Man Writes Novel in One Night

***

Sirilius took a knee and cupped a handful of loose soil in his palm. His narrowed gaze never strayed from that of his opponent. Rubbing his hands together, he stood tall in a clearing surrounded by thickly settled beech forest. He unsheathed his gladius. His opponent roared. Stomping leathered sandals into the earth, the large mass stampeded Sirilius. An effortless pary sent the lumbering titan headlong into the heather.

The ring of soldiers encircling the two roared with approval. Sirilius felt like a gladiator soaking in the admiration of the great colosseum of Roma. The feeling did not sit well with him. He felt exposed. Better to retire the fancy footwork then and finish this ogre fast.

Sirilius' interlocutor this afternoon was a brutish man by the name of Titus Vabius. But the men called him Equi Caput - the head of a horse - on account of his long inelegant countenance complemented with wits to match. The altercation was hardly personal, but rather a productive way to pass an afternoon. The man once again charged Sirilius.

A second parry and a slice of his gladius. The brute came to a halt some two yards from Sirilius. The opponent dropped onto his haunches. He turned his head, and Sirilius could see the perfect incision from just below the orbital bone to the earlobe. Not bad.

The man known as Equi Caput rubbed a bit of dry soil across his visage and rose. Turning to face Sirilius again, the brute bowed reverently.

"That is enough for me today, O ferious warrior Sirilius," said the brute. "Who next?" he turned to the throngs of soldiers.

***

I read once that mindfulness is like a muscle, and we have to work it if we want it to get stronger. Otherwise, we risk allowing the mind to slip into a sort of dissociation. This guy said meditation brings mindfulness. The problem is we all end up in our heads too much. We start thinking about that stupid thing we said on the last work call, or the argument we had with our wife. We worry about some future thing - a deadline, the deadline.

To be mindful, we have to consciously bring our attention back to what we are doing. We are suppose to refocus from our inside thoughts to the outside world - what we see, hear, smell, touch - or to what we are doing at the moment. That's one rep.

I practice doing this whenever I remember to. Of course the funny thing about it is when we're in our heads we forget to do the thing that takes us out. Sometimes I spend hours in there, sort of lost in time. It used to be days.

I'm sitting in my office focusing hard on the dark brown wood paneling along the wall. It's the old stuff, like from the 70s that runs vertically up and down along the whole office. The new stuff is usually white or greyish and they run it the long way, horizontally on an accent wall. Or something like that, never covering the whole room though. I'm staring at this wall so long my vision feels fuzzy, and I begin to worry if I'm not losing my sanity a little.

I cup my mug of coffee between my hands and hold it to my chin where the vapors can dance up my nostrils and lightly wet my mustache. It's these twilight mornings in front of my computer, fresh brew in hand, that make me feel like a writer - like a real writer. It's times exactly like this one that make me feel like I'm climbing out of the hole. And then, I read the email.

Mike,

Thank you for your email. Believe me, man, I can appreciate what you're going through. This industry is not for everyone.

Understand that my orders are my orders. I really do not mind sticking my neck out for you, but I have my own mouths to feed. I talked to Julie, and she is graciously extending six days. I know you do not see it from your vantage, but it is a courtesy that comes on the back end of a lot of long phone calls.

Your new deadline is March three. Get us something. Learn to type in your sleep, I don't care, but have something in my inbox no later than next Thursday. I'm rooting for you, man. Now don't make me look bad.

Warm Regards,

Andy Rodgers

E & A, LLC

Writer's Agent

Boston, MA 02111

Sometimes I wake up and feel like I can rule the world. I feel as big as a silverback and charming and good looking, too. Sometimes I'm a conquerer. Some days I wake up in a deep, dark hole. I live in the blackness. I am the blackness. I lose days, weeks, and months of my life. The peaks and valleys got so bad I even talked to some doctors about it, against my better judgement.

I told my primary during a regular visit that it was putting stress on my job and my marriage and that I couldn't be a good dad when I got down in my hole. From there I talked to no less than three specialists and therapists. It's a funny thing about these doctor types. Once you tell them you're not interested in medication, they get funny about it. I was talking to this guy a couple years back, Doctor Steward. He sits me down and leans forward in his chair as we talk. There's no desk or anything between us, and I'm actually a little put off by the closeness. But it's, in truth, nice to be listened to. So I let him have it. I'm more honest with this guy I just met than I can be with my own wife and kid.

He jots down this or that. Then he looks up at me over the top of his glasses. He's got one of those real doctor-type faces, long and sallow with a balance of wrinkle and ruddiness that says, "I've been around the block, and I got more than a few more trips left in me." He tells me he wants to start me on this or that for my mood imbalance and another to help me get to sleep. He wants to regroup at such and such time. I tell him I'm not interested in taking medications. Are there lifestyle changes I can incorporate first at least to get a grip on my health and move foreward from there?

Doc Steward looked down at his shiny oxfords, then back up at me and smiles. As he rose from his chair, walked over to some cabinetry in the far corner of the room and washed his hands at a small sink, he says, as much to the faucet as to me, let's regroup in about six months and see how you feel them. In the interim, work on keeping on a consistent sleep schedule and limit your snacking. With an about face, he left the room and I never saw that joker again.

That's how doctors are. The second they figure out they can't pump you full of meds, they wash their hands of you, figuratively speaking. That's one rep.

The orange glow of my desk lamp bounces off the dark wood enscouncement of my office. My fingers feel along the ridges of my keyboard. I'm reading Andy's email. Six days. Six whole days. We were emailing a couple days ago, I think. Six days. The email's timestamp reads last Friday. I told Adrienne I was in my office working all weekend, but I don't have much evidence to support that. Monday and Tuesday are usually recouperation days after long weekends with everyone home. I can't get anything done when people are home. It's draining.

It's Wednesday. Today is Wednesday fucking morning. And I have all of one day to write an entire draft.

I can feel a concoction of cortisol and adrenaline course through my head. They want the novel by tomorrow. I have to get out of this office. I stand up, grab my notebook and stick it in my back pocket. I spin to the far end of the room and pluck my phone from its charger. I have a text from my son.

Jeremy is enjoying dorm life. Somehow the two-hour drive down the Mass Pike feels like an eternity away. It's surreal to think he is grown up now - no longer the little boy asking me to push him around on his trike in the driveway. My eyes well as I open the message.

Hey dad - hit me up when you're awake. Not sure your sleep schedule right now. All is good - I'm just struggling this with project I got due. Been up all night and I'm hoping you can help. Just like the old days lol

We text back and forth. I feel responsible. He gets his perfectionism from me. It's a hard thing always feeling compelled to be perfect.

Good is good enough, I tell him. God, I wish I would take my own advice sometimes.

I turn to leave the office. Some fresh air will settle the whirling in my head. A shadow darkens my door. Adrienne cracks the door and calls to me through a hushed tone.

"Hey, babe. Wasn't sure if you were still asleep in here," she said upon spotting my form in the orange glow of the room. "You alright?" She always knows when I'm spinning. Often before I come to the realization.

"Hey, I'm good. Getting some traction now on this piece I'm doing for Andy," I say and redirect the conversation. "Just heard from Jer. He's burning the midnight oil out there."

"Oh God, hopefully not the way we used to in our Amherst days," she says as her lips curl into a smile.

"A party would be good for the kid, but no, I think he's stressing about one of his classes. I'm trying to work him through the crisis," I say with a chuckle.

"If only you could take your own advice," she shoots back.

"What's that mean?"

"I'm doing a pot of coffee and some fruit. Was thinking of scrambling a few eggs, but I'm not going to do it if I'm the only one e--"

"Yeah, I'll do an egg."

"And fruit."

"And fruit," I parrot.

"You going to eat out here?"

"I'm under the gun on this thing, dear." I don't know why I say it. "You know how Andy makes me."

Her smile's gone.

"I'll bring it to you here." She leaves.

I reclaim my throne and survey my kingdom - a Word document with the line "A Hero's Journey in Rome"

Double space.

Premise: A resourceful young legionnaire of Julius Caesar's great northern army attempts to get home to his family.

Double space.

Some set up. A bit of prose. That bit around the midpoint - that was easy to right. That's always easy to write. Then,vast, open whiteness, pure, blank, and empty on the page.

Double space, and the beating heart of the vertical cursor line standing tall and alone on the page. I have been here a million times before. All my life I have been ghostwriting other people's work. You give me 500 pages of drivel and I'll spin it into strands of gold. It's cake when you're detached, when its not you bleeding on the page. To tell your own tale, whether fact or fiction, is always to pull a little piece of you out for the whole world to see. My guy rides atop a noble steed over two-thousand years ago - a strong and brave legionnaire, written by the meek and cautious Mike Thomlinson. Yet my guy is me. That's a little bit me on the page. He lays there. I poke him, and I prod him, and he comes to life on the page. He's robust on the page, noble and proud and for all the world to see - and to judge. He stands naked and exposed for the whole world to see. I am he and he, me. And so we both stand exposed to the world.

I read in this book that a lot of times, people's brain chemistry changes before they even know it. They stand different, their shoulders slouch or they sink sort of into themselves. Their breathing changes to. That's usually one of the leading indicators. And if you can train yourself to catch it, you can sort of bring yourself back. Walk yourself off the cliff.

I put my left hand over my chest. My right finds a footing on my gut - has it always been so round and protruding? I breathe in. One - two - three - four. Hold. Breathe out. Four - three - two - one. Again. My shoulders quit hugging my ears and fall down and back. Again. You can do this, Mikey. You have to do this. That's a rep

* * *

"No man brave enough to step into the gauntlet?" The brutish Titus Vabius Equi Caput goaded his fellow legionnaires. Suddenly. From his flank, a shuffle of feet made a hole into the arena. A warhorse galloped into the middle of the men. Both Sirilius and Equi Caput dropped to a knee. Sirilius planted the tip of his blade into the soil at his head and bowed his head against it.

"Take heed great legionnaires of the Gallic provinces. Our Imperator approaches," the centurion announced to his men. "Enough of this horse play--"

"Equi Caput play, sir," called out a faceless legionnaire from the mass of men. The men chortled and shuffled about.

"Yes, very good. And should we continue to favor leisure over discipline, Imperator Caesar will have my head on a pike with all the rest of you.

"He wants five thousand of the best of the lot. If that's you, fall in, time now. Vabius, I expect to see all four hundred pounds of you in the front rank. Tullius, Cornelius, Sirilius, and any of the rest of you with honor enough to spare. Gather your things and make for the field."

Within the hour, the legions, five thousand soldiers strong, had formed up along the southern plain of their encampment. Expecting a campaign to the North, the camp was prepared for a quick departure. The formations were still in the dusk of the day. The silence was broken by a chariot rumbling toward the head of the formations. Upon a slight inclination, to allow the masses of the Caesar's formidable legions to perceive the regal form of the Great General as he strode out from the rear of the chariot. The silence sat heavy like a fog over the men. Then he spoke.

"My loyal comrades, brave soldiers of Rome,

"I come to you with a heavy heart, for our beloved patria we find in grave jeopardy. The Senate, the very voice of the people, has been infiltrated by a serpeant who means to strike at the heart of Rome and still its mighty heart.

"We stand on the precipice of history, at a moment that will shape the destiny of our beloved Republic. For years, we have marched together, fought together, and triumphed together in the distant lands of Gaul. We have faced the fiercest of foes, conquered the mightiest of tribes, and spread the glory of Rome to the farthest corners of the known world.

"But now, my fellow soldiers, our duty calls us back to the heart of our Republic, to the very foundations of our civilization. The once noble halls of Rome have been tainted by corruption and treachery. The Senate, blinded by their own ambitions and consumed by their petty rivalries, have forgotten the true spirit of Rome.

"It falls upon us, the guardians of the Republic, to restore order and justice to our beloved city. Pompey and his cronies seek to challenge our authority, to defy the will of the people, and to cast aside the principles that have guided our Republic for centuries. They have forgotten that Rome is not built on the whims of a few powerful men, but on the sacrifice and dedication of its citizens.

"But fear not, my brave comrades, for we march not as conquerors, but as liberators. We march to free Rome from the shackles of tyranny and to restore the true spirit of the Republic. We march to defend the rights and liberties of every citizen, to uphold the ideals of justice and equality that have made Rome the greatest civilization the world has ever known.

"Know this, my fellow soldiers: the road ahead will be long and arduous, filled with dangers and challenges that will test our resolve like never before. But I have faith in each and every one of you. Together, we have faced the wrath of gods and the fury of men, and emerged victorious against all odds.

"So let us march forth with courage in our hearts and steel in our hands. Let us show the world the true strength of Rome, the unbreakable bond that binds us together as brothers in arms. And let us never forget the words of our forefathers, who taught us that the glory of Rome is not found in the marble palaces of the rich and powerful, but in the hearts and minds of its citizens.

"Onward, my brave soldiers, to victory! For Rome, for glory, for freedom!"

"Ave Roma! Ave Imperator Caesar!" The vast sea of men called back to him.

"Ave Imperator Caesar!"

The men cheered and congratulated one another on their future victory. All but Sirilius, who stood in stoic reflection of the intent behind his leader's words.

While many of the men Sirilius fought next to were children of the provinces, most never even visiting Rome in the proper sense, he was a citizen on parchment and in his heart. His family owned a small estate along the peninsula. His thoughts turned to his wife and child, and their fate.

Imperator Caesar, surveying the ranks of his detachment, took notice of Sirilius and approached.

"What is your name, legionnaire?" the imperator commanded.

"Lucius Sirilius"

"Have you, honorable and brave legionnaire, no cognomen? No name by which to connote your valor?"

The imperator chortled, "I shall call you Virtus for this reason. Lucius Sirilius Virtus. Will you join me in the liberation of the Roman people?"

Sirilius stood still. Unwilling to let the imperator get even a wiff of fear.

Imperator Caesar took a step toward the warrior. Sirilius looked up, maintaining his commanders gaze.

"Have you heard of the adventures of the Macedonian known as Alexander?"

"Sir, I have"

"This great man conquered the whole of the known world before his thirty-third birthday. Not much older than you, valient warrior. But a fraction of my own years. Do you know how he came to such a feat?"

"I do not, sir."

"He took action, warrior. He took decisive action." Imperator Caesar's eyes narrowed like a hawk preparing to swoop onto the field mouse. "Will you join us in Rome, young legionnaire?"

"I will."

"Excellent," the imperator said in a gravelled tone not above a whisper. Taking three steps to the year, the imperator expanded his wingspan, raising his tone to the formation. "We step off in the morning. We bring honor home to the Patria!"

The formation of some five-thousand men roared as a single beast.

Imperator Caesar soaked in the adjulation of his men. He turned toward his chariot. He stepped toward the chariot, halting at the feet of the centurion in charge of the men.

"Dispose of the weak one." An almost imperceptible gesture toward Sirilius sealed his fate.

"Sir," affirmed the centurion, glancing sidelong at the ill-fated legionnaire.

* * *

I think about the beginning of the calendar. Two millennia and change we've been - what? Waiting around mostly. I spent this one whole night once just watching Roman calendar videos on the internet. I was supposed to be looking for some aesthetic set-pieces for the novel, and saw conspiracy theory videos about the calendar. I spent more hours than I am happy to disclose on calendars.

I wonder where the time's gone. I had 18 months. We agreed eighteen was more than needed. It was safer to have a buffer. Eighteen months. Twelve-hundred-fifty words per week. I could have wrote one page per day. I'd have finished with time to spare. Eighteen months. I need to get out of this cage. I rotate in my chair.

"Hi Hon," Adrienne has my eggs and toast. "How's it coming?" She pecks me on the lip, placing the meal beside me on the desk.

The yeasty breakfast aroma wafts into my nostrils. I sure could eat.

"It comes," I say slyly.

"Alright, well I'm about ready to head out the door.

'Why are you coming in here now," I ask.

"because I want attention. I want my husband to notice me," she replies.

"I know, and I do notice you. I just - I just have a process," I say without conviction. "I need to create."

"But you don't ever create anything. You sit in here and sulk, and eventually smell. And you vomit half-assed attempts into a word processor before saving it off as draft-dash-new-dash-one-of-one and never ever open it again." Her eyes start to well. "You get into this shit, but you never have the actually conviction to follow through. You can't even be real enough with yourself to write with any level of authenticity. And so you jam up your harddrive with poetic prose and half-baked ideas that aren't even coherent concepts." Now shes crying. "You're chasing the leviathan with a fishing dinghy, and you wonder why you're drowning!"

She's sobbing. I don't get up to comfort her. "You're forty-two years old," she reminds me. "This shit was cute in our twenties."

I shut down.

"I'm going," she said, pinching the bridge of her nose. "I'm meeting Stacy for drinks after. Be home when I'm home."

* * *

Sirilius awoke to a rustling above his head. An instinct trained into him since birth drew his gladius. His free hand and feet found their place under him. He swung himself, as graceful as a dancer upon his feet. His eyes perceived nothing but blackness enscouncing him. The rustling resumed above his head. Wolves had come sniffing about.

Past the silhouetes of pointed ears and daggered fangs, Sirilius could see the indigo of the night sky - a hundred thousand stars winking to him.

"A hole, then," he conceived. "Perhaps a crude Gallic trap."

Whoever the architect, Sirilius was unwilling to wait around for proper introductions. He began carefully carving nooks into the rocky soil of the pit's walls with his blade. Carving first a foot at about two feet and another at approximately three, the warrior managed to lift himself upon the wall high enough to begin another set of hand- and foot-holes.

This is working out better than I had imagined, Sirilius reflected. A few more knotches and maybe a half dozen mashing jaws lie between freedom and myself. The wolves sniffed about the opening in what Sirilius perceived as great anticipation.

Save for a loose clump of dirt here and a miscalculation there, the warrior clawed his way to the opening of the pit. The wolves had worked themselves into a frenzy by this point, daring ever closer into the mouth of the pit. One, a large beast with a gritty coat like unpolished steel nipped and chomped mere inches from our hero's handgrip.

Sirilius paused to rest his muscles and regain his breath. He watched the animals. When that daring grey beast pressed farther than was prudent, the ground beneath its feet gave way. His forepaws danced back to regain their footing, but not before Sirilius, acting on impulse rather than prudence, grasped the left paw of the beast and yanked him down to the bottom of the pit. Of course, as might have been presumed, the warrior lost his own footing in doing so and collapsed back down the hole and atop the bewildered beast.

Like razors from each paw, the wolf was slicing into Sirilius' flesh along his exposed forearms and calves. Both opponents twisted and writhed for dominance in the absolute black of the pit. Sirilius could feel the hot, wet stench of the beast's breath against his face. He had gripped some loose region of the animal's pelt and was holding his arm locked out straight. It was now the one measure keeping the mashing daggers of the beast at bay. With his dominant hand, he groped along the ground for his trusty gladius by which he might finish the job. The monstrous paws grip the warrior's forearm, tearing at the flesh. Sirilius waves his free arm in the dirt, creating an angel wing in the loose soil.

The jaw of the beast found at last its mark upon the hero's flesh. It clamped down against tendon and bone. Fire shot through Sirilius' body.

Scissoring his legs, the warrior swung to the rear of the beast, who continued to hold the captured limb between paw and jaw. Sirilius shot his elbow straight, exacerbating the tearing pain, but exposing the monster's throat. Threading a needle, his free hand curled around like a serpeant on its prey. Both heels found nooks along the writhing beast's torso. He locked in.

The wolf, sending this immediate tension against his body, reflexively released his grip upon Sirilius. The beast yelped as it wormed, but it was too late. From Sirilius' bloodied limbs, the wolf's own bloodflow pinched off, and within a moment, the animal fell limp across the floor of the pit. Sirilius grasped the jaws of the beast firmly, and it was finished.

Both animal and man lay on the ground, touched by faint moonlight veiled behind clouds. Sirilius, fighting still, surrendered to oblivion."

Sirilius could not be sure how long he laid in that pit, collapsed beside the vanquished beast. The next sensation he registered was a sort of weightlessness. His body rose through space. Was he dead? The countenance of Pluto, the god of death, haunted Sirilius as a spirited form take Sirilius into his arms. Sirilius tried for his blade. He recalled only after that his gladius had been lost to the black shadows of the cave. He felt pressure against his arm now. Tension on his write assured him escape from his fate was futile. And so he succumbed - acted upon by some vague force. Up - up - up into the air he rose. His body limp, he wasn't dead - yet.

* * *

I sit back. I am cautious of not getting ahead of myself. In truth, I am petrified by the thought and my fingers halt as much from fear as prudence. I feel like Tom Hanks in Castaway, if you've never seen that flick, let me tell you about it. This guy gets stranded all alone, well except for the volleyball, on this island. And so theres this point in the second act where all he wants to do is get off the island. We find out later on he was even willing to kill himself if he could conceive a reasonable way of accomplishing the task. But for the most part, he seems pretty set on getting off the island and taking matters into his own hands. That's the sign of great storytelling, a protagonist who takes matters into his own hands. You want a guy who acts rather than acted upon. Hard to do when your stuck on an island, I suppose. Anyway, Tom tries to build himself a little raft and float off into the sunset, but the breakers know him back. He gets out there to a certain point, and BAM - theres the breakers. It's like they're gunning for him. They become almost antorpomorphic in that sense. They possess almost human-like will of their own.

Anyway, short story long, Tom gets a porta-john dropped off on the beach one day and fashions a sail from the thin, concaved plastic shell. The sale provides the momentum Tom needs to jump that beastly breaker and reach the current. It's his elixir he uses to begin he journey back home - back to act three and his original world. We still know he's got some trials and tribulations ahead of him, but this is how he will win the day.

For me, the elixir - my portajohn - is my storyboard. It's a simple thing, small and fully disposable once it has served its purpose. It is all powerful. Without it, I am not good enough. I will fail.

I pull the board out. It's a trifold display board like the one's Jeremy used to do his science projects on growing up. I keep is stashed along the flank of my desk and revisit it often during writing. Now, I know I have to get Sirilius home to his wife and kid. At the beginning of the story, he thinks it's going to be a straight shot. Imperator Caesar has been clear they would rotated out of Gaul soon enough - if they lived that long. I need to sew this into the setup a bit better. A comment here, a little exposition there. We set up these two men, Sirilius and Vabius. They are going to play off each other through the setup and the initial conflicts. I've given Sirilius his first conflict here: he has a clear goal to get home to his family and a higher goal of ensuring their safety. Now none other than the Great Julius Caesar is going to stand directly in his way. Next comes the Hamletian attempt on the protagonist's life. Little does Sirilius know, his days as a legionnaire are numbered far fewer than any man suspects.

* * *

Sirilius felt a presence. He was unable to react. He could not will his body to move, to defend itself. The presence in the room with him plopped something down next to him. It hit the floor and splatters droplets of moisture across his face. A smell like flatuation overcame him. He winced and recoiled. In protest he managed a weak guttural utterance. The groan betrayed his weakness. Oblivion came for him again.

A tearing pain along his scalp called him back. Men were speaking. He knew about him, but in his daze he could make out no dicernable words. One man observed his visage while another held Sirilius on display by yanking his hair back hard. He face smashed into the craggy floor when the man relinquished his hold. Oblivion.

He was being lifted again. Two men, one at the fore and one the aft, carried him through an iron bar threshold. He was tossed unceremounsly atop a heap of straw and he could discern the closing and locking of a cell around him. Hoof steps began to pull the rickety wagon.

A blunt shot to his abdomen. Sirilius turned upon his flank, dropped his elbow and raised his knee to close off his abdomen from further abuse. He forced his eyes to open - to focus. Oblivion clawed at him.

"You there, Roman!" called a gruff voice from close proximity. "Roman, I say. Do not die yet, it wouldn't be fair to the rest of us."

"Where am I?"

"Deep in the heart of Gaul, young Roman."

"Then we are in Roma." Sirilius managed to grasp a wooden bar of the enclosed wagon and pull himself up. They were engulfed in red, orange, and yellow foliage. The whole forest glowed in the sharp sunlight above. "This looks unlike any Roma I know."

"Simply because your people have transposed the world to parchment and encircled this region or that, does not an empire make, young Roman. Now pay yourself the favor of never referring to these lands as Roma. That is, if you have any sense of self preservation."

"And then who are you?"

Sirilius turned away from the fiery burn of the forest and turned toward his interloceture. A greybeard sat cross-legged on the straw.

"Consider me a friend."

"Where are we heading, friend?"

"Well, slaves are seldom provided such information, but I suspect the Germanic civilization to the East. Locally, we know it as Ulivos Betu. When my people are taken there, we do not come back."

"Ulivos Betu," Sirilius sat with it for a moment. "Ulivos Betu, the Wolf's den..."

* * *

My phone rings only ever at the worst possible times. I swear, I could have all the time in the world and the very moment I come to the resolve in my mind of accomplishing some task - whatever task - my phone will ring off the hook.

I look down. Andy. Fuck.

"Hey Andy, how goes?"

He wants to know about the draft. He wants to know if I have anything even close to turning in. We have been working together long enough now that he knows when I get in these holes productivity goes through the floor. He knows, but he wants to gauge it - stay ahead of the boss lady.

We make small talk first. How's the wife, how's the kid. I get it, but let's just get on with it. I want to tell him I'm actually hitting my plot beats right now and this phone call risks fucking that all up. I want to scream it into the phone. But I don't. I make nice.

"So," he says, "what's the verdict? They're looking for something from me at tomorrow's sync meeting."

"It's coming."

"not for nothing, it's been coming for a year and a half. Is it going to be in my inbox?"

"I'm working on it now."

"Good, good. That's great to hear!" He sounds like a dad congratulating his kid on another scribble he can hang on the fridge. "Page count?"

"I'm working on it," I'm done with this conversation.=

I can hear him clearing his throat through the phone. "You um," here it comes. "You been sober?"

"I got to get back to writing, Andy. Always a pleasure to hear from you."

"My best to Addy and Jer."

"Likewise."

I chuck my phone into a pile of shirts draped over a box in the far corner of the room. The same hand chokes down on a bottle of Johnny Walker and twists off the cap with just a thumb.

I bring the thick glass bottle down onto the desk for a moment. Holding it like an emperor wielding a septor, I let the sharp scent waft into my nose and sting my nostrils. My thumb caresses the curvature of the neck. I lean back into my chair once more and moan. I do not need to be in this headspace right now. Especially not right now. Andy, why? I tip the mouth to the coffee mug. That's one rep.

* * *

The wagon came to a halt along a dusty dirt road in the center of a town enclosed on all sides by large logs stood upright and widdled on top into sharp spears. The bundling of some several thousand of them made for a rather impressive city wall, if not impractical. Sirilius contemplated many walls of this sort burned from the outside in throughout the lands of Gaul when he and his fellow legionnaires restored order to the region following the great rebellion.

He could see now that his wagon was not alone. There was, in fact, half a dozen wagons with perhaps as many as a hundred caged men between them.

"I saw another like you, young Roman," announced the old slave.

"You, old man. You speak the Latin tongue, and yet, you are Gallic. There is no mistaking it. How do you come to speak the language of the Empire so fluidly?"

"There was a time I served the chieftain of my village. My responsibilities were many. Among them was the role of trader between other Celts in the region, the Germanic tribesmen of the East, and the Northern provinces of your patria. When Roma first came to our land I was identified for my utility to the people of my village and conscripted as a liaison for the Romans. They spoke honied words, calling me a worldly man, while they shackled our feet and robbed us of our treasures.

Truth be told, I knew enough language to get by at trading posts along the Gallic borderlands. When we became a province of Roma, my studies began in ernest to be of greatest value to the Empire. Over the past decade, I have become fluent in your native tongue, young Roman."

"And so what of the other like me?"

"A legionnaire, large and muscular. He wears a tunic like your own." The old man thought carefully for a moment. "He was not handsome. He had the head like that of a horse."

The conversation came to an abrupt close as a commoction was overheard coming from a neighboring wagon. The view was obstructed, but Sirilius craned his neck to peer through an opening in the front of the caged wagon. He saw another just in front of their own. Equi Caput was standing up in the rear of the wagon and using the full force of his body to rock the chasis to and fro. Around him, barbarians with crude weapons and hide armor poked their dull blades through the openings in the wagon's cage. Equi Caput put all his might into the side of the wagon and, snapping the axle and left wheel rolled the wagon entirely on its side. The wooden cage splintered apart.

Several of the enslaved men crawled through the debris and engaged with the barbarians who hacked and slashed with panic in their eyes. Three men tackled one escapee and began thrusting their crude weapons into the center of the dogpile. Equi Caput taunted several others, goading them to come closer.

As the action reached a climax, a thunderous call bellowed to the men. The barbarian guards all stood attentively at the command, but none took their eyes off Equi Caput. A portly man in a thick brown bear pelt lumberd up to the thrashed wagon with a score of heavily armored guards encircling him. Sirilius recognized Roman armor and weaponry on several of them.

The bear man spoke. The elder slave, noticing Sirilius' great interest, translated for him.

"Guardsmen! Collect these slaves at once. They are making a mess of my fine town. Take these ones here." The bear man guestured to the men who attacked the barbarian guards, Sirilius noticed. The translation continued.

"They will be impaled outside the southern gate. Spare the big one. I can use a specimen such as this." The elder reassured Sirilius, "they will spare your friend, young Roman."

* * *

My hand is shaking on the keyboard. I press the coffee mug to my lips once more. It doesn't smell like coffee anymore.

Our Hero is in the Wolf's Den. He is learning the rules of this new world: be strong and resourceful. He has made a friend and guide in the old greybeard. Now, he needs to reconnect with his fellow legionnaire before the challenges of this new world mount to a level he may not be able to muster on his own.

I got to get this guy alone with the Bear King so that he can slay the barbarian tyrant. Then it's the simple matter of evading capture, escaping the city walls, and a quick eight-hundred mile trek through hostile wilderness and home to his beloved wife. Easy peasy. This calls for a drink.

* * *

As a writer, I get stuck in quicksand. I'm slogged down by my own mind. I got a big thick rope - a nautical rope you'd see tied to the anchor of some charter boat. Dinner cruise anyone? The rope is thicker than a man's grip with two hands and bristly. Each twine of the rope, by itself, presenting no tension. As they twist around one another and delve into the depths of the black ocean, they soak in water and pull taughtly. That goddamned anchor entrenches into the ocean floor and slogs along. I can't hardly move it, and it keeps getting heavier. That's one rep.

I look around my wood-panelled cell. I sip from my mug. The tepid brown liquid burns my throat. I notice I'm all up in my head. The big noggin feels detached and a bit floaty. I've been like this for more than half an hour, and I know I'm losing steam. This is the part in the story arc when the protagonist gets a swift kick in the ass.

Our hero succumbs to the sweet nectar of temptation. All is lost as the seductress takes hypnotic control, and the hero's faculties wither weaker and weaker. Just then! A stoic and noble ally swoops in to remind our man what is at stake! The moral compass is reset. The narrative carries on.

Real life has no fortuitous flow to our ebb. When we sink, we plummet. Like an anchor on a excruciatingly long rope sinking deeper and deeper into the black. I take another sip.

My phone vibrates on in the lump of not-quite-clean, not-yet-dirty shirts in the corner. In the deafening silence of my cell, I hear it. My chest sort of tingles inside and vibrates into my whole torso. Duty calls.

It's Addrienne. I answer. She wants to know how I'm doing. She asks again: am I alright? I tell her I am, but I don't believe myself. The pause on the other end lets me know she doesn't either. She's on lunch and just wanted to check in. I tell her I love her. She loves me. I don't believe that either.

"Mike," she hesitates. "I know this is hard, but you wouldn't be doing it, and I wouldn't be supporting you if there was any other option for you. There isn't. You're a writer, Mike. And you're capable."

She knows me too well.

"Thank you, babe. I needed to hear that."

"And Mike," she continues.

"Yeah?"

"Don't let perfectionism beat down your greatness."

She hands up. I begin typing.

* * *

The conditions inside the barbarian society were crude even for the freed members. For Sirilius and Vabius, they were barely sustainable. The greybeard did not have it so hard. He was not fit for manual labor, an infraction which might have amounted to a quick disposal had he not masterfully communicated his value to the right men at the right time. He was a diplomat - this was for sure. Sirilius and Vabius were strong and capable men. Being soldiers meant to the barbarians that they could follow orders. Being Romans ensured they would be frequently abused.

The laborers were stored in the ground in a series of crudely fashioned tunnels dug into the ground and supported by wood scaffolding. Sirilius had little confidence in barbarian engineering, but he had even less choice. Most of the men where caged in small groups or individually if the barbarians perceived them to be high risk. Sirilius was caged alone.

By day, the men worked in a shallow mine, breaking their backs for incidental amounts of ore. Sirilius and Vabius were trained to survive and came across edible plants and even the occasional rodent or serpeant to dine on. Most laborers proved unresourceful and subsisted on the scraps the barbarians provided.

The Romans tried to keep morale strong, awaiting an opportunity to escape. Occasionally, the enslaved men could hear the rolling of carts and scuffing of many hooves from the ground above their heads. They knew this to be trade caravans, most of which carried some allotment of freshly captured men. The barbarians were shoring up their numbers, this was certain. They were building to something. After many moons in this far off and strange land of savages, Sirilius found his resolve cracking, if only slightly.

It was a particularly bitter winter's day of carving away packed soil and splintering rock with implements unworthy of any real labor. The biting wind howled through the trees around the mine. Sirilius' hands were chapped and cracking from the dry, cold air. He laid down his tool and took respite behind a large mount of rock and soil. He breathed into his cupped hands hoping the warmth and moisture might offer him temporary relieve from the discomfort - the perpetual discomfort.

"Virtus, steel yourself. The Barbarians are coming." Vabius insisted on continuing in the imperator's tradition of calling him Virtus. In fact, when the other slaves discovered the two men were Roman Legionnaires, they took to calling him Virtus as a term of reverence.

"Let them come," Sirilius's nostrils flared.

"They'll kill you, Virtus."

"So be it," Sirilius returned.

"I am not letting you get out of here that easily." The brutish man thumbed the crude pick, which Sirilius had discarded, hard against the smaller man's chest. In a guesture of both support and assertion, Vabius pulled Sirilius to his feet as the barbarian guard came around the far side of the dirt mound.

The guard shouted chaos at the enslaved men. He ushered them back to work at the tip of a dull blade. In another life, those barbaric grunts of his native tongue would be the barbarian's last. Sirilius wondered if they had broke his will.

That evening after the last meal of the day - some grounded grains and as much stagnant water as the men could stomach out of the communal trough, their barbarian overseers lined them up to be accounted for. After the barbarians satisfied no one had tried to break ranks and escape, the slaves would be escorted back to their underground lair. This evening, after they were accounted for, the enslaved men stood waiting for some time. The barbarian jibberish they had come to know as "bed time!" - roughly speaking, never came. Rather an entourage of barbarians approached the formation. They were led by none other than the Bear King.