BS: The Writer's Corner

Subject: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Jerry Rasmussen
Date: 03 Aug 07 - 09:54 AM

We have many wonderful writers on the Cat. Over the years, I've enjoyed posts on almost every conceivable topic. Unfortunately, they're scattered all over the place and as things are set up, they have to be under a topic. I don't know what limitations Mudcat may have on length of a post (maybe we can get some guidance, here.) But, I thought it might be nice to have a corner where writers can post whatever they feel moved to write.

For the last few months, I've been going to a website: gather.com. It's supposedly primarily for writers, but the way that they've set it up discourages any on-going conversation. For starters, when somone posts a comment, it doesn't refresh the thread, so after a week, it becomes impossible to find the article, and it drops off the map. The best thing that the web site did for me was to make me appreciate Mudcat.

So, pending approval by the Mudcat Top Cats on length, I thought I'd start this thread with something reasonably short bout dogs. A favorite topic of mine. It also has song lyrics, but I wouldn't recommend that posts to this thread be limited to music.

I'm starting this for selfish reasons. I'd enjoy reading what others want to post.

Rosco

Back in the 40's, a dog's life wasn't all that bad. There were no leash laws, the streets were safer with fewer cars, and for the most part, dogs prospered through a certain amount of benign neglect. Dogs had their reason for existing (at least the ones that somebody owned,) because hunting was a regular weekend occupation for most men in town, and a dog helped to earn his keep. Of course, there were more disreputable dogs, like Rosco, too: dogs that were either strays, or were owned by a family that tolerated them as much as they loved them. Those dogs savored the night life of Janesville, for what there was, and had their regular rounds to make during the day. They commonly traveled in small groups (no pack, or anything that seemed threatening,) and they led a rather casual life. You would see them hanging around downtown or in the scruffier neighborhoods, looking for handouts or testing the lids of all the garbage cans along their route. They were generally friendly and good natured, and no one ever worried if they had rabies, or that they didn't have a good, loving home. No self-respecting dog would ever allow himself to be dressed in one those cute little doggie sweaters they sell these days, or be washed with no-tears doggie shampoo. On the rare occasion when they got to smelling so bad that they needed a bath, Ivory soap worked just fine. I don't ever remember having a leash for our dog (a rope was considered serviceable enough, if you had to tie up your dog for some reason, and dogs generally had the run of the house and the neighborhood.) On the whole, dogs were quite self-sufficient, street wise and capable of quick thinking on their four feet. I met dogs like Rosco all the time, although I'm not sure that I ever knew who owned them. They were the dogs you met down by the ice house or the railroad track who suddenly appeared, usually wet and dirty, with tongue hanging out and tail wagging. They happily accepted any sign of affection, and were full of enthusiasm for any of the games we would dream up (dogs are poison: if one touches you, you are out of the game.) They would play with you until they lost interest, and then wander off to see what was happening down the street. There was certainly no need of dog psychiatrists.
Nowadays, dogs, like Rosco would probably be rounded up by someone and taken to the Humane Society to stay there unclaimed for the required number of days, and then put to sleep.


ROSCO                            words and music by Jerry Rasmussen

Put another bowl on the floor, Mildred, I think Rosco's got a friend
Coming back home at all hours of the night, and he don't say where he's been
Walking kinda funny with his legs stuck out, and his tail's flying at half mast
And I don't think he's going to live to see another winter if he don't stop living so fast.

Only yesterday I saw Rosco's brother, he's the pride of the family
You'd never find him hanging 'roung the railroad yard, or keeping bad company
Everybody says he's just a family dog, and he's never known to harm a thing
And if you want to find him he'll be sleeping in the sunlight underneath the front porch swing

Every cat in town is going to sleep uneasy when Rosco's on the prowl
And if you got a bitch you better keep her tied up, 'cause if she hears Rosco's howl
She'll be off and running, to Hell and gone on a midnight rendevouz
And you can keep your back porch light burning all night, 'cause there's nothing else that you can do

Words and music by Jerry Rasmussen

As a writer and songwriter the two often converge. I've recorded this song on Back When I Was Young, and the writing is part of a book of memoires I'm working on.

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: alanabit
Date: 03 Aug 07 - 05:27 PM

Forgive me Jerry, but I could not resist posting the following appalling song...

Rover's Got The Blues

They say a true love story is one which doesn't end
But how do you explain that to a man's best friend?
I've tried to cheer him up but it's all been no use
He's been howling like a pup since Rover got the blues

His passion stirred one day – by a stunning young Red Setter
My Rover sure ain't gay – he bounded off to get her
And every time he broke out he ran across the street
For Rover ain't cold blooded and she had come on heat

                Once they ran together
                But now she runs alone
                She doesn't want to sniff his bum
                Or even share his bone

They ran the fields together pursuing doggy habits
Rolling round in mud and dust and terrorising rabbits
But now he sits inside his kennel chewing my old shoes
There ain't no doubt about it – Rover's got the blues

        Dreams of setting up kennel
       Have run into a hitch
        He's sulking down a jennel            
       And calling her a BITCH!

Now Rover is all choked up that they aren't still a pair
She walks past with a pedigree dog - her nose up in the air
Whenever we walk past their house she just pretends to snooze
He's got his tail between his legs 'cos Rover's got the blues


Jennel - North English dialect word for a narrow street.

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Stilly River Sage
Date: 03 Aug 07 - 06:31 PM

There was a thread that kind of did what you're doing here: Gallery of Mudcat Quotations. Meanwhile, here's a doozy. It's a Mudcat gem by BWL and it's about dogs!


Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Bee-dubya-ell - PM
Date: 02 Dec 04 - 03:25 PM

As some of you folks of above average deductive powers may have deduced, the "Zeke Floyd" posts made to this and other threads are totally bogus, spurious and fraudulent. Yes, I posted those messages! However, they are based upon fact. There really is a Zeke Floyd! I have actually met the man! I was so impressed, if that's the appropriate word, that I felt compelled to create a "Zeke Floyd" alter-ego and bring him to life here on the MOAB. Yet, as is often the case, truth is stranger than fiction and I am pleased to present the following true story of my experience with Zeke Floyd and his dogs.   

As I was returning from my latest road trip, I noticed two dogs, a yellow female and a black and tan male, on the shoulder of the road a few hundred feet north of our driveway. When I stopped to check the mailbox the dogs must have thought I had stopped to interact with them in some fashion because they came loping down the road and up to the van as if they were expecting something. Having no use for dogs, I told them to get the hell away. I then drove down my quarter-mile-long driveway to the house and began unloading a few things from the van. So, what should appear in a few moments, snooping around and scaring my cats? You guessed it, the very same two dogs. I again told them to scram, whereupon they ran about fifty feet away and lie down in the middle of the driveway.

Now, the road trip from which I had returned had been replete with dogs: my stepson's two exceedingly rambunctious half-grown Labradors, my parents' obsessive-compulsive dachshund, and my daughter's long-haired Chihuahua puppy which lives in her purse. I was completely dogged out and in the mood for feline companionship and these two strays had decided to take over my yard, sending my cats onto rooftops and into trees. It appeared that dogs had become part of my recent karma and that the karmic debt had not yet been paid in full.

I was actively bemoaning my apparent fate when I noticed that the yellow female was wearing a collar. "Aha!" I thought to myself, "A collar means an owner, so these are lost dogs, not strays. All I need to do is contact the owner and he'll come get 'em." So, I attempted to coax the collar-wearing bitch to me so I could see if the collar had a tag with the owner's name and phone number. She came within a few feet and I could see a brass nameplate on the collar, but she wouldn't come quite close enough for me to actually grab the collar and read the thing. We played the approach-avoidance game for about fifteen minutes until I was actually able to grab the collar and read the name "Zeke Floyd" followed by a phone number. So, I went inside, called Mr. Floyd, and told him where his dogs could be found.

Now, another thing I had done on that road trip from which I had just returned, in addition to visiting relatives with dogs, was to visit the Salvador Dali Museum in St. Petersburg, Florida. That brief but total immersion into the world of Surrealism couldn't hold a candle to the surreal scene that unfolded when Zeke Floyd came to get his dogs.

The sun had gone down and darkness was upon the face of the homestead. I was outside with a flashlight so I could make sure Zeke's dogs didn't decide to go visit some other fool's place now that their owner was on his way to relieve me of them. I heard a vehicle in the driveway, saw headlights coming around the final curve and was greeted by the sight, sound and smell of a mid-1960's Dodge pickup truck with rattling body panels and clattering valve lifters emitting a cloud of noxious oily blue smoke. The driver didn't turn the engine off, presumably because he wasn't sure the thing would crank back up if he did so. The driver's side door creaked open and Zeke Floyd himself stepped out into the oil-smoke-impregnated atmosphere, carrying a ten-foot length of manilla rope in his right hand. If you want to know what Zeke looks like, just go to the "Kenny Tague" post below, click on the picture link, and imagine what Kenny would look like if he were sixty-five years old and had no teeth. "Howdy!" I said to Zeke in my best attempt at neighborliness, only to be totally ignored as he lunged for the yellow dog which skillfully squirmed away from his grasp. If I had been entertaining visions of some kind of happy reunion between adoring, trusting canines and their loving master, they were quickly put to rest. It was obvious that the dogs liked Zeke a lot less than they liked me, which was none at all. "Dammit, dawg!" Zeke hollered as he watched both his missed target and its companion run off down the driveway. He then climbed back into his smoking truck, nearly backed it into my own much newer and non-smoking Dodge pickup, and roared off down the driveway, never having acknowledged my existence in any fashion.      

Well, I thought I'd seen the last of Zeke and his dogs at that point, but almost as soon as I had walked into the house I heard Zeke's truck heading back up the driveway. I stepped back outside, popped the flashlight back on, and there were the dogs again, having doubled back and given Zeke the slip. So a few seconds later the old Dodge slid back into the yard, Zeke jumped out and lunged for the yellow bitch again and, this time, snagged her by the collar. He proceeded to drag the whining dog to the back of the truck where he opened the tailgate and attempted to open the door of a plastic pet-carrier he had brought along. Since he couldn't let go of the struggling dog, I volunteered to get the carrier door open for him and, as soon as it was open, Zeke began trying to stuff the Labrador-sized dog into a the Spaniel-sized carrier. The entire operation was complicated by the fact that, during the time we'd been struggling with the pet-carrier door, the male dog had been overcome by a bout of lust and was busily screwing the bitch for all he was worth. Dogs! There he was, in a noisy, smoke-filled, tumultuous atmosphere, being recaptured by someone he obviously despised, and instead of hauling ass off into the woods where freedom was his for the taking, he decided to take the opportunity to knock off a piece while ol' Zeke held it by the collar. Talk about thinking with your dick!

Anyway, Zeke separated the two dogs, stuffed the female into the undersized carrier, and grabbed the black and tan male by the scruff of the neck. I was expecting him to tie the second dog to the truck in some fashion or, maybe, put it up front in the cab with himself. But, no, he opened the pet-carrier door again and began stuffing the second dog into the already overstuffed plastic box. He got the critter in there somehow and closed the door, but sardines in a tin have never been packed tighter than those two dogs were. Then Zeke got back into his truck, nearly backed into my own truck again, and roared off down the driveway, never having spoken to me, made eye contact, nor uttered a word other than "dammit" and "dawg" the entire time he'd been there.

And ya'll know this story's gotta be the truth 'cause I don't have a vivid enough imagination to make this kinda shit up.

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Jerry Rasmussen
Date: 03 Aug 07 - 09:20 PM

Woof! You can't go wrong with shaggy dog stories. I enjoyed the song and the story. The Zeke story sounded a little fishy, but it was very entertaining. Sometimes you have to stretch things in order to tell the truth.

I've written a lot of songs with dogs in them, over the years. This being a writer's corner, they're all fair game and I may add another one. I have no idea whether this thread is a workeable idea or not.
We'll find out.

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Jerry Rasmussen
Date: 03 Aug 07 - 09:25 PM

From dogs to roosters. This is a true story. Essentially.

How Earl Got Herbert

I got Herbert as a throw-in when I bought my friend Earl's Harley Davidson 125 for $90. Herbert was a Banty rooster. How Earl came about getting Herbert is an interesting story. Actually, it's two interesting stories, each of them kinda true.

Back in 1953, when Earl and I graduated from High School, Earl headed out to go to college at the University of Oregon, and because they frowned on Banty roosters in their dormitories, Earl reluctantly gave Herbert to me as a going away present. This is the way I remember Earl telling me how he came to have Herbert in the first place. Over the last fifty-some years, the story has become much more ornate.

According to what I remember, Earl was out in his front yard one Summer's day, when a car drove by and a Banty rooster came flying out of the rear window. The rooster immediately made a bee-line toward Earl's house and the man jumped out of the car and hit the road, running. The rooster, later to be named Herbert, was running, Hell Bent for Leather when he spotted an unsuspecting squirrel running across the yard. Even though Herbert was running for dear life, he couldn't ignore the challenge of the squirrel, and took off after it. As Herbert came skidding around the corner in hot pursuit of the squirrel, he almost ran into Earl and Earl, being quick of mind and sure-handed reached down and caught the rooster. When the man came around the corner puffing like a steam engine and saw Earl, he hit the brakes and asked Earl for his rooster. Now Earl, being a real slick talker, managed to convince the man that what he really wanted to do was give the rooster to Earl. So, Earl kept the rooster and named him Herbert and when he went away to college in the Fall, he gave Herbert to me. As I said. And that's the way I remember Earl telling it.

Here is what actually happened, according to Earl in 2006. The rooster did indeed escape from a passing car, but it was someone else who lived across the street who caught it. When he couldn't keep it, he gave it to Earl. Earl has no idea how the rooster came to be called Herbert. There was no hot pursuit of a squirrel, or any slick-talking done by Earl.

As I tell Earl, he remembers what happened. I remember how it should have happened. I like my story a lot better. I even had Herbert riding in a Cadillac when I wrote a song about him. Nothing was too good for Herbert.


   "He came a' riding in to town in a great big Cadillac
    With the windows all rolled down, tied in a gunny sack
    But the sack was for potatoes, and not for Herbert's kind
    And with his spurs as sharp as razors, he cut the ties that bind"

So, how did the squirrel get in the story? When I owned Herbert, he was one of the first "Free-range" chickens in the country. Earl kept him tied to a pole with a stout string around one leg. I let Herbert have the run of the yard, and because it wasn't fenced in, he had the run of the whole neighborhood.

   "When Herbert strolled the neighborhood, the squirrels stayed in their nests
    The dogs all looked the other way, and the cats would genuflect"

Herbert found squirrels to be a personal affront, and he made life Hell for the neighbor's cat and the pigeons I raised in our garage. Early on, the cat made the mistake of stalking Herbert, and when he pounced for the attack, Herbert had mysteriously disappeared. He reappeared just as mysteriously on the cat's back with his spurs dug in as firmly as a rodeo cowboy. Herbert took the cat for a little ride, and it was the last time the cat came within one hundred yards of him.

   "And Herbert was the terror of the local countryside
    Sometimes he'd flag the neighbor's cat and he'd take him for a ride
    And the pigeons in my Dad's garage got up to bar the door
   For those who messed with Herbert, were never seen no more"

So you see, my memory of how Earl got Herbert was about 90% wrong, but it was 100% Herbert. If Earl HAD been the one to catch Herbert, he WOULD have smooth-talked the guy out of his rooster. For something that never happened, I got the story just about right.

The next year, when I went away to college, I took Herbert out to my Uncle Jim's farm. But the song tells the rest of the story.

"I took him to my Uncle's farm when I had to move away
The Roosters met him at the gate, just to have a little play
But when he rode them 'round the farm, their enthusiasm waned
And I swear he'd jump them through a hoop. he had them so well trained

Jerry

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Charley Noble
Date: 03 Aug 07 - 10:38 PM

I like a good rooster story!

It just might spur me on to contribute something as well.

Cheerily,
Charley Noble

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: autolycus
Date: 04 Aug 07 - 07:00 PM

I will return - it's bedtime.




      Ivor

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Jerry Rasmussen
Date: 04 Aug 07 - 07:25 PM

I'll be waiting, Charlie..

Jerry

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Peace
Date: 04 Aug 07 - 07:27 PM

I've bookmarked the thread to be able to return to read it. Ya done another, Jerry.

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: katlaughing
Date: 04 Aug 07 - 10:55 PM

Thanks for posting that, SRS. Now I see what I've been missing on MOAB.

Great stories, folks! I'll see what I can dig up later.

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Jerry Rasmussen
Date: 05 Aug 07 - 08:24 AM

Just to cover the range of writing I'm encouraging, here's a family memory:

The Father Of Invention

Alright! I know it's supposed to be the Mother, but who says only mothers can be inventive.

Like most kids, it took me a long time to fully appreciate my parents: not my Mother, so much, because there were so many qualities in her that I admired and tried to emulate. My father was another story. He took longer to understand.   Through the years I came to realize that my father had a real knack for taking whatever was lying around the house and creating something marvelous. Let me tell you a story.

Back when I was a teenager and was raising racing pigeons, I had an ageing, matronly blue-bar female. One of the older members of the Janesville Racing Pigeon club gave her to me, and I felt like someone had just given me Old Dan Patch. Like all racing pigeons, she had a band on her leg, that gave the date of her birth. From what I remember, she was over 20 years old: near the record for racing pigeons. But, this story isn't about her. It's about my father.

Because of her advanced years and her unsteadiness in flight, I didn't normally let her out when my other pigeons went out for exercise. It wasn't so much that I worried that she wouldn't come back. She was a racing pigeon and they don't call them homing pigeons for nothing.   If she had flown any distance, she would have gotten too tired to fly, and she might have been too far away for her to walk back. But for some reason long since forgotten, I relented and released her with the rest of my small flock. At the time, they were building a house in an empty lot across the street and had laid the forms for pouring the foundation. They were made of metal plates, bolted together, and stood about ten feet high. When my pigeon took wing, she set off, looking like Woodstock, in the Peanuts strip, wobbling her way about ten feet off the ground until she made it to the forms for the foundation. She landed with great relief on the top of the frame, and then tumbled head-first into the space between the plates. By the time I got there, all that I could do was peer down into the dark, to see her looking up at me, puzzled. Because there was only a 12 inch space between the plates, there was no way for her to fly out, even if she had any strength left to do it. And, with metal rods criss-crossing the space, there was no way for me to climb down in to get her out. I hadn't been standing there for more than a couple of minutes, trying to figure out what to do when I heard the rumble of the cement truck coming down the street. By then, I was in a state of panic, because I couldn't see any way to get her out. It seemed to be a rather ignominious end for her. Instead of being enshrined in a case at the Smithsonian as the longest living racing pigeon, she'd be entombed in concrete, peering out through the wall into the rumpus room in the basement. And so, I raced home to get my Dad.

When I explained the situation to him, he didn't seem particularly flustered. He went down into the basement and grabbed a long coil of clothes line and an old bamboo fishing pole and marched over to the framework for the foundation. By then, the men with the cement truck were ready to pour, and they didn't want to hear anything about an old pigeon stuck in the framework. Not to worry. My dad asked them to hold on for a minute, and he'd get the pigeon out. At that point, I thought his calm assurance was as out of place as if he'd been asked to part the Red Sea. My father calmly unwound the coil of clothesline and quickly fashioned a noose. Then, he carefully lowered the noose between the metal plates, weaving its way between the metal bars until it rested on the ground. Once the noose was in place, he told me to use the pole to shoo my pigeon over to the noose. When she stepped into the noose, he quickly jerked on the clothesline and the noose tightened securely around one of her legs. It was just a matter then of hauling her up. Through all of this, my father was as matter-of-fact about it as if he rescued ageing racing pigeons every day of the week. He thanked the men who were watching in amazement, and told them that they could go ahead and pour the foundation, and I took my errant pigeon home where she died in peace and comfort in her nest, not long after.

The more I think about it, my father had a great resourcefulness that he never made a big deal about. He just took whatever was at hand and made something that despite all odds, worked just fine.
He never seemed surprised that it did. Sixty years later, several years after it was too late to call my dad to come and rescue me, I found myself in a tight space, just like my old pigeon.

The first fall after we bought our house here in Derby, Connecticut, I thought that it was time to turn off the outside faucets before the first frost. When they built our house, they constructed a second wall, about 12 inches in from the concrete foundation. While we appreciated the finished basement, we discovered that there were unexpected adventures awaiting us when we needed to gain access to the plumbing. In order to shut off the lines, I had to remove a crudely cut-out section of wall board, and then squeeze between the two by four studs in order to get over to turn off the water. Squeezing my way in between the walls, I started to panic for fear that I'd get wedged between the walls, just like my old pigeon. And sure enough, I did. My wife Ruth was upstairs and at the far end of the house, and I didn't think she'd hear me if I started yelling. Not even considering what it would have done to my image. When I finally calmed down, I made one last, desperate push and popped out from between the stud and the concrete wall. And then it dawned on me. I had turned off the water, and only realized after I'd done it, that it was the line to the bathroom sink. If we ever intended to use that sink again, I'd have to gird my loins and go back between the walls. Actually, girding my loins wasn't going to do the trick. The phrase "What Would Jesus Do?" is a wonderful guide for living. But in this case, it was more like "What would dad do?" And then the answer came to me. I walked calmly into the garage, got my saber saw and an extension cord and marched back to that dark, threatening opening in the wall. I eyed up the profile of my stomach (which was what really required girding) and sketched it on to the stud at the appropriate height. With my saber saw, I cut
out the shape of my stomach so that I could pass between the stud
and the wall with ease. If it worked for Alfred Hitchcock, why not for me? And sure enough, it did. I was able to calmly slip between
the wall, reach back and turn the water back on.

Dad would have been proud of me.

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Jerry Rasmussen
Date: 07 Aug 07 - 03:32 PM

Got Writing?

Jerry

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Jerry Rasmussen
Date: 12 Aug 07 - 01:33 PM

Well, if no one else is going to do it...

The Invasion Of The Teenagers

That sounds like the title of a terrifying science fiction movie starring Richard Carlson. For restaurants and ice cream fountains, the reality of a teenage invasion was far more frightening than science fiction could ever imagine.In the forties and fifties, teenage hangouts changed as quickly as skirt lengths. And if you're talking about teenage hangouts, you have to talk about music. Music and teenagers have always been joined at the hip. I became a teenager on June 14, 1948, but that's only a technicality. Nobody who is sixteen or seventeen years old would consider a 13 year old kid brother a real teenager. By the time I became a teenager, my oldest sister Marilyn was dangerously close to becoming an adult, as she is 5 and a half years older than I am. My sister Helen was hot on her heels, being 4 years older than me. That meant that their music and teenage hangouts had already become passé by the time I was 15 or 16. When Marilyn was a teenager, it was the bobby sox, angora sweater era. Marilyn had a hopeless crush on Mel Torme, the Velvet Fog. She and her friends hung out at a place called Homseys, on Milwaukee Street up near the Jeffries Theater. The songs in those days were dreamy and romantic: the afterwash of the romantic songs of World War II. Frank Sinatra was the dreamboat back then, long before he became Chairman of the Board. I always pictured Homsey's as looking like the soda fountain in the movie Good News with Hep Cats cutting a rug.   Helen's tastes ran more toward country music and by the time she was 16 or 17, the crowd had moved down the street to Adamany's. Russ Morgan and his orchestra were Cruising Down The River and Perry Como sang of "far away places, with strange sounding names. By the time I was a certified teenager, the crowd had moved down to Charlie's Chatterbox on Main Street and a major sea-change in music was just starting. Johnny Ray was wailing on the juke box, telling us to go on and cry and Down Howard was singing about a Happy Day, strumming his guitar and sounding a little wobbly because he'd cut the record in a Record Your Own Voice booth. The first rumblings of rhythm and blues were heard too, with the Orioles Crying In The Chapel.

There was a reason why teenage hangouts were constantly moving. For starters, teenagers didn't spend a whole lot of money. Becoming "The Place To Meet" was the kiss of death for an ice cream parlor or restaurant. Kids could nurse a ten cent cherry coke for three hours, and when teenagers descended into an unsuspecting restaurant and made it their hangout, the adult, spending customers headed out the back door. It took about two years for teenagers to reduce a thriving restaurant or ice cream parlor to the brink of bankruptcy. Fortunately, that was about the time it took for the next onslaught of teenagers to decide the place was no longer cool, and to pick a new place to hang out. No one wanted to hang out in a place where an older brother or sister hung out. And so, the next wave of teenagers moved on, like a plague of locusts leaving a trail of devastated restaurants in their wake.

These days, my wife and I have been going on a river walk every morning, and once in awhile, we walk over to the Mcdonald's for a Sausage egg McMuffin with cheese, or a Sausage biscuit. McDonald's throughout the country are a hangout during the breakfast hour. If you ever wondered where those teenagers of the forties and fifties ended up, they're having Mcbreakfast at the local McDonald's. And just as it was when they were fifteen and going to a dance at the "Y" all the "girls" are sitting in one area, and the guys in another. The guys sit close enough to the girls so that they can flirt with the girls by occasionally saying something funny loud enough so that the girls can hear it and respond.

Life comes full circle.

Jerry

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Peter T.
Date: 12 Aug 07 - 05:08 PM

Returning to dogs off the leash, the situation is much worse with today's children. Thanks to paranoia about abduction (the statistics are clear that virtually all abductions are family related) and the craze for insurance for everything (Marx says somewhere that the essential characteristic of the bourgeousie is fear), as well as the drying up of natural spaces, children are not allowed to go anywhere and just play. The result is that computers and TV have taken over their lives.

yours,

Peter T.

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Amos
Date: 12 Aug 07 - 05:17 PM

PT! How very fine to see a remark from you again in these hallowed stomping grounds.


A

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: GUEST,sinky
Date: 13 Aug 07 - 04:45 AM

I ATE AN APPLE TODAY,AND THREW THE PIPS AWAY, i thank you

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: wysiwyg
Date: 13 Aug 07 - 10:46 AM

My dog story is in the Pets Favorite Things thread, just posted it this AM.

~S~

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Jerry Rasmussen
Date: 14 Aug 07 - 01:04 PM

Just had a chance to read your story in the Pet's Favorite Things thread. It's delightful, and very well written...

Thanks for mentioning it in here.

Jerry

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: SharonA
Date: 14 Aug 07 - 11:04 PM

Jerry, you looking for poetry too, or just prose?

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Jerry Rasmussen
Date: 15 Aug 07 - 09:19 AM

Poetry, definitely. Song lyrics, too. I'm doubtful that this thread will have much of a shelf life, though. Seems like most threads thrive on two or three sentence "one-liners.." I'd hoped to see other writers contributing more. Maybe this just isn't the forum for it.

Jerry

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: John Hardly
Date: 15 Aug 07 - 09:51 AM

There's more writing around this forum than you could shake a very long, very heavy stick at. It's just that most people seem to prefer to keep their writing relative to the topic at hand.

The other, "writing for writing's sake", creative stuff is a bit dicier and fewer people are inclined to post much of it because, though there are usually a few good souls -- Amos, Ebbie -- who will praise and acknowledge it, after that, it usually drops off the front page as though tied to fishing sinkers.

And because of that, most people are a bit gun shy at pointing out their own writing.

When invited -- as in the ongoing group stories of mudcat history -- it's not unlike a song circle/guitar pull. People are more than happy to participate.

As presented as in this thread, however, rather than a guitar pull/song circle, I picture a room full of talking people and a guitar in a stand in the corner. Even if everyone in the room plays the guitar, few will ever pick up the guitar to "show off" when they know that nobody is listening and that they are more likely to come off as just a bit pathetic -- a bit like a kid shouting "look at me!".

If you want to compile the best of mudcat writing, have at it. Everyone's archive is open to all. I suggest mining here and here and here and here and here and here.

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Bert
Date: 15 Aug 07 - 10:12 AM

I had this idea for a song but no matter how I tried it just wouldn't work. It sounded too mushy and trite every time I put some rhyme or rhytm to it.

After a while I just gave up and left it as a story.

And no, it isn't true.

-----------------------------------------------------

It was dark and it was raining.

It was one of those days when you go to work in the dark and work all day, and when you come home it's dark again, and you wonder where the day went.

My wife was complaining, she was complaining about the rain, and complaining about the dark, and complaining about the young un keeping us awake half the night, and complaining that we were late for work.

I said "Well I'm gonna make us a bit later 'cos I've got to stop for gas".

She said "Why didn't you stop for gas last night, you know we never have time in the morning", you're always doing that.
I said "Because I was tired and I didn't think of it. If you're so perfect, why didn't YOU get gas last night?"

Well, I filled up with gas and went in to pay. I just got out my wallet when I saw her tail lights disappear down the road.

The Manager grinned and said "You're in big trouble now boy". I said, as casual as I could, "Oh she'll be back" adding to myself "I hope".

I said "can I use your phone" he said sure for a local call. So I called the boss and asked if I could have the day off. He said "OK; without pay!"

I got myself a cup of coffee and one of those plastic poncho things and I said to the guy "You'd better give me one of those red roses that you've got in that bucket there".

I went outside to wait in the rain, taking a sip of coffee now and then to keep warm. I looked like a sack of garbage in that plastic poncho, and pretty much felt like one too.

After a while she came back and pulled up alongside. She pushed open the door and said, "I got you a six pack of beer, lets go home and waste what's left of the day" I handed her the rose, and by the look on her face I could see that the day wasn't going to be wasted after all.

Well that was a long time ago now and we've just seen the little un off to college. But we still get a laugh now and then when we pass that gas station.

I'll say "You know the best present I ever had was a six pack of beer, how about you?"
and she'll say "Oh! Just a little ol red rose"

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: katlaughing
Date: 15 Aug 07 - 10:26 AM

Well, sorry it has taken me so long to get back in here. John Hardly, thanks for that! One could say the same for your writing.

Jerrydarlin'...I think part of the reason I haven't posted anything is because I haven't written much, lately, and what I already have is mostly going into a book or two, so I don't really want to much floating around in cyberspace.:-)

Bert, lovely!

Here is the rough draft, very short prologue & first chapter of a book I am working on about living out on the prairie where we had all kinds of critters, had only the water we could haul, and during the last winter we lived there, only wood/coal in a stove for heat. It was a lotta fun!

"Prologue

"The past month had been an emotional roller coaster for us all. Roger, my husband of three years had gone ahead to his new job in New England while the children and I stayed in Wyoming packing up our belongings, finishing my job and selling off various members of our pet menagerie, as well as our little patch of "heaven:" what was left of our original twenty-five acres of Wyoming prairie and the first home we had known together, as a family.

"As I drove away from the ranch for the last time, my throat constricted and the tears began to fall. Knowing it was the final time, drinking in every last scene of prairie, was just too much. My eyes filled again as I was unable to stifle the sobs. I knew I needed to "be brave" for my children, but this was home. Although I was leaving willingly, a part of my heart would always be there, on the Wyoming prairie with the mariposa lilies, sagebrush, bald eagles and antelope. Stopping at the end of the mile long washboard driveway, we looked back once more at our prairie home and said goodbye.

"Chapter One

    "The first time I saw the ranch my eyes were full of tears. I had driven out there to store an old car of mine. My new boyfriend, Roger, had owned and lived on the ranch for nearly five years when I met him. My ex-husband had just been to town to leave my car and my emotions were still in turmoil when I sat down beside Roger just outside his house.

"It was a clear May day with billowy white clouds high in the sky. The ranch overlooked the old Oregon Trail on a small hill facing southeast towards Casper Mountain. As I looked around me, I saw eagles soaring high, piercing the air with their haunting whistles; heard the cheerful trill of meadowlarks. Nature, in her "Earth Mother" way was soothing my heart and mind as Roger quietly offered the comfort of his sheltering arms.

      "When I was a young girl and upset, I'd always had a dog, cat or horse offer up their soft coat of fur to bury my tears and wail my sorrows. In my adult years there'd been my old faithful dog and loving cats but no warm, coarse horse mane to soak away the tears. That day at the ranch, I returned to those soothing days when Roger's sorrel gelding came up behind me and snuffled in my ear. When I turned my head to look at "Fleet", the tears streamed down my face as I threw my arms around his neck. Just the scent of his dusty mane took me back to my childhood and the solace I'd found so often with my horse companion. When no one else understood or listened, the animals were always there for me.

"I fell in love with the ranch and its wide open spaces, panoramic views of the prairie and mountains, wildlife and historic settings. I was also falling in love with Roger who'd fled the congestion and traffic of his native New England for the solitude of twenty-five acres of alfalfa and prairie in Wyoming.

"About a month later, Roger came to visit me at the little house I rented in town. It was a small two bedroom set behind the larger house of the landlord. I was crying, again, talking to my girlfriend about my landlord who'd just told me I had to move out. After a tough and lonely divorce, I had just started a new job two months before where I'd met Roger on the first day. I thought moving was the last thing my children or I needed, financially or emotionally.

"Like a mythical knight in shining armour, Rog walked in, opened his heart and home to me and my children. Not two weeks later, we unloaded the last box, one dog, two cats and three children and began to call the ranch our home."




© K. LaFrance 2001

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Jerry Rasmussen
Date: 15 Aug 07 - 11:40 AM

Thanks, all. I believe that you're right, John. I realize and appreciate that there is a lot of wonderful writing on the Cat, which is why I started this thread. And why I acknowledged it in the opening post. We've all done our share of posting lengthier writing that was relevant to a particular topic. I thought that maybe there'd be some interest in posting things we've been writing that don't relate to any particular topic. I started a thread on bus stories, which I thoroughly enjoyed reading, and have contributed dog stories as WYSIWYG has. What about a story about my childhood friend Tommy, who was an alcoholic French Horn player and rented half of our house with his wife? I don't feel like starting an Alcoholic French Horn player thread. I know there are stories to be shared from many Catters, and I was curious to see whether there was a place for them. I enjoyed Bert and Kat's writings, and don't see that they'd necessarily fit into a thread, other than a general one like this. Lots of stories have been told around the kitchen table, and maybe that's a better place for them to appear.

Interestingly, I joined an internet community called gather.com just looking for a place where people could share their writing, and everyday stories. Supposedly, the site is for writers, but I found it too frustrating. People would post something that they'd written, and unlike the threads here, they don't move up into current topics when others post comments. A big response is 8 or 9 three sentence one-liners, and then they slip off into cyberspace.

I'd never wanted this to be a thread about things that I'm writing. I can share them with a group of friends who also share what they're doing. There's no desire to make oneself look good.. just the basic human desire to share something that you enjoy with others of a similar interest.

I've since left gather.com because I was tired of the endless deluge of ultra brief comments. No discussion ever flowed, because the site isn't set up to encourage that. I really enjoy conversations, and am sincerely interested in what other people are thinking. If I only wanted to know what I am thinking, there'd be no need to come on the internet. I already know what I'm thinking. I just enjoy hearing from others.

Jerry

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: John Hardly
Date: 15 Aug 07 - 11:52 AM

Oh, I understand and sympathize, Jerry. Here is a thread I started years ago for close to the same idea -- to get some of the "best of" or favorites from some of the writers.

As you can see, my thread got even fewer responses than yours. Mine got...

...I lost count after 0.

I've posted threads that had no connection to the mudcat several times in the past -- at least two that I can count this year (kilns, and animal art). I'll continue to do it because the mudcat is a great place to archive stuff.

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Jerry Rasmussen
Date: 15 Aug 07 - 01:26 PM

Good to see that we are of the same mind, John. I know that there are many of us who enjoy a good story, whatever the topic. I'll be leading a workshop at NOMAD this fall, with Sandy & Caroline Paton and Barbara and Frank Shaw titled "Sing Me A Story." Stories are just songs that haven't yet been put to music.

Jerry

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Waddon Pete
Date: 15 Aug 07 - 01:27 PM

Jerry,

It's a lovely idea to have a thread with writing such as this in it. I'm sure that there are many folks out there who would contribute, but August is kinda quiet....perhaps when the evenings draw in a bit there might be more contributions.....

Perhaps some-one might know how this story ended...I've been stuck for a while now!

Regrets? Oh yes, I've had a few. Mainly the regrets that come from having a short temper. So I've learned to keep my temper in check. More or less. But sitting in that parish council meeting I could feel my dander rising. I loved the quaint expression, but was never quite sure what a dander was. So I looked it up. Angry passion. Yes, that's what I felt. Angry passion. The parish councillors were holding a public session to hear the villagers' views on vandalism. The local police sergeant was there and what he was saying, when all the flummery of political language was shaved away, was, "Sorry guys but there's only six of us."

So my dander was up. But I sat quiet and listened. I'm getting better at it. Some folks say about time too.

The trouble always came overnight. We would wake up to windows broken, a car scratched, swings cut through with bolt cutters; the list seemed endless. No-one knew why, no-one knew who it was and everyone thought someone else should be doing something about it.

So when I went out into the night I was cross. Everyone knew it was a village where things happened at night, but no-one wanted to venture out into the night to see for themselves. Especially now most of the street lamps had had a make-over. I went home and changed. Black T-shirt, black trousers, black coat and a black bobble hat that one of the kids had bought me last winter. Wear something white at night. It would be just my luck to be run over by a truck! My luck held as I walked in the darkest shadows with ears straining to hear the slightest sound.

My village was very still. You could hear the occasional car on the main road about a quarter of a mile away. I stood under a tree in a dark corner of the churchyard and waited. Not a sound. After returning my heart to its usual spot following an unexpected visit from a village cat and cursing myself for having an overactive imagination, I was just about to give up and go home when I heard voices. I waited. The voices got nearer and heard the sound of bike tyres and the unmistakable noise the chain makes. I waited. I edged towards the sound of breaking glass. The telephone box was suffering. The light inside was one of the last things they broke. The Marsh Twins. I now had the culprits, but what was I to do? If I used my phone, they'd hear me, besides I didn't have a lot of confidence in the police. I could walk up to them and punch them I suppose, but that's best left to TV and film. They'd probably vandalize me as well.

It was then that my eye was caught by a glint by the churchyard gate. The moon had come from behind its blanket of cloud to have a look around before going back for a nap. On its way it reflected off the chrome on the bike lying in the gateway. Being careful not to make a noise I eased over to the bike, picked it up and wheeled it back through the gate and round behind the dark bulk of the church. As I stood in the darkness a plan began to form.

Best wishes,

Peter

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: katlaughing
Date: 15 Aug 07 - 01:53 PM

Well, geez, Pete, ya really left us hanging! Well-done! Now, let's hear the rest of it!**bg**

There are a few others by several catters in an old thread: Tell A Story.

John, I don't know what I was doing in Jan. of 01, sorry I missed your thread.

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Waddon Pete
Date: 15 Aug 07 - 03:10 PM

Kat....I would finish it if I could only think how! Stuck as fast as a bear in a honey tree!

Best wishes,

Peter

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Jerry Rasmussen
Date: 15 Aug 07 - 03:32 PM

I*'m waitin', I'm waitin'. You got me hooked, Peter. I've written songs that way... starting out with a few lines with no idea what the song was about. An example:

I started singing:

"It was a nice night, at least I thought it was nice
Amd then, for filler..
"It was the right time, at least I thought it was right"

I just kept singing those two lines over and over again with no clue where the song was leading me. The two lines had a sense that something really wasn't all that nice about the night, but I had no idea what. After awhile, the next two lines came:

"All I wanted was a taste of sin
But when I started, the roof caved in"

Still no idea what was going to happen.

Then a few more lines:

"If they only had told me, if I only had known
I would have have changed my whole way of thinkin'
A long time ago"

Talk about stalling for inspiration.

So, what happened?

The rest of the song revolved around a poodle.

Go figure.

Jerry

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: katlaughing
Date: 15 Aug 07 - 03:39 PM

LOL!

Well, Pete, could you use your cell phone behind the church? Puncture the tires so they couldn't make a fast getaway while you go get the police? Oops, the cops aren't that available...how about climbing into the bell tower and ringing an alarum? Tie something to the back of the bike rim to trace their nefarious ramblings? Like a rope or something that would leave behind an impression. Or, how about you just ride off on the bike to the safety of home and ring the constable? Find the church gardener's shed, get the shovel/spade, hit them over their heads, then cut the rope to the bell and bind them whilst calling the constable? Jump into a phone booth and change into your superhero outfit and start singing, "Here I come to save the day!"**bg**

Just finish it! We want more! (Well, don't mean to be bossy...just when you feel like it, okay?)

all the best,

kat

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Waddon Pete
Date: 15 Aug 07 - 05:26 PM

Jerry....heard the song and love it! I guess some songs and stories come easily...all of a piece, and others take forever. I'll have to finish that story off now, it's been a year in the waiting after all...only one problem, Kat...who was the superhero who said, "Here I come to save the day?" Was it Mighty Mouse?

I thought he might steal the bike wheel and do something nefarious with it. Got to be some poetic justice in there somewhere, too!

Best wishes,

Peter

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: katlaughing
Date: 15 Aug 07 - 08:06 PM

Yep, it was Mighty Mouse!**bg**

Hmmm...what could you do with a bike wheel; bend the spokes and bring it down around their heads and pin their arms to their bodies? But you'd have to have the tools to get it off and to bend the spokes, and catch two twins with one wheel, so to speak, and you've probably have to work fast. Maybe you could bowl them over with it?

Tell you Inner Editor to take a hike and see what comes up. It's liberating! Oh, and thanks for letting us play around with it, too.:-)

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Bert
Date: 16 Aug 07 - 11:50 PM

I think that I would have just loosened the front wheel nuts a tad.

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: katlaughing
Date: 17 Aug 07 - 01:11 AM

Now that's wicked, Bert!**bg**

Could raise the seat so their feet can't reach the pedals... or cut the brakes? If there was a pond nearby on a downhill slope, they could wind up in the drink.

Or, I know, I know, a Morris side could show up and surround them, batting them and all!

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Georgiansilver
Date: 17 Aug 07 - 03:11 AM

This is one of my recent 'shorts' called "Just the two of us"
Hope it meets your criteria Jerry. Best wishes, Mike.

Working as a full time personal assistant to the boss of a huge company can provide a laborious but perhaps lucrative lifestyle for some. I use the term lifestyle unreservedly as my position puts me into situations where I have to spend several days at a time overseas with the boss and weekends where I have to work, when others are out having fun. It is always good to get home!
I felt really stressed that day as it had been such a hard day at work. I could not wait to get home to my lovely studio flat to relax for an hour before having my usual Friday night out, which is always full of anticipation as to who I will meet and what will transpire.
It was a freezing November night when I took that long, hot, refreshing shower, before donning my gladrags to go out on the town. Not sure where to go, I telephoned for a taxi and demanded to be taken to the centre of town where a surprised taxi driver set me down….surprised because the fare was only £5.50 and I told him to keep the change from a £10 note. Little did he know that I had won £3000 on the lottery and I was feeling sort of flush. I believe this to be the largest amount of money I have owned in my whole twenty seven years on this sad earth.
I sauntered through the town centre, fully aware of how good I felt to have finished work for a whole fortnight, yes, two whole weeks of rest and relaxation and maybe renewing of old friendships as well as catching up with household chores.
I quickly became aware of someone, paying me more than just an average amount of attention, in a reflection from a shop window. He was over six feet tall and was wearing a silk shirt, open at the collar, a quality black pin striped suit, with prick stitching around the collar and knife edge creases in the trousers which were so neatly pressed and a pair of shiny black and very expensive looking patent leather boots . He was perhaps one of the most attractive men I have ever encountered, having a suave, sophisticated look about him. I was sure I had seen him on previous occasions doing exactly the same thing…looking at me in the reflection of a shop window…. but never had he looked so well dressed and attractive. I made the sort of pretence of not giving back the attention, which seemed to make him even more interested. He walked along beside me making comments about the weather and the way the town was changing day by day, which are subjects on which I am quite knowledgable . I actually quite enjoyed his company so I invited him to a favourite haunt of mine, The Dog and Duck, for a drink or maybe two. I was feeling flush with the lottery win so I offered to buy all the drinks, which I believe pleased him. We sat there for at least two hours, totally engrossed in conversation but for some reason, people were giving us such strange looks that we eventually decided to leave. Some people don't seem to have the ability to mind their own business and at times it can be quite soul destroying.
We stepped out into the freezing night air together, with me never before having felt so close to someone on such short acquaintance. I was not feeling too confident but I shyly asked him if he wished to come home with me to spend the night and he replied that he would with an air of great anticipation. We walked slowly along the road, engrossed in deep conversation and often his hand would brush against my leg, sending shivers down my spine and causing me to fantasize about what would actually happen when we reached my home.
We arrived at the flat and I poured him a large whisky, which I guessed was his favourite tipple, before inviting him upstairs to the bedroom. He sat with me on the edge of the bed, nervously fingering his whisky glass so I took it from him and placed it on the pine bedside table, encouraging him at the same time to stand in front of the antique mahogany wardrobe.
I slowly undressed him in front of the mirror, gently caressing each part of his body as I did so, and then I went to my bed for yet another lonely night on my own.
                              
I find my schizophrenia to be such a strange affliction.


Mike Hill.
March 2007

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: John Hardly
Date: 17 Aug 07 - 10:10 AM

Did you just see Butler upset Louisville to move to the sweet 16?! Young Darnell Archey pops 8 (yup eight!) trays in proper Hoosier fashion - we love our shooting guards!

Oscar Robertson (greatest player of all times -- averaged triple doubles for a whole season)
Billy Keller
Rick Mount (greatest pure shooter of all times)
Kyle Macy
Steve Alford

Those names represent the Hoosier pantheon of great guards (we make Havlicek and West honorary Hoosiers).

Anyway, today's game was a trip down memory lane for me 'cause, sitting on Butler's bench (and I wasn't previously aware of this) was Coach Todd Lickliter.

Todd was a kid from my side of town and, had I not gone to private school, would have been my classmate....
....but that's not the whole story.

My best friend (didn't we all grow up with one of those? --we shared our friendship from the 4th grade 'til we went our separate ways to college)) topped the city scoring charts both our junior and senior years...

...but we didn't play any of the public school competition. So, though my friend's name almost always topped the list of the top scorers in the city every Sunday in the Indianapolis Star, it was as though there was this annoying "asterisk" applied to it. His place as scoring champion was made illegitimate by the apples-to-oranges of our competition -- my friend being the "apples" to Todd's "oranges".   See, Todd sometimes traded places with my friend at the top of the scoring list.

The summer between our Junior and Senior years, my friend and I got wind of a regular game at the high school Todd attended -- at that time it was the biggest high school in Indiana. One hot Saturday morning we made our way over to the high school gym to check it out.

Remember those first summers of freedom? My friend had pooled his summer earnings with a bit of help from his pop and bought a ten-year-old Pontiac Tempest that was our ticket to any game in town. We'd go see ABA Pacer Games "The Coliseum" – a facility so run down that we could buy cheap seats for $2 and steal our way down to the usually empty good seats and worship at the feet of Roger Brown -- the greatest player nobody but a Hoosier knew.

Anyway, back then they didn't air condition the schools in the summer -- certainly not the gyms. So the gym was as hot as the outdoors when we entered its doors (doors that were wide open in a vain attempt to ventilate the stale gym air), but I felt the chill of excitement....and dread. I was always the playground player -- great with the guys I knew, but too tentative in my game when it came time to prove myself before strangers. My friend obviously didn't suffer the same affliction.

After a long wait through "winner keeps the court" games, we were finally able to put together a team to take to the court and challenge the current winners.

I was, as I anticipated, my usual cautious self who played utterly unremarkably -- just trying not to screw up. But my friend led our team to a VERY unexpected victory.

Suddenly the gym was abuzz with, "Who IS that guy?".

As it had taken so long to actually get into the game, by the time we actually finished our game, most of the rest of the group was breaking up to call it a day....

...until my friend and I were stopped in our tracks near the exit.

"Hey, Foyer! (my friend's name) Let's go one on one!"

The fellow who shouted the challenge across the emptying gym was Todd, who by that point had realized that the gym ringer that day was the very same guy against whom he'd competed for city top scoring honors throughout the past year.

Apples and oranges......same crate.

Suddenly the mass exit of kids halted and every last kid returned to the gym and stood riveted to the sidelines, entranced by the competition. By then the whispers had made their way 'round the gym and everyone in attendance knew the stakes.

My friend was not exactly your typical jock type. He was an acne-faced homely kid with a vertical jump that made it appear as though he was trying to break the gravitational bonds of Jupiter. His shoulders were merely the narrowest of detours between a pin-head, a long skinny neck, and a surprisingly wide-assed stance. It gave him a sorta "Baby Huey" look. He sported a buzz-cut head at a time (remember the early 70's?) when hair couldn't have been more of a statement of "cool"...

...and my friend was even known to wear black socks in his Chuck Taylor's. That was DEFINITELY not cool back then. Never has been on a lily-white Caucasian.

The assembled crowd's snickering derision about his appearance was not lost on my friend. It never was. He had long since learned to get use it.

Todd, on the other hand, was the son of the coach of that high school -- he was the well dressed, well connected, country club, cheerleader-for-a-girlfriend type.

What my friend did have was brains (he was our class valedictorian), very quick hands, and the ability to psych his opponent better than anyone I've ever played with. And he could shoot the lights out.


Hoosier kids don't play "make it take it". We play one-on-one the hard way -- even taking the ball back to the free-throw line between possessions. And I gotta tell you, that was one hard-fought contest. To his credit, my friend remained ice. Todd was getting hot -- he had SO much more to lose.....AND.....he was in front of his "home crowd".   It took a few "overtimes" (Hoosier's also play by the God-given rule that real men win by (at least) two points)...

My friend beat Todd.   

And that day my friend walked out of that gym, asterisk settled in his mind.

Epilogue:

Well, so I found out what happened to Lickliter. He coaches division I NCAA basketball.

And, on the other hand, my friend got very deeply into conspiracy theories -- Illegitimacy of government -- illegitimacy of the IRS. He disappeared. Went underground. I hear some of my Naptown friends mention seeing him pop up now and again but nobody I know even knows where he lives.

Guess I should have left the story with the happy ending? If it had been fiction, maybe I would have.

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Jerry Rasmussen
Date: 17 Aug 07 - 12:57 PM

Now, this is more like it. Two fine pieces of writing. I want to go back and read them again at leisure after lunch. I started writing something titled Don't Mess With Phil the other day, John. It's about my best friend from the age of about 10 to 13. Haven't finished it, but maybe I'll post what I've done so far...

Thanks for sharing..

Jerry

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Georgiansilver
Date: 17 Aug 07 - 07:10 PM

Great thread Jerry...thanks to you.

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Jerry Rasmussen
Date: 17 Aug 07 - 08:22 PM

If this thread turns out to be great, it will be because of everyone who contributes to it.. you as much as anyone, Mike.

This is the beginning of something I'm working on about my "Best" friend. I thought of this because of John's story. I know where I'm going with this story, but probably won't post it on here. I try not to get folks all uncomfortable, talking about my faith. There are other places to do that. Just as a hint, though, the rest of the story will be based upon the lines of a hymn that blew me away the first time I heard it ten years ago.

"The battle is not yours but mine, said the Lord."

Thems the kind a words I needed back when I was a skinny kid. I needed all the help I could get. Still do.

Don't Mess With Phil

Back in the days when friends were numbered, Phil McDonald was my Best Friend. For a period of two or three years, we were inseparable. Whether we were building rafts on a small pond at the gravel pit, raising pigeons or playing stick ball, we did everything together. But, the time that cemented our friendship was the week that we spent at Camp Rotomer. Phil and I were ten years old at the time, and for me it was the first time I spent away from home.
No matter how much my parents tried to convince me that I'd have a good time, and that the experience would be "good for me," I didn't want to go. For starters, I resisted anything that was characterized as "good for me." Those were code words for "You're not going to like this, but you'd better do it." On the other hand, Phil was all excited about it. That had a lot to do with who Phil was. And, who I was. Phil was confident, strong, athletic and fearless. I was none of those. On a scale of one to ten, Phil was all nines and tens. I was mostly threes and fours. My only comfort when I reluctantly agreed to go was that Phil was going, too. I figured that if I stuck with him, I'd make it through the week.

Kids have an innate sense of who is weak. It didn't take long before someone started messing with me. We were wading in the water on the edge of the lake when a big kid started shoving me around and ducking me under water. I was starting to panic, when Phil saw what was going on and came over. Phil wasn't any bigger than me on the outside. But on the inside, he was ten feet tall. It didn't take a lot of thinking for the kid who was hassling me to sense that Phil was someone he didn't want to mess with, and after a few shoves, he got away as fast as he could. After that, camp was just fine. The word quickly spread. You mess with Jerry, you mess with Phil. And nobody wanted to mess with Phil. He was the next best thing to a guardian angel.

By the time that Phil and I moved on to Junior High School, we were heading down different paths. Phil took the road more traveled, and his natural good looks and confidence led him into a group of kids I didn't fit into. I found my own friends and got by on my wits. Just as well. Phil had retired from the guardian angel business. Shortly after that, he moved out to California, and I never heard from him again.
Don't Mess With Phil

Back in the days when friends were numbered, Phil McDonald was my Best Friend. For a period of two or three years, we were inseparable. Whether we were building rafts on a small pond at the gravel pit, raising pigeons or playing stick ball, we did everything together. But, the time that cemented our friendship was the week that we spent at Camp Rotomer. Phil and I were ten years old at the time, and for me it was the first time I spent away from home.
No matter how much my parents tried to convince me that I'd have a good time, and that the experience would be "good for me," I didn't want to go. For starters, I resisted anything that was characterized as "good for me." Those were code words for "You're not going to like this, but you'd better do it." On the other hand, Phil was all excited about it. That had a lot to do with who Phil was. And, who I was. Phil was confident, strong, athletic and fearless. I was none of those. On a scale of one to ten, Phil was all nines and tens. I was mostly threes and fours. My only comfort when I reluctantly agreed to go was that Phil was going, too. I figured that if I stuck with him, I'd make it through the week.

Kids have an innate sense of who is weak. It didn't take long before someone started messing with me. We were wading in the water on the edge of the lake when a big kid started shoving me around and ducking me under water. I was starting to panic, when Phil saw what was going on and came over. Phil wasn't any bigger than me on the outside. But on the inside, he was ten feet tall. It didn't take a lot of thinking for the kid who was hassling me to sense that Phil was someone he didn't want to mess with, and after a few shoves, he got away as fast as he could. After that, camp was just fine. The word quickly spread. You mess with Jerry, you mess with Phil. And nobody wanted to mess with Phil. He was the next best thing to a guardian angel.

By the time that Phil and I moved on to Junior High School, we were heading down different paths. Phil took the road more traveled, and his natural good looks and confidence led him into a group of kids I didn't fit into. I found my own friends and got by on my wits. Just as well. Phil had retired from the guardian angel business. Shortly after that, he moved out to California, and I never heard from him again.

Don't Mess With Phil

Back in the days when friends were numbered, Phil McDonald was my Best Friend. For a period of two or three years, we were inseparable. Whether we were building rafts on a small pond at the gravel pit, raising pigeons or playing stick ball, we did everything together. But, the time that cemented our friendship was the week that we spent at Camp Rotomer. Phil and I were ten years old at the time, and for me it was the first time I spent away from home.
No matter how much my parents tried to convince me that I'd have a good time, and that the experience would be "good for me," I didn't want to go. For starters, I resisted anything that was characterized as "good for me." Those were code words for "You're not going to like this, but you'd better do it." On the other hand, Phil was all excited about it. That had a lot to do with who Phil was. And, who I was. Phil was confident, strong, athletic and fearless. I was none of those. On a scale of one to ten, Phil was all nines and tens. I was mostly threes and fours. My only comfort when I reluctantly agreed to go was that Phil was going, too. I figured that if I stuck with him, I'd make it through the week.

Kids have an innate sense of who is weak. It didn't take long before someone started messing with me. We were wading in the water on the edge of the lake when a big kid started shoving me around and ducking me under water. I was starting to panic, when Phil saw what was going on and came over. Phil wasn't any bigger than me on the outside. But on the inside, he was ten feet tall. It didn't take a lot of thinking for the kid who was hassling me to sense that Phil was someone he didn't want to mess with, and after a few shoves, he got away as fast as he could. After that, camp was just fine. The word quickly spread. You mess with Jerry, you mess with Phil. And nobody wanted to mess with Phil. He was the next best thing to a guardian angel.

By the time that Phil and I moved on to Junior High School, we were heading down different paths. Phil took the road more traveled, and his natural good looks and confidence led him into a group of kids I didn't fit into. I found my own friends and got by on my wits. Just as well. Phil had retired from the guardian angel business. Shortly after that, he moved out to California, and I never heard from him again.

Don't Mess With Phil

Back in the days when friends were numbered, Phil McDonald was my Best Friend. For a period of two or three years, we were inseparable. Whether we were building rafts on a small pond at the gravel pit, raising pigeons or playing stick ball, we did everything together. But, the time that cemented our friendship was the week that we spent at Camp Rotomer. Phil and I were ten years old at the time, and for me it was the first time I spent away from home.
No matter how much my parents tried to convince me that I'd have a good time, and that the experience would be "good for me," I didn't want to go. For starters, I resisted anything that was characterized as "good for me." Those were code words for "You're not going to like this, but you'd better do it." On the other hand, Phil was all excited about it. That had a lot to do with who Phil was. And, who I was. Phil was confident, strong, athletic and fearless. I was none of those. On a scale of one to ten, Phil was all nines and tens. I was mostly threes and fours. My only comfort when I reluctantly agreed to go was that Phil was going, too. I figured that if I stuck with him, I'd make it through the week.

Kids have an innate sense of who is weak. It didn't take long before someone started messing with me. We were wading in the water on the edge of the lake when a big kid started shoving me around and ducking me under water. I was starting to panic, when Phil saw what was going on and came over. Phil wasn't any bigger than me on the outside. But on the inside, he was ten feet tall. It didn't take a lot of thinking for the kid who was hassling me to sense that Phil was someone he didn't want to mess with, and after a few shoves, he got away as fast as he could. After that, camp was just fine. The word quickly spread. You mess with Jerry, you mess with Phil. And nobody wanted to mess with Phil. He was the next best thing to a guardian angel.

By the time that Phil and I moved on to Junior High School, we were heading down different paths. Phil took the road more traveled, and his natural good looks and confidence led him into a group of kids I didn't fit into. I found my own friends and got by on my wits. Just as well. Phil had retired from the guardian angel business. Shortly after that, he moved out to California, and I never heard from him again.



But, that was a long time ago.
    "When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child
      I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things"                                                                      1st Corinthians 13:11
Phil, like many other people I would meet in my life, was there for me when I needed him. But even the best of friends can't be there forever. I needed a friend who would always be by my side: someone I could turn to when I needed guidance, or protection.


Jerry

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Georgiansilver
Date: 18 Aug 07 - 07:30 AM

And you have that friend now...even unto the end of the world....

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Jerry Rasmussen
Date: 18 Aug 07 - 10:03 AM

Don't know what happened on my last post. My computer must have had the hickups.

Sorry I can't delet the repetitions.

Jerry

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: John Hardly
Date: 18 Aug 07 - 11:41 AM

Yeah, likely story. I've seen that ploy before. You thought you were being paid by the word, didn't you?

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Jerry Rasmussen
Date: 18 Aug 07 - 12:40 PM

Paid? What's that, John? It's like my answer when someone asks me how long I'm going to keep playing folk music. My stock answer is "As long as I can afford to lose money." I like to think I write for purer motives, and will stick with that explanation until someone is foolish enough to pay me.

I've recently started to post at the Blindman's Blues Forum and perhaps the greatest single thing about it is that you can edit your post, after you've posted it. I need it.

Jerry

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: John Hardly
Date: 18 Aug 07 - 12:49 PM

"and perhaps the greatest single thing about it is that you can edit your post, after you've posted it. I need it."

ME TOO!!!!

I've said it before and I'll keep on saying it. It's the single most frustrating thing about the mudcat -- that we cannot edit our own posts.

Yeah, I know...

bitch, bitch, bitch.


(I have come to conclude that Word's auto spell check will sometimes pick an embarrassing choice of words to correct to. For instance, I know the difference between "there" and "their". I can't even think of a reason why I would make the typo of exchanging one for the other because, in my mind they are not the same word. Then I realized that if I typo "therr" it will correct to the "their" even if I mean "there". Since one of the hardest things to do while proof-reading is to pick out words that are words but are misplaced (as opposed to picking out simple misspelled words, those Word-corrected typos tend to remain...

...until I see them after I've already hit the "submit" button.)

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Janie
Date: 19 Aug 07 - 01:13 AM

I mostly write essays,, and most of them, I'm sad to say, are on another computer that no longer is in commission. I saved them to removable disks when I got a new computer, but the files were corrupted and wouldn't open.

So I'm going to cheat a little and cut and paste a passage from a fiction thread here on the 'Cat that I have been posting to off and on for the past year. I don't think very many people open that thread, even when I'm actively working on the story, so I'm hopeful this won't be something many people have seen before.

Subject: RE: Fiction:The Woman in the Holler
From: Janie - PM
Date: 07 Apr 07 - 11:08 PM

Aunt Kathy sat in the front passenger seat of Big Bill's car, Moljnir curled in his usual place on her lap. Bill didn't drive the old Galaxy often, but the big bench seat would allow his mother to keep her leg elevated on the drive home. Little Billy parked himself in the middle of the back seat where he could lean forward and rest his arms and chin on the front backrest, seatbelts be damned. The three of them chatted easily, talking about work the boys had done to the old house while Kathy was in the nursing home, pointing out landmarks to one another along the way, and sharing what little gossip they had about the goings-on in the hollers. Now and then one of them would start a song and the other two would join in, their voices sliding around each other with the ease that only a life time of singing together brings.

"Do you want to plan songs we'll sing up at the graveyard tomorrow morning, or just wait and and do as the spirit moves?" asked Bill, his voice matter-of-fact, eyes straight ahead on the highway.

Kathy started. "I thought you said...."

Bill turned his head and looked at his mother, a wide smile on his face. "Your neighbors have missed you, and wanted to do something to welcome you back," he said. "Elmer Johnson 'borrowed' his bulldozer from the State Rd. Commission last week and ran it up the track to the top of the ridge. Louie got his grandpaw's old dodge truck runnin', the one with the mule gear? I'm not sure even it could make it to the top on slick mud, so I didn't want to say anything until I was sure the weather was going to stay dry. But it hasn't rained in a week. We'll be on top of the mountain for Easter sunrise."

Bill waited, but Kathy didn't speak. He turned his eyes from the road again to look at her. She was staring straight ahead out the window, tears running down her cheeks.





                o---------------o---------------o---------------o

They had come to the graveyard on the ridge just as the eastern sky began to lighten. Louie and Billie lifted the kitchen chairs from the bed of the truck while Big Bill helped Kathy out of the cab. It had been a bit of a rougher ride than Kathy had expected, but now she was here it was worth it. Sharon wanted to rush her into a seat, ready to wrap Kathy in a blanket against the chill April air, but Kathy waved the blanket away irritably.

"If you want to be useful child, give me your arm and walk me over to Cassie's grave. There. Now. Go away and give me a little space."

Sharon backed away, and turned to join the others. They quietly arranged the chairs, facing east, keeping their voices low. They left the baskets with the food in the back of the truck for now.

Kathy stood directly on Cassie's grave. It was still too dark to make out the words carved into the granite, but she could detect the faint gleam of the daffodils that encircled the stone. She closed her eyes and breathed in deep, taking in the sharp smell of the wild onions she had trampled underfoot. With her heel, she dug shallowly at the ground, hoping for a whiff of the new earth and something more, the clean, chlorophyll smell of chickweed, or the peppery scent of the tiny winter cress. "It will come." She opened her eyes. The sky was growing lighter. It was time to join the others.

"OK. We're ready." she called.

This time it was Big Bill who offered his arm. He escorted his mother to her chair and helped her situate the blanket. Kathy looked back toward the grave, her eyes following the trail they had left on the dew-covered grass and spring weeds. "There will be more smells once we get to stirring around up here," she thought with satisfaction. She turned her face back toward the east, straightening her shoulders. The new day was afoot now, the sky lightening rapidly as the sun approached the horizon. As the first bright rays broached the edge of the facing ridge, the bells of the many little churches tucked away in the hollers below began to ring.   Up here on the ridge at the head of this furthest of hollers, The sound was faint and muted, as if the sound had been made almost mournful by the journey through these old mountains.

They waited expectantly, straining to be sure to hear. There it was, even fainter than the bells, but joyous, lively, piping in the rebirth that is spring. The notes of the flute coming from the direction of Cassie's grave danced over, around and through them, playing the first measure of the song. The rim of the sun appeared across the mountain, and they began to sing.


Beautiful morning! Day of hope,
Dawn of a better life;
Now in thy peaceful hours we rest,
Far from earth's noise and strife.

Morning of resurrection joy,
Day when the Savior rose,
Singing shall greet thy opening hour,
Singing shall mark thy close.

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Georgiansilver
Date: 20 Aug 07 - 06:35 AM

Great and love the song.

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Jerry Rasmussen
Date: 20 Aug 07 - 08:31 PM

A wonderful, evocative piece of writing, Janie. I hope that you will record the song as well. It's a song of great comfort and joy. (Now, where have I heard that line before?)

Jerry

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Janie
Date: 20 Aug 07 - 08:58 PM

The hymn is not mine. (The italics were lost in the cut and paste.)

The full lyrics and a midi are here, in the Cyberhymnal.

Janie

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Amos
Date: 20 Aug 07 - 09:44 PM

Janie,

Beautifully told tale. You have It.

A.

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: John Hardly
Date: 21 Aug 07 - 08:18 AM

It's that wire that no one sees but draws us to the magician's hand.

It's the true north that mysteriously keeps our needle pointing one way.

One day we hear the jangle, the strum of an E chord, the tip-of-a-hat in a G run, or the one-man-band of a fingerstyle song, and we're never the same. We wander through life with a different song in our mind.

We notice everything guitar--of course in sound on the radio and in recording--but also the physical presence of the guitar. In the background scenery of a movie set, in a commercial on TV, we'll notice the guitars. If we walk into a strange place and there happens to be a guitar in the room, little else occupies our mind.

It calls our attention like an overheard conversation that sounds more interesting than the one in which we're currently engaged. "Oh, excuse me. Did you say something?"

Maybe it's the sound that hooks us first but almost simultaneously we're drawn to the guitar as a work of art. Curiously, in the horizontal position we view it as a practical tool to make our music. But we view it as art in the vertical --resting on its heel-- that perfect balance, that anthropomorphic symmetry. Proof? --the guitar tester's dance-- you know the one. You've seen it and you've done it. Play a riff, a chord, a song, and as that final strum is cast, we pick up the guitar, left hand still holding the neck, right hand on the end pin, and we turn it in that graceful pirouette 'til we're face to face with the guitar and the sound it's making. Eyes take in the beauty from peg to bridge. Then the grin.

...Fred, meet Ginger.

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Jerry Rasmussen
Date: 21 Aug 07 - 04:34 PM

You hooked me, John: I'm a sucker for guitars. Anyone that thinks they're inanimate doesn't understand the instrument. I feel that way about banjos, too. A guitar is to a guitarist what a puddle is to a kid. It begs to be explored. Somewhere within them, I think they carry the memory of every note that they've ever played. It's a matter of releasing them.

Thanks for the post. I really enjoyed it.

Jerry

(Excuse me while I grab a guitar.)

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Amos
Date: 21 Aug 07 - 05:09 PM

Resonance -- especially the "compassionate" resonance of a fine instrument -- may be what underlies all joint perception of reality, a quantum interlacing of uncollapsed possibility. (I am reading a waxy book on the subject, which is why I am waxing.)


A

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: frogprince
Date: 21 Aug 07 - 06:17 PM

And Janie, "The Woman in the Holler" has had readers holding on for the next chapter; perhaps we should have dropped more encouraging words along the way.             Dean

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Janie
Date: 21 Aug 07 - 07:39 PM

Thanks, fp. The long spaces between simply mean the Muse visits irregularly. It is important to me to know that you and few others are finding it worth reading, but thet ain't why the goin' is so slow.

Jerry et.al.,

I think you intended this thread to be a place where people could post samples of their writings to share. Would it detract from that too much to also have a conversation about the process of writing?

Janie

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Jerry Rasmussen
Date: 21 Aug 07 - 08:13 PM

Not at all, janie. I think it would be an encouragement to share the experience. Over the years, I've hosted countless Songwriter's Workshops and I was always frustrated that there was next to no conversation about the process. At one workshop many years ago, one of the participants (Jonathan Eberhardt) became so angry at the flippant comments by one of the other participants that he almost came to blows. I don't get that upset, but I find it extremely interesting to hear how people approach writing. Songwriting for me is more spontaneous than writing memoires or stories, and I haven't had the courage to even tackle a short story, let alone a novel. May never. To me, writing is a natural way of expressing myself, whether anyone else reads it, or not. I seem to be able to better comprehend my life when I try to put it on paper.

One excercise that I've heard people challenged to do is to write instructions on how to do a simple task, like tying your shoes. I'm not suggesting that in here, but when my youngest son moved out to Wisconsin nine years ago, he asked me to write and tell him to tie a necktie. I found it a fascinating excercise. To top it off, my son is left-handed, and I am right-handed. After working on it awhile, I asked a left-handed friend of mine to follow the instructions exactly as I had written them to see if they worked, and they did.
My son was able to tie his necktie from my sintructions.

And then, he never wore one.

Any thoughts that you, or anyone else has about writing will be welcome. I took a writing class last year (which turned out to be pretty much of a waste,) but it did get me thinking about the whole process.

Jerry

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Waddon Pete
Date: 23 Aug 07 - 11:45 AM

Hello,

It's been a while but at last the muse has struck! I have an end to the story! Thanks for all your suggestions earlier up the thread. Much appreciated. You remember we left our hero in the churchyard...very much alive I hasten to add!

Part 2

All the best ideas come to you in an occasional flash of inspiration. Usually in the shower. But there was no shower this time. Only the wind in the trees. The front wheel of the bike was held by those handy quick release nuts. Useful for taking your front wheel to work. I'd complained when they had upgraded my work phone, but now the video function on the camera would pay its way. Hopefully. If the light levels played ball.

Luckily the Marsh Twins had left the nearest street light intact. It was an easy matter to film the storming of the phone box and capture their faces as they turned to watch the bike wheel roll across the road and settle down to rest with a clatter. By the time they had finished swearing I was away, through the back gate of the churchyard and halfway home. There followed some interesting downloading, tinkering and uploading on the computer and some work in the garage with an old sheet used for catching the drips when painting, some left over black paint we'd used on the footings and the last of the garden twine.

These days children still creep unwillingly to school, but, in our village, only as far as the bus stop. From here they are whisked to the local High School by bus. There was little unwillingness and much excitement this particular morning. A wrecked phone box and a banner bearing the words, "Check out the March Twins on You Tube!"

Interest was only heightened by the arrival of the glowering twins, who ripped the banner down and stuffed it in the waste bin just as the bus arrived. In their hurry to get the best seats and intimidate the unwary they didn't see little Eric Watson take the banner out of the bin for use later.

More excitement came from the banner hung from the over bridge that enjoined everyone to "Check out the March Twins on You Tube!"

I had a spy in the camp. My daughter. She updated me. All the school computers were running You Tube by the time the first bell went. Eric put the rescued banner to excellent use during the day and stills from the video were in the local evening paper. Best of all was the arrival of the local constabulary to, as they put it, "Ask the Marsh Twins to help them with their inquiries".

Strange to tell, the vandalism has stopped. I wonder why? Regrets? None at all!"

Best wishes,

Peter

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Jerry Rasmussen
Date: 23 Aug 07 - 12:26 PM

Great, unexpected 21st century ending... simple and effective. Just as importantly, I find your writing style very porpulsive... it kept me moving right along, without being consciously clever or arty.

Jerry

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Waddon Pete
Date: 23 Aug 07 - 12:30 PM

Propulsive....thanks Jerry! Glad you liked it.

Best wishes,

Peter

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Jerry Rasmussen
Date: 24 Aug 07 - 11:02 AM

FIRST LINES

Often, the hardest line you'll ever write is the first one, whether you're writing an article, a short story, a novel or a song. The first line primes the pump, and if it's a good one, immediately catches the reader (or listener.)

Here are some samples picked from favorite writers of mine:

"Standing before the kitchen sink and regarding the bright brass faucets that gleamed so far away, David again became aweare that this world had been created without thought of him"
Call It Sleep by Henry Roth

"Vernon Jackson sits on the side of his bed in his white jockey undershorts -which have mostly separated from their wasteband"
Killer Diller by Clyde Edgerton


"In the town there were two mutes and they were always together."
The Heart Is A Lonely Hunter by Carson McCullers

"The first thing Miss Judith Hearne unpacked in her new lodgings was the silver-framed photograph of her aunt."
The Lonely Passion of Judith Hearne by Brian Moore

Each one of those lines creates a vivid picture and makes me curious to find out more about the characters.

As a songwriter, I've often ended up writing a whole song around a line that came to me, ubidden. Some examples:

"Put another bowl of the floor, Mildred I think Rosco's got a friend"
Rosco

"Old dog tray is out on the front porch, sleeping."
Good Old COuntry Living

"It was a nice night, at least I thought it was nice."
Taste Of Sin

Late last night when Uncle Willie came home, he made a rattle at the door like the shaking of bones"
Uncle Willie's In The Sheets

In each of those songs, I had no story in mind The first line created a setting or situation that aroused my interest and carried me forward.

Even in writing commentaries, or memoires, first lines set the tone:
Some examples from things that I've written. (I won't give the lousy ones,

"There is a restlessness in the air, just before daybreak"
One Golden Day

"When I was a kid, suits came in one color: blue."
Old Blue Suit

"Twas the night before Christmas and we'd already opened our presents."
'Twas The Night Before Christmas"

Looking at first lines of writers you enjoy can teach you a lot about writing.

Jerry

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: GUEST,elbows
Date: 24 Aug 07 - 12:06 PM

Mango chutney is the one for me
it makes me smile when i slap it on my meat
it makes me laugh and stamp my feet
its mango chutney for me

Mango chutneys the one i adore
it makes me shout please more more more
oh mango mmm oh je ta dor
its mango chutney for me

Mango chutney you can buy it in Putney
you can buy it in Belgium and in France
i even eat it in my underpants
but its better on bread given half a chance

theres a hut near where i used to live
and a man there used to sell chutney like a spiv
buy a bottle for a shilling and then sell it for a quid
its mango chutney for me

Mango chutney comes in great big lumps
if you eat too much it will really make you trump
if you put it on the ground you can stand your cricket stumps
its mango chutney for me

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Jerry Rasmussen
Date: 24 Aug 07 - 12:15 PM

Here's another good first line from this thread:

"Regrets? Oh yes, I've had a few." by Waddon Pete. It immediately lets you know that you're going to hear about one of them...

Kat's first sentence pulled me in right away, too:
"The past month had been an emotional roller coaster for us all."

Any other examples from writer's you enjoy, or from your own writing, that you are grateful for?

Jerry

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Waddon Pete
Date: 24 Aug 07 - 02:02 PM

"That's torn it!"

The first line of "The Nine Tailors" by Dorothy L. Sayers. Great writer...great book.

Best wishes,

Peter

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Amos
Date: 24 Aug 07 - 07:39 PM

"I am here with the remains of her..."



A

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Janie
Date: 24 Aug 07 - 08:18 PM

Both the reading of posts and the writing of posts here on Mudcat is a value learning experience in writing for me.

For a number of years I was a policy geek for the Dept. of Human Services in West Virginia. Mostly, I read federal regulations, directive memoranda from the applicable federal agency, the State code and legal decisions, synthesized them, then wrote West Virginia's policy and program manuals for stuff like AFDC and the Food Stamp program. I wrote long, and I wrote often. Every sentence, every paragraph, had to be contructed in a way that went as far as it is possible to exclude any possibility of misinterpretion or nuance. It was subjected to rigorous peer review for both content and grammer before it was finally released to the field. A sentence could be 300 words long provided all the commas were in the right place. God forbid, however, the period at the end of it should be immediately preceded by a preposition. (Believe it or not, I used to be able to spell and punctuate correctly.) It was an exclusively and excruciatingly left-brained activity. That indoctrination served me well when it came time to write research papers in graduate school.

It also rendered me incapable of writing anything else, even a warm, newsy little note to a friend.

When I first came to Mudcat, the conversational writing was a revelation to me. Slowly, as you teach by the example of your writings, my right brain has become unlocked and is daring to join the left brain. Sometimes, and it often ain't pretty when this happens, the right brain tells the left brain to go take a hike, and writes all on it's own.

I observe my tendency to revert to left-brained writing when posting about social policies, mental health, etc. - stuff that intersects with my academic or professional experience or interests - but can not alter it. At least not yet.

Some of the people who post here with some frequency are clearly 'writers', whether they think of themselves in those terms or not. Others are good conversationalists, or post with clear and discerning logic and rationality in clear and accessible language. Some are clever with reparte(e). Some 'speak' simply and from the heart. Whatever a person may post, I see that the most effective communicators with the written word access both halves of their brain in the process.

All of you are valued teachers. Thanks.

Janie

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Janie
Date: 25 Aug 07 - 06:11 PM

This may be one of the longest oening sentences ever written, but it is still a favorite. From A Place to Come To by Robert Penn Warren.

I was the only boy, or girl either, in the public school of the town of Dugton, Claxford County, Alabama, whose father had ever got killed in the middle of the night standing up in the front of his wagon to piss on the hindquarters of one of a span of mules and, being drunk, pitching forward on his head, still hanging onto his dong, and hitting the pike in such a position and condition that both the left front and the left rear wheels of the wagon rolled, with perfect precision, over his unconscious neck, his having passed out being, no doubt, the reason he took the fatal punge in the first place. (Can't help it, I gotta finish the paragraph.)Throughout, he was still holding onto his dong.

It is just the way uncle Bubba might start his story-telling after all the family has settled out on the rockers and glider on Grandma's front porch after Sunday dinner. There is no mistaking that you are about to enter the rich tapestry of a well written southern novel.

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Amos
Date: 25 Aug 07 - 07:19 PM

Ya know Janie, old Red talked just that way in real life, too. He had an eye for story, and he would tell it with zeal, and his one real eye would twinkle, and he'd sorta drawl and then he deliver the closing line with a little smile, his mouth half-open smiling and waiting for the flood of hilarity that would always come back to him. He loved telling stories.

More than anything.


A

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Jerry Rasmussen
Date: 25 Aug 07 - 07:51 PM

How's this for an opening sentence, Janie:

"In later years, holding forth to an interviewer or to an audience of aging fans at a comic book convention, Sam Clay liked to declare, apropos of his and Joe Kavalier's greatest creation, that back when he was a boy, sealed and hog-tied inside the airtight vessel known as Brooklyn, New York, he had been haunted by dreams of Harry Houdini."

From "The Amazing Adventures Of Kavlier & Clay by Michael Chabon.
The book won a Pulitzer Prize.

The opening sentence is so crammed full of images and information that you feel like you've read the whole first chapter. It's also a tip-off to the writer's style. He don't write nothin' like Hemingway.

Jerry

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Janie
Date: 26 Aug 07 - 04:32 PM

When I was a girl, Grandma and Grandpa King had the only house in the neighborhood with an honest-to-god front porch. Their widowed daughter and grandson lived with them, as well as their spinster son. They were actual kin to no one else in the neighborhood, but all of us kids referred to them as Grandma and Grandpa King, Aunt Sylvia, and Uncle Kip.

      I have no memory of ever seeing Grandpa King. He was an invalid, a shadow presence lurking somewhere in the interior of the farmhouse. It was not the custom, in my neighborhood and at that time, to enter into neighbors' houses without very good reason.   On rare occasions, usually when there had been two or three days of continuous rain so that playing outside was absolutely impossible, one child's parent might call another parent with a specific invitation to play indoors. Otherwise, going into the houses of the other neighborhood kids simply was not done. The adults didn't do it either. Two car families were rare, few Moms did public work, and anyway, the nearest grocery was about 5 miles away, so cups of sugar, eggs and sticks of margarine were borrowed (and scrupulously repaid) with regularity.   The transporting of these goods between houses was usually a mission assigned to us kids, but a Mom would do it herself on occasion for a chance at a neighborly chat. Even then, the chats always took place on the front stoop. They did not invite one another in, nor did they expect to be invited in. So, while the big front porch at Grandma King's was like a home away from home, the house itself, and Grandpa King hidden away in it, were forbidden mysteries.

    Grandma King was in her late 70's or early 80's when we moved there in 1953, so she would have been born sometime in the 1870's or early 1880's. She wore long cotton gingham dresses with an apron tied overtop of the skirt. When she worked in her garden, she wore sun bonnets which she made herself. She made them for us girls too, so we could wear them when we played 'pioneer.' In fact, she dressed exactly like the pioneer ladies on the television show "Wagon Train", of which we never missed an episode if we could help.   She was short and plump, with rheumy eyes, one of which wandered at will. That eye fascinated, and kind of scared us, but we were way too polite to ask about it.

    Grandma King and Uncle Kip, in particular, seemed to truly enjoy having us children around. Kip worked at a gas station up on the main road close by our neighborhood. When the school bus occasionally failed to show and all the Dads were already off to work, Kip would pile us all into his car, 6 kids crammed in the backseat and 3 in front, then drive us the 2 miles up the highway to the grade school. After he built his own gas station on of the highway near the intersection of our road, Mom would occasionally give us each a dime and permission to walk up to the station to get a pop (what we called sodas). Kip kept a goodly supply of Orange and Grape Neihi's on hand for us, and on slow days would encourage us to stay and visit with him while we drank our pops, assuring us as needed that our tongues were satisfyingly purple or orange from the sugary drinks.    I remember Uncle Kip going with Daddy to tell the not-so-pleasant neighbors with the pet Bantam rooster that the rooster had to go after it cornered me for the umpteenth time. That little rooster terrorized my 4 year old soul.

    .Hot summer evenings and drizzly Sunday afternoons were when we were most likely to head for Grandma King's porch. After Grandpa King died, Aunt Sylvia would sometimes call Mom and ask her to send us over to visit when Grandma was feeling lonely, but mostly we went on our own. Their house, situated on a large corner lot, faced the main highway, so we couldn't tell from our own yard if anyone was out on the porch. When summoned by Aunt Sylvia, we passed through their back and side yard, rounded the corner to the front, then walked up on the porch and to knock and ask Grandma if she wanted to come out and sit with us. Sans a specific invitation, that would have been entirely too bold a thing to do. Even when we were invited and expected, I always felt a bit nervous as I stood at the door waiting for an answer. (All these years later, knocking on some one's door still makes me nervous.)   When not specifically invited, we walked or rode our bikes up the street until we could see (and be seen from) the porch. If anyone was out there, an invitation to join them was usually forthcoming. If the porch was empty, we'd make enough noise playing in the street to be sure we were noticed, in the hope, often enough fulfilled, that one of them would come out to invite us up onto the porch for a visit. We kids preferred to sit on the long, squeaky metal glider. As I recall, so did Grandma. Uncle Kip liked the porch swing , but Aunt Sylvia preferred the metal garden chair near the front door, where she could easily get up to go check on supper from time to time. We could tell what they were having for supper from the smells that wafted out from the open front door. During high summer, Grandma King would often string half-runner beans or shuck corn as she sat. Sometimes she'd wrap some in newspaper to give to us to take home for our own supper.

    I don't remember much of what we talked about. I don't recall that Grandma told many stories of the place when it was all still their farm, before they sold off the parcels that were now our semi-rural neighborhood. I do remember a tale about a big snapping turtle that moved into the deep pool in the creek for a season, and how they turned that big fella into turtle soup after Louie nearly lost an appendage to it while playing in the creek.   I remember listening to plans to get rid of the tent worms in the two big plum trees at the back of the property along the creek. I suspect we mostly didn't talk about much of anything. I think we just enjoyed each other's company.

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Jerry Rasmussen
Date: 26 Aug 07 - 05:07 PM

That's wonderful, Janie. Hopefully, everyone had a neighbor or two who seemed like family. Now, I've got to go rummaging through some of the dusty grooves in my brain to come up with the name of the man who lived across the street from us. He ran a delivery service with his small pick-up truck for many years. It's hard to understand now, because everyone has at least one car, if not two. But in the 40's, most of the people in my neighborhood didn't own a car (us included.) So, Ben Schultz (I knew I left that name somewhere) made a rather leisurely living picking up groceries or things that folks bought at a store that were too heavy to carry home on the bus. Back in those days, if you bought a bookcase it was already assembled. None of this pressed sawdust, plastic veneer stuff in a box. Most of the time, business was slow, so Ben was around the house and always willing to talk to a kid. I remember once that he made me a ladder by nailing a few peach crate ends together. I thought that he was a magician.

Directly across the street, the .......... (back to the dusty grooves) lived in a forboding dark gray house with black shutters. The husband made fine carpentry in a shed behind the house but unlike Ben, didn't welcome kids hanging around. I was always interested in woodworking: an interest I have to this day. But Mister Neiket (there it is) never once invited me in. Mrs. Neiket sounds like a twin to your neighbor, wearing a sun bonnet on the rare occasion when she came outside. When we'd sit on the curb at night during the summer, playing Truth or Consequences, the unfortunate loser often had to pay the consequence of going up and ringing the Neiket doorknob. And running like Hell. Much like the scene in To Kill A Mockingbird.

When I got married the first time, my wife at that time and I were getting into the car, when Mrs. Neiket came darting out to the sidewalk and shoved a couple of small items into my hand as a wedding gift for us. After we got in the car, we looked at them. One was a brass Buffalo from the Pan American Exposition of 1901 which is setting on a shelf over my desk. The second was a cast-iron Ku Kux Klan hooded figure. I felt like someone had just dropped a turd in my hand. I almost dropped it out of reflex. I dont' have it anymore.

Thanks for the post, Janie. I was wondering if others are writing family memoires.

A year and a half ago, when it became clear that my Mother was preparing to go home to the Lord, I set out in earnest to put our family memories on paper. It's something I've done sporadically over the years on paper and in song. I wanted to gather together as many memories as I could while my Mother was still with us, and it turned out to be a wonderful blessing. I ended up writing well over 100 pages, and a dear friend of my Mother's would stop by her room every night, do a bible reading and then read one of the memoires I had mailed. I sent copies to my sisters and some childhood friends and it was a beautiful, healing way to say goodby to Mom.

Jerry

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Georgiansilver
Date: 26 Aug 07 - 05:20 PM

Just a short paragraph from my autobiography...not in competition Jerry....

"Langtree was to form a large part of my formative years and much learning took place whilst living there. I believe that most people do not place a whole lot of store in childhood as a learning area and consider that ones understanding and maturity comes much later. However, we learn how to smell, taste, hear, listen and feel as well as interpret all that goes on around us. We learn to respond to others, to make our own presence felt, to negotiate life with our family and friends and to handle what little independence (or lot of in some cases) we have at that age.
The only thing that we might have had difficulty with was handling responsibility in spite of the fact that our parents might have had great expectations of us".

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Janie
Date: 26 Aug 07 - 05:37 PM

Oops.

I copied that last post to the wrong thread. I intended it for the Front Porch News thread. It is too long to put in both threads, so if it suits, I'll leave it here rather than ask a clone to delete it so I can copy it to the other thread instead.

Janie

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Jerry Rasmussen
Date: 26 Aug 07 - 05:44 PM

Ya put it in the right place, janie.

Weelittle.. competition? We're all on friendly ground here. Or a friendly front porch. I'm still learning. I can show you my Learner's Permit if you'd like.

I started this thread to learn and grow. I've already read the stuff I've written..

Jerry

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: John Hardly
Date: 13 Sep 07 - 07:53 PM

Well, he just knew he was losing her. You know? .....when you've dated just long enough for only one of you to lose interest.

You get desperate...
...and, well, you know life.

Here's my friend's story (we'll call him "Dave"):

Dave wasn't exactly the picture of macho virility......his strengths were in the "sensitivity" department. But more than once on the college choir summer tour he'd noticed her gaze darting toward the ONE guy on the tour who had "jock" leanings. Dave didn't waste a lot of introspective musings wondering "What does she see in him?"

It was time Dave showed her what a man he really was.

But why did he choose then??

And couldn't he have found a test of manhood that wasn't quite so likely to.....er.....backfire?   Like pissing his name in the snow for instance? OK.....maybe not that one. And not the walking on red-hot coals thing....

...but this manhood test? "Here, punch me as hard as you want to in the gut........test my abs of steel!"

Here's where fate steps in to keep the nerdy among us culled from the gene pool. Seems that the instant Dave chose to demonstrate his manhood, was the very instant that the ushers threw open the double doors to the sanctuary, into which the choir, including Dave, was to file in in an orderly manner. Trouble was, of the 50 or so people who were in the choir, the only person not distracted by the doors being flung open was the 19 year old girl who had just been given carte blanche to: "Here, punch me as hard as you want in the gut...", an invitation that was accepted with great relish.

Problem: Dave's abs were no longer flexed as he was now intent on the choir's grand entrance into the sanctuary.....I believe the processional was "Onward Christian Soldiers", a regal march.

Result: Seems there are two factors that determine the decibel level of flatulence; tightness of...er....well anyway, the other factor is the force with which the gas is expelled.   All 50+ of those young singers were acutely aware that a new decibel level record had just been set (provided such records are, indeed, kept). As gamely as they may have tried, the "Onward Christian Soldiers" were suddenly "AWOL", dissolving into puddles of laughter.

My friend, to his credit, told me this story on himself...

I pulled the car I was driving off the road.

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Janie
Date: 13 Sep 07 - 09:44 PM

Wiping wine off the keyboard as I wipe the tears of laughter from my eyes! You are a gem of a storyteller, JH.

Janie

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: katlaughing
Date: 13 Sep 07 - 10:40 PM

Reading along here, as I get the odd chance. Janie, beautiful stuff. You have a natural storyteller's voice in writing, as I am sure you do in person, too. Sometimes it doesn't translate to the written word as well as you have done. Congratulations.

Here's the wee opening of the novel I wrote last November as part of National Novel Writing Month - it turned out to be a fictionalised autobiography from my earliest memories to about age thirteen:

Prologue


She spoke to the stars and they answered back, her child's mind having no conception of the physical distance between them. It was thus with all of the sagebrush, antelope, coyotes, eagles, and all other flora and fauna. She spoke their language; they invaded her mind, in a benign way, giving her comforts. The sameness did not bother her; in fact she noticed something new each day as she wandered among them. All was in silent communion; her lips did not move, her mind was agile. "Good morning, sacred Eagle," she would smile. Feeling a warm and safe glow from the dip of a wing, a piercing cry in the bright blue sky, she would continue with her morning greetings, smiling as she went along. She was small-boned, her baby-fine red hair lifted easily with any tiny breeze and her green eyes shown with curiosity.

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: GUEST,amergin
Date: 19 Oct 07 - 02:02 AM

Drunk and disorderly, he staggers out on the decaying front porch, black combat boots thudding against the brown unvarnished wooden planks. He gazes up at the autumn sky, the white clouds rolling across the rare glimpses of blue, and deftly rolls himself a fag. His silver coloured Zippo lighter clicks sharply as he opens it, and flicks the grey wheel, stroking it gently against the red flint, and then snapping the lid shut. He inhales, breathing bluish grey poison into his lungs and lightly leans against the wobbling barrier, for fear of plunging into the green overgrown lawn below. He reflects on the jumbled half pissed images of the night before. Fractured pictures of laughter, flirtation, and steady drinking. Then he recalls how he sat suddenly alone at a table in the corner, drinking and smoking fag after solitary fag, watching the beer ion his pint glass descend with each eager sip. He hears her slurring laughter and the muffled strains of her voice busting through the static of the chattering crowd. He feels she is sparing not a thought on him, as the joy flee his body, leaving but a vacant breathing shell devoid of all emotion, as he watches the strands of smoke float from his lips with each angry drag. Till he feels the draining weight of his lonesome soul wearing him down as he lifts the cigarette to his mouth, picturing his hand holding a serrated blade and a hundred jagged edges kissing his flesh as he saws down the length of his arm. The red drops pattering on the floor, painting gruesome watercolors on the white tiled canvas. He angrily flicks the fag into the rain sodden yard, and stalks back into the house. He lies down on the leather covered lounge to selfishly reflect on his depression and his attempts at self medication. He promptly falls asleep, dreaming of rage and rejection, silence, and finally oblivion.

nt

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Waddon Pete
Date: 22 Oct 07 - 12:24 PM

Nice one Amergin

Best wishes,

Peter

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Amos
Date: 22 Oct 07 - 01:28 PM

Along the safe east-west route, the traffic is thicker than usual; the sky, normally blue and benevolent, is a faint pumpkin hue, a sheet of stress over the worried drivers. They say the fres may reach the coast before this is all over, and already 250,000 people have been evacuated from their homes. There are four active fronts where homes are being lost. The north-bound freeway has been closed over a seventeen-mile stretch and the warm, dry Santa Ana winds are herding the flames even further west, toward the coast, toward our home, if things do not change.

We are home, instead of at work, listening to the endless discussions about the major fires in Los Angeles, and on down the coast to our area.

The Governor is coming to town in response to the emergency, and the children suppose this is a very exciting thing. They cannot wait to see him, not for any political or social reasons but because they remember him as a movie actor.

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Waddon Pete
Date: 24 Oct 07 - 01:34 PM

It's a worrying time for all of you. We are with you in spirit!

Best wishes,

Peter

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Jack Lewin
Date: 25 Oct 07 - 08:32 AM

I grew up on a small family farm. There was always something to do and we all had our chores. In the evenings, though, things would wind down. One thing my mother liked to to was to sit out in front of our house and have her tea. The view was beautiful, there is a large hay field in front of our house, a harbour beyound the fields that the train tracks wound along, and a high tree lined ridge in the distance the the sun set behind.
My mother died of cancer.
The night before she died, I wrote her this poem.

The Calm of the Setting Sun

Come sit with me, out on the lawn
In the calm of the setting sun.
Relax, rest easy, enjoy the view
Your chores of life are done.
The air is still, the harbour's calm
And I know that we'll meet again.
Just as a whistle from a far off train
Is surely a sign of rain.
But until then, I'll miss you mom
And when every day is done.
I'll look to the west and think of you
In the calm of the setting sun.

It was cloudy the day of my mother's funeral.
After the buriel, we all met back at the farm.
As dusk came, my sister yelled out "The sun is setting!"
and we all found a window facing west.
As I was looking out a window in the room that my mother died in with one of my brothers we saw the cloud cover lift on the horizon. The sun then appeared between the horizon and the clouds and gave us a breathtaking sunset. The clouds then seemed to follow the sun as it set, making it overcast again. My dad then came up behind us, put his hands on our shoulders and said "Your mother just said goodbye, boys."

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: GUEST,Janie
Date: 25 Oct 07 - 09:24 AM

Jack,

How lovely.

Janie

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Waddon Pete
Date: 25 Oct 07 - 04:04 PM

That is a heartfelt poem, Jack. What a lovely way to say goodbye.

Best wishes,

Peter

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Jerry Rasmussen
Date: 25 Oct 07 - 06:45 PM

Some wonderful stuff here. I thought that this thread died. Glad to see that people are still adding posts.

Jerry

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Jack Lewin
Date: 26 Oct 07 - 10:24 AM

Thanks everyone!!

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Amergin
Date: 30 Oct 07 - 02:38 AM

60 Years Ago-for my grandparents

60 years ago, you held each other tight, sealing your vows with a kiss, both tender and hungry. 60 years ago, you walked your first tentative steps together as a young wedded couple, full of dreams and fears, longing for the endless joy the companionship will bring.

Your lives were permanently altered by the magic words you uttered before your god, binding you to this contract for a year and a day. These promises reaffirmed each time you held your children and grandchildren for the first time, your smiles beaming down at their sleeping forms, as you cradled us to your breast.

Now the spring has passed and winter is upon you. Do you still gaze upon him and see the young man who made you giggle and wrote such loving words to you when you were parted? Do you still see the sweet young girl whose lips blessed yours and whispered in your eager ear, "I love you"? Do you look in each other's eyes and see the cinematic reels of your life together? Do you reflect on the things that may have been, agonise over the moments when it seemed that all was lost, the road washed out, jagged edges of broken pavement overlooking the crevice below? Or do you merely accept the trials that were placed in your path along with the gifts of love and happiness?

When the silence falls upon you and the gods take you home, rest assured that your love and comfort will have earned a place by each other's side as you journey from this life to the next. We can all only hope that we will someday find a love as enchanting as the one you both have held for each other these past six long decades. The kind of love most of us only hold in our deepest dreams.

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Donuel
Date: 05 Nov 07 - 08:07 PM

this thread is on strike

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Waddon Pete
Date: 06 Nov 07 - 07:25 AM

See that chap...2nd from the right? He's got mis-spellings on his banner!

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Waddon Pete
Date: 08 Nov 07 - 06:53 AM

Hello,

Although I have posted this on another thread, in response to a challenge laid down by Liz the Squeak (no less), I though it ought to be part of this one too.

I was sad to get your letter.
You have clearly felt the pain.
But it's good to hear you're cheerful
And improving once again.
We spent such times together
Under wide savanna skies
We had such hopes, made promises,
But real life made us wise.

Chorus:         
I don't have a flamingo to send you,
Nor yet a sausage tree
But dream sweet dreams of Africa
In your convalescence by the sea.

We achieved so much together.
Traveled many miles.
Encountered many dangers
Laughing all the while
Until that day you told me
That you had to go away.
It was on doctor's orders
That sad October day.

Two thousand miles between us
Only a heartbeat apart
I know you will have Africa
Centred in your heart.
I never said I loved you
Though I'm sure you must have guessed
Now obey your doctor's orders, love
And let nature do the rest.

Best wishes,

Peter

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Jack Lewin
Date: 08 Nov 07 - 10:19 AM

Very nice Peter, to keep the thread going how about a poem about remembrance day.

To See What Those Eyes Have Seen

I took a walk down to the park in our town
To watch the parade go by.
With their medals and barets, this was our day
To honor them and those who have died.
The bands were playing, the flags were waving
And as they made their way past me.
I stood there and stared and wondered what it was like
To have seen what those eyes have seen.

Did those eyes see a friend die in his arms
His body twisting and writhing in pain?
Did those eyes see things that he'd pray to God
That he'd never have to see again?
Every day there was a constant struggle
To follow oreder and try to survive.
And after all that they still think they're lucky
Because they came home alive.

Did those eyes have the eyes of another man
In his sights as a battle began?
Knowing full it's him or it's me
As he squeezed off the trigger again.
After all of these years he can still see his face
He can still hear the shot and his cries.
Innocence lost in a fight to the death
That will haunt him till the day that he dies.

So as the crowds gathered 'round and they laid the wreaths down
The band played songs in the rain.
Then for a moment the brothers in arms
Were reporting for duty again.
Then the band fell silent, we all bowed our heads
And the last post was all you could hear.
Then I thought why don't we honor our heros
More than one day a year?

Thankyou to all veterens of all conflicts
Jack

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Waddon Pete
Date: 09 Nov 07 - 03:46 AM

Poignant imagery Jack, Thank you for sharing it with us.

Best wishes,

Peter

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Amergin
Date: 02 Jan 08 - 01:58 AM

Another Year Passes

Another year passes, into the mists of an Oregon winter, trees stand naked in the breeze as the nightly frost drips from their stripped branches, brown and white entwining over the frozen splinters of bark The grass crunches beneath your stumbling feet as you amble home, pissed and lonely.

Another year passes, as you ponder, over the half-empty bottle of foaming amber beer, the failures and accomplishments of the dying year. It could be the first moment you held your crying child to your breast, and sang their eyes asleep. It could be the trepidation, crawling it's spindly fingers up your back as you at the lightly tanned desk, in a room full of unknown faces, on your first day of class. It could be the turmoil and anxious heartbreak of a failing marriage slowly gasping its final breath as the hopes and dreams of a lifetime together are shattered and ground to dust by warring partners, unable to communicate without anger spilling into their words, unable to acknowledge the love they once shared. Or it could just be the fact you survived another year, toiling through boredom, desperation, and depression, as you work day to day with a job you increasingly despise, and not really knowing what else to do but drink away your sins. Then you toss the empty bottle to the side of the road, hearing it fragmentize into a thousand pieces, a fitting end to another year.

Yet another year passes, you realise as you collapse on the cold empty bed barely taking the time to remove your black jungle boots, you lay your head onto the pillow, and reach for your book, and you vainly attempt to read more than a word or two, but do not go passed the first line. Your eyes slowly close from alcohol streaming in your blood, and exhaustion the exhaustion caused by a late night drinking away your pay cheque, as you think to yourself that another year is passing, so happy bloody new year….

Nathan Tompkins

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Georgiansilver
Date: 02 Jan 08 - 08:25 AM

A while since I visited this thread so thought I had better contribute something. 'The Price of Integrity' is a short I wrote last year:-

Flying was one of her favourite modes of transport and here she was, yet again' over the Atlantic and on her way back to Heathrow from South America. The trip to Bolivia had been a harrowing one because of the effects of the street childrens' plight. They were poorly clothed, lived in holes in the ground and under bridges, in railway tunnels, where they were available, and in derelict buildings if they could gain entry.
Eleanor had gone to Bolivia, as part of her Church group which involved itself with 'missions', to see first hand what conditions the people, particularly the street children, were living under. This trip had a deep effect on her future plans and made her vow to do what she could for those poor unfortunates who lived so many thousands of miles away.
The ride over the Atlantic in that huge plane had taken hours but at last, they were coming in to land in good old England. It would be so good to get her feet back on terra firma she was thinking.
The landing was one of the smoothest she had experienced in spite of all her travelling, which she loved. However, there seemed to be some hold-up to leaving the plane and they were asked to be patient as the hold up was due to technical difficulties.
Eleanor decided that at least she would stretch her legs whilst she waited for the doors to open and stood up in the aisle of the plane.
At last, after about twenty minutes, the doors opened and everyone collected their belongings together from the overhead racks and under the seats before departing the plane via the portable tunnel.
Eleanor and her best friend Marcie made their way to the luggage carousels and established that their luggage would be arriving on carousel six. They stationed themselves next to the carousel in readiness for their luggage coming through the plastic curtains and chatted merrily about the joys of being back on land and home in England.
The luggage arrived and the girls made towards passport control where they passed with no problem, then on to Customs where it became obvious that they were going to be stopped as the customs officers moved towards them. They smiled at the customs men and said that they had nothing other than the wine and spirits they had bought in the duty free shop at the airport in Bolivia.
The Customs men decided to open their cases and asked them to hand over their hand luggage.
The sniffer dog became frenzied after sniffing Eleanors case and the officers made a point of checking everything in it. On moving his hand over the lining of her case, one of the officers exclaimed that he had found something and asked his colleague for a knife. He cut open the lining and lo and behold, there was at least a kilo of white powder.
"I don't know how that got there" said Eleanor but the officers asked her to accompany them to the ante-room where she was ordered to sit down at an old formica topped table, one of those reminiscent of the 1960s.
She again protested her innocence but was told to "Shut up" so sat with a bemused look on her face. How on earth had that stuff, whatever it was, got into her case. It had been in her room for the whole trip and only the cleaners/chambermaids had been in to clean up and change the linen.
"Where did this come from"? demanded one of the officers. "I haven't a clue" she replied with conviction and a calm attitude. "No…we know you don't know" said the officer which made Eleanor sigh a huge sigh of relief. "We know which Hotel you were billeted in and we have had similar amounts of the drug turning up over the last few weeks. What we need from you is help in catching the people who are expecting the drugs at this end…the big-boys.
Eleanor was so relieved now that she said "I'll do whatever I can to help" and was given instructions to carry on as normal with the now replaced white powder in her case.
"You will be under surveillance the whole time until this business is sorted and someone or ones are behind bars" she was re-assured by the officer. "O.K thanks" she said and was led back to the exit by a young smiling officer who she found quite attractive.
Two days later, she answered her telephone at work to be told to bring the suitcase to a specific part of a local park but that unless she did it without the Police and customs knowing, she would die.
This was an eventuality she had not allowed for or been primed for and she decided that she should do as she was told…for the first time in her life feeling real fear of violence or death.
She sneaked out of the back of her house and arrived at the location in the park where she sat on the bench as instructed and waited for the next move.
Almost out of nowhere, the young officer that had smiled at her as he led her to the airport exit appeared and said "How are you"? She told him she was fine. "Have you brought the case"? he asked her and she now twigged that he was one of the so called big-boys. "Yes it's here" she said.
Almost as she said the last word, a silenced gunshot silenced her for ever and the young officer disappeared quickly with the case and the drugs. She could no longer identify him.

MH April 2007

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Georgiansilver
Date: 03 Jan 08 - 04:06 AM

Refresh

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Waddon Pete
Date: 03 Jan 08 - 04:46 AM

Two worthy additions to the thread!

Nathan...I hope you were not reflecting your own seasonal festivities!

Eleanor's story would make a great script for TV or radio!

Best wishes,

Peter

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Georgiansilver
Date: 03 Jan 08 - 06:34 PM

Come on Folks, there must be some more literature out there somewhere.

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: katlaughing
Date: 03 Jan 08 - 10:13 PM

Well, it's old and I need to edit it some more. It started life as a sweet story, but one friend said it gave her such a creepy, Poe-like feeling at the beginning, I decided to make it into a sort of horror story instead. Reader beware: if you don't like creepy stories, don't go any farther!:-)

SHADOWHEARTS

One

    As she entered the room, a cold crept through her bones, deep into her muscles, tensing them and making her teeth chatter. The walls glistened with slow-dripping moisture, falling onto sideboards, books, and tables scattered around the room. She felt, rather than heard, a faint anguished scream in her mind. Clenching her jaw, with her arms wrapped around her, step by step she returned to the door. Not wanting to turn her back to the room, she watched for a presence, of any kind, which might be waiting for her to turn and flee. Finally, pulling the door with her, she backed out of the room, praying silently that whatever was in there would [NOT] (proofread, kat, proofread!)pull the door from her hand, coming after her. Just as she stepped over the threshold, in a sudden rush of air, the door was slammed shut from her grasp.
    She felt a flood of relief wash over her followed by a bone-chilling cold and uncontrollable shaking, yet, she was dripping with sweat. She was alone. No one to talk to, to confirm her sanity or lack of. Something kept her from closing up the room forever; something kept nagging at her to get to the mystery of the room. With high ceilings, luxurious drapes, and beautiful antiques; mullioned windows and deep windowseats, it really could have been her favorite.
    Walking up the stairs, she went to her bedroom. A soft "meow" greeted her; Sasheen, a blue-eyed Siamese beauty, yawned and stretched on top of her desk, greeting her in a sleepy, unhurried fashion. Just what she needed: the calm, warm love and dignity of her beloved companion. Lying down with Sasheen under the velvet draped canopy of her bed, she closed her eyes; imagined a circle of white, protecting light around her room; and slowly relaxed her tense muscles, blowing out long, deep breaths, sinking into the deep warmth of sleep.

Two

    The room shifted focus. The wisewoman was gone, again. What had it done wrong this time? It tried to let the sunshine in, straining to reach beyond the grime and neglect of years. Dimly, a past was remembered, before its residents fled; when fires were lit in the cavernous fireplace, when books were read, songs sung, children played.... too long ago. Memory faded, replaced with confusion, sadness and anger. Flashes of raging fire lit the walls with eerie shadows of twisted limbs.
    Through the focus of a distant past, a great rage built up, overcoming the melancholy and confusion, blinding it to anything but desire to harm, vent its frustration, blend with the horror of past deeds. The heavy drapes began to sway, twisting violently as though a great storm raged in the room. Tables were toppled, scattering books all over the floor. The walls ran with moisture tinged a faint red. A visible wind raced across the room. All in a silent rage; no sound was heard; just the eerie destruction could be seen in a vacuum of silence, devoid of any living being.

Three

    She awoke to Sasheen's insistent paw, gently, but urgently
touching her eyes, nose, mouth, softly mewing "wake up!" She felt startled. The energies of the house invaded her room with an uneasiness. The cat's eyes were wide, dilated with panic. Stilling her emotions, willing herself not to react to the building cone of fear, she checked the protective circle. Darkness lurked in the far corners, devouring the light as she watched. She quickly gathered the strands of protection, strengthening the power, repelling the murky evil. Intact, she drew the bright halo to her, wrapped it around her and Sasheen like a cloak. Leaving her bedroom, she reached the landing of the grand staircase which led to the front hall. Dark clouds passed across the sun, leaving wavering shadows in every corner.
    As she started down the stairs, a chill wind blew past her. Shivering she continued, sure the "room" was once again in turmoil. Reaching the bottom of the stairs, she turned to the right, walked to the door of the room, reached out but could not bring herself to open it. Sasheen leaped from her arms, yowling, dashed across the hall. Cold seeped from under the door and brushed her toes. A breath of pure evil ran up her legs, clenched her in the stomach, making her gasp with the suddenness of the assault of fear, cold, and confusion.
    She turned from the door, moving with the slowness of underwater across what seemed to be a wide chasm, to the library. Sunlight drifted across the room in fits. Shutting the door, she took a deep breath and patted Sasheen. She stoked the embers in the fireplace until they glowed with warmth. Hoping to find an explanation to her dilemma among the shelves of musty tomes, she began to search for clues. Feeling a sudden swelling of unbridled fear, she scrabbled her fingers across the books, tossing likely ones onto the sofa to be looked at later.
    She vaguely recalled a strange epithet on a plaque in the garden. "Within the hearts, mystery drops its veil". None of the book titles seemed to tell her anything. The chill of the room across the hall seeped under the library door. She shivered. Realizing her frenetic search would yield nothing to panic, she slowed her breath and heart; built the circle of protection, again.
    After rekindling the fire, she methodically walked around the room, looking for any hint of what haunted the house she'd recently bought. The anonymous former owner wanted none of the contents, so, feeling fortunate but puzzled, she'd added the ridiculously low payment requested to include their purchase. Perhaps now she might discover why it had cost so little. Floor to ceiling bookshelves formed opposite walls, with a window in between at one end, overlooking the garden. At the other end, was the door to the front hall, with smaller shelves on either side.   In the expansive space were comfortable sofas, chairs and two large library tables. In a corner by the window, she came upon a book cupboard with a locked, glass front. Pulling out her ring of household keys, with a triphammer beat of anticipation within her heart, she tried key after key. Finally, the latch clicked open. The musty, old books with their quaint titles of long ago offered nothing. Reaching the last shelf, she noticed a small locked drawer in the center. Using a penknife from her pocket she jammed it into the lock, breaking it open. Inside was a small, cracked leather book. The pages were gilded, as was the hand-lettered title: Rent Asunder: the Poor, Sad Heart of Lewis Dunosh. With a trembling hand she reached for the book. At that moment, Sasheen let out a terrified, yet defiant howl. She looked around to see the door flung open by unseen hands; her cat stood in the doorway, looking at the room across the hall with wide-open eyes of terror.
    She set the book aside. Long shadows began to spread across the room. She felt a return of the chill to her heart. The sun was setting, bringing with it darkness. Lighting a lamp, she called to the cat. Getting no response, she walked over, gently touched Sasheen, spoke to her in a low reassuring voice. Hissing and puffing with false bravado, the cat seemed not to hear or see her for a few seconds longer. Then glancing in her direction, she let out a pitiful mew, crying like a kitten demanding protection from her mistress. Gathering the trembling animal in her arms, she buried her face in the soft fur, blinked back tears of anger, fear and frustration. Feeling hungry and knowing a cup of warm tea would help, she carried the cat with her to the kitchen.
    Returning to the library, she noticed a mineral collection under glass on a table in the hall. Stopping to examine the fine gemstones, her eyes were drawn to a large piece of rose quartz. Putting down her tray of food, she opened the glass case, lifted the stone and held it up to the light of her lamp. She was startled to see a dark spot in the center which seemed to lighten at her touch. Suddenly, she let out a cry and dropped the stone, as she felt a burst of heat. In a state of terror and dread, her heart racing to be free of its confines, she ran to the kitchen for cold water. When the pain had subsided, she lifted her hand from the soothing balm of water. Looking at the damage, she felt a chill seep through her bones, as she saw perfect shadow outline of a half-heart branded into her palm.
    With a coolness born of conflict, she calmed herself with deep breaths, a gathering of the arcane forces she relied on so often. After bandaging the burn, trying not to give way to total panic, she went back to the hall, retrieved her tray of food, and settled in the library with the book she'd found. A faint uneasiness quavered in the back of her mind. She noticed the room across the hall was completely silent with moisture frozen on its door. Darkness had quelled the last bit of sunshine. Now, all was in shadows of silence.

Four

    With a growing fascination she read about Lewis Dunosh, the wealthy landowner who had built the house she was in. Mr. Dunosh was a succcessful businessman. Through application of the esoteric forces of good and light, his accomplishments were many. The anonymous author told of the jealousy of Dunosh's former friends as everything he turned to accumulated great wealth. Their endeavors withered on the vine of commerce, through their collective desire to succeed with little effort, save that of dark promises. Having shared his knowledge, but not his understanding of the ancient truths, his friends began to doubt his sincerity and their own abilities. They began to blame him for their troubles.
    The chronicler of his life committed to page, the eventual demise of each of his former comrades. Death visited some in bizarre, unexplainable ways. One died from drowning in a vat of molten gold, the very source of his gilded existence; another was stomped to death by the wealth of his stables, sire of his racing colts. In a dreadful compulsion, the woman read on, feeling repugnance for the macabre happenings.
    Finally, suspicion had its way with the few remaining members of the mysterious group Dunosh had belonged to. Gathering their forces, they met in the deep of the forest, under the midnight shade of a giant oak tree.
    The woman's eyes began to close; she was having difficulty reading on. As she fell into the sleep of exhaustion, her mind envisioned the horrible circle of men. She imagined, in that twilight state of sleep, the men commanding forces of evil to do their bidding. In dreamstate horror, she watched as they made their way to the house she now slept in.

Five

    The room began to darken; something had shifted the forces. Lewis Dunosh lifted his eyes from the page he was reading. Sensing a disturbance, he looked around the room. Where there had been the calm and peacefulness of a quiet evening of study, he felt and saw a silent creeping of darkness and turmoil steal over the room. Silently repeating the words of power he'd learned through his many years of metaphysical study, he struggled to identify the force coming at him.
    Suddenly, the front hall door was flung open! A group of ghostly images gathered in the room. Dunosh rose from his chair, frantically inscribing symbols of light in the charged air before him. One of the figures was flung against the wall, howling in despair with pain and anger. With great concentration, Dunosh made his way towards an inner door of the room, hoping to escape the evil before him.
    Too late, he realized he was surrounded. Now he knew his attackers. Hands of suspicious men, mad with greed and disappointment, grasped his arms and legs; held him down on the flagstones before the fireplace. In terror, he mumbled prayers of deliverance and pledges. The last he saw was a ring of eerily lit faces, former colleagues with arms raised, each holding a dagger of great length and surgical sharpness. He felt a powerful rush of air as his spirit rose up. The horror was still with him, as he watched the mutilation visited on his body by the demented minds of those who'd attacked him. With vicious joy they rent his heart from his corpse. Still warm with pulsating blood, they held it aloft, passed it from one to another, jumping in devilish glee. Terrible words of darkness were uttered in a vain attempt to usurp his power of light.
    As he continued to watch in horrid fascination, they cleanly cut his heart in two. Drawing halves of a whole piece of rose quartz to them, they encased the pieces of his heart into each half. In a crucible of unearthly fire, his poor, kind heart was sealed forever within the stones' pieces.

Six

    The woman awoke, startled, tears running down her cheeks. She shuddered, realizing a shift in time had called her to witness the ghostly reenactment of the criminal madness which had taken place so long ago.
    She flung the book aside and began to pace around the library. Now that she knew what events were replaying in endless fashion in the room beyond the hall, she wondered if it were possible to free the restless spirit without succumbing to the pervasive evil which still lurked in the darkness. Just at that moment, she felt a lifting of concern; as though time and space had shifted to an easier stance. She still felt the weight and menace of evil, but she also felt a renewed gathering of forces of light. Sasheen twined around her ankles, nudging her toward the door of the room. Taking up her wick-trimmed and brightly burning lamp, she once more went into the hall. There she reached down, trembling in fear, to pick up the rose quartz which had burnt her. As she touched the stone, a shiver ran up her spine. She faintly heard a laughter of insane menace. Quickly drawing her hand back, silently calling on the help of all that is good, she slowly reached out again. The gemstone felt warm, instead of hot; the form within it no longer looked so dark, a glimmer of light shone now and then. She turned to face the door of the room. Silvery ice crystals were running down its face; the air seeping from under it was not as cold as before. Holding her lamp aloft, she slowly eased the door open. The lamplight cast shadows across the room, failing to reach the dark, upper corners. A force of air made the light flicker; she felt icy fingers of breath upon her neck. Striving for a concentration of faith and power, she noticed the stone in her hand had begun to glow with an inner light of a warm, rosy hue. She could faintly see the shape of a "shadowheart" within its concave surface.
    The drapes of the room began to sway, chilling voices sounded in her head, speaking of the horrible torture her body would endure if she went any further. Images of Dunosh's heinous demise kept flashing through her mind; her own heart beat in a rapid staccato of fear. She felt ghostly hands of evil grabbing at her, pulling her toward the empty fireplace. The destruction of the silent ragestorm had toppled every piece of furniture but one: a table with a glass case on top. She fought with all of her will to reach the glowing chest.
    Drawing in a deep breath, she blocked out the voices and images. Humming a vowel of ancient power, she felt a lessening of the tangled limbs which clutched at her. Struggling, she crept one step closer to the case. There she saw a similar gem, with a convex side and a shadowheart of its own. With shaking hands, she set the lamp down and picked up the matching stone. Holding the pieces close, she felt a healing warmth seep into her hands as they slipped into place, hugging each other, staying fast in their embrace. An audible, anguished howl of rage and sadness permeated the house, shattered the glass of the case, rocked her back on her heels. Finally, the angry screaming faded away.
    As she looked down, the heart within the crystal became whole, no longer a shadow, but a perfectly whole heart shape. The light from the gem spread across the room, lighting the walls. The moisture tears were gone, the rage let go; no more anguish was felt. A peace stole over the room. She thought she heard a sigh of relief, a prayer of thanks. Sasheen began to wash herself with the purr of a contented rumble.

Epilogue

    Again, the room shifted focus. The wisewoman had prevailed. Finally, it could rest, secure in the heart of its first dweller, once again whole. It had waited so long for a wiseperson to reunite the gemhearts; let its beloved master rest. With a silent sigh of relief and contentment, it bid the soul of Lewis Dunosh a fond and belated farewell.

© 1992 K.L. LaFrance all rights reserved

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Waddon Pete
Date: 04 Jan 08 - 04:35 AM

Wow.......!

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Georgiansilver
Date: 04 Jan 08 - 07:38 AM

Yes Wow....! is about all we can say. Great piece of writing.

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Waddon Pete
Date: 04 Jan 08 - 10:05 AM

...and...if I've counted correctly.....100!

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Donuel
Date: 04 Jan 08 - 11:36 AM

The Myth Box

Forward:

Right now, unknown to each other, there are probably a dozen people working on their myth box. It is a computer plug in, much like video capture software that can comb and filter data. A myth box could filter out embedded codes that would disallow copying any file format or password protection. Even more important, the reverse use the box allows the user to slide undetected under any door of any website   Most of these people were merely hoping to record their favorite HD movies or shows with their myth box but there is one among them who is guided by her dreams to build a box that would penetrate and change more than data streams. Her name is Maxine aka Macy Windu on the net as well as at school where she was the finest computer graphic artist who could write new 3D software.

Macy, she didn't like being called Maxi, shared her dreams with me. Most people would call them nightmares but she called them her other selves. Despite the bizarre places she dreamed herself she was as calm and objective in describing the experiences as a trip to the Mall. Something about her dreams of at least 8 different lives felt familiar to me and sparked my own childhood memories. I don't know where she is now, but that is why I believe she finished her myth box.

It started 2 years ago when the always flirtatious and gregarious Macy asked me with a rare uncertainty and hesitation if I had ever seen globes of light simply float through walls and hover. I said I don't know but lets see what others say. We googled balls of light and found articles on earthquake lights, earth lights and a bunch of photos people took in graveyards at night which were clearly just soap bubbles and were nothing like what Macy described. Then at her apartment I saw them too.

Two globes of nebulous light six inches across followed one another right through a brick wall and glided silently about a foot from the ceiling. Her cat fluffed up and hissed at them while I jumped up on the couch and brought my fingers to within an inch but I could not bring my self to penetrate the first lobe of light. Macy yelled "touch it touch it" but I could not, and merely watched the second globe follow the first through the far wall. We ran out of here apartment hoping to see them in the ornate hallway with a stained glass sky light but they were gone. I felt like a coward and failure but Macy was delighted and even more emboldened than her usual. She made some perfect computer depictions of what we saw right down to the ipod stereo player in her apartment playing the same music that was playing at the time.

Soon after that she told me of the dreams that were like landscapes of monumental strangeness. What scared me was when she said that sometimes these dreams happened while driving or when she woke up late at night inside the dream and worked on a computer hardware project.


Chapter 1.

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: katlaughing
Date: 04 Jan 08 - 11:41 AM

Thanks, Pete and Georgian. It's been so long since I've read it and done any editing, I was hesitant to post it. I appreciate your comments.

Donual, excellent! I wanted to read on!

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Georgiansilver
Date: 04 Jan 08 - 06:55 PM

We need to keep this thread going Folkies.......any more great stories?

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Georgiansilver
Date: 05 Jan 08 - 06:14 PM

OK, I give up..no takers eh?

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: katlaughing
Date: 05 Jan 08 - 06:32 PM

Oh, okay...*blushes and scuffles the dirt at her feet* I've got one more from that same timeframe...also may need some more editing...are you ready? Have a seat, get comfy, here goes...

A NATURAL RETRIBUTION
Kat LaFrance

    As she drove onto the high grassy plain, Kyt Palyn gazed across the canyon to the far hills of red clay, sagebrush and endless sky. She felt like the last person on Earth; it was so empty and vast here. Of course, no humans in sight didn't mean an absence of life. Climbing out of the 4-runner she'd rented for this trip, she continued watching as a small herd of antelope ran across the distant slope with an ageless grace. With each turn, the band moved as one, their white underbellies and sides glinting in the brilliant sunshine.

    Feeling the wind tease around the edges of her jacket, she was glad her long, auburn hair was braided and tangle-free. Shielding her eyes with her right hand, she glimpsed the silhouette of an eagle above her. Sinking in lazy fashion, the bird watched her with feigned indifference. Scanning to her left, she saw a jackrabbit escape into its warren, running from under the huge shadow cast by the prey bird.

    In the endless expanse of prairie, it was easy to slip back in time, imagine shots fired, anguished screams as Native Americans fought to save their way of life against the Great White Encroachment. Kyt remembered the sorrow and pain in her grandma's eyes as she passed her grandmother's stories down to the next generation. Even though Kyt could only claim to be one-sixteenth native, she always identified with the way of life and spirituality her "gram" had taught her.

    In her mind's eye she saw her ancestors struggling to survive not only the takeover of their lands, but also the decimation of the buffalo herds that sustained their daily lives. Even though they, too, killed many bison, they honoured their slain animal brothers and sisters through spiritual ceremonies, through moderation and selective kills, and by using every ounce of their huge bodies.

    In contrast, she remembered the photos she'd seen of mounds of dead and rotting buffalo, stripped clean of their trophy heads, horns and skins by the white men who hunted them almost to extinction.

    A hundred years later, with large herds established once again, the government was stepping in, killing any bison which strayed from their allotment of land within Yellowstone National Park, a few hours northwest of where she stood. The powerful livestock industry was demanding protection for their cattle lest they catch the dreaded brucellosis from wandering buffalo, even with no documented cases of such transmission.

    While that was of interest to her, she'd mainly driven seven hours north and west of Denver, two days ago, to investigate some eerie rumours about what might happen on the hundredth anniversary of the day the old West town of Dry Wash was wiped off the face of the earth. Glancing at her wristwatch, checking the date one more time, she knew this was the day a Native American elder, one hundred years earlier, predicted would come again: the Day of Retribution. Once again, she went over the past two days she'd been in Dry Wash, trying to find a clue to what might actually happen.

TWO
    The modern-day Dry Wash that confronted Kyt was small and dusty; a has-been kind of town, with a posted population of 152, and an unpaved, main street four blocks long.   It was eerie and quiet. The only stop for travellers, weary or otherwise, was a worn-out looking motel which boasted five separate "cabins" side by side facing a gravelled parking lot. Kyt thought they looked like the "whores' cribs" she'd read about, from the days of various oil booms in the region, when men worked long, hard hours and women were few and far between. Though small and mean looking, her assigned cabin was surprisingly freshly scrubbed, although, like everything in Dry Wash, a little dusty.

    Spending her first night there, she'd tossed and turned, unable to relax. Contrary to what she'd heard about small town hospitality, the handful of people she'd seen was taciturn, with a furtive look in their eyes. The streets had Oregon Trail-like ruts and were pitted with dried up mud-holes. Main Street was lined with boarded up buildings most in need of paint. A couple of signs, hanging by single strands of chain, creaked back and forth each time a breeze stirred. Other than the motel, the only other business open was a combination post office/gas station and grocery store. The day before, Kyt noticed hers was the only out of town license plate in Dry Wash.

    Giving up on sleep, she opened the drawer in the night table beside her where she found a small booklet of historical facts about the region. In addition to catering to the buffalo hunters of the 19th century, Dry Wash was an important stopover for many of the military scouts, and later, the troops, who were headed to the northwest to overcome and relocate the "noble redman". As she read about the notorious buffalo slaughters of the 19th century, she drifted into a restless slumber. Images of men and animals, a pounding of hooves, raced through her mind. Seeking to escape the seeming reality of the screaming rage and terror that filled her mind and quickened her heartbeat, she struggled awake, startled by the normality of the motel room.

      Her green eyes widened and she shivered at the memory of the scant details she'd read about "old" Dry Wash. Typical of its time, Dry Wash had nonetheless surpassed its counterparts in debauchery and irreverence for American Indian ways: more rotting bodies of dead buffalo and more unexplained losses of government-issued provisions meant for native peoples, among other things, made it the unofficial capital of wild West "free" enterprise. The stench of Old Dry Wash was said to have fouled the air as far as a hard day's ride away; some said even farther.

    Even hardened pioneers felt horror at reports of native women, children, and men being tortured and murdered. They were also stunned when the town fathers of Dry Wash completely destroyed the nearby sacred Indian grounds at Sahpah Canyon. Graves were smashed; circles of stone flung about in disarray; any holy relics, medicine bags and the like were completely destroyed in a huge bonfire. Most early settlers avoided Dry Wash. Some thought of settling there, but an unwelcome air of uneasiness always prompted them to leave.

         Lying awake, Kyt thought of what this assignment meant for her. Usually relegated to local school board and town meeting reporting, she'd talked her editor into this chance to prove her skills. After hearing about the story from her grandma, digging through a dusty and obscure, old reference book, and more research, she'd sold him on the idea with a promise he'd have no regrets. Her editor hoped there was some kind of tie-in with the present day buffalo slaughters.

    Getting out of bed, she looked out the motel room window. The cold sky sparkled with starlight. Across the street, a dog slinked from shadow to shadow looking for scraps of food. In the distance, she heard a faint roar that sounded like an angry crowd. Stepping outside, she listened. With only her nightgown and robe on, she shivered in the cold of late night. She hugged herself, shaking back her unplaited hair. Holding very still and listening, she could make out a few words coming from a building across and down the street with light spilling out of every window. "We're not safe! Let's close our houses and leave! Before it's too late!"

    As she strained to hear more, the lanky motel owner moved out of the shadows, startling her. Leering down at all five feet, two inches of her, he said "You'd best get back inside, miss. This ain't the kinda night ya' wanna be out in."

    Kyt stared up at him and asked, "What are they talking about?" She went on with a nervous laugh, "If it's a town meeting, they sure do carry on!

    He warned her again, "Don't you meddle, miss. Ain't none a' yer business." Giving her one more warning glance, he turned and sauntered away.

    Shivering with the chill of the night and the menace of his words, she turned back to her room. Shutting the door, she locked the handle, then slid the safety chain into place. Mentally giving herself a shake, she thought, "Get hold of yourself. You've got research to finish and a deadline to meet!"

   Sitting down at the chipped Formica table, she looked over her notes, reviewing the strange reports about Old Dry Wash being mysteriously wiped out right after the American Indians were conquered. According to what few sources there were "the only warning seemed to be a storm, with huge dark clouds."

    Reading on, Kyt was reminded of an old newspaper story of eyewitness accounts from a band of buffalo hunters who came through a few days after the mysterious storm. What they saw was total destruction. Everything was crushed, torn apart, with mangled bodies left to dust among the rubble. Kyt spoke out loud, "In two days, it will be the one hundredth anniversary of the destruction of Old Dry Wash."

THREE   
    Now, on the Anniversary, here she was at beautiful Sahpah Canyon breathing in the fresh air, watching the wildlife and trying to clear her mind. She'd been a little unnerved when she parked her car at the edge of the Canyon. It made her feel lonely and vulnerable. The gloomy atmosphere, with the late night goings-on in town had frayed her nerves. With little or no sleep since her arrival, she was tired, anxious to complete her research. Watching for another glimpse of the frightened rabbit, she thought, "Next thing you know, I'll be diving into a rabbit hole!"

    As she took another deep breath of fresh air, she let go and felt the solitude and beauty of the canyon calm her mind and fill her heart with peace. She felt a sense of closeness to her ancestors, here, on their sacred grounds.   

          With one long, last look at the wide open spaces, so different from the suburb where she lived, Kyt climbed in her car, started it up and drove back towards town. The wind was much colder. Storm clouds moved in from the northwest. Her experience as a cross country skier told her she'd be safer in town, even in Dry Wash.

    Knowing the bentonite clay road would turn to slick mud, trapping even the 4-Runner like quicksand, she pressed the gas pedal down. Impending doom roiled her stomach; she clenched her teeth, whispering, "Come on! Go!" Headlines filled her head, "Investigative journalist, Kyt Palyn, dies in blizzard", "Writer's research ends in death". A conjured, anxious Urgency, wraithlike, wringing its hands in worry, looked over her shoulder. Dust trails were visible for miles behind her car. She felt the wind pick up, howling across the prairie with a vengeance. It rattled at her doors and windows; cold, thin tendrils twisted in her hair. Frantically, she checked the electric door locks and windows making sure they were tightly closed.

    She could see the main highway. Slowing only enough to turn, her vehicle fishtailed across the pavement. Fighting the wheel, tires screeching to gain purchase, she returned to her lane and stomped on the accelerator. Only a few miles left to go. The wind came at her directly. She had the gas pedal all the way to the floor. Losing momentum, she watched as the speedometer fell from 45mph, to 30, to 25. She braced herself. The engine lurched, sputtered and died. When she turned the key, the only response was a sickening groan.

    Trying to still her shaking hands, like a mantra, she kept telling herself, "At least I'm prepared. I'll be okay." Before driving to the canyon that morning, she'd added a few groceries to her standard travelling gear, which included a sleeping bag, candles, and matches, in case she decided to spend the night. She told herself, "I'll just wait out the storm. I'll be okay." She zipped her parka and put on her wool cap. The clouds were low, enveloping the prairie around her. Fat flakes of snow whirled across her windshield.

She could see Dry Wash. The wind was ripping off roofing shingles, tossing them high above the houses; trees were bent in seeming supplication. She saw a few people, clothing whipped tightly to their bodies, struggling to reach their homes. One or two automatic streetlamps shed their bleak light in the dark turmoil.

FOUR
    In horror, Kyt watched as a cloud of swirling snow and massive forms moved in on the outskirts of town. "Always from the northwest", her grandma had told her. An Indian elder had warned the white men one hundred years ago. "Our brother, the buffalo, will rise up. There will be balance. It is the way of our Mother, the Earth." Kyt felt as though someone had just spoken those words out loud. She could hear voices surrounding her. She listened carefully, heard a chanting, softly growing in volume, until she was enveloped in a cascade of sound. Drums beat out a rhythm, setting the ever-increasing pace of the now deafening chants. They sounded defiant, sad, and infinitely ancient.

      In a fascination of dread, what Kyt had glimpsed in the swirling snow became horrifyingly evident: a band of giant buffalo were stampeding the town, tossing their heads with furious abandon, their breath a chilling fog. Shoulder to shoulder, heads down, they tore at buildings, toppled cars, and trampled those still struggling for shelter.

    In awe, Kyt realised the minute the herd reached Dry Wash the chanting stopped. An eerie quiet descended. Cautiously opening her car door, she stepped out to watch the continuing destruction. That's when she knew: it wasn't just silent in her car. The wind, though dying down, was still blowing towards her from the northwest. Any sound made in town should have reached her ears. She heard nothing except an occasional scream or the screeching tear of a building collapsing. The herd of shaggy beasts was silent as a ghost...white, ethereal, silent....as a ghost. Then gone.

© 1994 Kathleen LaFrance
All rights reserved

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Georgiansilver
Date: 05 Jan 08 - 06:59 PM

Wow yet again. Impressive stuff and has it been published?
Best wishes, Mike.

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Amos
Date: 06 Jan 08 - 06:49 PM

On The Battle of Building Characters:

"So I jump into his head, or her head, and I stumble around and blurt out, through his or her mouth, the next thing he or she would say in the evolution of the situation. It is most bizarre to do this while knowing more about the plot than they do, and having to turn off anything too far forward in advance of their present knowledge, and to generate in them the emotions of that present knowledge, even allowing them hopes and possibilities that I know will never happen in their lives, because I am the Author and my Plan will lead them away from those things. Yet, to create him or her in their own moments, with their limited data of what lies ahead, is almost like counter-creating myself, since their personal sovereignty at that moment might lead to a different future. Not that I want to fight with them -- I would rather that the seeds of personality I have invested blossom naturally and ineluctably into the fate the novel holds for them.

I know from my readings of other writers that this fate may or may not be what I intellectually have sketched out in advance, including many things they themselves as characters do not yet know. I know that it can flip around the other way, and the seeds of the character's beginning can start getting all uppity and informing me what must happen next and thus drive the writing of the book as much or more than my own best-laid plans. But when this is the dynamic of it , it is just as hard to peer into the gloom of the unfolding future and see into the next phase of things as it is in one's own life in "real" space time.

All of this reflects in a miniature scale the strangeness of our own minds, with their layers of cognitive clarity sandwiched between the impenetrate darknesses of the compelling past and the impenetrable possibilities of the unrevealed future, hanging like leathery wings off the frontal lobes of the thinking, deciding present. Shessh, what a rotten metaphor. Anyway, there is so much torque going on as I run or jump among these characters and each of their knotty cognitive architectures, each with their own compelling tendrils from the past and their very different dynamic drives into their own futures--it's a wonder I can get the two of them to sit still in the same room for five minutes!!!!!! Especially since he is presumably a talented, competent, successful and compassionate man, a professional in the hot crossfire of New York, and she is a mentally unstoppable high-powered intelligentsia with her own strength in her own profession, seeking her own professional breakthroughs in the understanding of language.

With both of them representing present Western culture in a successful, high-energy incarnation, and one of them representing the best we know about the mind and the other the best we know about language versus reality and experience, you can see where building the bridges and creating the transactions between them might become problematical."

I thought y'all might enjoy this segment from a recent letter to a friend.


A

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Amos
Date: 06 Jan 08 - 07:19 PM

Thank you for listening to this evening's program. This segment of "Writer's Angst and Mumblings" has been brought to you by CultEx, makers of fine prosthetic cognitive devices and artificial hierarchies of existence for over two million years. Call us today!! Or visit our website at www.cultexworld.whacko.com to find out how YOU can contribute to the madness of existence in the comfort of your own home. Cultex!! We do it all for you!!....."

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Donuel
Date: 06 Jan 08 - 08:20 PM

artificial hierarchies aren't clear to me, could you elucidate?


prosthetic cognitive devices however seem relatively straight forward:

reading glasses
cochlear implants
the internet
blackberries
internet implants
full borg makeover
temporal lobe insight stimulator

I almost forgot... that bump on the back of George W along with an tiny earpiece whenever he had a debate.

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Donuel
Date: 06 Jan 08 - 08:26 PM

very detailed and colorful kat.

Its something we all can relate to since most of us probably live on some kind of Indian burial ground and/or ancient atrocity.

How about those rare places where, against all odds, only good has taken place.

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: katlaughing
Date: 06 Jan 08 - 08:30 PM

Thank you, Donuel. Good places? I am sure there are some. It would be intriguing to write about, though I think most things do have to have balance.

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Donuel
Date: 06 Jan 08 - 08:35 PM

Cultex is a subdivision of Disney Inc who, in the future, owns the copyright on God. It all started with the virgin birth by the Disney show character Zoey aka Britany's sister. Disney proclaimed the ofspring the new Messiah and in no time God was incorporated with all the superior rights that a corporation has over a real individual. After several large donomination acquisions by Disney, deals were struck behind the scenes with the Vatican and Isreal.
Almost all the diverse modes of religion were consolidated in less than 20 years.
Everyone will eventually be either "belong to" the God Inc. mode or the
Allah mode.

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Amos
Date: 06 Jan 08 - 11:13 PM

A prosthetic cognitive device is a non-native thought process created by artificial means and exported by the maker to be used in a damaged entity as a substitute for his normal cognitive processes -- meaning those he generates himself. In recent years the market for these artificial ideational processes has grown tremendously as more and more people succumb to the unbearable pain associated with original thought once their natural cognitive structures have been infected by certain invasive memes.

Artificial hierarchies are systems of importance, or deductive implication, based on false fundamental premises and containing mis-weighed attributions of importance, distorted information, synthetic or artificially distorted goals, and the like, all of which lead to large complexes of ideation leading to errant conclusions with unintended consequences.


Sorry for the thread drift...


A

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Donuel
Date: 07 Jan 08 - 09:26 AM

I see, then Cultex is probably a subdivision of Borg Technologies. 'We change good life to things'*



*
After GE won the right to patent life they began their slogan campaign 'We bring good things to life'