What could keep me from writing? Homework--I'm in a class for a web design certification course. School--my daughter started this week. Kids--my daughter is very young, and her baby brother is younger. ;-) Baseball--took my dad to a Cubs game this week. DO NOT get me started about other so-called fans. Yes, my beloved Cubbies have the greatest fans in baseball. They also have the worst. Argh!

By the way, I absolutely LOVE Kerry Wood and I ADMIRE Ron Santo. I have a lot of respect for Derrick Lee, as well. DO NOT scream "D-P Lee" at Wrigley just because he hit into multiple double plays this week. DO NOT scream at Jim Hendry to can Cedeno and Howry as the man is driving away. DO NOT scream at Bob Howry as he drives away. The guys on the team ARE CUBS. They are YOUR TEAM. SUPPORT THEM.

The way some fans behaved at the game absolutely incensed me. So what if players are paid millions of dollars to win? They are people, too, and they can be affected by this nastiness that some people feel compelled to heap upon them. Sheesh!

Okay, rant slightly diffused. Kind of...

http://Writing.Com/authors/mikeypugs0134

You can go to writing.com and just read all the great work fellow authors share on there. You can also go there and sign up totally free for one year and start to type your stories. With the upgraded membership which is only around $20 per year you can also write you own novels too! With the free membership you are limited, it does cost money to run the site, so they do like it when you upgrade for $20! You get so much more when you upgrade, you get your own blog, the ability to write novels, and so much more.

The free membership comes with it's own email address, your own portfolio, the ability to have your writings copyrighted, and reviewed, plus rated! You can also earn gift points from other members who read you work and like it. I have only been there now for a couple days and I already have a very good rating on the two short stories I wrote, plus over 700 gift points which count towards a lot on writing.com They are like a trophy, or money on the site!

I hope everyone reading checks out the site, and I hope if you do that you like it as much as I do. I skipped my favorite activity this afternoon to come down here to my PC and start writing for the website and for myself.

Thanks Everyone
Take Care and God Bless
Mikey/Pugs (Reclusive Knight)

A Tranquil Star - Unpublished Stories, by Primo Levi is quite the collection of seventeen short stories within a 164 page count. Levi is well-known for his Holocaust memoirs, but in this book of short stories, he goes beyond the Holocaust, into the world of the his deep imagination, bringing us parables of the metaphysical order.

Levi has written in not so subtle words the reality of our world. We might initially not understand this collection of often horrid, bizarre and violent stories, but if we stop to think about what we are reading, it becomes clear that Levi is giving us issues to ponder. In the realm and reality of things, our world is filled with casual murders, robberies, bombings, people who look at death as entertainment, people with lack of esteem, individuals with huge egos unable to cope in a new land, and the acts and repercussions of war. Levi clearly, and with insight, has written about the humanity of our world, or, appropriately, the lack of humanity in some cases. The positives and negatives are entwined, in The Tranquil Star, to point of negativity often overcoming the positive.

If you take away nothing else from The Tranquil Star, you will see the inhumanity of individuals, the uncaring attitudes and unwillingness to bend towards being humane individuals. Levi's insight is intense, his word images often much too descriptive (in the sense of his bringing horror to our minds), and his prose strong and vivid. Don't get me wrong, there is lightness and humor in some of the stories, but the majority are a commentary on the universal flow. He wraps up the world, within short stories (some only six pages long), in a concise and descriptive manner, filling our eyes and minds with overwhelming visuals. The stories are a strong assessment of the fragility of our lives and world. He infuses the preciousness of humanity within the pages, even when the negative is strong. In my opinion that is Levi's message...life is precious and fragile. Primo Levi is a masterful story teller, blending fantasy into the reality of our world, as we know it. The Tranquil Star is evidence of that.

I personally own and have read this book.
~~~~~~
Jew Wishes...Peace to you all.
© Copyright 2007 - All Rights Reserved - No permission is given or allowed to reuse my photography, book reviews, writings, or my poetry in any form/format without my express written consent/permission.

but told him that her parents were irish nationalists

he'd been scalded and scraped by a flying teapot

and was in the mood for a good pipe by the fireside

her shoes of purple velvet rosettes made him laugh

as the pork chop on his grey tweed hat amused her

it was a pub in london and they were young and the

summer stretched before them almost endlessly

they had no need to conceal the truth when together

but her swamp eyes lied in spite of themselves

his freckled lips twitched with the guilt of deception

each felt the other was hiding something, somewhere

but knew not how to unlock the secrets deep

when you become someone else, she told him

you have to lock it up to remain yourself afterward

if you were someone else, he chastised later

that someone is always a part of the inner you

and you can't remove it by saying time's up

his dream had unfurled its flag long ago

but she couldn't forget the unforgiveable

and where their story threatened to end

is where it really began ...

Dear______.

After our recent conversation I thought I would share my thoughts with you. First off, let me say that I don't give a damn if you are straight, gay, or bi-sexual. You are my friend and have been for many years. Your sexuality is one tiny piece of the totality that is you. And I like you, for who you are, for the totality that is you. Even if your mom and I were not friends, I would like and respect you.

You are a beautiful young woman with many talents and goals. You are full of dreams that I know will take you farther than you can even imagine. You are intelligent, funny, easy to talk to, older than your years, and caring. You have the biggest heart, you are so full of love and willing to care about your friends and family. (even your mom, even though she drives you nuts from time to time.)

You have loved my kids as if they are your flesh and blood. When they call you their sister, they mean it. They mean it because you have been there for them in the way that a big sister would. You protected little man B on the bus from his first day in kindergarten, and little A still swears that he is going to marry you someday. Nothing would make me happier. You are and will be a blessing to whatever family that is fortunate enough to get you. You are a gift from God. Don't ever forget that.

Long before your mom and I were friends, I prayed for you. The entire congregation prayed that you would be carried to term, and that you would be born healthy and happy. I remember the day it was announced in church that you were safely delivered. Your Grandmother was so happy and proud. Your Pap had tears in his eyes. You were a child that was longed for and cherished. Not only by your mom but the community as well, and you were a beautiful baby. The first Sunday I saw you, I was struck by the depth of your eyes. You were born a deep soul and you continue to be a deep soul.

The years pass and there you are this little 9 year old running around in the church basement at youth group. That was how your mom and I became friends. And in turn you became an intricate part of my life. An intricate part of my life and the lives of my sons. I thoroughly enjoyed every minute you spent at my house. Well, maybe not every single minute, but most of them. And I had the great privilege to watch you grow from a child to a young woman. And I have been fortunate to watch you grow into a beautiful person, both inside and out.

Now you are a wonderful young Lady and all I ask of you is to do me one favor. Please don't label yourself and try to live up to what that label means. (or what you think it means) Don't live up to a label. They are so limiting and callous. Give yourself time to see who you are. You may be gay. You may be straight. You may be bi-sexual. The teenage years are full of enough angst without trying to be something you think you should be. Live your life, see where you go. If you are gay, that is fine. If you're not that is fine too. Just be yourself and please realize that you are a wonderful person. A wonderful person that is loved for who you are.

I would never judge you if you were straight, gay, bi or trans. You are a wonderful person that I am blessed to know. And I have the advantage of being able to see the whole picture that is you. I know what it is like to question my orientation. Yes I know how hard it can be. But let me tell you something, no matter where you end up on that continuum, it will not change who you are. You are that God given gift to this world and nothing will change that. You are my friend, no you are more than that. You are a part of my chosen family. You are fiercely loved by your family and by my family. You are a welcomed member of my family.

So _______, it doesn't matter what orientation you are. What matters is who you are, and that is a great person. I say that realizing that you are at a very difficult place right now. I know the questions you are asking. I know the pain that you are feeling. And I understand your confusion. Just know that I am here for you anytime you want or need to talk. And I will always be here for you, no matter what.

It was a futile little thing, full of sadness,
hopeless, abandoned by its mother.
It’s she who weeps beside you now and shrieks
and scares the birds and squirrels and bites
the children who used to climb upon her.

There’s one who watches from a distance
her insanity, his persistence, helpless as a man
who’s lost his hands and shattered, shattered,
shattered by the bitter taste of mildew in the seedbins,
and in the corn and in the acorn and in the arms and under
the sway and shadow of an old oak tree dying forgotten.

I saw his hands moving slowly completing two words and the pencil touching his forehead, in deep thought obviously verifying if the words made sense and if he should continue with his sentence. I saw the tiny little pieces of paper that the eraser takes with it and the pieces flying away when she saw him blowing hard at them.

As much as a part of me wanted to help me complete the sentence, I held myself against it. It is his work, his thought. After waging a war with his mind, he finally seemed to have conquered it and finished his story for the creating writing competition that was an annual ritual in his school. This was his second year in participating.

His beautiful little 6 year old eyes looked at me as though looking for appreciation. I was fraught with pride with his essay , the richness of it. I looked at him and wanted to say " It is the decisions that make you who you are son. Even if it is a sentence,a word,a letter. It is the swaying that defines you, the battles you fight to make a choice. No choice is easy. No battlefield is a cakewalk. Every fork in life leaves you with tough decisions to make. Every one of them is hard, and you write and erase your way through it. The harder you fight, a greater mark you leave. The mark tells you of the tough times you had making a decision. The mark makes you wonder what would have happened if you had not left a mark, if you had proceeded with the previous decision. something you will never know. Try not to leave a mark or tear a paper cause those might always come back to haunt you of the road you did not take.
There is nothing worse than wondering what could have been.

I spared him my thoughts and saved it for another 10 years and said
"That is a beautiful essay sweetheart. Go along now and play with your friends."

P.S : My 50th Post. Yay :)

My friends and I decided to make every Thursday, Pretzel Day. There is a wonderful, delicious, and very inexpensive pretzel place called, "The Philadelphia Pretzel Company." We go to the one in Downtown Phoenixville. Anyway, In downtown Phoenixville, you will see some very interesting things, every time, gurenteed, including, "Gay Street." Currently, Gay Street is closed, and there is a detour. . .

The "ST" fell off of the sign . . . or . . . something . . .

Given up on love and her belief that in the infinite universe there dwelled another soul that could possibly connect her own; matching her fear, torment, angst and pain; struggling with the want of peace and solace, living lost in a world of duality and change. There was no such soul; this realization leading her to see, what a lonely hunter her heart truly was; yet she continued to move forward, in an attempt to mend her own mind; the sheer weight of memory hindering at every turn.

She reached the point of hopelessness, from which she believed there was no return, falling to her knees and openly weeping; as the stars realigned, kismet interjected and he appeared before her; invisible, yet powerful in his philosophical stance; leaving her breathless in his experience and expression of life; she thanked the heavens for answering her plight and delivering this miracle.

A solitary wind that filled her completely; breathing new life into her soul; allowing trust to bloom where none had grown before; expanding to the possible; ecstasy of the sublime, revealed in the simple and ordinary; emptying herself completely, so as to be filled by his current, ready to move wherever he would take her. Her desire explicit – to evolve together into a higher, more powerful expression of themselves; drawing on the beauty, diversity, strength and weakness of each other; their connection she believed with every ounce of her being; he became her everything; the only thing that mattered.

But the wind has gone; shifted directions; on a path to therapeutic self confirmation of which she can have no part. Visions of the solitary wind haunting her mind; feeding her soul with evocation; her heart crying out in sacred prayer; an invocation of protection cast upon his spiritual journey; that the seed of conscious recognition may be awakened from the darkest depths of his wounded soul; releasing the imprisoning chains of resistance so that he may triumphantly rise and receive the delight of that which is his own light; dance with once again; not in the shadows, but in the warmth of the embracing sun.

As a kid, I used to love hearing ghost stories during bedtime. Wasn’t I afraid? I don’t remember. Probably not, why else would I hear them day after day. I had a favorite too – The Boogeyman. Poor dad was bored reading it to me every day. But that was all until the Jun 22^nd 1994. Everything changed since.

It was just another day. Only the night turned out to be a bit different. My dad had returned to his room after reading me my stories. I was on my bed wondering what the world would be like if these characters were really alive. It was breezy night, forcing dad to close the windows. But you know the winds. They never are quite. They were trying to blow open the window. At some time past eleven, the breeze stopped and the fan froze suddenly. I turned towards the window to see what happened. There was someone standing outside the window with an aura of light surrounding him. It was the light across the street. The person moved towards me through the closed window and stopped two feet short of my bed. Then he disappeared. Three things convinced me that he was The Boogeyman – He vanished in thin air, he was hovering rather than walking and he was standing right outside a window on the first floor. After that, I never wanted to hear about him or his relatives ever again. I was a kid after all.

A person’s life consists of major events that alter the rules and opinions established by him. While few people would choose to differ, that night of Jun 22^nd was the first. Next one came in the summer of 2006 when I was eighteen. With an internship interview in less than min, I remember running in the basement one second and appearing in the fourth floor the next. With so many comic books and movies about it, I had no difficulties whatsoever understanding what just happened. It was overwhelming.

I never did make it to that interview. That was the fourth floor on my apartment building. A girl I liked used to live on that floor.

Did I have this ability before? I thought about it and was able to convince myself that I had it before. Two years earlier, there was this exam I was late for and I was running there as well. While I was climbing up the staircase, I am sure that I skipped a few steps.

How does it work? I never did get around solving that mystery but how do I teleport? It’s simple. I needed to have the desire to not be where I was and think about the place where I wanted to be. Hmm… Maybe a bit complicated. I learnt it the harder way.

I was initially clueless about how to react to this new found ability. I was a teenager. What would you have done? It started like Jumper. But later on, with a bit of maturity I chose to be a hero. Now, the criminals of this town call me The Boogeyman. Not as flashy as the ones in your comic books, but I didn’t mind it.

As my ability to teleport became stronger, I found that I could move in both space and time.  With this new discovery, I spent some time reading existing literatures on time travel, for better understanding you see. The Ontological Paradox caught my attention and I started to realize that the night of Jun 22^nd could have an entirely different explanation. I realized it could have been me that night because I never did get to meet my boogeyman again.

Vanishing act was the most easy to explain. Teleporters can’t fly, literally. But he could simulate it by teleporting in a loop, disappearing and reappearing in the next logical position of a flight, which explains the hovering. A person can’t walk through a wall. The issue is with molecules of the wall. We can’t pass through them. Probably the same logic as in flight comes into play – our own molecules appearing and disappearing in the next logical position. I never did solve this one too. However I decided to have a bit of faith and travelled back to Jun 22^nd 1994.

It was a breezy night and just after eleven. I had landed a block away from my old home. Not a problem I thought, I would teleport in a jiffy. Suddenly, the breeze stopped. At this moment, it dawned upon me that there was someone like me. With a bit of cover, I went to see who it was and with not much of delay, I found the person outside my window was my dad. The ability was probably in my blood.

It was this night of Jun 22^nd that became third major event of my life. I learnt a few things that night. One, I had my abilities even back then. How else would I move or act when my dad stopped time.  Two, I could stop time as well. Third, a paradox is a paradox and there is no truth attached to it. Fourth and last, my dad never did like telling me those ghost stories especially The Boogeyman.

Authors Note

Baba’s comment on this post was the source of this idea. The search for self fulfilling prophecies led me to a series of articles on time-travel. Inspired to write a post, I got to this.

I was also reminded a series of six movies that used to come regularly on star movies when I was like 12 or so. After a bit of search online, I was able to recollect the name of the series - “Time Warrior”. I watched whatever related stuff that was on YouTube and now I ask myself why I liked it in the first place. I was a kid after all.

Title: Hospital Windows

Author: Author Unknown

Source: Source Unknown

Two men, both seriously ill, occupied the same hospital room. One man was allowed to sit up in his bed for an hour each afternoon to help drain the fluid from his lungs. His bed was next to the room's only window. The other man had to spend all his time flat on his back. The men talked for hours on end. They spoke of their wives and families, their homes, their jobs, their involvement in the military service, where they had been on vacation.

And every afternoon when the man in the bed by the window could sit up, he would pass the time by describing to his roommate all the things he could see outside the window. The man in the other bed began to live for those one-hour periods where his world would be broadened and enlivened by all the activity and color of the world outside.

The window overlooked a park with a lovely lake. Ducks and swans played on the water while children sailed their model boats. Young lovers walked arm in arm amidst flowers of every color of the rainbow. Grand old trees graced the landscape, and a fine view of the city skyline could be seen in the distance.

As the man by the window described all this in exquisite detail, the man on the other side of the room would close his eyes and imagine the picturesque scene.

One warm afternoon the man by the window described a parade passing by. Although the other man couldn't hear the band - he could see it in his mind's eye as the gentleman by the window portrayed it with descriptive words. Days and weeks passed.

One morning, the day nurse arrived to bring water for their baths only to find the lifeless body of the man by the window, who had died peacefully in his sleep. She was saddened and called the hospital attendants to take the body away. As soon as it seemed appropriate, the other man asked if he could be moved next to the window. The nurse was happy to make the switch, and after making sure he was comfortable, she left him alone. Slowly, painfully, he propped himself up on one elbow to take his first look at the world outside. Finally, he would have the joy of seeing it for himself. He strained to slowly turn to look out the window beside the bed.

It faced a blank wall. The man asked the nurse what could have compelled his deceased roommate who had described such wonderful things outside this window. The nurse responded that the man was blind and could not even see the wall. She said, "Perhaps he just wanted to encourage you." ]]> http://interminablewriter.wordpress.com/?p=207 Sat, 06 Sep 2008 19:31:38 +0000 K. Jayne Cockrill http://interminablewriter.wordpress.com/?p=207 Just FYI to all my readers, Interminable Writer is in the middle of a major script treatment. That is to say, I am trying to finalize a new blog site with a dedicated hosting and URL, so that's why it's a little quiet around here (and over at Nana Diaries). But another day or two and we'll be bubbling over at the mouth, as usual!

KJ

Sunday, August 31st

• Joel and I sang at church today.  It went really well - I love singing with my husband!
• Choir practice was good and the Sunday night sermon was excellent.  Pastor talked about surrendering our worries and problems to Jesus, laying them at the cross.  Sometimes He has us pick them up again to work through them, but He always is there with us to help us and strengthen us through those things.

Monday, September 1st

• Labor Day so Joel is off.  We went to see some real estate today for a ministry possibility.  We are so excited about what the Lord could do with it, what He has already done and could continue through us with it.  Please pray with us about it.
• Met some new friends and got to see a beautiful dapple gray mare and her dark brown colt, Patriot.  What fun!

Tuesday, September 2nd

• Did some laundry and the washer burst causing massive chaos and water damage, not to mention almost an hour of 5 blaring smoke alarms.  Aaahh!
• The insurance company sent ServPro (excellent and helpful people! - I highly recommend them!) to come over.  They assessed the situation and acted quickly.  We now have fans upstairs underneath the carpet.  The kids think it's great because they feel like they are on a magic carpet ride.
• 2 dehumidifiers are set up downstairs.  It was getting rather warm down there.

Wednesday, September 3rd

• My parents 42nd anniversary!
• Fans continue to blow and furniture is being moved out of the house into a POD on the driveway.
• The insurance company has set us up at a nice Hotel.
• God is so good to provide for our needs!

Thursday, September 4th

• I wanted to go over to see my friend Greg, but I didn't make it.
• Moved hotel rooms to a suite with a small kitchenette.
• The kids are so tired.  They were asleep by 7:30pm.

Friday, September 5th

• The breakfasts they serve at the hotel are outstanding!
• Joel, the kids and I were able to go see my friend Greg, cut and wash his hair, have lunch with him and watch a couple of movies with him.  It was so good to spend some time with him.
• Went to CiCi's for pizza and fun.

Saturday, September 6th

• Had a late breakfast
• Watched Joel and the kids swim.
• The kids were tired so we came back to the room and they are now taking a nap.
• Going to be studying my extended session lesson for the Preschoolers.
• Joel has gone down to Lexington with my dad to pick up a new washer.

My grandma passed away a month or so ago, and I wish her well on her travels. A life long and full of love and luck and good health – until near the end – lay behind her and in front of her, who knows what.

She liked to tell stories, so she became the Storyteller. She’d tell desert tales of teasing chuckwallas – big basking lizards - out in rocks and dusty sand around Kingman, Arizona.

She gave me her charm bracelet that rattles with rodeo and western themed baubles. I can’t even wear it because it’s just so clangy. I pliers-ed off the Lucky Bell of San Michelle that my Papa had given her from his WWII travels and I wear it on a necklace chain, the jingle of the bell more subtle than the charm bracelet's jangle. The rest nestle in a slim green dish in my washroom, so I see them everyday.

Another bit of luck she handed me is the mustard seed encased in a glass ball. I wore it often in middle and high school and now and then nowadays.

I wish her luck now, fighting off Papa and Richard for dances, sipping on sweet tea, telling stories.

Lela Marie Columbo Malone Conger (1924-2008)

Last Species Standing dates back to 1991, and is therefore older than some of the people reading this. It's been variously know as Chicken Feud, and Day of The Chicken during its 17 year career.

This book owes its existence to a very good friend of mine - Mr Nick McKeown, who read it to people along the way as it was written.  The dedication (which seems to have gone adrift from the PDF) should read "To Nick, who was there when it happened." Because he was.

This book deals with the very real question - what would happen if suddenly all over the country super-intelligent chickens were born bent on world domination. (A question that is as relevant today, if not more so, than when this was written.)

I've included an excerpt below. If you like it - you can download the rest of the book here: Last Species Standing (PDF eBook) and good luck to you!

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

About a mile and a half south of the open air theatre, a Buckaaw class General Intelligence Transport, the CLUCK 2, was on a deep penetration intelligence gathering mission. The CLUCK 2 was the second of the new Buckaaw class of nuclear powered transports, developed by CCDMTTYCSISYDHTWE, in response to complaints that the noise of the 15hp outboard motor was compromising the missions, and also that it was no use unless the transport was in at least 3 feet of water.

These drawbacks had apparently not occurred to the designers at CCDMTTYCSISYDHTWE, who broke off work on their latest project,16 and quickly designed a nuclear power plant to replace the motor.

The CLUCK 2 was currently heading along a corridor in the Houses of Parliament to attend a secret debate on defence capabilities. As it moved slowly down the corridor, Buck Rogers, nee Buckaaw, sat in the control seat at the onboard computer keyboard, located in the chest of the CLUCK 2, wondering where he had seen the word 'Spectrum' before. A buzzer sounded above him, and a proximity warning light came on. Glancing at the monitor, he saw that they were approaching a door.

He turned to the keyboard and brought the CLUCK 2 out of Autocruise and selected manual control from the menu. He typed:

>_ FEET SLOW and hit Enter.

The CLUCK 2 slowed to a crawl as it neared the door, and Buck watched the range-finder intently. 4 feet, 3 feet, 2 feet. That was close enough.

Quickly he typed:

>_ FEET STOP.

The CLUCK 2 came to a standstill just in front of the door. Buck flipped through the thick new manual searching for the relevant chapter. The CLUCK 2 had been rushed into service far too quickly, reflected Buck, as he dropped the thick wad of addenda and corrections out of the back of the manual. Nothing had been properly tested, nothing could be completely relied on. Not even the power plant ... especially not the power plant, Buck thought with a shudder. The plant used nuclear fusion to generate power, but so powerful was the reactor that on full whack it could turn out enough power to make Sizewell B look like an AA battery. Despite the fact that humans still hadn't managed to succeed with nuclear fusion, the chicken scientists had managed it in less than a week.

But if it got out of hand, thought Buck uncomfortably, then you could kiss everything for a good 50 miles goodbye.

He snapped out of his uncomfortable thoughts, and found the section he was after. Holding the book in one claw, he typed:

>_ LET ARM = ARM + 90'

There was a dull whine of servos, and the monitor showed the arm raising towards perpendicular. Buck watched as it came up slowly ... got to 90' ... and continued to accelerate. Buck felt a pang of fear, and hit the Return key.

The machine beeped and printed something on the screen. Buck squinted at it, and read:

>_ SYNTAX ERROR AT LINE 20

The arm was pointing straight upwards now, and was still moving faster and faster.

Buck hit the key again. The machine beeped and reprinted the message. He started hitting keys at random, the machine beeping all the while.

The arm was still accelerating, the servos beginning to scream at the unaccustomed load. There was a scrabbling noise from above, and the hatch opened that led up to the head turret, where the observer chicken sat.

"What the hell is going on down there?" yelled the observer chicken over the growing din. "What's with the arm?"

Buck glanced grimly up at him.

"All the systems are down," he snapped. "The computer's frozen us out!"

The observer chicken paled under his feathers. "Let's get out of here, then!" he cried.

"We can't," retorted Buck. "Without the computer we can't move an inch." He was beginning to get extremely worried by now. The noise from the servos was dreadful, a piercing wail that seemed to kill all other sounds, and the vibrations were starting the rock the CLUCK 2 violently.

"We've got to do something," yelled the observer chicken. "It won't take much more of this."

Buck quickly considered his options. A quick consultation of the manual's troubleshooting section said that in the event of any problems, he should ring CCDMTTYCSISYDHTWE's hotline during business hours, and he hurled the manual to the floor in frustrated anger.

Finally he decided on the step taken by everyone who has messed with something they didn't understand, and now cannot stop what they have started. He decided to turn it off, and then on again, in the hope that everything would be all right.

"I'll have to shut down the system, and reboot the computer," he shouted.

"Do it then!"

He spun round in his chair, and opened a large grey metal panel on the wall.

Inside, surrounded by lots of black and yellow warning notices, was a large red lever. He grasped it ... and hesitated. No-one had ever shut one of these down before, and there was no guarantee that it would restart.

"What are you waiting for?!" yelled the observer chicken.

Gritting his beak, Buck slammed down the lever.

Instantly all the lights in the CLUCK 2 went out at once, and all sounds ceased, except for the noise of the servos which dwindled as they wound down and finally came to a stop. The silence and darkness seemed almost oppressive after the light and noise of the past minutes.

"Here goes," breathed Buck.

He threw the lever back.

Nothing happened.

"Whoops," came the observer chicken's voice out of the darkness over his head.

"Whoops?! If we can't get this thing going again, the guano's really going to hit the fan!" snapped Buck. He thought for a moment. Suddenly he snapped his claws.

"Got it!" he cried. "The circuit breakers must have tripped when I cut the power. All we need to do is reset them."

"Where are they then?" asked the observer chicken, as Buck fished around for the emergency torch.

"In the right foot," replied Buck, as he found the torch, and turned on the fluorescent tube.

At that moment came a hammering on the hatch in the floor. Buck opened it to reveal the engineering chicken's anxious and oily face.

"What's going on?" he asked. "Why have we lost power?"

"The computer's on the Fritz," explained Buck tersely. "So we turned off the power. But I think that it's tripped the circuit breakers, so take this torch and go down and reset them, will you?"

"Okay," said the engineering chicken uncomfortably. He hated going down inside the legs. He disappeared from view, and a few seconds later, the two remaining chickens heard the engineering chicken climbing down the ladder that descended inside the CLUCK 2's legs, the noises amplified and echoing in the metal shaft.

They waited, as a muffled thud and the sound of swearing echoed up the leg.

Finally there was a series of clicks, followed at last by a solid kerchunk.

The lights blazed back on suddenly, and the computer display flickered back into life to reveal a flashing cursor.

"Oh no," breathed Buck, as he operated the keyboard.

"What?" asked the observer chicken suspiciously.

"We've erased the control program!" cried Buck. "It's been wiped from the memory!"

* * *

The engineering chicken climbed back up the leg, and entered the cramped reactor compartment, replacing the chicken-hole cover. He moved to the ladder leading up to the control room, eyeing the reactor with more than a little apprehension. It cut a strange shape as it nestled in its sunken mountings, its cooling fins gleaming dully in the harsh fluorescent light. The chicken stopped momentarily to feel the breeze from the reactor's fan on his face.

Off hand he couldn't think of many other nuclear reactors that were air-cooled. This was mostly because CCDMTTYCSISYDHTWE, in their hurry to get back to the pogo stick, had quickly knocked up a reactor that was based roughly on the design of the standard 49cc moped engine.

Reaching the top of the ladder, the engineering chicken found his two fellow crew members arguing.

"What's the matter?" he asked brightly. "The power's back on, isn't it?"

"What's the matter?" hissed Buck, spinning round in his swivel chair. "We've only lost the main program, that's all!"

"Is that bad?"

"Bad? We're so far up shit creek that we can see the spring, that's how bad it is..." snapped Buck. "Do you have any idea how many lines of machine code it takes to get this thing to take one step?"

"Don't you have a back-up copy, then?" asked the engineering chicken.

Buck stared at him as though his head had suddenly metamorphosed into a watermelon. Then he grabbed the engineering chicken by the lapels of his boilersuit.

"Brilliant," he cried. Turning back, he rooted amongst all the papers, cups and all the other debris with which any self respecting desk festoons itself, and brought out a standard audio cassette.

He reached over to the onboard computer, and popped open the tape deck. The CLUCK 2, being one of the new Buckaaw class, had a far superior onboard computer, which was rumoured to have a fantastically large memory, some wild stories put it at 128K. But the primary difference between the older and the new systems was that the CLUCK 2's computer had a built in datacorder, which meant that all the chicken had to do was insert the tape and press Play. Despite the improvements however, thought Buck as he sat mesmerised by the flickering coloured lines, the new system still made a noise like a pig in a blender during the loading process.

The observation chicken climbed back up into his turret, not so much because he was more comfortable there as because he wished to distance himself from the fiasco below.

He gazed disconsolately out of the ear, and noticed two things. One was that the arm had finally come to rest pointing backwards and upwards, an angle clearly impossible for most humans. The second was the security guard, standing looking at what appeared to be a politician standing with his arm at an eye watering angle and making a noise that sounded to the security guard like a pig in a blender.

The observation chicken opened the hatch, and stared into the upturned faces below.

"We have been compromised!" he whispered fiercely.

"No, you have," said the engineering chicken. "We've all seen the photos of you and that pelican..."

"Shut up you fool!" snarled the observation chicken as Buck sat up and frowned, mouthing the word 'pelican' at the engineering chicken, and raising what on a chicken pass for eyebrows. "I mean that there are humans watching us!"

"What?" said Buck in alarm.

"There's one outside now, looking at us in a funny way."

Buck swore, and drummed his claws on the desk. "Do you think they suspect?" he asked eventually.

"I'm not sure," replied the observer chicken, "but I do know that that," he pointed at the screeching computer, "ain't helping us much."

Even as the observer chicken spoke, the noise stopped, and the normal onboard systems menu appeared. Instantly, Buck leapt over and selected the 'RETURN ALL SYSTEMS TO DEFAULT SETTINGS' option.

Outside, the guard was wondering whether to approach the politician. Then, without warning, the politician appeared to move his arm up through vertical and down to its usual position with a faint whine.

The guard appeared to reach a decision. He walked up to the politician, and uttered a gruff 'Good Afternoon'.

Inside the CLUCK 2, this threw the crew into a panic.

"He's talking to us," cried the observer chicken.

"Shall I fire the fusion torpedoes, sir?" asked the engineering chicken eagerly.

Buck turned to look at him, and wondered how best to get across the consequences of firing a nuclear weapon at a target barely three feet distant. Eventually he settled for:

"Don't be so bloody stupid. We're gonna have to try to talk our way out of this one..."

He reached over to the communications bank, and put on the headset, adjusting the microphone, and selecting PA on the output dial.

"Get down here," he snapped at the observer chicken. "I'm going to need help with this."

The observer chicken reluctantly dropped back into the control room again, and got the newly compiled Human-Chicken Dictionary thrust into his claws.

"Find an answer between you," ordered Buck tersely.

The engineering and observation chickens flipped hurriedly through the dictionary.

"Well, we've come up with an answer, but I'll be buggered if I know how to pronounce it," said the observation chicken.

"What do you mean? There's a pronunciation guide in the dictionary!"

"Pronunciation guide? Huh," snorted the engineering chicken. "All they do is print the word again and fill it with colons and apostrophes and upside down 'e's."

"Give it here," said Buck wearily. "Honestly, if you want anything done, do it yourself..."

* * *

The guard cleared his throat. "I said, Good Afternoon, sir."

The politician was silent for a few seconds, and then, in a unusually tinny and distorted voice, said:

"Hello, Hi there, greetings, yo mah man."

The guard was nonplussed at this reply, but persevered.

"Where are you going, sir?" he asked.

This produced a long pause, during which the politician appeared to conduct a faintly audible conversation with himself.

"We ... (thud, whisper, whisper) sorry ... I is going to a meeting, gathering, congregation, menage a trois."

At this point, the guard decided that the person he was speaking to was clearly several bricks short of a picnic. In other words, he had no reason to suspect that the man was not a bona fide politician.

"Fair enough, sir," he said, and saluting the politician, he walked away. As he did so, he could have sworn that he could hear a chorus of triumphant clucking.

"Bloody Euro-MP's," he thought as he went back to work

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

Would you like to learn more about this very real threat to our national security? Then you can download the rest of the book here: Last Species Standing (PDF eBook)

These adventures may sound like fairy stories, (or to the less charitable like the rantings of someone unsound in mind), but there are many weird things in the world, and my adventures may be some of the least. Some people who have heard my exploits believe that I am blessed to have seen so many strange things - other believe I am cursed for exactly the same reasons.

Below you can read the first chapter - If you like it, then you can download the rest of the book here: The Adventure Of A Modern Munchausen (PDF eBook)

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

Chapter One

I get a job - A meteoric rise - The consequences of success - A cowardly attack - An ingenious idea.

A tale immediately springs to mind, which will illustrate the sort of fix I often find myself in. In the course of pursuing my adventures, I have often been required to work to keep myself alive. The life of the monk, with a begging bowl as your only possession has sometimes appealed, but it is not the life for a lover of fine women and finer wines. So realising that my coffers were low, I steeled myself to the task and set out into the world.

Employment takes many forms, and I have worked in almost every profession I can think of, from Aardvark to Zygot. (The position of Aardvark I managed to secure by wearing a false nose, and lying profusely on my application form. Had they followed up the references I gave them from London Zoo, I would of course have been exposed instantly.)

A few years ago now, I obtained a job in an office in a sales role. The job was easy to obtain, as I have always prided myself on my ability to persuade, and indeed my seduction of my interviewer pretty much secured the post for me. I had negotiated a reasonable salary, but the majority of my wages were to be made up by commission on what I sold. The company itself, I learned, vended contraceptives across a number of countries, and I soon increased the company's revenues by reversing their policy of targeting Roman Catholic nations. By focusing on people more likely to purchase our wares, I explained to an agog marketing team, we would quickly double our sales. This proved true, and I was soon granted a senior position on the board, with an office of my own.

I have ever thrived on human company however, being a gregarious sort of person, and despite the rise in my salary I felt a little saddened at being isolated from the rest of my colleagues. I solved this problem however with my usual flair. Whilst gazing out across the city of London (the company had been based in Croydon when I started, but my successes had enabled it to move upmarket to a office block in the Docklands) I noticed a number of men passing by, cleaning the glass as they went. Opening my window, I saw that they were perched on a movable platform.

This I quickly commandeered for my own, and moving my desk and chair on to it, I was then able to pass the day at the windows of my colleagues throughout the company. The managing director of the company was so impressed with my dedication to morale that he resigned in short order and nominated me as his replacement, saying that he could now further his game of golf, secure in the knowledge that I would take the company to new heights. I rose to this challenge at once, and our contraceptive products went from strength to strength.

Indeed, so popular were they that I was nearly responsible for the ending of the human race, and a sharp trough in the birth rates at around this time can be entirely attributed to our success.

It was not to last, however. The governments of the world, concerned at the future of a society where no young people would be around to work and support the elderly, determined to halt us in our tracks. They sent envoys to us, but I refused, as to shut down the company would have been disastrous, (the company employing at that time more than three-fifths of the world's workforce). They would not be gainsaid, and plotted to be rid of me, who they correctly identified as "the prime mover of the rubber revolution", this being the slogan upon my cover of Time Magazine.

To this end they sent me a large Easter egg, filled with a deadly explosive. The activation method for this treacherous device was by pulling the golden sash that encircled the egg's middle. Whilst I was unaware of the plot to end such a brilliant career so ignominiously, I viewed the arrival of the egg with suspicion, not least given that it was November. However, not wishing to be seen to be an unkind recipient, I summoned my official Easter Egg opener, a fellow called Marcus who I had saved from drowning in a previous adventure. It took him some while to arrive, no Easter eggs being then expected, and in the meantime my suspicions grew.

I looked broodingly out at the view from my office, which was on the top floor of our new building, some 10,000 floors high. The building rose above all but the tallest clouds, and jet aircraft could be seen to be flying around and below us. Marcus duly arrived, having ascended in the express lift. I offered him refreshments, but he had taken lunch in the elevator, so we turned our attention to the egg. Marcus expressed surprise at its arrival, and offered two options. The first one was that the egg was extremely late. With some anticipation, I asked him what the second option could be. After some thought, he suggested than the egg might be extremely early.

I assumed that the admittedly rarified atmosphere had dulled his thinking, as it often does with some people on the occasions that I leave a window open. I turned from the scene and picked up my mobile phone, thinking to order Marcus some oxygen-enriched tea. (I used my mobile constantly in the office as my desk phone was a dedicated hotline to the world's rubber markets, a vital factor in the company's existence.) It was both fortunate and unfortunate that I did so.

Unfortunate, as I failed to perceive and prevent Marcus pulling the sash and detonating the egg. Fortunate, as when the blast blew me through the office window and far from the building, my phone was in my hand, without which this tale would never have been written.

After some initial consternation as having been ejected so suddenly from the building, I gathered my wits. I have always said that in times of emergency, the mark of a man is the ability to concentrate on the urgent, and this I did. The affront of having been so rudely attacked was not the most pressing matter. The thin air whistling past me denoted that gravity had claimed for its own, and action was required.

After consideration, I placed a call on my phone to the helicopter pad at the summit of the building. I was by no means sure that they would be able to respond in time to prevent me from hitting the ground, especially as I had a head start. (It should also be mentioned that it was only with the greatest difficulty that the pilot was able to coax his machine to such a prodigious altitude.) After I had been put through to voice mail a few times, I abandoned the scheme as being too liable to failure. After all the clouds were much closer now, and I had no desire to be searched out in low visibility by a machine that was essentially a heavy weight supported by spinning knives.

The situation looked bleak. I searched my pockets, but found little that seemed to offer salvation. A few coins, a handkerchief. A lady's calling card with her private number written on it in pencil reminded me of happier times the previous evening, but did not offer succour. I was about to give up hope, when I was struck with a plan of such genius I was convinced of its success. I opened up my phone, to reveal the personal organiser within. I peered at it, for the murk through which I plummeted was both gloomy and dismal. Selecting the email feature, I opened up a new message, and addressed it to the first person in my address book, one Aaron Antonyiovich, a cousin of mine who lives upon the distant and windy Steppes of the former Russian Union.

The next step was the most difficult. Many people have since asked me how I achieved such a seemingly impossible feat, and I have been sadly unable to answer, as I managed it in a desperate situation, and in the excitement both conceived and forgot the method. Suffice it to say that I managed to embed myself in the email as an attachment, and hit send, mere moments before the handset struck the ground.

I am not overly knowledgeable about modern technology, being more of an outdoor adventurer and explorer at heart, but my later enquiries explained what happened next. Apparently, in order to send something across the internet, large objects, especially something as large as my good self, are broken up into small packages, and later reassembled at the destination. As you can imagine, this was an extremely painful process, and was not aided by the fact that one of these little packets went astray, leaving me an eighth of an inch shorter in my right leg, an injury that I feel keenly during cold weather. However, the practice saved my life, and one of my morals is to never look a gift horse in the mouth.

Plus which, the shortening of my limb corrected a fault with my golf swing and allowed me to win the Ryder Cup a year or so later, both the men's and ladies' heats. (The idea to play the ladies heat in drag was the result of a drunken wager with a pro friend of mine, and its achievement won me not a little respect in certain circles.)

After spending an agonising couple of days in the confines of my cousin's inbox, you can imagine his surprise when he opened the unexpected email from his dear relative to find him actually bodily enclosed therein. Much rejoicing was there by him and his family, and they treated me to a fine couple of months in his dacha there, before I returned to society. I had received word that Marcus had also survived the blast, having been blown into an open filing cabinet. A letter of apology was forthcoming from the governments of the world, which I magnanimously accepted in a ceremony at the European Union parliament in Brussels.

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

There are many more adventures to be had - in the depths of Tibet, on strange islands at sea, even the Ring Of Steel traffic jam that turned the M25 into a post apocalyptic car park where might equalled right - and they are all just a mouse click away.

Download the rest of the book here: The Adventure Of A Modern Munchausen (PDF eBook)

I was, I think, in the 4th grade.  Innocently, like the innocent child I was, I came home from school.  Really, that's all I did.  No one else was home, I don't know why but I think it was a plot against me, I have a huge family.  Why was I alone on that particular day?  A plot.

What was I doing?  Oh, right, roadkill.

So, on the day of the plot, I walked into the garage thinking to get a soda out of the fridge.  No one was home and I was going to take advantage of that.  I flipped on the light and a sight out of Texas Chainsaw Massacres assaulted my innocent eyes.  Not that I knew what TCM was.  A dead dear was hanging from the garage door stringers, upside down: gutted and bloody with a tub full of guts below swimming in even more blood.  It's back legs were mangled as though they had been stuffed into a shredder.  I screamed.  Twice.  Then I walked over to it and looked at it.  Then I looked some more.  Then I got a stick and poked around in the tub.  Then I poked around in the body cavity.  Then I poked around in the tub some more.  Then my Mom walked in and said something like "Oh, you found it.  I was going to warn you about that thing."

Turns out one of my ex brothers-in-law had hit this deer earlier in the day and killed it.  He brought it back to our house to butcher.  I had fun that evening watching the butchery.  Fun stuff.  After I got over the whole screaming because a bloody dead thing is hanging in my garage.

Story #2:

I was home alone one evening (is a trend starting to take shape?  I think so.) when the doorbell rang.  I open the door to find my neighbor Cliff standing there, covered in blood with gloves on holding a lump of still bleeding flesh in his hands.  He doesn't even say hello, instead he shoves the quivering, bleeding meat in my face and asks "Does this smell okay?"  The first think I thought was that Cliff had lost his mind and was eating his family.  Then I realized that he wasn't insane, I asked, "What is it?"  Cliff says "A deer I hit.  I had to kill it, and now I'm trying to figure out if it's okay to eat."  So, being a good neighbor I sniff the lump of quivering, still bleeding meat.  It smelled good, gamey, but good.

Then Cliff says "Hey, you wanna see it?"  "Totally!"  So we walk over to his driveway where he had his cars parked at an angle with the lights on to shine on the deer carcass.  He had a big tarpaulin spread out with bits and parts of deer all over it.  He showed me everything he'd done to it, all the cuts, the legs, the guts.  Cool stuff.  Then he showed me the creepiest bit, the head with the antlers still attached.  He said "Check this out!" and then he grabbed the antlers and moved them.  There was this revolting crunching noise from the deer's skull.  It's skull was broken from the hit.  That poor animal was still looking at me with it's dead eyes as Cliff gleefully ground the broken bits of skull together.  Blood leaked out of it's nose.

Both times I ate part of those deer.  The venison was good, roasted and flavored with garlic, onions and herbs.  So tasty.

i have been meeting people in the most random spots . . . the bookstore, the hair salon, the sandwich shop. . . not the normal places to get a job right? wrong . . . this is where I have met my best connections . . . oh yea and the craft store. 

it is kind of intimidating because these people are asking me to accompany them on their outings and business meetings . . . and it's exciting and i want to live up to all that i can be . . . no not the army . . . 

but anyway, things are starting to roll and hopefully they will roll into a career.

i got a pedicure yesterday, haven't had one in a couple months so i thought i would treat myself. . . i went into this little shop that only takes cash and this vietnamese guy did my toes . . . he used his secret cream on the bottom of my feet and it is amazing my feet are sooo soft. i just hope it wasn't made of weird stuff. . . 

but even talking to the lady that owns the shop, it's really interesting how easily people here open up and tell you about themselves . . . and the things they have experienced. it's really cool to hear where people have come from and how they got here. 

anyway, the lady was from vietnam, and she was telling me that i didn't look like i was american. which made me laugh. . . but i asked her where she thought i looked like i was from. she said that i looked like i was from europe, which makes sense because i am of german and english decent . . . but i didn't think that americans looked too different from that. . . 

what threw me for a loop though is that she said that she could see a little hawaiian in me because of the shape of my eyes and brows. granted i'm a big whitie and have blonde hair and blue eyes, but if anything she might have confused this with my native american heritage. 

so anyway, i thought it was interesting to listen to stories that she told me about herself and what her impressions of me were.

His head metronomes side to side and his flightless wings tote a backpack. Shoulderless as he is, it's something to see.

The whole walk is something people come to see. Ohayou, Lala-chan! Rain falls to his relief and glides down the soft fuzz on his belly.

The fish stall floors slicked wet by afternoon feel like home to his feet. Fish lady shows him a fresh catch, and he tilts his head back and spies the awning over him that blocks the rain. The fish slides down his gullet; a quick twitch and he's swallowed it whole.

He nods and she fills his backpack with another fish, this one wrapped in wax paper.

Lala's beak flicks away in the direction of a bucket of captured rain water. He dips his head in, gulps a little back, and splashes some around to cool off.

Dewa mata ashita, Lala-chan! See you tomorrow!

[caption id="attachment_71" align="aligncenter" width="208" caption="Holy Roman Emperor Penguin by sam at laikadreams.blogspot.com"][/caption] ]]> http://storiesrule.wordpress.com/?p=246 Sat, 06 Sep 2008 15:32:11 +0000 Tracy http://storiesrule.wordpress.com/?p=246

Today, we're talking to Cindy Spencer Pape, Ellora's Cave author of her latest novel, Stone and Sea: Sent to Atlantic City to retrieve an ancient artifact vital to the future of his clan, gargoyle Remy Rocher meets sexy selkie Marina Bell and ends up getting shot for his efforts. Now he has to find the chalice and keep Marina and himself alive-all while dealing with the hottest sex of his life and emotions that scare him more than evil wizards or mobsters with guns.

______

First of all, I'd like to thank Tracy for inviting me today. She posed some really great questions, which I'm going to take completely out of order, if nobody minds.

One of her questions was if I prefer pixels or paper for my reading.

This has become quite a major issue in the fiction market these days, and I am rather firmly on the fence. I don't see why we simply can't have a best-of-both-worlds situation. Have them available electronically for the technologically enlightened, and as POD for those of us who like dusting and moving heavy boxes of books every time we need to find something in our basement.

Seriously? I am proud to be in the e-pub business. But as I don't at present have a reading device other than my computer, I admit, most of my pleasure reading is on the written page. It's still hard to curl up in bed with a computer, or take it into the bathtub.

She also asked what it is about novels and stories that I enjoy the most.

Simple answer? Escapism.

I freely admit that I read (and write) fiction to escape from the trials and tribulations of reality. That's one reason I demand my HEA. If I want to be depressed or thoughtful when I'm done, I'll read the newspaper. When I read for fun, I want to feel good.

That said, I love a complex, intelligent, imaginative plot. I like paranormal because it combines the best of escapist SF&F and romance. Double yum. I also enjoy romantic suspense and the occasional steamy historical. Hey you gotta have variety.

Some of my early idols include Roberta Gellis, Mary Stewart, and Elizabeth Peters/Barbara Michaels. More recently such icons as Elizabeth Lowell, Linda Howard, and Jayne Ann Krentz (under any of her names), and paranormal/erotic authors like Lora Leigh and Christine Warren.

And in e-books? I've never been disappointed by Anny Cook, Amarinda Jones, Regina Carlysle, Desiree Holt, or Bronwyn Green. I really could go on for hours, and I'm sure I've left out someone important. Dee Brice, Dakota Rebel, Brynn Paulin, Kaenar Langford. Okay, I read A LOT!

Anyway, as much as I read, I've always also had a habit of telling myself stories at night as I went to sleep, or in the car, waiting in grocery lines, or whatever. I've always toyed with the idea of writing.

One year I had a job which often required my presence, without giving me anything to do. So. Had a chair, had a computer. What the heck. That first book was pretty awful, but yeah, with practice they got better.

Now here I am, celebrating my fourteenth release, Stone and Sea, out now from Ellora's Cave. This is the second book in my Heroes of Stone gargoyle cycle, following Stone and Earth, a Garnet quickie out last January. This one features gargoyle Remy Rocher and selkie Marina Bell, in Atlantic City, New Jersey.

Coming up next? I have a story in the September Ellora's Cavemen anthology called Sorecer's Song, that one features a Celtic sorcerer and a Greek siren. Can you tell I enjoy mixing up my mythologies? You can never be sure if I'm going to write about cowboys or dragons, or ghosts or gargoyles, but with any of my books, you can always count on fun, romance, and the Happy-Ever-After.

That's a promise.

_____

Thanks, Cindy.

I'm going to jump in with the first question, if you don't mind.

You write a lot about mythical creatures.  Where did you develop that interest from?  Was it a single book, or experience?