Political slash: Let's hope the Demos don't get carried away with their win. I for one want a moderate. I'm tired of extremists.
Doggy splash: Zippy gets his lumps of on Friday morning.
Fiction flash: Two (2) ebooks being published soon.
Sorrow's Field and Doors
so what do you think?
Thursday, November 2, 2006
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
The US election is getting close. I hope everyone who is eligible votes. I hope if anyone thinks there's a problem with voting that it's reported. Don't let anyone or anything tell you how to vote. We have to believe in the basic good of our fellow Americans and to believe that they will not sleep through this election. In my opinion as you all know I think there should be a rout of the clout-ers. The end of the reign and the end of the double deals and especially an end to the lies. Think about the facts -- the provable facts -- and act on them.
I think Wary Mary mishap's when he/she/it implied that dummies end up in Iraq. Bonehead can't get past the previously big event in his life. Don't go there.
Anyone with an ounce of sense knows that he meant Tushi but so what it came out danged crappy? And then he flayed
*(flay? /fle?/ Pronunciation Key - Show Spelled Pronunciation[fley] Pronunciation Key - Show IPA Pronunciation
Â?verb (used with object)
1. to strip off the skin or outer covering of.
2. to criticize or scold with scathing severity.
3. to deprive or strip of money or property.
himself by not coming around with a decent apology. Bah.
Let's look for the good, the bright and the true.
Poor Zippy. He's got a tumor on his leg and on his chest in his armpit. May have to have them taken off.
Read about it here: http://www.dogfocused.com/dog-health/
A good all around site.
Fiction flash:
What would you think if I told you there were giant green amoebas lurking in the dark? Would you believe me? Read my story not about amoebas but bony ghosts at Bewildering Stories.
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
http://www.RDLarson.com
http://www.kenseamedia.com/rdlarson/
I guess this comes under political flash but it's not about Republicans or Democrats. It's not about anything ordinary. This is a very scary thought and I thought you ought to know. If any community is closer (because we don't have time or language or personal barriers) it is the Internet community. Tell as many people as you can about this: CLICK ON the underlined words. Dying Earth
Our Planet is very sick and getting sicker. We all need to take care of it. Or there won't be any air, food or water.
http://www.kenseamedia.com/rdlarson/
I guess this comes under political flash but it's not about Republicans or Democrats. It's not about anything ordinary. This is a very scary thought and I thought you ought to know. If any community is closer (because we don't have time or language or personal barriers) it is the Internet community. Tell as many people as you can about this: CLICK ON the underlined words. Dying Earth
Our Planet is very sick and getting sicker. We all need to take care of it. Or there won't be any air, food or water.
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
Monday, October 16, 2006
My Water Bowl
A man and his dog were walking along a road.
The man was enjoying the scenery, when it suddenly occurred to him that he was dead. He remembered dying, and that the dog walking beside him had been dead for years.
He wondered where the road was leading them.
After a while, they came to a high, white stone wall along one side of the road. It looked like fine marble.
At the top of a long hill, it was broken by a tall arch that glowed in the sunlight.
When he was standing before it he saw a magnificent gate in the arch that looked like mother-of-pearl, and the street that led to the gate looked like pure gold.
He and the dog walked toward the gate, and as he got closer, he saw a man at a desk to one side.
When he was close enough, he called out, "Excuse me, where are we?"
"This is Heaven, sir," the man answered.
"Wow! Would you happen to have some water?" the man asked.
"Of course, sir. Come right in, and I'll have some ice water brought right up."
The man gestured, and the gate began to open.
"Can my friend," gesturing toward his dog, "come in, too?" the traveler asked.
"I'm sorry; sir, but we don't accept pets."
The man thought a moment and then turned back toward the road and continued the way he had been going with his dog.
After another long walk, and at the top of another long hill, he came to a dirt road leading through a farm gate that looked as if it had never been closed. There was no fence.
As he approached the gate, he saw a man inside, sitting by a camp fire under the tree.
"Excuse me!" he called to the man. "Do you hve any water?"
"Yeah, sure, there's a pump over there, come on in."
"How about my friend here?" the traveler gestured to the dog.
"There should be a bowl by the pump."
They went through the gate, and sure enough, there was an old-fashioned hand pump with a bowl beside it.
The traveler filled the water bowl and took a long drink himself, and then he gave some to the dog.
When they were full, he and the dog walked back toward the man who was sitting under the tree.
"What do you call this place?" the traveler asked.
"This is Heaven," he answered.
"Well, that's confusing," the traveler said. "The man down the road said that was Heaven, too."
"Oh, you mean the place with the Gold Street and pearly gates? Nope. That's hell."
"Doesn't it make you mad for them to use your name like that?"
"No, we're just happy that they screen out the folks who would leave their best friends behind."
Soooo...
Sometimes, we wonder why friends keep forwarding jokes to us with out writing a word.
Maybe this will explain.
When you are very busy, but still want to keep in touch, guess what you do? You forward jokes.
When you have nothing to say, but still want to keep contact, you forward jokes.
When you have something to say, but don't know what, and don't know how,
you forward jokes.
Also to let you know that you are still remembered, you are still
important, you are still loved, you are still cared for, guess what you
get? A forwarded joke.
So, next time if you get a joke, don't think that you've been sent just
another forwarded joke, but that you've been thought of today and your
friend on the other end of your computer wanted to send you a smile.
You are all welcome @ my water bowl anytime
WRITER @Large with flash BLOG
I don't know who wrote this but fellow writer Will Gray sent it on to me . . . .
I know you'll like it. If you know who wrote it, I will put their name to it.
A man and his dog were walking along a road.
The man was enjoying the scenery, when it suddenly occurred to him that he
was dead. He remembered dying, and that the dog walking beside him had been dead for years.
He wondered where the road was leading them.
After a while, they came to a high, white stone wall along one side of
the road. It looked like fine marble.
At the top of a long hill, it was broken by a tall arch that glowed in the
sunlight.
When he was standing before it he saw a magnificent gate in the arch that looked like mother-of-pearl, and the street that led to the gate looked like pure gold.
He and the dog walked toward the gate, and as he got closer, he saw a man
at a desk to one side.
When he was close enough, he called out, "Excuse me, where are we?"
"This is Heaven, sir," the man answered.
"Wow! Would you happen to have some water?" the man asked.
"Of course, sir. Come right in, and I'll have some ice water brought right up."
The man gestured, and the gate began to open.
"Can my friend," gesturing toward his dog, "come in, too?" the traveler asked.
"I'm sorry; sir, but we don't accept pets."
The man thought a moment and then turned back toward the road and
continued the way he had been going with his dog.
After another long walk, and at the top of another long hill, he came to
a dirt road leading through a farm gate that looked as if it had never been
closed. There was no fence.
As he approached the gate, he saw a man inside, sitting by a camp fire under the tree.
"Excuse me!" he called to the man. "Do you hve any water?"
"Yeah, sure, there's a pump over there, come on in."
"How about my friend here?" the traveler gestured to the dog.
"There should be a bowl by the pump."
They went through the gate, and sure enough, there was an old-fashioned
hand pump with a bowl beside it.
The traveler filled the water bowl and took a long drink himself, and then
he gave some to the dog.
When they were full, he and the dog walked back toward the man who was
sitting under the tree.
"What do you call this place?" the traveler asked.
"This is Heaven," he answered.
"Well, that's confusing," the traveler said. "The man down the road said that was Heaven, too."
"Oh, you mean the place with the Gold Street and
pearly gates? Nope. That's hell."
"Doesn't it make you mad for them to use your name like that?"
"No, we're just happy that they screen out the folks who would leave
their best friends behind."
Soooo...
Sometimes, we wonder why friends keep forwarding jokes to us with out writing a word.
Maybe this will explain.
When you are very busy, but still want to keep in touch, guess what you do? You forward jokes.
When you have nothing to say, but still want to keep contact, you forward jokes.
When you have something to say, but don't know what, and don't know how,
you forward jokes.
Also to let you know that you are still remembered, you are still
important, you are still loved, you are still cared for, guess what you
get? A forwarded joke.
So, next time if you get a joke, don't think that you've been sent just
another forwarded joke, but that you've been thought of today and your
friend on the other end of your computer wanted to send you a smile.
You are all welcome @ my water bowl anytime
www.RDLarson.com
www.RDLarson.blogspot.com
I don't know who wrote this but fellow writer Will Gray sent it on to me . . . .
I know you'll like it. If you know who wrote it, I will put their name to it.
My Water Bowl
A man and his dog were walking along a road.
The man was enjoying the scenery, when it suddenly occurred to him that he
was dead. He remembered dying, and that the dog walking beside him had been dead for years.
He wondered where the road was leading them.
After a while, they came to a high, white stone wall along one side of
the road. It looked like fine marble.
At the top of a long hill, it was broken by a tall arch that glowed in the
sunlight.
When he was standing before it he saw a magnificent gate in the arch that looked like mother-of-pearl, and the street that led to the gate looked like pure gold.
He and the dog walked toward the gate, and as he got closer, he saw a man
at a desk to one side.
When he was close enough, he called out, "Excuse me, where are we?"
"This is Heaven, sir," the man answered.
"Wow! Would you happen to have some water?" the man asked.
"Of course, sir. Come right in, and I'll have some ice water brought right up."
The man gestured, and the gate began to open.
"Can my friend," gesturing toward his dog, "come in, too?" the traveler asked.
"I'm sorry; sir, but we don't accept pets."
The man thought a moment and then turned back toward the road and
continued the way he had been going with his dog.
After another long walk, and at the top of another long hill, he came to
a dirt road leading through a farm gate that looked as if it had never been
closed. There was no fence.
As he approached the gate, he saw a man inside, sitting by a camp fire under the tree.
"Excuse me!" he called to the man. "Do you hve any water?"
"Yeah, sure, there's a pump over there, come on in."
"How about my friend here?" the traveler gestured to the dog.
"There should be a bowl by the pump."
They went through the gate, and sure enough, there was an old-fashioned
hand pump with a bowl beside it.
The traveler filled the water bowl and took a long drink himself, and then
he gave some to the dog.
When they were full, he and the dog walked back toward the man who was
sitting under the tree.
"What do you call this place?" the traveler asked.
"This is Heaven," he answered.
"Well, that's confusing," the traveler said. "The man down the road said that was Heaven, too."
"Oh, you mean the place with the Gold Street and
pearly gates? Nope. That's hell."
"Doesn't it make you mad for them to use your name like that?"
"No, we're just happy that they screen out the folks who would leave
their best friends behind."
Soooo...
Sometimes, we wonder why friends keep forwarding jokes to us with out writing a word.
Maybe this will explain.
When you are very busy, but still want to keep in touch, guess what you do? You forward jokes.
When you have nothing to say, but still want to keep contact, you forward jokes.
When you have something to say, but don't know what, and don't know how,
you forward jokes.
Also to let you know that you are still remembered, you are still
important, you are still loved, you are still cared for, guess what you
get? A forwarded joke.
So, next time if you get a joke, don't think that you've been sent just
another forwarded joke, but that you've been thought of today and your
friend on the other end of your computer wanted to send you a smile.
You are all welcome @ my water bowl anytime
www.RDLarson.blogspot.com
Friday, October 13, 2006
A Benign and Archaic Afterthought
Jack backed up against the wall as the four women closed in on him. Their fingers, twisted and ruined, reached out for his face. Fingernails, broken and dirty, scratched his cheeks and lips. He spread his trembling black wings against the ancient mossy bricks
The four women caught him trying to steal the Infant. His capture would ensure their control of the Drownaught Citadel. Jack knew his mission; his calling would be the only one for this rare occurrence. The Deity did not spend much time anymore on little things like new babies. Not since, the incorporation of The Belief. The Deity had appointed CEO's, CFO's, and numerous high-ranking religious executives. All events programmed and directed years in advance left no chance of error or success of a barely remembered ritual from long ago. A Black Angel on a mission had now become a benign and archaic afterthought.
Jack compelled his mind to focus.
The witches guarded the most recently developed Infant sent from the Starship with their usual fanaticism. They remembered only their old ways, wanting everything to stay the same. They snickered in derision when Jack appeared to take the Infant up to the Beyond.
“Here you are again, Jack. Stupid of them to send you. Why don’t you stay with your manuscripts, fool?” The oldest crone of the witches leered at him. Snot, green and jellied, hung from her nostrils and her fetid stench surrounded him. Jack gagged, his reflex action giving the four hoary women a reason to snigger as they probed at him with their fingers. One, a pale moon of a witch, pinched his stomach and ripped a feather from his wing.
“Ouch! That really hurts.” Jack’s eyes flashed a sudden temper. He tired of patience being a virtue and didn‘t care that the Saints declared patience as ‘appropriate behavior.’ He rubbed his palms along the ancient mossy bricks behind him as his wings throbbed in time to his heartbeat.
“Tut, tut, Jack,” said Uzia. She laughed with a great quake of her flesh, some of it bouncing against his chest and stomach. Jack sucked in his breath.
His glare turned icy
“I will succeed. This time.” He spit the words into the void of their souls. Cackles rent the chill in the air.
“Want to see the baby you can’t save?” Hertia smiled her twisted snarl. Her fingers slid over him like a blind person memorizing the nubs on a spring tree.
“Oh, sure,” Jack said. “Why not? At least I will see the Infant whom I seek.”
They pointed to the arched doorway behind them. With their warped fingers bent like claws, they gesticulated toward the nursery that Jack remembered from his last Mission in 2YK.
Jack lifted his wings, suspending them over the heads of jeering women. The muted shadow cast by his delicate wings spread over their tangled hair and warty countenances.
Jack could not tell if they shrank back from his wing shadow. They appeared to spread apart as with any flock, even as with any coven. He pulled himself up to his greatest height with his bright blue eyes staring intently ahead at the Incubating Ovasphere.
As he stepped forward the group of four pressed against him, touching, feeling his living warmth. Their stink raised bile again in his throat so that he breathed through his flared nostrils. They moved as one toward the opening of curved stones. T he Citadel was thousands of years old and a sparse remnant of past victories. Directly through the arch a blazing fire spiraled. The depth of the caverns beneath Drownaught Citadel muted the hum of medieval machines.
As they arrived at the doorway, the four women slowed so that Jack might lower his head to step under the stone arch. Then swift as osprey the women flew after him, their tongues clacking and sucking in their soggy old mouths.
The baby, part human, part animal, part Deity, rested in the Ovasphere. Curled in a fetal snail shape, its smallness seemed insignificant. A blank unidentified face and unformed appendages lay folded close to the body. Jack knew that this living child could be the imprint from which future evolutionary humans could develop.
What could he do? After all, he forgave himself ahead of time, he was only a black angel of the fourth Regiment of De La Weir, the enigmatic legion of scribes and scholars trying if vainly to keep the histories of the peoples and the animals up to date, in 5KY, Year of Our Deity.
His mind flittered along the skulls of the witches, feeling the depths of their powers. A slight tugging at Iria made his mind stop, and touch it with sightless thoughts, finding the raw crack along the seam in her head. A small but willing split, he thought, stepping closer to the child.
Iria stood to his left, a shapeless, formless thing of lies and evil. Jack took his rapier of brain light and touched her open cleft, unseen below her matted hair. He stepped nearer to the Star Child. It’s eyes flew open and the tiny mouth released a single cry.
Jack twisted the brain-light rapier with his mind and Iria fell. Blood and gray matter spilled slowly like smoke from the tiny crack below her hair. Uzia gasped. She grabbed Iria‘s arm as the witch flayed in death spasms.
Motionless, Daret raised her pocked face, orange in the firelight, to face him. Her eyes burned into his, analyzing his strategy to save the Star Infant. Her mouth opened in rage and her small sharp teeth chewed at his flesh. Jack, his wings spreading behind him, felt fury pouring into his heart. He raised the wings until they were a dark camber over the snarling witch.
With a single beating from the wings, he crushed her. The two remaining witches took up their armor of curses. He was ready for them. Before they could chant a word or think a thought, he flashed again above them. The wings thrashed and churned in the stone room of the witches’ citadel. Again, Jack’s black wings maimed and killed the heretics.
The child’s face turned to him, with large eyes knowing everything.
“A failure. Black Angel, you must use transformation of will and not force to terminate such wicked creatures. Such denizens end not from murder but from conversion. You have released me only to make me prisoner of the past.”
Weeping silver tears, Jack bore up the wee Star Infant in his arms, as his great black wings drove them upward to Beyond. Perhaps, just perhaps, a plan had been phased in for the Star Infant’s survival.
Thursday, October 5, 2006
http://www.RDLarson.com My Web Site
Political Slash
Lit Mouse
Political Dilemma
Oh say can you see Tushi Bushi at Lake Troubled Waters, making paper boats? Then setting the little boats afloat with a mouse and lit candle? I can and do. See above. Of course on all the little boats with the little mice he scribbled a hint to his thoughts. Political Dilemma – what's the litmus test of this?
Political Dilemma
Oh say can you see Tushi Bushi at Lake Troubled Waters, making paper boats? Then setting the little boats afloat with a mouse and lit candle? I can and do. See above. Of course on all the little boats with the little mice he scribbled a hint to his thoughts. Political Dilemma – what's the litmus test of this?
Doggie Splash
When you have a dog you have to take care of them. Zippy has a tooth problem and he will have to have dental work. It's not cheap, but he's more than worth it. What is important is that we treat them right, even if it means charging it to the credit card and not buying latte's for a month. Ya' know he's my little friend!
Fiction Flash
Sweet Revenge
By
RD Larson
I have to kill her before she kills me. I hear her car stop out front. My husband is her lover. I hear her heels on the marble entry. She’s coming up the stairs now. I’m standing here . . . third floor. . .behind the door.
She’s three steps from me. I step in front of her. Face to face.
“Surprise!” She is unprepared to see me. I grab her face in my hands.
I fling her hard against me as I jerk her head, twisting her neck. My sister smashes into a banister, and then grabs my wrist with awful force, as we both plummet on to marble floor below.
If I live. It‘s my only thought.
When I wake from my coma in a hospital ward, I know I've survived. But my sister? Did she live? I find I cannot speak or move.
My sister and her new husband, my husband, come on Sundays to visit me now. I sit in my wheelchair, drooling and helpless. They don't know that I recognize them.
That should be my child she is holding. My husband should remember I carry a grudge forever. She should remember that.
I’m waiting to kill her sometime.
end
Sunday, October 1, 2006
So Windword has a new book out? Deep Ear told him all about it. Let's hope he doesn't disappear as did Mike Moooooore. Ya'll be careful out there, the captain use to say on Hill Street Blues.
Major damage control a-going on. Click here to read article.
So if Rummy wanted to quit twice and wasn't allowed to do so, I wonder how that affects his state of committment. http://www.alertnet.org/thenews/newsdesk/N01226604.htm
Justice: Rules of the Road -- Grim Adult Story Audio! at www.footstepstooxford.com
http://www.footstepstooxford.co.uk/Justice_Rules_of_the_Road.mp3
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
Remember what Jack Nicolson said in Mars Attacks?
"Why can't we all just get along?"
These are Teedoo's visiting dogs and her cat. Gives us all something to strive for, don't you think? And yeah they are pitbulls.
Absolutely Gutted is up at www.BewilderingStories.com for your entertainmen. I wrote it yes! It's about little evil doers and a big kid!
Sunday, September 24, 2006
http://www.rdlarson.blogspot.com/
Why is this war being turned into a religious war? It's not right and it should never be right. Fanatics here and there are choosing sides. Supposed Christians are supporting 'torture'? I don't think that makes sense. If Iran has nuclear weapons, what does Israel have? Why is Tushi Bushi being called hate names? Could he be wrong?
For five years we've had to live with escalation of rhetoric and threats.
Do you think this is right? What? Has everybody gone nuts? Why aren't you complaining? Texas has oil. So think about how all of this might fit? Do you think we are one-celled entities in God's bloodstream? Flowing to where we are going? Or do we have a voice, a will? So many people are not committing themselves to a political point of view. It's almost as if they are afraid. And THAT is scary, really scary.
Turn this in your mind. Thought and speech and comprehension develop us. It keeps us alive. What if we can think when we're dead, an energy spark of thought? Better use it.
Some American people are pretty trashy. They say anything and do anything. No wonder other nations think we're clowns or worse. Understanding and consideration of others can go along way to negotiate peace.
Feel your passion, think your own thoughts and vote your heart in the coming election.
Have you been to www.moveon.org? Go and find something to read there.
I wish you enough of all that you need. But most of all I wish you love and strength.
Why is this war being turned into a religious war? It's not right and it should never be right. Fanatics here and there are choosing sides. Supposed Christians are supporting 'torture'? I don't think that makes sense. If Iran has nuclear weapons, what does Israel have? Why is Tushi Bushi being called hate names? Could he be wrong?
For five years we've had to live with escalation of rhetoric and threats.
Do you think this is right? What? Has everybody gone nuts? Why aren't you complaining? Texas has oil. So think about how all of this might fit? Do you think we are one-celled entities in God's bloodstream? Flowing to where we are going? Or do we have a voice, a will? So many people are not committing themselves to a political point of view. It's almost as if they are afraid. And THAT is scary, really scary.
Turn this in your mind. Thought and speech and comprehension develop us. It keeps us alive. What if we can think when we're dead, an energy spark of thought? Better use it.
Some American people are pretty trashy. They say anything and do anything. No wonder other nations think we're clowns or worse. Understanding and consideration of others can go along way to negotiate peace.
Feel your passion, think your own thoughts and vote your heart in the coming election.
Have you been to www.moveon.org? Go and find something to read there.
I wish you enough of all that you need. But most of all I wish you love and strength.
Friday, September 1, 2006
WRITER @Large with flash BLOG
Dumb and Dumber! The NEWS? Karr and Jeffs? No kidding! What a couple of losers. Anyone who reads the future Karr book should have to pay double taxes in order to cut court and travel costs he incurred. And Jeffs? He's a joke and a bad one at that. Isn't he the guy in the male enhancement ad? Without glasses? What is he trying to prove? Maybe that white people can out-breed people of color? Dumbest!
My little dog is such a sweetie. He tries to make me go to bed early. He comes and sits by me; then gets up turns around and barks. The he runs to the bedroom and sit in the middle of the bed, expecting me to hop in. No wonder he's tired. He takes long walks with me every day, investigating grass and twigs and new smells.
Flash Sci-Fi
Wc 996
Void Space
By
RD Larson
Matt didn’t care what the survival rate was when he joined IP’s Altitude Support of Mars Extrude 5 Gusher. Desperate, the blonde part-time hologram actor signed on, easily passing the physical. He didn’t think he had contributed much to the world in his 34 years. A bitter divorce left him depressed. His heart slowly healed with the grueling work on International Petroleum Oil support team as Altitude Monkey for Extrude 5, the top rated of wells.
He didn’t think about it but people were burned or frozen to death, depending on what side of Mars that the International Petroleum Support Sky-Ship berthed. A sudden slip or an explosion occurred often. The Sup-Ship carried 40 men living and working together for 14 days before replaced by a new team, which were women for the next 14 days.
Roustabouts and roughnecks, working at the entry level, lived in a bio-sphere a half mile from Extrude 5. They pretty much kept to themselves and left the Extrude 5 Rig Officers alone.
The only women Matt saw were the other crew members as they came on for the women's shift. One crewmember in particular became a friend. Jala, an athletic and pretty New Yorker, had worked for only eight shifts at the IP Skylab Support craft.
When the carrier ship bringing the women to the site arrived, Matt knew they would spend one day when the two teams would exchange data and inspect the grid, before the male crew headed back to Earth. Matt planned to make a future date with Jala. With a 5-day pass on Earth; if Jala could schedule the same period, they could go on a short resort vacation.
Even though the crew maintained the rig, when the new team arrived, there was a twelve-hour overlay, where the new crew worked with the old crew on hot spots on the grid 800 meters above the well. Because of the weight ratio on Mars, the scaffolding had to be bonded Alpha-Titanium and Nano-Carbon Fibers. The beams over the grid that supported the equipment became loose or even swung free after one of the frequent earthquakes. Teams of two, one from the old team and one from the new team, would work together to spot weaknesses. Ten teams of two walked the girders in an 8 kilometers quadrant.
“I’m glad to see you, Jala,” Matt said, hugging Jala in the mess hall. She nodded.
Twenty out of the eighty people were assigned the perimeter grid checking. Matt was not surprised when his name was called. He stood at the back of the room, watching Jala. She smiled at him. Her name was called so she came up to stand by Matt. The grid support team split into partners. Then they walked down the corridor toward the Void Space Bay where the thermo-density suits were stored.
The effort of putting on the heavy insulated suits left them winded and hot. They waited for the cool air to pump in. With the other eighteen people, they rode a flat car out to the rim of the SkyLab Support Ship wall. Matt and Jala stepped into the Void Space Decomp-Chamber #2 that decompressed their body weight to a movable level out of the space ship. Their heart rates dropped significantly. They strapped on the magnetic boots that kept them on the grid. Even with the boots, a safety line of strong fiber tethered them to each other and to the grid with its slipknot loop.
Each time a pair went out to inspect the grid, the risk went up. The spaceship was not susceptible to earthquakes; they caused severe damage on the ground and on the grid above well. Each man and woman knew that they held to life only with boots and a thread. Some loved the danger, but Matt did not.
As they entered Port 814 he took Jala’s hand and said, “Back on Earth, let’s get away to a resort together. Just us.”
“Okay. Sounds good.” Then they turned on their headphones and stepped out on to the grid.
Below them lay the red planet with its crevasses and pitted dust from meteor strikes. To the left the bio-hut village was barely visible. They began the 5 kilometer trek along their route on G814 until G815.
Jala gave a shout, as she seemed to dance ahead of Matt on the steel grid. Earthquake. Matt snagged up the safety line looping it around the H shaped hook welded to the grid beam.
Jala grinned and gave thumbs up as they held for a minute. Just as Matt was loosening the safety line there was a great shake and both of them slid off the beam. Dangling by the thread-like cable, they twirled above the planet floor.
Jala’s smaller size gave her a more violent swing. Then an aftershock. Matt radioed the Medic Team as he began to edge toward her. There was blood on her faceplate.
Matt edged hand over hand along the safety line toward Jala. Then he caught her shoulder and pulled her against him, stopping her spin. He glanced at her face. Her nose was bleeding.
“Hey over here.” Matt shouted into his speaker. “High blood pressure; stress fractures.”
The two medics edged a board out to them and Matt pulled himself up on the grid beam. Holding tight he helped them pull Jala up and strap her to the board. They took her back through the Port Hole just as another quake shook the entire grid. Matt held tight and rode the wave.
As he entered Port Hole 814, he saw the medic start an IV on Jala. He went to her.
“You saved my life,” she whispered.
“You’ve got to come away with me, then,” he whispered back.
They grinned and Jala was carried to the medical center.
This is my last tour of service on the Mars Grid for Extrude 5, Matt decided.
Dumb and Dumber! The NEWS? Karr and Jeffs? No kidding! What a couple of losers. Anyone who reads the future Karr book should have to pay double taxes in order to cut court and travel costs he incurred. And Jeffs? He's a joke and a bad one at that. Isn't he the guy in the male enhancement ad? Without glasses? What is he trying to prove? Maybe that white people can out-breed people of color? Dumbest!
My little dog is such a sweetie. He tries to make me go to bed early. He comes and sits by me; then gets up turns around and barks. The he runs to the bedroom and sit in the middle of the bed, expecting me to hop in. No wonder he's tired. He takes long walks with me every day, investigating grass and twigs and new smells.
Flash Sci-Fi
Wc 996
Void Space
By
RD Larson
Matt didn’t care what the survival rate was when he joined IP’s Altitude Support of Mars Extrude 5 Gusher. Desperate, the blonde part-time hologram actor signed on, easily passing the physical. He didn’t think he had contributed much to the world in his 34 years. A bitter divorce left him depressed. His heart slowly healed with the grueling work on International Petroleum Oil support team as Altitude Monkey for Extrude 5, the top rated of wells.
He didn’t think about it but people were burned or frozen to death, depending on what side of Mars that the International Petroleum Support Sky-Ship berthed. A sudden slip or an explosion occurred often. The Sup-Ship carried 40 men living and working together for 14 days before replaced by a new team, which were women for the next 14 days.
Roustabouts and roughnecks, working at the entry level, lived in a bio-sphere a half mile from Extrude 5. They pretty much kept to themselves and left the Extrude 5 Rig Officers alone.
The only women Matt saw were the other crew members as they came on for the women's shift. One crewmember in particular became a friend. Jala, an athletic and pretty New Yorker, had worked for only eight shifts at the IP Skylab Support craft.
When the carrier ship bringing the women to the site arrived, Matt knew they would spend one day when the two teams would exchange data and inspect the grid, before the male crew headed back to Earth. Matt planned to make a future date with Jala. With a 5-day pass on Earth; if Jala could schedule the same period, they could go on a short resort vacation.
Even though the crew maintained the rig, when the new team arrived, there was a twelve-hour overlay, where the new crew worked with the old crew on hot spots on the grid 800 meters above the well. Because of the weight ratio on Mars, the scaffolding had to be bonded Alpha-Titanium and Nano-Carbon Fibers. The beams over the grid that supported the equipment became loose or even swung free after one of the frequent earthquakes. Teams of two, one from the old team and one from the new team, would work together to spot weaknesses. Ten teams of two walked the girders in an 8 kilometers quadrant.
“I’m glad to see you, Jala,” Matt said, hugging Jala in the mess hall. She nodded.
Twenty out of the eighty people were assigned the perimeter grid checking. Matt was not surprised when his name was called. He stood at the back of the room, watching Jala. She smiled at him. Her name was called so she came up to stand by Matt. The grid support team split into partners. Then they walked down the corridor toward the Void Space Bay where the thermo-density suits were stored.
The effort of putting on the heavy insulated suits left them winded and hot. They waited for the cool air to pump in. With the other eighteen people, they rode a flat car out to the rim of the SkyLab Support Ship wall. Matt and Jala stepped into the Void Space Decomp-Chamber #2 that decompressed their body weight to a movable level out of the space ship. Their heart rates dropped significantly. They strapped on the magnetic boots that kept them on the grid. Even with the boots, a safety line of strong fiber tethered them to each other and to the grid with its slipknot loop.
Each time a pair went out to inspect the grid, the risk went up. The spaceship was not susceptible to earthquakes; they caused severe damage on the ground and on the grid above well. Each man and woman knew that they held to life only with boots and a thread. Some loved the danger, but Matt did not.
As they entered Port 814 he took Jala’s hand and said, “Back on Earth, let’s get away to a resort together. Just us.”
“Okay. Sounds good.” Then they turned on their headphones and stepped out on to the grid.
Below them lay the red planet with its crevasses and pitted dust from meteor strikes. To the left the bio-hut village was barely visible. They began the 5 kilometer trek along their route on G814 until G815.
Jala gave a shout, as she seemed to dance ahead of Matt on the steel grid. Earthquake. Matt snagged up the safety line looping it around the H shaped hook welded to the grid beam.
Jala grinned and gave thumbs up as they held for a minute. Just as Matt was loosening the safety line there was a great shake and both of them slid off the beam. Dangling by the thread-like cable, they twirled above the planet floor.
Jala’s smaller size gave her a more violent swing. Then an aftershock. Matt radioed the Medic Team as he began to edge toward her. There was blood on her faceplate.
Matt edged hand over hand along the safety line toward Jala. Then he caught her shoulder and pulled her against him, stopping her spin. He glanced at her face. Her nose was bleeding.
“Hey over here.” Matt shouted into his speaker. “High blood pressure; stress fractures.”
The two medics edged a board out to them and Matt pulled himself up on the grid beam. Holding tight he helped them pull Jala up and strap her to the board. They took her back through the Port Hole just as another quake shook the entire grid. Matt held tight and rode the wave.
As he entered Port Hole 814, he saw the medic start an IV on Jala. He went to her.
“You saved my life,” she whispered.
“You’ve got to come away with me, then,” he whispered back.
They grinned and Jala was carried to the medical center.
This is my last tour of service on the Mars Grid for Extrude 5, Matt decided.
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
WRITER @Large with flash BLOG
Have you been thinking about the victims of Katrina? Not that much any more? Me either. Shame on us. Shame shame on us. There are still thousands and thousands of people suffering and it doesn't seem like much is being done to help them. Watch this documentary on HBO. You have to, you simply have to do it. I couldn't watch all of it but I will. I couldn't watch because my heart was hurting for those folks, those suffering folks, the ones we see in the film and all the ones we don't see. They could be our brothers or sisters, our mothers and fathers. They are our families, just as sure as this is our planet and our nation. We must do more, demand more and pray for more for those who have lost so much. I tell you that the woman who died in the dome could have been my own mother; when I saw her sitting there, dead, in a wheelchair, a blanket over her head -- I knew it could have easily been my own mother. This is what I thought when it was happening on CNN. The horror of the storm is truly the aftermath, the indifference to the people who suffered and are still suffering. I think Spike Lee has done a great and beautiful tribute truth-telling with this film. I hope it makes us all closer and makes us all reach out to our brothers and sisters -- the family of mankind.
Watch: When The Levee Broke: A Requiem in Four Acts, on HBO Aug. 21-22 (Part 1 and 2), at 8 p.m. The whole four hours will be shown in its entirely on Aug. 29, at 7 p.m. http://www.hbo.com/
READ MORE; LEARN MORE: http://www.hbo.com/docs/programs/whentheleveesbroke/?ntrack_para1=feat_main_text
Sunday, August 20, 2006
WRITER @Large with flash BLOG
Don't be letting everyone and everything run your life. Take it from me that's a dumb thing to do. I'm not saying don't be fair; but don't be a door mat either. Do your duty but keep in mind when enough is enough.
Don't let your temper mess with your life. It can cause chaos as well as disease. Get it? Dis ease means you're not at ease. Stay away from toxic people. Some people aren't worth your time if they make you feel bad or put down. Appreciate their different parts from you but separate yourself from the jerks that jerk your chain.
That includes you dog. If you dog has a habit you can't stand, get in his face and block him from doing it. It might take fifty times because he's a dog but he will get it if you are just calm about it. If he can't get over it and you can't stand it, give him a chance at another home or go to a trainer or re-train yourself.
I couldn't stand it when Zippy hurt his front leg. He's short and when he jumped off of the bed or the couch when he got to be about nine years old, he would hurt his front leg. So I taught him to bark so I could lift him down. Sometimes it's a pain to go and get him down but it sure isn't the pain it was for me to see him limping . I always think, what if it were me? What if I were on the house and every time I jumped down, I jammed my ankles up to my arm pits? Well it didn't hurt when I was a kid. (rubber ankles?) It would hurt now. So that's what I think.
Don't watch the news too much; you'll get neurotic. Remember they are only selling air time for which the sponsors paid. Figure out the target audience by the ads.
Have fun, okay? Heck why not? It's a new week!!!!!!
Oh and buy my book: LQQK Here!
Don't be letting everyone and everything run your life. Take it from me that's a dumb thing to do. I'm not saying don't be fair; but don't be a door mat either. Do your duty but keep in mind when enough is enough.
Don't let your temper mess with your life. It can cause chaos as well as disease. Get it? Dis ease means you're not at ease. Stay away from toxic people. Some people aren't worth your time if they make you feel bad or put down. Appreciate their different parts from you but separate yourself from the jerks that jerk your chain.
That includes you dog. If you dog has a habit you can't stand, get in his face and block him from doing it. It might take fifty times because he's a dog but he will get it if you are just calm about it. If he can't get over it and you can't stand it, give him a chance at another home or go to a trainer or re-train yourself.
I couldn't stand it when Zippy hurt his front leg. He's short and when he jumped off of the bed or the couch when he got to be about nine years old, he would hurt his front leg. So I taught him to bark so I could lift him down. Sometimes it's a pain to go and get him down but it sure isn't the pain it was for me to see him limping . I always think, what if it were me? What if I were on the house and every time I jumped down, I jammed my ankles up to my arm pits? Well it didn't hurt when I was a kid. (rubber ankles?) It would hurt now. So that's what I think.
Don't watch the news too much; you'll get neurotic. Remember they are only selling air time for which the sponsors paid. Figure out the target audience by the ads.
Have fun, okay? Heck why not? It's a new week!!!!!!
Oh and buy my book: LQQK Here!
Friday, August 18, 2006
WRITER @Large with flash BLOG
I'm disgusted -- both CNN and FOX have fallen down on international news to follow a supposed killer arrested in Thailand. Of course, it's a horrible horrible murder. But then so are the deaths of the war victims, drought/famine victims, the people who died young and so on. These news channels are getting more and more like the Sun and the National Enquirer. Why? why? why? Why? Are we more and more stupid? Are we less able to hear the truth? Oh and by the way didya hear Tushi Bushi disagrees with the Judge on wiretapping? Un-huh? Who makes the laws? Who interprets the laws?
I am suffering from NES -- night eating syndrome. And so is Zippy. We're going to have to tie the fridge door shut and padlock it.
Viva la Resolution! Solve the Conflict! Negotiate the Truth!
I'm disgusted -- both CNN and FOX have fallen down on international news to follow a supposed killer arrested in Thailand. Of course, it's a horrible horrible murder. But then so are the deaths of the war victims, drought/famine victims, the people who died young and so on. These news channels are getting more and more like the Sun and the National Enquirer. Why? why? why? Why? Are we more and more stupid? Are we less able to hear the truth? Oh and by the way didya hear Tushi Bushi disagrees with the Judge on wiretapping? Un-huh? Who makes the laws? Who interprets the laws?
I am suffering from NES -- night eating syndrome. And so is Zippy. We're going to have to tie the fridge door shut and padlock it.
Viva la Resolution! Solve the Conflict! Negotiate the Truth!
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
WRITER @Large with flash BLOG
We hear a lot about terrorists and that sort of thing. I wonder have they heard of the Kevorkian Death Squads? People over seventy with a terminal disease are infiltrating such camps in hopes of stopping the wars. They are the mothers and fathers of the warriors that are fighting. They mostly just want the world to be a safe place, for everyone to play nice and take turns. They don't care if there's religious difference or a color difference and they certainly don't care about a sexual preference. These wild hood better look out because when the Kevorkian Death Squads show up, there will be hell on earth and hell to pay. The mission of this group is to stop people from acting like spoiled brats and smarty pants know-it-alls. And they aren't afraid to take their cause to the limit. See that the word gets around, Faux and SEEENDEND TV.
Bush and Quayle shood link up just because of their names.
Bin Laden should talk to the dahlia Lama.
Unmarried mothers should try marriage with the fathers of their kids.
Allergy medicine is for people with allergies.
Plastic never goes away. Think how much we use.
Which would you rather have more of, water or air?
When worst comes to worst, which would you rather eat, root vegetables or insects?
Would you plan a holiday if there weren't a designated one? SO DO IT before SUMMER ends.
Give your dog ice water on a hot day. And don't dress him up. Too hot. If you dress up your dog in hot clothes, he will force you to sleep next to him the next hot night in K9 revenge.
Get a low cost hobby. Help some one out. Remember friends.
Pick up after yourself. Eat ice cream. Give the dog vanilla.
Okay so much for my advice. Do what you want. But I'll know. Even if no one else does.
We hear a lot about terrorists and that sort of thing. I wonder have they heard of the Kevorkian Death Squads? People over seventy with a terminal disease are infiltrating such camps in hopes of stopping the wars. They are the mothers and fathers of the warriors that are fighting. They mostly just want the world to be a safe place, for everyone to play nice and take turns. They don't care if there's religious difference or a color difference and they certainly don't care about a sexual preference. These wild hood better look out because when the Kevorkian Death Squads show up, there will be hell on earth and hell to pay. The mission of this group is to stop people from acting like spoiled brats and smarty pants know-it-alls. And they aren't afraid to take their cause to the limit. See that the word gets around, Faux and SEEENDEND TV.
Bush and Quayle shood link up just because of their names.
Bin Laden should talk to the dahlia Lama.
Unmarried mothers should try marriage with the fathers of their kids.
Allergy medicine is for people with allergies.
Plastic never goes away. Think how much we use.
Which would you rather have more of, water or air?
When worst comes to worst, which would you rather eat, root vegetables or insects?
Would you plan a holiday if there weren't a designated one? SO DO IT before SUMMER ends.
Give your dog ice water on a hot day. And don't dress him up. Too hot. If you dress up your dog in hot clothes, he will force you to sleep next to him the next hot night in K9 revenge.
Get a low cost hobby. Help some one out. Remember friends.
Pick up after yourself. Eat ice cream. Give the dog vanilla.
Okay so much for my advice. Do what you want. But I'll know. Even if no one else does.
Thursday, August 10, 2006
http://rdlarson.blogspot.com/
Hi! I'm sure that you all remember last year when I had a detached retina in the left eye. This year, almost to the date, I had a cataract develop on the injured eye. I'm now recovered from that. I have learned that a cataract is common to grow over the lens of eye that sustains a retina detachment. I was lucky and had good surgeons both times. Needless to say, I gave them copies of my books. But also I have hit a milestone. I have found two of my books in a second hand book store. I believe that there is some kind of award for being so well known as a writer that you find your own books in a second hand book store.
Zippy is still a puppy. I know the dog whisperer would NOT like this, but Zippy thinks its fun to hold a dog cookie in his mouth and growl. If my hubby acts like he's going to take it, Zippy growls and chews it up. Dogs are as smart as we think they are, right?
What about the last news? Do you feel like you're living a movie yet? I do -- a TV show - THE SURREAL Life! AL Kiddeo sending jelly glogs across the sea? Is it possible? Why would they do that? I think we should not give them so much press. Remember when outlaws were scorned? Shunned? Ignored! It's past time for that -- but we do need to have a strong defense and security system that works.
Hi! I'm sure that you all remember last year when I had a detached retina in the left eye. This year, almost to the date, I had a cataract develop on the injured eye. I'm now recovered from that. I have learned that a cataract is common to grow over the lens of eye that sustains a retina detachment. I was lucky and had good surgeons both times. Needless to say, I gave them copies of my books. But also I have hit a milestone. I have found two of my books in a second hand book store. I believe that there is some kind of award for being so well known as a writer that you find your own books in a second hand book store.
Zippy is still a puppy. I know the dog whisperer would NOT like this, but Zippy thinks its fun to hold a dog cookie in his mouth and growl. If my hubby acts like he's going to take it, Zippy growls and chews it up. Dogs are as smart as we think they are, right?
What about the last news? Do you feel like you're living a movie yet? I do -- a TV show - THE SURREAL Life! AL Kiddeo sending jelly glogs across the sea? Is it possible? Why would they do that? I think we should not give them so much press. Remember when outlaws were scorned? Shunned? Ignored! It's past time for that -- but we do need to have a strong defense and security system that works.
Tuesday, August 8, 2006
WRITER @Large with flash BLOG
In the introduction to the first post-9/11 National Security Strategy released by the White House in the Autumn of 2001, before going on to describe a policy agenda of violence, hatred and perpetual war, Bush made it eminently clear that under his regime “as a matter of common sense and self-defence, America will act against . . . emerging threats before they are fully formed.” This is of course an underpinning theme of the “Project for a New American Century” (PNAC)'s longstanding viewpoint on strategy, but as one writer presciently pointed out, “one problem with this view lies in the risk of a government manufacturing a case for a pre-emptive war when it actually has other motives for going to war.”
He has said it so much better than I ever could. Peace to you.
Tuesday, August 1, 2006
WRITER @Large with flash BLOG
retirw nosraL DR.rohtua eht yb seirots dna skoob ,noitamrofni serutaef hcihw nosraL DR retirw eht ot detacided etis A
LOL
Don't you feel sorry for the people in the mideast? What a tragedy! This war is against many for a few -- that's not democracy. Or is it? Does democracy only relate to the democrats? And are the republicans really for the republic? So then do they know about separation of church and state? What is better, an unwanted baby or the morning after pill? What about people who get high or drunk and make it with someone they hardly know? Who gets the baby? Do you have any idea how many babies are up for adoption world-wide? And if they are older? You know what happens to them. Everyone loves a cute little baby but guess what they grow up? Kids take money, time, love and sacrifice in order to grow up to be worthwhile adults.
I think Mel Gibson should marry that Coppel woman and be a big-a-mist than he already is. He's a joke; there was all that stuff about his anti-Semitic father, the incidences in The Passion of the Christ and now this. Hmmm? Back to Thunderdrome, Smelly Melly.
Also, what is wrong with Tushi Busi that he doesn't have "Christian sympathy and empathy for those Lebanese who lost children in a misguide (?) rocket? At least he should have enough brains to say that he regrets that horrible event. My heart goes out to everyone who has lost a loved one, here, there and everywhere. Doesn't yours?
Peace starts with you and me. Spend a moment just making yourself feel at peace. At peace with yourself and with your world. Tell yourself (and I will tell myself) that you are a peaceful person and you want to spread the thought of peace. Affirm that thought and it will come into being.
Kidlink No More War
Sunday, July 30, 2006
WRITER @Large with flash BLOG
She journeyed to New Duryea to start a new life. The death of her parents from influenza had been devastating for Bethany and her sister. Almost as wrenching she had to let Catherine live with Aunt Elena. She had no way to support and feed a ten-year-old girl.
Aunt Elena had contacted her friends asking for a position for Bethany. A solicitor friend of her parents, a man who had known the family during their travels in Romania, had responded saying his great nephew lived at New Duryea Bay. The nephew was a writer of some reputation and needed a secretary for answering mail and tending to other matters, allowing him freedom to write. Bethany wrote immediately to Cleveland Gibson listing her accomplishments and reasons for wanting the job. There was no answer for two weeks. Then this terse note. Please come.
Bethany rode on the new Scottish Flyer to Glasgow and then onto New Duryea Bay. She gave a great intake of breath when the smell of the sea indicated that she had reached the end of land. When the train arrived at the station no one was waiting for her. The building was shut.
She stood at the edge of the mud flats looking across the bay. A fishing boat drifted landward, its work for the day finished. The inky water spread endlessly beyond the curve of the bay. The far away lands on the other side of the ocean weren’t there. Not really. Just empty endless ocean. The only world that mattered was this little spit of shore and bay.
She began to walk along the main street. A half of a dozen shops on either side seemingly had whatever a person could want. Bethany saw women glance at her but none of them spoke. Finally, she went in to the Grocer’s.
“Hello, I’m Bethany Delaine and I’ve taken a position with Mr. Cleveland Gibson. Have you seen him in town or do you know where he lives?”
“Good heavens, that tightwad’s finally hired more help. Well, you won’t like him, Miss Delaine. Gibson’s got pots of money — buys nothing. And pays nothing for his help. He won that literature prize some years back — they made a famous movie out of his book,” rattled the chubby grocer. “You don’t look strong enough to clean that big old house, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
“I’m to be his secretary, sir,” Bethany said.
“To be sure, you are. I can see that now. Well, that is his house up the road — see there? — bathed in sunlight it is. On that hill. Gets the last rays of warmth, Gibson does. Also gets the worst of the wind.”
“Thank you so much. I’ll go along then and thank you for your help.” Bethany turned and went back out into the golden watery light that only shows at ocean’s edge. She lifted her face to stare at the hill. The house was huge and seemed to have many added rooms. The top story had what appeared to be a long porch with a rail around it. A dark figure could be seen leaning against the rail.
Onward, Bethany, she said to herself striding down the main street of New Duryea toward the hill. A slight wind off the bay whipped her skirt around her legs and chilled her. Still, she thought, it’s fresh and clean.
As she grew closer to the huge white house, she could more easily appreciate the architecture. It was not overly fussy. Unlike some houses, it had character and grace. The additions seemed to be part of the whole house, not as some are obvious and tacky. The figure was still there. When she reached the long driveway, the figure suddenly turned and went inside. The wind kicked up again, nearly causing her to stumble, as she wasn’t paying attention to the ruts in the driveway. Enthralled by wild flowers growing along the sides Bethany picked one, a buttercup, and walked on twirling it in her fingers.
There was a mossy brick path to the steps. Taking a deep breath, Bethany walked toward the blue door. It opened quickly. A fattish sort of woman stood there frowning.
“Well, don’t begin by picking Mr. Gibson’s wild flowers. He holds them dear.”
“I’m sorry — it was just so beautiful. Hello, how are you? I’m Bethany Delaine. I’ve come to work for Mr. Gibson as his secretary.”
“Well, who else would you be? Come in. Come in. Just that valise? No other cases, maybe at the train station?”
“No, I don’t have many clothes. I’m sure I can manage.” Bethany said, frowning slightly.
“Come along and meet Gibson; he’s been watching for you from the porch. Now, mind, don’t act put off by his looks. T’was terrible accident years ago. Just a few months after the Award. You’ll get used to his face, I’m sure.”
Bethany shivered slightly. What could Gibson look like? Would it be truly dreadful, as the housekeeper had implied, or was she exaggerating? Bethany felt as though the sea air were laying on her like a damp cloth. As she reached the door, she caught her breath.
“My name is Regan, I’m the housekeeper here and we have a staff of four so not much labor will be asked of you.” The broad woman stood aside as Bethany stepped into the darker entry hall. The transom over the door did not let much light in as it was colored glass depicting a bleeding and ruptured heart surrounded by clinging purple vines. Spying it as she turned Bethany could not stop a harsh gasp.
“Don’t mind that, dearie; Gibson has a bent for lurid art.” Regan stepped into the foyer. “Come along, leave your valise; you must go right on up to see him. Oh, I expect you want to wash up?” The words conveyed that there was no choice. She had to meet the author. But she must straighten her clothes or else. The implied threat made Bethany nod.
She went into the door opening off the entry into a hall. Regan pointed, saying, “There’s the washroom. I’ll be in the kitchen, dearie, when you’ve finished with Gibson. As soon as you’re refreshed, go up the stairs. The door directly in front of the stairs. Knock right smartly. And don’t wander about. Gibson doesn’t like that, either. Very private man.”
After attempting to tame her wild chestnut hair and washing her face, Bethany went up the carpeted stairs and approached the door with great foreboding. She’d have left if she had any other place to go, she thought sadly. She knocked on the door lightly, hold in her breath. Then, she remembered and knocked harder.
“Come in, then,” shouted a voice. Slowly she turned the handle of the mahogany door and peeked in.
Cleve Gibson stood outside on the porch beyond open doors. His broad shoulders were hunched against the wind and his long dark hair blew about his head. The room stood bare except for a huge desk and a wooden swivel chair. The floor and desk were obscured with pages of handwriting. Tablets were stacked in corners and boxes of papers attested to the writer’s work.
He did not turn for many seconds and when he did, Bethany shrieked and jerked back sharply.
“Well, what are you screaming at?” said Gibson pushing away his hair.
“It took you so long to turn, Sir, that I...” said Bethany, as his face revealed its terrible burn. One cheek, puckered and red; his left hand burned and deformed spoke clearly of his accident.
“Don’t gawk. You’ll get used to it.”
His dark hair fell around his shoulders. Bethany inwardly shivered. It must make him feel cross often because she could see that he’d been the handsomest of men. “I’m sorry for staring,” she murmured.
“Don’t be; it was perhaps my own fault. Perhaps it was the Whimsy,” he said, his dark eyes pinning her. She saw self-loathing on his face.
“I’m familiar with your work. Very beautiful and touching prose,” said Bethany.
“Thank you. I’ll have work for you after the evening meal. It should be shortly; ask Regan which room is yours.” He flung his long-limbed frame into the chair and stared out at the surf. The white caps peaked in the brisk wind. “You know, of course, the wind brings the Whimsy.”
“What’s the Whimsy?” Bethany immediately asked. Cleve turned his head, the burned cheek flaming against his white linen shirt and black hair. His eyes glowed with an unhealthy light.
His dark look gave her a chill and he did not answer, but turned again to the sea.
Bethany let herself out the door and went down to the kitchen to see Regan. The cook was helping a young girl to knead great balls of bread. The girl was about eight or nine to judge by the size of her. A pale pinched face glanced at Bethany as the girl punched down her puffy mound. Regan turned smiling.
“Well, here you are Miss Bethany. This is Fiona, Gibson’s niece. She lives here as well.”
“I know about girls your age,” said Bethany, smiling. “I have a sister that just turned ten. She lives with our aunt. Perhaps we’ll all be friends.”
“Don’t think so,” said Fiona her mouth puckering. “Don’t think so at all.”
“Now, Fiona, don’t be rude, she’s come to help your uncle with his work.” Regan said.
“You won’t like it. You’ll be scared. Scared to death maybe. Wait and see,” Fiona said coldly, and stomped from the kitchen.
“Oh, dearie, don’t mind her. She’s a bit out of sorts since her cat died. She thinks some kind of evil spirit killed it,” Regan said optimistically, nodding in agreement with herself. “She was orphaned, you know. Been with Gibson ever since. Poor little thing.”
Bethany made sympathetic mew. “I understand as I lost my mother and father a few months ago to the influenza. I should — where’s my room?”
“Oh, you’re to be on the ground floor, at the back. Go into the parlor to the left of the door. Your room is down the hall leading off the parlor. It’s on the left side, next to Fiona’s room. Gibson uses the whole upper floors for himself and his work.” Regan said.
As Bethany went to her room, alone, down the dark hall, she wondered why the child was so rude. Spoiled by her uncle perhaps. If Catherine could come for a visit for a few weeks, it would be wonderful, thought Bethany, opening the paneled door. It moved stiffly as if it had been shut over the winter.
As she entered, her eyes were drawn immediately to the window. It was wide open, and gauze curtains, long and full, billowed into the room on the breeze. The open window cheered her. As she put her valise on the bed, she realized her first impression had been right. No one had been in this room for a long time. A thin layer of sandy dust smudged every surface. The furniture had been covered with sheets. Quickly, Bethany removed the sheets and dusted. She would have to wash the floor tomorrow. The only carpet was a handmade one that copied exactly the transom over the door, the bleeding torn heart. She looked closely at it seeing the bloodied heart and the great blue rocks, entwined with a purple vine. A vine that looked like spiderwort, or Wandering Jew. A prolific vine that could choke out the natural plants of a forest floor. Among the gypsies, spiderwort was known to have cursing powers.
Bethany shivered. The gypsies called it amria — evil curse. Grisly, she thought and rolled up the rug, shoving it under the bed. The wood floor seemed too white under the rug almost as if it had been scrubbed with salt. Exactly where the rug had laid.
Quite odd really, Bethany noted. She tucked her hair up and put on a clean blouse, just as she put on her shawl there was a knock on the door. She opened it.
“Regan sent me to fetch you for supper, Miss Bethany,” said Fiona, obviously not pleased with her errand.
“Come in; would you like to see a picture of my sister?”
“No. Cleve’s ready to eat.” The child turned on her heel and strode down the hall. Bethany sighed and followed her, leaving her door open to further air out the room.
Strangely, Regan and Hendricks, introduced by Gibson as the jack-of-all-trades, ate at the same table with Fiona and Gibson and Bethany.
“There are two other men who worked the gardens, but they’ve gone into the pub for the evening,” Regan said.
“It’s the most practical,” said Cleve Gibson seeing her glance. “We can all eat together. Regan and Hendricks have enough to do to keep me sane.”
“Oh, you’re fine, Mr. Gibson,” said Hendricks a pale man with huge ugly hands, heavily veined with large purple blotches on the back of them. A fresh bloody scratch ran along his forearm. “I think I’ve gotten the power line adjusted so that it won’t keep blowing loose.”
“I hope so, I can’t be going down when the sun does,” Gibson said.
Fiona giggled and said, “Uncle, you made a joke.”
“Not much of one, I dare say,” Gibson said, grasping his hair into a tail at the back of his neck. His jaw grew tight. “Fiona, do you need to visit your mother’s grave after dinner? I’d rather not.”
“I can take her if you like,” Bethany put in as she spooned up a few more of the boiled potatoes. “I could work on your manuscript when I get back.”
“It’ll be there tomorrow. Go ahead; she knows the way. It’s just that I need to finish this sonnet before it scurries from my mind.” Gibson speared another piece of roast beef on to his plate. He picked up one of the thick slices of warm bread that Fiona and Regan had made. “I just don’t like her to go alone. A grief so weighty that anyone would need comfort. You might as well see the family plot and get to know all our secrets.”
What had happened to Fiona’s mother, wondered Bethany.
“What secrets, Uncle Gibson? You didn’t tell me,” Fiona whined.
“Not a secret to you, Fiona, a secret to Miss Bethany. It’s those strange headstones that we have loved so long as a family,” Gibson said as he stood. He looked out at the slowly sinking sun. “Just be back in the house before the wind comes up.”
Fiona and Bethany helped Regan carry the dishes to the kitchen. Then Fiona got her sweater and they went along toward the back of the house. A great flat field stretched out before them with a winding footpath. Fiona started to run down the path, her arms outstretched to touch the new tassels on the grasses.
After about a hundred yards, Bethany finally caught up with her and puffed, “Is it very far?”
“No, almost there.” Fiona said. She half-turned, frowning. “You must stay away when I talk to my mother as I don’t want you to hear.”
“I understand; I do the same thing when I talk to my mother,” Bethany said.
Fiona looked back and said, “Really, why? When she’s dead?”
Startled, Bethany said, “My mother is dead, as is yours, Fiona.”
“Not dead. Something else but not dead. It doesn’t have a name.” Fiona gave her a scathing look as she said this.
“Perhaps I too know the something else — it’s a longing to have our mothers with us again.”
“No, I don’t mean that!” Fiona said, turning away and walking quickly.
Bethany followed her. She felt such sorrow for the child, just as she did for her own sister and yes, even herself.
Fiona had paused. When Bethany stood beside her, she looked down into a perfectly round circle cut five feet into the ground. Around the edges where twelve blue-black slabs of rock encircled the area of dark green grass. In the very center of the circle stood a taller stone cut in the shape of an obelisk. It gleamed smooth and austere. These headstones were not carved, but rugged and sharp-edged, like spewed from the bowels of the earth.
To be concluded...
The Whimsy
Part II
“What unusual rocks — I’ve never see rocks like that before,” Bethany exclaimed.
“Don’t think so. Don’t think so at all.” Fiona muttered in reply as she went down the cut-in steps. She began to circle the path around the headstones, chanting to herself. “Aunt Rebecca, Baby Charles, Grandpa, Grandma,” she chanted as she slowly walked around the circle, now mostly in shadow. An eerie feeling chilled the back of Bethany’s neck as she went down the steps after Fiona.
“Mommy and Daddy, Uncle Connor,” said Fiona. Bethany jerked, startled as she heard her employer’s name.
Bethany bent to read the brass plaque on the first blue-black rock headstone. It read:
She went to the next rock, reading, and on to the next. The messages were all about the Whimsy. Some had been saved by the heart’s blood but some had not. One of the dead was named Siobhan. Gibson’s wife? A frightening comment was engraved on the brass:
“Here I am,” said the girl rising from the base of the obelisk. “We have to hurry, Bethany, it’s getting dark and the wind is on the rise.”
“Wait, I want to read the last one,” Bethany stopped at the last one and bent forward. At once she saw Fiona’s name. Shock made her tremble and she dropped to the ground as she read the words.
“Run, Bethany, run,” shouted Fiona. She pulled at Bethany’s hand, but the woman felt limp and confused. She struggled to get her legs under her body.
With a great swollen force the wind blew into the circle of headstones. Fiona screamed and ran away up the earthen stairs. Bethany saw the stones roll and tumble as the gale struck her, throwing her back on to the ground. She saw Fiona blown back part way down the steps. The roar was so loud that Bethany couldn’t hear her screams of fear. Her eyes were rolling and she stumbled before she could struggle forward.
“Fiona!” cried Bethany, pushing against the wind. “I’m coming.”
One of the blue-black boulders rolled toward her as in a warning. She skirted it, running to the left, and then jackknifing back toward Fiona. Horrified, she saw the same rock roll toward the child. The rock with Fiona’s name on it. She raced toward Fiona. The child was trying to claw up the embankment of the cemetery circle.
In a sudden twist the rock smashed into Fiona’s body, crushing her. Immediately the wind ceased. Bethany ran to Fiona. A great gash sliced through the child’s dress and chest. Bethany’s screams ripped out against the dusk.
“Oh, no, no,” cried Bethany, kneeling, keening. Fiona’s face was white.
“Don’t touch her! Stay back,” shouted Gibson from the rim of the burial circle. His eyes were huge black orbs. His white shirt flapped around him as he ran to Fiona.
He scooped up the girl and knelt with her bleeding chest against his white shirt. Bethany stared unbelieving as he pulled his shirt open. He reached into his chest, through flesh and bone to his heart. Jerking it out, he squeezed it over the wound of the lifeless Fiona. Brilliant drops of his blood fell into her torn chest.
She was wet with both her blood and with his.
“What are you doing?” Bethany moaned.
“It’s the Whimsy, forever taking my loved ones.” Gibson rocked as he squeezed his heart again and again. “Only my heart’s blood can save them. It’s the Whimsy, come to punish me.”
As suddenly as the wound had occurred, the gash in Fiona’s chest closed, leaving her bloodied dress clinging to her small body. Gibson pushed his heart back into his chest, and fell aside, collapsing from the effort. The only evidence of such a miracle was the wet blood staining the shirt front.
“What is this about?” Bethany realized that the world she knew had tilted, forever altered and contaminated.
Gibson didn’t answer. He picked up Fiona and stood. Panting, he beckoned to her; he went up the steps and started toward the house.
She followed him, listening as he crooned a lullaby to his niece. The ferocious wind was now gone completely. Still it blew in her mind’s eye. What was it? How had it come to be? Did Gibson know why?
Bethany tried to pray. Her own heart felt bruised and twisted. Would Gibson tell her? Could he explain it? When they reached the house, Gibson took Fiona into her bedroom and called to Regan to undress her as he came out. Without a word, he tore off his shirt and went up the stairs to his rooms. He dropped his bloody shirt on the parquet floor.
Bethany shook her head in disbelief. She looked into the parlor where a fire was lit and lights burned. It looked so normal that the scene calmed her. She went into the kitchen meeting Regan as she was coming out on her way to Fiona.
“There’s kettle of water simmering. Make a cup of tea and you’ll feel better,” Regan said as they brushed past each other.
Bethany, numb to the core, unconsciously made tea and took the cup and saucer into the parlor. Sinking down in a upholster chair, she felt her body shaking. She carefully set the rattling teacup down on a table near the chair. Then the tears came.
She’d been through so much, now this. How could she go on? None of it made any sense. She sensed Gibson’s return; heard his steps to the kitchen, heard the sounds of tea being brewed and dazedly felt his presence in the parlor. She turned her back to him.
“I have to talk to you, Bethany. I want you to stay, to help me, and to help Fiona. Fight against the Whimsy. You were very brave tonight.” Gibson said slowly, his voice quiet.
“It terrified me. What is it?”
“I don’t know. It’s something otherworldly.” Gibson leaned back in his chair, his eyes closed. Not looking at her, the steaming cup held on his knee. “After the prize, I was so involved with myself, I paid no attention to my sister, Rebecca, I dearly loved her, but she had married a man I neither liked nor tolerated. I kept my peace but I also kept my distance. After the Titus Award was given I was swept up in a round of readings and appearances. I met a woman, a woman that I married. My sister and her husband and child, Fiona, lived with me. The three of them lived on the bottom floor. When I wasn’t away on speaking tours, my wife and I stayed in the rooms upstairs. I want to create another book of prose, better than the first, more poignant, more intense.” He paused and sipped his tea. “My wife, Siobhan, also found herself unnoticed. I had work I had to do. She blamed my sister.”
“My wife grew to despise my sister. She treated Rebecca viciously. I could only try keeping Siobhan away from Rebecca. In time she clawed at me and tried to keep me from writing the history of Gypsies that raised her.”
“One night there was a fire in the kitchen. I was able to save Fiona. But Miles, Rebecca’s husband perished. And Rebecca herself was seriously burned. She spent days in the hospital recovering. I was frantic because I blamed myself.” Gibson went on.
“And Siobhan? Where is she now?”
“Buried in the Circle. Siobhan died in my arms in rage the same night I brought my sister home. I wanted her to live. I swore to her that I would spend my heart’s blood to keep her with me. But her own heart broke. And it just happened. Just like you saw tonight. So my wife lives yet she is dead. I can’t explain it. Nothing makes any rational, scientific sense.”
Bethany stood and he raised his head to look at her. As she looked down into his face she could know his pain.
Gibson bent his head. “I wanted to die when I thought that I had brought Siobhan here to my house, to my place. You see, she had started the fire. She had killed my brother-in-law and tried to kill Rebecca.”
He paused, his eyes glazed by his inner visions. She started to leave. Reaching toward her, Cleve went on slowly, carefully choosing each word.
“I absorbed the truth of the Whimsy, the truth about that wind. Death is not nearly as attractive as envisioned. What if death is not the end? What if there is in fact no freedom from everlasting pain? Would that make religious believers of the atheists? Or would it make the believers take up a life of hedonism to pleasure themselves before the inevitable?”
“So your sister is sustained by your blood? Where is she? The other members of your family? Who is saved? Who is not?” Bethany asked backing up slightly. She felt the top of her head and the back of her neck prickle with fear of the unprecedented.
As though he had not heard her, he continued. “Some deaths are an excruciating pain of life; for under the Whimsy of the wind I am destined to suffer the torture of a life of agony. Siobhan cursed me into a final purgatory,” said Cleve Gibson. He looked up at Bethany.
“The others are truly dead, but Fiona has been spared time and time again by my heart’s blood.” He said this to Bethany his face full turned to her and his eyes locked to hers. “I failed her mother because I was not at home when the Whimsy struck and killed her.”
“Poor Fiona. How can this be? Do you pray? What do you believe? Me. Gibson, this doesn’t make sense,” cried Bethany, her voice raising a note with each sentence. “Answer me, answer me now.”
“I married Siobhan because I loved her, but it wasn‘t a pure love, and she cursed me with the Wind God. “ replied Cleve, dropping his face into his hands and his body quivered with silent sobs. Bethany stood, pulling off her shawl and draping it around the man’s shaking shoulders.
“I cannot stay here; it is more than I can stand. I will leave in the morning,” Bethany said quietly. She laid a brief hand on his shoulder and then walked down the hall to her room just past the living yet dead Fiona.
As Bethany shut the door behind her, the wind caught it and slammed it into her shoulder. With a small cry, she latched it and sank down on the bed. I know he needs me in some way, but what could I do to help him? I have no knowledge of gypsy magic or miracles, thought Bethany. As she undressed and put on her gown, she tried to imagine what the Whimsy could be; Gibson had called it the Wind God. But that wasn’t possible.
He must have lost his mind, she decided. I will find other work. Somehow. I will have Catherine with me again some day. I cannot help Cleveland Gibson in any way.
Finally, exhausted, Bethany dropped into a sound sleep.
Suddenly she woke clear and fearful. She sat up, and quickly jerked out the rug from beneath the bed.
She stared at the purple twisting vine woven into the fabric of the rug. It was spiderwort. And it grew in a patch by the back door of Gibson’s house!
There was a great moan in the wind as it whorled around the house. It called to her and baited her. Bethany got up and walked out of the door straight to the patch of purple barely visible in the darkness.
She broke off a piece, and chewed it. The juice burnt and stung her tongue. With a clear vision she swallowed it. Then she ran to the burial circle.
The wind drove and pummeled her, bruising her back and arms. At the rim of the circle she stopped. The obelisk stood piercing the windy sky as its headstones defended it.
Bethany sucked in a deep breath and walked to the obelisk. Resting her hand against its smooth side she spoke softly, mindlessly knowing the words to arouse Siobhan from the blue-black slab.
“I have come, Siobhan, to ask you to release Cleveland Gibson from your curse. He did not know the story of the Gypsies of the Wind. But I do. I know all of our histories and we have fought before in other lives, in other times. I ask you to die in peace and live in another century. Siobhan, find a new love and let the torture stop.”
A groan erupted from the heart of the stone. A white arm and hand reached from nowhere to clasp Bethany’s throat.
“No, Siobhan, you will not,” Bethany shouted, twisting away. The blue-black rock melted and eddied into a pond.
Bethany let out her breath.
Too soon.
The pond reformed and gleamed, becoming a shadow, then a mist and finally became the form of a woman. Siobhan flew at her, jerking her hair and body with an unbelievable power. Bethany fought back, trying to keep her away.
Just as Siobhan engulfed her mind, succeeded in containing her will, a white-shirted man leapt into the Burial Circle. His dark hair blew wildly in the terrible wind. Gibson! Bethany cried his name, beseeching him,“Run, run away while you still can. She can’t follow you. Run.”
The Whimsy turned to her beloved, her mouth open and bloody, her fingers reaching for his heart, his living heart.
“Hear me, Siobhan,” Bethany screamed, her head back and her arms uplifted.
“I say to you, Daughter of Whimsy, go back to another century. I am the Storm Lord’s Gypsy Daughter and I have the power of purity.” She began to chant, over and over again.
Ekkeri, akai-ri, u kair-an.
Fillissin, follasy. Nakelas ja’n...
Illssin gaetic dai faris dire
Ekken u dar di’a...
“Go, go back,” shouted Gibson, his hands striking like hammers on the face of the Whimsy, and his heart bulging against his shirt. Her fingers curled toward his heart. Her eyes were fierce and smoldering.
“I banish you from this community and from this man. Go back to the place of your birth!” Bethany cried out loudly, her bell voice ringing against the night wind
With a howl of pain, the Whimsy whirled away blowing out to sea beyond the distant shores.
“Bethany, how did you know?” Gibson held her tight in his arms, breathless.
“I was born a gypsy and lived as a gypsy. I have left that life behind me forever.”
“And you’ll stay here? Help me? Help Fiona? Please, I will ask nothing more of you than your friendship.”
Bethany nodded, but her eyes turned toward the whitecaps on the sea. She knew the rock monoliths would form a circle somewhere, sometime out there.
The Whimsy
part 1
by R. D. Larson
As the train neared New Duryea, Bethany opened again the single sheet of paper. Barely legible, Bethany stared at the splotched words. Two words. Please Come. Cleveland Gibson had signed it.part 1
by R. D. Larson
She journeyed to New Duryea to start a new life. The death of her parents from influenza had been devastating for Bethany and her sister. Almost as wrenching she had to let Catherine live with Aunt Elena. She had no way to support and feed a ten-year-old girl.
Aunt Elena had contacted her friends asking for a position for Bethany. A solicitor friend of her parents, a man who had known the family during their travels in Romania, had responded saying his great nephew lived at New Duryea Bay. The nephew was a writer of some reputation and needed a secretary for answering mail and tending to other matters, allowing him freedom to write. Bethany wrote immediately to Cleveland Gibson listing her accomplishments and reasons for wanting the job. There was no answer for two weeks. Then this terse note. Please come.
Bethany rode on the new Scottish Flyer to Glasgow and then onto New Duryea Bay. She gave a great intake of breath when the smell of the sea indicated that she had reached the end of land. When the train arrived at the station no one was waiting for her. The building was shut.
She stood at the edge of the mud flats looking across the bay. A fishing boat drifted landward, its work for the day finished. The inky water spread endlessly beyond the curve of the bay. The far away lands on the other side of the ocean weren’t there. Not really. Just empty endless ocean. The only world that mattered was this little spit of shore and bay.
She began to walk along the main street. A half of a dozen shops on either side seemingly had whatever a person could want. Bethany saw women glance at her but none of them spoke. Finally, she went in to the Grocer’s.
“Hello, I’m Bethany Delaine and I’ve taken a position with Mr. Cleveland Gibson. Have you seen him in town or do you know where he lives?”
“Good heavens, that tightwad’s finally hired more help. Well, you won’t like him, Miss Delaine. Gibson’s got pots of money — buys nothing. And pays nothing for his help. He won that literature prize some years back — they made a famous movie out of his book,” rattled the chubby grocer. “You don’t look strong enough to clean that big old house, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
“I’m to be his secretary, sir,” Bethany said.
“To be sure, you are. I can see that now. Well, that is his house up the road — see there? — bathed in sunlight it is. On that hill. Gets the last rays of warmth, Gibson does. Also gets the worst of the wind.”
“Thank you so much. I’ll go along then and thank you for your help.” Bethany turned and went back out into the golden watery light that only shows at ocean’s edge. She lifted her face to stare at the hill. The house was huge and seemed to have many added rooms. The top story had what appeared to be a long porch with a rail around it. A dark figure could be seen leaning against the rail.
Onward, Bethany, she said to herself striding down the main street of New Duryea toward the hill. A slight wind off the bay whipped her skirt around her legs and chilled her. Still, she thought, it’s fresh and clean.
As she grew closer to the huge white house, she could more easily appreciate the architecture. It was not overly fussy. Unlike some houses, it had character and grace. The additions seemed to be part of the whole house, not as some are obvious and tacky. The figure was still there. When she reached the long driveway, the figure suddenly turned and went inside. The wind kicked up again, nearly causing her to stumble, as she wasn’t paying attention to the ruts in the driveway. Enthralled by wild flowers growing along the sides Bethany picked one, a buttercup, and walked on twirling it in her fingers.
There was a mossy brick path to the steps. Taking a deep breath, Bethany walked toward the blue door. It opened quickly. A fattish sort of woman stood there frowning.
“Well, don’t begin by picking Mr. Gibson’s wild flowers. He holds them dear.”
“I’m sorry — it was just so beautiful. Hello, how are you? I’m Bethany Delaine. I’ve come to work for Mr. Gibson as his secretary.”
“Well, who else would you be? Come in. Come in. Just that valise? No other cases, maybe at the train station?”
“No, I don’t have many clothes. I’m sure I can manage.” Bethany said, frowning slightly.
“Come along and meet Gibson; he’s been watching for you from the porch. Now, mind, don’t act put off by his looks. T’was terrible accident years ago. Just a few months after the Award. You’ll get used to his face, I’m sure.”
Bethany shivered slightly. What could Gibson look like? Would it be truly dreadful, as the housekeeper had implied, or was she exaggerating? Bethany felt as though the sea air were laying on her like a damp cloth. As she reached the door, she caught her breath.
“My name is Regan, I’m the housekeeper here and we have a staff of four so not much labor will be asked of you.” The broad woman stood aside as Bethany stepped into the darker entry hall. The transom over the door did not let much light in as it was colored glass depicting a bleeding and ruptured heart surrounded by clinging purple vines. Spying it as she turned Bethany could not stop a harsh gasp.
“Don’t mind that, dearie; Gibson has a bent for lurid art.” Regan stepped into the foyer. “Come along, leave your valise; you must go right on up to see him. Oh, I expect you want to wash up?” The words conveyed that there was no choice. She had to meet the author. But she must straighten her clothes or else. The implied threat made Bethany nod.
She went into the door opening off the entry into a hall. Regan pointed, saying, “There’s the washroom. I’ll be in the kitchen, dearie, when you’ve finished with Gibson. As soon as you’re refreshed, go up the stairs. The door directly in front of the stairs. Knock right smartly. And don’t wander about. Gibson doesn’t like that, either. Very private man.”
After attempting to tame her wild chestnut hair and washing her face, Bethany went up the carpeted stairs and approached the door with great foreboding. She’d have left if she had any other place to go, she thought sadly. She knocked on the door lightly, hold in her breath. Then, she remembered and knocked harder.
“Come in, then,” shouted a voice. Slowly she turned the handle of the mahogany door and peeked in.
Cleve Gibson stood outside on the porch beyond open doors. His broad shoulders were hunched against the wind and his long dark hair blew about his head. The room stood bare except for a huge desk and a wooden swivel chair. The floor and desk were obscured with pages of handwriting. Tablets were stacked in corners and boxes of papers attested to the writer’s work.
He did not turn for many seconds and when he did, Bethany shrieked and jerked back sharply.
“Well, what are you screaming at?” said Gibson pushing away his hair.
“It took you so long to turn, Sir, that I...” said Bethany, as his face revealed its terrible burn. One cheek, puckered and red; his left hand burned and deformed spoke clearly of his accident.
“Don’t gawk. You’ll get used to it.”
His dark hair fell around his shoulders. Bethany inwardly shivered. It must make him feel cross often because she could see that he’d been the handsomest of men. “I’m sorry for staring,” she murmured.
“Don’t be; it was perhaps my own fault. Perhaps it was the Whimsy,” he said, his dark eyes pinning her. She saw self-loathing on his face.
“I’m familiar with your work. Very beautiful and touching prose,” said Bethany.
“Thank you. I’ll have work for you after the evening meal. It should be shortly; ask Regan which room is yours.” He flung his long-limbed frame into the chair and stared out at the surf. The white caps peaked in the brisk wind. “You know, of course, the wind brings the Whimsy.”
“What’s the Whimsy?” Bethany immediately asked. Cleve turned his head, the burned cheek flaming against his white linen shirt and black hair. His eyes glowed with an unhealthy light.
His dark look gave her a chill and he did not answer, but turned again to the sea.
Bethany let herself out the door and went down to the kitchen to see Regan. The cook was helping a young girl to knead great balls of bread. The girl was about eight or nine to judge by the size of her. A pale pinched face glanced at Bethany as the girl punched down her puffy mound. Regan turned smiling.
“Well, here you are Miss Bethany. This is Fiona, Gibson’s niece. She lives here as well.”
“I know about girls your age,” said Bethany, smiling. “I have a sister that just turned ten. She lives with our aunt. Perhaps we’ll all be friends.”
“Don’t think so,” said Fiona her mouth puckering. “Don’t think so at all.”
“Now, Fiona, don’t be rude, she’s come to help your uncle with his work.” Regan said.
“You won’t like it. You’ll be scared. Scared to death maybe. Wait and see,” Fiona said coldly, and stomped from the kitchen.
“Oh, dearie, don’t mind her. She’s a bit out of sorts since her cat died. She thinks some kind of evil spirit killed it,” Regan said optimistically, nodding in agreement with herself. “She was orphaned, you know. Been with Gibson ever since. Poor little thing.”
Bethany made sympathetic mew. “I understand as I lost my mother and father a few months ago to the influenza. I should — where’s my room?”
“Oh, you’re to be on the ground floor, at the back. Go into the parlor to the left of the door. Your room is down the hall leading off the parlor. It’s on the left side, next to Fiona’s room. Gibson uses the whole upper floors for himself and his work.” Regan said.
As Bethany went to her room, alone, down the dark hall, she wondered why the child was so rude. Spoiled by her uncle perhaps. If Catherine could come for a visit for a few weeks, it would be wonderful, thought Bethany, opening the paneled door. It moved stiffly as if it had been shut over the winter.
As she entered, her eyes were drawn immediately to the window. It was wide open, and gauze curtains, long and full, billowed into the room on the breeze. The open window cheered her. As she put her valise on the bed, she realized her first impression had been right. No one had been in this room for a long time. A thin layer of sandy dust smudged every surface. The furniture had been covered with sheets. Quickly, Bethany removed the sheets and dusted. She would have to wash the floor tomorrow. The only carpet was a handmade one that copied exactly the transom over the door, the bleeding torn heart. She looked closely at it seeing the bloodied heart and the great blue rocks, entwined with a purple vine. A vine that looked like spiderwort, or Wandering Jew. A prolific vine that could choke out the natural plants of a forest floor. Among the gypsies, spiderwort was known to have cursing powers.
Bethany shivered. The gypsies called it amria — evil curse. Grisly, she thought and rolled up the rug, shoving it under the bed. The wood floor seemed too white under the rug almost as if it had been scrubbed with salt. Exactly where the rug had laid.
Quite odd really, Bethany noted. She tucked her hair up and put on a clean blouse, just as she put on her shawl there was a knock on the door. She opened it.
“Regan sent me to fetch you for supper, Miss Bethany,” said Fiona, obviously not pleased with her errand.
“Come in; would you like to see a picture of my sister?”
“No. Cleve’s ready to eat.” The child turned on her heel and strode down the hall. Bethany sighed and followed her, leaving her door open to further air out the room.
Strangely, Regan and Hendricks, introduced by Gibson as the jack-of-all-trades, ate at the same table with Fiona and Gibson and Bethany.
“There are two other men who worked the gardens, but they’ve gone into the pub for the evening,” Regan said.
“It’s the most practical,” said Cleve Gibson seeing her glance. “We can all eat together. Regan and Hendricks have enough to do to keep me sane.”
“Oh, you’re fine, Mr. Gibson,” said Hendricks a pale man with huge ugly hands, heavily veined with large purple blotches on the back of them. A fresh bloody scratch ran along his forearm. “I think I’ve gotten the power line adjusted so that it won’t keep blowing loose.”
“I hope so, I can’t be going down when the sun does,” Gibson said.
Fiona giggled and said, “Uncle, you made a joke.”
“Not much of one, I dare say,” Gibson said, grasping his hair into a tail at the back of his neck. His jaw grew tight. “Fiona, do you need to visit your mother’s grave after dinner? I’d rather not.”
“I can take her if you like,” Bethany put in as she spooned up a few more of the boiled potatoes. “I could work on your manuscript when I get back.”
“It’ll be there tomorrow. Go ahead; she knows the way. It’s just that I need to finish this sonnet before it scurries from my mind.” Gibson speared another piece of roast beef on to his plate. He picked up one of the thick slices of warm bread that Fiona and Regan had made. “I just don’t like her to go alone. A grief so weighty that anyone would need comfort. You might as well see the family plot and get to know all our secrets.”
What had happened to Fiona’s mother, wondered Bethany.
“What secrets, Uncle Gibson? You didn’t tell me,” Fiona whined.
“Not a secret to you, Fiona, a secret to Miss Bethany. It’s those strange headstones that we have loved so long as a family,” Gibson said as he stood. He looked out at the slowly sinking sun. “Just be back in the house before the wind comes up.”
Fiona and Bethany helped Regan carry the dishes to the kitchen. Then Fiona got her sweater and they went along toward the back of the house. A great flat field stretched out before them with a winding footpath. Fiona started to run down the path, her arms outstretched to touch the new tassels on the grasses.
After about a hundred yards, Bethany finally caught up with her and puffed, “Is it very far?”
“No, almost there.” Fiona said. She half-turned, frowning. “You must stay away when I talk to my mother as I don’t want you to hear.”
“I understand; I do the same thing when I talk to my mother,” Bethany said.
Fiona looked back and said, “Really, why? When she’s dead?”
Startled, Bethany said, “My mother is dead, as is yours, Fiona.”
“Not dead. Something else but not dead. It doesn’t have a name.” Fiona gave her a scathing look as she said this.
“Perhaps I too know the something else — it’s a longing to have our mothers with us again.”
“No, I don’t mean that!” Fiona said, turning away and walking quickly.
Bethany followed her. She felt such sorrow for the child, just as she did for her own sister and yes, even herself.
Fiona had paused. When Bethany stood beside her, she looked down into a perfectly round circle cut five feet into the ground. Around the edges where twelve blue-black slabs of rock encircled the area of dark green grass. In the very center of the circle stood a taller stone cut in the shape of an obelisk. It gleamed smooth and austere. These headstones were not carved, but rugged and sharp-edged, like spewed from the bowels of the earth.
To be concluded...
The Whimsy
Part II
“What unusual rocks — I’ve never see rocks like that before,” Bethany exclaimed.
“Don’t think so. Don’t think so at all.” Fiona muttered in reply as she went down the cut-in steps. She began to circle the path around the headstones, chanting to herself. “Aunt Rebecca, Baby Charles, Grandpa, Grandma,” she chanted as she slowly walked around the circle, now mostly in shadow. An eerie feeling chilled the back of Bethany’s neck as she went down the steps after Fiona.
“Mommy and Daddy, Uncle Connor,” said Fiona. Bethany jerked, startled as she heard her employer’s name.
Bethany bent to read the brass plaque on the first blue-black rock headstone. It read:
Rebecca dwells still
By the sea
Untaken
She walks among us
Pursued by the
Whimsy
Saved by the
Blood of the Heart
Of the
One
Who
Loves her still
Green tarnish grew between a few of the letters, but there were no dates on the plaque. How long had Rebecca been dead and who was the “he” that was mentioned? Gibson, perhaps. The rock was amazing, a deep dark blue the color of the bottom of the sea, and shining, it seemed to Bethany, from within its heart.By the sea
Untaken
She walks among us
Pursued by the
Whimsy
Saved by the
Blood of the Heart
Of the
One
Who
Loves her still
She went to the next rock, reading, and on to the next. The messages were all about the Whimsy. Some had been saved by the heart’s blood but some had not. One of the dead was named Siobhan. Gibson’s wife? A frightening comment was engraved on the brass:
Siobhan,
Mysterious Woman
Married in love,
Frightening in her power,
A wife and a mother
Whose short life
With unborn son
Torn from us
By the Whimsy.
We fight lest we forget her
Violent end
Bethany looked up, hot tears on her cheek, not seeing Fiona anywhere. She called out to her. “Fiona! Fiona!”Mysterious Woman
Married in love,
Frightening in her power,
A wife and a mother
Whose short life
With unborn son
Torn from us
By the Whimsy.
We fight lest we forget her
Violent end
“Here I am,” said the girl rising from the base of the obelisk. “We have to hurry, Bethany, it’s getting dark and the wind is on the rise.”
“Wait, I want to read the last one,” Bethany stopped at the last one and bent forward. At once she saw Fiona’s name. Shock made her tremble and she dropped to the ground as she read the words.
“Run, Bethany, run,” shouted Fiona. She pulled at Bethany’s hand, but the woman felt limp and confused. She struggled to get her legs under her body.
With a great swollen force the wind blew into the circle of headstones. Fiona screamed and ran away up the earthen stairs. Bethany saw the stones roll and tumble as the gale struck her, throwing her back on to the ground. She saw Fiona blown back part way down the steps. The roar was so loud that Bethany couldn’t hear her screams of fear. Her eyes were rolling and she stumbled before she could struggle forward.
“Fiona!” cried Bethany, pushing against the wind. “I’m coming.”
One of the blue-black boulders rolled toward her as in a warning. She skirted it, running to the left, and then jackknifing back toward Fiona. Horrified, she saw the same rock roll toward the child. The rock with Fiona’s name on it. She raced toward Fiona. The child was trying to claw up the embankment of the cemetery circle.
In a sudden twist the rock smashed into Fiona’s body, crushing her. Immediately the wind ceased. Bethany ran to Fiona. A great gash sliced through the child’s dress and chest. Bethany’s screams ripped out against the dusk.
“Oh, no, no,” cried Bethany, kneeling, keening. Fiona’s face was white.
“Don’t touch her! Stay back,” shouted Gibson from the rim of the burial circle. His eyes were huge black orbs. His white shirt flapped around him as he ran to Fiona.
He scooped up the girl and knelt with her bleeding chest against his white shirt. Bethany stared unbelieving as he pulled his shirt open. He reached into his chest, through flesh and bone to his heart. Jerking it out, he squeezed it over the wound of the lifeless Fiona. Brilliant drops of his blood fell into her torn chest.
She was wet with both her blood and with his.
“What are you doing?” Bethany moaned.
“It’s the Whimsy, forever taking my loved ones.” Gibson rocked as he squeezed his heart again and again. “Only my heart’s blood can save them. It’s the Whimsy, come to punish me.”
As suddenly as the wound had occurred, the gash in Fiona’s chest closed, leaving her bloodied dress clinging to her small body. Gibson pushed his heart back into his chest, and fell aside, collapsing from the effort. The only evidence of such a miracle was the wet blood staining the shirt front.
“What is this about?” Bethany realized that the world she knew had tilted, forever altered and contaminated.
Gibson didn’t answer. He picked up Fiona and stood. Panting, he beckoned to her; he went up the steps and started toward the house.
She followed him, listening as he crooned a lullaby to his niece. The ferocious wind was now gone completely. Still it blew in her mind’s eye. What was it? How had it come to be? Did Gibson know why?
Bethany tried to pray. Her own heart felt bruised and twisted. Would Gibson tell her? Could he explain it? When they reached the house, Gibson took Fiona into her bedroom and called to Regan to undress her as he came out. Without a word, he tore off his shirt and went up the stairs to his rooms. He dropped his bloody shirt on the parquet floor.
Bethany shook her head in disbelief. She looked into the parlor where a fire was lit and lights burned. It looked so normal that the scene calmed her. She went into the kitchen meeting Regan as she was coming out on her way to Fiona.
“There’s kettle of water simmering. Make a cup of tea and you’ll feel better,” Regan said as they brushed past each other.
Bethany, numb to the core, unconsciously made tea and took the cup and saucer into the parlor. Sinking down in a upholster chair, she felt her body shaking. She carefully set the rattling teacup down on a table near the chair. Then the tears came.
She’d been through so much, now this. How could she go on? None of it made any sense. She sensed Gibson’s return; heard his steps to the kitchen, heard the sounds of tea being brewed and dazedly felt his presence in the parlor. She turned her back to him.
“I have to talk to you, Bethany. I want you to stay, to help me, and to help Fiona. Fight against the Whimsy. You were very brave tonight.” Gibson said slowly, his voice quiet.
“It terrified me. What is it?”
“I don’t know. It’s something otherworldly.” Gibson leaned back in his chair, his eyes closed. Not looking at her, the steaming cup held on his knee. “After the prize, I was so involved with myself, I paid no attention to my sister, Rebecca, I dearly loved her, but she had married a man I neither liked nor tolerated. I kept my peace but I also kept my distance. After the Titus Award was given I was swept up in a round of readings and appearances. I met a woman, a woman that I married. My sister and her husband and child, Fiona, lived with me. The three of them lived on the bottom floor. When I wasn’t away on speaking tours, my wife and I stayed in the rooms upstairs. I want to create another book of prose, better than the first, more poignant, more intense.” He paused and sipped his tea. “My wife, Siobhan, also found herself unnoticed. I had work I had to do. She blamed my sister.”
“My wife grew to despise my sister. She treated Rebecca viciously. I could only try keeping Siobhan away from Rebecca. In time she clawed at me and tried to keep me from writing the history of Gypsies that raised her.”
“One night there was a fire in the kitchen. I was able to save Fiona. But Miles, Rebecca’s husband perished. And Rebecca herself was seriously burned. She spent days in the hospital recovering. I was frantic because I blamed myself.” Gibson went on.
“And Siobhan? Where is she now?”
“Buried in the Circle. Siobhan died in my arms in rage the same night I brought my sister home. I wanted her to live. I swore to her that I would spend my heart’s blood to keep her with me. But her own heart broke. And it just happened. Just like you saw tonight. So my wife lives yet she is dead. I can’t explain it. Nothing makes any rational, scientific sense.”
Bethany stood and he raised his head to look at her. As she looked down into his face she could know his pain.
Gibson bent his head. “I wanted to die when I thought that I had brought Siobhan here to my house, to my place. You see, she had started the fire. She had killed my brother-in-law and tried to kill Rebecca.”
He paused, his eyes glazed by his inner visions. She started to leave. Reaching toward her, Cleve went on slowly, carefully choosing each word.
“I absorbed the truth of the Whimsy, the truth about that wind. Death is not nearly as attractive as envisioned. What if death is not the end? What if there is in fact no freedom from everlasting pain? Would that make religious believers of the atheists? Or would it make the believers take up a life of hedonism to pleasure themselves before the inevitable?”
“So your sister is sustained by your blood? Where is she? The other members of your family? Who is saved? Who is not?” Bethany asked backing up slightly. She felt the top of her head and the back of her neck prickle with fear of the unprecedented.
As though he had not heard her, he continued. “Some deaths are an excruciating pain of life; for under the Whimsy of the wind I am destined to suffer the torture of a life of agony. Siobhan cursed me into a final purgatory,” said Cleve Gibson. He looked up at Bethany.
“The others are truly dead, but Fiona has been spared time and time again by my heart’s blood.” He said this to Bethany his face full turned to her and his eyes locked to hers. “I failed her mother because I was not at home when the Whimsy struck and killed her.”
“Poor Fiona. How can this be? Do you pray? What do you believe? Me. Gibson, this doesn’t make sense,” cried Bethany, her voice raising a note with each sentence. “Answer me, answer me now.”
“I married Siobhan because I loved her, but it wasn‘t a pure love, and she cursed me with the Wind God. “ replied Cleve, dropping his face into his hands and his body quivered with silent sobs. Bethany stood, pulling off her shawl and draping it around the man’s shaking shoulders.
“I cannot stay here; it is more than I can stand. I will leave in the morning,” Bethany said quietly. She laid a brief hand on his shoulder and then walked down the hall to her room just past the living yet dead Fiona.
As Bethany shut the door behind her, the wind caught it and slammed it into her shoulder. With a small cry, she latched it and sank down on the bed. I know he needs me in some way, but what could I do to help him? I have no knowledge of gypsy magic or miracles, thought Bethany. As she undressed and put on her gown, she tried to imagine what the Whimsy could be; Gibson had called it the Wind God. But that wasn’t possible.
He must have lost his mind, she decided. I will find other work. Somehow. I will have Catherine with me again some day. I cannot help Cleveland Gibson in any way.
Finally, exhausted, Bethany dropped into a sound sleep.
Suddenly she woke clear and fearful. She sat up, and quickly jerked out the rug from beneath the bed.
She stared at the purple twisting vine woven into the fabric of the rug. It was spiderwort. And it grew in a patch by the back door of Gibson’s house!
There was a great moan in the wind as it whorled around the house. It called to her and baited her. Bethany got up and walked out of the door straight to the patch of purple barely visible in the darkness.
She broke off a piece, and chewed it. The juice burnt and stung her tongue. With a clear vision she swallowed it. Then she ran to the burial circle.
The wind drove and pummeled her, bruising her back and arms. At the rim of the circle she stopped. The obelisk stood piercing the windy sky as its headstones defended it.
Bethany sucked in a deep breath and walked to the obelisk. Resting her hand against its smooth side she spoke softly, mindlessly knowing the words to arouse Siobhan from the blue-black slab.
“I have come, Siobhan, to ask you to release Cleveland Gibson from your curse. He did not know the story of the Gypsies of the Wind. But I do. I know all of our histories and we have fought before in other lives, in other times. I ask you to die in peace and live in another century. Siobhan, find a new love and let the torture stop.”
A groan erupted from the heart of the stone. A white arm and hand reached from nowhere to clasp Bethany’s throat.
“No, Siobhan, you will not,” Bethany shouted, twisting away. The blue-black rock melted and eddied into a pond.
Bethany let out her breath.
Too soon.
The pond reformed and gleamed, becoming a shadow, then a mist and finally became the form of a woman. Siobhan flew at her, jerking her hair and body with an unbelievable power. Bethany fought back, trying to keep her away.
Just as Siobhan engulfed her mind, succeeded in containing her will, a white-shirted man leapt into the Burial Circle. His dark hair blew wildly in the terrible wind. Gibson! Bethany cried his name, beseeching him,“Run, run away while you still can. She can’t follow you. Run.”
The Whimsy turned to her beloved, her mouth open and bloody, her fingers reaching for his heart, his living heart.
“Hear me, Siobhan,” Bethany screamed, her head back and her arms uplifted.
“I say to you, Daughter of Whimsy, go back to another century. I am the Storm Lord’s Gypsy Daughter and I have the power of purity.” She began to chant, over and over again.
Ekkeri, akai-ri, u kair-an.
Fillissin, follasy. Nakelas ja’n...
Illssin gaetic dai faris dire
Ekken u dar di’a...
“Go, go back,” shouted Gibson, his hands striking like hammers on the face of the Whimsy, and his heart bulging against his shirt. Her fingers curled toward his heart. Her eyes were fierce and smoldering.
“I banish you from this community and from this man. Go back to the place of your birth!” Bethany cried out loudly, her bell voice ringing against the night wind
With a howl of pain, the Whimsy whirled away blowing out to sea beyond the distant shores.
“Bethany, how did you know?” Gibson held her tight in his arms, breathless.
“I was born a gypsy and lived as a gypsy. I have left that life behind me forever.”
“And you’ll stay here? Help me? Help Fiona? Please, I will ask nothing more of you than your friendship.”
Bethany nodded, but her eyes turned toward the whitecaps on the sea. She knew the rock monoliths would form a circle somewhere, sometime out there.
Thursday, July 20, 2006
WRITER @Large with flash BLOG
Order NOW. IF you have been waiting to read the Mama Stories, those rascal tales in Mama Tried to Raise a Lady here is the buy of the week: Mama Tried to Raise a Lady
Got kids? Like animals? Find out what Rose knows about Dogs and bacon. Find out who has to know where Luluabell the cow is when she is up a tree. Funny and heartwarming for all ages.
Order NOW. IF you have been waiting to read the Mama Stories, those rascal tales in Mama Tried to Raise a Lady here is the buy of the week: Mama Tried to Raise a Lady
Got kids? Like animals? Find out what Rose knows about Dogs and bacon. Find out who has to know where Luluabell the cow is when she is up a tree. Funny and heartwarming for all ages.
Sunday, July 16, 2006
WRITER @Large with flash BLOG
So how come we can think our daughters can't have a baby out of wedlock, can't raise a baby alone or with a boyfriend when all these movie celebrities have or adopt babies with not word about marriage? Gay Marriage? I sure hope it's better than the current 'have a baby no marriage' state that seems to becoming the norm!
Oh yeah! and why can people hold back a little without always trying to go to war? Why can't countries control their terriorists? Don't we control ours? What? You don't think we have any? Think again. Environmental terriorists and every other kind of malcontent seem to be crowding into our world.
Anarchy? End of the World? Maybe and whatever it is, it's a too bad because this is a beautiful world.
What we need to do is heal the planet, heal our neighbors and heal ourselves. I think it is time we took a stand. It's not enough to feed the starving, we must encourage birth control. It's not enough to aid the sick, we must teach healthy habits. It's not enough to forget what we did or did not do; we must all do more, every one of us in every country of every faith and of every color. We are on this blue raft slamming through space; we are dependent on one another. That's what the stupid TV show Survivor is showing us. We all need to negotiate to give and to take to accept only a partial win instead of saving our egos. Now is the time for all good men and women to stand for right and decent and kind behavior.
Okay, I've said my 2 cents. See ya after my surgery.
So how come we can think our daughters can't have a baby out of wedlock, can't raise a baby alone or with a boyfriend when all these movie celebrities have or adopt babies with not word about marriage? Gay Marriage? I sure hope it's better than the current 'have a baby no marriage' state that seems to becoming the norm!
Oh yeah! and why can people hold back a little without always trying to go to war? Why can't countries control their terriorists? Don't we control ours? What? You don't think we have any? Think again. Environmental terriorists and every other kind of malcontent seem to be crowding into our world.
Anarchy? End of the World? Maybe and whatever it is, it's a too bad because this is a beautiful world.
What we need to do is heal the planet, heal our neighbors and heal ourselves. I think it is time we took a stand. It's not enough to feed the starving, we must encourage birth control. It's not enough to aid the sick, we must teach healthy habits. It's not enough to forget what we did or did not do; we must all do more, every one of us in every country of every faith and of every color. We are on this blue raft slamming through space; we are dependent on one another. That's what the stupid TV show Survivor is showing us. We all need to negotiate to give and to take to accept only a partial win instead of saving our egos. Now is the time for all good men and women to stand for right and decent and kind behavior.
Okay, I've said my 2 cents. See ya after my surgery.
Wednesday, July 5, 2006
There's a big difference between being a tomboy and being a warrior woman.
Rose felt compelled to make an effort to save herself and to save the world, especially dogs and birds. Long before today, there was a little girl who want to play hard and have new adventures even if her Mama got in her way.
When rebellion starts young, it can be a humorous and frightful thing.
Just $6.50 at fictionwise: http://www.fictionwise.com/ebooks/eBook29478.htm
Rose felt compelled to make an effort to save herself and to save the world, especially dogs and birds. Long before today, there was a little girl who want to play hard and have new adventures even if her Mama got in her way.When rebellion starts young, it can be a humorous and frightful thing.
Just $6.50 at fictionwise: http://www.fictionwise.com/ebooks/eBook29478.htm
I don't feel a pot licken comment right now.
Poor Zippy. The fourth of July hurt his ears. I had to tranq him and put ear plugs in his ears while he laid in front of the fan listening to Madonna's latest.
Friday, June 23, 2006
WRITER @Large with flash BLOG
Tushi Bushi is sounding the alarm to make himself look potent. What a joke! TG the seven sons of the sea weren't really allkideo members! Guess we won't be hearing much about banking investigations and slipshod practices and hairy old lies.
Friday, June 16, 2006
WRITER @Large with flash BLOG
Do you have an older dog? Did you know that many vets are seeing dog over age six? Here's a site to check out. Older dogs
Zippy is an older dog so don't mess with him. Click here.
And while you are there, check out the missing children's photos -- see if you recognize any child and report it.
Have you read MOON DUST yet? Cleveland Gibson's fantasy thriller will knock your socks off. Click here. e-book also available. Read about it here too. Click here.
Great flash fiction here ThePhoneBook.com
Hear Tricia read from Mama Tried to Raise a Lady -- it's called The String Divorce! Pump up your sound!
Do you have an older dog? Did you know that many vets are seeing dog over age six? Here's a site to check out. Older dogs
Zippy is an older dog so don't mess with him. Click here.
And while you are there, check out the missing children's photos -- see if you recognize any child and report it.
Have you read MOON DUST yet? Cleveland Gibson's fantasy thriller will knock your socks off. Click here. e-book also available. Read about it here too. Click here.
Great flash fiction here ThePhoneBook.com
Hear Tricia read from Mama Tried to Raise a Lady -- it's called The String Divorce! Pump up your sound!
Tuesday, June 13, 2006
WRITER @Large with flash BLOG
my website
Tushi Bushi is sure trying to garner votes for the Republicans in November. It's too late; everyone knows he's a liar and a failure. Gore, Hillary, and Edwards better get off their cans and make some sense. Who is going to lead this country.
I got a kick out of Tushi making eye contact with the Iraqi PM. I could see him using two fingers indicating "look me in the eye!" Whaddy expect showing up unannounced? But I can see why, even if it's a BE AMERICA PLAN!
The thing is they don't want to be US.
Zippy is getting gray and I am sad. I just read a story by Lad Moore on his site about his dog, Quigley. READ Here
I want another dog. What if something happens to Zippy as it will no doubt someday. When Max died I didn't get a dog for two years, the only time in my life that I didn't have a dog. I still miss Max.
Fiction flash:
Her eyes opened wide and so did her mouth. As her tongue reached for her pink ice cream cone her eyes closed and the magic coldness filled her mouth.
The rough boy from next door ran up to her. "Give me your cone. I want it."
"No," she said turning away. She wanted to eat it slowly and enjoy every bite. Her collie sat at her side.
When Robbie reached for the cone, Daisy growled. Robbie paused. "She doesn't bite does she?"
"Maybe, if she thinks somebody's hurting me."
"Have your old ice cream. I hate strawberry anyway." Robbie ran off in search of other prey.
Daisy and the little girl smiled at each other. Then they both took a lick of the melting pink delight.
I think it's wrong for the media to call the Pitt-Jolie baby the second coming.
my website
Tushi Bushi is sure trying to garner votes for the Republicans in November. It's too late; everyone knows he's a liar and a failure. Gore, Hillary, and Edwards better get off their cans and make some sense. Who is going to lead this country.
I got a kick out of Tushi making eye contact with the Iraqi PM. I could see him using two fingers indicating "look me in the eye!" Whaddy expect showing up unannounced? But I can see why, even if it's a BE AMERICA PLAN!
The thing is they don't want to be US.
Zippy is getting gray and I am sad. I just read a story by Lad Moore on his site about his dog, Quigley. READ Here
I want another dog. What if something happens to Zippy as it will no doubt someday. When Max died I didn't get a dog for two years, the only time in my life that I didn't have a dog. I still miss Max.
Fiction flash:
Her eyes opened wide and so did her mouth. As her tongue reached for her pink ice cream cone her eyes closed and the magic coldness filled her mouth.
The rough boy from next door ran up to her. "Give me your cone. I want it."
"No," she said turning away. She wanted to eat it slowly and enjoy every bite. Her collie sat at her side.
When Robbie reached for the cone, Daisy growled. Robbie paused. "She doesn't bite does she?"
"Maybe, if she thinks somebody's hurting me."
"Have your old ice cream. I hate strawberry anyway." Robbie ran off in search of other prey.
Daisy and the little girl smiled at each other. Then they both took a lick of the melting pink delight.
I think it's wrong for the media to call the Pitt-Jolie baby the second coming.
Tuesday, June 6, 2006
Sondra’s Woe
By
RD Larson
By
RD Larson
Lit from above, the mirror looked old. Scarred, with rents in its silver lining. Sondra brushed the blue eye shadow above her lids. She outlined her eyes with black pencil. Heavy coats of mascara made her long eyelashes droop. Eyelash curler, she thought, digging in her Fendi bag for the tool.
She took a brush and outlined her small lips far outside the lines, making them huge. With a heavy purplish red lipstick, she filled in the lips. She grabbed a piece of toilet tissue and wiped her teeth hard repeatedly. Then reapplied the lipstick and blotted.
Her long red hair, she thought wistfully, brushing it with a natural bristle brush, didn’t seem as thick. Fans remembered her hair always. Her trademark; even her statement.
Sandra opened the dress bag. It had been torn and repaired with duct tape. She carefully put on her costume. The sequined low-cut tank top in a rich ruby red. The tiny black skirt. Hardly buttoned tonight. Why ever not? She had been dieting just for tonight.
Then shoes which had cost so much of her meager funds.
She signaled into the shadows that she was ready. She could hear the band; she knew they would ratchet up the volume when she came out. She kicked her day clothes into the corner. She missed having Sheila, her dresser. The woman had just up and died, of all the nerve.
She flung the boa, black as the clouds around her shoulders, just hiding her incredible cleavage. She walked down the board walkway on to the stage.
Then she strutted out there and turned to look at her adoring fans, her people.
Sondra stood on the platform. The mike loved her as the wind whipped her long red hair around her face. When the first big drops fell, she didn’t feel them. Her mouth opened wide forming the words to the rock hit that made her famous. Her breasts heaved as she reared back and then flung herself forward in time to the beat. Her body twisted in a familiar staccato to her public, beyond the stage and beyond her helpless dreams.
“I’m not just any child,” sang Sondra, her voice deep and throaty, against the wind and the rain. “I’m not just any child. I’m Wednesday’s child and you know it, you know it. So let me. . .
The star flung her hair to the side and arched her hip at where the front row boys sat. Her groin bounced convincingly. The needle marks and the cuts didn’t show. The gravel in her voice worsened becoming even thicker. Turning her still beautiful face to the black clouds above, her song took wing for only a moment or two.
“So let me be used by you. I’m not just any child, I’m Wednesday’s child.”
Rolls of thunder drown out the rest of the song. When the lightning struck Cassandra, she thought it was just the applause and never knew the arena was empty…
Sunday, June 4, 2006
My Web SiteMy Reader Site Please sign my guest book
Moon Dust by Cleveland Gibson is out and you can own your own copy of hair-raising, bone-crushing scary stories. Stories like you've never read! Cleve takes you places that you never thought about. I think it's a new genre - fantasy horror with a twist of poison! You will love this book. If it scared me, it will scare you. And entertain you! Read it!
Available at: Moon Dust by Cleveland W. Gibson
In addition you can now get Mama Tried to Raise a Lady at Mobipockets
for your Smart Phone, PDA and Blackberry. And on your computer as well! You can hear an excerpt read by Tricia at www.footstepstooxford.com
Saturday, May 27, 2006
Memorial Day
When we remember all the soldiers who fought so that this country could be free, it make all of us humble and grateful. From the Revolutionary War at the beginning of this country until today in Iraq, these men and women are heroes to us as they do their duty. I honor my grandfather, father, husband and nephew all who served in the Armed Forces. Those who died are honored every day. Each day I am glad I was born in a land that had free elections, free speech and freedom to pursue happiness. No matter who you are or what you are doing this memorial day, please take time to honor the war dead and the war living! No matter what your political belief is, if you don't believe in the principals that made this country strong, you are lucky to live here. And you need to read the Bill of Rights! We must do what we can in support of our soldiers and their sense of duty. May they forever be honored!
The Bill of Rights Amendments
The Constitution of the United States
Wednesday, May 24, 2006
WRITER @Large with flash BLOG
Chapter from Mama Tried to Raise a Lady
Buffalo Girl Dreams
By
RD Larson
I was supposed to be picking wild blackberries. Mama sold baskets to people in town. Selling berries was one way that we put extra food on the table, Mama always told me. Maybe so, but I always thought that the blackberries were food.
Since I had been picking for what seemed a long time and had a lard pail full, it seemed only right that I should take a rest. So I crawled under one of those sweet-smelling brambly bushes to consider my future.
I was going with Pop in the afternoon to look at some Guernsey heifers. We might buy one or two if they were good-lookers. That was my future: learning what to look for in a milk cow.
Mind you, I was going to resume picking berries right a way. Mama would need twelve full baskets by noon the next day. So I was just sort of laying under there, looking up at the blue sky and measuring myself against what my idea of famous cow buyers would be like. I dreamed of buying a whole herd of beef cattle, including an amazing bull, and living in Montana. I would wear a six-gallon hat, and be a buffalo girl. Pop use to sing Mama a song about Buffalo Girls. I was thinking pretty hard about what kind of cow ponies I would have, too.
I watched out of the corner of my eye as a fat lazy bumble bee sailed sluggishly into the berry patch. He flew so slowly that I grinned to myself, thinking maybe he had the afternoon drowsies, too. He clumsily landed on a white berry flower, his ankles thick with yellow pollen. He began to do his work. I went back to thinking about all the cows I would own when I was grown up.
All of a sudden that stupid old bee flew-up; then, fell downwards right into my mouth. Well, I was so surprised that I shut my mouth and captured poor old Mister Bumble Bee alive! Buzz, buzz C he made my ears hum! He made so much noise that I quickly opened my mouth.
But not before he stung me on the tip of the tongue! Off he flew to his private destiny and up I jumped up to mine.
By the time I finished the berries, I couldn't close my mouth because my tongue had gotten so fat. I started to the house, saying a thousand excuses in my head to Mama and saying a thousand reasons to Pop for missing the auction.
"YAYA, Yuck la Yis!" I was trying to say, "Mama look at this." She did take a look at me, sat the bucket of berries on the old blue Formica table, and went straight to the refrigerator.
As she dumped the ice into an old washcloth, she began to laugh.
It wasn't funny to me, of course, because my cowboy dreams were in ashes. I sat at the table, my tongue in a washcloth and tried to imagine what Calamity Jane would have done in such a fix.
My noodle brother came in the house and right before my very hungry nose he made the most perfect peanut butter and jelly sandwich I had ever seen. Mama made him eat it outside, but I could still hear him laughing.
Pop came up from the pump house for lunch. I think he laughed at me, too. But a person couldn't always tell with him, 'cause his cheeks just popped in and out. He always said it was because he was gnashing his teeth at the consternation's of life. But I knew for a fact that sometimes it happened when Pop didn't want to laugh in someone's face.
"Ah gluth HamYuck loo loo," I told him, rolling my eyes and shrugging.
"Never mind homework, Baby Rose, you need to learn about choosing a decent milk cow. Why, you are my right hand man," he told me, resting his hand on my shoulder.
"Ylam a Slaving to Yeath! Yi yant gloo wilth ya." I said.
"Honey, this kid is hungry; give her a big glass of milk; that will tide her over until her tongue goes down. Besides, we'd better get on the road! It's clear out to Fieldbrook at Harrows' farm." He swallowed the last of his salami sandwich and drain his cup as Mama poured thick creamy milk into a tall glass.
My brother came in, jam on his chin, just to nose around. I put my finger on his chin jam, but he jerked away. Sheez, I just wanted to taste it.
I drank my milk as best I could. Pop went on out, after giving Mama a big kiss and a hug. Yuk, I thought, this family is so nauseating, always hugging and kissing. I groaned in hunger and disgust. When I lived on my ranch in Montana, nobody better hug me.
"Tough break, Sis," said my brother. Actually, he said it rather kindly and I had to glare out the window for a moment. Then, he spoiled it. "So I guess bee meat is pretty good, huh?"
I kicked his shin and went out the door by way of a bye-bye hug from Mama. What a life, I told myself as I jumped into the old faded blue pickup as Pop gunned the motor. The pickup bounced down the driveway.
Chapter from Mama Tried to Raise a Lady
Buffalo Girl Dreams
By
RD Larson
I was supposed to be picking wild blackberries. Mama sold baskets to people in town. Selling berries was one way that we put extra food on the table, Mama always told me. Maybe so, but I always thought that the blackberries were food.
Since I had been picking for what seemed a long time and had a lard pail full, it seemed only right that I should take a rest. So I crawled under one of those sweet-smelling brambly bushes to consider my future.
I was going with Pop in the afternoon to look at some Guernsey heifers. We might buy one or two if they were good-lookers. That was my future: learning what to look for in a milk cow.
Mind you, I was going to resume picking berries right a way. Mama would need twelve full baskets by noon the next day. So I was just sort of laying under there, looking up at the blue sky and measuring myself against what my idea of famous cow buyers would be like. I dreamed of buying a whole herd of beef cattle, including an amazing bull, and living in Montana. I would wear a six-gallon hat, and be a buffalo girl. Pop use to sing Mama a song about Buffalo Girls. I was thinking pretty hard about what kind of cow ponies I would have, too.
I watched out of the corner of my eye as a fat lazy bumble bee sailed sluggishly into the berry patch. He flew so slowly that I grinned to myself, thinking maybe he had the afternoon drowsies, too. He clumsily landed on a white berry flower, his ankles thick with yellow pollen. He began to do his work. I went back to thinking about all the cows I would own when I was grown up.
All of a sudden that stupid old bee flew-up; then, fell downwards right into my mouth. Well, I was so surprised that I shut my mouth and captured poor old Mister Bumble Bee alive! Buzz, buzz C he made my ears hum! He made so much noise that I quickly opened my mouth.
But not before he stung me on the tip of the tongue! Off he flew to his private destiny and up I jumped up to mine.
By the time I finished the berries, I couldn't close my mouth because my tongue had gotten so fat. I started to the house, saying a thousand excuses in my head to Mama and saying a thousand reasons to Pop for missing the auction.
"YAYA, Yuck la Yis!" I was trying to say, "Mama look at this." She did take a look at me, sat the bucket of berries on the old blue Formica table, and went straight to the refrigerator.
As she dumped the ice into an old washcloth, she began to laugh.
It wasn't funny to me, of course, because my cowboy dreams were in ashes. I sat at the table, my tongue in a washcloth and tried to imagine what Calamity Jane would have done in such a fix.
My noodle brother came in the house and right before my very hungry nose he made the most perfect peanut butter and jelly sandwich I had ever seen. Mama made him eat it outside, but I could still hear him laughing.
Pop came up from the pump house for lunch. I think he laughed at me, too. But a person couldn't always tell with him, 'cause his cheeks just popped in and out. He always said it was because he was gnashing his teeth at the consternation's of life. But I knew for a fact that sometimes it happened when Pop didn't want to laugh in someone's face.
"Ah gluth HamYuck loo loo," I told him, rolling my eyes and shrugging.
"Never mind homework, Baby Rose, you need to learn about choosing a decent milk cow. Why, you are my right hand man," he told me, resting his hand on my shoulder.
"Ylam a Slaving to Yeath! Yi yant gloo wilth ya." I said.
"Honey, this kid is hungry; give her a big glass of milk; that will tide her over until her tongue goes down. Besides, we'd better get on the road! It's clear out to Fieldbrook at Harrows' farm." He swallowed the last of his salami sandwich and drain his cup as Mama poured thick creamy milk into a tall glass.
My brother came in, jam on his chin, just to nose around. I put my finger on his chin jam, but he jerked away. Sheez, I just wanted to taste it.
I drank my milk as best I could. Pop went on out, after giving Mama a big kiss and a hug. Yuk, I thought, this family is so nauseating, always hugging and kissing. I groaned in hunger and disgust. When I lived on my ranch in Montana, nobody better hug me.
"Tough break, Sis," said my brother. Actually, he said it rather kindly and I had to glare out the window for a moment. Then, he spoiled it. "So I guess bee meat is pretty good, huh?"
I kicked his shin and went out the door by way of a bye-bye hug from Mama. What a life, I told myself as I jumped into the old faded blue pickup as Pop gunned the motor. The pickup bounced down the driveway.
Thursday, May 18, 2006
Political slash:
We'll get to find out if we're going to have a military investigation "looder" or not soon. What is this about? Have you notice with people who think they hear God, they never believe they are wrong? What if the "hearing of God" is a mental construct? Like, a fantasy about a romance? Scary what the mind can conceive, huh?
So when did it okay to break the law? If I wanted to sneak into this country I would take off my long dress and learn a new language and cross the boarder to the south and look up sleeper cells. Homeland Security is a bureaucratic stuffed toy. The blind man trying to describe the elephant.
If you think I'm spitting in the wind, think of the hype (media & religious) surrounding THE De Vinci Code which, by the way, is FICTION. Lots of string-a-long people are making money from the whole concept.
The WAR on Terriers is not a war on gods, whose or whose not. We'd better clear up our facts, 'cause it's economics. They will win if we go bankrupt and our constitution becomes useless.
We'll get to find out if we're going to have a military investigation "looder" or not soon. What is this about? Have you notice with people who think they hear God, they never believe they are wrong? What if the "hearing of God" is a mental construct? Like, a fantasy about a romance? Scary what the mind can conceive, huh?
So when did it okay to break the law? If I wanted to sneak into this country I would take off my long dress and learn a new language and cross the boarder to the south and look up sleeper cells. Homeland Security is a bureaucratic stuffed toy. The blind man trying to describe the elephant.
If you think I'm spitting in the wind, think of the hype (media & religious) surrounding THE De Vinci Code which, by the way, is FICTION. Lots of string-a-long people are making money from the whole concept.
The WAR on Terriers is not a war on gods, whose or whose not. We'd better clear up our facts, 'cause it's economics. They will win if we go bankrupt and our constitution becomes useless.
Monday, May 8, 2006
Friday, May 5, 2006
http://www.RDLarson.com My Web Site
http://www.kenseamedia.com/rdlarson My Reader Site! Please sign my guest boo!
I'm busy working on book four, with more of the lives of Erle and Stumpy. If you want to read a sci-fi story I wrote checkout Bewildering Stories at www.bewilderingstories.com
Also you can find an essay at www.usless_knowledge.com about politics
We're considering another dog, a female as a companion for dear Zippy, or maybe it's a companion for one or the other of us. Even a dog as long as Zippy is hard to share from across the room. If we do get a dog, I want to call her "Missus" and then of course she'll be Missus Zippy.
He has been helping me garden. He observes the woods for bear and beast whilst I potter about with poppies and such. He thinks I am careless because I can't smell it when people are near or animals for that matter either. Not only that I don't seem to hear as well as he does. He tries so hard to hear that his ears are bald. Or maybe it is from wearing a hat-- no, wait, I mean from getting them rubbed.
So if you don't see any changes on here for awhile remember I'm working on my new book. Please consider buying Evil Angel if you're old enough and if not, Mama Tried to Raise a Lady. If you're religious try Saving Reverend Clayton.
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