Guest Post

Savannah has wisely asked me not to post anything for her on Facebook. However, she failed to mention her blogger account, and as this account was open, I thought I would give her some free publicity.

Savannah does excellent work as an editor, and has been a great asset to the company. Currently, she is filling in for me at a Writer's Conference, her first, where I am very confident she will do a great job.

We're still giving her legal training; next time around, she won't forget to cover all of her accounts in verbal non-interference agreements.

But again, thanks to Savannah; if you don't know her, you should - she's great.

Sincerely,
Brett Peterson
Owner
TM Publishing, LLC

I'm a little teapot and I'm going to stab your chin with the blunt end of a fancy drink umbrella.

Is it okay to throw a temper tantrum on your blog?

I mean, we all get REEEEEEEEEALLY mad every now and then.  And we need an outlet.  So, short of sticking a fork inside an actual outlet to "release steam" (yes, it works), the next best thing is to throw a hissy fit.

Oh wait.

That's what facebook is for.  Remember how you could throw toilet paper at people way back in the "super poke" craze?  Or sheep.  I liked to throw sheep.  They smell awful and have ticks and I'm going to throw a sheep at you and hope you smell like sheep pebbles for a month and a tick bursts on your knee cap.  So there.

While I'm at it, I'm going to clinch my fists, bury my face in a duck and scream out all my frustration until I've swallowed a throat full of feathers.

And then I'm going to stomp on the ceiling and pound a broom on the floor and listen to Paramore really loudly because that band always makes me feel like my enemies are epic and real and I have something significant to fight.

Maybe I should break out my silver set and go hunt a werewolf.

I just can't say anything.  Because every time I write what I really want to say, I grumble about not being a jerk on my blog and dutifully punch the back space.

But really.  I have a punching bag for moments like this.

Just Talking to Myself

Triage.

The metallic scent of iodine hung in the air, catching on every particle that swirled through the tent.  A young nurse pulled on a dirty sheet, obscuring the waxy, white face that had, moments before, moved with the strain of wheezing breaths. 

"Let him go."

The nurse stood still for a second, willing her nose to stop stinging, and the tears to retract back into her eyes.  She tried to focus on where she was, what she had to do, but she could still see him the way he had been - fun, creative, jovial... alive.  She took a deep breath, then turned to face the patient.

"I did everything I could, Jack.  Everything.  Somehow, he still died."

Jack nodded.  "I know.  I watched you."  He looked away for a moment, then buried his face in his pillow, unleashing a violent cough. 

The nurse moved to the table, reaching for a bottle of quinine.  "I'm sorry, but we're out of codeine.  I used the last of it on Sam."

"Victoria," Jack objected, holding her hand.  "We're getting low on quinine too.  Give it to the General."

"The General's fever isn't as high as yours, Jack.  Hold still."  She tried to pry her hand away, but he clenched his fingers more tightly around her wrist.

"Victoria-"  He stopped, his voice coming out in a wheeze as he turned to cough again.  When the fit had passed, he sat up.  "If you give it to the General, he'll survive."

Victoria shook her head, tugging away.  "If I give it to you, you'll survive.  Jack, I can't do this on my own.  I need you to help me look after them all."

"I might survive.  The General will.  He's not nearly as bad-off as me."

Victoria bit her lip, fighting back the same rush of tears that had been hiding just behind her eyes.  "I should have gotten the order in.  I'm sorry.  I knew we were getting low-"

"You didn't."  His words were hard, but his eyes held a gentleness to them.  "You didn't, Victoria.  It's done, and that doesn't matter.  What matters is that you are right here, right now.  You have a third of a bottle of quinine, a little mercury, some bandages and eight... seven patients.  Three of them are nearly dead already, and this is the most coherent I've been in days-"

"But that's good.  Take the quinine - I can save you."

"No, Victoria, you can't.  The General will pull through, Pete will pull through, and if you have enough left over, you might be able to save Steven."

She looked over at the beds where the rest of her patients were lying.  Three of them, including Pete and Steven, were regular foot soldiers.  Then there was the General.  A small girl they had pulled from the village took up a space, but she was nearly gone.  She'd been starving and nearly dead even before she was injured, and they had all wondered how she had lasted as long as she had.  The sixth was a fellow nurse who had worked herself nearly to death and fallen ill within two days.  And then there was Jack.  He was the doctor, the one who knew more than anyone about how to cure these people, and the one on whom Victoria constantly relied.

She turned back to him and shook her head.  "Jack, I need you alive.  You are what is going to get me through this."

He half-laughed, half-coughed.  "Victoria, what good can I possibly be to you?  I can't even sit up, let alone care for anyone."

"You're the doctor!  Anyways, I can't just let so many people die.  Their lives are in my hands.  I'm completely responsible for them."

"You can't save them all.  Sam is proof of that."

Her eyes hardened as she moved the quinine back toward his face.  "I have to try, Jack.  What am I if I don't give these people everything I have?"

He reached for the bottle, blocking it from touching his lips.  "Victoria, if you try to save them all, you will lose them all."

She froze, the bottle still in her hand.  "You don't know that," she whispered.

"Give them everything you have," he said quietly.  "Give it to the General.  Give it to Pete.  Give it to Steven.  They'll live if given enough care.  The rest won't.  If you don't fully treat those who will live, every last one of them will die."

Her fingers were ice against the bottle as she sat back.  Those horrid tears finally broke through, running over her cheeks and down her chin.  "I can't lose you, Jack."

He smiled, reaching for her hand.  His fingers traced over the knuckles that gripped the bottle of medicine.  "Victoria," he whispered, closing his eyes.  "I'm already gone."