J M Blackman Week 140: Fixed

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J.M. Blackman’s Picture Choice: 2

Title: Fixed

She is barbed wire. Necessary. Useful. Hard. Sharp. And yet you always want to test the sharpness, though you know it could hurt, though you know it could cut.

You want to try her barriers, though you can clearly see them. You want to try and slip between those lines, despite the fact that you know you can't fit. Despite the fact that you know it isn't a good idea.

You keep pushing against her as if she'll change, as if she'll give.

But the only thing that happens is that you keep scratching yourself. Keep cutting yourself.

You are not a wire cutter. And she is barbed wire. She will not change.

Perhaps if you were wind and water you could weather her; but you're only a man, smooth and warm and squishy.

She is barbed wire.

Necessary. Useful. Hard. Sharp.

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J.M. Blackman is a Language Arts teacheri and a feminist. She endeavors to review nearly everything she reads and is a happy wife. She's a SFF enthusiast, loves dark humor, and has an unhealthy need to protect the image of Batman.

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J M Blackman Week 138: Wish You Were Here

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J.M. Blackman’s Picture Choice: 1

Title: Wish You Were Here

He should have figured out that his flight would be cancelled. He had such a life, such luck. His friends had planned to meet him in Hawaii. It was the first big trip he had planned since he had started teaching. It was what had got him through the first half of the year.

And now he and his board were warming up an airport floor.

He had already let his friends know that he was scheduled for the next available flight. Which wasn't for another 13 hours. And he couldn't go home, because he had already driven for hours. He didn't want to check into a room for half a day either.

A few hours into his wait, he received a text from his girlfriend.

WSH U WERE HERE.

He hadn't known the exact time of her flight. But he also hadn't thought she'd be there so much earlier than him. He replied.

I WSH I WAS 2. SOON.

She responded NOT SOON ENOUGH.

He agreed.

He tried to stay positive but it was hard when everyone he saw was leaving for their flight, and he was staring into the curls and swirls of a board that was still hours away from water.

He stared so long he thought he could see the golden ratio in his board's depths. But the whorls were just starting to blur when a familiar set of feet appeared in his sight, disrupting his reverie.

The feet of his girlfriend.

He looked up into her smile. He couldn't even get up he was so shocked. He didn't need to. She plopped down right across from him, her carryon beside her.

"We can wait it out here. I don't like wishing we were together. We should just...be together. "

Then, they stared into the waves on his board. Together.

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J.M. Blackman is a Language Arts teacheri and a feminist. She endeavors to review nearly everything she reads and is a happy wife. She's a SFF enthusiast, loves dark humor, and has an unhealthy need to protect the image of Batman.

#DailyPicspiration

J M Blackman Week 136: Golden

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J.M. Blackman’s Picture Choice: 2

Title: Golden

It had not been a good day.

His mother was sick and the doctors they could afford couldn’t seem to figure out what was wrong with her. She had a bad cough and fatigue that kept her in bed all day, very much unlike her.

His wife had spent so much time keeping her comfortable and still attending to so much of the housework, but he could tell it was wearing on her.

His daughter was constantly wringing her hands about both of the matriarchs in her life, as well as her own concerns: marriage.

He assured her that he did not want her to rush into anything. He assured her that he wanted her to marry someone she loved, and nothing less. Because in the struggles life contained, if you were not with someone you loved, nothing would be worth it. Nothing would be bearable. And you would feel a weight unlike any other, one that could not be lightened or passed along.

But if you were with someone you loved, someone like his beautiful wife, even the darkest moments had a pinprick of hope. He had to make sure he showed his daughter that, if anything else.

So, when the Walk of the Elephants came, he kissed his mother’s brow and demanded that his wife and daughter follow him to the city. Reluctantly, they did.

They all held hands, slipping between brightly colored stalls and breathing in the smells of festival: people and dirt and dung and food.

He bought them sweets and he saw the first smiles either had carried in what seemed like weeks.

And when the Walk of the Elephants came down the street, their smiles grew and he held his two loves to him, one under each arm, in a moment as golden as the headdresses of the majestic beasts before them.

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J.M. Blackman is a Language Arts teacheri and a feminist. She endeavors to review nearly everything she reads and is a happy wife. She's a SFF enthusiast, loves dark humor, and has an unhealthy need to protect the image of Batman.

#DailyPicspiration

J M Blackman Week 126: A Sweet Bite

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J.M. Blackman’s Picture Choice: One

Title: A Sweet Bite

I tried my best not to think of him. I knew that there would be no way to restrain myself if we were to get involved.

I mean, haven’t you ever met such a person? Someone who had something about them that just made them irresistible, but in the most detrimental way? Someone that you just knew you would take apart, use, devour until there was nothing left.

It wasn’t as if we were a good match. We weren’t fated like that.

We barely had anything in common. And it wasn’t just hobbies we didn’t share. We were different types of creatures--in many, many ways.

But the way he held himself, the way he spoke, it all drew me in, and in that way that a flytrap drew in a fly. Except I was the one who was going to snap shut on him. I warned him of his and he waved it off. I explained in great detail the sweet demise he would meet. Yes, it would be warm and soft and like sinking into a dream, but it would be an end all the same. Life would be no more. But somehow he believe this to be acceptable, to be desirable, honorable in some way.

I could not understand it. I tried not to abide it. Hence, my avoiding him.

And his smell. It’s like apples. Sweet, gala apples. And he himself is like the rush of something so innocent as bobbing for apples: an innocuous thrill, holding your breath, submerging yourself knowing there is no danger, no real danger.

Not for me, anyway.

Maybe it is this kind of thought that led me right back to him. I even managed to convince myself that all I wanted was one, little bite. Just a sweet, quick bite. Nothing more.

But I knew that eventually I would look up and find that one bite had turned to another. That the quickness I had sworn to would linger instead, and slow. And that eventually, there would be nothing of him, but that honeyed memory of a sweet bite.

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J.M. Blackman is a Language Arts teacheri and a feminist. She endeavors to review nearly everything she reads and is a happy wife. She's a SFF enthusiast, loves dark humor, and has an unhealthy need to protect the image of Batman.

#DailyPicspiration

J M Blackman Week 122: I’m Not Batman

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J.M. Blackman’s Picture Choice: Both

Title: I’m Not Batman

It's not that I don't understand why Batman doesn't kill people. It's just that some people need to be killed. You can't actually think that people like the Joker need to be in existence. People like the joker will never reform. They will never add anything to society. They will only ever take things away, take people away.

I get that it's a slippery slope. That the grey may grow and eat the black and white, leaving nothing but the monochrome of everything being the same.

A punch might not be enough for now. Maybe a broken jaw. But why stop there? The criminal should not be able to break the law anymore. They should not be able anymore.

Perhaps even the daily mugger starts to look like the Scarecrow. Maybe they all become Poison Ivy. And maybe they all should no longer exist.

But you know, I can see how that would avalanche. But I'm not Batman. And I suppose that's for the best.



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J.M. Blackman is a Language Arts teacheri and a feminist. She endeavors to review nearly everything she reads and is a happy wife. She's a SFF enthusiast, loves dark humor, and has an unhealthy need to protect the image of Batman.

#DailyPicspiration

J M Blackman Week 120: The Wind & The Tree

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J.M. Blackman’s Picture Choice: 2

Title: The Wind & The Tree

I
She was the wind, quick,
and easy to slip through fingers.
He, the tree: steady.

II
But they always met
when the cherry blossoms fell:
soft touches and sighs.

III
Their love could not last,
but its brevity: beauty.
and its strength: fable.

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J.M. Blackman is a Language Arts teacheri and a feminist. She endeavors to review nearly everything she reads and is a happy wife. She's a SFF enthusiast, loves dark humor, and has an unhealthy need to protect the image of Batman.

#DailyPicspiration

J M Blackman Week 118: Two Peas

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J.M. Blackman’s Picture Choice: One

Title: Two Peas

Well, they’d always been a pair, no matter what. From the moment they met each other, they were damn near inseparable.

People liked to call them twins, but they were more like different sides to the same coin: one was the open face, immediately recognizable, and the other a detailed landscape that people could study for moments at a time and still never quite grasp the craftsmanship.

But everyone agreed that there was never one without the other, even when they weren’t side by side. If one said it, the other meant it.

A mirror was a more apt comparison.

Superficially, they shared the same interests, hobbies and political views. They had the same phone, the same camera--they took similar pictures, though if you looked, you’d know he saw the bigger picture of the beach, while she could see a world in the fronds of a palm tree.

But this trivial sketch, this cosmetic framing was nothing compared to how their souls echoed each other. Like a reflection in water--an exact representation that waves with the undulation of time and movement; they grew and shrank and burst all in time: synchronized beyond any understanding, beyond any depiction, any words.

More than likely, they were simply one spirit, split between bodies. Just two peas. In a pod.

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J.M. Blackman is a Language Arts teacheri and a feminist. She endeavors to review nearly everything she reads and is a happy wife. She's a SFF enthusiast, loves dark humor, and has an unhealthy need to protect the image of Batman.

#DailyPicspiration

J M Blackman Week 114: Raging/love

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J.M. Blackman’s Picture Choice: 1

Title: Raging/love

You ever think that we're just not meant to be?"

He turned his head a bit at that; he still didn't quite look at her. But that made him almost look. That was his way when they fought. He couldn't look at her. He took another pull of the joint between his fingers, then passed it to her.

She took two deep gulps, felt the buzz spread from her chest to her ass on the cold curb. She shifted her weight and leaned back against the sign behind her. "Do you?"

"No." He took the joint back. He took another drag.

"Why not? You think it's normal to fight like we do?" Her voice broke a little. Her throat was raw. From the screaming. And the smoking.

"I don't think we're normal. And I think everything worth having, you have to fight for."

"But like that?" She thought of they'd stood and yelled across the table. A glass had fallen to floor and shattered. They'd been asked to leave and she hardly remembered the face of the manager who'd asked. It was all swaths of red and tinkling glass and silence besides their screams. And now they sat a block away, on the curb, high.

"Sometimes." He took another drag. He looked at her then. Right in the eye. "I mean, if that guy behind you can still be happy, we should be able to find a way, right?"

"The guy behind..." She turned slowly, but no one was there. Then, she saw the sign she was leaning against. It was a Viagra advertisement. An old stickman with what had to be a raging boner was stationary with a walker. She stared at it for a minute and then burst into laughter that rolled down the street, up the building, through the alleys. Then, she turned back to her boyfriend. "I guess so."

"Right?" He handed her the joint and leaned his head on top of hers. She put one hand on his knee and took another puff.

"Right," she repeated.

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J.M. Blackman is a Language Arts teacheri and a feminist. She endeavors to review nearly everything she reads and is a happy wife. She's a SFF enthusiast, loves dark humor, and has an unhealthy need to protect the image of Batman.

#DailyPicspiration

J M Blackman Week 112: X Marks the Spot

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J.M. Blackman’s Picture Choice: 1

Title: X Marks the Spot

It was silent, save for the fire’s grumbling, the clink of dishes and glasses. That was until the growling. I looked at our hostess to ask if she had dogs, but when I looked up, she was already looking at me. Her eyes had changed colors, seemed larger. She asked if I’d like a drink with her in another room. I didn’t know what else I could say besides, “yes.”

Saying “yes” then would change my life beyond recognition.

It had set my path. And it was unalterable.

…in the other room, my head filled with a fog that had developed from the seething marsh between my ears; I swayed as if there was music on. And she was a lighthouse in that fog, shining in the firelight that glimmered off her lipstick. When she pressed her mouth to mine, I thought I was caught on an electric fence–no, wrapped in it. Until what felt like a dozen pinpricks stabbed me around my spine.

I jerked away and the pain seared up my back, sucking the air out of my lungs (or what air was left). I fell to my knees and the drink went tumbling. The glass didn’t shatter but rolled across the rug, a pool of dark whiskey under my hand. I tried to feel for the pain in my back, but my arm wasn’t long enough. I felt her behind me, and flopped over so I could meet her face. As if in slow motion, she drew a lean finger across my diagonally one way, then the other.

“X marks the spot,” she whispered. And it was like she’d broken the spell.

Now, the firelight was hell-light, for she was no longer an angel but a demon, with fingers too long, a mouth too wide and full of sharp teeth.

But the real thing that made her a demon was the fact that despite her appearance, she was still lovely to me.

And so I ran. As fast as I could, as hard as I’d ever, and as I stumbled through the dark halls, they filled with cracking bays and reverberating howls.

I was in the company of wolves.

I had known they weren’t quite right, but this? And what else could be the excuse? I was drunk, but no liquor made a hot girl’s face turn into a monster mask. But real.

I fell down the stone steps and when I got to my car, my keys weren’t in my pocket anymore. When the hell had that happened? I took a quick look at the door still open and decided the main road wasn’t too far back. I could make it running.

It may have been the stupidest thing I’ve ever thought.

My dress shoes didn’t make running in the wet grass easy. The floodlights from the house started to fade behind me as the woods began to close in. I’d barely made it 800 yards before I heard the howl that announced they’d broken free of the house.

I’d been marked. They would find me.

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J.M. Blackman is a Language Arts teacheri and a feminist. She endeavors to review nearly everything she reads and is a happy wife. She's a SFF enthusiast, loves dark humor, and has an unhealthy need to protect the image of Batman.

#DailyPicspiration

J M Blackman Week 83: Drowning

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J.M. Blackman’s Picture Choice: 1

Title: Drowning

Robert placed the glass beside the bottle on the counter. The glass was nearly empty. He’d drank entire glass. Again.

He turned it in a few circles, considering the liquor jolting up and down the sides of the glass. But he didn’t pull it to his mouth, just watched the ripple of color.

He hadn’t thought of the fact that she had bought him the glass. And the whiskey, so akin to her eyes in sunlight.

He used to not drink. He wasn’t quite sure how he’d picked it up. He remembered the set of glasses as a gift from John.

He also remembered that he’d warned himself against John. Against letting him into his life. His head. His heart.

But when he touched John, he felt something. So much more than the low-volume hum of his everyday life. Robert was like a full orchestra. And he wanted to listen to the song until it ended.

Yeah, somehow he wanted to listen despite the fact that John’s beliefs were flat, despite the fact that he hated every single damn thing Robert wore (and told him every time he saw him), despite the fact that they hated each other.

But he couldn’t pull away. John was on his mind, all the time. It was killing Robert. But he couldn’t pull away.

He picked up the bottle. He couldn’t pull away.

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J.M. Blackman is a Language Arts teacheri and a feminist. She endeavors to review nearly everything she reads and is a happy wife. She's a SFF enthusiast, loves dark humor, and has an unhealthy need to protect the image of Batman.

#DailyPicspiration

J M Blackman Week 81: She Let Go

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J.M. Blackman’s Picture Choice: 2

Title: She Let Go

She was breaking apart.

Yes, she had been unfinished...no, incomplete for some time. About 47 years now. But this was different.

She was losing her hold. She’d sat on 155 Fieldstone Court, the one with the pink dogwoods lining the sidewalk, since she had died. She’d always had a connection to the house, a connection that probably came from the fact that she’d never been happier than in that house. So, when she died in her sleep from carbon monoxide poisoning (turned out there had been a leak somewhere in or around her water heater; it was hard to get the full story from the snippets of her crying mother and the realtor who had to sell the house after), she stuck around for a little longer. A lot longer.

Either way, the connection had been strong enough that she could rattle windows, sometimes shatter them; she swung cabinets open and closed, slammed doors. She moved most buyers out in months. But they just kept putting it up for sale. And people just kept coming.

Season after season changed: roiling heat to whispering leaves, frozen grass to budding trees. The pink dogwood shed its color and blossomed so many times she questioned how long it had been. And with the leaves came more people just kept pouring into her home, living their lives and leaving her nothing but scraps.

At first, she worked constantly to rid the house of everyone using all the tricks in the book. But that book started to lose pages, the words began to fade. She couldn’t remember how to move things, couldn’t remember why she wanted to.

She felt as if she should stay at this house. She felt like she belonged. Perhaps it was the pink dogwoods--they were beautiful.

But since she couldn’t remember why she should stay besides that bagging feeling, she let go.

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J.M. Blackman is a Language Arts teacheri and a feminist. She endeavors to review nearly everything she reads and is a happy wife. She's a SFF enthusiast, loves dark humor, and has an unhealthy need to protect the image of Batman.

#DailyPicspiration

J M Blackman Week 79: Have Yourself a Merry little Christmas--The Rabbit Hole Part 12

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J.M. Blackman’s Picture Choice: 2

Title: Have Yourself a Merry little Christmas--The Rabbit Hole Part 12

Samir jammed the door. He used something that looked like rigid cellophane, about the size of a credit card, but criss-crossed with the veins of technology. He slipped it between the locking mechanism inside the door. He said it should jam the door. No one would be able to override it. They would have to cut through. That would give us more than enough warning and time to get away.

Next, we set to getting control of every system running through that particular control room. We made mirrors so that the other control rooms thought that nothing had changed. It would reflect that moment, loop it upon itself for an extended moment, before choosing another moment to reflect. The signal could be tricked, could be redirected only so many times before the other control rooms noticed the inauthenticity of the patterns.

Then, we had to figure out where and when the agency had discovered all of Samir's transgressions. Of course, there was no way we could search and review every instance of Samir breaking their codes. We set programs to doing that. And by all of this "we" talk, I mean Samir gave me needles to inject and wires to split and combine. I simply followed his hurried instructions.

My heart thudded in my throat and my collar grew hotter and hotter with every shaky breath. Sam had said we shouldn't take more than eight minutes. Four minutes had already passed. I focused on the wall ahead of us. It was one big screen--covered in snapshots of time, like a colossal spiderweb of YouTube videos. The images ranged the gambit of human experience--the darkest, most private moments to the most public of celebrations: fireworks of existence.

"Are y'all the NSA of all time and space?"

Samir shrugged. "That's fair."

"Are these...live feeds or what?"

"Moments in time where an agent has traveled."

"Oh." I let my eyes lose focus. And then an image caught my eye. A Christmas tree.

"What's today's date?" I really didn't know. The last I'd seen it had been October.

"At your mother's house in McDonough?" Samir asked.

I froze and he said gently, "Don't let the loop close without a different mirror." I went back to following his instructions, but his knowing where my mother lived was odd. "It's your Christmas Eve."

"Weird," I said. I hadn't missed a Christmas Eve, or Christmas at my mother's in...years. I couldn't remember how many. But I didn't feel bad about missing out. In fact, I was weirded out by how OK I was with it all.

"It's weird that I know where your mother lives?"

"Yes, definitely, but I was referring more to the fact that I'm not broken hearted about not being there."

He stared at the side of my face for a brief moment. "I looked you up once it seemed like you were going to stick around." I nodded. Still odd, but what about this wasn't odd? "I'm glad you don't mind being here."

There was a sharp trill and I turned to Samir. "No worries. We're all done."

Five minutes had passed. We were early. "Let's be going then?"

"One more thing." He tapped a plate and the images on the screen started to change. Beautiful snippets of time flittered, a few Christmas themed but most just shining with the light of life. I found myself staring at a small, white church and tearing up. I didn't go to church. Not anymore. But I believed in something more and I believed I was right where I should be.

"Merry Christmas," he said. And I knew he didn't celebrate Christmas. I'd have to ask what he celebrated. I'd have to ask why he'd been so kind, if a little off base. I didn't celebrate Christmas the way most people did. For me, it had always been a time to express how grateful I was in one way or another. But always by giving. And being amazingly humbled that anyone would think to get me anything.

Maybe Samir celebrated in the same way, though. And that's why he had given me this moment. Too soon, it was time to go. But I didn't mind going. I'd had enough Christmas.

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J.M. Blackman is a Language Arts teacheri and a feminist. She endeavors to review nearly everything she reads and is a happy wife. She's a SFF enthusiast, loves dark humor, and has an unhealthy need to protect the image of Batman.

#DailyPicspiration

J M Blackman Week 77: Second Time's the Charm--The Rabbit Hole Part 11

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J.M. Blackman’s Picture Choice: 2

Title: Second Time's the Charm--The Rabbit Hole Part 11

I was finding that the time between near-death experiences was not nearly as long as it should be nowadays.

And that being the case, I was staring straight at one more opportunity to die.

Samir had given us an even better hand up this time, stealing the coordinates of that specific security room and adjusting it according to time, or place. When he explained, I had to fight an immediate migraine. Apparently, the room's coordinates, like all high level security rooms there, changed time and place to prevent transporting. Sam added that into his equation.

It was a miracle it worked.

We got in no problem. It wasn't surprising that it landed us right back where we were--Sam fighting with a guard.

And me watching.

Everything froze, as those moments of near death do. My eyes darted around so quickly: to the door, the control panel with the blurry image of a church and village in the hills, the Buddha statue. And in my terror, I thought back to my lack in sidekick skills. I was extremely ungifted in every way, lacking any sort of skill that could have helped us out in that moment.

But I, as unlucky, uncoordinated and unprepared as I was to be a hero, I wouldn’t let anything get in the way of me attempting to help Samir. I barreled forward, fists ready to pummel the grey uniform until my hands were sore or useless.

I flew into nothingness and then into a wall; as my knees cracked on impact and I worked to get myself turned back in the right direction, my soundtrack was an orchestra of scuffles and the “whomp” of punches and kicks finding purchase in soft flesh.

When I finally managed to see what was going on, I found Samir kneeling on the floor, the guard unconscious with his arms, for all intents and purposes, ziptied behind his back.

“You got ‘im,” I sighed in relief, all 3 ounces of adrenaline zapped from my body.

“Well, if I hadn’t,” Sam breathed heavily, sitting for just a moment, catching his breath. “I feel safe saying you would have got him for me. Real fists of fury." He looked up at the control panel. "Second time's the charm."

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J.M. Blackman is a Language Arts teacheri and a feminist. She endeavors to review nearly everything she reads and is a happy wife. She's a SFF enthusiast, loves dark humor, and has an unhealthy need to protect the image of Batman.

#DailyPicspiration

J M Blackman Week 75: Life is like a Speeding Train--The Rabbit Hole Part 10

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J.M. Blackman’s Picture Choice:

Title: Life is like a Speeding Train--The Rabbit Hole Part 10

You can imagine that for the hundredth time, I thought I was going to die. It's amazing how many scenarios the mind can create in a split second.

I thought perhaps they would obliterate me on the spot, ending my life in a flash of light and a plume of ash. I'd be lucky if I managed to catch Samir's eye in the middle of a death struggle, but I'd hope that somehow I could let him know before we died that I was sorry I wasn't more help, and I wouldn't have wanted to be anywhere but that in that moment, in that place with him. It wasn't a love thing. It was an honor thing. He saved my life. And regardless of the circumstances: I was indebted to him. I would pay him back in full.

I would hope that in the event that we could make that eye contact, all of that would have been on my face, in my eyes.

I also thought that perhaps they wouldn't kill us immediately. Perhaps they would imprison us and torture us. Torture us with things I couldn't even imagine as time and time travel had allowed macabre heights of creativity.

I still would choose now.

In the moment, Sam spun toward me and grabbed me to his chest. The room exploded in every direction and then I was staring into a glaring canopy of white. So white it burned my eyes. And then the blinding light turned into a train that was hurtling toward me.

I made to dive out of the way, but was snatched back. I screamed as I crashed backwards. I was sure it was Samir holding me until I felt two more hands than was normal.

Then, I started screaming anew, kicking and punching anything and everything. There were two quick oomphs and then Samir yelling, “Aniyah, Aniyah!”

I flipped over onto my knees and stood on them, air heaving in and out of my throat so quickly that it burned. The train was still screaming past us. It was a miracle I had heard him at all. The air whipped around us, dragging our clothes and hair and creating tiny devils of dust.

When the train passed, Samir still stood with his hands up, blood running down into his eye, down his cheek. The collar of his shirt was torn down the middle and his lip was starting to swell. “You okay?”

“Are you?” I demanded. He nodded and starting searching the guard who had hitched a ride with us. We’d have to jump again soon to make sure they didn’t track this guy. You never really knew if the tech sent a signal before you had a chance to destroy it.

“We were close.” He said it like we had done a good job. “It might take practice.”

“Won’t they know we’re coming?”

“Someone is always coming. They can’t differentiate us from any other threat. Especially with our shield.”

I wiped my nose. I didn’t know when it had started bleeding. “Guess we better get moving.”

He dabbed at his forehead with his sleeve. “Yes. Soon.” I just appreciated that the snow was numbing my legs.

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J.M. Blackman is a Language Arts teacher and a feminist. She endeavors to review nearly everything she reads and is a happy wife. She's a SFF enthusiast, loves dark humor, and has an unhealthy need to protect the image of Batman.

#DailyPicspiration

J M Blackman Week 73: Lucky Buddha--The Rabbit Hole Part 9

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J.M. Blackman’s Picture Choice: 2

Title: Lucky Buddha--The Rabbit Hole Part 9

I’m not sure what I was expecting. Maybe I thought it would look like a scene out of Minority Report or Blade Runner. Perhaps even the dregs of a Matrix knock off. But what I found was a particularly boring office building. The only difference I could detect was that lack of electricity, or rather common methods of using and supplying electricity. There was light, but I couldn’t see the bulbs in any fixture. Nor could I find any outlets in the dark halls as we crept through them.

Well, I crept. Samir walked around as if he owned the place, not at all like he was a wanted man through time and space. True, he'd cloaked us in some time pause or something that masked our sounds and visibility. Mostly, Samir had said, it masked us mostly. We'd still need to be careful, aware of our surroundings.

I'd laughed when he'd said that--aware of our surroundings. All I was was aware of surroundings. All I could think about was the fact that we were in the home base of organization that was trying to kill us. I was so centered on this that I hadn't noticed when Sam stopped. I walked right past him out into the open hall and came face to face with the first live soul we'd run into. Except he was turned the other way. So, it was more like face to back of the head. I clapped my hands over my mouth--the least spy-like act that's ever been performed--and before I could move another muscle, Sam snatched me back, pushing me behind him and to the wall, hard arm slightly painful as he did his best to flatten us both.

The guard, entirely dressed in a dark grey uniform, turned the corner and walked right past us, stopping only when he got to the end of the hall and glanced back. Holding my breath was definitely not necessary if I understood how Sam's device worked, but I held it until stars began to twinkle across my vision, until the guard was long gone, until Sam released me.

He turned to me slowly and I did my best to avoid eye contact. At least, I tried really hard until he took my chin and turned my head to look at him.

"Aware of our surroundings," he breathed.

I nodded quickly. He stared at me for a moment longer, then dropped his hand. He motioned around the corner, and went ahead. I looked back in the direction the guard had left and then followed.

I didn't nearly out us to any other guards and we made it to a security room without any other issues. The security room itself, however, was an issue.

Sam had explained that there was no cracking into this system. Not the door’s system. We had to either make a diversion, or wait until someone entered or left. There was no way to know their schedule, so we had to wait, flattened to the wall while security brushed past us. I felt like Harry Potter with his invisibility cloak, except a lot less skilled. And exponentially more likely to die.

And that’s what I was thinking when the door opened and Samir darted to the side, ready to step in. I followed suit, right behind him. We had to quickly shuffle to the side and then jump inside. I flattened to the wall as soon as I was through, slightly knocking an odd picture of a Buddha figure against siding. But Samir--he collided right into a second guard exiting.

Like Harry Potter. But less skilled. Likely to die. Likely to get others killed. That was me.

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J.M. Blackman is a Language Arts teacheri and a feminist. She endeavors to review nearly everything she reads and is a happy wife. She's a SFF enthusiast, loves dark humor, and has an unhealthy need to protect the image of Batman.

#DailyPicspiration

J.M. Blackman Week 71: Herrick Taught

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J.M. Blackman’s Picture Choice: 1

Title: Herrick Taught

Your general disarray is something
I’ve come to adore; it’s something Herrick
has taught me. It’s your reckless moods,
no more faithful than a blooming daisy
That light me up so easily. Your passionate
fits that address my slipping continuity so tirelessly.

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J.M. Blackman is a Language Arts teacheri and a feminist. She endeavors to review nearly everything she reads and is a happy wife. She's a SFF enthusiast, loves dark humor, and has an unhealthy need to protect the image of Batman.

#DailyPicspiration

J M Blackman Week 65: There is Only One Pill: The Rabbit Hole--Part 8

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J.M. Blackman’s Picture Choice: 2

Title: There is Only One Pill: The Rabbit Hole--Part 8

The time at the beach was nice, though a day in the sun and sand couldn’t quite ease the stress level I had begun to develop. And we couldn’t stay for more than a day, since time--as I had come to realize with an ache in my bones--time was always of the essence. We had to track down a moment in time before some unforeseen hiccup of the universe tore apart the small respite we had built. I say built, but really I just shot a laser beam, or ray, or something. Samir is the one who had built it, who had planned every second and every move of everyone to make sure we stopped--at least temporarily--the people who had been chasing us. According to Sam, the agents from his time agency were unknowingly frozen in the moment in which I had shot them. That sounded terribly perfect to me--to be able to simply pause someone until you were ready to unpause them. I mean, for the device to stop hunger, stop thought, stop the most basic processes of our body in a moment in time, and without that person even knowing..it seemed too easy. Not to say that the device and planning weren’t things of genius. They were. But the device and freezing them had absolved us of three entire people. It had absolved us of them for as long as we want, and all throughout time. They were there in that room and nowhere else.

I knew this was a good thing, and that we were coming closer to being able to fix the whole mess, and yet something still tugged at me. Perhaps it was the fact that I had helped completely nullify the existence of three people, even if temporarily. Only a small voice ever said this in my head. The loudest parts of me were still overjoyed that the plan had worked and, even if just for a little bit, I probably had less people trying to kill me. It was easy to shelf any guilt when I thought of that.

I couldn’t really complain, though, because poor Sam--Sam was looking more and more like the next calculation he solved, like the next element he factored in, like the next time stitch he had to consider would bowl him over and leave him there.

I’d like to think that I understood how he felt. He probably felt like I had when I first tried to comprehend everything that was happening to me, like my head was going to explode at any moment. There was a constant pressure and a slight nausea that would rear up at the most intense moments with a red haze. I figured Sam’s haze must be all the time. And I wondered what would happen when the haze closed in on him, or his head did finally explode.

I had never been any good at puzzles, and so I didn’t know if I was qualified for putting him back together.

“Aniyah?”

He must have been talking to me. “Yes?”

“So, you missed all of that, then?”

“Completely,” I admitted.

Instead of his eyebrow drawing down as they usually would, they went up. “What are you thinking?”

“I was thinking that you look stressed. Really stressed. On the verge of a meltdown, if you haven’t already had it, kinda stressed.” He stopped walking and I looked around. We were in a forest area, and we had been walking through the forest for a while now. “Where are we?”

“I look stressed?”

“Very.” I ignored that he had ignored my question.

“I am stressed.”

I sighed and slung my backpack off, sliding to the ground to pull out my thermos. He kneeled beside me. “I know that you’re stressed. You asked what I was thinking. I was thinking that you looked stressed, that you look like you might fall apart at any moment. And I thought that I won’t be very good at putting you back together.”

“Sure you will,” he laughed, clapping me on the shoulder. He didn’t take his hand away immediately. It was warm. I didn’t mind it. “You’re the only thing that’s kept me together so far. I hate that I got you into this…”

“You saved my life.”

“And trapped you in a loop of time jumping.”

“There were...ripples. I’m just glad to be alive.”

He smiled. “Like I said, I hate that I got you into this, but I’m also very glad that I have you.” And then much quieter, he said, “I needed you.”

I think that, in a way, I had needed him, too. So I said so. Then, Samir took his hand away and we stood back up. “So, where are we?”

“My headquarters.”

“Your headquarters, or your agency’s headquarters?”

He gave me a look and I could tell he meant the latter. I tried to control my breathing. Samir was an ex-Stormtrooper, and he had taken me to the Death Star. No, no, he was Morpheus--except he wasn’t offering me the red pill or the blue pill. He was offering me one pill that was two colors. And I was going to have to swallow it.

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J.M. Blackman is a Language Arts teacheri and a feminist. She endeavors to review nearly everything she reads and is a happy wife. She's a SFF enthusiast, loves dark humor, and has an unhealthy need to protect the image of Batman.

#DailyPicspiration

J M Blackman Week 63: Music

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J.M. Blackman’s Picture Choice: 1

Title: Music

As if a symphony
resided in my blood, in my skin,
the very thought of your face
sends racing chords through my flesh.
The music I can never hear
but always feels rises, jerking
at my heart, crushing my chest
in the sweetest collapse:
rolling, pooling, spreading—it washes
over me at the memory of your voice.
The image of you inspires a great
crescendo that fills into the most
exquisite motion, a piece worthy
of the most beautiful grandeur.

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J.M. Blackman is a Language Arts teacheri and a feminist. She endeavors to review nearly everything she reads and is a happy wife. She's a SFF enthusiast, loves dark humor, and has an unhealthy need to protect the image of Batman.

#DailyPicspiration

J M Blackman Week 61: Aim and Shoot with a Chance of Sandy Shores: The Rabbit Hole Part 7

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J.M. Blackman’s Picture Choice: Both

Title: Aim and Shoot with a Chance of Sandy Shores: The Rabbit Hole Part 7

“Tell me one more time.”

For once, Samir didn’t give me that look. He didn’t sigh, or roll his eyes. He took my hands in his, and once again, I had that sinking feeling that I was going to die. “I wish we have time for me to tell you one more time…” I was smiling before he finished what he was saying, and I wasn’t sure when he started to have that effect. “But we don’t. They’re coming. And I need to get going. So do you. This will only work if we both can do what we need to.”

“I am really bad at high pressure situations,” I gulped.

“You used to be. You were when I first met you. But you’re the fastest learner I’ve ever known and, you’ve gotten really good quite quickly.”

“You’re just saying that.”

“Truly not,” he said, shaking his head. “I can explain in great detail later if this works.”

“If it doesn’t?”

He let go of my hands. “I’ll see you in 22 minutes.” He tapped the band on my wrist. It was like a bracelet--a metal bracelet, but it was oddly flexible. It could do all sorts of neat things like tell Sam right where I was, or lead us straight to each other, or set a countdown for when I should be in an exact place at an exact time to shoot a not-so-exact weapon. That was what it was going now.

“22 minutes,” I confirmed, surprised my voice wasn’t shaking since everything else was. He turned and jerked the door open, leaving it ajar as he jogged off. I tapped the gun, light as a toy, similar in appearance against my leg before I realized if it accidentally went off I could very well kills us where we stood. Because I wouldn’t be able to get to where I needed to be, and we would fail. And though, Sam hadn’t said it, I knew that’s what failure meant. Death. For both of us.

I peeked my head out into the hall. It was clear. It should have been. The other agents wouldn’t show up for another three minutes if Sam had timed it correctly. He knew how long it took to track someone. He knew how many people were after him. He knew the protocol, the plans, the weapons. And he had constructed a plan that considered how long it would take all of us to end up in the same place.

They would shoot for him first. Flank him and follow him to an open space that they will realize is a trap only seconds before I shot them. Or that was how it was supposed to go. That was the plan. I trusted Sam’s calculations, his expertise, but that didn’t stop me from quaking in my newly broken in boots.

After all, I wasn’t an agent of anything. I would never want to be so important. I refused to be my high school’s secretary--running uncontested--because I didn’t want the responsibility. What if I took terrible minutes? What if I missed out on notifying someone of...something? I didn’t want to owe anything to anyone if I could help it.

And right now I owed Sam a quick jog to a very specified location and survival. I had to not die to keep us both from dying. And it was possible that an agent might leave the group for me. More than likely not were Sam’s words. But there was still a chance. And I would have to be ready to defend myself. Or run and hide. Probably run and hide.

My wrist beeped to tell me to hurry the hell up, and I started running, trying to breathe through my nose, trying not to let my feet hit the ground too loudly. I neared a corner and the band gave a scream--the loudest, shrillest noise I’ve ever heard. I automatically dropped to the ground as I came to the opening and a whoosh of air brushed my head. The small whoosh was misleading, as a roar of dust accompanied it. I lifted my gun and pulled without even really seeing where I was aiming, or who at. I realized I might have hit Sam as the dust began to settle and I slid against the wall toward whoever it was, gun still raised.

A form began to take shape, and it definitely wasn’t Sam. This man was a few inches taller, with linebacker shoulders in a snug suit. And he was really, really angry. His face was twisted, eyes crinkled like a snarl and his mouth was simply a flat, shaking line; his nostrils were flared like a bull’s. But he stood absolutely still. Frozen. At least, in time. His body would still be warm. I wondered if he still breathed and took a step closer. His eyes didn’t move. He couldn’t see, or at least couldn’t move his eyes.

My wrist band trilled. We were going to be late. I slid back down the wall, hoping he couldn’t see my face. I went racing down the hall, now relying on the watch to warn me, because I couldn’t be even a second late. Or it all fell apart.

A stitch began to burn into my side and I was panting air like I’d run a marathon. I could see where I needed to be. It was the beginning of a lifted walkway--it overlooked that great space that Sam was going to lead the other agents to. The band was oddly silent as I skidded into place right as Sam rolled into sight on the floor below me. A gash was open over his right eye and trailing down his cheek. He gave me a thumbs up, but then he crumpled to the ground.

I couldn’t help. I screamed. In the next heartbeat, two agents ran into view. I took a quick breath and as Rambo as you can go with a time-freezing gun, I did. I’m pretty sure I hit them within the first four to five shots, but I kept firing until I saw Sam stand up.

“What are you doing?” he called. I just stared at him. “What’s wrong?” My eyes started to water, and I think he realized what was wrong. “Come down here, Aniyah.” I did, but I took my time. When I was standing beside him, he pried the gun from my hand and put it into his bag, and then held me by my shoulders, at arm’s length. “I’m sorry. I had planned on being out of the way, but when they split up, there was no way for me to get them both within your shot without being right in the middle of it.” I tried to stop my lip from shaking. I did a terrible job and wished for the billionth time that I was a stronger woman, a stronger person. I just couldn’t stop the burning in my eyes, no matter how much I tried.

“I’m sorry,” he said again. “There was no way to warn you.” He hugged me, and I finally let out a long, shuddering breath. Only a few tears fell. “Now, we’ve got to get back to work.”

We had to store all the bodies in one room. Moving them made me want to throw up. They were their own weights, but still...absolutely still, like tables. Samir assured me they were not aware of anything--frozen in that exact moment until released. I asked him why they hadn’t used the same weapon on us. He said because it was his prototype and no one knew about it. No one could. He would have to figure out how to make sure they didn’t remember.

I asked how they wouldn’t be traced and discovered. He set down a tiny triangle in a corner.

“That meant nothing to me,” I said. “I don’t know what that triangle thing means.”

“It means that there will be no trace that there has been any recent travel to this area.”

“How?”

“It…” He seemed to search for the words. “Would block the tracer’s signal.”

“Are you explaining it to me like I’m five?”

“Very close.”

“Cool,” I nodded. “Can we go now?”

“I think we should.” He turned away from me and threw his arms apart. A hole appeared.

“What about your face?”

“It can wait until we’re settled. Arms in,” he said, tucking his arms to his side. I followed suit and then followed him in.

When we stepped out, he tried to catch me, but I wasn’t ready for sand and fell onto my hands and knees, covering myself in moist sand.

“Sam,” I sputtered.

“I thought a little beach time might help calm our nerves,” he shrugged. I looked up at him and hand to hold my hand up against the sun. It had been evening where we last were.

“I’m going to need sunglasses,” I grumbled.

“We can take care of that.” He held his hand down and I let him tug me out of my self-dug pit. Maybe beach time wouldn’t be terrible.

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J.M. Blackman is a Language Arts teacheri and a feminist. She endeavors to review nearly everything she reads and is a happy wife. She's a SFF enthusiast, loves dark humor, and has an unhealthy need to protect the image of Batman.

#DailyPicspiration

J.M Blackman Week 59: Trapped--The Rabbit Hole Part 6

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J.M. Blackman’s Picture Choice: 1

Title: Trapped--The Rabbit Hole Part 6

It was getting to the point that I could take the tunnels without the threat of blowing chunks looming at the back of my throat. But the disorientation--that was still a kicker and I hadn't come close to figuring out how to get rid of it.

Sam handed me a jerky pack. I took a handful and chewed thoughtfully as I stared at the abandoned distribution center in front of us. "So, what's the deal with the scary movie locale?"

Sam slid me a look. "We've gone over this like a million times."

"More like a zillion, but that doesn't explain why we're attempting this suicide pact where Jason or Mike Myers might jump out."

Sam walked to the fence and looked up it. It was topped in barbed wire. He followed the fence, eyes still cast upwards. I trailed after, still eating. Food was always great for settling the unhinged feeling that tunnel-walking left behind. "First," he said, not glancing at me. "I almost miss when you were too scared or too sick to be a smart-ass..."

"Hey!"

"Second, I don't understand that reference. Jason? Michael Myers? Who are these men?"

I stared at him. “Fictional serial killers.”

I could see the thoughts churning in his mind, then his mouth quirked. “Oh, very funny.”

“I thought so.”

He rolled his eyes and stopped walking. He’d found a space of fence where the barbed wire had uncoiled, or been cut. Either way, it was missing. And I knew without asking that we were going over. I started climbing, then. He followed closely and after I’d dropped to the ground, he landed with a grunt.

“We’re here, because there’s enough space to run. And because I know the layout, and I’m relatively confident they don’t.”

“Relatively?”

“That’s all you’ll get, I’m afraid,” he said, shrugging and heading toward the building. I followed, but couldn’t help checking behind us several times as we moved inside. The doors to the center weren’t locked. That fact didn’t reassure me in the least.

“Explain the plan again,” I whispered.

“Without question, they are tracking us at every moment of every day. But by the time they narrow down where we are, we’ve jumped and they’re back at the search again.” He fiddled with a locked door in a hall that, without the dust and webs, wouldn’t have looked abandoned. It creaked open and he went in. And after a considerable pause, I followed. “But we’re not going to jump today. We’re going to wait.”

“And when they show up?”

“They’re going to chase me.”

“And me?”

“You’re going to ambush them.”

“Oh, of course,” I said, as he slid off his pack and hunkered down.

“Yes,” he said simply. “Of course. Because I have a weapon that is going to make it similar to child’s play.” In my head, I imagined all sorts of things. I imagined that he would pull out a gun that was comically big, too big to fit into the bag, one that would extend to nonsensical proportions. I imagined a grenade that was a tiny cube, or a metal ball that I’d roll across the floor and take cover. I even imagined that he’d pull his hands free, cupping some tiny time-force miracle that coalesced into a tiny universe, a whirl of cosmic clouds and dark matter.

Instead, he pulled out something that looked like a toy. A water-gun, maybe.

“That?” I said.

“That.” He nodded.

Yep. I was going to die here.

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Like what you just read? Have a question or concern? Leave a note for the author! We appreciate your feedback!

J.M. Blackman is a Language Arts teacheri and a feminist. She endeavors to review nearly everything she reads and is a happy wife. She's a SFF enthusiast, loves dark humor, and has an unhealthy need to protect the image of Batman.

#DailyPicspiration