In 1970, while in the Navy, I stole a book. It happened in Atsugi, Japan. Someone left a Bible in the Admin Office. I picked it up and began to read Psalm 40:

“I waited patiently for the LORD; and he inclined unto me, and heard my cry. He brought me up also out of an horrible pit, out of the miry clay, and set my feet upon a rock…”

Those words touched me.

The year before, I’d been under investigation on suspicion of drugs, but because I’d just become a father, I was given leniency. Afterward, I was sent overseas.

In June 1971, my first wife wrote me a “Dear John” letter. It shook me up. That Sunday, I went to Chapel. The chaplain gave an invitation. I went forward. A counselor had me read Roman 10:13, “For whosoever shall call upon the name of the Lord shall be saved.” The promise of Psalm 40 was fulfilled.

I study the Bible regularly now. It gives me comfort when a loved one dies. It gives me wisdom facing decisions. It gives meaning to life. Best of all, it gives me insight into my destiny—in this life and the next.

7654321

1234567

Counting. Counting is calming.

Counting is how I function.

My therapist is very proud of me for my counting. She says it's a huge accomplishment. That it’s leaps worth of progress.

I’ll admit it’s nice to hear.

Even though I know she’s using a reward system for good behavior and practically tricking me into doing this, I don’t mind too much.

I’ve gotten good at counting.

She tells me so. I think it’s important. She says there has never been a Counter like me before. It’s all lies, all flattery, and frankly doesn’t even make sense.

But I AM good at counting.

I’m good with numbers, and calculations. People say I’m weird, and I guess they’re right since I have a therapist I see twice a week. Only, I would supposedly be weirder without the therapy, so who knows what's weird and what’s not weird? I suppose it’s all subjective.

My therapist likes to talk about subjectivity. She says that everything is relative and subjective and different for everybody. She says that so I don’t feel bad when my progress is slow. But I do understand relativity, so it makes sense. Numbers are relative, and that makes sense. But now I’m not making sense, so I’ll stop. Stop being weird.

7654321

1234567

7654321

Lately, I see everything in pairs of seven. Everything comes in a countdown from 7 or a countup to 7. Well, I say lately, I mean today. I woke up today and the numbers I usually see had rearranged themselves into pairs of seven. My therapist took a lot of interest in that when she came to pick me up before lunch. She asked me a lot of questions. But she always does that. About all my numbers. She tells me I’m doing well, that the counting seems to be helping.

It does seem to be.

I don’t get upset like I used to. I don’t get uncontrollable fits of anger or sadness or happiness. I’ve found a steady calm, so long as I keep counting and keep calculating everything.

After lunch, my therapist took me to my mentor, who helps me with my counting and my calculations. He likes to tell me how good I am, and how good I’ve got with my counting, and he tells me how proud he is of me. I think he must either be related to my therapist or at least is her client as well because they say a lot of similar things.

After I’ve completed all my assignments with my mentor, he gives me some homework and my therapist takes me to have dinner with a couple of old men. I don’t mind too much because I get to go off camp and the old men just ask my therapist a lot of questions, about me and my day mostly. Sometimes my therapist makes me answer some questions, but for the most part, I just get to eat my dinner in peace.

Not many others get the opportunity to go off camp, and certainly don’t get such fancy dinners, so it really doesn’t bother me at all that they ask me so many questions about me as if I’m not there.

I see waiters come out, and 7 in total. Fascinating. Why does everybody and everything get 7 today? There are seven notes in the awful music playing from the speakers. 7 beats too. 7 seconds of pause in the conversation around me.

I turn to my therapist, to find she is staring at me oddly, as if waiting for me to tell her what I’ve seen. I hadn’t realized she could tell when I was seeing numbers. For some reason, this does bother me.

7654321

1234567

7654321

I calm down again, and my therapist is concerned, I can tell, but she is trying not to show it because I am not a problem, according to her, just special, different, and there’s no reason to be concerned. I point to the corners of the room. Do you hear it? I ask her, she glances in that direction.

“Hear what? The mu--”

7. Do you hear the 7?

She swallows rather noticeably, which is not usual for her. She usually is so controlled. Her voice is still as controlled as ever as she shakes her head. “Not really. Explain to me. Why do you hear 7?”

I feel my mouth curl down in displeasure, because I don’t know WHY. I never know the why of my numbers, I just know they exist, and she knows this.

She winces, apparently realizing her error. “Yes, of course. How do you hear 7?”

The beat. The notes. The waiters. I explain it to her as she nods solemnly.

“Good, good. Very good. You are recognizing patterns. That is very good, that is improvement. ”

The old men are nodding around her, like they have the same body and do everything together, which is weird.

Ha. There are 7 of you too. 7 steps, 7 windows, 7 clouds, 7 birds, 7 assignments, 7 papers, 7 homework, 7 problems, 7 minutes.

“Shh.” My therapist is scribbling things down in her notebook that she always carries around. “Count.” She looks in my eyes.

I count. From 7.

I stare at the fork on my table, 7 millimeters from my plate. I stare at the old man across from me. His tie is seven degrees askew. Ha. I feel a grin stretch across my face. Everything is in so much unison, so much cohesion. 7. Everywhere. Hahaha. 7. Countdown time. Tomorrow, tomorrow I know there will be six. Hahaha.

I look at my therapist, and grin at her, because she should understand. The beauty in the unison. The numbers all agree with each other. Patterns. I tell her. Patterns.

She smiles at me, but her eyes never move, as usual. “Yes.” She says, “Yes, patterns are good.”

Tomorrow, there will be six. I tell her. And I grin, because I’ve cracked it. The problem, the equation, today’s assignment. Tomorrow, there will be 6.

She blinks. “6, is that so?”

I frown at her, because she doesn't question my equations or my observations. She wouldn’t understand them anyway. I always KNOW when I’m right, and she couldn't know better than me. I nod anyway, feeling my irritation but knowing she doesn’t like it when I get irritated or angry. We’ve already solved that problem. 6 tomorrow. 5 the next day.

“Everything is just going to, disappear?”

I frown, but shrug. I nod.

She nodded slowly. “You said 7 waiters.”

This is getting annoying, but I nod again. 7 of you too. I point at each of the old men. They blink together. I grin at that.

“And,” She pauses, “Tomorrow there will only be six?”

I nod triumphantly, because that is WHAT I’VE BEEN SAYING.

“Where,” she pauses again--strange--, “Where will the seventh go?”

I blink this time, because I don’t THINK about that kind of stuff. I don’t think about the why of my equations or how the equations will prove themselves true. They just DO. I glare at her, and shrug. Tomorrow, 6. I insist. Next day, 5.

“And, and when,” she’s stuttering and pausing now--fascinating. “When we reach 0?”

I blink.

7654321

1234567

7654321

I shrug.

I have a bucket list that fills the loose leaf page front to back. I have added and subtracted many entries since I began the list 26 years ago.

1. See the Grand Canyon.

2. See the Taj Mahal (Scratched off the list because it’s gotten too dirty).

3. Go to the Super Bowl in Dallas.

4. See Paul McCartney in concert (big check mark; did it last year!)

5. Go on a Rhine River cruise.

And many more stupendous things...

Now that I am armed with some new knowledge, I have penned a new list altogether. It is to be completed in no particular order and many times over if possible.

1. Grill some hot dogs and burgers in my back yard while my girls bounce on the trampoline.

2. Fold the laundry with my wife while listening to Led Zeppelin.

3. Blow dry and brush my daughter’s hair as she reads an I Spy book.

4. Go on a road trip to Rochester with my best friend so we can eat a garbage plate at Nick Tahou’s.

5. Play a board game of Ticket to Ride on my dining room table with my family, my college buddy and his family.

6. Watch my daughter pile every topping on her frozen yogurt, including gummy bears (yuck) as we move through the line at the dessert shop.

7. Dangle my feet off the side of the hay ride wagon at the apple farm while munching ginger golds with my darlings.

8. Reading ‘Twas The Night before Christmas’ to my girls sitting on the couch next to me under the twinkling lights from the tree.

9. Watch a heady sci-fi film with my girls and explain the finer plot points when they ask.

10. Place my hand on my wife’s hip as she sleeps.

11. Watch a Yankee game with my dad over Skype.

12. Carrying the extra twenty-pound bag of Halloween candy while my daughter skips up the next driveway in her Disney princess costume (in the rain).

13. Watch my girls perform the ridiculous dance they choreographed the past 2 hours.

And then when I die, I will die a happy man.

The earth sighed seven times.

The first morning she heaved – oceans of garbage flooded beaches like tourists, never resting until the seas were emptied of every human relic ever tossed off a ship, every wine cork long forgotten after empty smiles and shallow promises, every distorted piece of plastic that brought momentary ease, fleeting joy, or a bit of convenience- then she sighed.

My dog barked seven times that day. No more, no less.

I hoped it was over, but then came the second morning. A guttural cough rumbled under my feet, and the world erupted. Every dormant volcano came alive with fire, and steam, and spirals of smoke. The seas began to boil and rage and roar, and then I feared it was the end. But it wasn’t. The earth sighed a second time.

My dog barked six times that day. No more, no less.

The third morning, the earth burbled and burped until every human corpse was lifted from its resting place. On land, they rolled out of the ground onto perfectly landscaped yards and gardens and ruined the mood for many a party. This one felt personal. My old dog was buried in the back. His resting place lay undisturbed while bloated bodies bobbed alongside buoys in oceans, and lakes, and rivers, and oh, what a stink! That night she sighed again, and I thought I heard mirth in the sound of it.

Five barks from my dog that day. No more, no less.

The fourth morning the earth groaned and the ground ruptured and fractured – consuming governments, and swallowing civilizations, and splitting countries, and families, and even hairs. Well, I only guessed that last part. Then the earth sighed a fourth time.

My dog barked four times after I fetched her out of the rubble. No more, no less.

The fifth morning the earth sang – through warbling birds and whistling trees, through the bellows of whales and the humming of bees – and it was beautiful! The song was full of hope and new beginnings. But many could not hear her song, though the sound was deafening. Men cleaved to their old ways, licking honey from thorns that split their tongues and numbed their senses, and the poison – oh the poison! Millions died because of it, and it seeped back into the earth. That night the earth was silent. Perhaps she was thinking. The quiet unnerved me as I bolted my doors, listening for earth’s song but only hearing the sounds of booted men patrolling streets, and cocking guns, and shuttered blinds, and whirring blades from aircraft overhead. Finally, the earth sighed a weary sigh.

Three barks that night. Three damning barks. No more, no less.

I awoke the sixth morning with a start as the earth shrieked. I covered my ears, and my cheeks flushed with heat at the pain in her voice. Her cries were desperate. They were horrifying. They were accusing. And they were powerful. Earth’s protective ozone shattered, and my skin blistered and cracked under the heat of the sun. I barricaded myself in the cellar as the top of my roof melted away into nothing. As night fell, the earth sighed a sixth time.

My dog barked twice. No more, no less.

I knew the seventh morning was our last, for the earth laughed. It was bitter and full of sorrow. It summoned the heavens forward, and they came. Meteors, and floating ice, and blazing stars struck the earth so violently they sent chunks of her spinning, spinning everywhere. They ripped her clothes and tore her flesh, but her response was laughter. Crazed, terrifying laughter. And then she sighed. Our beautiful, broken earth sighed. One final, mournful, dreadful sigh.

My dog barked once that morning. Now she lay mute in my lap as I pet her. I know she has no more barks for me. I close my eyes and take one last breath.

No more, no less.

On the first day, we scanned and cataloged all of our epic and lyrical poetry, fiction and non-fiction, for those who might follow.

On the second day, we summarized and cataloged all of our scientific knowledge for those who might follow.

On the third day, we recorded and cataloged all of our music, songs, and hymns for those who might follow.

On the fourth day, we notated all of our dance for those who might follow.

On the fifth day, we transcribed all of our comedy for those who might follow.

On the sixth day, we erased the scrolls of our entire history so that no one who followed would ever suspect that we did this to ourselves.

On the seventh day, knowing that it was as if Melpomene had never existed, we rested.

Apparently, for 100 bucks, you can make me do anything, like make an effort.

Hey, despite what you may think, I'm actually trying on this one.

Yeah, I'm writing a story with a theme about running. It's my first time on Prose, and I'm taking advantage of the no entry limit. What do you care?

Am I talking to you? Well I don't see anyone else here. I'm talking to you, the reader. I'm writing an obnoxious dialogue between me and you.

What, you don't like that? Then read something else! I don't care. Come on, tough guy, make me regret this! Read this at the appropriate speed, pretend you hear my voice!

This definitely falls within the rules of the challenge. The whole existence for this story is running. It's all about running! Now that I've said it, no one can prove otherwise!

Yeah, I left the faucet running. Just for this special occasion. I'm hoping the 100 bucks will pay for my water bill. I also ate some spicy food so now my nose is running. More importantly, my thoughts are running rampant across the page.

This is how I usually write. I type whatever first comes to mind and check for grammatical errors. I typically listen to music at the same time. Not now though. Let me quote myself here.

"They went well together. Science fiction and neo-fantasy. Impulse fiction spurred on by random music and a fast heartbeat. Half-formed ideas smashed together with a child’s foot. Like a jigsaw puzzle. Motivated by cheap erotica and impatient mood swings. Does anyone know where this is going?

This is fiction. Saturated with words related to science and fueled by dreams of fantasy. Held together by comic books and animated videos. Stories running away from drugged psychotic neon-colored vampires between flooded alleyways that stink of evil. Imagine how cool that’d be."

It's nonsensical isnt' it? But it's me. My heart and soul is poured into that passage, but of course I didn't give it much effort. It's a note to myself in a notebook of ideas. I was writing for this challenge and I thought, "Hey, this would really fit here." I don't give an effort. I make spontaneous plotlines and use all of my brainpower just to think of the next word. I don't cook with gas, I don't pick up steam, I don't run on horsepower. I run on adrenalin. Wait a second, there's no spellcheck?

That's my life. I make an action and I don't spend a second regretting my decision. I'm charging through life guns blazing looking to get my next kick in. I'm on a crash course with (or is that to?) infinity and the day when I just wake up and realize how stupid I was.

Just now I had what I was going to write next and I forgot it. I went to get a glass of water and it left me. That's the problem with my ideas and sentences never fitting in together or flowing well. I forget. It happens.

I'm done. I've ran *nudge* *nudge* out of ideas.

I had fun with this. Thank you.

Too bad it's all fiction.

That's right, I just rendered this entire passage meaningless.