not the cat.)
          "Nemesis!" I yelled for my brother, forgetting that most of the house was asleep. "Wanna catch a chipmunk?"
          My brother was game. I snatched up some gloves (I'd been bitten by more things than I care to remember, and I was finally learning to avoid the biting) and barreled out the door, Nemesis in my wake. In our excitement, we both forgot to grab shoes.
          It was a little brisk, making me glad I'd worn jeans. Nemesis and I raced around the side of the house towards the garden, pulling up short when we saw the cat and his prey...sitting side by side.
          "Okay, that's just embarrassing," I muttered. "I thought he'd have grabbed it, at least."
          "I thought it would have been dead," Nemesis muttered back.
          "Nah," I returned, making a wide circle and beginning to creep up on the chipmunk. "The cats usually play with them for a while before killing them."
          "Still ridiculous," Nemesis snorted.
          My hands had almost closed around the chipmunk, who seemed out of breath, when he decided to bolt. I yelped; Nemesis moved to cut him off, and we charged after him. The cat finally decided to get off his lazy kiester and join us as well.
          Nemesis chased the chipmunk (whom I privately named Munky) out of the garden. The cat headed him into a bush. The three of us gathered around it, peering through the branches. There were no leaves yet, but it was still a lot to try to see through.
          "Where'd he go?" I wondered aloud.
          "There." Nemesis pointed. "He's on the branch."
          Munky had indeed climbed higher and was peering out at us. I hoped he would come a little higher, thus putting him in reach of me, but the cat chose that moment to try to bat at him. The chipmunk spooked and made a flying leap out of the bushes towards the front of the house. Nemesis almost snagged him, but he ducked into another clump of bushes. We harried him around the front of the house, towards the driveway. He made a hard left at the corner and shot out in front of the garage.
          The cat gave up. Nemesis and I were made of sterner stuff. Our fingers brushed him multiple times as we snatched at him and yelled orders at each other, but despite our persistence, he cleared the garage. That's about when I realized what Munky's objective was.
          "The woods!" I yelled. "He's going for the woods! We gotta cut him off before he gets there or we're never gonna get him!"
          Nemesis chased him around the side of a tree. I charged the border and got between Munky and the woods. He barreled straight towards me; I dropped to my knees and sat on my heels right in front of him. He dodged my hands, barreled straight between my legs, and slammed full-tilt into my feet.
          I guess his next thought was Hey, any port in a storm!
          "YEEEEEIIIIIIIIIIIIAAHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!" I screeched, springing up and grabbing at my thigh.
          "What?" Nemesis demanded.
          "He's IN MY PANTS!!!" I shrieked, dancing around and clutching the limb to prevent the errant beast from climbing any further. "GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT!!!!"
          Munky obliged, shooting out of my pant leg and vanishing into the woods. I glared after him.
          "He's on the tree there," Nemesis pointed.
          "Ahh, to heck with him. He wins," I conceded with poor grace, muttering unkind things about Munky's parentage as we turned to walk back to the house.
          "Did he really go up your pants?" Nemesis asked, trying to conceal his grin.
          The humor of the event suddenly struck me. I giggled. "Yes," I replied solemnly. "I had a chipmunk in my pants."
          We were still laughing about it ten minutes later.

Captain's Log, Day 126: Ground Targets

          I throttled my A-20 Havoc up, the powerful engines purring. My squadmates were already gliding down the runway and leaping into the air, out for blood. Hands on the sticks, I sent the Song of Silence hurtling after them.
          The runway was perched quite near to the edge of a cliff, so I deliberately kept my speed down, gliding the Song over the edge and jamming the stick down to send her diving towards the ocean. I pulled up at the last second, sending plumes of water rising towards the sky behind me. I quit goofing around and turned towards the battlefield.
          The other Allied forces were strung out in front and above me, climbing into the sky. As I've mentioned before, my favorite strategy involved ground-hugging, so I punched the afterburners and drove hard towards the combat line. Let the others chase each other's tails up top; if someone tried to chase the Song's tail, he'd be eating an awful lot of lead, a strategy which usually worked well for me.
          At the breakneck speed I was making, I soon found myself at the battle lines. The forces were bogged down at a river, exchanging fire across it in a bit of a stalemate. I decided to give our side a bit of a push; targeting an enemy artillery battery, I squeezed the trigger and blew it away. Banking hard, I maneuvered down the bank, systematically blowing the artillery and AAA batteries away. I took a moment to turn the volume the comm, as the shouts and commentary of my allies dogfighting it out in the clouds was a bit annoying. Glancing at the radar, I saw basically everyone up there from both sides, leaving me in relative peace as I destroyed guns.
          Well, for a little bit. An ambitious fighter dropped out of the clouds a moment later to line up on my rear. I took the time to destroy one more battery before switching to my dorsal gun and opening fire.
          For some reason, I couldn't hit the bugger. He twisted madly, missing me with all of his shots as my shots blistered his paint, but did little else. We exchanged fire for about three minutes before he peeled off. I thought about letting him go, but decided I'd invested too many bullets in him to let him off that easily and chased after him.
          As I turned, I saw the enemy airstrip out of the corner of my eye. So that's where he was headed--for refuel, repair, and reload. I wondered if he was out of bullets, even as I lined my A-20 up on him and fired.
          Slightly better results. I saw metal fly from his fuselage, but he was, again, barely scratched. He skipped away; I twisted hard on the sticks, but couldn't duplicate the maneuver. I made a mental note to see about upgrading the Song when I got back to base.
          "A-20, come my way and I'll help you out."
          I frowned at first the comm, then my radar. I couldn't tell if that was directed at me or not, as I didn't see any friendlies on my scope. I shrugged, decided it didn't matter, and chased after my prey. A lumbering B-17 dropped out of the sky a moment later a few klicks ahead. The fighter decided that looked like easier prey than the fierce Song and charged it. It was blown out of the sky an instant later as at least three turrets locked on and destroyed it.
          I sighed. That was my kill, I groused to myself, but decided to be polite anyway. "Hey, thanks for the assist."
          "No problem," the B-17 replied, throttling up and heading back to the battlefield. I thought about following, but decided to have some fun with the base first. I dove.
          A few minutes later, all the base's defenses were nothing but a pile of shredded metal, and I'd gotten to test out the new rockets I'd upgraded the Song with. I grinned and headed off to find a new target. I decided on the cruisers anchored offshore and began heading that direction. After a few moments, I decided to check the stats as long as I was idling...
          "What the heck?" I yelped. All of my teammates were down, with myself and two enemy fighters the only craft currently in the air. I decided to conserve my rockets and broke off my attack run to search out the fighters. A moment later, the stats registered one of them crashing. I scanned the sky for the last one.
          There he was, diving on some of my side's tanks--a Spitfire. I grimaced. Great. Spitfires were notoriously hard to kill. This was going to be a bit of a toss-up.
          He spotted me a moment later and twisted hard to charge me. We bore down on each other; I had a slight height advantage, which I appreciated. At the last second, I threw the Song into a roll, opening fire with my six nose-mounted machine guns and simultaneously unloading all my rockets at him.
          Incredibly, somehow, he avoided all my rockets and only sustained superficial damage as he thundered past, dangerously close. I straightened out invitingly as he looped around to get on my tail, switching to the turret controls.
          The Spitfire opened up, pieces flying from my rudder and elevator. I returned fire, pulverizing his engine. It exploded, fire streaming around the fuselage. He wobbled into the sky. I poured more fire into him...he staggered and--
          --dove.
          Oh, crap.
          I twisted the sticks, but as fast as I was, I was just a second to slow. The pilot, evidently a sore loser, drove his fighter straight into my side, cutting off half my elevator and most of my right wing before dropping like a stone into the ocean below. The Song, mortally wounded, spiraled out of control. I wrestled with the controls, cursing a blue streak, as I tried to aim for the shallows. When I'd gotten her somewhat lined up, I bailed out.
          I watched the Song splash down, within easy salvage distance of the shore. "Sorry, girl," I told her aloud, again cursing the stupid rammer. At least I'd scored quite a few kills; last count, sixteen ground targets destroyed, an almost unheard of number. Plus, y'know, one plane and one assist. I sighed and looked down at the water, itching my nose.
          Gosh, that looks cold.

Captain's Log, Day 125: Easter Incidents

          And now, it's time to recount some amusing Easter anecdotes.
          Well, okay, one in particular. I had to wait on this one for a few years, because a) I got teased enough for this one as it was, and b) it took me a few years to be able to bring this one to mind this one without wincing.
          As anyone who has read my quick introduction of myself knows, I'm a solid Catholic. Part of what that meant for me and my brother Nemesis was that we would occasionally assist, or "serve," for Masses. We both enjoyed it, and eventually got enough experience to get asked to serve for the big occasions, like Christmas, Easter, or for the bishop. This particular Easter, we were asked to both serve the big Vigil Mass on Saturday night (the two-and-a-half-hour-long one) and the bishop was going to be there. Needless to say, it was a big event.
          It got even bigger for me during the practice. Normally, alter servers are classified into groups; these guys get candles, this guy get the cross, and this guy acts as a bookstand. Good stuff. I was instructed to be what we called the "incense guy" because we couldn't remember what the correct term actually was. (Still can't.) My job involved hot coals and copious amounts of smoke. I hid my delight at being allowed to feed my pyromania and resisted the temptation to perform experiments with fire like a miniature saint. I did managed to burn myself slightly, but I was used to such occurrences and continued serving with no more than a passing thought to my singed digits.
          Near the end of Mass, all servers (except for myself with the incense thingy and Nemesis, who was operating the bells) were given tall candles and requested to stand for about twenty minutes with them. The candles looked rather heavy, making me rather glad I only had a solid metal incenser to deal with, even if the air currents were blowing the smoke straight into my face. I kept an eye on some of the other kids; we were all pretty young, but some of the newer guys were pretty small and I didn't know how they'd hold up.
          We all performed admirably. Once we were done, we servers processed from the main church into the sacristy, where we could put the candles away and get ready for the next part of Mass. We quietly reminded each other of jobs we had to perform before slipping back out, one by one, to the church proper. Nemesis and I, as the senior servers, would be the last ones to leave. One of the youngest and smallest kids set his tall candle down on the floor and attempted to blow it out, which limited success; it was taller than he was.
          "Here, I'll get that," I offered, closing my hand around the candle and blowing down on it. "I can put it back in its stand, too--I'll meet you out there."
          He nodded and vanished out the door. I grinned; he must have been tired. I closed both hands around the heavy candle and gave a mighty heave to pick it up.
          Apparently, the candle was nowhere near as heavy as I'd been led to believe. It flew off the ground. I almost yelped, reflexes stopping the candle before it smashed into my face. I didn't even have time to register gratefulness before the liquid wax left the candle and splattered all over the left side of my face.
          Fortunately, long years of childhood incidents had given me the reflexes of a cat; I was able to get my eye shut before the wax hit. I thought briefly about clawing it off my face pronto--the stuff was pretty hot--but decided to wait for it to solidify a little before peeling it off. It probably wouldn't burn me, I decided with the air of one who has encountered many types of hot substances (including this one, when I'd stuck half my hand into a just-extinguished candle out of pure curiosity). I scrambled around to try to find my handkerchief before discovering that I couldn't find the pocket in my robe.
          "Nemesis, I need your hankie," I staged-whispered at my brother's back, moments before he would step out of the sacristy.
          "Use your own," he returned over his shoulder, hardly pausing.
          "NEMESIS, give me your hankie or so help me, I'll murder you in front of the entire church!" I hissed at him.
          The death threat worked where persuasion hadn't. He turned around. "Why--oh, goodness," he interrupted himself when he saw my face. "Here you go."
          "Thanks. Can you get it wet for me?" I asked, already beginning to try to work the stuff off my face, and losing a few eyelashes in the process.
          Nemesis, the ever-protective of his possessions, gave me a look like I'd just asked him to murder the family dog, but obediently dampened the handkerchief and gave it to me. "Need anything else?" he asked with the air of a martyr.
          I ignored his expression. "Nah, get out there. I'll be out in a second."
          He shrugged--at least, I think he did--and vanished. It took me a few minutes to get the wax off and ensure that my eye was undamaged before joining the other servers.
          The rest of Mass passed without incident, although I forgot to steady the giant hanging candle when I lit it later and left it swinging slowly (an effect Dad claimed was vaguely mesmerizing and jokingly accused me of trying to hypnotize the congregation). It turned out later that the left side of my nose, hit hard by the hot wax, now looked sunburned, but it was dark enough in the church to pass unnoticed by all except the keen eyes of the parental unit. The priests and bishop, used to mishaps of one sort or another, graciously accepted my explanation with no more than token jesting. Fortunately, nothing like that ever happened at any of my future Masses...
          ...but needless to say, I've never heard the end of this one.

Captain's Log, Day 124: A Battle for the Honor and Glory of the Realm!

          My stupid alarm went off, way earlier than I thought justified. On the other hand, it was eight o'clock, and I was pushing it if I wanted to get dressed and get to class on time. I sighed, rolled over, and reached over the bed to snag my phone and shut the alarm off.
          The "text received" light was flashing. Strange. I never got a text before 10am. I also usually didn't get texted until I messaged someone. Frowning, I unlocked my phone and checked my messages.

          Ben: Kings pawn to E4.

          This was going to be a good day.
          Ben and I had started playing mental chess during one of our classes together in undergrad--specifically, drawing. Two straight hours of sketching was usually more boring than either of us had liked, so we tried to play chess by telling each other what our moves were and then remembering what the board looked like. A difficulty arose in that some of the letters and numbers sounded the same, and since we were talking in low voices, we sometimes lost track of where pieces were going.
          But I digress. This was how my day went, at least on a mental level.

          Me: King's pawn to E5.
          Ben: Queens knight toA3
          Me: Queen's knight's pawn to B6
          Ben: Queen's knight to C4
          Me: King's bishop's pawn to F6
          Ben: King's bishop's pawn to F3
          Me: Queen's pawn to D5
          Ben: Queen's bishops pawn to C3
          Ben: Careful. This is the point where blood soaks the streets.
          Me: Right...but it's not mine! Queen's bishop's pawn to C4, takes knight
          Ben: Kings bishop to C4, takes pawn
          Ben: And i think you meant queen's pawn.
          Me: Whoops, yeah...king's bishop to C5
          Ben: Queen to A4. Check.
          Me: Queen's bishop's pawn (the real one this time) to C6. Uncheck.
          Ben: Queen's pawn to D4.
          Me: King's pawn to D4, takes pawn
          Ben: Queen's bishop's to D4, takes pawn
          Me: King's bishop to D4, takes pawn
          Ben: Queen's bishop to F4
          Me: King's bishop to B2, takes pawn
          Ben: Queen's bishop to B8. Takes knight.
          Me: King's bishop to A1. Takes rook.
          Ben: Queen tp c6, takes pawn, pins rook. Check.
          Ben: I think I just heard you scream "Son of a gun" all the way from Iowa.
          Me: Actually, I yelled "DANGIT WHY DIDN'T I SEE THAT????" but yeahhhh....
          Me: Queen's bishop to D7, uncheck, much cussing
          Ben: Gah. Traffic. Queen takes rook.
          Me: Ughh...queen's knight's pawn to B5
          Ben: Kings bishop to F7.
          Ben: Check.
          Me: Uhh, king to F7. Uncheck. Why?
          Ben: Because queen to D5. Check
          Me: King to G6. Uncheck.
          Ben: Rooks pawn to H4.
          Me: King's knight to E7.
          Ben: Rooks pawn to h5. Check.
          Me: Yeahhh, king to H6, followed by cussing
          Ben: Bishop checkmates king. Good game. :)
          Me: HA! Not quite. KING'S KNIGHT'S PAWN TO H5. BLOCKED.
          Me: ....did I just hear a "son of a gun" emanating from Iowa? ;)
          Ben: Well, crap....
          Ben: CHIN DAO SI SI MO TAE GORAM. I may need time to consider this move.
          Me: What the heck does that mean?
          Ben: Dunno. Heard it from Mal. I assume its cussin'

          So, anyway, that was Day 1. Day 2 started out with....

          Ben: Queen to G5. Takes pawn, check. Possibly mate.
          Me: King's bishop's pawn to G5. Takes queen. Uncheck.
          Me: ...was that cussing I heard?
          Ben: Crapcrapcrapcrapcrap
          Ben: Queen's bishop to E5
          Me: King's bishop to E5, takes bishop
          Me: I haven't moved that guy since I took your rook haha
          Ben: Nooooooooooooo
          Ben: King's knight to H3
          Me: Bishop to C3, check
          Ben: Queen's knight to C3. Takes bishop.
          Me: Uhh, queen's knight died a while ago
          Me: Right after your "blood soaks the street" comment, I pulled a "Queen's bishop's pawn to C4, takes knight." He's dead, Jim.
          Me: ...I did send flowers to his funeral, though.
          Ben: Drat you're right. Hold on, I need to set up a chess board. Sleep does bad things to the memory.
          Me: I need to go BUY a chess board haha
          Ben: King to G1, rook to F1.
          Me: Uh, you can't castle out of a check. My bishop's still covering your king.
          Ben: ??? Googling.
          Me: I've tried that on my computer chess program repeatedly before--it doesn't work, unfortunately
          Ben: Dag frabbit.
          Ben: I had you on the ropes too...
          Me: Thank goodness for the reserve troops
          Ben: I move my king you take my last knight with your bishop, pawn takes bishop, queen moves to 1st row, checkmate.
          Me: Clever of me, right? ;)
          Ben: Well played, my friend. A very good game.
          It was, at that. It was a very good game. As my old Humans versus Zombies team would say...FOR HONOR!! FOR GLORY!!! FOR VICTORYYYY!!!!!

Captain's Log, Day 123: A New Short Story

          This is my latest short story. I decided to see if I could write a short story without any action whatsoever. I cracked up the whole time I was writing it.

Interview with an Immortal

          “So you say you’re over two thousand years old?”

          “Actually, I said I was somewhere in the neighborhood of four thousand, so you’re technically correct.”

          “And you’re immortal?”

          “Never claimed to be immortal. I just haven’t died. Yet. But sure, for the sake of argument, let’s say I’m immortal.”

          “Interesting. So, were you able to see the pyramids being built?”

          “No.”

          “No?”

          “No, they were built before I was born.”

          “Wow. When were you born?”

          “About four thousand years ago. Sorry I can’t narrow it down any further than that—they weren’t very good at the whole dates thing, and besides—y’all keep changing the calendar. Plus, I can’t actually remember.”

          “So what were some notable historical events you’ve witnessed?”

          “I’m an unlucky immortal.”

          “How so?”

          “I missed pretty much all of them. Big world. Inopportune timing. Personal stupidity.”

          “Were you around for the sack of Troy?”

          “Sort of.”

          “Sort of?”

          “I was in Troy for a while, but I got bored and snuck out before the Greeks sacked it. I was checking out the Greek ships when they got back. Well, I say checking out…I was going to steal one, but I got caught.”

          “The Greek ships?”

          “Yes. I sailed back with them. By the way…the Odyssey?”

           “Yes…?”

          “Bunch of baloney. Odysseus just had no idea how to navigate. It was physically painful to watch.”

          “Why didn’t you help?”

          “I was TIED TO THE BOW as a FIGUREHEAD. It was humiliating.”

          “So what was the Renaissance like?”

          “Missed it. Sailed with some Vikings over to America in the early thousands and the idiots left me there.”

          “Did you ever go back to Europe?”

          “Yes, I did—just before the Revolutionary War.”

          “What was the Revolutionary War really like?”

          “I dunno. I sailed to Europe right before that, remember? Missed that too!”

          “Maybe you can settle some historical conflict. Was King Arthur a real person?”

          “I’m pretty sure he was. I mean, I remember overhearing some things—“

          “Overhearing?”

          “Yeah, I fell down a well in Britain. Got stuck there for about a hundred years. Locals thought I was an enchanted well. The cussing really should have tipped them off.”

          “Before the Viking trip?”

          “Yeah—by the time I got out, I wanted to get off that stupid island.”

          “I can imagine. Well, did you meet Jesus, at least?”

          “NO. I MISSED THAT TOO. I was in Rome at the time, pretending to be Zeus.”

          “Uh—“

          “It seemed like a good idea at the time, okay?”

          “Um…okay. How long were you in Rome?

          “Until they got the Colosseum up and running. I left after they kept forcing me to get stabbed by various gladiators.”

          “Ouch. Then what?”

          “I don’t remember much for the next few hundred years. I think it was because I got stuck on the outskirts of Pompeii. I remember getting dug out…then I tried to travel to China.”

          “Did you make it?”

          “No. I’m still not sure where I made a wrong turn, but that’s how I wound up in Britain.”

          “Then America, then back to Europe…what did you do then?”

          “Went to France. Worked in a mine for a while before it collapsed on me.”

          “When was this?”

          “Right before the French Revolution.”

          “When did you get out?”

          “Right AFTER the French Revolution. Missed that too.”

          “Well, at least you saw the moon landing, right?”

          “NO, I was in jail.”

          “For what?”

          “Trying to sneak in to the launch site to get a good seat for the liftoff. Do we have to relive all of this?”

          “I guess not. So why are you applying for this program?”

          “I want to get off the planet. See the sights. Explore the universe.”

          “That—“

          “And maybe change my luck a little.”

          “Well…I have some bad news.”

          “What, didn’t pass my physical?”

          “No, you passed with flying colors. It’s just…well, the government took an interest. Since you can’t die, they’d like to run some tests.”

          “I’d rather they not—“

          “You don’t have a choice. Look on the bright side—you could be the cure of all of humanity’s physical ailments!”

          “You have GOT to be kidding me.”

          “Also, there’s another good thing.”

          “What?”

          “It’s the 21^st century. We can play the TV footage of the first interstellar launch to your lab so you won’t miss another historic moment!”

          “…I hate you.”

Captain's Log, Day 122: Airbags Needed. Desperately.

          They were solid. Really solid. Weighed probably ten or fifteen pounds apiece. Made out of some kind of heavy wood. Could level full-grown trees if it was going fast enough.
          And yet, it still couldn't protect us from hurting ourselves. Probably because, as twelve, ten, eight and six years old respectively, we were stupid.
          "Dibs on the front!" I yelled quickly, to forestall any quarrels. However, I forgot that I was dealing with my siblings here--we could start an argument over literally anything.
          "I wanted the front!" Quill protested.
          "Too bad--I called it," I told her firmly. "You can have second."
          "I call back!" Nemesis volunteered.
          "Squirrel gets the back," Quill told him. "It's okay--she usually falls off anyway."
          This was true. Squirrel usually opted to bail out at the first sign of trouble which, for her, translated into "the first bump on the hill." Usually, we don't ride together, preferring to take turns; but now, since we got a new sled and we all wanted to try it out, we set aside animosity in favor of fun.
          It went about as well as expected; Squirrel bailed out almost instantly, while the rest of us screamed down the hill to slam full-tilt into the tree planted squarely in our path. Well, the sled slammed into the tree; Nemesis and Quill bailed out before impact, while I tried to steer for just a moment too long, clipping the tree on my frantic dive off the stubborn sled and spinning into a bush.
          "This hill rocks," Nemesis grinned, watching me extricate myself from the shrubbery.
          "How's the sled?" I asked.
          Quill was already checking it out for signs of damage. "Looks good. Definitely sturdier than our other one!"
          I grinned, shaking off the final, particularly persistent branch. "Wanna go again?"
          "Yeah!" Quill yelled, but a sense of loyalty to the older model caused her to add, "But on the other toboggan, though."
          "Are you alive?" Squirrel called down.
          "Yeah!" I yelled back, muttering "Wuss," under my breath. Quill hit me with a snowball, so I tackled her into the nearest drift. Nemesis emitted a long-suffering sigh and trudged up the hill with the sled. Quill and I raced after him, eager to race to the bottom.
          Well, if we could.
          See, this hill was one of the most treacherous pieces of terrain ever known to the intrepid sledder. It started with a nice, almost vertical drop before slanting towards the tree we had just crashed into. If we could avoid the tree, then the hill sloped towards a stump/tree combination, which guarded the pass to a fifteen-foot cliff, below which ran the creek. Usually, we slammed full-tilt into that, but I held the honor of having steered too far to the left and missing it entirely. It was only thanks to reflexes and guardian angels that I had managed to leap clear of the sled and snag an overhanging branch as the sled took a nosedive into the ice below. I'd hung there like a limp piece of laundry, looking down at the sled and wishing I didn't have to take the long way around to retrieve it. But I digress.
          If you steered to the right of the stump, as opposed to slamming straight into it, you could run parallel to the cliff and towards another, shorter, jump. Survive that, and the hill sloped away from the cliff (good) and straight into pricker bushes (bad). If you managed to keep your head low and shoot between the bushes (not unlike spitting from the top of the Empire State Building and trying to hit a penny on the sidewalk), you would shoot out the other side and into the creek, skidding across it and straight into the sheer bank on the other side, where your ride would stop. I held the honor of being the first person to actually make it all the way down; a dubious honor at best, because the ice broke moments after I crashed into the bank. Needless to say, I got very cold and very wet.
          Nemesis, of course, coined the name of this awesome obstacle course: "Terror Hill."
          Quill and Nemesis took off down the hill; I decided to watch. It was a good thing I did, because they missed the first tree but couldn't avoid the stump. Quill wound up wedged between the trunks of two trees, while Nemesis was thrown way off to the right and lay spread-eagled on his back. I laughed my head off, applauding at the same time.
          "Nice one!" I yelled. I took a running start and hurled myself onto the sled, shooting down the hill. I missed the tree, the stump (almost hit Nemesis, though) and preformed an amazing skid straight into the middle of the briar patch, getting stuck and scratched. I muttered a few words that I'd heard Dad use in the shop once. Quill, midway through prying herself loose, gave me a disapproving glare.
          "Wow," Nemesis grunted. "Did you see that?"
          Quill came loose with a plop. "I had my eyes shut. Look where I ended up!"
          "I think that was the best crash yet," Nemesis decided.
          "No argument from me. But I went the farthest," I pointed out, dragging my sled up to meet them. The goal here, of course, was to have increasingly worse crashes, the more spectacular the better.
          I trudged up the hill with my toboggan, Quill and Nemesis following me and chattering about their crash. I preferred to carry my sled myself, while the other two shared their load. Squirrel met us at the top; she'd been populating the hill with snowmen. I tied my sled to our golden retriever's collar and climbed on. "Geddyap, Max!"
          Maxie sprang on me and started licking my face. So much for having a sled dog.
          This time, I opted to go first with Squirrel. She bailed during the first jump, shoving my sled over far enough to slam me straight into the tree. I went over the top, winding up sprawled upside-down at the base with my legs over my head. The snow was just deep enough to make righting myself difficult.
          "A little help here?" I called. Quill and Nemesis, sense of compassion long since frozen by the cold, laughed at me and took off down the hill instead. They missed the wreckage of my sled by over-steering and flipping end over end past the tree.
          I dug myself out while the intrepid duo compared notes on how far away they had landed from each other. Scooping up a choice bit of snow, I hurled it at Nemesis. Suddenly, we had a full-blown snowball fight on our hands.
          I was managing to hold my own against both Quill and Nemesis when a golden-coated avenger shot into no-man's-land and picked off two perfectly aimed snowballs.
          "Aww, come on, Maxie!" I yelled in frustration, a moment before he snagged a salvo of the allies' shots from out of the air in front of my face. Maxie did love a good snowball fight, preferring to snatch and eat our snowballs rather than, you know, help out with distractions or staying out of the way. It was kind of a mixed blessing.
          With the now-ready Max patrolling the contested ground, we were forced to give up the rather pointless fight and hurl challenges, insults, and boasts at each other as we returned to the top of the hill. Once we reached the peak, we collapsed, exhausted, to make snow angels.
          Until I remembered the hot chocolate inside, racing to beat the other kids inside. I lost to Quill and Nemesis.
          BUT.
          I got the most marshmallows.

Captain's Log, Day 121: Spies of the Scaffold

          Uh oh, MOM ALERT.
          I hurled myself out of the window with a speed generally associated with converting most carbon-based life forms into some type of liquid upon impact with Mother Earth. However, I was ten and was possessed of the two most powerful and inexplicable pieces of wisdom to ever be conceived in the mind of a child: a firm belief in my own invincibility that carried me through childhood relatively unscathed, and the knowledge that Mother Earth would mete out a much kinder fate than Mom would, if the latter caught me playing on the scaffolding again.
          Throwing my shoulder towards the ground, I turned my headlong dive into a beautiful tuck-and-roll, landing on one of the scaffold platforms and rolling off the edge. I fell briefly before I snagged one of the cross braces with the ease of long practice and hung, dangling, out of sight of the window.
          My siblings were huddled on the platform below me, suppressing snickers. "Was Mom up there?" Nemesis (6 at the time) stage-whispered.
          I swung myself back and forth to get the necessary momentum to direct my fall to their platform. "Yeah," I snickered, landing with a heavy thud next to the 8-year-old Quill. "I think she and Dad were going to check out the living room."
          Quill's eyes lit up. "We could try to get past them into our room by climbing over there--" she pointed to the kitchen, "--and then going straight up!"
          "What about Squirrel?" I asked. The youngest of our group at 4 years old, Squirrel possessed all the daring of her namesake but lacked the climbing ability; the scaffold between ground and first floor was all the higher she could go, and that was with some generous boosting.
          "She can stay and guard," Quill suggested. She turned to Squirrel. "If you hear Mom going upstairs, hit the post here."
          "Like this?" Squirrel inquired, whanging on the member with a discarded stick she had found.
          "SHHHH!!!" I hissed. "Only if Mom goes upstairs!"
          "Oh, okay," Squirrel replied cheerfully, ceasing her infernal racket.
          Staying low, I led the way to the edge of the platform. Swinging around the leg, I snagged the ladder, climbed halfway up to the next level, and jumped across the gap to the other ladder, shinnying through it to get to the platform across from the one we had just left. Like monkeys, Nemesis and Quill followed my lead. We quickly traversed the next section similarly, crossing underneath the gaping windows of our unfinished house and out of sight for the parental unit.
          Once we reached the edge of the scaffolding that was over by the kitchen, I grasped the ladder and crept up it slowly, taking great care to scan the inside of the house. It was buzzing with the pleasant noise of construction, workers playing radios and banging on things. Dad sometimes gave us jobs to do to help out, like drilling holes for electrical cords and suchlike; but since he was discussing boring stuff with Mom (like "Where should we put the piano?"), it was more fun now to sneak around on the scaffold like miniature spies. Dad didn't really care if we hung out on the scaffold (as long as there were no workers on it for us to annoy), but Mom had the certainty that no doubt comes with watching us fall out of everything that could potentially support our weight that we would end up paralytics. I'm not sure it crossed her mind that the metal scaffold was considerably sturdier than most of the trees we climbed, and a lot easier to hold on to as well.
          No sign of Mom. I shot up the ladder, passing the first floor in a dirty flash. (I'd recently held a dirt war with my siblings, and the results of my hard-earned victory were evident.) I was concentrating so hard on listening for any shouts of discovery that I forgot to pay attention to where I was climbing, with the result that I brained myself on the underside of the second-story platform.
          Rubbing my head ruefully, I pulled myself up on top of the plank I had brilliantly climbed straight into and sat down to wait for my siblings. Quill showed up first, of course, choking with suppressed laughter. I gave her the evil eye as Nemesis followed suit. Forestalling any teasing, I pointed to the open window of what would soon be Squirrel's and Quill's bedroom.
          "What should we do in there?" I asked.
          Nemesis gave me a wide grin, itching the band-aid on his leg (slight accident over at the barn foundations; was NOT my fault). "Let's spy on Mom and Dad from the landing!" he proposed.
          Imaginations fired, we raced across the platform and leapt through the window, pausing to pick up discarded pieces of wood for a quick duel. Then, holding our makeshift swords, we crept out the door and to the edge of the landing. I peeked over.
          Seeing the floor that far away always made my feet feel funny. Ignoring the tingling, I listened to Mom and Dad discussing furniture placement and snickered with my siblings over the supposed obliviousness of the parental unit. Then--
          WHANGWHANGWHANG!!!!!
          I wasn't sure if Squirrel was bored and giving us a false alarm, but Nemesis and Quill were clearly not interested in taking chances. They bolted towards the bedroom and the scaffold retreat. I gave it a moment--almost a moment too long, as Mom and Dad crossed into the entryway and started to glance up. I leapt back like a scalded frog and tied my siblings to the window. There was a brief traffic jam before we sorted out the exit order and departed to get Squirrel to stop beating on that post already seriously ONCE WAS ENOUGH...
          Panting, breathless, and flushed with victory, we sat on the platform for a few moments...well, my siblings sat on the platform; I perched on the cross-brace above them like a bird on a power line.
          "Now what?" Nemesis asked.
          I shrugged. "Another clod war?"
          "No!" they all chorused.
          "You're boring!" I flicked a piece of dirt at my brother.
          "We could get our swords and go knock down corn stalks in the front yard!" Quill suggested eagerly.
          The plan met with assent all around, and our wooden swords were soon shoved through belts or shorts as we set out for some "sword practice."
          Yeah, pretty much the best summer ever.

Captain's Log, Day 120: Documenting Some Changes

          So, does anyone remember (or even notice) that I have a small tab down the side of my blog--underneath "Stories of my Childhood" and above "Comics"--that's just labeled "Stories"? And are you familiar enough with that tab to notice that I haven't updated it in two years and it just contains the short story HvZ?
         *EDIT: The tab is now at the top of my page. Changes. You get the idea.*
          Trick question. I know you don't read that.
          Well, I finally got around to updating it! I've got five new links in the "Stories" tab, and they actually contain...well...stories. Or parts of them, anyway. I have linked some short, random excerpts from my books there now, along with brief descriptions about them so you don't have to get halfway through them before realizing that I can't write. I suppose you could just read my main blog to determine that, but hey--whatever floats your boat.
          I'm also considering updating my blog look again. Given that I really like the theme I have going, the redesign will go in two directions; one, I'm going to shorten the top picture (the one of the spaceship) because it takes a while to load and I have to scroll down before I can even see anything I've written. I call that SEVERELY ANNOYING.
          Also, despite the whole "star ship captain" thing I have going on, I should probably stop using James T. Kirk as my profile picture. There's probably a copyright infringement or something going on there. Probably not a good idea. Additionally, I came up with a my own personal logo, which I think looks really cool and I need an excuse to use it.
          Anyway, these changes will take place over the next few days (although the stories are already loaded and in place). If anyone else has any suggestions, please let me know!

          In other news, this is what has been keeping me busy the last couple weeks:

And this, kids, is what it looks like when markers throw up. This is probably whiteboard abuse.

          For those who know how to do heat transfer problems, I ALREADY KNOW THIS IS WRONG. (Unit conversion issues, mainly.) I have since corrected said issues and checked with my professor, who verified my answer. I just put this picture up because MY NEW WHITEBOARD ROCKS.

          --Radar Midway, signing off to go program (which sounded way more awesome in my head, but just looks geeky in text. Oh well.)

Captain's Log, Day 119: Moving In!

          "Well, here we are!"
          Three hours on the road and one almost-ended-up-wearing-a-couch-as-a-hood-ornament incident into the day, my family and I had finally arrived at the apartment. I was here because this is where I was going to be living for the foreseeable future. My family was here because they didn't think I could move myself in properly. (Spoiler--they were probably right.)
          "Check out the kitchen!" Mom pointed happily--I guess she wanted me to practice the culinary arts more than I had at college. (Hello, Papa Murphy's.) I was more interested in the large living room, casting my eyes around it with the practiced gaze of a hopeful martial artist. "I bet I could do five tornado round-kicks in here without running out of room," I mused.
          My family, predictably, ignored me, the siblings scattering to explore the nooks and crannies. Mom and Dad dragged me out of the living room into the kitchen to point out all the amenities of cooking. A few moments later, Quill's voice floated out of the hall leading to the bedrooms. "Hey, I found the linen closet!"
          I snickered. "Soon to be relabeled the beer closet."
          "Radar," Mom scolded me.
          "I was kidding," I pointed out, rolling my eyes. "You know I hate beer. Well, except root beer, anyway."
          "Hey, that's what we used that closet for--beer," Dad told me with a straight face.
          "Don't encourage him," Mom grumbled.
          "I'm thinking that's where I'll put my extra computer equipment," I decided, referencing the massive collection of computer paraphernalia that I never traveled anywhere without.
          "Hey, Nemesis, let's get the furniture off the truck!" Dad yelled down the hall at my brother.
          "Got it." Nemesis replaced his fedora on his head and vanished out the door after Dad.
          "Which room are you going to use?" Squirrel inquired a moment later.
          I correctly assumed she meant the bedrooms. "Both," I informed her.
          "Both?" Mom inquired, frowning.
          "Yeah," I laughed. "The small one is going to be my bedroom, and the big one's going to be my office."
          "A little help here?" Dad yelled from the doorway.
          We boys wrestled the couch through the doorway with no more difficulty than we normally faced. Mom and the girls began telling me where to push the couch and chair to try to figure out where it would go, doing their normal approach of putting it in each possible location five or six times before deciding that it was just fine where it had been at the beginning. (It must be a girl thing.) Mom then decided that she wanted to sanitize every inch of the apartment and ordered me out to my car to retrieve the cleaning supplies. As I recalled, I'd conveniently buried them underneath literally everything, so I stomped out to the car to begin unpacking. I yanked the door open and was buried by an avalanche of clothes, sneakers, and boxes.
          Apparently, I'd forgotten that I'd packed everything the the brim, and then had to get help to try to get the car door shut. Whoops.
          Thirty minutes later, I finally managed to retrieve the cleaning supplies. The girls went to town (figuratively) on the apartment while Dad and Nemesis went to town (literally) to grab a few things, like door mats and blinds. I set up my bedroom and began untangling the computer cords to begin construction of my office/evil lair.
          Quill popped her head in. "Hey, Radar, do you want us to dust the blinds out in the living room and bathroom, or do you want us to do that?"
          I looked at her blankly. "Dust the blinds?"
          Quill sighed. "You were right, Mom!" she yelled. "I'll get it!"
          "Why do I feel like I was just the source of a bet?" I muttered under my breath.
          By the time Dad and Nemesis got back, the girls had scrubbed basically everything and organized the kitchen, and I was about half done with my evil lair. We were able to wrap things up by about 1:30, at which point the siblings were threatening to eat ME, at which point we adjourned to a fast-food joint for some shrimp.
          Let grad school commence!!!!