Norval's Outlook

The Price of Friendship, A Novel

2011-02-16T22:12:00.000-08:00

Almost two years ago the weekly prompt at Great Hites Podcast was "A pound of flesh." I wrote a quick 1500 word story about an eighth grade boy who has an 'onerous debt' to repay. I thought it would run it's course and I would finish the story off in four or five more short episodes. Today I hit 50,034 words, thus making it an official novel. I'm winding it up and should be able to put a lid on the first draft in about 5000 more words.

I had previously record eighteen ten minute episodes and released them either on Great Hites, which has since discontinued podcasting, or on Compassion 365 which ran during 2010.

I have edited those first 18 episodes again, and will record them over again as well, but combine them into 9 twenty minute episodes. The balance of the book, which has not been recorded before, will likely fall into 6 to 8 more episodes. Since time to focus on projects has become extremely limited, rather than creating a new blog, or dedicated website, I will use this blog site to talk about "The Price of Friendship"

The audio episodes will be released through www.podiobooks.com

So keep an eye on this site, and in the next two to three weeks, you might start seeing updated information about my podcast novel.

In other news. our forth issue of The Flagship of Flying Island Press is coming out, if not already, in the next day or so. I get to work with a group of talented people as we put together the bi-montly issue of science fiction and fantasy short stories, available in audio, and most electronic formats, such as; Kindle, Nook, and ePub.

Check out the website at http://flyingislandpress.com

A Journey through Space

2011-01-28T07:18:00.000-08:00

I finished the last book of Nathan Lowell's Trader's Tale series. It's available through www.podiobooks.com. I've listened to all of them downloaded from that site through iTunes. The stories are Quarter Share, Half Share, Full Share, Double Share, Captain's Share and Owner's Share. They take place in a era call the Golden Age of the Solar Clipper.

Nathan created a plausible world of worm holes, jump drives and solar sails where the brave, or desperate, travel through space to move cargo from one system to another. The story is not really about science or space travel, it is really about Ishmael Whong, his grown and experiences.

Did I mention it's free? All books through podiobooks.com are free to download. The recommended donation of $9.99 is just that, a recommendation, you don't have to pay it. As a side note, for books I have started and lost interest in, I have skipped the donation. But for Nathan's books, I felt it was well worth the ten bucks. He gets $7.50 of that and in comparison to the royalties from the sale of a single print book, that's pretty good.

I'm still working on my own book that I will submit through podiobooks.com, The Price of Friendship. I am on my 23rd episode and at about 43,000 words. I have recorded the 1st 18 episodes before and released them on various podcasts, but have re edited them and will record them new after I have completed the 1st draft of the complete novel. (10,000 words to go.)

Otherwise, check out what were doing at http://flyingislandpress.com and see what we have for you to put into your Kindle, Nook, or other eReader.

Tide at Midnight

2010-10-20T12:37:00.000-07:00

I wrote this story for a contest at www.rawdogscreamingpress.com I didn't win, but had a fun time writing. The prompt was based on the book Sheep and Wolves which takes a sympathetic look at zombies. The idea was to write a story that makes the reader sympathize with another type of classic monster. I chose goblins.

Tide at Midnight

A midnight wave of glistening ebony bodies burst onto the field and flowed unimpeded across the broad, barren plain. Their crooked bodies, naked except for long, filthy loin clothes, were hunched. Their hairless heads gleamed in the pale light of the waning, bloated moon. They screamed their hatred through yellowed razor-sharp teeth as they lurched across the expanse to confront their enemy.

Red and shining like fresh blood, a crimson wall rose up from the very ground to meet the wave. They hissed and pawed at their fellows in line, raising long, parallel stripes of blood with their jagged claws; yet they impatiently held their position.

Black met red with the roar of a hurricane as goblins from both sides howled in pain and fury. They tore at each other’s throats and raked festering talons across emaciated bodies. Red and black fell together to be trampled beneath the gnarled feet of opponents and companions alike.

The moans of the dying and ululations of the victors were drowned out by the maniacal chanting of the crowds in the stands.

Each side of the stadium rallied to outdo their opponents across the playing field. “Midnight, Midnight, Midnight,” the home team fans howled and waved black silk banners that whistled and snapped from the ends of tall wooden pikes. The visiting team responded with “Crimson, Crimson, Crimson,” and created an eerie atmosphere as they spun glowing red hoops above their heads that whirred and rattled with each revolution.

On the field the Midnight Wave formed a wedge and put pressure on a weak point in the Crimson line. High above in the stands, the fans roared their enthusiasm and anticipation of a victory.

“We’re going to win.” Shreeda stood on the wooden bleacher and shouted down to her date, where he sat, leaning his knobby elbows on equally knobby knees. He retracted the claw he had been using to work a piece of raw meat from between his front teeth. He glanced toward the playing field but only saw the boney bare backs of his fellow high school students.

The Midnight High students jumped and hooted their enthusiasm as the wedge offensive found an opening in the weakening Crimson High lines. The gleaming black demons successfully pushed through and raced toward the visitor’s goal set atop a stone pyramid. A crimson pennant hung limp in the windless air, barely visible in the dim light of the setting moon.

Amid the roars of the hopeful teenagers, Shreeda sat and raked her extended talons, painted midnight purple, lightly across his back between bare shoulder. He felt goose bumps climb his back and arms. He glanced up and gave her a weak smile.

“Creege,” she said close to his ear; her hot, fetid breath on his cheek was alluring. “What’s the matter? We’re winning. You should be happy.”

“We’re winning, this time, sure,” he said. “But it’s all so pointless and cliché.”

Creege sat up and looked his date in the eyes.

“What are we,” he asked Shreeda, and answered the question himself, “goblins. What do we do? We scream and hiss. We claw and bite. We fight and we die. And for what? Nothing. We never win, I mean, when was the last time you read a book where we came out on top? It’s never us. Sometimes it’s the orcs, but it’s usually the humans. Why do you think that is?”

“Um,” Shreeda stammered and asked, “because we don’t write the books?”

Creege rolled his eyes and opened his mouth to speak. As one, the crowd gasped and then roared in dismay. Shreeda jumped to her feet, straightened her loin cloth and clambered onto the bench to get a better view of the playing field.

She screamed down to him, “the Crimson have a squad that broke through and are racing toward our goal. They had hidden reinforcements that are defending their goal. If we don’t get through them to their goal quick, they’re going to get to ours and we’ll lose.”

“Midnight, Midnight, Midnight,” the crowd chanted then broke into shrieks and screams as the home team pushed through the defenders to capture the visitor’s pennant.

Creege stood up among the screaming, jumping, euphoria in the bleachers. Teenagers laughed, hugged, bit and clawed each other in congratulations of the hard earned victory.

Below, a thousand black and red goblins were indecipherable shapes heaped in piles and scattered randomly about the starlit field.

Creege took his giggling, bouncing date by the shoulders and turned her toward him.

“Look at them,” he shouted over the bedlam and pointed at the field. “They’re dead. They’re all dead. And for what? To show which high school is best?

He scrubbed his hand across the top of his pointed, hairless head and squeezed his knuckles against his protruding brow. Shreeda smiled from ear to pointed ear as she surveyed the same field that caused Creege such distress and confusion.

He dropped his head forward and asked, “and what about those that lived? Will they go on to die in the next competition? Or will they just be sent to the human plain to die in battle against dwarves and humans? It all seems so futile.”

“Really, Creege,” Shreeda said and rolled her eyes. “It’s not like they have souls or anything.”

Two other females bounced up and fluttered around Shreeda. They prattled mindlessly. “Wasn’t that just the most thrilling match? It was way better than last week. That one went way to fast. We’re going to get a pizza. Do you want to come? You can bring your friend.”

The taller of the two leered at Creege. She licked her top lip with a glistening, pointed, red tongue and winked a jaundiced eye at him.

Before she could ask him, Creege said, “No, thanks, Shreeda, you go. I think I’ll just sit here a while.”

“Ok, whatever,” she said and hurried away down the bleachers, chattering with her friends.

The End

The New Job

2010-05-16T21:14:00.000-07:00

As of tomorrow morning, I'm starting a new part time job.

It's only two hours per day, and I can do it right from home. But to do it, I need to make some changes in my lifestyle.

The job is to become a writer.

I've fiddle around with it for some time. I've written a few stories, taken an online writing course, and improved my skills.

Yet, I waste a lot of time on unproductive activities. Namely, MMORPG's. I love them, and have played them for six or seven years now. I've been successful in my game play and have amassed fortunes in the various monetary systems of the game.

But when I stop paying the monthly fee, all that goes away and I am left with nothing.

The new plan is to eliminate the hours spent playing online games, go to bed by nine o'clock, get up at 4:00 am and get my writing done. My daily writing time will increase from 0 to 50 minutes per day to 45 to 120 minutes per day. (Mainly in the morning, as that is when my best thoughts and description comes.)

It is already past 9 pm, so I'm going to stop writing and get to bed.

I'm looking forward to tomorrow morning.

Monday update

2009-07-27T12:48:00.000-07:00

I have considered for some time that I should have a weekly update of what I am doing. I was going to do it on Saturdays and call it my "Saturday Evening Post". I found that Saturdays are bad for doing something regular like that.

Maybe Mondays will work. I'll try.

What I am doing...

I had fun last night when Mick Bordet of the "Some Other Scotland" podcast sent me a script with some lines for me to record. This is my first attempt at adding my voice to a podcast drama, and since SOS is one of my favorite podcasts, I feel honored. It is in episode 14. We'll see how I sound.

I listened to all the episodes of "Give Blood and Thanks" (Warning: Explicit for language and violence, so far.) Danny Machal does a such a great job with his recording and story telling, it motivates me to improve my recording and delivery and get my podcast story started.

My story, currently being seriealized and presented on the Great Hites weekly podcast, 'The Price of Friendship' is on its sixth episode. I have written enough, about 5000 more words, to make another 4 episodes. I still have a lot of story in my head. I have mentioned to some that I intend to do 30 to 40 10 minute episodes.

In a month or so I will have a room in my house that I can dedicate to family hobbies and will make a corner for my recording. Right now I record in my bedroom. The computer is right next ot the mic and the air conditioner is outide the window, so I get a lot of sound. When I can get a better quality sound, I will start re-recording the episodes.

I continue to write new short fiction, every week, for the 100 Word Story, Weekly Challenge, at www.podcasting.isfullofcrap.com and The Great Hites podcast at www.greathites.blogspot.com .

I have another story that I am writing for an editors world. I thought I had a pretty good story, but...Well, he really tore it apart. He told me not to be discouraged, but it was pretty staggering to my fragile ego. I'll get after it tonight, and see if I can redeam myself, at least in my own eyes.

Finally, I have my local writers meetup group tomorrow night. I am a bit discouraged about it as well, in that the writing presented is so outside my taste. I know that I should be open minded and read others work to broaden my understanding and improve my skills. However, this month, one of the stories centers around the life and life style of a gay man, and another is how a woman is selling her "spirituallity coach" business through writing about herself. Both of which are unappealing and almost distasteful.

I am considering finding a writers group on line, that might be more in alignment with my beliefs and/or standards.

Heroes

2009-07-11T14:10:00.000-07:00

I have gotten some good feed back about a story that I wrote for The Great Hites podcast, called Heroes.

The prompt was arriving at the airport.

My original thought was to have several snippets of conversation from a number of different groups, all about who their heroes are. My first intent was to slam some of the people that are looked up to as heroes.

I think that Brittany Spears is the epitome a poor role model, and has claimed that she is not. However, our youth idolize these pop stars and try to emulate them. Add to her crowd, the sports starts that use steroids or take part in other illegal activites, and we don't have much for our youth to look up to.

The ideal is someone who is famous, but doesn't work hard to get where they are. That is my perception.

The honest hard working hero of my fathers youth is nowhere to be found.

Back to the story.

It all changed as I was writing. When the Sargeant Major showed up, and started talking, I ended up listening to his story and felt like it was him and the young soldier that I needed to write about. Some things that I wanted to bring out, but didn't do a good job at, or didn't have time to develop were that the Sergeant Major recieved a battle field commission, and was actually retired as a major. But, more importantly, he had been an important man with a lot of responsability. He probably had 200 to 300 people working below him. But now, at age 65, he was also adrift, still relatively young and wanting to be active but not knowing exactly where he needed to be or what to do. His conversation with Parker helped him define what he would do for the rest of his life.

Well, here is the story, if you haven't read or heard it yet: (Thanks for listening, we'll see you next week...)

‘Heroes’

A young man, dressed in blue jeans and a long sleeve shirt, unbuttoned at the neck, slumped down in his seat at the airport terminal waiting area. The summer vacation season was in full swing, but he wasn’t on his way to some exotic and exciting destination. He’d had more than his share of exotic and exciting in the last year.

He watched the ebb and flow of humanity as it passed through the airport and felt uncomfortable and edgy in the crowd. All the seats in the waiting are were taken. Families with excited children grouped together in seats or on the floor leaning against the wall. Business people paced around or spoke on cell phones while other seasoned commuters dozed or read magazines.

An automated message played over the speaker system, “All military personnel and their families are invited to relax between flights in the USO, located on the second floor of terminal C”

A girls voice rang out in a clear soprano above persistent murmur, “Look, Mom, there’s Whitney Steers. I wanna be just like her.” She jumped to her feet and pointed at a tall slender woman who was flanked by two large men in dark suits.

“Don’t be stupid, Julie.” A boy, who by his looks and attitude, could only be the girls older brother. “That’s not Whitney Steers. She probably has a private jet. Besides, who would want to be like her, she’s such a loser.”

“Jeremy, don’t be mean.” Julies mother told the older boy.”And don’t call your sister stupid.”

Julie watched the woman disappear into the crowd and started to sing one of the pop stars hits. Dressed in white shorts and pink tank top, she shifted her hips seductively and sang the suggestive lyrics with an accuracy and inflection that could come only through the obsessive familiarity of a true devotee.

Her mother seemed uncomfortable with the amount of attention her daughter was getting, and tried to hush the girl. “Julie, sit down, you’re making too much noise. You’re bothering people. This isn’t the place for that.”

“Yeah, you’re embarrassing me.” Jeremy said and hid his face for emphasis. “Besides, you look more like Rhoda Dakota.”

Julie sat, stuck her tongue at her brother and got out her hand held game.

A large group of men in military uniform ambled past the solemn young man. He noticed that their uniforms lacked decorations other than their names and rifle marksmanship badges. A few had the rank of private. The rest showed no rank at all. He recognized them as recent graduate from basic training. No doubt on they were on their way to their advanced training. He slouched further down into his chair, covered his eyes with his hand and feigned sleep. He was careful to cross his right leg behind his left.

The voice of one of the men in the group broke above the general chatter of the crowd, “It’s an hour before our flight. Lets go get a drink.”

“Chill Wittacker,” another said. “When we get to Fort Sam we can hit the “O” club every night, and the drinks cheaper on post, than you’ll pay in an airport.”

“Chill? You chill, Banks. I can show you chill.” Wittacker was getting agitated and leaned his chest into Banks who only came up to the first mans chin. “You wanna make me chill?”

“Come on,” A third man said, “let’s go wait at our gate. Maybe there will be a bar on the way, and Witt can blow his spending money, if he wants.”

There were murmurs of agreement from within the group and they moved off.

The man in the chair lowered his hand and watched the cluster of servicemen migrate through the airport. His hair was trimmed short at the ears and back of the neck, and tapered to the short cropped hair at the top of his head. If he had fallen in with the crowd that had just left, he could easily have appeared to be one of them.

"What's the problem soldier?’ A deep, gruff, voice said from the seat next to him. The young man looked to see who addressed him. He was a large man, not fat, but he had obviously been very muscular in his earlier life. He was African American and old enough that the white stubble of what was left of his hair was a sharp contrast to his dark skin.

The highest, or top, ranking non commissioned officer in an army unit, usually a first sergeant or sergeant major was often referred to as Top. The appellation conveys a familiarity, yet the deepest respect. The young man sized the older up, and replied, "I don't know, Top. I'm retired. It's not what I expected."

The older man nodded, and spoke to air in front of himself. "You're right, there. I spent my last ten years as Sergeant Major in a training battalion. I've seen thousands of young men come and go. I can recognize a soldier, and I can also tell when something is getting him down." He paused and looked at the younger man.

"I'm retired now, too, so I know what you mean," he said, leaning on his knees. "What's you name, son?"

"Parker. Matthew Parker. My friends just called me Doc." He sat up straighter, but kept his knees crossed.

"Medic? Hmmm." He glanced at Parker. "You said they called you Doc. Your friends don't call you that anymore?"

"I don't have that many friends anymore," Parker said looking away. He coughed and took a deep breath to cover the sudden flare of emotion that threatened to close off his throat. He composed himself and looked back to the Sargent Major. "Did you plan to stay in for so long, you know, and retire, when you first joined?"

"I didn't join, Parker, I was drafted. Straight from the back woods of Alabama. Eighteen years old, and had never been more than 50 miles from home. I was ready to spend my entire life on that little farm where I was raised. I didn't know anything else.

"You could imagine how I felt, six months later, finding myself on patrol in the back woods of Viet Nam. Fighting for my life. I had my share of friends that I called Doc, too. I wouldn't be here right now if it wasn't for one of them."

Parkers felt his face go hot, and his chest tight, "Well, it sounds like he did his job like he was supposed to." He felt sudden guilt at the vehemence he heard in his own words. "I mean, with all due respect, Top, he must have had to keep a cool head to help someone while under fire."

The older man laughed a rueful laugh and shook his head, "We walked into a booby trap rigged up with Claymore mines, probably stolen from our own supply bunker. There were no cool heads then. We were all scrambling, and screaming and crying like a bunch of school girls. Everyone, but me, that was. I was in a daze, my head ringing from the blast. I didn't have any idea that shrapnel had torn through my arm. I was bleeding to death and didn't know it. Doc held me down and kept pressure over the wound until we could get evacuated.

"I was back in action in just a few weeks, and not a month later, I was holding Doc in my arms, as his life bled away. That first unit showed me what it meant to be a soldier. Those men were my brothers. I would have gladly given my life to save any one of them. I was one of the few, from that group, that actually came home." He looked at Parker, until he returned the Sargent Major’s gaze. "I guess that's why I stayed in. To help train other young men, so that they would be prepared for what they would find over there, and be able to come back home, too."

Though Parker stared blankly at the old man, he did not see him. He saw himself, back in Iraq, riding in a Humvee, joking with the members of his patrol.

"Nice and boring," Cooper said, "Just the way I like a patrol."

"Yeah," Watson said, "but right now I would like to be patrolling the mess hall. What's the hold up out there?"

"It's a check point." Levine snapped. "You know, those places where we stand and hold up other vehicles, and make them wait, when they’re in a hurry? It's karma. It's just our turn to wait."

Our turn, Parker thought.

There was a flash of light and Parker was laying on the dirt road. Everything was silent and his right leg was numb. It wasn't silent, he realized, his ears were ringing. He began to feel pain in his leg that increased as he thrashed around. As his hearing slowly returned, he began to hear the moans and cries of people thrown down in the blast. He rolled onto his side to find the Humvee. He could only see pieces of twisted metal, scattered bodies and fire. Among the wails and screams of the locals he could hear the members of his patrol, his friends. They were calling for him. "Doc, help me." "Doc, I can't see." "Doc, I don't wanna die."

He tried to get up but the nerve endings where his right leg was torn away erupted into new levels of agony. He tried to crawl in the direction of the burning Humvee. "I'm coming," he shouted, "Hold on, I'm coming." The overwhelming pain and the loss of blood conspired against him and he passed out.

"I lost them all. Every one of them." Tears were streaming down Parkers face. "They called me Doc, and I let them down. I let them all die."

"All I ever wanted to do was serve my country. And when I got to train as a field medic, I thought, shoot, here's my chance. I could help my buddies at the same time. Top, I failed. I failed my country and my friends." He wiped his face with his sleeve.

The Sergeant Major looked at the young man for a few minutes, pondering something. Then he said, "Parker, I know it won't help much right now. But down the road, in a few months, or maybe a few years, remember what this old soldier said. You're a hero. You were there to do your job, and you wanted to do it. I saw plenty of men in my days, just turn tail and run when their buddies were on the ground crying for help. Just left them there to die. You would have helped them, if you could have. We don't always get our chance when and how we expect to. You'll get your chance to help, someday, if you keep looking for it."

"Final call for boarding of flight 1442 to Birmingham at gate 19. Please have your boarding pass ready and board at this time." A pleasant voice said over the speaker system.

“That’s me. I’ve got to go.” The Sergeant Major said and stood. Parker got to his feet as well, the right leg of his pants camouflaging the prosthetic leg completely. The older man handed Parker a business card that read, 'Wilson Garfield, SGM (Ret)'. "If you ever need to talk to someone, give me a call. And I mean anytime. If your ever near Tuscaloosa, look me up. My wife makes veal parmesan, just like they do in the mess hall." He started to turn, but stopped and looked Parker in the eyes. "You're a hero son. A hero. Never forget that."

He watched the Sergeant Major leave through the gate, and said as the door closed behind him, "Thanks Top. If anyone would know a hero, I think you would.”

Standing taller than he had in months, Parker walked to his own gate, with a limp, perceptible only to himself.

This Week

2009-05-19T07:40:00.000-07:00

Im going to Arizona this week to attend a conference of The Association of Childrens Prosthetic and Orthotic Clinics. (ACPOC) It has been years since I last attended a conference, and I am really looking forward to renewing my focus by hearing what others are doing, and what my be new and innovative in my field.

I figure that I will have ample opportunities to write; downtime between presentaions and in the evenings. (I'm not a partyer or really very social.)

Guy David's podcast 'Night Guy' #100 came out this week and he gave me a chance to share my oppinions about what the future holds. There were quit a few contributers, so it is a very diverse and interesting podcast.

I just caught up with all the episodes of the "Some other Scotland" podcast which is an interesting and unique approach to sharing an altenate history story in a podcast. I am loving it, and reccomend it to anyone. So far it is very family safe. It is by Mick Bordet who has a wonderful Scotish accent; he is easy to listen to and draws you into his beautifully discribed world. He has also started contributing on 'Great Hites' short story podcast and has shown what an extenive talent he has.

I have a number of stories that I need to post, but am a bit lazy, and busy with preparing for the trip to Arizona. Besides, you can find them on all the other sites where they are posted. (See my blog list.)

Guess Toast

2009-04-25T19:28:00.000-07:00

This week I had a new experience. I was invited to guest host the Great Hites podcast. It was a lot of fun and I learned a lot while doing it. I mainly learned that I sound like a robot when I try to just talk. I feel like I am getting better at reading my stories, but I found when I was doing into's or commenting on someone elses stories, I was a bit stilted.

The most fun was making up some feedback. Here it is:

Here is some feedback from someone named William Shatner. He says:

Excellent story, Mr. Roche, I think Gene would have liked it, if he were still around to read it. As captain of the enterprise, there was one thing I always liked to tell myself… Peace or...UTTER DESTRUCTION...it's up to you. Take that for what its worth, Scott. Oh, and if you ever need a good price on a hotel room, just tweet me @therealenterprisecaptain, and I’ll negotiate something special for you.

(Thanks Mr. Shatner, coming from someone who spent so much time in the enterprise, that is a real compliment)

Here is some feeback from Barak Obama:

Dear Jeff, I and all the chiefs of staff love your podcast. I have my speech writers working on an entry for the anniversary episode #52. I think that the prompt ‘It's been a year what I have done with myself’ seems like an appropriate subject for this administration. We’ll see if they can get it written in enough time for me to record it.

(Thanks Mr. President. We’ll look forward to your entry, It will be kind of like a state of the union address with out everyone standing up and applauding all the time.)

OK, here is another one from someone calling herself Hillary Rodham-Clinton, she says:

Ashley, I’ve finally found you. Are you trying to avoid me? I miss our late night talks and long walks on the beach. Call me, your cousin, Hillary.

(Hmm. Well, take that for what it’s worth.)

Finally, here is some feedback from someone who calls herself, “Madam Fatima, psychic, fortune teller, palm reader.”

She says “Great Hites is one of the most popular podcasts amongst dead people. They have been sending me E-mails and asking me to forward them on to you. Some examples are:

Elvis says “Thank you very much.”
Marilyn Monroe and John F. Kennedy say “Great podcast, love the variety.”
Ronald Reagan says “Thanks for quoting me, I came up with that myself”
Richard Nixon says “Expletive deleted”
And Shakespear says, “Beware the ides of March”

Well, that’s a little late….oh, (ha, ha, ha) They sent the feedback in February. Typical, huh?
Gene Rodenbury says, "Checking with legal right now to see if there are any copyright violations. ROFL. Not really, love your story Scott, you're doing a great job."
Well, that’s if for feed back.

I probably spent 5 to 6 hours working on the podcast. I'm sure that would cut way down, once I got used to how it is done. A lot of time was spent lining up the music after importing it from an mp3. That being done, would make it faster as well.

I also volunteered to record anyones story that wasn't able to record, or was afraid to. I'm hoping someone will take me up on that. I think reading what someone else had written would really improve my skill at presenting.

Here is my story for episode #50 of Great Hites. I had more people read this before recording than I have ever had before. I found through their feedback, that the theme of the story wasn't clear, and the story was confusing at times. It is one of my favorites so far, and I hope to add to it.

The prompt was "He found himself if a very unfamiliar place. Here it is:

'No Body but you'
　
He woke up to find that he was having a bad day. He could tell that it was, because his body was missing, again. Though it was usually difficult to think clearly when he was separate from his body, it didn't take much mental processing to see that his body was, in fact, gone.
"It must be Wednesday", he thought, "this kind of thing always seems to happen on Wednesdays." He was pretty sure that it was mid-week though he couldn't be sure or the exact day, separated from his body as he was.
He walked across the bedroom floor and ducked his head as he walked under the bed. He didn't need to worry about hitting his head on the bed frame, since his his head was with his body, but of course, it wouldn't occur to him in his current state. He ducked his head out of habit; this is the nice thing about habits, they don't require thought, you just do them. He walked around under the bed, looking in an empty shoe box and behind neglected stuffed animals.
　
It was a pleasant spring morning in New Orleans; it was warm enough for short sleeves, but not at all like the sticky humid heat that would come with the summer. The young family was strolling casually down Bourbon Street. Traffic was light, being the middle of the week, early in the day, and not during The Mardi Gras. Still the young couple was vigilant in keeping their daughter close to them at all times.
As they crossed a small side street, she broke from her mothers hand and dashed up the alley shouting, "Dolly, Mommy, dolly!" The parents caught up to her as she reached a grimy shop window, and peered into the darkness, her nose pressed hard against the glass. The faded gold leaf name on the window identified the shop only as 'Jezareel'.
Through the window they could see in the dimly lit shop, the homeliest excuse for a doll either of the parents had ever seen. Its bald ceramic head was expressionless with its black beans for eyes and a small flat horizontal cleft for a mouth. The body appeared to be made of random pieces of thread, yarn, twine and cloth, wrapped tightly around old popsicle sticks and twigs. Its only clothing was a simple cotton serape, held in place by a piece of yarn around its waist.
The father felt a chill run down his spine as he looked at the ugly doll, discomfort growing with each passing moment. The girl kept her face pressed against the window, trying to get the best view. Finally, he said to the girl, "No, honey, you have enough dolls at home, you don't need any more. Come on, let's go."
Her tantrum was so sudden and violent that both parents stood, shocked, mouths open, staring at what they could not believe was their child. Eventually, they broke from their stasis. They knelt to console the girl and try to convince her to come along back to the hotel. They coaxed, bribed and threatened, but nothing would calm her.
When she stopped her screaming, it was as sudden and shocking as when it had started. With a great sob and sigh, it abruptly ceased. Relieved that the ordeal was over, her parents looked around to see who else had witnessed the embarrassing event.
A woman stood in the open doorway of the small shop. She was as old and dark and dusty as the store itself. So wrinkled and small it was impossible to determine her ethnicity. Was she French, Spanish, or African? They couldn't tell.
"Madam Jezareel sees the dolls little girl," she slurred mysteriously in a rich southern accent. "Come," she commanded them, "The doll must be held."
They followed Madam Jezareel into a shop so small that here was barely room enough for all to sit around a small table without bumping the walls or one another. On the table and on a bookshelf there were bits and pieces; scraps of cloth, snips of thread, beans and soft, grey, clay; to make more dolls, but there were no other dolls near completion.
The old woman placed the doll in the little girls lap, who immediately hugged it around the middle of its lumpy body. Jezareel closed her eyes and began repeating arcane words while moving her hands in circles in the air between herself and the doll. At times she would raise her voice in volume while raising her hands higher into the air. At other times she barely whispered the incomprehensible words. At one point, when she was getting fairly worked up, her hands making great circles, her voice a shrieking wail, she inhaled a bit of saliva, that caused her to pause her incantation. She sat, looking ahead, for a few, long seconds, and made a small cough; then another. At first, it appeared that her coughing was under control, but soon she was hacking and choking, spraying the family with spittle with each wheezing gasp. Eventually, she stood, beating herself on the chest, coughing and gasping for air. Just as the girls parents stood to see if they could help the old woman, the hacking subsided.
She sighed and sat back down, as if this was nothing out of the ordinary. With her chin raised and her eyes closed, she took several deep calming breaths.
She took up her chanting where she had left off, and while it was not as frenzied, she spoke much more rapidly. The now recognizable arcane words and phrases came to a sudden stop. Jezareel sat with her hands flat on the table, eyes closed and breathing steadily and deeply.
She opened her eyes and looked at the doll, still clutched tightly in the little girls arms. The surprise was evident on the old woman's face. She stood again and reached for the doll. The girl was reluctant, but allowed the doll to be taken from her. The old woman held the doll close to her wrinkled face and squinted into its black bean eyes. She supported it by placing her hands under the dolls arms and shook it lightly. "Dear me," she said, "dear, dear, dear, dear, me." Then placing it face down, its stomach on one of her hands, she patted it on the back with her other hand, like she was burping a very small baby. She turned it onto its back, its lifeless stick and twine arms flailing behind it. "My, my, my, my, my", she said, shaking her head.
"Well," she said, an unmistakable note of finality in her voice as she handed the doll back to the little girl who quickly took it and clutched it again to her chest. "Well," she said again, firmly and with a nod. The family understood that they were being dismissed. They left the shop in a daze and wandered back to their hotel as if the unusual evens of the morning had been a dream. All the while, the little girl held the mysterious gift tightly, but lovingly in her arms; evidence that the experience had been real.
　
He crept out from underneath the bed, careful, again, not to bump his head on the bed frame. He scanned the floor, the corners of the room, the furniture and bookshelves. There was no sign of his body.
He went to the door and looked up and down the hallway. To his horror; if he could have felt horror without his body; perhaps his body, where ever it was, was feeling the very horror, that his brain was having difficulty perceiving at that moment; in the hallway outside the bedroom door, was a piece of himself.
He bent to pick it up, but couldn't, naturally, not having a body to pick it up with. But it felt good to be near it, and he did know that if felt good. He followed the bits of himself down the hall and around a corner until he found himself in an entirely foreign and wholly unfamiliar place. He knew the bedroom, the kitchen and dining rooms, the tv room, all places his girl had carried him. He had never been in this tiny room. There were two large white machines, boxes of soap powder on shelves, and brooms and mops hanging from hooks on the wall. Next to the white machines was a large plastic pan with sand in it, and an awful odor exuding from with in. He could smell the odors, hear the sounds, and began to understand what was happening.
With a rush, comprehension and realization he woke him to his dilemma. There, before him, between its litter box and its bowl of water, he found himself in the razor sharp claws of the family cat. With its wicked teeth it tore at his body of string, and yarn and pieces of cloth. Suddenly back in his body he could feel the burning pain of the cats teeth and claws as it chewed on his head, neck and chest.

The 100 word challenge this week was, "Falling Bricks Hurt", and my story is:

Blocks away, across the city park, he set up the complicated apparatus. Multifaceted photoreceptors gathered solar power. He laughed vengefully as he flipped the lever on the clattering machine. A wormhole disintegrated the lower half of his ex-girlfriends apartment building, the upper half of the clay brick structure, subsequently, dropping though.
His victory over the woman, who embarrassed him in front of all his friends, was short lived.
The falling bricks hurt for only a moment, as the last of the upper three floors of apartment building dropped out of the other side of the wormhole, directly over his head.

　

Doh!

2009-04-14T22:42:00.000-07:00

I wanted the post about NAMI.org to be above the post of this weeks stories, where this post is. Please refer to the NAMI post, which is much further down.

Thanks.

This weeks stories

2009-04-14T22:34:00.000-07:00

This week I have taken a mental illness theme. It is often a theme, in my mind. I wrote 'The Dishwasher' first, and then followed the Smelly Rose prompt with a similar story. (But much shorter.)

Here is the 100 word challenge story:

The smelly rose powder told Johnny his mother was going out even before he saw her wearing the dress that showed too much of her legs.
"Don't go out, Mom. Stay home and watch a movie with me." He begged.
Anger flashed momentarily in her eyes. "You know Mommy needs her medicine. My friend, John, said he can get some."
There was a knock at the door.
"Go to bed by Ten. I'll be out pretty late."
Johnny saw a grubby hand with dirty finger nails grasp his mothers arm as she left the house.
Johnny went straight to bed.

I began my recording of 'The Dishwasher' with some philosophy about harmonica playing versus playing the blues. If you want to hear that, you'll have to go to the Great Hites podcast. Here is the story:

The Dish Washer
He picked up the cup to put it into the sanitizer. The handle dropped off and broke into several pieces on the floor. "Why they don't change all these for plastic," he grumbled and bent to pick up the pieces. His hand reaching for the closest piece, he stopped and stood back up. He kicked the pieces under the sanitizer, then quickly looked around to see if anyone had seen him do it. They would make him move the heavy machine and clean underneath it, if he gave them the slightest reason.
He looked into the sanitizer, there didn't seem to be any room for the cup that he held in his hand. It was chock full with chipped and broken coffee cups, cracked and stained plates, and beer glasses so completely covered with hard water spots that they appeared opaque, even frosted.
He took out three of the glasses, moved some coffee cups and replaced the glasses, leaving enough room for the newly handless cup. The rack of cups, glasses and bowls was a fascinating and intricate utilization and conservation of space.
Unhappily resigned that the arrangement couldn't be improved, he pushed the rack shut and lowered the door of the sanitizer. He poked the green button to start the cycle.
Twice he turned from the deep stainless steel sink where the bus boy had dumped more dishes into hot, soapy water; he turned to stop the sanitizer and rearrange the cups. Instead, he stopped himself and went back to hand washing the dishes.
He had been warned; and he knew that they were watching; he could feel their eyes on his back, when they were in the room with him. They told him, "Do it fast. Just throw them in there and they'll come out clean." He heard it from them everyday, each time they caught him reorganizing the cups and bowls for greater efficiency. "Just thrown them in there", he muttered, reaching into the warm suds and rubbing the food off another plate.
He dipped the plate back into the soapy water and lifted it to watch the soap bubbles ooze off the plate and down from his wrist to drip off his elbow. He studied his deformed reflection on the wet surface of the cheap white ceramic plate. He watched his nose grow large and then small as a ripple of soapy water moved by.
"Robert Mc Feergan", the announcer said, and Robert got to his feet and walked across the stage. An honors graduate in Mathematics, he had continued his studies and received his masters and doctorate degrees in Statistics. He could see himself on that hot, June, Arizona day shaking the deans hand, receiving his diploma. As he turned and walked back to his seat, his young wife, with tears of pride in her eyes, blew him a kiss.
"Robert Mc Feergan," he suddenly said out loud to the plate, now mostly dry, in his hand. He held it up. "I present you with the plate of ignominy. The highest award for failure to perform to ones potential. For your outstanding service as a dishwasher, for the ability to clean even the grimiest of plates under the most favorable of conditions, I award you the plate of shame." His voice was raising in both fervor and pitch. "Take it you fool. Carry it with you, for all to see. So that all may no the limitless potential of your ineptitude and incompetence." The waiters were staring in through the open door. Customers were getting from their seats, trying to see the cause of the commotion.
Looking again at the plate, his image faint and deformed, he was revolted. As if suddenly realizing that he was holding rotten meat in his hands, teaming with maggots and roaches, he screamed, "No! I won't have it!" He threw the plate to the floor with such violence that it unbalanced him and he fell forward, striking his head on the corner of the stainless steel sink.
The shock and pain of hitting his head brought him out of his rant, to find himself on hands and knees, watching a pool of blood, on the floor, rapidly growing in size, as his blood flowed steadily from the gash on his head.
The hostess rushed over, "Oh, Bobby. Your head. Here, here is a cold towel. Sit down and hold the towel on your head." Her hand was on his shoulder, and he felt himself turning to sit, and taking the towel from her hand, pressing it to where he felt a sharply dull pain at the crest of his head.
"That's it Bob." The owner walked in. "I've had enough. No more broken dishes, no more screaming rants, no more scaring the customers. Here is your pay, plus an extra day. Take it and don't come back."
"I'm sorry, Jack." He could hear himself saying. "I'm sorry, my head is bleeding."
"I'm sorry, too, Bob, but you have to go. We've tried this and it's not working."
"My head is bleeding," Robert repeated as he got to his feet, he could hear the surprise in his own voice, as if he had just realized why he was holding the towel to his head.
"Go Bob. There's a clinic down the road, you know where it is." Jack took him by the elbow, and lead him to the back door.
The light outside was brilliant and harsh. He squinted up the road in the direction of the clinic. He took several steps in that direction, then abruptly turned to cross the street. Amid the honking of horns and cursing of drivers, he made his way to the liquor store. He stepped toward the door but stopped just short of it, sudden horror turning his insides to water, and he felt a wet warmth running down his leg.
In the reflection of the glass door, he saw a monster. Equal in size and nature to the famous Frankenstein monster. It held its overly large head with one hand, blood covering its misshapen face. In its other hand it clutched a wad of $20 bills. The macabre image faded into that of his own, but as urine pooled around his feet, in shame and frustration, he realized that he couldn't enter the business, in such a condition.
He shoved the bills into one urine soaked pocket. He turned toward the clinic again, but after only a dozen steps he stopped. His head hurt, the world was starting to spin, and his wet clothing chafed his thighs as he walked. He swayed a bit and then sat heavily in the middle of the sidewalk trying to keep the world from spinning around him. However, he soon toppled to his side, vertigo and weakness sapping his balance.
Overwhelmed by his impotence, in pain and self pity, he lay on his side weeping, pedestrians careful to step around him, and careful not to look too closely at him.
He knew that he should go to the clinic, but he couldn't. They would ask too many questions. "What is your street address?" "Who is your next of kin?" "Do you have your insurance card?" "Are you taking any medications?"
Medication! That's what he needed, he shifted his body and looked in the direction of the liquor store. He felt for the money in his pocket. "I just need a drink," he groaned. If he could just get some whiskey he would be alright. He would feel even again, in control. That is why he washes dishes, after all; to buy alcohol. He was too proud to pan handle; still, he needed to get the whiskey, his medicine, to make him feel right, so that he could be himself.
He stood on the front porch of his suburban home staring at the door, the frustrations of the office, like a recent sunburn, persistently aggravating and refusing to cool, even with the passage of time. He stared at the faux antique door knocker, just below the peep hole and in his mind, as if it came directly from a Dickens novel, the knocker took the shape of a human visage. But it wasn't the ghostly visage of a deceased miserly business partner; it was his own. He pointed his finger at the door and shouted, "You know that I should be the one running that place. I'm the Vice president of production! If they would just listen to me, they could be so much more efficient. Instead it's, 'No, Robert, that would take too much time' or, 'Put that idea down of paper, Bob, and we can see if we can whittle it down to make it more cost effective.' It's been three years now, and they haven't used a single idea that I've presented. Why'd they hire me, if they won't implement any of my programs."
He rubbed his face with a sweaty hand, put his key in the lock, and turned it. Strange, the door was unlocked. He would have to talk with Karen; he had lectured her before on keeping the doors locked when she was at home, without him there. He had to lecture her a lot recently; leaving lights on, windows open, going outside in a halter top, and how she was raising their little girl; she was getting a bit spoiled, and only three years old.
He pushed open the door, "Kare?", he called out. "Honey? You left the door unlocked again, you know how mad that makes me," his voice trailed off, as he realized that there was nobody home. As he walked through the door to the kitchen he could see the piece of paper on the table. He stopped and stood just inside the doorway, as if not approaching it, not reading it, would make it not real.
The sun had set, and he had to turn on the light to read it, when he finally approached the letter. "We're gone. Don't try to find us, you won't be able to. I've taken all we need, you can have the rest." 'What more was there?', he asked himself in despair.
He sat at the table and wept. He only got up to go to the liqueur cabinet, filled a laundry basket with as many bottles as he could and returned to the kitchen table, where he stayed for days. The phone range, people pounded on his doors and windows, but he never answered, never even moved. Finally, weeks later, the police came; they broke open the door and took him; filthy, emaciated, barely coherent; to the hospital.
Here were the police, again. He looked up from where he lay on the sidewalk, holding his bleeding scalp. "What are you doing there, pal? Been in a fight?" A cop with a night stick in his had was asking. "You got an address, bum?" The second cop said, "I think you must be a vagrant. You know we don't want vagrants bothering the decent people around here."
He rose on one elbow, looking around, expecting to see vagrants chasing decent people around, threatening them with bad breath and body odor. 'Decent people', he thought. 'I'm a decent person, what about me.' "I'm bleeding" he shouted at the cop, "can't you see I'm bleeding?" He was getting to his feet, to speak to the policeman face to face. "I have more education than the two of you combined," he wanted to shout at them, and make them see that he was a decent man, as decent as any other citizen. All he got out was, "I have more," when the first cop hit him with the night stick.
Riding in the back of the police cruiser Robert Mc Feergan was about to reenter the American mental healthcare system; prison, limited counseling, even more limited medication, and then back onto the street.
'Well,' he thought, 'At least they use plastic cups in prison.'
　

Last weeks stories

2009-04-14T22:27:00.000-07:00

Here are my stories from last week.

The 100 word story was in response to some comments that Lawrence made about Inigo Montoya during the 100 word challenge the previous week. If you have listened to the 100 word podcast, you know that he has a, somewhat, foul mouth.

The prompt was, 'Rusty Steel'.

Inigo lay dead, the thrust to his heart so rapid and deadly that little blood oozed from the fatal wound.
It wasn't a thrust from the shinning, razor-sharp, blade of a master swordsman, like Arnesto Cervantes, nor was it the rusty steel of a clandestine, blackguard, mercenary.
He had no opportunity to use the Agrippa defense and take advantage of uneven ground, or engage in witty banter with his attacker.
He couldn't thrust his fist into the gaping wound and difiantly challenge his murderer.
Lawrence cut him down with an attack he could not counter; an expletive to the heart.

On the Great Hites site, the prompt was, 'And where shall we go for the Honey Moon.'
I thought it would be fun to write a story about weiner dogs, so my story was called 'Hot Dogs in the Park'.

It was a pleasant day in the city park, and though it was the lunch hour, they were the only two there.
He smiled a toothy grin at her, winked his eye, and licked his lips. She looked his way and sniffed the air; It wasn't as if she needed to, she could smell him without even trying. He didn't smell bad, just not very interesting.
He walked over and sat down next to her, as she lay, sunning herself. "Your big head is casting a shadow on me," she said and looked away. Now that he was close enough for her to really see him, she realized that he wasn't bad looking at all.
He stood and walked around to her other side and sat again. She found herself looking directly at his chest; full, nicely shaped and muscular.
She snorted; an awkward, accidental, sound, and she was aghast. She turned to look away from him, again, trying to hide her embarrassment.
He leaned over, his mouth close to her ear. "What do I have to do to keep your attention", he whined, then he laughed.
'Oh, you have it!', she thought. She was getting used to his smell and there was something attractive about it.
"I don't know," she said eventually, "Tell me something interesting."
He thought for a moment. "I'm pure," he said, hopefully.
She rolled her eyes. "That's what they all say. And that's not very interesting, anyway."
"OK," he said, "You have the most alluring, deepest brown eyes that I have ever seen. They draw me and suck me into them, and hold me there; they tell me that I am your pet, that I must be obedient to your every command."
She grinned, and said, "That's close. And very flattering, I might add. But I want to hear something that says, 'This guy is something special!' I want to hear something that Wows me."
He thought for a moment more, and with a gleam in his eye, he said, "I'm a super hero. I can fly."
She couldn't help it; she laughed out loud. "That's one I haven't heard before," she said and laughed again. Her laugh was a magical song that lifted him to his feet. She stood as well and he leaned his chest into her and her scent was an intoxicating perfume.
She playfully pushed her shoulder into his chest, and said, "You are kind of cute, maybe we could meet for dinner some time."
He was overcome by her nearness and nuzzled his nose behind her ear. He licked her neck. The sensation that rippled from her head to her toes was thrilling, but it was sudden and unexpected. She turned her head to look directly in his eyes and said, "Hold on, Turbo. You're moving a bit fast. I mean, shall we choose where to have the honeymoon, first, or just start naming the children." Her comment more biting than she intended.
He was slow; he was a guy after all; but he clearly read the sarcasm in her tone, and was abashed. She could see the shock on his face and the hurt in his eyes, as he looked down. She felt guilty and small. "Hold on," she said, "I just mean, we only met. Let's take our time."
Just then, a woman approached. "Oh," she breathed, "I have to go. I'll see you around, sometime, ok?" She turned and left.
He sat down, dejectedly, to watch her leave, her stubby legs beating a rapid cadence as she hurried after the woman.
Shocked with realization, he jumped to his feet and barked after her, "I'm Fritz! My name is Fritz!" Floating on the wind, he heard her laugh; that magical laugh; and she said, "I'm Schnitzel."
He sniffed the air as her laughter faded away. The laughter would fade, but her scent wouldn't, he could follow her scent forever. He closed his eyes and followed her in his mind; past the post office, the grocery store, the pizza place. As she approached a row of apartment buildings, his senses picked up another smell; he smelled danger.
Without hesitation, he raced to a park bench. Leaping onto it he vaulted himself into the air. Short forelegs extending in front of him, his long ears flowing across the sleek fur of his neck and back, he flew out, over the city, his ultra-canine powers of hearing and scent, alert; he searched for crime.

Easter Sunday

2009-04-14T12:37:00.000-07:00

The combined choirs sang in both the 8th and 10th wards. They sang beautifully, and if I have faith as a minute fraction of a mustard seed, I should have know that they would.

I am a worrier, though, and I think that this weekend nearly killed me. I didn't sleep well and was grumpy and stressed all day Saturday.

We sang "My Shepherd will supply my need." The Mormon Tabernacle Choir has it on a CD, but we did it better.....Well, we did it.

Dixie Tirre sang, "Gethsemane", by Sally De Ford

A quartet sang, "His hands", I think. It was added last week when Sis. Briscoe said that she would like to sing it on Easter. I had heard her practicing it, and was ok with anyone who was prepared to sing. She was joined by Ann Siemore, Abby Siemore, and Le Ann Escobar.

The choir then sang, "Woman why weepest thou", written by Rob Gardner, a personal favorite of mine that is on the CD, 'Witness' by the A Capella group '259'.

Emily Woodward sang a solo, "The Via Dolorosa", that is also on the 'Witness' CD, but I forget the author/composer.

Finally we sang, 'The Holy City', a well known song, and well loved by many.

We had a lot of help from angels singing with us.

My bigest mistake was starting 'The Holy City' without standing the choir, and I didn't die, so I think it went pretty well.

NAMI.org

2009-04-14T12:08:00.000-07:00

I have mentioned before that I direct the choir at my church. I'm not paid to do it, and I am not very talented or experience at it. I do it because it because they need someone to do it, out of love for music, and, of course, out of love for God.

We performed for Easter, and it went very well. If I had a little faith, I would have expected it to go well.

However, I am an 'arm of flesh' type of person, and that leads to stress.

I didn't sleep for the better part of 2 nights, and when I did, I had nightmares about the performance. I had fears that the choir members wouldn't show up, that I would make mistakes, that the program would run long, that people would be restless, inattentive or offended, that I would be embarrassed, or possible just drop dead. (There is a blog about the event itself, further down, if you are interested.)

I self medicated. I joke about it, but, when I am stressed, depressed, or angry, a Monster Energy drink brings me around. It is probably the huge blast of caffeine, but I become more optimistic, focused, and happier after the drink.

Both of my stories this week are about people who self medicate. Both people the type that we judge when we see them on the street, doing what they need to 'get right'.

I have two children that joined our family by adoption who need medication to allow them to be who they are. I know that there are a lot of people that oppose ADHD medications, but my personal experience in the last 6 months has been a positive one. My children have not become passive, sleepy, shells of their former selves. They remain intelligent, inquisitive and actively themselves.

Their birth mothers were both drug users during pregnancy. One was a self medicating schizophrenic.

My hope for NAMI, is my hope for my children, that if, or when, they are no longer under my watchful care, that there will be a saftey net in place for them. Naturally, the safety net of first resort is the family, which I have plenty to fall back on. Secondly, is the Church. But, sometimes people actively lose themselves from the nets that have been placed.

I hope that you have felt the emotion from my stories this week. They should be in the next blog down.

100 word story weekly challenge

2009-04-04T00:36:00.000-07:00

It seems that whenever I send my story in to the 100 word challenge, I end up with my story at the end. I sent mine in on Tuesday this week, to see if it would come in closer to the top. Maybe it is just my imagination, but it seems like the earlier ones, closer to the top, seem to do better, overall.

There was a choice of five prompts this week. The last time there were that many prompt I tried using all of them in the story. It made for a really 'ok' story. So this time I chose one that I liked the best, and that was 'The fencing master'. Here is this weeks story:

"Hello, my name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father, prepare to die!"
He couldn't help it; He read the book three times and watched the movie countless more; each time he stepped forward to face an opponent, the thought came to mind, and he smiled.
He saluted his opponent. At the word 'fence' he advanced three quick leaps to stop, unable to attack.
A shy freshman at the Junior College, he took beginning fencing to meet girls, but could never bring himself to poke them in the breasts.
Defeated, he smiled, and moved the foil to his right hand.

I took fencing my first semester at Junior College, and, on top of my being terribly uncoordinated, I couldn't bring myself to stab the women in the chest, and it seemed like that's all there was, when it came down to me against them...

Two Great Hites Posts

2009-03-31T22:14:00.000-07:00

Here are my entries for The Great Hites podcast.

This weeks, the prompt is 'and none of the answers is savory'. I wasn't paying attention and built my story around, none of the choices being savory. Well, it's close. Here it is:

'Family Matters'

The king stood in the passage just outside the open door to his daughters ante chamber, and watched the ladies-in-waiting hover and fuss like a swarm of helpful bees attending to a single flower. "She is beautiful', he thought as the ladies primped and preened her in preparation for the betrothal feast, just a few hours away.
A son-in-law that would be the most beneficial alliance for the kingdom was not the foremost factor in the kings mind as he negotiated with the eligible men of the surrounding kingdoms, but it was high on the list. He wanted his only daughter to be happy, that was foremost. Ten kingdoms touched the boundaries of his own, or were within a days ride of it. All had varying degrees of hostility or cooperation with his land. Should he choose the son of his most trusted alliance and cement a relationship that was already strong, or pursue the son of his most heated rival and build a bridge to cooperation that had been difficult to achieve in the past? Would allying with this rival, then, offend his trusted friend, and thus shake a fundamental and valued relationship? Should he choose the dim witted, but handsome, youth of one king over the intelligent, but middle aged brother of another? None of the choices had been simple; all had potential repercussions that might prove to be undesirable.
He had made his decision and forged an alliance with one of the more distant kingdoms that produced much of the grain that his kingdom used; It had seaports and was strong in trade with distant, exotic countries. In addition to fields of grain and sailing ships, the kingdom had a prince, the heir to the thrown, a few years older than his daughter. The princess had accompanied the king and her older brother each autumn, since she was eight years old, as the king traveled to the foreign land to secure treaties and trade agreements. It would seem that the princess had been concealing an interest in the young prince for many years; when he presented the idea to the princess of marriage to this young man, she reacted with indifference, and replied, "My desire is to serve the kingdom. If this is what is expected of me, I can do nothing but comply with your wish."
'She will be a beautiful queen,' the king thought, proudly, as he heard her reply, her shining eyes putting the lie to her affected indifference.
The king turned from the door and walked toward the banquet room, where his trusted advisors and ministers were preparing to receive the prince and his envoy, in preparation for the official betrothal.
A scribe, red faced and perspiring sped down the passage and threw himself at the kings feet. "My Lord, I bring the gravest of news. The princes envoy was attacked as it passed through the eastern forests, and the prince was taken hostage. The rest of the entire party were killed, save a single squire. He reached our gates only this very hour. He said that there is a large contingent moving this way. He brought this emblem from a dead solder of the attacking party."
Mechanically, the king took the emblem form the messengers outstretched hand. He recognized it immediately and wanted to cast it down in disgust. The kings face paled then reddened in turns, as the implications of the attack clarified in his mind. "Rise, good servant." The king said gruffly. "Send word that all are to gather in the banquet hall within the hour. I must, now, speak to my daughter."
His son stood and all discussion ceased in the hall when the king entered. He was composed, but it was evident from his demeanor that the news was not easily received by his daughter. Emotionally drained and feeling all of his five and a half decades, he dropped into the large cushioned seat in the middle of the long banquet table; with a wave of his hand, he indicated that all who stood in attendance, should sit. "Father, will she be alright", the prince leaned in and whispered? He nodded an abbreviated half-nod to reassure his son.
All the choices were before the king, and he knew that a decision would need to be made quickly.
He looked, first, down the table to his left. There sat his minister of finance, the deep sense of unease clearly readable in her eyes. She saw his contemplative stare and quickly glanced down to the sheets of parchment on the table before her. She shuffled them about and acted as if she was reading them, hoping that this would divert the Kings attention elsewhere. Her lead accountant sat to her right, careful not to look up from his own notes. To her left sat her chief economist, blissfully unaware of the tension.
He then looked down the table to his right. His minister of trade sat between two of his long time friends, the guild masters of the bakeries and the blacksmiths.
Between these two groups were arrayed the various other ministers and advisors.
The king signalled to his steward who rang the dinner chime and the room was suddenly filled with servants rushing about to get the various platters and tureens onto the long banquet table within three of the kings deep, steadied breaths; they knew that he was counting, and were too familiar with the results, if the count was too long. The food on the table, the servants disappeared as quickly as they had come.
"Eat", the king declared when the last of the servants had left the banquet hall, "This was to be a celebration banquet, after all." He looked at the steaming entrées, a look of dismay growing on his face; sweet and sour soups, candied yams, and chocolate fondues. He looked at his ever expanding waist and at the dinner service again. 'All sweets', he thought, ' not a savory choice on the table. No wonder I'm getting so fat!'
He looked up from his evaluation of the table to see his dinner guests; The entire entourage sat, motionless, waiting for the king to be the first to eat; someone's stomach groaned loud enough for half the table to hear.
The noise startled the king from his contemplative stasis. With a heat he hadn't expected, he growled at his advisors, "Make your selections and eat. With an invading army approaching our lands, we've many decisions to make this evening, and none of them are savory." He slammed the table for emphasis and picked up a honey coated date ball to throw, sullenly, into his mouth. The dates were crunchy and sweet, yet difficult to swallow.
They all began to eat cautiously pondering the steps that must be taken to prepare for war.

Last weeks prompt was 'Cloud Storage'. I called my story 'The Shaman'. Here it is:

The Shaman
The old man was as grey and immobile as the granite on which he sat. His eyes were a shocking blue that matched the sky on clear winter days; clear and piercing like the icy crystal pools in high mountain streams. His skin hung loosely on him, as a robe many sizes too large.
Ancient. The oldest man's grandfather spoke of him as old. So old now, that he could not speak. Too old to raise his own hand to feed himself. Young men and women were sent from the villages to feed and care for him, and to hold his arms for him.
Every day, from spring equinox to that in the autumn, two young men came for the villages to place the staff in his weak and gnarled hands, and raise the old mans hands above his head, and hold them there.
Proud parents raised their boys to be strong and patient and prepared to raise the old mans hands. Boys and young men of all ages could be found as they walked from place to place, with their hands above their heads, holding a staff, increasing in strength and endurance, hoping to one day be selected to raise the old man's hands.
He sat on the granite ridge one thousand feet above the villages of the fertile plain. As he sat, hands folded neatly in his lap, he scanned the summer sky. As always, it remained clear and blue and still.
Young women, pure and chaste, fed him each morning, he didn't require much to sit and watch the sky. They brought him water and washed and trimmed his hair. They brought blankets for him when it was cold, and shaded him from the heat of the summer.
And each day, two young men; young, though physically mature; knelt at each side. Supporting elbow and wrist, they raised the old mans hands and staff over his head.
And held them there. Sometimes, they needed only hold them mans arms for a short period, but more often the task reached an hour or more.
As the arms were raised, the wind would rise in concert. The young men would lean into the wind to maintain their hold on the old man and his staff. With the wind, as it crossed the broad plain below, came clouds, boiling up to block out the sun and cast the earth into darkness; and rain.
The deluge was sudden and complete, creeks and rivers swelling and overflowing their banks. The old man with his attendants holding fast, chilled by the sudden downpour, searched the distant horizon, for the sign. Finding a break in the clouds, the afternoon sun peaked though, and the old man sighed; the cue to his young assistants that the days task was complete and they may relax.
Lowering arms and staff, the young men got to their feet, the clouds thinning suddenly and blowing away, leaving in its wake as sodden stillness, pristine and new. The young women came out to assist the young men. They worked together to dry the old man and help him into a clean robe.

I hate 'meh'.

2009-03-29T10:04:00.000-07:00

Since I have been following flash fiction podcasts, and they regularly quote feedback on previously posted stories, I have become familiar with the ubiquitous comment of indifference, 'meh'. It seems, almost, a trite rite of passage to denigrate someones hard work with the single syllable of condescending indifference. I have even heard people incongruously use the vile three letters in as absurd display of their condescending arrogance, "..a great, big, resounding, MEH ...". Can they not say what they think, or is it more important to sound like they belong? This previous quote was not indifference, but dislike.

If I must use this 'non word' to join the tribe of flash fiction critics, I will, no doubt, remain outside their fraternity.

On being a Hero.

2009-03-27T07:46:00.001-07:00

Why, when I was a kid.....

Our heroes were astronauts and athletes. The Beatles had just hit the U.S., so the Pop Superstar wasn't any ones goal. We looked up to athletes, like, Mark Spitz, Joe Namath and O. J. Simp...... Well, there is my point.

When did the hero step down from the podium. I have to look back on a few years ago when Brittany Spears was told that impressionable youth looked up to her as a role model. She denied that she was a role model.

My 100 word story is about Michael Phelps. The present day Mark Spitz, (He won a lot of medals in the Olympic swimming events.) Someone for kids to look up to. Eating right, working out, smoking pot at a college party.

I think that it has been a long time since heroes were heroes.

Here is my story:

Michael Phelps likes to do everything fast. Whether it is chopping vegetables, signing autographs or learning to speak Chinese, with Rosetta Stone.
On a flight to Europe the in-flight movie was Crocodile Dundee, and that gave him an idea. Redirecting his return flight through Egypt he went to the Nile to show Paul Hogan what he was made of. In his speedo, he jumped in to out swim the crocodiles.
His goal was to beat the records he set in the 2008 summer Olympics. Instead, in London, 2012, he'll be in the paralympics, competing as a double, below knee, amputee.

Working in the field of orthotics and prosthetics, I know a lot of heroes.

100 word podcast - Wikipedia Wildcard

2009-03-17T22:10:00.000-07:00

This week the weekly challenge at the 100 word story podcast turned out to be the first ever 'Wikipedia Wild card'. The idea is that you go to Wikipedia, click on random essay, and write about what comes up. I had only read the prompt on Saturday, and assumed that you had to write on the first essay you pulled up. I listened to the Podcast on Monday, and found that if you didn't like the prompt, you could keep trying, but you would have to list the ones that you didn't like.

My first try brought up the prompt, "People just like us." I went with this, not just because I didn't know that I could, 'reboot', but because it allowed me to address a thought that I have had for some time.

There is a website called http://www.withoutsanctuary.org/ where they have a hundred postcards of lynchings. I was so disturbed the first time I found the site, (referenced from a psychology podcast I had listened to), that I have often pondered; How would I have acted in the crowd? Would I have stood up in defiance of the mob? Would I have just skulked away? Or would I have moved along with the 'Righteous Wrath'?

In 100 words, I ask these questions. I will post that story here, after I upload it on Friday night.

Here it is:

It looked like the entire town came out for the event. There was a carnival atmosphere in the town square. People just like us gathered to view the lynching. See, here's the postcard. The black man raped a white girl; no one is sure who the girl is, but there were plenty of white witnesses. There was a grim fascination as they hauled him up and some commented and even laughed at how he thrashed about. They mutilated his body afterwards. It didn't seem right, what they did. But they were good people who did it, people just like us.

I changed my intro and bed music for it. I felt like it was too grim of a subject to have 'happyish' sounding blues. I converted it to mp3 and listened before uploading the story, to see if the music was too loud. I learned from my Christmas Haiku that if the music is too loud, you lose the entire story. It was too loud again, so I toned it down for the final upload to the 100 word story podcast.

As a post script I might point out how my attitudes toward people of african descent has changed since my youth. Having been raised in a primarily 'white' neighborhood, I thought that I had healthy racial attitudes. We only had about 5 black people at my high school of about 1200 students. However, I has quick to stereo type minorities, based on the prevailing attitudes of the mid 1970's.

Since that time I have spent 2 years living in South Africa, and then 5 years in the U.S. Army, including 3 years in Hawaii, which is a field experiment in racial stereotyping and prejudices.

I can't argue that I don't still have preconditioned attitudes, but I am not locked into them. If I find that I have an unhealthy attitude about a person or people, I truely, and honestly, try to identify if I am falling on old learned attitudes or if I have founded my own beliefs through personal experience.

Great Hites Prompt #45 - You are now in the Magic Quadrant

2009-03-17T22:07:00.000-07:00

Here is this weeks submission to Great Hites. Many of the stories that I have written, I have felt confident with the first draft and did little editing. This one, on the other hand, took several days to wrtite, and two complete edits. It is still not quite how I wanted it, but it is close.

The Subway.

This was their station. Anyone that wanted to do business here; hookers, drug dealers, pickpockets; would first need to check in with the street gang's representative. There was at least one around the platform, anytime of day or night, and usually there were more. You probably didn't know that they were there, unless you needed to know it. They kept a close eye on all the action, and were quick to rally enough of a presence if some unknown player tried to leave the platform without paying the 'tax'. You could do business here, but running a business always had expenses.
The weekly meeting was about to begin as the 12:05 was pulling away. An unusual number of 'inconspicuous' men had gotten off the subway car just as it pulled away. One of them shouted, "Get your hands in the air!" as they all drew their guns. The new chief of police had declared that he would make the subways 'safe and family friendly' again, but no one expected that the crackdown on gang activities would begin this soon.
The invasion was a surprise, but the gang was not unprepared. Whenever they gathered for official business, and a number of the group would be together and thus at risk, they held an open phone line to one of the boys a few blocks away at a power relay station. He was standing ready to cut the power to the lights, in the event of an emergency, such as this one.
The cop had barely barked his command and the lights were out.
There was a large enough wave of gang members surging up the stairway to the street that the few officers at the top were bowled over, unwilling to shoot into the suddenly dark platform below, the youth and young adults melted into the crowd on the street.
Blocked from escape up the stairway, a group of youth jumped down to the tracks and ran along the rails hoping to find a ladder to the street or some other alcove or utility room where they could hide. Small blue lights placed along one wall every twenty yards generated a faint silver light that gleamed on the steel rails to guide them. The tunnel filled with the shrill whine of an electric rail car that they could not yet see. The four boys raced forward in a desperate effort to find safety from the rapidly approaching inevitable death.
A burst of wind lifted them from the ground and hurtled them forward ahead of the subway car, battering the young men against the walls of the tunnel and rolling them across the ground. The rail car was upon them. They should be torn apart, their bodies mangled between the rail car and the walls of the tunnel, their limbs and torsos severed by the heavy steel wheels as they were drawn beneath the train.
But they weren't.
They got to their feet, dusted themselves off, and looked around. They could hear the subway car fading into the distant tunnel. The blue lights were gone and someone was missing, but they couldn't figure out who it was. They limped along through the dark, following the fading sound of the train.
The sound of the train didn't fade completely away, but stopped suddenly and left only the a ringing silence in their ears. They stood panting not knowing which way to go, with out light or sound to guide them. Very far off, and very faint, came the sound of a single hammer on a bell. But not a bell, and not a hammer, only similar. They stumbled forward in the direction of that single sound, stumbling over unseen rubble, bumping into unexpected turns in the walls. Then the sound again, still distant, and still faint, but not quite as much, so. They increased their pace for a time, but finding their route impeded more frequently with blocks of stone, and twisted pieces of metal, they slowed, and proceeded with a sliding shuffling gait, hands gripping one another's shirts or belts.
They inched along slowly, the temperature increasing in the tunnel with every step. Eventually, in the distance they could make out a dim light, glowing faintly as if from around a corner. Creeping forward they began to make out the objects they had been stumbling over; blocks of stone and broken and rusting rails. The increasing light allowed them to move forward much faster. The sound came again, much louder this time, not nearby, but much closer than before. The sound came again and again in rapid succession; like a tap, tap, tapping, on a metal pipe; and then stopped.
Red light glowed far down the tunnel and they moved toward it with determination, their path increasingly more visible as they traveled. The ringing sounds came more often and were joined by similar sounds, some distant, some close.
They reached the opening in the side of the tunnel where brilliant red light lit up the tunnel. Carefully they peered into the opening, shading their eyes from the intense light. The walls of the room were covered with rubies, each facet reflecting and multiplying the lanterns of the men that worked in the room. The hairy men were short, but wide and had massively muscled arms and shoulders. They were shirtless and wore either leather breaches, or knee length tartan kilts. They hammered metal spikes into the wall of rubies with heavy sledge hammers.
The men stopped to look at the three interlopers, who stood, dumbfounded. The leader of the miners grinned, "You three there!" He boomed with at deep broagh, "You've a choice to make. The dragon will be coming down that tunnel where you stand, in just a few moments. She'll eat you before you've felt her rotten breath on your scrawny necks." It was true, they could hear the pounding of great footfalls echoing down the tunnel, increasing in volume as the creature rapidly approached.
Calmly the squat giant continued, "You can remain where you are and die soon, or enter, here and help us mine fresh rubies for the dragons bed; at which time she will most likely eat you. Quickly boys, you're in the magic quadrant now, and decisions must be made with out delay."
The youth were baffled, the situation was too far outside their understanding and experience; their confusion made their choice for them.
The speaker turned back to his mates, "Well, men, that wont hold her for very long. Let's get back to work and see if we can get enough rubies to satisfy her ."

All the back stories

2009-03-13T20:31:00.000-07:00

I am going to put all the back stories that I have written for the Great Hites Prompt, except, of course, those that I have just posted today, already.

Here it goes. My first story; I mentioned it in a previous post, but I don't think I posted the story; was a bout the space elevator:

Great Hites prompt #35 "The first space elevator, just rained it's first cargo all over the desert, now for the first passenger."

"Third floor, men's lingerie, rubber baby buggy bumpers, right handed smoke benders," Jeremy said as the box began its' climb up the composite ribbons. The three other occupants of the space elevator, white faced and white knuckled, eyed him nervously, not sharing his humor.
Jeremy sat buckled in his safety seat, the one in the north east corner, the same one he had sat in for the last twenty three climbs. He had said his same little joke to himself each of those twenty three climbs as well. This was his first climb with an audience; with passengers.
At the low orbit station Jeremy had found, through casual conversation with the other lift pilots, that he was not the only one who had developed silly rituals for the climbs and descents. Superstition wasn't dead in the days of the space elevator, and anything that would add a little extra luck wasn't going to be scoffed at.
Especially since the failure, last spring, that left the contents of the space elevator spread across the desert. He remembered the scathing headlines in the local and national papers. "Now for humans?" The journalists were asking. Since that accident some of the pilots had even taken up the archaic ritual of praying to a god.
Jeremy kept his luck rituals; his jokes, sitting in the same safety seat every time, eating chicken for dinner the night before the climb. He didn't want to become known as the pilot of the first manned lift to come down.
Ground people didn't really understand, anyway. Space elevators were still new technology. Really, they were still mostly experimental.
He had to sign liability wavers, and 'no fault clauses' just to apply for the program. Heck, his parents, and even his little sister, had to sign affidavits saying that they wouldn't sue for anything, in the event of 'lift failure.'
He remembered, as a child, the space shuttle, Challenger, disaster. His father was stationed at a military base in Hawaii at the time, and Ellison Onizuka, the first Hawaiian astronaut, was on the flight. Jeremy could remember monument of flowers at the Punch Bowl Cemetery, in Honolulu, that was set up in Onizuka's honor.
Would they make such a monument for him if his box crashed?
His stomach lurched and he broke out in a cold sweat. How could he have allowed himself to think that? Had he just jinxed himself? Twenty three climbs and he had never allowed himself to think about death. And now with passengers!
It was their fault. The passengers didn't understand luck. They had never climbed the ribbon before. They hadn't performed any rituals. They were going to bring the lift down and spread bits of their DNA across the desert at the lifts base; theirs and his.
Panic overwhelmed him, pressure was bearing down on his chest, and he struggled for breath against the straps and buckles of the safety seat.
His worst fears were realized when there was a sudden jolt, a hiss of air and the straps holding him to the seat released him to rocket toward the ceiling of the box, in the weightlessness of space.
The door to the lift opened. Jeremy steadied himself with a handhold on the bulkhead. He smiled weakly and said, "Ladies and gentlemen, huddled masses and wretched refuse, welcome to Ellis Island, you're in America,
now," and directed his passengers onto the space station.

The next week was a prompt about 'bringing an army of darkness to work'. I don't think he ment to the actual work place, though I did give it some thought. Instead, I have been listening to a lot of podcasts about astronomy, and I thought that you couldn't get anything darker than a black hole, so I wrote my story about one super massive black hole and his experiences in relationships in high school.

I was a teen age super massive black hole. It was really hard to fit in in high school. At a time in my life when I should be developing relationships, some that should last my lifetime, no one wanted to get close to me.
I was attractive, if I might say so myself, maybe too attractive. As a quasi stellar object with an impressive accretion disk, I could be a bit overwhelming. I had an appetite to match my size and I consumed whatever I could reach.

There was one little variable star with an oblique orbit that used to wink at me when she passed by. At times she was kind of cute and then at times she was really hot. When I got a clear look at her one orbit I realized that she was actually they. She and her sister were binary stars; twin sisters. Let me tell you, either of them would have brightened my life.
In retrospect, it never would have worked with the twins. Their orbit was long and, as I said, oblique. Then I found that they had a couple of gas giants in close orbit. Hot gas giants! How was I supposed to compete with that?
Eons have passed since the days of high school. My accretion disk is all but gone, and with it any potential for visible light. Sure, there is a bit of infrared and some x-ray echoes bouncing around the galaxy, but nothing to draw any real attention. And I know, I am the center of a massive galaxy with numberless stars and planets swirling around me.
I am an accumulation of the billions of stars, the cosmic dust and galactic debris that I have consumed.
There I was, voted most likely to become an army of darkness to bring my infinite work of destruction to the universe. But the facts are, I am a dark, essentially invisible, lonely mass, isolated in the vast emptiness of space.

My third Great Hites, was a prompt about the News from pokeepsie. I don't remember how that related, but this is the story I submitted. I liked it a lot, myself.

The Prison
The walls of the prison cell were exactly as you would expect them; slime and black moss grew in the water percolating through the walls and oozing down to pool on the floor. The air in the cell was humid and smelled of rot, but it wasn't cold. Not this deep in the cellars of the prison, with in the very foundation of the mountain, upon which the tyrants castle was built.
The prisoner sat naked on the floor of the cell. His clothes had rotted away years ago. His grey hair matted with filth reached nearly to the floor where he sat leaning against the locked wooden door.
He waited for the sound of approaching boots on the stone floor, outside the door. When had he last heard them, and the sound of the metal plate as it was shoved through the gap under the door?
He couldn't know, in the perpetual dark, during this one eternal night. But he had eaten, he thought, he must have, because he was still alive, having lived long enough for his clothes to rot away and his hair and beard to grow almost to his waist.
He tested the shackle around his ankle. The iron cuff bit into and wanted to tear the thin skin as he pulled on it to test the strength of the chain. The chain, long enough to allow him to reach the door, but not go through. Go through? But it wouldn't open. The metal plate would just scape the floor as it was pushed under the door.
The door was locked, or at least he assumed that it was. He knew it was, didn't he? He must have tried the door in the countless years that he had spent in the cell, with his clothes rotting off and his hair growing down his back.
He stood on weak and trembling legs, his knees threatening to buckle under his meager weight. He leaned against the door, supporting himself as search for a knob or handle. But the door, at the prisoners touch, creaked on rusted hinges as it opened into the dimly lit passage.
Unbelieving, he stepped forward and the chain fell away from his ankle. He ventured tentatively, into the passage, outside the cell. The hallway stretched off into darkness on both sides, the torch near the open door casting only a small pool of light on the floor where he bent trying to catch his breath, panting in anticipation. He stretched his arms and legs to loosen joints stiff from inactivity and felt a sharp pinch at the bend of his arm, like the bite of a spider. His head started to spin and his sight, even in the darkness, filled with a brilliant blinding white. He fell to the floor and rolled onto his back, breathing hard, trying to ease the sudden nausea.
He lay still for a moment, then slowly opened his eyes. His head was resting on something soft. He turned his head to the side luxuriating in the suppleness of the linen and the fragrance of its' cleanness. Beside him sat a woman. She looked familiar, but she was much older than a woman he had known. How long ago had he known her? She looked so kind, with lines of concern at the corners of her eyes and across her brow.
She saw him looking at her and she smiled. She reached out to run her hand through his long greying hair. "Dale, honey, you're awake," she quietly exclaimed! "They didn't think it would happen so quickly." She stood and kissed his forehead. Turning to the phone, she said, "I have to call the kids, there are grandchildren now, too. They will want to say hello. It has been so long." She paused with the phone held halfway to her ear, "The doctors don't know how long the drug will last, they have never tried it on humans before."
She was punching numbers on the phone as the blackness crept in from the edges of his vision, to steal his wife away and plunge him back into the cell, under the castle in the foundation of the mountain, with the slime and moss growing on the walls where the water percolated through and oozed down to pool on the floor.

The next prompt was "The cold was shocking" and I wrote a long story about a homeless man as he tries to make his way from Los Angeles to Sacramento.

December in Modesto was foggy and cold. He shivered in his light jacket, standing outside the entrance of the hospital, directions to the Gospel Mission crumpled in his hand.
He couldn't believe that he had left Los Angeles . It was warm there, in Mid October, when he had set off to the north.
Traveling north had been painfully slow. Travelers were hesitant to pick up hitch hikers these days; especially old ones. He remembered the days of his youth with fondness, hitch hiking with friends around the country, eventually arriving in Southern California. He fell in love with the ocean and warm nights on the beach instantly.
In a short time all of his friends moved on. They went back to college, or to their home towns or just to work.
He had tried to work; odd jobs. But something, or someone, a co-worker, or a customer, something would get under his skin and make him angry and he would blow up and break something, and he would be back on the street.
But the street was good. It was open and uncomplicated, and there were no walls to press in on him, no people that would require him.
He might have to ask for spare change to get a drink now and then, but there were always people on their way somewhere, or nowhere, to make panhandling worth while.
But he was old now. How old was he? fifty, sixty? He remembered Kennedy getting shot, LSD and Viet Nam, and all that was in the 60's.
It was getting harder to sleep, too. His neck and back hurt him all the time, so every night he had to find a comfortable place to sleep; couldn't just sprawl out on the sand. And it was getting dangerous too. Kids, teenagers, they don't hitch hike for a thrill anymore, they beat up old men.
He was heading north to Sacramento. He had a brother there, or he did years ago. He had to go there and find him.
He made it to Bakersfield in the back of a pickup with a load of old tires. He heard the driver talking on his cell phone while getting gas at a station where he often pan handled. He hadn't truly decided to leave L.A. until he heard that driver. "Yeah Buddy! I got this load of tires I'm taking over the grape vine to Bakersfield. Meet me there and I'll take you all the way to Sac."
The driver said he was going all the way to Sacramento. He had a brother there! Here was his chance and he took it. He squeezed in among the tires, not thinking past Bakersfield, where the tires were going to be unloaded.
In Bakersfield he was quickly discovered among the tires by the unsympathetic driver, who ranted about the fines he would have received if the man had been noticed by the highway patrol, riding in the back of his pickup. When he asked the driver if he could catch a lift to 'Sac', to find his long lost brother, he was told to take a hike. He stood in the gloom of the setting sun, in the parking lot of a west Bakersfield service station, hundreds of miles from the beach, and his destination.
He started to walk north. He thought, 'The guy told me to take a hike, maybe I'll just walk all the way there.' He soon found, however, that his shoes, worn with out socks, wore blisters on his ankles, his back started to pain, and he got hungry and tired quickly. He had to find another ride, he would die long before he could walk that far.
He was in Bakersfield for weeks, and with each passing day it got colder. He found a Good Will collection station. People would drop off bags of clothes, and trash, during the night knowing that the store staff would have to deal with it when they opened the doors in the morning. He waited in the shadows and then rummaged through each bag that was left there until he found two coats; one thick and warm, and the other, light but waterproof. He also found a comfortable pair of boots and even a pair of socks.
The week of thanks giving arrived to find him asking for spare change at the northern end of town. One man, about to give him a dollar, changed his mind and told him he would take him to lunch, so that he wouldn't 'drink away' the money he would have received. That was fine, he was hungry enough, and during the lunch conversation the philanthropist introduced himself as a Pentecostal Minister of a small congregation just north of Fresno, and was returning home after doing some charity service in northern Baja California.
The man explained his plight to the minister who replied that he would gladly take him as far as he was going for the small price of 'listening to the Word of God'.
He rode in the ministers 1986 Plymouth K car and listened as the Word of God deteriorated into a discourse on the evils of this world, from mostly innocuous to the most vile. And it became clear that many of the evils that the minister found the most reprehensible were some that he had the most personal experience with. But he dozed and listened as they traveled north past each of the small towns, the minister pontificating on social injustices and the lack of moral response. They finally reached the small town a few miles past Fresno, the minister pulling the K car into the gravel parking lot of a long rectangle of a building that served as both, the ministers home and meeting house.
From the parking lot of the church he could see the highway and began to walk toward it. Reaching the frontage road that parallelled the north bound lane of high way 99, he stopped. His feet and ankles ached with arthritis. He sat on the edge of the asphalt road, with his feet resting in a shallow ditch, the dead dry grass of the long ago spring broken off and blown away by the wind, a thin carpet of short, new grass, beaded with moisture from the valley fog. His mind returned to the beaches of Southern California.
He used to surf all day, and then sleep under the piers next to his surf board. There were bonfires on the beach, and barbecues, and even women looking for companionship. He could be companionable for a short time, but then even the most pleasant woman would start to get on his nerves, and he would spend a day surfing and working his way north or south along the coast, and find a new place to hang out.
Surfers always shared food with him, if they had it. And if they didn't he could walk between the beach towels, and blankets and coolers until he could find something edible to swipe. He never tried to take money or valuables, that could land him in jail, but no one would call the cops over a bite of food. He could flash a winning smile that would lite up his darkly tanned face that would win people over and they would give him a beer to go with the sandwich he just tried to take.
He couldn't surf anymore and the stumbling old bum drew too much attention to surreptitiously spy out food in the baskets and coolers of swimmers and beach loungers.
He looked through the wire fence that ran between the freeway and the frontage road and watched the light fog swirl and eddy along behind the cars and trucks. To the north was an overpass for one of the small country roads where it met the freeway. He could see that there was a minivan parked under the overpass, and the various sized people of a small family were milling about the vehicle.
He found a hole in the wire fence and crawled through, and walked the hundred yards to where the family gathered to watch him approach. The mother was speaking to the children in Spanish. He had surfed with enough Mexicans to know just a few words, and thought hard to put a question together. "Va norte?" he finally asked. They began to speak among themselves much faster than he could follow, but eventually it appeared that they agreed to take him on as a passenger. They waited for him to climb in the back seat and sit next to a broken out window that was taped over with a plastic sheet. The noise of the plastic sheet increased, the wind threatening to tear it from the van as the driver accelerated onto the highway. Accordions and tuba blared from the the AM radio, and children laughed and fought with one another all to the rhythmic flapping of the plastic sheet of the window.
Suddenly he was waking up as the car was pulling off the freeway. The driver pulled over and wished him, 'buena suerte', 'good luck', and opened the sliding side door of the mini van to allow him out. He watch the car disappear into the fog in the distance as it headed for the families home.
He walked back over the overpass, looking for a comfortable place to panhandle or try to hitch another ride, when he saw that the freeway was crossing over a river that flowed through the center of this town. The fog was getting thicker and a cold drizzle was sticking to his hair and beard.
He followed the side of the freeway toward where the river flowed underneath and found that there were others that had also sought refuge from the damp fog under the bridge. There were three men sitting around a small fire which they fed with bits of wood broken from wooden pallets that they had stolen from a nearby storage yard. He greeted the men and approached to warm himself at the fire. They eyed him with calculating glares. Crouching close to the fire, the warmth quickly penetrated his thin trousers, and he began to feel much more comfortable, if not entirely welcome. He hadn't known that there was a forth man in the little party until stars burst across his vision as the unseen companion slammed a river rock against the back of his head. His consciousness was fading away, and he wondered if he was dieing, until he hit the water. The cold was shocking. The conspirators had stolen his two coats, his boots and his socks and thrown him into the Tuolumne River, assuming that he was probably dead, or would be soon enough.
The Tuolumne River, whose origins were high in Yosemite National Park in the Sierra Nevada Mountains, had much of its water diverted to provide drinking water for the San Francisco Bay Area, and for irrigation of farms throughout the central valley of California. By the time it passed through the city of Modesto it was usually a sluggish trickle, but recent heavy rains in the foot hills had risen its level and increased its speed markedly. Instead of allowing him to sink placidly to the bottom of the river, the rapid current quickly dragged him across the river where it made a sharp turn to the south and promptly lodged him in the brambles of the western bank.
In a haze of pain and cold he struggled up the bank, shoeless, to collapse on the road at the top. A grounds keeper from a nearby golf course saw the prone form laying in the street when the beams of his trucks headlights fell upon the old man. He covered the man with a blanket from the back seat of his Club Cab, and waited by the unconscious form until medical assistance arrived.
The nurse asked him questions as she cleaned the top of his head in preparation for the arrival of the plastic surgeon who would oversee the reapplications of much of his scalp. "Name?" she asked. "Um. Joe, I think." She frowned, "Last name?" He paused, "I don't think I have one anymore," he mumbled thoughtfully. "Address?" she asked. He sighed, longing for the beach, "Los Angeles." "And the street address", exasperation sounding clearly in her voice? "Any one of them, just take your pick," and he sighed, wishing she would stop asking him questions.
It was foggy and cold, the morning in Modesto, when they discharged him from the hospital, with a donated pair of shoes, a light jacket, and directions to the Gospel Mission.
He had a brother in Sacramento, or at least he used to, and he started walking toward the freeway.

Another of my favorites came the next week with the following prompt:

The flames leapt higher than they would have thought possible.

This is another story I hope to develope, as future prompts allow.

"Henry, lean in here, closer with that lantern."
"Yes, Lord John." Henry said, lowering the lantern toward the ground where the younger man knelt on the ground, arranging an assortment of sticks. The sticks were all of similar lengths, though cut from different thicknesses. "Are you sure that it is vital that they be arranged in such an order?"
Lord John stopped what he was doing and looked up, into the grey eyes of his long time servant. He was feeling frustration welling up in him, and his first response was to unleash it on this faithful older man, but caught himself before saying something that he would regret. "Yes, my friend, it is vital that each stick be placed in its' proper position, or this entire exercise will be pointless," he said instead.
"Here are 77 sticks, cut from the straightest willows growing along the most curved parts of the Forest River. 28 of the thicker sticks are arrange as you see here, 2, then 3, then 5 then 7, and at last 11. You see? They are the first five prime numbers, their sum being 28. Then atop that structure, the thinner sticks, 13, then 17, then 19. The next three prime number, the sum of them all being 77. The numbers are vital."
"Yes my lord," Henry said, the scepticism clearly apparent in his voice.
"Look around you. We have found the deepest part of the forest, where the pines grow so straight and tall that the moonlight will only light this small glade, directly, for a few minutes at midnight. That time approaches, look up. The legend says that a flame started at midnight, from the willow wood of the Forest River, arranged as we are doing so, here, will summon the spirit of the forest, and it will be bound to do our will until the next full moon. That is all the time we need to be able to exact our revenge and re-establish our prominence throughout this country side, for the rest of our lives."
Henry looked up to see that the light of the full moon was, in fact, working its' way down the trees on the western side of the small glade. In minutes the moon would be directly over head.
"We must work quickly," Lord John said, now feeling the pressure to complete the structure with sufficient time.
He placed the final stick as the moonlight touched the ground at the base of the giant tree just feet away. "Henry," he gasped, the light is upon us, bring the flame, now!" He was almost in a panic to begin the ritual. Henry stumbled, the lantern swinging wildly on its' chain, but was able to right himself and offer the flame to his master.
Lord John opened the lantern door and quickly lit a small willow twig from a coal with in. He eased the burning twig under the stacked pyre the moment the light from the full moon rested atop the structure. Though the willow boughs were green and wet the flame caught instantly. With blinding intensity the pyre was engulfed in the fire. The flames leapt higher than they would have thought possible and Henry wondered if escape would even be possible if the flames jumped to the surrounding forest.
Then, as quickly as it had begun, the flames faded and were gone, the wooden structure was intact and uncharred.
Upon the wooden structure sat a small girl, her iridescent gown flowing down the sides of the alter, covering her legs, except for the tips of her bare toes.
She sat, immobile, with her head down, and tilted to the side, her unfocused gaze directed at the forest floor. The expression on her face seemed ,at once, passive and immobile, yet changing at each instant; at once disinterested, then distraught, offended, sad, impatient, and contemptuous.
"It's just a little girl," Henry exclaimed. For the smallest fraction of a second she glanced in Henry's directions. A short sigh and small sob escaped her lips, ruby red against milk white skin.
She was small, true enough, and though her gown was in no way revealing, she was a woman of obvious maturity. "Henry, this in no girl, this is..." Lord Johns words were lost in a sudden roar of winds that burst around the two men, who crouched near the small woman. The air was still in the vortex of the storm, but only yards away trees were shattered and blown down; branches, dirt and other debris were pick up by the whirl wind and spun around the small clearing. Just as the two men began to despair that the winds would change and draw them in to a terrible death, the wind abated and the flying debris settled to the ground. The destruction was immense and spread for almost a quarter mile in all directions.
Henry knelt next to the placid diminutive woman, his mouth hanging open, disbelief in his eyes.
"Henry, Fortune has smiled upon us," Lord John said, a grin slowly spreading across his face, "This is no little girl! This is a woman scorned. Hell hath no fury.....".

The next prompt was, "It's only tuesday". This was a fun one to write as well. There is a lot of talk about the end of hte world coming in 2012, when the Mayan callender comes to an end. It was fun to mix in this superstition with scientific favorites like the cosmic microwave background.

Inside Joke

The death row prisoner, Harvey Banks, sat inside his cell and smiled. He had an inside joke. His execution was scheduled for December of this year, 2012, but he wasn't worried. He had been counting down the days for years, now, and the big day, the day of the big joke, was only three days away.
The elements of his plan were coming together this Friday, everything was set.
He had been working on this plan since 2004. To make it all happen, he knew it, even back then, he would need a big bank roll, and nothing traded in this prison like cigarettes. Cancer stick currency, the insiders called it. He quit smoking and started saving. It took him a whole year to actually quit. It's hard to not smoke in prison, where everyone does, the smoke is always around you, inviting you back into the habit. He couldn't let anyone know that he had stopped smoking, so that he could get even more 'cash'. "Hey buddy, can I bum a cig from you?" He would ask around after every meal, and stash away a few extra each day. "Got a light?" he would ask, but then not light it, just let it hang in his mouth. Occasionally, someone would catch him at it, "You gonna smoke that thing?" They would ask, and he would reply with, "I'm trying to quit, I wanna be healthy when I go to the chair," and they would laugh together, but he would laugh all the better at his inside joke.
Eight years earlier, almost to the day, he had received the first message. He hadn't believed it at first; thought it was his imagination. He heard it in the static from his fm radio. He knew about static. You get plenty of free time in prison, if you call sitting in your cell free. It gives you a chance to catch up on all the reading you didn't get to do, as busy as you were, on the outside.
Banks had always been fascinated by the stars that you couldn't see really well in the city where he lived. But in the prison library, they had a whole shelf of astronomy books, with pictures of the stars that he never gotten to see. He took the books back to his cell and started to read about the universe, and was fascinated. He talked so much about the things that he read that the inmates gave him a nickname, which doesn't bear repeating in polite company, but alluded to his astronomical interests.
Messages were encoded in the static caused by the cosmic microwave background radiation. He listened to the static each night, at the same time, for a week. He wasn't crazy, or imagining this, he was receiving instructions from extraterrestrial life. Their message was this; They were coming back on the winter solstice of 2012, when the Mayan calendar comes to its end, and they are going to vaporize the earth. They would do it, too, because they weren't pleased with how the earth was doing. These beings had interacted with the Maya, centuries ago, and had given them instructions regarding the proper preparation of the earth for their arrival of their own descendents, centuries into the future. They warned the Maya that if they, the aliens, were displeased, they would vaporize the earth and start over. They even gave the Maya a date; winter solstice, 2012.
The static encoded message gave directions to all who could understand, how they could be rescued from the doomed planet. All who would be saved must be ready, atop a building or mountain, four weeks before the day of annihilation; just three days away.
"It's only Tuesday," he said to the guard, passing outside his cell. The guard didn't miss a beat as he paced by the cell, he had heard worse comments than that all day, and Banks sat is his cell and laughed.
A guy in laundry owed him a favor and agreed to leave him in the facility at the close of business. He could gain access to the roof through an air vent, and since it was six floor up, with no possible way down, the spot lights would never cross it to find him there.
He had carefully selected the proper guard for collusion, and had to offer him his entire stash of cigarettes. Guards were limited to one pack of cigarettes that they could bring into the prison each day, to prevent them from trading with the prisoners; keeping them honest. Five years worth of cigarettes was enough to turn any small time guard into a major player, who then could get cooperation from the bosses of the even largest gangs in the prison. He had promised the guard that he only wanted this one chance to view his beloved night sky, before his execution, and would return to his cell, or more likely. solitary, in the morning when apprehended on the rooftop; but, of course, he would be gone. He kept a straight face during these negotiations, there was no one in the prison who was worthy to share his inside information; let them be vaporized with the rest of the world.
Friday night everything went exactly as planned. He was left, hiding in a bin or clean towels, at 8:00 pm, when the laundry was locked for the night. He waited quietly in the dark room until all sound had died away in building before opening the vent in the ceiling and working his way to the roof. At the 9:00 pm and midnight cell checks, his empty bunk was carefully overlooked.
He had checked the lunar tables and knew that at midnight the waxing moon would be directly overhead. As the moon approached its zenith Banks boldly stood in the center of the rooftop with arms out stretched, head back, looking up into the night sky, expectantly. Waiting, his neck began to get stiff, and at times he had to bend over and stretch out the muscle cramps. Other times, he began to get dizzy, the stars over head spinning around him as he lost balance and tried to catch himself before falling to the rooftop.
Eventually, reality settled in. The moon was descending toward 3:00 am and his alien rescuers had not come for him. The guards would be changing shift and the prison would soon be on alert to a missing prisoner. He sat on a ventilation conduit, his face in his hands, dejected.
The fresh guard quickly reported the missing prisoner and the search began. The investigation rapidly revealed the escape route through the laundry room ceiling to the roof above. Guards stormed up the stairway and through the access to the roof. Spot lights crossed and searched every inch of the roof.
They found Harvey Banks right shoe on the roof under the ventilation conduit, but a thorough search of the entire prison and the country side for miles around yielded nothing more.

The following week was my Ganymede story with the prompt, "They watched as day turned to night". In this case the sun was passing behind the planet Jupiter. The darkest time of the entire day on Ganymede, if you are on the planet side of the moon, would be this period when the son was blocked by the planet. And even then, Jupiter gives off light of its own.

The following week, the prompt was supplied by Justin, the Space Turtle. "At the largest bookstore in the city" I started off with a mysterious sounding description of the basement, but then, couldn't help myself and lightend it up.

The Basement Room
At the largest book store in the city there is a basement where nothing is stored. The books go right onto the shelves, if it is stored away, no one can buy it. There is dust on the basement floor, no one goes there to clean, why clean a room that is never used?
There is a trail through the dust where many feet have walked from the bottom of the stairs to a room at the far end; there is a little window in it, that slides open when you knock and wait long enough.
I went there once, that room in the basement. I knocked at the door and waited. Ancient eyes with deep crows feet peered through the and asked the questions that I couldn't answer. He just closed the little window and I walked away, back along the path through the dust.
Someone called out to me as I reached the stairs. He invited me back to enter the room.
The room was filled with the smell of decay and old men in strange hats. Some wore robes and one man, apparently, wore nothing but long hair and beard. His eyes twinkled.
Cackling, the man at the head of the table stood, thrusting his finger at another, coughing, spittle sprayed from his lips. "Roll the dice," he shouted, his laughter raising in fervor and pitch. "You're dead", he shrieked gleefully, even before the dice tumbled to a stop, "You're all dead!"
All the men at the table screamed; some jumping to their feet to lean hunchbacked over the table, others too week to stand just swayed and howled from their seats, the intensity of the argument increasing by the moment.
My escort turned to me and winked, "Twenty five years we've been in here. Longest game of D&D in history."
I nodded and left the room as he turned back to the assemblage, "Order some more pizza, and roll new characters, it's my turn to be Dungeon Master."

The next two prompts, I have already mentioned, were about Mr. Gorbachev, and Belly Button Lint.

I am cought up with Great Hites now. I hope to put these stories in, weekly. Though since no one, except maybe Lisa, reads this, it doesn't really matter.

This weeks Great Hites Prompt

2009-03-13T20:21:00.000-07:00

This week for the Great Hites prompt, it was something about "Scientists discovered the reason for belly button lint", or words to that effect.

This is the first week that I wrote an entire story, though not very long, didn't like it, and wrote a different one.

They both follow, in that order:

Enquiring minds

"It's the higs boson," he said, not looking up from the newspaper article. "Now, where is the rest of hte artticle!" he sighed. "Oh, continued on page 26. Whu can't they just write an artyicle and complete it on the same page?"
"I don't know why you insist on readign the at stuff. It's all tripe, you know." She said , turning hte dial on the small black and white TV. "The really valuable infromation is in this box." She switched the long antentae on the back until it cracked and the picture appeared from the static.
"Soupy Sales for the block," the television blurted. 'Click, click', she turned the dial. "Can I get U.S. presidents for 400, Pat?" a womans voice asked.
"Here it is, page 26. There's no number on the page....You have to countfive pages of adds from page number 21. I can't believe it! These people don' have a clue!"
"No kidding, Bob. Look at the front of that rag! 'B1 bomber found on Mars'. These people haven't made it to Mars yet, they only go to the moon five years ago."
"Right, and 'Giant Cat Eats Chicago'. How can they even print this; Don't you think that the people of Chicago would notice that something was missing?" He shook his head and continued, "Well, in 40 years when they get the Large Heydron Collider running, they'll figure it out."
"What, the dark matter, anti matter inconsistency?"
"No, that it's the higs boson that holds things together on the sub-atomic level. Some clown here thinks that that there are tiiny hairs on the body that direct lint from other areas of the body, and causes it to accumulate in the bellly button. It is obviously a componat of quantum mechanics, that should be obvious, even if they haven't found the higs boson.
"Oh. Right. Well, anyway, we're running out of time. It's only six months until the next time ripple. If we can't get to Elvis and get him realdy to go, we'll be stuck in theis backward century for another 20 years."
He shrugged, "That wouldn't be so bad, we could learn to disco dance." Then he thought about what he had just said; "No," he said standing up, "lets get some bus tickets to Nashville and see if we can find 'The King'."

Scientists

Her long silver hair was held behind her head with a golden clip in the shape of a dragon fly; the craftsmanship so intricate and detailed that a person would want to approach slowly to get a close look at the golden creature before it startled and flew away.
She sat as still as a pearl white marble statue, bent over the microscope on the antique golden oak desk; her gossamer lab coat, an iridescent waterfall, cascading from her shoulders.
Her lab assistant stepped into the room; he was older than her, though not grey at all; his hair and eyebrows, jet black, in contrast to his milk white skin. "Jenesse," he interrupted, "I have the spectography reports." But she silenced him, slowly raising a single long index finger into the air and holding it immobile next to her petite, pointed, right ear.
She sat up from the microscope and took the report from her lab assistant, Farland. Glancing over it briefly, recognition and understanding clear on her beautiful and youthful face.
"You have identified the substance," it was a statement, not a question.
"Yes," Jenesse replied, "It's lint. Belly button lint. The human scientists believe that they have found the reason that it accumulates there; there are fine, task specific, hairs that direct the lint to the belly button."
Farland smile wryly, and said," Can you imagine having that much body hair?"
Jenesse nodded and replied, "Can you imagine having a belly button?"
They both turned to look at the bell jar on the desktop next to the microscope; the toxic wad of fuzz, inconspicuous and inert in the vacuum.
They shuddered.

Ganymede, Part 3

2009-03-13T18:44:00.000-07:00

Here is the most recent addition to the Ganymede story line. It is this weekends entry for 100 word story, weekly challenge. It starts the story from the Callista side.

The prompt was, "What would Gandhi do?" I hope that it is clear how my story addresses the prompt.

The president of the United Federation of Callisto watched the invading fleet from Ganymede landing their ships on the fragile surface of his moon. They were here to enslave more of his people; unwary farmers in the upper tunnels were the likely victims. Their common ancestors came from Earth 500 million years ago; libraries deep within Callisto's tunnel system held records of their histories. Ganymede must not know of Earth's ancient social reforms; or not care. Soon, he must make a decision; continued non-violent civil disobedience or military retaliation. He re-read the launch protocol to initiate an inter-moon nuclear assault.

Ganymede Part 2

2009-03-13T18:39:00.001-07:00

The second story in my Ganymede 'Experament' came a few weeks after the first when Jeff introduced the prompt about Pres. Reagan in Germany calling for Gorvachev to 'tear down this wall'. My original plan was to include clips of Winston Churchill, Desmond Tutu, and Martin Luther King, Jr, with the Reagan clip. But I could only find the MLK and inserted the Reagan quote first, and then the MLK, "I have a dream..."

Here is the story:

Ganymede, Part II

Julie was angry. Her father was away, off moon, on another business trip, her mother had gone off to do her community service, and Julie was left at home to watch her new slave do chores. The allure of having a personal servant had worn off in just a few days, and became a shackle around her own leg. This girl couldn't understand her language, so any instruction to her required complex pantomime that nearly wore her out; she might as well do the work herself.
Besides, the little thing was ugly; virtually hairless with light blue eyes and skin to match; skin that was soft and squishy, like over ripe fruit. She wasn't beautiful and dark with a tough, thick, hide, like Julie was. She rubbed at the thick carpet of short hair that covered the top and back of her head, down her neck and over most of her back. Julie badly wanted to go down to the ground level to explore, but her slave couldn't endure the radiation like her own people; had these creatures lived underground on their moon?
She went to her desk and spinning the top half of the smooth orb, she turned on her music player. Static. The magnetic waves between the planet and its moons sometimes interrupted the broadcasting device. She got her anti static cloth and began to buff the player, hoping to reduce any magnetic charge. The cloth snapped and popped as she lifted if from the device, but didn't hear the music that she expected. After a loud burst of static came a clear voice, ["Mr. Gorbachev....."] Encouraged, she rubbed harder and more vigorously with the clothe, more static, then, ["I have a dream....."]
Frustrated by the incomprehensible babble, she turned the music player off, and sat down with a huff.
Magnetic waves that resonated between the planet and its moons, held the recorded broadcasts from Julies ancestors, 500 million years in the past. Her people, originally earth colonists, had survived countless near extinctions, population booms, dark ages and enlightenments, and thereby, evolved to live in the high radiation environment of Jupiter's moon, Ganymede. In the recent past they had discovered the physics that allowed them to travel through space, to the planet and its other moons. They had the all the luxuries and benefits of an advanced civilization.
Julie was angry. Her slave was performing again, her puffy lips turning down at the sides and water coming from her eyes. Julie was so angry and frustrated that she just wanted to hit the slave; but she felt, somehow, doing that wouldn't be right.

Ganymede

2009-03-13T12:28:00.000-07:00

Two of my favorite podcasts are the 'Astronmy Cast' and Dan Carlins, 'Hardcore History'. Many of the things that I have learned from those podcasts, and the resulting thoughts that I have had, have begun to work their way into some of the short stories that I have been writing.

My premise is: If colonies are established on the moons of Jupiter and human kind is as adaptable as we like to believe, what will the colonies be like in 500 million years, when the sun had increased in size and temperature, that the earth is now a hot barren rock and the moons of Jupiter are a balmy 68 degrees F.

My first story, which entered the Great Hites competition, was universally underwhelming. I was trying to describe life on Ganymede, with newly developing space travel, between the moons. I tried to write this in a way that it is clear that they don't know where they came from, and not have to just say so. They have lost thier history and are surprised to find life on another moon, which, in true human fashion, they enslave. (Refer to Dan Carlins Addicted to Bondage podcast.)

This first episode follows:

The Daily Eclipse

They sat in angry silence, under the protection of the glass filter dome, and watched as day turned to night. At least, as much of a night as you get on the planet side of the moon. It was the mid day solar eclipse which would last several hours before the sum re-emerged on the opposite side of the big planet. "I don't even like this side; it never gets dark. We have the sun shining on us all day, and at night, the planet glows so much it might as well be day."
The last edge of the sun was slipping behind the giant orange planet. The moon where they lived was tidally locked with its planet and therefore, the same side always faced toward the planet, the side where Julie and her family now lived. "I want to go back to our old home, on the back side. At least there we had complete darkness at night. I wouldn't mind if I never saw that big red eye staring at me ever again." She stood to stomp around the room to emphasize her anger, but the atrium was so filled with plants that she would soon be lost to her parents vision, and the effect would be wasted. She was a year old now, and had a typical pre-adolescent flair for the melodramatic.
She sat back down, her mother was lecturing her, "I expect you to show a little more gratitude to your father. You have quickly forgotten how long and cold the nights were, and how long and hot the days were, on the backside. And your father has worked, and sacrificed, to get us this place up on top, where we can have a dome, and plants, and see the planet. It wouldn't take much to lose everything and be down at the dirt level with the indigents and general laborers." She sighed inwardly and rolled her eyes, 'What did her mother know? There was nobody down that low.'

She thought she knew what would be coming next, and she wasn't off by much. "Your father has sacrificed so much to make all this possible for you!" Her mother was even working up some tears. 'Hypocrite,' Julie thought to herself, 'Where will you be as soon as Dad is gone'? What did she call it, 'Social networking'? She wondered if her mother had ever really loved her father, or had she just loved his potential. He was nearly twice her age; she had just turned 2 and he was nearly four when they were married.
It was true that in the last solar circuit her father had been gone much of the time traveling between their moon, the planet and the two major moons in between. He had made most of his fortune on shiploads of fresh water from the watery moon that orbited the planet twice for every time theirs did just once. She wondered what days and nights were like on those other moons; they were both tidally locked, as was this one, but to have a day and night pass so quickly was incomprehensible to her. The closest of the larger moons, to the planet, would have four days and nights for each of hers. 'Wouldn't that just make you dizzy?'
Her mother was still harping about her lack of consideration, but she had heard it all before. Each time her father was preparing to leave, her mother would start to get edgy and irritable, then like clockwork, she would break into a tirade, unleashing her frustration on her daughter.
Space travel had only been developed in the last 10 years. Her father had taken the existing knowledge about space travel and applied what he knew of material science and designed space barges that could harness the magnetic charges that were generated between the various moons and the planet and slingshot the barges back and forth, making the the transportation of heavy items profitable; minerals harvested from moons, heavy gases gathered from the atmosphere of the planet, and in his case, water from the next moon in toward the planet. Her father had built his empire on the transportation of fresh water. There was salt water deep in the crust of this moon and it could be pumped and desalinated, as it had been for millennia, but with the advent of space travel, fresh water was an available luxury.
But was it for Julie, that her father worked so hard and was away so often? She didn't think so. With his rise in wealth there also came a rise in prestige and political power.
Outside the dome, with the sun fully hidden behind the planet, it was as dark as it was going to get, only the planets own light showed right now. Their day was divided into 100 hours, and each hour, 100 minutes. The eclipse lasted between thirteen and fourteen hours. Julie liked it dark.
As soon as her father was away and her mother found her 'other occupations', Julie would work her way down the elevators, stairwells, and passages to get to the ground level. Over the millennia new dwellings were built atop the old, reusing the existing radiation filters and magnetic shields. With the current imports, new structures, with more efficient shields were being built at the highest levels. It would take a long time to get to the ground, she would have to pack several meals. She had only been there a few times since their move to the planet side and only stayed a few minutes, but she had stood in the open air, on natural soil, unaffected by the waves of radiation that the domes, and shields at the top of the city were designed to reflect.
"Julie", her father was saying, "my travels have produced another benefit, that I would like to share with you." He caught her attention, instantly. Though she did her best to act indifferent to his work, and the 'benefits' that the family enjoyed, the allure of this relatively new space exploration intrigued her. "What the scientist had theorized; that our people had come from a different planet hundreds of millions of years ago, may actually be correct. We have found, 'people', for lack of a better word, similar to us on another moon. Some are theorizing that we, and they, came from a common ancestor. These creatures are not as intelligent as us, and are probably more suited to manual labor, but they show a willingness to work, and, in fact, appear to thrive under our direction." He looked closely at her face to gage her reaction. "I have acquired on of these beings to be your companion. She appears to be about your same age, and has already begun to understand our language. Would you please make it your project, over the next few weeks, to teach her more of our language, and help her to understand some of the basic menial tasks around the home?"
She began to reply but looking at her fathers face she could see that he had already assumed that she would be compliant with his wishes and had begun to gather his things to leave.
Her own thoughts were racing. She had heard talk among her acquaintances at school that slaves were being brought in from one of the other moons, and now she would be the first in her class to get one. The day was looking up.

I speak for desmond

2009-01-24T12:47:00.001-08:00

I wrote a 100 word story about Desmond on about the third week that I had started submitting stories to the weekly challenge. I kept hoping for the prompt to come up in a way that I could use it for this story....It took me 15 entries to finally win one and choose a prompt that would fit.

This week was the result, 'Chicken Nuggets', and everyone was a good sport about it. There were some good stories and I voted for each that I liked.

I had Des record my story. Both Lisa and I spent time saying the words and having Desi record them. Then it was tons of editing to get all the words in one long line. I recorded Bekah playing "Twinkle, twinkle, little star" for the intro and outro music.

I just listened to it on the Weekly challenge podcast and it seems like it came out pretty well. You can hear it and see the text at www.podcasting.isfullofcrap.com and the text of it is below.

Back at it

2009-01-19T12:51:00.000-08:00

Ward choir started up again, yesterday, after the break for Christmas. We had six people show up, and no pianist. I guess I didn't give people enough advance notice. So I ended up trying to play the piano, as well as direct.

We are working on some great songs:

'My Shepperd will supply my need' arranged by Mack Wilberg. The Motabs have sung this one. It is a southern melody and has some beautiful words that have stayed with me since we sang this in 3rd ward 10 or more years ago.

'There is a hill' by Brown and Mabbott. It is a variation of 'There is a green hill far away'. I bought on piece and reading through the melody in my mind it sounded really bland. Fortunately, we have a piano at home. What a beautiful melody. It breaks into six parts at one point, and it may push our choirs abilities to its limit, but it will be wonderful.

'Woman, why weepest thou?' Written by Rob Gardner and available directly from Spiremusic.org. You can hear the acapella group, 259, sing it on their 'Witness' album. It is a beautiful and moving song.

I may actually have to gird up my loins and make some phone calls this week to try and get more people out. Our performance for Christmas in both 8th and 10th, we're combined again, was such a high, for me as my first Christmas as director, and for the choir, because they sounded so good. I look forward to a wonderful year.

I won

2009-01-17T08:49:00.000-08:00

I'm a double winner this week. First time for both. I the weekly challenge on Great Hites, or course I was the only entry, maybe that made it a weakly challenge.

After entering 15 times on the 100 word weekly challenge I won. "Winner, winner, chicken dinner!!!! I've wanted to say that since I saw 21 for the first time.

My prompt, Chicken Nuggets, is the challenge for next week. I have been trying to get this prompt for 14 episodes now. I hope this story flies, I have been thinking about it for a long time.

Also, I got to help record a story for someone else, with Jeff Hite. We'll see what it sounds like when it is posted on the 100 word challenge today.

Here is my story going in the challenge today:

The stalker followed his prey across the university campus, keeping enough distance behind her to avoid detection. She was young and slender and he ached to hold her in his arms, to wrap his hands around her neck and squeeze the life from her.
He had followed her before and knew her schedule, her routine. Tuesday and Thursday nights, her class would begin in daylight, but would be fully dark when it let out.
A tidal wave of urgency washed over him. Crouching, ready to attack, he saw her, alone, unaware, last to leave Phys Ed 203, advanced kick boxing.

Great Hites

2009-01-10T11:24:00.000-08:00

This week I entered Jeff Hites' story contest for the first time. Lawrence of the 100 word story podcast mentioned the prompt that Jeff had chosen, it was about space elevators. I first read about space elevators about two years ago in an astronomy magazine. The whole idea intrigued me and I have spent a lot of time since then imagining the process at work. I figured that now was the time to branch out and try a complete story longer than 100 words. I will post the story below.

I have enjoyed the 100 word story contests. I like the challenge of honing the text around a single idea until you have just the barest structure to present the idea. Recording the story has also been a learning experience, and though it may not sound like I have improved much when listening to the podcast, I have seen a remarkable decrease in time it takes to go from sitting down at the mic and uploading it to podcasting.isfullofetc.etc.

Writing the story of the space elevator felt almost like taking a relaxing run down a forest trail after spending a week doing nothing but speed workouts around a track. (I started running at the same time I started Nanowrimo, so my thoughts are also on physical activity.) It felt good to describe Jeremy's past, share some of his feelings, etc.

I heard the prompt on Monday, and the story was due by tuesday eve. While listening to the story after it was posted, I realized some inconsistencies. I caught one before I recorded. Origianlly I had Jeremy sprawling across the floor when the lift door opened.....Doh! That would be tough in low earth orbit. One that I didn't catch was his age. I had him as a child when Elison Onizuka died in the shuttle disaster. He sounds like a young adult, and has a little sister. That would put the narrator of the story, at his age, right about now. For a little more credebility, I should have written him in, at least, his thirties. My daughter, who is now 22, was born in Hawaii, but was not old enough to remember the space shuttle disaster, though it happened while we were there.

Oh, well. We'll see if my next effort makes more sense.

Nanowrimo follow up.

2009-01-09T21:39:00.000-08:00

I have to say that the Nanowrimo was great experience. I started late and had to hit it pretty hard, but was able to finish a winner.

I had to average more than 2000 words per day. It was interesting to see my attitude change while the word count climbed. On the Nano site they give you encouragement based on where the average person would be on that day of the month. Starting ten days late, I could get the advance scoop on when I should start getting discouraged.

The first 10,000 words were a lot of fun, and everyday I felt like I had the whole world at my disposal and everything would be wonderful. The next 15,000 words were written from under a fog of discouragement. Every night when I sat down to write I would ask myself if I could do this, or if I shouldn't just quit now.

The weekend before Thanks Giving I pumped out a lot of words and brought myself to where a lot of other writers were, and I could see that I just might pull it off.

As I finished my last words on November 29th, I had a feeling of satisfaction that I had set a goal, worked hard, and completed it. I also thought that I had written 50,000 words of rubbish, and had expressed that sentiment to several people since completion.

However, I have started my first edit and rewrite and have found that I really like my story. I have found many places that I now feel are trite and some others that were poorly written. But I like it enough to go back through and make it right.

My goal has alway been to podcast a story. The original plan was for my scouting story, but I want to do this one. I am practicing recording my reading by participating in the 100 word weekly challenge, and now I have also entered in Jeff Hites short story podcast as well.

The plan is to spend the next two months editing and rewriting. Then have my brother proof read the story, and do a third rewrite. Finally, I want to take a week off in March or April and record the entire story. I don't know if I'll be able to get all the episodes produced in that week, but I should have a big portion of it done.

I emailed Mur Lafferty about my Nano experience and she read some of it on 'I should be writing' podcast. Here is the portion that applied to Nanowrimo:

These are the things that I learned from Nano.

Plot happens. I had listened to you, your interviews, and feedback talking about words per day. I always thought, ‘what a mechanical and unartistic way to create’! I found that putting out 1500 to 4000 words in a day squeezed creativity out of me that I didn’t know that I had. Plot twists appeared from around corners, and my characters started saying and doing some interesting things.

I also came to understand what ‘organic writing’ is. I would sit down at 8:30 pm, with a Monster energy drink, knowing that I needed 2000 words before bed. I knew where I wanted the story to go, but not outlined bit by bit.

Write now, rewrite later. If I worried about spelling, grammar, and consistency, or even coherencey, (at 10:30 pm, I get up at 4:30 am), I could get about 500 words per hour. Throwing all that to the wind, I would get 1000 + per hour.

Finnally. It’s a better story than I thought. After it was over and people would ask me, “Did you make it?” I would respond with, “Yeah, but it’s mostly rubbish.” I started my rewrite yesterday and found that I really like my story. It has potential and I might as well take it as far as I can. (Being a big Nathan Lowell fan, [not to mention a big Mur Lafferty fan]), I am going to podcast it initially, while submitting it to regular publishers. If I can cast a shadow even faintly comparable to these two giants, I will feel gratified.

Nanowrimo

2008-11-12T15:16:00.000-08:00

I've decided to try it. Here it is the 12th of November, so I started 10 days late; I wrote my first words last night. I'm Norvaljoe at nanowrimo.org. I kept thinking that I should give it a try, but with everything else that I am trying to get done this month, how could I find the time! Well, less time on City of Heroes, and Eve online, I guess. I have to do over 2000 words a day. I did 2000 last night and have gotten about 700 done this morning and at lunch, so we'll see what I can get done after the kids are in bed.

My story is "The Kings'Shoemaker. It is a fantasy story that I have thought about for the last few years, and since I have already started putting my "Scouting" story down, I didn't think it would be right to use that one.

What motivated me was looking at Nathan Lowells Nano site and saw that he is only 1000 words into his story. What is the worst that could happen? I could end now with only 2700 words. But that is more than I had yesterday morning, and if (when) I add more, that will be closer to the goal of finnishing a story.

We'll see what happens.

Goodbye anonymity

2008-11-10T20:58:00.000-08:00

I got my 100 word story done early this week, and actually sent it in today. I am becoming the "Totally together guy". I actually excercised today. That's twice within four days. I think I might go floss my teeth.

I included this blog address with my entry today, so there is the small potential that someone other than myself will actually see this page. Of course that is likely to only happen once....but anyway, people who previously only knew me as the guy who wanted to be called Norval Joe will see that I am a 48 year old dork who likes to write blog notes to himself, and calls himself Norval Joe.

Sunday and autism

2008-11-09T16:35:00.000-08:00

I guess it's kind of comforting knowing that noone actually reads my blog. In truth, one person did read it and invited me to join in an international multilevel marketing adventure, sigh. So really, I can say what I want in total anonymity, even misspell anonmymity, and not feel like I am risking myself to unwanted public exposure.

Today in sacrament meeting I was filling in for the regular choruster. I had asked my adult daughter to keep an eye on my son Desmond, who has autism. Des and I have a regular church meeting routine. We get to church about 10 minute early so that we can climb up and down the stairs a few times. This is one of his all time favorite activities. Then we are able to sit and quietly read some of his books to get us through the regular announcements and business, the passing of the sacrament and sometimes even the first talk. Then it's back to the stairs for 20 minutes or so before we come back into sacrament meeting for the end of hte final talk, closing hymn and closing prayer.

I had lead the opening hymn, sacrament hymn and was leading the closing hymn, thinking that everything was running smoothly. My family hadn't come into the meeting, and since Jan, my wife, had recently had a back surgery, I assumed that they we all sitting in hte comfortable chairs in the foyer.

We were in the final few measures of the closing hymn when Desi came running into the chapel. I thought, well, that's ok, I can beat the last few beats with him here, but instead of running to me, he ran to help the organist finnish the piece.

Everyone tells me that it is ok, that it was cute, that it was....etc, but I still haven't gotten over it. I feel embarassed and frustrated everytime I think of it. I guess mostly I feel like my family let me down, that they couldn't keep track of him for one meeting.

But, like everything else, I am sure that this will pass.

My new hobby

2008-11-08T17:04:00.000-08:00

I listen to a lot of podcasts. One genre of podcast I listen to is the creative writing type. Some of them are; Mur Lafferty's 'I should be writing', and I'll appologize now for mispelling names; Tee Morris's, 'Survival guide to writing fantasy'; 100 word stories; and the Podcastle, and escape pod, podcasts.

I have mentioned, previously, my aspirations to both podcast and write my novel.

The advice I hear on many podcasts and interviews with authors is to write consistently. That is part of why I am trying to be more consistent in writing on my blog; it forces me to put down coherent thoughts about a subject.

So, my new hobby is writing, and my excersize is writing 100 word stories. When I have a few minutes before I need to be somewhere or doing something, I grab a word or a thought and see if I can get that idea into a story in 100 words. I figure that someday one of these little bits will turn into 'My Novel'.

I have also mentioned that I have 'A story' that I am now trying to put onto paper, but one of the ideas that I get from these creative writing casts is that you can't have 'just one' story. We'll see.

The Grocery store stories

2008-11-08T16:37:00.000-08:00

After writing my first two entries, which were two parts of the same story, I planned to write an end and an epilogue. But when the 'asylum' challenge offered me the chance to put my Ulnar Styloid story down, I decided to go with that story. I might add that it appears that the underlying idea that all the names and places were parts of the human anatomy was either lost to the reader, or so obvious that it elicited no great response.

So, in trying to finnish off the grocery store stories I am putting them here, since to put them into future competitions the signigicance of the quadrilogy would be lost without the continuity.

If you haven't read them, they are the first two stories of the previous post.

Now,

The grocery store - The end.

At the back of the store, the man remained, surrounded by the symphonic hum of refrigerators and freezers. The dim Light through the one, far off window faded.
He had to get back to the door, but he felt old now, old and tired.
Had he waited too long to return?
With extreme will, as if forcing his atoms to separate and pass, one by one, through a solid wall, he pushed himself down the aisle.
He reached the door and pressed his hands to the window.
The window opened its mouth and said, "Doctor, the patient is awake."

The grocery store - The end.

At the back of the store, the man remained, surrounded by the symphonic hum of refrigerators and freezers. The dim Light through the one, far off window faded.
He had to get back to the door, but he felt old now, old and tired.
Had he waited too long to return?
With extreme will, as if forcing his atoms to separate and pass, one by one, through a solid wall, he pushed himself down the aisle.
He reached the door and pressed his hands to the window.
The window opened its mouth and said, "Doctor, the patient is awake."

100 word stories

2008-11-08T16:09:00.000-08:00

There is a podcast where the podcaster writes and posts a 100 word story everyday. Once a week there is a contest for people to write their own 100 word stories and send them in. There is a theme, usually one word or phrase. Here are my stories from the first to the most recent.

#129 - Light

Flourescence

Grimy black and grey tiles invited him down grocery store aisles of increasing gloom and darkened potential. Shadowed boxes and cans in layered dust offered hidden rewards.
Overhead the yellowed and brown stained plastic filtered the weak florescence, illuminating nothing.
He turned to look back and saw, far off, down a tunnel, or in a dream, a memory: the door.
When had he come in through the door?
Beyond the door was the city with its cars, and people, and places; and life.
Here was dark, an aisle, dust, and the door.
In the door was a window and light.

#130 - Then you put it in the blender

The Grocery Store, Part II

When he entered the dimly lit store the clerk was a statue; his ancient skin, pale grey as cement; chin on chest in apparent slumber.

The clerk hadn't moved when the young man passed him and ambled down the aisle to the frozen food.

A voice started him from his stasis, " ...then you put it in the blender...", and it trailed off down the aisle to his right.

He turned to the direction of the receding voice and in his minds' eye, followed it to the door, where it left him behind.

"Take me!" he screamed, but without sound.

#131 Asylum

Inner Space

Ulnar Styloid, clan chief of the Olecranon Process, glanced up from his desk. A harried guard informed him, "The distal Interphalangeal Epyphases have entered our system. Their vessels are forming up in the Glenoid Fossa."
"Attack on the the Dorsal Interosii will be next." Ulnar concluded, "Naturally, they will come to us for asylum." He pondered the back of his hand, then cracked his knuckles. He spoke to the guard, "Tell the Interosii they may land their vessels on Tibial Plateau and inhabit the length of the Vastus Lateralis."
Ulnar Styloid smiled grimly; his nemesis, Vas Deferens, would arrive soon.

#132 Ninja vrs. clown

Black. The assassin struck in the darkest hour of the night.

Red. The mark lay in a pool of his own blood.

Black. His clothes, to match the night, shrouded the assassin's entire body in black, except for his eyes.

Red. His hair, soaked in the blood where it pooled around his head, blood red.

Black. Yellow lights reflected in the assassins black eyes.

Red. Shiny, patent leather boots, not black, but red, below red and white striped stockings, on the lifeless feet.

Black. The black blade, invisible in the night, took down the mark. Ronald didn't stand a chance.

#133 Omission

Free Vacation

What had he misunderstood from the enticing advertisement?

He read the beautifully illustrated pamphlet again.

"All expenses paid
Two weeks in Hawaii
Ocean front condo on Maui
First class seating from any mainland airport
All at no cost. All we require is you.*"

The asterisk on the word 'you'. There was always an asterisk and you could never find it at the bottom of the page. He searched the advertisement again, realizing with horror that the bottom third of the advertisement had been torn away.

The omission of "*your soul" was what left him standing at the gates of hell.

Reactivating my blog.

2008-11-01T10:56:00.001-07:00

It has been a long time since I actually posted something. Since that post, I have actually started getting creative again.

So moving forward my intention is to write about the following activities:

Ward Choir, of course. I have all the recording equipment, microphones, usb mixer, etc, to record the choir when we have our Christmas songs ready. Then I will upload them to youtube with some navitity scene slide shows.

My own podio book. I have gotten re-motivated to write that book that I have had in my head for hte last 18 years.

My podcast. In preparing to put my story on podiobooks.com, I am practicing recording my self reading to improve my diction, delivery and comfort infront of the microphone. I have started recording the book, 'Mayor of Casterbridge' by Thomas Hardy. I have had to look up so much about the author, the country of England and the various archaic words that I thought, well, why not share this info with others who subject themselves to Thomas Hardy. I plan to produce my own podcast, reading the book and sharing background on the story and the artist. Even if no one listens to the padcast, I will have improved my skills for when I release my book. So look for the TomasHardyforAmericans podcast coming in the new year.

Finally, in hte area of improving skills I have started participating in the 100 word story podcasts weekly challenge. I will post those entries and other writing and thoughts associated with that.

Of course, I am writing this for myself, since no one has ever come across my site. So, Go me!!

Philip

Sacrament Meeting talk 080727

2008-08-03T13:20:00.000-07:00

Here is the talk I gave in church last week....I thought it would be easier to just post it, than rewrite it, making reference, and explaining it.

Hi, for those of you who don’t know me…..
For those that do, and think I have gone inactive,,,,,in the primary.

Last April conference, Elder D. Todd Christofferson, newly called as an apostle, spoke on Being Born again. He said, “Being born again, unlike our physical birth, is more a process than an event. And engaging in that process is the central purpose of mortality.’

In the Book of Mormon, the prophet Lehi had a vision of this process that we know as the vision of the tree of life. In that vision Lehi sees people who have accepted Jesus Christ and taken hold of an Iron rod. This rod takes the people along a path that leads to the Tree of Life and the Love of God. Running along the path is a river of filthiness and across that river is a building with our foundation, where people laugh and mock those on the path and at the tree of life.

I believe that there are many here that have been born again, and become a new being in the site of God. They are holding to the iron rod, with their eyes set on the tree of life, progressing toward our Heavenly Fathers kingdom. Many that can testify that they know the gospel is true beyond a shadow of a doubt.

Today I do not plan to speak to you, directly. I would like to address those of us that stand “in the shadow of doubt”. Not those that are holding fast to the iron rod, but which have, what I like to call, gone down to skip stones on the river of filthiness.

I can’t imagine that there are any, who, having understood and accepted the restored gospel of Jesus Christ, that would let go of the rod with the intention of going down to swim in the river of filthiness. But having become discouraged by those mocking from the building with out foundation, or being tempted away by things of the world, we have wandered down to the river to see how big of a splash we can make with stones found along the bank.

The stones are not igneous or sedimental, granite or lime stone. These stones are doubt, apathy, and transgression. They are, “why am I here when I am not worthy”, “Why does everyone else have so much faith, and I have none”, “why does God allow me to be tempted so badly”, “How can I be expected to keep all the commandments.”

Having been down to the river our shoes are caked with the slippery mud and it is difficult to make the climb back up. Our hands are stained with the polluted clay and we are embarrassed to take hold or the iron rod, and walk with our bothers and sisters who are clean.

Let me share an experience I had while attending a camp director’s course in southern California.
Camp was far out in the hills of San Diego county.
Never been to this camp.
Campsite was quarter mile from dinning hall.
Arrived at dinning hall during daylight, fully dark when I left. No flash light.
Starlight lit the trail as I skirted the meadow
Pitch dark in the trees.
Had a general idea of the route
And thought I was keeping to the trail, but soon found myself amongst the trees, lost.
It was some time before I saw someone else walking along the trail with a light, and was able to follow them to my campsite.

For many years the hymn “lead kindly light’ has been my favorite, and this event gave me an even greater understanding of the words. It is often considered a funeral hymn because of the last verse. But to me, it is a hymn about repentance and the Saviors love. Let me share it with you.

Lead kindly light amidst the encircling gloom, lead thou me on,
The night is dark and I am far from home, lead thou me on.
Keep thou my feet, I do not need to see the distant scene,
One step enough for me.

I was not ever thus, nor prayed that thou shouldst lead me on,
I loved to see, and choose my path, but now, lead thou me on.
I loved the garish day, and spite of fears, pride ruled my will
Remember not past years.

If you have been skipping stones on the river of filthiness, you may now feel that you are in the dark night, and that you are far from home, and that there is no hope of finding a kindly light to lead you back.

But there is hope through the atonement of our Savior, Jesus Christ.

When primary children are preparing for baptism, they learn this song:

I like to look for rainbow whenever there is rain,
And ponder on the beauty of an earth made clean again,
I want my life to be as clean as earth right after rain,
I want to be the best I can and live with God again.

I know when I am baptized my sins are washed away,
And I can be forgiven and improve myself each day.
I want my life to be as clean as earth right after rain,
I want to be the best I can and live with God again.

You can be as clean as earth right after rain, and look forward to living with God again.

In his conference address Elder Christofferson gave two examples of people having a mighty change of heart. He spoke of the people of King Benjamin who had ‘no more disposition to do evil, but to do good continually. King Benjamin told them that the people had become the children of Christ, spiritually begotten, because their hearts were changed through faith on His name.

He also told of Alma the younger who, after being racked with the torment of his sins for three days and nights, publicly confessed:
“I have repented of my sins, and have been redeemed of the Lord; behold I am born of the Spirit.
“And the Lord said unto me: Marvel not that all mankind, yea, men and women, all nations, kindreds, tongues and people, must be born again; yea, born of God, changed from their carnal and fallen state, to a state of righteousness, being redeemed of God, becoming his sons and daughters;
“And thus they become new creatures” (Mosiah 27:24–26).
He continued in his address:
As we reflect on these examples and other scriptures, it becomes clear that spiritual rebirth originates with faith in Jesus Christ, by whose grace we are changed. More specifically, it is faith in Christ as the Atoning One, the Redeemer, who can cleanse from sin and make holy (see Mosiah 4:2–3).

He then shared a question that I have asked myself … ‘Why doesn’t this mighty change happen more quickly with me?’ Then he answers, ‘You should remember that the remarkable examples of King Benjamin’s people, Alma, and some others in scripture are just that—remarkable and not typical.2 For most of us, the changes are more gradual and occur over time. Being born again, unlike our physical birth, is more a process than an event. And engaging in that process is the central purpose of mortality.’
What must a person do to continue on this process of being born again? I think that I can safely say what Pres. Wasden has said, “Pray and read the scriptures daily.” There are many activities in the restored gospel that will strengthen our testimonies, such as family history work, compassionate service, and singing in the choir. (Did I mention singing in the choir?) However, trying to do these activities without daily strengthening of testimony by prayer and scripture reading can often lead to frustration and discouragement.’

I would like to share a poem that has always given me hope, when I have felt discouraged.
The Race
"Quit, give up, you're beaten!"
They shout at me and plead.
"There's just too much against you now.
This time you can't succeed."
And as I start to hang my head
In front of failure's face,
My downward fall is broken by
The memory of a race.
And hope refills my weakened will
As I recall that scene,
For just the thought of that short race
Rejuvenates my being.
A child's race, young boys, young men
How I remember well,
Excitement sure! But also fear.
It wasn't hard to tell.
They all lined up so full of hope
Each thought to win the race,
Or tie for 1st or if not that
At least take 2nd place.
And fathers watched from off the sides
Each cheering for his son,
And each boy hoped to show his Dad
That he would be the one.
The whistle blew and off they went
Young hearts and hopes afire
To win to be the hero there
Was each young boys desire.
And one boy in particular
Whose Dad was in the crowd
Was running near the lead and thought,
"My Dad will be so proud!"
But as he speeded down the field
Across a shallow dip,
The little boy who thought to win
Lost his step and slipped.
Trying hard to catch himself
His hands flew out to brace
And mid the laughter of the crowd
He fell flat on his face.
So down he fell and with him hope
He couldn't win it now...
Embarrassed, sad he only wished
To disappear somehow.
But as he fell his Dad stood up
And showed his anxious face
Which to the boy so clearly said:
"Get up and win the race!"
He quickly rose, no damage done,
Behind a bit, that's all
And ran with all his mind and might
To make up for his fall.
So anxious to restore himself
To catch up and to win.
His mind went faster than his legs
He slipped and fell again.
He wished that he had quit before
With only one disgrace,
"I'm hopeless as a runner now.
I shouldn't try to race."
But in the laughing crowd he searched
And found his Father's face,
That steady look that said again,
"Get up and win the race!"
So up he jumped to try again
Ten yards behind the last,
"If I'm going to gain those yards," he thought
"I've got to move real fast!"
Exerting everything he had
He regained eight or ten,
But trying so hard to catch the lead
He slipped and fell again!
Defeat! He lay there silently
A tear dropped from his eye.
"There's no sense running anymore
Three strikes; I'm out; why try!"
The will to rise had disappeared
All hope had fled away;
So far behind, so error-prone:
A loser all the way.
"I've lost so what's the use?" He thought
"I'll live with my disgrace."
But then he thought about his Dad
Who soon he'd have to face.
"Get up" an echo sounded low
"Get up and take your place,
You were not meant for failure here,
Get up and win the race!"
"With borrowed will, Get up" It said,
"You haven't lost at all,
For winning is no more than this
To rise each time you fall."
So up he rose to run once more
And with a new commit,
He resolved that win or lose
At least he wouldn't quit.
So far behind the others now
The most he'd ever been,
Still he gave it all he had
And ran as though to win.
Three times he'd fallen stumbling
Three times he rose again,
Too far behind to hope to win
He still ran to the end.
They cheered the winning runner
As he crossed the line 1st place,
Head high, and proud and happy
No falling, no disgrace.
But when the fallen youngster
Crossed the line last place,
The crowd gave him the greater cheer
For finishing the race.
And even though he came in last
With head bowed low, unproud,
You would have thought he'd won the race
To listen to the crowd.
And to his Dad he sadly said,
"I didn't do so well,"
"To me you won!" his Father said
"You rose each time you fell."
And now when things seem dark and hard
And difficult to face,
The memory of that little boy
Helps me in my race.
For all of life is like that race
With ups and downs and all,
And all you have to do to win
Is rise each time you fall.
"Quit, Give up, You're beaten."
They still shout in my face,
But another voice within me says,
"Get up and win the race."
by Dee Groberg
Brothers and sister, have you ever felt like this little boy? Do you feel like even your best efforts to get to the iron rod leave you laying flat on your face? Is there something that you’re carrying that is slowing you down, or is tripping you up, something that is keeping you from taking upon you the name of Christ, and becoming a new being in Him. If you find your prayers falling flat on the floor, or locked in your head, and the scriptures are as a book that is sealed, have a visit with the Bishop. I know he’s scary, I’ve played basket ball against him. But I have also seen the love in his eyes when he speaks with his children. And I know that anyone who loves his children as he does will love and be kind to all of our Heavenly Fathers children. He is the Lords representative in this area to help us clear up areas of our lives that might be preventing us from having the Spirit, from being born again and following the Savior.
It is my testimony that our Heaveny Father is watching us in our race. He is anxious for our success, and He sent His Son, Jesus Christ to pay for our sins, so that to win our mortal race, we only need to get up each time we fall, and keep running with all our might.
Born Again
Elder D. Todd Christofferson
Of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles
Spiritual rebirth originates with faith in Jesus Christ, by whose grace we are changed.
Fifteen years ago I stood for the first time at the pulpit in the Tabernacle as a newly sustained Seventy. I was 48 years old. I had thick, dark brown hair. I thought I understood what it meant to feel inadequate. At the end of my five-minute remarks, my shirt was dripping with perspiration. The whole thing was something of an ordeal. However, today, in retrospect, it seems a comparatively pleasant experience.
When President Dieter F. Uchtdorf and Elder David A. Bednar were first sustained as members of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, a witness of the divine origin of their calls came to me during the session. I was also given in that moment an understanding of the surpassing sacredness of the call and service of an Apostle of the Lord Jesus Christ. I do not have the words to express that understanding because it was communicated Spirit to spirit without words. To think of it now reduces me to a depth of humility I have never before experienced, and I plead with my Heavenly Father to sustain me as He ever has that I might measure up to something that is far beyond my native capacity and be able to focus outwardly, losing myself in your service. I trust in Him, and I know that His grace is sufficient, and so I here unreservedly commit all that I have and am to God and His Beloved Son. I also commit myself, my loyalty, my service, and my love to the First Presidency and to my Brethren of the Twelve.
My patriarchal blessing, received at age 13 from a beloved grandfather, includes this statement: “[Your Heavenly Father] sent you forth in this last and glorious dispensation that you might be born under the new and everlasting covenant by goodly, righteous parents.” With deepest appreciation I acknowledge that this has been the great foundational blessing of my life. I pay tribute to my parents and with love acknowledge my debt to them and to their parents and generations beyond. Not long after my call to the Seventy, I had occasion to be standing at the grave of one of those ancestors who had died years before I was born. As I contemplated the sacrifices entailed upon him and his family by their acceptance of the restored gospel of Jesus Christ, a sense of gratitude flooded my heart and a resolve welled up in me to honor his sacrifice and that of those who came after by being faithful to God and the gospel covenants, as they were.
In acknowledging blessings, I include my dear brothers and their spouses who, as it happens, are present today. My wife and I have four sons and a daughter, each married to a wonderful spouse or, in the case of our youngest son, soon to be married to a lovely young woman. We love them and our grandchildren and appreciate how they bless our lives by their loyalty to the Savior and His gospel. At the pinnacle is my wife, Kathy, the maker of our home, the light of my life, a steady and wise companion, filled with spiritual intuition, good humor, goodwill, and charity. I love her beyond expression and hope to show it more convincingly in the days and years ahead.
It was my blessing to serve a full-time mission as a young man in Argentina under the tutelage of two exceptional mission presidents, Ronald V. Stone and Richard G. Scott, and their respective wives, Patricia and Jeanene. I thank God for their lasting influence in me. Following my graduation from law school, Kathy and I and our children made our homes successively in the states of Maryland, Tennessee, Virginia, North Carolina, and now Utah. Three precious years were spent in Mexico. In all of these places, we have been blessed with dear friends in and out of the Church who have loved and taught and befriended us and our children and who continue to do so. I take this opportunity to publicly express gratitude to all of them.
My love and regard for my Brethren of the Seventy and the Presiding Bishopric is boundless. I rejoice that my continuing service will keep me close to them and that there will be frequent opportunities to serve together. The unfolding revelations of our time that have set the Seventy in place in the Church constitute one of the most profound and perhaps underappreciated miracles in the history of the Lord’s latter-day work. The Seventy are key to the success of the work now and in the years ahead, and I feel honored beyond measure that my name was ever included among theirs. God bless you, my Brethren.
I wish to bear you my witness of Jesus Christ, the Son of God, and the power of His infinite, atoning sacrifice. In doing so, I will call upon an experience from my years in Tennessee. One evening there I received a call at home from a gentleman I did not know. He introduced himself as a recently retired minister of another faith and asked to meet with me privately the following Sunday. When we met, my guest stated frankly he had come out of concern for the welfare of my soul. He pulled out of his portfolio a fairly long list of scripture citations from the New Testament and said he wanted to review these verses with me and see if he could help me be saved. I was a bit surprised at his directness, but I could tell that he was sincere, and I was touched by his genuine interest in me.
We conversed for more than an hour, and he was open to hear me explain something of my faith as well as to read with me some teachings from the Book of Mormon with which he was not familiar. We found there was much we believed in common and some things we did not. We felt a bond of friendship and prayed together before he left. What remains with me is our discussion about being born again. It is spiritual rebirth through Jesus Christ that is the context of my witness of Him.
It was Jesus who stated that entry into the kingdom of God requires that one be born again—born of water and of the Spirit (see John 3:3–5). His teaching about a physical and a spiritual baptism helps us understand that both our own action and the intervention of divine power are needed for this transformative rebirth—for the change from natural man to saint (see Mosiah 3:19). Paul described being born again with this simple expression: “Therefore if any man be in Christ, he is a new creature” (2 Corinthians 5:17).
Consider two examples from the Book of Mormon. About a century before the birth of Christ, King Benjamin taught his people of the Savior’s advent and Atonement. The Spirit of the Lord wrought such a mighty change in the people that they had “no more disposition to do evil, but to do good continually” (Mosiah 5:2). Because of their faith in Christ, they said, “We are willing to enter into a covenant with our God to do his will, and to be obedient to his commandments . . . all the remainder of our days” (Mosiah 5:5; emphasis added). The king responded, “Because of the covenant which ye have made ye shall be called the children of Christ, his sons, and his daughters; for behold, this day he hath spiritually begotten you; for ye say that your hearts are changed through faith on his name” (Mosiah 5:7; see also D&C 76:24).
The case of Alma is also instructive. As he and his companions went about seeking to destroy the Church of Christ, they were rebuked by an angel. There followed for Alma three days and nights that he described as being “racked with eternal torment. . . . Yea, I did remember all my sins and iniquities, for which I was tormented with the pains of hell” (Alma 36:12–13). Finally, after “repenting nigh unto death” (Mosiah 27:28), as he put it, there came to his mind the sweet message of Jesus Christ and His Atonement. Alma pled, “O Jesus, thou Son of God, have mercy on me, who am in the gall of bitterness, and am encircled about by the everlasting chains of death” (Alma 36:18). Forgiveness came to him, and he stood and publicly confessed:
“I have repented of my sins, and have been redeemed of the Lord; behold I am born of the Spirit.
“And the Lord said unto me: Marvel not that all mankind, yea, men and women, all nations, kindreds, tongues and people, must be born again; yea, born of God, changed from their carnal and fallen state, to a state of righteousness, being redeemed of God, becoming his sons and daughters;
“And thus they become new creatures” (Mosiah 27:24–26).
As we reflect on these examples and other scriptures, it becomes clear that spiritual rebirth originates with faith in Jesus Christ, by whose grace we are changed. More specifically, it is faith in Christ as the Atoning One, the Redeemer, who can cleanse from sin and make holy (see Mosiah 4:2–3).
When this true faith takes root in a person, it inevitably leads to repentance. Amulek taught that the Savior’s sacrifice would “bring salvation to all those who shall believe on his name; this being the intent of this last sacrifice, to bring about the bowels of mercy, which overpowereth justice, and bringeth about means unto men that they may have faith unto repentance” (Alma 34:15; emphasis added).
To be complete, however, repentance requires a covenant of obedience. This is the covenant expressed by Benjamin’s people “to do [God’s] will, and to be obedient to his commandments” (Mosiah 5:5). This is the covenant witnessed by baptism in water (see Mosiah 18:10) sometimes referred to in the scriptures as the “baptism of repentance” or “baptism unto repentance,” inasmuch as it is the culminating step, the capstone of our repentance (see, for example, Acts 19:4; Alma 7:14; 9:27; D&C 107:20).
Then, as promised, the Lord baptizes us “with fire and with the Holy Ghost” (3 Nephi 9:20). Nephi phrased it this way: “For the gate by which ye should enter is repentance and baptism by water; and then cometh a remission of your sins by fire and by the Holy Ghost” (2 Nephi 31:17).1 Having thus relied “upon the merits of him who is mighty to save” (2 Nephi 31:19), we are “quickened in the inner man” (Moses 6:65) and, if not yet fully born again, then certainly well into the path of spiritual rebirth.
Now the Lord cautions us to take heed since “there is a possibility that man may fall from grace” (D&C 20:32), even those who are sanctified (see vv. 32–34). As Nephi counseled: “Ye must press forward with a steadfastness in Christ, having a perfect brightness of hope, and a love of God and of all men. Wherefore, if ye shall press forward, feasting upon the word of Christ, and endure to the end, behold, thus saith the Father: Ye shall have eternal life” (2 Nephi 31:20).
You may ask, Why doesn’t this mighty change happen more quickly with me? You should remember that the remarkable examples of King Benjamin’s people, Alma, and some others in scripture are just that—remarkable and not typical.2 For most of us, the changes are more gradual and occur over time. Being born again, unlike our physical birth, is more a process than an event. And engaging in that process is the central purpose of mortality.
At the same time, let us not justify ourselves in a casual effort. Let us not be content to retain some disposition to do evil. Let us worthily partake of the sacrament each week and continue to draw upon the Holy Spirit to root out the last vestiges of impurity within us. I testify that as you continue in the path of spiritual rebirth, the atoning grace of Jesus Christ will take away your sins and the stain of those sins in you, temptations will lose their appeal, and through Christ you will become holy, as He and our Father are holy.
I know Jesus Christ as the living, resurrected Son of God.
“[I] know that justification through the grace of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ is just and true;
“And [I] know also, that sanctification through the grace of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ is just and true, to all those who love and serve God with all their mights, minds, and strength” (D&C 20:30–31; see also Moroni 10:32–33).
I rejoice that for the balance of my life I shall be able continually to offer Christ, to offer the good news of Christ in all the world. I bear witness of the reality and love of God, our Heavenly Father, to whom Jesus gave all glory. I love and bear witness of the Prophet Joseph Smith. Through his personal association with the Lord, his translation and publication of the Book of Mormon, and the sealing of his testimony with his martyr’s blood, Joseph has become the preeminent revelator of Jesus Christ in His true character as divine Redeemer. Jesus has had no greater witness nor more devoted friend than Joseph Smith. I declare my testimony of the calling of President Thomas S. Monson as prophet and President of the Church of Jesus Christ in this time and pledge my loyalty to him and his counselors in their sacred roles. I pray God’s blessings upon us all. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

NOTES
1. God taught these things to Adam at the very beginning. He told Adam: “Inasmuch as ye were born into the world by water, and blood, and the spirit, which I have made, and so became of dust a living soul, even so ye must be born again into the kingdom of heaven, of water, and of the Spirit, and be cleansed by blood, even the blood of mine Only Begotten; that ye might be sanctified from all sin . . . ; for by the water ye keep the commandment; by the Spirit ye are justified, and by the blood ye are sanctified” (Moses 6:59–60). In other words, the baptism of repentance by water leads to the baptism of the Spirit. The Spirit brings the atoning grace of Christ, symbolized by His blood, both to justify (or pardon) our sins and to sanctify (or cleanse) us from the effects of sin, making us spotless and holy before God.
The scriptural record reports that “Adam cried unto the Lord, and he was caught away by the Spirit of the Lord, and was carried down into the water, and was laid under the water, and was brought forth out of the water. And thus he was baptized, and the Spirit of God descended upon him, and thus he was born of the Spirit, and became quickened in the inner man. And he heard a voice out of heaven, saying: Thou art baptized with fire, and with the Holy Ghost. . . . Behold, thou art one in me, a son of God; and thus may all become my sons [and daughters]” (Moses 6:64–66, 68).
2. See Ezra Taft Benson, “A Mighty Change of Heart,” Tambuli, Mar. 1990, 2–7; Ensign, Oct. 1989, 2–5.

Ward choir performance 080720

2008-07-24T12:41:00.000-07:00

We sang Come, come ye saints, in honor of the pending pioneer day. I was inspired by how the Mormon Tabernacle Choir is singing it. They sing it v1. women, very quietly. v2 men, a little louder. v3 All parts, and louder. v4 All parts, Loud and building. Each verse modulate in key and adds to the dynamics and mood. Typically, in church we start the 4th verse very quietly, as if remebering those that have past on, and then build.

We sang it similar to what "the Choir" did. We used the simplified hymn book for hte first two verses, and sang unison, women on v1 and men on v2, also building from pianissimo. I addapted a short 5 measure transition from that hymn book (with one flat) to the current hymnn book (one sharp), which took the note up a half step.
The forth verse we used the old blue hymn book, (four flats - another half step up.) This gave our performance a similar modulation, but not requireing the skill of a concert pianist. We increased volumne with each succesive verse and then began the forth verse very quietly, as expected. After singing, "And should be die," with a fermata (birds eye - hold) the piano played a trasitional chord changing us from the current hymn book, to the old (the half step up) and we started over loud, and built to the end. (With a lot of holds, ritards, and other direction).

I felt that it went well. Running from Sacrament meeting to play the piano if primary, I don't get a lot of feed back from the congregation. No choir practice for a month. I know that we will lose any momentum that we gained from this last piece, but we will be starting Christmas music, and that always brings the people out to sing. I have found some intersting pieces, that will probably catch some of hte member off guard, but it's differences, like dynamics, that move people.

Desi's Dinasaurs Walk now for autism

2008-07-24T12:37:00.000-07:00

We have a team.

Desi's Dinasaurs.

We're walking on October 18, 2008. If you would like to join our team, or just make a contribution, go to the link above.

Thanks

Follow up to last post

2008-07-23T21:14:00.000-07:00

The recent uproar about the Savage Nation has helped me reflect on my last few weeks. I mentioned that the week preceding July 13th was bad...

After the backup baby sitter backed out after the first day, I altered my schedule to spend my afternoons with Des.

I took him with me one afternoon, with high temps around 110 degrees, to the locksmith to see what it would cost to get a lock on the front door, that we could lock with a key from the inside. Des has gotten so good at dragging and piling up furniture at the front door to get to and open the latches that we have added. I decided that the only way to keep him from getting out of the house was to add a key lock inside, and everyone needs to keep their key in their pockets.

At the locksmith there was a candy dispenser. It was late in the afternoon, about the time Des will melt down if he hasn't had any solid sensory input. He did melt down, falling on the floor and screaming. I was tring to find out what I needed to know, and waited patiently behind a man, who I assumed would be understanding. As he turned to leave, he said, "I think someone needs a spanking." I said, feeling somewhat lame, "He has autism, that wouldn't do any good."

Since that event I believe that I have become paranoid. I will still take him with me when I go to stores, I don't see how I can improve his behavior in that environment if I don't take him into it. But it is set up to be difficult; long slow lines, shopping carts that he is too big for now, candy at the checkout counters, and of course, lots of intollerant people.

A really tough week

2008-07-13T07:44:00.000-07:00

This last week has been one of the most difficult in recent memory.

Some componants:

Lisa on vacation.

Back up baby sitter for Des lasted one day.

Days got as hot as 109 Degrees.

No air conditioning in my car.

Hopeline, Postsecret, and Cassie

2008-06-30T18:56:00.000-07:00

Help Save 1-800-SUICIDE

NOTE: Originally, I had the video for this post embedded in this post, but I was afraid that as I posted more, it would dissappear and be lost below. (There should be a "Blogspot for dummies" link. It has taken be a total of 5 hours to figure out how to put that Youtube video at the top of my page......)

To make a donation to this vital cause, go to the following website:
http://www.hopeline.com/

I started following postsecret more than a year ago. BE WARNED: There is much there that is mature content. I believe that a lot of what is posted there is fiction. Some is intended to startle. (Frank, the moderator, says that the sight is 'art' and as such, it is all true.....art equals truth, etc.) But mixed in is a portion that is extremely moving. It is that 25% that keeps me coming back.

When I first started following the blog, I found at the bottom of the page, the post by Cassie. She tells of her hours long talk with the suicide hot line, who's number she got from inside of her post secret book.

Bi polar depresion is probably the most leathal of the mental illnesses. Each week I would rush to the bottom of the page to see that Cassies post was still there. Suddenly, several months ago, her picture and story dissapeared. I couldn't find a thread on any forums or blogs telling the reason why she was absent from the website. Only a cryptic comment from Frank saying, "I miss her, too." Or words to that effect.

Today, following the video from the Hope Line, the picture and story of Cassie had returned. And of course, I was in tears. I will try to put her picture and story below.

http://postsecret.blogspot.com/

Well, I couldn't figure out how to do it, so I just posted a link instead.

Chior Practice 080629

2008-06-29T16:38:00.000-07:00

I'm not complaining, really. We had 2 men and 4 women come to practice today. The practice was announced to be 45 min long.

Summer? Maybe. I would like to sing Come, Come Ye Saints, in three weeks. I heard the Mormon Tab Choir sing a version that was really moving. Rather than drop down quietly on the beginning of the 4th verse, they sing it out. They have beautiful modulations and descants. Not something our choir could do. But.....

I got the three copies of the Hymns that I have. The simplified, The current (green) hymns, and the previous version (blue). I found that they are all written in different keys and modulate up a half note with each version. So taht is what I am doing. Verses 1 and 2 are from the simplified, 3 is from the current, and 4 is from the old Hymns.

We will start the 4th verse (just the first measure) really quiet, like everyone will expect, using hte current book, then we will modulate up to the old hymn book, and really bring it out.

I think it could be very moving. Hopefully the congregation will feel the spirit of what I am trying to bring out.

It would be nicer if we had more people come to choir.

I have a lot of ideas for Christmas and other music that would be wonderful to do, but we need voices to do that ....... I guess I need to try praying with fait.....something that has always been difficult for me.

Autism, sleep deprivation, and oxytocin.

2008-06-28T13:22:00.000-07:00

Our bodies give off oxytocin when we have reassuring or intimate physical contact. An increase of oxytocin in the body causes us to increase in trust and attachment to those with whom we are in contact when the oxytocin is present. At child birth the mothers body produces a ton of it, (So that they still want their baby after this horrifically painful event.)

My son had autism and I often have to get up during the night and sit with him until he goes back to sleep. If not he wanders the house looking for trouble. I am very attached to my son, and he to me. While dozing off he runs his fingers through my hair. I wonder if these midnight caresses generate oxytocin that increases our bond and affection for each other.

I have also noticed at times that I am especially sleep deprived that I am much more emotional. Especially when thinking about my children, or hearing stories or songs of love an attachment.

I wonder if oxytocin is more abundant in those who have long term sleep deprivation as a componant to bond us to our little ones.

The only studies that I have found are of short term sleep deprivation and not the long term kind that new mothers with nursing babies, or dads with autistic boys, experience. In these studies there was no remarkable difference in serum oxytocin.

Future thought: oxytocin vrs. cortasol.

Ward Choir

2008-06-28T13:20:00.000-07:00

The last song we sang in church was on fathers day. We sang Father do you love me? We had half a dozen of the children of choir members sing the childrens part.

I wanted to perform this peice after I heard it on a Bret Raymond CD. Every time I listen to it I lose composure. I was afraid that if we did sing it with the ward choir taht I would also lose composure. During practice I did well, and thought that it would be no problem.

I made it until the final chorus where we sing together, "I need your love, I need your light, to show me how to be like Jesus..." I was unable to sing again until the very end

I didn't hear any feed back from any from the congregation. No wait. Jeff Walters told me that he could really hear Bekah and she sang well.