I just finished a new short story, "W. T. for Short." It's for all those who are who they are. Right after finishing, I thought of my next story. And then I thought, "Wow, I write really violent things sometimes." I do. And sometimes, I don't think about it. Isn't that nice?

Later today, after sleep, I'll start "Cide," which is also violent but in a different way. "W. T. for Short" started out more like a comedy or satire, but then turned into something else. I listened to the characters. The story, after all, was already there. My job is just to write what happened down.

Tonight, or last night, Monday night, was the one year anniversary of the tornado that took my house away. There were 14 people killed in bad weather last year here in Alabama. My family and I were at ground zero for one tornado. I wouldn't say exactly ground zero. It touched down about 20 feet from the back door. It moved my dad's truck, flattened our garage, broke my house, broke out my parent's windows, put a leaf in the frame of my mother's bedroom TV (the leaf still hangs there today), removed our neighbor's porch and placed it over hill in another's yard, knocked one light out on my car, and completely left my mother's car alone. And for about 200 yards, you can still see the path of the tornado through the trees, old oak and pines.

That tornado put a hole in the roof of my house and broke the main support beam. We were lucky that night. But sometimes, I miss my living room. I didn't watch that much TV in it. Mainly, there were computer parts and books stacked everywhere. But I had a couch, and I kept my guitars in there. I miss having my living room. I really do.

It's beautiful outside. I've checked several times. I don't know why. The sky is puffy with broken clouds. And the moon is full, though I think the full moon was a few days ago. I could be wrong on that. And it's about 48 or 50, calm, and quiet. It's the exact opposite of last year. I can remember the many-pitched whistles and groans even when I don't want to.

  ¶ 3:32 AM