tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-51103196248494594982024-03-04T21:35:49.327-08:00The Raven's Nest ChroniclesYemallahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07409971024629343788noreply@blogger.comBlogger30125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5110319624849459498.post-48449872915871499972017-03-23T10:10:00.000-07:002017-03-23T10:10:10.617-07:00Talking Through Time TravelIf you are a sci-fi or fantasy fan, you are probably familiar with time travel and all its inherent and potential problems. You could change history dramatically. You could run into yourself. You could end up in all sorts of strange and paradoxical situations that could have profound effects on the future or the past. In short, it's fraught with all sorts of dangerous things.<br />
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One thing that fiction does not address as an issue with time travel is the ability to communicate in a different time. Okay, Star Trek solves that wee problem with Universal Translators that magically make everyone able to understand each other. But what if there were no Universal Translators and you ended up, say back in Shakespearean England. (late 16th and early 17th century) Could you understand people? Could they understand you?<br />
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Well, there's good news and bad news. It is unlikely that the general population spoke like the characters in Shakespeare's plays all the time. Shakespeare wrote to entertain. The dialogue in his plays had to a) keep the audience engaged; and b) be easy for the players to memorize. He wrote in iambic pentameter, the rhythm of which made it easier for the actors to learn the lines. Because of the specificity of the structure, he often had to manipulate the language to make it work. Some words were made up and other were adapted to fit the verse. The result was eloquent, but, in today's world, difficult to understand language.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLA04MYZxFlQPvm__kXUBzqzCn2lHgp2Vk3NWU1AOgw2Kt-4VD1iVud-hSqwTJOUI93wtHN52hogbH7nAFc2f5QPpOZQ4ZQZgwqiyjoeroTCh9QSF3QCLHPAh32ptTCppchVTS4exyqV_N/s1600/william-shakespeare-194895-1-402.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLA04MYZxFlQPvm__kXUBzqzCn2lHgp2Vk3NWU1AOgw2Kt-4VD1iVud-hSqwTJOUI93wtHN52hogbH7nAFc2f5QPpOZQ4ZQZgwqiyjoeroTCh9QSF3QCLHPAh32ptTCppchVTS4exyqV_N/s1600/william-shakespeare-194895-1-402.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">William Shakespeare Apr. 23, 1564 to Apr. 23, 1616.</td></tr>
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Ninty-five percent of the words that Shakespeare used are the still in use today, but some of those same words have altered significantly in meaning over the years. It was a time of great linguistic change and so dear William had the luxury of being able to employ creative license in his work. On the whole, though, his dialogue was representative of the way people really spoke in Elizabethan England.<br />
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So, with a bit of concentration, you could probably manage to get through to people to convey your needs as well as understand directions to the nearest pub.<br />
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Now let's go back a bit further in time. The following is an example of The Lord's Prayer from different eras<br />
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<span style="background-color: #f8f8f8; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 13.3333px;">Here is an example of Old English (c. 1000)</span><br />
<br style="background-color: #f8f8f8; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13.3333px;" />
<span style="background-color: #f8f8f8; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 13.3333px;">Fæder ure þuþe eart on heofonum </span><br />
<span style="background-color: #f8f8f8; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 13.3333px;">si þin nama gehalgod tobecume þin rice gewurþe þin willa on eorðan swa swa on </span><span style="background-color: yellow; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 13.3333px;">heofonum </span><br />
<span style="background-color: #f8f8f8; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 13.3333px;">urne gedæghwamlican hlaf syle us to dæg </span><br />
<span style="background-color: #f8f8f8; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 13.3333px;">and forgyf us ure gyltas swa swa we forgyfað urum gyltendum </span><br />
<span style="background-color: #f8f8f8; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 13.3333px;">and ne gelæd þu us on costnunge ac alys us of </span><span style="background-color: yellow; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 13.3333px;">yfele </span><span style="background-color: #f8f8f8; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 13.3333px;">soþlice.</span><br />
<br style="background-color: #f8f8f8; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13.3333px;" />
<span style="background-color: #f8f8f8; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 13.3333px;">Move up to Middle English (c. 1384) and most people can sort it out.</span><br />
<br style="background-color: #f8f8f8; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13.3333px;" />
<span style="background-color: #f8f8f8; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 13.3333px;">Oure fadir þat art in heuenes halwid be þi name; </span><br />
<span style="background-color: #f8f8f8; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 13.3333px;">þi reume or kyngdom come to be. Be þi wille don in herþe as it is dounin </span><span style="background-color: yellow; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 13.3333px;">heuene</span><span style="background-color: #f8f8f8; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 13.3333px;">. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: #f8f8f8; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 13.3333px;">yeue to us today oure eche dayes bred. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: #f8f8f8; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 13.3333px;">And foryeue to us oure dettis þat is oure synnys as we foryeuen to oure dettouris þat is to men þat han synned in us. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 13.3333px;"><span style="background-color: #f8f8f8;">And lede us not into temptacion but delyuere us from </span><span style="background-color: yellow;">euyl</span><span style="background-color: #f8f8f8;">.</span></span><br />
<br style="background-color: #f8f8f8; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13.3333px;" />
<span style="background-color: #f8f8f8; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 13.3333px;">By 1611, it becomes essentially modern English.</span><br />
<br style="background-color: #f8f8f8; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13.3333px;" />
<span style="background-color: #f8f8f8; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 13.3333px;">Our father which art in heauen, hallowed be thy name. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: #f8f8f8; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 13.3333px;">Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done in earth as it is in </span><span style="background-color: yellow; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 13.3333px;">heauen</span><span style="background-color: #f8f8f8; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 13.3333px;">. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: #f8f8f8; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 13.3333px;">Giue us this day our daily bread. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: #f8f8f8; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 13.3333px;">And forgiue us our debts as we forgiue our debters. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: #f8f8f8; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 13.3333px;">And lead us not into temptation, but deliuer us from </span><span style="background-color: yellow; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 13.3333px;">euill</span><span style="background-color: #f8f8f8; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 13.3333px;">. Amen.</span><br />
<br style="background-color: #f8f8f8; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13.3333px;" />
<span style="background-color: #f8f8f8; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 13.3333px;">The above is from the History of English page at Wordorigins.org</span><br />
<span style="background-color: #f8f8f8; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 13.3333px;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: #f8f8f8;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">(Notice the u's being used in place of v's even in the "modern" English version?)</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: #f8f8f8;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: #f8f8f8; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I highlighted the words heaven and evil in each example for your consideration and amusement. Pretty strange, isn't it? And no matter how you say it, you are probably pronouncing many of the words incorrectly. Inflection, pronounciation, accent... each of these would add another layer of difficulty to communication efforts. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: #f8f8f8;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: #f8f8f8;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">If you were to land in King Arthur's court, you'd essentially be unable to communicate at all. (Not even a Connecticut Yankee from the late 19th would be able to manage very well, in spite of Mr. Twain's imaginative assertion to the contrary.) </span></span><span style="background-color: #f8f8f8; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">If you think that English is complicated now, imagine what it would have been like back then.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: #f8f8f8; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Here's a link to a short YouTube video that you may find both entertaining and enlightening:</span><br />
<span style="background-color: #f8f8f8; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: #f8f8f8; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8fxy6ZaMOq8&list=FL0UDxz4cnqMC85tM7jH0gAA&index=1" target="_blank">How Far Back in Time Could You Go and Still Understand English? </a></span><br />
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Going forward in time would be no different. Languages are getting combined throughout the world. English words are creeping into other languages like a virus. Spanglish is a real word meaning a combination of Spanish and English that is spoken by a growing number of people (particularly in the USA).<br />
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Another trend that is influencing our language is text emoji pictograms that allow people to communicate without words at all. While acronyms (scuba), blends (smog) and clipped forms (bus from omnibus) have been contributing new words to English for a long time, this trend is picking up with the texting revolution that has added things like BRB to both the spoken and written communication forums.<br />
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<span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: x-large;">(I h8 that!)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">With the rapidity of the changes that are taking place, you likely wouldn't have to go forward in time very far to notice a big difference. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">The thing to keep in mind is that, even now, regional dialects exert immense differences within the English language. A West Coast Canadian and an East Coast Canadian can have trouble understanding each other. The English dialects that are spoken in India are hardly recognizable to an American as being the same language - and yet they are. The fact is that English is both one and many languages at the same time. And all of it/them is/are changing. By the time Star Trek is more reality than fiction, those Universal Translators are going to be a necessity!</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #f8f8f8; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 13.3333px;"><br /></span>Yemallahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07409971024629343788noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5110319624849459498.post-24105746281511519962017-03-23T10:07:00.000-07:002017-03-23T10:07:28.965-07:00'Tis Not 'TilSo I was thumbing through <i>The Blue Book of Grammar and Punctuation</i> and I came across this interesting little tidbit:<br />
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<span style="color: #e69138; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i><b>NOTE </b></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: #e69138;"><i>Serious writers avoid the word '</i>til <i>as an alternative to </i>until<i>. The correct word is </i>till</span><i><span style="color: #e69138;">, which is many centuries older than until.</span> </i></b></span></div>
<i><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><br /></span></i>
<i><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><br /></span></i>Have I been doing it wrong for, like, ever?<br />
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The English language is in a constant state of evolution. New words are being added all the time and uses fall into and out of favour. Think about <i>groovy </i>from the sixties. It was a common and accepted colloquialism for a short time before being replaced with rad, cool, awesome, sweet, etc. as new generations of (particularly) youth adopted their own expressions. Try as I might to resurrect groovy to its proper place (IMO) as a spectacular way to express appreciation, awesome continues to assert itself. Though, to be frank, it is wearing thin and is being usurped by other bits of vernacular that, I fear, I am somewhat long in the tooth to either grasp or exercise with any plausible propriety. I suspect that, as the generation gap widens ever further, I will soon be relegated to smiling and nodding and saying, "That's nice."<br />
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But I digress...<br />
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My research into this bold-faced assertion that 'til is incorrect led me to The <a href="http://minnesota.publicradio.org/radio/podcasts/grammar_grater">Grammar Grater</a>, a podcast by Luke Taylor, featured on MPRNews. In episode #72, Luke answers a listener's question on this very topic - paraphrased here: Is 'til an actual and acceptable alternative to until?<br />
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The short answer is no.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy7WUOPi5RJZu_DjOLC2MQwdqrTEa23HDlE6ND7a259jqK4j4f9L0c-MUPJIJ9Dvvlx-Vn2u4PUOXoXw4dUcBEmeGcnd3aEfng-ca5__EguDpTBBhM53cvpilzBMr1VKbkhUKYUIh4Mj_v/s1600/till.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="273" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy7WUOPi5RJZu_DjOLC2MQwdqrTEa23HDlE6ND7a259jqK4j4f9L0c-MUPJIJ9Dvvlx-Vn2u4PUOXoXw4dUcBEmeGcnd3aEfng-ca5__EguDpTBBhM53cvpilzBMr1VKbkhUKYUIh4Mj_v/s320/till.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This photo has nothing whatsoever to do with the topic of this blog.<br />
But finding a photo that represents until, till & 'til proved to be impossible,<br />
so I am presenting this one as an example of a homograph. <br />
This is (also) a till.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The word <i>until </i>did not appear in the English language until the Middle English period (1066 to the mid-1500s). It is a contraction of two Scandinavian syllables - <i>un </i>and <i>till </i>- that meant the same thing. My theory is that someone unfamiliar with the Scandinavian uses of these short syllables was confused by the redundancy and so smashed them together and injected them into his or her native English as a single word. Weirdly, <i>till </i>had already been around for a long time - since before the 9th century - and was a regular part of Old English. That it derived from Scandinavian in the first place appears to have been lost on the Middle English speakers that opted to adopt <i>until</i> into the lexicon.<br />
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As for '<i>til</i>, it appears to have appeared within the last century as an attempt to contract <i>until</i> under the erroneous assumption that <i>till </i>is more recent than <i>until </i>and is meant to be the contraction. Just as one would not spell don't without the apostrophe, how could one contract until without an apostrophe? And where did that extra l come from? This is the problem with English; the etymology gets lost and all hell breaks loose!<br />
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So 'til crept in, an uninvited guest with bad manners that has tracked mud throughout the halls of linguistic wonder. While it does appear in the Oxford English Dictionary and is defined as meaning until, it is not generally accepted by experts as a proper alternative for until. Strictly speaking, till or until are both correct and 'til is not. Still, 'til gets some grudging acknowledgment as long as the apostrophe is in place. However, if you are a "serious" writer, you will avoid it.<br />
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And as a serious editor, I will suggest that it be replaced with till or until until further notice!<br />
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<i><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><br /></span></i>
<i><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><br /></span></i>
<i><span style="font-size: xx-small;">(</span></i><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Straus, J (2014). <i>The Blue Book of Grammar and Punctuation: An easy-to-use Guide with Clear Rules, Real-World Examples, and Reproducible Quizzes </i>(p. 40) Jossey-Bass: San Francisco, CA)</span>Yemallahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07409971024629343788noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5110319624849459498.post-54153183763000049162017-03-23T09:44:00.003-07:002017-03-23T09:44:36.231-07:00A Good Story Has EndedBack in the day, when I was the Library Director at the Houston Public Library, it fell on me to facilitate the book club. To be honest, most of the titles that were chosen were not to my taste at all. But every now and then I would be introduced to an author and a story that were nothing short of amazing. One such incidence led me to Richard Wagamese's <i>Ragged Company</i>, the story of a group of homeless people who win the lottery.<br />
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I was enthralled!<br />
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The story possessed that wonderful mixture of humour and sorrow in thought-provoking prose that touched a tender part of me. Any story that can make me cry or laugh out loud, that can draw me in and make me care about the characters, is likely to find its way onto my book shelf as a permanent part of my precious collection. I rarely buy fiction to keep, but <i>Ragged Company</i> holds a special place in my heart and on my shelf.<br />
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I knew nothing about the author. Richard Wagamese was a name printed on the cover of the book and nothing more. I knew nothing of his heritage or his life; I only knew that he wrote a damn good story and I wanted more.<br />
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His name came up in library circles and I soon learned that he was Canadian and lived in Kamloops, BC. I was never successful in getting him to visit HPL to do a reading and I never met him in person, but he continued to be a part of my life through his books. In my heart he was a friend, a soul who helped me see different perspectives and who taught me, through his example, what forgiveness really means.<br />
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On March 10, 2017 Richard Wagamese died at his home in Kamploops. He was 61 years old. I do not know the circumstances of his death. I do know that upon hearing of his demise, I felt deep sadness over the loss. What I have to hold onto, though, are his stories. I have not read all of his books, but knowing they are still there and that I can still connect to his beautiful mind any time gives me comfort. We can still be friends.<br />
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Richard Wagamese lived an interesting life. As a child he was taken from his parents and put into the foster system. His life there was not a happy one and he ran away many times, looking, I suppose, for something to fill the emptiness he must have been experiencing. From the time he was taken from his family as a toddler, 21 years passed before he saw them again. It was a long journey to healing as he traversed the dark halls of alcohol abuse and homelessness and learned how to come to terms with all that had happened to him. Richard Wagamese found his salvation in the written word. A journalist, a novelist and a teller of stories, Richard Wagamese was <i><b><span style="color: #f1c232; font-size: large;">Story</span></b></i>.<br />
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The world has shifted a little for me now. It is different without this incredible man's spirit to bring more stories to life. Perhaps the stories he did write are enough. Perhaps he had told all the stories he came here to tell. For sure, the stories he left us with are treasures to be kept. And I will keep them in the vault of my heart.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQN8dxi38J2UP50bgq-Y5AGXli5e3baCV4VnLI1L7bzjzjVElIFBvqeKj6wCqoJ1GAE9FEYCAfZdIHyjnCGo3LPIxlC-_9ZWQ-9NI63oueyzO6VsCTZQeku6BxOZhncaQk-UlJkJdV4rwg/s1600/RichardWagamese_131025.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="229" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQN8dxi38J2UP50bgq-Y5AGXli5e3baCV4VnLI1L7bzjzjVElIFBvqeKj6wCqoJ1GAE9FEYCAfZdIHyjnCGo3LPIxlC-_9ZWQ-9NI63oueyzO6VsCTZQeku6BxOZhncaQk-UlJkJdV4rwg/s320/RichardWagamese_131025.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rest in Power! You are missed. </td></tr>
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You can find his books here: <a href="http://www.richardwagameseauthor.com/" target="_blank">Richard Wagamese. </a><br />
<br />Yemallahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07409971024629343788noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5110319624849459498.post-21957831466166239762017-03-18T09:58:00.000-07:002017-03-18T09:58:39.864-07:00Magic WordsI believe in magic.<br />
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There! I've said it. You now know my deepest, darkest secret.<br />
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I was raised on Fairy Tales. Little Red Riding Hood, Cinderella, Rumpelstiltskin... they are but a small part of the large collection of magical stories that I loved as a child and still love today. Not only are they about magic, they are magical and magically infused with wonder and awe.<br />
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I remember learning how to read. I remember struggling to memorize the different sounds the different letters represent and how they combined to make words. I remember being in awe when the letters and sounds were magically transformed by their arrangement. Like magic incantations, subtle changes in inflection changed the sounds and the meanings. Consider o-u-g-h...<br />
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Rough (ruf). Plough (plow). Through (throo). Though (thoh). Hiccough (hik-uhp). Cough (kof). Thought (thawt).<br />
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The same arrangement of four letters, combined with different supporting letters and a slight re-shaping of the mouth creates a vast array of new ideas. It's magic!<br />
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Whether you are hearing the sounds or seeing the symbols (letters) that represent the sounds, more magic happens in your brain where they are interpreted into words and given meaning. But wait! There is even more magic to come...<br />
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The words can then invoke feelings and once feelings have been attached to them, those words become part of your actual physiology. They become part of you! Just like the nutrients in the food you eat are absorbed by your physical body, so do the words your hear and read get absorbed and cause chemical reactions, which is all emotions are.<br />
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On their own, most words are benign. Their magic is contained in the way they are combined and the way they are delivered. Words of praise spoken with genuine admiration invoke good feelings. Words of anger, hate, fear or criticism invoke unpleasant feelings. Your words have incredible power; they can heal and they can harm.<br />
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Language is my favourite kind of magic. It is my most celebrated and most respected kind of magic, for it defines us, shapes us, influences us, scares us, uplifts us, challenges us, inspires us and creates our stories.<br />
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I realize that some people will read this and think: <i>Pfft! There's nothing magical about language</i>. It depends on what your definition of magic is. I define magic as anything that is inexpiable; anything that contains mystery. While we can explain certain aspects of language, written and oral, how it developed, why humans have the capacity for language at all and how the brain actually works are all still mysteries. We may take it for granted, but language is an incredible force. And it's not a matter of whether the force is with you or not - it is! - it's how you wield it and how you appreciate it that counts.<br />
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I am an editor because I believe in the magic of language and the power it has to do wonderful things such as convey ideas, teach, entertain and inspire. I'm not the Grand Wizard of the writing process; I'm more the Support Wizard, making sure that the magic that is intended is the magic that is produced.<br />
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I have no idea what I'm going to talk about next week. It's a mystery!<br />
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<br />Yemallahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07409971024629343788noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5110319624849459498.post-50330203063578898192017-03-10T08:27:00.000-08:002017-03-10T08:27:15.003-08:00Death By One-star Ratings<div class="MsoNormal">
So in this supplemental blog post, I am sharing a poem I wrote about an Indie author who learns a valuable lesson. </div>
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This is a work of fiction! It is neither biographical nor autobiographical. Though I'm almost positive that there are some out there who will be able to relate. If you're old enough to remember the Beverly Hillbillies, the poem does seem to have taken on a rhythm similar to the show's theme song. This was completely unintentional, I assure you. And I apologize if this creates an earworm. </div>
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<i>Come listen to a story ‘bout a book I wrote.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>Listen very closely and please take notes.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>I spent two years writing night and day.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>My boyfriend left me and my dog ran away,<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>(Obsessed I was; consumed)<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i>But I kept on writing to fulfill my dream<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>To be a published author was in sight it seemed.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>As I poured out my heart through the words on the screen<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>I knew I would be famous; Mom & Dad would be so pleased.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>(Obsessed and delusional)<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i>When the day finally came and my book was done,<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>I ran it through a spell check and I figured I had won.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>I sent it to a publisher and waited for the call.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>What I got was a rejection and I shouted, “Dang it all!”<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>(This wasn’t going to be easy)<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i>A friend of mine suggested that I publish it myself.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>That sounded better than putting it on the shelf.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>I found a place on the good old Internet<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>That would print my book and I knew that I was set.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>(Print on demand – POD)<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i>I entered all my info and I paid the highest fee<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>To get the bells and whistles that they had promised me.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>I opened up the file and I clicked right on Upload<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>And my story was converted to html code.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>(Geek speak for hypertext markup language)<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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<i>I followed the directions and I marketed my book.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>Told everyone I knew to, “Come and take a look!”<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>My friends all smiled and wished me great success,<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>But little did I know that my book was quite a mess.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>(Dangling participles, split infinitives)<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i>I thought is was perfect, at the very least okay.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>I thought spellcheck had made the errors go away.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>While it caught a few things, it left many more behind<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>And to the rest my heart and sole were blind.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>(All those exclamation marks!)<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i>Sales started coming and people bought my book.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>I’d crafted a description that was a mighty hook.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>Then the ratings started coming and sales they took a dive<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>And right there on Amazon my dream up and died.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>(Death by one-star ratings)<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i>If only I had gotten an editor to help<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>I wouldn’t be pulling my hair out of my scalp.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>I might have a best seller instead of just this blog<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>And I’d be watching Netflix with my boyfriend and my dog.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>(Chillin’ and watchin’)<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i>So if you write a story don’t overlook this step.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>An editor will keep it from becoming dreck.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>It’s worth the extra money to ensure your readers’ praise<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>And keep your dream from burning up in an awful blaze.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Y’all keep writin', ya hear?</i><o:p></o:p></div>
Yemallahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07409971024629343788noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5110319624849459498.post-35341517094086255852017-03-10T08:23:00.000-08:002017-03-10T08:23:23.296-08:00My ProcessI think I first became an editor back in high school. Friends would ask me to read over their reports, essays and story assignments and tell them what I thought. As I read some of these missives, I was often shocked at the number of spelling, grammar and punctuation mistakes that I found. Keep in mind this was in the 70's and there were no computers or word processors with the spell check feature. We did our homework on paper. In pen. Mistakes were permanent, unless we wanted to re-write the assignments. Personally, I went through reams of paper aiming to hand in flawless work. Some of my friends... Well, not so much.<br />
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It drove me crazy sometimes. I would read this stuff knowing that there was no way it would get a passing grade. The content wasn't bad, but our teachers tended to grade us on our technical prowess. Mistakes mattered. And softie that I sometimes am, I would offer to re-write my friends' assignments so they could copy them out and hand them in with - at least - fewer mistakes. The hardest part of all this for me was maintaining my friends voice and not making it sound like I wrote it. I had to keep a few errors in tact so that we wouldn't get in trouble. Mostly so I wouldn't get in trouble, to be honest.<br />
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This painful acceptance of the quality of work some people produced taught me a valuable skill that, at the time, I was completely unaware of. I learned to honour the voice of the author and, like it or not, refrain from making major changes that reflected my style.<br />
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I also learned diplomacy. I knew how difficult is was to hear negative feedback on my own work; I had to learn how to express criticism in the most positive way. The trick, I discovered, was to get my friends to read their work out loud. With great relief they often stumbled on the same things that I noticed and wanted to see changed and that gave me an opening to make suggestions. Guiding my peers toward better writing was satisfying. I felt like I was helping in a good and positive way.<br />
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I didn't get much in the way of thanks for this. In fact, it became something some people took for granted and when I refused because I had my own homework to do, I experienced a range of reactions from resigned acquiescence to guilt to, upon occasion, intimidation. (Teenagers can be brutal!) Years later, though, when I realized the value in the skills I developed, the guilt and intimidation lost most of their grip. <br />
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Now, when a manuscript comes my way, I like to spend some time talking to the author. I like to get a feel for the personality behind the work I'm about to edit. It helps me get an idea of the style I'm about to meet in the writing and having an idea of what to expect makes it easier to adapt to that style as I do my work. When changes are needed, I am more likely to make suggestions that will reflect the author's voice and form.<br />
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Often, the personality of the author is not the same as the personality of the writer. By that I mean that it is not uncommon for gentle, soft-spoken people to write aggressively or for boisterous and flamboyant people to write passively. Not always, but often enough to prepare me for it. I can also gauge how much "feedback" I can give without inciting drama. Can I be blunt? Do I have to soften everything I say? There is a good deal of psychology involved in the editing game.<br />
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After the deal has been struck and the manuscript becomes illuminated by my computer screen, I set to work. I begin with a slow read-though. I familiarize myself with the voice and style of the author and look for errors. This portion takes time. I work at 6 to 8 pages per hour at this stage. I'm absorbing a lot of information as well as finding and fixing mistakes and making suggestions. I am compiling my style sheet to ensure consistency throughout the manuscript. I am stopping frequently to consult my style guides to be sure that grammar rules are not being abused or misused. I re-read many portions out loud to hear the syntax and listen to the punctuation. (Yes! You use punctuation in speech. These funny little marks that are strewn throughout writing are the equivalent to emotional expression in speech.) I make notes. I jot down questions for the author. The process is detailed and requires concentration. The first read-through of a 350-page manuscript will take approximately 50 hours. Compared to the eight to ten hours it takes me to read a 400-page completed novel, this step is not about entertainment or even enjoyment. In fact, I read to edit much differently than I read to be entertained.<br />
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During this process I arrange for a few meetings with the author to go over any questions I might have so I can incorporate any new information into the editing work. Once the first read-through is complete, the manuscript is returned to the author who then reviews my edits. It is up to the author to accept or reject any changes I make to the work. It belongs to the author and the author has the final say.<br />
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Usually, I get the manuscript back for a second read-through after the author has made revisions. This time, being familiar with the content, I read about ten pages per hour. I'm now looking to see that the changes are consistent and continue to make sense. If the author has made any major revisions, I have to slow down a bit, but generally the second read-through is much faster. At this stage I am also making sure that photos/tables and captions are matched and destined for the appropriate place within the text. I make sure that table of contents corresponds to the manuscript and that chapters are in the proper order. Front and back matter is reviewed and cleaned up if necessary. Again, there are a few meetings with the author.<br />
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If a third read-through is requested, I am happy to oblige for an extra fee. But this is usually quite quick and doesn't involve as much detailed scrutiny as the first two read-throughs do. Some authors will make several revisions and expect each one to be reviewed and edited, but my standard contract is for two read-throughs.<br />
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I'm often asked how authors can make the editing process easier for themselves and the editor. My best advice is to read your work out loud. It slows you down and reduces the mind's habit of making assumptions or anticipating what "should" come next and seeing that instead of what is actually written. Fresh eyes will catch more mistakes than eyes that are familiar with what is intended. When you read silently, your brain is an extraordinary editor and can fix mistakes without allowing them to even register. Not all mistakes, of course, but more than you might imagine. <br />
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So that's my process. That's how I go about editing a manuscript. I work cooperatively with the author (and publisher if one is involved, but that's another blog for another day).<br />
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<span style="color: #990000; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">What? No pictures?</span></div>
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<span style="color: #990000; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Join me next week. I'll be sure to include some. </span></div>
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<br />Yemallahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07409971024629343788noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5110319624849459498.post-62350279045089455302017-03-08T14:23:00.000-08:002017-03-08T14:23:07.800-08:00Is the Devil Really in the Details?Writing is hard work. For many writers it is an obsession, an all-consuming need. The words bubble up from the depths of the imagination and require an outlet. There is no such thing as being done. Writers have to write.<br />
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The process of arranging the words in a cohesive story, be it fictional or a progressive report of facts or opinions, does not always leave room for attention to details. The ideas need to flow. Stopping to consider correct spelling, the proper placement of commas and colons for verb agreements interrupts the flow. It's better to let the flow flow and leave the details to the devil.<br />
<br />
Enter the Editor.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmICsq0JtYJXk9_BJiz252RKTBdK596XxQ7H0v2z2S2WYLkfgvF7hDMLVHitert3d8OmxYhEIqFZ2m7N53Kbb-xVv9ULpXwfm3gsc1Inizpm6Pj528MFqajhPOfxcseWPvK5a4TMu2G2PY/s1600/devil+editor.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmICsq0JtYJXk9_BJiz252RKTBdK596XxQ7H0v2z2S2WYLkfgvF7hDMLVHitert3d8OmxYhEIqFZ2m7N53Kbb-xVv9ULpXwfm3gsc1Inizpm6Pj528MFqajhPOfxcseWPvK5a4TMu2G2PY/s320/devil+editor.gif" width="320" /></a></div>
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After weeks - months? years? - of writing, the story has become an extension of the author. If stories had DNA, it would match the person who gave birth to it. Stories are part of us. Just like a child, they are conceived, gestated and birthed through long hours of labour. To hand them over to someone who is going to put them under a microscope with the sole purpose of looking for and identifying flaws is one of the most difficult things a writer does. About the only thing worse than the agony of dissection at the hands of an editor, is a rejection letter from a publisher. Or so some writers believe.<br />
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Today, however, publishers are not strictly necessary. Anyone can publish a book. Be it print or digital, or both, publishing is no longer dependent on finding the right publisher in the right mood at the right time. Self-publishing is a thing. A great big, real thing! And more and more wanna-be authors are circumventing the traditional publishing houses altogether and going straight to being published authors by doing it all themselves. From cover design to marketing, writers are taking control of their work. Indie authors are a force to be reckoned with!<br />
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There are a lot of details in the process of turning a manuscript into a book. Writing is but the tip of the iceberg. There is the formatting (which has about a million steps of its own), the cover design, the copyright registration, obtaining an ISBN, depository submission, marketing, securing a platform to publish through... the steps are seemingly endless. Often the first step to be sacrificed is the editing portion of the process. Why spend money on an editor who is just going to tell you what is wrong with your masterpiece? Why put yourself through the emotional trauma? You know you're a great writer and your story is destined to be on the NY Times Best Seller list for, like, years! And besides, you did a dozen <i>spell checks.</i><br />
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Well, spell checks aside, an editor is your story's best friend. An editor is not out to hack and slash your beautiful writing to pieces. That's not what they do. They genuinely care about your book and want the very best for it. And you.<br />
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Successful authors know the value of having their work edited. They understand that the words they write flow from the deepest parts of their being and between that core and the computer screen the ideas can - and do - get muddled. What flows from their hearts through their bodies and into the keyboard makes perfect sense to them. It is flawless and reads perfectly. What actually shows up on the pages of their word processors isn't necessarily the perfection that is in their minds. Words get mixed up. Punctuation shows up randomly. A simple rearrangement of ideas gets confused. All in the name of releasing the story. It's not bad writing. It's not flawed technique. It's merely a matter of the human mind and fingers not working in tandem from time to time. The phone rang. A visitor stopped by. The baby woke up from her nap earlier than expected. The dog needed to go out for a pee. Life happened. Think of the editor as a fresh pair of eyes; the eyes that remove the 'Life' from all your hard work and make you look even better than you already think you are.<br />
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If your ego is likely to be bruised, let it be bruised by a single editor rather than a host of readers. An editor will be far more gentle than a frustrated reader who has paid good money for your book only to discover that it is riddled with errors, as inadvertent as they may be. Remember that readers are going to rate and review your book. One bad rating or review is all that it takes to cause sales to plummet. And even if you revise it, new readers seeing an old rating are going to take a pass. There are many, many more authors out there to choose from. Why waste time and money on an author that publishes less than his or her best?<br />
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Far from being the devil, editors can help keep your hard work from being stuck in purgatory.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1EC5AU_kPYJYptEWXUb58UywN9AykfXX1p-TYTTM0t5MDhRtFSgpc2pyYpmvQ5ij9DISqM7-2lm61yBxA9Bdy9mUvB5TVQcSz921_Ucl69lN70VivLmYif8gLOQnETYvUMvqdFcwrgGWl/s1600/angel-writing-granger.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="124" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1EC5AU_kPYJYptEWXUb58UywN9AykfXX1p-TYTTM0t5MDhRtFSgpc2pyYpmvQ5ij9DISqM7-2lm61yBxA9Bdy9mUvB5TVQcSz921_Ucl69lN70VivLmYif8gLOQnETYvUMvqdFcwrgGWl/s320/angel-writing-granger.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Next week I'll share my editing process. Join me as I polish my halo and reveal how things work in my little corner of the editing world.<br />
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<br />Yemallahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07409971024629343788noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5110319624849459498.post-11813939592012127682017-03-01T18:37:00.000-08:002017-03-01T18:37:39.461-08:00My Business CardLast week I wrote about my decision to become a professional Editor. It was a scary thing to do, but my love of the English language in all its vexing glory along with my passion for stories (not to mention my need for an income!) screamed to be unleashed in a constructive and positive way. So here I am, putting myself out there and waiting for the phone to ring.<br />
<br />
I have everything I need to do this job: a computer, the necessary software, applicable skills acquired over the 5 1/2 decades I've been alive, style guides and grammar guides to guide me, enthusiasm, time, experience and desire. I even have business cards! And I shared my business card in my last post with the promise to explain it this week.<br />
<br />
Here it is again in case you missed it:<br />
<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxW8aVbClyZUBZJfJPGdV3ZqVVAbx6ZlVG2B-8vGdegeKSpHVV-xUvQgciudc0on8rCzvLzzIkMjYsWILiOy3kG_yZvlOAqfNlFXYytm1rHxWnZAIILMDRQJaaxJyjqz8g_S0i2Y7hLYDT/s1600/Editor+Business+Card.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxW8aVbClyZUBZJfJPGdV3ZqVVAbx6ZlVG2B-8vGdegeKSpHVV-xUvQgciudc0on8rCzvLzzIkMjYsWILiOy3kG_yZvlOAqfNlFXYytm1rHxWnZAIILMDRQJaaxJyjqz8g_S0i2Y7hLYDT/s320/Editor+Business+Card.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
When I first designed it, "Editor" was spelled correctly. But the card, while functional and containing all the information I felt I needed to convey, was bland and uninteresting. It needed something else.<br />
<br />
I am a firm believer in having fun. I think that work should be fun and having a good sense of humour is intrinsic to making the best of every situation. So I "edited" the card to include the misspelled title that I claim for myself and added the deletion mark that used to dominate manual editing practice.<br />
<br />
I worried after I did it that people would not take me seriously (oh, the irony!) and would see it as... Well, as something less than professional. Second guessing myself is a habit that has destroyed many potentials in my life. This time, I refused to listen to that little voice that was saying, "This is stupid!" My business card will remain in its <i>edited </i>condition!<br />
<br />
I intend to be successful at this endeavor. And I intend to have fun with it. If I'm going to spend my days editing other peoples' work, I want to do it with a light heart as well as a fierce pen. Letting potential clients know that I am not perfect, but I am diligent and that I love what I do is the entire point behind my business card. It is my fondest wish that I have portrayed this well enough. This tiny piece of card stock is, after all, how I will be introduced to many people.<br />
<br />
So, there you have it! The story behind my business card. Like it, love it, hate it, it feels right to me.<br />
<br />
Next week I will be exploring the editor/author relationship and attempt to put writers' minds at ease about the process. Join me and learn why Editors are not evil!<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf20ti6IYAzc9xxDIr0TxzKLUZeoKYdaYocaP_ipN0V4WBwjbnb-KAVPRgCZeHNcs_JGrF9-S3YsXkWDDWaMbwZ-X0iZHep2AnXdF8sUmwVQ_BgWUlC7esJwCtaJrp3bOC-Dl917AoVDpG/s1600/devil+editor.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf20ti6IYAzc9xxDIr0TxzKLUZeoKYdaYocaP_ipN0V4WBwjbnb-KAVPRgCZeHNcs_JGrF9-S3YsXkWDDWaMbwZ-X0iZHep2AnXdF8sUmwVQ_BgWUlC7esJwCtaJrp3bOC-Dl917AoVDpG/s320/devil+editor.gif" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />Yemallahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07409971024629343788noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5110319624849459498.post-59764072298775664592017-02-28T12:54:00.000-08:002017-02-28T12:54:24.131-08:00I am an Editor!So, I have come to a decision.<br />
<br />
I think.<br />
<br />
Yes. Yes, I have come to a decision.<br />
<br />
I have decided that am an editor.<br />
<br />
No. Wait. I have decided that I am an <b><i><u>Editor</u></i></b>! (That's better.)<br />
<br />
I make this declaration with the highest and utmost confidence in its veracity. My Editorness is a fact.<br />
<br />
I edit things for pay, therefore I am not just an editor, but an Editor. See the difference? The former is a regular noun and the latter is a proper noun - a title, which I have bestowed upon myself in the pursuit of pursuing it as a profession. It is my job, my living, the income-generating thing I do.<br />
<br />
And with the decision to declare myself an Editor comes the supporting decision to make Raven's Next Chronicles the blogging gateway through which people may learn more about my editing challenges and triumphs, presumably and intendingly on a weekly basis. Though, I do reserve the right to increase or decrease the frequency at will and without apology. (Neither will I apologize for the made-up words that may and likely will appear unedited within any Raven's Next Chronicles post! See Editorness in paragraph six and intendingly in the current paragraph for examples of this creative license in action.)<br />
<br />
Moving on...<br />
<br />
The original purpose of Raven's Nest Chronicles was to have a place to share my stories and poems. You may have noticed that I haven't posted a story for about five years. Alas, this poor, neglected blog has rested post-less for nigh on 54 months (ish). It is not that I haven't written any stories or poems in that interval, merely that I haven't bothered to post any of them. I may - or may not - change that in the future. The un-posted stories could be great filler blog-fodder for those weeks that I have no challenges or triumphs to report. We shall see. Shan't we?<br />
<br />
In the meantime, the stories that I did post so long ago will remain posted and, probably un-edited until I find the time to review and revamp them. So please be kind and refrain from pointing out any editing needs you may find among them. The stories are testament not to my editing skills, which are rather good by the way, but to my once more prolific story-writing and posting days.<br />
<br />
That being said, I must admit to a niggling fear of posting blogs as an Editor. Editing my own work is one of those challenges that I spoke (wrote) of a moment ago. I have a confidence equal to my ability to edit other people's work that my own work will be strewn with the stuff Editors, like myself, make a living by discovering and correcting. But I will endeavor to keep them to a minimum. I am working diligently, for instance, on single spaces after full stops. Until recently, I was unaware that double spacing at the end of a sentence was incorrect (I thought it was an option). I credit my typing teachers, who drilled that habit into me way back in high school when it was mandatory practice when using a typewriter. (I wonder how many more things I could have added to limited spaces over the years had I not wasted all those precious key-strokes...)<br />
<br />
Live and learn, they say! I am learning. I am also living and, on that note, this ends my first Raven's Next Chronicles blog post as an Editor. But before I go, I wish to share with you my business card, about which I intend to write more in my next blog post. I will explain all next week.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMWQH9-ZJBbDbus0yo9wpCMciVkO08xM-EJPQZyqojGv-g6z62ndiEl4BNxPYvAuImleGrwtO222LQ12Qnx4PclIe61fnfc1oFwLW4muidkvK36fmuwG80LSw0xlOWZHLuKQznUz9CDvFK/s1600/Editor+Business+Card.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMWQH9-ZJBbDbus0yo9wpCMciVkO08xM-EJPQZyqojGv-g6z62ndiEl4BNxPYvAuImleGrwtO222LQ12Qnx4PclIe61fnfc1oFwLW4muidkvK36fmuwG80LSw0xlOWZHLuKQznUz9CDvFK/s320/Editor+Business+Card.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #073763; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">May your participles never be left dangling!</span></div>
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<br />Yemallahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07409971024629343788noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5110319624849459498.post-16468894074931808902012-08-26T10:28:00.002-07:002012-08-26T10:28:33.343-07:00Just a Little TLC<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvGDwhIgG3QTAYrSVWVOhjxoJbSoXl2gQEjkVi9Z-aXHnC9h6qg_vZjZBGOmSJfO3rhWl6Oc37HDMAJlC-XuOBrhtWsuS3oZvphqaYK5BO5PS0XL6Sowlvti5MrGpmIDNiYRUuaGSrUYLH/s1600/wyeth,+andrew+big+room+1948.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="151" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvGDwhIgG3QTAYrSVWVOhjxoJbSoXl2gQEjkVi9Z-aXHnC9h6qg_vZjZBGOmSJfO3rhWl6Oc37HDMAJlC-XuOBrhtWsuS3oZvphqaYK5BO5PS0XL6Sowlvti5MrGpmIDNiYRUuaGSrUYLH/s200/wyeth,+andrew+big+room+1948.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Alice walked through the front door of the eleventh house
she had viewed that day. Expecting yet
another boring, and unimaginative space, she was surprised by what she was
seeing. The outside of the house was
appealing with its country-cottage quality, nestled as it was amid slightly
over-grown shrubs and ivies. There was
even a climbing rose in on a trellis next to the entrance. But this!
This amazing room with the hardwood floors, open-beam ceiling and
enormous fireplace was… well it was a home.
At least, it could very well be.
It certainly felt right. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">From her position at the entrance, Alice surveyed her
surroundings. Off to the left was the kitchen
– a bit too sterile-looking with its stark white walls, but that was nothing a
bit of paint couldn’t fix. Through a
wide garden door, she saw the snow covered yard and imagined it in the summer
with a vegetable garden and squirrels nattering in the trees. A broad hallway in front of the kitchen led
to two bedrooms, a bathroom and laundry room.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">She envisioned her round entry table, her mantle clock, her
favourite photos and, most importantly, her ceramic bust of Beethoven in the
corner window where he would preside next to her grand piano for which there
was plenty of room. In short, it was
perfect.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Being the practical woman that she was, though, Alice turned
to the real estate agent. “What’s wrong
with it?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Ted, a seasoned professional, cleared his throat and took a
few steps into the room. “To be honest,
Miss Turcotte, it does need a little TLC.”
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">He shuffled a sheaf of papers and handed them to her. Among them was the description and photo of
the property, a list of approximate annual expenses, including estimated taxes
and utility costs, and a disclosure form where, Alice noticed, far too many
boxes had been checked off. She ran her
eyes down the list and determined that TLC was just a bit of an understatement. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">While her heart tugged her toward its charm, her mind was
tallying the cost of upgrades and repairs the house would require to make it
liveable. The asking price was modest,
but the renovations were bordering on astronomical. Alice sighed.
She needed a place to live, but she needed a place she could move into
without having to practically rebuild it from scratch. Tired and feeling defeated, she handed the
papers back to Ted and turned to leave.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Don’t you want to see the rest of it?” Ted asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“It really is a lovely little house, but from what I can see
it wold cost a fortune to fix it up.
There’s electrical problems, plumbing problems, the roof leaks and the
foundation is sinking. I love it, but I don’t
want to buy myself an expensive project.
I think I’ll have to pass on this one.”
She opened the front door to step back outside. Sadly, she was trying to choose from one of
the other ten houses she’d looked at that day.
None of them had even remotely interested her, but time was running out
and she needed to live somewhere. The next
best option was a split-level on a large corner lot “close to shopping and
schools.” Alice shuddered. The whole area was filled with uninteresting
boxes that were barely distinguishable from each other. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A gentle snow was falling as she stepped off of the small
covered porch onto the top step. The street
lights were flickering on up and down the road, casting a soft yellow light
over the neighbourhood. Small foot
prints could be seen coming from the side of the yard and disappearing through
the open gate in the scalloped picket fence.
Alice followed them through the fresh snow while Ted locked up.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The front yard was not large. Clusters
of trees and immaculate garden beds had reduced what little lawn there would be
in the summer to an asymmetrical splash of grass that resembled lop-sided
butterfly wings on either side of the cobbled walkway. When Alice
reached the footprint path from the walkway onto the lawn she stopped short and
smiled.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Ted,” she said as he came up to her. “I think I’ve changed my mind.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Ted followed her gaze across the snow. There, between the trees and garden beds were
three perfect snow angels. Below them,
written in stones and twigs was the word, “Welcome.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And Alice knew that she was home.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
Yemallahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07409971024629343788noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5110319624849459498.post-68729916285196218222012-08-13T12:50:00.001-07:002012-08-13T12:50:10.381-07:00The Transformation<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVnCxsk-_uCk_qFg7CzX70QupdWAbUxf64CE-6UHR6DBGX5X_Cte0mAGToysSc-1BZkGsPnSWiDPaZTWoxTsqRlYcJht9y8EEMIZvWQLHHKIujpzmU0dtxHZcci-lwkww6KOIvLpUDIDYS/s1600/transformation.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVnCxsk-_uCk_qFg7CzX70QupdWAbUxf64CE-6UHR6DBGX5X_Cte0mAGToysSc-1BZkGsPnSWiDPaZTWoxTsqRlYcJht9y8EEMIZvWQLHHKIujpzmU0dtxHZcci-lwkww6KOIvLpUDIDYS/s200/transformation.jpg" width="198" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">From far away, she heard the mournful appeal of the conch
shell calling her to join the battle. She
knew she had to answer. She knew she had
to leave her predictable life, her safe life, and be part of this fight. She had no choice. It was fight and die. Or die anyway. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But when she tried to step forward she found herself bound
to the wall by a thick sheet of plastic that covered her naked body. The more she struggled, the tighter it held
her. She felt helpless.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The call of the conch shell, closer now, filled her with
dread. The battle was getting closer,
inching toward her. She could hear the
cries of the dying now. There was no
mistaking the fear in the voices that speared her heart, no different than the
sharp blade that would surely reach her soon enough.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“I’m coming,” she shouted over the growing din and pushed
harder against the restrictive plastic. It
did not give.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Desperate to save everyone, she started tearing at the sheet
with her finger nails. Every tiny tear
she managed to make, instantly healed itself. She tried to pull the pins out of the
wall. They held fast.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This makes no sense, she thought. It’s just plastic. I’m stronger than plastic.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The fighting grew increasing louder and closer. Panic started to eat away at her mind. She could hear herself screaming in
frustration and fear. Any minute now,
the enemy would find her. And kill her.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">She had to get free.
She had to. But how? If only the sheet was paper instead of
plastic… If only she had the conch shell.
She could call upon Peace. She
could save the world.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">With a fierce heave, she threw her weight into the binding
sheet. Unexpectedly, it started to give. A small tear opened up just above her
breasts. She pushed again, harder. The binding tore a little more.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">If only it was paper…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">She realized that the plastic was changing. It was transforming a little more every time
she thought about it being paper.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“It’s only paper,” she said out loud. “It’s only paper.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And with a final thrust the sheet tore away and she was
free.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The conch, she thought.
“The conch,” she said. “I have
the conch.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Like magic, it appeared in her hands. She lifted it to her lips and blew into
it. A long, doleful resonance filled the
air. She blew again. And again.
And again. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Peace,” she called. “I
call down Peace!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">After a while, she grew tired and with tears in her eyes she
let the conch shell fall to the floor. It
shattered on impact into a million glistening shards that flew up, forming a
cyclone. The spinning shards, like
miniature razors, soared up and outside into the midst of the battle. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The enemy grew fearful and began to fall back. A few who thought they could stop it, ran
toward it only to be cut mercilessly down.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">She stepped outside, too, and looked out over the battle
field. The destruction was
horrific. The people were nearly
defeated, but the enemy was retreating. The
cyclone of conch shell shards continued to spin wildly, forcing the enemy back
ever farther until, at last, there was silence.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The silence turned to darkness. The darkness turned slowly to light.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And as the light grew stronger, so too did the people
heal. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And she woke up knowing that transformation comes from
within. There is nothing that she cannot
overcome.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
Yemallahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07409971024629343788noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5110319624849459498.post-62095144122978325712012-08-05T11:33:00.002-07:002012-08-05T11:33:49.043-07:00The Perfect Dinner Party<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5_r4QR8sr2RFbUZi5WgWslmoxlaJaXmZgs7AVvCwkb1PurZGX_4nuHlF_g1ozGEwiHRgn9wrIQvXuqd4DZvRFcF6qFgpQ-ZGcm_fwl6JEGQB1y6Gnoan3MfJ9I04QhE3W0Q386sZXwmrg/s1600/dinner+party.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="234" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5_r4QR8sr2RFbUZi5WgWslmoxlaJaXmZgs7AVvCwkb1PurZGX_4nuHlF_g1ozGEwiHRgn9wrIQvXuqd4DZvRFcF6qFgpQ-ZGcm_fwl6JEGQB1y6Gnoan3MfJ9I04QhE3W0Q386sZXwmrg/s320/dinner+party.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Had a bit of fun with this prompt: <br />John Singer Sargent , A Dinner Table at Night, 1884</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“My goodness, Colonel, but I do think
that Cook has outdone herself once again.” Lady Willington sipped
her cognac and sighed the sigh of one who has just hosted the dinner
party of the season.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Yes, yes! Smashing repast.” The
Colonel agreed, puffing his words out from under his great
moustaches.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“I shall have to commend her. The
duck was perfection. And the soup! Whoever would have thought that
walnuts in soup would be so delicious?” Another sip of cognac slip
passed her lips.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Cook is a wizard in the kitchen,
alright,” the Colonel said. He reached for his pipe and lit it.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Yes. It's just too bad that Lady
Dobbins-Hobb is allergic. I do hope that she recovers from those
nasty hives.”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Indeed. More cognac, my dear?”
The Colonel stood up and retrieved the decanter from the corner of
the silver-laden table.
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Thank you, yes.” She held up the
crystal snifter to be refilled. “I was a bit dismayed by Mr.
Carruthers wee mishap. It's a very good thing that Doctor Timbles
was here to stitch up his hand.”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Damnable inconvenience, that,” the
Colonel said. “I've never seen a wine glass shatter that way.”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Well, perhaps if that Trollope he
brought uninvited hadn't knocked over the candelabra and all that hot
wax hadn't splattered Mrs. Carrington's face, it wouldn't have
happened.”
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Old Carruthers does seem to attract
the most undesirable women. I shall have to have a chat with the old
boy.” The Colonel drew on his pipe and released a perfect smoke
ring into the air.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Well, we really shouldn't complain.
At least Judge Beecroft isn't going to sue us over the chair
collapsing and gouging his leg. But I do suppose that we must
reimburse him for the trousers.” Lady Willington sighed.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“A man of his bulk has to expect such
things, my dear.”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“I'm just thankful that Doctor
Timbles managed to get that cherry pit out of Mrs. Beecrofts throat
before she expired. That shade of purple she turned clashed so
terribly with her turquoise gown. Not that it was a good colour for
her anyway.” More cognac vanished from the Lady's glass.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Yes, she's much to pale to pull off
turquoise in any season.” Another smoke ring drifted across the
table.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“All-in-all, though, it was a
marvelous dinner, don't you think?”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“How could it not be, with such a
lovely hostess at the head of the table?”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Oh, Colonel. You say the sweetest
things.” Lady Willinton blushed at her husband's compliment.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Just stating the facts, my dear.”
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Well, I think I shall retire to my
rooms and start on the invitations to next week's dinner party. I'm
going to ask Cook to do up her famous Beef Wellinton.”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Sounds utterly delightful. I'm
going to take a stroll in the garden before I go up.”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Do be careful of that loose brick on
the veranda steps. Pastor Giles tripped on it last week and now he's
laid up for at least two months with a broken leg.”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Not to worry, my dear. I'll watch
my step.” </span></div>Yemallahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07409971024629343788noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5110319624849459498.post-8432844219955920362012-08-04T15:05:00.000-07:002012-08-04T15:07:54.825-07:00Maybe She Will<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioXyCXIDUVdo8okGmvbOHMf39p9s0fwVR3ce3EkwNun9Bo1sDIuIemlvVmywQAOduNvzwJGEKrNwBaaMNwThgyusHJk1shgZAp12rJ8aevmfFGXtvHEw-bnms6KIF-a5AJtVhpR-flugy6/s1600/nedic+black+dog.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioXyCXIDUVdo8okGmvbOHMf39p9s0fwVR3ce3EkwNun9Bo1sDIuIemlvVmywQAOduNvzwJGEKrNwBaaMNwThgyusHJk1shgZAp12rJ8aevmfFGXtvHEw-bnms6KIF-a5AJtVhpR-flugy6/s200/nedic+black+dog.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This week's prompt.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<i>Well, looks like you've gone and
painted yourself into a corner again, Charles! How many times have I
tried to warn y</i>ou? <i>Six?
Seven? I've lost count, actually. I bark and I bark and I bark and
what do you do? You just keep painting like the fool you are,
telling me to be quiet so I don't disturb “</i>The
Lady” <i>who, by the way isn't even home. That's right.
Sh</i>e <i>left hours ago.
Went off in that weird little yellow suppository you keep drooling
over like it was a fresh moose bone or something. There isn't even a
back seat for me, for heaven's sake. </i>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Hey, Aticus. I
think I'm done. Why don't you go fetch Jessica and bring her in to
see my masterpiece?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>And now, what's that you say? You
say you want me to go and get </i>The
Lady <i>to come and see what you've done. Are you nuts?
She'll take one look at you painted in place and she'll fire your
creative ass right out of here. Oh, wait! She can't! You're stuck
where you are until this smelly goop you used dries. And how long is
that going to be? I ask you. Three – four days! At least!</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>You know I love you, Charles, but
this kind of thing has to stop. You really have got to get it
together. I need to pee. Who's gonna open the door for me so I can
do that? No opposable thumbs here, buddy. Remember? Doors don't
just open themselves. </i>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Atticus, are you
still here? Go get Jessica, boy. Go get her!”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>Clearly you've been sniffing too
much turpentine, Charles. Okay, here's what I'm gonna do. I'm gonna
take this old boot over to the bed and chew on it for a while. It
will take my mind off having to pee and when </i>The
Lady <i> gets home I'll bark like mad until she comes in to
investigate. It's the best I can do.</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“No! Atticus.
Stop! Bad boy! Get off the bed. Jessica will kill me! Oh, great.
I've painted myself into the corner. Why didn't you warn me?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>This bed is much comfier than our
bed, Charles. If you had a real job, maybe we could have a comfy bed
like this one. </i>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>Oh, wait. I think I hear the
suppository pulling in. Yep. </i>The
Lady<i> is home.</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
(Loud barking
shatters the peace.)</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Atticus. Quiet,
boy!”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>Hey, Charles. Do you think she'll
like wh</i>a<i>t you did to
her ficus? Stripping all the leaves off like that was a nice touch.
Adds to the macabre ambiance of the piece. </i>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
(The door to the
bedroom where Charles has been working on a custom wall design opens
and Jessica, The Lady of the house, walks in.)</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“What is that dog
doing on my bed? And what have you done to my ficus?</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Pretty cool, eh?
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>Time to sneak out for that pee while
the door's open. I'll meet you in the truck, Charles. That is if
you can figure out how to get out of that corner...</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
(An hour passes and
Atticus gets tired of waiting.)</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>Well, imagine that! And here I
thought she'd have a fit when she saw the mess in here. Looks like I
was wrong about everything. Except the bed. Seems Charles and </i>The
Lady <i>are finding it just as comfy as I did. I just hope
she pays Charles this time. I could really use some kibble.</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
(A loud, satisfied
groan is heard.)</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>Maybe she will! </i>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>Maybe she already has. Sigh.</i></div>Yemallahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07409971024629343788noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5110319624849459498.post-2693356188307032872012-08-04T12:23:00.001-07:002012-08-04T12:46:09.559-07:00Where You Belong<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQZhZRobXwuVBmoOjoNGYFS3edku7S6J0B8ZLsFGFOm53g08a9Uc3k0W1ZJudRqlVhUL0U_iz0BIBK4O83GDr_kM5-HBs0Kgx-zcLWSPr7SWrts6mmEz2Oj9fLbC1pKogvTr8uhS9pkP_O/s1600/benton+chilmark-hay.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="140" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQZhZRobXwuVBmoOjoNGYFS3edku7S6J0B8ZLsFGFOm53g08a9Uc3k0W1ZJudRqlVhUL0U_iz0BIBK4O83GDr_kM5-HBs0Kgx-zcLWSPr7SWrts6mmEz2Oj9fLbC1pKogvTr8uhS9pkP_O/s200/benton+chilmark-hay.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo prompt from Magpie Tales</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Missed you in church yesterday,”
Pastor Tuttle said.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Had to get the hay off the ground.”
Isaac patted his faithful gray mare on the neck and then swung
himself up onto his wagon. Taking up the reins, he flipped them
gently onto the horse's back and rode away from the minister without
so much as a glance in his direction.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Sunday is the Lord's day,” Tuttle
called after him. “I'll expect to see you where you belong next
week.”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Back at his farm, Isaac unhitched the
mare and released her into the corral next to the barn. He unloaded
the supplies he had just purchased into the house and stowed the
wagon in the shed. It was a beautiful day. The kind of day when a
dip in the pond seemed like a good idea. Whistling to his dog, Isaac
and the shaggy, nameless mutt, set out across the fields in the
direction of the swimming hole that was nestled in a grove of poplar
trees at the north edge of his property. He'd been swimming there
since he was a kid and it remained one of the few indulgences that he
permitted himself as an adult.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Used to be that Tuttle would join Isaac.
Before he took to the pulpit as the town's self-appointed saviour,
Cole Tuttle was Isaac's best friend. They grew up together, playing
as children in the fields that surrounded their family farms.
Inseparable and dedicated, they supported each other through the
thick and thin of becoming men. Through first drinks, first loves
and first fights, Isaac and Cole were a team, learning the ropes and
catching each other when one of them stumbled or fell on the path of
life.
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When Reverend Archer died, Cole
announced – quite out of the blue – that he was going to replace
the old man. Isaac had been stunned. After all the years of Sunday
service antics they had dreamed up and acted out in defiance of
having to sit in those hard pews every week, Isaac had not expected
this twist in their relationship. Over night, it seemed, Cole had
changed from a fun-loving friend into a zealot of biblical
proportions. Gone, instantly, were the wild nights in the saloon, the
high-stepping evenings at the community barn dances, the passionate
and clumsy attempts to woo the local girls, the fishing escapes and
the camp-outs out on Marble Ridge. Gone, it seemed, was youth
itself.
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">At first, Isaac had thought it was a
lark, that Cole was just making fun of the town and that he was
planning some spectacular coup. He actually looked forward to Cole's
first sermon, thinking – believing – that it would go down in
history as one of the most shockingly hilarious events that ever took
place under the church roof. He donned his Sunday best and
positioned himself in the second pew next to the aisle where he could
get a good view without looking like an accomplice. His beliefs were
quickly dashed, however, when Cole stood up and, in a thunderous
voice, accused every town member of being a wicked sinner bound for
hell.
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">About half way through this terrifying
oration, Isaac stood up and walked out of the church. When he
reached the nave, Cole paused in his address and pointed an
accusatory finger at his life-long friend. “And you, Isaac Porter,
are the worst of the lot!”
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">If anyone else had been planning on
leaving, they didn't dare move after that!</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Isaac closed the door behind himself
and walked away from the one person in the world he had loved the
most.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The years passed and Isaac inherited
his family's farm. He married Sue-Ann Nivens, who died a year later
giving birth to a son. The boy died as well and Isaac lost all hope
of ever finding happiness again. He simply ran his farm to the best
of his ability and kept to himself. Tuttle had forced the saloon to
close and had banned all dances anyway. Socializing of any kind was
prohibited unless it was a church function. Tuttle would go out of
his way to humiliate anyone who didn't follow his strict
interpretation of how God expected them to behave. A bitter core of
hatred and resentment formed in the hearts of the town folk. But
none were brave enough to speak up or take action against Cole
Tuttle.
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">That afternoon Isaac found the pond
just as he expected to: deserted. Tuttle had declared swimming yet
another sin. <i>If boys had time to swim, they had time to help their
fathers in the fields. </i> He stripped off his clothes and waded in to
his thighs before diving in. While the dog chased squirrels, Isaac
luxuriated in the cleansing and refreshing water. He swam a few laps
and then turned onto his back to float on the smooth surface, dappled
with spots of golden sunlight beaming down through the trees. He
reflected, as he often did, on his joyous youth and lamented the loss
of his friend, his wife and his son. The bitterness he felt over the
way things had turned out felt like a lead weight in his belly. He
could feel it pulling him under, dragging him down and he suddenly
felt like surrendering to it.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">If I just let go, the thought, I won't
ever have to look at Tuttle again. I won't ever have to hear his
condemning voice or see the fear on the faces of the people in town.
I won't ever have to think about Sue-Ann or our boy. I won't hurt
anymore.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">He watched as the water closed around
his face and the dappled sunlight shimmered above him. He let
himself sink down, down, down... his lungs burning, his mind
screaming for air.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Just as he was about to suck in a chest
full of water, something grabbed his arm and he felt himself being
hurled back up toward the surface of the pond. Without ceremony,
Isaac found himself being flung onto the shore. He rolled over,
coughing up water and gasping for breath. Looking around for whoever
had pulled him out of the pond, all Isaac could see was his dog
looking back at him with his head cocked sideways in surprise and
confusion.
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Who's there?” he hacked. But no
one answered.
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Shaken and a little fearful, Isaac
redressed and went home. He kept looking for signs of someone
nearby, someone who must have pulled him out of the pond, but he saw
no one. I need a good, stiff drink, he thought and looked forward to
the contraband whiskey he kept hidden at the house.
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Night fell slowly, as it does in the
summer months. Equally slowly, the whiskey burned away the cold fear
that had gripped Isaac's heart that afternoon. By the time darkness
had ended the day, he had convinced himself that it must have all
been a dream. And now, with a whole day wasted, he took himself to
bed with the drunken promise to make up for it the next day.
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And so he did. The week, hot and
teeming with mosquitoes, was more productive than usual.
Isaac put up the rest of the hay, mended the fence in the north
pasture, harvested the first potatoes of the season and got a good
start on his winter wood supply. But something kept drawing him back
to the pond and every evening he would wonder over to it and sit on
the huge rock that jutted in from the shore line. His ruminations
were as deep as his resentments. He kept thinking about Tuttle and
the fear-mongering hold he had on the town. Whatever had happened in
this pond that afternoon, Isaac was convinced that it had happened
for a reason. There was a purpose behind his salvation from drowning
and whoever – or whatever – had stopped him from dying was trying
to tell him something. If only he could figure out what it was...</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">On Saturday night, just as the last of
the light was fading, something in the pond caught Isaac's eye. It glittered for a second, then disappeared.
Isaac peered into the water, but he couldn't see it. He laid down on
his stomach on the rock, getting his face as close to the surface as
he could. There is was again. A quick glint of gold.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Isaac reached down into the pond and
felt around the sandy bottom. It took a minute, but finally his big
hand closed around an object that he hadn't seen in many years. He
pulled it out and held it up, marveling at the sight of it. It was
the gold chain and cross that he had given to Sue-Ann on their
wedding day. She had lost it only a few months later while they were
swimming one hot July evening, much like this one. She had cried
inconsolably over the loss. Not even his promise to buy her a new
one would comfort her. He had tried so hard to find it, returning to
the pond every chance he got that summer to look for it, but
eventually he had given up. After she died, he had forgotten about
it completely.
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Walking back to the house, Isaac's
thoughts turned to Sue-Ann. How she loved to dance and sing. Her
voice was the sweetest he'd ever heard and her laughter... Oh, how
she loved to laugh!
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">He thought about all the fun they had
had in their short time together. He thought about all the fun he'd
had before that. Life had been a continuous celebration of
everything good: friendship, love, hope!</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Instead of going home, Isaac found
himself on the road to town. Few lights glowed in the windows of the
homes that lined the streets. Most of the people were already in bed
– resting up for church in the morning. That didn't stop Isaac
from banging on the first door he came to at the home of Joshua
Slater and his family. Groggy and concerned, Joshua opened the door
and stared at Isaac.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Bring your fiddle to church
tomorrow,” Isaac instructed. When Joshua opened his mouth to
protest, Isaac hushed him. “Just do it!”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">From there, Isaac went door to door,
giving instructions at each home to bring some food or an instrument
or some decorations to church. The people were stunned, but none of
them openly objected. They were confused, yet intrigued. What on
earth was Isaac up to?
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The next day, Isaac got up early to
feed the stock and get ready for church. He put on his best suit and
hat, then hitched up the mare to the wagon and trotted her into town.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Tuttle was standing on the church steps
greeting people as they arrived. He seemed a little out
of sorts, seeing the smiles and hearing the good-natured well-wishes
from this congregation. When he saw Isaac pull up and tether his
horse among the other wagons, his eyebrows shot up in mild shock and
the vain belief that he had finally won. He smuggly waited for Isaac
to approach.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Well, it's about time you showed up
here, Porter,” he said, offering his hand in a gesture of feigned
welcome.
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Isaac looked at the offered hand, but
brushed passed it without acknowledgment and went inside to find a
seat. The church was full to capacity, but Joshua Slater made room
for him with his family.
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“What are you up to, Isaac?” Joshua
whispered.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Isaac just smiled. “Did you bring
it?” he whispered back.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“It's in the wagon. I wouldn't dare
bring it in here. Tuttle would probably smash it to smithereens.”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“As long as it's easy to get at.
When you get my signal, lead everyone out into the church yard and
get that fiddle.”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“What signal?”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Oh, you'll know.”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The service began with Tuttle's usual
admonition to the congregation to dig deep into their pockets and
give until it hurts. <i>God's work isn't cheap and if he's blessed you,
you better bless him back.</i> A typical fire and brimstone sermon
followed the order to pony up in the name of the Lord – <i>lest ye be
condemned to the fires of hell!</i> It was almost more than Isaac could
stand. He gritted his teeth so hard, they ached.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">At last, Tuttle called for prayer
requests. A few people stood up and asked their fellow worshipers to
pray for ailng relatives, children and cattle. They were all brief
and mumbled pleas for divine assistance under the disapproving gaze
of their pastor.
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Once again,” Tuttle sneered after the
last request was muttered, “you all seem to miss the point. Why do
you insist on asking for things for yourselves? Why can't you see
that the Lord works in mysterious ways and He decides what He gives
and what He takes?”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Isaac had had enough. “I have a
request,” he said, standing up and stepping into the aisle.
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Indeed!” Tuttle said. “A
request for forgiveness, I should hope.”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Something like that,” Isaac said
and started walking toward the pulpit.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A collective gasp rose from the
congregation.
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Please stay in your seat, Isaac. We
can hear you from there.” Tuttle was clearly unsure of Isaac's
intentions. And quite discomfited by his approach.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“I'm sure you can,” Isaac said,
“but then these good people would miss this...”
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Isaac drew his arm back and punched
Tuttle squarely in the nose!</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Another gasp preceded an enormous cheer
from the crowd. “Follow me!” Joshua Slater shouted over the din
and then led the people outside where they gathered their
instruments, passed around food and hung flowers and ribbons from
every available surface. Music and laughter filled the air, while
Tuttle rolled on the floor in agony.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“My nose!” he wheezed. “You
broke my fucking nose!”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Oh, you'll live. You've survived
worse.” Isaac looked down at the writhing pastor. “Remember how
you told me you expected me to be where I belonged today?”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Tuttle glared at Isaac.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Well, that's where I'm going right
now.” He pointed outside toward the church yard full of revelers.
“If you care to join us, I'll make sure no one else punches you in
the face.”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">With that, Isaac left the church and
joined the party that lasted well into the night. He danced with
several pretty girls. He even sang a couple of songs for the crowd.
And he laughed. Oh, how he laughed.
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As for Tuttle... Well, he actually saw
the light – so to speak. He intended to scuttle away unseen, but
Joshua Slater's wife, Mabel saw him and helped him clean up some of
the blood from his broken nose. She gave him a huge piece of fried
chicken and a chunk of cherry pie and a hug. His shame was deep, no
doubt about it, but he accepted the forgiveness the town so willingly
gave him.
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Eventually, the saloon was reopened and
the community barn dances started up again. Tuttle was offered a
position as bartender, but declined in favour of working for Isaac on
the farm where they renewed their friendship and swam in the pond on
hot summer days.
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A new pastor was found for the church.
His name was Jacob Joyce and he played a pretty mean fiddle himself!</span></div>Yemallahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07409971024629343788noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5110319624849459498.post-21404506272775259072010-06-26T09:29:00.001-07:002010-06-26T09:35:10.702-07:00With Hairy Legs and Un-brushed Teeth<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKjRExExu-UXdUYF40S_vUhtavtXuNfw1libq_9blL21hYEaky8qkqx5zF66oUS2enUwjR4n9YntVRYVynp8198bTJgKiaH4G4AQ_9ydyT9_xkdMQMJGYc9GdrmWaUmQPFJfxMi_mqnaxi/s1600/toothbrush.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 150px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5487120557943823218" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKjRExExu-UXdUYF40S_vUhtavtXuNfw1libq_9blL21hYEaky8qkqx5zF66oUS2enUwjR4n9YntVRYVynp8198bTJgKiaH4G4AQ_9ydyT9_xkdMQMJGYc9GdrmWaUmQPFJfxMi_mqnaxi/s200/toothbrush.jpg" /></a><br /><div><span style="font-family:arial;">Pete and Natalie, a young, childless couple, have just gotten up on a Saturday morning. Pete is looking for his tooth brush to complete his daily ablutions. Natalie has just stepped out of the shower. As they jostle for position at the vanity, this is their conversation:<br />“I don’t know what to tell you, Pete. I haven’t seen your toothbrush.”<br />“Are you sure?”<br />“Only fools are sure, Pete.”<br />“So you have seen it.”<br />“No! I have not. “<br />“Then what was that about fools?”<br />“It was a quip.”<br />“A what?”<br />“Never mind. Look, just use my tooth brush for now and I’ll pick up some new ones when I go to town later.”<br />“I’m not using your tooth brush, Natalie. That’s gross.”<br />“It isn’t any grosser than you sticking your tongue in my mouth when we kiss.”<br />“That’s different.”<br />“How?”<br />“I don’t scrape plaque off your teeth with my tongue.”<br />“Ah.”<br />“What does that mean?”<br />“I believe it means I see.”<br />“I know it means I see, Natalie. What I meant was what do you see?”<br />“I see your point.”<br />“And I believe that it means I won the argument.”<br />“We weren’t arguing.”<br />“Yea, but I was right.”<br />“Yep, Hon, you were right.”<br />“I can’t believe you’re conceding so easily.”<br />“There’s nothing to concede. I’m just agreeing with you.”<br />“I won. I won. I won.”<br />“Don’t be so puerile.”<br />“Speak English.”<br />“Have you seen my razor?”<br />“No. Use mine.”<br />“Yours is dull.”<br />“It better not be.”<br />“Well, it is. I used it yesterday.”<br />“You used my razor?”<br />“Is that a problem?”<br />“Tell me you didn’t shave your pits with it.”<br />“Just my legs.”<br />“Good, ‘cause I don’t want you shaving your pits with my razor.”<br />“It’s not like I’m scraping plaque off my teeth with it.”<br />“I should hope not.”<br />“Okay, where’s your razor?”<br />“In my shaving kit.”<br />“No, it’s not.”<br />“That’s where it’s supposed to be.”<br />“Well, it isn’t in there. Your toothbrush, however, is.”<br />“What’s my tooth brush doing in my shaving kit?”<br />“How should I know? You put it there.”<br />“I did not.”<br />“Well, who did?’<br />“That should be obvious.”<br />“I didn’t put your tooth brush in your shaving kit. Why would I do that?”<br />“I don’t know. Maybe you’re puerile, too.”<br />“Oh, brother!”<br />“Nat?”<br />“Yes?”<br />“Let’s go back to bed.”<br />“With hairy legs and un-brushed teeth?”<br />“Sure.”<br />“Okay.”</span> </div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5110319624849459498.post-345544637165073692010-06-18T19:10:00.000-07:002010-06-18T19:13:15.575-07:00A Subtle Knife<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK9PGUMbdWwvUBllqhH-WIUtoSOuIinrcD61zgkjZRqnj5MnFVLVf0CgL8v4hUU08cZ15pUx0877Sj4qiViBpuRtjMQEF6mC7VKxncbP26Rdyn7YqFAMQduwpPtFkX0s3hUNN65HvhUbDI/s1600/opinel+knife.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 147px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5484302052594868850" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK9PGUMbdWwvUBllqhH-WIUtoSOuIinrcD61zgkjZRqnj5MnFVLVf0CgL8v4hUU08cZ15pUx0877Sj4qiViBpuRtjMQEF6mC7VKxncbP26Rdyn7YqFAMQduwpPtFkX0s3hUNN65HvhUbDI/s200/opinel+knife.jpg" /></a><br /><div><span style="font-family:arial;">It’s not like he had never seen a dead body before. He’d seen lots of them. But they were always laid out in fancy coffins, wearing their Sunday best and made up to look like they were sleeping. At least that’s what everybody always said, “Looks like he’s just gone for a nap, doesn’t it, Vinny?” Looked more like they dropped dead on a stage somewhere with all that makeup troweled on their faces. But Vince always nodded solemnly, the way he was supposed to, and then went in search of the cookie table. There was always a cookie table at a proper funeral. </span></div><span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><div><br />This body, though, was not in a coffin, not wearing its Sunday best and definitely not made up to look like it was sleeping. This body was sprawled behind a dumpster with a look of shock on its face and blood all over its shirt. It stared blankly up at the sky with its mouth open and a knife sticking out of its neck. Before it was an it, while it was still a he, it must have made a feeble attempt to remove the offending knife, for its hand lay with curled fingers underneath the blood-soaked handle. </div><br /><div><br />Vince staggered back and groped for his cell phone. He had spotted the body’s legs sticking out from behind the dumpster when he went into the alley to throw out a bag of garbage from Martinelli’s, his current place of employment. It took three attempts at dialing before a nasal voice informed him that he had reached 911 and asked how he could be helped. Before he could say he would like to report a murder, his lunch decided to vacate his stomach and he hurled the Martinelli’s special all over the body’s feet. The nasal voice waited for him to finish and repeated the offer of assistance.</div><br /><div><br />Wiping his chin with his sleeve, Vince stammered, “There’s a dead body in the alley behind Martinelli’s. I think it was murdered.”</div><br /><div><br />“Please stay on the line, sir,” the nasal voice directed calm as a cucumber. </div><br /><div><br />An eternity passed. Then the nasal voice began asking rapid fire questions, most of which Vince answered correctly. The body was that of a male. No he didn’t feel for a pulse. Yes, he was sure the guy was dead. No, he didn’t know the victim. No, he didn’t think he’d seen him before. No, he didn’t see anybody else in the alley. He was there to throw out some garbage from the restaurant. He just arrived. No, he didn’t touch anything – he wasn’t sure if vomiting on the body counted, so he left that part out. </div><br /><div><br />The sound of sirens filled the air and suddenly Vince found himself surrounded by cop cars and cops. The nasal voice wished him a good day and disconnected.</div><br /><div><br />“You the guy that called it in?”</div><br /><div><br />Vince spun around to face a large man with a grey crew cut, grey eyes, grey suit and brown shoes standing in the alley. Several uniformed officers were bustling about, erecting barriers to the alley and stringing crime-scene tape like streamers at a wedding. A short man in khaki pants and a blue polo shirt started snapping photos of everything but the body, including Vince. </div><br /><div><br />“Yes,” Vince said.</div><br /><div><br />“You know the guy?” the large man asked.</div><br /><div><br />“No,” Vince said.</div><br /><div><br />A balding man in a white lab coat, carrying an enormous metal case, sauntered up from behind the large man and passed Vince on his way to the body. The photographer greeted him with a smile and a click of the shutter. “Emergency tracheotomy gone real bad,” he said. The bald man was not amused. He muttered something that rhymed with duck and doff and proceeded to shout orders to the uniforms to move the damned dumpster so he could get to work. </div><br /><div><br />The large man motioned Vince to follow him. His grey eyes never rested on anything for more than a second, but Vince had no doubt that he had been thoroughly examined and every detail had been neatly filed away in some memory bank for later total recall. He followed the man away from the body and the cursing bald man, who was now demanding to know who had wasted a perfectly good lunch special all over his crime scene. Vince blushed, but did not confess. He decided he felt safer with the large man in the mix-matched wardrobe.</div><br /><div><br />“Name,” the large man grunted.</div><br /><div><br />“Vince Hemmingway,” Vince grunted back.</div><br /><div><br />“Tell me everything,” the large man said.</div><br /><div><br />Vince described in as much detail as he could how he had come out to the alley to throw a bag of garbage away, how he noticed the legs sticking out from behind the dumpster, how he thought it might have been a homeless guy passed out and was going to tell him to move along and how he was shocked to see that it wasn’t a homeless guy and how he wasn’t going to move along anywhere of his own accord. He told the large man that the body had not been there two hours ago. He would have noticed it on his way in to work. He always entered the restaurant from the alley. Martinelli didn’t like his employees using the customer’s entrance. He didn’t mention the lunch special’s reappearance.</div><br /><div><br />Speaking of Martinelli, it was at that point that he emerged on the scene, ripping mad and screaming at Vince to get his ass back inside and quit doing terrible things to dogs. What was he paying Vince for anyway? Obviously it wasn’t doing dishes!</div><br /><div><br />The large man approached the irate restaurant owner and, steering him back toward the door, spoke a few quiet words to him. When the large man returned, he assured Vince that Martinelli was okay with Vince taking as much time as he needed. No problem.</div><br /><div><br />“Now what time did you get to work?” The large man asked.</div><br /><div><br />“Ten o’clock.”</div><br /><div><br />“And you came in the alley from which way?”</div><br /><div><br />Vince pointed east toward 33 Avenue. “That way.” </div><br /><div><br />“Is that the way you always come?” </div><br /><div><br />Vince nodded. “I live on Denver. It’s the shortest route.” </div><br /><div><br />“Of course. And did you see anyone? Anyone at all?”</div><br /><div><br />“No, sir,” Vince said. “The alley was empty.”</div><br /><div><br />“You’re sure, now?” </div><br /><div><br />“Yes, sir. There was no one here. I got here at ten o’clock like I said and the alley was deserted.” </div><br /><div><br />“Very good, Vince. I think that will do for now. We’ll be in touch if we need anything else.” He large man patted Vince on the shoulder, turned and walked out of the alley.<br /></div><br /><div>Vince watched him go. That’s odd, he thought.<br /></div><br /><div>Just as he was about to enter Martinelli’s Restaurant and get back to work, he was stopped by a stocky man in a battered fedora and a tall woman of Amazonian proportions wearing a stark and ill-fitting business suit. They, too, both wore brown shoes.<br /></div><br /><div>“I’m Detective O’Donnell,” the man said, “and this is Detective Warshanski. Are you the young man who called this in?”<br /></div><br /><div>Needless to say, Vince quit his job, moved out of his apartment on Denver and failed conveniently to leave a forwarding address.</span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5110319624849459498.post-52761593109612425782010-06-11T15:58:00.000-07:002010-06-11T16:03:58.665-07:00A Crossword Routine<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig86nKhbf9e35L10KmLOhX7GvpKYLr_s5h-ANFxXJwkSpryMAJ1d3kyAqlH-nbQ2OluiQOnKzQIOPWTCV0gjxGz1p72pbCKGYIXxHatvQgVVuGvNsG-zK4StjnooQnBcjU4GdgvzO1p9-V/s1600/king+george+pencils.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig86nKhbf9e35L10KmLOhX7GvpKYLr_s5h-ANFxXJwkSpryMAJ1d3kyAqlH-nbQ2OluiQOnKzQIOPWTCV0gjxGz1p72pbCKGYIXxHatvQgVVuGvNsG-zK4StjnooQnBcjU4GdgvzO1p9-V/s200/king+george+pencils.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481655590786834306" /></a>
<br /><span style="font-family:arial;">“What are you looking for?” Duncan snapped from behind his morning paper. </span>
<br /><span style="font-family:arial;">
<br />“I need a pencil.” Hillary said as she rummaged through drawers and shifted papers around the phone on the kitchen counter.
<br />
<br />“There’s a pen right beside the phone,” Duncan pointed out.
<br />
<br />“I need a pencil. I’m doing the crossword in the paper and a pen won’t do.” Hillary continued to rummage.
<br />
<br />“It would if you had any idea what the clues meant,” Duncan mumbled behind his paper.
<br />
<br />“What did you say?” Hillary asked absentmindedly as she opened the silverware drawer for some unknown reason. “Aha! Found one.”
<br />
<br />Duncan peeked out from behind his newspaper and frowned. Only Hillary could find a pencil among the spoons, he thought to himself. “Before you lose yourself in your puzzle, would you mind pouring me another cup of coffee?”
<br />
<br />Hillary didn’t respond. She already had the paper in her hand folded to expose the blank crossword puzzle and was tapping the bent eraser band against her teeth. She put the pencil in her mouth as she poured Duncan’s coffee. “Utt’s a or-le’er urd or ha’y?” she said around the battered writing utensil.
<br />
<br />Duncan sighed. He hated it when Hillary did the Sunday crossword. More accurately, he hated having to do it for her. “I can’t understand you with that thing in your mouth,” he admonished.
<br />
<br />Hillary returned the coffee pot to its stand and removed the pencil. “I only have two hands,” she defended herself.
<br />
<br />“Well I have no idea what you just said, so I can’t very well respond properly to you,” Duncan said.
<br />
<br />“What’s a four-letter word for happy?” Hillary repeated her question.
<br />
<br />“Glad.”
<br />
<br />“Thank you.”
<br />
<br />“You’re welcome.”
<br />
<br />“As are you.”
<br />
<br />“For what?”
<br />
<br />“For the coffee.”
<br />
<br />“Oh, er, yes. Thank you, my dear.” Duncan raised his newspaper hoping it would be a strong enough barrier between him and Hillary and her crossword puzzle.
<br />
<br />Several minutes passed in silence. Duncan could hear Hillary’s pencil scratching against the newsprint. He tried to concentrate on the golf scores in the sports section, but kept bracing himself for Hillary’s next request for assistance. He read the same score over and over, unable to concentrate.
<br />
<br />After a while he peeked out again to find Hillary hunched over the crossword, tongue sticking out of the corner of her mouth and brows furrowed in deep absorption. Must be an extra, extra easy crossword this week, he thought, and, relieved to see his wife of thirty-six years finally able to do a simple puzzle on her own, returned to his sports scores. But as the time passed on without Hillary asking for help, Duncan grew increasingly irritated. He folded his own paper and plunked it down on the table.
<br />
<br />“So, how’s it going?” he asked.
<br />
<br />“Hmmm?” Hillary did not look up from her furious scribbling.
<br />
<br />“The puzzle. How’s it going?”
<br />
<br />“Oh, almost done,” Hillary said with such confidence that Duncan was stunned.
<br />
<br />“Really?” he asked.
<br />
<br />“Yep. Just need one more word.”
<br />
<br />Duncan leaned forward in his chair, waiting for Hillary to tell him the clue, but she just tapped the eraser band of the pencil against her teeth a few times until at last the answer presented itself and she wrote it down.
<br />
<br />“There,” Hillary said with satisfaction. “I love the Sunday crossword.” With that she pushed the paper aside, got up and left the room.
<br />
<br />Duncan couldn’t help himself. He reached across the table and pulled the abandoned paper towards himself. Amazingly the crossword was indeed complete. There were a few eraser marks, but it was done. And it was right.
<br />
<br />“By golly,” Duncan said aloud. “I think the old girl’s finally getting it.” He smiled and pushed the paper back to the spot where Hillary had left it. When he finished his now cool coffee, he decided to go out to the garage to putter for a while.
<br />
<br />The following Sunday, Duncan and Hillary sat as usual at their kitchen table. As Duncan settled into the sports scores, Hillary started searching for a pencil. A few minutes passed before her rummaging annoyed him enough to ask what she was looking for.
<br />
<br />“A pencil for the crossword puzzle.”
<br />
<br />“There’s a pen right next to the phone. Use that.”
<br />
<br />“I can’t do the crossword with a pen. You know that.” This time she opened the cereal cupboard.
<br />
<br />“Aha!”
<br />
<br />“Did you just find a pencil in the cereal cupboard?” Duncan asked, incredulous.
<br />
<br />“Yeah. Weird, huh?” Hillary returned to the table and read the first clue. “What’s a three-letter word for mischievous child?”
<br />
<br />Duncan sighed. “Imp.” He shook his head.
<br />
<br />Just like the previous week, Hillary filled in answers without asking for help and Duncan read the same scores over and over, waiting to be interrupted. Whenever he peeked around his paper, Hillary was either writing or tapping her teeth while she reasoned out an answer. After fifteen minutes, Duncan couldn’t stand it any more. He put down his paper and was just about to ask Hillary how she was making out with the puzzle when the phone rang. Hillary jumped up to answer it and was instantly lost in a deep conversation with the neighbour over another neighbour’s dog.
<br />
<br />Duncan reached across the table and pulled the crossword closer so he could check her answers. The puzzle was a little more than half done and two of her answers were incorrect, leaving a couple of blank spots where her mistakes made the next answer impossible. Duncan retrieved the pencil, erased the errors and inserted the right answers. He didn’t mean to keep working on the puzzle, but before he knew it, all the answers had been filled in. Except 108 across. And Duncan had no idea what the answer was.
<br />
<br />He was tapping the eraser band against his teeth when Hillary swept back into the room. “You didn’t finish my puzzle did you?” she asked, a little alarmed.
<br />
<br />“Uh, well... Not quite.” Duncan put the pencil down and picked up the sports section again as Hillary approached the table.
<br />
<br />“Duncan! How could you?”
<br />
<br />“I didn’t do it all! I didn’t get one-oh-eight across; a six-letter word for a monarch who’s coronation took place in 1937.”
<br />
<br />Hillary sighed. “George,” she said.
<br />
<br />“Hmph,” Duncan said, training his eyes on the golf scores. “Before you sit down, could you please pour me another cup of coffee?”</span>
<br /></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5110319624849459498.post-75165810236293454642010-06-03T20:45:00.000-07:002010-06-03T20:52:54.054-07:00An Effigy of Taste<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ6lUX5xO1BBwU3yQlXq2AKycqvjHiXQSwvYq_0sKI3Px5HHW3AAgjgZMkMdb7EGTG7GKjEynhsRO8p9B87mfEVKHNMxEBAC6RR6vFI8flF39EItkuPxkExl0izhsl92wUeyWJv4uOS5ZC/s1600/magpie+bust.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 150px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 200px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5478760291121098722" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ6lUX5xO1BBwU3yQlXq2AKycqvjHiXQSwvYq_0sKI3Px5HHW3AAgjgZMkMdb7EGTG7GKjEynhsRO8p9B87mfEVKHNMxEBAC6RR6vFI8flF39EItkuPxkExl0izhsl92wUeyWJv4uOS5ZC/s200/magpie+bust.jpg" /></a><br /><div><span style="font-family:verdana;">“So, show me what you got for your birthday,” Joyce demanded as she swept into my kitchen in a flurry of pink cashmere and silver spandex. Her newly dyed and viciously back-combed do was as stiff as her freshly botoxed smile. She wore more make-up than I bought in a year and her stiletto heels were leaving little dimples in my linoleum. “Well, come on. I’m dying to see this precious antique Sam’s been going on about.” </span></div><span style="font-family:verdana;"><br /><div><br />I beckoned her to follow me through to the front hallway. As we entered the foyer, I stepped aside and gestured with a flourish at a raised plinth next to the door. Joyce gasped. </div><br /><div><br />“What the hell is that?” she wheezed through lips so augmented they could be used as floatation devices. </div><br /><div><br />“That,” I said, “is the precious antique.” </div><br /><div><br />Joyce, frowned as much as her botulinum brows would allow. “It looks like the head from an ancient Greek version of a blow-up doll. What are you thinking displaying it here where everyone can see it?”<br /></div><br /><div>Her perma-pout looked like it was about to burst. I had to get her away from the granite bust that my beloved husband, Sam, had bought at an auction for three thousand dollars. I wasn’t sure I could stand nursing her through another recovery if her face cracked. And if her jaw dropped any further, it certainly would.<br />I grabbed her arm and dragged her back to the kitchen. “I tried to convince him it would look good out back on the far side of the pond, but he insisted that it had to go where – as you say – <em>everyone</em> can see it.” I poured us each a cup of coffee and served Joyce’s with a straw. </div><br /><div><br />“Danielle, honey,” Joyce said in deep sympathy, “what <em>are</em> you going to do?”</div><br /><div><br />Joyce was my best friend and had been since grade school. She had married money. Lots of money. Three times. And her taste was both expensive and flamboyant. Sam was, sadly, jealous of her and did things – like buy hideous antique busts at auctions – in a vain attempt to keep up with the Jones’s. Or the Joyce’s as the case may be. </div><br /><div><br />“This is all your fault,” I said. </div><br /><div><br />“My fault? How is this my fault?” Joyce was incredulous. </div><div> </div><div>The one thing that Sam failed to realize was that Joyce’s grandiosity had nothing to do with hubris. She simply had tons of money and loved to spend it. Her only concession to pride was the myriad plastic surgeries she had undergone in order to achieve her goal of becoming Sophia Loren’s doppelganger. </div><br /><div><br />“He’s jealous of your money. And he thinks I am too, so he buys this stuff to impress you. To make you think that he’s as rich as you are.”<br /></div><br /><div>Joyce laughed. I could tell because a distinct ha-ha-ha sound emanated from between her the thickened appendages (they could only be called appendages) of her lips. “That’s ridiculous.” </div><br /><div><br />“But it’s true.” I sipped my coffee the normal adult way.<br /></div><br /><div>“But that thing out there is... is... God, Danielle! What <em>are</em> you going to do?”</div><br /><div><br />“I’m going to give it to you.” I smiled, because I still could. </div><br /><div><br />Joyce nearly choked on her coffee. “Jeeze, Danielle. Couldn’t you just accidentally knock it off the pedestal and be done with it. What am I supposed to do with it?”</div><br /><div><br />“You are going to donate it to charity.” </div><br /><div><br />“I am?”</div><br /><div><br />“Absolutely.”</div><br /><div><br />“Why would I do that? When I donate to charities I tend to give nice things. Like cash.” Joyce sipped a bit of the hair of the dog to clear her throat of the lingering tickle from her recent brush with death.</div><br /><div><br />“I know. But Sam thinks that bust is beautiful. And valuable. If I tell him that you all but did back flip when you saw it, he’ll think that he was right about it and giving it to charity would put him in the same league as you as a philanthropist. He’ll be thrilled. And <em>everyone</em> won’t have to see it in my foyer.”</div><br /><div><br />Joyce’s eyebrows moved the entire fraction of an inch that they were able. I sensed more than saw the look of surprise she endeavoured to project. “But, Danielle, wouldn’t it be kinder to just tell him the truth? Wouldn’t this plan of yours just cater to his fantasy?”<br /></div><br /><div>“Mmm. I suppose, but I just can’t break his heart like that. He really does mean well.” I tried to look contrite, but my lips just couldn’t pout with the same enthusiasm as my friend’s. </div><br /><div><br />“You’ve given this a lot of thought,” Joyce said. I could see the wheels spinning behind her wrinkle-free features.<br /></div><br /><div>“I have,” I agreed. “And it’s the best solution. It really is.” </div><br /><div><br />“Well....” </div><br /><div><br />I waited. </div><br /><div><br />“Okay. But I’m doing this under protest. I don’t like manipulating Sam that way. It’s not right.”</div><br /><div><br />Sam bought the story, hook, line and sinker. He was so excited about the idea of donating something valuable to charity that Joyce approved of that he could hardly contain himself. He insisted that he be the one to make the donation and even delivered the bust to the hall where the auction was to take place.</div><br /><div><br />“They were ecstatic when I gave it to them.” Sam was vibrating as he spoke. “They even said that Joyce herself had only donated a thousand dollars. After the auction, they’ll send me a tax receipt for the amount it sells for. Isn’t it great to be able to give such a valuable item to charity?”</div><br /><div><br />“It truly is,” I concurred. </div><br /><div><br />Two weeks after the charity auction, a letter arrived addressed to Sam. He tore it open and looked at the enclosed receipt. He mouth dropped open and he staggered, having to support himself with a hand on the counter. </div><br /><div><br />“What is it?” I asked.</div><br /><div><br />Sam passed me the receipt and I took it with some trepidation. Then my own mouth dropped open and I had to brace myself against the counter to keep my own knees from buckling.</div><br /><div><br />The receipt was made out for one hundred thousand dollars.</span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com27tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5110319624849459498.post-46230622123118630912010-05-28T15:00:00.000-07:002010-05-28T15:03:24.015-07:00A matter of perspective<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAXru1r62CCLdO8339bo7kGI_MAuARK6cg-b4t11R6rmh2QuwftibvJM1O_qrF4Jm_a3pZ_ik1tUxpunfmV1l_qZeEdCrfIYeH5O226v1udsx26eJksIY1Z0wJlSdS2ntKnWxU-PxedoDl/s1600/magpie+shoes.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5476444859930820050" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAXru1r62CCLdO8339bo7kGI_MAuARK6cg-b4t11R6rmh2QuwftibvJM1O_qrF4Jm_a3pZ_ik1tUxpunfmV1l_qZeEdCrfIYeH5O226v1udsx26eJksIY1Z0wJlSdS2ntKnWxU-PxedoDl/s200/magpie+shoes.jpg" border="0" /></a>
<br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Sarah limped into the house and hobbled to her bedroom. She could not believe how much pain she was in. Her feet were, she thought, literally killing her and she couldn’t get the source of the torment off fast enough. One after the other two suede sling-backs were flung into the far reaches of Sarah’s closet, hopefully, to be forgotten forever. This whole bra, make-up, hair and high-heels things was not all it was cracked up to be. </span>
<br /><span style="font-family:arial;">
<br />Sarah often wondered why she had been so eager for any of it. It was all just a great big pain in the...
<br />
<br />“Sarah, don’t forget to hang up your dress. I don’t want to find it in a heap on your floor in the morning.” Sarah’s mother called out from down the hall.
<br />
<br />She retrieved the dress that had followed the shoes to the bottom of the closet and dutifully hung it up. That was another thing! Dresses! Particularly pink frilly ones with itchy crinoline, or whatever her mother had called the stupid stuff. And then there was the panty hose. What woman-hating person came up with those? Sarah balled the pair that she had been wearing and tossed them, runs and all, into the trash can next to her computer desk.
<br />
<br />She pulled on a comfy pair of jeans and a blissfully baggy t-shirt. She wanted to lose the bra too, but her mother would probably notice and embarrass the crap out of her in front of her dad or something. A walk passed the mirror on her wall stopped Sarah short. She touched the up-do she had been forced to suffer for two and a half hours at the hair dressers that morning to achieve and decided that if she never washed her hair again, she would also never have to wear a bike or hockey helmet again either. She wondered if simple shampoo and water was going to be enough to get all that gunk out. Oh, and the war paint, as her dad so aptly called it, had to go too. Next stop – bathroom.
<br />
<br />Fifteen minutes later, cheeks scrubbed clean and pink and hair freed from the super glue that had held it in place, Sarah sat down at her desk and booted up her computer. In seconds the screen lit up, she opened her browser and clicked on the link to Facebook in her favourites list.
<br />
<br />Hmmm... not many people on line, she noticed. Ah, well, some quality time in Farmville would take the edge off. Sarah found a stray kitten in the hay loft and posted it for adoption. She cleaned up and rearranged and added and rearranged...
<br />
<br />Suddenly, a chat box opened up. Sarah looked at it and her mouth dropped open. It was Jeff Cooper.
<br />
<br />Jeff "freakin’ gorgeous" Cooper was saying Hi to her on Facebook.
<br />
<br />Oh, my God! Oh, my God!
<br />
<br />And Amy wasn’t even on line to tell.
<br />
<br />With sweaty hands, Sarah typed a casual Hi back and held her breath. Several long, long seconds passed while Sarah stared at the chat box waiting for a reply. Finally, the little icon by Jeff’s name became animated, indicating that he was writing a reply.
<br />
<br />“How RU”
<br />
<br />“OK U”
<br />
<br />“OK”
<br />
<br />Now what? Sarah’s panic doubled as she tried to think of something to write. Then a new message popped up: “U looked nice 2day”
<br />
<br />Sarah froze. How did he know? When did he see her? She had been at her sister’s wedding all day, dressed in a gross pink bride’s maid’s dress and feet-killing high heels with her hair all done up and her face rouged and lip-sticked... How could he even have recognizer her?
<br />
<br />“Thx”
<br />
<br />“Wanna hang 2morrow?”
<br />
<br />Was she dreaming? Hang with Jeff Cooper?
<br />
<br />“Sure”
<br />
<br />“I’ll call U”
<br />
<br />Then he was gone.
<br />
<br />Farmville forgotten, Sarah dashed across her room to her closet and dove in head-first, looking for the feet-killing shoes. With a wince, she jammed her aching appendages into the unforgiving sling-backs and limped out of her room and back into the bathroom. An hour later she emerged with her hair swept up and held in place with a clip. Her eyes were lined and her lashes lengthened. Her smile was a glossy, pale pink.
<br />
<br />“Wow,” said her mother meeting her in the hall way. “I thought you couldn’t wait to get all that stuff off.”
<br />
<br />“I changed my mind,” Sarah said, stepping gingerly around her mom and returning to her room. First order of business was to call Amy. They had a lot to talk about!</span>
<br /></span>
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5110319624849459498.post-45256864895818252232010-05-21T12:44:00.000-07:002010-05-21T18:53:07.771-07:00A Fishy Little Tale<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi357FC8Bzfig327UbRyVftuY6zZw9HdgR3Q6Y4uhNWVXd5v3mvwjej9qYrSnuvOyP4paJWAAOkFgLEWoOx1fNCRAOHBfn8Xj2cztzN3kkoN6ZhS9s68o7AtSxGoyL9aJRNW1PEbEUaQvAn/s1600/wooden+fish.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5473812386425420946" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi357FC8Bzfig327UbRyVftuY6zZw9HdgR3Q6Y4uhNWVXd5v3mvwjej9qYrSnuvOyP4paJWAAOkFgLEWoOx1fNCRAOHBfn8Xj2cztzN3kkoN6ZhS9s68o7AtSxGoyL9aJRNW1PEbEUaQvAn/s200/wooden+fish.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">“Mom, what did you do with Charlie?” The question drifted into the kitchen from the far corners of the universe, namely the playroom in the basement.<br /><br />I paused from chopping the vegetables for supper to think about what I was being asked. While it seemed like a straight forward query, I had to consider the source. Tyler, who was the one who had asked the question, is my son. At the time he was four years old and had taken to naming all of his toys. The problem was that the names were often plucked out of thin air in the moment and could change from hour to hour. I didn’t even try to keep up anymore, having been chastised on several occasions for calling George Kevin and Martin Rudy and Thomas Sydney. But I took a leap of faith and, because it had featured prominently in Tyler’s play that day, assumed that Charlie was a teddy bear.<br /><br />“I haven’t seen him,” I called back. “Did you look in your bedroom?” Chop, chop, chop. I dropped the carrots into a pot.<br /><br />No further reply seemed to be forthcoming, so I continued chopping vegetables and preparing biscuits for the evening repast. While the biscuits baked and the veggies simmered in the soup pot, I settled down at the kitchen table to read my book. I could hear Tyler in the play room no doubt saving the world from some vicious monster and set my Mom antennae to monitor in the background. As long as he was neither too quiet nor too loud, I felt relatively safe leaving him and his imagination to conquer whatever villain they were, at present, busy vanquishing.<br /><br />The soup bubbled aromatically on the stove and the biscuits plumped to perfection in the oven while the characters in my book cleverly escaped some wild, page-turning peril and extracted a confession from the least-obvious suspect. I was just about to get up and stir the soup, when Tyler popped around the corner brandishing a sword made out of an old tennis racket.<br /><br />“You,” he said, pointing his makeshift weapon at me, “are under arrest!”<br /><br />I raised my hands in surrender and asked what the charges were.<br /><br />“You kidnapped Charlie!” Tyler accused. He stood with his feet apart and his free hand on his hip. His lips were pursed and his eyes squinted menacingly at me.<br /><br />“I’m innocent,” I said. “I haven’t seen Charlie since this morning.” Didn’t I pick up the teddy bear from the bathroom floor and put it back on Tyler’s bed right after breakfast?<br /><br />“I’m taking you to headquarters and you’re gonna tell me what you did with him.” He pointed in the general direction of the basement.<br /><br />Just then the timer rang to let me know that the biscuits were done. Tyler graciously gave me time to get them out of the oven before completing my arrest. I gave the soup a stir while I had the chance, and then I went peacefully to headquarters to face the charges before me.<br /><br />In the playroom, I was greeted by what appeared to be the aftermath of an explosion. Toys were strewn from one end of the room to the other. The only neat and tidy places were the empty toy box and shelves. I suppressed a sigh. It never ceased to amaze me how messy saving the world was.<br /><br />Tyler began his interrogation by offering me an animal cracker from a container he had obviously helped himself to at some point when I wasn’t paying enough attention. He did it unapologetically, oblivious to the look of consternation that I was giving him. Apparently, it was a ‘good cop’ day and I decided to get in the spirit of the game and not make a big deal out of the breach of rules. After all the stolen crackers came from another universe and I couldn’t be at all sure what effect bringing it up might have on the space/time continuum. I took the proffered treat and thanked my captor for his kindness.<br /><br />“So, where is he?” Tyler asked after chewing and swallowing a lion.<br /><br />“I swear I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t have him.”<br /><br />“I have a witness that says you do!” he said.<br /><br />“Who?” I asked.<br /><br />Tyler looked around the room and zoned in on a headless action figure a few feet away from where we sat amid the shambolic array of toys. He retrieved it and held it up in front of his own mouth. In a high-pitched voice he spoke for the witness, “She’s fibbing! I saw her put Charlie in her pocket.”<br /><br />Ah! A light was beginning to dawn. Tyler wasn’t looking for a missing teddy bear at all.<br /><br />I reached into my pants pocket and pulled out what I now knew Charlie to be; a small, carved, wooden fish from a set of eight that my father had made for Tyler for his birthday. I had found it under a sofa cushion that morning while cleaning and had stuck it in my pocket. I had intended to put it in Tyler’s room with the others, but had forgotten all about it. Tyler must have seen me pick it up and created this game. I handed him the toy fish, Charlie.<br /><br />“Thanks, Mom!” Tyler said, pulling a matching fish out of his own pocket and spinning off into another new world.<br /><br />“Oh, Charlie,” said the other fish in a squeaky voice, “I’m so glad you’re safe.”<br /><br />“Me too, Roger,” said Charlie in a deeper, more growly tone. “Now let’s get back to the ranch before Mr. Baddo attacks again.”<br /><br />Charlie, Roger and Tyler galloped off on wild ponies bent on thwarting Mr. Baddo’s evil plan.<br /><br />I looked at the toys littering the play room floor and thought very briefly about cleaning it up. Then I realized that I didn’t want to risk getting arrested again and left it all right where it was.</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5110319624849459498.post-90903483181154816552010-05-14T21:27:00.000-07:002010-05-15T09:08:22.704-07:00The Legend of Brendan Ward<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizntEXkyrPoNhvPvDqYhIa9wcS9GFeMUFbyMD6nIitzC6UGZpFcfphKpiC1KVDZYZXb5IUEsJYg0R30u6FTw9eVxWvlkAs8OuTikJeu2MS7MyD2YSW7ubyK_DaOAANzsBr6Va-NSdy5T_F/s1600/blue+plate.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 189px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 200px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5471353984835087842" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizntEXkyrPoNhvPvDqYhIa9wcS9GFeMUFbyMD6nIitzC6UGZpFcfphKpiC1KVDZYZXb5IUEsJYg0R30u6FTw9eVxWvlkAs8OuTikJeu2MS7MyD2YSW7ubyK_DaOAANzsBr6Va-NSdy5T_F/s200/blue+plate.jpg" /></a>
<br /><div><span style="font-family:arial;">It was Jesus Week, the first week of summer vacation when Brendan Ward came to town to perform his street magic. We called it Jesus Week because on the last night in town, Brendan performed an illusion where he walked on water. It never failed, even after eleven straight years, to wow the audience. We just never got tired of seeing him tread barefoot across the pond in Angel Park. It might not have been so spectacular if he’d brought his own body of water and set it up. This was just plain old Angel Pond in Angel Park in downtown Angel Falls. </span>
<br /><span style="font-family:arial;">
<br />My friends and I worshiped Brendan. We’d literally grown up with him kicking off each and every summer since grade one. And we were all in love with him. Even in our senior year at high school with boyfriends draping their hopeful arms around our shoulders, we all secretly hoped that Brendan felt some measure of reciprocation for our adolescent devotion and we’d made sure that we were where he was all week long. Our boyfriends were so jealous by the end of the week, what with all the Brendan this’s and Brendan thats, that they were either clinging to us or openly eyeballing our competition. We weren’t all that worried, though. We all knew we’d be making it up to them after Brendan left town.
<br />
<br />As usual just about the whole town came out to see Brendan walk on water. The park was packed with expectant towns folk jostling for position and speculating on how it was done. The only cloud was... Well, a huge black cloud gathering in the eastern sky that threatened to break open and spill its cold, wet contents on the party of the year! The speculation started to include whether or not Brendan would even be able to do the trick at all and as the evening inched forward in a race between the storm and the magic, the crowd began to get restless.
<br />
<br />But Brendan would not be hurried. He would appear out of nowhere at precisely eight o’clock and walk through the crowd toward the pond. Along the way he would shake hands and sign autographs and pull coins from out of toddler’s ears. Everyone would “Ooh” and “Ahh” and either hope he’d stop and do a trick for them, or pray he wouldn’t. It was difficult to decide where to stand because no one ever knew for sure where he’d suddenly appear. “The real trick,” my father always said, “was to be in the right place at the right time.”
<br />
<br />The clock ticked slowly toward the appointed hour. The people kept a close watch on the gathering storm and bobbed up on down on tip-toes scanning for any sign of the magician they were braving the weather to see. A cold wind blew up, whipping hair and skirts around and driving couples into the shelter of each other’s arms. Parents wrapped babies and toddlers tighter in blankets and coats, but no one was giving up. There was a fair bit of threatening to do so, though. </span></div><span style="font-family:arial;"><div>
<br />Finally someone on the far side of the pond yelled out, “He’s here,” and heads began to turn in the direction of the original shout, which was echoed back and out until all eyes were on the giant cottonwood tree on the north side of the pond. A puff of smoke and a blur of bright red cloth and Brendan Ward was at last among us. A cheer rose up from the crowd just as a distant rumble of thunder rolled over us. It was going to be close. Very, very close.
<br />
<br />Brendan made his way toward the edge of the pond. He didn’t stop to shake hands or sign autographs or pull coins from anyone’s ears. He knew that the audience was in a bit of a hurry and he didn’t want to disappoint. My friends and I were close to the pond at nine o’clock to Brendan’s entrance. We had a perfect view and, in spite of the protection our boyfriends were giving us from the wind, we all stepped forward to get as close as we could to the action. My eyes were locked on Brendan’s handsome face and I swear that for just a second, right before he reached the edge of the pond, he looked right at me and smiled. I couldn’t help myself; I swooned.
<br />
<br />With my back to the storm, I sensed rather than saw its final approach, but my attention was glued to Brendan as he slipped off his sneakers and put one tentative toe in the water. Little white caps had formed on the surface and the pond looked like the ocean in miniature during a hurricane. I gasped when Brendan took his first hesitant step onto that choppy little tarn, waiting to see if the waves would hold him. They did and he put one beautiful foot carefully in front of the other, teetering slightly as if the wind was about to knock him off balance. The crowd was silent. Only the howl of the wind could be heard as we watched the magician feel his way toward the center of the pond.
<br />The first drops of rain hit just as Brendan reached the halfway point. He stopped. He looked up and our eyes met. There was something wrong. I could see the fear in his eyes and I screamed. But my scream went unheard. A bolt of lightning cracked across the sky and a deafening peal of thunder shook the earth and Brendan fell straight down into the pond. I watched in horror as the frothy water closed over his head.
<br />
<br />Minutes passed and Brendan didn’t surface. At first people were too shocked to move. There seemed to be a collective internal debate going on between taking shelter and rescuing Brendan. It felt like forever, but I’m sure it was only a few seconds, before someone took action. That someone was my father, who stripped off his coat and shoes and dove into the pond. Another eternity passed before he came back up for air and dove again. The pond, murky at the best of times, was a turbulent soup of mud. Visibility was zero. Three more men joined my dad in the fruitless search for the missing magician.
<br />
<br />By the time they were forced to give up, most of the crowd had left the park. Half of the women were crying. A few of the men were too, safe to do so in the driving rain that disguised their bitter feelings of loss. My boyfriend tried to make me leave, and when I refused, he simply left without me. I wasn’t going to give up. I wasn’t going to leave until Brendan was found – dead or alive.
<br />
<br />It was late when my father finally made me return home, cold and drenched and grief stricken, while he rallied a search team together to meet at the fire hall. I made my way into the living room where my mother was busy dusting the contents of a curio cabinet. She did this sort of thing whenever she was upset. I wasn’t surprised to find her polishing her precious antique plates in the middle of the night. The loss of Brendan was met with no less sorrow than the loss of any close friend or relative would be. Never mind that he didn’t know us from Adam. He was a part of us, a part of our community and he would be missed.
<br />
<br />I was just about to wrap my soggy arms around her when she screamed and dropped the plate she was polishing with a soft cloth. The plate, an expensive antique, shattered on the hardwood floor. For a minute I thought I had knocked it out of her hand, but when I looked at her, my mother was pointing at the door behind me. I turned and there stood Brendan Ward. Bone dry and smiling.
<br />
<br />“That,” I said, forgetting my grief, my adoration and just about everything else that I had ever felt for the man, “was a priceless Chinese willow pattern porcelain plate from the sixteenth century. It’s irreplaceable.”
<br />
<br />Now I loved Brendan Ward. But I loved my mother more and I think it was that precise moment when I realized just how much she meant to me. Her antique plates had always been a source of pride for her and an equal source of consternation for the rest of us. Seeing one in shards on the floor, though, there was no contest between this crazy traveling street magician and my dear old Mom. Of course, the fact that he was seeing me dripping wet with mascara smudged all over my face and my hair plastered to my skull in snaky tendrils while he looked like a million bucks didn’t exactly help his case.
<br />
<br />“My plate,” my mother cried out after the shock of seeing Brendan materialize had worn off. “Look at my plate! It’s ruined.”
<br />
<br />Ruined? This wasn’t an evening gown. It was a rare antique. Destroyed was the more appropriate adjective, I thought.
<br />
<br />“I can fix that,” Brendan said. He walked into our house like he was a welcome guest and knelt down next to the smashed porcelain pieces. “I’ll need a broom and dust pan, a paper bag, some glue and a table cloth – preferably black or red.”
<br />
<br />My mother, like an obedient child, went in search of the items Brendan had asked for. I stood with arms crossed and heart crosser glaring at his insolence.
<br />
<br />“You can’t fix it,” I said. “This isn’t one of your tricks. What are you doing here anyway? And do you have any idea how worried people are about you? What the hell happened out there?”
<br />
<br />Brendan stood up. He took a knitted afghan off the back of the couch and wrapped it around my shoulders. “You’re shivering,” he said as he led me to the piano bench to sit down. He may not have been concerned about giving the whole town a fright, but he certainly didn’t want me dripping on the sofa.
<br />
<br />“Of course, I’m shivering,” I shouted. “I just spent the last three hours in the pouring rain trying to find your dead body.” This wasn’t how I fantasized our first real meeting would be like.
<br />
<br />“And I’m sorry about that. I really am,” he said gently. “I didn’t mean for things to turn out the way they did. I shouldn’t have done what I did.”
<br />
<br />“No you shouldn’t have.” I refused to look at him. “But I think you should leave. Mom’s been through enough for one night.”
<br />
<br />“I had to see you,” he said.
<br />
<br />I remained aloof.
<br />
<br />“Do you remember when you were eight and you gave me that card that you made?”
<br />
<br />Oh, dear God! He remembered that? Could this day get any worse?
<br />
<br />I was in grade three and on the last day of school my teacher asked us all to make a card for someone just to tell them how special they were. She had hinted strongly that she might be a good candidate for recipient and many of the kids, hoping, perhaps, for better grades, obliged her. But my card was for Brendan. It was a picture of him walking on water surrounded by hearts and it said: Dear Brendan, you are a miracle. You make it summer. I love you.
<br />
<br />Still not looking at him, I nodded.
<br />
<br />“Well, I still have that card. I carry it everywhere I go.” He reached into his coat pocket and extracted the tattered remnants of the card. “And since I’m retiring – Angel Falls is my last street performance – I wanted to tell you how much that card meant to me.”
<br />
<br />“I don’t understand,” I said, looking up finally. “You’re retiring?”
<br />
<br />“Yeah,” he laughed. “Didn’t quite plan on going out with such a splash, though.”
<br />
<br />“But why?” Just as suddenly as my anger had risen, my great love for this guy, who was way too old for me anyway, returned. I couldn’t imagine not starting summer without Jesus Week.
<br />“It’s time,” was all he said.
<br />
<br />Just then my mother returned. “I’m afraid I don’t have a red or black table cloth. This is the best I could do.” She handed Brendan a broom, a dust pan, a paper bag a bottle of white glue and a green plaid table cloth.
<br />
<br />“It will work fine,” he said and began sweeping the broken pieces of the plate into the dust pan. </div><div>
<br />When he had swept up every last bit of plate, he dumped it into the paper bag, poured in a bunch of glue and then neatly folded the top over three times. He shook the bag vigorously before placing it on the coffee table and then, with a flourish only magicians can manage, flipped the table cloth into the air and let it settle covering the bag. Mom and I watched, mesmerized and expectant, hopeful and wary at the same time as he busied himself tucking the table cloth under the bag. He walked around the table twice, frowning down at the lump under the cloth as if he wasn’t quite sure which magic words to utter. Then he suddenly spun around, clapping his hands and stamping his feet and did a cartwheel right over the coffee table. As he landed on the other side, he grabbed a corner of the cloth and whipped it into the air. Where the bag of broken bits had been, there sat my mom’s plate. Intact. Whole. Unmarred. Unbroken.
<br />
<br />Mom squealed like a little girl who had just got a pony for her birthday. I just sat there too stunned to even shiver.
<br />
<br />“Thank you!” Mom cried. “Thank you so, so much. You’re so amazing. Can I get you a cup of cocoa?” She bustled off into the kitchen without waiting for an answer.
<br />
<br />Cocoa? Seriously?
<br />
<br />“How...” I pointed at the plate.
<br />
<br />“I can’t tell you how it’s done.” Brendan reached down and touched the plate with his finger.
<br />
<br />It crossed my mind that he really couldn’t tell me how he did it; such was the look of amazement on his own face.
<br />
<br />“I have to go,” he said and headed to the door.
<br />
<br />“But, you can’t just leave. There are people who are looking for you. Right now they are organizing a proper search of the pond for as soon as the rain stops. You can’t just leave. I think they deserve an explanation at least.”
<br />
<br />“Tell them I screwed up tonight. Tell them I’m sorry I frightened them. Tell them good-bye.” Then he walked out of the house and into the night.
<br />
<br />By the time I reached the door behind him he was nowhere in sight. I called out his name, but only the sound of the rain falling hard against the roof tops and pavement answered me. I never saw Brendan Ward again.
<br />
<br />His last performance became the stuff of legend and some people firmly believe that he died in Angel Pond in Angel Park in Angel Falls and it was his ghost that came to our home and fixed the willow pattern plate that still sits in Mom’s curio cabinet. But I know that no ghost would carry around a silly card made by an eight year old fan.
<br />
<br />Or would it?</span></div>
<br /></span>
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5110319624849459498.post-18451245877676766822010-05-06T22:01:00.000-07:002010-05-06T22:05:42.075-07:00The Eye and I<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoweSspJ6gcdcbWy7bt3xEMmlOkpmhOp9N3jXTZ9zWVKiGByLVjRzAV4DW3vK1fO17-ZhkEcqW_JttF2VCvuZoF_aNvOfqiMzI_CbUvw3NKwt2wLfZvI9qFMTEYBUzA1HN51guxfafBXnU/s1600/eyeball.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoweSspJ6gcdcbWy7bt3xEMmlOkpmhOp9N3jXTZ9zWVKiGByLVjRzAV4DW3vK1fO17-ZhkEcqW_JttF2VCvuZoF_aNvOfqiMzI_CbUvw3NKwt2wLfZvI9qFMTEYBUzA1HN51guxfafBXnU/s200/eyeball.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5468389875598931474" /></a><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">An ear-splitting scream bore through the thick veil of sleep and my eyes opened to see the ballerina wallpaper that still adorned the walls of my childhood bedroom. Ugh!<br /><br />I scrambled for my bath robe and staggered into the hall, barely avoiding a head-on collision with my step-father, Roger. We mumbled apologies to each other and then charged down the hall toward the source of the scream that had jarred us out of our beds. At the front entrance to the house Roger and I found my mother, pale and shaking, pointing at the object of her horror. I rolled my eyes and bent down to scoop it up.<br /><br />That’s when my mother dropped to the floor in a dead faint. Roger and I looked at her crumpled body, then at each other. I held out the object. “It’s glass,” I said. And that’s when Roger dropped to the floor in a dead faint right next to my mother. “Tory!” I yelled, stepping over the inert bodies of my parents and marched back up the hall to the room next to mine where my eleven-year-old daughter lay blissfully sleeping and oblivious to the havoc she had just caused.<br /><br />An overwhelming urge to strangle my little angel coursed through me, but I decided to let her sleep. The longer she slept, the less trauma she could instigate. I closed the door, leaving her to her dreams. I looked down at the reason my parents were in a heap in the foyer and the urge to kill my baby was replaced by a huge grin.<br /><br />I tucked the offending object, a glass eyeball, into the pocket in my robe and returned to the foyer to find Mom and Roger stirring back to life. I assisted them both to their feet and herded them into the kitchen where I poured them each a cup of coffee. They were both very pale and even swallowing the strong liquid took some effort.<br /><br />“That child of yours is a ghoul,” my mother said.<br /><br />I removed the eyeball from my pocket and set it down on the table. I have to admit that I took some little pleasure at watching my mother blanch to an even whiter shade of pale. “It’s glass,” I repeated my earlier elucidation. Roger reached out a tentative finger and poked the thing to confirm the truth of it. Mother squealed, but managed not to pass out a second time.<br /><br />“Put it away!” she cried. “For God’s sake, Aileen, put it away.”<br /><br />“Oh for the love of Pete,” I said. “It’s just a glass eye. It can’t hurt you.” I sipped my own soothing java.<br /><br />“Why do you let her have things like that?” Mother spat. “It’s disgusting.”<br /><br />“It’s just a chunk of glass.” I said slowly, as if speaking to an errant child.<br /><br />“It’s not just a chunk of glass. It’s an eyeball. And I want it out of my house.<br /><br />Do you hear me, Aileen? I want it out.” Mother’s hysteria was escalating. Tears were actually rolling down her cheeks.<br /><br />I took a deep breath. “Fine,” I said. “Me and the ghoul will get out too.” I picked up the eyeball and stomped out of the kitchen.<br /><br />My mother and I had never seen eye-to-eye, so to speak. Particularly since Tory was born out of wedlock eleven years earlier. Mother saw her granddaughter as an embarrassment rather than the amazing, beautiful child that she was. For a baby-boomer, Mother was hyper conservative. She considered wearing navy and green living on the edge.<br /><br />While I was throwing my stuff back into my suitcase, I heard Tory rousing in the next room. I flipped the suitcase closed and went to head her off before she crossed paths with her grandmother. “Tory,” I whispered just as she was entering the bathroom across from her bedroom. She turned and looked at me with her sparkling green eyes. “When you’re done in there, come straight to my room. Okay?”<br /><br />Tory nodded and closed the bathroom door. I returned to my packing.<br /><br />A sudden sadness overcame me. I had worked hard to nurture Tory’s curiosity and creativity; something that had always been stifled in me when I was growing up. I wished my mother could accept the wonder and joy with which my daughter experienced life.<br /><br />I pulled on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt and was just twisting my hair into a loose pony when Tory opened the door. “Morning Mom,” she said in her cheerful voice that always reminded me of laughing cherubs.<br /><br />“Morning, Sweetpea,” I said and gave her a big hug. “Come sit down with me for a minute.”<br /><br />“Am I in trouble?” Tory was nothing if not perceptive.<br /><br />“No. Well, maybe just a little.” I tweaked her nose to let her know that I was not angry with her.<br /><br />“What did I do, Mom?” she asked. It always amazed me how she could take responsibility.<br /><br />I took the glass eyeball out of my robe pocket and held it out. “Your grandmother found this under your jacket. Which you left on the floor by the front door by the way.”<br /><br />“Oh, yeah,” Tory said. She took the eyeball from my hand. “I guess I forgot.”<br /><br />“Hmmm. Well, Grandma nearly had a heart attack.”<br /><br />“I’m sorry, Mom.”<br /><br />“It’s not me you have to apologize to, Tory. Grandma is... well she’s...”<br /><br />“Uptight?” Tory suggested. Sometimes precocious isn’t all that cute!<br /><br />“Something like that,” I agreed. “She was quite upset when she found the eye. She even fainted.”<br /><br />“Really?” Somehow there was far too much delight in those two syllables.<br /><br />“Tory,” I admonished.<br /><br />“Mom, why doesn’t Grandma like me?”<br /><br />The sound of a heart breaking is as loud as thunder and as silent as the grave at the same time. My eleven year old daughter was acutely aware that she was not accepted by her own flesh and blood. It hurt both of us more than either of us could possibly deserve. “I don’t know,” I said. “You are the most likeable kid that ever walked the earth.”<br /><br />Tory rolled her eyes. (She was going to make a great teenager.) Then she hugged me. At least my little girl still did that.<br /><br />“Tell you what,” I said. “We’re going to go to a hotel for the rest of the weekend. How does that sound?”<br /><br />“Sounds like Grandma kicked us out.”<br /><br />“Actually, she just kicked the eyeball out.” We both laughed.<br /><br />Tory went back to her room, got dressed and packed her things. We met in the hall and, hand in hand, dragged our matching, rolling purple suitcases across the shiny click-lock flooring to the front door. The sound of the wheels brought my mother and step-father out of the kitchen.<br /><br />“Where are you going?” my mother asked.<br /><br />“The ghoul and I are going to a hotel for the rest of the weekend. We’ll find our own way to Jason’s wedding.” Jason is my brother and his wedding was the reason we were there.<br /><br />“Nonsense,” my mother retorted. “There’s no reason for all this drama. Take your things back to your rooms.”<br /><br />“Ghoul?” Tory said.<br /><br />“Good-bye, Mother.” I turned to open the door and leave.<br /><br />“Ghoul?” Tory asked again.<br /><br />“Tory, don’t interrupt,” Mother scolded.<br /><br />“You called me a ghoul?” Tory stepped closer to my mother, who, in turn, backed away.<br /><br />“I didn’t mean it,” Mother stammered. “I was just taken by surprise and I... Well, I over-reacted just a little.”<br /><br />“I’m very sorry that I forgot to hang up my jacket, Grandma. And I’m very, very sorry that you were scared by my eyeball. But I’m not sorry that Mom and me are going to stay at a hotel. I don’t know why you don’t like me, but it doesn’t matter. I still love you, even if you do think I’m a ghoul.” With that, my darling little girl turned on her heel and marched out the door.<br /><br />I wiggled my fingers at Mother and Roger and followed her out to the car. Tory flung her suitcase into the trunk and slid into the passenger seat. I slid into the driver`s seat, started the car and backed down the driveway. Tory was holding the glass eyeball, turning it over and over between her fingers.<br /><br />“Mom,” Tory said, “would it be mean to leave this in the mailbox for Grandma to find again later?”<br /><br />“A little.” I accelerated so she wouldn’t jump out and run back to the mailbox.<br /><br />“That’s what I thought.”<br /><br />“Grandma doesn’t mean to be like that,” I said. It’s weird how easy it is to defend the woman.<br /><br />“I know.”<br /><br />We drove on in silence, found a hotel with a decent room and checked in. I agreed to Mickey D’s for breakfast and then treated my baby girl to some shopping before we had to get ready for the wedding. I made a mental note to call Jason and warn him about the ice age that was going to move through the reception later. I was relatively sure he would not be all that surprised. He’d probably want to know where Tory got the cool glass eyeball.<br /><br />I was on the dance floor, trying to get through the Chicken Dance without being groped by some crazy old dude that had been stalking me since dinner when an ear-splitting scream pierced the celebratory din and brought the entire reception to a grinding halt. What now? I wondered as I made my way to the front of the hall.<br /><br />There was my brother’s bride, in a heap of white taffeta out cold on the floor next to the wedding cake.<br /><br />And there was a glass eyeball embedded into the frosting between the top and middle tiers.<br /><br />“Tory!”</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5110319624849459498.post-46497566050368050022010-05-02T16:44:00.000-07:002010-05-02T16:46:48.713-07:00Great Minds on Fools' Errands<span style="font-family:arial;">Greg sat at his desk staring at the package that had just arrived. There was no return address and he was not expecting anything from anyone – that he could think of. It wasn’t his birthday and it was too early for Christmas. The neat printing on the plain brown paper was not familiar. Normally, he would have torn it open immediately, surprise packages being one of his favourite things. But this parcel was mysterious. In a strange and foreboding way. </span>
<br /><span style="font-family:arial;">
<br />The parcel was small, about six inches square. It was heavy for its demure size and it didn’t rattle. What came to mind when Greg shook it was a rock, for whatever was inside slid back and forth just a little bit, hitting the box it was enclosed in with a dull thud. Who would send me a rock? Greg wondered.
<br />
<br />He studied the post mark, but it was blurred and he could not make out the city it was mailed from. The date, though, indicated that it had been sent exactly a week previously. A parcel could travel a long way in a week, he knew. Then again it sometimes took a week for a simple letter to cross town. There were no other clues to the parcel’s origin or who might have sent it.
<br />
<br />Greg’s business partner, Edward walked into the office just as Greg was placing the parcel on his blotter for further contemplation. Noticing the paper-wrapped cube, Edward couldn’t help but ask about it. His first instinct was that it was the magnets they had been waiting for, magnets they needed for their latest secret invention. An invention they were under the gun to finish before their closest competition. But Greg pointed to another package on the drafting table next to the door. The one with the metal ruler stuck firmly to its side.
<br />
<br />While Edward busied himself removing the ruler and extracting the powerful magnets from their box, Greg sat quietly trying to will the mystery of the package on his desk to reveal itself. He could neither fathom what it could be nor why he felt such dread. It’s just a parcel, he told himself. Just open it.
<br />
<br />Edward was nattering over by the drafting table, but Greg didn’t pay any attention. After eighteen years of friendship and six years in business with the man, he knew that Edward was as likely to be thinking out loud as to be directing his current monologue at Greg. If it was important, Edward would repeat himself, so Greg just stared at the package on his desk, rejecting every scenario that sprung up out of his vivid imagination.
<br />
<br />“I said I think these will work,” Edward said with an exasperated tone.
<br />
<br />Jolted from his reverie, Greg looked up. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “I was thinking about something else.”
<br />
<br />“Such as?” Edward prompted.
<br />
<br />“Nothing important. Why don’t we take those magnets down to the workshop and see what they can do?” Greg stood up and walked over to the drafting table where he picked up a handful of paperclips and sprinkled them over the magnets.
<br />
<br />“You’re picking all of those off,” Edward said and pushed the box of magnets into his partner’s hand.
<br />
<br />Greg and Edward spent the rest of the day testing the magnets in their secret invention and bickering over technical and design issues. Anyone listening in would have thought the pair was close to murdering each other, but this was how they worked. At the end of the day, they would shake hands, buy each other a beer at the pub just up the street from their little shop and settle their differences just like the best of friends they really were. Ninety percent of what they accomplished was done after hours over a bottle – or two or three – of beer. The next morning they would go back to the shop do what they agreed upon at the pub and then start arguing about the next step in whatever project they were involved with. Somehow it worked.
<br />
<br />That day, Greg and Edward argued until after seven o’clock. It was Edward’s rumbling stomach that ended the fight and sent them both back to their offices to chill out for a few minutes before they collected their coats and met in the parking lot to drive together to the pub. An unbreakable rule was that they always drove to and from the shop together, usually in Greg’s car, since Edward’s was so often in the shop for one thing or another. He could afford a better, more reliable vehicle, but he stubbornly hung on to his now vintage Trans Am. Greg called it a relic, but to Edward it was his dream car. Another unbreakable rule was that they didn’t talk about it.
<br />
<br />When Greg got back to his office, the enigmatic parcel was sitting exactly where he left it on his desk. Maybe it was a bomb sent from a jealous competitor. Or maybe it was his missing cat’s head sent by his nasty neighbour who Greg was certain had poisoned the poor thing. Or maybe it was that hideous award that he had been nominated for, but did not attend the banquet to find out if he’d won. Or maybe it was some radioactive chuck of... something.
<br />
<br />“Or maybe it’s a thousand thousand dollar bills you inherited from a long lost uncle,” Edward, who had just popped in to find out what was keeping Greg, said. “Why don’t you just open it and find out instead of wasting that genius you’re so famous for on such preposterous speculation?”
<br />
<br />Greg’s face reddened at the realization that he had been thinking out loud – and been caught!
<br />
<br />“It’s something sinister,” Greg said. “I just know it.”
<br />
<br />“Sinister? What makes you think it’s sinister?” Edward knew that Greg would not move until he made a decision about the parcel.
<br />
<br />“A, there’s no return address. B, it’s not my birthday or any other special occasion. C, I’m not expecting anything. And D, it’s... it’s just sinister.”
<br />
<br />“Hmmmm... Sounds like you’ve given this a lot of thought.” Edward approached the desk and gestured toward the package, an unspoken request to inspect it. Greg nodded his acquiescence.
<br />Edward grabbed the parcel and without ceremony, ripped the wrapper open to reveal a blue cardboard gift box. As he pulled the lid off, Greg threw his hands up as if to stop the bomb blast that did not come.
<br />
<br />“Your imagination is out of control, Buddy. I think you’re losing it.” Edward placed the opened box back down on the desk. “Or you need a vacation.”
<br />
<br />Greg leaned over the box and gasped.
<br />
<br />“What? It’s just a paper weight!” Edward was confused and growing increasingly cranky due to low blood sugar.
<br />
<br />“It’s not just a paper weight,” Greg said. He reached out and carefully lifted a clear glass globe out of the Styrofoam nest it had been resting in. “It’s the paper weight.”
<br />
<br />Edward sighed. “The paper weight?” He looked at the orb of flawless glass that enveloped a seascape of orange coral and a single angel fish. “Oh, you mean The Paper Weight?”
<br />
<br />“Well, you know what this means?” said Greg, inching away from the glass orb.
<br />
<br />“Yep. Joe and Tyler finished ahead of us and Kor-Tech made an offer.”
<br />
<br />“How did this happen, Ed?”
<br />
<br />“Well, you challenged them to a race to finish the product and present it to Kor-Tech. I believe you said that the best they could come up with would be no more useful than a paper weight. I think they call it throwing down the gauntlet. I also think that you underestimated them, Buddy.”
<br />
<br />Greg slumped into his chair. Disgusted and feeling beaten, he reached down and opened his bottom desk drawer. “You want to know the lousiest part, Ed?”
<br />
<br />“What could be lousier than losing a contract with Kor-Tech to Joe and Tyler?”
<br />
<br />“The lousiest part, my friend,” he drew a blue gift box out of the drawer and put it on the desk, “is that I bought the exact same paper weight to send to them when we won the contract.” He pulled the lid off the box to reveal an exact replica of the paper weight that had just ruined his professional life.
<br />“And you can’t admit that great minds think alike.”
<br />
<br />“It’s only slightly better than having to accept that fools never differ.”</span>
<br /></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5110319624849459498.post-9042633776806847042010-04-23T19:49:00.000-07:002010-04-23T19:55:10.072-07:00The Lesson of the Walking Stick<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwx3YA-2Fk6laZDoFxh8N28sQnvN_csT3VxAuQdTF19yMhcMtQ3gyYzvmgomKyFgtX6RZ0ry9KtKox3Ig7d1qb3uk1AZbj6c4U_GKPMEj4cF7DCqCJuNXlCSNYt7xrE8bPK-ZDJhHhyjd8/s1600/walking+stick.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 150px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 200px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5463532022755756594" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwx3YA-2Fk6laZDoFxh8N28sQnvN_csT3VxAuQdTF19yMhcMtQ3gyYzvmgomKyFgtX6RZ0ry9KtKox3Ig7d1qb3uk1AZbj6c4U_GKPMEj4cF7DCqCJuNXlCSNYt7xrE8bPK-ZDJhHhyjd8/s200/walking+stick.jpg" /></a><br /><div><span style="font-family:arial;">“So, what can you tell me about the man that owns this walking stick?” asked Sir Arthur.<br /></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:arial;">I took the proffered stick and made a show of examining it thoroughly. Sir Arthur, with his templed fingers pretended not to be observing me, but I knew that he was taking in my every move. I also knew that this was a test. He was testing my powers of deduction and, as his apprentice, I was expected to fail. Sir Arthur was only allowing me to tag along on his investigations because he had a bet going with Sir George. Sir George believed that I was at least as clever as Sir Arthur and Sir Arthur was convinced that he, and he alone, possessed the intelligence for which he was renowned and had made him England’s greatest detective. </span></div><span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><div><br />I hefted the walking stick and tested its balance by twirling it between my fingers. I held it up and looked down its length. I examined the silver handle and scrutinized the worn tip.<br /></div><br /><div>“He’s a pompous ass,” I said and laid the walking stick down on the table that separated me from my mentor. </div><br /><div><br />Sir Arthur’s hands dropped to the arms of the chair, but he only glanced sideways at me. His aspect was one of disciplined emotional control. After a long minute of silence, he finally said, “That’s a rather terse assessment. On what do you base it?” </div><br /><div><br />“It’s quite simple, really. Anyone who would use such a pretentious thing as a silver-tipped walking stick in this day and age could only be a pompous ass.” I paused. “He also owns a dog.” </div><br /><div><br />Sir Arthur’s looked at me then. If he’d taught me anything in the nine months since this ridiculous bet had been made, it was the art of maintaining disciplined emotional control. My face was devoid of any expression. I noticed his eyes narrow ever so slightly and I knew that the real game had just begun. </div><br /><div><br />“I’ll not give you any points for the dog. The teeth marks near the bottom of the shaft are a dead giveaway. Any idiot could see them and tell there is a dog involved. You’ll have to do better than that,” he snapped. He gestured with his left hand for me to continue. He was yet to be impressed.<br /></div><br /><div>“Very well. He’s a pompous ass...” </div><br /><div><br />“Never mind that part. You’ve made your point quite adequately.” Sir Arthur resumed his focused posture with his fingers templed under his chin. </div><br /><div><br />“He shops at Mackey’s,” I said. </div><br /><div><br />“Mackey’s? What makes you say that?” </div><br /><div><br />“There is a Mackey’s insignia etched into the wood just below the handle.” </div><br /><div><br />“Indeed?” Sir Arthur picked up the walking stick and pretended to search for the Mackey’s crest. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>“That’s no better than the dog. Carry on.” </div><br /><div><br />“He’s six feet tall, wears a size eleven shoe and limps. He’s clean shaven, but wears his hair just a bit longer than is currently fashionable. He takes enormous pride in his appearance. He carries a pocket watch and shuns modern technology. He thinks the walking stick is both debonair and intimidating. He hates salads and he’s well read; has an extensive and enviable library. His nose was broken once in a fight when he was learning to box in college and he’s left handed. He’s single – no woman in her right mind would ever marry him and...” </div><br /><div><br />“All right! That’s quite enough.” Sir Arthur stood up and walked to the other side of the room where he poured himself a brandy from a crystal decanter. He sipped the amber liquid either thoughtfully or in great consternation. I was not entirely sure as I could not see his face. He was looking out the window. </div><br /><div><br />“You think you’re very clever, don’t you William?” Sir Arthur spoke quietly, keeping his back turned toward me. </div><br /><div><br />“Don’t you?” I challenged. </div><br /><div><br />“Not really. You saw the walking stick in the closet at some point. You simply remembered it that’s all. But insulting me... Well, that’s not clever, William. It’s shear insolence.”<br /></div><br /><div>“You asked. I merely answered. If you did not want me to tell you the truth, you should not have asked.” I joined him next to the brandy decanter and helped myself to a finger or two. Sir Arthur snorted at my audacious display of self esteem. I took a sip of the vile liquor and managed to keep my distaste from showing. A swig of beer would have hit the spot just then, but brandy was all he had. </div><br /><div><br />“So, after all I’ve done for you, that is what you truly think of me? A pompous ass? An undesirable man?” </div><br /><div><br />“And a lousy boxer. Don’t forget the lousy boxer part,” I said. </div><br /><div><br />“Get out. Get out of my house, you ungrateful little wanker!” </div><br /><div><br />I put the brandy snifter on the table and looked at Sir Arthur. “Good-bye, Sir Arthur,” I said. </div><br /><div><br />I took my leave of the man who would win a thousand pounds because I had to call it the way I saw it. And I was okay with that. What I was not okay with was having to face Sir George when I got home. I was not looking forward to looking him in the eye and telling him that I called his best friend a pompous ass. </div><br /><div><br />I had grown up listening to Sir George talk endlessly about Sir Arthur. Sir Arthur this and Sir Arthur that. I had followed all of Sir Arthur’s cases and when I decided to become a police officer, Sir George insisted that I train with him. Sir Arthur, though, had no interest in me until I solved a particularly vexing case involving the serial murders of thirteen old ladies and their dogs. (The groomer did it!) </div><br /><div><br />Sir George had been boasting about me to Sir Arthur, who wagered that I had not solved the case as much as it had been conveniently solved for me with an anonymous tip that paid off. Sir George wagered that I was just as good as Sir Arthur and, with one thousand pounds on the line I managed to become Sir Arthur’s Pygmalion, so to speak. I don’t know why I agreed to it, but there was a certain allure about studying under the tutelage of the great detective. It didn’t hurt with my superiors, who worshiped the man, either. They had visions of getting Sir Arthur to become a police consultant instead of a private investigator. With him in their pockets, they were sure that crime would all but cease. That is the level of awe they held him at. </div><br /><div><br />The truth was that Sir Arthur was good at what he did. That he harboured the not-so-secret belief that he was some real-life version of Sherlock Holmes – only better – was a clear indication of how out of control he potentially was. His ego was the size of the British Empire (when it still covered most of the known world). </div><br /><div><br />I arrived home to find Sir George sitting by the fire in the great room of his familial manor house, a pipe dangling from between his clamped lips and the evening edition of the London Times gripped in his perfectly manicured hands. I helped myself to a beer from the kitchen and joined him, ready to take my lumps. </div><br /><div><br />“A pompous ass, eh?” he said around the pipe and paper. </div><br /><div><br />“He called you?” I asked, somewhat surprised. I half expected Sir Arthur to call, but I did not expect him to give the details so forthrightly. </div><br /><div><br />“A lousy boxer? No woman in her right mind would have him?” Sir George put down the paper and withdrew the pipe. “I dare say William that was the easiest thousand pounds I ever made!” He threw his head back and laughed until tears rolled down his cheeks and his ample belly ached.<br /></div><br /><div>I sipped my beer from the bottle, thinking that that Sir Arthur had been right about me all along. It was clear that I had missed something rather fundamental to the case. </div><br /><div><br />“My dear boy,” said Sir George when he finally composed himself enough to speak, “you have no idea how happy you’ve made me.”<br /></div><br /><div>“I don’t understand,” I said. “I thought that you wanted me to prove that I was as good as Sir Arthur.”</div><br /><div><br />“And you did. You did, my boy. In fact you proved that you are better than him.” </div><br /><div><br />“Just how did I do that?” </div><br /><div><br />“Don’t you see? Sir Arthur expected you to give him some tripe about the walking stick’s owner. He was desperate to make a fool out of you and win the bet.” </div><br /><div><br />“Didn’t he win the bet?” </div><br /><div><br />“As I recall, the bet was that if you did not master his techniques within a year, I would pay him a thousand pounds.” </div><br /><div><br />“Yes, and?” </div><br /><div>"And you bested him at his own game. He’s really quite impressed with you, William.” </div><br /><div><br />I was confused. “So he asked me to tell him about the man who owned the walking stick with the intention that I would assume it was a clue in some case and rattle off some nonsense about it belonging to some wealthy aristocrat with excellent taste and a love of the opera?” </div><br /><div><br />“Something like that, yes. He expected you to be entrapped by the stereo type associated with that sort of thing.” </div><br /><div><br />“So he really had no idea that I knew that the walking stick was his?” </div><br /><div><br />“None whatsoever.”<br /></div><br /><div>“I guess I should apologise to him.” </div><br /><div><br />“Whatever for?” </div><br /><div><br />“For... Well for calling him a pompous ass, for starters.” </div><br /><div><br />Sir George laughed again. “Nonsense. He knows he’s a pompous ass. He found it quite refreshing that you had the stones to say it to his face. I’ve been saying it for thirty-eighty years, but my opinion doesn’t count for much with him. I’d have to solve more than the Sunday crossword before he’d take anything I have to say seriously.” </div><br /><div><br />“So why’d he call me an ungrateful wanker and kick me out?” </div><br /><div><br />“Oh, that! Well, when he went over to pour his brandy, he saw his neighbour disrobing in her bedroom window. She only does that when she wants him to,” Sir George cleared his throat, “uh visit.” </div><br /><div><br />My eyebrows meshed with my hair line. “I see. Well, then. I suppose that I should at least apologize for saying no woman would have him.” I drained my bottle of beer. </div><br /><div><br />“Who said she was in her right mind?” Sir George and I both laughed, then retired to our beds for the night.</span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5110319624849459498.post-86333147477870300212010-04-15T21:27:00.000-07:002010-04-15T21:33:45.682-07:00It's Time to Go<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9AKWdWu1JwmQ-XvppIhkglV8WGuukBQ8x9aTQx3f_tw02XwOUY7varJDHa0RiIXsU2XppBgki36ILEjGrQ4TDet5LRalRyVUiJ6-rAuaKeB0DkLi6F6IANl0vNkgb2bGauG5rz4OoKB3y/s1600/bright_watch.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 150px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5460588069961123778" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9AKWdWu1JwmQ-XvppIhkglV8WGuukBQ8x9aTQx3f_tw02XwOUY7varJDHa0RiIXsU2XppBgki36ILEjGrQ4TDet5LRalRyVUiJ6-rAuaKeB0DkLi6F6IANl0vNkgb2bGauG5rz4OoKB3y/s200/bright_watch.jpg" /></a><br /><div><span style="font-family:arial;">Jacob pulled his watch out of his pocket and looked at it in dismay. It had stopped again. The darn thing just could not seem to keep time properly anymore. What was worse, though, was the fact that he had no idea what time it was and the closest guess he could make was ‘late.’ Again. He doubted very much that Bethany would forgive him this time. She had been very specific about that last time. </span></div><span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><div><br />Oh, well, Jacob thought to himself. Might as well go take my lumps and be done with it. </div><div><br />When he arrived at Bethany’s house, the party was already in full swing. Several dozen people, none of whom Jacob knew, were milling about in the living room and dining room. The smokers had been banished to the patio and Jacob decided to join them. Maybe he could convince Bethany that he had not been late, but delayed by some chatty smoker on his way in. It was at least plausible. </div><br /><div><br />After making sure that Bethany was nowhere in sight, Jacob joined a small group of puffing guests in the midst of a deep debate. The trio, two men and a woman, made room for him, widening their circle without missing a beat in the conversation. </div><br /><div><br />“Personally, I think she’s quite mad,” said the woman.<br /></div><br /><div>“Well, she’s always been a bit eccentric, but I don’t know if I’d go so far as to say she’s crazy,” said the taller of the two men. </div><br /><div><br />“She isn’t eccentric at all. She just has a penchant for falling for the wrong kind of guy.” The shorter, more diplomatic man sipped a rum and coke. </div><br /><div><br />“Wrong kind of guy, indeed.” The woman gulped her own drink – a martini – and fingered a string of pearls that was draped across her ample bosom. “She’s a bloody nut bar, if you ask me.” </div><br /><div><br />“You’re just jealous,” said the short man. </div><br /><div><br />“Of what? Her imaginary boyfriend? I prefer my men to have flesh and blood, thank you very much.” The woman tossed back the last of her drink, abandoning the olive in the bottom of the glass. </div><br /><div><br />“What makes you think he isn’t real?” the tall man asked. </div><br /><div><br />“Do you see him anywhere?” countered the woman. She looked around as if seeking this unknown, unseen man of whom they were talking. “Well, do you?” </div><br /><div><br />The others looked around as well, the tall man, the short man and Jacob, though it was clear than none of them even knew who they were looking for. It seemed to Jacob to be a wasted effort, but he looked nonetheless. </div><br /><div><br />“How do you know he’s not here?” asked the short man, standing on tiptoes to get a better look. His eyes fell on Jacob. “I mean, this fellow here might be him.” He pointed at Jacob. </div><br /><div><br />“Are you?” the woman and the tall man asked in unison.<br /></div><br /><div>Jacob was taken aback for a moment. “It’s hard to say,” Jacob said. “I don’t know who you’re looking for.” </div><br /><div><br />“Neither do we,” said the tall man. </div><br /><div><br />“I see,” said Jacob. There seemed little else to say in the circumstances. </div><br /><div><br />“We’re looking for Bethany’s imaginary boyfriend,” the woman explained. “He’s supposed to be some sort of musician, but no one’s ever seen him. Apparently, he doesn’t even have a cell phone.”</div><div> </div><div><br />“Doesn’t believe in technology,” said the short man. “According to Bethany, he carries one of them silly pocket watches that went out of style about the time the dinosaurs died off.”<br /></div><br /><div>“Doesn’t own a computer. Doesn’t even drive!” the tall man said. “Bethany says that he lives off the grid.” </div><br /><div><br />“Whatever that means,” said the woman, shivering in revulsion. She lifted her empty glass and teased the olive into thinking it was going to be consumed, then changed her mind and let it fall back to the bottom of the glass again. </div><br /><div><br />“Well, if I see him anywhere, I’ll tell him you want to meet him,” Jacob said and backed away from the group. </div><br /><div><br />Through the patio doors, Jacob saw Bethany working the crowd inside. He stepped into the shadows under the eave next to an open window. He could hear Bethany talking. </div><br /><div><br />“I’m going to kill him,” she said. “I told him to be here by nine and it’s after nine-thirty.” </div><br /><div><br />“Why don’t you call him?” Someone suggested. </div><br /><div><br />“I would if I could,” said Bethany, “but he doesn’t have a phone.” </div><br /><div><br />“He doesn’t have a phone?” </div><br /><div><br />“Doesn’t believe in them.” </div><br /><div><br />“How can anyone not believe in phones?” </div><br /><div><br />“Well, he has a phone, but it’s only for emergencies.” </div><br /><div><br />“Serious? How do you get in touch with him?”<br /></div><br /><div>“We make arrangements when we’re together.” </div><br /><div><br />“That doesn’t sound very efficient.” </div><br /><div><br />“It’s not. It’s a bloody pain. I don’t know how many times he’s said he’d be somewhere and not shown up.” </div><br /><div><br />“Well, honey, I’d dump the clod if I were you.” </div><br /><div><br />“You think? This is the last straw. Next time I see him, I’m going to tell him that either he gets a phone so I can get hold of him or he gets lost.” </div><br /><div><br />“Good for you. Who needs a deadbeat like that anyway?” </div><br /><div><br />Jacob, having heard enough, moved away from the window and crossed the patio. He had to pass the trio who were still debating Bethany’s sanity. </div><br /><div><br />“Hey, bud,” the tall man called out to him, “Do you know what time it is?” </div><br /><div><br />Jacob stopped. “Sure,” he said, pulling his watch out of his pocket and holding it up so they could see it clearly. “It’s time to go.” </div><br /><div><br />They all stared open-mouthed at Jacob as he and his watch disappeared into the night.</span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com19