Dec 21, 2011

The Trappings of Christmas

   
     Joey, Stevie, and Marvin, the littlest Melton, crowded around the table in the shed, their grubby faces intent on the metal trap they'd modified, the Little Nipper IV.



     The shed door, askew on one rusty hinge, let little light into the dank hovel they called a clubhouse. The missing glass in the blacked-out window even less.  They squinted at the contraption, which made them look even meaner than they were. If that was possible. 
     "That ain't gonna work," Stevie said.
     Joey poked the trap door of the bent wire cage, testing its action. "Sure it will.  We'll set it on its end, put it in the hole, and cover it with leaves. Then, we'll set the bait on top, see?  When she lands, the trap door will give way and she'll fall right in.  The door'll snap shut before she even knows what happened. Slicker'n snot."   
     The spring snapped and the door pinched his finger.  He let loose a string of expletives.  The other boys dared not grin as he'd have cuffed 'em.  Marvin, the littlest Melton, unconsciously rubbed his ear.
     "C'mon." Joey picked up the trap and his brothers followed him out of the shed.  "Marv, go filch honey from the house, and sumthin' to put it in.  Sumthin little, like a  bottle cap."
     Marvin, the littlest Melton, moved quickly to do his brother's bidding, lest Joey cuffed 'im.  He rubbed his ear.
     Joey lugged the makeshift trap to a sad group of trees in the overgrown empty lot next door, and set it into the hole they'd dug the day before.  Thankfully it fit, otherwise Joey might have pitched a fit.  Had Marvin been there he would have rubbed his ear.  

     Joey set the door of the trap and placed loose brush, just so, on top, careful to leave the door clear.  Stevie gathered leaves and twigs.
     When he finished arranging the brush to camouflage the trap, Joey looked around.  "Where's Marvin?"

     "Right here.  I have the honey. I'm just trying to figure out the puzzle," he said, holding up a Haffenreffer bottle cap with a riddle printed inside.
     "Gimme that." Joey grabbed the cap and the honey and cuffed his brother on the ear.   He set the cap, gingerly, on the trap door and poured a small amount into it. When he was done, he stood and stepped back with his brothers.  
     They admired their handiwork.
     Joey spat, satisfied, and said with a mean grin, "Now we wait."  

     Marvin frowned, and rubbed his ear.




(to be continued)
    

Nov 28, 2011

Nackles

Nackles

By Donald Westlake (writing as Curt Clark)

Originally published in The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, January 1964
Did God create men, or does Man create gods? I don’t know, and if it hadn’t been for my rotten brother-in-law, the question would never have come up. My late brother-in-law? Nackles knows.
It all depends, you see, like the chicken and the egg, on which came first. Did God exist before Man first thought of Him, or didn’t He? If not, if Man creates his gods, then it follows that Man must create the devils, too.
Nearly every god, you know, has his corresponding devil. Good and Evil. The polytheistic ancients, prolific in the creation (?) of gods and goddesses, always worked up nearly enough Evil ones to cancel out the Good, but not quite. The Greeks, those incredible supermen, combined Good and Evil in each of their gods. In Zoroaster, Ahura Mazda, being Good, is ranged forever against the Evil one, Ahriman. And we ourselves know God and Satan.
But of course it’s entirely possible I have nothing to worry about. It all depends on whether Santa is or is not a god. He certainly seems like a god. Consider: He is omniscient; he knows every action of every child, for good or evil. At least on Christmas Eve he is omnipresent, everywhere at once. He administers justice tempered with mercy. He is superhuman, or at least non-human, though conceived of as having a human shape. He is aided by a corps of assistants who do not have completely human shapes. He rewards Good and punishes Evil, And, most important, he is believed in utterly be several million people, most of them under the age of ten. Is there any qualification of godhood that Santa Claus does not possess?
And even the non-believers give him lip-service. He has surely taken over Christmas; his effigy is everywhere, but where are the manger and the Christ child? Retired rather forlornly to the nave. (Santa’s power is growing, too. Slowly but surely he is usurping Chanukah as well.)
Santa Claus is a god. He’s no less a god that Ahura Mazda, or Odin, or Zeus. Think of the white beard, the chariot pulled through the air by a breed of animal which doesn’t ordinarily fly, the prayers (requests for gifts) which are annually mailed to him and which so baffle the Post Office, the specially garbed priests in all the department stores. And don’t gods reflect their creators’ (?) society? The Greeks had a huntress goddess, and gods of agriculture and war and love. What else would we have but a god of giving, of merchandising, and of consumption? Secondary gods of earlier times have been stout, but surely Santa Claus is the first fat primary god.
And wherever there’s a god mustn’t there sooner or later be a devil?
Which brings me back to my brother-in-law, who’s to blame for whatever happens now. My brother-in-law Frank is—or was—a very mean and nasty man. Why I ever let him marry my sister I’ll never know. Why Susiewanted to marry him is an even greater mystery. I could just shrug and say Love Is Blind, I suppose, but that wouldn’t explain how she fell in love with him in the first place.
Frank is—Frank was—I just don’t know which tense to use. The present, hopefully. Frank is a very handsome man in his way, big and brawny, full of vitality. A football player; hero in college and defensive linebacker for three years in pro ball, till he did some sort of irreparable damage to his left knee, which gave him a limp and forced him to find some other way to make a living.
Ex-football players tend to become insurance salesmen, I don’t know why. Frank followed the form, and became an insurance salesman. Because Susie was then a secretary for the same company, they soon became acquainted.
Was Susie dazzled by the ex-hero, so big and handsome? She’s never been the type to dazzle easily, but we can never fully know what goes on in the mind of another human being. For whatever reason, she decided she was in love with him.
So they were married, and five weeks later he gave her her first black eye. And the last, though it mightn’t have been, since Susie tried to keep me from finding out. I was to go over for dinner that night, but at eleven in the morning she called the auto showroom where I work, to tell me she had a headache and we’d have to postpone the dinner. But she sounded so upset that I knew immediately something was wrong, so I took a demonstration car and drove over, and when she opened the front door there was the shiner.
I got the story out of her in fits and starts. Frank, it seemed, had a terrible temper. She wanted to excuse him because he was forced to be an insurance salesman when he really wanted to be out there on the gridiron again, but I want to be President and I’m an automobile salesman and I don’t go around giving women black eyes. So I decided it was up to me to let Frank know he wasn’t going to vent his pique on my sister any more.
Unfortunately, I am five feet seven inches tall and weigh one hundred thirty-four pounds, with the Sunday Times under my arm. Were I just to give Frank a piece of my mind, he’d surely give me a black eye to go with my sister’s. Therefore, that afternoon I bought a regulation baseball bat, and carried it with me when I went to see Frank that night.
He opened the door himself and snarled, “What do you want?”
In answer, I poked him with the end of the bat, just above the belt, to knock the wind out of him. Then, having unethically gained the upper hand, I clouted him five or six times more, then stood over him to say, “The next time you hit my sister I won’t let you off so easy.” After which I took Susie over to my place for dinner.
And after which I was Frank’s best friend.
People like that are so impossible to understand. Until the baseball bat episode, Frank had nothing for me but undisguised contempt. But once I’d knocked the stuffing out of him, he was my comrade for life. And I’m sure it was sincere; he would have given me the shirt off his back, had I wanted it, which I didn’t.
(Also, by the way, he never hit Susie again. He still had the bad temper, but he took it out in throwing furniture out windows or punching dents in walls or going downtown to start a brawl in some bar. I offered to train him out of maltreating the house and furniture as I had trained him out of maltreating his wife, but Susie said no, that Frank had to let off steam and it would be worse if he was forced to bottle it all up inside him, so the baseball bat remained in retirement.)
Then came the children, three of them in as many years. Frank Junior came first, then Linda Joyce, and finally Stewart. Susie had held the forlorn hope that fatherhood would settle Frank to some extent, but quite the reverse was true. Shrieking babies, smelly diapers, disrupted sleep, and distracted wives are trials and tribulations to any man, but to Frank they were—like everything else in his life—the last straw.
He became, in a word, worse. Susie restrained him I don’t know how often from doing some severe damage to a squalling infant, and as the children grew toward the age of reason Frank’s expressed attitude toward them was that their best move would be to find a way to become invisible. The children, of course, didn’t like him very much, but then who did?
Last Christmas was when it started. Junior was six then, and Linda Joyce five, and Stewart four, so all were old enough to have heard of Santa Claus and still young enough to believe in him. Along around October, when the Christmas season was beginning, Frank began to use Santa Claus’ displeasure as a weapon to keep the children “in line,” his phrase for keeping them mute and immobile and terrified. Many parents, of course, try to enforce obedience the same way: “If you’re bad, Santa Claus won’t bring you any presents.” Which, all things considered, is a negative and passive sort of punishment, wishy-washy in comparison with fire and brimstone and such. In the old days, Santa Claus would treat bad children more scornfully, leaving a lump of coal in their stockings in lieu of presents, but I suppose the Depression helped to change that. There are times and situations when a lump of coal is nothing to sneer at.
In any case, an absence of presents was too weak a punishment for Frank’s purposes, so last Christmastime he invented Nackles.
Who is Nackles? Nackles is to Santa Claus what Satan is to God, what Ahriman is to Ahura Mazda, what the North Wind is to the South Wind. Nackles is the new Evil.
I think Frank really enjoyed creating Nackles; he gave so much thought to the details of him. According to Frank, and as I remember it, this is Nackles: Very very tall and very very thin. Dressed all in black, with a gaunt gray face and deep black eyes. He travels through an intricate series of tunnels under the earth, in a black chariot on rails, pulled by an octet of dead-white goats.
And what does Nackles do? Nackles lives on the flesh of little boys and girls. (This is what Frank was telling his children; can you believe it?) Nackles roams back and forth under the earth, in his dark tunnels darker than subway tunnels, pulled by the eight dead-white goats, and he searches for little boys and girls to stuff into his big black sack and carry away and eat. But Santa Claus won’t let him have the good boys and girls. Santa Claus is stronger than Nackles, and keeps a protective shield around little children, so Nackles can’t get at them.
But when little children are bad, it hurts Santa Claus, and weakens the shield Santa Claus has placed around them, and if they keep on being bad pretty soon there’s no shield left at all, and on Christmas Eve instead of Santa Claus coming out of the sky with his bag of presents Nackles comes up out of the ground with his bag of emptiness, and stuffs the bad children in, and whisks them away to his dark tunnels and the eight dead-white goats.
Frank was proud of his invention, actually proud of it. He not only used Nackles to threaten his children every time they had the temerity to come within range of his vision, he also spread the story around to others. He told me, and his neighbors, and people in bars, and people he went to see in his job as an insurance salesman. I don’t know how many people he told about Nackles, though I would guess it was well over a hundred. And there’s more than one Frank in this world; he told me from time to time of a client or neighbor or bar-crony who had heard the story of Nackles and then said, “By God, that’s great. That’s what I’ve been needing, to keepmy brats in line.”
Thus Nackles was created, and thus Nackles was promulgated. And would any of the unfortunate children thus introduced to Nackles believe in this Evil Being any less than they believed in Santa Claus? Of course not.
This all happened, as I say, last Christmastime. Frank invented Nackles, used him to further intimidate the children and spread the story of him to everyone he met. On Christmas Day last year I’m sure there was more than one child who was relieved and somewhat surprised to awaken the same as usual, in his own trundle bed, and to find the presents downstairs beneath the tree, proving that Nackles had been kept away yet another year.
Nackles lay dormant, so far as Frank was concerned, from December 25th of last year until this October. Then, with the sights and sounds of Christmas again in the land, back came Nackles, as fresh and vicious as ever. “Don’t expect me to stop him!” Frank would shout. “When he comes up out of the ground the night before Christmas to carry you away in his bag, don’t expect any help from me!
It was worse this year than last. Frank wasn’t doing as well financially as he’d expected, and then early in November Susie discovered she was pregnant again, and what with one thing and another Frank was headed for a real peak of ill-temper. He screamed at the children constantly, and the name of Nackles was never far from his tongue.
Susie did what she could to counteract Frank’s bad influence, but he wouldn’t let her do much. All through November and December he was home more and more of the time, because the Christmas season is the wrong time to sell insurance anyway and also because he was hating the job more every day and thus giving it less of his time. The more he hated the job, the worse his temper became, and the more he drank, and the worse his limp got, and the louder were his shouts, and the more violent his references to Nackles. It just built and built and built, and reached its crescendo on Christmas Eve, when some small or imagined infraction of one of the children—Stewart, I think—resulted in Frank’s pulling all the Christmas presents from all the closets and stowing them all in the car to be taken back to the stores, because this Christmas for sure it wouldn’t be Santa Claus who would be visiting this house, it would be Nackles.
By the time Susie got the children to bed, everyone in the house was a nervous wreck. The children were too frightened to sleep, and Susie herself was too unnerved to be of much help in soothing them. Frank, who had taken to drinking at home lately, had locked himself in the bedroom with a bottle.
It was nearly eleven o’clock before Susie got the children all quieted down, and then she went out to the car and brought all the presents back in and arranged them under the tree. Then, not wanting to see or hear her husband any more that night—he was like a big spoiled child throwing a tantrum—she herself went to sleep on the living room sofa.
Frank Junior awoke her in the morning, crying, “Look, Mama! Nackles didn’t come, he didn’t come!” And pointed to the presents she’d placed under the tree.
The other two children came down shortly after, and Susie and the youngsters sat on the floor and opened the presents, enjoying themselves as much as possible, but still with restraint. There were none of the usual squeals of childish pleasure; no one wanted Daddy to come storming downstairs in one of his rages. So the children contented themselves with ear-to-ear smiles and whispered exclamations, and after a while Susie made breakfast, and the day carried along as pleasantly as could be expected under the circumstances.
It was a little after twelve that Susie began to worry about Frank’s non-appearance. She braved herself to go up and knock on the locked door and call his name, but she got no answer, not even the expected snarl, so just around one o’clock she called me and I hurried on over. I rapped smartly on the bedroom door, got no answer, and finally I threatened to break the door in if Frank didn’t open up. When I still got no answer, break the door in I did.
And Frank, of course, was gone.
The police say he ran away, deserted his family, primarily because of Susie’s fourth pregnancy. They say he went out the window and dropped to the backyard, so Susie wouldn’t see him and try to stop him. And they say he didn’t take the car because he was afraid Susie would hear him start the engine.
That all sounds reasonable, doesn’t it? Yet I just can’t believe Frank would walk out on Susie without a lot of shouting about it first. Nor that he would leave his car, which he was fonder of than his wife and children.
But what’s the alternative? There’s only one I can think of: Nackles.
I would rather not believe that. I would rather not believe that Frank, in inventing Nackles and spreading word of him, made him real. I would rather not believe that Nackles actually did visit my sister’s house on Christmas Eve.
But did he? If so, he couldn’t have carried off any of the children, for a more subdued and better behaved trio of youngsters you won’t find anywhere. But Nackles, being brand-new and never having had a meal before, would need somebody. Somebody to whom he was real, somebody not protected by the shield of Santa Claus. And, as I say, Frank was drinking that night. Alcohol makes the brain believe in the existence of all sorts of things. Also, Frank was a spoiled child if there ever was one.
There’s no question but that Frank Junior and Linda Joyce and Stewart believe in Nackles. And Frank spread the gospel of Nackles to others, some of whom spread it to their own children. And some of whom will spread the new Evil to other parents. And ours is a mobile society, with families constantly being transferred by Daddy’s company from one end of the country to another, so how long can it be before Nackles is a power not only in this one city, but all across the nation?
I don’t know if Nackles exists, or will exist. All I know for sure is that there’s suddenly a new meaning in the lyric of that popular Christmas song. You know the one I mean:
You’d better watch out.



Note: I believe this story to be in the public domain.  Merry Christmas!

Nov 11, 2011

Send 'em South!

     The Aldermere Achievers 4-H Club members have worked hard in preparation for this day.  They fly to Louisville, Kentucky (their cows went on ahead with Ron and Jake) to compete at the North American International Livestock Expo. 
  
   
Alice, Addie, Erin, Ellie, Frances, Tyler, Sam, and Lucy with leader Heidi and Randi in pre-show meeting.

     This trip is the culmination of not just their regular show season in New England, but preparing their animals (and themselves) since the end of last year’s show season. 



     Their heifers and steers have been trained and conditioned to represent the Belted Galloway breed, Aldermere Farm, and Maine in the best possible light.






     Their own involvement in 4-H has included participation in youth events and competitions, conferences, community service projects, and excursions. These activities included sales and marketing presentations, Livestock Knowledge Bowls, the Mentor Program, fitting and showmanship, animal husbandry and herd management classes, photography and art, and even a cooking contest with our naturally raised Belted Galloway Beef. The club has enjoyed many enriching experiences, taken home awards, and one of our members even won the Sportsmanship Award at the Skowhegan Fair in August. They visited farms, and made many friends across New England.










     They have, through various fundraising events over the past year, such as public dinners, raffles, the farmstand at Aldermere Farm, and the kind support of local businesses, friends, and families, raised the cost of this trip.




     All of the members (and their parents) thank the Baker and Howard families; Heidi, Ron, Jake, Dwight, and all of the staff at Aldermere Farm.  With out their constant guidance and support none of this would be possible.  Most especially Sonja, who is an unfailing voice of enthusiasm, and Farm Stand Fairy Extraordinaire!  













































Special thanks to Randie, Matt, Raymond, Jeff, Kevin, Sarah, and Amy for all the efforts and support!
It's going to be a good time!  

Nov 5, 2011

Spooktacular Giveaway Winner Announced!



Congratulations to Martine, winner of a $20.00 Amazon Gift Card 
in the 
Spooktacular Giveaway Hop!

Thank you all for participating!  Two more Gift Card Giveaways in November!

I am Proud of America


Guest blog post by Frances Pendleton (gr. 8). Frances' essay has been selected to be read at the Veteran's Day Assembly at Camden Rockport Middle School.






I am Proud of America 

by Frances Pendleton

America is a country to be proud of.  The red, white, and blue.  The stars and stripes.  Our flag isn’t just colors and shapes, it is a symbol of freedom, respect, equal rights, and justice.  When people all over the world look at our flag they think the same thing.  People know America and Americans will fight and die to help them, keep them safe, give them equal rights, shelter, food, water, and education.  I am proud of my country because of what we stand for, the differences we have made, and the improvements we are working toward for the future.
Even before America was a country, it and its people stood for freedom.  Americans fought and died so they could say their own pledge, and pray to whoever they wanted to every night.   In 235 years America has changed, and we have given equal rights to all our citizens.  We no longer have slavery, women and African Americans are considered equal and can vote , and we recently elected the first black President.  235 years later we are still fighting for the same thing, but for other people all over the world.
In the past, America has given much to other countries.  Haiti and Japan have both suffered horrible disasters and America was there to help. We gave them more than we had, risked the health of volunteers, and the time and services of our soldiers and doctors.  I am proud of this because we put those countries first and asked for nothing in return.
Even in my school, the qualities of America shows.  We have food drives, pet food drives, toys for tots, and many other ways to give to the community.  I believe my school is so caring because they are watching what their country is doing.  America has many organizations that are trying to solve the many issues of the world.  America isn’t only making a difference, it is inspiring others to care and take action as well.
America may not be perfect, but it is pretty close.  I know that whatever my country is doing, it is trying to help.  The things we have done in the past, what we are doing in the present, and what we are working towards for the future are things to be proud of.  I am proud to say that I’m an American.

Oct 31, 2011

The Fence

   






       The stranger swore his innocence to the end but the hanging commenced without mercy on the Village Green.  It took a long time, and many turned their backs to the gallows, uncomfortable.  
     "Cursed be Ye'," he rasped, his face mottled with hopeless fury.  A final shudder, and he was dead.  Those who saw his bulging eyes gape open one last time wished they hadn't. 
     Clive, the town's blacksmith and gravedigger, cut down the body, gave it a kick, to check, and hefted it to the waiting cart. The crowd dispersed as the oxen carried the stranger's remains away.
     Impatient to get back to the tavern and partake in the merrymaking of the spontaneous event, Clive passed the church graveyard with a grimace. He resented the extra distance to the unmarked hole at the edge of town but there was naught for it.  The stranger would not be buried in the churchyard.  Only townspeople and members of the congregation were buried in the Church's shadow and afforded the protection of the iron fence surrounding the small graveyard.  Criminals and paupers went to the swamp.  
     Clive cursed the slow oxen and slapped their haunches all the way to the intended plot. He backed the cart as close as he could to the shallow grave and shoved the body to the ground. 
     A stupid and greedy man, he checked the pockets of the stranger first. He found a coin and pocketed it, but was disappointed until he pried open the stranger's mouth.  Three gold teeth glinted. He yanked them out quickly with the forceps he wore on his belt.
     He rolled the body into the grave, spat, and hastily refilled the hole.  Soon he was on his way.
     Feeling rich with his scavenged gains he spent much coin that night, filling his tankard again and again with bitter autumn ale. By all witness accounts, he left the tavern in a boisterous, jovial mood.
* * * 
     The next morning the townsfolk found Clive by the Churchyard on the frost-covered ground, his iron forceps beside him, rusty with dried blood and bits of tissue. Every tooth in his head gone, his jaw gaped empty but for the bloody pits.
     Had Clive understood the protective properties of iron better he might have survived that fateful fall night.   The iron fence around the graveyard doesn't keep evil out - it keeps it in.


Oct 20, 2011

Authorities Investigate Reports Count Olaf is Impersonating Lemony Snicket





     Authorities are reacting to rumors that Count Olaf is impersonating children's author Daniel Handler, aka Lemony Snicket. 
     "What other conclusion can be reached?" whisper parents.  Children are being indoctrinated to support Occupy Wall Street protests by videos released by Handler/Snicket.
     Count Olaf, the nefarious character, has been heard to say,"All that I ask is that you do each and every little thing that pops into my head, while I enjoy the enormous fortune your parents left behind."

    Comments on Snicket's website fuel rumors: Written in Snicket’s trademark black comedic voice, the observations range from the instructive to the cheeky: “People who say money doesn’t matter are like people who say cake doesn’t matter — it’s probably because they’ve already had a few slices,” he writes.
     "Sounds like Olaf to me," one child was heard to say, looking around nervously. 
     As kids continue to watch the Occupy Wall Street movement unfold around the world, Snicket isn’t the only one trying to teach them what anti-capitalism means reports warn, echoing the eerily similar statements made in the past by the count and his troupe who openly discussed his intentions to embezzle the Baudelaire children's inheritance.  Authorities worry Count Olaf has crafted a grand scheme to steal all children's inheritance.  Signs at protests support the confiscation of estates.
     Has Olaf has reassembled his gang of shady accomplices?  Sightings of freakish characters resembling Count Olaf's theater troupe, described as a motley crew which includes a man with hooks for hands, a bald man with a long nose, two women with white-powdered faces, and one who is so obese as to resemble neither man nor a woman, surface at protests
     Authorities warn parents and children to be on the lookout for Olaf and his accomplices, which will be difficult as Olaf and his ilk are masters of disguise, and have escaped capture thus far.  

Oct 18, 2011

Your wretched little lives have all been cursed cause of all the witches working I'm the WORST

   

   

    October.  Busy time of year. Deadlines, deadlines, deadlines.
     Dead.    Lines.
     Lost souls get backed up if you don't stay right on top of them. This one isn't happy with where they are going. That one has unfinished business. blah blah blah. The whining gets to you. Now serving number 8,936, 472, 785. Next.
     Days like this I need an assistant but good help is so hard to find. Most applicants see the position as a stepping stone, and corporate sabotage is always a concern. Some would lift your best spells and curses, some are just using you to climb the corporate ladder - they don't know the back door is at the top. Some have aspirations of Disney. Not everyone is a Sabrina but they don't want to hear the truth.
     My left arm for a Renfield. Yeah, he had a few problems, needed occasional stroking, and fresh blood, but all in all he was a loyal employee fulfilled by his career choice.

(acknowledgement - above title from Hocus Pocus, a charming movie inspired by true events.
Dead. Lines. I just process 'em. I have a friend who deals with the ones who go over the wall. I am hoping he'll share some of that here. Fascinating stuff - don't bother trying to escape your fate.)

Oct 16, 2011

Darkness in the Hills









The Warriors spread in formation searching a mountain slope. Each craggy rock face and chasm, each ridge and depression. Evil touched the air, but it the source was indeterminable. A foul whiff, but nothing strong enough to follow.                   


The Keeper and the Alabaster Chalice


Book II of The Black Ledge Series

Oct 14, 2011

Tragic Magic





     A deafening crack shook the kitchen. Harriet glanced around the kitchen with anticipation for what she'd conjured, but when her eyes rested upon it, her spirits sank.
     The bunny twitched his nose and gave her a baleful look.
     Darn it. Money, not bunny.
    
 
The old kitchen was hot from the fire.  Harriet waved the smelly fumes away and wiped the perspiration from her forehead. Charred and tattered, her sleeve left a streak of soot on her face. She turned the book and re-read the spell: 
     Two eyelashes from a Pekin duck and the snout of a dead trout. Bring to bubbling boil, remove immediately from heat, stirring in a - rats! A gold feather - not an old feather.
     Well, this wasn't going to work - that was the last of the eyelashes. Now what? 
     She needed cash - not the least of which was to get some more eyelashes. 
     She eyed the bunny, thinking. He eyed her back, not liking what she was thinking...



to be continued







Oct 10, 2011

Columbus Day


     
    He wasn't the first, you know.  Like the travel section feature on a new watering hole, he screwed it up for those of us already here. No. There is no valet parking. No. There's no drink special. Or Aztec gold. Or Fountain of Youth.
     Indies? Yeah, take a left at the second light.
     He wasn't so easily misdirected.
     We even tried the "I think I hear Ferdinand calling you" bit. Didn't work.
     He was on a mission. He had the funding. His sales pitch was strong. That the Earth was round was heady stuff to Isabella.  A variation on we have trouble in River City. Well, good for you. If this doesn't work out you might consider a career in telemarketing.
      So Columbus made several trips to the new world in search of land and riches. 
      But the girls all got prettier at closing time - or someone did. Modern epidemiological evidence indicates Columbus' men took syphilis home with them, later resulting in the deaths of five million across Europe.
      Gives new meaning to Last Call.




                                






Sep 29, 2011

Magical Blog Award!



 Gustatus Similis Pullus is thrilled to receive the

Magical Blog Award 

by Artist and Writer Deirdra Eden Coppel at A Storybook World .   





Deirdra is a fresh new author with a strong voice and a passion for creative marketing in a changing literary world. She works full time as a professional writer and illustrator. In 2009 she began creating animation for e-books.

For more information visit her art gallery at www.Knightess.com

Thank you, Deirdra, for this award!  We're honored!

Sep 27, 2011

Five Chances to Win!


Goodreads Book Giveaway

Slow Boat to Purgatory by Vernon Baker

Slow Boat to Purgatory

by Vernon Baker

Giveaway ends October 25, 2011.
See the giveaway details at Goodreads.
Enter to win

Sep 25, 2011

Catastrophic



     The mole scurried back under the garbage bin clutching a limp brown cucumber peeling. 
     Smokey stretched, eying him from his perch atop the bin, but the stretch was the only effort the cat had any intention of expending. The mole was too scrawny, more bone than than meat.




     A loud crash spun Smokey's head toward the back yard.  Smoke billowed and curled, and the cat hackled. Fear clutched what was left of his black heart and he leapt to the ground.   He sidled along the fence toward the hollering and clamor, alert to likely danger manufactured by the beastly children. 
     The mole peeked out, sniffed, and scuttled back to the safety of his lair.
     Smokey slunk, ears up and whiskers testing.  A piece of smoldering cardboard floated through the air, dropping charred chunks hither and yon.  Hollering turned to delighted laughter as another resounding boom echoed.
     "Aim it away from the house!" 
     "I tried.  It flipped over."
     Smokey peered through the broken slat.  Three grubby boys gathered 'round a piece of plywood balanced on crooked sawhorses.  One taped a soda bottle to a fresh piece of cardboard, taking care not to cover the short fuse stemming from the bottle's neck. 
     This wasn't going to end well.  Smokey quickly retreated, seeking refuge under the overgrown shrubs encroaching the rotting front steps.  As he disappeared into the swale he had a quick vision of the mole disappearing beneath the bin.  He dismissed it -  it wasn't the same thing at all.





Sep 21, 2011

More Questions




Maine Coon Cats, like Patters, share DNA with the Norwegian Forest Cat. Did the modern day breed originate with trans-Atlantic travel thousands of years ago? Did cats return with the Red Paint People? 











Aug 31, 2011

Nob, Midgard Serpent of Penobscot Bay

  





Without warning she dove ahead of Jack, reared out of the water and threw her arms wide, obstructing his path as a triangular head broke the surface.
It was that of a dragon, with horns decorating its thick brow, and heavily lidded eyes. As its serpentine body rose from the depths one could see wing-like fins on its sides.
Jack froze, and Ringo backed toward Willow and Flora. Rob leapt from Sargent’s back and ran into the water.
Baelhar and two Elves materialized above Jack, swords drawn.
Meg kept her hands in the air, shielding Jack from the dragon. She waved one behind her, indicating everyone should be still. “What brings you inland, Mighty Nob?” she asked the beast.
“The seas are unsettled. Strife comes this way,” it said. When it spoke the words rolled together in a deep rumble.
“You can’t stay in the River,” she said. “You’ll be seen.”
“I cannot stay in the Bay. Who is it you shield?” He stretched his neck trying to see beyond her.
Jack tensed, but stayed still.
“Humans who are aware. Camedon won’t thank you for hurting them, or any others.”
The dragon snorted. “I don’t eat humans. Nasty things.”



Illustration by Thomas Block
 for

Book II of The Black Ledge Series