Dear Midwood Flats

I’ve returned from another New York visit with my brother, his friends, and the change of pace it brings. We had an awesome time at restaurants like Risbo and Moe’s, sites like Grants’ Tomb and USS Intrepid, and getting in 15-20,000 steps a day.

And that’s where the apology begins:

Dear Midwood Flats,

We met upon my arrival to the city. I was fresh from the plane and anxious to walk. From my brother’s apartment, I walked in your direction, never knowing you existed. I had no intention of sitting down for a beer. But I walked, perhaps a mile or so, but enough that my intentions changed.

At first, I walked past you, curious, but dedicated to enjoying the midafternoon sun. On my return, I decided to check you out.

Midwood Flats: You’re beautiful. I only stayed for a beer, but in the meantime, I met a fellow film lover and chatted with Luise. I enjoyed the music, the high-top chairs, and the local vibe I felt. One beer could have turned to two or three, but I’m still limited with my liver. You understand!

Before I left with my brother in search of dinner – I don’t know if I can say that since we knew where – I told you I’d be by for Sunday karaoke.

I never showed.

I’m sorry. Karaoke on Sunday stayed in my head throughout my visit. Thursday through Saturday, I was ready. Yet, by the end of Sunday’s activities, I was beat! Saturday? I would have been all in! But Sunday? I was beyond tired. I could have crashed by 9:30 or 10. Will, of course, kept me up until 11:30, playing Crazy Eights.

And I didn’t even have the heart to call and let you know.

I’m sure you were waiting for me. I’m sure someone else knocked your socks off with their rendition of “Brandy” or “Under the Boardwalk.” I hope you can forgive me.

Next time…whenever that is, I’ll show up. I swear it.

Sincerely,

Nick

Historical What-Ifs with ChatGPT

AI image of an alternative history to Gettysburg

ChatGPT’s response to: Can you do an Oliver Wendell Holmes-type painting of Ward’s brigade pushing back the rebs?

Utilizing AI to simulate war games

Ever wondered what would happen if the 3rd Maine held the Peach Orchard at Gettysburg? I found out—thanks to a little AI-assisted what-if. ChatGPT is great for generating code, researching, learning a language, and revising writing. Sure, it has drawbacks, and sometimes it’s even flat-out wrong. But it’s still a fascinating resource. I’ve used it as a writing group, a lesson planner, and—most recently—for war gaming.

That’s right: I’ve prompted the chatbot to roleplay historical military leaders in text-based battle simulations. I tell it:

“Take on the role of the opposing side and his subordinates. Based on their personalities, temperaments, and command styles, react to my moves. Do not make things easy for me. Engage my forces as necessary and in the method most appropriate to the opposing commander’s role.”

Why the Peach Orchard?

As a Maine-based Civil War reenactor, you might think I’d start with Little Round Top. If you knew me better, you’d know my real fascination lies with the 16th Maine, 3rd Maine, 17th Maine, and the Maine batteries. So I chose the 3rd Maine and the Peach Orchard as my first scenario.
My goal: see if a tactical change could reshape the battle—and maybe the war. What if Ward’s brigade, anchored by the 3rd Maine, managed to hold off Barksdale’s Mississippians and Wofford’s Georgians?

Historical Reality

On July 2, 1863, Ward’s brigade faced Kershaw’s South Carolinians head-on. Kershaw hit hard, but the Federals pushed them back—briefly. Then Barksdale smashed in, overwhelming Ward’s position. The Peach Orchard fell, the Union flank collapsed, and Lee felt confident enough to launch what became Pickett’s Charge the next day.

My Setup

In my simulation, I repositioned Ward’s troops slightly differently. The 3rd Maine and 20th Indiana faced southwest, with an artillery battery intermingled. On the southern flank, the 86th New York and 99th Pennsylvania braced for Barksdale’s assault. The 124th New York sat in reserve.

ChatGPT generated map of an alternative history replay of Gettysburg — ChatGPT generated battle map

Simulation #1: The “Too Cautious Meade” Scenario

In this alternate history, Ward held the orchard. Willard’s brigade arrived early to blunt Wofford’s attack. Together, they repelled Barksdale and even launched a limited counterattack, threatening Hood’s left and delaying his push on Little Round Top. By day’s end, Lee was rethinking a frontal attack.

Screenshot from text-based war game simulation

Instead, he maneuvered toward Pipe Creek, Maryland—Meade’s historical fallback position—and used J.E.B. Stuart’s cavalry to screen the movement. The VI Corps, sent by Meade to investigate, got smashed by Longstreet and Ewell. Lee then moved toward Washington, D.C., prompting foreign statements of support for the Confederacy. Lincoln, in this version, concedes to a constitutional convention. The war “ends”… for now.

I called BS. “No way would Meade risk isolating a corps like that.” Time for a redo. Taking my request for “no pity,” ChatGPT played Meade much better. General Lee still disengaged from Gettysburg, shifting to Pipe Creek. With cavalry screening, he pivots toward Baltimore, striking the city’s supply stores and withdrawing quickly. Not willing to risk remaining in Maryland, Lee returns to Virginia, establishing a defensive line along the Rappahannock River.

Simulation #2: The “Better Meade” Scenario

General Ewell holds the left (West), Longstreet the center, and A.P. Hill the right (East). Stuart’s cavalry (Fitz Lee, Rooney Lee, and Wade Hampton) conducts raids, secures additional crossings, and harasses Union movement. Lee plans a fall invasion, having successfully rattled the North. However, the South is still hurt by the capture of Vicksburg by Ulysses Grant.

Meade, pressured by President Lincoln and his administration, maneuvers to attack Lee in late August. One of the main crossings is at Beverly Ford. There, Rodes’ division from Ewell’s corps dug into the high ground. The position was similar enough to the Confederates who held off Federal attacks at Burnside’s Bridge during the battle of Antietam. Union attacks here are met with withering fire.

In other areas, Confederate cavalry, operating aggressively along the river crossings, engaged elements of Buford’s Union troopers. In a sharp series of running fights, the Confederates managed to capture a number of prisoners and—most notably— a few hundred of the new Spencer repeating carbines. These were quickly redistributed among elite mounted detachments, giving them a short-term firepower boost well out of proportion to their numbers.

When a Federal force attempted to push across at Kelly’s Ford, A.P. Hill’s corps rushed to met them with determined resistance. The engagement was brief but punishing. Confederate volleys and artillery fire staggered the Union advance before it could properly deploy. Hill chose not to overextend, breaking contact and pulling back to his prepared fallback line, leaving the Federals with nothing to show but heavy casualties. Hill and Ewell crossed the Rappahannock as if to move on Washington. Worried about another raid, Meade moves most of his corps to block the Confederates. Hancock’s II Corps remains to cover Longstreet.

Under the cover of darkness, Longstreet ordered Pickett to flank II Corps left flank and Hood on the right. Pickett probed in the morning, requiring a shifting of Yankee brigades. With a weakened flank, Hood attacked. Once Hancock realized Longstreet’s intentions (or what he thought they were), he moved brigades to the right. McLaws’ division joined in, and Pickett’s probe became a full-on assault. Longstreet’s infantry shattered multiple Union brigades and rolled up part of Hancock’s flank. In the ensuing collapse, roughly 5,000 Federal soldiers were taken prisoner along with guns, colors, and supplies. The victory was decisive enough to leave Hancock’s corps combat-ineffective for the immediate campaign.

With Federal forces in disarray, Ewell’s Second Corps and elements of Hill’s command advanced toward the defenses of Washington, D.C. They probed outer picket lines and skirmished near the capital’s outer works, sowing alarm in the city. However, Lee judged that a frontal assault on the fortifications would be too costly, especially with Meade’s army regrouping. The Confederates instead adopted a menacing posture—keeping pressure on Meade, tying down Federal troops in the capital’s defense, and then slipping back across the Potomac in good order. The army eventually withdraws into Virginia, maintaining the initiative and avoiding a major defeat.

Takeaways

As far-fetched as surviving a gutshot, the first version didn’t feel plausible. The second? Still alternate history, but more believable. ChatGPT has its quirks, but if you keep it honest, it can run a surprisingly convincing campaign.

Your Turn

Civil War buffs—how plausible is this? Would Meade or Lee act this way? What about the ripple effects of a raid on Baltimore? And if Lincoln got fed up, who might replace Meade—Hancock?

Suggest another simulation: What if D-Day failed? What if Berlin was taken entirely by the Soviets? What if Rome lasted into the 1200s?

Second Pass members: you’ll get a period-style report from Lee to Secretary of War Seddon, plus the raw chat transcripts from the Peach Orchard simulation and its follow-up campaign. Not a member? Consider joining to get the monthly newsletter and extras like this.

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From Negative to Print

Low Budget Film Photography Workflow

One night in June, struggling to sleep, I sat down to journal. I wrote a few lines and had an instinct to take out a blank sheet and draw some squares. I started jotting down names of friends and family. Soon, I had a vision for a wall of 4×6 film photos. Some people are living, but I really want to be joined by those who have passed. I’ll likely place all of these in my living room and kitchen.

While down with Mono and Lyme, I picked up a cheap Canon TS200. This completed the pathway for me to take a 35mm film picture, develop it, scan it, and print it. Perhaps I’ll discuss using a film camera at some point, as well as the developing process. This post will discuss the process after the images are developed.

Once my images have been developed and dried, I cut them to fit into the archival sheets – usually six images in for each line. My first task is to check which images came out nicely. I use a lightboard and the FilmBox app to identify usable options.

Generally, I wait until I have a few rolls to scan. This process is not quick, and it requires patience, especially once we get to cleaning up the images. A colleague gave me an Epson V600 scanner. Talk about a godsend! I use the Silverfast 8 program in coordination with the scanner. The first step is cleaning the scanner screen with an air blower and a cloth. I also clean the negatives as best I can. The cleaner everything is, the less work to be had later.

The negatives lay in a holder and are locked in place with the top piece. Once more, I use the air blower. For 35mm, I align the holder to the “A” position. In Silverfast, I identify the type of film. In the case of this post: Kodak T-Max 100. The pre-scan provides a quick show of the film. Frames are used to tell the program where the images are for the full scans, which take much longer. It’s possible to “Find Frames,” but that hasn’t worked well for me. I create one frame around the first picture I intend to scan, then duplicate and repeat.

Organization is key. Before I batch scan (which scans all the frames), it’s important to mark the destination of the pictures. I use a folder titled “Film” with the year: Film 2024. I use two subfolders: “RAW” and “Edited.” The images will depart from Silverfast and mosey to the “Raw” subfolder. I don’t mess with many settings on Silverfast. Format depends on your intended use. For me, 4x6s. I use the photo quality with 300ppi. Otherwise, it’s time to scan. With the images headed to “RAW,” I wait.

Once the scans are finished (sometimes taking thirty minutes or so, depending on how many are usable), I open darktable. This is an open-source program where I do very light editing. Honestly, I use it to eliminate hair and dust elements. If Silverfast sends over scans that I don’t like the image of, I select the “monochrome” option in darktable.

No matter how much I clean the scanner and negatives, there are dust particles and small hairs. The retouch tool clones from a selected area to remove the intruders. I won’t get too technical here, but if you are on Windows, I recommend using CTL+ left click to continue using the tool. Otherwise, you’ll have to continually select the tool over and over.

After I’ve cleaned the images, I export them as PNGs to the “Edited” folder. From here, it’s quite simple to print. I use My Image Garden to print an image. I select the print option, which pulls up some options. Since I’m printing on 4×6 glossy photo paper, I use that paper size option. That’s all I do. And Print!

This is, by no means, a professional setup. I often lose patience with the post-process cleaning. For my purposes, this works just perfectly. I like printing these pictures for myself or as gifts to send with letters. While the process can be frustrating, the end product is greatly appreciated. I’m realizing now that I have come full circle since my dad has always printed pictures (from Walgreens, though) and sent them out. I’m now in need of 4×6 frames, which my cousin should be producing soon. If you have questions or recommendations, let me know.

Recap:

Programs:

FilmBox – mobile app for quick scans

Silverfast 8 – $50 scanning software alternative to Negative Lab Pro, which requires Adobe Lightroom

Darktable – a free open-source program to clean images

Tools:

Lightbox – backlight images to scan with FilmBox

Canon TS200 printer – $40

Epson V600 scanner – $300 (thanks, friend!)

Air blower

Glass cloth

Second Pass | August 2025

Where the drafts float down the river, contemplate their purpose, and hitchhike for another run.

Featured Essay: Be Absurd
Inspiration
Writing Prompts
What I’m Reading: Clash of Eagles, A Great and Noble Scheme
Bonus

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What Day is it?

I often try to write my posts at least a few days ahead of their scheduled date. Sometimes, I even manage to have something a week in advance, which allows me all the time to edit…or at least think about editing. On occasion, such as today, I find myself struggling with what to write about. With a few projects in the pipeline – Aurum Ledger, Walking Home to Georgia, and even the old Springwood Current – there’s plenty of subject matter. It’s on the Wednesdays I have nothing planned that I tend to detail my current state.

On this Wednesday, the last of a month that feels lost to me, I’m feeling less and less tired. Oh, wait! It’s Tuesday! Allow me a moment to chuckle in my chair. That’s funny! After three weeks (going on four) of feeling sick, some laughter feels like sweet honey on an estranged esophagus. I visited a clinic, the ER, and finally got a new PCP after pestering the practice with daily phone calls. Diagnoses started with “it’s a cold” and morphed to “likely tickborne,” “Hepatitis A,” and eventually the timely named Epstein-Barr Virus and Lyme. Needless to say, July of 2025 is a lost month of three-hour naps, bouts of consciousness, and returning to oblivion.

To lose a full month feels painful. Losing time is part of living. But this was a whole month. In our short lives, a month is quite a substantial amount of time. I was too ill to be more productive than reading or making a peanut butter protein shake. My immune system felt like the 262 men of the 1st Minnesota charging headlong into overwhelming odds at Gettysburg, because someone had to. At the end of the assault, with just 47 men remaining, the regiment holds the line at tremendous loss.

July took all my strength, but ideas continued to percolate in my sweaty sleep. The Aurum Ledger is my most recent series. I have no end goal or even idea of how it will evolve. The words come with the clacking of the keys. I hope to return to this world soon.

Some time ago, I wrote Walking Home to Georgia, about a Confederate journeying home after the Civil War. I ended up bringing this piece to my writing group and got amazing feedback. I was in the process of revising this before I got sick. I also began a second chapter. In contrast to the Aurum Ledger, I have a vision for this story.

The Springwood Current stems from a city I built in Cities Skylines. As I built the city, I found myself hearing backstories on the citizens, parks, and regions. I started writing the first newspaper, dated 1850, but found myself distracted by formatting. I may resume the process, but focus entirely on the city rather than include national coverage.

But August is coming, eh? I won’t pretend I’m ready to sprint into it. I’ll settle for a stroll. With the worst of the symptoms behind me—retreated like General Lee after Gettysburg—it’s the fatigue that lingers, holding the high ground like Meade. Still, there’s hope in that slowness. A chance to enjoy the tail end of summer, to return to my stories, or just to savor the simple pleasure of chuckling at my own confusion between Tuesday and Wednesday.

Clause 27

I started this back in 2018, sweating in a Rangeley apartment, telling myself, nothing ever happens up here. And that’s when the idea hit: what if something did?

Clause 27 came from that moment, and though the story sat untouched for a long time, I recently made a goal to finish what’s in my “Unfinished” folder. This one was 90% there—just needed a sharper edge and a little follow-through. It’s definitely a departure from my usual posts, but I’m glad to have wrapped it up. This post might even be more polished than most. Cheers!

I. Contact

Gerald studied the room, scanning the faces around him. No one really attracted his attention or warranted a second glance. But as he settled into the bar stool, angled to watch everyone, more people entered the room. These four walked differently. They had their heads in sync: start left, scan, stop, scan, stop, move. Gerald laid a hand on his hip, where he kept his .357 revolver.

The bartender turned the lights down a hair, alarming Gerald for a moment. Someone walked into his view. He was 5’ 8” and growing a beer belly. His beard was unkempt, and his glasses were not at all in style with his urban t-shirt and flannel. Aging hipster, Gerald assessed.

“Hey, Garrett! How are you doing?” The hipster asked, standing directly in Gerald’s line of sight.

“I’m sorry,” Gerald tried to look around him. “I’m not Garrett. You got the wrong guy.”

“No! You’re Garrett Ferrington! We wrestled together in high school. You were in the weight class above me. Man, you were one tough guy to beat in a wrestle-off before the meet, huh?” Hipster guy grinned. Clean teeth.

“I’m not Garrett. If you don’t mind, I’d like some space.”

“Gee, man! Sorry!” Hipster man walked off, clearly pissed.

Gerald’s group had split off. He scanned again to relocate. Off towards the pool tables, he found Groupie #1. Groupies #2 and #3 were milling by the bathroom. Finally, Groupies #4 and #5 were headed his way. Groupie #1 kept his gaze on #4 and #5. Gerald swallowed the last of his beer, left a ten-dollar bill, and stepped down from his stool. Groupie #4 stood in his way.

“Boss wants you,” Groupie #4 said.

Gerald sized up the man: strong build would need some softening, square jaw would hurt to punch, and he certainly had a handgun in his jacket.

“No can do,” Gerald said.

Groupie #4 said nothing. He reached for Gerald’s shoulder, intent on dragging him to their boss. Gerald twisted and yanked hard, rewarded with a satisfying pop. #4 howled, his arm now limp. Gerald stepped back and delivered a solid kick to the man’s midsection, sending him crashing into a table behind him.

He turned toward #5—already mid-punch. The fist slammed into Gerald’s gut. He doubled over, just for a moment, long enough for #5 to grab him. Gerald leaned into the man’s body and lifted. #5 hung upside down, suspended by whatever mercy Gerald chose to give.

There was little mercy to be had.

Gerald dropped, slamming all his weight onto #5’s head. The impact echoed. He sprang back up, eyes scanning for Groupies #1, 2, and 3.

Gone.

Gerald watched as the bartender called the police. Gerald picked up the guns from his adversaries and found their IDs. Fakes. He headed for a side door. Outside, the sky was dimming and dark grey clouds were approaching. There was nobody in his vicinity. But Gerald maintained vigilance. His stomach ached a bit, surely a bruised rib, but nothing broken. Ahead, movement. Gerald ducked behind a picnic table, just out of the lamp light. He saw cars in the parking lot and stairs heading to a road below the hill. There were more stairs to his right, another level of roads and businesses. He heard sirens now. Cops would arrive any moment.

It could be night strollers or it could be the remaining groupies. Gerald’s rented vehicle was above him, a Honda Accord. It was possible the groupies knew that. They knew who he was. They knew where he was going to be tonight. Did they know why? Gerald hadn’t told anyone about his intentions. How the hell did they know?

Gerald could think about everything later. He had to move, as the sound of police sirens blared his way. He had to calculate his moves. Heading back to his vehicle might be expected, but it could not. These groupies might know him. There may be more of them. Even his hideout could be compromised. Everything he needed, though, was on his person. He decided to ditch it all and head for the hills, both literally and figuratively. He was deep in the western mountains of Maine.

Gerald peered one more time, noting the absence of any movement. There was shouting in the bar; both of his opponents were still inside. People should start coming out. Sure enough, the door opened. A group of college kids headed out.

“Holy shit! That fight was amazing. Kung fu shit, huh?” One of them said.

The others agreed, talking over each other, not really listening. Drunk.

Gerald stood up slowly and walked behind the kids, noting their stench. Jesus, they need to shower. Gerald looked at vehicles. Any one of them would do. Gerald sidestepped to a Ford Escape. Newer model. Alarms. Unlocked. Gerald allowed himself to smile briefly.

“Hey! Get away from my car, man!” Someone yelled.

Gerald frowned. “Just checking your ride. I was thinking about getting one myself.”

He walked away quickly. Down some steps to a parallel road. The drunk college kids had gone that way. He tried to maintain some silence. When he got down the stairs, he saw plenty of cars. And plenty of people. Couples mingled, holding hands. Friends joshed each other all along the road. Another bar down the street jived with a horrible rendition of “Don’t Stop Believing”.

Hunting. Gerald had never gone hunting. He talked about going with his friend from high school, but he had never taken the required hunter safety course. Gerald’s skills were self-learned and honed under the instruction of veterans. Hunting and hunted. Gerald casually strolled to a car, pretending it was his. He reached into his pocket for a set of keys. That would be funny. He found his rental keys and pressed the alarm button. Two hundred feet away, his Honda went off. Eyes all around looked up. That would distract the groupies. He jiggled the car handle. It opened. People are so trusting here, Gerald thought.

Gerald settled into the Honda Civic, closing the door. He searched around for the keys: ignition, cup holder, passenger seat, but no luck. Gerald reached under the wheel and opened the panel. With his knife, Gerald stripped the power and starter wires. Gerald found some gloves to protect himself from shock. Gerald twisted the power wires together, touched the starter wire, and heard the engine purr.

Now he was off, headed north, unsure of a true destination. Anywhere in the middle of nowhere. Gerald simply wanted silence. Peace and silence. A cabin in the woods with the longest driveway possible. A far stretch from his line of work, but he’d figure it out.

II. Extraction

Gerald awoke in his motel room, alone, but with the notion that someone was near. He reached under his pillow for the .357. It was there. Clad only in underwear, he searched his room. Gerald still felt that nagging feeling of being watched. He put his clothes on. They reeked of sweat. He had ditched his stolen vehicle two miles back, on a sidestreet. Now he had to find a way forward. There were miles and miles of woods, easy to get lost in. However, Gerald didn’t want to completely fall off the map; he had to finish his business.

After returning the key to his motel room, Gerald adjusted to the bright sun. There wasn’t a cloud for miles. He had taken a map from the motel office. The road ahead was winding. From his location, he could either hike straight through the woods to Rangeley or hitchhike the twenty miles via road. Either decision provided dangers. If he hiked, there were thousands of opportunities to twist an ankle or get lost. Hitchhiking meant the chance of Gerald running into his hunters.

He decided to hitchhike. Gerald didn’t look or smell like an AT hiker; they were plentiful around here. Still, he stood a good chance of getting a ride from kind, local people. Gerald walked around the parking lot of the cheap motel. A younger man closed the door to his room. Gerald didn’t recognize him as one of the groupies. The guy nodded his head at Gerald. Gerald smiled. He hesitated momentarily and approached the young man.

“Hey. You leaving today?”

“Yeah, I’m heading up to Rangeley,” the young man said.

“Mind if I hitch a ride?” Gerald paused. “My rental broke down yesterday. Company’s supposed to swap it out up north.”

The young man gave him a once-over, weighing the story.

“Sure, I guess. What happened to it?”

“Who knows—radiator, maybe. Engine light came on.” Gerald shrugged.

The man disappeared into the office to return his key. He came back a minute later, bright-eyed.

“I’m Mike, by the way. You are?”

“Tom.” They shook hands.

They pulled onto the road, headed north. Away from danger, “Tom” hoped.

“What brings you up this way?” Mike asked.

“Business. You?”

“Same. What kind of business?”

“Freelance work.”

“Oh yeah? That keep you busy?”

“Busy enough.”

Mike didn’t respond. The silence stretched, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Just two guys driving north. Gerald eased back in his seat, letting his shoulders drop for the first time in hours. Maybe this really was just a lucky break. Outside, the trees blurred past—thick, green, and alive. He caught himself admiring the granite boulders, ancient and cracked, left behind by glaciers eons ago. For a moment, he felt almost normal.

“How long did you think you could go, Gerald?”

Gerald spun fast, but Mike already had a pistol to Gerald’s temple.

“You just relax, ol’ Gerry. I have to admit, I enjoyed your answers about work.”

“How did you find me so quickly?”

“There aren’t many places to stay along this route. Lucky guess.” Mike grinned.

The car slowed as they entered a heavily wooded area. Gerald could figure Mike’s intentions, but he had no plan on following along.

“Why?”

Mike was quiet. He only smiled. Gerald shifted a little and felt the pistol dig deeper into him. Mike drove them into a state park with a lazy stream and lots of boulders left over from the last ice age 25,000 years before. Mike parked in the empty lot. Gerald waited.

“We’re going to take a little walk here,” Mike said, “a few friends are waiting.”

Just as Gerald suspected, “Alright, Mike. You’re the boss.”

Gerald reached for the door. Mike cocked the 9mm. “No funny moves, old man.”

Gerald opened the door slowly. Mike exited, briefly losing sight of Gerald. Gerald used the split second to hide behind the side of the car. He pulled out his own revolver. “I said no funny moves!” Mike shouted angrily. Gerald leaned under the car. Mike was walking around towards him. He aimed and shot one of his ankles. Mike collapsed, shouting in pain. Mike aimed his pistol towards Gerald, but Gerald already had Mike lined up. He fired. Mike’s last words were “Oh, shit!”

III. Clause 27

Gerald wasted no time. He grabbed the keys still in Mike’s left hand. He climbed back in the vehicle and pulled out of the parking lot quicker than a high school couple getting caught by the cops after prom. Gerald drove north. That’s what I get for trusting people. Gerald drove thirty minutes before pulling into a random driveway. He maneuvered the car around for a quick getaway. Gerald kept the engine running and opened up the trunk. He found exactly what he was hoping for: a burner phone and an M-4 rifle. He grabbed the burner and sat down in the driver’s seat. Gerald dialed the last number called.

“Is he gone?” a familiar voice asked.

“Yes,” Gerald lowered his voice to match Mike better.

“Good, meet me at the address I text.” The caller hung up.

Gerald’s phone dinged with a text. Cemetery Hill Dr. Rangeley. Gerald smiled and started the car, heading for Rangeley. The voice over the phone kept him occupied for a while. He couldn’t quite place the face it belonged to. Gerald went through the members from his organization. He had met very few of them in the past. Mike was not one of them; he must have been new. The goons were new, maybe cheap freelancers.

In Rangeley, Gerald drove past Cemetery Drive. He pulled into Hilltop Drive next door. Gerald climbed out of the car and retrieved the rifle and a silencer. He slammed in a magazine and chambered a round. Crouching through the woodline, he crept to see who had wanted him dead. As Gerald cleared the last obstacle, he saw the person he expected, but hoped not to see.

“He should be here by now,” Leonard said to someone just out of view.

“Maybe he needed gas, sir,” the man replied. Walking in front of a truck, Gerald recognized one of the groupies.

Gerald felt the blow in his gut more. Leonard was his handler. Leonard had taught him every trick in the trade. Even now, Gerald could sense Leonard growing suspicious. He sighted the goon. Gerald pulled the trigger, sending a 5.56 caliber bullet into the man’s skull. Leonard quickly pulled out his handgun, a Beretta Elite. Gerald watched Leonard dive behind his Ford truck. Leonard loved that truck. Gerald popped a tire. The truck collapsed on Leonard as it sagged.

Gerald moved to an old rock wall fifty feet ahead. He set the rifle on it, waiting for Leonard to move. Leonard obliged, peeking over the front of his truck. He couldn’t quite see Gerald. Gerald waited patiently, something Leonard taught him. Leonard walked to the back of the truck. Gerald saw his feet. He fired. Leonard collapsed, but pulled himself behind the truck.

“Fuck!” Leonard yelled.

Gerald left his perch, aiming his rifle at the truck. He paced slowly, working himself around the truck. Gerald rounded the truck. Leonard raised his pistol. “You son—” Gerald fired, shredding Leonard’s gun hand.

Gerald approached Leonard. Stretching out, Leonard reached for his pistol. Gerald kicked the Beretta away. Leonard sighed, staring at Gerald.

“How’d you know?” Gerald asked.

“About your retirement? I had a feeling.” Leonard reached into his breast pocket for a cigarette.

“I’ve worked for this company for a long time,” Gerald stated.

“No one retires, Gerald. It’s in the contract.” Leonard fumbled for a lighter. He looked in Gerald’s eyes, pleadingly.

Gerald dropped a Bic.

“How do I get out of the contract?”

“You can’t. Don’t you get it?” Leonard puffed, blowing smoke toward Gerald.

“I can think of the first step.” Gerald fired three times into the top left quadrant of Leonard’s chest.

He wasn’t sure if he was free. The organization had a chain of command, and Leonard was just one rung above him. First, he felt grief – a loss of mentorship. Gerald tightened his hold on the rifle. Taking a deep breath, Gerald looked around him. If he wanted the cabin in the woods, he’d need to either destroy his contract or the people in charge of it. Another deep breath. Now, he felt purpose in the silence of the cemetery nearby. Gerald made a mental note to avoid bars.

Geography of Ledger’s Reach

The island of Ledger’s Reach is shaped like a lopsided, upside-down U. In the center sits the protected harbor, the primary base for the island’s economy. Surrounding the harbor are docks, taverns, trade schools, the Governor’s Office, and residential areas. While the island receives most of its food through trade, several residents do farm in the fertile soil near the two wooded areas. At approximately two square miles, the island can be crossed in thirty minutes with purpose or an hour if you’re just out for fun.

North

The least improved area is the northern strip of Ledger’s Reach. A path of cobblestone loops the island, and that’s about all there is up north. A small sandy area is popular with young folks to watch ships arrive or disembark. Due to the lack of buildings, guards rarely patrol the north. Old cellar holes, evidence of earlier settlements, dot the path. Numbering under half a dozen, most citizens hardly give them more than a glance. Historians from the Governor’s Office, however, continue to investigate the origins.

Trade

The hub of commercial activity lies on the docks to the east and west. Most trading to the west is for local business and residential needs. Warehouses are clustered there. The western docks see six ships a week on average. Most citizens know which ships carry their desired items, and they’ll meet the captains at the dock. Often, folks invite captains for supper or at least coffee.

The eastern docks are larger and provide closer access to trading houses and the bank. This dock area is the trading hub of the empire. Representatives from many regions, especially the capital, live nearby with their families. Facilitation of trade happens in trade houses, which is a nice way of saying taverns. Business is almost always done with drinks in hand. Deals are made within two to four rounds, with the cost coming from the party that makes the most profit.

Communities and Bridges

While one main path connects the island, branches run off to mark neighborhood streets. A few citizens live on the southwestern corner, near the First Weight Sanctum. They’re farmers, living in rough-built houses. They don’t often integrate with the rest of the islanders. The farmers dislike the level of society to the east. They view the others as dressed-up snakes, poisoning life’s simplicity. They feel closer to the land, though some quietly envy the comforts found in the east.

Two bridges rest on the granite base of the island. The first is a stone footbridge leading to the smaller island where the First Weight Sanctum lies, crumbling. It exists more for posterity than practicality, allowing historians access to the abandoned church before it collapses entirely. The second, a drawbridge of stone columns and wooden planks, spans a short channel in the south that trading vessels pass through before reaching the harbor. It only closes when residents need to cross between the two sides of the island. Though if the bridge master had his way, they’d all just walk around to the north.

With a community of less than a thousand, most folks get along real well. Ninety percent of the population lives in the east, occupying five side streets lined with well-built stone and wood structures. Most islanders work for the Aurum Empire – either directly or by keeping its gears turning. A few, like warehouse owners or negotiation house managers, stay independent, at least on paper. There’s some less savory business, but it’s kept to a minimum by the close-knit community and a contingent of guards.

Challenge

That’s the lay of the land—at least in terms of geography. There’s still more to uncover in the island’s trade networks, political ties, and tangled past. Ledger’s Reach has generations of history beneath its cobblestones, and I’ll explore that in time. For now, consider this your rough guide. If you’re the visual type, try sketching a map. Consider that your challenge.

Want to read some of the story?

Book List of 2025

I often wonder how many books I read in a year. My goal is usually one a month or so. So here I’ll list the books I’ve read this year and update it through the remainder of the year. I may miss a few books I read earlier on, so next year’s list will likely be more comprehensive. Of course, I’m also the kind of person who starts a book and leaves it on the windowsill atop two other books with bookmarks made of post-its or slivers of paper.

I’m interested to see how this list develops, as it likely will share a secret or two about who I am. I often consider myself a historical fiction or non-fiction reader. Perhaps this view of myself will change. In the past, I read a lot about the Civil War and most of Tom Clancy’s fiction work. Jeff Shaara is an author of excellent historical fiction. We’ll see how this year goes with reading.

If you choose to purchase one of the books, please consider using the links provided. They’re associated with my Amazon Affiliates account. No extra cost to you…maybe a few cents sent my way.

With Students: Diary of a Young Girl by Anne Frank and The Outsiders by S.E. Hinton
Next year, I may choose other books for 8th Grade English. I’ll likely keep Diary of a Young Girl, but too many of my students had already read The Outsiders. Instead, I’ve been pondering A Series of Unfortunate Events.
The Stand by Stephen King
A government-made virus wipes out most of the population, leaving behind a scattered handful of survivors who are pulled toward two opposing forces: good and evil, literally. It’s post-apocalyptic, but with a strong spiritual spine and a cast of characters that somehow all feel familiar. Despite its length, I finished this book rather quickly. That tends to be the case with King: you can’t put the book down. The show, based on the novel, is decent.
4 3 2 1 by Paul Aster
One boy lives four parallel lives. We follow Archie Ferguson down diverging paths shaped by small twists of fate. The result is a fascinating narrative about identity, history, and the butterfly effects of growing up in mid-century America. I really enjoyed this book! Archie’s lives felt relevant and endearing.
A Little Life by Hanya Yanagihara
Four college friends navigate adulthood in New York, but one of them, Jude, carries the deepest scars. The book is brutal and relentless. It’s a commitment, but it’s also unforgettable. This book, I’ll admit, took two attempts to get through. But once I reached the end, it felt worth it.
Binge by Douglas Coupland
A collection of quick-hit stories that feel like scrolling through a stranger’s internet history. Coupland connects many of the stories to show the different perspectives of the same event. I had started this last year, but just finished it. This is a book you could read in a weekend or even a day.
Clash of Eagles by Alan Smale
The first book of a trilogy: The Roman Empire never fell, and now it’s sending legions into North America, where it meets a fierce and unexpected resistance from Native cultures. Think alternate history. After finishing the first book in a week, I returned to Twice Told Tales in Farmington to buy the two other books in the series.
Eagle in Exile by Alan Smale
Book two of the trilogy. I shan’t ruin a story here. However, I will say that I love the way Smale weaves the cultures of various Native tribes, in addition to the Roman way of life. The second book is just as attention-grabbing as the first. How the trilogy will end draws me to the last book.
Eagle and Empire by Alan Smale
Well, that’s the trilogy! It’s been a great sneak into an alternative universe where Roma marches on. This series might be an excellent target for adaptation to a limited series. What I really like about this series is that the main character is not infallible — he makes mistakes and he gets hurt. Highly recommend this series!
Nobody’s Perfect by Woody Hanstein
Woody, a lawyer, taught one of my college courses about Maine Law. It was a great three-hour class once a week. One time, he brought us to the Franklin Courthouse, and we practiced cross-examination techniques. This collection of stories stems from his experience in law. The stories are fun, short, and full of plot twists. I found this copy at Twice Told Sales in Farmington; I’m not sure where else you may find it. Happy to share my copy!
First Friends by Gary Ginsberg
There are studies on the influence of First Ladies and members of cabinets. This is the first book I’ve heard of that details the relationship between presidents and their friends. Ginsberg begins with Thomas Jefferson and his friend, James Madison. That connection is well known by some, but the stories that follow are fascinating. Abraham Lincoln and Joshua Speed, FDR and Daisy Suckley, and Bill Clinton and Vernon Jordan. These are the chapters I enjoyed the most –learned the most. For folks interested in presidential history, this book is for you.
A Great and Noble Scheme by John Mack Faragher
This is an excellent source book on the upsetting case of the deportation of the Acadians in 1755. Filled with references, quotes, and clear depictions of events, Faragher tells the story from the French arrival in Nouvelle France in 1604. He also includes how the tragic expulsion was used as the basis for Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s 1847 Evangeline, as well as other more contemporary references to the unfortunate history. The information is dense but fascinating.

Second Pass | July 2025

Where the drafts eat grilled steak, get corn stuck in their gums, and need a good flossin’

📑 Table of Contents

Featured Essay: Why I Didn’t Vlog My Travels
Inspiration
Writing Prompts
What I’m Reading: A Little Life, Binge, Clash of Eagles
Bonus: High School Forever?

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Aurum Ledger: Chapter IV

Red Stockings

The road from Firden to the port was short, but dropped in elevation quickly. There were no trees atop the granite, as the horse stepped carefully. A few shrubs dotted areas where a small amount of soil existed between the boulders. Talla Espinoza patted the brown leather satchel containing official messages and letters. She could also feel the spongy cotton stockings entrusted to her by Raleen. As a courier, Talla was accustomed to voyages, and she had once travelled to the mountains of Andaval. That had been her longest journey at over 1,500 miles.

After Raleen handed off the red stockings to her, Talla assessed her route on the map of the Empire. From Firden, she would board a vessel for Ledger’s Reach. Raleen’s message, based on the color of the stockings, signified utmost importance and required timely delivery. From Ledger’s Reach, Talla would take another ship to Cliffport, the capital. Her horse could bring her to Eastpoint, where a final ship would bring her home to Firden. Talla tallied the distances: Firden to the Reach, 540 miles; Reach to Cliffport, 200 miles; Cliffport to Eastpoint, 300 miles; and Eastpoint to Firden, 100 miles. 1140 miles total.

Talla led her horse, Lenny, down the steep hill. A ship was waiting for her – the Winded Quill. As she rounded a corner, Talla eyed the top of the mast. She hastened Lenny on, not wanting to make the captain or crew wait. She knew the sailors would be upset with a woman on board. Bad luck, they said. Talla doubted her presence would be of poor quality, but she had to keep herself in check.

“More inconsistencies,” Raleen had whispered at the tavern.

“Why the urgency this time?” Talla asked.

Raleen shook her head. “Too dangerous to tell. You must make haste, though.”

“As you say, Raleen.” Talla let herself linger on Raleen’s gray, hazy eyes.

Raleen allowed herself to smile. She touched Talla’s arm. “Be safe on the seas.”

“Send me off right then,” Talla grinned. She grabbed Raleen’s hand and led them upstairs to a rented room.

Talla enjoyed the memories of last night and this morning. She found herself at the docks soon enough. The nearest ship proved to be the Winded Quill. Most men were already aboard, milling about, or tending to the ship’s lines. A few men were bringing on more barrels of ale or wine. Talla dismounted at the base of the dock. She walked the rest of the way, Lenny in tow. She spotted the captain, easily distinguished by his cocked hat and relaxed nature.

“Captain, my name is Talla Espinoza. I have dispatches to deliver.”

“Alon Deras, miss. We have been waiting for you,” Deras looked her up and down.

Talla groaned on the inside. “Hopefully not too long, sir.”

“Are you ready, Miss Espinoza?” Deras looked down the length of the Winded Quill. The ship was a standard trading vessel of an older design. Operated by the Aurum Ledger Empire for twenty years, it was sold at auction to Alon Deras when the new trading fleet was introduced. Despite her age, Talla noticed how affectionately Deras looked upon his vessel.

“Yes. I trust there is room for my horse and myself,” Talla took two paces towards the ship.

“There is, Miss Espinoza. I warn you, however, that a lady’s presence aboard a ship might have negative influences on her crew.” Deras took Lenny’s reins.

“I’ll keep to myself, Captain Deras,” Talla promised.

Nodding, Deras walked Lenny to the crane. Talla observed the captain set Lenny in the rope loops with care. Once in the net, Lenny was lifted from the dock and lowered onto the deck of the Winded Quill. All the while, Deras acted as cool as ice cold water. It was time to depart.

The voyage was rather uneventful, regardless of the leering crew. The ship managed a section of twenty-foot waves. “Tis nothing,” Alon Deras declared after they had crested the last of the ocean white caps. One drunken crewmember went too far with Talla, referring to her as a whore. Deras had the man lashed, but made sure Talla watched. Otherwise, the Winded Quill made good time to Ledger’s Reach. Upon docking, Talla waited for the gangplank to be run out.

“We’ll be leaving in two days’ time, Miss Espinoza,” Captain Deras said from behind.

Talla turned. “Very well. May I accompany you to Cliffport?”

Deras shook his head. “Not this time around.” He turned and began shouting orders to his men.

Talla waited on the dock for fifteen minutes before Lenny was offloaded by crane. When her horse had all four hooves on solid ground, Talla stroked his face. “Well done, Lenny. Another sea voyage under your belt.” Her satchel, looped on a belt, weighed heavily on her hips. Talla reached in for assurances. There were no stockings. She rummaged through the parchment and packages.

“Miss Espinoza!” A man yelled from Winded Quill.

Talla whipped her head around.

“You be needing these stockings? Or can we have them?” The man smiled wickedly, missing most teeth.

“Return them at once!” Talla demanded.

The man frowned. “No fun!” But he threw the stockings from the main deck. “We didn’t use ’em too much.”

Talla caught the stockings and pushed them deep into her satchel. “Off we go, Lenny!”

Talla walked by Lenny around the northern end of the island. It was mostly empty here, save a cemetery and three or four long forgotten cellars. She wanted Lenny to find his legs again after four days at sea. Ledger’s Reach often impressed her by the quantity of trading done on such a small island. The harbor nearly split the island in two, leaving just a few hundred feet of land in the north that connected the two halves. Dozens of ships came and went daily. Many of the vessels were operated by the empire to supply its holdings. But foreigners came to trade as well.

Talla’s packages and messages were mainly dedicated to court officials in Cliffport. But she had two letters for the regional branch manager as well as the governor. Not to mention the stockings to be delivered. The last item was most important, so Talla marched to the Governor’s Office. The building sat across the street from the regional bank and the primary negotiation house. The Governor’s Office was of hefty build, once serving as an outpost for soldiers of the empire. Now, the two-story structure is occupied by tax collectors, judges, and assistants to the governor himself. The doors are secured by two guards utilizing long pole spears.

“My name is Talla Espinoza. I have messages for the governor and Official Messenger,” Talla stated.

The guards assessed her. They lifted the handles and opened the doors for Talla to enter. She thanked them on her way in, passing the golden seal of the Aurum Ledger. Aside from Cliffport, Ledger’s Reach was the most affluent city in the realm. The governor, an honest and proper aristocrat, still enjoyed showcasing his city’s status. Talla hadn’t delivered messages to the messenger before, not in person. We practically have the same job, Talla thought in error.

An older man, white bearded and bald, sat at the base of the stairs leading up. Talla approached him. “You seek the governor and Official Messenger. Second floor. Governor’s office on the right, messenger on the left,” the man offered.

“How did you know?” Talla was taken aback, nervous now.

“Fear not, child. I heard it through an earpiece I installed some time ago by the door,” the old man smiled. “I wouldn’t be a good guide if I didn’t know where you were going.”

Talla laughed. “Thank you, sir.”

The old man bowed in his seat. Talla took to the stairs, anxious to relieve herself of the stockings. Raleen had been insistent on the timing. On the second floor, paintings of all previous governors hung like watchmen. Even Elar Vencair, first governor of the island, studied visitors. Talla eyed the current governor’s likeness. He wore a twirled mustache of brown, matching the long locks that fell from his head like coils or snakes. Stanwith Houseman was likely the best looking governor since Elar.

Talla knocked on the messenger’s door. “Enter,” a deep voice ordered.

The heavyset oak door opened with ease, thanks to its well-oiled hinges. Talla saw the man ahead of her. He was seated, poring over documents and maps. What kind of a messenger does all this? Talla wondered.

“Welcome. What is your name, messenger?” The man asked.

“Talla Espinoza from Firden, Mister…?”

“Ah! Castien Vaelcroft, Miss Espinoza.”

“Mr. Vaelcroft, I have some stockings for you.” Talla withdrew the red fabric and handed it over.

“Red,” Castien whispered. Talla barely heard it. She waited.

“Will you wait outside my office, Miss Espinoza?” Castien requested.

“Yes. I have messages for the governor I will deliver.” Talla bowed and removed herself, closing the door. Her mind was running. What kind of messenger is Castien? Why does Raleen send stockings to him? Why the urgency? Talla had a few answers rolling around her questions like lazy bees. She wondered – briefly – if Raleen was merely playing with her. She doubted that supposition.

When Talla turned to the governor’s door, she found it ajar, open enough to see a dead guard, his throat slashed. Against her will, Talla found herself edging her head into the doorway, curiosity driving her forward. She peeked into the office. Another guard lay against the wall, gurgling on his blood, eyes desperate for relief. The governor sat on his chair, flanked by golden emblems. He was straddled by something. No, someone. Governor Houseman spotted Talla. He pleaded for help with his light eyes, begging for assistance. The someone on him turned, revealing the blade buried in Stanwith Houseman’s chest. Talla retreated quickly, watching the assassin leap off the governor.

With few options, Talla stormed back into Castien Vaelcroft’s office. She looked for a weapon of any kind. “What is the meaning-” Castien began before the assassin entered. For a moment, the three people in the office stared at one another. For a moment, they all wondered how they had gotten to this point, reviewing their day’s activities. Then, quickly, the assassin bounded, dagger in hand, for Talla. There was nothing in sight to fight back with. Talla threw a chair in the assassin’s way, hopefully impairing his approach.

Talla stumbled on a rug, locally made. The assassin bore down on her. Talla grabbed the arm that held the blade. She forced it up with all her might. Castien reached into his desk and drew a matchlock pistol. He snuck behind the man and clubbed him by the temple. The assassin collapsed on Talla, but the blade fell from his grip, striking the floor near her head. Talla lurched to her feet. She hugged Castien without thinking.

“Thank you, Mister Vaelcroft,” Talla cried out. She let go almost immediately, realizing the improper embrace. “Sorry!”

Castien wasted no time calling for the guards. He eyed the assassin cautiously. Sticking out from one of the pocket’s on the unconscious man’s chest was a paper. Castien plucked it out and read the two inked lines: Stanwith Houseman; Castien Vencair. As the guards arrived and carried off the half-successful assassin, Castien sat down with Talla. He took the stockings in his hands, holding them with the concern a mother would have for a fever-ridden baby.

“How well do you know Raleen, Miss Espinoza?” Castien said quietly. He was looking at the stockings.

“Well enough, sir.”

“What I’m about to discuss with you must be kept in our confidence. Secrecy.” Castien looked up, directly in her eyes. “Secrecy or thousands will die.”

Talla nodded, but her fingers ached with a coldness.