WriMo Joe presents WriMo Mix #1

Average Joe Radio
presents

The Joe Show
featuring
Average Joe American

Episode Eighty-Seven: WriMo Mix #1

To follow my NaNoWriMo progress, request access permission now.

Dreadnought by Mountain Mirrors

The Depths of a Year by Ehren Starks

Mountain Mirrors by Mountain Mirrors

Guinevere by Jeff Wahl

Below Zero by Robert Rich

Phone: (317) 644-6129
Email Feedback: joe@averagejoeamerican.us

| SUBSCRIBE | | Add to Zune

Your comments?

podsafe music network | ioda promonet | magnatune | airplay direct
ariel publicity | kennedy resource development | populuxe records | indie heaven
miles high productions | iris distribution | chavis records | after hours music

My NaNoWriMo '08 Method -- and More

This year, for my NaNoWriMo effort, I'm considering taking a slightly different approach. Rather than sitting down and trying to complete a 50,000 work novel from beginning to end, I'm considering writing just one scene at a time.

I am now working on notes for several scenes in the story. My thinking is that by focusing on each scene as an individual story I might be able to crack through the possibility of writer's block. I can then later (possibly after November) lace the scenes together with additional narrative, hopefully resulting in a plot that tells the whole story.

Also, I'll be doing something special each week, beginning next week, for NaNoWriMo with The Joe Show. I'm going to create each week a podcast of independent music that I believe will help me (and possibly others) to tune out background noise and focus more intently on the story I am writing. Each episode will be approximately an hour long, with no talk between a brief introduction and closing.

The Day That No One Died -- Final Thoughts

So there you have it, the nearly 12,000 words that I wrote during my first attempt at National Novel Writing Month in 2007. I never got the story finished, and it now sits atop a pile of unfinished works in progress (though the progress is questionable).

This year I hope to make much more progress in the process. Over the remaining two weeks before the kick off of NaNoWriMo, I'll be putting my thoughts together and hopefully formulating some plans for this years novel attempt.

Stay tuned....

The Day That No One Died (10)

Read parts one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, and nine.

* * *

Thirty seconds later, Daryl was dialing the phone.

"Well?" Charlie asked as he picked up the phone.

"Could a pwease speaka wifa misser Challs Coaton?" Daryl asked in his best [terrible] Charlie Chan type impersonation.

"Like it that much, did you?"

"You really should answer your phone with a more traditional 'Hello,' you know."

"Hello. Well?"

"You rock, man."

"I try."

"The piece is great. Just what I was looking for, really. A little folk, a little rock, and a lot of Joe."

"I aim to please."

"What do I owe you?"

"Your undying gratitude."

"Always."

"And a coffee."

"The usual place?"

"Fifteen minutes."

"How about thirty?"

"Twenty," Charlie said. "You'll be glad you didn't wait." Click.

* * *

"Wow. I thought I'd be the one waiting on you," Charlie said as he slid into the seat across from Daryl.

"You didn't really give me much choice, did you? And besides, you made it sound pretty urgent."

"We're a little beyond urgent," Charlie said, sliding a file folder across the table to Daryl.

"Did you ever feel like you're some Mike Hammer wannabe in a dime-store mystery novel?"

"Now that you mention it. No," Charlie said. "Open it and take a look."

Daryl flipped slowly through the three pages inside the folder. "I thought we already looked at these," Daryl said, recognizing the lab notes he absconded with from the hospital records room.

"We did."

"Okay, Mike Hammer. Spill the beans."

"You still don't see it there, do you?"

"Looks like a bunch of hieroglyphs to me," Daryl said. "Same as before."

"Of course."

"Did you call me out here just to tell me that you still have no idea what's going on."

"No, sir."

"Then spill it already."

"I knew you'd catch on."

"I'm not following you here, Charlie."

"Spill it," Charlie teased. "You said 'spill it'."

"It's nice to know you can hear me, at least."

"Alright, listen," Charlie began, lowering his voice and leaning into the table toward his podcaster friend.

Daryl set down his coffee and mirrored Charlie's position.

Charlie plunked down a small mp3 player on the tabletop and pressed PLAY. Music started.

FROM UNDERNEATH THE TREES WE WATCH THE SKY CONFUSING STARS FOR SATELLITES.
I NEVER DREAMED THAT YOU'D BE MINE BUT HERE WE ARE. WE'RE HERE TONIGHT.

"I don't get--"

"Just listen," Charlie insisted.

SINGIN' AMEN I, I'M ALIVE. SINGIN' AMEN I, I'M ALIVE.
IF EVERYONE CARED AND NOBODY CRIED. IF EVERYONE LOVED AND NOBODY LIED.

"Charlie--"

"Listen!"

IF EVERYONE SHARED AND SWALLOWED THEIR PRIDE, THEN WE'D SEE THE DAY WHEN NOBODY DIED.

Charlie stopped the song.

"What was that all about?" Daryl asked.

"Of all things, I would think you would understand music the best, Joe."

"Nickelback. If Everyone Cared. Awesome song. But what does it have to do--"

"Did you listen to the words, or were you too busy interrupting to hear them?"

"Of course I listened, but--"

"Sing it."

"Yeah, you're the singer, remember? I just play the tunes."

"Just tell me what you heard, Joe."

"From underneath the trees--"

"The last verse I played."

"If everyone shared and swallowed their pride, then we'd see the day when nobody died."

"Bingo!"

* * *

"Earlier this year, a bright high school kid -- very bright senior, getting ready to go off to college -- posted a question in the college forums online," Charlie explained. "Other students took interest and the discussion blossomed."

"What was the question?"

"What would happen if just for one day, nobody died."

Daryl thought for a moment, remembering the line from the song Charlie had played. "It would be a miracle," he said.

"A miracle," Charlie repeated. "Maybe."

"How could it be anything but?" Daryl asked. "To put an end to death, even for just one day. No suffering, no sadness."

"One day, Daryl. Do you really think that would put an end to suffering and sadness?"

"For a day, at least."

"Really? And at what cost?"

Again, Daryl considered the question. "Well, I guess it would cost the funeral homes a little money, and the companies that make coffins. But if we're only talking one day, they'd make it up pretty quick."

"Sure. Maybe."

"What would be so bad about it?" Daryl asked, genuinely confused.

"Think about it for a moment," Charlie explained. If eight of every thousand people die every day in America, but for just one day no one died, what impact do you suppose that would have on the population?"

"I'm not even sure what the population of the country is," Daryl said.

"Doesn't matter. That's almost one percent. To make the math simple, let's say the population is one million. What's one percent of a million?"

"Ten thousand?" Daryl asked, after considering for a moment.

"And if the birth rate is one point four percent, then that mean fourteen thousand people would be born on a normal day."

"But still--"

"But in reality, there are over two hundred million people living in the United States. Which means in one day that nobody dies, you now add over five million to the population."

"Wow."

"Yeah, wow. Five million more mouths to feed on the same food supply. And since we're working with percentages here, that number is compounded daily. Every day the population growth is bigger."

"More homeless people. More unemployed."

"And who's to say that this is just limited to people. What if for just one day, nothing died?"

"More," Daryl paused and thought of the implications. "More crickets."

"More birds, more everything."

"But this kid was just a high school kid. I mean, can he really--"

"A very bright high school kid. Actually, a college student now. With several other very bright college students interested in his theory."

"So you think he--"

"I don't know, Daryl. Maybe he did something, maybe he didn't. If he did, I don't know what it is. This is just a theory. But something definitely happened, and it doesn't look good for the home team."

* * *

Daryl had a very difficult time digesting what he'd been told. He simply could not imagine that some punk high school kid could initiate such a major event in the history of man. I mean, this is big, he told himself. This is bigger than penicillin. To wipe out all forms of death for even one day. He just couldn't fathom it.

But the implications were much further reaching. The impact of such an event was astounding. To think that such a wonderful thing as defeating death could usher in such tragedy and mayhem.

Daryl had spent the remainder of the day in his apartment, at his computer, researching. Not that there was anything to be found. It seemed that the media and scientific communities, if they were even aware, were keeping a very tight lid on the situation. Daryl had come across a forum post that he assumed was the one Charlie had told him about. It revealed nothing but the evidence that some high school had pondered the impact of a one day moratorium on death.

Daryl pushed closed the lid to his notebook computer. Weary-eyed and mush-minded, he had finally given up on uncovering anything new.

Sitting back and closing his eyes, he took it all in. The birth lists and death lists. The crickets. The birds. The thought of some high school kid changing the world. The sounds of traffic on the streets below drifted through the windows and startled him from his thoughts.

It's one thirty in the morning, Daryl thought. "What's going on out there?"
Daryl moved to the window and peered down at the bumper to bumper traffic on the street below. Unmoving. Engines racing. Horns blaring.

* * *

After a long night of tossing, turning, and wishing there was something he could about the traffic noise coming in from the street below, Daryl gave up and pulled his tired self from under the covers.

The Day That No One Died (9)

Read parts one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, and eight.

* * *

The food was getting cold, but the coffee was still hot, and as hungry as Daryl was feeling, he didn't think he should be consuming anything more substantial than coffee just now.

"What did you bring me?" Charlie asked as Daryl slid into the seat across from him.

Daryl took a sip from the cup of coffee, slid the plate of now-cold food aside, and dropped the file folders onto the table. "The folder on the top seemed most interesting to me." Another, longer drink of coffee while Charlie pulled the top file folder to him and opened it.

"Where did you get these?"

"On a desk in the records room."

Charlie spent a couple of minutes looking over the enclosed pages while Daryl sat quietly, coffee cupped in both hands, elbows on the table, slowly drinking down the warm essence of the coffee. The few minutes felt to Daryl like a lifetime.

"Okay," Charlie said, placing the pages onto the table in front of him. "So what do you make of that?"

Looking up from his coffee shocked, Daryl said, "I was going to ask you exactly the same thing."

"Humor me."

"I don't know what it means. Somebody was interested in births and deaths over the past month or so. That's all I can tell."

"No idea why?"

"Charlie, please. It's been a long day. I haven't slept well for two nights, and my mind has been wrapped around this cricket thing so tight that I can't seem to think of anything else."

"Okay, I'll give you a clue," Charlie said. "It's not just an interest in who was born or deceased. It's more of how many were born and deceased."

"How many." A statement, not a question.

"More specifically, how many and how that number increased."

"I don't get it," Daryl said.

"Joe, there's something going on here. Since October first, the number of births in that hospital alone has increased by more than five percent per day. Cumulatively."

"Okay."

"At the same time," Charlie continued, "the number of deaths has decreased by about the same amount per day. Cumulatively."

"What do you mean, cumulatively?"

"I'll make this as easy as I can. Let's say in a given hospital that there is an average of fourteen babies born each day, and an average of eight people dying each day."

"Really?"

"It's the national average. Per one thousand people, that is. It just makes the math easy to understand."

"Go on."

"If you look at the lists that you brought me, what do you notice?"

Pulling the file folder back to his side of the table, Daryl examined the lists again. Counting, he looked up and said, "On October first there were 8 births. Yesterday there were almost..." he paused and recounted. "Seventy?"

"Exactly."

"Seventy babies born in one day in one hospital? That sounds like a lot."

"The average number of babies born in McCullogh Valley Hospital each month is two hundred and forty three. Well, it was a month or so ago, anyway."

"Okay."

"That's a hundred and six more births than deaths, which is actually on par with the national average."

"A baby boom."

"Something like that. And you said almost seventy births yesterday?"

"Sixty eight," Daryl corrected. Being a man who held stats to be very important, Daryl had counted and remembered the exact number.

Scribbling some figures on a napkin, Charlie looked up and said, "Which translates to an average of over two thousand per month."

"Wow."

"Except that the number is still growing by about five percent every day. And what's worse is that the number of deaths each day is declining by the same rate at the same time."

Daryl made no response while Charlie paused, then continued. "According to the list you gave me, nobody died yesterday. Or the day before. In fact, at the current rate," scribbling again on a napkin, "of fourteen deaths a month, this town will have twenty five thousand more people than it did a year ago. Except, again, that this number keeps growing, which means that it will be much more than that."

"But why? How?" Daryl asked.

"That's where the lab notes come in, I think."

* * *

Nothing. That was exactly what Charlie had been able to tell Daryl about the cryptic lab notes, about the scribbled text in the margins, about why there suddenly seemed to be thousands more crickets, birds, cars and, maybe, people. With a promise of a call from Charlie as soon as he had any news, Daryl headed home. He was late getting out the next episode of his show and, though he wasn't sure he was in the right frame of mind to put out a good show, his subscribers deserved the consistency of the best he could on a timely schedule.

* * *

TWO MONTHS LATER

* * *

Deciding that it was the only way to put a stop to the incessant ringing annoyance, Daryl snatched up the phone and barked, "Hello."

"What kind of greeting is that for the deliverer of good things."

"Charlie. Why do I feel like you're the only person I talk to sometimes?"

"Don't know, man. It's been almost two months since the last time we talked."

"Really?"

"Really."

"Wow."

"I've got something for you," Charlie explained.

"Whatcha got?"

"An intro."

"Intro?"

"For your show. The one you asked me for over two months ago."

"Cool! Let's hear it."

"Check your email, listen to it, then call me right back." Click. Charlie never was much for long goodbyes.

Hanging up the phone, Daryl crossed the room to his studio, fired on his computer, and poured himself a cup of coffee while he waited. He had completely forgotten about the intro he had asked Charlie to put together for him. It had seemed like such an important thing so many months ago, but somehow everything had changed since then. But maybe it was exactly what he needed to get the feeling of a return to normalcy.

Web browser loaded. Inbox. Message opened.

JOE. HERE IS WHAT YOU ASKED FOR. HOPE IT'S WHAT YOU WANTED. IF NOT LET ME KNOW. I CAN MAKE SOME CHANGES IF YOU NEED. PLAY IT. THEN CALL ME. -C

Funny how someone who was supposed to have a way with words -- a musician -- communicated in such concise, incomplete sentences sometimes. What a massacre of the English language it seemed to be.

Daryl pressed play and sat back with his cup of coffee.

To be continued ...

The Day That No One Died (8)

Read parts one, two, three, four, five, six, and seven.

* * *

Daryl shook off the sleep several hours later, feeling like he had just awakened from the stereo-typical movie dream scene. You know the kind, when your favorite movie hero dozes off in the most unusual, most inopportune place, and the writers take advantage of the moment to try fool you into thinking something really exciting happens, only to disappoint you later with what the hero waking from sleep to what should have been a predictable dream scene. The most exciting thing happening in Daryl's life lately involved crickets and birds, and had nothing to with dreams. If only it was all just a dream, Daryl thought. At least then I could find an explanation for it.

Daryl flipped through the folders sitting on the seat next to him -- the folders he had taken in his hasty escape from the hospital records room. Not that there had been anything to escape. Just an eerie feeling that had begun deep in Daryl's gut and crawled it's way through his system until it was eating at his brain, nagging at him, stronger than Daryl could ignore.

Daryl looked through the enclosed papers in the top file folder. Expense reports, it seemed. Travel expenses. Mileage. Food. An overnight stay at a hotel in Washington, D.C.

Interesting, but nothing to explain the cars, the crowds, the crickets, or the crows. Pigeons, I know. But crows sounds better. All of the C words.

Daryl opened the next folder. Lab notes. Chemical symbols, if he could remember right. Nothing that made any sense to a resterauteur slash podcaster with no scientific training beyond high school science classes. Each page in the folder seemed to detail more and more lab information. The last page in the stack, with long hand notes scribbled in the margin, was dated October first, roughly forty-five days earlier. It was so recent that it seemed almost out of place among the other lab notes in the folder.

"Stinking doctors," Daryl said aloud to no one, trying to make sense of the notes scribbled in the margins. Can never read their chicken scratch. It's a wonder millions of people don't die every year from messed up prescriptions or the wrong surgical procedure being performed because someone couldn't quite read a doctor's diagnosis clearly. Setting aside the page for later, Daryl opened the next folder.

The first page appeared to be a checklist of some sort. This is what happens when you send an out-of-work podcaster to do the work of an investigator, Daryl thought. I can't make any sense of this stuff.

Charlie's words came back to him, chided him to be patient. It will find you, Joe. It will find you.
A list of names, dates, times, and a series of other numbers. Daryl examined it more closely. The numbers, it seemed, had no pattern, but were similar. Twenty-two. Twenty-one point five. Nineteen. The same sort of data down the whole column.

The next column of numbers was similarly unconnected, yet related. Nine comma six point five. Eight comma three. Eight point zero.

Checking the dates closer, Daryl noticed that the were all recent. All within the past forty-five days. The further down the list he got, the more often the dates were repeated.
Each line listed three names. Male and female names mixed. Again, Daryl could discern no pattern.

Flipping through the pages, ten of them or so, Daryl noticed that one page seemed identical to the next. Different names, number, and dates, but the same layout, the same structure, the same type of information, all written out in long hand.

Reaching the last page, Daryl found a title and column header.

LIVE BIRTHS

was neatly printed at the top, followed by the column headers.

DOB | NAME | MOTHER | FATHER | WEIGHT | LENGTH

A list of babies born in the past forty-five days? Daryl tasked himself. Okay. Nearly discarding the lists with the first folder, Daryl thought better of it and placed them with the scribbled on lab notes.

The next folder contained more lab notes. More nonsense. Quickly flipping through, Daryl segregated every sheet that had long hand notations and placed the rest back in the folder. It meant enough for someone for take notes, it might warrant a closer look.

Opening the last folder, Daryl found another collection of lists, similar to the first. Flipping straight to the last page, he found the column headings that had eluded him earlier.

NAME | DOB | DOD | NOK

The first and last column contained names. The middle two looked like dates. Written in long hand, the page title was a little harder to read than before.

DISEASED

Daryl thought it said. No, looking more closely, rubbing at the smudged ink like it might magically reveal the encrypted message below.

DECEASED

That looked more like it. A list of deaths, Daryl thought. The dates, again, appeared to be recent. "October first through," flipping to what appeared to be the most recent page, "yesterday. Forty-five days again. Same as the live births."

Gathering the noted lab notes, the birth lists, and the death lists, Daryl stuffed them all into one folder together. Probably routine stuff in a hospital, Daryl thought, though something inside him said that nothing was routine anymore.

Starting the car and pulling out of the parking garage, Daryl left in search of help. "Okay, Charlie, you said it'll find me. Of this is it, you're gonna have to tell me what it means."

Daryl picked up his cell phone and tapped out a quick text message as he pulled into traffic.

WHERE CAN I MEET YOU

The reply came back quickly.

SAME AS ALWAYS. IVE BEEN WAITING

To be continued ...

The Day That No One Died (7)

Read parts one, two, three, four, five, and six.

* * *

Choosing the slightly more conservative option, Daryl walked pseudo-calmly into the main entrance and up to the information desk. "Excuse me, could you tell--"
"I'll be with you in one moment, sir," the nasally blue-haired reception with the phone implanted in her ear said as she turned rudely away from him.

Prancing impatiently as he waited, Daryl spent a few moments observing the people coming and going. People of all shapes and sizes, seemingly from all walks of life. Young and old. Short and tall. Black and white. Large and small. Men, women, and children huddled into every corner of the hospital lobby, up and down the halls, lining the walls.

Reapproaching the desk, Daryl tried again. "Excuse me, ma'am, I really--"

With a glaring look and a raised index finger, old blue hair stopped Daryl in his mid-sentence. If looks could kill, Daryl would quickly need rushed downstairs to the morgue. "Right back atcha, granny," Daryl said, abandoning any hope of assistance as he turned and walked slowly through the lobby, one eye on the overhead signs directing him from department to department and the other eye on the crowd of gathered citizens.

On his left he passed a man slumped against the wall, clutching his arm, dried blood caked to his sleeve. On his right, a mother with the worried look of fear in her eyes cradled a young child who seemed completely unaware of her surroundings. Up ahead, the deserted gift shop.

Here a vagabond passed out in a chair, their man calming his increasingly expectant pregnant wife. As Daryl approached the gift shop, Daryl noticed that it was not abandoned, after all. Waiting patients had crowded into the tiny gift shop, sitting on the floor in the aisles, looking like the condemned waiting to be called to their execution.

Daryl picked up the pace -- as much as possible in the crowded corridor -- and pressed on for the records room. The crowd of people seeking medical attention, rather than thinning out as Daryl went, seemed to get thicker. There was definitely something up, and Daryl intended to get to the bottom of it.

"Ain't no gettin' ahead here, buddy. You wait yer turn in the back jes like ever'one else," a greasy looking homeless man said to Daryl as he pushed his way through.

"Excuse me," Daryl replied as politely as he could muster.

"I said," the vagabond continued, throwing his right hand up against Daryl's chest, attempting to block his progress. Lowering his voice to a near whisper, he continued, "I said, wait yer turn in the back of the line, jes like ever'one else."

"Two things, old man," Daryl began, narrowing his eyes and dropping his voice to a whisper as well. "One: I'm not here for medical help, so you don't have to worry about losing your place in line." Daryl paused for effect, giving the man the opportunity to remove his arm. When he didn't, Daryl continued, "Two: If you don't remove your hand from me immediately, you will have to worry about losing it."

The man stared back at Daryl as if daring him to make good on his threat. Daryl stared back at the man, shaken, nervous, shocked with himself for even thinking of such a thing. Daryl had never been a fighter, and wasn't sure he was prepared to begin his fighting career in a crowded hospital corridor with a homeless waif who smelled like he needed a bath more than medical attention.

As Daryl began to raise his arm, prepared to at least appear as if we would make good on his threat, the homeless dropped his, turned, and left the line altogether. Surprised at the man's sudden change, Daryl stared after him before moving on.

Moving slowly through the crowded corridor, uncertain where the records room was located, Daryl spotted what appeared to be an orderly, and asked, "Could you please tell me where I'll find the records room?"

"Turn around," the young orderly said.

"Excuse me?"

"Turn around," he repeated. "It's right behind you."

Hesitating, Daryl slowly turned on his heels and stared into the open records room. "Thank you," he said to the vanished orderly as he turned back around. "Go figure."

Daryl moved quickly into the waiting room, the first place he'd seen inside the entire hospital thus far that was packed wall to wall with attention seeking patients. Looking over his shoulder as he entered, Daryl pushed the open door closed behind him. "If there's anything in here, I'm going to find it," he said to himself. It'll find you, Joe, the words of Charlie Coulton rang in his head. It'll find you.

* * *

Daryl had rifled through shelf after shelf of medical records and files, looking for some kind of explanation in the few moments he had alone in the records room. It wasn't long before anxiety got the best of him and paranoia kept telling him that someone was watching him from the corridor. In the interest of caution, Daryl had then grabbed a stack of file folders from the small work station inside the room and made a hasty retreat to his car.

Where he now sat quietly, head leaned back on the seat, wondering what had just happened. Wondering where all the people had come from. Wondering why they were packed into the hospital corridor like so many sardines. Wondering, he fell asleep.

To be continued ...

The Day That No One Died (6)

Read parts one, two, three, four, and five.

* * *

Jarred from his sleep by the annoying, droning meeep meeep meeep of the alarm clock, Daryl nearly feel from the bed as he reached across the nightstand, swatting for the offending and most annoying of modern conveniences that so rudely yanked him from sleep. Meeep meeep meeep the incessant electronic warble continued. Swatting for the alarm clock, Daryl knocked it from the nightstand, sending it crashing to the floor. The sound of plastic parts skittering across the floor concerned Daryl. The unending meeep meeep meeep, even while the alarm clock broke into pieces, concerned him more.

Awaking quickly and jumping to his feet, Daryl rubbed the sleep from his eyes as he crossed the room to the window. Meeep meeep meeep. It wouldn't stop. Pulling the curtain aside and raising the shade, Daryl was briefly blinded by the sun beaming into the window. Throwing the window open, he was deafened by the meeep meeep meeep, that seemed more to be coming from outside the window rather than the busted alarm clock that now lie at Daryl's feet. A few brief moments passed as Daryl's eyes began adjusting to the intense sunlight of this early autumn morning. As his eyes sleep-worn eyes began to adjust to the morning light, the full impact of what Daryl was hearing -- meeep meeep meeep -- finally came into view. Pigeons! Everywhere! What the--

Daryl pulled the window shut and let the curtain fall back into place, wondering just what had happened to his world that would cause such an invasion of crickets and pigeons. Charlie, Daryl told himself, beginning a frantic search for the handset of the cordless phone that usually rested on the nightstand beside the alarm clock. He mentioned the pigeons yesterday. Where is that stinking phone? Dropping to his hands and knees, Daryl searched frantically under the bed. Meeep meeep meeep. The pigeons were driving him nuts with their incessant warbling. The phone, he spied it on the floor under the bed. In at least two pieces, maybe more. Meeep meeep meeep. Slapping the button on the snooze button, which Daryl found lying on the floor next to the broken cordless handset, just in case he had actually dreamed the warbling pigeons, Daryl was less than surprised to find that silencing the alarm had no effect on the meeep meeep meeep.

With the cordless being the only phone in Daryl's small apartment -- and being broken -- Daryl began searching for his cell phone. Meeep meeep meeeeeeeeeeepppp.

He snatched up his cell phone, noticed it was ringing -- meeeeeeeeeeepppp -- and answered, "Daryl."

"The birds get you yet, buddy?"

"Charlie!"

"It's like being the star in a Hitchcock movie, isn't it?"

"What's going on?"

"Same as yesterday, my friend. The crickets. The traffic. Now the birds."

"So what is it?"

"It's chaos, my friend. It's science. It's the tragedy of a miracle."

"Meaning?"

"I'll tell you more when I'm sure that I'm right."

"Don't hold out on me, Charlie."

"I'm not holding out, brother. But if what I think has happened has actually happened, we're in for the roller coaster ride of a lifetime."

"That sure eases my mind." Feeling drowned out out by the constant meeep meeep meeep warbling of the pigeons, Daryl continued. "Just tell me what I need to do."

"Research. Call the hospital. Ask about births and deaths this month. Then let me know what you find."

"What am I looking for. How will I know when it."

"It'll find you, Joe. It'll find you." The line went dead.

* * *

If it'll find me, Daryl thought, why the heck do I have to call the hospital looking for it? Of course, he knew that he would do exactly as his friend had suggested. He knew this because, no matter how much he wanted this whole mess to be nothing more than a nightmare, he had to know why -- what -- he wanted some kind of explanation. For the crickets. For the traffic. For the pigeons. For all of it. The births. The deaths. What's that all about?

Feeling as if the warbling meeep meeep meeep would drive him completely out of his mind, Daryl jumped up, literally jumped into a pair of worn out 501s, threw on a sweatshirt, and raced for the door, raking a comb through the mop of hair on his head.

At just under thirty years old, Daryl was just a little late at getting started in life. At getting started at what he thought was the course that he should be on, at least. He had tried his hand at more than one line of business: food service, military, retail, telecommunications, even a very short-lived attempt at running his own business doing -- well, pretty much whatever it is he could find someone to pay him to do. Now, stoked by the success of people like Larry Page and Sergey Brin of Google, Kevin Rose of Digg, Tom Anderson and Chris DeWolfe of MySpace, and many other Internet tycoons -- and optimistic about the success of such legendary podcasters as Leo Laporte of TWiT, Adam Curry of Podshow, and others -- Daryl had abandoned all thoughts of traditional work and threw his hat into the new media ring, launching his very own podcast, titled Average Joe Radio. Playing independent music and talking about things such as politics, family, and work, Daryl quickly drew an audience that numbered in the hundreds. But hundreds not being good enough for Daryl, or "Joe," as he referred to himself on the show and in all forums of social media, he was continually seeking for the next big thing, the next big feature he could add to his show that would draw more listeners. The next big way to successfully promote his show.

Starting with a special episode Daryl had done featuring music and discussion with Charlie Coulton, Daryl began regularly featuring independent musicians on his show, playing exclusive music, giving away free CDs, and giving his listeners an intimate look inside the life of their favorite independent musicians. Daryl had long taken a stance against any type of monetary sponsorship of his podcast -- not that financial sponsors had been knocking down his door to sign up. But Daryl felt that he could best remain independent, impartial, and open if he didn't allow himself to become influenced by someone throwing a little money his way.

All of that changed on the day that Daryl walked out of Tumbleweed for the last time as a restaurant Manager. Quickly chewing through his savings, Daryl had realized that he must quickly find some source of income to make this hobby of his long term. It was not without serious consideration and consultation with friends in new media and music that Daryl finally decided to accept advertising for his show. Sponsorship. Limited, of course, to products or businesses that Daryl felt he could personally endorse honestly. Now if he could just get the sponsors to come to the same conclusion Daryl had and actually pay him for advertising on his show.

"It's all about demand, Joe," a successful fellow podcaster had told him in an online chat over the Skype VOIP service. Voice Over Internet Protocol had become a popular method of recording podcast interviews, or panels of experts about any particular topic, and Skype was the recognized leader in the market. "You will never find a willing sponsor if you don't keep increasing the size of your audience. How many listeners do you have right now?"
"I'm not sure, I'd have to check my show stats."

"Wrong answer, Joe. You have to know at all times exactly how many listeners you have. You need to be able to tell a potential sponsor, without hesitation, how many people downloaded your most recent show, how many downloads you've had in the past month, and your monthly average download number. If you don't know those basic numbers, no one is going to take you seriously."

"Okay, let's say I can spout those numbers off, then what?"

"Pull up your stats real quick and tell me how many listeners you've had this month."
Eager to make an impact -- a difference -- Daryl pulled up his show page and clicked the stats link. "One thousand and seventeen," he said proudly.

"Pretty impressive. How long have you been podcasting?"

"About ten months now."

"So you've averaged a growth rate of about a hundred listeners per month. That's not bad. But you can do more."

Silence. Daryl paused, expecting to hear more, waiting for more. Finally, "I'm listening," he said. "I mean you can do more. Grow your show. More listeners all the time. Create the demand. The more people there are begging for your show, the more sponsors there will be begging to advertise on your show."

"So how do I get more people begging for my show."

"Now that's the sixty-four thousand dollar question, isn't it? If I had some magic formula for podcasting success, I don't think I'd be sharing it. Not for free, anyway."

He hadn't seen all of his questions answered, but his mind did starting churning out the ideas. And Daryl started implementing them in his show. And his audience continued growing. But the sponsors had yet to come calling.

Daryl pulled up to the hospital, intent on getting some answers, and convinced that those answers would come more easily in person than over the telephone. Was the world being over run by ants and birds and emergency, or should he use the main entrance?

To be continued ...

The Day That No One Died (5)

Read parts one, two, three, and four.

* * *

A quick run to the post office, packages mailed, and just enough time to make it back across town for lunch with Charlie Coulton. Daryl had become one of Charlie's biggest supporters in new media, and Charlie had become one of Darly most supportive musicians. Charlie's music had been featured on several episodes of Daryl's show, Average Joe Radio, and Daryl was hopeful that Charlie would feel compelled to repay in kind -- with a custom written intro that Daryl could use as the opening to every episode.

Charlie, a creature of habit and tradition, insisted that they always meet at the same table at the same restaurant as that first conversation. Thus, Daryl Campa was headed back to the Tumbleweed restaurant he once was responsible for operating. It had been nearly a year since Daryl had stepped out on his own, leaving the restaurant business -- and all traditional forms of employment -- behind him and embarked on his attempt to make a living as a new media professional. It had been a rocky road so far, but Daryl Campa did not give up easily.

As they were reported to have been on the highway, cars seemed to be increasingly numerous today, and Daryl was forced to park nearly a block from his old haunt and walk the final distance. Work up a little appetite, I guess, Daryl told himself as he hoofed it down the sidewalk and dodged between the traffic jammed cars to cross the street.

"Daryl, long time no see, buddy," greeted his old friend, Kraig Stall, who had ascended to the Tumbleweed throne upon Daryl's departure.

"It has been a bit, hasn't it?"

"What brings you in today?"

"Meeting with a friend," Daryl answered.

"Your music friend?"

"Charlie Coulton, yeah. He here yet?"

"Same table as always."

"Thanks. I'll talk to you later."

"Good seeing you, Daryl."

"You, too, Kraig."

* * *

Charlie Coulton stood from the table quietly, greeting Daryl as he approached. "Hello, Joe."

"Charlie, how goes it?"

"Same as ever. Just trying to get some new music out. Feel like that's the story of my life."

"No pressure, though. Right?"

"Not like it used to be, man. Have a seat, coffee's still hot."

Noticing that Charlie had taken the liberty of ordering a hot cup of coffee for him, Daryl slid into the seat across the table and took a satisfying sip of coffee.

"So what can I do for you today?" Charlie asked, getting right to business.

"Never one to beat around the bush, were you?"

"Waste of time."

"I was hoping I could persuade you to put together a little custom intro for me for the show."

"Music, lyrics, the whole gamut?"

"Whatever you can put together for me."

"Love to, Daryl."

"That easy?"

"That easy. The way I see it, we have a mutually beneficial relationship. You do for me, I do for you. Seems pretty simple to me."

"Yeah, I guess so. Kinda nice, isn't it?"

"You notice what's been going on around this town today?"

"Excuse me?" Daryl replied, taken aback by the sudden change of subject.

"Traffic. Crickets. Pigeons. How far away did you have to park to get here today?"

"Almost a block away."

"Exactly. And how did you get here today? Interstate?"

"No, I came across town. But I heard the loop was in gridlock."

"I've got a theory."

"A theory?"

"Yeah," Charlie explained. "About the gridlock. The traffic. The cars."

"Okay. I'll bite."

"Not yet. I need to think this one through a little more. Besides, it's still early. It may be nothing."

"You lost me somewhere."

"Never mind. So tell me, what do you have in mind for this intro?"

Glad to be back on track, Daryl popped open some notes he had brought with him, laying out what his ideas for the intro. "Just a couple of thoughts."

"No problem, man," Charlie said, swooping up the folder without a glance. "I'll put some things together and drop you a line, you can let me know what you think."

"Sure. I'm sure it'll be great."

"Gonna have a little lunch?" Charlie asked.

"Would you be offended if I took a rain check? I'm running a little behind on some errands today. Kind of had a nasty run in this morning with --" crickets. He didn't finish the sentence, remembering Charlie's sudden change of subject earlier. You notice what's been going on around this town today? Traffic. Crickets. Pigeons.

"With who?" Charlie asked, curious.

"Not who, really. More like what."

"Okay, with what."

"Nothing really," Daryl said, hoping to drop the subject.

"A nasty run in sounds like a little more than nothing."

"You wouldn't believe it."

"Try me."

Pausing, Daryl prayed silently for a way out.

"Well?"

"Crickets," Daryl said quietly.

* * *

With a day of meetings finally over, Daryl was more than ready to return home, crickets or not. It had felt like a much longer day than it should have felt. Just two brief meetings, really, plus an errand or two in between. Oh -- and lots of heavy, nearly unnavigable traffic from one side of town to the other -- had quickly added up to what turned out to be a very, very long day.
Or so Daryl felt, until he let himself into his house and saw that the clock on the wall reported that it was barely two o'clock in the afternoon. Wow, Daryl thought. Time sure flies.

Daryl dropped his keys and files on the table by the door, leaned back against the wall, and slid to a seat on the tiled floor entryway. Head in his hands, rubbing his eyes with the palms of his hands, Daryl reflected back on how this crazy day had begun.

Where did all those crickets come from? It didn't seem to add up. Or worse, maybe, it added up to too much. Too many. Crickets, that is. And even Charlie saw it. The crickets. The traffic. And what else was it he said?

Daryl racked his brain trying to figure out what else it had been that Charlie had mentioned. There had been an inexplicable increase, it seemed, in the number of crickets, the density of traffic, and pigeons, that's what he said.

Daryl stood quickly to his feet and opened the front door. Stepping out onto the sidewalk, he shaded his eyes and looked to the sky. It was a bright afternoon, not a cloud in the sky. The temperature was unseasonably warm, and yes, there does seem to be more pigeons than I remember. Scanning along the power lines across the street, Daryl tried to count the pigeons. Searching for just a small section of power line that wasn't heavily populated with pigeons, Daryl soon gave up on trying to count them all. What's the link? he asked himself.

Turning his face to the sky, screaming, "What. Is. The. Link?" drawing out the last syllable until his voice faded out, squinting his eyes at the sun. As he opened his eyes, his screams died away to the peals of a thousand wings, as loud as thunder. Pigeons took to the air, casting a collective shadow over the streets below. Seemingly blotting out the sun. Instinctively, Daryl ducked and threw his arms over his head for cover. Unnecessarily.

To be continued ...

The Day That No One Died (4)

Read part one here.
Read part two here.
Read part three here.

* * *

Nudging the nose of his Buick into traffic, Daryl pulled away from the curb. He had just enough time to stop at the post office on the way to his lunch meeting with Charlie Coulton. Getting the packages mailed today was critical to his business plan. Promotion of his product was now his primary focus, and the packages he was sending were intended to do just that. Promote.
Navigating the traffic -- weaving in and out, frequently braking and looking for an opportunity to move to a faster moving lane -- Daryl inched his way toward the post office across town. I can't believe how heavy traffic is today, he thought, turning on his mp3 player and choosing some of Coulton's music to get him in the right frame of mind. This is more like five o'clock rush hour than late morning traffic. Switching the music off, Daryl did something very rare for him to do -- he turned on the radio. Twice in one day, he thought, as he tuned in News Talk 510 and waited for the traffic report. Wow. Well, podcasts sure are great, but they just can't give you up to the minute traffic and weather.

Daryl ducked to the left as an oversize SUV claimed the space he was occupying, barely giving him time to vacate it first. "Watch what you're doing, you --"

Interrupted by the traffic report coming on the radio, Daryl paused.

Traffic is heavy both inbound and outbound, with gridlock in all directions on the loop. You'll need more than a little extra time to get where you're going today. Might I suggest taking a good book?

Daryl lost track of the conversation as the traffic reporter engaged in mindless banter with the anchor at the station. More than a little extra time, huh? he thought. Why don't they ever report on traffic conditions within the city? Do they think people only drive on the Interstate?
I don't know what's causing the hold up, Larry. It is definitely not your typical Monday lunch crowd. There are no special events in town this week that I'm aware of. It just seems that there are more cars on the road than usual, for some reason.

"Wonder how long it took him to figure that one out," Daryl said to no one. "More crickets. More cars. More coffee! That's what I need right now!"

* * *

Approaching the table slowly, Daryl heard the phone conversation end and made his move. "Excuse me, sir. My name's Daryl, and I'm the Manager here. Is everything okay with your meal today?"

"No, everything is not okay," the diner answered gruffly.

"I beg your pardon?" Daryl asked, shocked.

"I'm sorry," the diner answered. "Daryl, you said?"

"Yes, sir."

"Sit down with me, won't you Daryl?"

"Absolutely, sir. Was there something wrong your meal today?"

"No, no, the meal was fine."

"Something else bothering you, sir? Something I can help with?"

"You listen to music, Daryl?"

"At times, yes."

"What do you listen to?"

"Well, it's mostly stuff you never hear on the radio."

"Punk?"

"No, of course not. I don't understand how anyone can listen to that stuff."

"To each his own. One man's garbage, you know."

"Yeah. I guess I listen to a little of everything, but it's mostly independent stuff."

"You don't say?"

"Yeah, I can't remember the last time I actually listened to music on the radio. Top forty stuff just doesn't get it for me."

"Really? Ever heard of Charlie Coulton?"

Taking that as confirmation that he was, indeed, speaking with the great Charlie Coulton, Daryl proceeded cautiously. "The TV news anchor?"

"Excuse me?" the musician responded with a tone of surprise.

"Of course I've heard of you, sir. Hasn't everyone?"

"Apparently not, if you ask my record label. They seem to think I'm a little slow putting out my next album, and that sales of my last album have dipped to an undesirable level."

"I can't imagine, sir."

"Do you own a copy, Daryl?"

"I could say that I have, but that would surely just lead to other questions I wouldn't be able to answer, so I'll have to be honest with you, sir. I haven't heard your latest album."

"Doesn't surprise me."

"I'm sure it's good music. I just, well, like I said, I don't really listen to mainstream music."

"Yeah, sure. Independent stuff. So you said. Maybe there's something to not having a big record label breathing down your next all the time."

"Lots of artists are trying it, you know. Quiet Riot, Radiohead, even the Godfather of Soul himself put some music out through independent channels. Not to mention George Thorogood and Nancy Wilson of Heart."

"Really?"

"Absolutely."

"Of course, you don't hear much of their music anymore."

"Quite the contrary, you just have to know where to look."

"Okay, educate me," the musician said, slumping back into his chair with his arms crossed over his chest. It was obvious that he didn't expect to hear anything impressive.

"Well, the independent music industry is growing by leaps and bounds. Of course, there's MySpace Music, which is critical to every musician, independent or not. There are more and more independent record labels that allow artists to retain more control and more of the profits from their work. Tri-Ooomph Entertainment, Populuxe Records, Engine Company Records, just to name a few. And there more and more channels for independent artists to distribute their music however they see fit."

"Go on," Coulton interrupted, sitting up straighter in his seat.

"Well, I guess first and foremost is the Podsafe Music Network, with tens, maybe hundreds of thousands of podcasters playing independent music in weekly online radio shows."

"Podcasters," Coulton repeated.

"Yeah. Musicians upload music to the PMN -- Podsafe Music Network -- and registered podcasters can download the music for free and use it in their own shows. Listeners then subscribe to recieve the show automatically every time a new episode is posted."

"Where's the money in that?"

"Listeners can purchase many of the tunes directly from the PMN. Most podcasters include links to artist websites on their show pages where listeners can go to buy the music. Many podcasters actually purchase the music themselves, even though they can download much of it for free for use in their shows."

"Sounds like copyright infringement just waiting to happen."

"That really hasn't been a problem yet," Daryl continued. "Podcasters do it because they love the music and they want to support independent artists. I guess they could share the music any way that they wish, but it's in their own interest to make the system work. Too much abuse could mean less music available for them to use, leading to less interesting shows and decreased listenership. Many podcasters actually run advertising on their shows and are making a pretty decent living doing what they do."

"Okay, so this PMN thing. That's it?"

"Actually, there are several other distributors who provide similar services. There's Magnatune, the IODA Promonet, AirPlay Direct, Ariel Publicity, it's actually becoming a pretty common way to distribute music."

"Interesting."

"Nobody is getting rich on it overnight, but it's a way to get your music out there for artists who don't have a record deal, and there's no hassling agent or record company pushing them to meet a deadline, or cut a tune, or change a song or album title."

"I see."

"Listen, you really should check it out. Like I said, I listen to so much great independent music now that I can't remember the last time I heard music on the radio."

"Yeah, so you said. Including my music."

"Sorry."

Jotting down a note on the back of a business card, Coulton continued. "Tell you what, I'll make you a deal. I'll check out this PMN and Magnum Tune --"

"Magnatune. It's at Magnatune dot com."

"Yeah, okay. I'll check out these indie sites, and you go check out my new album. It's not out yet, so I'm gonna trust you to guard it like these podcaster people guard the music they play. Here's a link where you can download the whole album. Let me know how you like it. My number's on the other side."

"Mister Coulton, I'm honored."

"Don't be honored. Just be honest."

"Why me?"

"Because you're an average Joe, and I think an average Joe's opinion is important."

"Okay, you got it."

Charlie Coulton, frustrated former top forty singer, dropped a wad of bills on the table and stood to go, turning and walking away without a word.

To be continued ...

The Day That No One Died (3)

Read part one here.
Read part two here.

* * *

Crickets in the yard. Crickets in the bathroom. Crickets in my coffee. What is happening? Daryl wondered as he headed from the cafe to his car. Where are they coming from, and why are they following me? They had to be following him, of course. Didn't they? Why else were they popping up everywhere he went? Could it just be coincidence? Did the cafe have a problem with insects? And how many insects were acceptable before the Department of Health shut you down? Maybe I should call and check on that later, he thought, thought he knew he was unlikely to do such a thing.

The truth be told, Daryl Campa was not particularly put off by the prospect of having a cricket doing the breast stroke in his coffee. It wasn't like it could hurt him. Could it? After all, it wasn't a malaria-carrying mosquito, or a cockroach. It was just harmless little cricket. Yeah, harmless. Tell that to the smashed crickets in the bathroom this morning. I almost broke my neck because of those harmless little crickets, Daryl mused. No, it could have been worse, and now wasn't the time to worry about such things, anyway. Daryl had a rapidly approaching lunch time appointment with his favorite independent musician, and he had at least one stop to make before then. I'm sure it's just some strange coincidence, anyway.

Distractedly pulling into traffic, Daryl remembered his first meeting with Charlie Coulton. It had only been six months, but quite a bit had happened in that short period of time. It was amazing how quickly things could change.

* * *

Daryl Campa was a restaurateur. Sort of. He supposed it wasn't quite so fancy as the word might make it sound. Restaurateur, he told himself. Right. More like Restaurant Manager. Which, in fact, is exactly what he was. Running the day to day operations of one location among many in the popular Tumbleweed restaurant chain. No, he guessed he couldn't accurately call himself a restaurateur. Tumbleweed was not quite gourmet enough for that.

But it was a living, and not a bad one, at that. Decent salary. Good benefits. And an okay incentive plan. Actually, the bonuses could be quite nice, when business was on a roll. But somehow, it just wasn't enough for young Daryl. At the age of thirty-five, he still considered himself quite young. Young enough, maybe. But closing in quickly on the point of no return. If he ever hoped to make a change in his life and pursue his dreams, it would have to happen soon.
With a passion for music and reading, Daryl knew that he was destined for something much more creative than satisfying the appetites of the locals. He had always fancied himself a writer, and had even penned what he considered to be some pretty solid stories during his younger years. Though he hadn't written much lately, he figured it was something he could easily pick back up any time he wanted. Soon, he reminded himself.

But writing -- doing it seriously, anyway -- required such time. Such commitment. Time he didn't have, and commitment he wasn't sure he could live up to. And working it in with his latest hobby -- creating a variety of online content -- would mean that something somewhere would have to give. In addition to his passion for writing, Daryl had always loved music. And while he was no singer -- though he never let that stop him from belting out a tune at the top of his lungs within the confines of his own car -- he had always felt that there was a place for him in music. Someplace.

As a youth, during his high school years, Daryl had given some serious, albeit brief, consideration to joining the schools broadcasting program. With a local radio and television station, students were given the opportunity to learn the business and creative sides of running a station. Daryl always thought he could do a better job than any other student DJ he heard on the station.
But academics had been his focus, with a schedule filled with college prep materials. College prep that had turned into mundane, routine life prep. For Daryl had never made it into college. Never tried, really. Never fancied himself continuing as a student. Instead, he found himself working in a fast food kitchen, flipping burgers and burning fries forty to fifty hours a week. With a little hard work and determination, he had slowly climbed his way to running his own steakhouse, but there was still something missing.

One day, as he was making his rounds through the dining room of what he considered his Tumbleweed restaurant, Daryl stopped cold in his tracks. He had heard what sounded like a very familiar voice, though he was having quite a difficulty placing it.

"The single should be finished this week," the voice said, "and the new album available for download later this month."

I know that voice, Daryl puzzled. Who is that?

"It's been a while, yeah, but better artists than myself have taken much longer between albums. Remember Boston? Try as many as six years between albums for them."

I have got to get a look. Maybe he'll look familiar, too.

"That album sold like hot cakes. Sometimes a little wait can really build up the anticipation."
Daryl slowly, inconspicuously (he hoped), made his way across the dining room, trying not to lose earshot of the voice. He had to find out who it was, but didn't want to miss any of the conversation. Great, I'm a Peeping Tom now.

"Yeah, thanks. I don't need you telling me that I'm no Boston. I'm not sure I would want to be Boston, anyway."

Daryl slowly approached the table, under the guise of a Manager who wanted his customers to have the best. He slowed his pace, not wanting to arrive in the midst of a phone conversation.
"I'll send you a link later this evening, you can download and check it out for yourself. Okay, okay. I'll talk to you again tomorrow."

Bingo, time to make my move, Daryl thought.

To be continued...

The Day That No One Died (2)

Read part one here.

* * *

In the world of big media, it is usually the advertisers who come to the networks and media professionals, trying to sell their services. Some of the slickest sellers in sales -- often better even than the much renowned used car salesmen -- Advertising Representatives typically bend over backward to do everything they can to land the big account, catering to the every whim of the media execs they hope to ensnare. Such is not the case when said media exec is merely a new media entrepreneur with a portfolio of web sites his looking to monetize. The advertising industry has been quite reluctant to embrace new media. And this lack of serious consideration for those involved in new media is why Daryl Campa -- blogger, podcaster, and new media entrepreneur -- found himself headed into the city to speak to a Public Relations Representative about advertising options for his family of sites. This Public Relations Representative would then present what he (or she, Daryl wasn't sure yet with whom he would be speaking) found useful to an Advertising and Marketing company that seemed to stay quite detached from the whole process. It was Daryl's best chance yet to turn the traffic on his sites into an income of sorts.

Daryl drove into the city, sipping cautiously at his coffee as he navigated the busy morning streets. His meeting was scheduled for ten o'clock, but Daryl had the annoying habit of arriving every place he went at least thirty minutes earlier, and even more so if there was business to be done. It was therefore no surprise to Daryl when he found himself with an hour to kill upon arriving for his morning appointment. Shifting focus just a bit, Daryl tuned the radio to News Talk 510, picked up his coffee, and sank back into his seat.

* * *

"So what you're telling me is that, you can't really tell me how many listeners your show has."

"Not exactly," Daryl explained again. "Just as television has the Nielsen ratings to tell us how many viewers are watching a specific show at a specific time, podcasting has Podtrac. It tells me how many listeners download my show through their servers."

"So then you can tell me how many listeners you have."

"Not exactly," Daryl continued, frustrated. He had dealt with people like this before -- people who feel that they are all-knowing, all-seeing and, certainly, all-powerful. People who sit on their holier-than-thou clouds talking down to you because you need them more than they'll ever need you. "I can tell you how many listeners download through the Podtrac servers, but there are listeners who hear the show streamed through the site. Probably as many, if not more, than there are that download."

"And you can track this listenership how?"

"Feedback?" Daryl tried.

"Feedback?" the stuffed shirt repeated.

"You know, feedback from my listeners."

"From your listeners."

Daryl took another sip of his coffee, using the moment to calm himself and regroup before he said something to this person that he might later regret. He continued, "Podcasting is an evolving form of new media. There is yet to be an accurate way to track the size of a shows listening audience."

"And that, Mr. Campa, is exactly where my client will have a problem with getting involved in your show."

"Let me ask you something, Mr. Boyer," Daryl paused for the obligatory, Call me Lonny that never came. He continued, "How long have you been in this business?"

"I don't see how that--"

"Indulge me, please."

"Three, maybe four."

"Years?" Daryl asked for clarification.

"Months," the stuffed shirt replied.

"And how, exactly, does your client measure the success of your services to them?"

"Through return on investment." When Daryl failed to respond, Mr. Boyer continued, "When a client sees an increase in product sales that coincides with the timing of an ad campaign, it is clearly a result of the advertising."

"Congratulations."

"Thank you," the stuffed shirt said uncertainly. "But for what."

"Because you just explained exactly how your client will be able to tell if advertising in new media will work for them."

"Excuse me?"

"Run just one ad, Mr. Boyer. One ad, give it three episodes. Watch your sales. If you see no increase that coincides with the ad campaign on my show, you pay nothing. If you see any increase whatsoever, you pay the asking rate." Pausing for a moment, Daryl took another sip of his coffee, allowing his comments time to sink in. "But, just to make things interesting, if you see, say, double-digit increases in sales that coincide with the timing of your ad on my show, you pay twice the asking rate."

"Now you're pushing it, Mr. Campa."

"A man's gotta try, right?"

"Hardly," the stuffed shirt answered. "But I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll take your proposal back to my client. All but the last part, that is. I'll even go so far as to recommend that they accept the limited terms of you offer. I think we might be able to give this is a shot."

"That's all I ask."

"I'll be in touch," Mr. Boyer said, rising from his chair and extending his hand to Daryl.

"I'll be waiting with baited breath," Daryl said, returning the gesture.

Daryl drained the last drop of coffee from his mug as the stuffed shirt, snot-nosed, still too new at his job to know any better Mr. Lonny Boyer strutted from the cafe.

"This just might turn out to be a good day after all," Darryl said, setting his empty cup on the table.

"Beg your pardon?"

"I said," Daryl began, noticing that the waitress had returned to his table with a pot of coffee. "Just thinking out loud," he continued.

"Top if off for you?"

"No thanks," Daryl said, glancing at the empty porcelain cup. "I think I've had enough." Picking up the cup and gesturing into the bottom of it, he continued, "And he probably has, too."

"Oh, sir, I am so sorry," the waitress shrieked. "I have no idea how a cricket could have gotten into your coffee."

To be continued ...

The Day That No One Died (1)

With National Novel Writing Month kicking off in just over 25 days, I thought I would get ready for it by sharing my attempt last year. I completed 11,784 words -- a long way from the 50,000 word goal. I haven't done any work on that story since then.

Here it is, in it's unrefined condition (posted in several parts over the next few days):

Crickets. Hundreds of them. Thousands, even. More crickets than he had ever seen in one place at one time. Maybe more than he'd seen ever, over the period of his short life. Daryl Campa let the curtain slide closed, stepped back from the door, and paused. Thoughtfully. Crickets.

Slowly drawing the curtain back again, he peered out the window. Tens of thousands, maybe? He released the curtain, placed his hand upon the knob, and paused once again. Only briefly, before slowly turning the knob and letting the cool autumn air rush into the room. The cool autumn air, and the pealing roar of a hundred thousand raging crickets. Recoiling, he slammed the door and wondered why he hadn't heard them earlier. Because the only thing worse than a hundred thousand noisy crickets is one cricket, he told himself. And just one lonely cricket trapped in the master bath was enough to keep him awake for most of the night.
Trudging down the hallway, clumsily wiping the sleep from his bloodshot eyes, Daryl returned to the now-steamy bathroom, and the hot shower that awaited him. And the only thing better than a hot shower on a cold autumn morning is a fluffy pillow in a warm bed, he lamented, wishing he could slip back between the covers and try to catch up lost sleep. No time now, he reminded himself. Daryl Campa had places to go and people to see, and time was wasting.

Shrugging off his bathrobe, he paid it no mind when it landed on the flattened corpse of the felonious cricket that had robbed him of so much rest the night before. It had been his first order of business to murder the little beast when he finally gave up on sleep and pulled himself from bed. It hadn't been easy, Those little suckers are quick, but he'd managed well enough. After five, maybe ten, minutes of stomping into corners, behind the sink, and around the tub, he'd finally caught the provocateur beneath the heel of his bare foot. Leaving the cricket to rot where it died, Daryl had disgustedly wiped the bug debris from his heel, wincing in disgust, wondering how the little bugger had made it into his home in the first place.

It was this curiosity that had taken Daryl to the mudroom, where he'd discovered the invading army of crickets that now blanketed his back lawn. And it was this revulsion that had made him return to the steamy hot shower that promised to bring the life back into him. Daryl Campa was going to need it. It was going to be a long day.

Daryl had a packed morning ahead of him -- meetings, presentations, interviews -- all the stuff of an up-and-coming entrepreneur such as himself. Daryl was in media. New media, to be precise. The kind of new media you found on the Internet. Blogging. Podcasting. Video logs. Daryl was into pretty much all of it. And so far, it was not a very lucrative business for him. It seemed that Internet-savvy people loved to find media content on the Internet, and they loved to download and consume said content, so long as it was free. He had tried paid subscriptions and donation buttons, but the response was less than luke warm. No one wanted to give up any money. It had only been recently that Daryl had realized that the only way to monetize his business -- this new media thing -- was to get advertising. Big advertising. All the big advertising he could manage.

For some reason, advertisers were starting to see the value of placing their thirty second audio spiel into the content put out by new media producers such as Daryl. He hadn't figured it out yet, but if it works for TV and radio, why not the web? he asked himself. Yes, why not. And he hoped to prove to himself, and to the big media megalons, that indeed, new media could be as profitable a venture as any. Thus he had peppered his morning with meetings and presentations. Sales pitches to potential advertisers. Lunch with a musician he hoped he could persuade to write a custom theme for him, free of charge. Phone calls to promoters that would someday beg to include his content in their listings.

Daryl had a busy morning planned. Very busy. And he had no time for such nuisances as crickets! He pleasured in the steamy hot water pulsing down from above as he mentally prepared for the day's activities. The sales portion of his gig came easy to Daryl. He was a natural-born talker, or so he had been told throughout his life. He warmed up quickly to people, and the more he perceived they could do for him, the warmer he got, all the quicker. Mental preparation was merely a flushing of the thoughts [crickets] from his mind that had invaded his sleep. A way to turn off all of the intrusion [crickets] that seemed to distract him. He had developed a [crickets] system to do just that. Only it didn't seem to [crickets] be working so well for him on this cool, autumn morning. This unusual [crickets] morning.

Shutting off the water and letting the steam dissipate before stepping for the shower, Daryl slumped into the tub. I must look like a [cricket] baseball catcher the way I'm sitting here right now, he thought. Like I'm waiting for the next [cricket] pitch to be thrown in. Crickets on the brain, and he just couldn't shake them. Crickets. Dabbing the moisture from his eyes as he stepped from the shower, Daryl placed one foot, then the other, onto the cold tile floor. Slipping. Falling. Landing. On crickets!

Angrier than he can ever remember having been before, Daryl Camp sat dripping wet, barely wrapped in his towel, on the cold tile floor, squished crickets beneath him. A drop of blood dripped from to his feet, and he raised his hand to his lip to investigate. He winced as he touched his lip. Must have bit it when I fell, he told himself. How did these crickets come in? He pulled himself to his feet and reached back into the shower, starting the steamy stream again. Gonna have to wash these cricket guts away, now.

His first meeting was still some time away, but this little unplanned mishap would take precious time from the leisurely morning he had planned. I'll just have to drink "that coffee on the road," he said, as his thoughts began to manifest themselves more tangibly in speech. "Or hit the post office on the way home instead." But no, that would never do. It would be the coffee he sacrificed. His much beloved coffee. His greatest weakness. The packages that needed mailing could not wait one moment longer. They absolutely had to go out with the morning mail. It had already been committed, and Daryl intended to keep his commitments.

He stepped into the shower and let the steamy hot stream wash over him, rinsing any remnants from the cricket invaders down the drain and into the great beyond. Next time he would investigate before stepping from the shower. There would not be another crickety mishap. Then he would quickly dress, collect his presentation materials, and hit the road, hoping to make up enough time to still enjoy that hot cup of coffee he was longing for. Then, when he returned home, he would deal with the crickets. Once and for all.

More tomorrow...

My NaNoWriMo 2008 Blog

For the second year, I'm participating in NaNoWriMo. This year, I'm going to put my full effort into achieving the 50,000 word goal. You can follow my progress here, or at my NaNoWriMo page. The fun begins on November 1.

Joe