Editing is deleting with extra steps

It has been a fun-filled week of writing, which is writer speak for “an absolutely brutal week filled with psychological torment that manifests itself into physical paralysis and episodes of psychosis.” But I have made progress.

My initial runtime goal for episode 5 was 20 minutes. I have a recent draft that lasted 28 pages. The first 8 pages involved my main character having a flashback, a meeting with his brother, and online research. The following 20 pages all belonged to a single scene in a single setting (albeit, one that transforms as the story progresses).

I find it is much more fun to work with too much rather than too little. You get to comb through events, conversations, and pivotal moments and rank them from greatest to needless. And from there you get to cherry pick the parts that you like and annihilate the rest. So that’s what I’m doing now.

I would like to reduce the runtime to approximately 15 minutes. The more I can condense the story, the better. I have already erased 2 characters in order to increase my budget for other resources. But beyond that I have to deal with the knowledge that I’ll be filming each scene. If I can ensure that a cast of 5 or 6 actors will have all of their lines completed in 1 day at the location I rent I will further increase my budget allotment. But budget aside, there are more important reasons for condensing the script.

I imagine the ratio of excitement from author to viewer is somewhere close to 5:1. Unless you can feel strong emotion as you are reading your work, the viewer will not. A prime example of this experience was my first time reading the screenplay for “The Prestige.” As each line progressed and the story unfolded I could literally feel the suspense tightening its hold on me. My initial goal was to highlight areas that demonstrated plot devices and I wound up so enamored by the story that I could not help but race to finish it. That should be your goal as a writer – to produce a work so compelling that the reader is unable to analyze it because it is affecting them on a psychological level.

A little bit about plot devices – there are surefire ways you can make any story more appealing. Introducing a “ticking time bomb,” or limited amount of time for actions to be completed, adds an element of urgency. Elevating the stakes – or the amount a character will lose should they fail in their quest – will add a great deal as well. Tension occurs when sources of conflict have opposing desires but are forced to intertwine and duel it out because of the circumstances.

My favorite way to add intrigue to any story is what I’d like to call “the decision.” I desperately want to use this frequently in episode 5 because I feel that I have yet to use it effectively in a short film.

Let’s pretend your story is about a grown man searching for his missing dog. He runs into an individual, named Bob, who claims he’s keeping the dog safe in his home. From here we have an infinite list of options for what can happen, but lets limit them to the probable ideas that a writer would consider:

• Bob tells our hero that he’s happy he arrived and can find his dog inside.
• Bob informs our hero that he will have to pay $500 to get his dog back
• Bob informs our hero that the dog was dangerous and had to be put down
• Bob informs our hero that unless he can prove ownership, the dog is now his
• Bob informs our hero that his blind daughter finally has a friend, and he will be sad to see her lose him.

Each option besides the first one increases the amount of conflict. The options for our hero to pay $500 or prove ownership provide obstacles to overcome. The information that the dog has been put down works mostly as an inciting incident that will provoke reactionary action from our hero.

But the most intriguing option is to learn that Bob’s blind daughter has become best & only friends with our hero’s dog. Though the other options provide for avenue toward plot, this is the only option that truly forces Bob into a character arc, change, and reveal. How he handles the situation fascinates us because it is a difficult moral question. We wonder what we would do in his shoes, and that causes us to empathize more with the hero and learn from his decision – and judge him by it.

When the neighbor requests $500 for the dog’s return, everything is in black and white. If our hero pays up he’s a pussy (sorry, but give me a break). If our hero deceives Bob he is sly. If he overcomes Bob with force he is a tough guy. But each of the options is simple – the neighbor is wrong for the request, and Bob is right for trying to get his dog back. These different options will also define varying genres. Ultimately, I do feel drama is the most compelling form of writing. Just because you’re writing science fiction doesn’t mean your viewers will not “lean in” when they come across a true moral conundrum.

I am looking at points in the story where I can introduce moral dilemmas. In my previous works I have often zoned in on escalating conflict. Escalating conflict is a powerful tool to build toward a rewarding climax. I often find, however, many works of suspense are ruined by the lack of pacing shift. Finding areas of your story to provide comfort and emotional entrapment to your viewer will help the escalation in tension pay off ten times more. We have to genuinely care about someone in order for their death to affect us.

I’m going to get some rest now, but when I wake up I’m determined to complete a clean draft of my script in order to begin receiving feedback on it. I am disappointed in how much time it has taken me. Nevertheless, I am excited to shape something into a meaningful evolution rather than crumple it into another mindless pile of garbage.

Suspense & Drama

My father, deep in thought.

Just finished my 4th 12-hour day in a row at work, and tonight will be my last (until next week). I am happy to say I’ve found time when I’m off duty to edit and improve the script – though there is work to be done. If I have a readable version done by tomorrow I can get some eyes on it and take steps toward production.

The show primarily falls into the suspense category. It is about a man chasing down a mysterious group in order to find his wife. It revolves around the questions:

1.) What happened to her?

2.) What is the cult about?

3.) Is the main character losing his grip on reality?

Because it falls within the genre of suspense, the main emotions I want to evoke from the viewer are: Uncertainty, urgency, psychological danger, and thirst for more information. Each episode varies to some extent in which subgenre it may fall under, whether it is action, thriller, or mystery.

I talk often on here about my desire to infuse more emotional chaos in the scenes that I write. Much like a partner with bipolar disorder, the more emotional variety that occurs within a scene the more your viewer/reader will find themselves invested in the events – ESPECIALLY if they a) relate to the main character and b) that character is the one experiencing the roller coaster of feelings.

Some of the trouble I’m currently having with the script are due to my inability to unify these two objectives. I have a scene written that starts as a therapy session and transforms into something more dangerous and bizarre. Initially the man leading the session, Dr. Howard, was warm, welcoming, and prideful. The meeting felt like a relaxed meet-and-greet where my main character (Ryan) sits and listens to each speaker as he tries to narrow down his primary suspect.

As I reread the story I realized the stakes were way too low, the urgency non-existent, and the threat of imminent danger about as worrisome as a breakfast taco from the local gas station.

So I began approaching the therapy session from a new perspective. I added a timer mechanism by including a spinning wheel that selects the next speaker. I incorporated unanimous suspicion that Ryan was not the person he was pretending to be. I provided threats that he would not leave if he were lying about his identity. And I included a mysterious punishment involving the placement of closed boxes in front of him for every wrong response. The same small boxes cause another group member a hysterical freak out.

I am happy with these changes. They are here to stay because I can already feel scene’s importance and tension being elevated.

But here’s my predicament – how do I include chaos of emotion while still using these plot toys to raise the stakes? The more I elevate the stakes, the greater the suspense (which is the point). However, the greater the suspense, the less room there is for my character to experience joy, sadness, love, excitement, and empathy within the confines of the scene.

I currently think my solution to this problem will be to have Ryan swiftly moving in and out of unease. I can do this by developing Dr. Howard into an untrusted, and unpredictable group leader. Instead of having him threaten Ryan directly, his threat may be interpreted as passive aggresive suggestions or perhaps the (overly used and permanently cliche) false sarcasm. I could also split Dr. Howard into 2 separate characters so that there is a kind side and a wrathful one.

I desperately want this scene to feel vibrant with emotion while still satisfying the anticipated experience of a suspense/mystery story. At least it must start off that way in order for the transition to a more intense environment to have a fulfilling pay off.

These are just my current thoughts and speculation. Tomorrow I will have a full day to write with privacy. After I get some rest this morning I will write and edit today as well.

Hope everything is going well and you enjoy pursuing your passion this fine weekend.

Writing A Lot Without Writing 1 Word

So everyday I fill up 2 bird feeders with Finch food. Now the tree outside looks like it grows them. If you look closely, you may notice they have become plus sized.

My return to writing so far has included circle walking, 30 minute jogs, and aimless movie watching. I have asked 2 actors to return to episode 5 and they have both agreed. I may contact others but it will depend on the script. Currently I plan on finding 3-4 new actors to play new characters. I would like to shoot in March.

Time and time again I have sat down with intention to write the script and wound up hurling vomit all over the page. Dialogue that is meaningless. Action that is purposeless. Tension that is weaker than a routine argument escalating by way of a rise in speaking volume. All the signs and symptoms of a shit story that nobody asked for.

So I opened some writing books today. Reread material that I’ve already digested. No matter what profession we find ourselves in there is always room to learn. As humans we fall prey to habits and oversimplification. We think we know everything when in reality we only apply the 10% of information we need to “get the job done.”

My problem: How do I tell 2 stories simultaneously in a setting where the characters sit around and talk about their feelings?

It sounds boring because it is. I knew I wanted my lead character to attend a group therapy session in a quest for information. I knew this group would block his path and interrogate him in 21st century fashion (like an internet opinion that is bombarded by the most hateful, blood-sucking internet personalities you’ve ever attempted to share a thought with). I had the feeling I wanted, and the general idea, but I didn’t have a plot, a purpose, or a story.

Today I set out to change that. I was determined to write the script from start to finish. I am willing to accept imperfection or even dog-shit-wrapped-in-plastic if it means production over stagnation. Well, I did not write the script. Not one word. I did something much better: I found the answer to my problem.

A riddle.

Ryan will find a note, a letter, or a business card that alludes to Melanie having had an affair with intention to go on a hike with some mysterious suitor. This gives Ryan the impetus to find out more information about who the culprit is and how involved they were with his missing wife. The clue will narrow down the results to only those present in the bi-weekly group therapy session.

In order to escalate the tension, the group must be equally determined to stop him. I can have Ryan’s initial attempts to interrogate group members explode in his face. Maybe the group is forced to relocate and bans the anonymous account he created when he started slandering the group online (or interrogating them).

It is only the beginning of the story, but I finally have my golden seed from which all the branches of my story shall sprout. I have accepted that a strong story must be built with a reliable foundation despite my eagerness to have a working draft. It’s one thing to put words on the page, it’s quite another to have those words accelerate emotional momentum towards an electric boom.

I will continue to try and post regularly but I must choose what I do with my free time wisely. I hope the day finds you well as we each attempt to solve the riddles in our own lives without getting banned for our anonymously pondered thoughts.

And yes, “A Lot” is two words, not one.

Master – 7.2

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Master strolls over to his desk, then searches through the various drawers. “I need you to kill the man staying in room 203 at the Sheraton tonight. Sleep in his bed and wait for further instruction.”

“What are you doing?”

“I’m looking for…” He says, more absorbed by his search than our conversation. “Ah, here it is.” Master returns into view with his hand wrapped around the handle of a spoon. He holds the rounded tip up to his nose, then sniffs it.            “What?”

Master makes his way over to me, stops, then stares plainly into my eyes.

“What?” I say.

He places his thumbs on my temples. “I don’t think you’re half as handsome as she thinks.”

“As who thinks? What are you doing?”

Master stabs the blunt end of the spoon into my chest.

“Ah!” I scream.

He grinds it in until the pressure is enough to break through my skin and tear into my muscle. I rock my head back and scream. Master carves out a portion of my flesh, then digs in again. And again. The pain is real – I feel Master scrape out my chest, piece by piece, with the round tip of the silverware. He plucks out one chuck of flesh after another.

The pain from his endless digging only intensifies as more time passes. My eyes roll back in my head, and I shout in terror. So much blood splashes off my tongue I’m forced to shut my mouth to save my nose from the stench of it.

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• Thomas M. Watt

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Master – 7.1

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CHAPTER 7

It’s raining this time. I can tell through the window. Down below I see the same trees and cars as last time. Sitting in the couch opposite my own is Master. My first instinct is to stand and charge him, then beat his ass to a pulp. But I can’t move any body part lower than my jaw – this dream belongs to Master. He scribbles in his notepad.

“Ever had your heart broken, Mr. Gordon?”

“Where are they?”

“Some say the emotional wrench of lost love far surpasses any harm that can be inflicted physically.”

“You have them, don’t you?”

Master stops writing. He folds his hands and sets his heel over his opposite knee. “Your wife and daughter have been kidnapped. They will be returned, alive and well, as long as you observe my instructions.”

“What are you? Who are you?”

“We discussed this already. I am Master.” He sets the notepad aside, then adjusts the square box glasses sitting over his nose. “Our meetings will take place in your subconscious, though the threats and demands I will make pertain to the real world. Your wife and child are mine, I told you this during our previous session together.” He rubs the tip of his index finger against his temple. “Tell me, Phillip, how would you react if the love of your life left you for another man?”

My teeth clench shut.

“Well?”

I breathe through my nostrils. “Return. My. Family.”

Master sighs, then traces his finger along his chin. “You are important to me, you know. If I am Morpheus, you are Neo.”

“You touch Loretta, I’ll end you.”

“Loretta and Avery will be returned to you, unharmed and intact, so long as you comply.”

“Lay a finger on either of them I’ll slit your god-damned throat.”

I breathe. I stare.

Master rises from his seat, then strolls around the room. His wrist swoops up imaginary snow as he talks.

“I don’t think you’re capable of saving your family, Phillip. That’s just me being honest, man to man. You might be big and strong, but underneath all that meat you’re nothing but a coward.”

My head rattles in place. He stands still and faces me.

“I’m inside of your mind, and all that surrounds us are your countless fears, troubles, and anxieties. You do not think you can save your family, not even for a moment. You plan to try, yes, but you don’t plan on succeeding. Oh, no, no, no. And it’s not the first time, either.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Football, Phillip. You quit. For so long you persevered, for so long you improved. But at some point along the journey, a realization occurred to you – you’re just not good enough, and never will be. The thought of failure doesn’t bother you; not in the slightest. You’re happy to walk around town as the loser you are. You hate success because it doesn’t match your personality. Failure, yes, that’s your comfort zone. And after your family is killed, and everybody is telling you how sorry they feel, you’ll be ecstatic deep down, your little secret between you and yourself – you lost; the side on which your personal preference resides during competition. You’ll be relieved to no longer concern yourself with providing financially for other humans beings. Gleeful that Loretta didn’t live long enough to leave you – and yes, she would have anyway. A woman like that deserves better than a failure like you.”

Master grins, then continues. “Loretta will be murdered before she can divorce you. Remind you of anything?”

I don’t respond.

“You quit before you had a chance to enter the NFL and become the wasted draft pick you knew you were bound to become. Just as comfortable as you are with that decision, so shall you one day be with the death of your family – with your inability to save them in time.”

He clicks his teeth together so I can hear them, half a dozen times, then speaks.

“I don’t understand why you failed to properly warn Loretta about our last therapy session. I told you I was going to abduct her.” He balls his hand into a fist, advances forward, then knocks his knuckles against the side of my head. “You could have prevented all of this, you know.” Master returns to his seat, crosses his legs, and taps his fingers on his kneecap. “Sheep would sooner follow the herd off the cliff then risk communal castration by reversing their direction.”

“I don’t care what anybody else thinks.”

“Of course not, you’re a loser. That’s what losers do; they accept their inability to contribute to the rest of mankind. You’re dead weight, lying down and covering your ears is what you do best. Allow others to step all over you, allow others to take the little you have. You don’t care, after all you’re content with just being ignored. You don’t care what others think because you know what they think: You’re an embarrassment – your entire town is ashamed of you. You, more than anybody, should have escaped this dung-ho community and made millions of dollars with all the fame and fortune a celebrated life entails.” Master breathes a laugh. “Pathetic. A miserable wash-up. Why did I pick you?”

“Why did you pick me?”

“Oh, oh-oh oh.” Master points his index finger at me, then stands again. “Now you’re asking the right question.”

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• Thomas M. Watt

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Master – 6.1

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Ch. 2

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CHAPTER 6

My left hand chokes the steering wheel while my right sticks to my phone. I flip it open, push ‘send’ for Loretta, then wait. Voicemail. I ring again. I speed along the roadway. I’m not far from home, and I’ll see that white van coming a mile away.

“God, protect my family. God almighty, for the love of God protect my family.”

I don’t breathe. I’m locked on the road. I enter my neighborhood doing 50 plus. When I see him, it’s too late. Charlie – wearing the red-shirt, playing with chalk.

Now he’s drawing in middle of my street.

I press the brake pedal down, but I’m way too late. I rip back the parking brake – fumes from burnt rubber swarm my pick-up. I’ve veered right, straight for my neighbor’s oak tree. Charlie flees blind – and heads the same direction.

“No!”

I punch my horn and hold it down.

He watches me barrel toward him like a dumbfounded deer.

I crash.

Airbag deploys. Everything’s hazy. Blood and glass are everywhere.

Oak tree splits the front end of my truck. I wobble outside, then search my surroundings.

“Charlie? Charlie, are you okay?”

I’m dizzy; my brain is still bouncing. I don’t see his body anywhere. Then I hear crying. I turn to see –

“Oh my God.”

Hand to my chest. The kid dove into some bushes. If it weren’t for the tree, my Dodge pick-up would have obliterated him. He’s got a few twigs and thorns in his arms, but that’s it.

Charlie screams and goes running inside. I don’t blame him.

Tires screech. I turn around – the white van. It just turned onto my street. I see one roided-out driver, but his comrade from the passenger seat is gone.

“Loretta!” I scream. I pump my arms and race home. “Loretta!”

I reach my driveway. The van skids behind me and stops with a loud ‘bang’ against my garage door. I fly up the front porch and turn the door handle.

“Loret-”

Shotgun clicks from the monster holding it the second I shove the door open. He smiles, then stabs my neck with a syringe. A shooting pain enters my neck as I crumble to the floor. The injection comes from the man I saw in the passenger seat of the van – one with the cleft lip. He’s been standing here, waiting for me.

I’m too late.

I slip out of consciousness.

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• Thomas M. Watt

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Master – 5.3

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“What kind of pansy-ass…”

It goes against everything I know about conduct with police officers, but I step out of my Dodge pick-up and walk over to the officer. He’s now sobbing uncontrollably.

“Easy.” I continue to creep carefully. “Hands up, don’t shoot!” I say with a laugh, hoping to get a rise out from him. He doesn’t even react.

I’m within feet of him now. His chin is in his chest as he looks downward at his gun. He’s shaking it erratically in his lap.

“Why don’t you put that gun back in its holster, Officer?”

“No, no. Everything is not alright!” He waves the gun as he screams.

I take a step back. I swear if he were any person besides a police officer, I’d grab that gun away from him.

“I can’t do this anymore, Phillip.” He says, then turns away.

My brain starts to spin, but then I realize he has my driver’s license. “Hey, relax, it’s okay.”

“No, it’s not. You won’t let me sleep, so what’s the point?”

“What?”

He points the gun at me. I dodge the shot by smacking his wrist with my forearm. I drop back a step then go sprinting toward a front lawn. Another gunshot rings out and I dive. I lie on my stomach with my hands on my head.

“Ahhh!”

I open my eyes and look up. The scream came from a little girl – she points at something behind me.

I whirl around.

“Jesus,” I say.

The police officer blew his own head off. Chunks of brain litter the pavement behind his bike, along with a fresh red pond.

Neighbors exit their homes. I have no idea what’s going on, but they won’t stop asking me. Then someone realizes there’s an officer down, and I’m the guy he pulled over.

“Stay there!” yells a middle-aged woman. She points a plunger at me.

“I can’t,” I mumble. “I didn’t, I don’t know what-”

A familiar ring – my cell phone, sitting in my driver’s seat. Loretta’s calling! I stand, sprint over, fling my dented door open, and rush to answer.

“Loretta!”

“Help.”

Call ended.

CLICK HERE FOR 6.1!

• Thomas M. Watt

 

Master – 5.2

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Ch. 2

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Ch. 5

Something’s wrong. I feel it in my gut. I reach out to my phone to text Loretta, but stop when I notice the motorcycle cop in my driver-side mirror.

“Dammit.”

I’d flip a U-turn right here, but it’s a double yellow. I decide to turn into a neighborhood street on my right and lose the tail. He follows me. Three turns later, he’s still on my ass.

“You win,” I say, then sigh.

I pull over, turn the engine off, and dial my wife. It rings, and rings, and rings.

“C’mon.”

Loretta picks up.

“What’s up, baby?”

“I know how bizarre this sounds, but I want you to take Avery and go to your mother’s house for the day.”

“Are you serious? You’re really starting to scare me baby!”

I pull the phone from my face and think to myself. Then I see the cop again – drive by on the road ahead. He stops the bike, whips out a pair of binoculars, then stares at me.

“What the hell…” I mutter.

“Talk to me, baby! Tell me what’s going on! You’ve been acting really strange lately.”

I return the phone to my ear. “Nothing… Just do it for me, ok?”

“Hold on.”

“What’s up?”

“Someone’s at the door. Is the pipe-guy coming today?”

“Babe, I want you to get out of there!”

A loud BOOM. Phone call ends. I dial again. The phone rings, and rings, and rings. Nobody picks up.

I start the truck, turn around and accelerate. A police siren sounds off behind me; I’m being pulled over.

“Dammit!” I pull the car over, then slam my hands against the steering wheel.

I don’t know what I’m being pulled over for, and have no idea why this cop has it out for me. He takes his time parking his bike, and walks slow as hell over to me. I grab my license and registration, roll my window down, and smack my documents against the outside of my door as he takes his sweet-ass time strolling over to me.

“Write me up, I need to get home.”

I toss the documents at the officer.

Rather than mouth a word of protest, rather than so much as bother with a rebuttal, the officer merely nods, and picks the documents up after he fumbles them. He’s nervous; sweating even. Guy looks like he’s ready to cry.

“You alright?” I ask.

He nods. “Huh? Oh, yeah.”

I’m angry and frustrated – yet I can’t help but worry for this officer. Why is he acting like this? Are criminals more courteous these days?

The cop travels back to his bike like he lost a war.

I scoff, then try Loretta again – no answer. I text her.

U ok?

I wait. Two minutes, but it feels like twenty.

Yes 🙂   

I’m not exactly at ease – Loretta says smiley face text messages are for pedophiles. I call her again – still no answer. Another three calls, then I text her.

“Everything alright??”

I wait another four minutes. No response this time. I squint and check out my rearview mirror. The officer is crying and staring at his gun.

CLICK HERE FOR 5.3!

• Thomas M. Watt

Master – 5.1

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Ch. 2

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CHAPTER 5

I turn the key, start the engine, and drive off.

Charlie notices me from the driveway he’s marking up with chalk. His red shirt is halfway up his back and he doesn’t even know it. I give my horn a light honk. He shouts and waves with the chalk he’s holding, then returns to drawing some elephant-dinosaur hybrid. I feel obligated to warn him about how dangerous it is to draw so close to the pavement, but neighbors don’t always appreciate well intended advice – especially when it comes to their kids.

I grab my expos cap from the passenger street and screw it on my head as I exit my neighborhood and start along the main road.

A few repairs to do today, but mostly standard cleaning. Fortunately, most clients won’t be home. I like people; just not the way they look at me when I clean their pools.

I turn on the radio hoping to hear some jams. Instead, I get the stupid AM morning shows that nobody wants to hear. I switch to this popular jackass on FM – he calls himself ‘McWatty9’, and even though I listen to him I swear I can’t stand him. The guy reads the news off like he’s doing standup. Something he says catches my attention. I turn it up.

That’s right, folks the suspect with the penis-hairdo cops hunted like nymphos for has… finally-been-nabbed! Documentation confirms he’s the alleged bomb plotter whose made strange, mange, and deranged purchases up and down the county area. This dickhead won’t stop yammering to authorities either, but he… won’t give us a hint about what he’s done with all his bomb materials! Assuring us he’s not insane, the phallic-tipped bandit claims a man from his DREAMS made him do it!

           

My heart pounds. I pull over to the side of the road, put my truck in park, then turn the volume up.

And that, folks, is your… bum-ba-da- dum! Nutjob of the week!

(sound effect – a parrot chirps, “He’s a nutjob! He’s a nutjob!”)

           

I turn the radio off. Mere coincidence. Has to be. Still, I wish I knew more about the suspect’s story. I wish I knew more about the man in his dreams.

Part of me wants to call Loretta, right now, and tell her to take Avery to her mom’s house. I shake my head instead, then remind myself how ridiculous I’m being – it was a dream. Am I really so paranoid as to think ‘Master’ is real, and has some kind of power over me? I mutter to myself the best piece of advice my father ever gave me.

“Stop being an idiot.”

I get back on the road and head to my first house. It’s a nice place, overlooking the beach. Owner’s a tool, but his pool is beautiful. The water spills over the edge, giving it a ‘waterfall’ effect.

A white van approaches on the other side of the road, traveling the opposite direction as me. Its driver stares at me as our vehicles cross paths – he’s a white male, with serious power alleys. The man in the passenger seat is equally buff and terrifying. A scar runs from his nose to his lip, and he glares at me like a hungry wolf smells blood.

I keep track of the van in my rear view mirror. It disappears from view, driving somewhere in the direction of my neighborhood; in the direction of my family.

CLICK HERE FOR 5.2!

-Thomas M. Watt

Master – 4.2

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Ch. 2

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Ch. 4

She’s hidden beneath the covers, and I know she hates being woken up. The only exception is Christmas morning. Then again, she’s wide awake every Christmas morning.

I peel back the cover just enough to see she’s facing away from me. I rest my hand on her brown hair, and she doesn’t move.

“I know you’re sleeping right now, Brussels-sprouts. I just wanted you to know-” I pause.

I lived a very lonely life. That’s what people don’t get about me; that’s what they miss. Until you’ve gone without love, you have no idea how powerful it can be when it finds you. It’s not just a saying, and it sure as hell isn’t something I tell myself to feel better about giving up football. I don’t mean to get sappy, but as I stand here at my daughter’s bedside, knowing a short hallway away rests a beautiful woman who loves Phil Gordon the pool guy, I can’t help but thank God for all the life I have, and forget to give two shits about the one I gave up.

“I love you, Brussels sprouts.”

She turns over, and I finally see her face. Avery puts her hand in mine, then rubs her eye open.

“What time is it, daddy?”

I smirk. “Too early for you.”

She giggles.

I kiss her on the forehead, then get up.

“Wait!”

“What is it?”

“Come over here!”

I sigh, then do.

“Pinky.”

I grin, then hold out the finger. She locks her tiny pinky around mine.

“Say it, daddy.”

“You sure? Figured you’re too grown-up for that.”

“Say it!”

I smile. “Daddy cauliflower always returns for princess Brussels Sprouts.”

“Yay!” says Avery, kicking her legs and feet. I can’t help but laugh along with her – she hates vegetables.

I proceed to the kitchen, scoop out some Columbian roast, toss it in the filter, then add about four cups worth of water and turn the coffee pot on. I wait with my hands on the counter and my head dangling over my chest.

It was a dream, I remind myself. Nothing but a dream.

Still, ‘Master’ seemed so real. The entire scene did. Some dreams are so ludicrous you realize you’re dreaming while you’re in the middle of them. Other dreams fool you a little more, but as soon as you return to consciousness you realize you’d been tricked.

The coffee finishes brewing, and I pour myself a cup.

But then there are those other dreams, when long after waking, you are still convinced that you were in the presence of another being. Maybe not physically, but maybe metaphysically. The universe is a strange place.

“Are you trying to freak me out?”

It’s Loretta – she’s standing in the doorway, glaring at me.

“Yes, just the dream. Don’t worry-”

“You don’t spook easily, Phillip.”

“I know.”

“So why do you look so disturbed, baby?”

I think for a moment, and some primitive part of me urges me to warn her about Master. I almost want to stay here, just to watch over my family and make certain everything remains alright.

“Like you said, it was just a dream.” I hand her the mug. “Here, I don’t even want this. Have a good day, babe.” I kiss her and head for the front door.

“So why are you so upset?”

“Just being paranoid, like you said.”

“Love you, Phillip,” she says as I leave.

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• Thomas M. Watt