Pawny's Pen

NaNoWriMo

2012-01-14T13:17:00.000-07:00

In 2010, I successfully finished (is that redundant?) my third NaNoWriMo. This past year, I didn't get far at all. I don't know if it was because I didn't have a basic story in mind, or what. I do know that the past two times that I finished, the following years were totally lacking in enthusiasm. I don't know why. I may post the beginning here, since it's just a work in progress, and not a very good one at that. The thing is, I did have all sorts of ideas from the seeds I planted, but they just died.

from a poetry prompt

2012-01-14T12:21:00.000-07:00

It's gone
The magic of Christmas

Christmas decorations
In my house
Are no more inspiring
Than empty dinner plates

Random houses
With colored lights
Remind me
Of being cold

I love shopping
Because
I love making people
Happy

I want them to have joy
When they open
Presents
And think kindly of me

But there is no magic

ROW 80 Update

2011-09-05T09:06:00.000-07:00

These were my original goals:

For this challenge, the following are my goals, to be accomplished by the end of the 80 days:

1. Finish the A to Z challenge from April. I have A to T completed, but I need to finish through Z, whether or not that finishes the story itself.

2. Finish revising/editing Basic Training. I want it to be ready to upload to Smashwords by the end of the 80 days. Actually, I would really like it uploaded by then, not just ready.

3. Write four short stories. These may be flash fiction, stories for challenges, etc. But four stories in 80 days really means writing a short story within 20-day time spans. I can do this.

4. Create a written plan for my blogs (Pawny's Pen, the Desert Duck, and Snarkyville News).

5. Create a written author plan.

6. Other mini-goals as they may arise from these goals.

The problem with summer is that I have lots of time, so I squander nearly all of it. I do tend to do more when I have to squeeze it in. So, in short, little has changed since my last update. While the Desert Duck is gone, I did create another personal blog, with only my brother and sister subscribed and no one else knowing about it. That gives me the freedom to talk about whatever I want to talk about, without worrying about who's reading it or whose feelings will be hurt by accuracy.

Although it wasn't a written goal, all of my poetry has been removed from this site and put into a Smashwords book. It's not that I expect anyone to buy a poetry book, and I haven't even bothered to advertise it. I just wanted to have it myself. I wanted one location that held most of my poems in an easy-for-me format. Even then, it's not comprehensive, though.

I moved Snarkyville News. I also started a blog with my class's weekly doings.

Otherwise, I need to get a move on with writing. Somehow, I just went dry this summer. I have tons of writing "exercises/prompts;" maybe I'll do one a day for September (new goal), and that will get me back into writing.

Wednesday Blog Visit: The Kelworth Files

2011-07-21T13:23:00.000-07:00

"Happy Wednesday, people!" she chirped, hoping nobody would notice that it's actually Thursday. Oh, well.

And so we come to another Wednesday Blog Visit, albeit a day late. Or a week. I picked Chris K's blog, The Kelworth Files, for a number of reasons. It comes to my mailbox (I love blogs that deliver!). I enjoy reading the blog itself; I love the author's voice, and loved the story about the doughnut shop without AC.

The reason I picked this particular week for this blog visit is that Chris has issued us a challenge. Here is an excerpt from the blog:

I got this missive in my inbox yesterday:

Subject: My Zombies Challenge You to Prove Them Wrong About Social Media

I have a previously workshopped story up on Tales of the Zombie War. Now, one thing I’m a bit of a zombie about is the alleged power of social media. I’m just not convinced that it does all that much to increase readership or sales. But it strikes me that this might be an opportunity for those of you who have drank the social media cool-aid to prove me wrong. Tales of the Zombie War is one of those places where readers can leave comments. Typically, a story on this site averages 25 comments. So throw your followers at me, urge them to check out my story and leave comment. If the power of your social network raises the comment count to 40 or greater, I will have to admit I am Luddite and will wear a t-shirt so saying to the next Campbell Conference. Here’s the link: http://www.talesofworldwarz.com/stories/2011/07/11/running-on-ahead-by-chuck-von-nordheim/

Please leave a comment on the blog that blog. Also, feel free, as always, to post below your favorite part of the Kelworth Files.

Thanks for stopping by!

Tuesday Poetry: Real Poems

2011-07-19T18:41:00.000-07:00

Hello, friends! Welcome to (last week's) Tuesday Poetry! As you may remember, instead of highlighting poems that I particularly like from the famous or the infamous, I decided instead to focus on poetry blogs. There are a number of people out there writing poetry, possibly including you! Today we are visiting Real Poems.

If you're a regular reader, then it goes without saying that I first came in contact with this blog through Twitter. If you are interested in such things, some of his poetry follows various rhyming schemes and some doesn't. (My own rarely rhyme.) What attracts me to his poetry is his authenticity and that he writes poetry about Andrew. Andrew is one of his sons, and he as Down's Syndrome. According to Saturday's poem, Andrew has just turned 21.

I had a friend whose nephew (age 30-something) had Down's Syndrome. I remember his joy in collecting hat, his job, and group trips he took (because he lived in Syracuse, which provided such opportunities). I've lost track of my friend and Jimmy, but John Lavan's poems bring back those happy memories for me.

I am also so deeply touched by a father's palpable love for his son. I believe you will experience that as well.

Please check out the blog, and leave a comment below about a poem you liked. Thanks!

ROW 80 Check-in Post

2011-07-06T09:36:00.000-07:00

Goal 4 was "Create a written plan for my blogs (Pawny's Pen, the Desert Duck, and Snarkyville News)."

My written plan for Snarkyville News is here. The short version is that Mondays will be links to teacher resources, Thursdays will highlight teacher blogs, and weekends we see a post from Snarkyville -- a funny story, something happening in my classroom, etc. Posts are noted on Twitter with appropriate hashtags (either #teaching on Thursdays or #teaching and #homeschooling on Mondays, as homeschoolers also look for teacher resources).

I also created my written plan for the Desert Duck here. In short, I'm letting go of that blog. I took off (well, hid) the last post, making the final post a natural point of closure.

I've not yet created a written plan for this blog, Pawny's Pen. That will come, though!

Tuesday Poetry: Welcome to My World of Poetry

2011-07-05T07:02:00.000-07:00

I have not done Tuesday Poetry in a while, for a number of reasons. I must say that I love poetry, and there is a wide variety of it out there. I would love to share all of my favorites with you, which is how this feature began. But there are a number of people out there, a number of blogs I follow, that are about or include poetry. I am thinking that, in keeping with my re-evaluation of my site, I should feature those poets instead on Tuesdays. I already have at least three poetry blogs in mind to feature!

This week, for our first Tuesday poetry blog visit, I'd like to take you to Welcome To My World Of Poetry, a blog by Yvonne Lewis. I "met" Yvonne and her blog through the A to Z Challenge. Every day or nearly every day, her blog has a new original poem. She also has photographs that go along with the poems, and matching music as well. Yvonne has a lovely, multisensory web site.

Check out her poem in memory of Peter Falk.

Until next Tuesday, may all your poems rhyme or not rhyme, and may all your pentameters be iambic (or not). :-)

the Desert Duck

2011-07-04T22:13:00.000-07:00

Part of my 80 Days goals includes making a written plan for my three major blogs. Today I made a plan for Snarkyville News, and I'm happy with that. The blog now has a structure, whereas I was really ready to just dump it (especially since I last posted in February). The written plan for that blog is here, on the blog itself.

This leads to the next blog, The Desert Duck. I originally started writing it (at LJ) when I first left Wisconsin. It was a great way to keep everyone up-to-date on my adventures and misadventures. That was in June of 2007. One November (I think of that same year), I moved the blog to WordPress. Although people in the original audience claim to read it, most comments are actually by a coworker.

While nothing in the blog is untrue or exaggerated, it is edited because the audience had increased to include the people and situations I might otherwise want to write about! I'd rather go back to having a private journal, in which I can express myself without editing.

Thus, my written plan for the Desert Duck is this: to discontinue posting in that blog. If at some point, I feel some overwhelming reason to begin posting again, I will, but I seriously doubt it!

A Round of Words in 80 Days: Goals

2011-07-03T22:21:00.000-07:00

For this challenge, the following are my goals, to be accomplished by the end of the 80 days:

1. Finish the A to Z challenge from April. I have A to T completed, but I need to finish through Z, whether or not that finishes the story itself.

2. Finish revising/editing Basic Training. I want it to be ready to upload to Smashwords by the end of the 80 days. Actually, I would really like it uploaded by then, not just ready.

3. Write four short stories. These may be flash fiction, stories for challenges, etc. But four stories in 80 days really means writing a short story within 20-day time spans. I can do this.

4. Create a written plan for my blogs (Pawny's Pen, the Desert Duck, and Snarkyville News).

5. Create a written author plan.

6. Other mini-goals as they may arise from these goals.

Sample Sunday: Rolled-Up Streets, Chapter One

2011-07-03T10:43:00.000-07:00

Tuesday

She was definitely dead. It wasn't just that people don't usually lie there on the floor in that position; the darkness seeping from the back of her head was a clue as well. So much for getting to catch some of the babel tournament this afternoon!

I looked around the main room. It was pretty ordinary for someone living in Martynotte. The deceased woman had afghans draped on the chairs, some artwork on the walls that probably came from New Provincetown, and a sturdy table and chairs set that no doubt came from Brindisi, judging by the carvings. The stone fireplace was cool; the ashes were probably from last evening. It looked like she had been sitting over there – that afghan was lumped on the chair, and there was a partial cup of some drink as well as a bookmark on the table – but no book.

"Geez, what kind of teacher has no papers to grade? My wife is always bringing home tons of stuff, like she has no other life!" That was Daryl. He can't work without talking. Me, I like to check things out. Process them. No matter – today I had Daryl with me.

"Well, we'll talk to the school. Do you see a book anywhere?" Daryl looked at me like I was an alien, and pointed to the bookcase (which also came from Brindisi, judging by the ornate scroll work – she got money from somewhere besides teaching!). Five shelves of books were upright, plus books were lying on their sides on top of these books wherever they fit. Some still had the Hornbaker University sticker in them (Province & Culture, Teaching in the Multicultural Classroom), and some were more mainstream (including the entire Kileen series). I opened one up to see if it was a first edition. My wife says I'm a snob. Inside this book was a label with a number and a web site address.

"Hey! Check this out!" Daryl had a copy of Babel Hall of Fame opened. On the inside were a label and a number.

"This book has a label, too. There is also a web site on the label. That means she must have a computer here somewhere. You keep looking, while I see if I can find the book that goes with this bookmark." My partner went into the other room while I looked under furniture. Except for some dust bunnies, there was nothing but empty space under the chairs. I wandered toward the kitchen while Daryl poked around the bedroom.

"Found it!" I quickly joined him. The bedroom looked more "city" than the main room. She had a quilt on the bed, but she also had a modern desk with a computer on it. (I tried not to look at the Toadee Towers posters – I wanted to forget about missing the game!) While Daryl turned on the computer, I opened the drawer and found an address book.

I opened it up and was thoroughly annoyed. "M/E" and a phone number. "SMF" and a street address – but no city or postal code. "Bookluvr" and a couple of book titles – I think. Why can't people just fill in the little spaces exactly the way they're written? Imagine how much easier my job would be? But no, just this cryptic stuff. I kept flipping until I came across "Dad;" that was at least more useful! I put the address book in the bag to take back with me. In the meantime, Daryl did his thing with the computer.

She had a ton of sites bookmarked; this could turn out to be a real pain! But Daryl typed in the address on the label inside the book. We looked at the home page and each other. Register? Release? (We understood the Read part.) He printed the page out and put it with the other evidence.

"We're gonna have to take the whole computer in, ya know." Yeah, what a surprise. Daryl was practically drooling at the chance to traipse through someone else's data.

"Fine. You take care of that; I'll go over to the school."

I drove over to Hayden Carruth Elementary. Kids in uniforms solemnly walked down the hall from one room to another. "I'm Sr. Rose David." The principal had materialized out of nowhere.

"Oh, no, it's not what you think. Last night was parent-teacher conferences, so they're a little subdued. By tomorrow they'll be back to normal." I accidentally let out a sigh of relief, which she had the good grace to pretend not to notice.

Once we were in her office, she shut the door. "I'm afraid I have some bad news for you, Sister. When we went to the house to investigate, we discovered that EmmaLeigh Cook had died. Was she at school yesterday?"

"Oh, yes. Even if she hadn't been feeling well, she would've been here for the conferences. This is the end of the first marking period, so she would need to explain the first report card to the parents and let them know what is normal for this age, nip any problems in the bud, etc."

"That would explain why she had no school papers at home?"

"Yes."

"Did she have any, um, problem conferences? Parents who were mad? Children who might retaliate and go overboard maybe?"

"No, I don't think so. I saw her before she left, although I was with a parent myself. She didn't look like there was anything out of the ordinary. Besides, these are good families." I probably would've believed her except that I had been to schools where a "good family" was one that paid its tuition on time.

"I'll need a list of her students and their parents."

She dialed the office phone. "Mrs. Wagner, can you get me a parent list for Miss Cook's class? Thanks." She hung up and looked at me. "I can assure you that none of our families did this."
"I would like to see her classroom."

"Third grade goes to lunch in a few minutes. Mrs. Wagner will take you to it." A woman about my age handed a paper to Sr. Rose David, who then handed it to me. I shook hands with the principal and thanked her. Mrs. Wagner had a practice smile on, unsure of who I was and what I wanted, but she took me to the room and left me alone there.

There was a colorful wall with word cards on it, shoe boxes on their sides with little forests and animals in them, and a couple of chess sets with games in progress … and shelves full of books. I picked up a couple, but none had labels in them other than the name of the school or "Miss Cook's Book" neatly written on the inside cover.

I went over to the desk and opened the center drawer, expecting to find an orderly "teacher desk;" instead, there were pens and rubber bands in the same place, along with paper clips and a toy car. Pads of scratch paper and boxes of thank you notes were placed neatly in a side drawer, but buried under subtraction answer sheets, a book order form, and a memo about not overusing the copy machine.

There was a large calendar on her desk, with days crossed off. She had written for today "mail out ring." I didn't remember seeing a package to be mailed, but I had have to check with Daryl later to see if he came across any jewelry in the bedroom. Suddenly the door burst open, and two girls ran toward the coat cubbies.

"I forgot my lunch!" the smaller one declared as she grabbed for it. Her friend watched me and narrowed her eyes.

"Who are you?" None of that open childhood innocence for this one!

"I'm Officer Boucli. I'm from the police department."

"Oh. Well, she lied. I didn't steal the markers, I just borrowed them. Anyway, I put them back right before we went to lunch. C'mon, Micah! Let's go already!" And they were out the door, Micah practically being dragged by her friend.

Nothing in the desk screamed "motive" exactly. And aside from Micah's friend, there didn't seem to be a lot of intrigue in third grade. Still, I had to call the parents and find out about the conferences, maybe talk to the kids. Some teachers were chatty and some were aloof. Maybe Miss Cook was the chatty sort.

I drove back over to the house to see if the inventory crew was finished yet. Daryl and the computer were already gone, but Jace was there. "Did you find any jewelry? Especially a ring?"

"Lots of pierced earrings, including nine that had no mate. She had one hole in each ear, but it looks like it's been a while since she actually wore any of the earrings. She had a couple necklaces that matched earrings. She also had a couple rings, but nothing expensive."

"I found a note on her calendar about mailing a ring today. Find anything that might fit?"

"Nah. The rings were in the same box as the rest of the jewelry, and the box had dust on top, so it's not like she even opened it recently. Sorry."

I talked to the other technicians there. There were not any signs of forced entry, but there was also nothing to indicate that she was expecting company. Then again, she wasn't in her bed clothes, so there was no reason to think she wasn't, either. I decided to go see if Daryl found anything interesting on the computer yet.

"Her e-mail account was bookmarked. I'm still trying to figure out what her password was, though. It would help if it were something obvious, like a pet name or if she had kids. Oh, I put her address book on your desk. Good luck!"

Great. We were both going to be at it a while! I decided to see if the address for SMF was local, and if I could get an address to match the phone number for M/E. Turns out that a lot of people had that phone number somewhere in the country. However, a phone in the Province of Quantez looked like a winner: Mark Cook. A cross-reference showed the same number belonged to Evan Birkhoff. M/E. They lived in Beritela. Daryl would be stuck on the computer for quite a while, and I didn't really know my way around Beritela, so Galina would be going with me.

"We'll have to stop in Reddell City. If we get an investigation permit from the police department in the capitol, it will make our job a lot easier. This is the Downlands." Of course, she said this just as we approached the river. Crossing the border rivers always gave me the creeps. Whether crossing the Ajo into the Province of Knox or the Tanque Verde into the Province of Quantez, the process was the same to me – like leaving for a foreign country, but not necessarily a friendly one. I always held my breath until I returned. Needless to say, I didn't travel much outside Schifanella unless I had to!

"Um, just how Downland is Beritela?"

"Oh, it's not that bad. It's not like Milton and Thressa. I mean it's possible that these two guys are more than just roommates. That would never happen if their town were majorly Downland in its thinking!"

"So these guys could be freemates?" This was a concept I could understand, at least in theory. Galina looked at me like I was a moron.

"You will not find freemates anywhere in Quantez. I'm not sure it's even legal there. Only permanent civil unions. Freemates can split up without a bunch of legal hassles and paperwork. You are not likely to find freemates outside of Knox."

"Then…?"

"That doesn't mean they can't be a couple – they just don't have a lot of rights as a couple. It's tricky. They can register as a couple and apply for a permanent civil union, which gives them the legal benefits of couples but could also keep them from getting jobs and housing. Or, they can just be a couple without the paperwork and without the benefits, but living in the right place they can at least live in peace. There are parts of Beritela that would count as the right place, but not in most of the other Downland towns." She stared out the window and we were both silent as we crossed the river. Really, it just gives me the creeps. I was glad Galina felt the same way.

I had never been to this province, and had been OK with that. Now I didn't know what to expect. Really, I would not have been surprised if we came over a hill and saw the Shire, with a bunch of barefoot hobbits running around. That is about how people from Schifanella saw Quantez. It turned out to look pretty ordinary, though. I mean, real paved streets, buildings that were identifiable by anyone in Knigi as being a post office, grocer, library, etc. Still, it wasn't home.

Getting our investigation permit in Reddell City wasn't totally awful, but it wasn't a heartwarming bonding moment either. The capitol is physically in the Downlands, and so is some of their thinking. For one thing, they don't trust anyone in the other three provinces. But once we reassured them that the murder took place in our jurisdiction and we were just looking for information on the victim, they were more tolerable. OK, not we. Galina never said a word, and stood behind me and to my left -- the whole time we were outside the car. There is absolutely nothing that would possess my wife to act that way! But this was like a different planet culturally, and Galina knew her stuff. We got back in the car as quickly as possible and headed out to Beritela.

We didn't have any problems finding the address. The man who answered the door wore a Cuppa Café uniform and a manager's badge. "I'm Officer Tobias Boucli, and this is my partner, Galina Petrov. We're from the Martynotte Police Department. May we come in?" He looked at each of us for about thirty seconds, and then glanced around before letting us in.

Mark Cook's house was set up in typical Downlander style: you entered into a hallway, with the bedroom off to the left, the main room off to the right, and the kitchen straight ahead – all of which had closed doors. The only real variations in these houses involved the number of bedrooms and if there were bathrooms off the main room or just off the bedrooms. The houses mirrored their style of hospitality – you only saw whatever they wanted to show you; the rest was hidden. Mark led us to the back of the house, to the kitchen, where we could see the sun setting out the window.

"Is this about my sister?" He didn't sound worried or even remotely concerned; it was just a guessing game question.

"Perhaps. This morning we were called to an apartment in Martynotte because a woman named EmmaLeigh Cook didn't show up at work this morning. Is that your sister?"

"Yes. But it's pronounced like Emily, not Emma Lee."

"Sorry."

"No problem. She's used to it. I take it she's not OK?" It still sounded like a guessing game.

"Um, no. I'm sorry to inform you that your sister has died, probably last night. We're wondering if you can tell us anything about your sister's life away from school. Friends, boyfriends or girlfriends, interests, stuff like that." We heard the front door open, and a man's footsteps on the concrete hall floor. Our host got up right away and walked toward the kitchen door to intercept him. We heard Cook and another man mumbling to each other on the other side of the closed door, and then Evan Birkhoff entered the room with his, um, partner.

Evan prepared a hot malt drink for us while Mark answered our questions. "EmmaLeigh had a couple friends at work, Chelsea and Kami. Don't know their last names. She mentioned them at the last family gathering, during the usual grilling. I think they were real, though." He paused. "My parents live in Thressa." He said this last part looking at Evan. I imagine Mark made up a lot of imaginary female dates over the years, just from the little bit Galina told me in the car on the way over.

"Was she dating anyone that you know of? Engaged?" I was still wondering about the ring.

"Not lately. Her last boyfriend died. He had a freak heart attack or something. That is how she ended up moving to Martynotte – to start over somewhere. Fresh start and all."

"Totally fresh," Evan threw in. "She was living in Komie at the time, in the mountains. Luckily for her, school was almost out. She just had to endure the last month or so, but it gave her time to get her teaching paperwork in order. She had a job and a place to live before she ever told her parents that he died."

"Any chance she was engaged to this guy?"

"Not that I know of, but you'd have to ask Kathrinn. She might know."

"And she is …?"

"My other sister. I'll get her address for you." Rather than a phone book, he pulled a list of names and addresses from his wallet. Kathrinn's address matched "SMF." Maybe she had a roommate, too.

"And her last name is?"

"Cook." So neither sister had married yet.

"Did this boyfriend have any family? Anything else you can tell us about him?"

"You want to know the truth? I don't even know the guy's name. I'm not sure Kathrinn does either. All I know is that when he died, she didn't know what to do because she didn't know much about his family, like how to contact them even." He looked at Evan again. "Are you going to go talk to my parents?"

"Only about EmmaLeigh. If you want to call them first, though, that would be really helpful." He gave us the parents' address and phone number, and we headed out to Thressa. Galina had been silent the whole time; now she babbled non-stop in the car, but I'm not sure what about. I was trying to sort out what I learned so far, and it didn't create a pretty picture of the couple we were about to visit.

The woman who answered the door was shorter than Galina, but the minute she spoke you could tell she towered over her children – and almost everyone else. I decided to leave this one to Galina.

Like her son before her, Mrs. Cook led us down the hall, past closed doors, to the kitchen. We could smell the remnants of supper; we would have to stop and eat on the way home. Mr. Cook wasn't visible; perhaps he was in the main room. "I suppose we'll have to go out there and get her stuff and bring it back. Do they even have trucks for hire in that town? I heard about those northern Schifanella towns – they roll up the streets at night." Actually, that is what I was thinking about this town of Thressa – and I wanted to get out of here before the rolling started!

Galina tried to soothe her enough to get information, but there really was very little to get. Mrs. Cook didn't know that much about her daughter's personal life, dismissing the dead boyfriend as a passing fancy that had conveniently become a moot point. "She should have been a model, you know. But instead, she refused to cover up that hideous scar over her eye. She could have been wearing nice clothes, had nice things…" The woman got up and grabbed a rag. She began washing the spotless table; the interview was over.

I drove back to the coffee shop in Beritela where Mark Cook worked, and Galina and I ate a quick supper. "It could be worse," Galina pointed out helpfully.

"How?"

"At least this family had English names, and spoke English. You could understand them!"

"What do you mean?"

"Plenty of Downland families don't bother. They speak the local language only. Some even refuse to give their kids English name, refuse to speak the language, and change their surnames back to the local version."

"You are kidding, right? What happened to taking our place among modern nations and all that? And what about the schools?"

"Lots of families here home school. Others send their kids to a hidden school, one in someone's house. They only speak their own language there."

I looked at Galina again, closer. "And you grew up somewhere around here?" She looked me in the eye but said nothing. Then she put the money for her meal on the table and excused herself. I went to pay the bill and waited for her. I couldn't imagine living here at all, let alone as a woman.

We were fairly silent in the car; we didn't relax until we crossed the bridge back into Schifanella. Back at the station, there was no note from Daryl and nothing else that couldn't wait. Tomorrow was another day.

e-versions of Rolled-Up Streets

paperback version of Rolled-Up Streets

Linda's Dream

2011-07-01T17:46:00.001-07:00

I was approximately 12 years old when I made this book at my grandmother's Chicago apartment and gave it to her. I'm so glad she saved it! Note that I gave the character a different middle name from mine, to show that she obviously wasn't me. ;-) By the way, the pictures were all cut out from a Sears catalog or some such thing.

Just For You!

2011-06-30T21:15:00.001-07:00

Hello, Pawny's Pen readers! I really appreciate that you stop by and read, whether you're a lurker, a first time visitor, or a steady guest. To show my appreciation, I've made a free coupon just for you. It won't be posted anywhere else but this little space here. From now until July 10, 2011, you can get Rolled-Up Streets, the first book in my Knigi series, for free. Just use coupon code FL35G. Don't have any sort of e-reader? That doesn't matter. You can download the book to your computer in a couple of standard formats, or you can read it as if it were web pages. If you get an e-reader later (Have I mentioned in the past 20 minutes how much I love my Kindle?), you already have the book in every format -- you just have to download the one that matches the e-reader you bought, whether it's Nook or Kindle or Sony or whatever! Maybe you'll get one for a 4th of July present! Or a Canada Day present! Or an Australia is Awesome present! Or ...

So go get the book. It's free. It's my way of saying Thank You!

A to Z Challenge: Traitors

2011-06-29T20:31:00.000-07:00

PREVIOUSLY

Kyria practically threw her daughter on top of the closed toilet seat as arms reached down from the bathroom ceiling. Athena grabbed the reaching arms, and as her mother shoved her up, the arms pulled her into a crawl space above the bathroom. The two bodies in the dark pushed her aside and reached down to pull her mother up. As soon as both women were in the ceiling, the bodies indicated that the mother and daughter were to follow one of them. The other stayed behind to secure the escape panel.

Athena quickly had to yank her long skirt above her knees, as it was impossible to crawl otherwise. She tried to ignore how filthy her surroundings were and what was happening to her hands and knees, as well as the yelling beneath her, which seemed to be followed by shots being fired at the ceiling.

The shooting and yelling both stopped, but this did not slow the men and their charges down. Instead, it seemed to encourage them to speed up. Athena soon figured out why, as she started to smell smoke. Luckily, she wasn't that prone to being a whiner, but she certainly considered starting, as she noted how suddenly her life went to dull to crawling in the ceiling in a burning building with strangers.

Soon they led her down a ladder near what might have been an outer wall. The ladder led to a brief ledge, which led to another ladder going down. In a short time, she was in a dank area that immediately led to a tunnel. The four of them trotted for a while, but eventually climbed up another ladder into very welcome fresh air ... and lots of trees. Apparently there was a tunnel from their house to the woods. They could see the flames from where they stood.

Athena started to open her mouth, but her mother stopped her. Each man grabbed the wrist of one of the females, and they jogged through the woods, occasionally being slapped around by branches. No one in the group seemed to be used to such exercise, and they were all winded by the time they reached a van with no windows aside from the very front.

The back doors of the van seemed to open of their own accord, and the women were nearly tossed inside. The men leapt in behind them. As soon as the doors were shut, the vehicle took off.

Athena couldn't stand it. "What is going on? Where are we going? Who are you?"

"We're rescuing you," a deep voice answered. It was hard to see exactly who he was in the back of the dark van. Athena sat closer to her mother.

"But why do we need rescuing?"

"Your father was convicted of being a traitor. That's what they really did. That's why they had a closed trial."

"But ..."

"Guilt by association. With the things that have happened in the past couple of days, you two are considered traitors, too."

"You can't be serious! A boxcar, a cow, a diary, an envelope -- all things that just appeared -- these things make me a traitor? What the heck is wrong with you people?"

"It's not us, Athena. It's the country. It's just ... not the same."

"Well, why aren't you considered traitors?" Athena was starting to sound just a little whiny.

"We are, honey. Right now, we are. But the way history books are written, the patriots are the ones who win and the traitors are the ones who lose. It's nothing to do with right and wrong. When this is over, when our country goes back to normal, we'll be the patriots then. Just not now."

Wednesday Blog Visit: Author Piper Bayard

2011-06-29T14:33:00.000-07:00

Why two visits in one day? Because I missed last week. I miss lots of weeks with the poetry, but I think the Wednesday Blog Visits are important, even when I'm too pooped to focus on them! And to answer your other question, the title I write is the name the author herself/himself gave to the blog. Where I know the author's name but it isn't in the title or anywhere obvious, I don't use it. As for your next question, I have a number of blogs in my head that I want to feature/visit. That makes it harder to pick each week. And of course, the answer to your final question is 42, unless you never read HHGTG.

Now, on to this week's visit! We're going to visit Piper Bayard. This is more of a soda and potato chips visit rather than tea and cookies. The subtitle of her blog is enough to draw me in and tell me that this is my kind of person. This is confirmed by today's post, Camp Cheerful Adult Summer Camp. I know three former bosses who I'd sign up right away, especially for the swimming!

Another post I love is Doomsday Humor, complete with video. Be sure to check it out!

When you visit these blogs, feel free to come back and tell me what your favorite post was!

Wednesday Visit: Christine Kane's Blog

2011-06-29T13:57:00.000-07:00

I hope you had a nice two weeks! Once again, I'll be doubling up on Wednesday visits. This week, we're not just bringing our tea cups for our visit; a notebook and pen or open mind might be good to take along on this visit as well! This week we're visiting Christine Kane's blog.

No, I didn't find her on Twitter! Well, OK, not exactly. Someone mentioned Vision Boards, and googling eventually led to this page. Christine's focus is on helping women empower themselves. That does not exclude men; many have the same foibles and would appreciate what she says. For example, one of the things I read today involved not rushing to fill the victimhood slot.

I signed up for periodic emails, which are awesome. I recommend this blog for anyone who is creative, whether in an arts area or a business area. Christine's focus is on us.

Enjoy!

Labels Caveat

2011-06-26T07:31:00.000-07:00

Please check the labels when you read the posts. Some stuff was written in the near or distant past. If something stunk, maybe I wrote it a long time ago and I'm a much better writer now. If something old was awesome anyway, well (*blushes modestly) ...

#Sample Sunday: Class Reunion

2011-06-26T07:28:00.001-07:00

Frank thought Spiro Agnew got a bum rap, and that Pam Shapiro was the hottest thing in the Class of '73. Neither Spiro nor Pam knew that Frank existed, although one of them spent four years at Niles North with him. When the chirpy announcement arrived in the mail ("Hey Gang, Can you believe it's been 25 years already?") Frank Loginsky remembered Pam, and Spiro, and all the torments usually reserved for quiet, acne-infested boys with tape on their glasses.

Pam, on the other hand, had perfect eyes and perfect skin. She wasn't a fluffy, air-head cheerleader, a McGovern-lover, a liberal. She was sensible and thoughtful, a member of Students for Environmental Action as well as Students for Israel. She didn't wear micro-mini skirts, and then feign offense when whistled at. She wore tasteful maxi skirts and peasant blouses, never showing more than she was willing to share.

Neatly lined up on the shelf beneath his nightstand, as if they mattered, were four editions of Saga, Frank's yearbook. He opened 1972 -- junior year: the year the teachers went on strike, the year of the gasoline shortage, the year Agnew resigned. Agnew got a bum rap. 1972 was the year of the Arab-Israeli Conflict, as if that were an isolated event instead of a way of life. 1972, junior year, was the year Frank screwed up his courage enough to ask Pam to sign his yearbook.

"Best Wishes, Pamela Ruth Shapiro" she signed on an otherwise empty page. Junior year was a year of momentous events, some public, like the Watergate fiasco, and some private, like a treasured autograph, a Nobel Prize for a tremendous act of bravery.

Frank caressed the aged ink on the autograph as if it were an icon. The flowing R in Ruth became her flowing brown hair. The S in Shapiro was smooth, as he imagined her legs had been under the maxi skirt. Even as an icon, though, he dared not touch the firm P in Pamela, and what that might represent.

Time passed -- minutes, an hour or two maybe. Frank sat up with a start and unfolded the reunion announcement again, checking the affirmative "You betcha I'll be there!" box. He crisply folded the form and placed it in the return envelope, placing his own postage stamp on it ("cheap reunion committee!"), and precisely printed his return address.

The next day, when it was too late to retrieve the envelope from the mailbox, the other memories came back: sitting in the cafeteria, minding his own business, and being picked up and carried to the large garbage can, thrown away by Gordon and John and Dan. Matthew Levin and his water pistol filled with dollar-a-gallon perfume, spraying Frank and other losers ("so we can smell you coming!") -- that was his worst memory, junior year.

Senior year was better. Frank actually found himself respected by some of the teachers. He told himself that they were proud to have a student who was actually entering college because he was academically gifted, and not simply buying his way in. His way in: In Frank's mind, college tuition was the modern version of a dowry, in 1973. Of course the girls in Skokie bought their way into college; it was their down-payment on a husband. The women's lib movement only meant girls could get a decent job while they were waiting for a decent husband.

Senior year was the year Frank finally hit his growth spurt, able for once to look Matthew Levin in the eyes. By Hanukkah, Frank was actually taller than Matthew -- the greatest gift he could have asked for. This was the year Frank got a job, and a car. Senior year was the year he felt like a man, driving up to Wisconsin to buy beer for the kids at school, or driving along Lake Shore Drive, just because he could. He'd imagine Pam beside him, their son and daughter in the back seat, the four of them on a family outing. That made it worth it, working all those hours in that little booth selling tickets for a movie theater that was smaller than the language lab at school.

The Class of '73 had a lot to remember, and they recorded most of it in their yearbook. LBJ and Harry Truman died, and a peace pact was signed ending the official war in Vietnam. Nixon was re-elected, POWs released, and several members of the Israeli Olympic team were murdered. Gale Sayers came to the Homecoming pep rally, and Pam probably would have gone to the game with Frank if Dan Posner hadn't asked her first. She might have gone with Frank to see "Bye Bye Birdie," but Matthew Levin was quicker. She even might have gone to the prom with Frank, except that John Willens made that date with her at the end of March. Pam might have signed Frank's yearbook, too, but she didn't have time.

Things were hectic the end of senior year. Last-minute college applications had to be filled out and mailed, graduation announcements sent to all the relatives ("It would mean so much more if you addressed them yourself, Frankie!"), and senior pank had to be prepared for. The toothpicks-in-the-locks thing last year was a little pathetic, although the loose mice in the cafeteria was a nice touch. But Frank wanted his class to be remembered, and thought he should do his part to help it go down in infamy. That's why he thought of the Limburger cheese.

Fully half of the stairwells had no ventilation, and surely Limburger cheese smeared on the stair railings would be remembered for a few years to come. Frank went to his Uncle Seth's deli and got the pungent cheese, and was nearly late for school. He hurried, though, and saw that his homeroom teacher herself was only now pulling into the parking lot. He was sizing up that parking lot on his right, looking for a promising gap as he headed toward the entrance, when he felt a bump, and looked forward just quickly enough to see a maxi skirt bounce onto the hood and then off to the side.

Frank changed into his (only) suit, and took the yearbooks with him, downstairs to his parents' garage. He put them next to him on the front seat, and started the engine. The fumes started to make Frank feel sleepy, and he began to dream of a special class reunion, just he and Pam.

#Sample Sunday: Esperanza

2011-06-19T00:02:00.004-07:00

No one believed her name was Esperanza, but honestly, none of us cared enough to try to ferret out the truth either. Since Esperanza means “hope,” a lot of people called her Hopeless behind her back. Although her hair was always brushed, it never actually seemed to be clean, and she never did anything with it. Her clothes were clean enough, but we weren’t sure her mother had an iron.

Laurie had to share a locker with her, since their last names were so close together alphabetically. Poor Laurie. She said everything Hopeless had – her furry navy blue winter coat, her school books – all smelled like cigarette smoke. Rhonda said it could be worse; she wasn’t sure Hopeless bathed all that often and the cigarettes probably covered up worse smells.

Don’t think for a minute though that Hopeless smoked. We thought smoking was sort of cool, and so of course we ruled out right away that it was her own cigarettes that we were smelling.

Mr. Norris hated her. He was our English teacher. Everyone knew that he taught high school English so that he could stare at cute teenage girls. His coffee cup would have a half-dressed girl when the coffee was hot. Unbuttoning the top couple buttons of your blouse, wearing short skirts or low cut tops, these are the things that brought your grade up in his class. She wasn’t even a little cute and didn’t even try. Worse, she thought he was a dork.

Naturally, everything she turned into him was slashed to bits by his red pen. The thing he killed the worst was her poem. It was nearly Christmas, and she wrote this:

Holly –
Cheerful
Decorative
Beautiful
But ultimately
Poisonous

Of course I remember every word of that short poem, because it was a dig at me. Not that I was all that crazy about my name, but it wasn’t hers to mess with. So anyway, when she wrote the poem, I knew that I was on her radar. That might sound a little weird, but really, until then she mostly pretended none of us existed. Now I knew that she was perfectly aware of us, or at least of me. It wasn’t that great of a feeling, to be honest. So I wrote my own poem. An acrostic.

Hopeless
Obsolete
Pathetic
Expired
Lowly
Exact
Stinky
Sayonara

OK, so it wasn’t exactly a Shakespearean sonnet. I wrote exact in there because she had this weird meticulous thing she did. Things had to be on her desk and in her locker just right. But not everything. Like, her books were always stacked largest to smallest, and always smack up against the right side of the locker, but at the same time her papers would be just shoved in next to them. Everything on her desk was perfectly aligned, but it looked like her purse hadn’t been emptied in years. That’s probably why no one knew how long she was carrying the gun.

So anyway, one day Mr. Norris asks her to stay after school. It’s nearly Christmas, so it’s stinking cold out and it gets dark early. She has her dark blue furry coat that stunk like cigarette smoke, and she’s mad at Mr. Norris because he destroyed her Holly poem. He’s mad at her because she said something against me, and she stunk, and she wasn’t pretty, and she didn’t care. And she thought he was a dork. I don’t know if she didn’t have the sense to have a friend go with her to his class after school, or if she just didn’t have a friend, or if she asked someone and they said no.

Mr. Norris said that she was distraught over her poem. He said that he got shot trying to take the gun away from her, but she’d already shot herself once. Luckily for him, he only had a minor wound. Before she died, she said that she’d shot him trying to protect herself, that he attacked her. Pushed himself on her. You know what I mean. Of course, no one believed her. I’m sure if she had a funeral, only her mother went. Her mother, smoking the whole time, no doubt. Stinking.

I didn’t think about her after that. It was almost Christmas vacation. When we got back to school, Laurie got a new locker partner, some girl named Evalyne. She was more normal, and life went on. We had a lot to do, like get ready for finals. Time just sort of passes, you know? And then it’s another semester, although I didn’t have Mr. Norris this time, and then it’s finally summer vacation.

I ran into Mr. Norris over the summer. End of July, early August. That time when you’re bored of summer vacation but don’t want to admit it. So one of my babysitting jobs turned out to be in the same apartment complex as Mr. Norris. The money was decent, but the kids were pretty awful. Mr. Norris said I could come over and have a beer when I was done. He said I looked like I really needed one.

So it turned out that Hopeless was telling the truth. Esperanza. But I didn’t tell anyone. Not then. Neither had Rhonda, second semester. Nor Laurie. When school started again, though, Laurie guessed. She gave me a piece of paper that had been in her locker.

Holly –
Cheerful
Decorative
Beautiful
But ultimately
Poisonous

Neither of us said a word. But I managed to add a little something to Mr. Norris’s coffee cup a few days later – think of it as a little bit of hope for the girls who would have come after us.

Previously posted

Wednesday Blog Visit: Tayari Jones, Author of Silver Sparrow

2011-06-15T07:58:00.000-07:00

Good morning, friends! I hope you had a nice week, and now you're settled in with your coffee and cookies (or biscuits) for another visit to one of our neighbors. Tayari Jones is another author I "met" through Twitter. I followed her posts, and sat up when she mentioned we could read the first chapter of her book, Silver Sparrow, for free. I love reading, and I love free.

And...I loved the first chapter of this book! It is at the top of my purchase list for payday (well, along with new eyeglasses). It's not just a book that looks awesome; it's a book that's touched a lot of people, and shines a light on a hidden population. Imagine being a Silver Sparrow yourself and finally reading about a character whose life is like yours!

So naturally, I checked out Tayari's blog as well. I will pretend I'm not jealous. Part of her blog is upcoming signings and book tours. (Unfortunately, she won't be here.) She has other entries as well. My favorite as a reader is her post Family, Community, Reading, and Joy. What an awesome experience! The beginning of the blog shows photos of the hats, as well.

As a writer, I think my favorite post is this one. My writing life isn't going to match hers or any of the other writers I like, admire, envy, know, have heard of, haven't heard of yet, etc. My life is mine. Mine currently includes being a full-time fourth grade teacher, and spending at least half my summer trying to be an even better one. But I can create the writing life that I want; that's what counts!

Stop over and check out her blog today!

A to Z Challenge: Secrets

2011-06-12T20:45:00.002-07:00

PREVIOUSLY

Kyria rolled her eyes at her daughter. Athena knew so little of the things that Kyria took for granted everyone knew. That was partially because they lived in the middle of nowhere, but also because things had changed so much. Education had gone from opening up the world to children to giving them just what they needed to survive.

As a former teacher, Kyria remembered when the "back to basics" movement really took off. It began with focusing on the content and skills that students needed to pass the state tests. Soon content dwindled away. Students didn't need to know much about history, sociology, economics ... really, just reading and math should be enough. Maybe a little science. The quest to improve test scores dumbed down education. Now her daughter and Athena's peers probably knew less than children educated in the one-room school houses of yore; at least children in those times learned about something.

Kyria decided to start again. "Forget neon. Do you get that we're in danger?"

Athena looked at the water that was still running in the tub, so that they could have their conversation in private. Her mother wasn't normally that weird. "Yes, I get that."

"Good. Now the man who you thought was your father, he was a great friend of the family. He worked for your father, back when your father worked in Washington. Actually, they'd grown up together, and were fairly close. Like brothers."

"Why did he come here with us? What about his job? What about his family?" Athena also thought to herself "What about the guys outside who know darn well that no one runs bath water that long?"

"Joe lost his family."

"Lost? He put them behind the coats in the closet and they were gone the next time he looked?" Athena could be a bit annoying when she was cranky.

Kyria glared at her. "They were killed, Athena."

"Why?"

"Because Rose was black. African-American. Someone who was against multi-racial families killed her and their son. No one bothered to investigate. Times were changing fast. Reverting back to the 1950s and 1940s." She saw the blank look on her daughter's face at that last comment. "There was a time ..."

"No, we learned about the 1950s in school. It was a great time. Music like Pat Boone, sock hops -- those were dances, everything was simple then." Athena almost sounded like she was reciting a catechism.

"No, honey. It was a wonderful time if you were a white male, like now. Women had a lot of restrictions on them, and anyone who wasn't white had it so much worse."

"But..."

"No. I don't have the stomach right now to hear the crap they taught you in school."

"OK, but why did he pretend to be my father? Why be here at all? Why not be your brother or something?"

"The people who killed his wife and son did that when he wasn't with them. They were looking for him, to finish the job. Another group was looking for him because he worked for your father. Here, we were just another family. No one would expect him to be hiding out as someone else's husband."

"But why did he leave, then?"

Kyria was just about to answer when two things happened: The front door of the house burst open, and an opening appeared in the bathroom ceiling.

NEXT

Wednesday Blog Visit: Writing Without The Drama

2011-06-11T11:27:00.001-07:00

This week's blog visit (for June 8th), gets us caught up! Grab a cup of coffee or tea, and get ready to go visit a great blog!

For this week I have selected Writing Without The Drama. I was first introduced to this blog via Twitter. If I remember correctly, I did a search on writing to find fellow writers to follow, and her Twitter profile came up.

Both her Twitter account and her Writing Without The Drama blog are full of great ideas and words of wisdom for writers (see her recent post on Rise and Fall). She sponsors blog tours and sometimes has guest contributors (check out @MelissaTRomo's guest post on Cheerleaders).

Some people might ask themselves "How do you know?" when reading a blog about writing. Rest assured that this blog author is also a book author. I have read and thoroughly enjoyed her writing. Whether you are writing The Great [Your Nationality] Novel, a blog, or letters to your child's teacher, you will find something useful or enjoyable in her blog.

Enjoy!

Wednesday Blog Visit: J.C. Martin

2011-06-11T10:48:00.001-07:00

Good morning, friends! Our Wednesday Blog Visit for June 1 is J.C. Martin, Fighter Writer. I have been following her for a while, and her blog entries are delivered straight to my email.

J.C. lists herself as a Fighter Writer, but she is so much more than that. The best example I can give of why I like her is her Stories for Sendai project. This anthology of donated stories is both a way to uplift the spirits of those impacted by Japan's March 11 earthquake and a way to assist relief efforts because the proceeds of the anthology's sale will be donated to GlobalGiving.

This blog also hosts author blog tours, writer interviews, posts on writing, and Six Sentence Sunday. She also participates in various writing challenges.

J.C. Martin's blog is vibrant and alive, and I really think you'll agree! Check it out!

Wednesday Blog Visit: Jen Kirchner

2011-06-11T09:28:00.000-07:00

I'm going to try to get my Wednesday Blog Visits caught up this weekend (which means three visits this weekend!). Our Wednesday Blog Visit for Wednesday, May 25, is Jen Kirchner.

I have been following Jen's blog for the past six weeks. It's easy to count the time, because yesterday she posted her episode for week 6. What am I talking about?

Jen is writing a story on her blog. At the end of each episode, you vote for A or B, whichever direction you want the story to go in next. You can vote in the comments or on Twitter. I vote on Twitter, in the hopes that someone will see it, wonder about it, and check it out.

You can understand each episode well enough to vote, without needing to go back to the beginning. However, I would still recommend reading each episode and deciding how you would have voted.

Check it out!

Tuesday Poem Comment: The Old Oaken Bucket

2011-06-11T08:53:00.000-07:00

I originally read these in Best Loved Poems of the American People. I did love that book! The original version is a schmaltzy reminiscence of an icon of the writer's childhood: an oaken bucket he used to draw water from the well. As it's summer vacation where I am, this poem is a great match for the local ambiance (except for the part where we actually have no water, since we're in a desert/wild-fire state). However, being far more snarky than schmaltzy, what appeals to me most is that someone wrote a "rebuttal" poem -- the version posted below the original. I love that someone took the time to rewrite the poem from another point of view -- in this case a drastic change from the original. Rather than happily reliving his childhood, this author looks back in horror at actually drinking out of that wooden vessel.

Enjoy!

Tuesday's Poem: The Old Oaken Bucket, v.1

2011-06-11T08:52:00.001-07:00

Title: The Old Oaken Bucket
Author: Samuel Woodworth

How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood,
When fond recollection presents them to view!
The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wild-wood,
And every loved spot which my infancy knew!
The wide-spreading pond, and the mill that stood by it,
The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell,
The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it,
And e'en the rude bucket that hung in the well-
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well.

That moss-covered vessel I hailed as a treasure,
For often at noon, when returned from the field,
I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure,
The purest and sweetest that nature can yield.
How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing,
And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell;
Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing,
And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-covered bucket arose from the well.

How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it,
As poised on the curb it inclined to my lips!
Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it,
The brightest that beauty or revelry sips.
And now, far removed from the loved habitation,
The tear of regret will intrusively swell,
As fancy reverts to my father's plantation,
And sighs for the bucket that hangs in the well
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-covered bucket that hangs in the well!

-THE END-
Samuel Woodworth's poem: The Old Oaken Bucket

http://www.readbookonline.net/readOnLine/1243/

Tuesday's Poem, v.2: The Old Oaken Bucket as Revised by the Board of Health

2011-06-11T08:52:00.000-07:00

The Old Oaken Bucket
(As revised by the Board of Health)
Anonymous

With what anguish of mind I remember my childhood,
Recalled in the light of knowledge since gained,
The malarious farm, the wet fungus-grown wildwood,
The chills then contracted that since have remained;
The scum-covered duck-pond, the pig-sty close by it,
The ditch where the sour-smelling house drainage fell,
The damp, shaded dwelling, the foul barnyard nigh it —
But worse than all else was that terrible well,
And the old oaken bucket, the mold-crusted bucket,
The moss-covered bucket that hung in the well.

Just think of it! Moss on the vessel that lifted
The water I drank in the days called to mind;
Ere I knew what professors and scientists gifted
In the waters of wells by analysis find;
The rotting wood-fiber, the oxide of iron,
The algae, the frog of unusual size,
The water as clear as the verses of Byron,
Are things I remember with tears in my eyes.

Oh, had I but realized in time to avoid them —
The dangers that lurked in that pestilent draft —
I’d have tested for organic germs and destroyed them
With potassic permanganate ere I had quaffed.
Or perchance I’d have boiled it, and afterwards strained it
Through filters of charcoal and gravel combined;
Or, after distilling, condensed and regained it
In potable form with its filth left behind.

How little I knew of the enteric fever
Which lurked in the water I ventured to drink,
But since I’ve become a devoted believer
In the teachings of science, I shudder to think.
And now, far removed from the scenes I’m describing,
The story of warning to others I tell,
As memory reverts to my youthful imbibing
And I gag at the thought of that terrible well,
And the old oaken bucket, the fungus-grown bucket,
In fact, the slop-bucket — that hung in the well.

http://holyjoe.org/poetry/anon1.htm

30 Pieces of Silver

2011-06-09T18:53:00.000-07:00

I just finished reading 30 Pieces of Silver, a taut thriller. The characters are well-written, independent people -- including one whom I never stopped loathing. I changed my opinion about some of the others as the story progressed. The author took intriguing ideas and wove them into a story that kept me on the edge of my seat from the beginning. I would definitely recommend this book to anyone looking for a good roller-coaster ride.

I loved this book!

What am I doing? What are you doing?

2011-06-04T20:05:00.000-07:00

What am I doing?

Well, I'm revising Basic Training, the next book in the Knigi series. I sort of hit a teeny tiny glitch -- the part that might be the climax turns out to have been a narrative of what might go in that spot. Seriously? And I thought I was doing so nicely! (That's what I get for forgetting that the first draft was done during NaNoWriMo!) So I'm trying to fix that!

What are you doing?

Well, if you've read Rolled-Up Streets and found it even remotely tolerable, PLEASE write a review and post it on Smashwords or Goodreads or your blog or all of those! I can't donate a copy to my public library without so many reviews, even though I'm a local author. They won't even consider it. Even if you hand them the book personally -- they'll put it in their annual Friends of the Library book sale unless you have what they want. So please review!

Are you willing to review it in e-format? I can give you the free book code in exchange for a review!

Review

2011-06-04T19:55:00.000-07:00

Amazon.com review: Rolled up Streets is a fascinating read with an even more fascinating setting. I raced through it and then read it more slowly. I was drawn in and guessing but while I was right on some counts I didn't solve the mystery before the end. The mystery unfolds slowly at first and then picks up speed to the conclusion with a twist. The characters are well drawn and likable. Interwoven with the mystery are flashes of the culture of Knigi which is familiar and strange at the same time. This setting has terrific potential for more fresh mysteries. Soon, I hope.

Now in paperback!! You can order a hard copy of Rolled-Up Streets here at WordClay.

Smashwords has all e-book versions. You don't need an e-book reader. You can read it on your computer or phone or print out a copy. The benefit of Smashwords is that you get all the versions for one low price.

Amazon.com has the Kindle format.

Barnes & Noble in Nook format.

Sony's Reader Store for Sony Readers.

Diesel e-books.

It is also available in Apple format, but I don't have any iProducts so I can't search for Rolled-Up Streets to get the link.

Blog Tour de Troops

2011-05-28T09:10:00.000-07:00

Please go here!! Please!! Just visiting and commenting will help get e-books to our troops. What a great way to be supportive on Memorial Day weekend!

End of year madness

2011-05-24T16:41:00.000-07:00

Sorry -- it is the end of the school year. I've been doing SFA (reading) report cards, and then regular report cards, and all the other stuff that has to get done at the end of the school year. This has not been conducive to thinking and writing.

On the plus side, tomorrow is the last day for students and Thursday is the last day for teacher. Then I start a month of workshops, but only one is an all-day thing. But that should still leave plenty of time for writing, because as far as I know, these workshops don't include homework. (crossing fingers)

Upcoming poetry

2011-05-17T06:09:00.000-07:00

OK, so it's only been two weeks, but it looks like the poetry is all religion-themed. It won't be! There are two versions of a poem, both of which I'm looking for in anticipation of next week. To me, there is not only humor in next week's entry, but in this week's and last week's as well. Dry humor, maybe, but humor!

Tuesday's Poetry Comment: St. Peter at the Gate

2011-05-17T02:51:00.001-07:00

I first read this poem in Best Loved Poems of the American People. I'm pretty sure it was in the Humor section. My mother had pointed it out, because she had remembered it. When I was married, I met my ex-husband's Aunt Donna at some sporting event. The first words out of her mouth to me were "Are you saved?"

I thought "Seriously? This is how you greet a stranger, a new family member?" She didn't seem to be asking as if she wanted me to enjoy some great benefit she had, and was willing to step in if I didn't know the joys she knew. It was more along the lines of "Do you belong to my exclusive club and are you worthy of my presence, or are you one of them?"

I could totally see Aunt Donna narrating this poem. The woman in the poem is so sure of herself and her eternal place.

I've known many nuns who were taught that their mere status of being a nun earned them a ticket to heaven, no matter how they behaved. One reminded me of the narrator in a sad way -- her family of origin was really messed up, and she thought that if she became a nun, God would forgive them and they could get into heaven.

My own beliefs have varied over time, but I've held pretty steady to the notion that badgering people isn't going to get you into any sort of pleasant afterlife.

Tuesday's Poem: St. Peter at the Gate

2011-05-17T02:50:00.001-07:00

As told by Francis Colbert

St. Peter stood guard at the Golden Gate,
With a solemn face and an air sedate.
When up to the top of the golden stair,
A man and a woman ascended there.

They applied for admission, they came and stood,
Before St. Peter so great and good,
In hopes the city of peace to win,
And to see if St. Peter would let them in.

Now, the woman was long, she was lank, she was thin,
And she had a scraggly beard growed on her chin.
But the man was short and pale and stout,
And his features was built so it rounded out.

His face was pleasant and all the while,
He wore a kind and pleasant smile.
Music in the distance, echoes awoke,
And the Man stood still but the woman spoke.

"Oh, thou who guards the Gate," said she,
"We two come hither beseeching thee,
To let us enter that heavenly land,
And play our harps with the angel band.

"Of me, St. Peter, there is no doubt,
There's nothing in Heaven can bar me out.
I've been to meetings three times a week,
And almost always I'd rise and speak.

"I've told the sinners about the day
When they'd repent of their evil way.
"I've told my neighbours, I've told them all,
About Adam and Eve and the primal fall.

I've shown them what they must say and do,
If they'd pass in with the chosen few.
"I've talked to them loud and I've talked to them long,
For my lungs are good and my voice is strong
And so, St. Peter, you'll clearly see,
The Gates of Heaven is open to me.

"But my old man, I regret to say,
He hasn't followed exactly the narrow way.
He cursed, he smoked, great faults he got,
And I don't know whether he'll pass or not.

"He never would pray with an earnest vim,
Or go to revival or join in a hymn,
And I had to leave him in sorrow there,
While I, with the chosen, united in prayer.

"He ate what the pantry chanced to afford,
While I, in my purity, I sang to God,
And if cucumbers was all he got,
It's a chance whether he merited them or not.

"But oh, St. Peter, I love him so.
To the pleasures of Heaven now let him go.
I've been enough of a saint, I've been.
Won't that atone, can't you let him in?

"By my grim gospel, I know 'tis so,
That the unrepentant must try below.
But isn't there someway that you can see,
That he may enter who's dear to me.

"It's a narrow gospel by which I pray,
Yet the chosen expects to find some way,
Of coaxing, of fooling, of bribing you,
So that their relations can amble through.

"And say, St. Peter, my sight is dim.
I don't like the way that your whiskers are trimmed.
They're cut too narrow and outward tossed.
I'd like them much better cut straight across.
But we got to be going, our crown to win,
So open, St. Peter, and we'll pass in."

St. Peter stood still and he stroked his staff,
And in spite of his office he had to laugh.
Then he said with a firey gleam in his eye,
"Who's tending the Gate woman, you or I?"

Then he rose himself to his stature tall,
And he pressed a button up on the wall,
And he said to an imp who came all aglow,
"Accompany this woman down below."

Now, the man stood still as if turned to stone,
Stood silent, gloomy, there alone.
Now a lifelong settled idea he had,
That his wife was good and he was bad.

Now, if the woman had to go down below,
There he most certainly would have to go.
That if she went to the regions dim,
There wasn't a ghost of a chance for him.

And slowly he turned, by habit bent,
To follow wherever the woman went.
St. Peter, standing on duty there,
He observed that the crown of his head was bare.

Calling him back, to the gentleman said,
"Friend, how long have you been wed?"
"Thirty years," with a heavy sigh,
Then he thought, for he added, "Why?"

St. Peter was silent, with head bent down,
He thought a bit then he scratched his crown.
Then seeming a different thought to take,
Slowly, half to himself, he spake.

"Thirty years with that woman there,
No wonder the man lost all his hair.
Smoking is bad, cursing is no good.
Well, he cursed and smoked, I should think he would.

"Thirty years with a tongue so sharp.
Say, Angel Gabriel, give him a harp.
Give him a harp with golden strings.
Pass in, good sir, where the angels sings.

"See that on the finest of food he feeds.
He's had about all the hell that he needs.
Doesn't seem the right thing to do,
To roast him on earth and hereafter too.

"Gabriel, give him a seat alone,
One with a cushion up near the throne.
Call up some angels to play their best,
And let him enjoy the food and rest."

So they gave him a harp with golden strings,
And a glittering sword and a pair of wings.
And he said, as he entered the light of day,
"Well, this beats cucumbers anyway."

And so the Scripture has come to pass,
That the last shall be first and the first shall be last.

Transcribed by Kelly Russell here

Other Writing News

2011-05-15T09:21:00.000-07:00

I've been working on my third completed NaNoWriMo winner, this past year's Basic Training. I'm trying to edit that one instead of the second one because this one belongs in the Knigi series. However, I've made two discoveries.

Part One (of six segments, I think) and Part Two move right along. I got to Part Three, and it looks more like a summary than a story! Chapter-wise, it's only two chapters, and that's only because I split the thing in half! It's also rather crucial to the rest of the story. I must've thought that I'd fix it later (which is the whole point of NaNoWriMo). Otherwise, I must've thought that the writing fairy would come fix it while I'm asleep. Well, she must be awfully busy, because she hasn't made it to my house yet! Sigh.

The other thing I noticed, which I mentioned to my brother as soon as I discovered it, was that so far there is an extreme lack of males who aren't scum, unless they're walk-ons. Unfortunately, I can't just insert a nice male character at this point. There may be some when Part Three is over (in the second half). It would work there, but not in the front. Apologies in advance to the male half of the planet!

Then there's writing that's not my writing; editing, really. Last quarter, my reading class (bright fifth graders) read The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe for SFA. The Adventures In Writing segment said to write a news report. Bah. I had them make a newspaper. We looked at and discussed the different things that are in newspapers. Some make comics and illustrations. Those they had to go over in pen, because they didn't really come out the first time I scanned them. They did their writing on the little keyboards, and I uploaded them into Word documents. Then I did a lot of cutting and pasting into some version of Microsoft Publisher. It took forever, because I also had to do cutting and pasting from their artwork, some of which had 2-5 different things on the same page.

I finished it FINALLY yesterday, and emailed it to the SFA coordinator, Julie. Bless her heart forever. She printed it out and then made each student a copy. I sent runners to each of their homerooms (4) with their copy, so they could have it over the weekend. The final copy is VERY COOL. Really. Mr. Tumnus' cave is for sale for $700. Aslan gets married. There are sports articles, news, gossip, jobs available, and all sorts of things for sale.

NaNoWriMo is going to do Camp NaNoWriMo this summer -- a summer version of the November madness. This is awesome!!! I'm hoping that I get Basic Training done first and ready to roll, because I want at least one more book for the Knigi series.

Publishing News

2011-05-15T09:06:00.000-07:00

First of all, Rolled-Up Streets is now available in paperback! The cover is different, and at the moment you can only get it at WordClay. Click here. The price is what it is because eventually I will be having it distributed to other sources, like Amazon and Barnes & Noble. When I do that, however, I'll only get approximately 60 cents per book (I get more from WordClay). I think I'm worth at least 60 cents, so I didn't want to set a lower price than that.

If you get the book at Smashwords, you get it in all e-formats. That means you can read it on your computer, plus print out a .pdf version, plus Kindle, etc.

If you just want it for your specific e-book reader and like to keep things simple (example: Amazon will send the book directly to your Kindle with no effort on your part), then look for your reader below:

Barnes & Noble in Nook format.

Sony's Reader Store for Sony Readers.

Amazon's Kindle Reader format.

Diesel e-books.

It is also available in Apple format, but I don't have any iProducts so I can't search for Rolled-Up Streets to get the link.

Wednesday Blog Visit: Anne-Mhairi Simpson

2011-05-14T07:44:00.000-07:00

I follow a number of blogs. Thanks to Twitter and various blog fests, I've found a number of the nicest, and/or most interesting people! Most of the blogs I follow are are writers. Some are published, and some aren't. Some have mostly their own writing, and some are more interactive.

This week's blog is fairly new, although the blogger herself isn't new to blogging. I present to you Anne-Mhairi Simpson. She writes young adult fantasy. If you look at her current page, she's writing a story that's almost along the lines of Choose Your Own Adventure books. The story segment is presented, and the readers vote on what happens next.

Why did I pick Anne-Mhairi Simpson to be my first Wednesday Blog Visit? First of all, dragons. I love dragons. Anyone who writes about dragons is my kind of person. You're an axe murderer but you wrote a story in fourth grade that had a dragon in it? Then you can't be all bad.

Secondly, I just like her. From following her on Twitter and reading her blogs, she just seems like a nice person. Real. Down to earth. Fun.

Please stop by her blog here today and check it out. You'll see what I mean!

Tuesday's Poem: Soliloquy Of The Spanish Cloister, by Robert Browning

2011-05-10T12:19:00.003-07:00

I.

Gr-r-r---there go, my heart's abhorrence!
Water your damned flower-pots, do!
If hate killed men, Brother Lawrence,
God's blood, would not mine kill you!
What? your myrtle-bush wants trimming?
Oh, that rose has prior claims---
Needs its leaden vase filled brimming?
Hell dry you up with its flames!

II.

At the meal we sit together:
_Salve tibi!_ I must hear
Wise talk of the kind of weather,
Sort of season, time of year:
_Not a plenteous cork-crop: scarcely
Dare we hope oak-galls, I doubt:
What's the Latin name for ``parsley''?_
What's the Greek name for Swine's Snout?

III.

Whew! We'll have our platter burnished,
Laid with care on our own shelf!
With a fire-new spoon we're furnished,
And a goblet for ourself,
Rinsed like something sacrificial
Ere 'tis fit to touch our chaps---
Marked with L. for our initial!
(He-he! There his lily snaps!)

IV.

_Saint_, forsooth! While brown Dolores
Squats outside the Convent bank
With Sanchicha, telling stories,
Steeping tresses in the tank,
Blue-black, lustrous, thick like horsehairs,
---Can't I see his dead eye glow,
Bright as 'twere a Barbary corsair's?
(That is, if he'd let it show!)

V.

When he finishes refection,
Knife and fork he never lays
Cross-wise, to my recollection,
As do I, in Jesu's praise.
I the Trinity illustrate,
Drinking watered orange-pulp---
In three sips the Arian frustrate;
While he drains his at one gulp.

VI.

Oh, those melons? If he's able
We're to have a feast! so nice!
One goes to the Abbot's table,
All of us get each a slice.
How go on your flowers? None double
Not one fruit-sort can you spy?
Strange!---And I, too, at such trouble,
Keep them close-nipped on the sly!

VII.

There's a great text in Galatians,
Once you trip on it, entails
Twenty-nine distinct damnations,
One sure, if another fails:
If I trip him just a-dying,
Sure of heaven as sure can be,
Spin him round and send him flying
Off to hell, a Manichee?

VIII.

Or, my scrofulous French novel
On grey paper with blunt type!
Simply glance at it, you grovel
Hand and foot in Belial's gripe:
If I double down its pages
At the woeful sixteenth print,
When he gathers his greengages,
Ope a sieve and slip it in't?

IX.

Or, there's Satan!---one might venture
Pledge one's soul to him, yet leave
Such a flaw in the indenture
As he'd miss till, past retrieve,
Blasted lay that rose-acacia
We're so proud of! _Hy, Zy, Hine ..._
'St, there's Vespers! _Plena grati
Ave, Virgo!_ Gr-r-r---you swine!

Tuesday's Poetry Comment: Soliloquy Of The Spanish Cloister, by Robert Browning

2011-05-10T12:19:00.002-07:00

This is, by far, my favorite poem. I first read it as a student at LeMoyne College -- when I was living in my third convent. I could totally understand the narrator's loathing of the pompous and annoying Brother Lawrence. All of the latter's attention and affection were reserved for his ministry (in this case, gardening) and none for the things the narrator valued, like community and following what I call the "holy affectations" at meal time:

When he finishes refection,
Knife and fork he never lays
Cross-wise, to my recollection,
As do I, in Jesu's praise.
I the Trinity illustrate,
Drinking watered orange-pulp---
In three sips the Arian frustrate;
While he drains his at one gulp.

My own experiences is that people living in religious community often have an elevated opinion of whatever it is they do and their motivations for doing those things. Both the narrator and Brother Lawrence are perfect examples of this.

Update

2011-05-04T12:28:00.000-07:00

Hello, everyone! I will definitely finish this story, and most likely in the A to Z format. I am also finishing up (beginning the last week of) an on-line course for certification credit, as well as trying to finish revising the second book in the Knigi series. Rolled-Up Streets is now available on Amazon.com in the Kindle format, and should be available in paperback format this week. I will keep you posted! Thank you for your patience!

The Goblin Market, by Jennifer Hudock

2011-04-24T21:51:00.001-07:00

I have just finished reading The Goblin Market, by Jennifer Hudock. It has all the things I most enjoy in a book -- a quest/journey, characters who are well drawn, believable, and easy to tell apart, lots of tension and surprises, non-human characters, and the bonus of a female protagonist. Meredith has a very compelling reason to see her quest through to its end, and her experiences along the way are believable and well written. Ms. Hudock did an excellent job of creating the Underworld and its inhabitants. This is the sort of book that sticks with you after you've finished it.

A to Z Challenge: Rats

2011-04-24T09:29:00.002-07:00

PREVIOUSLY

Athena's mother slammed down the telephone, more angry than frightened. She peeked out the kitchen window and saw what she expected to see -- the house was being watched from the back as well as the front. It was possible that her house was being bugged -- or that Old Man Rafferty's house had been bugged. Or not. It was also possible that the boxcar itself was enough to set things in motion.

She went to her bedroom, as apparently was the custom in this town, and came back with a device in her hand. Kyria shook her head at Athena before she could say a word, and took her into the bathroom. She ran water in the tub, while she pressed a bunch of buttons on the thing. When she was done, she looked up at her daughter.

"What's that?"

"It's a cell phone. You should watch more television." She pointed at the screen. "It's a kind of telephone, but safer than the land line. I just sent a message that we're surrounded by white rats. The person on the other end will spread the message to ... well, whoever."

"Why can't they just turn that one off too?"

"They don't know about it. It's not in my name, and not even registered in this state. It's just for emergencies. This counts as an emergency."

"Well, then who did you send the message to? And who's paying for the phone?"

"Your father. Well, the man you thought was your father."

"He really isn't dead, then? He really did leave? But who was he? And why are we surrounded by white rats, anyway? Why did you call them white?"

"Calling them white rats instead of just rats points out that they're government agents, not just dangerous locals or spies. They're going to be worried that you read too much of the diary. You're more likely to try to do something about it than, say Valeria or Taryn. Taryn won't risk her children, and Valeria is, well, the opposite of brave."

"Do what?"

"Well, even speaking out would be a problem for them. People in power, groups in power, they want to keep it. It's quite possible that lots of people have forgotten what things were like before. Well, lots of white people, anyway. The people who lost their power, lost their voice, lost their family members, they haven't forgotten." Kyria got a distant look in her eye for a moment. Then she continued.

"Do you ever wonder why we ... I give you the books to read that I do? Why I encouraged you on your current path and not some job in a shop or factory or farm? Why it was so important that you be as independent as possible -- you and Carlo ... he would've been a perfect husband for you, by the way!"

"Mother! Wait. What books?"

"Remember that girl Katniss in that book? What do you remember about her?"

"That by the end of the last book, she was as annoying and whiny as Bella?"

"Besides that! Think of the middle book."

"That she was kind of a symbol for people to rally around. So they could change things back to when they were free. Or change them to a new freedom."

"That's what they're worried you'll become. You have the potential to be like Katniss, only more willing and more vocal. You're a girl whose father is missing. Once the trial started, no one heard from him again. You can stand up and ask what happened to him. You can remind people that we were multicultural once. We were a nation of laws and rights, at least in theory. So obviously, the rats want you silenced."

"Well, then why didn't they do anything sooner? Why wait until now?"

"Maybe you weren't a threat any sooner. Or they couldn't find you, until that boxcar pointed a huge neon arrow at all of us."

"What's neon?"

NEXT

A to Z Challenge: Quarantine

2011-04-22T21:45:00.003-07:00

PREVIOUSLY

Athena had a bunch of questions to ask her mother, but nothing came out. Instead she reached into her pocket and pulled out the piece of macrame. Apparently her mother recognized it, because she got teary. "Where did you get that?"

"Mr. Rafferty. He kept going back into his bedroom, pulling things out. That shopkeeper, harmonica man, that you're sweet on? He was married to Mr. Rafferty's daughter, Jazlyn. They had kids. We didn't get to the part, though, where I found out what happened to her or the kids." Kyria said nothing, so Athena continued.

"He said my father was a representative, along with my friends' fathers, and that he was arrested and disappeared. Just like theirs did. But then who was the man who I thought was my father? And why did he disappear?"

Just as it looked like Kyria might answer, there was a tapping at the door. Athena wasn't ready to walk on her sore foot yet, so Kyria went to the door. There was a police officer there, with a hammer.

"Excuse me?" Kyria couldn't figure out what he was doing at first.

"Sorry about this. Your daughter spend time with Old Man today, right?"

"He's her patient, yes."

"Well, he has something contagious. The Captain said to quarantine him, and since your daughter was there today, she's under quarantine, too. You are too, of course, because if she caught what he has, then you'll catch it too."

"And what, exactly, does he have that needs to be quarantined?"

"Captain didn't say. Just doing my job, ma'am." Then the police officer turned around and went to get in the car parked at the curb. The police car didn't move, though. He and his partner simply sat in the car, watching the house.

"What!?" Athena was livid. "There's not a thing wrong with Old Man. I checked him out myself. He's as healthy as a horse! Contagious my ..."

"Athena!"

"Mother, the man's not sick!"

"Are you absolutely sure? Positive?"

"Definitely. If he were sick now, he would have been just as sick when I was there. There's nothing wrong with him."

"OK." Kyria walked over to the phone and picked it up. The line was dead.

NEXT

A to Z Challenge: Police

2011-04-22T20:41:00.001-07:00

PREVIOUSLY

Of course Athena's head was quite full by the time she left Mr. Rafferty's. She'd gone from having a perfectly normal day yesterday to today discovering that her father wasn't her father, neither father died in a mining accident, her friends' fathers were arrested along with her own, her ancestry was Colombian, she was nearly named Araceli for her grandmother, and her father left her a piece of string. Well, a piece of macrame, but still.

All this intrigue and weirdness didn't really go well with living in a boring town where the biggest thing to happen in the last three years was homeless cows. And yet, it didn't end there. When she arrived home, the police were there, drinking tea in the living room. They seemed to be chatting with her mother, but it obviously wasn't a social call. For one thing, one of the officers kept his hand remarkably close to his weapon while he was drinking that tea.

Both officers instantly stood when Athena entered the living room. The older one didn't bother with formalities. He pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and flashed it at the healer.

"We need the diary, Athena." The other officer said nothing, and kept his hand on his holstered weapon. Athena looked at her mother, but Kyria refused to make eye contact. Athena opened her bag and handed over the diary, but the officer pocketed the paper he'd been waving as well.

Athena had gotten some of the diary read during Old Man's many trips to his secret hiding place in his bedroom, but certainly not enough. Now she no longer had the diary, but she also didn't have the piece of paper the officer used to claim the right to take the diary away from her. She was instantly mad at herself, but she knew she wasn't educated enough, sophisticated enough, to deal with this kind of intrigue. She also didn't want to be arrested and disappear like her father did.

The two police officers nodded at Athena and her mother and left. Athena kicked the coffee table in anger, and then instantly realized why she didn't usually have such temper tantrums. Her mother had to bring her an ice pack for her foot.

While she sat with her foot propped up on the undamaged coffee table, she worried that the police might know she had spent a bit of time with Old Man, Wayne Rafferty.

NEXT

A to Z Challenge: Ostrich

2011-04-22T07:57:00.001-07:00

PREVIOUSLY

Old Man continued. "We called it Operation Ostrich, because of the notion of ostriches hiding their heads in the sand when they're in danger. It turns out they don't do that at all, but that was an irrelevant detail to the case at hand."

Athena shook her head and wondered if Old Man had been a teacher once. He had a habit of throwing things out there that most people wouldn't bother to mention at all.

"This is a small, nothing town. Unless you've gotten a speeding ticket driving through here, you never even remember the name. No one comes here on purpose. It was the perfect place to hide people. So one night, we sent these moving vans to all these houses, including yours. We made the movers look like government workers who were pretending to be movers."

"Wait. What?"

"If we just had regular movers, then do doubt someone would call the police or FBI or some other government agency. These were the families of men who were now famous for being on trial. If the family tried to sneak out, they might get arrested too. We didn't know how bad this could get. But if it looked like it was the government itself that was moving these people, then no one would say a word. Ostriches. Let's pretend nothing's happening, and then we'll be safe." He started to get up again, but Athena glared at him and he sat back down.

"We moved everyone the same night. By morning, they were all on their way here or they'd arrived."

"But how do you just move a bunch of families? Where do you put them?"

"That part wasn't hard at all. The economy was bad. There had been a nasty union strike, and families that had both parents working at the factory lost their houses because they couldn't pay the mortgage. Other families had their houses foreclosed just for the heck of it, from what I've heard. No one had bothered to freeze the bank accounts ahead of time, so through some third party stuff that I won't go into, they bought the houses."

Now Old Man looked tired. Athena got up to leave, and thanked him, putting the piece of macrame in her pocket.

"Wayne."

"What?" Athena stopped.

"That's my name. Wayne Rafferty. Not Old Man." Athena blushed, opened her mouth, and closed it again. She nodded at Mr. Rafferty and left.

NEXT

A to Z challenge

2011-04-20T16:08:00.002-07:00

Sorry I'm behind! I'm a pantser, and discovered that I have to make a chart to keep everything straight! I want to make sure that all the threads of the story are covered! Thanks for your patience!!

A to Z Challenge: Newspaper

2011-04-18T21:01:00.002-07:00

PREVIOUSLY

Old Man sighed dramatically and resisted the urge to yank the piece of macrame out of Athena's hands. He left the kitchen, and Athena wondered why he didn't just take her into his bedroom hiding place and hand her everything at once. His dramatic exits were starting to annoy her as much as her attitude annoyed him.

This time he returned with newspaper clippings. Athena's experience of newspapers was limited to such newsworthy epics as someone getting a ticket for fishing without a license, swimming scores, and complaints about cats scaring birds away from bird feeders. She had no idea what was happening outside her town, nor did she care.

Old Man started with articles of her father, including those with photographs. He wanted her attention, and he got it. Some of the articles were election coverage, and some were about things he'd done in Congress. These were followed by reports of his arrest, and an interview while he awaited trial. That was the last article about her father.

There were other articles as well, about her friends' fathers. They all pretty much followed the same pattern. The only thing surprising was that the men were all from different states.

"How did they all end up here?"

"We brought their families here when they were arrested."

"Wait. What?" Athena was used to thinking of Old Man as, well, an old man. Just some guy in her town who was like a hanging plant on a porch; you knew he was there, but after a while you really didn't notice him. "You make it sound like, well, stuff happened and you were involved in it."

"Exactly."

NEXT

A to Z Challenge: Macrame

2011-04-18T17:20:00.001-07:00

PREVIOUSLY

"My father wasn't my father?" Athena couldn't decide whether she should be stunned or annoyed. "He certainly acted like my father!"

Old Man tried to be gentle, but he had a lot of bottled up information that wanted to come gushing out. "Well, really, how would you know?"

"What do you mean?"

"Did he act like David's father? Like Valeria's? Like Carlo's? Like Taryn's?"

Athena stopped a moment. She squinted as she thought about it. "I don't remember their fathers, actually." She tried to think some more.

"You don't remember their fathers because they left at the same time yours did. You're all pretty much the same age. Your fathers were all representatives in Washington, DC together."

"Just the fathers? Just men?"

Old Man made a face at Athena. "No, not just men. It's just that in your case, your plural, it was fathers. All fathers with Spanish last names. All arrested. All born here. The problem was, they could all prove they were born here, and they were all highly indignant. And very vocal about it."

"So they were released."

"No, they were moved."

"Moved?"

"What I heard was that they were moved to a place called Gitmo. It was already set up for ... arrests." Athena opened her mouth to ask another question, but Old Man got up and went to the bedroom again. He came back with a weird twisted and tied rope thing in his hand, around two feet long.

"What's that?"

"It's called macrame."

"What do you do with it?"

"Your father left it for you."

"Seriously? Kids in old books get left invisibility cloaks, and I get left a piece of knotty twine?"

NEXT

Rolled-Up Streets

2011-04-17T06:33:00.000-07:00

Use coupon code XD34Y to get Rolled-Up Streets for 99 cents at Smashwords. This will get you all digital formats for one low price. You can also get it for the regular price of $4.99 at Barnes & Noble for your Nook. My book is also available here.

A to Z Challenge: Legal

2011-04-14T21:03:00.002-07:00

PREVIOUSLY

"Why did they go through all that? What kind of danger could being born to my father put me in? And ..."

"First things first," the Old Man cautioned. He poured her more tea and made her a sandwich.

"One state passed this law. They called it SB1070. From what I understand, it included provisions that if someone couldn't prove they were in the country legally, they could be arrested. Now if you're born in a country, you don't expect to have to carry around proof. There was a huge outcry. The problem was that a lot of the outcry came from normal people. A lot of elected officials, on the other hand, saw this as a great opportunity. They passed similar laws, but attached them to things like bills for tax cuts or bills that fund education -- things that people wanted."

"But it doesn't make sense."

"It gave people a chance to get rid of their enemies. Don't like your neighbor? Claim he's illegal. Want to run for office? Claim the incumbent is illegal. Once they're arrested, you get their job or whatever it was that motivated you in the first place. Those two men, the ones you just found out about, they worked for the government. So did your father."

"My name is Greek. Wasn't my father Greek?"

"No. Your name is just a Plan B name. They wanted to name you Araceli."

"Araceli?"

"Yes. It's your abuela's name. Your grandmother. You're Columbian."

"Well, if I was in danger because ... why? My father had a Columbian name? But he stuck around until I was 8. He couldn't have been in that much danger."

"Ahh." Old Man paused and put the cups in the sink. He spoke with his back to her. "That wasn't your father."

NEXT

A to Z Challenge: Kinship

2011-04-14T20:09:00.001-07:00

PREVIOUSLY

Athena glanced down at her tea cup again, and then looked at the Old Man.

"I have a question. Or two. Or more."

"Go 'head." He was glad to have company as well as to see someone display some semblance of curiosity.

The man in the diary, and the man in the photos. Their last names are Ojeda and Villa, right?"

"Yes, why?"

"Well, that's my question really. Why?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I'm called Athena na'Kyria. I'm the unmarried child of Kyria. David is the unmarried child of his mother, Yamileth. Carlo and Valeria are married to each other, so Carlo is du'Valeria and Valeria is du'Carlo. Right?"

"Go on."

"So how come we have normal names and the men in the diary have such weird names?"

Old Man smiled. "Dear girl. You are assuming that your name is the norm. It's not. Theirs is."

"How? Everyone I know, well everyone whose name I know, has names like ours. I don't know anyone with a name like Villa or Ojeda."

"You name, the names of the people around you, they're based on kinship. Your name shows who you're related to."

"Of course!"

"No, not of course! We had normal last names -- last names like Mario and Francisco, for hundreds of years. You have one on your birth certificate, too, by the way."

"Then what is it? Why do we do this kinship thing then?"

Old Man laughed. "It was your mother's idea, really. She said our lives had turned into something out of some poorly-written dystopian novel, so we might as well have the names to go with it! Your father agreed, but for different reasons. Dropping our real last names also dropped our ethnicity, at least on paper."

Athena made assorted faces as she tried to process this information. She gave up, and waited for Old Man to go on.

"When you were born, your parents had a choice. They could officially list your birth on your county birth certificate with you being the product of your parents and having your father's last name -- which would mark you as the child of someone the government was interested in silencing. Instead, they left your father's name off the birth certificate, gave you that last name on the government's document, and hoped that the powers that be would think that your mother was some lesbian who read too many Darkover novels and probably had you by a donor. Your real name is recorded here in town, but that information sort of never made it to the county."

NEXT

J is for Jazlyn

2011-04-12T05:42:00.002-07:00

Go here for today's A to Z Challenge entry.

A to Z Challenge: The Story So Far: A to J

2011-04-12T05:41:00.000-07:00

Athena na’Kyria finished bandaging the wound and looked over at her best friend. “You have to give him something to chew on, or he’s just going to keep biting his sister. If you can get your hands on some apples, that should keep him busy until he outgrows this.”

Taryn du’Marcos sighed and tucked a stray dark curl back into her floral patterned kerchief. “His sister was nothing like this, you know.”

Athena smiled. “But now we’re both so busy, I think the only time we see each other is for toddler bites!” She accepted the cup of tea and piece of pie that Taryn placed in front of her. The pie tasted so fresh that she guessed Taryn just picked the pumpkin yesterday or this morning.

Taryn put pie in front of her two kids so she could chat with her friend. They talked about Athena’s mother (she seemed to be spending an awful lot of time making candles, which meant spending that much more time with the shopkeeper), Grace na’Lizeth (lots of knitting – must be planning to marry soon!), Carlo du’Valeria (can you believe what he claims he saw the other day?), and of course, eventually, Two by Twenty-Two.

“Seriously, Athena, you’re not that busy. The only way you’re going to have two kids before you turn twenty-two is if you elope and then have twins.”
Athena tried to figure out which speech to haul out. That she wanted to be certain? That there were too many men to pick from? That being a wife and mother would make it impossible to be a healer? Anything but the truth – that she just didn’t want a man as a life partner. Men were nice enough, and handy to have around, and great company. But that was it. And as much as she liked kids, she wasn’t interested in acquiring any in the usual way. So she changed the subject again, in a way that hinted it might not be a subject change.

“I’ll see if I can get David na’Yamileth to part with some of his apples for your son.” Maybe if she mentioned being with an eligible bachelor, her friend would favorably misinterpret it. Since she and David were both fairly tall, people had been trying to match them up since they were children.

Taryn smiled, and since the kids were done eating and full of energy (and bandaged), the visit was over.

Athena walked down the dirt road and up the path to David’s mother’s house. She and David were picking apples and placing them in baskets of various sizes. Yamileth was nearly as tall as her son, and they were both what folks called big-boned.

Yamileth nodded at Athena. “We get smarter every year! If we just put the apples straight into the baskets according to the amounts people usually buy, it saves us a whole lot of work! Better for the apples, too!”

“You’re right! Hey, can I get a small basket of apples sent to Taryn du’Marcos? Her son is still biting his sister. He needs something new to chew on.”
Yamileth laughed and nodded her head at her grown son. “We had to do the same thing with David.” Athena dropped the required coins into the woman’s apron pocket. When the business portion was ended, David called her over.

“Did you hear about what Carlo du’Valeria claims he saw the other day?”

"Something about a train, I think. Or part of a train. That track is pretty rusty by now, and I'm sure we would have heard a train rolling through!" Athena shook her head in disbelief.

"Unless it came during the storm the other night. There was an awful lot of lightning and thunder. We wouldn't have heard a train go past the front porch!" David was right, of course. But it was a little creepy, that a train could come by, drop off a box car, and then leave again. What was the point, anyway?

Athena looked at David, who didn't seem as practical as he usually did. In fact, he looked a little concerned. "So, did you go check it out?"

"No." He glanced at his mother. "I don't want to borrow trouble. My mother doesn't have anyone else." Normally, Athena would have considered this to be an unduly, well, wimpy response to the situation. But there was just something nagging about it, something that made David's answer seem a whole lot more acceptable than it would normally be.

David looked Athena straight in the eyes, more like himself, as he challenged "You can always go check it out with me if you want, of course!"

"Oh, no, that's OK! Really! I need to check on, um, I'd best be going and leave you and your mother to harvesting the apples. Thanks again for getting a bunch over to Taryn! I'm sure her daughter will appreciate it!"

David gave her a brief smile and then returned to picking apples from the tree and putting them in baskets.

The next morning, Athena was awakened by the smell of smoke. This was soon followed by a bit of shouting outside, which grew louder as it approached and as more voices joined in. She and her mother grabbed their ponchos from the pegs by the door and joined the small crowd.

The group went left around the little arm of the woods that stuck out here. Beyond the woods was an old abandoned railroad track. Sure enough, there was a boxcar sitting on it. The fire was in a metal barrel near the boxcar. There was no one around.

David and his mother approached Athena and hers. "Odd," was his first response. Everyone sort of stopped when they saw the barrel, and that no one was around. Different voices discussed the scene, some with enthusiasm and some more hushed.

"The boxcar looks locked up tight. Surely there's no one inside."

"Well, it'd make no sense for them to be inside. Why start a fire to keep warm, and then leave?"

"Maybe he didn't start it to keep warm. It's not that chilly out here."

"Yeah, but if he spent the night in the train..."

"But how do you know it's a he?"

"Carlo was right, though. There is part of a train out here!"

"Do you think he started the fire?"

"Of course not! He'd never waste fuel so foolishly!"

Then Carlo wondered aloud, somewhere near David and Athena, "Do you suppose someone started the fire just to bring us out here?"

"Carlo, what are you doing?" Valeria sounded a bit panicky. People always used words like scrawny and wimpy to describe her husband, and it seemed like he spent his whole life trying to prove that he was at least as brave and macho as any other man, if not more so.

"Well, someone has to check this thing out!"

"No, not really! Get back here, you fool!" But Carlo ignored his wife and kept walking toward the boxcar. A horrified murmur arose when he went to touch the boxcar. Finally he turned around and addressed the crowd.

"Seriously, people! A boxcar appears one day, but everyone ignores it. Then a fire is lit, obviously to drag us here and get our attention. Well, we're here. Now what? Don't you see? There must be something inside the boxcar, something that we're meant to see." He turned around again, and examined the train segment. He'd never seen a train car up close before, so it took him a moment to grasp how to open the car.

As soon as Carlo had the box car open, he was accosted by both a smell and a sound. Rather strange looking animals were inside the car, along with a long wooden plank. A few of the braver men, seeing that he didn't die instantly, joined him. They aligned the plank and led the animals out of the car, holding their breaths. When they got the seventh (and final) animal out, they rejoined the other people and stood looking at the animals.

"Um, what are they, exactly?" wondered Marcos aloud.

"They're cows, silly," replied Yamileth, wishing she were back picking apples instead of standing here staring at odd animals.

"Those don't look like any cows I've ever seen," retorted Valeria, as if she'd ever seen a cow up close and personal.

"Actually, they look like those starving cows you see pictures of. Cows in India or some place like that," someone contributed.

Everyone stared a bit longer. Finally someone added "And what are we supposed to do with them? They certainly don't look like anything you can milk!"

Now people looked at each other, sizing up their neighbors as good candidates to take these animals home and relieve themselves of any responsibility in this matter. However, no one was jumping right up to volunteer. The seven cows just hung out, munching on the grass and staring at the people.

Carlo felt like he still needed to do something – something that didn’t include taking seven strange cows home. So he held his breath and entered the boxcar. He wasn’t very good at holding his breath, however, and he soon discovered that it smelled just like a box car that had recently been full of cows. He discovered too late that he needed to mind his step as well.

He looked around for anything odd or remotely helpful, and found something. He went to grab it, silently cursing whoever put it at the far end of the boxcar. It turned out to be a book of some sort, which he grabbed. He then left the boxcar as quickly as possible. When he landed on the ground, he spent a bit of time dragging his feet across the grass to clean off his shoes.

David decided that it was safe to be brave, and walked up to Carlo. “What’s that?” He nodded at the book.

Carlo opened it. “It looks like a diary of some sort.” This led to a bit of discussion among a number of people about the difference between a journal and a diary. However, Carlo decided to stick with diary, since that was the word he used first.

After flipping through the pages a few times, the men looked at each other and took the diary to Athena.

“What’s wrong?”

“Look,” one of the men said, pointing to the book.

“Um, I don’t see anything wrong with it,” the healer replied. “It looks like a diary or journal. Did you read any of it yet?”

Carlo gave Athena a rather unpleasant look. “We can’t.”

Athena took the diary and flipped some of the pages again. “Why not?”

David sighed and pointed out to her what was painfully obvious to the men: “It’s written in that curly writing.”

Athena made a face. “Cursive? Yeah, it’s written in cursive. So?”

Yamileth came over and translated for her son. “They can’t read cursive.”

“Wait. Seriously?” Athena looked around. “None of them can read cursive?”

Yamileth sighed. “Athena, you can only read cursive because your father taught you, before he left. You didn’t learn it in school. It wasn’t taught in school.”

“Wait! My father didn’t leave! He died … in the mining accident that closed the mine!”

Yamileth ignored her friend Kyria’s glare, and continued talking to her friend’s daughter. “There is no mine, Athena. Never was. If your father worked in a mine, he’d come home every day covered in coal dust or something.”

“No, my father hated getting dirty. He didn’t even like picking vegetables out of our garden.”

“Exactly. Your father wasn’t a miner. He didn’t die in a mining accident. He left, and your mother should have told you that when you were eight.”

Athena remembered back to when she was eight. Her mother certainly acted the way a woman would if her husband had just died. But Yamileth burst into her memory before she could go on. “There was no funeral, child. That should’ve been a clue.”

Athena looked down at the diary in her hand, the diary that only she could read. She wondered why her father taught her to read cursive, and why no one else could read it. But she didn’t have too much thinking time before the cows started making noise, demanding some sort of resolution to their housing problem.

Athena wanted to take the diary home and read it at her leisure, but everyone else was curious about it as well. They all pretended to ignore the cows, who were slowly approaching the group of people. All eyes remained on Athena as they moved out of the cows' way.

"OK, well, this first entry is dated October 5, of ... wait a minute. That can't be right. That's the year I was born. I was just a few months old when this was written."

"It looks a lot older than that," said Valeria.

"Well, maybe the man had it a long time, but didn't write in it," Carlo suggested.

"How do you know it was a man who wrote it?" asked David.

"Because it's a man's handwriting. Can't you tell?"

"How can you tell it's a man's handwriting if you can't read cursive?"

"Oh, for Pete's sake! Let her read the thing!" Taryn practically stamped her foot. In the meantime, though, Athena had been flipping through the book. Years of reading the ends of books ahead of time led her automatically to the diary's final pages. It was there that she found the envelope.

"What's that?" Yamileth, David's mother, came closer. Athena opened the envelope, and pulled out a folded letter and a photograph. Since the subject of her father had suddenly come up, she half expected it to be him, but it wasn't. The man in the photograph had darker skin, and wore a coat with the collar turned up and a hat. The coat looked thick, but otherwise along the lines of a trench coat. Basically, it was a city coat, not the sort anyone local would wear.

The man stood in the doorway of what could be a city apartment building -- but any city, anywhere. The number on the door behind him was 722. Athena opened the letter and read it.

"Dear Mrs. Rafferty,

Thank you for your recent hospitality. I'm not in any danger of starving soon, thanks to your great cooking. I'm sorry that I couldn't stay beyond your daughter's engagement party, but I'm pleased that I was able to attend that affair. I will be sure to call on your again when I next come to town.

Sincerely,

Mario Villa"

Athena scowled as someone noted "You've got to be kidding me!"

Someone else added "What kind of letter is that?"

Even David added "Is that supposed to mean something?" Athena looked from the photograph to the letter and back again, sure that some sort of hidden meaning eluded her.

"Check the handwriting in the diary," her mother suggested. "Is it the same?"

"No, doesn't look like it." Athena was baffled, and only stopped staring at the letter and photograph when a cow bumped into her.

Taryn handed her son an apple before he bit his sister again. Or a cow. Then the mother turned to Athena. "So who wrote the diary? And what does it have to do with these cows?"

Athena scanned the back few pages and front few pages of the diary. "No mention of cows. But the diary guy's name is Francisco Ojeda."

"Could he be ... government?" Valeria wondered aloud.

"Did you listen to his name?" Her husband shook his head.

"Well, he could have been ... before."

"Well, if he was government before, then maybe he knew that Mario guy. But where are they now? And what does that have to do with a boxcar full of cows?" David didn't particularly like mysteries. He wanted to be back in his apple orchard, where everything made sense.

Athena's mother pointed out the obvious: "If they were government before, they're dead now."

"So what do we do with the cows? They have to eat and drink and stuff," Taryn pointed out while looking at the neighbors.

"Let the cows decide," said Yamileth. "When we leave, they'll just follow whoever they follow, and that'll decide it for now." She secretly hoped, of course, that they didn't follow her to her apple orchard, but she didn't know much about cows or what they liked. Correction -- she didn't know what the sort of cows she saw in picture books liked; she knew even less about these weird, skinny guys. Or gals, as the case may be.

"I want to know more about Francisco's diary, and his connection to this Mario," Carlo said.

Athena, who had already begun reading the diary, looked up. "Well, he did work for the government when he began his diary."

Everyone was silent, and most of the older people stared at their shoes. The younger among them were bolder and looked around, as if to reassure themselves that there were no spies among them, noting their discussion of the government or even the word itself.

Athena kept reading the diary, or at least skimming it. "OK, Mario knew the guy in the picture. They did both work for the government. They were senators."

Yamileth mumbled "were is the key word." Then she looked up at Athena. "How long ago was this? Had it already started?"

Athena looked at the dates in the diary. "It was begun about a year before I was born. No. It was begun when I was a few months old, but he goes back to before that time. So anyway, he would have gotten the letter ... in the middle of writing the diary at least. Maybe toward the end. Although it doesn't make sense that he'd have a letter from his friend addressed to some lady."

The men and women who were closer to her mother's age looked like they were trying to do math in their heads. Finally Athena's mother, Kyria, spoke. "It started when I was pregnant with Athena, remember? In Arizona."

The name of the state brought another hush, at least to the older ones. "Arizona?" David and Carlo both looked like they'd never heard of the place, let alone what the point was.

"Arizona. The state. They started arresting everyone who worked for the government who was Hispanic. Made them prove they were citizens. At least, that's what they said."

"Wait." David looked a little baffled. "Seriously? How do you go from that to an all-white government?"

"All-white, all-male government," Athena added.

"Easy," Kyria pointed out. "If no one speaks up, then eventually there's no one left to speak up. There were lots of posters about that in the aftermath of what happened in Germany."

"What happened in Germany?" Valeria asked.

"You're kidding! What did they teach you in school? What did you learn?"

"We learned how to read and write and do math."

"Plants, too," David added. "We had that vegetable garden. And we made things out of wood. And the girls learned cooking and sewing. Home economics." He resented the implication that his education was somehow lacking something.

Yamileth looked at her son. "Who was Hitler? Or Martin Luther King, Jr.? Or Malcolm X? Gandhi? Jomo Kenyatta? Nelson Mandela? Napoleon? John F. Kennedy? Jimmy Carter? Obama? Eleanor Roosevelt? Geraldine Ferraro?" She went on with a list of names, people her son had never heard of.

"It's a code," Athena interjected.

"What?" Everyone looked at her, as she looked at the photo and letter again.

"It's a code. The number over the door is 722, right? If you look at the letter, the seventh word is I'm. Two words after that is in and two words after that is danger. He's saying I'm in danger."

"But what about the rest of the nonsense in the letter? Are you saying that's a code, too?"

"Well, the letter is addressed to a Mrs. Rafferty, and it mentions her daughter's engagement party." Athena paused. "Seriously? She had a party because she got engaged? Did she get presents?"

"Athena!" her mother chastised her. Athena rolled her eyes and went on.

"I never heard of a Mrs. Rafferty, but that doesn't mean anything, according to David's mother!" She looked at the diary again. "I really need to read this, to get more information. There has to be a reason that it's here."

"Not really," Taryn answered. "It could have been put in the boxcar years ago, shortly after it was finished, and no one noticed it before now." She was about to continue when the shopkeeper, the one Athena's mother was fond of, pulled out a harmonica and started playing it. There was no obvious reason to do so. There wasn't any sort of dramatic moment that required music to point out how dramatic it was. There wasn't any long silence that needed filling. The man simply pulled it out and started playing. The young people looked at him like he was extremely odd but tolerable, and resumed their discussion of the diary and the mystery.

While they talked, they were also all walking -- toward town. It was a weird parade of people, cows, and a harmonica accompaniment. The people were also all hoping -- that the cows would adopt anyone but them. Most of them had their hopes met -- those who didn't happen to live in the nearby apple orchard. David and his mother were not nearly as happy as everyone else.

David's mother found her way next to Athena. "He used to have a wife, you know." She nodded to the harmonica playing shopkeeper.

"Him?" Athena looked at her mother's love interest.

"Yep. And kids."

"What happened to them?"

Eventually Athena and her mother Kyria made it to their house with the diary, while David and his mother Yamileth made it to their house with the cows. One pair was happier than the other. It sounded to Athena like Harmonica Man played all the way to his store.

Athena got her bag ready for her expected rounds, planning to check on a couple of pregnant young women, a baby with colic, and Darina. Darina liked to imagine that she had all sorts of exotic diseases, and demanded all sorts of tests and remedies. Athena discovered that if she just stopped by regularly anyway, Darina got the attention she wanted without exhausting Athena or her own children.

The rest of the morning therefore went along very predictably, which Athena really appreciated. Her last stop before going home for lunch was at the Old Man's house. Everyone called him that because, aside from the obvious, there was actually quite a shortage of old men in the town. There weren't really tons of middle aged men, either, for that matter.

"I hear you had an exciting morning," he stated as she listened to his chest with a stethoscope. She shushed him as she listened to his heart and lungs, making him breathe in and out a few times. She checked his pulse, and then addressed him.

"Did you hear about the cows? Who would leave cows out here?"

"I'm more interested in that diary. Did you bring it in your bag?"

"Actually, yes. I thought I might get a chance to look at it if I had to wait for someone."

"Mind if I take a look?"

Well, actually, she did. She was starting to think of it as her diary, but let him see it anyway. He read the beginning and the letter and looked at the photograph, making suitable "uh-hum" noises every so often. Then he went to his icebox. He moved aside a pair of chicken legs, a slab of meatloaf, and part of a green pepper. Then he reached back, and pulled out an envelope. He brought it back to the table and handed it to Athena.

"Open it."

There inside was another letter, and another photograph. This photograph was also Mario Villa, but this time he was in front of a boat.

"So why did Mario send you a picture, too? Did you know this Mrs. Rafferty?" Athena asked the Old Man.

"Yes. She was my wife."

Athena looked stunned, and barely noticed that the Old Man had put a cup of tea in front of her. She glanced down at it now and took a drink. "Did she really have a daughter who had an engagement party, or was that all some secret code of some sort?"

"No, we had a beautiful daughter, Jazlyn. Well, I expect everyone thinks their daughter is beautiful. Ours really was, though. She had long, flowing hair, as shiny black as an onyx." He got up and went toward the bedroom. He returned with a couple of picture frames in his hand. The Old Man handed Athena the first photograph. Jazlyn was as beautiful as her father said, and she stood there proudly between her parents in front of a rather large tree.

"This is her wedding photo." He handed her another photo. The bride was lovely, of course. The contrast between her dark hair and bright dress was stunning. Athena barely looked at the groom, and handed the photo back to the Old Man. "Look again," he instructed her.

Athena looked at the picture again. Finally she looked at the groom. He looked sort of familiar, and a song came to mind. She looked again. Jazlyn's groom was Harmonica Man. That must be why he started playing the harmonica when she talked about the engagement party. It was his engagement, too. His bride. Suddenly she was much more interested in what happened to his wife and children, and their connection to both Mario Villa in the picture and Francisco Ojeda in the diary.

A to Z Challenge: Jazlyn

2011-04-12T00:15:00.002-07:00

PREVIOUSLY

"So why did Mario send you a picture, too? Did you know this Mrs. Rafferty?" Athena asked the Old Man.

"Yes. She was my wife."

Athena looked stunned, and barely noticed that the Old Man had put a cup of tea in front of her. She glanced down at it now and took a drink. "Did she really have a daughter who had an engagement party, or was that all some secret code of some sort?"

"No, we had a beautiful daughter, Jazlyn. Well, I expect everyone thinks their daughter is beautiful. Ours really was, though. She had long, flowing hair, as shiny black as an onyx." He got up and went toward the bedroom. He returned with a couple of picture frames in his hand. The Old Man handed Athena the first photograph. Jazlyn was as beautiful as her father said, and she stood there proudly between her parents in front of a rather large tree.

"This is her wedding photo." He handed her another photo. The bride was lovely, of course. The contrast between her dark hair and bright dress was stunning. Athena barely looked at the groom, and handed the photo back to the Old Man. "Look again," he instructed her.

Athena looked at the picture again. Finally she looked at the groom. He looked sort of familiar, and a song came to mind. She looked again. Jazlyn's groom was Harmonica Man. That must be why he started playing the harmonica when she talked about the engagement party. It was his engagement, too. His bride. Suddenly she was much more interested in what happened to his wife and children, and their connection to both Mario Villa in the picture and Francisco Ojeda in the diary.

NEXT

A to Z Challenge: Icebox

2011-04-11T17:47:00.002-07:00

PREVIOUSLY

Eventually Athena and her mother Kyria made it to their house with the diary, while David and his mother Yamileth made it to their house with the cows. One pair was happier than the other. It sounded to Athena like Harmonica Man played all the way to his store.

Athena got her bag ready for her expected rounds, planning to check on a couple of pregnant young women, a baby with colic, and Darina. Darina liked to imagine that she had all sorts of exotic diseases, and demanded all sorts of tests and remedies. Athena discovered that if she just stopped by regularly anyway, Darina got the attention she wanted without exhausting Athena or her own children.

The rest of the morning therefore went along very predictably, which Athena really appreciated. Her last stop before going home for lunch was at the Old Man's house. Everyone called him that because, aside from the obvious, there was actually quite a shortage of old men in the town. There weren't really tons of middle aged men, either, for that matter.

"I hear you had an exciting morning," he stated as she listened to his chest with a stethoscope. She shushed him as she listened to his heart and lungs, making him breathe in and out a few times. She checked his pulse, and then addressed him.

"Did you hear about the cows? Who would leave cows out here?"

"I'm more interested in that diary. Did you bring it in your bag?"

"Actually, yes. I thought I might get a chance to look at it if I had to wait for someone."

"Mind if I take a look?"

Well, actually, she did. She was starting to think of it as her diary, but let him see it anyway. He read the beginning and the letter and looked at the photograph, making suitable "uh-hum" noises every so often. Then he went to his icebox. He moved aside a pair of chicken legs, a slab of meatloaf, and part of a green pepper. Then he reached back, and pulled out an envelope. He brought it back to the table and handed it to Athena.

"Open it."

There inside was another letter, and another photograph. This photograph was also Mario Villa, but this time he was in front of a boat.

NEXT

A to Z Challenge: Harmonica

2011-04-09T00:15:00.003-07:00

PREVIOUSLY

"Well, the letter is addressed to a Mrs. Rafferty, and it mentions her daughter's engagement party." Athena paused. "Seriously? She had a party because she got engaged? Did she get presents?"

"Athena!" her mother chastised her. Athena rolled her eyes and went on.

"I never heard of a Mrs. Rafferty, but that doesn't mean anything, according to David's mother!" She looked at the diary again. "I really need to read this, to get more information. There has to be a reason that it's here."

"Not really," Taryn answered. "It could have been put in the boxcar years ago, shortly after it was finished, and no one noticed it before now." She was about to continue when the shopkeeper, the one Athena's mother was fond of, pulled out a harmonica and started playing it. There was no obvious reason to do so. There wasn't any sort of dramatic moment that required music to point out how dramatic it was. There wasn't any long silence that needed filling. The man simply pulled it out and started playing. The young people looked at him like he was extremely odd but tolerable, and resumed their discussion of the diary and the mystery.

While they talked, they were also all walking -- toward town. It was a weird parade of people, cows, and a harmonica accompaniment. The people were also all hoping -- that the cows would adopt anyone but them. Most of them had their hopes met -- those who didn't happen to live in the nearby apple orchard. David and his mother were not nearly as happy as everyone else.

David's mother found her way next to Athena. "He used to have a wife, you know." She nodded to the harmonica playing shopkeeper.

"Him?" Athena looked at her mother's love interest.

"Yep. And kids."

"What happened to them?"

NEXT

A to Z Challenge: Government

2011-04-08T00:15:00.037-07:00

PREVIOUSLY

Everyone was silent, and most of the older people stared at their shoes. The younger among them were bolder and looked around, as if to reassure themselves that there were no spies among them, noting their discussion of the government or even the word itself.

Athena kept reading the diary, or at least skimming it. "OK, Mario knew the guy in the picture. They did both work for the government. They were senators."

Yamileth mumbled "were is the key word." Then she looked up at Athena. "How long ago was this? Had it already started?"

Athena looked at the dates in the diary. "It was begun about a year before I was born. No. It was begun when I was a few months old, but he goes back to before that time. So anyway, he would have gotten the letter ... in the middle of writing the diary at least. Maybe toward the end. Although it doesn't make sense that he'd have a letter from his friend addressed to some lady."

The men and women who were closer to her mother's age looked like they were trying to do math in their heads. Finally Athena's mother, Kyria, spoke. "It started when I was pregnant with Athena, remember? In Arizona."

The name of the state brought another hush, at least to the older ones. "Arizona?" David and Carlo both looked like they'd never heard of the place, let alone what the point was.

"Arizona. The state. They started arresting everyone who worked for the government who was Hispanic. Made them prove they were citizens. At least, that's what they said."

"Wait." David looked a little baffled. "Seriously? How do you go from that to an all-white government?"

"All-white, all-male government," Athena added.

"Easy," Kyria pointed out. "If no one speaks up, then eventually there's no one left to speak up. There were lots of posters about that in the aftermath of what happened in Germany."

"What happened in Germany?" Valeria asked.

"You're kidding! What did they teach you in school? What did you learn?"

"We learned how to read and write and do math."

"Plants, too," David added. "We had that vegetable garden. And we made things out of wood. And the girls learned cooking and sewing. Home economics." He resented the implication that his education was somehow lacking something.

Yamileth looked at her son. "Who was Hitler? Or Martin Luther King, Jr.? Or Malcolm X? Gandhi? Jomo Kenyatta? Nelson Mandela? Napoleon? John F. Kennedy? Jimmy Carter? Obama? Eleanor Roosevelt? Geraldine Ferraro?" She went on with a list of names, people her son had never heard of.

"It's a code," Athena interjected.

"What?" Everyone looked at her, as she looked at the photo and letter again.

"It's a code. The number over the door is 722, right? If you look at the letter, the seventh word is I'm. Two words after that is in and two words after that is danger. He's saying I'm in danger."

"But what about the rest of the nonsense in the letter? Are you saying that's a code, too?"

NEXT

A to Z Challenge: Francisco

2011-04-07T00:12:00.004-07:00

PREVIOUSLY

Taryn handed her son an apple before he bit his sister again. Or a cow. Then the mother turned to Athena. "So who wrote the diary? And what does it have to do with these cows?"

Athena scanned the back few pages and front few pages of the diary. "No mention of cows. But the diary guy's name is Francisco Ojeda."

"Could he be ... government?" Valeria wondered aloud.

"Did you listen to his name?" Her husband shook his head.

"Well, he could have been ... before."

"Well, if he was government before, then maybe he knew that Mario guy. But where are they now? And what does that have to do with a boxcar full of cows?" David didn't particularly like mysteries. He wanted to be back in his apple orchard, where everything made sense.

Athena's mother pointed out the obvious: "If they were government before, they're dead now."

"So what do we do with the cows? They have to eat and drink and stuff," Taryn pointed out while looking at the neighbors.

"Let the cows decide," said Yamileth. "When we leave, they'll just follow whoever they follow, and that'll decide it for now." She secretly hoped, of course, that they didn't follow her to her apple orchard, but she didn't know much about cows or what they liked. Correction -- she didn't know what the sort of cows she saw in picture books liked; she knew even less about these weird, skinny guys. Or gals, as the case may be.

"I want to know more about Francisco's diary, and his connection to this Mario," Carlo said.

Athena, who had already begun reading the diary, looked up. "Well, he did work for the government when he began his diary."

NEXT

A to Z Challenge: Envelope

2011-04-06T00:12:00.005-07:00

PREVIOUSLY

Athena wanted to take the diary home and read it at her leisure, but everyone else was curious about it as well. They all pretended to ignore the cows, who were slowly approaching the group of people. All eyes remained on Athena as they moved out of the cows' way.

"OK, well, this first entry is dated October 5, of ... wait a minute. That can't be right. That's the year I was born. I was just a few months old when this was written."

"It looks a lot older than that," said Valeria.

"Well, maybe the man had it a long time, but didn't write in it," Carlo suggested.

"How do you know it was a man who wrote it?" asked David.

"Because it's a man's handwriting. Can't you tell?"

"How can you tell it's a man's handwriting if you can't read cursive?"

"Oh, for Pete's sake! Let her read the thing!" Taryn practically stamped her foot. In the meantime, though, Athena had been flipping through the book. Years of reading the ends of books ahead of time led her automatically to the diary's final pages. It was there that she found the envelope.

"What's that?" Yamileth, David's mother, came closer. Athena opened the envelope, and pulled out a folded letter and a photograph. Since the subject of her father had suddenly come up, she half expected it to be him, but it wasn't. The man in the photograph had darker skin, and wore a coat with the collar turned up and a hat. The coat looked thick, but otherwise along the lines of a trench coat. Basically, it was a city coat, not the sort anyone local would wear.

The man stood in the doorway of what could be a city apartment building -- but any city, anywhere. The number on the door behind him was 722. Athena opened the letter and read it.

"Dear Mrs. Rafferty,

Thank you for your recent hospitality. I'm not in any danger of starving soon, thanks to your great cooking. I'm sorry that I couldn't stay beyond your daughter's engagement party, but I'm pleased that I was able to attend that affair. I will be sure to call on your again when I next come to town.

Sincerely,

Mario Villa"

Athena scowled as someone noted "You've got to be kidding me!"

Someone else added "What kind of letter is that?"

Even David added "Is that supposed to mean something?" Athena looked from the photograph to the letter and back again, sure that some sort of hidden meaning eluded her.

"Check the handwriting in the diary," her mother suggested. "Is it the same?"

"No, doesn't look like it." Athena was baffled, and only stopped staring at the letter and photograph when a cow bumped into her.

NEXT

A to Z Challenge: Diary

2011-04-05T00:12:00.004-07:00

PREVIOUSLY

Carlo felt like he still needed to do something – something that didn’t include taking seven strange cows home. So he held his breath and entered the boxcar. He wasn’t very good at holding his breath, however, and he soon discovered that it smelled just like a box car that had recently been full of cows. He discovered too late that he needed to mind his step as well.

He looked around for anything odd or remotely helpful, and found something. He went to grab it, silently cursing whoever put it at the far end of the boxcar. It turned out to be a book of some sort, which he grabbed. He then left the boxcar as quickly as possible. When he landed on the ground, he spent a bit of time dragging his feet across the grass to clean off his shoes.

David decided that it was safe to be brave, and walked up to Carlo. “What’s that?” He nodded at the book.

Carlo opened it. “It looks like a diary of some sort.” This led to a bit of discussion among a number of people about the difference between a journal and a diary. However, Carlo decided to stick with diary, since that was the word he used first.

After flipping through the pages a few times, the men looked at each other and took the diary to Athena.

“What’s wrong?”

“Look,” one of the men said, pointing to the book.

“Um, I don’t see anything wrong with it,” the healer replied. “It looks like a diary or journal. Did you read any of it yet?”

Carlo gave Athena a rather unpleasant look. “We can’t.”

Athena took the diary and flipped some of the pages again. “Why not?”

David sighed and pointed out to her what was painfully obvious to the men: “It’s written in that curly writing.”

Athena made a face. “Cursive? Yeah, it’s written in cursive. So?”

Yamileth came over and translated for her son. “They can’t read cursive.”

“Wait. Seriously?” Athena looked around. “None of them can read cursive?”

Yamileth sighed. “Athena, you can only read cursive because your father taught you, before he left. You didn’t learn it in school. It wasn’t taught in school.”

“Wait! My father didn’t leave! He died … in the mining accident that closed the mine!”

Yamileth ignored her friend Kyria’s glare, and continued talking to her friend’s daughter. “There is no mine, Athena. Never was. If your father worked in a mine, he’d come home every day covered in coal dust or something.”

“No, my father hated getting dirty. He didn’t even like picking vegetables out of our garden.”

“Exactly. Your father wasn’t a miner. He didn’t die in a mining accident. He left, and your mother should have told you that when you were eight.”

Athena remembered back to when she was eight. Her mother certainly acted the way a woman would if her husband had just died. But Yamileth burst into her memory before she could go on. “There was no funeral, child. That should’ve been a clue.”

Athena looked down at the diary in her hand, the diary that only she could read. She wondered why her father taught her to read cursive, and why no one else could read it. But she didn’t have too much thinking time before the cows started making noise, demanding some sort of resolution to their housing problem.

NEXT

A to Z Challenge: Cows

2011-04-04T00:12:00.004-07:00

PREVIOUSLY

"Carlo, what are you doing?" Valeria sounded a bit panicky. People always used words like scrawny and wimpy to describe her husband, and it seemed like he spent his whole life trying to prove that he was at least as brave and macho as any other man, if not more so.

"Well, someone has to check this thing out!"

"No, not really! Get back here, you fool!" But Carlo ignored his wife and kept walking toward the boxcar. A horrified murmur arose when he went to touch the boxcar. Finally he turned around and addressed the crowd.

"Seriously, people! A boxcar appears one day, but everyone ignores it. Then a fire is lit, obviously to drag us here and get our attention. Well, we're here. Now what? Don't you see? There must be something inside the boxcar, something that we're meant to see." He turned around again, and examined the train segment. He'd never seen a train car up close before, so it took him a moment to grasp how to open the car.

As soon as Carlo had the box car open, he was accosted by both a smell and a sound. Rather strange looking animals were inside the car, along with a long wooden plank. A few of the braver men, seeing that he didn't die instantly, joined him. They aligned the plank and led the animals out of the car, holding their breaths. When they got the seventh (and final) animal out, they rejoined the other people and stood looking at the animals.

"Um, what are they, exactly?" wondered Marcos aloud.

"They're cows, silly," replied Yamileth, wishing she were back picking apples instead of standing here staring at odd animals.

"Those don't look like any cows I've ever seen," retorted Valeria, as if she'd ever seen a cow up close and personal.

"Actually, they look like those starving cows you see pictures of. Cows in India or some place like that," someone contributed.

Everyone stared a bit longer. Finally someone added "And what are we supposed to do with them? They certainly don't look like anything you can milk!"

Now people looked at each other, sizing up their neighbors as good candidates to take these animals home and relieve themselves of any responsibility in this matter. However, no one was jumping right up to volunteer. The seven cows just hung out, munching on the grass and staring at the people.

NEXT

Dealer's Choice: Chess Web Site 2009

2011-04-03T14:03:00.001-07:00

"Hey! Are you gonna cut the cards or not?" Miguel sorted through the ashtray looking for a cigarette butt big enough to relight. "And close that damn freezer!"

Aaron opened the fridge instead and grabbed a Mountain Dew, taking a couple of gulps on his way back to the table. He belched, cut the cards, and sat down. "When is your brother coming home?"

"Don't worry about it," Miguel ordered as he dealt two cards face down and one face up. He glanced across the table. "I don't know why you drink that shit. Why can't you drink beer like everyone else?"

"I don't drink."

"Oh, right. Mr. Morality. Forgive me. You gonna bet?" That last didn't exactly sound like a question.

"I'm in." Aaron tried to casually toss a dollar into the center of the table, but it floated back toward him. Miguel reached across, grabbed the money, and slammed it down in the middle of the table, slapping his own dollar on top of it. "I hate this game," Aaron mumbled as he looked at his cards.

"Hey! You know the rules! Dealer's choice! I picked seven card stud. It seemed sort of fitting, ya know?" Miguel dealt another card face up. "Oooh, pair of dueces here! And you have ... aw, gee, sorry about that. A king and a three. Not much happening there!"

Aaron bet again and started to get up again. "Stay away from the frickin' freezer!" Aaron sat back down again.

"How much did Ysela owe?" Aaron wasn't sure he should actually be talking about this, but his hand was getting worse with each deal of the cards.

"Seven big ones. Fitting, ya think?"

"Why didn't your brother help her out?"

"Are you kidding? He owes five thousand himself. Quite a pair, those two. Oh, look! My dueces got a friend!"

"Are we gonna actually eat any of that food that's sitting on the counter?"

"Nope." Miguel dealt the last card face down. Aaron cringed. There was nothing that Miguel could deal to him that would improve this hand. Still, he went through the motions.

"I'm in." He pulled a ten dollar bill from his pocket and threw it on the table. "Damn. Be right back."

The noise from the bathroom ended just as the keys were put in the front door and the doorknob turned. Aaron reappeared and looked from Miguel to his brother Luis. "Later." Aaron headed for the front door with as much speed as he could muster without appearing to rush.

Luis watched his brother scoop the money off the center of the table and stuff it in his pockets. "Whatcha playing?"

"Seven card stud. Dealer's choice, ya know?" Miguel pocketed the cards as well while his brother looked at all the food melting on the counters. Luis was ashen as he looked back at his brother.

"Where's Ysela?"

"Dealer's choice, ya know? You have until Monday to pay up." Miguel grabbed another cigarette stub and lit it, and then headed toward the door as Luis headed toward the freezer.

A to Z Challenge: Boxcar

2011-04-02T01:12:00.003-07:00

PREVIOUSLY

"Something about a train, I think. Or part of a train. That track is pretty rusty by now, and I'm sure we would have heard a train rolling through!" Athena shook her head in disbelief.

"Unless it came during the storm the other night. There was an awful lot of lightning and thunder. We wouldn't have heard a train go past the front porch!" David was right, of course. But it was a little creepy, that a train could come by, drop off a box car, and then leave again. What was the point, anyway?

Athena looked at David, who didn't seem as practical as he usually did. In fact, he looked a little concerned. "So, did you go check it out?"

"No." He glanced at his mother. "I don't want to borrow trouble. My mother doesn't have anyone else." Normally, Athena would have considered this to be an unduly, well, wimpy response to the situation. But there was just something nagging about it, something that made David's answer seem a whole lot more acceptable than it would normally be.

David looked Athena straight in the eyes, more like himself, as he challenged "You can always go check it out with me if you want, of course!"

"Oh, no, that's OK! Really! I need to check on, um, I'd best be going and leave you and your mother to harvesting the apples. Thanks again for getting a bunch over to Taryn! I'm sure her daughter will appreciate it!"

David gave her a brief smile and then returned to picking apples from the tree and putting them in baskets.

The next morning, Athena was awakened by the smell of smoke. This was soon followed by a bit of shouting outside, which grew louder as it approached and as more voices joined in. She and her mother grabbed their ponchos from the pegs by the door and joined the small crowd.

The group went left around the little arm of the woods that stuck out here. Beyond the woods was an old abandoned railroad track. Sure enough, there was a boxcar sitting on it. The fire was in a metal barrel near the boxcar. There was no one around.

David and his mother approached Athena and hers. "Odd," was his first response. Everyone sort of stopped when they saw the barrel, and that no one was around. Different voices discussed the scene, some with enthusiasm and some more hushed.

"The boxcar looks locked up tight. Surely there's no one inside."

"Well, it'd make no sense for them to be inside. Why start a fire to keep warm, and then leave?"

"Maybe he didn't start it to keep warm. It's not that chilly out here."

"Yeah, but if he spent the night in the train..."

"But how do you know it's a he?"

"Carlo was right, though. There is part of a train out here!"

"Do you think he started the fire?"

"Of course not! He'd never waste fuel so foolishly!"

Then Carlo wondered aloud, somewhere near David and Athena, "Do you suppose someone started the fire just to bring us out here?"

NEXT

Creative Blogger Award

2011-04-01T12:41:00.000-07:00

Thank you so much to Deirdra at A Storybook World for awarding Pawny's Pen her Creative Blogger Award!! It is a great honor! Please check out her awesome web site to see other award winners as well as her own great work!

A to Z Challenge

2011-04-01T05:51:00.020-07:00

explanation of A to Z Challenge

Apples

Boxcar

Cows

Diary

Envelope

Francisco

Government

Harmonica

Icebox

Jazlyn

Kinship

Legal

Macrame

Newspaper

Ostrich

Police

Quarantine

Rats

Secrets

Traitors

A to Z Challenge: Apples

2011-04-01T00:12:00.007-07:00

Look!

2011-03-31T21:01:00.000-07:00

Look! A Nook Book! Not just any nook book, mind you! MINE!! My book is at Barnes & Noble, in Nook format! Woot!!!

Coupon Code for huge Rolled-Up Streets discount

2011-03-29T06:03:00.002-07:00

This week only: Use coupon code ZE86J to get Rolled-Up Streets for 99 cents. Coupon code expires April 1, 2011.

Click here for book

Why do they want you to create a profile page? Because your 99 cents doesn't just get you one format. You don't have to choose when you check out. Your 99 cents gets you Rolled-Up Streets in every e-format available. Put it in your e-reader. Download the pdf version at home. Read the html version at work. All for 99 cents!

Currently Reading Jennifer Hudock's The Goblin Market

2011-03-28T19:15:00.000-07:00

I am only approximately 21% through The Goblin Market, but I definitely love this book so far. I was told by someone else that once she started reading it, she couldn't put it down, and I can see why. The story moves right along from intensity to intensity; there's no sitting around discussing scenery for pages and pages in this tale! The descriptions are great; I could feel the chill in the bedroom and the accompanying fear and visualize the curtains blowing.

My current favorite character is Sir Gwydion.

another chess contest entry -- 2008

2011-03-26T14:10:00.001-07:00

It took a couple of trips to the pet shop to get it right. Well, three actually. The first trip yielded me a dead parrot. They make poor guides, unless you're looking for the bottom of a bird cage. The second turned out to be a roaming pigeon instead of a homing pigeon. Finally I gave up on wings and decided to acquire a cat. There was less chance of the shop owner pulling a fast one on me.

I had a special job in mind, and so I quickly disregarded a prissy longhair named Genevieve. I also wasn't interested in the one who looked more like Onslow on the couch in his tee shirt drinking beer. I didn't want some cat that was going to fight me for the bottle opener. I almost didn't notice Thorpe. His body didn't move as his eyes followed me. I could imagine him under a streetlight, tossing a cigarette to the ground and putting it out with his heel. This was definitely the cat I wanted.

I bought a leash and collar rather than a cat carrier. Since he might not think his purchase was enough to earn his loyalty and services, I stopped at Delia's Deli and got him some liverwurst. Everyone works better with a downpayment.

We went straight to the job. The road glimmered with the remnants of the recent rain reflecting the taxi's lights. We got out as close as the driver would take us. Thorpe was on his leash, leading the way. He didn't let himself be distracted, but walked with a sense of purpose. The flickering neon of the bar ahead of us seemed to be the only sign of life in this neighborhood. Something flew past my head – it was the dumb homing pigeon who crashed into the bar door. But Thorpe walked right past it.

He ignored the alley as well as the women lurking in the shadows. He passed the man sleeping against the building, and instead led me up a set of wooden stairs that looked like it couldn't hold anything heavier than the cat. Thorpe reached up and pushed the door open with his paw. I put my hand in my pocket for reassurance as we entered the darkened corridor.

Thorpe never hesitated. He led down the hall, bypassing broken bottles and hanging strips of wallpaper. Finally he stopped in front of a door. This time his paw wasn't enough to overcome the barrier. I moved him aside and slammed my shoulder into the door with my whole weight behind it. The door burst open and the group inside jumped up.

"Did you bring it?" The man nearest the door glared at me. I patted my pocket, and he relaxed. His companions glared at me. Thorpe jumped on my lap and pawed at the pocket. Finally I pulled out the black queen.

"Geez, what a drama queen you are! Can't you just show up at a chess meet like everyone else?"

Coming up: A to Z April Challenge

2011-03-26T08:35:00.001-07:00

First the Rules:
The premise of the Blogging From A to Z April Challenge is to post something on your blog every day in April except for Sundays. In doing this you will have 26 blog posts--one for each letter of the alphabet. Each day you will theme your post according to a letter of the alphabet.

You can post about whatever the eff tickles your fancy, so long as it corresponds with the letter of the alphabet of the day. Make sense? Everyone who blogs can post from A to Z.

Me:
I have decided that I am going to try to write one long/continuous story for this blog challenge. Thus, the first day of the story will fit with the A theme, the second the B theme, etc. I don't know if it will work the whole time, or if it will turn out uber-crappy, but then again, that's what rough drafts are for! As with my NaNoWriMo stories, by the time I'm done, I should be able to find the usable story within the story! Or, heck, maybe the whole thing will be incredibly awesome!

The first post will be on Friday. Stay tuned! (In the meantime, I hope to find other chess web site story entries as well as older stories that are somewhere in this apartment!)

Currently Reading

2011-03-24T19:46:00.000-07:00

As part of Mystic Thoughts' Blog Host Tour, I'm delighted let you know that I'm about to read The Goblin Market by Jennifer Hudock. When I'm finished, I'll share my thoughts with you. In the meantime, it'd be great if you want to read along with me! You can get The Goblin Market here.

story for chess web site contest -- 2007

2011-03-23T22:01:00.006-07:00

“Hey, this isn't right!” The nearby wino just glanced at me talking to myself. He raised his bottle in a toast and took a swig on my behalf. I looked at the boarded up buildings and the flickering neon lights. If this weren't real life, I'd swear I stumbled onto a film noire set. As if on cue, rain began to fall to further worsen the ambiance.

“Something wrong, sir?” I turned around and discovered I was staring into the adam's apple of a local cop.

“Um, no officer. A friend told me that there was a Drowning Pool concert here tonight.”

“Well, maybe he got the wrong night. Why don't you call him? If you don't have a cell phone, there's a coffee shop right around the corner. You shouldn't stay here though.”

“I can't call him. I only met him on the internet.”

“You were meeting a man from the internet here?”

“No, it's not like that. Stocken and I play chess together. Really. He's not like, well, OK he could be, but I'm not so it's a moot point.” Suddenly I heard tires squealing as a car raced around the corner.

“Sir, you really don't want to stay here. Maybe you'd be better off getting in your car and going home. Go chat with your on-line friend.”

“Officer, he's not ... geez ... so what's so bad about this place? Looks kind of empty and decrepit, but nothing some paint and urban renewal wouldn't fix.”

“This is where the Thai prostitutes hang out. Problem is, one or more of them gave the clap to Gino Scanella and a few of his boys. They're not in a very good mood at the moment. You don't want to be here should they decide to show up tonight.”

“Ah. OK.” I started to walk away and glanced down the alley that the wino was guarding. WTF? I looked again. At first I thought it was a child, but no, it was a midget. She looked exotic, but it could be the rain or the film noir lighting. I started to walk closer, but was stopped by the wino.

“That's Abhasra,” he said perfectly clearly.

I stared at him. “Must not be very good stuff you're drinking!”

“Gatorade, actually. Nastier than booze, if you ask me! Anyway, she's a ... working girl. Gino's favorite, actually. We're pretty sure he actually got the clap from his wife, but no one wants to be the one to tell him that.”

“Is she a ...”

“Midget, yes. Now split. You should know that Gino doesn't understand the concept of innocent bystanders.”

I took his advice and stopped into the coffee shop, noting the skid marks at the intersection.

It was fairly easy to overhear the conversations in the booth from where I sat at the counter.

“Yeah, they said he was so desperate he attacked a convent where he thought they were hiding the hookers!”

“You're kidding! Why would nuns hide prostitutes?”

“I don't know, but three of them are dead now!”

“Why didn't he check the massage parlour? I swear half of Thailand is hanging out at that place!”

“Because it's next to McDonald's. Ever since he got the trots from their McRib sandwich, he avoids the place like the plague. Speaking of runs, did you see the Brewers game last night?”

The rest of the conversation was boring, so I finished my coffee and left. I hailed a cab and had him take me to the mall. I was done with gloomy scenery and needed something well lit and cheerful. After stopping at the Barnes & Noble to get a copy of Chess Openings: Traps And Zaps, I went back into the mall's madness and got out my cell phone.

“Gino? It's me. A bunch of them are hiding in the massage parlour. But there's one in the alley, a midget. A cop disguised as a wino is keeping an eye on her.” I hung up and called another cab. I wasn't going to be the one to tell him about his wife either.

Welcome to the new Pawny's Pen!

2011-03-22T22:42:00.002-07:00

The links above will help you find what you're looking for or give you a starting place if you're just browsing. Thanks for stopping by!

Please note that the order of the posts prior to this one is simply the order in which I transfered each one from WordPress to here.

Contest Entry Post

2011-03-22T22:35:00.003-07:00

This is my entry for Brenda Drake's writing contest. Please leave a comment below, and check out the first lines submitted by the other participants as well.

Name: Linda Calderone
Title: Rolled-Up Streets
Genre: Mystery

She was definitely dead.

Age Ten

2011-03-22T21:27:00.001-07:00

Black tights
white tee shirt
shiny black tap shoes
tied with a ribbon
tapping to
If You Knew Susie

Gemini

2011-03-22T21:26:00.000-07:00

Half of her face
was orange
tiger
and half grey
tabby.

Mr. Danvers

2011-03-22T21:24:00.001-07:00

He comes early
every day.
He reads the paper
and drinks his coffee.
These are his
last moments of
peace.

But
even though it's early,
he opens the
school bus door
and lets her on.
She sits in the front seat
reading,
safe at last.

Loretta

2011-03-22T21:22:00.001-07:00

She had a large mirror
on her dresser.
She pointed to her reflection
and said in a
conspiratorial whisper
"She just got married."

Who?
"That young girl
down by the fence.
I talke to her every morning.
She's having a hard time
adjusting to married life."

Then she told me
about the dog that visited her,
here at Devon Gables
where no animals are allowed.

One day I brought
a fresh water pitcher
into her room
and almost tripped
over her daughter's dog.

As I left
I checked the mirror again,
just in case.

Untitled

2011-03-22T21:21:00.001-07:00

You have to do it slowly.
No sudden moves.
Part of the trick
is to hold it
straight up
and slowly drag the smoke
through the cigarette
and filter
and into your lungs.
Well done
you lose none of the ash.
It is such a tiny
thing to have control over.
Still...

Lacey & Susan

2011-03-22T21:20:00.000-07:00

They were playing drive-by
shooting.
One was the bereft mother
wailing
"My baby, my
baby! Someone shot
my baby!"
The other lay on the ground,
posing for death.
They were six
and four,
playing
drive-by shooting,
these two white girls in
a nice neighborhood.

Navidad

2011-03-22T21:18:00.001-07:00

Lights flickering
Under a starry ceiling
Mark glowing paths
Into decorated houses.
Nightly the candles
Are lit
Resting in paper lunch bags,
Icons of the past --
Ancestors, homelands --
Sentinals for the future.

Counterpoint

2011-03-22T21:17:00.001-07:00

The CDs are lined up
like books on the shelf,
sorted by musical genre.
Beneath the desk is
a basket of rumpled
laundry.
At least it's today's.

The bed is actually made
for a change.
On the chair are
towels that need mending.
They've sat there two weeks
so far.

A robe hangs neatly
on a hook,
unlike the sweatshirt
draped across the back
of the towels' chair.

The sporadic orderliness
is tremendous progress.

Because It's November

2011-03-22T21:14:00.001-07:00

A familiar face!
Del?
No, it's not her.
She's on the other end
of the country,
warm.
The closest I can get to
Arizona today
is inside the sweatshirt.
Small comfort.

The sky is grey
again.
At home
the sky is bright blue,
and under that sky
are people I love,
the mountains
and arroyos I love,
the cacti,
the spanglish,
my cats.
I want to go home
again.

I want to spend
my birthday where it matters.

Aerial View

2011-03-22T21:13:00.001-07:00

My green skin is
taut.
The helium inside
warms me.
I look down,
happy to be free.

Little children in the park
look up at me and point,
smiling.
The adults stop what
they're doing
and grin.
For a moment,
they're six years old again.

I pass the river.
Two boys are fishing.
The bamboo poles in their hands
and the weeds in their mouths
require intense concentration.
I move on.

An old woman is hanging her
laundry on the line.
Her husband sits
on the porch
and blows a wreath
of pipe smoke at me.

I pass through clouds.
A girl is running
in the field
with a tall string in
her hand.
Her kite can't
catch me.

Birds pass me.
They want to play
Follow the Leader.
One lingers,
trying to make conversation
with me.
I have nothing interesting
to say,
and he rejoins his companions.

There is a picnic
at the church.
Many of my friends
are there.
They recognize me
and let go of the children.
Soon we fill the sky
as we
follow the birds.

As Different as Night and Night

2011-03-22T21:11:00.001-07:00

Night.
A bruised woman
sobs.
A hungry infant
whimpers.
Homeless old men
huddle.
A violated girl
screams.
Night.

Night.
A nursing mother
hums.
A hungry infant
suckles.
Camping boys
giggle.
A worried father
prays.
Night.

Yard Sale Sonnet

2011-03-22T21:10:00.001-07:00

Books,
brass,
hooks,
glass,

pots,
pans,
cots,
fans,

coat,
hat,
boat,
mat --

gone.
Done.

One Book

2011-03-22T21:08:00.001-07:00

The book
has a floppy cover.
Some of the pages
are missing.
It smells musty,
crackles
when you open it.

This book whispers
to no one. The title
is rubbed away.
The plot is unimportant.
This book is a treasure,
sacred,
simply because it is
a book.

Untitled

2011-03-22T21:07:00.001-07:00

I can only see
the tops
of trees and
the bottoms
of clouds.

The panes
make it look more
like a jigsaw puzzle

while
the burgandy
curtains on each side
give the appearance
of a theatrical
stage

full of scenery
but no play.

Nap

2011-03-22T21:05:00.001-07:00

Yawn.

Stretch --

arms,

legs.

Sigh.

Hear

Puff

purr.

Turn.

Feel --

cool

breeze,

warm

sun.

Smell

cut

grass.

Fresh.

Moist.

Yawn.

Stretch.

Turn.

Sleep.

Some Times

2011-03-22T21:04:00.000-07:00

Sometimes they sit in silence on

the front porch

watching the world parade before them

watching times change.

Sometimes they still hold hands

gazing lovingly at each other

while they share scrambled eggs and coffee

while they share memories.

Sometimes they snuggle watching

old movies on television

crying for Tony and Maria, and themselves

crying for love that has to hide.

Sometimes, but not often

they speak of those who died

naming friends they have lost forever

naming quilt pieces.

Their love has passed the test

of time

the world enriched by their gifts

the world that rejects them.

Sometimes they sit in silence on

the front porch

two old men

watching the world parade before them

watching times change

and waiting.

Jacks

2011-03-22T21:02:00.001-07:00

We spun the jacks
tiny ballerinas
dancing across the floor.
The object was
to have all ten spin
at the same time.
We never won
but
we never lost.

Class

2011-03-22T21:01:00.000-07:00

A voice is floating

through the room

touching no one.

The girl next to me

is at her birthday

party

last weekend.

I am watching

the Cubs

beat the Giants

last night.

Only fifteen

minutes

left.

Rochester

2011-03-22T20:59:00.001-07:00

We came
from California
and Corpus Cristi
parish
down the street.

We came
to Image Justice,
to meet God
in each other,
to meet other people
like us,
to share our
hopes and fears.

We came
as we were,
faithful,
parents,
ministers,
deaf,
transgendered,
priests,
sitting in wheel chairs,
nuns,
men,
blind,
straight,
former Catholics,
women,
abused by
the culture and
our church,
part of the problem,
part of the solution.

We're going
to hell,
according to
some people --
people
who believe
they're good
Catholics.

We went
home
to bless
our parishes,
our worlds,
our church
with our gifts --
we
who believe
we're good
Catholics
too.

History Test

2011-03-22T20:57:00.001-07:00

She had a history
test that morning.
She thought it was dumb to memorize
names and dates and battles.
She didn't understand
that whoever killed the most
people won.

But she was a
good student
and so she memorized
names
dates
battles
and left for school.
She started to toss her bookbag
over her shoulder
in that way children do.
That's what the shadow shows
on the wall of her house
August 6, 1945.
Someone won.

Deranged Fruit

2011-03-22T20:56:00.001-07:00

The apples are on drugs, you know.

I heard it from the pear.

He told me what the apples do,

but no one seems to care.

They sell themselves to get some dough.

they have no shame or pride.

The pear had witnessed it himself!

The apples say he lied.

The pear told me the other day

the apples got arrested.

The peaches went and bailed them out --

or so the pear attested.

The apples seem so harmless that

I don't know what to think.

The peaches say the problem is

the pear, who is a fink.

There's not much left that I can do.

I could just make fruit salad.

The pear and apples would shut up

and end my little ballad.

Now I suppose you think that's gross

to eat the pear and apples.

You're right.

Crime Scene

2011-03-22T20:54:00.001-07:00

It was done.

He took another
gulp of wine
as he stared at the victim
composed.

The mugginess
that dank smell
added to the gloomy scene
creating a mausoleum
out of a dorm room.
Vincent Price would be proud.

He didn't believe
in ghosts
had no fear
of the victim's spirit.

He didn't waste time
wiping down the tiles
putting on some ostentatious robe
in a show of carefree innocense.

Tomorrow morning
as soon as she saw the paper
his teacher would know
exactly
who butchered the Last Duchess.

Savoring Summer -- example poem for students

2011-03-22T20:52:00.001-07:00

The endless hot, sunny days of summer
Make it seem like everything
Will always be OK
Until the monsoons come

Sleeping late is great
Wearing jammies all day
Not having to put on
Coats and hats and gloves

The sky outside is
So bright
and blue
It hurts your eyes

Summer feels like
Hope
Will last forever
Until the monsoons come

Cheesy Poem

2011-03-22T20:50:00.001-07:00

"That Swiss is full of holes!" he cried.
I thought he meant the cheese.
Barely yellow, great on subs,
I drooled as he yelled "Please!

Call 911!
Do something quick!
Young Crispin there
Is looking sick!"

With curly hair?
You mean THAT lad?
Good grief, he's shot!
Oh, this is bad!

I dropped my lunch
Of ham on rye,
Ran to the boy
While someone with a lot more sense
Called an ambulance instead of writing poetry.

Fishy Poem

2011-03-22T20:48:00.001-07:00

My REALLY, REALLY bad poem – was an instant poem I wrote to teach my third graders about rhyming poetry:

I have a fish.
His name is Fred.
He's on a dish.
I think he's dead.