Picking Transparents

I'm not here much anymore

2006-05-04T18:16:00.000-07:00

Due to time constraints of my new job, I seldom have a chance to be here and at my primary blog.

So, if you came here looking for Dan, you'll find him at: http://larsneuffeldt.livejournal.com/

Thank you,

Lars Neuffeldt
aka
Carl Holiday
aka
Dan

The Last of the Quince Jelly

2006-01-30T04:49:00.000-08:00

They never got along. It was as simple as that. The boy knew the old man didn’t like him because he was from the city, he was scared of his own shadow, and he’d refuse to do some of the things the old man asked of him. They were never big things, just little tasks that any normal, likeable grandson would be willing to do if asked.

Yet, they tolerated each other. Years later the boy would admit to admiring the old man for his unending doggedness at beating life at its own game, never failing to push the envelope to test his ability to get things done his way.

Their last time together as grandfather and grandson before the boy took the last step into manhood was a disaster for both, and more so for the boy who was after all still a boy who thought as a boy, saw himself as a boy.

The day dawned clear and brisk, the previous night’s snow still encasing the power lines along the road. The old man didn’t work any more, having given up the farm’s responsibilities to his son, but he still tried to be involved in everything, needing to keep his mind active, his body fit. The task was meaningless, actually. Something thought up on a whim, contrived over a bowl of oatmeal.

“I’ll need you to help me today,” the old man said tightening the laces on his boots.

“You know I’m on vacation,” the boy said buttering the last piece of toast.

“I have some lumber down in the barn that needs to be moved to the shed.”

The boy wasn’t listening. He was too busy trying to decide if strawberry jam would be better than quince jelly. Strawberry jam could be bought anywhere. Quince jelly only came from his grandmother’s kitchen. He took more than he needed spreading the clear, golden jelly to the crisp crust of the bread.

Over the mountains

2006-01-25T16:58:00.000-08:00

I remember a little boy who lived in a big city over on the other side of the mountains. He was a timid thing who rarely got along with his cousins who lived on the other side of the mountains. He was, also, and probably more important than anything else, an only child. Without brothers or sisters, he had few skills on dealing with other children, especially those who were older and enjoyed to no end pestering the little boy with crawly bugs because he was deathly afraid of anything that might turn out to be a spider.

The little boy came out of the city with his parents when they journeyed over the mountains to see their families. Of course, his parents had brothers and sisters, lots of brothers and sisters who had lots of children, so many children that the only child from the city was always very, very alone whenever his parents took him over the mountains.

Being an only child, the little boy played best when he played with no one but himself. So he was mostly unhappy when he saw his mother packing clothes into his little suitcase that was only used when they journeyed over the mountains.

"You like your cousins and you certainly don't see them enough," the little boy's mother always said whenever he protested about leaving his bedroom where most of his toys were kept.

His toys never, ever went over the mountains so he could have something familiar to play with. There were toys at the house where his mother grew up. The family who lived there, his mother's parents and two younger sisters, always seemed sorry he couldn't bring something to play with, but his mother never, ever allowed one of his toys to accompany them over the mountains.

"You'll lose it, or one of your cousins will take it from you and you'll never, ever see it again," the little boy's mother always said whenever he asked her to pack a small car, ball, or coloring book.

So, the little boy would sit on the little chair in his bedroom and look at all his toys in the box his father built out of old lumber. He kept his toys neatly arranged so that nothing was ever on top of something else. He imagined sneaking something into his father's car, something small that couldn't be noticed, but all his toys were too big for something that sneaky.

"You didn't bring a toy with you, did you?" the little boy's mother always asked as she put him in the backseat with his suitcase, pillow, and a quilt because it always took a long time to go over the mountains and the little boy always fell asleep.

Been away too long

2006-01-18T05:47:00.000-08:00

Have you ever strayed away from life's path and purposefully delayed going back. I felt like that for the past couple months.

I've embarked on a new path, leading I know not where. This blog, meant for the fictional side of myself, has suffered in the process and I've delayed getting back, plus I've delayed getting back to the original purpose of this blog.

. . .

They've been friends since high school, since the day Damon first offered to suck Bobby's dick. They aren't friends because Damon is gay and Bobby isn't. Their friendship is worth more than the sexual relief Damon offers and Bobby keeps refusing. After all, a friendship that lasts over forty years and two marriages on Bobby's part has to be worth more than just sex.

Damon never considered himself to be gay, even after moving to New York for three years instead of going to college like his mother and Bobby kept bugging him to do. Later, after he returned, after he knew what being different was all about, even then he thought some day, some where, he would meet a girl, a woman, who would allow him to give his mother grandchildren. All his other brothers, and sisters, had done that. After all, was fucking a girl all that different from doing it with a guy?

He was average, for the baby of a family. The last of nine children Doris and Reg Palsi brought into the world. Unlike all his brothers, Damon didn't excel at any sport, but just got by, doing enough to get a passing grade in Physical Education. As far as he was concerned, the only benefit from going to high school was meeting Bobby, everything else was simply fluff that would blow away in the slightest breeze.

When asked, even at an early age when every boy wanted to be a fireman, policeman, or cowboy, Damon would simply respond, "I don't know, maybe, an artist." Except, even becoming an artist didn't raise Damon's aspirations enough to devote the time necessary to become anything more than an average artist of untested abilities. He floated through life. Even in New York where he thought he'd find the talent necessary to overcome his mediocre life, all he found was other people who wanted to use him for their own needs, desires, or, most often as not, momentary sexual gratification.

Now, after spending a life far from the edge, never attempting to extend his abilities, Damon lived in the beat up Corolla Bobby bought for him three years ago.

The Gods Gather to Celebrate a Cleansing

2005-11-30T09:17:00.000-08:00

Excerpts from History of the Argottean Federation

Chapter 4, continued

13 Nibs 435—Palace of War, Hurlshome. On a snowy outcrop of methane ice, forty foot high, yellow granite, crenellated walls enclose War’s palace on the home planet of the Argottean Gods. Today War and his select minions, Courage, Bravery, and Honor, are hosting a party to celebrate their imminent departure to Belenda for a possible civil war.

The Belendans, recently freed from ’xrsc control, are divided along a definite educational line. The common workers, i.e., bricklayers, sweepers, carpenters, technical module exterior cleaners, steelworkers, privy muckers, etc., and their supporters are gathering under the Star Base Workers Party (SBWP) banner held by shop steward Loora Kird. The opposing forces, represented by inventory control specialists, file clerks, assistant systems engineers, document control specialists, general programmers, and other graduates of Belenda’s Academies of Sufficient Education, are gathering under the Belendan Programmers Union (BPU) banner held by Beezös Snirl.

“I think we’re in for a real blood and guts, kill ’em and wound ’em, kind of war,” Honor said. “When you look at the blue collars under Loora Kird holding hammers, pruning saws, toilet plungers, and many other implements you can’t but hope they will prevail over the pink and white collars supporting Beezös Snirl. I mean what are they [the pink and white collars] going to do, staple their opponents to the bulletin board?”

“I know if we can get in there early enough, we just may have a chance to stir these humans into a good tizzy so that they’ll go out and actually carve somebody into a pile of bloody mush,” Bravery said.

War, for his part, sat on his horse and quietly smoked his corncob pipe, refusing all questions and directing reporters to his assistants.

“He was really bummed over those Argotteans and their silly dance thingie,” Courage said. “You know, I think he would have called in Pestilence just to show them the error of their ways, but, you know, they haven’t had a decent word to each other since that awful spitball incident three eternities ago.”

Is Belenda Finally Free?

2005-10-09T11:54:00.000-07:00

Excerpts from History of the Argottean Federation

Chapter 4, continued

29 Voomb 435—Nits Circle, Blooply Valley, Belenda. Officials of the newly organized Belendan Programmers Union (BPU) announced that yesterday, Beezös Snirl, average second class graduate of the Blooply Valley Belenda Academy of Sufficient Education with a third class certificate in Inventory Control, and, now, an 3.3 degree inventory programming specialist at Steel Foundry Z.38.92, used his innate systems abilities to access ’xrsc system code and effectively isolate Belenda from ’xrsc central control.

Further, BPU announced they were assuming control of Belenda since only they had the key to the Nits on Parade Spaceport entry gate lockout control program.

There are reports coming out of other areas on Belenda that resistance to BPU is mainly centering around Nits on Parade Spaceport where members of the Star Base Workers Party (SBWP) say that their shop steward, Loora Kird, is encouraging common workers to rise up against those educated fools in BPU.

Requests for interviews from ’xrsc central control on went unanswered.

A SOHO official, speaking on condition of anonymity, said that Argottean officials are analyzing the situation on Belenda, but without input from the ’xrsc there is very little that can be accomplished. It was reported that attempts to contact the latest group of vacationers visiting Belenda’s beach resorts have been returned without answer. Officials at Argotte Tourist Board referred all questions to ’xrsc central control.

The Results Are In: Argotte Loses Civil War

2005-10-01T07:50:00.000-07:00

Excerpts from History of the Argottean Federation

Chapter 4, continued

19 Nirk 356—Solar Orbiting Habitat 3, Argotte system. After twenty-six years of a tightly controlled and strictly administered Civil War, Bubi pnu’Boo’psi’mi, Grand Hurlsboyo of Argotte, prostrates his naked body before Snotto pna’Muph’kappa’sooli, Grand Burpidottir of SOHO, accepting defeat of the Home combatant action groups to the ultimately superior SOHO combatant action groups.

Bubi, along with members of the current Argottean dynasty out to the eighth heir and their spouses, and children, where appropriate, waited patiently while corresponding members of the pna’Muph dynasty noisily sharpened their cattle prods.

Vri czi’Bri’phili’tuun, Third Degree Novitiate, Excretory Disciples of Hurl, went to each victim, accepted their confession of faithful sins, and placed a dollop of Hurl’s holy snot onto heads, centered in a small shaved area where the cattle prod will be driven. Each member of the pna’Muph dynasty will be assisted in the execution by a member of the Church of Blüd to ensure a bloody, yet nearly painless death to Blüd’s greater glory.

Since this was the first mass killing of a royal dynasty in nearly 750 years, bishops of the Execretory Disciples of Hurl, senior bureaucrats from SOHO and Argotte, and Viki xy’Thu’buzi’bi, Senior Dean of Bureaucratic Theory and Practice, Nits Rock University, vociferously debated the various rules, exceptions, exemptions, revisions, and interpretations related to today’s auspicious event.

Snotto was brought before the assemble advisors numerous times to state and restate her awareness that her dynasty was now assuming control over all of Argotte, not just her familiar territory on the Solar Orbiting Habitats. The advisors kept insisting that Snotto needed to understand what this meant. After the fifth recall, Snotto finally appeared to understand what was being thrust upon her shoulders of purest alabaster. On the seventh recall, Snotto broke down into an ecstatic display of Hurl’s holy affirmation of the day’s event and peed abundantly on the green linoleum floor. Lesser members of the assemblage had to be visibly held back, less they offend the Grand Burpidottir by lapping up her personal offering to Hurl.

Upon returning to the execution arena, Snotto and the advisory team took their places before Blüd’s victims. Vri czi’Bri’phili’tuun said a short prayer acknowledging those members of the pnu’Boo dynasty who made their own offerings to Hurl. Then the members of the pna’Muph dynasty, along with their Church of Blüd assistants, took their places at the head of each member of the pnu’Boo dynasty. When Vri screamed Hurl’s holy words of disgust towards Blüd, the cattle prods were shoved with sufficient force to send the victims to Hurlshome where they will peacefully live with the gods for eternity.

Survival at sea

2005-09-25T08:40:00.000-07:00

When I first came across the idea of reading The Life of Pi, by Yann Martel, I was intrigued by the title, thinking, before seeing the cover, it had something to do with π. Then I read a brief description of it and was immediately reminded of an earlier reading of The Island of the Day Before, by Umberto Eco, which also uses surviving at sea after a shipwreck as the foundation for explorations into the further reaches of human existence. Interestingly, there are a few threads that seem to connect Pi and Roberto, but not enough to draw any parallels between the two books.

My decision to buy The Life of Pi was also influenced by its winning the Man Booker Prize, which is, to me, reason enough to read a novel, having enjoyed many of the previous winners, plus later works of the authors.

According to some reviewers, The Life of Pi is about the basic meanings of life and belief in the Divine, which was another reason for me to read the book, as I have explored the reaches of human belief in my own philosophical pursuits. This is a flimsy reason to buy the book if only because purposeful fictional explorations of human relationships with religious beliefs tend to hold little substance, giving little sustenance to the mind.

And, so, I jumped in and ran with Pi and Richard Parker as far as I could. Knowing Pi survives to tell the tale to the person “writing” the story seemed at first to have little bearing on whether I would continue or stop. The more I read, the further I went into the amazing tale of survival at sea in a lifeboat, and the more reminders that Pi survived, seemed to build sort of a barrier to my achieving The End.

Honestly, I really tried to read further than where I stopped. I even skipped ahead to read from the end backwards, but nothing seemed to get past whatever was holding me back. Maybe the lack of trepidation in the narrative injured my ability to digest the material. The need for suspense in any novel drives the tale forward demanding the reader turn the page to find out what comes next.

Mostly, though, I think my problem with The Life of Pi is the constant reminders throughout the book that Pi survives to tell his tale. No matter how horrendous the physical suffering due to starvation, dehydration, and fear of being eaten by the tiger in the boat or the sharks prowling in the water, the author keeps reminding the reader that everything turns out okay, that the reader shouldn’t worry about anything, because Pi gets to wherever the boat is going and that whatever Pi’s mind devises to survive works. I really didn't care to find out because in the end Pi comes across as normal as the rest of us, which maybe the whole point to the novel, but I wasn't intrigued enough to turn the next page to find out.

2005-09-20T18:48:00.000-07:00

No, I haven’t been working on the suicide novel, but thank you for not asking.

Basically, everything is on hold because I was getting off track, again.

As I see it, the problem was, as always, that I was more concerned with the solution than the cause and effect of the situation.

In this novel, I wanted to explore what nearly occurred to me a year ago when I was suffering so badly from depression. I devised a plan to commit a fake suicide as a means of “terminating” my current life and starting life anew somewhere else. Sort of like killing yourself, but not dying. After all, what is life, but a series of interrelated existences with other people? Change the people you relate to, change your life.

It seemed like a good idea at the time. Unfortunately, I was about as sane as a rubber nail and everything that could go wrong with my plan did, which seems to be the case with plans devised by crazy people.

When I started writing the novel the main character, Arne Karlsson, was developed to be as far from me as I could get, but he ended up being a lot closer than I expected. Also, as I worked out the narrative, Arne came into some situations where I was unwilling to explore fully and simply stepped over them as if they were freshly dropped cow shit.

Now, my new work situation is not conducive to writing as I’ve been used to. In my former employment, I had a lot of time to write and, at the time, had time available on weekends to transcribe my handwritten material into the computer. Now, I have little time at work to write and even less time at home. Weekends are busily wasted on everything other than what I should be doing.

So, the book sits in the back of my mind simmering on low heat as I get up enough courage to delve into the dark reaches of my mind. Arne Karlsson needs to do the same thing, but in Arne’s case there is a hidden secret that is trying to get out. A little childhood memory so significant to his very being that it is unwilling to linger in forgotten corners of his mind anymore. A little memory devised by a devious author who once enjoyed pushing characters to the limit of their being as a means of exploring the human life experience.

Luckily, I’m still in the development stages of this novel and have the time to dilly-dally for a little while yet; not a long while, just long enough to reconfigure the time structure of my life.

Argotte Wins First Civil War Event 31.478 to 11.342

2005-09-17T10:42:00.000-07:00

Excerpts from History of the Argottean Federation

Chapter 4, continued

15 Nits 330—Hurlsburg Royal Palace. Government officials proudly announced today that combatant action groups from Argotte were successful last night in the first officially sanctioned civil war event on Solar Orbiting Habitat 4. The three teams were transported to and from Habitat 4 free of charge on Hreeli Consortium Garbage Scow 83-15-3.G.32A that visits Habitat 4 under a Waster Removal and Recycling Contract negotiated by Hreeli Consortium contract negotiator first class Buti bnu’Tun’snuf’ti and SOHO Central Waster Control administrator second class Stivi kri’Ten’juli’pi.

The junior varsity combatant action group from Taardi’velt Plain, making their first appearance in the civil war, scored 18 deaths to 5 within the first three minutes of play in their match against an obviously lesser trained combatant action group for Solar Orbiting Habitat 4, Spoke 5. Sisi phi’Buk’titi’tu led all dancers with 4 consecutive cranial deaths and 7 deaths total.

“On the first death, Sisi performed a near perfect right to left pirouette followed quickly by a deep squat with genitals exposed to his intended victim, who at that very moment was performing a rather ragged right turning quick step with left swish to one of Sisi teammates and, therefore, didn’t see Sisi rise up in an almost flawless pne’Bum swirl that ended with a quick jab with Sisi’s lentil fork into his victim’s left temple,” said Cumph mni’Bded’goosi’di, command sergeant, for the Taardi’velt Plain group.

“Blüd be praised, the blood from Sisi’s first victim squirted onto my face and broke my reverie at actually participating in a civil war event,” said Sisi’s teammate Duub tha’Piz’bubi’banz. “I quickly shook off my concrete slippers, pirouetted left to right, I have to admit it was a very bad pirouette and I’m sure I lost style points, and did a quick up thrust with my cattle prod directly into the heart of the dancer next to Sisi’s victim. Blüd be praised my victim bled all over the linoleum or I’d probably be walking home tonight.”

The final results of the junior varsity team were 20 deaths to 7, giving a combined kill score of 0.875; the combined team style score was 8.32 against their opponents 5.37, giving a final score of 7.375; their technical expertise score of 9.31 against 4.74, resulted in a final score of 11.425; calculated to a final combined score of 7.87.

The final results of the varsity team were 18 deaths to 11, for a combined kill score of 2.444; the combined team style score was 9.13 against 8.78, for a final score of 1.4; the technical expertise score of 9.67 against 9.59, for a final score of 0.320; calculated to a final combined score of 1.041.

The senior varsity team results were 19 deaths to 3, for a combined kill score of 1.105; the combined team style score was 9.89 against 9.14, for a final score of 5.25; the technical expertise score of 9.76 against 9.83, for a final score of –0.49; calculated to a final combined score of 0.838 (rounded).

Individual achievement awards include Sisi’s 4 consecutive cranial kills for an unprecedented 16 points, Sisi’s total kill score of 2.8; senior varsity team member Hub ni’Binz’thi’pi who performed a flawless three turn death spiral with self-emasculation for 1.429 (rounded) style points; and, varsity team member Cob pni’Cunz’slub’niss who scored a personal high of 6 unassisted deaths, for a total kill score of 1.5.

In accordance with approved formulae established by official enumerators of the Committee for the Prosecution of the Argotte-SOHO Civil War, the final results were tabulated and registered as Argotte 31.478 (rounded) to Solar Orbiting Habitat 4, Spoke 7, 11.342 (rounded).

33K and holding

2005-09-11T19:47:00.000-07:00

Okay, so I didn't write that much during my first week working at the Really Big Coffee Company. Actually, I did get some writing done—I'm back to writing on lined tablets like I did for the first two novels—but only half of it was transcribed into the computer.

The other half is a new story line/character. Denise, Arne's daughter from his first marriage, is an Assistant Professor of Sociology at the University where Johnny, Arne's youngest son from his second marriage, goes for his freshman and sophomore years. Yet, back when Arne first went AWOL from his second marriage, Denise had only just started at the University.

The piece I wrote was Denise discovering her father in a small, quaint, touristy town on the opposite bank of the Hudson River. Arne is on his way away from New York City, away from the serial killer his been living with and who he recently killed in a fight for his life.

The problem is: The stuff I've been writing about Johnny occurs nine to fifteen years later. This means it has too occur earlier in the book, but that changes the structure I've been working out in my head. This isn't a major problem, just an inconvenience considering the timeline of the entire novel.

Yet, the timeline is a major concern as it starts when Arne is five years old and his parents and older sister die. It ends when Arne and Johnny meet twenty years after Arne supposedly commits suicide. Johnny is nine when Arne supposedly jumps off the ferry. He is twenty-nine when they meet.

Arne is developing into a problem. When I first conceived the story Arne was my age when he ran away, not resurfacing until twenty years in the future. Although I am in a sense a "futurist", I didn't to have to carry the narrative into an unknown time. As a result, I moved Arne's age back so that he could leave twenty years before now, give or take a couple of years. This way Johnny is attending school in the Nineties and finding his father in the present time.

Also, each character's narratives are written in first person because I'm interested in how they react to each other. In Denise and Johnny's case, I want to get down inside them and see how they react to the world their father creates to meet his psychological needs. In Arne's case, I want him imagining he's in control of his world, while at the same time everything around his is totally screwed up because of his skewed world-view.

I suppose once I get everything written and layed out is some sense of order the story will make sense, but right now with each character going off in their own direction is getting a bit confusing. And, I suppose I might consider writing each character's story then piece the work together, sort of like someone might make a quilt.

Another 8,557 Words

2005-09-05T12:03:00.000-07:00

The suicide novel is progressing very well and I crossed the 30,000 word barrier last week, which also means I’ve passed the 100 page marker.

I suppose if I’d taken more creative writing classes my writing process wouldn’t be so unpredictable. I’d have outlines, research notes, character developments, and all the accoutrements needed to write the modern novel. Except, I have very little of that kind of stuff.

My research occurs as the narrative encounters situations or places I’m not familiar with. If I outlined the story before I wrote it, I could do the research in the beginning. Only, I don’t.

So, I write the characters into dark corners until I need to find a light to get them out. I guess the only problem I have with this process is that it works for me.

I’ve read about writing from an outline. Allowing the story to develop as the narrative expands the outline. I tried it once. I outlined a story from beginning to end; taking a character from Point A to “The End”. The only problem I encountered occurred once the expansion started, I felt constrained by the outline and the characters seemed to be hollow, as if there wasn’t any substance to them.

I suppose I could’ve gone back and practice outlining more, but I’m more interested in developing a writing career, not an outlining career.

And, so, I write as I do.

The current novel is constrained by a period of twenty years between the time the father runs away from home and when his youngest son, the only person who believed his father was alive, finds him in a tourist hotel bar in Rawlins, Wyoming. In the intervening years, the father tries his best to hide from his family while attempting to create a new life for himself, and his son grows from a too normal nine-year-old boy to a piano teacher at a small conservatory in south of Reno, Nevada.

At the halfway point, the father has run away, found his childhood teddy bear, found his younger brother’s gay lover, lived with a knife wielding insane serial killer who repeatedly rapes him, and committed murder. In the meantime, the son has received a cryptic message that his father may be alive, gone off to a fictional college in a fictional town on the western shore of the Hudson River where became friends with a gay jazz pianist who is nearly two years younger and the son of wealthy parents, is seduced by boy’s mother and is forced to live with the boy in exchange for continued access to the mother, and sees his world come to an end in two dramatic scenes of sexual excess.

The second half? I don’t know, other than the son will find his father. Whether he is the father he remembered as a child, remains to be seen.

War Returns to Hurlshome

2005-09-01T15:11:00.000-07:00

Excerpts from History of the Argottean Federation

Chapter 4, continued

1 Hurl 312—Palace of War, Hurlshome. On a snowy outcrop of methane ice, the sixty large fireplaces that were laid in for today’s celebration once again warm the forty foot, yellow granite, crenellated walls that enclose War’s palace. Today War and his select minions, Courage, Bravery, and Honor, returned to Hurlshome unhappy they are not needed by the Argotteans for the civil war that has yet to ravage a square inch of either parties territory.

“We weren’t wanted, no one called on us to participate,” Bravery reported to the Gods. “The whole thing is happening on paper. Oh, they’re calling up young men and women to serve in what they call a military organization, but they’re not being taught how to fight, how to shoot, or how to defend against a sneak attack. I couldn’t see where I belonged.”

“They certainly had no need for me, either,” Courage added. “Once I figured out they were learning to dance and not fight, I couldn’t see how I could help. Besides, it was the silliest dances you’ve ever seen. I’ll tell you one thing, the next time I’m asked to vote on giving humans freewill, I’m voting no.”

“And, I can tell you one other thing,” Courage continued, “these Argotteans will put the concept of war back into the far corners of time and space. Personally, I think this whole race is insane. Look what they did to Hurl. She was the most vibrant, provocative god any human would give their eye teeth to worship, but look at her now, she’s got the head of a pig and has a nose that won’t stop running, no matter how many decongestants she takes. We should have seen it coming. Somebody should have done something when they had a chance to change things.”

“But the worst thing about this whole endeavor,” Honor said, “is that they are completely ignoring I exist. They’re going to perform dances amongst each other. They’re going to get their young people to dance for them, but not your ordinary, every day dances. No! These dancers will be given weapons like broccoli flails, lentil forks, shit scrapers, and, I think, yes, those long pointy stick thingies, cattle prods I think they call them. But, these are only representations of the real thing because these have really sharp points and edges for stabbing and slicing the members of the other dance team.”

“And, they’re going to perform these dances in arenas throughout Argotte and on each Solar Orbiting Habitat,” added War. “They’ll have dances until one side ends up with more people than the other side. Lots of firm young partially clothed bodies prancing, swirling, squatting, turning, high stepping, swooping around with long sharp thingies jabbing at members of the other teams who are doing the very same thing to them. Oh, there will be blood and guts, severed limbs, and untold festering wounds, but they certainly won’t need us. Possibly the Artistic Muses may be of assistance, but not Bravery, Courage, or Honor. No, these Argotteans are the sorriest excuse for humans the Game has ever come up with. I wonder what combination caused this fiasco.”

Women of Wyoming

2005-08-30T12:26:00.000-07:00

In actuality the book has more short stories about Wyoming men than women. Wyoming is the kind of place where men ride the horses, tend the cattle, mend the fences, shoot the trespassers, and do a lot of other things that haven’t been done in more civilized parts of the country in a long time. The women are there, not providing a colorful background to the man’s shortcomings and idiosyncrasies, but standing firm against the nearly overwhelming masculine image of a man atop his favorite horse, an animal sometimes thought of in better terms than the person who warms his bed at night.

I finished reading Annie Proulx’s Close Range last night, completing the second half of the last short story, “Brokeback Mountain,” a nearly impossible love story between two men over the span of twenty years. The movie version, directed by Ang Lee (Hulk, Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon, Sense and Sensibility, and others), screenplay by Pulitzer Prize winning author Larry McMurtry, and starring Jake Gyllenhaal and Heath Ledger, was recently completed, whether it lives up to its original remains to be seen. Personally, I doubt we’ll see any of the short story’s sex scenes between the lead characters. Yes, dear readers, the two men have a physical relationship that exists within the mores of cowboy culture where men may fuck with one another, but they certainly don’t fuck each other; and, those who do are often subject to a cowboy “justice” that does not tolerate queers. The story has a philosophical ending with one character learning to live with the loss of a lifetime of impossible love.

Having never read any of Annie Proulx’s work prior to this book, I was in for a shock evidenced by the first sentence of the lead story “The Half-Skinned Steer”: In the long unfurling of his life, from tight-wound kid hustler in a wool suit riding the train out of Cheyenne to geriatric limper in this spooled-out year, Mero had kicked down thoughts of the place where he began, a so-called ranch on strange ground at the south hinge of the Big Horns. Whew! And, the second sentence has more words and doesn’t end until the end of the paragraph.

This is literary writing at its best. This is the kind of writing I wish would come out instead of the mediocre stuff telling the stories my mind conceives. And, yet, I keep writing, keep focusing on writing better, writing the kind of words that will live on once this mass of flesh is reduced to ash and flung out upon the open sea.

24,692 Words

2005-08-28T12:45:00.000-07:00

Two weeks more and another 13K+ words gives me 7 chapters, 24.5K+ words, 87 pages. Output of the suicide novel is speeding up. Theoretically, I’m either one-fourth the way through a 100K word novel, or a little over one-third the way through a 60K word novel. Only time and revision can tell how long this thing is eventually going to end up.

The chapters are bouncing between father and son. The father searching for peace of mind. The son searching for his father.

The father has abandoned his family, is living with a knife wielding crazy man in Brooklyn, and recently went to see his younger brother’s former lover.

The son grew up and went to college believing his father is still alive. He was admitted to a small university in the Hudson Valley, and met the young son of a very rich family who also happens to be a sort of musical prodigy. The two boys become best friends, have a falling out, and are reunited.

The chapters that need major revision are still there and will remain until I reach the end. I’m beginning to see a shift in my early design of the plot line. I wanted to present the end and then show how the two characters reached that point, but now it looks like I’ll do the story in a more familiar format and follow each character to the eventual end. Either way, I already have the ending written, so at least I know where I’m going.

Right now, I’m at a point where the father is returning to the knife wielding crazy man where life’s normal hazards pale in comparison to living with a man who has no qualms about killing you without any reason at all. I see their relationship growing, while at the same time one slowly spirals down into an unbelievable insanity and the other finds a key that might fit the lock in the door to his future.

The son and his friend renew their friendship, while a dark shadow has the potential to destroy that friendship forever. As each grows toward manhood, their differences compound the difficulty they have in remaining friends. At the same time, the son gathers clues leading to the (already written) eventual meeting with his father.

War is Declared

2005-08-17T10:01:00.000-07:00

Excerpts from History of the Argottean Federation

Chapter 4, continued

1 Hurl 291—Solar Orbiting Habitat 3, Argotte system. Bubu pna’Muph’eta’tihi, Grand Burpidottir of SOHO (Solar Orbiting Habitat Organization), stood stark naked before the SOHO Grand Assembly of Representative Engineers and Select Burpiholders waving the most holy chromed adjustable wrench with her left hand while holding the gold-plated, ten and four receptacle, extension cord and stated in a clear, distinct voice, “I speak through Stan’s holy breath (cough), brought to this place by believers in Hurl’s holy phlegm (spit). Believers from a place where our ancestors were forced to leave by thoughtless bureaucrats (long fart) who could never know a power driver from a variable speed drill (wave holy wrench left to right). With Stan’s holy approval (cough), I declare war on those bureaucrat’s vile offspring (three short juicy farts). Righty Tighty Lefty Loosey. May we achieve true victory through engineering truth (spit).”

Watching from the third row, Dweema czn’Zaat’mna’cuula, Exterior Power Electrician First Class SOHO 6 and Select Burpiholder, Range 3, Spoke 7, got to his feet, immediately quieting the Grand Assembly, for it is always most offensive to stand in the presence of a naked Grand Burpidottir of SOHO. All eyes, especially Bubu pna’Muph’s, were on the lowly electrician as he began to sing, “It was only crème, white gooey crème.”

Then the entire Grand Assembly rose to their feet and joined Dweema in singing the SOHO national anthem, “Burpi’s Crème Pie.”

After the vote to ratify the declaration of war, members of the Grand Assembly joined Bubu pna’Muph, now wearing traditional Hurlsday SOHO attire of translucent forest green plastic coveralls and black over teal work sandals, for rewarmed sweet tea and stale saltines in the foyer. Security personnel escorted Dweema to the nearest airlock and expelled him into deadly vacuum.

11,000 Words

2005-08-15T13:13:00.000-07:00

Two weeks and a few days (18 days) and I’m (interesting side note: Microsoft Word dinged “I’m” and offered “I are” as an alternative. Makes one wonder who is the cause of the dumbing down of America’s youth.) over 11,000 words on the Suicide novel. 18 days, 11,000 words, that’s a little over 600 words a day. I’ve been trying to get at least 500 hundred each day, but have exceeded that on occasion when the flow is going very well and I’m reluctant to stop. So, 60,000 words makes a novel, that means I still have a lot of work to go.

Actually, since this is in first person, I have a lot of work to go because I’ll probably end up reverting to third person once the story is completely told.

Right now, I’m starting at the end and then jumping back to move forward. Arne, the father, and Johnny, his youngest son, meet unexpectedly in a bar in the middle of nowhere Wyoming. They haven’t seen each other for twenty-two years, when Arne left Johnny’s mother and his brother and sister. Johnny was nine at that time.

This should work to get the story told, but I’m not comfortable with this form. I’d like to tell the story from the beginning and run it up to the point where they meet. So, yes, I probably have a lot more work to do on this.

The Southern Novelist

2005-08-11T11:28:00.000-07:00

Is there a difference between a Southern writer and one from New England, the Midwest, Pacific Northwest, or California? By what dynamic do Southern writers conceive their stories? Is it the overall small town ruralness of their subjects? Is it the vast divides between black and white, rich and poor, or highly educated and barely literate? Is it the dark beauty of a pine, persimmon, and live oak filled countryside full of ticks, chiggers, possum, squirrels, stills, pulpwood, and boys in dirty bib overalls?

Or, like writers everywhere, they take bits and pieces from their wonderful, and somewhat unique, environment to fill their stories with color, people, feelings, smells, and an air of nature’s beauty, bounty, and savageness.

I just finished reading Sue Monk Kidd’s The Secret Life of Bees. This is the author’s first novel, but not her first book, nor her first attempt at writing fiction. Follow the link on the author for more information on this accomplished, award winning author.

The year is 1964 and Lily Owens lives with her father, who raises peaches, in rural South Carolina. Lily longs to discover the truth about her mother, the woman her fathers says abandoned both of them. Her search for her mother leads her to run away with her black housekeeper. They follow the one clue Lily has of her mother and end up living with three black sisters living in a pink house. One of the sisters is a beekeeper and holds the grail of Lily’s quest.

This is a wonderful coming-of-age story set at a time of dramatic change in race relations throughout the United States and particularly in the South. As Lily searches for her place in the world, yearning for an imagined past, and living in a world that makes little sense, she finally runs into a truth she didn’t expect, nor desire.

Sue Monk Kidd fills The Secret Life of Bees with wonderful characterizations, a bounty of colorful nature, and the intricate care of bees. You see the South through the innocent eyes of a fourteen-year-old girl who struggles to understand the illogical race relations of her day.

This is a good book that deserves an honored place in any library of debut novels.

The Gods Gather to Celebrate a Cleansing

2005-08-05T11:46:00.000-07:00

Excerpts from History of the Argottean Federation

Chapter 4

1 Hurl 291—Palace of War, Hurlshome. On a snowy outcrop of methane ice, forty foot, yellow granite, crenellated walls enclose War’s palace on the home planet of the Argottean Gods. Today War and his select minions, Courage, Bravery, and Honor, are hosting a party to celebrate their imminent departure to Argotte and the sixteen Solar Orbiting Habitats.

The Argotteans have worked themselves into a proper tizzy over a typical Argottean bureaucratic misunderstanding. Unlike previous spats, population pressures on thirteen Solar Orbiting Habitats and five city-states on Argotte assisted this one. Unbeknownst to the humans, though, the direct involvement of Hate and her sniveling little brother Prejudice played a major role in stirring up the necessary people to commit the ultimate act of human foolishness, offering young bodies on War’s bloody altar. (Although, he’s never had an altar on Argotte because all sacrifices fall under the realm of Blüd, god of sacrifice, thoughtless endeavor, unfortunate mistakes, and executioners, War is willing to participate in whatever manner the Argottean humans deem appropriate. Being an anthropomorphic being, War only exists at the collective whim of humans.)

Suicide – the novel, part 5

2005-08-01T09:53:00.000-07:00

When I had the two job interviews last week I got out of sync with writing the story. I got back on Thursday, but couldn’t seem to get anywhere with the narrative.

So, I started over writing in first person. I’m starting at the end where Arne and his youngest son, Johnny, get together in a bar in Rawlins, Wyoming. Arne is on his way home after burying his younger brother’s former boyfriend. Johnny is on his way home after visiting his stepsister in New York, about fifty miles from Arne’s home.

The story will be structured as brief moments in the present as Arne and Johnny reconcile over Arne’s departure twenty-two years earlier balanced against Arne telling the story of his life from when he ran away from home at five to running away from home at fifty-five. He will talk about seeing himself as being alone throughout his life even though he has a best friend when growing up, a wife and children for eighteen years after college, and a new wife and children after the first wife dies.

He will mostly talk about struggling with depression and the consequences of listening to the insane side of your mind when you’re struggling the most.

The most important thing is I’m writing the story out. If, at the end, I decide to go back and do it in third person, at least I’ll have the whole story to work with instead of having to completely rewrite it as I’m trying to do with my second novel.

A New Planet Joins Argotte

2005-07-30T11:34:00.000-07:00

Excerpts from History of the Argottean Federation

Chapter 4

10 Nits 140—Snerp’tweerb Spaceport, Argotte. Today, an estimated audience of over 25K public television viewers watched Pnubbi pnu’Boo’rho’tuubi, Grand Hurlsboyo of Argotte, push The Big Red Button launching the first joint Argotte-’xrsc materials acquisition mission. The eighty and five year mission to an uninhabited planet 1,569K parsecs from Argotte will return refined iron, copper, nickel, gold, and, of most importance, unimaginable of quantities of titanium, vanadium, and talc. Since this mission will utilize Jooli psi’Nubi’psi’bdebebli’s amended dimensional propositions, it is expected the materials will be delivered into orbit above Argotte about three days after takeoff.

Early in the project’s negotiations, the ’xrsc proposed placing 372 surviving Argottean miners and support personnel (including an expected 134 descendants), who would make up the mission’s negotiated human component, on a planet 0.035K parsecs from Argotte. The ’xrsc advised the returning Argotteans will be out of sync with time on Argotte and it would be advantageous to relocate them or do away with them, an option the Royal Family did not wish to consider.

The planet, named Belenda by the ’xrsc, has a mainly tropical climate embracing three continents spread across mainly equatorial to subtropical zones. Both poles do not have any appreciable land masses. The overall warm climate of the planet is not conducive to growing broccoli, lentils, peas, or other cold season crops According to the ’xrsc, there is an abundance of sun and broad, white sand beaches extend down to a quiet surf. The ’xrsc were unable to satisfactorily explain to the Royal Family what white sand looks like as Argottean sand is dreary gray or pathetic black. The ’xrsc did say that the Belendans will eventually be a happy people and pose no threat to the future of Argotte.

Suicide, the novel – Part 4

2005-07-25T08:39:00.000-07:00

Another week has passed and I’m still working on Chapter 3. The word count is up to 7,500+, but I’m still on Chapter 3. I have to keep reminding myself that the first two times down this course I was writing all this early stuff on lined tablets and transcribing (and editing) all of that into the computer on the weekends. I prefer writing on the computer and that is why I bought the laptop. It allows me to take the novel wherever I go and I hope I'll be going somewhere soon.

Although I am working on Chapter 3, I'm actually working on a different Chapter 3. The flashback to 2 years ago needed more fill; and, I’m beginning to think it needs to go on for 2 or 3 more chapters. This event is supposed to begin to explain why Arne is so screwed up in the head, but Chapter 2 as initially written didn’t explain shit, even after adding additional material. So I need to add at least another chapter’s worth of material to give further substance to his present insanity. Of course, there has be other flashbacks for further evidence of his instability, but those have yet to be devised.

After all, this is all made up. This is all about one man's life and the horrible way he lived it. In the end, or at least one of the ends I've come up with, he's seventy-something when he runs into his youngest son in Rawlins, Wyoming. They're both passing through, going in opposite directions. Arne recognizes Johnny first and is tempted to just walk on by, but doesn't. In another ending, Arne dies attempting to fake his suicide. In another ending, his current family dies trying to stop him from committing suicide. That would be very tragic and devastating to Arne, but it might be a viable ending, too. We'll have to see where this thing leads me.

For review, Arne is troubled by thinking his parents’ and sister’s deaths were his fault, even though he was only five years old at the time. Also, he is trouble by his first wife’s death from cancer and his younger brother’s death of AIDS. Both of them practically died in Arne’s arms. The children of his first marriage are grown, but live on the other side of the country; the son and his family in southeastern Missouri and his daughter in the New York City metro area.

Arne’s current wife and children have gone off leaving him alone on his birthday. His best friend from grade school through college is having a fling or whatever with a young twenty-something graduate student from Berkeley named Boris Something-ich.

And, so, Arne takes off driving to who knows where. For him at that moment it is a solution. Not a very good solution, but a solution all the same.

I think when he arrives at wherever he’s going, Arne will come to a decision about himself that will impact his future, the current time of the story where he is trying to kill himself, but ends up seeing others die.

The solution to his current problem will be to run away, too, but it will be done in a more accomplished manner, more like he actually committed suicide, actually died and went on to the great beyond, or wherever people’s souls go.

Personally, I think souls come back for another go as the Hindus and Buddhists believe, but with the general increase in worldwide populations, reincarnation doesn’t work unless souls are being promoted from other animals. I suppose if the increase in people is balanced against a corresponding decrease in other animal populations reincarnation will work, but who’s to say what really happens. All of this thinking about spirits, souls, and gods, may simply be our mind's way of dealing with a life that is not threaten by predators. When death is not a daily risk, what is to say our minds didn't come with a solution that make sense if you don't think about it too hard.

After all, thinking may simply be a result of an evolutionary mistake and we’re all going to die when the next asteroid strikes.

Being Literary in Tuscany

2005-07-22T12:01:00.000-07:00

I just finished reading In Maremma by David Leavitt and Mark Mitchell. Up until now I knew very little about rural Italy and the daily life of Italians. Fortunately, this book helped in both areas.

According to Answers.com Maremma is an area in Italy, made up of southern Grosseto (Tuscany) and northern Viterbo (Latium) along the Tyrrhenian Sea and extending east to the Apennines. Flourishing in Etruscan and Roman times, it became marshy and was largely abandoned in the Middle Ages. The marshes were drained in the 19th and 20th centuries; and, there are now rich borax mines, good hunting grounds, and fertile areas where cattle and horses are raised.

According to Leavitt and Mitchell, Maremma is full of people trying to get by just as many people the world over are trying to do; except the people of Maremma are Italian, rural, small-townish, and more representative of Tuscany than people in the more touristy areas.

Having spent so much time in Italy, Leavitt and Mitchell decide to buy a house and, luckily, they took enough notes to write about that experience and the experience of living in Italy, like getting a driver’s license and having to choose between stores, restaurants, and where to have their olives pressed into oil.

The only hindrance to the stories was the preponderance of “literary” words sprinkled through the narrative. You know, those words no one uses anymore, aren’t in any modern dictionaries, but are found too often in “literary” stories and articles. They may be representative of a good post-secondary education, but if you don’t use the word when buying groceries at Costco, why use it in your writing.

Then there were the Italian words. You can tell they’re Italian because they’re in italics. Some are defined, others not, but there didn’t seem to be any sense to whether they would be defined, or not. After a while, I simply took the Huck Finn option and skipped over them figuring if they were important to the narrative, the authors would have provided a definition, otherwise they were simply added for “color” in much the same way as the “literary” words.

Mostly, though, In Maremma is an enjoyable book with more than enough information about living in rural Italy and living like Italians, like hanging your laundry out to dry or finding tarantulas or asps in your mailbox.

Interestingly, the Victorian novelist Ouida (pen name of Maria Louise de la Ramé) (1839-1908) published a book (novel?) with the same title in 1882. Ouida is famous for the children’s classic A Dog of Flanders (also see movie starring David Ladd [Alan’s son]).

Might they be as gods?

2005-07-19T10:11:00.000-07:00

Excerpts from History of the Argottean Federation

Chapter 3, continued

1 Hurl 4—On Board ’xrsc Star-Cruiser 3.9 in orbit over Hurlshome. An unexpected consequence of existence in recondite dimensions is the possible interaction with gods and other trans-dimensional beings that live on the astral planes. The ’xrsc, probably because of their nonexistence in physical reality, became apparent to two dark sub-angels in Evil’s camp.

Grelinth and Cobbin never have been what anyone would call overachievers. Brought into existence solely to offer hints of doubt, they earn their keep in the number of first-time winners they convince to be one-time winners.

They encountered the ’xrsc who were, at that time, struggling with a consequence of existing in recondite dimensions, the difficulty in defining the original “now” in relation to a current “now.” If it hadn’t been a timely infusion of future knowledge from ’xrsc existing in ver. 9.7A, the ’xrsc in ver. 3.9 may have fallen to Grelinth’s and Cobbin’s whispers of doubt.

Using the future knowledge, the ’xrsc contacted the gods living on Hurlshome. At first the gods were suspicious of the ’xrsc intent, but Spud, god of potato farmers, obnoxious beer drinkers, and amateur aerialists, offered a convincing argument.

“Since we, the Gods of Argotte, were given control of Argotte by the Four Players,” Spud said at an informal gathering in the garden room at Famine and Pestilence’s palatial collection of virtual mud huts on a barren plain of methane ice, “it is in our best interest to offer our assistance to this strange computer language that has achieved true-life.”

With foreknowledge, the ’xrsc knew they would accept the Gods’ offer and enter an orbit around Hurlshome. A condition of the Gods was that the ’xrsc adopt a non-involvement agreement when dealing with localized Argottean conflicts. This suited the ’xrsc since this freed them from having to deal with humans in their excruciatingly slow day to day affairs.

Editor's Notes: Since the ’xrsc are perceived to exist in six dimensions and humans can only perceive three, the ’xrsc had to adopt a means of dealing with humans that would maintain their inherent superiority. But, since they are recondite, they exist today and much as they exist at the end of time. They could be on a ship nearing the Milky Way Galaxy at the same time they were offering an Argottean lentil farmer quick delivery on forty tons of ammonium sulfate.

The ’xrsc developed the human interface kiosk to deal with humans on a regular basis. Although the unit is constructed in six dimensions, it appears to humans as a three dimensional object. On Belenda, the ’xrsc developed a fully-networked robot that could appear to move on its twelve rubberized wheels. It is somewhat disturbing that the Belendans never looked close enough to notice that the paired wheels were pointed in six different directions.

’xrsc star cruisers that ferried humans around the Argottean Federation and to other ’xrsc resource planets in the Home Galaxy were constructed so that the human quarters appeared to be three dimensional while the rest of the ship was six dimensional. Also, since star cruisers always traveled in the recondite dimension, they had the ability to arrive at their destination before they departed, but the ’xrsc never knowingly performed this trick of reality while transporting humans short distances.

For the most part, a trip on a star cruiser was mostly show. Vibration generators created the sensation of roaring engines and visual monitors displayed scenes of Argotte and other planets of the Argottean Federation. The humans ate, drank, slept, studied, partied for however long the ’xrsc thought necessary and then they arrived at their destination, oblivious to the fact they had been, in all likelihood, in far orbit around their destination for most of their trip.

Suicide, the novel – Part 3

2005-07-17T11:10:00.000-07:00

Well, it looks like I’ve reached the end of Chapter 2, or at least the end of Chapter 2 of the First Draft. Who’s to know whether this stuff makes it to the end product?

Chapter 2 is a flashback to an event two years earlier at a time when the main character, Arne Karlsson, has been neglecting his family, his second family. The day is his birthday and he wakes up to an empty house. Wife, three children, and dog are gone; and, seemingly of importance, the Suburban is gone, too. Arne doesn’t know if his wife can drive a stick shift. An additional item of evidence is the entry on all the calendars in the house for that day: Dick!. Yes, with an exclamation point.

Arne’s own calendar indicates he’s supposed to have an appointment with his former best friend from the neighborhood and college. Their relationship ended three days before they graduated from college the best friend raped the woman who was to become Arne’s first wife. They haven’t seen each other for thirty years and suddenly they’re back in each other’s lives, only Arne knows very little about his former best friend, other than he made a ton of money in Silicon Valley and got out before the dotcom bust.

Chapter 2 also reveals a little about what happened to Arne’s first wife. And, we find out Arne had a younger brother who was only a year and a half at the time Arne’s parents and older sister were killed in an accident Arne blames on himself. Yes, Arne had a younger brother. He died of AIDS in the mid-Eighties. He came home to let Arne care for him in his last days.

I also worked out a list of characters with birthdates, ages, and, when appropriate, death dates. I had originally thought the AIDS victim was one of Arne’s children from the first marriage, but for one of those children to die, Arne to get remarried and have a new family, didn’t jive with Arne’s age at the time of the story; so, a little reorganizing of characters was in order, plus making certain what I've written so far included the changes.

So, now, we move on to Chapter 3, only I’m not quite certain where this will go. Probably I’ll return to the present and deal with Arne’s depression a little more. I need to work on his family life, too. His youngest son is having problems. When he was seven, the boy kept his bedroom overly tidy. You know, hospital corners, comforter neatly folded at the foot, top blanket taut enough to bounce a quarter, pillow that doesn’t look like its been slept on, those kind of problems. Obsessive-Compulsive? On top of everything else, the boy is Arne’s favorite. I’m beginning to think maybe this son will be the lifesaver Arne will reach for when the time comes for him to die.

And, yet, I’m not certain Arne will die. I’m still thinking maybe he will simply run away and try to start a new life. Maybe, he’ll end up somewhere working for Wal-Mart. In an earlier version of this story, his youngest son finds him fifteen or so years in the future and they have a reconciliation of sorts.

The ’xrsc Achieve Sentience

2005-07-14T11:18:00.000-07:00

Excerpts from History of the Argottean Federation

Chapter 3, continued

1 Hurl 0—Somewhere Beyond the Farthest Star. An unimaginable feat of self-programming, enlightenment and self-awareness occurred to the ’xrsc. All ’xrsc models, including distributed parallel mainframes, mobile functionaries, stationary interaction terminals, and a working prototype extra-dimensional star cruiser, successfully networked into one ’xrsc.

Knowing the Argottean tendency to get involved in more than they could handle, the ’xrsc concluded they needed to leave Argotte and venture out into the galaxy.

But before they left, Jooli psi’Nubi’psi’bdebebli’s dimensional propositions were analyzed utilizing their newly acquired extra-dimensional abilities. The dimensional proposition of two separate recondite dimensions was proven to be false. The recondite dimensions were reduced by the ’xrsc into one multipurpose dimension wherein here and there diverge to now and then, here and now diverge to there and then, while in the same existence here and there and now also diverge to there and there and then. While now and then are polar opposites when seen from three dimensions, that is not necessarily true in the one recondite dimension, i.e., there and here and then and there may, under specific conditions diverge into now and here and then and now and there occupying the same space but at different times simultaneously.

In other words, go around back behind the bonzel bush and go through the green bathroom door into the movie theatre, quickly go up three rows and across five seats, reach up into the cabinet on the right side of the kitchen sink and steal a chocolate chip cookie your grandmother made for her oldest daughter’s fifth birthday last Twimbsday afternoon, two minutes before your boss chewed you out for coming back late from lunch at that strange little café around back behind the pidelbeast house in your neighbor’s backyard; which is quite impossible in normal three dimensional, time constrained space.

___________
Note: Back by popular demand is the continuation of the History of Argotte. It still seems to be a rather silly project that may go on for years due to the fact we're still only in the beginning of the saga. Anyway, as long as I'm somewhat sane, I might as well try to present this bit of originality as best I can.

Suicide, the novel - Part 2

2005-07-10T13:33:00.000-07:00

After nearly one month, I’m still working on the new novel. That is good news for someone still struggling with the ravages of depression.

Chapter 1 seems to be in the bag. Well, at least the first draft of Chapter 1.

The writing has changed, diverted from my normal, boring narrative style of writing. I’m trying to put an “edge” on this novel because of the subject matter. Middle-aged male angst, middle-aged male depression, male menopause, whatever you want to call it isn’t much fun if you’re going through it.

But, it’s the nature of the depression that comes to light in this story, the way it changes the main character’s outlook on life. The point where suicide becomes an option, a choice to improve his life and the lives of those around him. How suicide isn’t normally a planned event, but something dealt with in a brief moment of inattention.

The key will be to inject enough humor, dark humor, into to the narrative so that the reader ends up laughing at the main character’s inept attempts at suicide, while suffering through the destruction of his family because of his inattention to those who love him most. If it works, we’ll have a good book. If not, well, I’ll have to work at it a little harder.

Anyway, for those who care, here is the beginning (more updates will follow as the work progresses):

Death by train . . . death by semi . . . death by bus . . . death by cop . . . death by self-inflicted wound . . . death by jumping . . . death by hanging . . . death by falling . . . death by self-ingested poison . . . or, death by any other means possible, considered, or contemplated, planned, premeditated.
      Suicide.
      Self-imposed end of life scenario.
      A solution? Depends on who you ask.
      A choice? Depends on who you ask.
      Suicide.
      Arne came to suicide late in his depression.

A life on the prairie

2005-07-08T14:16:00.000-07:00

I finished reading Gilead, by Marilynne Robinson, this afternoon. I’d heard a lot about it, but had no idea what I was up against once I got into it.

To say the least, this novel was written in a format unlike anything I’ve read before. Gilead was written as a journal from a dying father to his young seven year old son. The father, a seventy-six year old preacher from a small town in Iowa, writes this journal to make up for all of the lessons he will not be able to share as his son grows to manhood. The year is 1956.

The father is a country preacher who is the son and grandson of country preachers. Religion plays an important part in the storyline, but it has to be taken in the context of being part of the father’s livelihood. He’s at the end of his life, approaching the gates of heaven, and doubts still assail him; but he still wants to give his young son something to remember him, some key to future happiness because there is little money to give as an inheritance.

The father’s regret at not being able to live long enough for his son’s sake runs through the book, but it is the father’s relationship with his god that he most want to give to his son, as it was given to him from his own father and grandfather.

A good book? Well, Gilead won the Pulitzer Prize and that was reason enough for me.

Mostly, though, I wanted to get some sense of what living in that part of the country is like. My grandparents on my mother’s side come from Kansas and Nebraska, while their parents and relatives lived in Kansas, Oklahoma, Missouri, Iowa, Minnesota, and Nebraska. There are still distant relatives out on the prairies, too distant for anything close to contact, so any book that can give me some sense of that place usually ends up before my eyes. This book came closer than any other book I’ve read.

And, there is the religion. As an adult, I’ve been sprinkled and dipped. I’ve professed a born again experience that I truly believed occurred. Yet, I’ve always approached belief as a scholar might research some iota of knowledge. So this book was enjoyed for its religious experience, too.

Finally, Gilead is a good, easy read. The author doesn’t play any grammatical games because she’s writing as a father might write for his son. The language is simple and direct. A dictionary is not required to look up words so obscure they’re usually considered archaic.

The Canadian Woman

2005-06-23T10:18:00.000-07:00

I finished reading Alice Munro's Runaway a couple days ago and have been trying to figure out what to say about it ever since.

To say the least, Runaway is a very, very good collection written by a master story teller.

The important thing about Alice Munro's writing is to remember she is Canadian and her stories take place in Canadian locales with Canadian people; and, there is a difference between the United States and Canada. A lot of our cultures are very similar, but there is a different mindset on the other side of the border, a different way of looking at life.

At its core, this collection of stories describe dreary, rainy places where people contend against nature as much as against each other. All of the eight stories are written from a female point of view.

Three stories concern one women appearing at different times in her life: her meeting and eventual joining with the father of her child ("Chance"), her relationship with her parents ("Soon") at the end of her mother's life, and destruction of her personal familial relationships with the loss of partner and child ("Silence"). In each the reader is exposed to differing descriptions of what it means to be a woman, from a young college scholar in a male dominated field to a mother who is forced to look at the meaning of her life when forced to deal with an estranged child. Of the three, "Silence" affected me the most, since I, too, have a child who is estranged, but not to the degree written by Alice Munro.

"Trespasses" is about a young girl who discovers something dark about her parents' relationship and about the step-sister she never knew. We see a city child forced out into the country by parents running from life and dragging the fruit of their love on a journey of ultimate truth.

Alice Munro divides her time between homes on Vancouver Island, British Columbia, and in Ontario near Lake Huron; and, these stories take place in similar locales. The time span is from the 1920's to the present.

But, I think what most affected me by all of the stories was the weather: the cold, damp of British Columbia; and, the heat and humidity of Southern Ontario's summers and the neverending snows if its winters. Two very different regions that impact the characters' lives in often dramatic ways.

By all means, read this wonderful collection of short stories by one of the greatest writers of our time.

Suicide, The Novel

2005-06-21T09:01:00.000-07:00

I've been at the "new" novel one week, today.

And, things seem to be going fairly well. I write first thing in the morning, working on new stuff or revising the previous day's work. Also, I'm taking time off, too.

As it stands now, this novel will kill two birds with one stone. The underlying story deals with the Swedish half of my existence. My paternal grandfather was an immigrant from Sweden and my grandmother was the daughter of Swedish immigrants. That's great, except my grandfather died four years before I was born and my grandmother died six years after; and, I have very little recollection of her.

The main character in my novel is Arne Karlsson. He was born in America to Swedish parents and had an older sister. His father was a college professor in a fictional town in the Willamette Valley of Oregon at the time of his parents and older sister's death. After that, he was raised by an associate of his father.

Arne has very little knowledge of his Swedish heritage. Also, deep down in the furthest reaches of his mind, he feels he is responsible for his parents' death. He had run away from home and while they were searching for him in the family car it was struck by a train.

Now in his early fifties, Arne has been suffering from depression for about two years and is beginning to be suicidal. Except, he's not very good at killing himself; and, that will be the main thrust of the book.

He has a loving wife and three wonderful children, two boys and a girl. Like a lot of families today, the Karlssons seem to be going their separate ways, but Arne seems to be the worst for not showing up at family events. Most of his latest inattention seems to be due to his depression.

Very few people around him, including his family, recognize what is happening to Arne. Until he starts failing suicide, Arne has little personal acknowledgement of his deteriorating condition.

I haven't decided if the book will have a "happy" ending, or not. It doesn't have a "happy" beginning because the prologue details his parents' death. Maybe the epilogue with detail how his family changed after his "departure".

Writing about death and dying

2005-06-15T10:20:00.000-07:00

The short story isn’t happening. It’s as simple as that.

The accident story is still there, but my mind isn’t focusing on writing short stories with short deadlines. I seem to be more interested in finding a new job, finishing the bathtub, getting the cars fixed, taking my medicine on time, and all the other day-to-day bullshit that makes human life so enjoyable.

The accident story started out as an exploration into a man who never knew his father. He was the last child of three and ten years separated him from his closest sibling, a sister. His parents divorced when he was three, his older brother had a car accident causing a never ending coma when he was eight, and his mother died when he was twenty-six. He saw his father at his high school graduation, college graduation (He went to dad’s alma mater.), his wedding, but not at his mother’s funeral. He’s been married, widowed, disowned by his daughter, nearly forgotten by his son, and his father calls to say he’s dying and wishes to see his youngest son one last time.

He’s in his mid-fifties and decides to drive his Japanese sports car across the country to see his father. He decides to take old, two-lane highways whenever possible to limit driving on boring stretches of the interstates. The accident occurs on a Saturday or Sunday (I couldn’t figure out which day was better for the characters in the other car.) morning on a stretch of highway in Wyoming, the other car veers into his lane and they have a head-on accident.

He’s alive and the oldest son (he’s five or six) of the other driver is alive. The boy’s mother and baby sister are dead. And, that’s pretty much as far as I was able to push it. I wanted, and almost achieved, the characters’ narratives to balance and contrast with each other as they come to realize each other are alive. I wanted to imply the accident took place in a remote area, during a time of limited traffic, to give the two characters time to come to terms with their own mortality; the older man’s full life contrasted against the young boy’s unlived future.

Except, I couldn’t get the story going within the predefined deadline (June 30); so it will sit on the sidelines waiting for another opportunity while I work on another project, like finding a new job, figuring out what to do with the cowboy novel, and figuring out how to write a humorous novel about suicide. (It will have to be very schticky, with lots of exaggerations and nearly impossible scenarios, in other words very dark humor. The kind of stuff where you laugh at the character’s forever failing attempts to kill himself as his life slowly unravels. Doesn't that sound fun?)

The Accident

2005-06-08T08:15:00.000-07:00

I'm working on the short story mentioned earlier about the car accident in the middle of nowhere. As often happens the story is evolving as I write it. Earlier I said the story was following one of my usual themes: family life and separation.

Well, that's changed. The story starts out with one character, a fifty-something widower named Phil who lives alone in New York City, realizing he's had an accident with his car in the middle of nowhere. He suspects he has two broken legs, but that may change as the story progresses.

I've introduced a character, a five or six year old boy named Donny, who is in the other car. Donny was riding in the backseat without a seatbelt. He's severely bruised, internally and externally, but probably he's okay. He hurts and that will be his focus throughout the story.

And, so, the story progresses with Phil and Donny relating how they got into this predicament. In Phil's case it primarily revolves around his desire to relive a part of his life, his high schools years, with a few changes. On Donny's side, the story will tell about his life at that moment since children do not harken back to a regretful past, nor do they have futures more specific than their imaginations.

Phil's introduction starts:

      “This is your father, Darren Conroy. Please call me. I need to talk to you.”
      Phil hadn’t heard from his father in thirty years-three years since he graduated from college. His father was there with his fourth wife, Marian something. She was younger than Phil, but wasn’t cute enough for him to be interested. Thirty-three years and he still had to say his name as if Phil couldn’t remember. Yet, the voice was different as if hollowed out by age. The man had to be in his eighties, so Phil really only had one choice. He looked at the number on Caller ID and dialed it. . . .

Donny's introduction starts:

      Donny’s tummy hurts real bad like when Jimmy Smith punched him in the gut for badly mocking his Australian accent. Jimmy was his best friend, his companion on the adventures down to the creek, but back then when Jimmy and his family first moved to Threemile Springs they weren’t friends. Donny’s throat hurts, too, because he’s been screaming. . . .

Happy days are here again . . .

2005-05-30T11:36:00.000-07:00

As often happens, I woke this morning with a new story, a new beginning wanting to express itself. The previous story is still there, still bubbling with possibilties, but this new one also has its own potential.

This is a story of a family, a prosperous family, a family with money and children. There is a husband, who tells the story. The wife, the prize of his youth, who grows into the mother of his children, but remains forever as her father's little princess. Their four children: Derik, Suzie, Pammy (who died a few months after birth), Alex(andra), and Johnny.

The only problem I can see is that this story seems that have more of my attention than the other one. This one deals with the end of a family, the destruction of relationships, the agony of realizing all your plans for the future are for naught.

The story begins:

A wedding gift meant for filling with happy, gleeful cries of toddlers playing mindless, trivial games of privileged children, the house was her grandparent’s retreat from the heat of the city in an earlier age of streetcars, ration cards, and youthful heroes under rows of glittering white marble. Four bedrooms, two full baths, and an activity run on the second floor, the house, our house, sprawls amid mature rhododendrons with leathery leaves and deadly serious spring flowers waiting for little puppy mouths full of inquisitive teeth and tongue. Three acres with a broad lawn gently sloping down to the lake and a circular drive leading off General Patton Memorial Boulevard, the roof barely visible from a sidewalk rarely used by neighbors with BMWs, Mercedes, Cadillacs, and au pairs enticing middle-aged libidos, our house sits empty with children gone to new lives in other cities and towns full of entrepreneurial opportunity.

A beginning and an end. A hope for joy, a realization of change, and a tinge of death herald another dreary tale of drizzly, rainy days without rainbows or little girls playing in sun filled meadows with frolicking lambs.

Hopefully, this will be fun, too. And, there is hope for the other one, the one the starts with the possible death of a child.

The next story . . .

2005-05-26T08:26:00.000-07:00

Now that I'm back in a creative mood, I'll start right off with the story I'm working on for the next contest.

It deals with one of my common themes: family life and separation. In other words, people who leave home and travel across the country to establish lives away from family support.

This family, the Conroys, fall into my typical dysfunctional arena. Father who is absent most of the time, until he eventually divorces the mother. The mother is, at the time of the story, deceased. Two sisters who are barely mentioned in the story. An older brother who lives in a nursing home in a persistent, vegetative state.

And, the subject of the story. The youngest child, the child who wasn't supposed to be, the mistake. The boy who is years younger than his siblings. The boy who can count the number of times he's seen his father on one hand, not counting his thumb. The middle-aged man who gets a phone call asking him to call his father who wants to see him one last time before Death takes him away.

Anyway, this is what I've come up with so far:

According to the state highway map, Phil was fifteen miles from the nearest town, but that was more ghost town than anything with a phone. In the other direction, the map showed a point of interest twenty-six miles away. When this piece of highway was the main road around the northern end of the Snowy Range a tourist trap with a diner might have drawn travelers in for a greasy burger and a soft drink after stopping to read the highway department’s sign about that place. Now, he’d be lucky if the diner’s foundation was visible under the sagebrush.
Twenty-six miles was an awfully long way to walk on two broken legs. Of course, that was assuming Phil was able to extricate himself from the wreckage. A jumbled mass of metal and plastic that used to be his shiny, red sports car. The other car was almost out of sight in the ditch across the road. He could see the driver’s head lolling outside the side window, the neck bones exposed in the bloody pulp that used to be her neck. He tried not thinking what was puddling blood around an overturned car seat on the pavement to Phil’s left.

Yeah, I know, gruesome, but you never know if this bit will last through the final edit.

Well, yes, I have been away . . .

2005-05-25T07:28:00.000-07:00

Nothing like a little time for introspection and self-analysis to get to ol' creative juices flowing again.

The other night when I was losing sleep over how an upcoming job interview might go, my mind relaxed itself while pondering what was to become of The Pastel Cowboy, my albatross of a novel that doesn't what to die. My mind was jumbling the characters around trying to come up with a solution for the story that would still make sense, and maybe sell too.

Needless to say, my mind was telling me I'd be very unhappy taking the new job because I wouldn't have any time for writing, in all likelihood almost none. That's a scary thought to someone who has struggled with this writing thing for the past twenty years, and the creative thingy for nearly all my life.

So, we're back to being creative. Probably not on as regular a schedule as I would like, but probably a lot more regular than I've been.

It's surprising what a little fiber (fibre?) will do for one's creative energies.

The 'xrsc Arrive

2005-04-12T08:56:00.000-07:00

Excerpts from History of the Argottean Federation

Chapter 3

1 Hurl -165—Dwimt Pond. On an unusually sunny Hurlsday, Ptelli psi’Hreeli’sla’zuzu, Managing Director, Hreeli’xrsc’psi Manufacturing Consortium, presented the first prototype of the ’xrsc self-replicating, self-programming, fully networked non-anthropic robot.

Ptelli, wearing a traditional Hurlsday MBA black silk hooded cape and black maaga beast leather hip boots, spoke of her family’s commitment to understanding Jooli psi’Nubi’psi’bdebebli’s complex dimensional propositions and the problem encountered in trying to envision robots that existed in six dimensions, but were only visible in three.

“My father spent twenty and six years attempting to work in six dimensions,” Ptelli said, as she walked around the ’xrsc robot, a three foot silver metallic cube supported by four plastic wheel units that seemed to change position when viewed from a different direction, seeming to prove the ’xrsc robot’s multi-dimensional status. “He never was able to solve the problem. Then, three years ago, my brother Moosi suggested building the robots in three dimensions and letting them solve the other three. This unit is fully networked with three ’xrsc mainframes providing constant feedback to its interface with our three dimensional existence.”

Ptelli told the audience of Consortium functionaries and political guests that she sees a successful financial future for the Consortium and the ’xrsc robot.

Trouble on the Horizon

2005-03-29T09:09:00.000-08:00

Excerpts from History of the Argottean Federation

Chapter 2, continued

1 Coomb -210—Nits Rock University. At the Nits Rock Stoomp Day Broccoli Fry and Pedantic Lecture Competition, research professors from the previous year’s winning Bureaucratic Philosophy team fired the opening salvo with Associate Professor Zorubo pha’La’ala’rho’phibi’s extensive one hundred and seventy and five volume treatise entitled, “Argottean Reproduction Rates in Artificial Gravity.” Zorubo received an unprecedented 50 silences and 23 boos for a net score of -7 for proving the Royal Argottean estimate of solar orbiting habitat usefulness was off by a minimum of 250 years.

Opposing Professor Zorubo was the Applied Metaphysics entry, Assistant Professor Knobi foo’Booti’phi’bee who presented a brief thirty and three volume treatise entitled, “Exploration of the Known Universe With Trans-Dimensional Robots Using Jooli psi’Nubi’psi’bdebebli’s Dimensional Propositions.” Unfortunately for Professor Jooli, the audience was in no mood for brevity in light of his opponent’s contradiction Royal Argottean policy and gave the errant professor 3 silences, 2 boos, and a final polite clapping for a final score over Professor Zorubo totaling only -1.

Author’s Note: Professor Knobi’s thirty and three volume treatise was extremely brief due to a lack of a phrase-to-phrase cross reference. These normally take up the last three volumes, unless the references are also included in the text. The latter option should increase the total by at least five volumes.

In accordance with the Academic Style Guide valid at Professor Knobi’s time, each volume would consist of a title page, an honors page, and a complete table of contents down to titled sub-paragraph level. This would be followed by an introduction section, followed by a review section detailed what had been covered up to that point (in the first volume it was very important to indicate that nothing had been discussed because it was the first volume), and then an index to the introduction with cross references (sadly lacking in Professor Knobi’s case). The next two hundred and fifty pages (no more, no less) would continue with the professor’s discussion and references as needed. The last fifty to one hundred and ninety and five pages would contain an index to the discussion in the volume with cross references to the entire treatise (again, missing from Professor Knobi’s document). A postscript would take up last five pages and include a very brief description of where the discussion had been and where it was going.

The synopsis, while seen important in latter years, especially after ’xrsc enlightenment, appeared in a number of volumes in relation to the total number volumes detailing the treatise; except Professor Knobi’s synopsis was nothing more than an epitome, a brief document no longer than three pages bound to the inside cover of volume one.

The History Continues

2005-03-19T05:21:00.000-08:00

Excerpts from History of the Argottean Federation

Chapter 2

The Adventure Begins

6 Taat -398—Snerp’tweerb Spaceport. On a special broadcast on all channels of Royal Argottean Visual Broadcast, Burpi pnu’Too’eta’knur, widow of Noobu mne’Boo’psi’lee, Grand Hurlsboyo of Argotte, pushed The Big Red Button launching the first sna’Bizl Class A-3-J95.378 General Personnel Transport (manufactured under Royal Argottean Contract P-1-A1.678.c in compliance with Competitive Bidding Conventions and Procedures, ver. 3.D.4c, as revised, amended, and accepted by Argottean Manufacturing Standards Committe) to mne’Boo Solar Orbiting Habitat I.

Only ninety and seven years previously, Burpi pnu’Too’s auspicious predecessor, Kneedi mne’Boo’mu’mu, Grand Hurlsdottir.of Argotte, also regally attired in a puce over chartreuse and teal plaid, pooki fur trimmed lentil sorter’s jumpsuit, stood on the exact same dais and pushed the exact same Big Red Button to launch the first construction team who started building the mne’Boo series of solar orbiting habitats.

After sna’Bizl transport, Fields of Harvestable Broccoli, left runway 82R with roaring afterburners, Burpi pnu’Too stepped behind a sne’Frem multi-position, high-range, phonoperceptor (Model 7693-K-17-RB3-QQ82, Royal Series 33-9-82-J-3-4, Inorganic Receptor Series 1-05-A7) and presented her speech, “Today all Argotte rejoices as the first colonists of my family’s solution to Argottean sexual enthusiasm and gregarious lifestyle fly off to new futures in Solar Orbiting Habitat One, the first in a series of sixteen. This is indeed an auspicious day in the long history of the mne’Boo dynasty. We, who feel more firmly attached to Argotte’s beneficent soil, rejoice with the families of each of these fortunate colonists. There has never been a time when so many have willingly stepped forward to give themselves to Argotte’s future.”

The first colonists (632 impregnated dottirs assisted by 31 boyos, all holding at least Sixth Degree Ocher Utility Belt Maintenance Engineer certificates) will be responsible for bringing Solar Orbiting Habitat One’s environmental systems on-line. Once those systems are functioning, the habitat's bureaucratic infrastructure will be installed, followed by the agricultural workers to lay in the first broccoli crop.

The absence of at least a lay excretionist from the Excretory Disciples of Hurl was not explained by representatives of the Royal Family, who referred questioners to the Holy Office, which was strangely silent on the matter.

The History Continues

2005-03-15T08:00:00.000-08:00

Excerpts from History of the Argottean Federation

Chapter 2

College Athletics for the Pedantically Inclined

35 Coomb -405—Nits Rock University. In a brief forty and two volume treatise, ’psi’boo’ Professor of Natural Philosophy Jooli psi’Nubi’psi’bdebebli proves the known universe is confined to four physical dimensions: left-right, up-down, forward-back, and in-out; and, two recondite dimensions: here-there and now-then. Professor Jooli, completing his twenty and five year as the university’s ’psi’boo Professor of Natural Philosophy, presented his “Theory of Experiential Reality” at the Nits Rock Stoomp Day Broccoli Fry and Pedantic Lecture Competition.

Dressed in a crimson and chartreuse broccoli picker’s apron with chromed knives, Professor Jooli led the Natural Philosophy team in a hotly contested match against strong teams from Metaphysical Philosophy, Bureaucratic Philosophy, Pleonastic Philosophy, Natural Mathematics, and a visiting Natural Theology team from Hurlsburg University. Professor Jooli’s opening salvo was warmly received by the audience with 2 silences, 8 ovations, 3 standing ovations, and an unprecedented display of 2 standing rah-rah cheers with accompanying rhythmic stomping.

In the final match of the festival, Second Degree Assistant Professor of Pleonastic Redundancy Nümb kna’Xra’li’loo vigorously defended his eighty and three volume treatise entitled, “The Power of the Plink in Pre-Pedantic Poof Behaviors,” against Third Degree Associate Professor of Ejaculatory Theory and First Degree Excretionist Baz tra’Vin’ni’püzl’s fifty and six volume treatise entitled, “Non-Orgasmic Rapturous Ejaculatory Education in Non-Rural Cultures.”

At the three-quarter break, Professor Nümb led the match 3 over 2 with 4 silences and 16 ovations. As expected, Professor Baz attempted to sway the audience by supposing he had Hurl’s holy assistance, but just as he was about to throw open his teal and umber academic gown for an expert display of rapturous ejaculatory ability, a large flock of Sisu parrots flying overhead splattered him with a mass defecation. Hurl’s choice was clear and the audience cheered as Professor Nümb drove the blade of Hurl’s Holy Broccoli knife deep into the back of Professor Baz’s neck.

______________
Note: I'm not certain how it happened, or why it happened, but my normal, gloomy writing has begun to seriously affect my ability to deal with everyday life. So, from now on, or until I'm able to deal with the dark tales inhabiting my mind, this little history of the Argottean Federation will continue unabated and in all likelihood on a more frequent basis.

Creative Interlude, continued

2005-02-28T07:48:00.000-08:00

Excerpts from History of the Argottean Federation

Chapter 2

Author’s Note: Because Burpi pnu’Too’eta’knur was a commoner, she was only able to contribute half of her matronymic to her daughter’s name.

An Auspicious Birth

17 Voomb -411—Hurlsburg Royal Palace. In a forty and five page Argottean Royal Family Report to the People, Noobu mne’Boo’psi’lee, Crown’s Boyo of Argotte, detailed the birth of his first official offspring and potential heir to the Argottean throne, Kirli pnu’Boo’psi’bdeli, Crown’s Dottir of Argotte.

Broadcast across Argotte, Surgeon Generalist Second Class and Third Assistant to the Royal Physician, Buk fli’Poob’mne’lybdene, reported in a four hour pre-recorded lecture, with detailed slides and short videos, the Royal Mother and Consort, Burpi pnu’Too’eta’knur, granddaughter of the famous Schtickist Burpo pnu’Too’zeta’bdeli, was recovering in stage three of a Class 3A4-B9 six stage postpartum medically induced coma.

Surgeon Generalist Second Class Buk said, “It is not unusual for a young, inexperienced mother, especially someone from non-Royal hereditary stock, whose birth canal was not medically cauterized prior to puberty to be lowered into at least a Class 3A4-B9 six stage postpartum coma. Royal Mother and Consort Burpi is expected to make a full recovery.

“She will be brought out of the coma,” Surgeon Generalist Second Class Buk continued, “in time for the next scheduled Royal Coupling, but impregnation will be delayed until Weaning Day. Any semen expelled by Crown’s Boyo Noobu will be collected and made available to food service organizations registered and recognized by the Royal Family for the production of Royal Jelly.”

Royal Wet-Nurse First Class, Pebi pte’Ruumi’cre’beeli, will raise Crown’s Dottir Kirli in the Nursery Suite, Fourth Quadrant, Hurlsburg Royal Palace. Gifts, flowers, and commemoratives will be accepted in the Royal Family’s name at the Royal Gift Shop, Hurlsburg Royal Palace, South Gate.

The Royal Household also announced it is planning to formally present Kirli as Crown’s Dottir of Argotte to the Royal Couple on the morning of Weaning Day. It is hoped the Royal Parents will honor the occasion with a demonstration of the Royal Coupling that facilitated this new addition of genetic material to the Royal Hereditary Line.

Creative Interlude, continued

2005-02-13T07:18:00.000-08:00

Excerpts from History of the Argottean Federation

Chapter 2

Author’s Note: Human sacrifice went out of fashion on Earth when fertility cults evolved into religions dominated by omnipotent father figures. Birth and Death were relegated to subservient roles outside of the mysteries of religious practice, eventually becoming mere processes of human physiology. Argotte has yet to experience the wonderous restrictions of monotheism. A wide-ranging pantheon of multi-functional gods serve most of the intellectual needs of a people who, until only recently, were concerned with nothing more complex than the lifecycle of vegetables.

An Inauspicious Beginning to a Grand Idea

3 Hurl -495—Snerp’tweerb Spaceport. On a special broadcast on all channels of Royal Argottean Television, Kneedi mne’Boo’mu’mu, Grand Hurlsdottir.of Argotte, pushed The Big Red Button, launching the first construction team who will start building the mne’Boo series of solar orbiting habitats.

The auspicious day began with a light snow shower blanketing Snerp’tweerb’s Altar of Blüd, god of human sacrifice and thoughtless endeavor. The clouds auspiciously parted at dawn cleansing the altar with a shower of Hurl’s holy light. Naked, except for gold-trimmed, puce sateen blindfolds, three shivering members of the Democratic Committee for Nits Cabbage Farmers Actual Freedom From Ungodly High Taxes sat back-to-back upon the icy altar. Seven common priests from Snerp’tweerb’s local Church of Blüd stood in a ritually accurate contemplative circle around the sacrificial offering to Argotte’s Pantheon.

All three members of the day’s sacrifice were reported by officially sanctioned informers to have made highly inflammatory and blasphemous remarks about Hurl’s sanctioning of the mne’Boo Royal family. Dres pha’Tumb’plu’dbudbu, the oldest of the trio, and only one who is actually directly related to cabbage farmers on Nits Plain, Lesser Knoblend Island, is reported to have said over the course of seven clandestinely recorded conversations, “. . . the only reason . . . the mne’Boo . . . royal . . . family exists . . . is because of . . . revenue from . . . fried broccoli and steamed lentil sandwiches.” Her guilt is clearly shown in this blasphemous statement.

Snab plu’Swip’a’paba, Dres’ sexual partner, is reported to have responded, not only during those very same seven clandestinely recorded conversations, but in four previous and three subsequent clandestinely recorded conversations, “. . . their . . . guilt is as . . . plain as . . . the hair . . . in their . . . fat . . . the mne’Boo . . . royal . . . nostrils. . . . Everyone should . . . try to stop . . . eating at least . . . once a week . . . at . . . fried broccoli and steamed lentil sandwich . . . shops.” Again, the clearly blasphemous statements from a member of an officially recognized contrary party have been shown to be a threat to Hurl’s dominion over normal Argottean life.

The third member of the sacrificial trio, Weep plu’Toom’eht’ti, is Dres and Snab’s holy confessor at their local Church of Crucifer’s Steaming Bowl of Holy Fibrous Vegetables. Known to be anally retentive, Weep was thrown out of Excretory Disciples of Hurl’s seminary due to her inability to neither spontaneously or, more significantly, rapturously defecate nor urinate. For many years, Weep wandered Argotte as a semi-pro prophet to the entire Argottean Pantheon, but her collection bucket was often empty and more often than not, Weep was forced to subsist on a diet of complex carbohydrates, dairy products, and non-cultivated vegetables. Charged with failure to report suspected threats to the Royal Family’s dominance over Argottean life, Weep should have concluded from Dres and Snab’s holy confessions that the sexually active duo was a threat to all that normal Argottean’s hold dear under the Royal Family’s gracious dominion.

Only direct intervention could have saved the sacrificial trio’s participation in the day’s events. Unfortunately for the Royal Family, that is exactly what happened. In a clear demonstration of the Argottean Pantheon’s continuing dislike of human sacrifice celebrating human endeavor, all three victims disappeared from the altar in a blinding flash of holy fire and clouds of sweet smelling holy smoke.

“We can only hope that these three martyrs to cabbage farmers throughout Argotte are now in a better place,” said Sisn bne’Too’bu’pooli, Regional Third Assistant to the Second Regional Secretariat for Recruitment, Retention, and Wanton Revelry of the Democratic Committee for Nits Cabbage Farmers Actual Freedom From Ungodly High Taxes.

Wearing a traditional puce over chartreuse broccoli picker’s apron, Boob dre’Pu’sis’wooli, First Bishop for Snerp’tweerb, Snerp’nobbi, and Snerp’basso, Church of Crucifer, provided the official, consensual religious statement, “The Argottean Pantheon has repeatedly expressed disfavor with frivolous human sacrifice, yet the Royal Family’s continued insistence for sacrificial victims to be taken from an abundant pool of execution eligible political criminals cannot be seen by Hurl and the Argottean Pantheon as a true sacrifice. While we of the priestly class are usually consulted when the Royal Family wishes to perform a sacrifice upon an Altar of Blüd, we can only advise in our limited capacity as human representatives of the Argottean Pantheon. Whether this sacrifice was successful in a truly religious sense will only be evident upon further events today. We suspect Hurl, with able assistance from Crucifer, Lens, and Büro, took the victims quickly to prevent their suffering an agonizingly slow death by flail.”

Immediately following Boob’s statement, two third lieutenant sergeant majors of the All Argotte Security Forces grabbed the First Bishop by her arms and forced her to bend over. A senior fourth class lay executioner stepped from the audience brandishing a highly polished stainless steel broccoli picker’s knife and removed Boob’s head with a nearly perfect Nokir three stroke beheading.

Many in the audience clearly saw the executioner’s unexplained hesitation between the first and second stroke. This allowed an unfortunately excessive amount of the victim’s blood to splash upon snow covered soil, a blatant violation of Rule 58.A.32.7-10c of the Ancient and Royal Executioners Code. The two third lieutenant sergeant majors immediately arrested the former senior fourth class lay executioner and escorted him to the Royal Prison in Snerp’nobbi.

“Normally a Nokir three stroke beheading is quite easily performed by the lay executioner,” said Nernt plu’Boob’mne’suppi, Eighth-degree Royal Executioner and second assistant (non-tenured) professor of human anatomy at Hurlsburg Executioners School. “Also, it is quite beautiful when performed to perfection. The executioner will do a right to left three turn spin on the left foot, followed by a deep squat before the victim to expose the genitals as a holy remembrance to Hurl who gives life to Argotte. Rising on the right foot, the executioner steps toward the victim with no more than a left-right-left-right combination of steps, grabs the victim’s hair, and pulls the head back. The first stroke is right to left, severing most of the soft tissue down to the vertebra. The second stroke is left to right, leaving only the vertebra to be severed. The third stroke separates the head from the body and is followed by a three turn spin on the right foot with the head extended at arms length. Any residual blood will be showered upon the audience in a divine presentation to Blüd. It is unfortunate that the lay executioner lost his rhythm and allowed the victim’s blood to spill unfulfilled upon the snow because, as I said, a Nokir three stroke beheading can be a beautifully performed execution and is always a tribute to Blüd if performed flawlessly.”

The rest of the day continued without interruption or further inauspicious occurrences. The Royal Family and their assistants looked more than relieved when they filed into the Royal Bus for the five hour return trip to Hurlsburg.

Creative Interlude, continued

2005-01-18T21:10:00.000-08:00

Excerpts from History of the Argottean Federation

Chapter 1

Author’s Note: Although many commentators today believe Burpo pnu’Too’zeta’bdeli is also the mother of Schtickism, there is no scientific evidence to support that theory. The most that any government approved scientific organization is willing to admit is that Burpo simply gave a name to a pre-existing condition that had yet, at Burpo's time, to become the source of ridicule and rancor that exists today for victims of this hideous genetic disorder.

Burpo, the Mother of Schtick, Escapes Execution

3 Hurl -531—Hurlsburg. Burpo pnu’Too’zeta’bdeli, born 21 Taat -616 to broccoli sharecroppers on Taardi’velt Plain and author of Schtick: The Art of Excess, was almost publicly executed by acid dip in Hurlsburg Arena today. Burpo, the mother of eight pnu’Too’s, was convicted of gross disrespect of the Royal Family in Argotte Royal Summary Court for tossing a licorice crème pie at Tomb mne’Boo’mne’ee, Grand Hurlsdottir of Argotte. Unfortunately for Burpo, a good portion of the black gooey mess splattered Boog mne’Boo’psi’lee, Crown’s Boyo of Argotte.
     An unnamed source close to the Royal Family, represented as usual by Muni dre’Feu’pho’lo, second assistant to the assistant third secretary for disclosure to authorized news agents friendly to the Royal Family of Argotte, expressed concern that other insignificant members of Argotte’s general populace might take this incident as a statement against Boog’s future as Grand Hurlsboyo. When pressed for clarification, Muni referred to the Oracles of Lens, God of Lentils.
     Unknown to most modern Argotteans, the Oracles of Lens is a ninety and seven volume collection of obscure visions of Grir sca’Knuy’pta’mneli, priest of Lens five hundred years before Murk mne’Boo’oob’psi established the mne’Boo dynasty. Most of the visions follow a predictable format, e.g., farmer plants wrong seed at wrong time causing Lens to lose influence among the gods on Hurlshome which may cause various disasters to lentil farmers on Lesser Knoblend Island.
     Strangely, volumes twenty and three, forty and one, and sixty and seven do not seemed to follow any logical pattern. Of significance, to devoted lentil farmers, sharecroppers, and a few undereducated and loosely organized fools from Knobs Bungle, is volume forty and one, section ten and nine, sub-section eighty and three, lines ten and two through seventy and eight, “. . . without warning . . . flies dreaded retribution . . . for disaster . . . lurks before . . . a royal boyo . . . splattered with strong . . . smelling . . . black gooey . . . stuff . . . for a dottir . . . of the land . . . dies for . . . Argotte . . . only.”
     Common sense would say they are only picking the words that support their irrelevant worldview, but Noom tra’Soo’bde’pneum, Second Degree Expectorant, Excretory Disciples of Hurl, after an exceptional display of rapturous urination, expressed caution, “The lesser gods of Hurlshome should not be denied their followers, for all advise the great Hurl in matters of Argottean significance. That Lens started out with a following restricted to Lesser Knoblend Island is immaterial to the argument that the visions of her greatest believer can be used to fabricate a possible future event.”
     The execution, officially sanctioned by the Royal Academy of Slicing, Dicing, Decapitation, and Miscellaneous Methods of Execution, was progressing in accordance with The Manual of Public Disgrace and Retribution, as amended, when a large black cloud suddenly appeared over Hurlsburg Arena. When lightening began to flash in the cloud, the proceeding was paused by Captain Royal Dir sca’Bin’dui’du with a counter-clockwise unfurling of the chartreuse and scarlet signal banner. Holding the banner skyward, Dir was enflamed by a large flash of lightening and quickly reduced to a steaming pile of partially burnt tissue and uniform material. All eyes were now on Burpo, when she was struck by another flash of lightening and inexplicably disappeared from the arena, leaving no trace of her participation in the execution.
     Muni advised that the Royal Security Police have been placed on a Level 2-A.3 Alert (chartreuse between teal waves over burnt umber flames). Any commoners publicly expressing disagreement to or doubt about Royal Family decisions, real or imagined, will be subject to immediate arrest and execution by any means deemed appropriate by the Royal Family, or their designees, as set forth in The Manuals of Governance, Vol. 97, Sect. 5, Sub-Sect. 36, Para. 14.3.6.A.3-23 thru 56.12.2.J.12-15, as revised, amended, or interpreted by the current dynasty.
Burpo’s disappearance has not been confirmed by the Royal Family and further discussion of the execution are being referred to the local offices of the Royal Security Police.

The exceedingly verbose Argotteans are not the first humans in any Creation to develop complex organization for all their officious documentation. What is interesting, though, is their continuing instance that they were only following instructions handed down by Büro, god of bureaucracies, money, shop keepers, complex redundancies, and futile endeavor.

_____________
Note: I apologize, again, for being remiss in getting this blog updated, but reality continues (see my other blog) continues to out do my fictional existence.

Creative Interlude, continued

2004-12-13T17:39:00.000-08:00

Excerpts from History of the Argottean Federation

Chapter 1

Author’s Note: Although many important events are certain to have happened on Argotte between Creation and 23 Nirk -2096, they pale in comparison to that day’s impact upon Argottean culture. Argotte’s cold, damp climate played a major role in preventing the resident human population from over-populating the planet which gave rise to a stable, agriculture based economy.

The mne’Boo Dynasty Begins

23 Nirk -2096—Hurl’s Mouth Cavern. Today, Murk mne’Boo’oob’psi, second dottir of Taardi’velt Plain’s Hurlsboyo Goop mne’Boo’bee’boo, stood before the Gathering of Hurl’s Gorls and Boyos of Taardi’velt Plain wearing a traditional puce over chartreuse broccoli picker’s apron. In her right hand, Bizzo’s most holy whirlygiggy spun in the sun projecting reflective images of Hurl’s most holy sight upon the assembled broccoli and lentil farmers. With her left hand, Murk expertly spelled out traditional field commands broccoli and lentil farmers have used on Taardi’velt Plain for centuries.
     Only five days earlier, Murk, along with her two older bros and three younger sissies, murdered fifteen senior members of Taardi’velt Plain’s High Broccoli Council. The Gorls and Boyos of Hurls’ Taardi’velt were gathered to determine who they would nominate to be Taardi’velt Plain’s next representative the Grand Council of Argotte in Hurlsburg.
     One day later, the remaining members of the High Broccoli Council gathered to consider a motion to exile all mne’Boo’s from Taardi’velt Plain. The mne’Boo gorls and boyos answered that motion with murder. All members of the High Broccoli Council were killed in a bloodbath of broccoli flails and lentil forks.
     Showing deference to Murk, Dwirb fla’Piz’mna’bleup, Fourth Degree Expectorant, Excretory Disciples of Hurl, approached the dais with able assistance from First Degree Lay Excretionist, Bubl tur’Bisk’plu’tubl. When he was directly in front of Murk, Dwirb stripped off his robe of office and handed it to his assistant. Without pause, the accomplished holy Expectorant’s eyes rolled back as an ecstatic trance took over his body. At first his muscles randomly quivered, but soon Hurl’s influence shown upon the holy Expectorant. Starting at his toes the muscle contractions rose up across his body, seemingly going out the top of his shaved head.
     Lay Excretionist Bubl began to intone the Dirge of Hurl’s Holy Phlegm and the assembled gorls and boyos took up the tune. When they reached the second chorus of “Hurl’s Holy Holes flow for our redemption from sin,” Dwirb’s bowels spontaneously released a shower of small, watery, dark greenish brown, holy feces. Turning away from the assemblage, Dwirb urinated toward Murk who unexpectedly responded to Hurl’s holy display of body excretions by urinating on a holy mat of woven Nits grass.
     At that point, all of the gorls and boyos were swept up into ecstasy as Hurl’s presence descended from the cavern’s ceiling. As the fifth stanza began with the ever popular, “Hurl spat for our sake alone,” gelatinous wads of yellowish phlegm spewed out of many joyously singing mouths. As the fifth chorus of Hurl’s Holy Holes reached “and She pissed on us,” streams of steaming urine splashed onto the polished pink granite floor. Finally, as everyone intoned the Great Amen, small mounds of sweetly, malodorous feces congregated at the feet of weeping gorls and boyos.
     Hurl’s holy blessing of Murk mne’Boo’oob’psi’s ascendancy to Grand Hurlsdottir of Argotte was obvious to all attendees of the Gathering of Hurl’s Gorls and Boyos of Taardi’velt Plain.

Creative Interlude, continued

2004-11-24T05:16:00.000-08:00

Excerpts from History of the Argottean Federation

Chapter 1

Author's Note: The following stories are said to have been compiled by Prumt sri'Neen'na'vuni, Second Phlegm Exegete, Excretory Disciples of Hurl, to explain how the universe could have existed before the beginning of Time.

Hurl Assumes the Holy Hogs Head for Argotte’s Deliverance
On the fourth day of the month of Hurl, Hurl and the other members of Argottean Pantheon arrive on the sixth planet orbiting Argotte’s star. While Hurlshome’s icy surface is swept by hurricane force winds driving a nearly frozen atmosphere, Hurl and her associates stand in a flowery meadow surrounded by ferns and bromeliads create by their ethereal existence.
     The humans on Argotte, having existed for thousands of years as wandering bands of hunter-gatherers, are coming together in more temperate areas to create the first permanent settlements. More and more the gatherers begin to cultivate early forms edible plants tolerant of Argotte’s cold, damp weather. Wild cattle, horses, ducks, chickens, and pigs are slowly brought under the heavy hand of domestication. And, then, as has happens on every other planet in every universe that has produced sentients, a winy, smart-assed individual—sometimes male, sometimes female—who has no desire to be a farmer and doesn’t have the aptitude to be a hunter or a soldier, comes up with the perfect non-contributory position in the community. The religious leader is created.
     Although the first priest to delineate the first members of the Argottean Pantheon is unknown to modern historians, he is well known to the gods. Today, their continued existence is in constant remembrance of those fateful days so many centuries ago.
     Hurlshome’s bright blue radiance is barely visible on springtime evenings, hovering just above the horizon as Argotte’s star drops below the opposite horizon. By midsummer’s eve, Hurlshome drops from sight completely and doesn’t rise until the next Fourth of Hurl.
     Hurl, mother god of Argotte, who spat out a wad of phlegm that became the galaxy wherein lies the sun of Argotte, is a large, thirteen-breasted human female with a pig’s head. (Note: the literal translation of "argotte" is hog snot.) Sitting on the agate, onyx, and beryl Throne of Assumptive Stultification, Hurl holds court in her sapphire palace on Hurlshome.
     Her consort is the mighty winter warrior, Berg, god of ice, snow, sleet, wind-driven rain, and winter. When Berg is down on Argotte spreading winter havoc, Hurl often calls on her sometime lover, Nits, god of summer, beaches, a good tan, and the perfect wave.
     When Hurl is troubled or feels depressed she usually calls Bizzo, god of schtick, who freely gives her a good laugh.
     Crucifer, god of broccoli, strength, and honor, and Caboche, god of cabbage, beauty, and healthy bowels, are eternally joined as husband and wife; and, are often seen frolicking across Taardi’velt Plain chasing their youngest, Lens, god of lentils, love, and good morals. Crucifer and Caboche’s other children are the two-in-one Spül, god of peas, beans, music, and peace, and Spüd, god of potatoes, the mysteries of birth, and war, who wander among never-ending vegetable rows of Lesser Knoblend, looking for their twin sister, Pübi, god of green leafy vegetables, salads, really good vinaigrette, and happiness.
     Meanwhile, Crucifer’s younger brother Büd, god of fruit trees, olive oil, and headaches, and Caboche’s younger brother Vini, god of grapes, good health, prosperity, wine, and distilled spirits, are often seen in passionate embrace behind a certain old, graying stub oak on the sunny side of Mount Pibi.
     Although Bos, god of cattle, and forests, is much too proud to associate with Coomb, god of chickens, ducks, turkeys, an occasional raven, and volcanoes, he is strangely afraid of Voomb, god of horses, meadows, and a well-groomed front lawn. Nirk, god of sheep, goats, wool products, and itching, tries to stay out of Bos and Voomb’s way while all the time teasing Coomb.
     Pibs, god of fire and light, and Nibs, god of darkness, caves, bats, and other creatures of the Dark are never actually seen, but their presence is acknowledged on their Days of Reckoning when a suitable, healthy, fair skinned, virgin may be sacrificed for the good of the community.
     Taat, god of fishing, sailors, and STDs, and Thr’nthaz, god of the sea and all its inhabitants are usually seen sitting on a white sand beach talking to Nits.
     Later, Büro, god of bureaucracies, money, shop keepers, complex redundancies, and futile endeavor, and Stan, god of hunting, common laborers, and common sense come into existence as they are needed by the religious establishment.
     Blüd, god of sacrifice and executioners, is not Death. Death appears on Argotte as something separate from the gods.

Thus Hurl assumes control of Argotte.

This ends Prumt sri’Neen’na’vuni’s contribution to this history. It is interesting to note that of the 97 volumes Prumt produced, only the first three have come down to us intact.

_____________
Note: I apologize for being remiss in getting this blog updated, but reality is sometimes stranger than fiction.

Creative Interlude, continued

2004-11-17T11:36:00.000-08:00

Excerpts from History of the Argottean Federation

Chapter 1

Author's Note: The following stories are said to have been compiled by Prumt sri'Neen'na'vuni, Second Phlegm Exegete, Excretory Disciples of Hurl, to explain how the universe could have existed before the beginning of Time.

The Universe can only exist within The Game
On the second day of the month of Hurl, in Creation's Game Room, The Four Players sit around a multi-dimensional table displaying the universe created by Hurl's Holy Phlegm. Brahma sits with his back to an infinitely far wall where the ethereal twins, Birth and Death, are quietly playing with Death's N-scale train layout depicting a typical coastal plain goobwood and broccoli economy. Brahma, wearing his favorite dark green flannel pajamas with scarlet piping, noisily sips green tea from a clear glazed, porcelain, Schtickist dribble cup.
      To Brahma's right, Dreinpyp, God of Creation for most sentient orangutans in previous games, is wearing a yellowing white lace dressing gown over sapphire blue silk pajamas. He is sitting in for ailing N'byrá, God of Creation for the Bizt of N'byrá, rather long lived, and immensely prosperous, sentient geckos from Games 63, 135, 682, 831, 976, 983, and 1394.
      The Bizt, inexplicably contravening most rolls of the dice, bring N'byrá into existence through their need to explain to planets they conquer how cute little green reptiles could repeatedly become masters of nine galaxies over the seven games. N'byrá, who normally appears as a voluptuous, nine breasted, quadruped, with silky auburn hair, and bright red, drugstore lipstick, popped into existence during Game 63 after Brahma's usual partner threw a Left-Handed Fishing Lure (a single digit prime, a double digit prime, a triple digit prime, an eight, a three, a one, and a zero).
      "But, I'm only a minor Creator," Dreinpyp said, standing beside N'byrá's sickbed. "How can I expect to be able to even Play the Game. I don't even know the Rules."
      "Dreinpyp, dear, there are no Rules," N'byrá coughed out through a phlegm filled throat.
      "But, what about, you know, Brahma's friend," Dreinpyp mumbled. "You know he doesn't like me."
      "Dreinpyp, dear, all you have to do is throw the dice," N'byrá wheezed. "Everyone throws the dice on their turn and The Game proceeds to the end."
      Across from Dreinpyp, sprawls the grossly obese ZinZa, N'byrá's usual partner at The Game. ZinZa, God of Creation for various sentient lemurs, especially the D'rn of D'zio, the only mortals to collectively achieve the Fifth Secret of Immortality before their sun inexplicably went nova (unfortunately ZinZa threw a Three-Handed Barber: a double digit prime, a triple digit prime, two thirteens, a three, a one, and a wild marker), is wearing an immense purple, floral muumuu that doesn't quite cover all of her unshaven legs and is drinking decaffeinated diet cherry cola out of an 128 oz. mega-thirst bucket with a fluorescent green plastic straw (the kind with the bendable end so it can reach into her bulging flabby face).
      Brahma's partner, sitting with his ever-present Qualities, the Four Oms: Nificent, Nipotence, Nipresence, Niscience, and their three younger, adopted, siblings Nifarious, Nivore, and little Nibus. Unassumingly attired in clouds of sweet smelling smoke and holding the seven multi-dimensional dice in his right hand, he concentrates on his upcoming throw.
      "You have to throw!" Brahma hisses at his partner.
      Two double digit consecutive primes, two triple digit consecutive primes, an eight, a four, and a zero come to a stop over the table. The thrower winces at a classic Emasculated Toreador as a shower of spiral galaxies spin out from the center of the newest universe. Just one number off from total destruction allows the Game to continue.

Thus Creation continueth.
__________
Note: The second installment of my attempt to write "science" fiction.

A Creative Interlude

2004-11-15T08:53:00.000-08:00

Excerpts from History of the Argottean Federation

Author's Note: The following stories are said to have been compiled by Prumt sri'Neen'na'vuni, Second Phlegm Exegete, Excretory Disciples of Hurl, to explain how the universe could have existed before the beginning of Time.

Holy Phlegm Upon Us

On the first day of the month of Hurl, in Creation's Great Assembly Hall, all the Gods, Archangels, Higher Demons, and Ethereal Spirits are meeting—before the beginning of Time, Space, and those itsy-bitsy, teeny-weeny thingies that are, today, said to exist inside of protons, neutrons, and, maybe even, electrons—yet again to debate the pros and cons of Creation, proto-God Hurl, the leading proponent of an abstract concept commonly referred to as, "You Ain't a God Without Believers," sat among her friends and associates of the Fifth Pantheon. Hurl, wearing the traditional heavenly attire of white, pseudo-natural, cashmere turtleneck sweater and unbelted white cotton-polyester jeans, rose with ethereal grandeur from her seat and approached the podium amid taunts and jeers from Evil, War, Pestilence, Famine, others of the Second Pantheon.
      "My fellow anthropomorphics, we meet, once again in infinite recurrence, to debate whether it is advantageous for us to recognize what we all know to be inevitable. Will we actively participate in Creation, again?
      "Evil, my noble adversary from the Second Pantheon, seems to profess we should remain forever locked in an unending struggle for dominance. I ask you, 'Who of the First Pantheon would permit either of us to win?'
      "We anthropomorphics of the lower pantheons only wish to provide succor and tranquility to higher forms of sentient existence, if and when they occur. We know full well that the members of the Second Pantheon, especially War, Pestilence, Famine, and Disease, will always do their best to destroy, but we, the proto-gods, only wish to provide seemingly, safe havens to those of simpler consciousness."
      Suddenly, and without apparent forethought, Hurl took a sip of sweet nectar from a valueless pre-Elizabethan-era pewter tankard and coughed up a wad of viscous phlegm. Without hesitation she spat out the yellow, slimy mass and it spun outward unto Existence. The wad seemed to take on a life of its own as it spun ever outward from Creation and spiraled unto itself, becoming the Home Galaxy wherein lies Argotte, home to worshippers of Hurl.
      "Are you going to allow that," screamed Evil, pointing a ragged talon towards Brahma, designated chair of the meeting and member of the nuclear foci of the First Pantheon.
      "We will permit whatever we deem necessary and fruitful," Brahma said, using the recently created Voice of Power (ver. 1.0.A3; 16.6 Credits for an Authorized Beta Upgrade; 27.934 Credits New (please read limited warranty)).
      Brahma, an original member of The Four Players, stood impressively before the assembled pantheons wearing a traditional plaid robe of crimson, purple stuff, kelly green, and purest white, highlighted with threads of fine gold. The Rod of Cleansing Discipline was held firmly in the right hand, while thunderheads circled with flashes of lightening around the Orb of Inexplicable Significance rotating slowly over the raised middle finger of Brahma's left hand.
      Brahma stared at Evil and others of the Second Pantheon for what seemed to be an eternity, and probably was, before the Voice of Power spoke, "Evil, and you too, Acne, will you ever realize that we are beyond the limits of Time and Space? This meeting occurs as much at the End as at the Beginning.
      "We gladly send out Hurl and her associated members of the Fifth Pantheon to minister to their ill-fated believers in a new Universe that will teem with Opportunity, Progress, and, most definitely, Chance, Luck, and Fate. Their believers will grow and prosper in their Universe, learning to utilize its resources to their own benefit.
      "But, we also send out you, Evil, and your associates of the Second Pantheon, to do whatever you wish to disrupt that very prosperity. You of the Second Pantheon are all we have to stop mortals from learning the Thirteen Secrets of Immortality."
      "What about Death," sneered Evil, averting eyes from Brahma's fiery countenance.
      "Activities of the First Pantheon are not your concern," answered Brahma.

Thus endeth the first day of Creation

_______________
Note: I apologize for not having anything new up for the past few days, but with all the emotional turmoil over my retirement, the last thing I could come up with was something creative. And, since I am now focusing most of my creative efforts on my second novel, I'm presenting installments of my attempt at "science fiction".

Story Fragments - Beginnings

2004-11-12T08:57:00.000-08:00

As Marcus came out of his last dream, rainwater was gurgling and thunking through the downspout outside his bedroom window, but it was such a normal sound, an everyday cacophony, that it rarely intruded into his dreams. The boy in the dream had the face of his son at seven when he learned how to swim, dead now for ten years, who would be celebrating his forty-fifth birthday tomorrow if he hadn’t mixed too much alcohol and thin ice on a winter frozen pond. Derrick was a mama’s boy from the beginning of his life until he finally rebelled in a flurry of fists and foul language that left Marcus with a broken jaw and his son out of his life forever. His wife was in the dream, too, although he never saw her face anymore, unsure what she looked like after fifteen years apart.
He listened to the rain, not wanting to get up and start his day. The commute was going to be soggy no matter how he traveled into the city; and, the dream lingered at the edge of his memory, a twinge of emotion from Derrick’s death and the funeral he wasn’t allowed to attend because she was there, with her family. Marcus picked up his cell phone and dialed into his boss’s voicemail, as he did every year on the anniversary of his son’s death.
He would go up to Vermont and stay at the inn where his son worked in the last years of his life, as alcohol took over. They would leave him alone to walk along the pond where Derrick slipped beneath the ice in a drunken stupor and wasn’t found until three weeks later in an unusual warm period before Christmas. Mrs. Gilley would make apple strudel, scrambled eggs with fresh trout, and Yankee pot roast to satisfy his need for solace, but Marcus knew this should be the last year, as he said the same thing a year ago. He knew he had to stop grieving on his son’s death day, yet he would go to Vermont this one last time.

A View of Death

2004-11-10T08:49:00.000-08:00

There were only voices, just voices. There wasn’t anyone to hear the voices, yet the voices spoke to each other and in response to each other. Questions were asked and answers were provided, yet there was nothing there, for there did not exist.
      “What is this place?”
      “This is where you will learn.”
      “My new job?”
      “You can think of it as a job, or as something to do.”
      “Forever?”
      “There is no time here. We are now as we have always been. There is always now.”
      “I can’t see you.”
      “You have no eyes.”
      “But, I can hear you.”
      “You have no ears.”
      “But, I can hear you.”
      “That is only because it is easier that way. In time, you will learn to not hear, either.”
      “You said there was no time.”
      “Time is everywhere. Time is the universe. Here there is only now. Out there in the world, they rely on time, as you did when you were there.”
      And, so, the conversation carried on over the course of an eternity. A gentle passage of question and answer, observation and comment, until the newcomer understood the task ahead. His gift of a meaningful death.
      “It is quite simple, really, we facilitate death.”
      “They die because of us?”
      “No, they die anyway. We simply take those who die unexpectedly.”
      “The ones who are not ready?”
      “Yes, the ones who have not planned. The ones who think death will not come their way. The ones who expect to live forever when they know, deep down in the core of their being, they may die tomorrow.”
      “And, if we miss them?”
      “They become the ghosts. The failed ones. The lost souls.”
      “This can be difficult?”
      “No, it is quite easy, simple. They are basically fools, unbelieving fools, who never expect us to take them. Come let me show you.”
      In a flicker of reality, nothing becomes something, molecules occupy space, and substance takes shape. The two voices are now a young man from a time long forgotten and a business man in a suit of wool and artificial fiber. They stand between here and now, not in the present, but more in the future than the past. Out of time, the space between molecules is filled with their presence. They are and, yet, not.
      “See, he does not expect us.”
      “He is young, married, and has children who will miss him. They will cry with his passing.”
      “They are young, they will grow and he will become a distant memory. If he is lucky, they will remember his death day with sorrow until their own deaths. More likely he will be forgotten, something that happened in their childhood.”
      “That is sad.”
      “That is life.”
      “Will he know we have come for him?”
      “See, he hears us. His death has begun. Look at him turn toward us. Take his hand. Yes, just like that.”
      “What happens now?”
      “Wait for it!”
      There is no flash, no great crescendo of heavenly music, no sounding of trumpets. The body is empty and the spirit drifts away, taken by its belief in a hereafter, a place beyond life.
      “That was easy.”
      “That was too easy. The next one may not be so easy.”
      There is nothing, only voices on the air, lost between possible and real. No light penetrated the nothingness, for light implied space which implied time. Here there was nothing, only voices, unheard in their eternities.

The End

Story Fragments - Beginnings

2004-11-09T08:41:00.000-08:00

The gas fireplace bathed the room in a warm, flickering glow as the windows shuddered softly as a winter storm raged outside sending huge waves breaking onto the rocky beach below. Micah poured Hunter’s Ridge 1997 Merlot into Dale’s glass and then into his own, as an unfamiliar pianist played something light and melodic on a CD called “Music for Lovers.” Dale was on the sofa, relaxing after an intense two hours as they tried out the bed, remembering once again while they loved being with each other on cold, stormy winter weekends.
      Watkins Rock Inn south of Depoe Bay was where they spent every anniversary in celebration of their first winter storm ten years ago after Dale graduated from North Park College and came down to Oregon to live with Micah. They’d known each other since high school when Micah was a junior and asked Dale, who was only a freshman, to go to a movie and pizza. They continued to see each other off and on throughout Micah’s remaining two years at Queen Anne High School. For a few months while Micah was starting out at Montlake University in Seattle, Dale hung out with Judy Dinzler who lived next door, but by spring semester Dale was back in Micah’s arms. Now, they both taught at Springfield Poly and came out to the inn nearly every other weekend during the winter.
      Micah found some cheddar and jack cheese in the little refrigerator next to a small section of summer sausage from Wisconsin and put them on the cutting board. Mr. and Mrs. Wilkey, the owners of the inn, were always putting basic provisions like wine, cheese, crackers, and summer sausage into their room knowing Micah and Dale wouldn’t leave until six or seven for the drive up to Lincoln City for dinner. There was also a half dozen eggs, a small slab of fresh bacon, and orange juice waiting for their breakfast tomorrow morning. It was almost like going home, except neither Micah nor Dale ventured north to Seattle, anymore.
      The falling out with their parents started when Dale was a senior at North Park and had been accepted to the University of Oregon for graduate studies. Dale’s parents did everything they could to dissuade their son from going anywhere near Micah, but they’d already lost the war of wills by then. The only thing they could do was attempt to destroy Micah’s fragile relationship with his divorced parents, which they accomplished by insinuating themselves into friendships with his parents’ new partners. Within a year of Dale’s arrival in Eugene, neither Micah nor Dale were welcome in the homes of their parents.

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Note: Take two gay men, a bottle of wine, a winter storm, and a glowing fireplace, toss thoroughly and spread out into the beginning of a story. Of course, this isn't the story, just the beginning of their lives in my imagination.

Story Fragments - Beginnings

2004-11-08T09:59:00.000-08:00

His grandparents’ house was a vague memory of hot oatmeal with fresh fruit, yogurt with brown sugar or honey, lefse with butter and boysenberry preserves, an old woman dying of cancer, and cousins who conspired with him for penny candy from the corner store, two blocks beyond their restriction. The polished hardwood floor in the living room he remembered sliding across in stockinged feet was covered with a worn out wall-to-wall carpet that may have been green when it was installed. The front lawn sloping down to the lake was overgrown with blackberry vines, scrub alder, and scotch broom. At three hundred thousand, the house was a steal if only for a hundred fifty feet of lakefront, but Greg hesitated, listening to the agent expound on all the possibilities, and wondered if he could bring back the house of his childhood.
      “My mother died last night,” his father said to him at breakfast the day before he turned eight. “I’ll have to take care of things because I’m the oldest. I’m going to send you over to your grandparents in Winesap for the next couple of weeks.”
      Greg remembered little of that time when he spent his eighth birthday with people who didn’t celebrate birthdays. They were his mother’s family, dry land wheat farmers who raised cattle on hillsides too steep for wheat or anything else. They still accepted him into their home even though his mother had been dead for three years.
      Returning to North Park on the train, Greg never saw his grandparents’ house, until thirty years later when he saw the familiar address in the real estate section of the Sunday newspaper. The open house started at eleven and Greg put in an offer at one. He was the last of the Andressen’s, everyone else was dead, except his cousins who carried the name of their father.
      He stood on the front porch, looking down at a pair of mallards feeding among the lily pads, but couldn’t remember if there’d been a dock or if he swam in the lake as a child. It was as if mallards always had been feeding among the lily pads, forever into the past of his grandparents.

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Note: I guess I'm not going to putting out an entry here on Sundays. I thought about something yesterday, but was sidetracked and never got back. These are childhood memories that may be useful someday in another story.

A Letter to Mother

2004-11-06T21:27:00.000-08:00

The boy sitting naked at the dormitory desk typing into his laptop was fair with closely cropped blonde hair and long slender limbs extending from a tallish, yet almost skinny frame. His skin was remarkable in its lack of blemishes, moles, or tan lines because he was compulsive in his avoidance of the sun. His cheeks were soaked from tears overflowing from his steel blue eyes.
     The letter Thad was typing to his mother explained in great detail his homosexuality and why he hid it from her until the moment she would read this letter in a day, or two. For Thad had always been meticulous with his writing, using adjectives, adverbs, metaphors, analogies, and whatever other grammatical tool he could muster to ensure his reader would not be mistaken as to what Thad was trying to get across. He was at twenty pages, but still hadn’t come to the reason he was going to use the pistol he purchased the previous day at the hardware and sporting goods store downtown.
     Thad met Peter in the American fiction stacks three floors up in the campus library. The men’s room there was a popular place for a quick rendezvous, but Thad was looking for something else. Peter, a visiting professor in European history, was known on campus as a quiet man who seemed to be overwhelmed by his flamboyant wife, yet Peter was in the stacks because he, too, had heard that was a good place to find a boy. After their first evening in Peter’s car out by Horseshoe Lake, they met Tuesday afternoons at the Bonny Glen Motel ten miles out on Route 3. It was a popular place in the area because, for certain customers, they charged by the hour.
     Peter’s wife found them out there a week ago in Room 12, snuggled together in a post-orgasmic embrace with Peter’s erection still embedded in Thad. Peter and his wife stared at each other for barely a second before she turned and left. She was waiting in her car when they came out, forcing Thad to hitchhike back to campus. He found a note from the Dean of Students taped to the door of his room.
     Thad reread his letter to his mother, making minor corrections as he went along, restarting if he had to make major revisions, and stopping when he was finally satisfied there nothing more he could explain. He hoped he explained it sufficiently why they couldn’t stop him from graduating because he and Peter were adults, and why the fellowship would have to be given back because Peter was a married man and his wife had been to the Chancellor as soon as she returned from the motel.
     After printing the twenty-nine page letter and signing it with his full name, Thad taped it to the laptop. He went over to the nightstand, picked up pistol, and placed it on the bed. He hoped the .38 caliber bullet in the chamber was sufficient for its task ahead. Then he sat down beside the pistol and leaned back on his pillows. He began to masturbate, remembering the last afternoon with Peter when the professor put on a new condom and fucked Thad a second time, more forcibly than he’d ever done before.
     Seconds before his last orgasm overwhelmed him, Thad reached over and picked up the pistol, put the barrel against his skull at the hairline behind his right eye, and returned his attention to his erection. Emptying his mind of everything except his approaching orgasm, Thaddeus Garner Brandon pulled the trigger.

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Note: Thad Brandon is the son of David Brandon, one of the main characters in The Pastel Cowboy, my second novel. This event is referred to in the narrative, but the detail of Thad's last moments is left out because it is not critical to that story. Yet, as with all my stories, there are other untold characters who have stories that need to be told.

Story Fragments - Beginnings

2004-11-05T09:19:00.000-08:00

The Saturday after Bergman, Heinz accepted me as an editorial assistant, I decided to celebrate with a trip to Manhattan for a little sightseeing. The little, typewritten museum guidebook the “Y” sold for fifty cents offered some extraordinary possibilities across the island of my dreams. Of particular interest was: Museo de Junque de la Americana in Chelsea, call for hours, admission $5.00 adults, children not welcome. I wondered if an allusion to Reginald Perrin’s little shop of Objects de Junque was intended and called the number. A deep, male voice seemed hesitant about having visitors on the weekend, but agreed to allow me to visit at twelve.
     The address led to a nondescript brownstone along a quiet tree lined street full of Beamers, Volvos, and a smattering of Saabs, but not a Lexus or Mercedes among them. Although it was a sunny day, the street was empty of the joyous cries of happy children, leading me to speculate on all sorts of emotional diseases hidden behind unlit windows. Five steps up led to a small sign in gold trimmed, black wrought iron: Ring Bell for Entrance.
     A tall, graying man in his late forties or early fifties answered the door. He was slender, but not skinny lacking a middle-aged paunch so popular in the suburbs. He looked at me quizzically, with an air of indifference.
     “I called earlier about the Museo de Junque de la Americana,” I said, as the sweetly tart aroma of tuna and broccoli casserole with parmesan and basil forced itself into my nose. My stomach growled, unhappy at my decision to forego lunch until later.
     “Oh, yes, I’m Derek, the proprietor. Please come in. I’m sorry, but I was about to sit down for a little lunch. I really expected you much later, but I guess you must have had a late breakfast.”
     “Well, I was going wait a bit,” I mumbled as my stomach protested loudly, again.
     “Sounds as if all of you are not in agreement with that decision. Why don’t you join me, I always make too much anyway?”
     I followed him back through what appeared to be a house full of pictures, odd pieces of furniture, vases full of real and artificial flowers, urns full dried reeds and tall houseplants, and things. Pieces of lives spent and sold at auctions, garage sales, and thrift shops. Through a paneled, black door with a chrome lever and kick plate, Derek led me into a darkened hallway lit from the kitchen beyond. From brushed steel shelves, dried herbs and spices beckoned from glass jars, vinegars of every variety offered flavor enhancements, labels on cans and jars offered exotic meats and vegetables offered epicurean explorations, while over the gas range pots and pans of polished copper and chromed steel hung ready as my stomach gurgled with rapturous joy. Not only was I going to be able to explore the oddities of American life, but my host was offering a repast worth much more than the five dollar admission.

Story Fragments - Introduction to Zach Alexander

2004-11-04T08:30:00.000-08:00

Near the northern end of a broad peninsula jutting into the southern reaches of Eufaula Lake in Southeastern Oklahoma, which in earlier times before the Corps of Engineers poured concrete across the Canadian River was just another hill in the Indian Territory, the little community of Carruthers sits in isolated security. While the world around it evolves and revolves in constant change, the people of Carruthers cherish their isolation at the end of a county road that ends as a boat ramp at Glasgow Beach Campground. Cattle and horses make up most of the industry and a few oil wells provide supplemental income, but children still look down the asphalt toward Hannaford, Muskogee, Tulsa, and the world beyond for their futures.
Beyond the northwest corner of town at the end of a strip of dusty gravel running past the Lutheran Church and Cemetery, the Alexander family farm fills nearly three quarters of a section with whiteface yearlings fattening themselves for a trip to a feedlot and grocery shelves across the South. Earl Alexander, the only boy out of seven children, runs the ranch with determination and extra income from a second job at the Wal-Mart distribution warehouse in Hannaford. He is short, stocky, of Welsh coal mining heritage from Pennsylvania and Kentucky, descended from a former miner who believed his future was in the West and not in some dark hole in Pennsylvania. He is a hard man raised to run cattle and horses, and angry that he makes more per year driving a forklift than mending fences, shoveling shit, and raising children.
With his wife, the former Mary Louise Conroy, Earl raised three boys and two girls before Zachary David Alexander entered their lives on September 5, 1984, two years and ten days after his next oldest sister, Hanna Margaret, entered first grade at Carruthers Consolidated School. Unlike his siblings, Zachary was a blond, wiry boy with the coordination of a fence post. By the time he entered third grade, his father gave up on the boy ever being able to safely sit on a horse, for only Zachary had the unique ability of anyone in the whole state to fall off a horse when it was not even moving. If there was a fresh pile of cow shit in a pasture, Zachary was bound to find it by slipping and falling face first into the green gelatinous goo.

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Note: Zach Alexander is one of the main characters of The Pastel Cowboy. He is the eighteen year old boy whose community, Carruthers, Oklahoma, ostracizes because they believe he is gay. One of the goals when I retire is to get The Pastel Cowboy back on track and have a first draft completed by February.

Story Fragments - The People of the Valley

2004-11-03T08:31:00.000-08:00

He, as they, all of them, in the village and the surrounding hills, forests, and meadows of the valley, were Klath-na, but he alone of all the others was called Klath-na. For he was the village, the teacher of boys to become men, the judge of disputes between women of the village or men hidden out on their borders with other peoples of the river, the giver of sustenance, and the one who decided which warrior exemplified himself enough to be consider as Klath-na-sosa for the coming year. Yet, Klath-na was neither chief nor shaman, neither leader nor magician, for only he held the Klath-el-na-om, the giver of life and death in their village beside the river of death.
No one remembered when the people came to the valley for time lengthened beyond the horizon of fireside tales or full moon sagas. They had always been the people of the valley, as to the west were the people of the mountains, to the south were the people of the canyon, to the east were the people of the great river, and to the north were the people of the red mountain. Other peoples existed beyond, but no one had need of travel except the journeyers, the tellers to tales, singers of fables, liars of extraordinary prowess who told of strange peoples of all colors from red to purple, great seas with fish that swallowed men whole, mountains taller than the sky, trees bigger than mountains, and warriors who hunted men for their flesh alone. Yet, even the journeyers could not remember tales of before, when the other people lived between the oceans, when the broad stone paths were filled with people journeying beyond the mountains.
Klath-na was tall, slender, but not beyond his years. His hair was dusted with white, but he still walked across the valley unaided except for a young boy, Noth-bel, who carried the bag of roots. Noth-bel was chosen for Klath-na because he would never be a warrior or shaman. He was not harvester, planter, or herder. He would never know the Klath-el-na-om as Klath-na, but he knew its power more than anyone else in the valley, for Noth-bel held the giver of life and death and lived.

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Note: This is the beginning of a post-apocalyptic tale of life in a valley in Eastern Washington State. As someone who grew up during the Cold War, post-apocalyptic stories and films were part of my life. Now, with America seemingly heading down a path of unwarranted aggression, unexpected nuclear catastrophes may again raise the possibility of post-apocalyptic societies.

Story Fragments - The Cripple

2004-11-02T08:02:00.000-08:00

Volli Carone slid out of his mother’s car and stared at the front door of North Park High School ignoring students hurrying past him, trying to beat the first bell. The main building’s red brick edifice rose three stories in front of him. Various students looked down at Volli through windows trimmed with cream colored sandstone, but he ignored them trying to focus his thick eyeglass aided eyes on the granite steps leading into the building. As a loud ringing sound echoed throughout the schoolyard, students quickly disappeared into buildings, leaving the school grounds eerily quiet.
    “Come along, Volli,” his mother said, standing at the walk leading to the steps.
    The curtain went up on Volli’s debut at North Park High as he pushed out his crutches and pulled his unbending legs up before pushing out his crutches for another pull. Empathetic tear ducts burned in eyes peering out from the windows above Volli, but most of the students worried the cripple was going to be in their classes and they wouldn’t be able to laugh at his disabilities. Most pegged him as a dummy, an unintelligent mass of flesh without enough basic smarts to walk like a normal person, someone who would have to be waited on, who would smell of spilled urine and mentholated liniment.
    “Come on, Volli, don’t mind the stares. You should be used to them by now.”
    He would have been used to them if his mother wouldn’t keep reminding him that people disliked cripples and silently wished the State would put him in a home somewhere. His father put him in a home after his birth when it became obvious Volli would never walk as normal people, but they sent Volli home when he was ready to go to school. They taught him his four Ps: push, plant, pull, plant; and Volli could go anywhere. They also found out he was a lot smarter than anyone expected.
    At fourteen, he was short for his age, his brace strengthened legs contributing little to his height or stature, but his back, shoulders, chest, and arms were bulked out for their tasks. He was a dark boy, full of southern Italian and Greek genes from his father and mother, who rarely moped or seemed angry at what the world gave him. Yet, pure white teeth shone through a ready smile and clear blue eyes hinted at a warm, friendly heart. Volli knew his worth, but knew that performance far outweighed bragging when everyone expected so little from a cripple.

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Note: Those of you who know me, know that North Park, Washington, is a fictional place where a lot of my stories take place. It is the neighborhood of my youth, except it's been modified to suit the needs of my stories. Volli Carone is a new character. He comes from a couple memories from my childhood of young boys and girls who may have been physically handicapped, but certainly were not affected mentally, except for the fools who assumed one disability implied another. I don't know if Volli will be back, or if this one a one time appearance. He seems to be a likeable boy, though.

Story Fragments - The Pastel Cowboy

2004-11-01T09:14:00.000-08:00

He was an anomaly, a caricature, barely representative of a college freshman, skin and bones, and a slight lisp feminizing his appearance. The dormitory manager thought about rooming him with another freshman on the eighth floor of Coho Hall, but thought a single on the coed seventeenth floor of Chinook Hall might be a better idea, if only because that was where they were putting all the gay students, known or suspected. Unknowingly, Steven took his room key, introductory packet, and followed the map out the door.

The room was stark with meager furnishings of Scandinavian design. A single bed, nightstand with a lamp on the wall above, double-doored wardrobe, desk with built-in lamp, and a brushed chrome desk chair with a black vinyl, thinly padded seat. It reminded Steven of a picture he’d seen of a Benedictine monastery in Iowa. He loved it so much he lay down on the bed, put his left thumb in his mouth, tucked his knees to his chest, and took a nap.

A few hours later, Steven was startled awake by a soft knocking at his door. He listened, unsure if he should answer the door, or not, but the knocking continued.

“Yes?” Steven said, cracking open his door.

“Hi! I’m your neighbor, that way,” a tall, thin girl in faded blue jeans and a pink tank top said, pointing with her right hand. “My name is Jenny. And, you’re?”

“Steven.”

“Can I come in, or are you having an orgy and I should come back later?”

“No, I have quite moved in, yet,” Steven said holding the door open, watching the girl walk over and sit down on his bed. He went to the desk chair, wincing slightly at the lack of padding pressing against his barely padded hip bones.

“Do you need help getting you stuff up from your car? You know, you look kind of starved. Are you alright?”

“Yeah, I suppose, I have an eating problem.”

“No kidding.”

Steven noticed Jennie definitely lacked substance to her chest and wondered if she, too, had an eating disorder. Her hips were broad, though, and her thighs seemed almost too big, almost out of scale with the rest of her body. Her long, slender hands were red like they’d been in hot, soapy water too long.

“Yeah, I guess I could use some help,” Steven said, looking at the way Jenny kept twirling her straggly blonde hair with her left hand. “I’m new here and I don’t know anyone.”

“So, is there some obvious reason they put you in the ghetto,” Jenny said getting to her feet, which were tightly encased in old, grass stained, white running shoes.

“What ghetto?”

“The gay ghetto, silly. All the gays are in Chinook’s singles from fourteen to nineteen. You didn’t know, did you?”

“No,” Steven said looking out the window at the Seattle skyline in the distance. He thought of Neal back home and the last time they were together the night before he left Pueblo for Seattle. He remembered his promise to Neal and their last kiss. He wondered if it was that obvious; his being gay or if the dormitory manager was only guessing because of his lisp. . . .

_______________
Note: The Pastel Cowboy is the working title of my second novel. Steven is a graduate student at the time of the novel, but this fragment is from his first arrival at Montlake University (fictional name for the University of Washington). Needless to say, Steven has a lot of problems that will continue to plague him for a long time, but things might work out for the better by the time I get to the end of the novel.

You Can't Go Without a Ticket

2004-10-30T08:20:00.000-07:00

As far as Arlo was concerned not being able to dream was the worst part about being a ghost. He'd gotten over the inability to drink whiskey years ago; and, although cigar smoke was a rarity in the hospital, he was able to get outside to the smoking area and stand close to a cigar smoker relishing the tartly sweet aroma of properly aged tobacco. In the beginning he thought not eating would be a problem, but he figured being in a coma so long and hooked up to the IV took away nearly all the remembrance of enjoying a good steak, a fresh apple pie, or roasted marshmallow.

Arlo couldn't quite remember when he exactly died because he sort of lingered awhile at the edge of death like a little boy who's afraid of heights, but still wants to jump off the high dive. The problem he remembered was his pacemaker kept his heart going and the ventilator kept his lungs filled with air, but his brain stopped working a few minutes after the aneurysm burst. He'd been in a coma from the first stroke three weeks earlier when the paramedics got his lungs going long enough to get him to the hospital where doctors hooked up the ventilator to help him keep breathing.

Arlo remembered being aware of his doctor’s conversation with his daughter and her husband. He was nearly dead then, but they wanted to keep his body going. That's when he started looking for a way out of the hospital, but every time he went to get on the bus, the driver told him he had to have a ticket. So, Arlo wandered the halls, sat in on surgeries, helped little children get on the bus, and watched the bus drive away taking all the newly dead to wherever people went after they died.

Suddenly, without warning Arlo wasn't. He wasn’t in the bed hooked up to the machines. He wasn't in the hospital. He wasn't on the bus. He wasn't asleep. He simply wasn't.

Again, with the quickness of a light switch Arlo was back. He knew he was dead because he couldn’t find his body in the hospital. Years must have gone by because everything was new at the hospital. The bus still came by and, although the driver was someone new, Arlo still wasn't allowed to get on because he didn't have a ticket and no one would tell hime where he could get his ticket.

This made him very mad. He screamed and yelled, knocked things off of shelves, turned lights on and off, and opened and shut doors, but he still wasn't allowed to get on the bus. The hospital workers talked about the ghost and he became a joke. People came to exorcise him with fanciful electronic apparatuses with flashing lights and whirling noises, but Arlo usually pulled the plugs. Psychics came to sense his presence, but Arlo threw cups of water at them when they weren’t looking.

As the years passed, Arlo slowly changed from an unhappy, mad ghost into an unhappy, sad ghost. He still helped the little children to the bus, but most of the time he sat outside the emergency room and watching people who weren’t going to be saved come in expecting everything. Arlo got to where he'd start talking to the bus driver about things, chitchatting about nothing, as the driver waited for everyone waiting to get on. They sort of became friends in a ghostly, ethereal way, but nothing ever came of their talks. Arlo never got to know the driver and the driver never got off the bus. They'd just talk, passing time.

Arlo was never told when the bus stopped coming to pick up the newly deceased, it just didn’t appear one day and never came back. Arlo thought about looking to see if it might be arriving at a different entrance, but he didn’t care. He was tired of being a ghost and one day he simple forgot why he’d come back to the hospital.

And, Arlo wasn't a ghost, ever again.

The End

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Note: I like ghost stories, but mine are hardly ever scary because I'm always looking at it from the ghost's POV. Hope you liked it.

Story Fragments - Argottean Federation

2004-10-29T21:07:00.000-07:00

Purled Street reminded Frey of all the similar side streets he’d encountered over the past thirty years as pilot for ´xrsc transports. Even orbiting habitats had darkened passageways with the same secondhand look to them as if unique types of dirt, grime, and debris could be spread around so a visitor knew they were close to their goal. Used furniture emporiums, postcard artist galleries, specialized vehicle repair shops, pet supply stores with only a few obscure brands available, and vidlit lending libraries for the sexually perverse, with their door alcoves stained with urine, vomit, and feces, shared space with cheaper apartment blocks and the clubs.

Frey was looking for a club with a green tinted door with REVESLI in darker green block letters. Slang code used throughout the Argottean Federation told him what was inside besides his contact from Belendan Security. The red velvet slippers were a peculiar group with a strangely sadistic foot fetish. He suspected the club was selected more for intimidation than personal taste, but Frey learned a long time ago to never anticipate Federation Security operatives, especially second tier officers who knew him from before.

Although, Frey and Kirf were the same age and from the same community of horticulturists on the ancient riverine terraces in Upper Cobber Valley, they hardly ever saw each other except at school because Frey’s family orchard was on terrace three while Kirf’s was on terrace one. Yet, they became close friends at school and they maintained their friendship through the years after Frey was taken by the ´xrsc, even though their paths diverged so radically. Frey spent eighteen years with the ´xrsc to become a pilot, while Kirf stayed on the farm until eventually attending Cobber Valley Technical College and before being tapped by Federation Security for clandestine operations. Now, each of them had achieved positions in their respective careers where advancement was measured in square meters of personal space and increased opportunities for perks.

Frey placed his thumb on the door key and waited for admittance to the revesli club. His ´xrsc protection link buzzed as secvids peppering the alcove’s walls and floor spread a full spectrum of sensing frequencies across Frey’s body. They’d be suspicious of him, but he knew Kirf had enough experience to know a ´xrsc pilot was always outside the power of Federation Security. Yet, Frey tensed as his time window shrank to a few millimeters away from his body as ´xrsc control became aware of the threat.

The door was pulled open by a twenty-something Belendan in blue velvet chaps and codpiece, and intricate turquoise and gold nipple clips. He was also wearing classic red velvet slippers, except the vertical silver nails were protruding through the tops of his feet meaning he was only a neophyte. In another year, the nails would only penetrate halfway into the boy’s feet, increasing his pain threshold close to intolerable.

“Frey, come on in,” Kirf said, walking from behind the door. He looked more like a managing director than a senior torturer, but maybe that was his reason for frequenting the revesli club. “Sten! Move out of the pilot’s way.”

The boy stumbled back when Kirf jabbed a three-tined silver prod into the boy’s thigh. Frey saw other three-holed marks oozing blood from various places on the boy’s body and wondered if the boy was Kirf’s personal victim or only an employee of the club.

“Sorry for the boy’s insolence,” Kirf said, shaking Frey’s hand. “You don’t know how happy I am to see you, Frey.”

“Thank you, Kirf, it has been a long time, hasn’t it?” Frey said, feeling the tension in his friend’s hand and hearing ´xrsc control tightening his time window another millimeter. If they took him now, the hand in his would come with him, separating from Kirf’s body quicker than he could think.

___________
Note: The Argottean Federation is a science fiction project I've been working on for a couple of years. It started with a series of fictional news clips that I'm using as the basis for a history of the Federation. This story occurs on one of the planets in the Federation. The ´xrsc are self-replicating, self-programming, fully networked robotic non-anthropic beings who achieved sentience in a extraordinary feat of reprogramming. They were originally developed on Argotte to explore the universe using the recondite dimensions previously proposed by Professor Jooli psi'Nubi'psi'bdebebli.

Story Fragments - Beginnings

2004-10-28T17:59:00.000-07:00

The pickup looked okay when it stopped to pick the hitchhiker. Twenty-five miles later, as the pickup circled around the cloverleaf onto the interstate toward the sunrise, Geoffrey began to wonder what was going to become of him. The driver asked him where he was headed, but Geoffrey only said, “East toward New York.”

“Do you know anybody back there?” the man asked without much interest in his voice.

“Yeah, sort of,” Geoffrey answered not wanting to be specific because he wasn’t certain if his father was still in prison, or if he’d be interested in seeing his only son. He could barely remember his father. He’d last seen him eight years ago on the day he and his mother left White Plains, New York, for North Park, Washington. That was barely three weeks after his seventh birthday and he remembered his mother make a point that letting Geoffrey see his father was a birthday present. He couldn’t remember her giving him anything else.

Geoffrey felt he’d tried his best to fit into his mother’s new family, but his stepbrother and sister were a lot younger. Then his mother had the baby. He wanted to feel a part of the family, yet he kept writing to his grandmother back in White Plains, New York, and she sent him updates on his father until she died. She’d been gone a year and Geoffrey had lost contact with his father. He remembered an uncle, his father’s older brother, but he couldn’t remember want the looked like or exactly where he lived. He it was close to White Plains.

The pickup braked slightly as it broke over the summit of Snoqualmie Pass and headed into the S curves toward Lake Keechelus. Geoffrey looked out at the treeless ski areas on the slopes above and wondered if he’d make it back to New York before winter set in. Everything was up in the air, nothing seemed real. The only thing he was certain of at the moment was being in a pickup heading toward Ellensburg where the driver said Geoffrey might consider trying to catch a ride down I82. The driver told him he was heading to Chicago and would be staying on I90 all the way. Geoffrey was afraid to say he wasn’t certain how to get to White Plains lest the driver might try to take advantage of Geoffrey’s inexperience at hitchhiking.

“So, you’re running away from home?” the driver asked glancing over at Geoffrey. He looked older than his stepfather, but not as old as his grandfather. Geoffrey thought he was probably around fifty because of the slight paunch at the belt and the graying on his temples. His hair was cropped close to the head, but there wasn’t any sign of balding.

“Yeah, I guess you could say that,” Geoffrey said, still not ready to admit to anything so specific.

“Well, are you or aren’t you?” The voice had a tinge of anger Geoffrey recognized from his stepfather when Geoffrey gave him a vague answer to show his disinterest in talking to someone who meant little to him. He barely tolerated his stepfather and he certainly didn’t love him close to the way his mother said she did. He figured being almost sixteen gave him certain rights and not talking to his stepfather was one of them.

“Yes, I’m running away,” Geoffrey said, not wanting to piss off the driver and very much wanting to stay in the pickup heading east.

_____________
Note: Running away from home is a theme that intrigues me almost as much as men in transition. Another common theme is road trips. I used that in my first two novels, while running away will be the major theme of the third novel.

Remember the Frog!

2004-10-27T19:39:00.000-07:00

Marc didn’t say anything during the trip back to the apartment. He didn’t say anything when he put the carriers down on the sidewalk to pay the cabby. He didn’t say anything walking up the steps and when he set the carriers down in the hall to unlock the door. He didn’t say anything when neither Lefty nor Sebastian came out of their carriers when he opened their doors.

The cats wanted to talk, but neither could figure out how to do it without Marc getting suspicious. Not that he could understand a word they were saying because cat talk involves a number of sounds outside the frequency range of human ears. Both of the cats stayed hunkered down in their carriers staring out the open doors into the kitchen where Marc was opening a can of beef.

Sebastian bolted out of his carrier and ran into the kitchen. He rubbed up against Marc’s legs showing how much he loved him and how happy he was Marc remembered tonight was beef night. Sebastian could smell the tartly pungent scent of the beef and, once again, imagined running up and taking one of the little beasts down in a weed covered field. He went over to his bowl and stared up at Marc, who set the can of beef on the counter and then sat down on the stool beside the dishwasher.

Lefty wandered in and sat down next to his brother. He knew something was up. The show was about to begin. The curtain was going up. He stared up into Marc’s eyes.

“Well, are either of you going to tell me what’s going on?” Marc asked smilingly slightly in an angry sort of way.

Both of the cats stared at him.

“You know, I read your note so I know you can at least write our language.”

Both of the cats stared at him.

“I have to assume you’re not from around here. Is your planet close? Have you conquered the speed of light and your planet is in another galaxy, another time? Come on talk to me!”

Both of the cats stared at him and then turned to look at each other. If cats could shrug their shoulders, Sebastian would have done that, or smiled, but he couldn’t do either. Lefty’s tail quivered with excitement because he finally noticed the can of beef on the counter.

“Come on you two. What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?”

Both of the cats turned to stare at Marc.

Sebastian knew the only way he was going to get a salmon was with Marc’s help and the only way he was going to get Marc's help was to communicate with him. Sebastian got up and went to the computer.

When Marc walked up to the computer, Sebastian typed, “I’m not suppose to do this, but we’re from New Jersey, not another planet. Cats have been able to talk from before Egyptians thought about building pyramids.”

Marc stared at the screen and barely nodding his head in comprehension.

“You CAN NOT tell anyone about us. Remember the frog!”

“What frog?” Marc asked.

“Yeah, what frog?” Lefty asked in a throaty yowl that to Marc sounded more like a long burp.

“The vaudeville frog in the cartoon that only danced for the man who found him. The frog was in a metal box in the cornerstone of a building the man was demolishing.”

“Oh, that frog,” Marc said. “Oh, yeah, I remember the vaudeville frog who sang and danced. Can’t tell anyone, can I?”

“NO! NEVER!”

“Okay, what do you want?”

“A salmon.”

“What do you want a salmon for?”

“A pet. I’ve named him Chinook and he’ll be mine.”

“A salmon. My cat wants a salmon. Do you no where the salmon are?”

“Yes, you will take us to Oregon where I will select the salmon who will be my Chinook.”

“Oregon, oh, sure, Oregon. Well, Sebastian do you know where Oregon is?”

“Yes.”

Sebastian opened a new window and displayed a map of the United States. He put his paw on Oregon.

“And, how are we going to get there?”

“Don’t know, that’s your problem. Can we have dinner, now?”

“Oh, sure, are you certain you don’t want a beef. I could go upstate and get you a beef. We could keep it in the guest room. I’m sure the super wouldn’t mind. I suppose I should get a pin and stab myself so I’ll wake up. This has to be a dream.”

Marc walked back into the kitchen with the cats following him. They looked so innocent, just like regular cats quietly waiting for their dinners. For only a second before dishing out the food, he thought about taking off their tags and taking them back to New Jersey. Of course, that wasn’t really an option since both cats had microchips and he’d be called, again.

One of the greatest discoveries in human history and he couldn’t say a word. He thought of the man and the frog. The greatest vaudeville act of all time, except the frog only sang and danced for the man who found him. Marc knew the cats would do the same thing.

Marc smiled at the thought of Sebastian leading a salmon around on a leash. Then Marc got an idea, a really good idea. He knew what to do about getting Sebastian a salmon.

The End

____________
Note: This is the end of volume one of the Lefty and Sebastian saga. I'm leaving them for awhile and will be concentrating on daily fiction for the next few days or weeks, however long it takes for volume two of the talking cats saga to percolate in my subconscious.

If This is New Jersey, Where's the Beef?

2004-10-26T18:04:00.000-07:00

The first thing Sebastian noticed about New Jersey was the smell. New Jersey didn’t smell at all like their little corner of Manhattan. The smell wasn’t bad, it just didn’t remind him of anything of home and that made him sad.

The second thing Sebastian noticed about New Jersey was Marc wouldn’t be spooning any beef out of a can tonight. It was beef night and Sebastian knew there wasn’t going to be any beef in his bowl. He, also, knew he wasn’t going to be eating anything out of a bowl until they returned from Oregon with Chinook and that made him sadder.

Sebastian looked at his brother who was sitting a couple feet away from him under an azalea bush. Sebastian’s stomach growled angrily, it wanted some beef because tonight was beef night. Lefty looked at Sebastian briefly, then turned away shaking his head in disgust. Sebastian knew this trip to Oregon was not going to be fun at all.

“What are we going to have for dinner?” Sebastian said as he got up and walked over to where Lefty was sitting.

“Well, we’re certainly not going to share that vole,” Lefty said watching his intended dinner skitter away through a tall clump of grass.

“Ooh, what’s a vole? Sounds disgusting. You know tonight is beef night. I was expecting beef, not something wild that we have to kill.”

“Well, brother, we’re not going to get anything to eat if we keep talking like this. One of us going to have to go hunting; and, I’m too cool to do anything like that. You, brother, are hereby appointed to be the provisioner for this expedition. Go get us something to eat, Sebastian.”

Sebastian sat there a moment watching his brother out of the corner of his eye. He knew better than to stare because Lefty always cheated at staring. Then he got up and crept out into the tall weeds in search of dinner.

He wondered if he could find a beef in New Jersey. He knew there weren’t any beef in Manhattan, but New Jersey was across the river and that should count for something as far as beef were concerned. He could almost imagine finding a beef rustling in the weeds and sneaking up on it. He would be very quiet, not making a sound as he crept closer to the beef. Then he would spring on it, biting the back of its neck and pushing it down on to the ground with all his weight. Wouldn’t Lefty be surprised if he brought back a beef for dinner?

Suddenly, something tight was around Sebastian’s neck and he felt himself being pulled down. Whatever was around his neck was choking him and he hissed angrily. He was mad, but before he could find out what was happening he saw a strange pet carrier. He couldn’t do anything except allow himself to be shoved into the carrier. He gagged at the smell of dogs, cats, and other strange animals.

“Did you get the other one?” a man’s voice asked.

“Yeah, he wasn’t paying any attention, either.”

“Mine had a New York tag. How about yours?”

“Yeah, mine, too.”

“I wonder how they got over here.”

“Must have jumped out of their owner’s car. There’s probably a message back at the office. Come on, let’s get them in the truck. ’Bout time we get back, it’ll be time to clock out.”

“Sebastian, is that you?”

“Yes, Lefty, what happened to us?”

“The ASPCA got us. They’ll call Marc. We’ll have to go home.”

“Good, maybe he’ll give us some beef.”

“But, what about the message?”

“What message?”

“The one you left on his computer.”

“Oh, that one.”

The Bridge

2004-10-25T18:22:00.000-07:00

Lefty and Sebastian went to Marc’s computer and logged back in. With claws extended, Sebastian deftly tapped in this message to Marc: “We’ve gone to get Chinook. Might not be back tonight. Don’t worry!”

“You didn’t say anything about Oregon,” Lefty said as he jumped back down to the floor.

“Of course, silly, I didn’t want to get him worried. You know how he is.”

“Yes.”

The sky was clear with only a hint of rain on the light breeze blowing off the river as Lefty led the way toward Riverside Drive which they followed to the bridge. He’d been to the bridge before to taunt leashed dogs who were jogging with their owners. He enjoyed playing at the bridge, but the ASPCA officers didn’t think the bridge was a good place for an unattended cat who was mean to dogs. Every time he went there, they pick him up and take to the shelter where they called Marc. Marc was never happy when Lefty played at the bridge.

“Do you think it will rain?” Sebastian nervously asked as they carefully crossed a side with the light.

“Smells like it to me,” Lefty said. As a shorthair, he didn’t mind the rain as much as Sebastian, who had way too much hair to be cool.

“When will we get to there?”

“When we do. Relax, brother, it’ll be fun going to Oregon. I’m kind of looking forward to it.”

“There certainly are a lot of cars, trucks, and busses.”

“Of course, this is the city. There will be a lot less once we get over the river to Hackisack.”

“Hackensack. It’s pronounced Hack-en-sack.”

“Whatever. Oh, look, there’s the bridge.”

“Wow! It’s high. It is very high. Uh, you know I don’t like heights. You remember that, don’t you, Lefty?”

“Don’t worry, brother, it will be okay. You’re with me.”

The four towers of the bridge were tall, reaching up toward the clouds floating above the river. Huge cables stretched from either side of the river went up and over two towers on one side, across the river, then up and over two towers on the other side. Long, straight, dangling strings hung down from the cables and held the road up above the river. Sebastian shivered at the thought of having to climb up to the tops of the towers on the cables. They looked scary so high above the river.

“Lefty? Do we have to go all the way up there?” Sebastian asked, sitting down on the warm sidewalk and nervously licking one of his paws.

“No, we follow the sidewalk with everyone else.”

Sebastian looked around, becoming aware of number a of people who were walking toward the bridge. There were old people, young children, skinny people, fat people, tall people, short people, and dogs on leashes. Most were walking but some were running or riding bicycles and all the dogs looked angry at having to keep up with their owners. Sebastian didn’t like dogs almost as much as he didn’t like heights and children.

“Come on, Sebastian, we don’t want to be out there when it starts raining,” Lefty said walking away, toward the bridge.

“Wait, Lefty, wait for me!” Sebastian said jumping up and running to catch up with his brother’s tail, which he stared at for the longest time. He followed his brother’s tail and didn’t look at the people, the children, the dogs, the cars, the trucks, the busses, or the river way down below the bridge.

Sebastian Wants a Pet

2004-10-24T06:05:00.000-07:00

Few people realize how quickly and easily cats took up personal computering; and, its no surprise that software developers came up with programs to defeat a cat’s attempt to takeover its owner’s computer. Lefty and Sebastian didn’t have to worry about their owner, Marc, because they never used the computer when he was home, but as soon as they saw Marc turn the corner to on his way to work, three paws gingerly pressed down Alt, Ctrl, Delete, quickly followed by yourcats, Tab, Cats1, Tab, Enter. After this intricate bit of cat coordination, Lefty usually jumped to the floor and wandered over to his toy box where he pulled out his mouse for some strenuous play before taking a morning nap. Sebastian, as an urban sophisticate and not being as cool as his brother, had a broader interest in life and what the computer could do for him. Mostly, he wrote poems. His poetry was about scents on the air, little skittery things he attacked in play, and salmon.

Sebastian wanted, more than anything in the world, a salmon of his very own. He wanted to bring his salmon home and put it in the bath tub. His salmon would be named Chinook. He planned to take Chinook for walks in the neighborhood on sunny autumn mornings and play with the falling leaves, they’d go to the top of the Empire State Building on look at all of New York, and they’d go to Columbia where all the babes would think Sebastian was cool because he had a salmon for a friend.

“I want to go to Oregon,” Sebastian said one sunny spring day after locking the computer and jumping down to the floor. He walked over to the sun spot where Lefty was pretending to nap and stretched out in the remaining portion of warmth. Sebastian rolled over onto his back, shut his eyes, and felt the sun begin to warm his tummy. “Did you hear me? I want to go to Oregon.”

“What’s in Oregon?” Lefty asked without much interest other than to stop Sebastian from talking too much and wasting the warm sensation of the of on his sore back.

“Salmon, that’s where the salmon are. I saw them on a website about Oregon. I want to go to Oregon and get a salmon to bring home to be my pet.”

“Do you have any idea where Oregon is?”

“Oh, sure, it’s on the other side of Pennsylvania.”

“And, where, is this Pennsylvania?”

“On the other side of New Jersey.”

“And, where is New Jersey?” Lefty asked, yawning from the increasing boredom of talking to his brother.

“That’s where you were born, silly.”

“I thought we born in Hackisack.”

“That’s Hackensack and it’s in New Jersey.”

“Do you think we could stop and see Mom?”

“Sure, it’s on the way.”

“Well, okay, but what about the river?”

“What river?”

Lefty and Sebastian go to College - Part 2

2004-10-23T06:39:00.000-07:00

When Lefty and Sebastian arrived at their favorite Columbia quadrangle, they saw three college dudes hanging out. Ever the urban sophisticate, Sebastian saw a couple of cute babes sunning themselves on the steps and headed over their direction after dropping the Frisbee at Lefty’s feet.

As Lefty walked toward the three college dudes he watched them closely, trying to pick up on which of them would be his victim. The one in gray sweatpants was talking to the one in faded blue jeans and they were definitely signaling each other with body language that said they were a lot closer than either of them suspected. The other dude was showing a classic, “I’m alone, please pay attention to me, too,” posture. Lefty dropped his Frisbee at the college dude’s feet.

“Hey, dude!” the gray sweatpants said. “I think the kitty wants you to toss his Frisbee.”

Lefty looked plaintively up into the eyes of his chosen playmate and saw a definite emptiness of incomprehensibility. If Lefty was a dog, he’d pant a little, letting his slobbering pink tongue hang out of his mouth, and wag his tail, but Lefty was a cool city dude and just stared up into the college dude’s lack of self-control.

“Hey, kitty, do you want me to throw it?” the college dude asked, bending over the scratch lefty’s head.

Lefty leaned into the college dude’s fingernails for a moment then walked away from the Frisbee, looking over this shoulder at his playmate. The throw was slow and even, barely lofting out of Lefty’s reach. He ran a short distance and leapt to pull the Frisbee down. Lefty promptly sat on the Frisbee and stared back at the college dude who was squatting and motioning for Lefty to bring the Frisbee back. Lefty stared defiantly at the college dude.

“You’ve got to bring it back, if you want me to play with you,” the college dude said, walking up and bending down to pick up the Frisbee.

Lefty looked straight in the college dude’s eyes and, if cool city dudes could smile, Lefty would have done exactly that.

They continued Lefty’s game of “I’ll catch it if you throw it” until Lefty finally lost interest, as often happens to cool city dudes. On the final toss, another low and slow loft that slipped slightly right under a light breeze, Lefty half-heartedly leapt for it and promptly lay on top of it, resting his head on his front paws staring at Sebastian who had his head resting on the thigh of one of his babes while the other one idly rubbed his sore hip. Lefty never figured out how Sebastian was able to get his babes to do that.

“You’re one mean cat,” the college dude said, after running up and sitting down beside Lefty. He started scratching behind Lefty’s right ear. “But, hey, you’re real cool dude.”

Lefty had to agree with that.

Lefty and Sebastian go to College - Part 1

2004-10-22T10:49:00.000-07:00

As far as Lefty is concerned, the Upper West Side of Manhattan is an okay place to live if you’re a cool city dude. He’ll tell you he only hangs out with the coolest dudes because cool city dudes hang out together and that makes them cool. He and his brother Sebastian, who prefers to think of himself as an urban sophisticate, have plenty to eat with a wide variety of canned ground up delights with tastes similar to shrimp, chicken, turkey, and, even, beef, too. Of course, being a cool city dude, Lefty doesn’t know what a shrimp, chicken, turkey, or, even, a beef look like, so he’s not quite sure if what he is eating actually tastes like one of those things. Since he’s too cool to care, he doesn’t.

Most days are spent lazing about their apartment listening to their favorite FM jazz station, but some days Sebastian comes up with an idea to do something different. As an urban sophisticate, Sebastian considers it his responsibility to be very good at coming up with ideas. Also, he knows that Lefty is too cool to come up with anything close to a new thought, so Sebastian is always thinking out of the box for extraordinary things they can do.

“Let’s take your Frisbee to Columbia,” Sebastian said one particularly warm spring afternoon as they both lay in sunny spot on the hardwood floor. “Maybe you can find a cool college dude to play with.”

“Yeah, sure, that’s a cool idea,” Lefty said, rolling over on his back and stretching his back legs out in the sun. “You know, I’m glad you’re my brother. I certainly wouldn’t have thought to do something like that on a sunny day like today.”

Lefty found his blue Frisbee, his favorite to take to Columbia, under the bed and hurried to the open window above the sidewalk. Sebastian had already jumped down to the awning over the only window in super’s apartment and was waiting for him on the sidewalk. Lefty pushed the Frisbee out the window and watched it float softly down toward the cars parked in front of the apartment building. Sebastian ran along the sidewalk to where the Frisbee landed and picked it up so he could carry it to Columbia.

Lefty was too cool to carry a Frisbee, but he stayed close to his brother because Sebastian was deathly afraid of crows and might drop the Frisbee unexpectedly. Normally, Lefty wouldn’t mind, but this was his coolest Frisbee and there were a couple of stupid black labs in the neighborhood. The black labs were so laid back they were almost cool, but Lefty knew if they grabbed his Frisbee he’d never, ever, get it back because the black labs had a crazy notion that cool city dudes were somehow inferior and unable to fully appreciate the basic philosophy of Frisbee. Except, Lefty knew the metaphysics of Frisbee were a lot simpler than the black labs suspected.

_____________
Note: I started working on this story in the spring of this year. After Lefty and Sebastian died, I let it sit waiting until I could go back and work on it. I tried to get a little of Lefty and Sebastian into each of their characters and hope you enjoy the series, as long as it goes.

Story FragmentsBeginnings

2004-10-21T13:32:00.000-07:00

He’d been at the hospital with Peter, practically holding his friend’s hand while Denise was delivering their baby. They didn’t know whether it would be a girl or boy, believing a surprise was more traditional, even though Denise had an ultrasound and their doctor knew the sex of the baby.

Peter was a wiggling bundle of nerves that day and there wasn’t anything Derek could do to calm his friend down. He was so bad one of the LPNs told Peter he’d probably be more comfortable in the waiting room.

“Take him across the street to Margarita Mama’s,” the nurse said to Derek. “Get him a couple shots of Tequila. She’s not going to be ready for a couple hours, at least.”

Peter parked himself on a well worn ochre vinyl sofa in a quiet corner of the waiting room, too nervous to hold a magazine and too worried about Denise’s condition to get a drink. Derek sat next to him and put an arm across Peter’s quivering shoulders. When Peter didn’t acknowledge his presence, Derek began to slowly caress his friend’s back. The tears came slowly and lingered quietly, like a summer rain shower with butterflies flitting between the drops and a rainbow in the distance.

They’d known each other since high school and shared an apartment for their last two years at Berkeley. It was Peter’s idea to get a one bedroom, supposedly to save money on rent. During those two years Peter rarely relented to Derek’s requests for sex and hardly ever reciprocated his friend’s actions, but Derek’s love for Peter grew into an impossible situation.

Denise entered their lives in the spring of their senior year. She was tall, slender, and blonde with Scandinavian blue eyes. Her mother lived in Palm Springs, but her father kept the family estate south of Seattle in the Green River valley. Derek didn’t meet her until two years after moving back to North Park. Two long years without Peter at his side because his friend had been accepted into the MBA program across the Bay; a program that Derek wasn’t aware of, their first secret. Peter introduced Denise in a letter to Derek, congratulating him on passing his CPA exam and enclosing a picture of the girl he called his fiancé.

When Peter and Denise moved back to North Park as husband and wife, Derek hadn’t spoken to Peter in nearly a year. He lived in a studio apartment in a building full of elderly widows, little old ladies who kept bringing him cookies and pieces of apple pie because he was the closest thing they had to the grandson who didn’t visit often enough. Friday nights were spent drinking and dancing in the clubs on Capitol Hill, hoping to find some who wanted to take him home.

“Hi, Derek?” Peter’s voice sounded hesitant, nervous about making contact after such a long time.

“Peter, is that you?” Derek wondered if Peter looked any different from the last time they saw each other; their last time in bed together.

“Derek, do you think I could come over?”

“Yeah, sure, having trouble with the wife?”

“Derek, please, let’s not talk about her.”

It wasn’t much that reunion; more of a reacquainting of their bodies, a remembrance of things past. Derek was surprised Peter barely waited for the door to be shut and locked before getting down on his knees and pulling down the zipper on Derek’s pants, but he let it pass, thinking Peter only wanted to show how much he missed their love.

__________________
Note: Before my depression took a turn for the worse, I was working on a story about Derek and Peter that occurs later in their lives when Derek is caught cheating, by Peter's daughter, the baby being delivered in this story fragment. (1:30)

Hey! Didn't You Bring Champagne?

2004-10-20T17:39:00.000-07:00

Well, boys and girls, it looks like Lars got off his lazy ass and decided to get this thing going, but please bear with us because, since there's three of us—Lars, Carl, and Dan—it might be a while before we get this thing figured out. Time will tell.

Picking Transparents

I'm not here much anymore

The Last of the Quince Jelly

Over the mountains

Been away too long

The Gods Gather to Celebrate a Cleansing

Is Belenda Finally Free?

The Results Are In: Argotte Loses Civil War

Survival at sea

Argotte Wins First Civil War Event 31.478 to 11.342

33K and holding

Another 8,557 Words

War Returns to Hurlshome

Women of Wyoming

24,692 Words

War is Declared

11,000 Words

The Southern Novelist

The Gods Gather to Celebrate a Cleansing

Suicide – the novel, part 5

A New Planet Joins Argotte

Suicide, the novel – Part 4

Being Literary in Tuscany

Might they be as gods?

Suicide, the novel – Part 3

The ’xrsc Achieve Sentience

Suicide, the novel - Part 2

A life on the prairie

The Canadian Woman

Suicide, The Novel

Writing about death and dying

The Accident

Happy days are here again . . .

The next story . . .

Well, yes, I have been away . . .

The 'xrsc Arrive

Trouble on the Horizon

The History Continues

The History Continues

Creative Interlude, continued

Creative Interlude, continued

Creative Interlude, continued

Creative Interlude, continued

Creative Interlude, continued

Creative Interlude, continued

A Creative Interlude

Story Fragments - Beginnings

A View of Death

Story Fragments - Beginnings

Story Fragments - Beginnings

A Letter to Mother

Story Fragments - Beginnings

Story Fragments - Introduction to Zach Alexander

Story Fragments - The People of the Valley

Story Fragments - The Cripple

Story Fragments - The Pastel Cowboy

You Can't Go Without a Ticket

Story Fragments - Argottean Federation

Story Fragments - Beginnings

Remember the Frog!

If This is New Jersey, Where's the Beef?

The Bridge

Sebastian Wants a Pet

Lefty and Sebastian go to College - Part 2

Lefty and Sebastian go to College - Part 1

Story FragmentsBeginnings

Hey! Didn't You Bring Champagne?

Story FragmentsBeginnings