Off.

It's a work holiday for me, but not for Brian. I had planned to spend the day taking care of things around the house, but the lure of the couch was too strong. The day is still young, however, so there is hope it won't be a total waste.

Last weekend Brian and I had excellent seats at the Portland Pirates (hockey) game. We were four rows up from center ice, pretty much the best seats in the house. And the safest, or so I thought, since we were close to the glass. An older women sitting in the first row found out the hard way that it apparently doesn't matter how close you are, you are still a target for a wayward puck. She got knocked a good one just under her left eye, which immediately turned black, and the puck also sliced her cheek open. She was able to stand and Civic Center staff escorted her out. Not long after she left, a man sitting behind her looked down at his feet, looked back up and around, then reached down. He snatched up the bloody puck and shoved it into his pocket. I mean, I would have liked a puck as souvenir, but that seemed a little... grim. I couldn't quite relax for the remainder of the game, the image of the puck slamming into skin and bone burned into my brain.

Since then, I keep going back to that man and what possessed him to stash a bloody puck in his pocket, and an idea for a short story popped into my head. I am going to see what I can do with it, but the idea is nowhere near an original one. Most ideas aren't, but I am fairly sure this one has been done A Lot. Whatever. I am going to run with it and see what comes out of this little germ planted in my brain. If I can get a couple of pages written today, I will consider the day a success.

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