FACETCETERA

Critique My Blog Blogfest

2012-02-01T12:16:00.003-05:00

I am participating in the "Critique My Blog Blogfest" sponsored by A Writer's Journey.

Everyone's a critic and that's a good thing, especially today. You, my readers, are important to me and I want to make my blog site one you'll look forward to spending more time in, so please critique away; I value your thoughts and comments. Please make your critique based on any or all of the following:

a. Appearance: Does it appeal to you? Is it too busy, or too plain?
b. Layout: Is it difficult to navigate? Is it cluttered, or sparse?
c. Frequency: Does the blogger post too often? Not often enough?
d. Content: Are the posts interesting? Unique? Are they focused, or all over the place?
e. Quality: Are the individual posts too long, too short, too sloppy, or too generic?
f. Other: Feel free to freestyle; comment on anything else that occurs to you.

We've won for now!

2012-01-20T13:56:00.000-05:00

I just received this message from one of my fellow activists in the fight to stop SOPA and PIPA:

Hi everyone!

A big hurrah to you!!!!! We’ve won for now -- SOPA and PIPA were dropped by Congress today -- the votes we’ve been scrambling to mobilize against have been cancelled.

The largest online protest in history has fundamentally changed the game. You were heard.

On January 18th, 13 million of us took the time to tell Congress to protect free speech rights on the internet. Hundreds of millions, maybe a billion, people all around the world saw what we did on Wednesday. See the amazing numbers here and tell everyone what you did.

This was unprecedented. Your activism may have changed the way people fight for the public interest and basic rights forever.

The MPAA (the lobby for big movie studios which created these terrible bills) was shocked and seemingly humbled. “‘This was a whole new different game all of a sudden,’ MPAA Chairman and former Senator Chris Dodd told the New York Times. ‘[PIPA and SOPA were] considered by many to be a slam dunk.’”

“'This is altogether a new effect,' Mr. Dodd said, comparing the online movement to the Arab Spring. He could not remember seeing 'an effort that was moving with this degree of support change this dramatically' in the last four decades, he added."

Just a Note to My Faithful Followers

2012-01-08T01:07:00.000-05:00

As I pointed out in April, I'm remodeling my blog site. I never claimed to be a fast worker. For the most part since then, it's been little things, but, as you may have noticed, as of 2012, I repainted and moved some furniture around—a much different look and feel. I hope no one ran off in terror thinking they'd stumbled into unfriendly territory. Rest assured, it's still my place, and I welcome you all and appreciate your visits. I hope you like the changes. They will continue as I bide my time and carefully consider just what it is I'm doing here. If you have any comments, suggestions or ideas, I'd love to hear them, so feel free.

New Year, New Look & Resolutions

2012-01-05T10:14:00.001-05:00

I have never understood New Year’s resolutions. Just what compels us to think everything will change in the time it takes a ticking second hand to sweep from 11:59:59 to 12:00:00, turning December 31 to January 1? I guess it’s hope that as we throw out the past year’s calendar, too we can be rid of defects and failures and do a better job of it all. What an odd notion in the dead of winter when it’s spring that brings birth in nature. Still, how many of us commit to new ways and plans for the coming year, only to watch them die like seeds sown in January snow-covered sod before the month’s end? It’s almost as if we guarantee our hope’s failures by labeling them New Year’s resolutions, especially when they are so often born of bacchanalian celebrations on New Year’s Eve. Our champagne conspiracies lose their effervescence overnight.

It’s not even a week into 2012 and I am already hearing people’s tales of failed resolutions—relapses into smoking, binges off diets, exercise regimens forsaken, and the list goes on. Then there are those still trying to decide just what their resolutions should be, as if there is a government mandate requiring a resolution-registration-fee submission before the month is out.

Since it’s usually so clear in our minds just what needs to be fixed on the first, I’d say the need for change was realized and considered at length long before. It’s not as if clarity suddenly strikes us in the midst of a bash at the stroke of midnight. Must we reserve action toward salvation until the last day of the year? And, truly, can’t we choose to begin again anytime? There’s no time like now, upon realizing the need, to improve ourselves and change our ways, regardless of the date.

However, with tongue in cheek, I say it must be coincidental that I, too, am choosing this week to try to better honor adherence to something I’ve wrestled with since my teens, though then it was merely a vague sense of something undefined and unfulfilled. And, yes, this all still relates to Cookie, my muse.

I must first acknowledge and laud her for rousting me from bed in the middle of the night before deep sleep set in, to tap out thoughts she filled me with, before they were irretrievably entwined with a dream lost upon awakening. This has been happening with increasing frequency since she made her presence known. Not to make light of her inspirations (or question her sense of timing), but that is, after all, her job, and mine is to respond; that is the pact of our partnership. To do less would lay waste to the gifts she bestows. It seems the more responsive I am, the more she’s willing to share.

Not that Cookie, this time, disclosed the hitherto unknown to me. Rather, she reminded me of something from long ago, yet it’s literally right in front of my face every day; she’s now made profoundly clear its importance. A framed text hangs on the wall I face while at my writing desk. I was first shown this years ago and I liked what it conveyed so much, I finally printed it, framed it and hung it last year. Its author is Rebecca St. George, whose tutelage helped me immensely (and still does) when I studied under her in a writing class years ago, the very same Rebecca I mentioned in my post, “A Thousand Words: The Birth of 'Charlotte'.”

Rebecca is no stranger to the muses’ ways; hers appeared in her life decades ago, and all I have seen of her writing tells me she’s quite worthy of him and heeds his guidance well. I have no doubt he inspired her to write the words that were perhaps discussed at a muse meeting and agreed on as a code of conduct, if you will, for writers. And from there, out they went to deliver it to all their charges, their distribution methods myriad, mystical and magical. But that’s all silly speculation on my part, but not so the knowledge, deep within me, that resolving to follow its guiding brilliance is fulfilling Cookie’s intent that I have a creative, productive 2012. By moving me to share it, she obviously wishes that, as I do, for all of you.

Christmas Cookie

2011-12-24T17:52:00.000-05:00

Christmas Eve just hours away, I wrestled with the pros and cons of getting a few hours sleep, forgone since yesterday, before conversing via Skype with my fiancée, Paige, in Southeast Asia, or, instead, spending much needed sleep time writing and juggling home chores and holiday preparations.

I felt the heavy press of time, exhaustion and anxiety. There was a fair bit of guilt and depression, I think mostly from how little I had to spend for gifts. Like so many people these days, I’ve really been feeling the financial crunch. Oh, hell, why mince words? I’m broke, and I absolutely detest not being able to shower gifts, or even trickle them. That’s affected my attitude toward people in general, poorly, especially those closest to me.

A twelve-hour time difference and long workdays force Paige and me to lunge at opportune moments, less frequent than we’d like, for togetherness at odd and sometimes inconvenient hours. Weighing what’s sensible against longing, especially over the next 24 hours of this holiday best shared with those you love, we’d be lucky to get an hour to call our own, this our first Christmas together—apart.

All too often recently, my guilt and depression cloud the little time Paige and I do get to talk. And, more and more, the other woman in my life, in undeniable ways, demands equal time, she being Cookie, my muse. Of course, you, dear reader, discovered at nearly the same time as I that Cookie’s true identity is Calliope, the ages-old muse, but I’ll probably forevermore call her Cookie.

Paige is mature enough not to grow jealous…much…of my muse’s potent urgings. After all, she also suffers the writing virus. Still, I struggle to create ways to keep them both happy without forsaking either. It’s always seemed that the women I know manage that, with grace, much better than I can even bumble through. Besides, never demanding or nagging, I suspect Paige sees the futility and foolishness of engaging the immortal likes of an eternities-older Phoenician female.

Just what, you may now be asking yourself, other than the timing of my dilemma and a piddling income, does this have to do with Christmas? Everything. Magic. You see, Christmas was always magic to me. Though I don’t connect the holiday to my own religious beliefs or practices (rather, a chosen lack thereof), its wonder worked its way into my life, like most of us, during childhood. It excited me, lifted my spirit, and led me to hope and to share. Yet, as I walked, year by year, away from childhood, the magic and wonder dimmed to the accompaniment of depression, and in flusher times, I depended on my gift giving to fill in for magic.

Since you are reading this, I’m convinced the fix was in before the wrestling match I entered moments before I opted to write. I had to write, and what to write flew from my fingers much more than from my overly analytical, indecisive mind that usually battles me when I sit down to write. Cookie made those plans for me and completely facilitated their fulfillment, well beyond my most ambitious hopes. In a moment, I knew what to write as well as how to easily, happily and peacefully handle all else. She revealed much more to me; she shared more of her nature, more of what she holds for me and why, as well as how to best put it to use. Cookie then admonished me to share none of it except by way of demonstration—in giving of myself to others.

She did, though, let me know I could share the love she holds for a certain song, odd as it seems today when I wanted to hear traditional Christmas music, and that’s all that was in the playlist I’d set to shuffle. How strange it was that the old swing-era song, “Goody Goody” began to play. That definitely was not on my Christmas playlist. “So you met someone who set you back on your heels-goody goody! So you met someone and now you know how it feels-goody goody!” Those two opening lines repeated, over and over, conveyed her special message to me, a sharp turn from the song’s intended meaning. For at least a minute, somehow stuck there, that’s all that played. I thought, “Yes, I did, Cookie. I’m so glad to finally know you, and thank you!” And I swear, she giggled. Magic.

My writing for today nears completion, as do my other missions. I spent several wonderful hours talking and laughing with Paige. Before we said merry, merry and goodnight to one another, she said, “I always love you, but I like you best when you’re happy, and I’ve never heard you happier.” I know she was right about that, and she was happier than I can recall hearing her since she left the U.S. She knows more about love than I. She’s now sound asleep, well on her way to Christmas morning in Thailand. I haven’t slept like I hoped, yet I’m wide awake, refreshed, energized and filled with the magic and wonder of Christmas.

So, this was Cookie’s Christmas gift to me; filling me with words, laughter, love and magic—all intangibles—to share in the best spirit of the season, in ways I haven’t felt since childhood. I hope I have given some of that to you in return.

Merry Christmas!

Breakfast at Epiphanies

2011-12-18T10:53:00.000-05:00

Webster’s II New College Dictionary defines “epiphany” thusly:

1. A revelatory manifestation of a divine being. 2. a. A sudden manifestation of the meaning or essence of something. b. A sudden intuitive realization or perception of reality.

As I ate breakfast the morning after having posted about “Cookie,” she visited me with epiphanies, precisely and powerfully, in every sense of those definitions. Call them gifts or rewards for finally writing about her, for publicly acknowledging her existence in my world.

A faithful follower of my blog and longtime friend who’d just read my post directed me to Zazzle, a site featuring, among many other charming products, a particular coffee mug. When I saw it, I was stunned; hairs on my arms stood atop gooseflesh and my heart raced with the realization of the meaning of the image on that mug, in this case certainly worth much more than any thousand of my words.

CALLIOPE COOKIE, MUSE by WinonaCookie

Mind you, I had never seen this before. Beyond loving the art, and the story behind Calliope Cookie, I was awestruck. I knew it was Cookie speaking to me. When she first told me her name was Cookie, I now see it was merely a clue.

Buddhist wisdom teaches that when the student is ready, the teacher will appear. Cookie, a wise and clever teacher, evidently feeling I was ready to receive, chose this way to finally reveal her true identity—Calliope, the Greek muse. I feel honored and quite humbled.

With immense gratitude, I’d like to thank Ramona Szczerba, the wonderful artist who created Calliope Cookie, the conduit to my awareness. As she put it when she graciously allowed me to use her art to tell my story, part of which is very much her story, “I'm glad that I could be of some assistance in having your (our?) Muse, Calliope, manifest in corporeal (sort of) form.”

Cookie

2011-12-10T19:22:00.000-05:00

In a previous post, long, long ago, I mentioned Cookie and promised to talk about her later. I just checked my watch and it’s definitely later. Though her identity was a mystery to me until fairly recently, I don’t want that situation to be the trend here, as I suspect her name will come up again in my posts.

Cookie is my muse. Neither her name nor her existence is a fabrication of my imagination, unlike Charlotte who, though vibrantly alive to me, is of course my fictional character. I mean, please, I’m a writer. Don’t you think I’d make up something better than Cookie, something more lofty and literary, for a muse? Of course I would. Cookie is a name better suited to my protagonist, Charlotte, than a muse, and I wouldn’t even saddle her with it; I like her too much. The only Cookie I can recall having run across in my life is a childhood friend’s dog, and she bit me once. The name also makes me think of Edd Byrnes’ character, Kookie, in the old TV show, 77 Sunset Strip…yeah, I know that really dates me. But, I digress. Get used to it, I’m known to do that.

So, yeah, I was highly irritated when she told me her name. More accurately, she revealed her name. She reveals things to me when and if I’m in the mood to pay attention. I may say that Cookie told me this or said that, but that’s just in a manner of speaking. I’m not hearing voices. It hasn’t gotten that bad, yet, and I’ll let you know if I really start needing meds.

Nonetheless, quite cognizant of the difference between reality and fiction, I know Cookie is real, whether you believe it or not. Despite her lack of physical…or aural…manifestation, I say to those of you believing that only the sensate is real, more will be revealed. If I were subjected to techniques twice as torturous as those employed at Guantanamo Bay and interrogated about every fact and facet of her life, I’d be unable to tell you much more. I know only what she’s told me, only what she allows me to know, and then only what I’m willing and able to accept. I’m stubborn.

That’s not to say it’s kept me from thinking about her a lot. Put yourself in my shoes; wouldn’t you give quite a bit of thought to the realization that there is an entity communicating with you—a presence, a soul—call her what you will? I can’t honestly say she’s just come into my life. Quite the contrary. I was astonished to discover she’s always been with me; I don’t always arrive quickly at awareness and a willingness to listen. Now knowing she’s always been there makes me feel like a huge idiot. That is about the only part of this that isn’t new. It also makes me feel a bit sorry for her. Completely ignored and neglected all these years—unquestionably female—you can imagine how well that sat with her. Still, she’s hung in there, and that’s given rise to a huge question in my mind. Why?

As she reveals more and my understanding further gels to something I can better articulate, I’ll write more about her.

Melding Reality with Fiction

2011-11-08T11:59:00.000-05:00

I cringe to think a young, beginning writer would opt to live a banal life, focusing only on writing in hopes of creating rich stories. That’s oxymoronic in theory or execution. There are many writers, including me, that have vast and heterogeneous experiences. Fanciful imaginings are surely necessary to creating literary entertainment and art, but one of the hallmarks of good fiction is that it’s imbued with a fair grasp of reality without resulting in something as dry as a Bond martini.

It is requisite writers read—a lot—and research, interview and dig thoroughly to bring accuracy to their stories, and that’s often the only way to learn the factual details filling our fictional worlds. It’s a balancing act. We strive to keep our footing and suspend disbelief as foul forces attempt to knock us from our high wire. Invaluable it is to live and experience life broadly. We gather kernels from all corners of life to bring life to our writing, lest we succumb to being armchair quarterbacks banging out plastic fiction.

Naturally, it's impossible for one to live all there is to the human experience, but many of us have gone out there and chosen to risk it—go for it—and do things many only read or dream about. I'm reminded of George Plimpton. Even though non-fiction, what was great about his works like Paper Lion is that he was the everyman writing from his participatory perspective rather than that of a reporter who merely researched the contests and interviewed the players.

Me? I've struggled through hell, muck and mire armed with weapons, traversed the skies in powerful machines and taken responsibility daily for every life on board. I’ve leapt from those craft when they were flying fine, protected only by a silk canopy. My last jump at age 18 nearly killed me, and I was saved by a fluke with only seconds to spare, 900 feet from splatter. I've paid with the pain of spinal damage ever since. In dubious service to America, I was privy to some dirty little secrets and lies of this nation and others as the deadly silly games played out on the global field.

I've fought full-contact karate and sometimes had to be dragged from the dojo floor unconscious, and I celebrated when, more often than not, I dished it out to opponents. I've been in street and bar brawls with knuckles and knives. I’ve cradled and cared for all kinds of creatures; I said ouch when they bit me and cried when they died. I’ve run, swum, climbed, biked, kayaked and rafted. I've involved myself in the lives of all kinds of characters from criminals to kings, bikers to barons, and romanced many kinds of women, fluttering and scarring my heart. I’ve crept through seedy L.A. streets at three in the morning with a pistol pushed into the waistband of my jeans—just in case. I've lived the workaday world, 9 to 5, in myriad businesses and industries, working in plush offices, high-security military installations and on garbage trucks teaming with maggots, gagging from the blood of dead animals running into my eyes and mouth.

I've raised kids (a most frightening adventure I fear I bumbled extremely), and tickled my grandkids, all of us giggling to tears. I’ve been a rock 'n' roll roadie and a psychiatric office's manager and multiple dozens of things in between. I've traveled throughout this country and others, and jumped right in when new, uncomfortable, dangerous and frightening...or even lame...adventures presented themselves, knowing full well that it could be the last thing I would do. I've chosen to experience chemically altered states of mind and soul—just for fun or just to know—fully aware of the possible risks to life, limb, sanity and freedom. I know the terrors of jails and mental wards, the peace and joy of great libraries and standing atop mountains the most agile animals avoid.

I've sacrificed security and comfort often just to know the emotions and senses felt when choosing less safe and sane paths, often rebelling at what society at large, friends and loved ones thought I should do. In between the more harrowing moments, there's been time a plenty to read, research, watch movies, wallow in music and live like a lounge lizard and laugh—and write, write, write.

There's a price to pay for everything and we have to choose what we can afford. I regret the nos I’ve proffered, in momentary lapses into sense and sanity, more than the times I’ve said yes to the unhinged unknown. Better that I die damaged and delirious before I’m sixty than safe at seventy-seven. The writing fuel garnered, as well as the simple joy of living, is well worth the risks, and when I lay me down for the last time, I’ll fall away from here, fulfilled.

How Time Flies When You're Having Fun

2011-10-13T15:59:00.000-04:00

Oh, my! Is it October already? And no posts since May! Shame on me. I can blame it on the new season of Sons of Anarchy or the non-stop baths I have to give my cat during this insane flea season or chronic procrastinitis or any other number of convenient rationalizations.

"Some people claim that there's a woman to blame
But I know it's my own damn fault." ~ Jimmy Buffett

Okay, I promise, there's some good stuff coming soon. Stay tuned.

Excuses, Insanity and Love

2011-05-23T20:37:00.000-04:00

My guilt-ridden, tortured conscience no longer able to bear the burden, it’s time for apologies to my many adoring fans, but mostly to Charlotte, Cookie (I’ll discuss her later)...and myself...for my literary lapses of late. This, then, must serve as an arena for amends, my confessional and a means by which to confront in black and white the preponderance of ludicrous excuses I make to not live up to my life’s assignment.

Distractions abounded over the past few weeks, their forms myriad. Aside from my ever-prestent multitude of manias, there have been physical illness and technical obstacles consisting of computer viruses, power outages and electrical glitches. Then, finally and mostly, as yawn or nausea inducing as it may be to anyone other than the two key players, there is the radical storm that struck the desert my love life has dwelled in for the past couple of years. As Woody Allen’s character, Alvy, expressed after making love to Annie Hall in the eponymous movie, "As Balzac said, 'There goes another novel'."

All except the last-mentioned issue being water under the clichéd bridge, I’ll just have to flog myself daily to write and keep Charlotte, Cookie, and all others mentioned, satisfied. The object of my new love will simply have to understand, being a writer herself.

The Price Paid

2011-05-04T20:18:00.000-04:00

Charlotte is progressing well. Why? Because I’m investing cell and soul, hence my jumbled, perverted state. Drained yet energized in adrenal overdrive, I’m crazed by myriad thoughts, synapses firing at will, maniacally, beyond my control. I’m pathetic. I’m withdrawing from this reality--even that an easily arguable mere concept, Charlotte’s realm devouring that with every word written. Beyond the isolation required while writing, the confinement creeps into every other aspect of life, the dwindling contact with the reality remaining is convoluted and colored by Charlotte’s demanding, insistent world.

All is cause and effect. There’s a price to pay for everything. It’s choice. I choose the unbalance of commitment to the extreme, faithful that it is affordable and well worth what’s won. Seeking safety, sanity and serenity by standing in the middle of the road is merely the ideal spot to meet one’s death.

More when....

A Thousand Words: The Birth of "Charlotte"

2011-04-24T08:53:00.000-04:00

Initially, I did not set out to write Charlotte. Over fifteen years ago, I took a creative writing class and our teacher, Rebecca, assigned us a short-story exercise: Each of us was to create a story from the opening line, “Even though her husband had been dead for three years, Molly Green still wore black.” My result was a thousand-word narrative titled, Good Golly, Ms. Molly.

The creative writing process is never an easy one, but for me there’s nothing quite as mentally piquant, and now I realize, too, nothing quite as self-defining. The challenge and engagement of writing certainly held as I wrote stories for that class. One of them eventually found publication in a university literary journal. As well as what I was learning, I was satisfied with all my creations except for Good Golly, Ms. Molly. Not that I didn’t enjoy writing it, but for some reason I can’t quite explain, it was more difficult, exceptionally more, than the others and I was less than satisfied with the results.

Intriguing, the tricks our minds play on us and on our memories, if not simply thoroughly perplexing. I clearly remember reading Rebecca’s critique. She hated it. She’d torn it apart!

The criticism that most preyed on my mind was that it was ambiguous in its narrative point of view, perhaps more akin to a news report of a tragic occurrence than a story engaging readers in the lives of its characters. That stung. I was a tad angry, defensive, and then, as I considered it more and more, I toddled toward humiliation because I knew it was true. To me, it meant that my story sucked, and it meant I sucked as a writer.

Rather than try to fix it with a rewrite, I made a mental note never to repeat the mistake and then rationalized it all with the face-saving thought that it was, after all, just an exercise. I shoved it in a drawer and tried to forget it.

Years later, as I rummaged through that drawer, I ran across it. In that second, just seeing it laying there, I again felt the rub--not to the extreme I first had, but I was annoyed--annoyed at the difficulty of the process, at Rebecca’s rebuff and, ultimately, at myself for the bad job I felt I’d done. Of course, I hadn’t even tried, so I was also annoyed that I didn’t know how to fix it.

I flipped through the five pages and finally re-read it and her critique. Something was wrong. The disdainful things she’d said about it, other than the perspective problem, were no longer there in her red-penciled notes. She’d merely pointed out how to make it better, and even how much she liked the story, overall. That gave me a laugh! I was the only one who’d torn it apart. Do you see what I mean about tricks of the mind?

But, here it still was in my hands, irreparable in my mind. Of course, some things are like that. There’s no way to see the solution until some action is taken. I suspect that’s why it’s called rewrite, not rethink. In retrospect, I’m extremely grateful it didn’t occur to me in that moment that I’d once dismissed it as just an exercise, and I could easily do it again and forever. Had I, I’d likely have shoved it back into the drawer, closed it, and that would have been that--Charlotte aborted before conception.

The next time I talked with Rebecca (we became good friends after I took her class, as we remain today), I mentioned the story to her and the nonsense I’d carried in my mind about it over the years. That conversation and several more led both of us to the conclusion, or at least the sense, that there was a novel within those thousand words. Still, I resisted for years, doing nothing more than thinking about it occasionally.

Many years later, Rebecca and I finally sat down together, armed with coffee, notebooks and pens, and asked each other all the questions and tossed around all the possible answers that eventually revealed a character named Charlotte. In Good Golly, Ms. Molly, Charlotte’s name never came up, but the outline completed that day uncovered that it was, in fact, Charlotte’s story.

The irony is that in bringing Charlotte and her story to life, Good Golly, Ms. Molly practically rewrote itself, and became chapter one of Charlotte.

Remodeling

2011-04-17T18:19:00.000-04:00

When I began this blog site, my first, my motivation and vision for it were slightly different from now. That slight difference now makes me want to wire the whole damned place with explosive charges, detonate them, walk away and build anew. (Relax, Dept. of Homeland Scrutiny, it's just figurative hyperbole). Instead, I have decided remodeling is the best route to take.

To those few who may actually give a rat's ass what I do here...evidently very few...I apologize not only for the mess of the process, but also for results that may inspire you to care even less about it. As the late Ricky Nelson's song Garden Party concludes, "You see, ya can't please everyone, so you got to please yourself." To those who do care a little, I think I owe this much of an explanation for my madness:

As years go by, we may not change at our core, but if we try, we grow to better expressions of our core, better expressions of our souls. My experience has been that growth comes in spurts, often between long periods of partial or complete stagnation―even reversals. At this writing, I choose to see these periods of stagnation not in a negative light, but rather as necessary, albeit painful and messy, research.

In my case, prolonged research reveals my need to accept, fully and finally, that I am a writer. It’s about the only thing I'm good at, and when in the writers’ realm, I know I’m not the misfit, homeless freak I feel like in any other role. I feel naked, ashamed, derelict and dumb to confess that I’ve given more lip service than pen to demonstration of that fact for decades. My adeptness as a writer is for you to perceive and judge, and that’s really none of my business. My public declaration is for my own soul’s sake. It’s all too easy to pretend I didn’t say it if whispered only into private darkness with no witnesses to hold me accountable.

I’m motivated by fear as I rapidly approach the end of this life’s long trip. I believe the primary obligation to life is to give. I’ve shirked my obligation all too often in hedonistic pursuits and misplaced self-interest. I believe that all in the Universe is energy. Sharing our energy fuels our own. I’m no physicist so I won’t engage in an argument about whether or not energy is endless and ever present, only changing in form. Still, every bit of energy within me screams its fear of eternal death from starvation. Having given too little, there is no restoration. And there is no giving without it coming from the true essence of our being, or as is said, from the bottom of our hearts. Hence, by failing to live as a writer, untrue to my essence, I have nothing to give and by extension, I get nothing, have nothing―am nothing.

Call me a weakling, call me a chicken, but I just no longer have the strength or guts to continue contributing to my own spiral into eternal oblivion. I know the Universe now hears the declaration I scream. I'm a writer! It’s about damn time everything I do reflects my declaration. So it is written….

I’m writing a novel called Charlotte, and I’ve been working on it or, more accurately, procrastinating on it longer than I care to confess. I’ve confessed enough sin for one day, but my procrastination certainly supports the veracity of my confessions. This, then, is one of many first acts as a born-again writer. I’ll be posting, regularly, my thoughts and experiences as I complete Charlotte. I sincerely hope to give something of value in the process.

I'd like to dedicate the commencement of this renewed effort to two wonderful people who have hung in there with me and encouraged me beyond a reasonable expectation. They define "friend." Thank you, RSG and RDC.

The Glumlot Letters

2010-08-13T06:33:00.000-04:00

The Glumlot Letters by Stanley M.

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Stanley M. chose well in his decision to emulate C.S. Lewis's "The Screwtape Letters" in order to provide insight to the power of the process of the 12-Steps of Alcoholics Anonymous to affect recovery from alcoholism. Stanley's intriguing, adept writing in this epistolary novel supports the wisdom of that choice with every Step. To work with Stanley was a pleasure, and I am honored he entrusted its editing to me.

You can buy it (no, I don't earn a single penny if you do) here, at Amazon or here, at Barnes&Noble.

View all my reviews >>

WEIGHING IN ON SARAH PALIN

2008-09-12T15:32:00.000-04:00

There is no question, from all I’ve read, that Sarah Palin did inquire as to how she would go about getting books banned from her local library. While the list of those books, in wide circulation, is evidently a complete fabrication, the fact that she asked the question is not. To me, that is the single scariest mindset any person in any political office could possibly have, irrespective of their party affiliation. At that point I think there is no, and I mean NO REDEMPTION and it should automatically exempt her from ever holding political office again. It should send up red flags as quickly as if she had asked, “How would I go about getting the President assassinated?”

I CAN SHOOT POOL (song...okay, give me a break, I'm working on the music!)

2008-08-08T14:57:00.000-04:00

I CAN SHOOT POOL, BABY

I CAN SHOOT POOL

NOT WHEN I FIRST WALK IN THE DOOR

OH, NO WAY BABY

I TRIED THAT ONCE BEFORE

BUT I CAN SHOOT POOL, BABY

I CAN SHOOT POOL

LET ME JUST SIT A WHILE

AND NURSE A COUPLE A DRINKS

THEN GET ME NEAR THAT TABLE, BABY

AND I CAN SHOOT POOL, OH YEAH!

BABY, I CAN SHOOT POOL

HEY, NO MORE THAN THREE DRINKS

WELL, SOMETIMES IT TAKES FOUR

BUT THEN GO 'HEAD AND RACK 'EM, CAUSE

I CAN SHOOT POOL, BABY

I CAN SHOOT POOL

I NEVER PLAY DRUNK, NO WAY

DON'T YA TAKE ME FOR A FOOL

BUT WHEN I'VE HAD JUST ENOUGH, LOOK OUT

'CAUSE I CAN SHOOT POOL

YEAH, THAT'S RIGHT BABY

I CAN SHOOT POOL

SOMETIMES I STOP TO EAT

AND MY BELLY'S REALLY FULL

THEN FIVE SHOOTERS IS FINE

OKAY, MAYBE SIX

BUT I CAN SHOOT POOL, BABY

I CAN SHOOT POOL

HAND ME THE CHALK, BABY

AN' GIVE ME THAT CUE

SOON'S I'VE HAD ANOTHER

AN' YA HELP ME OFF THIS STOOL

I'M GONNA SHOW YA, BABY

YEAH! I CAN SHOOT POOL!

HEART'S BLOOD (poem)

2007-10-31T08:52:00.000-04:00

How do I reveal my heart's inner blood,

to let you know the emotions that flood?

If they go unexposed, I am bound to expire;

my search for your love consumes me like fire.

My soul screams out to meld with your own.

This unsated desire casts me lost and alone.

As a knight's quest exceeds the kingdom’s far reaches,

I seek your existence, for my heart’s blood beseeches.

Confusion abounds throughout tortured nights.

Do you truly exist; can you end the woe of my plight?

Damnable obstacles and stresses endured

create lies in my head my heart hopes are absurd.

Our spirits’ true union will set our passion to burning,

so be not elusive, but reveal now your heart’s yearning.

When at last our paths cross and our hearts fall together,

my heart’s blood will know you when you're beside me forever.

©RM-2007

EVOLUTION (short story)

2007-09-21T18:13:00.000-04:00

EVOLUTION
by
Russ Mars
© 1970

November 13— There’s a wart on my hand. It’s on the palm of my right hand, where my thumb meets my wrist. I don’t know how it got there; I suppose a little grain of sand or a sliver of wood was embedded under my skin. I don’t believe it came from a toad (that’s just a silly wives’ tale about warts coming from toads). I first noticed the warts last summer. It was just a minute bump with a little black speck in the middle. I tried to pick it off, and I made it bleed. When it healed, it was bigger.

I had a wart in the middle of the same thumb right where the swirl of my thumbprint was, and the hole was crisscrossed with teeny lines of skin. It looked a lot like a spider web and it made me sick to my stomach when I looked at it. But the wart I have now is bigger.

January 17— The wart on my hand is gone. It got smaller and smaller and the only thing that was left was the black speck, then that disappeared. It didn’t leave a scar; that’s good because I hate scars.

January 24— I have a wart on my elbow. It’s bigger than the one that used to be on my hand. It hurts. I wonder why the other wart didn’t hurt. This one has two little black specks in it, one next to the other. They look like two little eyes. I’m certain this wart didn’t come from a toad because I’ve never touched one with my elbow. How ridiculous!

February 9— The wart on my elbow is gone. It looked as if it sank into my skin, slipping deeper every day as if my skin were quicksand and the wart was some poor creature caught in its midst. My skin finally covered it. Now there’s nothing there.

March 3— I have a wart on my ear. It sure does look funny! My whole ear is swollen and red. I thought the wart was a big pimple at first, the way it made my ear hurt. But it looks like the warts I’ve had before.

April 2— The wart is gone. I woke up this morning and looked in the mirror and it was as if it had never been there.

July 6— I haven’t had any more warts since the one on my ear went away. I’ve also been holding a lot of toads this summer. But no more warts. I guess that (croak) goes to show (croak) that toads don't cause (croak) warts. I’m sure glad (croak) I don’t have any more (croak) of those disgusting warts. Croak! Croak! Croak!

IF I WERE A HOT-AIR BALLOON (poem)

2007-09-21T17:06:00.000-04:00

IF I WERE A HOT-AIR BALLOON

Russ Mars

If I were a hot-air balloon

I'd dance among the clouds,

I'd carry you away, my love,

far above the crowds.

Away from cloying fingers

of memories painful still,

sailing faithful to our hearts,

true to God's good will.

Toward my rainbowed canopy

you'd reach with love and trust,

ever certain that no matter what,

I'd hold you as I must.

I'd hold you gently and free from harm,

and carry you swift and sure,

I would take you ever higher,

and you'd always be secure.

If I were a hot-air balloon,

these things I'd surely do,

But I'm not this, I'm just a man,

so this I promise true,

to love you always faithfully,

and walk forever next to you.

THE MYSTERY STORY (work in progress)

2007-09-20T08:54:00.001-04:00

Here's one that began as a short story, then I realized it's probably a novel. I haven't touched it for some time, but now I feel the urge to bring it out of mothballs. What it will be is a mystery to me at this point, but I want to tell the story, whatever it is. Perhaps the reason I'm suddenly interested in finishing it is to avoid working on my current novel! Nonetheless, in its incomplete state, it's a mystery in more ways than one, so it's working title is simply...

THE MYSTERY STORY
by
Russ Mars
© 2006

"Ya know, there's nuthin' as temptin' as a locked door," said the old shoe-shine man as he ambled down the dimly-lit corridor. "But there's nuthin' in there 'cept mops and brooms and cleanin' stuff that you shouldn't be messin' with, son, though it ain't normally locked. Now come away from there. Where's your folks?"

"No, mister, you don't understand! He — he pushed her in here," the little boy cried as he twisted frantically at the door knob and pushed and kicked at the door, the loose red curls atop his head bouncing wildly.

"What fool thing you talkin' 'bout, son? Who's in there?"

"They're in there! I think he's hurting her! You gotta help me, mister!"

The tiny boy began to make frenzied leaps at the door, ramming it with his shoulder, and with each impact, he expelled a squeaky grunt. Falling to the floor in a heap, he would quickly recover and fly at the door again, his forty pounds barely shaking it.

The frail black man turned and began to shuffle out of the corridor, calling over his shoulder, "I'll go get someone to help. You listen to ol' Jessie now, an you jes' settle down, son, jes' settle down. I'll get someone," and he moved back out into the waiting area of the bus terminal. As he made his way across the worn black-and-white-checked linoleum toward the front as fast as he could, which was only slightly faster than his usual pace, he could hear the dull thud of the boy's body against the door becoming fainter and fainter.

Arriving at the ticket counter, Jessie put his polish-stained hand lightly on the shoulder of a plump woman standing at the agent window. "'Scuse me, ma'am, but I need to talk to the man here."

"I beg your pardon. I was here first," she said, shrugging off his hand and giving him a cold stare.

"Yes'm, you surely was, but there's a little boy…."

"Ma'am," said Virgil, the ticket agent, "let me just take care of this and I'll be right with you."

"He can just wait until you've given me my ticket. I don't want to miss my bus."

"Please, lady," said Jessie, "that poor little boy…."

"Ma'am, your bus isn't leaving for another forty-five minutes and this will just take a moment, I'm sure, then I can…."

"I want my ticket,” she interrupted, “I was here first and I want my ticket. Now how much do I owe you?"

"Yes, ma'am, alright," said Virgil. He glanced at Jessie and rolled his eyes. "Jessie, just a second, okay?" He finished keying the data into the terminal on the counter in front of him. "That'll be forty-two dollars even, ma'am."

Jessie shifted nervously on his feet and glanced back towards the entrance to the corridor, then looked back at Virgil. "Virge, there's a little guy back there carryin' on somethin' fierce…."

"You are a very rude old man," said the woman, stopping the rummaging she was doing in her purse and glaring at Jessie. She turned back to Virgil and handed him the money.

Jessie looked over his shoulder again, then back at Virgil. "But Virge..."

The woman and Jessie both jerked their heads around as a loud bang and crash echoed from the corridor, and the woman squealed, "Ohmygod!"

"What the hell was that?" said Virgil, leaning and staring through his window.

Just seconds after the first, a second loud bang sounding like a door-slam brought the wiry ticket agent out from behind the far end of the ticket counter at a full run.

"Down there, Virge! The cleanin' closet!" yelled Jessie, pointing as he followed at a pace nowhere matching Virgil's. By the time Jessie reached the corridor, Virgil was out of sight, the hallway empty. Jessie could see light glowing from the now open closet at the end, and he'd taken just a few steps more when Virgil poked his head out from there and yelled, "Call an ambulance! For God's sake call an ambulance right now!" and he disappeared back into the closet.

Jessie muttered, "Sweet Jesus, sweet Jesus," to himself as he began his trek back to the ticket counter, still unable to muster any great speed, but now panting and wheezing from the effort. In the middle of the second beseeching of his Lord there came from outside the building the loud screech of car tires and the nerve-jangling crunch-rip of metal against metal, at which he let loose with a very loud, raspy, "Sweet Jeezuus!"

The nasty plump woman, frozen in place next to the ticket window, belted out another "OHMYGOD!"

Jessie, finally gaining a little speed from a combination of adrenaline and momentum, scurried behind the counter. His trembling hand reached for the phone just as a man in blue jeans and a red t-shirt bolted through the front door and ran up to the counter, pushed the plump woman aside and stuck his head through the window.

"There's a lady out front hurt bad," he said. "Got run over in the street by some maniac! Better call for help. Tell 'em to hurry!" and before Jessie could say a word the man ran out as fast as he'd come in.

Jessie dialed 911.

*********************

The sheriffs' vehicles sat sentinel at various points and angles around the bus station; red and blue mechanized beacons sent lights inside and out, piercing night shadows, as if the beams were seeking out culprits and clues.

"You're sure?" said Sheriff Adam Inali into his cell phone. He listened for a moment longer and sighed, "Oh, man, what a mess. How's he and the woman doing?" He closed his eyes and pinched at the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger up under his reading glasses. "Well, that's good, anyway. Okay, I should be there in about 15 minutes," he said, and he snapped the phone shut and slipped it back into its case attached to his gun belt. He stared for a moment at his note pad on the ticket counter, made a few more notes, then looked up. "Mr. Dillard, just one more thing I need clarified," he said to Jessie, who was standing a few feet from him, leaning against the counter, "Why didn't you help the kid get that closet open?"

"Like I said, he wasn't makin' much sense an' carryin' on and all. I jes' figured I'd get Virgil to get the key and get in there. I'm an ol' man, what was I gonna' do? I jes' wish now I'da told that lady to shut her darn mouth, that's what."

"Okay, Mr. Dillard, I understand. Thank you," he said. He turned to Virgil on the other side of the ticket window and said, "I think I've got all I need here, sir. Thanks for your help with this."

"Sheriff?" said Virgil, "I heard you ask. How are they doing, the boy and the woman? Tough little kid. After what he did, he should get a medal."

"Well, sir, I guess they'll be okay...physically anyway. She's got some pretty nasty cuts and bruises. Well, you saw. And the boy's arm is broken, but he'll mend. That's the least of his problems. My deputy talked to him at the hospital. Said he and his mom are going to L.A., like you said. Kid said she's got work there and an apartment lined up. She left him waiting here with their bags to run down the street to get some sodas and stuff for their ride. Boy's name is Darin McCardle."

"Yes,” Virgil said, “I told you I saw the boy's mom go out the front after she bought her tickets. McCardle? That's not the name she gave for her ticket. See here," he said, turning the manifest around so the sheriff could see. "Like I told you, it's Fielding — Elizabeth Fielding."

"Yeah, I've got that here," said Sheriff Inali, tapping his note pad. "And that's who I sent one of my deputies looking for. Pretty, blonde hair, right?".

"Uh, huh. And her bus to L.A. is due any minute, but I don't guess she's gonna be on it with her kid in the hospital and all. Anyone find her yet?"

"Sure did,” said the sheriff, “but we didn't know it 'til now. No I.D. on her. Her purse was knocked all the way across the street and lodged in the branches of a rosebush."

"Oh, no," Virgil said, nearly in a whisper.

"Yeah, the lady that was run down out front. It's her."

"Is she gonna make it?"

Sheriff Inali glanced toward Jessie, then looked back at Virgil and said, "She died en route."

"Sweet Jesus," said Jessie.

"I've got to get over to the hospital. Thank you, Gentlemen," said the sheriff. As he headed toward the front door, Jessie fell in behind him.

"Where's the boy's papa? Darin? That his name? Where's his papa?"

"Yes, Darin. Well, Mr. Dillard, the information is a little sketchy at this point, but it looks like there's been no dad in the picture for quite some time. The deputy that talked to him said that, of course, he was still really shook up. I'm going to talk to him right now, and the woman who was attacked."

"Poor little guy. Wish there was somethin' I could do to help. Had no idea, no sir, no idea at all the trouble was so bad. I tried to get'im some kinda help. He was carryin' on so, ya know, throwin' hisself at that door. Poor lady — both them ladies, oh Sweet Jesus, if only I coulda' — coulda' done somethin'."

Sheriff Inali held the door for Jessie, put his hand on his shoulder and walked out behind him.

"Mr. Dillard, none of this was your fault, you know."

Jessie turned and faced him and looked hard into his eyes. His lips parted as if he was about to speak and his eyes were watering up, but then he suddenly jerked his head skyward. "You hear that? Yeah, lookie there!"

The moon was nearly full and in its glow, it was easy for Sheriff Inali to see what Jessie pointed at, though he heard nothing. A large owl swooped away through the sky, then slowly turned and headed back toward them. Once it was directly over them, it turned sharply, climbed higher and arced out of sight.

Jessie lowered his head and looked back at the sheriff, his eyes now much wider than before. "That means the Devil, that owl does, ya know?” said Jessie, nearly in a whisper. “That bird knows bad news…maybe brings it. Learned that from my papa when we'd go huntin' when I was no older than that little guy…Darin."

The sheriff nodded his assent to Jessie. "Many people believe that. My people, my dad's side, that is, are Cherokee. They honor the owl as sacred. The owl has great night-vision and they wish to draw that power to themselves to see in the dark…more to have great awareness."

"Maybe both is true,” said Jessie, again in a whisper. “What happened today sure is evil, yes sir, sure is. You think you gonna catch that man soon?"

Sheriff Inali searched the sky, saying nothing. Finally, mostly to himself, he muttered, "I guess I could really use that owl's help now.” He then looked back at Jessie, shook his head, and said, “So you could hear it, huh? That's really something."

Jessie smiled. "Yeah, I hear pretty good still. Ears still work pretty good. Could hear them big ol' wings whooshing through the air, yes sir. I know someone else who's gonna need a lot of help. The poor little guy, Darin, he's gonna need help. Anything I can do, you jes' let me know, Sheriff."

"I'd say there’s more than your ears that still work just fine, Mr. Dillard," and he gently touched his left index finger to the middle of Jessie’s chest. With his other hand, he reached out to shake Jessie's hand, and Jessie's returned grip, he noticed, was remarkably firm.

"Please, jes' call me Jessie. I'm jes' ol' Jessie, sir."

"Alright then, Jessie, I'd better get over there now."

(to be continued?)

THE DRUMMER (short story)

2007-09-16T11:29:00.000-04:00

Photographer: Robert Landau

“Make a wish, any wish at all. What would you wish for?” Of course the old man didn’t respond because I hadn’t really spoken to him...hadn’t spoken at all. But that’s what I wanted to ask him as I stood and watched him. Why did he do this? What was he looking for? What was the dream at the end of all his nights here?

I figured him to be Chinese...maybe Korean. Pulled back into a ponytail, his thin, salt-and-pepper hair hung to the middle of his slumped back. His shoulders barely moved and his crinkled eyes locked on something far beyond the farthest end of the street as he beat out the monotonous rhythm on the miniature drum set that looked like a child’s toy. Tharump ba bump bump, tharump ba bump bump, tharump ba bump bump badoom ba bump bump. His drumming was self-accompaniment to tonally flat vocalizations of 50s and 60s pop hits. The beat changed but little as he began each new song in a voice more devoid of talent and inspiration than his drumming.

I adjusted my stance and looked up and down the promenade. Even at midnight, shoppers and browsers thronged, providing ever-shifting waves of audiences for the street performers who displayed their talents in between the carts and racks of the vendors of trinkets, crafts and food. Enough people crowded around most of the shows that those at the back had to crane their necks and stand on their toes to see the act, but not so for the drummer.

For twenty minutes, as I sipped my coffee, I’d been his only spectator other than passersby who would whisper among themselves, laugh and move on. He’d sung five songs, the breaks between them mere seconds. Any time day or night, weekday or weekend for the past year that I’d come here to browse, shop and people watch, he was here. On no occasion I could recall had he ever been still at his drums or not singing. Never were there more than a dozen people watching him play and usually fewer, if any. The coffee can a few feet from his base drum, put there to receive tips, seldom contained more than pocket change, occasionally a lonely dollar bill.

I’d bet a week’s salary that anyone who played as much as he, day in and day out for hours on end, would undoubtedly and eventually show some improvement, yet my ears knew that in his case I’d lose my wager. If I had such an apparent lack of talent and ability for a thing, I’d have given up quickly. Why didn’t he? No doubt there’s virtue in persistence, but his acceptance of reality seemed to be lacking. He sucked.

My curiosity finally overriding my sense of propriety, I stepped closer to him as he ended a song with a cymbal crash. I held up my hand to keep him from launching into another musical tragedy.

“Excuse me, sir, may I speak with you for a moment?”

He lowered his bony hands and the aged, splintered drumsticks into his lap, and merely nodded.

“I’ve seen you play many times, and I’m impressed with how hard you work at it.”

That’s not really what I wanted to say, but I’m not completely tactless.

Again, he nodded once.

“Well, I was just wondering where you hope to take your...uh...musical career? If you could make a wish, any wish at all, what would it be?”

Before the old man could answer, a small child of about five or six with black, straight hair and dark, almond eyes scampered between him and his drums and climbed onto his lap. “Can we go now, Grandpa? Can we go eat? Do we have enough?”

The drummer lifted the child from his lap and set him down gently but firmly next to him, and put an index finger to his lips as he patted the child on the head. He turned back to me and fixed his eyes on mine. With no emotion and in a deep, calm voice he said, “I’d wish you would put a dollar in my can.”

THE END

I was inspired to write this story by my many, many visits to 3rd Street Promenade in Santa Monica when I still lived in Southern California. It was one of my favorite places to hang out and people-watch, especially on hot summer nights. Since relocating to California's Central Coast, it's one of the very few things I miss about Southern California.

BEAT THE DRUM NO MORE (short story)

2007-09-16T10:54:00.000-04:00

Billy Bob Hagood lay on his side behind the toppled, rotting tree trunk, clutching to his chest the treasured, high-powered hunting rifle his daddy had given him on his fourteenth birthday. In the last twenty years, he’d brought down countless prey with the highly accurate Winchester, but none as frustratingly elusive or threatening as that which he now stalked in the shivery dawn of the hushed Alabama woods. His pulse thundered in his ears, and he silently cursed the visible frost each panting breath formed, fearful his position could be seen.

He cautiously rolled from his side and raised himself enough to peer over the moss-covered log into the dense brush, studying each detail of the wooded terrain ahead of him——every rock, every gully, every bush and tree, every inch of the leaf-covered forest floor——for any movement, any potential cover in which his quarry could be concealing itself. Usually the creature just kept moving——going and going——ever relentless, but Billy Bob was certain that by now its reserves were exhausted and it would have to stop soon.

Billy Bob was near collapse from the pursuit begun nearly twenty hours before. Then, he wasn’t prepared for a protracted hunt when he sighted the critter as he drove his pickup down a dirt road on his way to check a fence line. He grabbed his rifle from the rack behind him and ran across a pasture just as the fluff of its stumpy tail disappeared into the edge of the woods where he followed, and he was able to follow only by brief glimpses that never afforded a clear shot. Obsessively, he gave chase on into the night, finally tracking it by ear alone. He had to stop the vexatious creature.

As he continued to scan the woods through the lifting morning mist from behind the log, his object of pursuit darted from behind a thicket and crossed his field of vision about two hundred yards in front of him. Billy Bob jerked the scoped rifle up and lay it to rest on the log, sighting in on a blur of white and simultaneously squeezing the trigger. The echo of the shot boomed through the forest, but the rifle’s projectile thudded into another dead log as the intended victim scurried behind it.

“Damn it all!” he bellowed, and flicked forward the bolt of the rifle in preparation for another shot, but as he looked through the scope no target presented itself.

He jumped up from his spot behind the log to charge the new hiding place of his enemy, but his legs had cramped from having lain atop the damp forest floor, and as he leaped over the knee-high log, his legs gave out. He stumbled and fell face first into the bed of leaves. The rifle tumbled to his side and the impact caused it to fire. The hot lead bullet tore through his boot and plowed a strip of skin from his ankle. At first his wound wasn’t felt, his frenzied state and the initial shock of his fall preventing the pain from registering. He rebounded to his feet to continue his charge, but the second he planted the wounded foot the stinging fire of pain penetrated, and he crashed down again, cursing.

His rage-filled charge left the adrenaline coursing through him and helped him ignore the pain. After quickly pulling off the torn boot and seeing that it was only a flesh wound, he pulled the boot on again, grabbed his rifle, and, half limping, half running, headed for his enemy’s lair. The varmint must have shortly thought his pursuer’s dilemma assured his safety, but Billy Bob’s quick recovery startled it into panic-stricken flight from behind the log. The second his prey sprang into sight, Billy Bob planted himself, raised his rifle, and squeezed the trigger. This time the large caliber slug found its mark, disintegrating the creature into a spray...bits and pieces clinging to low-lying branches and scattered all across the damp forest floor.

Billy Bob hobbled toward the few remains of his victim in order to confirm that he had been, indeed, successful in his mission. Balancing on his good leg, he extended his injured one and nudged the pieces with the toe of his boot. Really, only three identifiable pieces remained among shreds of white and pink cottony fluff——a torn rabbit ear, a single “D” battery, and a tiny bass drum.

THE END

NEITHER RAIN NOR SNOW (short story)

2007-09-16T09:59:00.000-04:00

“You stubborn old goat, it says ‘Mildred Faragut,’ and you know good as anyone else, she ain’t out there no more. I tell you, send it back where it come from. Why you waste your time, three times now, dragging it out to my place is beyond me.”

“I can’t help she done run off on ya,” said Cyrus. “Can’t say I much blame her though, contrary coot that you are.” He dragged his gnarled finger under the address scrawled on the coarse brown paper that covered a small box. “Lookit here, it says ‘Faragut Farm, Bent Oak Road,’ and by golly that’s your place for as far back as I can recollect, Elliot, so I reckon this be yours.”

“I don’t give a damn! Just return to sender, Cyrus. Is that so blasted hard to do? Just send it back!”

Elliot had slogged four miles through wind-driven rain last night to return the package to the tiny post office inside the general store, and this morning had found it again on his doorstep. Barely keeping his temper with Cyrus Winger, storekeeper and town postmaster, because Cyrus knew damn well that Mrs. Faragut had been gone for nigh on six months. Elliot had no idea where she was and, a month ago, had finally gotten rid of the few items she’d left behind. He certainly didn’t want her mail…or any other reminder of her. What was done, was done.

“You see any other writin’ on this here?” Cyrus said, shaking the package at him and pointing to the blank spot that should have contained a return address. “Send it back where?”

“I guess them kinda’ problems just be yours, bein’ mailman and all,” said Elliot.

“No sir! My job’s to make sure folks in this town get their mail. If you won’t come get it, by golly, even if I got to stop by your place on my way home at night from now ‘til doomsday, I’ll do ‘er. Now just take it and let’s be done with this here nonsense.”

Elliot made no move to take the package from Cyrus’s outstretched hand. He glared at Cyrus, said nothing, and pulled his soaked coat in at the front and walked back out into the rain. By the time he got home it was dark, and as if driven away by the night, the storm had passed. Elliot ate some biscuits and sausage gravy, and turned in.

Now, with the morning sun streaming in the open front door, Elliot stared down at the package sitting on his doormat. He stooped down and picked it up, shaking his head. He considered tossing it in the fireplace but just couldn’t do it. No matter what Mildred had done, she still had a right to her mail.

“That man’s stubborn as an ol’ mule,” he muttered to himself.

Elliot, figuring that Cyrus was already heading in to open up for the day, retrieved his coat from the back of the chair next to the stove where he’d left it to dry the night before. He pulled it on and, clutching the package, started down the muddy farm road.

Walking up the town’s main street, Elliot approached Cyrus’s store and saw Cyrus Winger’s battered, red pickup truck, ‘U.S. Mail’ painted on the sides in faded black letters.

“Good!” he thought, “We’ll get this settled once and for all.”

“Mornin’, Elliot,” Cyrus said to him when he walked in. “I sorta thought you just might be headin’ in here this mornin’. Now what might I do for ya?” Cyrus said, grinning.

“You know damn well what you can do, Cyrus. You can take this here package and, and—I don’t much care what the hell you do with it, long as you don’t bother me with it no more! I’m gettin’ damn fed up tryin’ to make shuck of it, walkin’ all this way.”

“Don’t be hollerin’ at me, Elliot. I won’t have it. I been trusted with official U.S. Mail, and it’s my duty to make sure it reaches its delivery. Nothin’ or no one is gonna keep me from doing my duty.”

“You crazy sonnabitch! You’re taking this duty malarkey way too serious. Mildred ain’t with me no more, and I don’t want her mail out at my place ever again,” said Elliot.

“I brung it to you. You got to take it,” said Cyrus with a finalizing nod of his head.

“I got to do no such thing. I’m leavin’ it here, and there ain’t no more to be done,” said Elliot. He slammed the package down on the service counter, and turned and stomped toward the door.

Cyrus reached under the counter. “Hold it right there, Faragut!” he commanded.

Elliot spun around to give Cyrus another piece of his mind but got no chance to say another word. The room thundered. Elliot’s back slammed against the door from the impact of the big lead slugs that tore through him. Dark, wet crimson flowers blossomed on his chest as he slid down the door and dropped to the floor.

Cyrus Winger kept the smoking muzzle of the old Colt six-shooter trained on Elliot lest he needed the incentive of the three remaining bullets to stay down, but he lay still, no doubt dead before he hit the floor.

By the time Sheriff Cole Titus arrived, Cyrus had put down his gun. The sheriff handcuffed him and put into the back of his cruiser. Cyrus offered not a word or a struggle.

“What in God’s name got into you Cyrus? Are you plumb loco?” asked Sheriff Titus as they headed down the highway toward the county courthouse and jail, but he got no response. “I swear,” said Titus, “I heard tell of these kind of things from the city, but I never...what’s the dang deal with you postal workers?”

Cyrus, silent, stared out the side window and grinned.

THE END

THE BLACK BUTTERFLY (short story)

2007-09-16T09:37:00.000-04:00

THE BLACK BUTTERFLY

Russ Mars

The deafening sound of its madly fluttering wings drowned all rational thought as it settled on him and began to feed. It sucked at his frustration and irritation, gobbled annoyance and disgust, and gorged itself on the pain of patience stretched to the limit. Lapping nourishment from his soul, the creature’s strength grew and compelled his frenzy.

The actor’s plea changed abruptly to a rasping cough as Vince Fulmin’s wrist tightened against his Adam’s apple. Held from behind, he dared not struggle. Vince’s other hand pressed the point of a foot-long chef’s knife against the actor’s ribs, and a quick lunge would penetrate deeply. The director and production crew stood frozen at the back wall of the sound stage where Vince had ordered them, using the little man’s life as leverage.

“Shut the fuck up! I been listenin’ to your bullshit too fuckin’ long! I’ve had it! Had it!” Vince screamed. “Ya been yappin’ at me in that moronic voice, and telling me the same old shit for years. I just can’t take it anymore, P. D.!”

Vince was shaking and sweat poured from him, the temperature on the set rising steadily from the floodlights as well as the oven being used in the kitchen shot.

As hot as it was, the crew was cold. Chilled to the bone with incredulous shock and fear, they stared at Vince in wide-eyed terror. They could see their coworker — their friend — gone over the edge, but couldn’t see what he saw, or what had descended into his life.

For months it had plagued him. A black butterfly would swoop down and somehow meld with his soul. There, fed by a thousand petty irritations, it would grow. As its size increased, so would Vince’s outrage at annoying intrusions into his consciousness — and so would the drive to eradicate these intrusions.

“Wha...what do you want?” P. D. gasped. “Vince, name it. We’ll work it out, just please ease up —”

“Shut up!” Vince hissed through clenched teeth. “You ain’t got a motherfuckin’ thing I want. I just want you out of my life. I don’t want to see you. Don’t you get it, P. D.? I don’t want you to be anymore!”

“Vince, take off for a while. Take a long vacation. We can shoot this one without you. It’s okay. Really!”

“Oh man! You really don’t get it, do you, you fat little freak,” he shrieked, hysterically. “It’s not just here. I turn on TV and there you are. Radio! Same thing! I don’t have to look at your pasty face, but I still get your squeaky little voice and nauseating giggle. It used to be cute, but it’s gone way beyond cute. Makes me wanna puke!”

“Please, Vince, don’t hurt me,” the pathetic little man sobbed. “Oh, God, please let me go. What have I done? Tell me. I just tried to do my job!”

Vince tightened his hold on P. D.’s throat and screeched maniacally, “That’s right, beg for your life you little white freak. Suffer! Feel what I feel! You did this to me — you did this to yourself! Goddamn you! You’ve gotta pay for this! You’re gonna burn in hell. You’re gonna burn,” he bellowed, arching back and lifting P. D. off the floor, his legs kicking and twitching.

Vince sucked air in great heaves, his heart pounding. Now fed by raw rage, the winged creature surged with power. It fluttered desperate urgings to Vince. Its anomalistic nature demanded destruction of the spiritual chaffings upon which it fed.

Vince shuddered with an orgasmic adrenaline rush and plunged the huge weapon deep into the body of his vexatious hostage, then slammed the razor-sharp knife forward, cleaving the man’s doughy belly. He dragged the dangling halves across the room, and using his free hand, opened the door to the oven. He stuffed him inside and before slamming the door, prodded the mess with his index finger.

“Nothin’ says lovin’ like something from the oven, does it Doughboy!”

Vince giggled.

THE END