Salon du Soul

Season of Solitude

2007-01-24T08:47:00.000-08:00

Season of Solitude
For Heather and Darryl.

Ivy on the garden wall.
Old stones, if only they could talk.
Last Autumn’s leaves
still beneath the snow.
Branches bare, basic in their nudity.
My thoughts are yet of thee.

Snow covered walks,
pristine, unspoiled.
The shaded tool shed
cloaked in white.
Silence, like a blanket, covers
the sins of yesterday.

Spring rains that cleanse and chase away
the musty smells of winter.
Closed doors and shuttered windows.
A hint of warmth, and then
shoots of daffodils and crocus
bring smiles instead of tears.

Leaves were falling when you left—
Erratic flight in Autumn’s fickle breezes.
I faced the long darkened nights
and shortened days alone
with many tears shed.

The sun is high this glorious morn,
its light, spring’s promise
of hope renewed,.
I see a shadow and there you are
just like you used to be—
I cannot touch but I can love,
what more is there to say,
until we meet again
upon that other sunny shore.

Vi Jones
©January 24, 2007

Come With Me Now

2007-01-10T07:35:00.000-08:00

Come With Me Now—

My mind is at peace as I lay here in the sun,
my back on the grass in a meadow of gold.
So high in the mountains and near to the Gods,
belonging to Nature and life all around.
The orchestra plays,
the music is sweet.

The forest below in green every hue
is home to only a specialized few—
the deer and the elk, the wildcat, the hawk.
They’re companions of mine as I rest from a walk.
Tiny flowers around look so terribly frail
but they’re stronger by far
and stand many a gale.

Come with me now
to soothe tortured minds
and heal life’s deep scars.
Come join me, my friends,
on mountains so fresh.
Come smell the wild flowers
and reach for a star.
Make true your dreams
of peace, love, and care,
so precious a gift
that today is so rare.

Come with me now—

Vi Jones
©January 9, 2007

WHEN THE SICKNESS IS YOUR SOUL

2006-08-25T19:46:00.000-07:00

By Anita Marie Moscoso

From The Soul Food Alphabet Project

“F” is for Fire Filled Forge

http://www.dailywriting.net/Alphabet/F.html

When Morgan Gamble was 12 he pushed a classmate over a railing when she was trying to collect leaves on a class field trip for a project. The Project was a little booklet of local native plants and the little girl- Ona Crocata, fell to her death to the rocks below the bluffs.

In the spirit of true American Justice the police talked to Darren Marks, the bad kid who lit fire crackers in the bathrooms and smoked his dad’s cigarettes during recess behind the gym, they talked to Crystal Barker who’s Father was in jail and they talked to the Simon Ledbetter, one of the Park Maintenance staff who spent his weekends at Peace Rallies at the University in Feverfew.

The Police were about to resort to using a Ouija Board if need be to talk to a few of the executed criminals who took their last breath up at the Prison in Fallen (the next town over) because that made more sense then to even think about questioning Morgan Gamble, who was not only seen walking up the path to the cliff tops with Ona, people actually saw him running down the path after Ona hit the rocks below.

Morgan Gamble played baseball and was a Boy Scout and his older brother was a first year Med Student and his high school age sister a cheerleader. His Mom’s name was Betsy and his Dad was named Skip and they had two cars and one of the biggest, newest houses built in the newest and best new town of Ransomville.

Why on Earth would you spend time talking to a boy like Morgan who came from a family like the Gambles about the Murder of a little girl with perpetually tangled hair and socks that didn’t match and clothes that her Mother bought at the Neighbors In Need Charity Shops?

In the end a lot of people thought that, so Ona Crocata’s death was ruled a suicide.

After all, it was decided what else could it have been?

The stars that filled the sky lined up for Morgan Gamble: he got to grow up and get married and have a wife and a home of his own while Ona Crocata, wrapped in a simple white sheet and dressed (the dress had actually been carefully draped and pinned around the little girls smashed and ruined body) in her Mother’s best Easter dress turned to dust and bone in her simple pine casket at the Leaning Birches Cemetery in Larkspear.

Despite the fact the Sun and the Heavens smiled down on Morgan his eyes were closed to all of it. He didn’t see it; you don’t need to have open eyes to look into yourself 24 hours a day seven days a week.

Ona Crocata eyes were always opened.

And they were always looking out.

Morgan’s wife was named Ginny and the only difference between Ginny and his Mother were their voices. Betsy Gamble talked high and fast and Ginny Leonard-Gamble talked high and ultra fast so listening to the two of them at the same time was sort of like listening to a table saw running none stop for hours on end.

Morgan didn’t care as long as that high pitched whine wasn’t heading in his direction.

Only last Monday not only did that high pitched intolerable whine head his way it ran down his throat and he almost choked on it. The Whine was magnified a hundred times over and the sound levels could only be compared to standing next to a jet when it takes off.

God, what was that noise?

Then he remembered- Monday night was The Book of The Month Club night.

On book club night Ginny and her friends sat around in their living room and talked about plot lines and drank some wine, they talked about character motivation and then they drank more wine by the time they got around to talking about what the book meant they were all blasted which was good because the only thing worse then listening his wife’s book club talk was listening to them talk sober.

At least this way they were sort of amusing.

It made up for the screaming headache Morgan got when they were around.

Morgan managed to make it from their indoor garage with minimum pain when two little words drifted up from the living room to the entrance way as he closed the living room door.

“Dog Girl”

His face turned red and he looked up and around to make sure he wasn’t the one who had said those words out loud.

Then he heard it again only much louder this time, “Dog Girl”

He followed those two words into his living room and smiled his best toothpaste ad type smile to his wife and her friends and said, “You all sound like Junior High school girls…what’s this Dog Girl talk?”

“It’s our book of the month “Ginny tried to say “it’s a ghost story.”

“About a Dog Girl? What is that some kind of New Age Hippy Chick in search of her inner animal or something?”

They all laughed like they were suppose to and Morgan preened like he was suppose to and then Mr. Good Humor Man left the room, “No really, what kind of story is it?”

Ginny saw her husband’s face turn to a cold hard mask right in front of her friends for Pete’s Sake, how could he? So she tried to focus her eyes and get serious so she could get him out of the room.

“ It’s about this little girl who was murdered, when she comes back as a ghost she doesn’t know she’s dead and when she figures it out she kills her murderer.”

“Really.” Morgan held his hand out for the book. “Why is it called Dog Girl” was she ugly or something?

Ginny shook her head and the motion almost made her get sick. “No, that’s what he called her before he shoved her over the railing…Dog Girl.”

Morgan looked at the book and on the cover was a Walnut Tree growing over the edge of a cliff. “ No one could’ve known that, what it felt like to put his hand against the small of her back and feel that little push… no one except for Dog Girl and …”

“Morgan!” Ginny shirked as Morgan quoted the book “you’ve done it, you actually read a book!”

“How does she kill him?”

“He starts to see her everywhere, at the Park, playing with his children, in the Mall. She becomes as real to him as anybody and it makes him crazy.”

“Sees her?” he asked

One of Ginny’s friends chimed in, “He sees her everywhere. So he goes out to the Cemetery to find her grave and dig her up and it’s gone. Dog Girl is gone and so are her grave and tombstone and all.”

“ So, “ a high pitched voice grated against Morgan’s brittle nerves “ he goes out to his garage closes the windows and puts rags under the doors and such and starts his car and dies from carbon monoxide poisoning.”

“And just when he thinks he’s finally free of Dog Girl he sees her through the exhaust just outside of the driver’s window and he knows just as he dies it’s only the beginning. Dog Girl is never going to leave him…ever.”

Morgan nodded and for the first time in years, maybe for the first time in his life he looked outside of himself and all he saw was Ona “Dog Girl “Crocata.

He decided it would be best if he got use to it now because he had the feeling that was all he would be looking at for a very long time.

Auffer the Children- finale

2006-08-12T20:20:00.000-07:00

PART 6

He felt the first ticklings of the girl’s Change arriving, and began to send a matching response. Every moment he was awake he kept thoughts of her in his mind’s eye.

As he was out and about of an autumnal day he stumbled across her scent, ripe and compelling, he began to follow this to the source. At last he saw her, from the way she held herself he could see the worry and doubt in every line of her.

She looked at her latest meal, she had enjoyed every drop, without thought of the younglings. Agitated to the point she was unaware of her actions, she involuntarily hissed at the secrets within the shadows.

The urge rose in him, primal and insatiable, and he fought it down with great effort. He truly enjoyed his time with every female who had accepted his advances, and he was determined to make their time something to be savoured.

There was a quality of childhood games in the suit, advance and retreat, innocent touches. While all clan members could witness the courtship, the consummation would be private and remain so.

But, he must gain her acceptance, and trust, in time for the Change. Her scent grew stronger, and his own desire led him to her Home.

She stood in an open space, alone and aloof, her head tipped back. There were three other men in attendance already, yet two hissed before leaving in frustration.

The one that was left, locked eyes with him, it was perhaps two breaths and the third looked away in defeat, then slid into the shadows.

She turned to him, her eyes were as intense as an Elder’s and an air of distraction swirled around her. “How did they, and you, find me, and…”

“It can’t be that Time yet, I still have younglings to feed!!” Her voice was desperate, the cry of the hunted.

“I want to help.” He offered proof in food, good and fresh, enough to feed them for days.

They were gaze locked, and motionless, then she turned her hands palm up, as the Laws prescribe.

“I accept your Suit.” She would now be with him until her first birthing was survived, and she had enough help without his presence.

Then she would have the option to accept or refuse his suit again. After three acceptances they were legally an accepted pairing.

“Now, my dear, give me nibbles then let us feed the younglings until they fall asleep feeding.” The traditional nibbles were barely hard enough to draw blood. Their blood was mingled, and they were now engaged in the fashion of their People.

He began to feed the younglings with the confidence of experience.

She looked at the younglings, slurping their food greedily. With a sigh of relief she buried her fangs in her scarred wrist and then offered it to the nearest mouth in the writhing cluster of youngling Vampyrs, in the thicker larval sacs their only truly recognisable feature was their gleaming fangs.

Suffer the Children-Part 5

2006-08-12T02:23:00.000-07:00

PART 5

Brother was maturing too quickly, mastering things he should not have for years yet, and he thrived on it. He grew, seemingly, every day. He had flawless taste, and a daring sense of theatrics.

Tonight he looked his ragged best, every inch the lost child he was. She knew where he was going, the truck stop at the far border of the area they could search in one day.

Always, always sneaking, and making do, they were slowly fading towards extinction. Sister was weaker all the time, and as the younglings grew they needed food in distressing quantities.

Already the rumours were spreading, tales of ghosts, and curses were roused and settled into everyone’s thoughts. They would be found out too soon. And that would be the end of everything that they knew.

He carefully faded into the background while he was searching for food. There were less and less chances for good food, and he lived with a grippe of fear niggling at him every second.

Often he let food pass by for one of many reasons, not the least of which was safety. Sister played the Laws almost every time they slept and had them answer questions about them that she tossed at them randomly.

One man watched him every night, noting every detail, his sun blonde hair, sleepy violet eyes, and a dimple clinging to the corner of his full-lipped pout. He had skin the colour of gold dust in the wind, the texture seemed to be burnished, yet he was still pale and delicate of frame.

He wore clothes in shades of butterscotch, cocoa brown, antique gold, and creams. When he wasn’t playing the pitiful stray child, he dressed like a miniature executive, impeccable and immaculate clothes draped elegantly from his shoulders.

His clothes were a camouflage; no one really noticed a well-dressed, polite young man slipping quietly through a crowded restaurant.

Occasionally, someone would feel his presence, and rarely, know, that was when he would put into practice the ways and whys of distraction.

Finally, second Brother was old enough to start looking and he stuck by Sister’s side for as little time as they dared. First brother was free to seek another territory and start his own life. But, he took a share of the younglings with him, to ease Sister’s burden.

Even with the drop in hungry mouths to feed there was still a struggle to stay barely alive. When he could, first Brother brought food to Sister’s brood.

At the same time he worried. He could see the beginnings of The Change coming upon her.

Soon she would have no choice but to seek a mate and who would want her?

She still had so many hungry younglings, and was nearly ready to start on her own clan. First Brother embarked on a Quest, to find a fit mate for Sister.

It seemed that everywhere he went, he could find no one, just hints and half-perceived intuitings. The Moon waxed and waned, then waxed and waned again and no one had appeared that he deemed worthy of Sister.

It was now becoming imperative that a mate be found, the Signs of Imminent Change were clear. Sister began to solidify, despite the denials she had forced on her system. Her figure had bloomed and now she was becoming provocative in her mannerisms.

She was embarrassed, and at the same time sorrowful. She too, knew what was happening. Soon she would have to send out the call. She didn’t want to, she wasn’t guaranteed of finding a fit mate in all this lonesome, or even a poor one.

(Tomorrow, my dears, will be the ending of my tale. I hope that you have enjoyed it. Thank you for sticking with me.)

Suffer the Children- Part 4

2006-08-10T14:30:00.000-07:00

PART 4

He knew they were out there, the orphans, and he knew he must find them before any more younglings were lost. Who would have thought someone that young could have accomplished what the girl was doing?

He reached out, seeking a connexion with her, a way to channel strength in her direction. All he sensed was the sleeping patterns of the orphans.

He sighed in frustration then slowed his mind until he was in a conscious Alpha State. He tasted the restfulness she had created and gifted to her charges.

The rift had gone on far too long, children were never meant to bear this much responsibility. She should be dreaming of the first time she is allowed to be out with a young man, not struggling to feed that many rapacious mouths.

Knowing it futile to rue the past, and practicing it are two very different things. As he walked the streets his thoughts remained on the girl; what she could become, given the chance.

He insinuated himself in the rhythms of her dreams, and sent thoughts of acceptance, and the desire to help. Still, he was kept from knowing where they were.

His own sister had run away with her lover when Father had forbid them to court. As a consequence, the first time his sister had birthed she died of the effort, leaving a mate prostrated in grief.

The loss was felt through all the Clans, so much hope had been focussed on his sister. She had the chance to help secure peace with the Western Clans, she wedded a Western Clansman, aye, but it was a serf, not the heir apparent.

Now, another rebellious woman’s passion, had orphaned her first birthing, it was her eldest, a daughter, that Shone, she had the Gift of the Blood. She should be pampered, and protected; not shivering on shadowed byways struggling to be an entire family through her slight form.

He knew her Blood ran true, he had felt her Dance, and the energy she could harness. For all those years he had always thought no one could outshine their Mother, until he felt the touch of that lovely lass.

“Ah, Damn!!” He scowled at the night and a cat snarled his way up a tree, every hair rigid with fright. A gleam of feral eye and flash of teeth meant to kill, then the cat was gone, fled to another portion of its territory.

His restless wanderings took him to quiet, affluent neighbourhood. Behind doors so quick to open was where that girl should be going.

Suffer the Children- Chapter 2 & 3

2006-08-09T22:02:00.000-07:00

PART 2

Brother was almost shaking in excitement, anticipating his first time along with Sister, He thought she had taught them well, even the slower children understood what she teaching. This would be the test of her skills, if he succeeded, she would be more comfortable with taking the ones that were old enough to go out and search along with her on a regular basis.

He had so many ideas to help in their unusual situation, yet many rules held them fast in this draining state. How wonderful it would be to see the young ones go to bed with full tummies every night! Ah!!! To finally be able to see them growing, and maturing as they ought!!

Everything he had learned spun in his head, while his pores contracted in excitement, his pale skin appeared to have been polished like marble. At last he would start to help, as he had dreamed of doing for longer than Sister would ever know.

As soon as he would be able to search on his own, the next oldest Brother wanted to go out. That would surely turn the tide, and then they would be able to move to the city. They would have so many opportunities there, far more than here in the middle of nowhere.

Before he was truly aware of it, he and Sister were on their way, moving so easily that he felt as if he were floating a few inches off the ground. A wave of euphoria shook him until he was getting light headed and couldn’t help a giggle of delight.

Sister kept a portion of her attention on her sibling, it couldn’t be predicted how someone would react to their first taste of adulthood. She felt that her brother would take to it so easily that she would soon be taking another sib along.

After they had spent weeks polishing his attention to detail and sense of timing, before they went looking for food. He was pleased that everything he had pointed out was a possibility, surely he would settle into his role fast.

Having both of them working as a team, they were able to find more food, not always what they wished, but there was no more going to bed with empty tummies. At last the younger ones began to grow, still too slowly, but they were growing.

It wasn’t two full months before he was allowed to go out on his own. Determined to prove himself capable of being a provider, he carefully selected the food he knew would be best for everyone. The first time he found good food, he showed up at home with all pomp and circumstance, and found that the smallest of the younglings had Passed Over.

While the others fed messily, and talked between bites, with food smeared on their faces, Brother took the tiny girl and prepared her to be interred. He styled the honey blonde hair, and thought of the times she had look up to him so trustingly, full of confidence in her oldest brother.

When Sister returned she wept openly, bidding her farewell to the child curled in a foetal shape. Her eyes were bloodshot and puffy as she rocked the child, crooning broken snatches of song between her sniffles.

Finally, Brother was able to wrest the body away from her, and carry it to the place reserved for those who had Passed Over. As Sister wept softly, with too many young ones crying for her, he placed the Traditional Cover on the Resting Place and whispered a sad prayer.

The clan walked slowly back to their home, and tried to rest, despite the sadness staining the air. Sister heard many restless sounds as she was begging for sleep.

It didn’t take long for her to accept that it was going to be one of those nights. Sighing slowly, she slid, snake silent, from her bed and stole her way to the stereo in the dark. She tapped the speaker button off, and plugged in the headphones.

Part 3

Rapt in velvet darkness she joined with the music, swaying and posturing shamelessly, in the womb of sound she sought surcease. She felt as though she were floating above the floor, and was but feathers away from flight.

A faint, reminiscent smile hovered in her cheeks, and her cheeks were modelled by the shadow of eyelashes, even her head moved with the music.

With her mouth parted a whisper and her hips swaying in smoky counterpoint, the hemline of the faded thin nightshirt began to move as if alive. Were anyone to see her she would seem a vision, something perhaps elfin and fey.

Her big toe and a sliver of sole were all that was connecting with the soft carpet. When she leaned back her hair spread like ice shards on the carpet.

At last, the song arrived; it called to her restless spirit and drew the most sensuous motions from her heart. She slowed, breathing through her open mouth.

She seemed to be rocking herself in the shadows, until the guitar cried through her.
She went from provocative to pleading with a tilt of her hair, and her arms uncrossed. Her hands moved with the sway of warning cobras, slowly moving Heavenward.

“Darkness, darkness,
Be my pillow…”

Robert Plant’s evocative treatment of the lyrics unclenched her heart and she was lost between the notes, begging the presence of each one, moving in a glory of understanding.

“Take my head
And let me sleep.”

Her face was highlighted with tears, and her fragile hands were beseeching blurs of pallor. She looked the ghost of some danseuse, dead of broken dreams.

Limber and utterly focussed, she slid into the harmonics of Plant’s “Little By Little”. Her mind went into deep Alpha state, and the relaxation spread outward to soothe everyone into gentle sleep.

When every breath was slow and even, she began to change her movements until she swayed almost imperceptibly. At last the sweet sag of sleepiness coiled through her muscles, she crawled gratefully into her bed and closed her eyes.

Suffer the Children

2006-08-08T20:26:00.000-07:00

PART 1

She hadn’t known a moment without worry since the last of the adults had Passed Over. She alone was responsible for two-dozen hungry mouths, there was never enough to go around, and often she went without so the children wouldn’t be hungry. Food was hard to come by in the middle of nowhere, until she got old enough to move the whole clan closer to a big city they would have to make do.

Food was searched for as often and as much as could be dared; always, always with the fear of getting caught nagging at her and disturbing her concentration. Without her all the children would die, and that was unthinkable, she would die before letting the little ones wither away from constant hunger. With as little food as she was able to find there was never enough to fill everyone’s bellies.

She pictured herself, her translucent skin, depthless black eyes and cloud of silver blonde, wavy hair suited the cast of her features. She closed her eyes; they were what ancient Oriental cultures call ‘Dragon’s Eyes’; long, slanting, heavily lashed, and seeming to be half-lidded all the time. . Her eyes were the sort that compels you to lock gazes and listen. Pursing her lush mouth briefly, the lips startlingly red, teetering on the edge of a smile at all times, with a small frown between her eyebrows she checked every youngling tenderly.

All her clothes were carefully chosen to play off the striking colouring she had, black, deep blues and greens, occasionally crisp white or the shade of a blood ruby. She chose styles that were flowing and made of light, soft materials accentuating the ethereal, almost incorporeal quality to her appearance.

A trick of light could have her looking old far beyond her years, as though she had already seen how ugly mankind could be. Her habit of ducking her head when she began to smile loaned her an air of old fashioned shyness. Blessed with a soft, sweet voice, her words fell like flower petals to drift slowly into your consciousness.

Tonight it was bitterly cold, and sleet fell, sharp blades of frozen rain that slapped against her cheeks; standing in the night air, feeling numb and woozy from hunger; she looked up at the sliver of a waning moon, distant and uninterested in her situation. There had to be food out here somewhere, there just had to!!

Knowing that she was far too tired, and battered by the elements, she listened, and searched the darkness with desperate eyes. There! She’d located some food; the children wouldn’t be as hungry tonight. Her search was always brief, and carefully orchestrated to avoid damage to the food. It was not enough, but it was all she could get on her own.

Tonight, however, there were problems actually getting her hands on the food; by the time she had it in her hands she knew she would have to hurry to get it home in time for them to go to bed at a decent hour.

Back home, she patiently fed all the younglings while they cried in hunger and desperation. There was barely a mouthful, maybe two, for her when their hunger was muted. As late as it had grown, there was barely time to settle all the littlest ones to sleep, and send the middle third, before she and the three oldest ones bid sweet dreams to one another.

Disturbing her restless sleep, the voice of hunger resonated through her, straining all joy from her dreams, and leaving bitter whey in her memory. Her own voice was slurred, falling upon deaf walls and soundless bed. Over and over she awakened, then, hissing in frustration, struggle to return to her rest.

Another night, the same as any other, except for expanding their search areas, hoping to have the efforts pay off quickly. By accident, she had discovered the diner, and marked it mentally as a place to get food for the younglings. Tonight, everyone had fed well, and she had even managed to soften the hunger-cries in her bones.

The little ones had drifted off with the rosy cheeks of good sleep, still snuggling with the older children. Everyone felt the glow from a truly good meal there had even been laughter, so rarely heard recently.

All the clan had been able to bed down comfortably and drift into restful, healing sleep. She even noted a soft flush in her cheeks, “Now that is better, we’re supposed to look like this all the time.”

”I’m old enough to help Sister, It will get better then.” The next oldest, a tall, lean boy with wavy masses of nearly black hair, and catlike golden brown eyes, already marked by their struggles.
“Not yet love, you’ve still more to learn. If you don’t learn it, you will never be able to make it in this world.” Her voice was soft, pitched low enough to not disturb the young ones.

“Please, you’re always so tired, and pale. I get afraid that you won’t come back some morning. I need to help.” Already the young man knew how to get his older sister to let him do what he wanted to.

“All right, you can come with me, there are things that you can’t understand until you have seen them firsthand” She sighed, and tossed a smile to him. “You must give me your Blood Oath that you will do exactly what I say, without questions.”

He paused for a long moment, he could hear the hum of the power lines overhead. “I give my Blood Oath, I will do as you say.”

Sister sighed, knowing what a shock her brother was in for. Everything he had gotten drilled into him from the very beginning had best be clearly understood. When they were in the middle of looking for food was not the time for him to become rebellious, or worse, impatient.

{Don't worry my dears, I wrote the whole tale before I posted a word...}

That's Where She Gets It From!

2006-07-31T22:02:00.000-07:00

From The following exercise at the Soul Food Cafe
Box of Chocolates
‘Lessons and Philosophy from the Bear of Very Little Brain’

http://www.outbackonline.net/choc%20box/choc_pooh.htm

Fe, fa, fi-fo-fum

I smell the breath of an Englishman

Let him be alive

or let him be dead

I’ll grind his bones to make my bread

And wrapped around these Merry Little Lines was a tale about Cannibalism, Breaking and Entering (or as they refer to it on the Cop shows “ B & E”) and cold blooded murder (okay, I’d settle for Manslaughter. Or would it be Giant Slaughter?) Regardless, that Giant wouldn’t have ended up dead at the foot of the beanstalk had a certain little Englishman not been snooping around places he didn’t belong!

Back to the story…before I learned to read my Mom use to buy me these children’s books called “ Golden Readers”. They were easy to read (and by that I mean easy for the Parents to read.) The Fairy Tales were written at about an eight year olds reading level.Back in the day they were nice little books- I still have a few of them on my bookshelf. They were bound with string, not glue or paste and the pictures were wonderful.

Lots of detail, no pastels and they didn’t use block type. So no matter how little you were you felt like you were reading a ‘big kid’s book’.

And if you couldn’t read you may have done what I did: I use take the books and make my own story up to fit the pictures.

The thing is I ALWAYS saw more then what was actually there and by the ripe old age of five I was already addicted to a TV show called Nightmare Theatre. They played old horror and ghosts films every Friday and on Saturday afternoon they had a matinee.

I guess you can see where this is going…

Jack and the Beanstalk? Ha, How’s about Jack the Little Ripper?

I hated Jack.

He was mean and sneaky and remember the Harp calling out for the Giant? I thought she wanted to stay and I just knew that little Jerk Jack was going to take her down the Beanstalk and she would never see her castle again (well, that’s how I told it.)

I would read about Jack throwing all the stuff he stole from the castle down the beanstalk and just before he gets caught the last time he slides down the beanstalk, grabs an axe and he starts chopping and hacking until down comes the beanstalk and before you can say ‘busted’ the Giant crashes after it and dies.

So in the end Jack is sitting at this table and the harp is crying and Jack’s Mom is serving him stew (which I was convinced contained some Giant along with the chickens he stole…why NOT eat the Giant? He ate everything else he lifted from the Castle!)

Remember Jack swinging the axe? I do, I can still see it. So how does it end?

The last picture in the book is of Jack at the table with the stolen harp and the chunky stew.

That picture finally got to me in a big way.

I remember taking my little copy of Jack and The Beanstalk and tossing it under my bed where it STAYED.

That’s right…everytime I found it on my bookshelf or in my toy box I’d take that sucker and throw it under my bed because everytime I saw it I could hear that line over and over…the only one I remembered after my Mom read me the book (which I didn’t buy for a minute that malarkey she read was true)

Fe, fa, fi-fo-fum

I smell the breath of an Englishman

Let him be alive

or let him be dead

I’ll grind his bones to make my bread

It was never a Giant’s Voice I heard when I ‘read’ my little Golden Book. It was always a kid’s voice, a little boy’s voice. It was laughing the entire time and it wasn’t a happy laugh.

Fe, fa, fi-fo-fum

"The Real Dread Pirate Roberts" (Inspired by The Pirates of the Caribbean 2)

2006-07-12T10:26:00.000-07:00

Last night the History Channel premiered an interesting documentary on The True Caribbean Pirates, and, naturally because Jon is on the island that was once Hispañola (now the Dominican Republic and Haiti), and because we recently saw The Pirates of the Caribbean 2, I wanted to see it and who they showcased in the documentary. Of course, they had the inescapable, infamous and oft-mentioned pirates. You know, Blackbeard, Henry Morgan, Anne Bonny, Calico Jack(?)... And they named a few that were reportedly famous, dangeous and highly feared--but I'd never heard of them. Like Black Bart Roberts, for instance, whom I like to refer to as..."The Real Dread Pirate Roberts."

I had no idea he existed, but mmmaann he was ruthless, merciless and the most successful pirate ever in the Golden Age of Piracy. On par or more with Blackbeard, and I'd always thought Blackbeard was the biggest and most frightening scourge of the sea! But it appears Roberts was.

The Real Dread Pirate Roberts was born in Pembrokeshire, Wales, May 17, 1682. At the age of 37, while the third mate on board the slave ship, The Princess of London, pirates overcame the ship and forced him into piracy because of his skills as a navigator. Six weeks later, after the death of Captain Howell Davis in battle, the pirates elected him as their new captain, and he accepted. His first act as a pirate captain was to lead his crew back to El Principe to avenge the death of their old captain. Under the cover of darkness, he and his crew landed on the island, attacking and killing the majority of the male population and stealing all items of worth they could carry. Though his career as a pirate was short--only four years long--Roberts, as I said before, was the most successful. He captured a remarkable total of 456 ships, once twenty-two at a time. He raided off the coasts of Africa, Brazil, and Newfoundland; and I think, was said to dress in scarlet red.

He was also atypical for a pirate.

He was a teetotaler; he preferred tea instead.
He loathed drunkeness and louts, cruelty and profanity.
He was always well-dressed.
He had excellent manners.
He forbade excessive gambling between his crew.
He held Sunday worship service onboard ship.
He was always clean-shaven.
He treated those he met with the utmost kindness and respect. (Uh...oook? Maybe those not victims of his acts of piracy?)
He had excellent, beautiful handwriting.
Being a lover of music, he had on board hired musicians.

Black Bart, in accordance with his "gentlemanly" ways, wrote 11 Shipboard Articles, or his own "pirate code of conduct" in 1721.

Every man shall have an equal vote in affairs of moment. He shall have an equal title to the fresh provisions or strong liquors at any time seized, and shall use them at pleasure unless a scarcity may make it necessary for the common good that a retrenchment may be voted.
Every man shall be called fairly in turn by the list on board of prizes, because over and above their proper share, they are allowed a shift of clothes. But if they defraud the company to the value of even one dollar in plate, jewels or money, they shall be marooned. If any man rob another he shall have his nose and ears slit, and be put ashore where he shall be sure to encounter hardships.
None shall game for money either with dice or cards.
The lights and candles should be put out at eight at night, and if any of the crew desire to drink after that hour they shall sit upon the open deck without lights.
Each man shall keep his piece, cutlass and pistols at all times clean and ready for action.
No boy or woman to be allowed amongst them. If any man shall be found seducing any of the latter sex and carrying her to sea in disguise he shall suffer death.
He that shall desert the ship or his quarters in time of battle shall be punished by death or marooning.
None shall strike another on board the ship, but every man's quarrel shall be ended on shore by sword or pistol in this manner. At the word of command from the quartermaster, each man being previously placed back to back, shall turn and fire immediately. If any man do not, the quartermaster shall knock the piece out of his hand. If both miss their aim they shall take to their cutlasses, and he that draweth first blood shall be declared the victor.
No man shall talk of breaking up their way of living till each has a share of 1,000. Every man who shall become a cripple or lose a limb in the service shall have 800 pieces of eight from the common stock and for lesser hurts proportionately.
The captain and the quartermaster shall each receive two shares of a prize, the master gunner and boatswain, one and one half shares, all other officers one and one quarter, and private gentlemen of fortune one share each.
The musicians shall have rest on the Sabbath Day only by right. On all other days by favour only.

It was only a year later in February of 1722 that his (relatively) young life was cut short. (He was in his early 40s, remember.) Captain Roberts was killed instantly off of Cape Lopez, Gabon, by cannon grapeshot, which caught him in the throat while he and his crew battled Captain Chaloner Ogle's man-of-war, the HMS Swallow. Ogle had been sent to West Africa to capture and arrest pirates. It was Robert's long-standing wish to be buried at sea, thereby avoiding any capturing and displaying of his body by the victor. So, mere minutes after his death, his crew threw a sheet over him and bound his body in chains, throwing it overboard. (His skeleton most likely resides in chains and a sheet on the bottom of the ocean floor somewhere still today.) Fifty-two of his 254 pirate crew were hanged after the battle. His motto was "A merry life and a short one." It has been speculated since that most of his crew was drunk when the Man-of-war came upon them.

One of Black Bart's two flags.

Seafaring Legends (Inspired by The Pirates of the Caribbean 2)

2006-07-12T10:22:00.000-07:00

For the most part, the teasers and trailers for the show reveal Captain Jack Sparrow has a debt to pay to Davy Jones, and that price or debt is his very soul. *voice goes very deep and eeerie on that last word* Nnoo, not Davy Jones from The Monkees--ha ha ha--but the infamous Davy Jones of "Davy Jones' Locker."

In the movie, Davy Jones and his oceanic undead crew manned the phantom ship, The Flying Dutchman. They also had control of the...Kracken...the horrifying mythical sea monster, whom they summoned to destroy any ship on which any particular captain, crew or individual sailor who had dared incur Jones' wrath was.

Also for the movie, the writers had created their own history or legend for Davy Jones. Not knowing that much about him, but being familiar with the phrase:

"He's gone to Davy Jones' Locker!"and knowing what it means, and also knowing something about the Flying Dutchman, their (the writers') mish mash of sailor lore had me wonderin'--yes, *half smile* my mind is almost always comin' up with new questions--and wanting to know more about both. Er, Davy Jones and the Flying Dutchman, of course. Sssoo here we are!

Watching the movie, and knowing the lil I knew about each--the captainship of Davy Jones of the Flying Dutchman didn't ring true--I wanted to find the truth and separate the two legends. According to a recent article in the Hartford Courant newspaper by Susan Dunne, Davy Jones is a spirit of the briny deep who lives on the ocean floor, gathering the bodies of those who die at sea into his locker. He's "'the fiend that presides over all the evil spirits of the deep, and is often seen in various shapes, perching among the rigging on the eve of hurricanes, shipwrecks, and other disasters to which seafaring life is exposed, warning the devoted wretch of death and woe'" (quoted from Thomas Smollet's novel The Adventures of Peregrine Pickle). He's the one the most superstitious of sailors would rather not discuss. Oh, they'll refer to Jones and his dwelling place, all right, but they'd rather leave him an indefinite, unbodied character who keeps to his home, or locker, at the bottom of the sea.

No one knows, really, how he became a feared legend. Some say Davy Jones isn't real. Some speculate he was a pub owner, who allegedly shoved passed out drunken sailors into his ale locker and then dumped them on board any ship that happened to pass by his port town. Others say the name Davy Jones is a mangling of Duffer Jones, a sailor famed throughout the seven seas for being so nearsighted that he often fell overboard. *tries not to laugh at that picture* (I wonder how many times someone yelled, "Man overboard!" And another sailor complained, "Not again!" and another might have said, "It's Jones, isn't it?" in a knowing, resigned tone of voice. Then they would have had to fish the poor guy out.) According to yet another group, Davy might be the Anglicizing of the West Indian word, dubby or duffy, meaning "ghost."

But only the most wicked, hellbound pirates need fear the full wrath of Davy Jones. Though their bodies go to his locker, it is generally believed that a Christian sailor's soul goes to the Fiddlers' Green. In that fine place, an old salt's grog mug and tobacco pipe are always full and beautiful maidens dance forever on a sunny, verdant hillside to the tune of a fiddle.

The Flying Dutchman, if some of you are familiar with the tale, is a tragic one. That much is agreed upon. What isn't agreed upon is whether or not the legend is based upon a real ship and crew. Or rather, on a couple of novels. (Though if sailors through the years have reported sightings of a phantom ship with a spectral glow about it, I'm more inclined to believe them and say it was an actual ship.)

In each version of the story, the captain's name is different, but his iron resolution and his crew's and ship's tragic fate is the same. Whoever the captain was, and whether or not he was foolhardy, stupid, arrogant and proud in his refusal to stay in port till after the storm blew over, or whether he and his crew were caught unawares by a sudden hurricane is debatable. What is agreed upon in the various versions of the legend is that the captain vowed to get 'round the Cape of Good Hope (or Storms), that no storm (nor possibly God) would stop him from making his destination and he'd sail till Doomsday if need be. And to this day the Flying Dutchman continues to sail as a ghost ship, trying to make it around the Cape.

Over the years many people claimed to have seen the ghost ship off their shores, but no sensible captains would or will take their ship near the spectral ship if spotted, because it's believed something terrible would or will happen aboard their ship if they did/do.

The most interesting and well known sighting of the ship was made by the King George V of England, when he was a prince and crewman aboard the HMS Bacchante in 1881. The sighting was recorded in the ship's log, telling of how the ghostly apparition seemed to glow red and of how they could make out all her masts, spars and sails. When the HMS Bacchante sailed closer the vision seemed to disappear, in the manner of a mirage, and the sea was unnaturally calm in that spot. Later that day, the crewman who had first reported the ghostly sighting, fell to his death from the crow's nest.

Another sighting that gives truth to the legend occurred in 1939, when hundreds of people saw the ship off the coast of False Bay. It appeared to be sailing towards the shore at Muizenberg and seemed likely to end up on the beach. Then suddenly it vanished! Into thin air. Many people were convinced that it was the ghost of the Flying Dutchman, still trying to make it 'round the Cape.

Thinking of our Anita Marie

2006-07-05T11:27:00.000-07:00

Mum, Matt and myself are addicted to 'junketing', which is our euphemism for touring the local secondhand stores. Not only do I take my cheque-book, I also take my trusty digital camera. I have started collecting pictures of thinks I call "Frighteningly Fugly Finds", the last time that Matt and I went junketing I found the... whatever these critters are... below.

They gave Matt and myself pause, and I had to take a picture, to share with Anita Marie. If anyone has an idea of what these little horrors are supposed to be, I would love to hear it!!

B is for Block

2006-06-29T19:02:00.000-07:00

B is for Block

All of us have been creatively blocked. That is an understatement for many of us. I write this today because I am blocked. Ideas are eluding me even with the wealth of prompts being presented to me on the blogs. Words won’t come. Images won’t coalesce in my mind. I cannot focus to read. My mind drifts.

So what do you do? My suggestion is the standard cure of writing about the block. But sometimes that is even hard to do—like right now! If you should also find yourself in this situation, even if it is just going through the motions, even if what you write or draw is absolutely awful—do it anyway! If you get out of the habit of creating, you will have a hard time getting back into it. Do not lose momentum in your creativity because some jackass in your life has kicked you in the teeth. Do not lose what you have gained because life has thrown you a curve ball. Pick up the blasted ball and throw it back! (Metaphorically speaking!)

Step away from the problem or person who is stifling you. Go on a vacation if you can afford it. If you can’t, walk to a park. Breathe. Meditate. Pray. If you are a spiritual person and have a particular faith tradition, draw on it. If you have a higher power, call on it. Use the block as a means of transmutation of your creative self. Make it an alchemical process of the soul.

But whatever you do, do not put down that pen, that brush, that whatever. Do what you need to do to keep your creative spirit alive. It's a matter of survival.

LGloyd © June 29, 2006

Faerie Tale Myths: "Hotter Than Hades"

2006-06-27T16:18:00.000-07:00

Faerie tale myths: Are they true...or debunkable?
L'Enchanteur Magazine tests various faerie tale myths to see if they can hold up in modern times.

By Bella Von Prince
L'Enchanteur Special Sections Editor

Part II: Is the Underworld truly the hottest place, or did Hades get a bum rap?

Growing up, every summer when days got to a sweltering point the phrase, "Hotter than Hades..." was heard quite frequently around our house. In fact, it's still used whenever the temperatures climb high or when something is supremely hot to the touch. Hades, of course, being the polite term for Hell, that sulfurous pit of endless torture, gnashing of teeth, clawing and wailing, brimstone and fire.

Growing up I was taught a slightly different view of this place, and being the lover of myths and legends that I am, well, I learned to ponder over and see how other peoples--past and present--view the Afterlife or Underworld. I've studied and read many myths and legends from various cultures, and most every one has held some degree or other of fascination for me.

As a child and continuing into high school, the Greeks and the Romans were the ones who held the greatest interest for me. I would check out children's books and later books for young adults, which were compilations of myths revolving around the spotlighted gods and goddesses. I soon had my few favorite myths that I read over and over till I had them memorized, instead of reading the entire collections again when I checked them out. One of the myths that has held a constant interest for me through the years is one of the only myths where we see the taciturn Hades as a main character or as having a pivotal part in the events taking place in a tale. Sometimes known as the Abduction... or Rape of Persephone, this myth is better known as Demeter and Persephone, for the wanderings and experiences the Earth goddess has as she searches for her beloved daughter.

According to the Greco-Roman view, Hades (or the Roman Pluto) is a loner, a taciturn, saturnine, yet wily and just ruler of the Underworld. As for the Underworld itself... It doesn't sound like a fun or happy place very often. It's a dark, vast realm with many sections:

Elysian Fields (contrast the Christian Paradise or Heaven)
Tartarus (compare the Christian Hell)
Plain of Judgement
Palace of Hades (of which doors Cerberus, the three-headed dog, guards)
Grove of Persephone
The Elm from which False Dreams cling
Vale of Mourning
Asphodel Fields
Pool on Mnemosyne (memory)

And five rivers:

Acheron (the river of sorrow)
Cocytus (lamentation)
Phlegethon (fire)
Lethe (forgetfulness)
Styx (hate)

In the sources I used for this article, Acheron is said to be the river dead souls gather by to wait for Charon to deliver them to the other side. But from what I remember as a youth, it was the River Styx Charon traversed for the price of a coin. Not Acheron. Then again, one of my sources also said the Greeks weren't too particular about the geography of their Underworld.

Being the Christian I am, and knowing something of other cultures' and other religious views of the Afterlife, I think Hades--both the god and the place--got a bum rap. In the few stories or myths they're mentioned in, he and his realm are spoken of in fearful tones, and the shades or souls of those whom heroes go down to rescue or to visit with while on quests sound so melancholy and somber, one gets a depressing impression. In the stories I've read, Hades, though wily, has never been intentionally cruel, and the Greeks and Romans themselves depict him as a just ruler of his domain.

As for the hotness of his realm? I never read, that I remember, of it being so or being cold or freezing. Besides, if Tartarus is the equivalent of our Christian Hell and the Elysian Fields are similar to our paradise or heaven, Hades definitely can't be considered the same as the Christian H-E-double hockey sticks. Hades is the Afterlife, where all souls, good and evil, go to be judged and sorted out according to their deeds. The saying should be "Hotter than Tartarus..." I think I'll use that from now on.

Consider this myth debunked.

Fun Under the Sea

2006-06-25T10:03:00.000-07:00

Under the Sea
The seaweed is always greener
In somebody else's lake
You dream about going up there
But that is a big mistake
Just look at the world around you
Right here on the ocean floor
Such wonderful things surround you
What more is you lookin' for?

Under the sea
Under the sea
Darling it's better
Down where it's wetter
Take it from me
Up on the shore they work all day
Out in the sun they slave away
While we devotin'
Full time to floatin'
Under the sea

Down here all the fish is happy
As off through the waves they roll
The fish on the land ain't happy
They sad 'cause they in their bowl
But fish in the bowl is lucky
They in for a worser fate
One day when the boss get hungry
Guess who's gon' be on the plate

Under the sea
Under the sea
Nobody beat us
Fry us and eat us
In fricassee
We what the land folks loves to cook
Under the sea we off the hook
We got no troubles
Life is the bubbles
Under the sea
Under the sea
Since life is sweet here
We got the beat here
Naturally-e-e-e
Even the sturgeon an' the ray
They get the urge 'n' start to play
We got the spirit
You got to hear it
Under the sea

The newt play the flute
The carp play the harp
The plaice play the bass
And they soundin' sharp
The bass play the brass
The chub play the tub
The fluke is the duke of soul
(Yeah)
The ray he can play
The ling's on the strings
The trout rockin' out
The blackfish she sings
The smelt and the sprat
They know where it's at
An' oh that blowfish blow

Under the sea
Under the sea
When the sardine
Begin the beguine
It's music to me
What do they got? A lot of sand
We got a hot crustacean band
Each little clam here
know how to jam here
Under the sea
Each little slug here
Cuttin' a rug here
Under the sea
Each little snail here
Know how to wail here
That's why it's hotter
Under the water
Ya we in luck here
Down in the muck here
Under the sea

Mannheim Steamroller

What is it about the sea? Why is she so alluring, so mysterious, so jealous? She gives life, sustains it and offers freedom, yet can take them away on a whim. She offers us adventure, excitement, intrigue and danger. She's calm at times and can be benign; she's capricious, wild and tempestuous at others. She's a whole other realm men must explore. She's a demanding mistress who guards her secrets well. She has the most interesting mythology to my mind: Atlantis, the Kracken, the island Pacifica (sometimes known as Lemuria or Mu), Neptune or Poseidon, the Celtic selkies and of course, the merfolk.

The sea commands respect; she doesn't tolerate fools easily. She demands love and loyalty from those who choose her as their mistress.

I guess, for me, her allure lies in her mystery, in the creatures she sustains and in the legends surrounding her. Because the seas or oceans are so many fathoms deep in places, we've only got a relatively small percentage of their floors mapped. So, there surely are many mysteries or secrets yet to uncover or to reveal. Like the possible existence of a prehistoric pleisiosaur (Loch Ness Monster). And if Nessie really does exist--and I'm sure she does--WWWOOOWWWW! Her existence would open whole new possibilties that the seas have protected from men's sometimes all-consuming, destructive curiosity. If she exists, surely other prehistoric animals could have survived these thousands of years. What discoveries they would be!

And the location of Atlantis? Scholars, historians and archeologists would have a field day if this was truly ever discovered. (Yes, I believe this too existed. 'Course, all that's left of it are tumbled stones and long-abandoned ruins on the ocean floor most likely. I doubt a glorious dome or force field of some kind is protecting it from the ocean. *wistful sigh* But wouldn't it be fun and exciting to discover, as it has in legends, it had survived? In searching for more images for the video which prompted this entry, which you can find *here by the way, I saw a painting called Atlantis, the Birth of the Mermaids. Wouldn't it be something if by chance after sinking, Atlantis had become the birthplace of the merfolk? Ok...now that is fanciful thinking and pure imagination, but oh, how wonderful that would be!)

Speaking of merfolk, most of the myths or tales I've come across regarding them show them as having the same temperament as the seas they live in. In almost every story the mermaids are playful, capricious, seductive, mysterious and often dangerous. Some, better known as Sirens, lure sailors to their deaths; while a few others, like the Little Mermaid, save them from drowning and who sometimes end up falling in love with their rescuees. As a child I was entranced with the idea of mermaids; I wanted be one myself. I still think it would be novel and fun to be a mermaid. Though I don't want any green hair, like kelp or seaweed, or light green skin. I would want a pearlescent purple tail, with my scales traveling up my human ribs and sides a bit to cover my chest for modesty. I would want a small conch necklace, threaded and tied around my neck with a strong piece of kelp or seaweed. I wouldn't mind a hair comb studded with pink and black pearls to go in my flowing, long dark brown hair. As for my eyes? I guess they could remain the sea green they are now. *smiles*

I love most animals, though the ones of the sea fascinate me the most. I have four favorite types, each in their respective realms. On land, it is the big jungle cats I gravitate to. In the air it is the Golden Eagle or Pereguin Falcon or Snowy Owl--like Harry Potter's Hedwig. In mythology it is the unicorn. In the sea it is the dolphin or Orca whale. If I'd chosen a career in the biological field it would have been in marine biology.

The sea is a realm I would love to explore had I the means and the resources and a way. And to be honest, I hope the sea won't ever completely give up her secrets. Her continuing mystery is part of what makes her so alluring, so magical. But I still would love to explore her.

Emissary from the Sea

2006-06-17T19:18:00.000-07:00

Brown Pelican (Pelecanus occidentalis)

I have been feeling a little down in the dumps this week and today particularly so. But, it was a hot and beautiful day so I decided to go down to the ocean, to an area that I've been wanting to photograph. I literally came around a corner and found this pelican sitting on a railing. I kept waiting for it to take flight but it let me approach. When I got about five feet away, I became fearful (these birds are BIG) so I stopped.

It was almost as if this magnificent bird had a message for me, but I don't know what. Look at that expression! Does anyone understand Pelicanese? Anyway, I felt very much encouraged after the encounter.

Image: L Gloyd (c) 2006

BURNSTONE

2006-06-17T17:41:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago Heather sent around a post with handprints on a cave wall. I've been going back to that picture over and over again and what I liked was that the handprints looked burned into the stone.
I thought Burnstone and this is the story it inspired!
amm

In Burnstone, Washington one of my favorite places to visit is the Tymbal Cemetery and Funeral Home.

Tymbal is a pauper's cemetery from the old days so it's not great shakes. No fancy monuments, no fancy gates but there are trees and they’re covered with ivy which is nice because the trees have been dead for years and they don’t put leaves out anymore.

The sad thing is everyone forgot the Cemetery was there and for awhile the City of Burnstone Streets Department used Tymbal as a storage place for their work trucks and they used the Funeral home as office space until someone realized all those garbage trucks and lawn mowers and a bunch of other maintenance tools were leaking oil all over unmarked graves.

So before you could say ' desecration ' the City decided to build a new maintenance facility for the Street Works Department and without as much as a backwards glance they left the graveyard to choke on weeds and nettles and blackberry bushes.

Looking back, it was sort of odd the way the weeds came back so fast.

Anyway.

About a month after the big move a young woman named Tamus Bloodroot slammed her car into one of the dead trees near the cemetery entrance and she never left.

She never left because no one ever found her.

They found her car, they found the door open and they found a large pool of blood about three feet away from the crash sight.

But they never found Tamus.

The day after they found her car stories about an injured woman, who was identified as Tamus, asking for help at the side of the road started up. Some people said they actually stopped for her and picked her up and talked to her and she always said the same thing, “ can you help me now. “

When they turned to reassure her that’s what they’re doing she’d be gone.

You can imagine Tamus Bloodroot's family was pretty upset that they're daughter had become an urban legend and people were suppose to be talking to her ghost.

" I doubt " her Father had screamed into the face of a reporter doing Halloween stories for the evening news one year, " that if my daughter could come back from the grave she'd spend all of her time asking drunken teenagers for rides to the hospital."

That was true, in life Tamus wasn’t the sort of person who asked for anything, she’d tell you exactly what she wanted and if you didn’t come across…heaven help you. The girl had a temper and the holes in her bedroom walls and her trail of broken relationships were solid proof of that.

Life went on after that… even Tamus Bloodroot went on, people never stopped seeing her and they all knew she was out there asking for help.

Bryony Middleton and his family live out on Cemetery Road. He’s lived out there his entire life
And he knows that stretch of road so well he could drive it with his eyes closed.

That’s something he did almost every Saturday night after and evening on the town with his friends. He’s sort of famous around here for that, you might not know Bryony’s name or anything about him but you’ve heard of the ‘ guy who drives passed the cemetery in his sleep on Saturdays’.

Anyway it was one of his 10 or was it 12 kids that said to him after finding him and his truck at the end of their driveway one morning " if you're going to drive when you’re sleeping Daddy, at least wear your seat belt."

Not to be mean, and Bryony loved his 10-12 children a lot even if he forgot their names and didn't know exactly how many of them there were, but on more then one occasion Bryony was heard to say, " Geeze, my kids, you know they're okay as far as rug rats go but they sure aren't the sharpest tools in the shed, if you get my meaning."

But this time Bryony’s kids were right and on that winter evening out on Tymbal Cemetery Road his kids were the sharpest tools to be found in any shed anywhere on the planet.

The roads were iced over when Bryony left the " Corner Tavern " only he didn't notice. I mean he was sliding and tripping a lot...but you know he'd chalked that up to the liquid refreshments he'd indulged in for the past four hours.

So Bryony got into his truck and tried to buckle himself in, but he couldn't make the lock work so he put the belt on and tied it closed and then he took a roll of duct tape and somehow managed to tape himself to his seat.

I'm not kidding I wish I were. Like I said, Bryony loved his kids and he'd do any for them even if they only had a handful of brain cells between them.

Then he turned the key in the ignition (he always left it in because it was pretty hard for him to fit that key into that little hole after a long evening out) and he took a sloppy left and turned out onto the unlit road, marked as Old Burnstone Highway but known unofficially as Cemetery Road by the locals.

He was halfway home and nearly asleep when he came to Tymbal Cemetery and saw the Funeral Home with the tape on it’s cracked windows. Bryony mistook it for his house and in a panic he jerked the steering wheel and sent his truck into the ditch that surrounded the cemetery.

Like I said, Tymbal’s is a Pauper’s Graveyard and there are no frills about it. The people out there were forgotten in life and they were forgotten in death too.

So the residents of Tymbal's have numbers, not names and they have pine boxes made at the Prison in Fallen not fancy caskets with brass handles. And there is no fence surrounding the cemetery just a ditch cut into a “V” shape and it's lined with jagged sharp rocks that were once the face of an old Mansion that burned to the ground about 100 years ago.

The Old Mansion was wasn't a good place and it’s owners were sort of an embarrassment to the City so after the fire Burnstone hauled off a mountain of debris and they decided to put it to good use.

Anything they could salvage went into the construction of The Tymbal Funeral Home and Cemetery.

The " fence" is what Bryony hit that night. His truck went into the ditch head on and then it flipped and rolled and finally stopped almost in the middle of the graveyard.

Taped and tied to his seat Bryony was bruised and beaten and good thing he was sitting upright because if he'd been in any other position he'd probably have choked on his own vomit, of which he apparently lost a lot of that night.

When he was done he considered his options.

He could cut himself loose but more then likely he'd end up stabbing himself to death because at the moment one of his eyes was swollen shut and the other, well you know Bryony should probably be wearing glasses but he doesn't.

Plus the crash had done nothing to sober him up he wasn’t sure he could find the business end of the knife if he wanted to.

" Poor Daddy, " he could actually see one of his many children saying to his unborn grandchildren " he survived the worse car accident ever and he ended up stabbing himself to death trying to cut himself loose from his car seat. No, he wasn't trapped. Somehow he taped himself to his seat. No I can't explain it. I loved my Dad but he wasn't the sharpest tool in the shed if you get my meaning."

So Bryony figured all he could do was sit there and more likely then not someone would see him from the road in the morning. Resigned to a long cold smelly night he was about to try to catch some sleep when he saw the woman standing next to his car.

She was facing away from him and the way she was standing was wrong. Her shoulders were twisted and one of her arms seemed to be hanging a little lower then the other. At first Bryony thought she was tilting her head to the side like she was listening for something, but then he realized her head wasn't tilted it was flatter, much flatter then the other side of her head.

All Bryony could think to say was, " heck of a night, ain't it? "

" Can you help me now? " she said to no one " can you help me now?"

She started to turn and Bryony knew, he just knew that the front of that woman was going to look worse then the back and he didn't want to see that.

So Bryony did all he could think of to do. He turned the key, gave his battered truck some gas and there is a Heaven because it screamed (more then likely it was Bryony doing the screaming) to life and Bryony drove it blindly through the cemetery and towards the road…and the fence.

Only he never hit the fence, he never even made it out of the cemetery because before he hit the ditch he hit a tree and when he did the world around him exploded.

It was three of Bryony’s kids that found their dad and his truck the next morning. No, he wasn't dead; Bryony is made out of tougher stuff then that. Plus, I'm sure that with his dietary habits of fried food and alcohol he's pretty much preserved himself alive.

Which was good because Bryony had a story that people from all over the county wanted him to tell over and over again.

First of all the woman in the Graveyard, Bryony figured, wasn’t saying " Can you help me now " she was saying " Can you help me down " and he figured that out because on the night Tamus Bloodroot hit the Tymbal ‘fence’ she wasn't duct taped to her seat the way Bryony was so she smashed through her windshield and was thrown up and out of her car...

And straight up into a tree covered with Ivy.

That’s the story of Tamus Bloodroot and that’s how it ends…with parts of her raining down onto the hood of Bryony Middleton's truck.

The story about Old Burnstone Highway hasn’t ended. Earlier this year it earned this label as the most dangerous stretch road in the entire state of Washington.

It’s not a main highway and you can’t find it from any major roads but over 300 people have died along it this year alone. I mean, people from Arizona and Texas visitors from other countries in rental cars have met their end out there an if they don’t die in the wreck they can’t explain why they were there…at dark.

They never say though that they were lost.

Funny, isn’t it?

On Labyrinths

2006-06-08T19:18:00.000-07:00

On Labyrinths

Spirals and circles are recurring shapes in nature: nautilus shells, sand dollars, the moon and sun, human DNA. It is not surprising then that circles and spirals show up in the art and religion of many cultures throughout the world: the Tibetan mandala, Native American medicine wheels, prehistoric petroglyphs and European labyrinths.

A labyrinth is a circuitous pathway spiraling to a center. Unlike a maze, a labyrinth has a single path to the center with no dead-ends or detours. There is only one way into a labyrinth and that same way leads back out.

Labyrinths were created in Europe and the Mediterranean region well before the Christian era, but the most prominent ones were constructed during the medieval period, many in churches. The most well-known labyrinth today is found in Chartres Cathedral. The Chartres labyrinth is constructed of colored tiles and laid into the floor of the cathedral's sanctuary.

In the early medieval period, many Christians made pilgrimages to the Holy Land. As travel became more expensive and dangerous, labyrinths were constructed in these cathedrals to provide an alternative to the pilgrimage. Walking a labyrinth became a symbolic journey to Jerusalem. Later, labyrinth walking became, more broadly, a metaphor for the spiritual walk through life and became a form of moving prayer or meditation.

Labyrinths fell into disuse after the medieval period; however, in the last ten years labyrinth walking has experienced a resurgence of popularity in some American churches. Labyrinth construction projects have sprung up across the country as parishioners and other spiritual seekers enjoy the benefits of this contemplative practice.

The process of walking the labyrinth is simple. The walker begins a slow, deliberate walk into the labyrinth. Many of the American labyrinths are based on the Chartres model that has a full course of about two-thirds of a mile. Walking this distance, spending time in the center and walking back out can take anywhere from half an hour to several hours. It is entirely up to the walker. There is no right or wrong way to walk a labyrinth, but the pattern that many walkers use is spending time during the walk towards the center to meditate or pray about a concern, make a personal confession or reflect on things that could be made better in the walker’s life.

Reaching the center represents meeting the divine presence and usually involves the walker spending some time meditating or praying in the center. Finally, the walk out is a time of spiritual, emotional, and, according to some walkers, physical healing or refreshment.

Walking a labyrinth can be adapted to whatever spiritual or emotional need in front of the participant. Labyrinths can be found in urban settings, manicured church gardens, by the sea or in the wilderness. The location is not important. It is the journey that matters—a symbolic pilgrimage towards spiritual wholeness.

The Alchemist

2006-06-06T10:16:00.000-07:00

If I were an allegorist,
symbolism would prevail.
But I am just an alchemist,
mixing words creates my
tales.

A voracious writer I have
become, greedily capturing the
written word. Where would I
put my thoughts, if I couldn’t
make them heard?

Poems I find do well for me, as
I give my pen dictation. Words
have a chance, ideas birth, I
allow them their gestation.

Each day for me begins anew and
offers endless choices, of what I’ll
put upon the page, as I give my
feelings voices.

I look around wherever I am at the
possibilities I see. Word painting
efforts abound in me, unfolding
mysteriously.

On my love for words I’ll quit my
praise, and speak of them no
further. I’ll still write them down,
without a sound, no more
utterance or murmur.

gret ©

Dinner with the Captain

2006-06-05T17:57:00.000-07:00

A couple of young crewmen, swarthy, fit, and no doubt hand-selected by Captain Wilder for their ability to handle all manner of shipboard tasks, helped me on board and directed me to my private cabin. After stowing my gear, I found my way to the galley. The cook fixed me up with a steaming bowl of salmagundi and some hardtack and then directed me to the captain's dining room. Apprehension overtook me-- I had heard about Captain Ebony Wilder-- she was also known as the Wild Wench of the West Winds-- sometimes she blew soft and fair and other times with gale-force fury.

I tapped lightly on the door. "Don't just stand there like a little mouse! Come in! We don't stand on pretensions around here!"

I opened the door, carefully balancing my bowl of stew and hardtack, and entered.

"Ah, it's YOU! I've heard about you! Sit down."

"Yes, maam."

"Captain, if you will, I'm too young to be a maam."

"Yes, maam, er-- captain."

"How do you like the Salmagundi? The goat meat is a little gamey but the anchovies are fresh."

I swallowed hard. "Good-- real good-- I love gamey Salmagundi." I took another spoonful and forced a smile.

"So", said the Captain as she leaned back in her chair, booted feet propped on the table, "Matilda tells me that you've pinched a few of her tail feathers." I felt my stomach ball up in a knot.

"And, that horse of yours left her to pay quite a bit of a bar tab." As nervous as I felt, I still had trouble stiffling a chuckle--Albert!

"Well, Captain, if you would like me to pay... how much does he owe?"

"Four-hundred and fifty-seven Lemurian shekels."

I gulped. "Um, there may be a bit of a problem with that--I'm having a cash-flow problem....."

"Tosh! I won't hear anything of the sort." Captain Wilder leaned forward and winked her unpatched eye at me, "I love it when someone pulls one over on that old bird. She deserves it most of the time."

In the distance, a squawk sounded and a voice said "I heard that!"

"Shut-up, Seed-Spitter!" the Captain roared and then she turned back to me, "Now, I hear-tell that you are on your way to the Abbey and the Cave of the Ancestors."

"Yes, that's true. I'm told you are headed that way."

"Indeed. Did you also hear about the Bog People?"

"Ah, a little something. Can you tell me more?"

"Vile people. They live in the bogs along shores of this inlet and on an island in the midst of it. Very difficult to get around them. We're going to have to fight our way through. You up for a little excitement, darlin'?" The Captain chuckled again.

"I can hold my own," I said, lifting my head with more confidence than I actually felt.

"Good, because if they take you captive, you will regret it."

"Why? What do they do to captives?"

"Feed then alive to the Taraka?"

My eyes widened.

The Captain laughed again. "I love to tell people that to see the reaction. It's not true."

I relaxed a bit.

"The bog people strangle you first, then feed you to the Taraka. Ha!" The Captain nearly fell off her chair. When she had pulled herself together, she said, "Not to worry, dear. I've sailed this inlet a hundred times. They haven't gotten me yet..... crewmen-- that's another story, though!.....Darlin' have a glass of wine, you don't look so good."

LGloyd (c) June 5, 2006.

Sea Oats Plein-Air

2006-06-04T12:18:00.000-07:00

Sea oats stand at attention resisting brisk,
salty winds with their fancy footwork as
they create an alchemy of pleasure revealing
heaven in more than one place.

As if Monet whispered in their ears their
silky, golden tendrils, like fine sable brushes
watercolor the early morning sky with hues
of magenta, burnt sienna, and aquamarine.

These artisans of the sea awaken the yawning
sun as breezes form opalescent waves that foam
along the silver strand as their alfresco masterpiece
beckon to the waiting dawn.

gret ©

Bon Voyage

2006-06-04T10:11:00.000-07:00

I bid Albert goodbye at the landing in the Pirate's Cove. As much as I wanted him to come with me, he assured me that a horse at sea was not a good situation for all parties concerned. Also, he seemed to suggest that there had been a parting of the ways between he and Matilda and it was best that he not be on board-- something about owing money-- I didn't pry further. Albert promised that he would find a way to the Abbey and would meet me there.

I kissed him on the forehead and scratched him behind the ears, then I boarded my small skiff and headed out towards the Calabar Felonway, anchored in the cove.

As I rowed onward, I noticed something glimmering in the morning sun light. It was cobalt blue, bobbing in the water, and as I got closer, I could see it was a wine bottle. I grabbed the gaff in the bottom of the skiff and reached for the bottle. When I finally got hold of it, I held it up to the light. Inside was a small scroll.

I pulled out the cork and removed the scroll. It was parchment, old and stained, and the writing was somewhat hard to read. In dark brown script, which looked like dried blood, were the scrawled words: "Beware of the Bog People......"

Before I could finish reading, a voice from the Calabar hailed me: "Avast ye scurvey wench, what's takin' ye so long." I shoved the scroll into my knap sack and quickly rowed on.

Image and text: Lori Gloyd (c) June 4, 2006

Write a story for a bottle

2006-06-03T16:58:00.000-07:00

You have all heard of messages in a bottle. Well now it is your chance to write a story to go in a bottle that le Enchanteur can keep in her cabin on board the Calabar.

After yesterday's tantrum Enchanteur seems much more tranquil and her cabin appears idyllic but it would be well to be cautioned that she is a shape shifter and can change with the breezes that puff up the Calabar's sails.

Keep Enchanteur happy by doing a bit of the Arabian Nights style story telling and create some stories to go in bottles. Of course it would be fun to have decorated bottles to match the stories.

Faces

2006-06-01T15:41:00.000-07:00

Faces...yesterday, today and tomorrow

image gretchen L. (c)

all is One

2006-05-31T15:44:00.000-07:00

all is One

image Gretchen L. (c)