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2012-01-19T17:14:00.001-05:00

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Mystique of the Templar

2012-01-13T09:22:00.000-05:00

What is the fascination with an order of knights long dead? I first saw the co-option of the name Knights Templar last August with the horrendous shooting in Norway. It piqued my curiosity, but the crime was so horrific I never delved deeper.
I saw it again this week, directly referencing the Mexican drug cartel. It got me thinking again so I asked my friend, Vernon.
Vernon, you see, is quite suited to answer questions about the Templars. His book, Slow Boat to Purgatory, is a page-turner featuring a Templar Knight.
Vern is a wicked story teller, so why would I look this stuff up when I can just ask him to tell me (us) the history of the Templars? On Friday the 13th, no less. A wonderful day for mystique, and Templar superstition.

Thanks, Paige, for inviting me to talk with you about the Templars. Letme preface this by saying I am by no means a Templar historian or expert. I’vedone a lot of research on the order but I would not begin to hold myself up as some sort of authority. Thatsaid, I think there are some interesting, fun, and ultimately intriguing thingsto discuss.
Who were the Knights Templar?
The Templars were amilitary order officially recognized by the Catholic Church. They were formedin the early 1100’s and existed for almost two hundred years before being officially disbanded in 1312.It’s important to note that at their peak there were perhaps 20,000 Templars, of which only a small percentage were actual soldiers. In reality itwas their financial acumen and their vast wealth that I believe to be theirmost important and far–reaching legacy. They literally changed, and in manyways formed, the basis of modern banking. Their architectural achievements wereextraordinary; many of their buildings, temples, and castles still stand today.

Who were the first Templars?
They were a group of nine European Knights, all but one of which has been identified by name (I've got my literary hooks in that unnamed knight). They were all related in some way and for reasons unknown found their way to the holy land after the first crusade. During this time pilgrims were being slaughtered by Muslim bandits and they offered themselves up as protectors of the pilgrims and of the holy land.
The King of Jerusalem took them up on their offer and gave them lodgings on the spot where Muslims had built the Al Aqsa mosque, the original site of Solomon's temple. Eventually they were officially endorsed by the church.

What was it like to be a Knight Templar?

Well again, that varied depending on whether a Knight was asoldier or part of the larger group that was really a sort of multi-nationalcorporation. If we focus on the fighting men I think it is safe to say itwas a militaristic organization with very intense and rigorous standardsrequiring a monastic mindset and adherence to Templar rules. No women, a vow ofpoverty, etc. They truly were the elite military force of their day and thisrequired constant training, strict discipline, and uncommon bravery. These were amazing fighters, and when onestops to contemplate the brutal reality of medieval warfare they must havepossessed phenomenal strength and endurance. I think that’s a big reason whysome modern characters, including some serious bad guys, have tried to co-optthe Templar mystique.

Why were they so secretive?
That is obviously one of the reasons they have continued to fascinate somany people since the time they were disbanded and ceased to officially exist.There is no shortage of theories as to why they maintained such a secretiveprofile. Starting with their very beginnings, were they really interested inthe stated goal of protecting pilgrims on their way to the holy land and protecting the holy land itself, or was thereanother motive? Why did they take up residence on the original site of Solomon’s Temple? Were they in possession of Christian Relics or esotericknowledge? It’s irresistible fodder for speculation and imaginative minds. Likemine.

What has been the most interesting thing you’vediscovered about The Templars as a result of your research for your books?

I think I’m most impressed with their ability to quickly rise to suchprominence and power. They were a force financially, equal and in many wayssuperior to the Kings of their time. I also have been impressed with thestrength of commitment to their order. They truly would and did sacrificethemselves for their ideals, be it The Holy Land, God, the Order itself. In theend many of them were massacred for refusing to denounce the Order. Again, thisseems to have a certain attraction to the various groups, good and bad, who adoptthe Templar moniker.

What authors do you enjoy who have used the Templars in their work?

Obviously Dan Brown comes to mind. There’s Steve Berry, Raymond Khouryand my friend, David Beem. There are several books I’ve come across recently dealingwith Templars I want to read. It’s funny in that the Templars have been fodderfor literary plots from their very beginning, for instance the various Graillegends that have existed for centuries featuring Templars, or Templar-likethemes.

In your book, Slow Boat to Purgatory, Gaspar deRouse, your main character, is a Templar Knight. Why did you make him aTemplar?

I wanted Gaspar to be a man of extraordinary commitment andheroism. I wanted him to have a certain inner-strength in order to stand up tothe trials and tribulations I was going to throw at him. The Templar ethos fitthat mold for me. I also wanted him to have to confront his failings when itcame to some of the things he had done as a Templar. He didn’t always choosewisely, during his time as a Templar, and that comes back to haunt him. I alsowanted to write about something I enjoy.

In Slow Boat you have a couple of other maincharacters, one of them a priest, and (without a spoiler) he has connections tothe Templars and a modern day soldier, a Navy Seal. Why did you choose a priestand a navy seal?
Well as far as Dominicus, the priest, I saw him having similar conflictsto those Gaspar has. He’s a priest, but he does things that a priestdoesn’t usually have to do, or should do. Yet he is every bit committed to hiscause as Gaspar is to his. As far as Alex Donovan, the Navy Seal, I wanted himto be a warrior of extraordinary abilities and strength, like Gaspar. He’sAmerican, so the toughest American soldiers I could come up with were theseals. If he had been British he would have been a member of the S.A.S.

Thanks so much for sharing all of this fascinating information. It is easy to seewhy you were drawn to conjure such a thrilling tale. And, you did it justice. Thanks, V.

Find Slow Boat to Purgatory on Amazon

Cheers

2011-12-26T07:03:00.000-05:00

The New Year's Resolution. Why?
Don't let the confetti distract you. It's a subversive plot.
Oh, yes. Yes, it is. Have a seat.
Once upon a time, in a land far, far away there were two agents of Misery. Stress and Strife were their names, and they were very good at their jobs. Times were simpler. They broke the flint knives of hunters/gatherers, back-drafted hearth fires filling caves with smoke, and propagated mildew on food stores, but it was a simpler time and they were not overworked. They enjoyed a comfortable run for a long time.
Our world grew and evolved though, and Stress and Strife had to organize and recruit assistance (or give up earned vacation time). They formed a networking effort of global proportions and employed covert agents everywhere. The agents headed their own departments and were charged with specific tasks. One agent, for example, oversaw havoc in the medical field and everything pertaining to it. This encompassed everything from lowering the accepted age of colonoscopies to flossing to HDL/LDL imbalance. Another was charged with retailing, and instructed underlings to periodically and without warning alter measurements of clothing industry size standards. Yet another was responsible for the financial world and their subordinates hid fees and bounced checks.
The departments worked like a well-oiled machine to year-end culmination of widespread unhappiness, hypertension, and insomnia. December. The most glorious time of the year for Stress and Strife.
But.
It all ended, every year, at midnight on Christmas Day. Christmas night demarcates the DMZ (de-miseried zone), and Stress and Strife's archenemies, Peace and Relaxation, take over. The entire week between Christmas and New Year's Eve belongs to them, and Stress and Strife must watch from the sidelines. Unconcerned About Anything has been a strong ally, assisting Peace and Relaxation to hold the enemy at bay. Year after year, decade after decade.
As you can well imagine this week had long been a thorn in Stress and Strife's side. They sought to reclaim this lost territory, and the subject came up often. Emergency meetings were frequent with only the one item on the agenda (which was good, because Robert hated Stress and Strife and forbid them to use his rules).
And so sat the department heads around the conference table at one such meeting. They mulled the same old ideas, such as the December 26th sales which had been implemented a few years back but never managed to pack the wallop Black Friday did.
They puzzled and discussed, but a solution continued to elude them. Just as the consensus was reached again they'd have to accept defeat this one week a year Anxiety had a brilliant idea.
"What if," she, proposed,thinking aloud, "what if, somehow, we got people worrying about things that hadn't even gone wrong yet?"
"What do you mean?" asked Suspicion and Skepticism simultaneously.
"Well .. we can't make them participate in the misery of life this week, but maybe we can get them worrying about next week. .. make people think about it, and by just thinking about it, in fact, screw up their week .....yes! Yes! With the right marketing we can even get them to look forward to it! Plan to participate in said misery!" Anxiety was so excited she could hardly get the idea out.
Well, everyone around the table was speechless (in fact, Rumor has it Anxiety got a big promotion that day).
Obsessed was quick to see where Anxiety was headed and began making lists.
Fret had logistical concerns. A lot.
Clutter saw the marketing opportunities; noisemakers, champagne, dumb hats, balls and pennies dropping all at the same time.
Resolve jumped in and asked, "Yeah, but how do we get them to do it?"
"That's your department!" snapped Lazy.
And the New Year's Resolution was born.

original post 12-31-2010

The Trappings of Christmas

2011-12-21T10:00:00.000-05:00

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

The shed door, askew on one rusted 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.
"This ain't gonna work," Stevie said.
Joey poked at 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. 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 quick to do his brother's bidding, lest Joey cuff 'im. He unconsciously rubbed his ear.
Joey lugged the makeshift trap to a sad group of trees in the overgrown empty lot next door. He 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 unconsciously rubbed his ear. Joey set the door of the trap and placed loose brush, just so, over the 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 the hell is 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 unconsciously rubbed his ear.

(to be continued)

Cataclysmic

Catastrophic

Nackles

2011-11-28T06:59:00.001-05:00

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!

Nah Nah Nah Nah Nah

2011-11-19T06:55:00.000-05:00

Chicken.
Scaredy Cat.
Turkey.
Kids crack me up.
I'm getting ahead of myself ...

Gone are the days when families raised food for their family's consumption, but years ago most families did. Each had some sort of garden and raised animals for meat. Even families who resided "in town" and were spatially challenged kept smaller animals such as fowl for meat and/or eggs. Chickens and turkeys were as familiar to most children, then, as cats and dogs are to children now.
And for generations, taunts derived from this knowledge have echoed in America's school yards. Chicken. BOOOCK! BockBockBock; on the surface a seemingly simple insult, yet when one pauses underlying complexities are apparent.
The kid who is a chicken is a vastly different creature than the kid who is a scaredy cat and the kid who is a turkey.
Chickens are just stupid and afraid of anything unfamiliar, and that makes them "flighty". That is the definition of a chicken, it is an inherent quality, and the one word is sufficient.
Scaredy cat. Two words. Cats are smarter, more complex creatures than chickens, and require an adjective to accurately convey the taunter's intent. What kind of cat? A scaredy cat.
Turkey - again, one word. A living, breathing, flesh and blood domestic turkey is possibly the dumbest animal on earth. It is apt to die at any given moment because it's too stupid to be afraid. It walks right into the danger with a skip in its step and a song in its heart. Turkey is the perfect moniker to assign to the class fool oblivious of the consequences of his* actions. You know this kid's going to spend a lot of recesses with his head on his desk.
Kids don't need to think about any of this - they just know it. Even while taunting, they know there's more purpose in taunting the scaredy cat than the chicken because the chicken is long gone - it flew the coop. The scaredy cat is still hanging around assessing the situation before committing. And it isn't necessary to taunt the turkey cause he just went ahead and did it, and he will either die or get in big trouble - each has entertainment value to kids, so the turkey actually has a certain bizarre social standing.
The most fascinating thing about all of this, though, is the staying power of these taunts. Generations later they are still used. Children who've never even driven by a farm use these with acumen. They get the subtleties. They wield the taunt with wit and precision.
Or maybe it's come full circle. Maybe it is a chicken/egg situation. Are children calling little Johnny a turkey because they know turkeys are fools, or, do little Johnny's antics teach children that turkeys are fools? It reminds me that the more things change, the more they stay the same.
Our world has evolved with technological advances, and the family farm has all but disappeared. Amazingly, and thankfully, memories of days gone by linger on. We owe that to children, and I tip my hat.
And enjoy your turkey without guilt or remorse. It had a happy life. Killing that bird was a kindness, really. Something would have gotten him.

Happy Thanksgiving.

* often gender specific

addendum - for the purposes of this post I limited my examples of the etymology of insults from the barn yard setting ......but there are more. Pig, Jackass, Hound Dog, Rat... all are worthy of a moment of contemplation.

Send 'em South!

2011-11-11T21:05:00.001-05:00

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 culminationof 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, throughvarious 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!

Spooktacular Giveaway Winner Announced!

2011-11-05T12:31:00.000-04:00

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

2011-11-05T10:08:00.001-04:00

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 asymbol of freedom, respect, equal rights, and justice. When people all over the world look at ourflag they think the same thing. Peopleknow 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 westand for, the differences we have made, and the improvements we are working towardfor the future.

Even before America was a country, itand its people stood for freedom. Americansfought and died so they could say their own pledge, and pray to whoever theywanted to every night. In 235 years America has changed, and we havegiven equal rights to all our citizens. Weno longer have slavery, women andAfrican Americans are considered equal and can vote , and we recently elected thefirst black President. 235 years later we are still fighting for thesame thing, but for other people all over the world.

In the past, America has given muchto other countries. Haiti and Japan haveboth suffered horrible disasters and America was there to help. We gave themmore than we had, risked the health of volunteers, and the time and services ofour soldiers and doctors. I am proud ofthis because we put those countries first and asked for nothing in return.

Even in my school, the qualities ofAmerica shows. We have food drives, petfood drives, toys for tots, and many other ways to give to the community. I believe my school is so caring because theyare watching what their country is doing. America has many organizations that are tryingto solve the many issues of the world. Americaisn’t only making a difference, it is inspiring others to care and take actionas well.

America may not be perfect, but it ispretty close. I know that whatever mycountry is doing, it is trying to help. Thethings we have done in the past, what we are doing in the present, and what weare working towards for the future are things to be proud of. I am proud to say that I’m an American.

The Fence

2011-10-31T09:29:00.001-04:00

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. Those who saw his bulging eyes gape open one last time wished they hadn't.
"Cursed be Ye'," he rasped, his face mottled with hopeless fury. A final shudder, and he was dead.
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 by the church graveyard with a grimace and continued on to the unmarked hole waiting at the edge of town. He resented the extra distance, 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 dug a shallow grave and backed the cart as close as he could. A stupid and greedy man, he felt the pockets of the stranger, found a coin, and pocketed it, disappointed until he pried open the stranger's mouth. Three gold teeth glinted, and he pulled them with the forceps he wore on his belt.
He rolled the body in, 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.

Authorities Investigate Reports Count Olaf is Impersonating Lemony Snicket

2011-10-20T09:29:00.000-04:00

Authorities are reacting to rumors 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 Count 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 confiscation of estates.
Has Olaf has reassembled his gang of shady accomplices? Sightings of freakish characters resembling Count Olaf's theater troupe, 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.

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

2011-10-18T07:53:00.000-04:00

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 just 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), and 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 some of my finer accomplishments and loosely based on the story of my life. Dead. Lines. I just process 'em. I have a friend (Vernon Baker) who deals with the ones who go over the wall. I am hoping he will share some of that here. Fascinating stuff. Needless to say - don't bother trying to escape your fate.)

Darkness in the Hills

2011-10-16T08:10:00.000-04:00

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

Columbus Day

2011-10-10T09:39:00.000-04:00

He wasn't the first, you know. Kind of like the travel section discovering the trendy 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.

Nope. 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.

Round, you say. Really? And she bought that? 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 he 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 suggests his men took syphilis home with them, later resulting in the deaths of five million across Europe.

Gives a new meaning to last call.

Magical Blog Award!

2011-09-29T13:06:00.000-04:00

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!

The Alabaster Chalice

2011-09-29T09:36:00.000-04:00

Prologue

Restless, Motte shifted from one leg to the other, her talons gouging the granite as she settled on the pediment.

The Ley Lines sang to her. They sang of what had been, what was, and what was yet to be. Songs, older than time, of love, joy, and loss, dwelled in Motte’s heart, and she recognized what had been prophesied had come to pass.

He’d bonded with the child. It was foretold, and so it would be.

Five Chances to Win!

2011-09-27T10:18:00.001-04:00

Goodreads Book Giveaway

Slow Boat to Purgatory

by Vernon Baker

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

Enter to win

Catastrophic

2011-09-25T11:03:00.002-04:00

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 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 and attention 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, every instinct telling him to head in the other direction, but he needed to ascertain the 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.
     "Just 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.

Cataclysmic

The Trappings of Christmas

Nob, Midgard Serpent of Penobscot Bay

2011-08-31T10:25:00.003-04:00

Without warning shedove 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 adragon, with horns decorating its thick brow, and heavily lidded eyes. As itsserpentine body rose from the depths one could see wing-like fins on its sides.

Jack froze, and Ringobacked toward Willow and Flora. Rob leapt from Sargent’s back and ran into thewater.

Baelhar and two Elvesmaterialized above Jack, swords drawn.

Meg kept her handsin the air, shielding Jack from the dragon. She waved one behind her, indicatingeveryone should be still. “What brings you inland, Mighty Nob?” she asked thebeast.

“The seas are unsettled.Strife comes this way,” it said. When it spoke the words rolled together in adeep rumble.

“You can’t stay inthe River,” she said. “You’ll be seen.”

“I cannot stay inthe Bay. Who is it you shield?” He stretched his neck trying to see beyond her.

Jack tensed, butstayed still.

“Humans who are aware. Camedon won’t thank you forhurting them, or any others.”

The dragon snorted.“I don’t eat humans. Nasty things.”

Interview with Vernon Baker

2011-07-18T22:07:00.002-04:00

An interview with Vernon Baker, author of

Slow Boat to Purgatory.

Tell us a little about yourself. Where did you grow up? You're a Red Sox fan - how does a California kid become a Red Sox fan?

Well, I grew up in Southern California. We moved to Maine in 2001 when we found our property and fell in love with the Maine coast. In summer, that is. My family is all from the East coast - Boston, the Cape, and so I was indoctrinated into Redsox nation from day one.

Who was Vernon Baker before he was a writer?

Ha! I like the sound of that, “writer”. I have done a lot of different things up to this point, from law enforcement to owning a handful of businesses. I've been an entrepreneur my whole life, which I think is going to pay off in my new career as a writer. These days, being an author means being in business for yourself. That excites me almost as much as the writing.

Can you tell us a little bit about this book?

Slow Boat To Purgatory is Book One in a series that features three main characters.

The first is Gaspar de Rouse, an immortal Templar Knight who is murdered in 1291 after he is entrusted with an earth shattering secret. He’s resurrected by an archangel and given a second chance to redeem himself.

The second character is Alex Dononvan. Alex is a former Navy Seal who retired after a disastrous mission that left his team dead and him with a career-ending injury. Alex's grandfather dies and leaves him a vast fortune, but more importantly, an ancient manuscript that tells the story of Gaspar. Alex, as his grandfather was, becomes enthralled with the story and sets off to find the immortal knight.

The third character is Dominicus Bureau, a catholic priest who belongs to a modern day version of the Knights Templars, one that has been in pursuit of Gaspar, and the secret he guards, for hundreds of years.

All three of these very dangerous men are on a collision course that I am enjoying scripting.

You and Gaspar were "acquainted" for a while before you told his story? What inspired you to set pen to paper?

I have been writing little snippets featuring Gaspar for about three years. One day a couple of years ago I saw Gustave Dore’s illustration of Charon, the boatman from Dante’s Inferno and the idea for Slow Boat To Purgatory began to germinate. It took root when I ended up putting Gaspar into Charon’s boat.

Describe your typical writing day. What time of day do you write?

My writing day? Ha! My wife and I have two children, a four year old and an eight month old. Plus I have my day job running a small resort and my night job running a restaurant. Writing happens when I am able to catch a breath and a clear headed moment. I do make myself write every day, something, anything. And I try to read something everyday. I guess most of it gets done at night when the house is quiet. I write large chunks in the winter when our businesses are closed. There’s nothing better than handwriting while sitting with your toes buried in sand.

You've done an enormous amount of research for Gaspar's story. Tell us about that.

As far as research goes, I thank Al Gore every night for the internet. I have been lucky enough to have traveled to many of the places I write about and my hope is that I am able to sell enough books that I can continue to travel to far flung corners of the world on “research” trips.

What are you working on now?

I’m working on two things currently. I am about 40% of the way through “The Arimathean” which is the follow-up to Slow Boat, Book Two in the series. That should be in print by Christmas, depending on whether our eight-month-old starts sleeping or not. I’m also working on another book that features an angel who wakes up in a monastery and has no idea why he is on earth. Very fast paced, a little more violent than Slow Boat, kind of a Jason Bourne with wings.

What music do you listen to when you write?

I love the Pandora music service. It allows you to make your own radio stations around certain songs or styles of music. I have about fifteen different stations that range from Satie and chanting monks to Whitsnake. The strength of the vibrations rattling the window panes depends on my mood or the scene I’m writing. I also like listening to John Powell or Hans Zimmer type music and visualizing my writing transformed into movies. Fun stuff.

Tell us about the Guardian Angel to whom you've dedicated you book.

Well, we all have a guardian angel. Mine just happens to be my wife. Cat’s and their nine lives have nothing on me.

Vernon Baker

Find out more about Vernon Baker and Slow Boat to Purgatory HERE

Slow Boat to Purgatory is available in print or digital format at:

Amazon

Barnes and Noble

Smashwords

The Graves

2011-07-18T17:13:00.002-04:00

Eleanor looked to Rob, whonodded, and she turned south. She slowed the small boat as they neared the jaggedledges. The waves churned, tugging the craft to a smashed and splintered end,and Eleanor held the whaler steady as she circled the treacherous cropping. Herwhite knuckles clenched the engine handle’s twist grip—or maybe the stories ofThe Graves were getting to her, but Eleanor wanted to leave this place. She wasrelieved to see no sign of life. Nothing stirred. Not even seabirds lingered inthe forsaken spot.

Midsummer's Eve Giveway ...

2011-06-25T08:16:00.005-04:00

.. has ended. Thank you everyone for participating. I will announce the winner shortly!

And ... our 19th entrant (June 21 at 9:22:21), Raelena, is the lucky winner!

Again, thank you all for participating!

UNATTENDEaD

2011-06-16T20:10:00.001-04:00

Bodies don't bother Dell, but some of the people who made them that way really try her patience. Dell, and her best friend Miles, who hates bodies, solve the mystery surrounding a suspicious UNATTENDEaD death.

Kurt Vonnegut - The Shapes of Stories

2011-06-10T08:17:00.001-04:00

I rarely post media. I thought this was delightful.

Kurt Vonnegut on the Shapes of Stories

www.youtube.com

Short lecture by Kurt Vonnegut.

The Splash into Summer giveaway has ended ...

2011-06-01T07:24:00.005-04:00

Thank you to all participants! The Winner will be announced tomorrow! Again, thank you. That was fun!

***Congratulations to Charla! Thanks so much, one and all, for entering. I will be hosting another giveaway - the Midsummer's Eve Giveaway later in June. Please come back and enter again!

Chairman of the Abhorred V

2011-05-23T11:23:00.003-04:00

"While the water's heating, let's talk about some of our mutual friends. Small world, isn't it?" The stranger sat on the edge of the motel room's other bed. He took a sip of Mick's scotch and looked at the pint. "Wish you'd gotten a bigger bottle. This is good stuff. Where was I? Ah, yes. The Abrams. An employee of yours, wasn't he? Neighbor of mine. Cute little house over on Trim Street."

Mick's eyes bulged. If duct tape hadn't covered his mouth his jaw might have dropped.

"Nice couple, the Abrams. Sorry to hear about Joe's cancer, right after retiring, and all. And then that burst pipe! On top of everything. Marge said she lost all her family photos."

Mick shook his head, which was an accomplishment as it was tethered to his ankles from behind.

"And then, his pension. You can't foresee these things, though, can you? Not in an unstable economy. Fees just eat things right up." The stranger stood, and walked to the hot plate. He stuck a finger in, testing the temperature, and wiped it on his pants. "Not quite hot enough," he said, and went on, "Good thing they had you in their time of need. Yessiree. The flowers were lovely."

A knock sounded at the door. The stranger went to it and squinted through the hole. He turned to Mick. "Oops, we forgot you were meeting someone, didn't we? Not a peep, now," he warned. He cracked the door, and said something Mick couldn't understand. Someone giggled, and the stranger closed the door, smiling.

"She thinks you've switched teams. She offered to join us, but I explained you don't like to share." He gave Mick a ribald wink. "Bet the Epi-lady's charged. Let's talk about Joe Abram's chemotherapy and hair loss while we fire that baby up." The Epi-lady hummed to life. He gave Mick a once-over, and chose a particularly thick patch of chest hair.

"This is the Legend IV. The latest technology in epilators. Two speeds and forty individual tweezing discs! Only the best for you, Mick. You can't find these babies just anywhere - they're flying off the shelves!" When Epi-lady bit in, it whined in high gear, muffling Mick's duct-tape sobs.

Chairman of the AbhorredChairman of the Abhorred II
Chairman of the Abhorred III
Chairman of the Abhorred IV

Tweet This, Baby!

2011-05-16T15:44:00.007-04:00

Hoard's Dairyman (@HoardsDairyman) is now following your tweets (@pwpendleton) on Twitter.

There almost aren't words to convey how cool I think that is. I've been reading Hoard's Dairyman since ... since before I could read. I found hours of entertainment in those pages. Chicago cheese markets intrigued as only a child can imagine a bazaar of gaily-tented stalls and people haggling over exotic foods. Yeah, I know, but it was wonderful imagery.

But unlike the reality of cheese markets, the glossy cover has stayed true. Those beautiful letters are still framed with bold red trim, and I smell my Grandfather's wintergreen lifesavers when I see an issue. I hear chains rattling in the barn, and I remember running down the path to find him.

When I was just a little bit older and had my own heifers I had my very own subscription. It was the first periodical to come, just for me, and I wore the hinges out on the mailbox checking for it.

Thirty years later Hoard's is following me on Twitter, and it's cracking me up. In all the right ways.

Playing with Cover Ideas

2011-05-08T00:08:00.004-04:00

Barn Magic

2011-05-03T07:04:00.002-04:00

All sorts of things have a power which is both awe-inspiring in its strength, and magical in the mystery of its fount. The surge of the sea, new spring growth on brittle gray branches, the winds of a storm, or a crackling fire - all evince life's energy. The complexity and mystique of its endurance comforts us, reassures us, and humbles us.

I find it in a barn. Every corner of a barn thrums with vitality. The sounds of feet shuffling, chains rattling, water dripping from muzzles, the munching of grain, even the scurry of little gray feet dodging large hooves for a dropped oat morsel. The smells of pine shavings, fresh hay, and the animals themselves, both invigorate, but soothe, the psyche. Little else brings the contentment one finds closing the barn doors on a cold winter night knowing all are fed and content, sheltered and safe.

Even the old, empty barn has a life force. Faded, it continues to cling gently to the ghosts of past occupants. Spiders hang in corners, bits of dust dance in shafts of sunlight, smells linger in spite of being stale. Wood creaks, and rusted hardware is eager to be worked, thirsting for a bit of oil and a strong hand. Defying the silence, swallows swoop and chatter.

I slowly close the old heavy doors, remembering and a bit wistful, but also at peace. All is still content here.

Genetic Tendencies

2011-04-25T19:07:00.007-04:00

We like witches in our family. I guess. Just realizing it, but they keep popping up in family stories. I suppose my mother’s to blame. She did a great witch's cackle (you know the one), and was often called upon to do it. I also remember a skirt she had when I was very little which was long and flowing and had moons on it. We called it her witch skirt. It was dressy and elegant, not the least bit costume-ish, but the moons reminded me of my favorite book at that age, The Witch of Hissing Hill. The name stuck. My mother liked it (but she’d also bought the book).

Whenever Marie Laveau played on the radio, someone always ran and turned it up.

Our family’s sailboat was named the Water Witch. An unrelated story behind the name, but there's that word again.

So years later, the angel atop my mother's Christmas tree was fair game. It was a corn husk angel, and old, so her skirts were dry and curled...windblown? Perhaps. She's holding a trumpet, but it’s kind of droopy now, and one could conceivably mistake it for a wand if one looked quickly. If one was two and had a cool Granny.

My daughter was two, and had a cool Granny. She also lisped (she's thirteen now, and does not). We'd stopped at my mother's for a quick visit on our way home. Frances ran in, ahead of her sister, to see my mother's Christmas tree. She came charging back to the kitchen, eyes wide and delighted, to report to her sister, "A WITth. Granny has a WITth on her tree!"

My mother was tickled. With the idea, and with my daughter's delight. The shadowed sense of humor evident at such a young age (heart clutch) ... the legacy lives on.

444 Submission to 4 Corners Press

2011-04-24T12:05:00.001-04:00

Four Corners Press is having a contest! 444 word submissions about dreams, and I continued with a post of another character...

No boundaries. Good thing.

Nuptials from Hell

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 about where they’re 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’s hard to find. Most applicants only 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), and 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 overall he was a loyal employee who was fulfilled by his career choice.

I digress...I was sitting in Reception. We all have to do so many volunteer hours a decade – licensure requirement- and it was my turn. I was sorting the new arrivals and it wasn’t going well. My quill had a leak and blotches of Eternal Ink were staining The Book—turning Hells into Hell-Os. There was no rhyme or reason in the queue of souls waiting. Up, down, the hangers-on ... and in came the Dream Dallier. I groaned.

The Dream Dallier is the After Life’s jester, the fool, and a nightmare to have around (literally). He’s a walking chicken/egg quandary. Have millennia of screwing around in people’s heads made him an odd duck, or, was he the obvious choice for the job because he was an odd duck? Hard to say. He’s one strange dude.

He sashayed into Reception, drunk as a skunk. Giggling and reeling, raising a pint in greeting to the reception area at large. He had a Banshee by the hand, and she was just as drunk as he.

“Toatht! Toatht! I’ve taken me bride!” he slurred, and they both collapsed into giggles, sending rice sprinkling across the cold marble floor.

Whoever’d showered the happy couple with fertility blessings needed their heads examined. What sort of offspring would bless this union? He was weird, and she wasn’t much better. Would a toddling Junior cavort through sleeping people’s heads, shrieking? At least the Dallier was kinda cute, but the Banshee was a fright. All gray and wavy, and it wasn’t just ’cause she was drunk. This wasn’t good.

I looked around Reception for a security guard but they were notably missing. Hiding in the break room watching this from the safety of the monitors. Cowards.

(to be continued)

My Hero

2011-04-22T07:55:00.001-04:00

A man among men, he's a champion for the downtrodden and overwhelmed. He rides alone, few brave enough to join him on his quest.

He swings from his mount, accepting his duty with somber humility. His gentle smile reassuring all will be righted and we will be delivered from the evil oppression. His arrival heralds salvation from misery and despair, and peace warms my frozen heart.

Bravely he battles an enemy that has grown to formidable proportions. Time stands still in this ageless battle of good versus evil, but he prevails.

My soul rejoices and hope springs anew.

He casts a jaunty salute to the adoring crowd and swings back onto his perch. No rest for the weary--another tired soul awaits his assistance, but the world is a better place. My garbage is gone.

The Keeper and the Alabaster Chalice Trailer

2011-04-14T08:42:00.004-04:00

Gustatus Similis Pullus receives ....

2011-04-11T13:02:00.002-04:00

The Creative Blog Award !!

Awarded by none other than Deirdra Eden-Coppel !

"I love your site and as I browsed your blog I decided to award you the Creative Blog Award." D.E.-C.

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.

Deirdra has spent the last decade captivating audiences of all ages with her novels and fairy tales. Her specialty is fantastic fiction that delves into documented historical phenomenon and natural disasters of biblical proportions. Her novels entice indulgence of the fine line between fact and fantasy.

Her goal in writing is to saturate her books with intrigue, mystery, romance and plot twists that will keep her readers in suspense. She wants to see fingerprints on the front and back covers where readers have gripped the novel with white knuckles.

Aside from writing, Deirdra enjoys jousting in arenas, planning invasions, horseback riding through open meadows, swimming in the ocean, hiking up mountains, camping in cool shady woods, climbing trees barefoot and going on adventures.

Thank you, Deirdra! We're thrilled!

Cataclysmic

2011-04-10T17:33:00.007-04:00

Was the cat mean because he lived with the Melton kids or were the Melton kids mean because they lived with the cat?

Hard to say. The good news is there was only one cat. The bad news was there were three Meltons. Said something. About the cat.

The Melton kids were rotten. Mrs. Melton worked a second shift because the factory was more peaceful than home. Teachers had been known to choose early retirement when they saw the name on their September roster. The cops drew straws when they were called to the Meltons' street.

Joey Melton had a way with snakes, and he thought teachers' desk drawers were a great place to keep them. Stevie Melton was a thief and an accomplished pickpocket. Marvin Melton liked blowing things up. All three liked tormenting the neighborhood kids, especially the littler ones, because the Meltons were lazy, too.

The cat's name was Smokey, but no one called him that. No one ever called him anyway, but after one of Marvin Melton's duct tape bombs lit his tail on fire with flying, flaming adhesive the name didn't seem like the best choice. Even to the Meltons.

to be continued

Catastrophic
The Trappings of Christmas

Have You Hugged Your Butter Knife Today?

2011-04-06T08:49:00.008-04:00

We all know the wheel changed history, but I'm pretty sure there wouldn't have been a wheel without a butter knife. Or butter flint. Or whatever.

The butter knife is an unsung hero, and it gets the shaft. There isn't an inventor or tinkerer, or otherwise noteworthy person, who did not have an intimate relationship with their butter knife.

I know Ben Franklin embraced his butter knife. Hedy Lamarr used one developing a "Secret Communications System" to help combat the Nazis in World War II, and she looked good doing it, too.

I'm no Ben Franklin, or Hedy Lamarr (alas), but I recognize greatness when I see it, and the butter knife is, far and away, the most versatile tool in one's arsenal. And, as any person who regularly uses tools knows, findability is key. It's never lost because you have seven more!

I've screwed screws. Pried paint can lids. Fished toast from the toaster(tip - unplug the toaster). Removed coins and caps from the vacuum nozzle. Spackled putty. Cleaned spark plugs. Lifted flat things with a fine seam. Spliced wire. Mixed accelerants. Tested cakes. Dug dandelions. Weeded stone paths. Fixed glasses. Banged things. Propped things. Spread things. Stirred things. Shaved things. Eaten things.

Rounded end, pointed tip? Sculpted handle or pistol grip? Vive la Butter Knife!

Chairman of the Abhorred IV

2011-04-03T08:51:00.010-04:00

Wild-eyed wasn't a flattering look on Mick. He was trussed like a turkey, and duct tape covered his mouth.

The stranger stood back, studying him. "You know, Mick? I'm worried about you. You have that mottled look. Any history of hypertension in your family?"

Mick struggled and protested but only garbles got past the duct tape.

"You really should take more care. Treat yourself better. Body, temple, and all that. No matter. I think I have just the solution. A day of beauty!" The intruder raised Mick's own pint of Scotch in salute, and took another haul.

Mick flailed, shaking his head. "UhNNph."

The stranger stroked his scraggly beard. "How we feel on the inside is so important. Don't you agree? Difficult with a rotted soul, I know. But I'm nothing if not optimistic! Set small goals! We'll set aside all the people you've screwed, women you've exploited, dollars you've stolen, lies you've told - we'll set that all aside. For a minute." He removed a pan from his satchel, and filled it with water at the vanity. He plugged in the hot plate, and then then turned back to Mick. "Let's get these restrictive clothes off you."

Mick shook his head, frantically, eyes bulging.

"Don't be silly! One can't fully experience hot stone massage with clothes on ..."

Chairman of the Abhorred
Chairman of the Abhorred II
Chairman of the Abhorred III
Chairman of the Abhorred V

Tragic Magic III

2011-04-01T10:26:00.014-04:00

Nope. Definitely not right. The concoction in the pitted cauldron should have turned a clear blue. And no lumps.

Harriet skimmed the list of ingredients with her finger. Yep, yep, yep, all there. She reread she directions, yep, yep...damn. How had she missed stick of juniper in the fire?

She grabbed one and threw it into the flames, saying a silent prayer to Hecate and anyone else who might be listening.

The bunny twitched an ear, catching her attention. He pointed toward the door, and through the glass she saw an elderly man, hand up, about to knock. He was short, his round face only showing in the lower pane, a houndstooth derby in the middle one. He smiled and dropped his hand when he realized she saw him.

She opened the door just enough to stick her head out, but he pushed it right open and stepped inside with a wide smile. "Good day to you. I wonder if I might have a few moments of your time." He looked around her kitchen, his smile growing. "Just in time, I see. Excellent."

"I'm afraid now's not a good time, Mr. ..."

"Pithwick. Cecil B. Pithwick, at your service." He bowed, sweeping the derby off his head.

"Mr. Pillwick. I'm sorry, but now's not the best time-"

He sniffed. "Pithwick. Forgot the juniper branch, didn't you? Happens to the best of us," he said, shaking his head sympathetically.

He walked to the cauldron, patting the bunny's head as he passed, and peered in. "Oh, fear not. This is salvageable. A bit of salt will do the trick. Works with stew, too," he chuckled. He reached into his vest pocket and sprinkled a pinch of something in. The cauldron belched blue smoke. "There. Right as rain."

Harriet's eyebrow went up and she frowned. "How did you-"

He dismissed her question with a wave of his hand. "Now. As I was saying. Just a few moments and I'll be on my way."

"If you're selling-"

He laughed, genuinely amused. "Selling! Good heavens, no. I'm from the Council of Enchanted Creatures," he paused, and looked at Harriet's bunny. "And our radar went off when you conjured ..." his voice trailed off.

"Bun Bun," Harriet supplied.

"Yes, Bun Bun," his eyebrow went up, but he continued, "the Council has need of Bun Bun's services," he paused, looking around the worn kitchen, before continuing, "you will, of course, be compensated for your efforts. Both of you."

At Harriet's confused look, Pillwick exclaimed, "Why, you have no idea, do you! Your Bun Bun, is a Cuniculus Afflatus. One of the rarest of all enchanted creatures, channeling divine knowledge. He is the proverbial Lucky Rabbit, and still has all four feet! We thought we'd have to wait years to find one, and POOF, you conjured him, just like that!"

Harriet looked at the bunny. He shrugged his ears.

"All right. What did you have in mind?" she asked.

Tragic Magic
Tragic Magic II

Beltie Cow, Beltie Cow Turn Around!

2011-03-31T11:44:00.004-04:00

Beltie Cow Beltie Cow
Turn Around
Beltie Cow Beltie Cow
Touch the Ground

Beltie Cow Beltie Cow
Run away
Beltie Cow Beltie Cow
Enjoy your hay

She looked annoyed, and recited in a flat voice. ..

2011-03-29T00:45:00.004-04:00

Brownie, Brownie

Quick, quick, quick

I tend your home

With my broomstick

See me, catch me

I am yours

Until another

Sees me,

Of course

The Alabaster Chalice

2011-03-26T06:59:00.015-04:00

Book II of
The Black Ledge Series

“What is the Alabaster Chalice?” Rob asked.

“A headache.” The Keeper let out a long sigh and turned to the kids. “The Alabaster Chalice is an artifact with a tangled history. A Dwarven artifact, one of the four elementals. It’s a large vessel, carved, obviously, from Alabaster. Beautiful, and ancient.”

“No. It’s cursed, and no good can come of it. Get it out of my waters,” she said.

Cut, but not bleeding

2011-03-23T15:12:00.002-04:00

Did not make the latest cut of the Amazon Contest, but the two reviews were helpful, and appreciated. Even the less favorable review was complimentary:

Very good descriptions. From the beginning scene with the violence (which, admittedly, I didn't love, but it was very vivid) to the descriptions of the house, the author does a great job setting his/her scenes and making them come alive in the reader's mind.

Thank you, Vine Reviewers.

Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award Reviews

ABNA Expert Reviewer

What is the strongest aspect of this excerpt?

The best aspect of this story was the author's ability to create a nice sibling dynamic with the Driscoll children. Eleanor, Jack, Rob and Flora were all easy to relate to and really fun to read about.

I liked the set-up to the story too. You could practically feel the excitement as the kids explored their new mansion.

I loved that the author gave EACH character a bit of personality. Even the parents, who barely have any "page time" in the story are fleshed out. The father is a research scientist who has discovered a new anti-viral drug that will apparently change the course of medicine and has therefore given the family a boat load of money to afford their new home. The mother is caring and has created the perfect environment for her kids to live in by transforming the once cold and dreary home into a comfy, cozy place to live.

The kids are all unique and individual. Rob, the eldest, is kind and nurturing. He leads his siblings with ease. Jack is whimsical and adventurous. Flora is bursting with eight-year old exuberance and our (seemingly) main character Eleanor is sarcastic and witty. I liked all of the people in this story.

I found myself wanting to continue on with the story because of the fast-paced prose and the loveable characters.

What aspect needs the most work?

I loved this entry and couldn't really find anything wrong with it. I think the author could have taken his/her time with getting the kids to the cave that they discover the carved riddle in. It seemed a LITTLE rushed. One second we are on a beach collecting crabs, the next we are in a cave reading an ancient riddle on an irridescent wall? It felt a bit too fast for me. But, it still worked.

What is your overall opinion of this excerpt?

I really enjoyed this entry. It was one of my favorites of the YA selections I have read. The pacing was perfect for a young person. Kids will relish every second of this. The characters are diverse and easy to like. The kids weren't bratty or annoying in any way, which was a relief. It seems like most of the characters in YA novels these days are either too whiney or too exhausting to care about.

All four of the Driscoll children are well mannered and seem to really enjoy eachother's company, which is rare with siblings in novels. I liked that they had a unity about them.

I also loved the fantasy element that we are introduced to in the beginning of the story. A dwarf being killed by some sort of monster?! What was the mysterious object he released in his final moments of life?

Also, who did the voice in the cave that spoke to the children belong to? I was eager to find out!

I really loved this YA entry! Very fast, easy and fun read. Kids will love this one.

Knocking on Wood

2011-02-28T17:37:00.008-05:00

The Keeper and the Rune Stone made the first cut in the Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award contest. 5000 Young Adult entries were whittled to 1000. Yippee...

Second Breakfast

2011-02-20T07:48:00.005-05:00

A head broke the surface and large brown eyes studied them. The seal wiggled his whiskers at Agnes.

“Hello, luv. How are you this fine morning? Who’re your friends?” The seal asked in a rough, gravelly voice.

“This is Jack and Eleanor Driscoll. They moved into Black Ledge a few weeks ago. They are aware,” Agnes told him.

“Gathered that. Not very often I see you sailing.” He nodded. “Hullo. Pleased to meet ya,” he gruffed.

“Hi,” Eleanor and Jack said at the same time.

“Hold that thought...,” he disappeared with a splash.

Jack and Eleanor looked at Agnes, questioning, but before she could answer, Seaton’s head popped back up. He gulped, smacking his lips around a mackerel tail.

“Mackerel are in,” he told them.

“Yeah, I saw fireflies last night,” Jack agreed.

“Well, there ya go. When you see fireflies you know the mackerel are in.” Seaton nodded his head with approval. Jack had just passed some sort of test.

“What are you doing this morning, Seaton?” Agnes asked.

“Well, seeing you this morning is what you might call a fort-tu-it-tuss circumstance. I need to speak with Camedon,” the seal told her.

“I’m not a messenger,” Agnes said.

“Aw, come on, Aggie. You know I can’t very well go find him.” He waggled his whiskers at her again, trying to gain her good favor.

Eleanor turned her head to hide her smile.

“If I see him, I will let him know,” the crow informed him, promising nothing. “And don’t call me Aggie.”

“Righto, luv. Well, best be off. Haven’t had second breakfast, yet. Nice to meet you.” He bobbed his head at the kids, and submerged.

“Luv doesn’t really work for me, either,” Agnes muttered.

“This is a drag, Jack. Why don’t we bag it until there’s some wind?” Eleanor asked.

“Might as well. Of course, it will still take us an hour to get back to the mooring,” he sighed. Then he brightened. “You know, I think that Seaton is right on with this second breakfast stuff.”

Bent Arrow

2011-02-14T06:43:00.022-05:00

He stroked the arrow's shaft as he contemplating the scene below. No one noticed him on the window ledge. There was no one. This wretched place was ghost town, and the granite was getting cold. Damn cold.

The right two had to pass each other at just the right moment. Easier said than done. Stan hadn't mentioned this wasteland was uninhabited when he'd asked Al to cover his shift. Filling the day's quota wasn't a problem at Al's regular beat by the Starbucks, and it hadn't occurred to him it might be a problem. He bet this place didn't even have high-speed internet.

One disappointment after another. All morning. The last promising target had been the woman entering the bank. Al'd taken aim, ready to end it, and ... nothing. Not another soul in sight.

He unwrapped another chocolate. Discarded red foil littered the pediment and Stan was feeling nauseous, but the wrappers covered the pigeon droppings.

Finally he spied two people. The woman leaving the boutique was sipping a latte. The man had just parked in front of the health food store. He'd be climbing out of the old Datsun at just the right moment. Al smiled as he nocked the arrow.

The Keeper and the Rune Stone

2011-02-03T07:59:00.000-05:00

The Keeper and the Rune Stone
on YouTube

Chairman of the Abhorred III

2011-01-26T05:34:00.022-05:00

A Forbes profile. It didn't get much better than that. Of course his wife, between olives, pointed out Bernie Madoff had a Forbes profile, too.

Which was why Mick was back at the motel (he hoped the old hammer choked on a pimiento).

He'd paged the hooker with the room number earlier but he still had time to kill. Mick removed the sani-cover from a cup by the bathroom sink and poured a Scotch. He took a sip, grimaced at the cup, but a plastic cup in a hotel with a hooker was still better than a crystal decanter at home with his wife. He carried his scotch to the bed, slipped off his shoes, and was reaching for his belt buckle when the door blew open.

Back-lit in the doorway the intruder looked like the proverbial sulfuric demon.

Wild, unkempt hair, a scraggly beard, and old, baggy clothes hung on the intruder's gaunt frame. A faded army green messenger bag hung over one shoulder, partially obscuring a psychedelically colored t-shirt. Phish - It's What's For Dinner.

Mick recoiled but the cheap bedspread slipped and he flailed on his back. He stopped struggling and the two stared at each other, saying nothing. The specter looked around the room. When he spied the Scotch on the vanity his face broke into a smile.

"Only a pint? Pity," he said as he unscrewed the cap and took a long haul. He set it back on the vanity and strode over to Mick. "Well, old boy. Looks like our time has finally come."

Every drop of saliva disappeared from Mick's mouth. He swallowed several times, finally managing to rasp, "Who are you? What do you want?"

"You know what your problem is, Mick - well, one of your problems? No patience! Always in a hurry to get what you want. Steal what you want. Well, tonight we're going to play a little game. It's called time is not on Mick's side."

Mick started to scramble again but the intruder raised an eyebrow and Mick froze. The man set his satchel on the other bed and opened it. He removed an electric hotplate, an alarm clock, an Epi-Lady, some rocks, a nerf ball, a pair of pliers, and a small toilet plunger. He rifled through the other pocket of the satchel but he did not remove its contents.

"See, , the funny thing is, Mick, much as I abhor everything you do--everything you are--there's a teeny part of me that respects your resolve. I don't know ..." he took another swig, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and continued, "maybe I'm just getting sentimental in my old age. No fool like an old fool, eh? So here's what I'm going to do. I'm going to give you a chance to find redemption."

Chairman of the Abhorred
Chairman of the Abhorred II
Chairman of the Abhorred IV

That Squiggly Red Line Should Be Telling You Something

2011-01-25T16:26:00.018-05:00

Author forward: A little venting, but bear with me - there's humor here.

Five years ago we built a house. A beautiful house. We planned and considered for a long time, and thorough research went into every decision - especially the windows and doors.

We finally picked the ones we thought were the right ones, finished the house, and moved in. Those were happy days.

Yes, days.

We soon discovered most of the windows and doors leaked, and spent the next five years trying to get the company who made them and the business from whom we purchased the units to do the right thing. Five miserable years. Finally they did ... kindasortamaybe. They replaced some units, and eventually we settled on a half fix to be done with the whole miserable mess.

Or so we thought ... until a cold January night a year later. The children were in bed, the Jets had just lost the AFC championship to the Steelers; all seemed right with the world.

A loud SNAPPPPPP reverberated throughout the house, destroying the peace of the evening. Our investigation revealed a pane of glass in one of the French door units had shattered from the cold. Fortunately, it was the outside pane, and the inside was still intact. Still. .. . not a great feeling. It was zero out.

You know the look that passed between us after we realized what we were staring at.

It was unbearable to contemplate dealing with those .. those . .. awful people again, but the next morning I e-mailed the Larceny, ah, Lumber Company from whom we'd purchased the units. A day later I received this reply:

We have contacted Acme Window and Door and the door is out of warrantee.

Um, okay, but what does the warranty say?

Wilder and Wilder

2011-01-18T08:22:00.021-05:00

Around that corner
Over the moon
A cloud in flight
Take my hand, Boon

Twisting leaning
Every which way
A visual frolic of
Fey disarray

A wolf, A cat
A twinkling eye
A watcher, A keeper
A soul lets fly

The Magic Man stands
And sweeps his baton
His brush our chariot
Hang on, Hang on

"Wizardess Corner"
Charles Wilder Oakes

I have a special friend. Magic surrounds him - it touches all he meets. Love to you, SP. xox

Hobnobbing

2010-11-04T07:37:00.010-04:00

The Hob was three and a half feet tall, sturdy, and suitably attired in a red plaid shirt and overalls. Sporting a straw hat and whistling, he stopped what he was doing when he saw the children approaching.
“Howdy! I fig-urred I’d start in the barn,” he greeted them in an overly-affected drawl.
“Hello. Who are you?” Eleanor asked.
“I’m Floyd,” he announced. Proudly, as if she should have heard of him.
“And what brings you here?” Rob urged the little man to go on.
“Welllll,” Floyd began, “There is life here again. Yawl need a Hob to keep the place tip top.” He waggled his eyebrows, smiled a salesman’s smile, and jerked his thumb at his chest. “I’m your Hob. I’ll have this place sparklin’ faster ‘n you kin shake a stick. Then I’ll hit the house. Hobs, see, are better ‘n tomtes, or brownies. Tomte’s are prickly, peevish types. They’re all hairy, too. And Brownies are housebound. I can work inside or out. House, barn, makes no never mind to me.”
“We have a brownie already,” Patters informed him. “Three of them.”
"We do?” The kids spun around, incredulous.
“Yes. In the house, where they belong. And this barn is already being looked after. By me. Your services are not needed,” she dismissed the Hob.
“Now, now, Ma’am. Let’s not be too hasty. I think you’ll find my compny to yer likin’,” he said.
“And knock off that ridiculous accent. I know perfectly well you speak properly,” Patters snapped. “No, I think we’re fine here. You may move along.”
“Too late, honey. I did the ritual,” he informed her.
Patter’s eyes narrowed and she hissed. “You stay out of my way. And you be discreet – we have humans who are not aware,” she said.
“Wait – what ritual?” Rob asked.
“The Hob ritual. When we take up new residence we perform a ritual pledging our service and fealty. We take a stone from the property and swear allegiance, and we must wear the stone at all times. I have mine here on my watch fob.” He lifted a pocket watch from the front of his overalls and showed it to the kids. “It also renews our magic. A Hob with no home has faulty magic. But the rule is clear. One Hob family per residence. If a ritual has already been performed by a residing Hob the squatter Hob gets their fingers singed when he or she tries to perform the ritual. It really hurts, too.” He explained to the kids. He turned back to Patters. “So it’s a done deal. I’m here to stay.”
The cat stomped off, thoroughly disgusted.

Sketch by Toni DiTerlizzi I hope he will forgive an ardent fan

The Promise

2010-09-03T09:34:00.010-04:00

Her old hand stroked the sleeping child's smooth cheek. So much time, so many years gone. It made the heart heavy.

All full circle. An ending connecting with a beginning. This child had everything ahead of her. It should have alleviated the woman's sorrow, but it did not. Would she find true happiness, or would she, too, someday stand beside a future of hopes and dreams with regrets and worries.

Two generations separated them. Two generations of wrong choices and sadness, and it came back on her shoulders. That this child did not have her mother was the old woman's burden to bear. Oh, yes, society played a role. There was some consolation in that, on a cheap day, but cheap days were the reason she stood alone beside the sleeping child.

This child, this beautiful child, was her chance to right those wrongs. Her chance to do the things she should have done fifty years ago. She sensed it was her last chance. She would not fail. She owed the child that.

In homes where domestic violence occurs, children are at risk. Regardless of whether children are physically abused or not, the emotional effects of witnessing domestic violence are very similar to the psychological trauma associated with being a victim of child abuse. Each year, an estimated minimum of 3.3 million children witness domestic violence.

Maybe, Maybe Not

2010-08-18T12:20:00.013-04:00

Constable Hebert Maybe left his home each morning with the silent, desperate prayer he wouldn’t have to talk to anyone.

Hebert's true calling in life was not from the constabulary. Constables are jovial men who lean on diner counters, stirring coffee and shooting the breeze. Constables help Mrs. Billing’s get her cat out of the tree. Hebert was petrified of Mrs. Billings (although, in all fairness to Hebert, most people were).

Hebert had mastered one thing in life: not being noticed. His hair wasn't even a definable color. It wasn't brown, and it wasn't blond. Most of it wasn't there. What was there his wife Mildred's whistle sharp scissors kept just long enough to comb over his dull scalp.

So off he went each day in his beige polyester uniform, praying he wouldn’t be drawn into conversation, needed, or kids wouldn't stuff a potato in the exhaust pipe of the town cruiser. But for the efforts of Mildred he might have known real success. Of course it would have been easier for Mildred to be the Constable; she would’ve preferred it (as would’ve Hebert), but it simply wasn’t done in a small New England town, so Mildred managed best she could. She was Constable De Facto. She sent Hebert out each morning while she answered the phone, made the decisions, and called Hebert on his car radio and told him what to do.

This system worked well, and the town of Flatsford (pronounced Flatsfud) enjoyed a peaceful run for most of Hebert’s career. The only tangible threat to his comfort zone was the annual town meeting. As Constable, his presence was required at the door of the school gymnasium, and the one day a year gave him anxiety-induced acid reflux. The year the budget included a controversial expenditure for dog waste receptacles at the park still tightened his chest and made his palms sweat. Most years, though, attendance was low, and he managed to avoid conversation, except for Mrs. Billings who snapped at him to stand up straight as she passed.

But all good things come to an end, and his life was about to change.

Chairman of the Abhorred II

2010-07-01T21:10:00.021-04:00

Mick had a paunch and an attitude. It's hard to say which people noticed first.

He strutted into the ballroom with a three martini skip in his step. God, he loved this. Who said money couldn't buy happiness?

He back-slapped his way toward the front of the room, to the table of honor. His guests awaited him, having arrived ahead as ordered - his bitchy wife, his useless son and his bitchy wife, and his lawyer and his bitchy wife.

As he drew nearer he saw the empty table and cursed. Where the hell were they? He gritted his teeth behind his insincere smile, and made a show of looking for his dinner guests.

"Do we have enough chairs for all your friends, Mick?" some blowhard called.

He HaHa-ed loudly. Stupid cow, where were they? Didn't she realize ....

"Excuse me, Mick, I think you have my seat," someone said.

That voice. That crusty, faggoty voice. No. Couldn't be.

But it was. Marshall Anderson, III. Navy blazer useless, disdaining (and keeping from membership at the Country Club) of anyone in trade.

Mick looked down at the place card on the table. Anderson Party. Chicken 5, Sole 3.

"I think your table is over there," Marshall pointed to the far left wall, giving Mick a smug smirk no one else could see.

Mick's eyes followed, and his wife was waving to him as if she were bringing in a plane. He forced himself to smile, but the congratulatory slap he gave Marshall's bony shoulder was harder than it appeared.

Bile filled his mouth as it hit him. They'd picked someone else as Citizen of the Year.

Chairman of the Abhorred
Chairman of the Abhorred III
Chairman of the Abhorred IV

The Summer Solstice approaches. Are you worried where the Rune Stone is? You should be.....

2010-06-19T13:15:00.001-04:00

Excerpt from The Keeper and the Rune Stone ...

“Suffice it to say they performed a magical ceremony involving a sacrifice,” Agnes said, making exaggerated eye contact with each of the three oldest kids. “But something went horribly wrong, as things tend to do when you go against the laws of nature, and they became .... well, they became parasites, really. Their very lives were dependent upon existing off others. “Literally,” the crow stressed, “existing off others. I’ll let Camedon explain the details of that to you later.” Again, she looked pointedly at Flora.

“Because of the magic they’d dallied with, they took on some of the traits of the Dwarves, and were forced to seek refuge in the earth. No longer could they walk in the sunlight without pain ... death, even. But they weren’t truly earth dwellers either; so, they became night creatures, able to be above ground after sunset, but seeking the solace of the earth during the day.”

“You know what they sound like?!” Jack exclaimed.

“Yes, Jack.” Agnes nodded. “That is exactly what they are.” .........

Tragic Magic II

2010-05-11T08:49:00.005-04:00

The bunny twitched his nose again. And cocked an ear. To the left. Her eyes followed, but she knew to what even before her eyes rested on the object.

No, not that. Things would have to get much worse before Harriet resorted to that.

The bunny's ears sagged.

She looked around the old kitchen again, searching for inspiration. Resources might be low, but she still had her talent, and there had to be something here. Then she saw it. The mouse hole in the mop board! A summoning charm for a tomte, or maybe a hob. It would ruin her last copper pot, but if it went well she could certainly afford a new one. Charms to summon the little folk fetched a pretty penny these days.

Tomte ~hob~tomte~hob. A hob, she supposed, if she had what she needed. Tomtes had easier dispositions, being eager to please, but hobs were more powerful, and not bound within the house they were summoned to serve. They were worth more.

She went to the store cupboard with the book. Milk thistle, a bit of cat's claw, penny royal, salt from the dead sea, a blue candle (it was a birthday candle, but it would work) and stones from the crop of a dentulous fowl. By Hecate's good graces she found all the necessary materials - she could still pull this off.

The bunny wrinkled his nose. Why didn't he ever appear to a rich witch?

Tragic Magic
Tragic Magic III

2010-04-25T12:51:00.004-04:00

Rebecca Hamilton, author of The Forever Girl, and Sara's Child, made this trailer for The Keeper and the Rune Stone. Obviously writing is not her only talent. Thanks, Rebecca!

I am having a hard time uploading this video - but the trailer can be viewed on YouTube. Amazing! Click title below.

The Keeper and the Rune Stone by Rebecca Hamilton

Black Ledge

2010-04-04T21:52:00.001-04:00

I'd Turn Back If I Were You

2010-03-07T10:25:00.003-05:00

Know All Ye
Who Enter Here
To Tread This Stone
Without Fear

Ye Must Accomplish
A Humble Quest
Revealing Thy Honor
And Truth Possessed

If Ye Prevail
Ye May Pass
If Ye Fail
Take Heed
And Alas

The Heavens Will Darken
Thunder Will Roll
The Bowels Of Earth
Will Claim Your Soul

Packing My Bags

2010-02-08T20:58:00.003-05:00

The world is just an amazing and wondrous place. Different regions host a spectrum of unique species among plants, animals. Mineral combinations from natural resources flavor water. Every region is a miraculous mix of chemistry that gives birth to things which are entirely unique. It is brimming with diversity on every level, all breathtakingly beautiful, and shaping exciting cultures.

Where am I headed with this? The dinner table. Silly.

I consider myself very well traveled - in a palatal sort of way.

Stepping offshore into cold, fast waters of the Northern Atlantic we find succulent fish and shellfish. Pass the lemon, please.

And look, there's Switzerland, hard ahead. Must be fate, so maybe some chocolate. While we're right here. Yep, good. A little pick me up to scamper around Northern Europe on a merry chase, picking up meats and cheeses. France, Germany, Austria, Hungary - one can go round and round in gastronomic circles in Europe, but make no mistake - I am making my way to the Mediterranean. Italy, Spain, Greece. Some fresh pasta, more lemons, maybe some tomatoes and artichokes for a sauce for the fish. And more wine to compare to what I got in France.

Huh. I missed England. Oh, well. Probably should've plotted a course .... eating some chocolate .... perhaps Turkey, and then north to Russia to work my way towards the Pacific. Many undiscovered regional delights between here and there.....swallow.....this may take a while......

Pux This

2010-02-01T16:01:00.005-05:00

Spoiler alert - I'm not really a morning person.

Imagine - for a moment - being jarred from a deep sleep. No snooze button to ease one's journey - suffering - through the layers of consciousness. Being ripped violently and by the scruff of the neck from your warm bed. Being forced to parade in front of thousands of eager faces. In the cold. And you better look cute, too.

Imagine it. For a moment. It's not okay.

So there I was. Held aloft by a stiff in a silly hat for the fools studying the ground for evidence of sun in the form of my shadow. In a place called Gobbler's Knob.

I don't even understand how I got dragged into this. It was originally called Candlemas Day. Happy Candlemas Day. Sounds Lovely. Who made the leap to Ground Hog day? Hard to follow that bouncing ball. May I go back to bed now?

Authonomy

2010-01-23T10:42:00.002-05:00

A source for terrific reads :

I placed The Keeper and the Rune Stone on the site two days ago. It is doing very well, but I am also enjoying the other work on there. So much talent ~

http://www.authonomy.com/

2010-01-20T22:56:00.005-05:00

Is this the coolest thing you've ever seen?

Cheryl Fallon created this piece. It captivated me the second I saw it.

Her art may be viewed at:

http://www.CherylFallon.com
http://www.MoxieMamaStudios.etsy.co

Thank you, Cheryl, for allowing me to use Murderous Silhouette for The Keeper and the Rune Stone.

Noctivagus II

2010-01-02T12:54:00.004-05:00

The wind whipped up again making it impossible to hear the noises of the night. Or maybe it wasn't the wind. The old ones in the area discussed it in low tones. Children whispered about it at night, trying to frighten each other. Some said it devoured flesh. Some said it consumed souls. All were wrong.

She sidled out of the light, pressing her back to the wall of the house so hard the edges of the shingles dug into her skin.

Edging along, slowly, listening, her eyes strained through the darkness for any indication she should reverse direction and flee back.

She eyed the truck. A chasm of vulnerability stretched between her and it.

Crouching low into the shadow of a bush, she took a deep breath, ready to bolt, when a hand gripped her shoulder, fingers digging in painfully to stop her, to warn her. Her heart almost exploded. She struggled to fight, but the hand restrained her with an unbelievable strength. Forcing herself to look up, her eyes met an old face.

"Watch!" He hissed.

Winter Faeries

2009-12-20T08:02:00.010-05:00

Whirl, twirl
Spin and dance
Sprinkled frost drops
Land by chance

On petal, on twig
On blade, on leaf
Kissing each surface
With crackled motif

Moonlight glints
On lithe little shapes
Flitting about
The cold nightscape

Dawn creeps in
A glow in the East
Wings tire
Festivities cease

Weak light reveals
Lines icy pale
From frolic under
The inky veil

Chairman of the Abhorred

2009-12-14T06:07:00.023-05:00

Mick was pleased with himself. Citizen of the year. Exploiting sick children opened most doors.
He'd sit at the head table and all the local social climbers would flirt and fawn. He'd mention his Mother, God rest her gin-sodden soul.
He chuckled. It was all falling neatly into place.
He looked around the room, making certain he had everything. He paused to appraise himself in the mirror, unconsciously sucking in his gut. The lighting in the motel room was bad - surely he wasn't that flushed and florid. No, he was ruddy. Hearty. The years of wind and sun still concealed the years of Scotch. Of course they did.
He glanced at the hooker sleeping on the bed. She might have been ugly, but she was smart enough to get the most out of the room he'd paid for. Had to respect that.
His phone beeped as he hurried out he door. He glanced at the display. His lawyer. Damn. Another billable hour. The SOB had quite the scam going on, but it was a necessary evil when one made one's money fleecing people.
Which is what Mick did. Every day. And he'd gotten rich doing it. Every so often a naive but outraged victim thought they would expose him. Not gonna happen. Mick owned this goddamned town. He'd simply donate some coin to another local non-profit and while his lawyer fended them off he'd be asked to sit on another board. He'd humbly accept. If the lawyer got his jollies antagonizing the schmucks and ran up larger bills, so be it. Everyone was a winner. Well, almost everyone.
He started humming the Stones tune "Tiiiiiimmmme is my side - yes it is" and climbed into his pick-up. He threw a cup of cold coffee out the window and started the truck, revving the engine because it was fun and made him feel like a big shot.
He never spared a glance at the homeless man leaning against the motel wall as he wheeled out of the parking lot. If he had he might have noticed the camera.

Chairman of the Abhorred II
Chairman of the Abhorred III
Chairman of the Abhorred IV

Tragic Magic

2009-12-07T22:29:00.021-05:00

The bunny gave her a baleful look and twitched his nose, annoyed.

Darn it. Money, not bunny.

Harriet let out a big sigh, in frustration, and to blow the smelly fumes away from her head. Her hair hung in her eyes and the fire made the old kitchen hot. She wiped the perspiration from her forehead with her sleeve, which was charred and tattered, and left a streak of soot on her face. Turning back to the stand holding the book, she 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 - damn. 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 some cash - not the least of which was to get some more eyelashes. She should have stayed in bed.

She looked at the bunny, thinking. He looked right back at her, not liking what she was thinking...

to be continued

Tragic Magic II
Tragic Magic III

A Sign of Things to Come...

2009-12-02T09:47:00.015-05:00

...or perhaps my writing hasn't evolved as much as I would like to think it has. This was my submission in a writing contest for the Providence Journal when I was 10 (?) - my submission was chosen as a winner. 30 years have come and gone, but I am seeing similarities, and it's funny.

While bobbing their furry little heads in the grass they give you a look of total amusement and placidity. While squawking and waddling around they tell you they are Darby and Joan and we are their people. They rule our yard with firm webbed feet and give us enough amusement to hope they will be here for a long time. They are geese.

Noctivagus

2009-11-17T07:53:00.020-05:00

She stood frozen in the ring of lamp light, heart pounding, looking into the darkness.

Something malevolent was watching. Hatred swamped her, surrounding her so completely it masked the direction of its origin. Somewhere out there in the darkness, veiled by the shadows, it stalked her. Assessing her coldly, contemptuous of its prey.

The thought lingered that it wasn't too late to return to the safety of the house - but the house was only a temporary refuge. Sooner or later she would have to venture into the night. It knew this and waited. It had time on its side, and she did not. Still, her hand clutched the knob, locked rigidly in place by her terror.

The night aligned itself with the the monster. The wind picked up, masking the noise of the unnatural with the sounds of nature. The moonlight and clouds played tricks on her, moving shadows before she could tell if they held any substance.

Anger replaced fear. It was time to even the odds. The surge of fury propelled her hand from the doorknob to the handle of the knife she wore, and she stepped from the porch.

Come and get me you bastard.

to be continued......

Cool Little Gadget

2009-11-14T15:09:00.005-05:00

I have an(other) unhealthy relationship in my life; my label maker. It is a new relationship - we only just met - but it is already obvious we were meant to be together forever. This is the real thing - the "one".

We went to my office to tackle the neglected business on my desk. It might be important to explain here why there is neglected business on my desk. I don't want to deal with it.

So here's what we did: We made labels for folders so that I can dispose of these papers forever. We assured a guilt-free future of non-productivity, and we felt very productive doing it (I might have been humming). Furthermore, it was aesthetically pleasing - all official and tidy on it's way to the purgatory of my file cabinet.

Deception is a vital component in achieving satisfaction in an endeavor such as this. If I acknowledged what I was really doing (nothing) I would have cheated myself of the satisfaction that one enjoys when an unpleasant task is completed. You must be equal parts dishonest and gullible if you are going to be lazy without guilt. I am a master - and flexible. My ideology can handily be applied to most situations, and in a moment's notice. Carpe Lazem.

Some other variations/applications of this ideology/dishonesty that have served me well. Fear not. Indulgence is easily justifiable.

* If it is 50% off you can by two. If it is 10% off it is on sale (and you can buy two)

* Lists are enormously helpful to stay on task - don't make them.

* If it has half the calories you can eat twice as much.

* Lack of preparation is the key to flexibility.

I am pleased to be hosting the first meeting of Procrastinators Anonymous - date to be announced.

It's 10:00 p.m. - Do You Know Where Your Author Is?

2009-11-11T15:23:00.011-05:00

I am happy to support and promote the first-ever She Writes Day of Action this Friday, November 13th.

This day of action was inspired by the exclusion of women (yep - read zero) from Publishers Weekly's Best Books of 2009 list. I am urging every member of our community to buy a book published by a woman in 2009. Buy it. Read it. Celebrate it.

More information on this campaign is available at http://www.shewrites.com/

She Writes * She Tours * She Reads * She Markets * She Promotes * She Posts * She Coaches * She Networks * She Invents * She Creates * She Obsesses * She Sells * She Signs * She Strives * She Needs Help * (sw)

addendum - more of the same foolishness:

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/11/12/business/media/12women.html?_r=1&ref=today

I am buying 10 books today to support this day of action.

The Maine Literary Festival

2009-11-05T23:13:00.007-05:00

And the anticipation builds....

Last year I spent an evening out in the cold with my nose pressed to the glass. This year I will be attending, and I am so excited I can’t even write. The irony is not lost on me.

I recently completed my first young adult manuscript. Writing it was much more fun than thinking about what to do with once it was completed. I had to screw up the courage to tell someone. Fortunately, that someone was a past MLF attendee, and knew just what to do.

She recognized the symptoms immediately: lack of sunlight, too much coffee, interrupted sleep patterns, and periods of elation and panic: Post Traumatic Manuscript Disorder. Confident in her diagnosis, she drafted and implemented a treatment plan. As I was in a weakened condition, she immediately organized a rejuvenating elixir. She invited me to a Writer’s Block Party at her home. We gathered around her rugged iron garden table which was substantial enough to support all of the baggage a writer drags around – swirling thoughts, concerns, doubts, stumbling blocks – and talked. It was a delightful evening sharing ideas, and support and encouragement, and I left with a fresh eye and new purpose.

But she was not done. The block party was where she handed me the prescription with the best prognosis for my ailment. The Festival and Workshop. After meeting and speaking with past attendees, all of whom were eagerly anticipating this year’s exciting programs, I concurred and scheduled my appointment.

We are fortunate to have this opportunity in Camden, and I am so pleased to be attending this year. I look forward to seeing those I met at the Block Party, and meeting new friends and professionals as well. I am happy to report that my condition continues to improve.

Poor Mr. Webster

2009-10-29T21:19:00.012-04:00

The computer age is an amazing time to live, especially if you are a writer. You have everything you could possibly need at your finger tips. You can research. You can thesaur. You can define. You can even have some human contact on social networking sites.

But, one can become too dependent on one's computer, and someone obviously has.

Which leads to the purpose of this post.

I was working - I really was - but I had another window open. And in the loafing window I used the word Viagra (the details are not pertinent to this discussion) and my browser (which has a spell check feature) highlightedViagra in red.

I right-clicked. I don't know why - I did automatically, but while I was clicking it was registering that it would be highlighted because it's not a word.

I am so naive.

Not only was it there, my spell check was chastising me for not capitalizing it.

There is a joke here. It escapes me, but there is definitely a joke here.

In any case, I cannot help but wonder what poor old Mr. Webster would have to say.

addendum - I am aware thesaur is not a word - if you want to get technical about it. Any writer, however, will tell you it is an action (and it is unfortunate that there are no cardiovascular benefits). So if Pfizer can make up a word and it ends up on my browser's spell check, I feel comfortable taking some artistic license.

Nothing To Eat or Drink After Midnight

2009-10-26T13:04:00.008-04:00

Excuse me - yes, hi. May I have another johnnie, please? No thank you, that's fine, you needn't hold it.
Two things going on here.

1. The hospitals have been hiring military personnel (who specialize in the mental preparation policies employed at boot camp) to consult on hospital atmosphere and its influence on patient cooperation.
2. "Going Green" - If Al Gore were in front of me right now I'd slap him so hard Tipper would fall down.

Then, it was lunchtime. Preface. I cannot abide dairy, anything white, or covered in a sauce in a hospital. It just grosses me out - there's no other phrase for it - and I think, maybe I'm just paranoid, but I think this has been included on my health records to empower health care providers in their psychological warfare.
So, enter the tray-bearing orderly. Smiling. Not at me, I discover, but in the anticipatory excitement deviants find thrill. He sets the domed tray down, adjusts my bed, he even plumps my pillows (I realize now this is part of his ritual and each step in said ritual brings climactic delight and must be adhered to precisely).
Finally ready, and watching my face carefully, he whips the dome off with a dramatic flourish.
He is rewarded. My plate bears an unidentified meat (undoubtedly from OR) congealing in a white sauce (similar in appearance to a sebaceous body fluid), and I slam the dome back down, my mouth filling with sweet saliva that's unswallowable.
Not if I were 8 days into a hunger strike.
Did I mention the tapioca? Again, looks like drainage. And, all heart healthy, of course. Little hearts dance perversely all over the menu.
The orderly, sated and smiling, backs out the door.

Here Kitty Kitty Kitty

2009-10-24T09:44:00.014-04:00

I feed the birds and Thomas kills them. I have some guilt about this.

A therapist would diagnose our relationship as unhealthy. Pathological, even. There are control issues and periods of violence.

We have this game he plays. He stands at the door and twangs the screen with one blood-stained claw. The sound affects me much like Pavlov's dogs and I drop everything and run to let him in, (not because I care about him but because I care about my screen). I open the door and receive a disdainful, bored look before he turns his back and saunters away. We both know he will wait until my hands are wet or otherwise engaged to do it again.

He is a bastard. He has been since the day I brought him home. I told my husband that I "found" him. And I did. In a litter of kittens that was advertised in Uncle Henry's weekly periodical classified section of Free for the Taking. Thomas delights in lording this dark secret over my head.

I wanted a sweet little kitty. Alas, it was not to be. I quickly learned why he was free. His own Mother was frightened of him. He's that mean. Even as a baby he had little use for those that serve him.

I am looking at him even as I write this. He is asleep on the back of my husband's chair. I long to go over and squeeeeeze him, but know better. I take a photograph instead, and the flash disturbs his postprandial slumber (some poor creature, identifiable only by its gallbladder, has recently suffered a torturous death). He opens one eye in warning and slowly closes it, confident that one warning is sufficient.

Feeling restless and unsated I get his cat carrier from the garage and set it on the kitchen floor with purposeful clamor. I open the wire door slowly, working the creaking hinges much like a musician caresses her instrument. It achieves the desired effect. He opens both eyes, gets to his feet in spritely fashion and makes a hasty retreat upstairs -all the while maintaining eye contact in manufactured bravado.

Victory is mine. Paige 1 Thomas 0

Two can play at this game, old man.

The Clarity of Childhood

2009-10-04T08:55:00.005-04:00

Jimmies, dropped unnoticed in wanton abandon, stick to the knob of my car stereo. Evidence of debauchery, discovered by one of my discerning and disapproving children. From the backseat.

I am amused, and envious of the ability of children to quickly assess their surroundings, process small details, and reach concrete, confident conclusions.

You, the reader, will wonder at my grudging admiration. You, the reader, are unable to appreciate the distracting and complex environment this child mentally waded through before discerning the minute difference of her surroundings.

Said evidence was present in a very large vehicle that has been neglected for at least a month.

Said evidence, in the front seats alone, shared space with a colorful array of mail on the dashboard, a console full of grubby change, lipstick, pens, ferry tickets, keys, iPod buds with tangled cords, sunglasses, a pair of earrings, an emery board, USB storage, a mouth guard, phone and charging cord, and garden clippers.

Said evidence had been present for less than 24 hours.

Simply amazing.

In the process of reaching our maturity, adults develop a significant survival skill. We shut things out. We become adept at dismissing unnecessary details in our immediate environment. Much like a computer, our brains have many programs running, and some must run in the background in a limited capacity. Subconsciously, the user relies upon a system admin. This admin arbitrarily culls out unnecessary information that would slow down necessary processes.

Children enjoy a freedom from the restraints of the system admin. The clarity, the razor-sharp senses aiding their abilities to assess their environment. It is a wonderous ability, and on occasion I mourn the passing it.

Yet, life is a trade-off, and one certainty assuages my envy of their mental clarity and capacity. Children cannot stop for an ice cream *just because they feel like it*.

For my darling daughters. Mummy loves you.

Happy October 1rst

2009-10-01T11:23:00.009-04:00

Fall isn't really my favorite season. I think it would be if I lived somewhere warmer, but in Maine the overwhelming feeling is one of dread. Winter is coming, days are shorter, colder, and muddy.

That being said, there are things I love about Autumn in New England. The crisp cleanliness in the air, apples, storms, fires, and Halloween.

I adore Halloween, and I got my first feel of it last night. I happened to be out at dusk, and it was magical. The sky was gray and ominous, a few of the first leaves to fall were swirling through the air, and a lone crow watched me balefully from the top of a dead tree - it was good.

I almost thought I caught a glimpse of a cloaked figure disappearing into the darkness.

Cracked headstones, flitting shadows, creaking stairs, dead flowers, sputtering candles.......do enjoy the magic of this season. Play some creepy organ music (I like Bach's Toccata and Fugue in D minor), go for a walk at night, use candles, and tell ghost stories. Happy Halloween.

Picking agents to query...........

2009-09-29T23:06:00.012-04:00

Hmmm. Here's one. Seeking dystopian fiction? Really?

Nope. No dystopia here. Decidedly all about the utopian fictional environment. Dystopian fiction is like tossing out the travel brochures and picking a refugee camp for February break. Dystopian fiction is like having omega-3 fish oil for dessert. Dystopian fiction is exactly like scheduling your gingival graft the day before Thanksgiving.

Nope, I am all about Utopian fiction. I'll admit it. I hated Lord of the Flies. Hated it. It disturbed me on many levels for a long time, and I am still annoyed at the teacher - who passed it out after Christmas hols (January!) with a malicious smile. I have always suspected she secretly strove to single-handedly impact teen suicide rates. (she sells seashells)

Non-fiction dystopia? Rolling up the sleeves. That is history, and fascinating. I'll study anything - it just isn't where I want to go when I crack the spine of a novel.

Like the fish oil. I'll take it - with fiber, even - just don't call it dessert.

However, de gustibus non est disputandum.

Next..........

What to write.....what to write.....think....thinkthinkthink....think....think

2009-09-29T19:26:00.009-04:00

I had been asking myself that for years. I mean, it is like trying to decide where to eat on Federal Hill. You could starve to death trying to choose. Limitless options. Likely satisfaction around every corner.

Finally, the voice said "For God's sake, just write something!"

"Yeah, but what is the most marketable......... how do I want to define myself.....what do I want to be remembered for?" Quandary quandary quandary.

"WHO CARES?!" The voice stormed off, totally exasperated with my waffling.

Once that mean voice left, and I could think, I asked myself what I loved about books. The answer was easy. It was that feeling of gleeful delinquency I had as a kid, reading under the covers with a flashlight, past my bedtime, because I just could NOT put it down. (it never occurred to me that someone was putting the batteries in my flashlight - thanks, Mummy)

So, while there may be other genres to explore in the future, I am stepping out of the closet with juvenile fiction. I hope I can pay it forward, aiding and abetting the next generation of kids reading under the covers with flashlights.

I tip my hat in reverence and gratitude to Mary O'Hara, E.L. Konisberg, Marguerite Henry, Ruth Christoffer Carlsen, Madeline L'engle, Norman Thelwell, Thornton W. Burgess, Ellen Raskin, Keith Robertson, Joan Aiken, Robert McCloskey, Robert C. O'Brien, E.B. White, George Thompson, C.S. Lewis, Betty MacDonald, it is just endless........salute!

Welcome to The Realm

2009-09-28T18:09:00.007-04:00

Excerpt from The Keeper and the Rune Stone

Two combined and consumed

In the creation of the Beast

Exact an Accord sworn freely

By five in the light

The very congregation

Eases three that suffer

And rends one from the darkness

Partially mending the fractured soul

With thick coarse scars

Alliances renewed

Grief assuaged

Hunger allayed

Serve the collective fare

Of the Realm

Do I need a Blogspot?

2009-09-28T11:06:00.011-04:00

No. Not yet. But hopefully, I will. The first book of my MG/YA series is complete and ready for an agent. Writing it was the easy part (and the fun part). Marketing it is neither. Writing queries is excellent motivation to begin the next. I think I need an agent to find an agent.

Gustatus Similis Pullus

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Mystique of the Templar

Cheers

The Trappings of Christmas

Nackles

Nackles

Nah Nah Nah Nah Nah

Send 'em South!

Spooktacular Giveaway Winner Announced!

I am Proud of America

The Fence

Authorities Investigate Reports Count Olaf is Impersonating Lemony Snicket

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

Darkness in the Hills

Columbus Day

Magical Blog Award!

The Alabaster Chalice

Five Chances to Win!

Goodreads Book Giveaway

Slow Boat to Purgatory

by Vernon Baker

Catastrophic

More Questions

Nob, Midgard Serpent of Penobscot Bay

Interview with Vernon Baker

The Graves

Midsummer's Eve Giveway ...

UNATTENDEaD

Kurt Vonnegut - The Shapes of Stories

The Splash into Summer giveaway has ended ...

Chairman of the Abhorred V

Tweet This, Baby!

Hoard's Dairyman (@HoardsDairyman) is now following your tweets (@pwpendleton) on Twitter.

But unlike the reality of cheese markets, the glossy cover has stayed true. Those beautiful letters are still framed with bold red trim, and I smell my Grandfather's wintergreen lifesavers when I see an issue. I hear chains rattling in the barn, and I remember running down the path to find him.

When I was just a little bit older and had my own heifers I had my very own subscription. It was the first periodical to come, just for me, and I wore the hinges out on the mailbox checking for it.

Thirty years later Hoard's is following me on Twitter, and it's cracking me up. In all the right ways.

Playing with Cover Ideas

Barn Magic

Genetic Tendencies

444 Submission to 4 Corners Press

My Hero

The Keeper and the Alabaster Chalice Trailer

Gustatus Similis Pullus receives ....

Cataclysmic

Have You Hugged Your Butter Knife Today?

Chairman of the Abhorred IV

Tragic Magic III

Beltie Cow, Beltie Cow Turn Around!

She looked annoyed, and recited in a flat voice. ..

The Alabaster Chalice

Cut, but not bleeding

Knocking on Wood

Second Breakfast

Bent Arrow

The Keeper and the Rune Stone

Chairman of the Abhorred III

That Squiggly Red Line Should Be Telling You Something

Wilder and Wilder

Hobnobbing

The Promise

Maybe, Maybe Not

Chairman of the Abhorred II

The Summer Solstice approaches. Are you worried where the Rune Stone is? You should be.....

Tragic Magic II

Black Ledge

I'd Turn Back If I Were You

Packing My Bags

Pux This

Authonomy

Noctivagus II

Winter Faeries

Chairman of the Abhorred

Tragic Magic

A Sign of Things to Come...

Noctivagus

Cool Little Gadget

It's 10:00 p.m. - Do You Know Where Your Author Is?

The Maine Literary Festival