The "Real" Cabin

I've gotten a few questions about the purpose for my little log cabin. Although it would make a nice getaway for a night or two, it is meant to be a storage building to take some of the extra stuff out of the "real" cabin which is right next to it.

We bought this land a few years ago and selected a high vista/plateau for a mountain cabin. Except for what I've been able to rig (like a gravity sink), there is no running water or plumbing. Electric, when we want it, is by generator only.

I designed the structure, drew basic plans, then hired a local builder to construct the outer shell. We then completed the inside ourselves. Here is a picture just after we finished:


And just to give you an idea, here is a picture of the one of the rooms:


We've really enjoyed our time there and the chance to explore the 60-acre surrounding forest.

And speaking of the forest, Jade Blackwater is hosting a Festival of the Trees and is inviting tree-inspired posts. The north side of the property is a ravine of old hemlock forest. I'm sure it was too steep to comfortably log, so a good number of old growth trees remain. Here is an example of one:



Hemlock trees are notoriously slow growing, and in an environment like this, the growth is even slower. A tree such as this one is easily 400+ years old.

I like to simply lay my hand against these old men of the mountain and think about all they've seen, about how many generations back to Native Americans may have stood and been struck by the very same wonder.

It Has Taken a While, But...

Finally! I've fulfilled a promise to myself and completed the roof on my little log cabin this weekend. Thankfully, we had unseasonably warm weather in Pennsylvania, so it was possible to work this late into the year.

I thought I give you a little retrospective on the construction.

First step, go make some logs:


Perfect! Now just...a whole lot to go:


(When I briefly considered going the play pen/prison route:)


Getting ready to start the run from the eaves to the peak:


Roof supports are in place. Ready for the sheathing:


Prepared with roof felt, drip edges, and the starter course of shingles:


And finally, we have a roof:

It's got a bump or two, but considering its nothing but raw logs underneath, I'm satisfied. Next spring will be the door and the chinking (mortar) between the logs. Then, it's really done.

Here is me next to it to give you a sense of size:


Time for a drink.

City of the Dead

Painted by sparkling rays
Silence and river soothed
Beyond the taste of rain
City of the dead



(Laurel Hill Cemetery, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania)

White Rooms, Part 4 (Serial Fiction, Thriller)

(Just joining us? Go back to Part 1)

      MT1023 eased to his feet. The figure in the doorway drifted sideways, not seeing the movement. He too was dressed in white.
      MT1023 crept closer. "Israelis," he hissed.
      The figure flinched.
      "I knew it." MT1023's voice gnawed the words. Spat them.
      MT1023 eyed the space beyond. Only one man to get through. A reasonable chance, even in his condition.
      The other man's face darkened. Either fear or rage. Perhaps both. "Arab," he said.
      MT1023 leapt. He plowed the man into the threshold. The man cracked into the frame and collapsed.
      MT1023 threw his flopping limbs into a wild run. Freedom soared on his face.
      He careened into another narrow white bed. Legs flashed out from under him. He twirled in midair and banged down onto his back. As he slid up to another white wall, a sink hovered over him. Foul stains dripped down the sides.
      MT1023's mouth worked, but no sound came out. The other man pounced.
      He grabbed MT1023's feet and dragged him away from the wall. MT1023 pushed up with his hands, but the stomp of a foot crushed one of them. MT1023 took a kick to the face, and the man flashed toward's MT1023's neck with hands like claws.
      The room was shredded by a hideous scream. It wasn't a human sound. In the middle of the attack, the man curled into a shaking ball.
      MT1023 wiped away pouring blood from his nose. He growled like a dog.
      With the other man still shrieking, MT1023 crawled over and grabbed a fistful of hair. Arms stiffened, ready to smash his head into the floor, but before he could deliver the blow, MT1023's face ballooned scarlet. His legs clamped, and he doubled over.
      Rushing noised croaked from his throat. He was vomiting with nothing in his stomach to vomit.
      A few seconds later, the shrieking stopped, and MT1023's face relaxed. Both men coughed, clutching their privates. MT1023 probed and found the implant they tucked in the folds of his scrotum. Electrical conduction directly to the testicle.
      Neither stirred, but MT1023's eyes were open. He gazed at the feet of the splayed man. A small line of text was tattooed on the center of one sole. MT1023's brow pinched in thought. It read JT1023.

Day 8, 3:24 P.M.

      The two men glared at each other from the two ends of the long bed.
      "What do you think they're doing with us?"
      "You think I know?" JT1023 said.
      MT1023 did not often look him in the eye. "How long have you been here?"
      "I don't know. Days, I think. Lots of days."
      "In this room?"
      "Yes."
      MT1023 looked around. "It's exactly like mine, except this has that sink instead of a toilet."
      And no food. Nothing was hung over the sink.
      JT1023 leaned forward. "You have a toilet?" He looked to the doorway.
      "Don't get excited. I've had to drink from that toilet. You have a sink. You have been able to drink and wash."
      "Do you see that? Look! I've tried to piss in there. And other things. It's too high. And I have nothing to clean with. Nothing but my own clothes, and it's much too cold to get them wet."
      MT1023 stood and walked toward the plumbing. He looked along the wall. "There is writing here."
      "Yes, I've seen it."
      "Do you know what it means?"
      "Some kind of code. MT1023."
      "Does it mean anything to you?"
      "No. Nothing."
      MT1023 returned to the bed. He crossed his left leg over his knee. The sole of his foot pointed away from JT1023. Without drawing the other man's attention, MT1023 stole a glance at the bottom of his left foot. Recognition flickered on his face, then disappeared. There was a tattoo matching the number on the sink, just like the Israeli's tattoo matched the one on his toilet.
      "Have you seen a code like this anywhere else?"
      "No," JT1023 said. "But enough of this. I want to see your room."
      "My room is the same."
      "I want to see it."
      "No. I want to ask you more questions first."
      "I don't care about your questions. For all I know you are part of this. You are here to try to gain my trust. To get me to talk."
      MT1023 smiled an obviously forced smile. "I'm a prisoner like you. Of course, maybe you are the person planted to trick me."
      "I wish I were." JT1023 rubbed his eyes. Time dragged endlessly in the bright light. "I'm going over to the other room now."
      "Maybe we should start with this first. Tell me your name."
      "Don't you already know?"
      "How could I know? I told you. I'm a prisoner like you."
      JT1023 smirked. "Chaim," he said.
      The air punched out of JT1023 before the name stopped vibrating on his lips.
      Another blast from the implant. MT1023 caught him before the convulsion pitched him to the floor.
      "Stop it! Stop it!" MT1023 yelled.
      JT1023's jaw muscles bunched, rock hard.
      "Stop it! What did he do?"
      MT1023's hands moved along the other man's body. Helpless. He shook his head. grabbed fistfuls of the man's shirt.
      Then, MT1023's face shot toward the ceiling.
      "His name! His name! His name is JT1023!"
      Like a switch thrown off, the man in his arms deflated. His face dropped into the cradle of MT1023's bent arm.
      MT1023 held him while he wept.

On to Part 5.
Go back to Part 3.

Archangel

The weight of the world
Delicate in his hand
Seeing into hearts
Before they feel

Safe from his fury
Storming around you
Wings are curling
The late summer light

Michael the Protector
Archangel
Standing first
Does he feel alone?

(Picture: Detail from an obelisk, Laurel Hill Cemetery, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania)

White Rooms, Part 3 (Serial Fiction, Thriller)

(Just joining us? Go back to Part 1)

      Filters stripped the air, and the oxygen level dropped further. Nothing MT1023 could feel or smell. His hands picked at his pants, and cold sweat beaded on his skin. Anxiety was building, building, as anoxia clawed his brain.
      Not knowing why he panted, he flashed his unfocused eyes from side to side. Panic folded in his face.
      Dropping more. Red line.
      He stood, lost the support of one of his legs, then fell back. His mouth gaped, and his pupils rolled.
      When his head drooped, then settled on his chest, a seam opened in the wall, and four men rushed into to the room. Their black clothes swam in the sea of light. Another syringe sank into MT1023's neck, then each grabbed an arm or leg and swept the limp body away.

Day 6, 1:17 A.M

      MT1023 squeezed his head in his hands and massaged his temples. He groaned, mumbled something the microphones didn't capture, then dropped a leg on either side of the bed. He heaved himself up.
      It was the first deep sleep since he was taken, but the drugs would leave his body punched and chewed.
      He looked down. Fingers traced along the edges of the bed. He repositioned his bottom.
      Feet came up out of the cold and crossed under him. He rocked back and forth to test the stability. He seemed to distrust his perception. He couldn't know precisely, but the bed was three inches wider.
      MT1023 tilted his head. Behind him, a thin stream of water trickled. The tinkling sound tiptoed around the room. He finally heard it.
      His pants squeaked against vinyl as he turned. His jaw swung open.
      Bolted to the wall, the oval of a toilet hovered like angelic, cupped hands. MT1023 scrambled over and knelt, almost worshiping it. He caressed the mirrored chrome of the flush handle.
      The water cascaded down the inner sides and rippled surface. He licked his lips. Although they hydrated him intravenously when he was unconscious, nothing touched his cracking throat.
      He looked over to the corner where he urinated days ago. The frozen yellow pool, and the remains of when he defecated, were gone.
      MT1023 plunged his hands into the bowl and scooped. Streams fell between his fingers and splashed onto his legs. He sucked in the puddle in his palms, then dove for more. He inhaled instead of drank, and he doubled over in a storm of coughing.
      When his lungs finally cleared, he threw his head back and let it rest on his shoulders. His eyes blinked upward. Exhausted.
      His gaze tipped down and focused. Something else was different. High over the toilet, higher than any normal ceiling would be, a mesh bag of fruit dangled on a peg.
      He climbed up and onto the rim of the bowl. It was wet from his thrashing, and his foot slipped and plunged to the bottom. Water sloshed out onto the floor.
      He winced, but kept his balance. He pulled up for a second try.
      Hiked up onto his toes, he stretched until his arms shook. He needed at least five more feet before he could snag the bottom of the sack.
      His face flashed scarlet, and he slapped the wall. His shoulders heaved with deep breaths.
      He looked up as if to gauge the distance and jump, but the tension drained from his muscles a few seconds later. He climbed down and sat on the edge of the seat.
      That's when he first noticed the writing. He touched the letters scratched along the back of the toilet.
      It read, JT1023.

Day 8, 2:03 P.M.

      MT1023 laid on his stomach. His elbows propped his hand-stretched face. The fruit hung overhead untouched. Some of the bright colors had browned.
      He stood and paced. He scrubbed his fist in his hair with blood crusted fingers. Hours ago he wrenched the bed from every angle and tried to rip it from the floor. Then, he knotted his pants and tried to whip the bag off the peg. His shins were covered with purple welts from when a desperate jump from the toilet went wrong. He pounded down in a jumble and speared his gut on the plumbing. He couldn't draw a normal breath for twenty minutes.
      He glared at the bananas and pears. Especially the bananas.
      "You think I'm a fucking ape?" he screamed. "See if the ape can reach the bananas?"
      He flailed at the air. Enraged.
      "Fuck you! You hear that? FUCK YOU!"
      He dropped onto the cushion and scraped his feet off the frigid floor. He rocked and rocked, with his head pressed into his knees.
      Then, a noise across the room froze him. A clang and a rolling heaviness. A rectangular shadow appeared in the far wall.
      An inner surface sank in, then slid out of view. When the sound stopped, an opening yawned in the silence.
      MT1023 didn't move. Sensors registered a spike in his heat signature. In his hands. Under his arms. In his crotch.
      Then, a figure appeared in the doorway. MT1023's eyes widened.

On to Part 4
Go back to Part 2

Sarah Sleeps

I had never seen anything quite like it--a temple, an ornate colonade sheltering a sleeping lamb (beautifully preserved). My first thought was of a wealthy child.

But then, I saw the inscription. I was wrong. It was the grave of a young wife.

That's when monument changed for me. Here was her youth and beauty. The afternoon sun in her hair.

Inscription:
A Tribute
To the Memory of
SARAH ANN
The Lamented Wife of
George L. Harrison
Who "Fell Asleep"
Sunday, May 12, 1850
Aged 33 Years

I wonder how many times he stood on the very same ground and watched the light kneel down for her.

(Laurel Hill Cemetery, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania)

White Rooms, Part 2 (Serial Fiction, Thriller)

(Just joining us? Go back to Part 1)

The Facility
Day 2, 3:41 P.M.

      MT1023 twitched, the first movement he showed in thirty six hours.
      Inside the featureless room, scores of full spectrum lights were concealed behind translucent panels. They blazed, and the darkness vaporized.
      Groggy, he raised an elbow to his face to protect his eyes. The movement tipped him over the edge. He smacked the floor.
      His syrupy reaction to the pain was delayed.
      "Owww!"
      His palms slid outward along the floor, hard and slippery smooth. He pushed himself up, neck wavering with the weight of his head.
      Squinting, he tried to process what he saw. Brilliant white in all directions. Just on the threshold of pain. As he blinked, drool glistened in the stubble on his chin.
      He reached out and touched what he fell from. It was a long padded board, perhaps a bed, but not quite wide enough to fit his body.
      He frowned. No recognition.
      The floor pulled at his attention, and he looked down. The surface was horribly cold, and a current of frigid air flowed over it. The hairs on his wrists fluttered. It wrung the heat out of his fingers.
      He snatched up his hands. Amazing how quickly the searing pain built.
      "Hello?" he said.
      The size of the room was difficult to judge. Light washed every surface evenly and left no shadows, color, or texture. He searched for the usual cues. Doors, windows, seams. Anything to orient him. But the room was a perfect, smooth white.
      He rubbed his thighs. Pants wouldn't hold back the cold.
      "Is anyone there?"
      He rolled himself upward on stiff legs, then dropped crosswise onto the strange, narrow bed.
      His feet still touched the icy floor. He tried to cross them, sit on them, but nothing worked.
      He turned lengthwise into the white cushions and hugged his knees to keep himself sitting. His gaze probed the room. It never stopped. But it was so hard to see. The light flowed from everywhere, and it couldn't be blocked.
      The number of minutes he sat was noted. Also, the number of times he rubbed the bend in his back.
      When he finally laid down and balanced himself on the bed, the time was noted, and the light got brighter.

Day 3, 12:21 A.M.

      One monitor zoomed on MT1023's eyelids and another on his chest. They recorded evidence of conscious intervention. He was not asleep.
      A sound gurgled in his throat.
      "I'm hungry," he whispered.
      The light grew brighter.
      MT1023 licked his lips. The thick mucous wouldn't spread.
      Under him, imperceptible movement tilted in the bed. He didn't appear to feel it.
      So slow. One micron at a time. Tilting. Tilting.
      "Thirsty," he said, lost in some daydream.
      The tiny changes were designed to swim through his equilibrium.
      Tilting.
      Without knowing why, over he went. He flailed and slapped into floor. First elbows, then forearms, then the vulnerable peaks of his knees. Tender bruises already oozed blood under his skin. They didn't need to be hit again.
      He curled in pain.

Day 4, 4:12 P.M.

      A low sweep of sweat hung under MT1023's shirt. "You can't hold me," he said to the wall. "I didn't do anything wrong."
      His voice sounded calm, but his eyes ticked in chaotic movements.
      "I have rights! I want to call my lawyer!"
      But the room swallowed any sound.
      He touched the wall. Traced over it. The temperature was kept warm, indistinguishable from his heat of his own skin.

5:20 P.M.

      "You! Can't! Hold! Me!"
      He punched each syllable into the wall.

5:26 P.M.

      MT1023 stared at an imaginary point on the ceiling, or at least where he assumed the ceiling to be.

5:29 P.M.

      "Who are you?" he said, pulling at his hair. Tufts like little grey ghosts moved in the chill along the floor. He watched them wander for a while. Mesmerized.
      His voice shrank to a sob. His fingers dug into his face and shook.
      Then, his arms flew down. Split flung from his lips, and the air howled from his lung in a throat-tearing scream.
      "SOMEONE ANSWER ME!"

On to Part 3

Long Shadows

The motion rolled under them like towers of water in a landless sea. It was huge and limitless. An Earth rhythm. It tore away from the tides of the moon.

A furnace of kisses merged and melted, and molten rivers surged. The dying wisps of their separateness clung above the rising fire.

Their desperation clawed, bending the two orbits, until finally, a celestial collision consumed them. The screaming heavens twisted their bodies out of existence, and gravity released them into the brilliance of creation.

And for a few moments, there they floated. In the stillness, their breaths walked together in the dark.

Then, one of them slowed. It didn't matter which. The strides became different and distinct. He felt her breasts swelling against his chest, and the weight of him threaten to cage her.

They slid apart, still touching, still trying to hold the connection, but a curtain of cold winter air reminded them they were small.

He perched over her on one elbow and smiled. She smiled in return, but it was small and fleeting.

As her salvation bled away, all she could think about was how one day he would fall beyond her reach and she would pin contentment around her body like a shroud. One day the sun would set, and from that moment onward, only the weight of his shadow would lie over her.

(Picture: Laurel Hill Cemetery, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania)

White Rooms, Part 1 (Serial Fiction, Thriller)

(It's been quite a while since I've done a serial short story, so I thought I'd try my hand at a thriller. We'll see how it goes. Also, as a quick update on the podcasting front, I am nailing down some equipment issues, and shoulld be ready to forge ahead soon. I'll be contacting the brave volunteers shortly! Any others?)

"White Rooms"
by Jason Evans


Modern Day Philadelphia
Tuesday, 5:57 P.M.

      The rumble of a departing train shook the platform and pulled swirling air down the tunnel. A man, designated MT1023, sat staring at his hands. The thump of the wheels traveled the metal legs of the bench and quivered in the corners of his newspaper.
      A mother with hair falling from barrettes settled next to him on the bench. Her pretty face was flushed, but she managed to smile at her little boy. She arranged her shopping bags around her feet while the child hopped. MT1023 scowled.
      The child looked young. Maybe four. He seemed sweet, with shining blue eyes and curly blond hair. He looked up at MT1023's peat-colored skin and wiry black hair. His mother showed no open signs, but her leg hovered at the edge of the bench. Not an inch closer to MT1023 than necessary.
      Sad. Very sad.
      MT1023's eyes flicked to the child. Disgust shivered in his face, as if he lusted to obliterate everything the child represented.
      The train snaked around a bend, and the air settled. In four more minutes, MT1023 would be departing. He looked up. His eyes darted around. As if he sensed he were being watched.

Tuesday, 6:48 P.M.

      A yellow car coasted down the road, then slowed. It turned into a driveway flanked by barberry bushes. Brake lights splashed on the driveway as the automatic garage door rose. MT1023 pulled his car into the shadows. The backing lights flicked, then the door started down.
      Rectangular light from the kitchen window stretched deep into the backyard. In the view of a pair of binoculars, MT1023 appeared in the doorway. His wife smiled, but continued her march around the kitchen. A steaming plate was set at his chair, and he sat. He did not smile. He forked the food without raising his head.
      Later, electric blue flickered on the curtains. His wife tuned the television to the usual programs, while his internet connection skipped among Middle Eastern servers. Rivers of graceful script pulsed back and forth like a heartbeat. Then, the lights flicked off and reemerged upstairs. For a time, the internet connection remained.

Wednesday, 3:12 A.M.

      The houses were silent. A few spotlights chipped away the night, but no one was awake to see.
      Feet scratched across the shingles. MT1023's window fogged with a billow of breath. The strides on the roof stopped. A sound grated against the glass.
      A car eased up the road and backed into the driveway. Four figures swept into MT1023's cut window and surrounded his lonely bed. Still outside, the fifth signalled the car and watched.
      MT1023's eyes shot open. They cut the scream before he could inhale. With blinding white pain, his arms were twisted behind his back. The force of it rolled him. Loop after loop of duct tape squeezed him. The fist in his hair let go, and he smacked into the pillow.
      A blow socked into his kidneys. He convulsed.
      As his back arched and muscles shook, the zipper of a body bag sizzled in the quiet. They picked him up and slid him in. Before resealing it, a syringe emptied into MT1023's neck.
      The bag struggled as it was lowered to the trunk of the waiting car. By the time the lid latched and the car crept off, the motion drained away.

The Old Ways

Sometimes I think about how modern technology makes us more powerful than we really are. Machines allow us to perform almost unimaginable tasks. Machines eliminate the consequences of mistakes. Machines make things easy.

Yet, in reality, we remain no more than we ever were. Along the way, we forgot how to stand alone.

What was it like to face a forest and know you must build a home with your own hands? What was it like to find your own water and food? I wanted to feel those things. So I started to learn.

(Current state of construction.)

Building a log cabin: well, the first thing you feel is how small and limited you are. Even a modest sized tree (around 6 inch diameter) stores more than enough energy to crush you to into oblivion. A green log 12 feet long is HEAVY. You learn what your body can do. Then, the power of simple tools. Finally, you learn how essential it is to plan ahead.

It's been a great experience. Even with the grueling work.

And this weekend it's finally time to do the roof!