Little Things

 As I was working on the next big idea that was stirring in my head, there was a slight interruption. This was not one of concern but production as on my way home one day, I saw a regular occurrence in a different light. See, I live 6.2 miles up a ten-mile paved, winding mountain road that ultimately devolves into a slew of dirt roads and trails snaking through the mountain gullies to cabins or lost places (most of which my great-grandfather apparently worked). Two miles up is the southern entrance to Lynx Lake and a nature center nearby. Across the road from that is the parking for the 7 Mile Gulch trailhead, a nice little place to park late at night and imagine yourself attacked by mountain lions.

As that road climbs, it gets windier and up and downier as it climbs and climbs and climbs. Howells, where I live, six miles up that road, is 1000 feet in elevation higher than where it begins (though truthfully, I'm generally a litter higher than that but let's not talk about that right now). That road is a very popular road for those individuals who enjoy the punishment of pedaling a cycle up steep climbs, something I really just don't grok. Okay, I'm lazy. There, I said it. This dual use road though is often clogged with cyclists riding in herds and sometimes they remember that they don't own the middle of the road riding in packs. Usually there is a sense of entitlement where they will make you roll behind them at 10 miles an hour up a steep climb as 4 or 5 of them claim the whole road and their privilege. "Share the road" is often a one-way phrase on Walker Road. Usually though it is just a single rider or a small string spread out. It is the groups, the cycling clubs that show this arrogance.

Okay, this is about little things so draw your memories to the now old film "Natural Born Killers" and that scene where Mickey and Mallory are driving through Arizona and decide to shotgun a champion cyclist. That's the little thing here, just this flash passing through my mind as a lone cyclist pedaled properly and politely up the hill as I made room to pass around the time I was passing the 7 Mile Gulch trailhead (and completely unconcerned about mountain lions getting me). By the time I pulled into the Compound (seriously, others up here have thought the houses on this property were some kind of compound before, not realizing it was the oldest homestead up there... well, since old man Dahlin passed... I remember my grandfather taking me to see him once and the mountain lion skin on his wall held my attention... he was the one called to track when one started gnawing on things it shouldn't), I had a story set to run.

I was in the middle of another story at that time, one which has since proven to be of monumental importance to these Tales. That day after I got home and got all business out of the way, I got to work. Setting aside the work in progress, I dove into this cyclist I passed so I could see what happened to him. A couple of hours later, I had a nice little thing all packaged and ready to go.

"Trane's 'a Rolan'" is different than what I had produced up to that point. The primary difference between this and all that came before is its size, coming in at a paltry 1,278 words. It was also set contemporary to the day I wrote it. The style that was used, the "voice", also separated it from my other work with the sentences Lovecraft long and no hint of any dialog. It was just a brief little Tale about an adrenaline junkie named Roland Trane who hosted a website detailing his cycling trips and other outdoor adventures and there was no connection at all to any other story, hinted or otherwise, within it and I was long wary of it.

I have only sent it off once and while it did not make the cut as it was on the edge of the theme requested, the publisher wrote me directly to speak on the story. I still haven't submitted it elsewhere... I haven't found the venue to fit it... I am no longer wary of it. Instead, I have me a little bit of pride. See, over time, and with that letter warming me, I've become more attached to this story, even finding a means to connect it at last to the whole of this history, but that is a very venomous Tale for another time.

The other little point of personal pride I've found with "Trane's 'a Rolan'" is that, well, spellcheck. When I started looking, some time later, at different little things that show up in the Word spellcheck when you get stats, I discovered something that I find kinda funny. Up to this point, I'd read many times that the average reading level of most newspapers, for broad consumption, was 4th grade. I've read articles by authors giving advice that one should aim for around a 3rd grade level. I'm not sure why, but I guess that is so it is accessible to most readers. As of this writing, the reading grade level averaged amongst my 73 Tales is 6.1. "Trane's 'a Rolan", by whatever Word uses to determine this, comes in at a 12.9 grade reading level which is kinda cool since I burned it out fast and there were barely any edits needed.

The other fun thing was I brought in a little friend at the very end to say goodbye to the shattered helmet camera. Ya'll will meet this little guy, a wó see ts'inii, in the next post so please, hold your horses and if you don't have those, get a firm grip on your Children of the Earth.