tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-85707464119685933982024-03-13T08:38:22.911-07:00Short Stories by MLockridgeA place to share my writing. A motivation to write more. An adventure of exploration and learning.Michael Lockridgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06748256055779697021noreply@blogger.comBlogger102125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8570746411968593398.post-20311635934188917592011-12-12T19:19:00.000-08:002012-12-07T09:15:41.224-08:00The Woodcarver and the Minotaur King-<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SeUI-aH40zU/TubCWQ4AwoI/AAAAAAAAKMU/7LCjJrMpJNQ/s1600/Tim-Croke-Minotaur.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SeUI-aH40zU/TubCWQ4AwoI/AAAAAAAAKMU/7LCjJrMpJNQ/s200/Tim-Croke-Minotaur.jpg" width="111" /></a>Geppetto stood nervously by the door to his shop, watching the King's man search the premises. Most people had little trouble with the King's regulations. Growers of pumpkins and brewers of beer were no threat to the King. Carpenters were watched closely, but not as closely as Geppetto. A carver of wood must watch his every cut and chip to keep his own head.<br />
<br />
Sweat glistened on the upper arm of his visitor, who was searching thoroughly through every cabinet and bin. The tattooed image of a Minotaur glistened on the man's bicep. The only image of the King permitted in the kingdom. Conrad, the Minotaur King. A burly man, the King, but more than that. The King was a<i> real </i>Minotaur. His bull head was enormous, and his long horns sharp. He had the temperament of a bull, but for all of that was cunning and wise.<br />
<br />
"Stephen, you search every week." ventured Geppetto. He had grown up with Stephen Smith, the third son of the town blacksmith. The man was alone this evening, and Geppetto risked talking to his childhood friend. "You know I make only toys and a few useful household tools. See, I have nothing with which to make a wooden man. Nothing so large as could not be fitted into the hand of a child."<br />
<br />
His gruff visitor glanced at a small bench at the back of the shop. "You have enough of those, Geppetto." he said, waving a hand at the carved figures littering the work bench. "True, they are small. Still, the King fears only one thing. The telling of the wandering witch woman, declaring that he would be conquered by an army of wooden men."<br />
<br />
"Those are but toys, Stephen." said Geppetto. "I make a lot of them because a toy army cannot be but one figure. I sell them by the half dozen or dozen. I keep them small like that to appeal to children, and to keep the order of the King. I make them of scrap from other work, and whittle them late in the evenings as I watch the stars appear."<br />
<br />
"I know, my friend." said Stephen. "And I still consider you my friend, even though the King frowns on his men fraternizing with the people. Were I not the third son, and a burden to my family, I would not have taken this job. There is only so much smith work available in the region, and I had to do something."<br />
<br />
"I understand, Stephen." said Geppetto. In the presence of other soldiers the man was quite gruff. It was expected, and Geppetto did not mind. "Come. Let us go get something to drink at the inn."<br />
<br />
"I would like to, Geppetto, but I cannot be seen with you." said his visitor. "It looks fine here. Keep to the rules, my friend." With that the King's man let himself out through the heavy door to the shop. Geppetto watched through the window as his old friend made his way down the street and out of sight. When he felt himself safe he closed the curtain and barred the door.<br />
<br />
He went to the bench at the back of the room and lined up the six finished soldiers. He made sure their paint was dry, and checked once again for any defects. The only thing missing was a bit of wood bored from the chest of each little man. That would be corrected, soon. From a box beneath the work bench he withdrew several little spikes of wood. Geppetto handled them respectfully.<br />
<br />
Into the waiting hole in the chest of each wooden soldier he pressed one of the precious little spikes. They had been formed with care, and pressed neatly into place. Each soldier was returned to his place in line once the final bit of the making was finished. Geppetto sat back and watched them, knowing what would happen.<br />
<br />
Each of the soldiers began to tremble, then convulse like little men suffering from some kind of seizure. They writhed on the bench for several minutes, and looked pitiful in their struggles. Eventually each one of them lay still. A few more minutes passed before they one by one got up and stood again in line.<br />
<br />
"Welcome, my little wooden friends." said Geppetto in a quiet voice. "I have placed a bit of wood from the magic tree into each of your hearts. Wood given me by the dryad, the Blue Lady. She called me one night while I sought good wood in the forest. She called me when the light of the first star of the night touched the tree that was her home.<br />
<br />
"She told me that Conrad the Minotaur King was an evil spirit, given flesh through the vile practices of his mother and her people." continued Geppetto. His little audience stood gazing at him. "He has troubled the good spirits of the woods, and they are being driven out. He must die, my little wooden soldiers. Go, join your brothers in the Cave of the Minotaur. Stay hidden, and stay safe. His annual sacrifice is only three months away. He will have to visit his cave again on that day, and be alone to offer the required blood of a virgin. There should be enough of you, by then."<br />
<br />
The little soldiers climbed down from the work bench and made their way to the back of the house. A cat's door allowed them to exit, and soon Geppetto was alone. He took down his precious wormwood cup, another gift of the Blue Lady, and filled it with rich wine from a dusty bottle. He took a sip, and then another. Then he got out a fresh piece of wood and began to whittle yet another soldier.<br />
<br />
Geppetto sat and drank and whittled for quite some time. He heard a sound behind him, but did not turn around. He continued to whittle. Gentle hands settled on his shoulders. He glanced at one, so pale and tinged with a blue light. Geppetto took up his cup and drank again.<br />
<br />
"They are almost ready, your little warriors." said a soft voice. "You do good work, Geppetto. Your deeds will be remembered for many generations, once the Minotaur King is dead."<br />
<br />
Geppetto drank again. The faint bitterness of the wormwood complemented the wine. Where had the vintage come from? He could not remember.<br />
<br />
"Come, Geppetto." said the soft voice. "Dryads have special rewards to offer their servants. Come."<br />
<br />
Geppetto smiled, and set aside his cup.Michael Lockridgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06748256055779697021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8570746411968593398.post-75797246198992769932011-09-24T15:42:00.000-07:002011-09-24T15:42:18.454-07:00Another Day at the Office-Thomas Whitman Moore stretched in his lounge chair and reached for his coffee. He savored the aroma for a moment and then took a sip. Excellent! The sun was just peeking above the wooded hills in the distance, lighting the broad valley below his deck. The sky was mostly clear, and a fabulous shade of blue. Though he had his newspaper folded on the table beside him, Thomas elected not to read.<br />
<br />
"News of war on such a fine morning would just put me off of my stride." he said to himself. Stretching again he stood from the lounge and took his cup into his house. It was not overly spacious, but he didn't mind. His was a single life. His work was challenging, even demanding. It involved most of his being when he was working. It also involved a lot of people working under stress. He enjoyed his little home in this quiet valley, far from the office.<br />
<br />
"Time to shower." he said out loud. He often spoke out loud here in his own space. And why not? He dropped off the cup in the dish washer and headed into the bathroom. Again not wanting to spoil his mood with news of war, he elected to not even turn on the radio he kept in the bathroom. He focused on shaving and showering and attending to a few other personal matters.<br />
<br />
Soon, in his warm robe, he made his way into the bedroom to change. He opened the closet and removed the clothing for the day. Though many different suits and quite a variety of casual outfits hung within, Tom took down the familiar uniform of the office. It was required, dressing like everyone else. With a sigh he donned the simple and rather uninteresting costume.<br />
<br />
It was time. He took one last look at the lovely day developing outside of his window, sighed, and headed for the front door. His front door was of oak, a wood polished to a deep shine and displaying the depth of the natural wood growth. It was one of his favorite design features on his home. It had cost him a lot of time and a bit of money, but it was worth it.<br />
<br />
Opening the door he stepped out into a hallway. It was wide and tall, and sadly utilitarian. The door across the hall opened just as he was locking his own. He looked that way and observed a dark cavern within. Deep in the dark recesses he could see raging flames of a sullen red cast. Out of the shadows stepped a creature at least nine feet tall, with dark red skin, tight over formidable muscles. The creature had two huge legs, four massive arms and a head that looked to be simultaneously insectile and reptilian.<br />
<br />
Tom waved and said, "Morning, Joe." The creature closed the door to his own living space and turned to Tom.<br />
<br />
"Morning, Tom." it said. Tom knew the creature was not named 'Joe,' but had chosen the name since nobody he associated with could pronounce his real name. "I really do plan to have you over for dinner, soon."<br />
<br />
"I would like that." said Tom. "I just think the temperatures are a bit extreme in your environment for me."<br />
<br />
Joe made a sound that was intended to represent laughter. It missed by a large degree, but was a valiant attempt. "I could always reduce the temperature, Tom. The flames are largely illusion. I would, however, have to contain my skin-cleaning symbioses. I am afraid they would scour the flesh from your bones. That would make for a less than pleasant evening."<br />
<br />
"Well, let's head for work." said Tom. "I didn't bother with the news this morning. Just not in the mood. How about you."<br />
<br />
"Just a quick briefing from the computer." said Joe as the two began walking down the hallway. "Pacification of the primary continent and major island chains is going well. Still a bit of resistance. We have a bit of work to do today, I am afraid."<br />
<br />
They reached the lift and stepped inside. "Gunnery deck seven." Tom said. The lift began to move.<br />
<br />
"Another day at the office, eh, Joe?" said Tom as the lift halted and the doors opened on the gunnery station. The planet lay below them, filling the view plates and dominating space on their side of the ship. They walked to their respective stations and prepared to begin the day's work.Michael Lockridgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06748256055779697021noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8570746411968593398.post-35085367721920912852011-03-26T12:58:00.000-07:002011-03-26T13:05:47.208-07:00Holyland-<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-Ae1WKjJRJiU/TY5Ds8GMm_I/AAAAAAAAJ_c/yknp70DH1T0/s1600/holyland01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-Ae1WKjJRJiU/TY5Ds8GMm_I/AAAAAAAAJ_c/yknp70DH1T0/s200/holyland01.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>Malcolm Jacobs could not remember how he had gotten here, wherever here might be. He looked around, and was not much informed by his surroundings. It seemed to be an alley way. Pretty clean. Just the back side of some buildings. An opening with a restroom sign above. Some guy in a white uniform sweeping up a bit of litter into one of those dust-pan-on-a-stick things. Some foot traffic on a street nearby.<br />
<br />
He shook his head and looked around again.<br />
<br />
"You alright, buddy?" said the guy in the white uniform. A janitor or something.<br />
<br />
"I think so." said Malcolm. "How did I get here?"<br />
<br />
"Same way most people do." said the janitor. "What do you remember?"<br />
<br />
"Driving late at night. Headlights. Blurring."<br />
<br />
"Yep. Heard that one a million times." said the janitor. "Actually, a million two hundred and seventeen, counting you. I do this a lot."<br />
<br />
Malcolm looked more closely at the man. Just a guy. Janitor. "What's this that you do?" he asked.<br />
<br />
"Greet new arrivals." said the janitor. "I'm Amos. The prophet Amos, to be exact. I wrote one of the books of the Bible. Did you read it, by any chance? The Book of Amos, Old Testament?"<br />
<br />
"Not that I recall." said Malcolm. "I mostly read the New Testament. Not as often as I felt I should have, but I was kind of busy."<br />
<br />
"Figures." said Amos with a sigh. "Doesn't matter that much, I guess. You got here. That's what is important."<br />
<br />
"Where is here?"<br />
<br />
"Oh, yeah." said Amos. "This is Heaven. You died. Traffic accident. Driving tired is dangerous, you know."<br />
<br />
"Apparently so." said Malcolm, looking around again. "It doesn't look like Heaven."<br />
<br />
"Been here before, have you?" asked Amos, smiling.<br />
<br />
"Well, no." admitted Malcolm. "But you know. Pearly gates, streets of gold."<br />
<br />
"Oh, we got those." said Amos. "Different section. It was a very popular arrival point for the Victorians. No, the Boss likes to ease some of the post-moderns into the program. I use this alley, since I do a lot of my work in this area."<br />
<br />
"The prophet Amos. Janitor?" asked Malcolm.<br />
<br />
"What can I say? I like to keep the place clean." said Amos. "Come on, let me show you around."<br />
<br />
He guided Malcolm out of the alley into a busy street. It looked a lot like most streets Malcolm had seen before on Earth. He mentioned that as Amos got him seated in a little utility vehicle parked near the alley.<br />
<br />
"Well, people bring bits of their old lives with them when they come to Heaven." said Amos. "Some people feel especially comfortable in this section. They spend a lot of time here. A lot of time. Eternity and all of that."<br />
<br />
Quite a few questions came to Malcolm's mind, but they got all bunched up and he decided to just wait and see what Amos had to show him. They drove down the street and turned left. Malcolm noticed a large hotel complex on the right and commented on it. "Looks restful."<br />
<br />
"Yes, it is quite restful." said Amos. "That section is reserved for the folks that believed in the doctrine of the Sleep of the Dead. They believed that they would remain asleep in the grave until Christ's return. That's not the actual case, but the Boss had that place set up to receive them. They snooze away, awaiting the trumpet and all of that."<br />
<br />
They turned down another road and Malcolm could see the streets of gold to his left. The Pearly Gates were just down at the end. There were quite a few people wandering around the street, admiring the gems and the glitter of the gold. "Victorians and some of the folk that got all into bling and such." said Amos, driving on by.<br />
<br />
They drove past a huge theater. "That looks like an IMAX theater." said Malcolm.<br />
<br />
"Yep. Story of Creation playing twenty four hours a day." said Amos. "Funny. Nobody got it right, so the Boss put that up to save time explaining. There is a coffee house around the corner where a lot of people gather to discuss the movie and their own theories they had while on Earth. Fun place, but I prefer it in small doses."<br />
<br />
They rolled on down a road that led to what looked like Beverley Hills only far better. Mansions, huge mansions, stood by the thousands along tree lined roads running off into the distance. The architecture ran the gamut of styles. It was magnificent and overwhelming.<br />
<br />
"Lot's of people expected those." said Amos. "The Boss actually meant 'rooms,' as in places to stay and do things, but the whole mansion as an edifice caught on and got so lodged in the minds of millions that the Boss ran with it. Of course, He foreknew all of that, but we don't want to open that particular can of worms right now. There's another coffee house dedicated to that whole 'predestination' thing."<br />
<br />
"Quite a few coffee houses here, I suppose?" asked Malcolm, thinking about the vast history of religious and philosophical discussion that attended human culture on Earth.<br />
<br />
"For sure." said Amos. "Of course if you are a serious scholar there is the Celestial Library. That's it down there. The big building made of crystal and other stuff. Shiny stuff. Lots of stone and wood and other materials, finely crafted by the best hands throughout history. Lot's of love in that building. I go there a lot. I even do some lectures now and then. That, and a lot of dusting."<br />
<br />
"If it's Heaven why is there any dust?"<br />
<br />
"Some people enjoy cleaning. Enough people cleaning so that the dust doesn't bother anyone who doesn't like it." said Amos.<br />
<br />
He pulled the little vehicle over to the side of the road, in front of a pleasant looking structure. "Here you go, Malcolm. Orientation center. I would love to stay and chat, but I have a concert I want to attend." He offered his hand and Malcolm shook it.<br />
<br />
"Will I see you again?" asked Malcolm.<br />
<br />
"Sure. As often as you like." said Amos. "They will explain how, inside. Don't worry about the forms. You only have to fill those out if you like that kind of thing. Gotta go, kid. See you around!"<br />
<br />
He pulled away into the light traffic. Malcolm looked around. All sorts of buildings, but it didn't seem crowded. Lots of people, too, but again no hurrying and no real crowds. A great many groups here and there, laughing and talking and often singing. The place seemed to go on forever.<br />
<br />
He turned toward the open door of the orientation center. The bunched up questions in his mind began to fall in line. There would be time to answer them all, Malcolm realized.<br />
<br />
Plenty of time for everything.Michael Lockridgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06748256055779697021noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8570746411968593398.post-7589377621966790922011-02-25T11:28:00.000-08:002011-02-25T11:28:42.943-08:00Knowledge Shall Make You Free-<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-5qimtMNZqME/TWgCvPe2H6I/AAAAAAAAJ-o/XnyivwT8uF0/s1600/school-zonejpg-5eed21bb82c8b8e7_large.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="134" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-5qimtMNZqME/TWgCvPe2H6I/AAAAAAAAJ-o/XnyivwT8uF0/s200/school-zonejpg-5eed21bb82c8b8e7_large.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>Robert Daily sat in the crowded assembly room. Everyone had gotten their uniforms, found their assigned bunks, and now were assembled to be addressed by the administration. This was a supposedly <i>alternative</i> jail for non-violent offenders. Chronic misdemeanants. Naughty boys.<br />
<br />
The man who stood at the podium did not look particularly impressive. When he began to speak Robert was not compelled to alter that first impression. By the second word the man was already boring. That boredom is what caused Robert to drop out of high school and led to his current lifestyle of periodic incarceration.<br />
<br />
"Gentlemen, if you would please quiet down." said the unimpressive man in the cheap suit. "Really. Please. I guess that is good enough. Welcome to the Big Mesa Institute for Alternative Incarceration. This won't take long, if you would all just quiet down."<br />
<br />
The man waited a moment. When it was obvious that he wouldn't go on and get this over with the noisy idiots in the back finally fell silent. "Thank you." said the man. "This is an educational institution, gentlemen. An experiment. You were flown here on helicopters for a reason. There is no road in or out of this place. Indeed, we are surrounded by cliffs on all sides."<br />
<br />
A screen lowered from the ceiling, and an image formed on the screen. A view from the air. Sure enough, the institute was built on a mesa surrounded by drops of hundreds of feet. The nearest adjacent mesa was quite a ways away. Much more than just a jump.<br />
<br />
"I will be leaving, soon." said the unimpressive man. "I am the only official remaining on the mesa. Everyone else is gone. Oh, except for my helicopter crew."<br />
<br />
Two men stepped out through a door behind the unimpressive man. They had automatic weapons. Pretty mean weapons from Robert's perspective. The man behind the podium became a lot more impressive, all of a sudden.<br />
<br />
"You have a lot of building materials here." said the rather impressive man. "And computers. Also, limited Internet access. Educational materials have been bookmarked on your computers to aid you in learning. You see, repeated incarcerations have been linked to a lack of education. We are providing you the resources to educate yourselves, and the motivation to do so.<br />
<br />
"Food and water will be air-dropped to you every week. For six months that volume of food and water will be constant. After that it will begin to diminish. We call this 'motivation.' Engineers have determined that we have provided you with the things you will need to safely get off of this mesa. Should you manage to get off of the mesa and return to society, you will be free. No further obligation to serve time. Your records will be clean.<br />
<br />
"Unlike the maximum security desert prison that is patterned something like this one, we won't be flying gun ships around and shooting anything that tries to escape. We <i>want</i> you to escape. Of course, you will have to learn some skills in order to do so. We have given you the tools. The rest is up to you."<br />
<br />
With that he turned and walked out through the door behind him. The men with guns followed him, and closed the door. The crowd of young men stood in stunned silence.<br />
<br />
Robert started to look around. "I think I need a study partner." he muttered. "Preferably a really <i>big</i> study partner." Suddenly an education seemed like a very valuable commodity. A commodity in uncomfortably short supply. School had seemed like prison. Now prison had become a school.<br />
<br />
He was pleased that at least he had learned enough in school to recognize irony.Michael Lockridgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06748256055779697021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8570746411968593398.post-34936934746365565252010-12-08T10:13:00.000-08:002010-12-08T10:13:58.096-08:00Cotton Candy World-<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DvUExrPeRT0/TNzAMNyT6rI/AAAAAAAAJ9Q/VJaHH60i404/s1600/DeathByCottonCandy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="143" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DvUExrPeRT0/TNzAMNyT6rI/AAAAAAAAJ9Q/VJaHH60i404/s200/DeathByCottonCandy.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>Thomas Horton Henderson III was a man proud of his heritage. A fifth generation confectioner and purveyor of sweets and treats to the people of the venerable town of Boston, Massachusetts. His father had retired some years ago, leaving the family business to Thomas and his brother William.<br />
<br />
Thomas continued to run the family storefront business. William had studied science, with advanced degrees in chemistry and food science. They both held positions on the board of directors of the major corporation, but preferred the hands-on of making candy and other treats to simply the management of a business. Others were better suited to those tasks and had been brought on-board for that purpose.<br />
<br />
This day in the store should have been a day like any other. Thomas liked to arrive early and get things started. He always began with warming the kettle corn kettle, and then got the cotton candy machine going. It was the original machine, purchased in the distant past by a previous Henderson and in constant operation since. It required a bit of tinkering these days to keep it going, but Thomas didn't mind.<br />
<br />
At least he didn't until this morning. He started the machine, and it seemed to be running fine. He made up the morning batch of cotton candy, and hung the finished cones of sugary goodness up to be bagged and made ready for sale. After all, a business called <i>Cotton Candy World </i>had to have cotton candy to sell. Everything seemed fine until he determined that he was done spinning the magical confection and tried to turn off the machine.<br />
<br />
He flipped the switch. It kept spinning. He flipped it on, then off. It kept spinning. It was nearly out of sugar, but the cloudy substance kept spinning out into the big bowl. He started collecting the spinnings onto cones as he contemplated what to do. He had quite an addition to the morning's scheduled production before he noticed that the cotton did not appear much like candy.<br />
<br />
Thomas examined the most recent cotton candy cone. The spun material had a metallic sheen. He pulled at it and found it felt like metal. He leaned over and examined the central unit where spinning took place. There was obvious erosion to the metal components. He could hear the internal parts, such as there were, grinding a bit.<br />
<br />
"Perhaps the old girl is going to cash it in. Buy the farm. This may be the end." he muttered as he played with the switch again. Nothing. It kept spinning. Then a horrible screech, and the sound of mechanical parts rending themselves into scrap. He looked into the bowl. The spinning was still going on.<br />
<br />
Grabbing another paper cone, Thomas gathered some of the most recent product. Other metals and plastic were spun into the cotton fibers around the cone. He was perplexed, going on frightened.<br />
<br />
"Time to call William." he said aloud to himself. He did so. "William? Yes, Thomas. There's something wrong with the cotton candy machine. Yes, I know I have repaired it for decades. This is strange. Something is really, really wrong. Can you come over?"<br />
<br />
Thomas continued to gather the spinnings from the machine that continued to work in spite of no longer having any works to work with. The mess of broken bits at the center of the machine continued to erode as the vortex grew to consume them. A half hour later William arrived.<br />
<br />
William examined the spinnings that were definitely not cotton candy. They were cotton steel and cotton copper, a bit of cotton Bakelite from the older components and some cotton plastic and rubber from the newer replacement bits that had been added over time. He looked into the bowl and watched the spinning vortex in the middle. He played with the switch.<br />
<br />
"Did you try unplugging it?" he asked. Thomas looked sheepish and did so. The vortex continued to spin.<br />
<br />
The two brothers sat near the machine, thinking and wondering what to do with the strange thing sitting in the middle of the room. Employees arrived and were apprised of the situation. Thomas decided that the store would open, but for the first time in decades the <i>Cotton Candy World </i>would not be selling cotton candy.<br />
<br />
If any metal or other contaminants had entered into the cotton candy made that day it could be a huge liability to the business. No, there would be no cotton candy this day. The store opened and went about normal business, working around the brothers and their strange anomaly sitting in the back room.<br />
<br />
"We need to move it, while it is small." Thomas said.<br />
<br />
"How?"<br />
<br />
More thinking, then some phone calls. A dump truck full of sand arrived at the rear loading dock. The brothers and the truck driver, a friend named Mack Elroy, loaded the anomaly into the back of the truck and nested it into the sand. The three men drove the spinning vortex out to an old quarry, parking the truck in an isolated area. They then sat on the sides of the dump bed and watched the spinning vortex continue to expand and consume the metal bowl. The vortex was now eight inches across.<br />
<br />
Periodically Thomas would use some of the paper cones he had brought with him to sweep the spun metal from the eroding bowl away from the vortex. He didn't know if it was necessary, but it gave him something to do.<br />
<br />
"What could we do with this?" William asked. "It seems like it could be useful, but we don't really know much about it."<br />
<br />
"It would be great for processing scrap metal." said Mack. "Or used for demolition. Or processing recyclable materials that could be spun out and made into thread or yarn."<br />
<br />
"I wonder if it could be some kind of energy source?" speculated William. "Can we contain it?"<br />
<br />
"Maybe we should just dump it out, bury it and walk away." Thomas mumbled. He didn't like the responsibility. He didn't like the impact it was having on his day. He cherished the regularity of running the shop.<br />
<br />
"I don't think that would work." said William. "That probably wouldn't stop it, and eventually it would get big and be out of control. Not that we control it right now." He looked at the vortex slowly spinning out the metal of the cotton candy machine's big bowl. William began punching keys on his calculator.<br />
<br />
"There's got to be some way to make money with this thing." said Mack. "What happens when it finishes spinning out the bowl and gets to the sand?"<br />
<br />
He and Thomas contemplated that idea, as William continued to calculate. Finally Mack felt the need to do <i>something.</i> He grabbed the shovel that was part of the trucks kit and began shoveling sand into the bowl.<br />
<br />
"Hey, stop that!" said Thomas. Mack continued.<br />
<br />
"Actually, that may be a good idea." said William, looking up from his calculator. "That way it will work mostly on the sand, leaving the bowl intact to contain the spinnings. I don't think it can hurt anything to add some sand."<br />
<br />
Thomas shrugged, then reached out with one of his paper cones and began gathering the spun sand. "Looks a bit like fiberglass. More brittle, but similar."<br />
<br />
"Got it." said William. "Good news first. If it progresses in a linear fashion, it will probably remain within the bowl as long as we feed it and pull off the spinnings."<br />
<br />
"That will give us time to figure out how to make some money with it." Mack said. "I would hate to just have to give it over to the government. No profit in that, and who knows what they would do with it."<br />
<br />
Thomas used another paper cone to begin collecting more spun sand. The first cone he had tossed over the side of the truck. "What's the bad news?" he asked.<br />
<br />
"Well, if the progression is non-linear, we have no idea how much time we have." William answered. "However, ultimately it would be a big problem. <i>Cotton Candy World</i> would be more than the name of a business."<br />
<br />
Thomas sighed, threw the paper cone of spun sand away, and started on another one. "Having the fate of the world in my hands is a bit more than I had planned for when I opened up the shop this morning." he said, turning the paper cone slowly at the edge of the vortex.<br />
<br />
A confectioner's life shouldn't be so hard.Michael Lockridgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06748256055779697021noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8570746411968593398.post-22654606315278003522010-11-11T19:58:00.000-08:002010-11-11T19:58:50.777-08:00The Survival Minimalist-Jackson Quill was not an ambitious man. He wasn't a strong thinker. He was just a guy who tried his best to get by. He hadn't been one of those who planned and put things aside and got ready for the collapse of society. Survivalists were inherently paranoid, resourceful, and willing to work hard preparing for what might well not happen.<br />
<br />
It happened, and it caught Jackson a bit short. Indeed, he had made only one preparation for the apocalypse, and had not even exercised that option. Not yet.<br />
<br />
The first weeks weren't hard. Scavenging the stores for what he needed, keeping on the move, maintaining a low profile as he moved out from the town to more rural surroundings. He had an idea where he would go. He was aware of one of those extreme survivalists out there, living alone and probably snickering in his sleeve about being right.<br />
<br />
A lot of people died those first weeks. The haves, as in those who had guns, were killing off scavengers and each other. Jackson figured the ones that thought bigger than "have lot's of guns" would be the eventual winners. They would eventually become the leaders of feudal colonies. The few who had cultivated anachronistic skills would find themselves valuable craftsmen. The rest would be surfs, peons, even slaves.<br />
<br />
Jackson had another plan. His one provision. He was almost there, and would put his plan into action. It was pretty much a one shot option. He would succeed, or he would die. It seemed fair to him.<br />
<br />
His target was ahead, a carefully built compound held by a retired gentleman with some funds and a hobby of preparing for the end of civilization. Jackson move to the edge of the clearing around the compound and found himself a suitable stick.<br />
<br />
To the stick he attached a large white handkerchief, which he immediately began waving as he stood and stepped out from the cover of the brush. He tried to look dumb, desperate and innocent. Two of those were close to the mark, so it wasn't a big stretch.<br />
<br />
"Come forward and talk." he heard from a high point ahead. A glint at the corner of one building indicated a likely location of his hoped-for benefactor, looking through a rifle scope. Jackson tried to be unafraid, but the prospect of a high velocity round passing through his head made the hair on the back of his neck stand up.<br />
<br />
He moved forward, hands in the air, and waited.<br />
<br />
"What do you want?" came the voice from the building. Jackson assessed the perimeter fence ahead, noting that it was serviceable for defense of the small compound. The high point on the building was not bad, but covering the whole compound with only one gunman was not possible.<br />
<br />
"I want to serve you." said Jackson. "You need hands to help. You can't be watching for invaders and do the work necessary around your place all at the same time. I am tired of running and hiding. I want to serve you."<br />
<br />
There was silence for a time. "Come forward to the gate." Jackson sighed in relief. This might just work.<br />
<br />
He waited several minutes in front of the formidable gate. Iron and heavy wood, not impervious to explosives but still formidable in most foreseeable scenarios. The gate slowly opened. A voice from within called out, "Come in."<br />
<br />
Jackson stepped through. His benefactor stood a couple of yards away, a large caliber hand gun trained on Jackson. It was steady in the man's hand, and Jackson figured he practiced quite a bit with the deadly thing.<br />
<br />
"Turn around and bar the gate." the man said. Jackson did so, noting that they were in a sally port. Behind the man was the inner gate, a large affair in which a smaller door was hung. Having barred the gate, Jackson stood where he was with his benefactor at his back. He held his hands high and sought a quiet frame of mind. It was hard to find.<br />
<br />
He could hear the man approach and felt the one hand carefully begin patting him down. He checked carefully, wrists and arms and legs and ankles. He patted every pocket, checked the tops of shoes and socks, and gave his crotch a nudge or two with his one hand. Jackson noted that the other hand probably held the gun close to his kidney. The gun did not touch him, which raised Jackson's estimate of this man a bit.<br />
<br />
Not knowing just where the gun might be prevented Jackson from confidently spinning and blocking the weapon as he might fight for control of the deadly thing. Not that Jackson even considered that idea. Such a move would be dangerous and require some combat skill. Still, the man knew better than to touch him with the weapon during the search.<br />
<br />
"Not even a pocket knife." the man said. "I guess you are safe enough. Let's go inside and discuss our situation."<br />
<br />
When the man stepped around in front of Jackson he had already holstered the weapon. "Put your hands down, and follow me." The man stepped toward the door in the inner gate, pulling a ring of keys from a pocket and sorting through them. He was just reaching for the lock when the shot rang out. He probably didn't hear it, since most of his head was now painted on the inner gate.<br />
<br />
Jackson kept the two-shot derringer pointed at the man as he collapsed in front of the inner gate. Leaning forward he put the second round through the man's heart, even though the level of damage to his head was probably sufficient to insure he was already dead. Jackson scooped up the man's handgun and the keys, and opened the inner gate.<br />
<br />
The rifle he had expected was leaning against the wall just inside. Jackson locked up the gate, leaving the body where it lay. He figured it would serve as an object lesson when petitioners came to seek service in his compound. He picked up the rifle and hung it by the sling over his shoulder.<br />
<br />
His compound. Minimalist survival-ism seemed to be working. He had planted that little .44 derringer behind his belt buckle a long time ago, figuring to simply take the wealth of some more enterprising survivalist if the need should arrive. Need had arrived, opportunity presented itself, and now he was indeed wealthy.<br />
<br />
Jackson kept his handgun ready, just in case. He had followed this guy and several other locals on the Internet, watching them share and develop plans to create safe compounds against the eventual fall of modern society. Jackson knew that this guy was alone and a loner, and so there was probably nobody else here. Still, he proceeded with caution.<br />
<br />
As he explored his new home Jackson reviewed the recent events. He wanted to get to a vantage point, soon, after learning his way around. He had to watch for invaders, and potential servants to help run his little kingdom.<br />
<br />
"One thing is sure," he mumbled as he continued his exploration. "Anyone I let in gets strip searched. I can't be the only one with this idea."Michael Lockridgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06748256055779697021noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8570746411968593398.post-15940641121338893292010-11-05T14:02:00.000-07:002010-11-05T14:02:40.330-07:00Bitter Green, revisited-It was several years ago I learned the tale I am about to tell. The song, "Bitter Green," comes to mind whenever I think on what I learned that day. This is a true tale, a tale gleaned from one of my many journeys in distant lands. I am in the habit of occasionally making my way to a land far away, and taking a walking tour of the rural lands there abouts.<br />
<br />
On this day I happened into a little country tavern in the late afternoon. Time for some refreshment, but enough day left for my strong legs to cover some more miles before finding a bed. This was an old land, a land that remembers the times when men made their way from place to place on their own two legs. Villages and taverns and hostels abound in that land, and it is one of my favorites for walking tours.<br />
<br />
Besides the barkeeper there was but one man in the place. He had been in his cups for a bit, I could tell, and I thought he might be open to talking. I liked to learn something of the lands through which I traveled. I purchased two pints of whatever he was drinking, carried them to the table, and asked if I might sit down. He eyed me with an obvious distrust of strangers, not uncommon in rural lands. He eyed the pint I offered with considerable warmth, however, and welcomed us to join him.<br />
<br />
His previous pints and the one I added didn't open him up much. I learned something about the local apple industry. Growing apples and making apple related products is apparently just a way to stay mere inches above abject poverty. I was about finished with my own refreshment and contemplating departure when another local gentleman entered the tavern.<br />
<br />
As he entered he walked slowly by an old coat hanging on a peg on the wall. I had noticed this coat when I came in. It was heavy, dark blue in color, and of an old military cut. The man passed a hand along one sleeve, then stepped up to the bar and ordered a pint. He stood at the bar, sipping contemplatively at his brew and glancing occasionally at the old coat.<br />
<br />
My reticent rural friend sat in his usual silence, watching me glancing at the coat and the man at the bar. I turned to him and drew a breath to speak. He waved me to silence. "I will tell you about it, later." he said in a low voice, and took a pull from his pint. I remained silent, and did the same with my own pint.<br />
<br />
Soon the man at the bar finished his pint. He turned to the old coat, took it down and put it on. As he turned toward the door he noticed me and my silent host. He nodded to the man with whom I was sitting, gave me a puzzled look, and exited the tavern.<br />
<br />
My host drained his glass and said, "Follow me." I finished my own pint quickly and followed. He turned to the left as we exited the tavern, no question as to which direction to travel. The man in the old coat was far ahead, walking toward the edge of the small town and the orchards in the distance. Apple orchards.<br />
<br />
I attempted a few questions directed at my companion. He waved them off, and continued to walk in silence. His eyes were on the other man. I could not read the emotion there. His feelings seemed to be complex and jumbled. I continued to walk by his side, growing more and more intrigued by the mystery of the coat.<br />
<br />
As we rounded the corner I saw a young woman sitting on a stone fence. She was staring down the lane, gazing off into the distance. The man in the coat drew along side her and said something. My host halted, and so did I. The young woman jumped up and embraced the man in the coat as if he were long missing and only now returned. He kissed her, gently, and taking her on his arm walked her down a path into one of the orchards.<br />
<br />
My host gazed at them as they walked, watching until they vanished into the trees. He then sighed, and turned to me. He glanced around, making sure we were alone.<br />
<br />
"I must tell someone." he said, as much to himself as to me. "You are a stranger, and soon gone. I shall tell you. The coat is shared among several of us farmers and merchants here abouts. Along with the coat we share a small cottage, it's contents and the responsibilities associated."<br />
<br />
He sighed again. "We also share the young lady." he whispered. In a louder voice he continued. "She was to marry a rich man from a neighboring community. He had pledge his troth, and then been called away to some military duty. She last saw him in a coat like ours. The news of his death overwhelmed her, and broke her mind. Day and night she sat where you saw her sitting, awaiting his return."<br />
<br />
"Several of us recognized her madness, and came up with a plan to aid her. Her health was suffering, and she did not respond to the attempts of the women folk to care for her. She was wasting away. I don't recall who came up with the old coat, but one of the men donned the garment and approached her where she sat. She responded warmly, and he took advantage of the situation."<br />
<br />
I was appalled. It must have showed on my face. The man shrugged and appeared to have a sense of guilt. Well he should, to my way of thinking.<br />
<br />
"Aye, he took advantage of her." he went on. "The sense of guilt was heavy, and he shared it with a friend. So arose the plan we continue with today. He brought in other men. Men who loved their wives, but found the spark of old passion had grown cold. Men who could appreciate the opportunity."<br />
<br />
"Yes, we took advantage of her and her madness. We also provided her with a cottage, and food, and clothing. She wants for nothing. None of us could have afforded this, alone. Together we can provide for her in her disabling madness, as none of us could have done alone. The shared cost goes unnoticed by our wives and their friends."<br />
<br />
"Your wives do not know?" I asked.<br />
<br />
"They do and they do not, if you take my meaning." he replied.<br />
<br />
"This arrangement troubles you, or you would not have felt compelled to share it." I said. "Even with a stranger. Why continue to take advantage? Why not simply take care of her, as a charity?"<br />
<br />
"It occurs to each of us, from time to time." he replied. His gaze was again directed through the trees. I presumed the cottage was in that direction. "But you know not what it is like. My wife has been loving and devoted, and I cherish her. Still, never has she displayed the passion that I find in those arms of madness. It is not a thing easy to give up. I don't know that I can."<br />
<br />
I looked at him, first in judgement, then in pity. I was overwhelmed by the complexity of the human heart, and the things it drives humans to do. I, too, stared through the trees toward the infamous cottage of stolen love, madness and assumed responsibility. Complex, indeed.<br />
<br />
I clasped the man on the shoulder for a moment, then turned from him and continued on my journey through the country. I did not look back as I walked away, but I have looked back often at the memory of that time.<br />
<br />
Especially whenever I hear the song, "Bitter Green."Michael Lockridgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06748256055779697021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8570746411968593398.post-85127675747470702742010-10-23T10:25:00.000-07:002010-10-23T10:25:58.932-07:00Three Inch Philosophy-<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DvUExrPeRT0/TMMZgGfGbII/AAAAAAAAJ9I/Ml2d-FmXivw/s1600/ucsc_banana_slug.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DvUExrPeRT0/TMMZgGfGbII/AAAAAAAAJ9I/Ml2d-FmXivw/s200/ucsc_banana_slug.jpg" width="166" /></a></div>Gastro was self-aware, and self-aware enough to know he was not <i>supposed </i>to be self-aware. Well, <i>supposed to</i> might not be quite right, or so he thought as he moved along in his sluggish manner. Sluggish in the most literal sense. Gastro was aware that he was a gastropod, a relatively common slug. Specifically, he was a Banana Slug. He wasn't sure quite what a banana might be, though he suspected that he might well have come into contact with a banana here or there in his constant feeding forays.<br />
<br />
It was on such a foray Gastro was currently schlumphing along. Schlumphing is not a particularly rapid mode of transportation, something you would know if you had spent any time watching a snail or slug progress across any surface. If you have ever spent more than a few minutes watching such progress you are probably either a scientist or a stoner. Nobody else has the patience or that level of interest in the movement of gastropods<br />
<br />
Gastro was progressing, albeit slowly, toward a field in which people often walked their dogs for the purpose of exercising and emptying the dogs. Gastro had discovered that the molds that grew on the doggie doo-doo was particularly tasty, and worth the time and effort to travel to the field.<br />
<br />
Additionally, it gave him time to think while doing something useful. As he often did, he reviewed the time when he became self-aware. It had happened in an abandoned house, as he crawled across some things he later identified as books. When he had entered the decaying domicile he had been blissfully unaware of his own existence. Some event, or series of events, in that place was responsible for his transformation.<br />
<br />
While negotiating a new gopher mound he recalled the delicious new mold he had found on the surface of what he later learned was a book. It happened to have fallen to the ground, and fallen open to an entry on "gastropods." Consuming the mold had caused immediate changes as he crossed and recrossed the image on the page and the words related to the image.<br />
<br />
At first he thought it was the delicious flavor of the mold that compelled him to keep feeding on the book. Eventually he recognized that he was also <i>feeding</i> on the words printed on the page. Eventually he moved on to other books that littered the floor. He grew rapidly over the following days, and changes took place inside of him. After all, the brain of a gastropod was not quite the thing needed when it comes to thinking.<br />
<br />
Unable to physically examine his own physiological changes, Gastro speculated that he had somehow co-opted other parts of his body for use in the process of thinking and storing information. This mode of thinking brought Gastro to consider himself a philosopher rather than a scientist. Scientists have rules and procedures to guide their thinking. Philosophers are not so constrained. Philosophy seemed to suit his particular condition better than science, so he contemplated in three-inch chunks of thought.<br />
<br />
Yes, it was probably the mold in some peculiar combination with diverse bacteria that had caused him to change. It was only chance that caused this particular combination to occur on a book just so situated as to impart the necessary nutrients, mutagens, and information to make a slug self-aware. That, or divine providence. Gastro was not willing to discount the idea of a God who intervened in slug affairs.<br />
<br />
He was just beginning to entertain that particular line of reasoning when he came upon his target. Oh, yes! It was a particularly abundant deposit of doggie waste material, still moist and sporting a delightful coat of growing molds. From his sluggish perspective it was a mountain of deliciousness. He set-to immediately, and slowly worked his way over the convoluted mass of excrement. It was gastronomic heaven!<br />
<br />
"Hey, Jon! I found another one!" shouted Jimmy. "That's thirty or so. I'll put him in the pile."<br />
<br />
"OK." said another voice, presumably Jon.<br />
<br />
Gastro felt himself whisked into the air and shortly deposited in a slimy pile of soft bodies. <i>Stupid human children,</i> thought Gastro. He was self-aware enough and sufficiently informed regarding gastropod sexuality to know that these boys had unwittingly initiated an orgy of genetic exchange. A thought occurred to Gastro, and he began working his way purposefully through the pile of soft bodies. If his physiological changes were transferable, he would endeavor to pass on his new intellectualism to as many slugs as he could.<br />
<br />
Visions of world domination inspired Gastro as he worked among the lesser slugs. Given time, who might guess what gastropods made self-aware might accomplish! Elimination of these humans would be only one small item on a list of potential glories!<br />
<br />
"I think that this is enough, Jon." shouted Jimmy. "Go get the salt."<br />
<br />
<i>Oh, oh!</i>Michael Lockridgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06748256055779697021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8570746411968593398.post-7378204532988164562010-10-21T18:04:00.000-07:002010-10-21T18:04:00.784-07:00Of Humble Vegetables and Pompous Regals-<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DvUExrPeRT0/TMDiAPAr_cI/AAAAAAAAJ9E/e9xSy---1Nk/s1600/9481-cabbage-eye_w.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="148" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DvUExrPeRT0/TMDiAPAr_cI/AAAAAAAAJ9E/e9xSy---1Nk/s200/9481-cabbage-eye_w.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>Philip K. Chesterton sat in his favorite pub, pulling contemplatively on a pint of ale. His long-time companion in this pastime and (several times removed) cousin Ralph Chesterton sat with him at the bar, sipping on a Bud Light. The pub itself was endeavoring to appear dark and oaken and at least vaguely British, generally only succeeding in the dark element of the illusion.<br />
<br />
"You ought to at least try a real beer." mumbled Philip. "That crap is made of rice. Light beer is generally offensive on so many levels I can't even begin my usual tirade. This amber ale I am drinking has body, is full in flavor, and has a malty finish."<br />
<br />
"You always pick on my choice of beers whenever you get bitchy after that writer's meeting you go to." Ralph said. "Why do you even keep trying at that word slinging? What kind of literary bur did they put under your saddle this time?"<br />
<br />
"I have to write a story about cabbages." replied Philip. "Lowly cabbages. It's like trying to rhyme something with the word 'orange.'" Philip waved two fingers at the bartender, who promptly delivered two pints and collected far too much money for them. The pseudo-intellectual pub atmosphere barely made the inflated prices of tapped beer worthwhile to the aspiring word-smith.<br />
<br />
Ralph stared blankly into space for a time, then shook his head, finished his pint and started in on the new one. "Orange. Hmph."<br />
<br />
"Lewis Carroll commented on cabbages, briefly." said Philip. "'Let us talk of other things.' You know. Cabbages and kings." Ralph grunted, so Philip went on. "Kings, of course, are the pinnacle of social order. Cabbages are common and not much thought of. The phrase refers to a broad range of topics for conversation."<br />
<br />
"We're in a bar." said Ralph. "We should be talking about women, sports, guns and beer. At least talk about hops and barley."<br />
<br />
"Your beer is mostly rice." said Philip. "That being said, I am quite fond of all of those subjects. However, it is on cabbages I must think."<br />
<br />
"Is there any liquor made from cabbages?" asked Ralph.<br />
<br />
"Not that I know of." Philip replied. "I remember something in a role playing game, but that may have just been made up stuff."<br />
<br />
"You are a geek." said Ralph. "You may even be gay. Does your wife know you are gay? Why do I even hang out with you?"<br />
<br />
"Because I pay for your poor excuse for a beer."<br />
<br />
"Oh, yeah. Thanks."<br />
<br />
Philip took a sip from his amber ale, relishing it's complexity and the lack of rice in the making of the lovely brew. Ralph threw back the second half of his pint of Bud Light, relishing the beer buzz and the fact that it was truly less filling.<br />
<br />
"I recall something by Alton Brown on cabbage." Philip said. "You know, the food science guy. Humans have been eating this plant in one form of another for centuries. It has been cultivated, bred, and made better over thousands of years, yet is common enough to be the symbol of commonality."<br />
<br />
Philip noticed that Ralph had killed his pint, and ordered two more.<br />
<br />
"Cooked properly, it is tasty and extremely nutritious. Cooked poorly and the stink reeks of functional poverty and lousy culinary skills." Philip continued. "It is sometimes fermented or pickled for preservation. Recipes for such forms are common in a vast number of cultures."<br />
<br />
Ralph stared into his beer, not even being sure where polite grunts were appropriate. Suddenly, he lit up with a rare idea.<br />
<br />
"Hey, Phil. You can write a story of somebody <i>talking</i> about cabbages. That way you could get your story done, and then we could talk about something <i>interesting. </i>You know, like that hot cousin of ours that is so far removed that the cousin thing doesn't matter. I think she is even legal, by now."<br />
<br />
"You mean like that Short Story Guy on the Internet does when he gets stuck?" said Philip. "That would be just lame. I'll think about it, though, just the same. Now, which cousin are we talking about?"<br />
<br />
Ralph regaled him with his lustful description of the barely legal and hardly related vision, while Philip sipped on his ale and contemplated the impact of inbreeding in isolated populations on human evolution. With enough time, it seemed to him, cabbages <i>could </i>be kings.<br />
<br />
Slowly, a story formed in his fertile mind.Michael Lockridgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06748256055779697021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8570746411968593398.post-18922645120444843882010-09-01T19:33:00.000-07:002010-09-01T19:33:11.370-07:00Nook and Joseph Conrad-<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DvUExrPeRT0/TH8LSyS5fkI/AAAAAAAAJ74/u3iNDFNxYS4/s1600/Sailing-Ships.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="148" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DvUExrPeRT0/TH8LSyS5fkI/AAAAAAAAJ74/u3iNDFNxYS4/s200/Sailing-Ships.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>I have never read anything by <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Joseph_Conrad">Joseph Conrad</a> until today. Thanks to my <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nook">nook</a>, I now have. Barnes and Noble offers free books to read with their ereader. I have the reader software on this computer, and recently got a Nook ereader machine. I had finished a free <a href="http://search.barnesandnoble.com/books/e/9781428508903/?cds2Pid=29905">novel</a> recently and was looking through my growing library of free books resident in my Nook for something new to read.<br />
<br />
<i>Heart of Darkness </i>by Joseph Conrad looked interesting. It was just the sort of thing I <i>wouldn't </i>have gone looking for. Hence, a likely new reading experience. <i>Heart of Darkness</i> is in itself a novella by Conrad. It is also a sequel to the short story <i>Youth </i>which was included in the book titled <i>Heart of Darkness <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">along with the novella itself and several other short stories</span>.</i> It is <i>Youth</i> that I read today. It is a nautical tale set in the era during which the world transitioned from commercial sailing vessels powered by wind to steam powered ships of commerce.<br />
<br />
<i>Youth </i>reminded me of the black and white movies I viewed on television in my childhood. Not all of them were black and white, of course. My own youth began in 1953 and continued for quite a number of years from then. Our television was always a black and white. My parents did not get a color set until after I left home. So, my childhood movie experiences were almost exclusively in black and white.<br />
<br />
Those movies were filled with tramp steamers heading to exotic ports all over the world. Adventure had to sought via that mode of transportation most of the time. It was an image familiar to me. So, Conrad's pregnant prose brought forth offspring of vivid images in my mind. He proved to be a most capable writer.<br />
<br />
The biographical information in the introductory portion of the book proved interesting as a precursor to the first tale. Conrad tapped into the memories of a twenty year career at sea, as well as experiences in distant and exotic ports. Experiences in ports less seemly and exotic, as well.<br />
<br />
Having read <i>Youth </i>I am prepared to move on to <i>Heart of Darkness. </i>More than a high seas adventure, this novella explores the depths to which humans can sink in the quest of wealth at the expense of other peoples. It is a tale taking place in an era of imperialism and economic expansion. It exposes, to a degree, the underbelly of the wealthy nations of the world at the end of the nineteenth century as they<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Leopold_II_of_Belgium"> pillaged</a> the then dark continent of Africa.<br />
<br />
Exposes, but does not necessarily condemn. Conrad was not possessed of sufficient wealth of his own to risk offending his readers, many of whom supported and benefited from the system of Empire. His works have been recognized as great works, often studied and analyzed. Sometimes over-analyzed, and apparently due for additional analysis from a post-modern perspective.<br />
<br />
I suppose Conrad wouldn't mind. Of greatest importance to him, I suspect, was a sufficient income to finally overcome his debts and to live out his later years in comfort. That, and he no longer had to get his bread by going to sea.<br />
<br />
I wonder what he would think of contemporary television programing like <i><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Deadliest_catch">Deadliest Catch</a></i>?<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DvUExrPeRT0/TH8LALkoF1I/AAAAAAAAJ7w/mHE8heUnjGs/s1600/nook-0.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DvUExrPeRT0/TH8LALkoF1I/AAAAAAAAJ7w/mHE8heUnjGs/s200/nook-0.jpeg" width="168" /></a></div>My Nook shall provide me with a wealth of similar reading experiences. Free books and a whole library I can carry with me just about everywhere makes expanding my reading horizons that much easier. Love my Nook.Michael Lockridgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06748256055779697021noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8570746411968593398.post-39512872818250074312010-08-30T11:07:00.000-07:002010-08-30T11:07:41.509-07:00Blatherspider<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DvUExrPeRT0/THvzBMTv-RI/AAAAAAAAJ7g/Avem3o84OCk/s1600/spider.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DvUExrPeRT0/THvzBMTv-RI/AAAAAAAAJ7g/Avem3o84OCk/s200/spider.jpg" width="187" /></a></div>Mel Patterson felt the love of Jesus. He had been saved for eight months, and he felt the love of Jesus every day. It was glorious, and Mel wanted to share it with everyone. That's the way it was with the love of Jesus. It was the love of Jesus that brought Mel to the Sunshine Home that very morning.<br />
<br />
Mel knew that showing the love of Jesus through good works was how he could express that love and maybe bring others to Jesus. He knew that old people had many needs, and his general lack of experience in the world was not an obstacle in finding good works to do for them. At seventeen years of age Mel was quite aware of his lack of useful skills. However, he could do little tasks, useful tasks. And, he could listen.<br />
<br />
Moving up the steps of the Sunshine Home Mel spotted an old man sitting on the porch. The old man had claimed a nice spot of morning sunshine, and appeared to be planning to make a day of it. He looked surprisingly like the old man character in the movie "UP."<br />
<br />
"Quit staring, boy." said the old man. "I am not Ed Asner, or his damned cartoon character."<br />
<br />
Mel halted in his ascent of the stairs, goggling at the old man and wondering if he was psychic.<br />
<br />
"I don't have to be psychic to know what people think, boy." the old man said. "I've been around, that's all. I've seen everything. Twice. I wouldn't go in there, if I were you."<br />
<br />
"Uh, why not?" Mel asked.<br />
<br />
"Blatherspider." said the old man.<br />
<br />
"Huh?"<br />
<br />
"Education hasn't improved much in the past eighty years." mumbled the old man. "Blatherspider." he said more loudly. "Talks excessively. Lays in wait for any pair of ears. Hunts for sympathy. Tells the same stories over and over. Not interesting stories, either. The Blatherspider will drain the life from you, boy."<br />
<br />
Mel smiled. "Are you talking about one of the ladies living here?"<br />
<br />
"Ladies?" queried the old man. "Oh, most of them will talk your ear off as well. Nothing like the Blatherspider, however. The ladies don't cast an invisible web over you, binding you to your fate. No, she may look like a lady, but she's a spider. A Blatherspider."<br />
<br />
"I guess I will just have to take my chances." said Mel. "For Jesus sake."<br />
<br />
"Better pray to that Jesus of yours, boy. Pray for strength to endure."<br />
<br />
Mel smiled and nodded his head as he walked past the old man and began to open the door to the Sunshine Home.<br />
<br />
"Oh, and if you survive would you bring me a lemonade?" said the old man.<br />
<br />
"I would be happy to, Sir." said Mel, as he stepped inside.<br />
<br />
His eyes adjusted to the gloom. It seemed a bit darker inside than he had expected. Looking about he saw nobody in the large guest lobby. Then he detected a shift in a distant corner. Something small and white. A face came up out of the gloom. It was a lady.<br />
<br />
Her eyes locked on him from the depths of coke bottle glasses. She smiled and gestured toward him. "Come in, young man. Come in!"<br />
<br />
He moved toward her, a growing trepidation waring within him with the love of Jesus. He reminded himself of why he was here. Putting on a smile of his own he moved more resolutely toward her in her dark corner.<br />
<br />
"Good morning, ma'am. My name is Mel. I am from the church just down the street."<br />
<br />
"Oh, a good Christian boy." she said, looking up at him. Mel nodded. "Would you care for some tea?"<br />
<br />
Mel said he would love some tea.<br />
<br />
"The tea things are over there." she said, gesturing toward a kitchenette near the back of the lobby. "It is a bit hard for me. Would you mind making the tea?"<br />
<br />
Mel said he wouldn't mind at all, and moved to the kitchenette. As he began she started to reminisce about her church experiences and her sainted husband. Mel worked, responding where appropriate. He brought her a cup of tea. She tasted it and requested a bit of sugar. As he got the sugar she moved on to another subject. Someone from her past, someone who had not treated her well.<br />
<br />
He returned and assisted her in getting a bit of sugar in her cup. She was frail and her hands shook. Her eyes were steady, however, behind those coke bottle glasses. She moved on to someone else who had done her dirt as he settled with his own tea. He attempted to interject from time to time, but she had the bit between her teeth and was running fast and hard with the conversation.<br />
<br />
Mel wanted to tell her about the love of Jesus, but every turn in the conversation led back to her and her well rehearsed stories about nothing. Most were laced with bitterness and deep longing. He knew that the love of Jesus could cure bitterness and fill that longing, but he could never get in a word to share that good news with her.<br />
<br />
Eventually he realized that he was just there to respond to her conversational needs. In the name of Jesus he settled in for the duration, replying with a polite sound whenever it seemed appropriate. His tea grew cold, and his butt began to feel like it was going to sleep. It was going to be a long morning.<br />
<br />
It was close to noon when he stepped out onto the porch with two glasses of lemonade. He handed one to the old man, who accepted it without comment. Mel sat next to him, sipping at his lemonade and watching the nothing happening on the street.<br />
<br />
"She must have needed to go to the bathroom, or I wouldn't be seeing you here." said the old man. "Pumping her full of tea is you best defense. She must have a huge bladder, though. She can go on and on and on..."<br />
<br />
He expected the old man to gloat, but he just drank his lemonade and watched the same nothing. The nothing was eventually broken by a young woman walking up the path to the Sunshine Home. Mel recognized her. Jennie from the church youth group.<br />
<br />
She bounced up the steps, waved to Mel, and put her hand on the doorknob.<br />
<br />
"I wouldn't go in there." Mel said.<br />
<br />
"Why not?" she asked, holding the door partway open.<br />
<br />
"Blatherspider."<br />
<br />
"Oh." she said with a smile. "You met Mrs. Loomis, did you?"<br />
<br />
"You know her?" asked Mel.<br />
<br />
"Yes." said Jennie. "That is why I knew that Jesus wanted me to do the good work of serving meals. I don't know if I could have stood another hour listening to her. Jesus loves her, but she sure makes it hard for the rest of us."<br />
<br />
"Gives you a pretty good idea of what Hell is all about." muttered the old man.<br />
<br />
Jennie bounced on into the Sunshine Home, skirting the lobby and avoiding eye contact with Mrs. Loomis. Apparently her webs only covered her dark little corner of the lobby.<br />
<br />
"You know, boy." said the old man, "Jesus might just be calling you to clean toilets. The staff does alright, but mine could use a little extra attention. No spiders, there, either."<br />
<br />
"I'll think about it." said Mel, sipping at his lemonade.Michael Lockridgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06748256055779697021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8570746411968593398.post-30283462448115529242010-08-26T07:22:00.000-07:002010-08-26T07:22:39.119-07:00Can Suicide be Painless?Former correctional officer Matthew Kershaw knew something about suicide. Twenty eight years in jail can give a person some insight into such things. The question came up with every intake. There were constant classes in the subject dealing with indicators, inmate management, and dealing with the aftermath. Matt had participated in suicide preventions, interventions and debriefings.<br />
<br />
He had seen numerous attempts by various techniques. Slashing, diving onto hard surfaces, hoarding medications and subsequent overdoses, and most often attempted hangings. Few were successful. He was of the opinion that most were messy and inconvenient calls for help. The correctional and medical staffs did their best to provide that help, but most of the time the clients were definitively screwed up human beings. The point at which help might have tipped the balance was long past in most of those messed-up lives.<br />
<br />
Matt knew of messed up lives. Following his retirement he had lost his only daughter in a car accident. A drunk driver, like one of the many he had clothed, fed and accounted for in the county jail. It had hit him hard, but his wife harder. Her drinking got out of hand, and the only way Matt could save himself was through divorce. The end of their marriage left him with a profound sense of failure, which spiraled into a deep clinical depression.<br />
<br />
He sought help, and it worked for quite a while. Then came news of his wife's death. She had not been drinking hard long enough to suffer from the alcohol related debilitations Matt had observed in chronic alcoholics who washed through the jail on a daily basis. No, she simply got very drunk one night, vomited and drowned in her own puke.<br />
<br />
Though he had left her in order to save himself, he still loved her deeply. The vague hope of some kind of turn around, a miraculous reconciliation, died in a pool of vomit. He stopped taking his meds, and stopped going to see his counselors. He began spending a lot of time down on the wharf, looking out to sea. He took a lot of his meals at the restaurants there, and became pretty well known to the wait staff in several emporiums of the Crab Louie and clam chowder.<br />
<br />
He had thought about this a lot, when dealing with botched suicides in the jail. They lived next to the biggest suicide machine Matt could think of. The Pacific Ocean. Huge. Cold. Unforgiving. Just step into the water, begin swimming for Japan, and let exhaustion and hypothermia do the work.<br />
<br />
Matt felt pretty good walking down the wharf that foggy morning. He had determined that foggy was the way to go. That way, if the swimmer changed his mind, nobody could find whoever it was that was calling for help until it was too late. If the goal was successful suicide, help had to be kept at bay.<br />
<br />
He turned down the stairs that led to the platform at the water level. There were no sea lions on the platform this morning, which was good. The sound of a gun being fired would probably drive them off, but it would attract attention. No intervention was the goal, so the less attention the better.<br />
<br />
Matt stood on the platform and looked into the water. Relatively calm. A ladder into the water allowed for an easy entry without the noise of splashing. He stripped off his clothing quickly, and laid his glasses on the pile. He wouldn't need them. The icy water hurt his foot as he stepped onto the ladder. He climbed down quickly and struck out toward the West.<br />
<br />
He began shivering almost immediately as he swam toward the end of the wharf and the end of his days. The shivering passed surprisingly quickly, followed by a numbness and then a sense of warmth. He could still feel the cold just beyond the phantom warmth, but feelings were feelings. A mild euphoria came upon him as he moved past the end of the wharf and headed out to sea.<br />
<br />
He rolled onto his back and swam slowly toward the Orient. Gentle rollers occasionally broke across his face, causing an occasional sputtering return to awareness, but for the most part he was able to lose himself in the fog that permeated his brain. It was like the fog sitting on the sea was seeping into him.<br />
<br />
The first time he faded from consciousness and went under, his instincts brought him struggling back to the surface. He calmed himself, picked a direction he thought of as West, and struck out again. The next time he was less aware, and could not recall just what it was he was doing. Only for a moment did he think of turning back, but he couldn't recall where back might be. Back to what?<br />
<br />
He swam. He swam forever. Angels swam with him, barking angel barks. The fog and the sea melded into one gray mass, an ocean sky filled with barking angels. A suicide sky. A theme song from a long past television show played somewhere in the gray.<br />
<br />
This time when Matt came to himself he was deep under the water. The sense of invasion caused by inhaling that first draft of the sea caused a momentary panic. The panic caused a brief struggle for life, but Matt had insured his failure in that struggle. No gestures. No botched suicide. Matt relaxed into the darkness as the sea claimed him.<br />
<br />
There was only darkness. Only darkness.<br />
<br />
8888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888<br />
<br />
Little Bobby Trenton was playing near the water's edge. He could hear his mother calling him, and he intended to respond. However, something was laying on the wet sand with the waves lapping around it. The object had peaked his curiosity. It was covered with kelp, whatever it was.<br />
<br />
Bobby padded across the wet sand, reveling in the feel of it and in the warmth of the sun on his shoulders. He wanted to see what was there on the beach. Soon, he did see, and in seeing planted the seed for an endless crop of nightmares and his own pending suicide in the year 2028.<br />
<br />
Bobby responded to his mother's call, but it was too late.Michael Lockridgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06748256055779697021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8570746411968593398.post-14200289729352881062010-07-05T19:03:00.000-07:002010-07-05T19:03:08.271-07:00I am an ebook reader-<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DvUExrPeRT0/TDKNgZEtFRI/AAAAAAAAJ5w/yDAyG6UKlew/s1600/nook.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="143" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DvUExrPeRT0/TDKNgZEtFRI/AAAAAAAAJ5w/yDAyG6UKlew/s320/nook.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>I downloaded the Barnes and Nobles ebook reader last week, and began reading <i><a href="http://productsearch.barnesandnoble.com/search/results.aspx?store=EBOOK&WRD=bram+stoker's+dracula">Dracula</a>, </i>by Bram Stoker. It is a free book I got with the reader. I have also downloaded about a half dozen free ebooks from B&N, offered on their website. I plan to buy my <a href="http://www.barnesandnoble.com/nook/index.asp">Nook</a> as soon as I have a little spare cash. The price has dropped into the range I consider plausible for sustained ebook reading.<br />
<br />
The biggest selling point for me was not the convenience of online shopping, or the nearly instant access to a great many books. It was the convenience of carrying a huge library in an object about the size of my hand. Additionally, I can do my reading on my Netbook computer. I am currently reading there, since I don't yet have my Nook. Indeed, I can read <i>my </i>books on any computer onto which the B&N reader has been loaded.<br />
<br />
My most recent reading has been Stephen King's <i><a href="http://search.barnesandnoble.com/Under-the-Dome/Stephen-King/e/9781439148501/?itm=3&USRI=under+the+dome">Under the Dome</a>.</i> I got it for Christmas, along with several other books. The book is a huge hardback. I would have thought little of the burden of carrying and holding such a massive lump of paper even weeks ago. Now it seems barbaric and backward to read in such a mode. The Nook would be so much more convenient. I am anxious to go ebook as much as 80% of the time. 100% is not reasonable, at least not yet. This is a transition period.<br />
<br />
Even paperbacks have drawbacks. Several I have read have fonts too small. I can adjust the fonts on an ebook reader. Several had margins too small, and I had to bend the book back inconveniently in order to read. Ebook readers have flat screens, which are very much like paper as far as the reading goes. Nothing to fold back at all.<br />
<br />
Why Barnes and Nobles? Why Nook? Well, B&N stores offer a free reading feature in stores, and I have always found their stores rather comfortable. The Nook, the B&N exclusive ereader, is comfortable to hold, easy to use, and my daughter has one I have had a chance to try out. Long battery life and ease of use sells the reader as an addition to my toolkit. Otherwise it would be cheaper to just read on my Netbook computer.<br />
<br />
From this day forth I will opt for ebooks whenever possible. It is not always the proper format, but for most reading it is a very good option. <i>Under the Dome </i>will probably be donated once I am done. Big. Heavy. So yesterday. Yep. Ebooks.Michael Lockridgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06748256055779697021noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8570746411968593398.post-80068678385786811092010-04-17T17:45:00.000-07:002010-04-17T17:45:45.768-07:00Assault on Washington-<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DvUExrPeRT0/S8pWGEiiZeI/AAAAAAAAJ3Y/z-UOc8ZZR48/s1600/tentcity.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="83" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DvUExrPeRT0/S8pWGEiiZeI/AAAAAAAAJ3Y/z-UOc8ZZR48/s200/tentcity.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br />
Brian Wilson imagined himself in a tank as he bore down on Washington, D.C. He was responding to a call that went out over the Internet to all American Veterans. He was really just chugging along in his Chevy Gladiator conversion van , an oldish vehicle that was still in reasonably good shape, much like Brian himself.<br />
<br />
Brian held the title of Viet Nam Era veteran. He held the title with a combination of pride and embarrassment. He had some notion of what <i>real</i> Viet Nam vets went through, having lived among them in the Army and hearing many stories. He had lived among them long enough to also hear the stories they never told. The ones that invaded their sleep, causing them to awake screaming or shivering or just laying in the darkness that seeped into their souls.<br />
<br />
The vision of driving a tank toward the nation's capitol was a bit silly, as well. Brian had been in stock control. Missile repair parts. He had been assigned to Germany, and had "fought" the Cold War during the waining years of the Viet Nam conflict. Still, this was a real assault. The call had gone out to all living vets of every war in recent history. Too many lives and bodies and minds had been wrecked in too many conflicts, and too little had been done to compensate for the sacrifice.<br />
<br />
Brian had been to Washington from time to time over the course of the years. Often enough to recognize that the traffic seemed normal enough. One concern of the organizers was raising so much concern in Washington that the veterans would be prevented from reaching the National Mall. The assault was intended to be sudden and so entrenched so quickly as to be impossible to dislodge without a huge media uproar.<br />
<br />
Soon enough Brian was motoring past the Lincoln Memorial, and turning toward the side street recommended by his Internet contacts. He looked up and saw <a href="http://wanderwolfandi.blogspot.com/">Wanderwolf</a> parked near the edge of the Mall. Mike, the veteran who lived in the RV named Wanderwolf, must have been pretty pissed off to uproot from Ajo, Arizona and make his way here. Brian had read Mike's blog and knew that the lack of real care for veterans was near to Mike's heart.<br />
<br />
Brian found a parking space not too far from the Mall, with a clear view of the Washington Monument. He secured his humble road home and got out onto the sidewalk. He shouldered the gear he had been directed to bring along, and made his way toward the Mall.<br />
<br />
He noticed a lot of converted vans, as well as box trucks and other vehicles around that could be used as living spaces as well as vehicles. They were scattered around, not being too obvious. Many other people were making their way toward the Mall, each carrying enough gear to get the job started, but not so much as to draw too much attention.<br />
<br />
Here was a young man with an artificial leg, trundling along. There a young woman with a prosthetic arm. One old veteran had a hat celebrating his participation in three wars. World War II, Korea, and Viet Nam. He walked with a cane, and had two younger fellows in attendance, but he made his way toward the Mall on his own two feet.<br />
<br />
Brian wiped a tear from his eye. Tears came often, over the years, when he saw a brother or sister who had given much for the United States. Most still believed the country to be great, and worthy of their service. Still, too much sacrifice had been demanded over the years, and it was time to do <i>something.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
Finding a place that was not too crowded, Brian sat on the grass and waited. Others were finding places to wait, as well. Brian hoped that they were scattered enough not to draw the eye of law enforcement too soon. Nobody wanted a conflict, especially recognizing that many veterans had found their way into continued service wearing the badges of cities, counties, states and Federal agencies.<br />
<br />
There <i>were</i> a lot of police cruisers in the area, most with two officers on board. Still, none were out on foot, and the Mall seemed surprisingly clear of blue or black uniforms.<br />
<br />
A trumpet sounded somewhere across the lawn. That was the signal. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of veterans stood and moved quickly onto the lawn. People holding up little American flags began directing the flood of men and women. They all followed direction and fell into their assigned areas, for the most part. There were a few arguments, here and there, but no fights broke out.<br />
<br />
Once sufficient order was established, the trumpet sounded again. Three long blasts. As one the army of veterans sprang into action. In a very short time tents were erected and a well-ordered camp sprang into being. The old veteran of many wars sat in a chair as his young attendants set up a nice sized tent for him. Most were the recommended dome tents, which were light and quickly assembled.<br />
<br />
With that the Assault on Washington was begun. Brian sat on his patch of the National Mall and watched as the tourist cameras began the informal documentation of the event. He could see the first news crew setting up, their satellite dish pointed toward the sky and the men and women milling about.<br />
<br />
The police finally began arriving. No big lines of cops with shields and sticks as in the days of the protests in Washington during the Viet Nam war. Just some crews unloading perimeter barricades and establishing some kind of perimeter. Perhaps the sympathies of the police ran deep.<br />
<br />
It was a loose perimeter, Brian noted. Veterans moved in and out of the camp unhindered. Some were bringing in supplies and additional gear from box trucks nearby. A porta-potty service was unloading portable toilets and setting them up on the sidewalks on the edge of the camp.<br />
<br />
Brian was not politically savvy. He was not part of the planning, and certainly not part of the more political body that would eventually present demands and make negotiations to end the siege. He was just there as a body, to swell the numbers and establish a presence, much like his primary purpose as a soldier in Cold War Europe.<br />
<br />
He thought wistfully about his van. Brian was pretty sure it would eventually be impounded. He hoped that he might be able to trek back to the old beast and gather a few more of his things before that happened. Glancing at a legless fellow veteran sitting nearby in his wheelchair, Brian considered the old van to be a small sacrifice for the cause.<br />
<br />
The beachhead was established. Now it came down to waiting. Summer was just around the corner, and Brian knew it would grow hot. By then, if they were still in place, their numbers would swell. Brian hoped that they would have things wrapped up by winter.<br />
<br />
It didn't matter, really, how long it took to get some kind of justice for the years and years of sacrifice. This battle would demand one of the greatest skills instilled in the nation's warriors.<br />
<br />
No matter what branch of their service, soldiers knew how to wait.Michael Lockridgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06748256055779697021noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8570746411968593398.post-40651963425465481952010-02-17T15:00:00.000-08:002010-02-17T15:00:47.108-08:00The Hand of God-Charles Taylor sat rather uncomfortably at the conference table, watching his host probe the Internet at a monitor built into the surface of the table at which they sat. Charles also had a monitor in the surface of the table right in front of him. His was blank. His hosts monitor blinked with changing screens. The mouse and keyboard also appeared to be part of the flat table surface. Impressive technology, tastefully applied.<br />
<br />
"You can go ahead and ask questions." said his host. Bertram Felix Underhill. Man of mystery, a shadow in the Christian underground. Controversial. Frightening, in the flesh. The man radiated confidence and authority, a charisma that bordered on madness, or so it seemed to Charles.<br />
<br />
"Well, Mr. Underhill...." Charles began.<br />
<br />
"Whoa." said his host. The man looked up at him, the first real look since a quick glance when Charles was escorted into the room. "Call me Bert. We don't like to stand on formalities here." His eyes quickly moved back to the monitor, reflecting the changing light as the screens flickered within the table surface.<br />
<br />
"OK. Bert. A friend at my church knew that I was seeking a new position. Some kind of ministry. He put me in touch with some people, who hustled me onto an airplane and now here I am. Wherever 'here' might be."<br />
<br />
Bert nodded, tapped a few of the places on the table that served as buttons, and looked up again. This time the light of the monitor faded. "Yes. We have to keep a few things secret, even in a ministry. We are a mission with a mission, and not everyone would understand our work."<br />
<br />
His words, and the fervor of their delivery, did nothing to put Charles at ease.<br />
<br />
His host tapped another button, and a man in a dark suit appeared out of the shadows.<br />
<br />
"Leonard, Charles. Charles, Leonard." said Bert in an off-handed manner. The man in the suit nodded, and Charles nodded in return. "Leonard, do we have a novice cell in Omaha?" The man nodded once again. "I have emailed a little matter to you. Have it take care of by our newbies. It's a chance to cut their teeth."<br />
<br />
Leonard nodded again, and faded once more into the shadows.<br />
<br />
"I have been going over our prayer network." explained his host. "I have a number of people who read most of the prayer requests around the world. At least, those that get posted onto an Internet site."<br />
<br />
Charles leaned forward. This was more like it. Up until this moment he wondered what he had gotten into. Prayer, ministry, taking care of people. Being like Jesus. Yes. That was what he wanted. Christian men of action.<br />
<br />
"Leonard is going to see to a woman's needs." continued Bert. "She is apparently being beaten by her husband, though she has never expressed that outright. Her husband is a prominent businessman in Omaha, and a pillar of their church. However, her frequent prayer requests for healing have flagged some of our first level operatives. Our front line prayer ministers, you might say."<br />
<br />
"Someone is going to see to her medical needs?" Charles offered.<br />
<br />
"Oh, no. She has access to that, and insurance better than most people." Bert said. "No, our newest cell is going to help her husband adjust his attitude. He seems to fail to understand his responsibilities. They are going to make a very clear argument for a significant change of behavior. A very real repentance. He should be able to walk again in about six weeks. My people are very well trained."<br />
<br />
Charles had to close his mouth consciously. It had gaped open at this statement.<br />
<br />
"He will hardly miss the one finger." his host mused. "Just enough not to forget, after the leg heals."<br />
<br />
Charles tried to swallow, but found he was running a bit dry. Rather parched. His host made a gesture, and another man appeared out of the shadows. There seemed to be quite a few shadows, and a surprising number of men waiting in them. This man placed a glass of water in front of Charles, and faded again into the darkness.<br />
<br />
Charles looked at the glass for a moment, then shrugged and picked it up. It was cool and refreshing, and cleared his head a bit while quenching his thirst. He was in a bit of shock, then. That made him feel better, knowing that. A bit better.<br />
<br />
"Your friend recommended you to us for several reasons." said Bert. "Your zeal for the Lord. Your frustration with small opportunities for real ministry. Your skills in computers applied to satellite telecommunications. All fine qualities, and qualities we can use here."<br />
<br />
"Where is here?" Charles asked again. "I was brought in a private jet with covered windows. I came out of the plane after several hours of flight, and went straight into a limousine. A limousine in a hanger, a limousine with windows so dark as to render no view. I haven't seen any sign of where you have brought me. It is starting to make me uncomfortable."<br />
<br />
His host smiled. He looked.... patient. Patient, in the same way a crocodile is patient. "We have reasons for our secrecy. Most especially for the level of work I have in mind for you. I will show you the mission, and you can decide how you would like to proceed."<br />
<br />
Charles sighed. He was in deep, and that made him uncomfortable. He was also curious, perhaps a great deal more curious than frightened. There was also a sense of excitement. A notion that he might be able to make a real difference in the world. A hope to really be like Jesus, to follow Him in a mighty work.<br />
<br />
He nodded. Bert touched a few of the buttons in the table top. The screen in front of Charles came on, displaying a map.<br />
<br />
"Somalia." said Bert. "Years ago aid for Somalians, humanitarian aid, was captured by warlords and used by them to secure to cooperation of starving people. A gift of generosity, much of which was in the name of Christ, was turned into a weapon and a mode of torture and domination."<br />
<br />
The screen flickered. Another part of the Earth was presented to Charles.<br />
<br />
"Uzbekistan." said Bert. "The recent earthquake caused a great deal of death, injury and deprivation. The government of Uzbekistan has refused the entry of humanitarian aid, claiming they can care for their own people. However, that particular part of the state has been in partial rebellion for the better part of the last year. The man managing the government aid is dragging his feet, manipulating resources to starve out the people who are seeking greater freedom."<br />
<br />
Charles nodded. He had heard a bit about this on television. He felt a moment of shame that he had paid only the tiniest bit of attention to the problem.<br />
<br />
"I have resources in place to remove this man." said his host. "Him, and his little army. I have everything but the eyes in the sky that the big boys have."<br />
<br />
Charles looked up. He felt a thrill, and a moment of guilt. "You plan to kill him?"<br />
<br />
"Oh, more than him. There is some risk, however." said Bert. "To remove him and his forces, and make a large enough impact, we will probably destroy most of a town."<br />
<br />
"Everyone?" asked Charles.<br />
<br />
"Yes." said Bert. "Men, women, and children. Churches, Mosques, and schools. Our prayer warriors are already praying for them."<br />
<br />
"And you want me to hijack a satellite to aid in this?" asked Charles. He could not keep the incredulity from his voice. "Why a satellite? You said you had your resources in place."<br />
<br />
"Accuracy." said his host. "Precision. And, to let the world know we can do it.You can do it, can't you?"<br />
<br />
There was something dangerous in the way he said it. Charles nodded, and took a long drink from his glass. Suddenly he wanted something much stronger than water.<br />
<br />
"I thought you could." said Bert. Bertram Felix Underhill. "The question, of course, is will you?"<br />
<br />
Charles could not lift his eyes from the screen in front of him. Twisted and burnt bodies, many of them small and delicate, danced across the screen. No, that was his imagination. It was just a satellite image of a distant land. Mangled little bodies. Charred. Broken.<br />
<br />
"I need time to think." he said. He could hardly hear his own voice.<br />
<br />
His host, his captor, made a small gesture. Charles was aware of a man suddenly standing by his side.<br />
<br />
"Show our guest to his room." ordered his host. "See that he is not disturbed. He needs to pray, and wait upon the Lord. See that his meals are brought to him, and that his needs are met."<br />
<br />
Charles stood, and followed the man from the shadows toward the door.<br />
<br />
"We are praying for you." called his host, as he stepped from the room.<br />
<br />
Praying for you. It had never sounded like a threat, before.Michael Lockridgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06748256055779697021noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8570746411968593398.post-86899219894760799292010-02-02T11:18:00.000-08:002010-02-02T13:23:38.022-08:00The Price of Vengeance-Ziggy Dunbar was sitting in his cell, just "kickin' it." He had done time before, though this was just his second visit to the joint. State prison. No harder than his life on the streets. Ziggy knew his place here. He had protection, and he needed it. He wasn't particularly strong, and he knew he wasn't very smart. His place in the prison gang that protected him was not very high at all.<div><br /></div><div>Still, the favors he provided for the boss prevented others from preying on him. Ziggy didn't like to think about those favors, but they did sometimes haunt his dreams. He didn't like to think about those dreams, or his crappy family or his sucky life. He mostly liked getting high, and just "kickin' it."</div><div><br /></div><div>Ziggy was just too low on the food chain to have dreams, other than nightmares.</div><div><br /></div><div>A shadow crossed in front of Ziggy. The hairs on the back of his scrawny neck stood up, and his bowels felt like they were full of water. He didn't move. Sometimes the predators passed on, if you didn't move.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Hey, Ziggy." came a voice from the other side of the cell. "We need to talk."</div><div><br /></div><div>Ziggy had heard that one before. It really meant "You have to listen." There was usually pain involved. Ziggy held on one moment more, and then looked up.</div><div><br /></div><div>Cocoa Johnson sat on the bench in front of the small desk that made up the furniture in his small cell. Ziggy had felt lucky to be assigned to a cell too small to convert to double occupancy. He didn't feel so lucky, now. Cocoa made the room feel crowded. His lieutenant, Pepper Jones, stood just inside the door, and made the room seem like a tomb.</div><div><br /></div><div>Standing just outside the door was another member of Cocoa's gang. Ziggy couldn't see much more than hunched shoulders and a bald head. That one was the look-out. Ziggy's spinning brain named him Paprika, a moment of cleverness born of desperation. Ziggy knew himself not to be clever, and so missed his own joke. He didn't know who the guy was, and didn't care.</div><div><br /></div><div>Cocoa was rooting through a small paper bag that had been sitting on the desk. Ziggy's few little treats, purchased from the commissary. Ziggy didn't have much, and Cocoa confirmed it by not even bothering to steal anything. He dropped the bag back onto the desk, and then looked right at Ziggy.</div><div><br /></div><div>Somehow, it would have made Ziggy feel better if the eyes looking at him were threatening. Angry eyes. Eyes filled with fury. These eyes were cold, looking at him with little interest. The eyes of a man with a job to do, and determination to do it.</div><div><br /></div><div>"I don't know what in the hell you did on the streets, but you really pissed somebody off." said Cocoa. "We got orders to hurt you. Not kill you. Just hurt you. And when you heal from this hurt, we have to hurt you again."</div><div><br /></div><div>Ziggy swallowed. His mouth was dry, but he worked up enough spit to croak out a question. </div><div><br /></div><div>"How long?" he asked.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Until this sucker stops paying for our 'service.'" answered Cocoa. "Whoever it is, he knows how things work here in prison. He knows, and he is pissed at you." </div><div><br /></div><div>Ziggy tried to swallow, but could not. His one question used up all of the available liquids in his mouth, and he could find no more. His bowels felt like he was trying to keep in the contents of a lake, but his mouth was as dry as a desert. </div><div><br /></div><div>"Getting to you this time was easy." said Cocoa. "Your boys don't know we have a contract on you. Next time might be harder. If it is, I suspect our visit might hurt that much more."</div><div><br /></div><div>Ziggy's mind tried to race. Unfortunately, the track was short and he simply lacked the horsepower. He knew he was about to be injured, and he wouldn't be able to tell his <i>boys </i>anything. He had no idea how to keep them from figuring it out. Thinking was not going well, and Ziggy fell to hoping that they would just get this over with.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Your friend from the street sent you a message." continued Cocoa. "He said for you to watch what you pick up from now on."</div><div><br /></div><div>Pick up? What? The only thing that connected in his mind was his job, the one that got him into prison. Snatching purses for an identity theft ring. He only knew his contact, who paid him in drugs. Ziggy had been thrown to the police when they were closing in on the ring. Ziggy, his contact, and a few other nobodies went down for the crimes. As far as Ziggy knew, the big bosses were still out there cashing other people's checks.</div><div><br /></div><div>"I will leave you to Pepper, now." said Cocoa, standing up. "He will definitely spice up your life."</div><div><br /></div><div>Cocoa pressed past Pepper and exited the cell. Ziggy did not have to wait long. The pain began almost right away.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Carl Bergson finished his drink and pushed the empty glass toward the bartender. He counted out a few bills and paid the man, with a decent tip on top. Carl had regular habits, this drink in the evening being one of them. Same bar, same time, sometimes even the same stool. Carl stood and walked toward the door.</div><div><br /></div><div>As he exited the bar he made brief eye contact with a young thug standing on the corner. The thug hid his momentary surprise pretty well, but Carl had been dealing with this type for quite some time. He recognized a tail when he saw one. The gang was already keeping tabs on him, and the deal was only a month old.</div><div><br /></div><div>Carl walked quietly toward his apartment building, enjoying the dubious satisfaction of vengeance. That weasel Ziggy had really messed up Carl's life, stealing that purse. Carl's wife had one moment of inattention, and the identity theft that resulted was still causing them enormous grief. It was unfortunate for Ziggy that Carl ran in the same circles as his bosses. Granted, Carl's job was more legitimate, part of the system. Still, such grief from so small an act.</div><div><br /></div><div>As he made his way up the stairs, Carl wondered just what he would do when they came. He knew they would come, those criminals with whom he had made the deal. So much a month to one of the inmates in the prison. Probably one of their up and coming leaders. In exchange, Ziggy was always going to be healing from one injury or another.</div><div><br /></div><div>That had been the deal. Carl knew it would not end there. Someday the thug he made eye contact with would show up with a message. Him, or one like him. Some favor a gang boss required. It was the real price of vengeance.</div><div><br /></div><div>Carl opened the door and was greeted by his wife. Together the went and sat down at the computer, with the phone at hand. They still had a terrible knot to untie, and little hope of being done soon. It may never really be over. Carl cursed Ziggy under his breath, and relished the knowledge that the nasty little man was about to receive another visit.</div><div><br /></div><div>Carl would put a check in the mail first thing in the morning.</div>Michael Lockridgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06748256055779697021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8570746411968593398.post-50221334943079255802010-01-17T15:26:00.000-08:002010-01-17T17:12:29.894-08:00American Terrorist-Tommy Carlos stood on the darkened rooftop, overlooking the village square. Born Tomas Ignacio Carlos, he had assumed many other names over the years. This, however, was a night for reflection. Tonight he was Tommy Carlos, an American in a foreign land.<div><br /></div><div>He gazed at the darkened village square, with the well in the center. The well tapped the aquifer that supplied nearly two thousand rural Pakistani people with water. This well was the target, and tonight was the culmination of seven months of work. Possibly the culmination of Tommy's whole career, as well. He had lived a lot in his twenty seven years, and knew that he might not have many years more.</div><div><br /></div><div>The government of the United States had not been hesitant to use Tommy's facility with language. He had grown up in a family that valued both English and Spanish, and he had shown a knack for using those languages. The government had valued his genes, as well. Tommy had an appearance that would let him blend in. He could appear Middle Eastern, Asian, or Hispanic with little more than changes of clothing and hairstyle.</div><div><br /></div><div>At this point in his life Tommy knew English, Spanish, two dialects that served him in Iraq, and a dialect that had opened doors in Afghanistan. He had been trained by the Army to assist special operations teams in quite a number of places. He had applied those skills for the government of the United States through two tours in Iraq and one in Afghanistan.</div><div><br /></div><div>When he separated from the Army he had been offered jobs by the CIA, the FBI, several specialized Homeland Security teams, and half a dozen "private contractors." A number of less legitimate offers had come his way, as well. It was an obscure little group with a small presence on the Internet that had captured his attention.</div><div><br /></div><div>Several shadows separated themselves from the dark walls surrounding the village square. Right on time. They moved into position, and all was quiet for a time. Tommy returned to his musing.</div><div><br /></div><div>It had taken him months to get to this village. He had to contact drug dealers. He had to contact smugglers. He had to pay off petty warlords and a few politicians. He had learned who grew the opium poppies and who controlled the sales. Months of work had netted a nice little stash of the raw materials for making opium in a small warehouse just a stone's throw from where he stood.</div><div><br /></div><div>That had all been a cover. Once he had most of his stash established his unnamed contacts had hidden tightly sealed containers in the warehouse. It had amused him that opium, a substance that was usually hidden in something else to be shipped, was itself a hiding place. </div><div><br /></div><div>Twice since the containers were put in place his warehouse had been inspected by local authorities. They had not looked twice at the poison he was collecting to ship out of the country. They would have been quite troubled at the more immediate death that hid within the bundles.</div><div><br /></div><div>Men began moving back and forth across the square, from his warehouse to the well and back again. They were silent, and hard to see, but Tommy knew that they were emptying the containers into the waters below. It would not be long, now.</div><div><br /></div><div>The opium dealing was actually just a cover for this operation. A way to hide in plain site, a way of doing what needed doing for a higher end. His drug dealing connections would probably be hunting him, after this night was over. Quite a number of people would be hunting him.</div><div><br /></div><div>The men appeared to have finished, blending back into the darkness. The night was very dark in this part of the world. Tommy climbed down from the roof and gathered his pack and other gear. He began the long trek toward the border. Afghanistan was a long walk away, and he was already adopting his next persona.</div><div><br /></div><div>88888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888</div><div><br /></div><div>Arnie Kendricks sat at his computer, probing the Internet. He had really enjoyed his new career, reading and reporting on Internet activities for a branch of Homeland Security. He really didn't know just what branch, or how it fit into the scheme of things. He just liked the job. It was almost like his period of extended unemployment. He had done a lot of the same things, but didn't get payed.</div><div><br /></div><div>Now, however, he was not so sure about his sweet gig. The website was a terrorist website, that was for sure. However, these were Americans conducting terrorist acts in foreign lands. Oh, and what acts! Twelve hundred Pakistani villagers killed by some kind of poison. The images were horrific. Men, women and children who died a slow and painful death.</div><div><br /></div><div>Moving past the images was hard, but he had to read further. The group gave their name, and claimed responsibility. They promised more of the same, unless Pakistan delivered the leaders of Al-Qaeda to American authorities and drove Al-Qaeda out of Pakistan and into Afghanistan where American forces could deal with them openly.</div><div><br /></div><div>Arnie could already visualize the reprisals that would come from this. He checked the links and found several other sites showing the same images and what he assumed was the same text in other languages. Tracking the links he could see that this was going to go viral.</div><div><br /></div><div>He linked the site to his boss, whoever that really might be, with a quick note indicating that this was important and advising that his report would follow. Arnie wondered just how secure his homeland might prove to be, after this.</div><div><br /></div><div>88888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888</div><div><br /></div><div>Out of the hills of northern Afghanistan a lone figure walked. He looked harried, as if the ghosts of innocents dogged his heals. Another figure arose from concealment and greeted the lone walker. The two turned and walked down a path, far from quiet American streets. They made their way to a cave, and entered without a word.</div><div><br /></div><div>Inside they joined two dozen expatriates, to plan together and see if small actions by a few dedicated people could change the course of nations. </div>Michael Lockridgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06748256055779697021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8570746411968593398.post-81635959273596287492010-01-11T11:17:00.000-08:002010-11-08T19:39:35.707-08:00A Knight's Tale-<div>Sir Claudus of Humbleshire awoke, his head ringing and rather filled with pain. He checked himself, finding he was a bit singed and rather bruised, but generally all there. His sword lay several feet away, broken in two and useless. He could not find his mace.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Looking up he could see the dragon. Long and sleek, with shiny scales glinting like fine silver and gold. The woman Claudus had tried to rescue was held in one great claw. The dragon’s eyes were upon him. Meeting those eyes, Sir Claudus glared his deepest hate. The dragon snorted a bit of smoke, nodded his head in seeming satisfaction, and leaped into the air.</div><div><br />
</div><div>The woman dangling from that great claw did not scream, or call for help. She looked up at her captor with mingled fear and awe. It almost looked like love to Sir Claudus, but that could not be right. The beast had held her captive for years, and over the years her letters begging for rescue had been circulating in the hero trade. “Save me from the dreaded dragon. Princess Mallow.”</div><div><br />
</div><div>“She does this all the time.” said a voice from behind him. Claudus turned, still on the ground, to face the source of the voice. His bruises screamed, but he used his knightly discipline to force his bruised body to respond. It was an old woman, sitting on a rock. He did not let down his guard, such as it was after his bruising, and eyed the strange creature.</div><div><br />
</div><div>“Who are you?” he inquired. His head hurt, and the sound of his own voice was like thunder between his ears.</div><div><br />
</div><div>“Her Fairy God Mother.” replied the old woman.</div><div><br />
</div><div>“If she has a Fairy God Mother, why does she sneak missives out of the dragon’s lair begging rescue from knights?” asked Claudus. “Why haven’t you just whisked her out of there? She has the Heroes Guild in a tizzy, I must say. Longest damsel in distress case on the books.”</div><div><br />
</div><div>“I have, several times.” said the FGM, with a sigh. “She always sabotages rescue attempts. She has issues. You know, psychological problems.”</div><div><br />
</div><div>“Eh?” </div><div><br />
</div><div>“Oh, sorry. In the future they have this thing called psychology. I have been studying it in my spare time.”</div><div><br />
</div><div>“In the future?” asked the knight. “What are you talking about?”</div><div><br />
</div><div>The old woman whisked a crystal ball out of her sleeve, holding it up to catch the morning light. “It’s a part time gig.” she said. “County fairs, carnivals, that sort of thing. Being Fairy God Mother to a confused young woman who won’t be rescued leaves me with a lot of time to fill.”</div><div><br />
</div><div>The knight shook his head, and then wished he had not.</div><div><br />
</div><div>The ball vanished up the old woman’s sleeve, and she produced a pouch from her belt. Extracting a few herbs she rolled them together in a leaf she plucked from a bush next to her rock. She handed it to the knight and said, “Chew on this. It will ease the pain in your head and help you with managing those bruises.”</div><div><br />
</div><div>The knight popped the packet into his mouth and chewed slowly. It was bitter, but he felt a bit better right away.</div><div><br />
</div><div>“I don’t even recall the beast striking me.” he lamented. “Did I even get in a decent blow?” He glanced at his broken sword, hoping that it had been damaged in a mighty combat.</div><div><br />
</div><div>“Nope.” said the old woman. “The girl built up the fire you banked last night when you both went to sleep. She made it bright and smokey. The dragon flew in on this beacon, and sat with his captive until you stirred. He tapped you lightly with his tail, and gave you a hint of dragon’s breath. You went out like a light.”</div><div><br />
</div><div>“My sword?”</div><div><br />
</div><div>“You dropped it. The dragon stepped on it.”</div><div><br />
</div><div>The knight sighed, and stood up. He looked back in the direction of the dragon’s lair. The beast was just a dot in the sky, almost out of sight.</div><div><br />
</div><div>“Will she ever be free?” he asked, as he picked up the broken pieces that had been his sword.</div><div><br />
</div><div>“Perhaps, someday.” said the Fairy God Mother. “Or, she might just be absorbed into the dragon itself. Perhaps, should the dragon die, she shall become a dragon herself.”</div><div><br />
</div><div>“Why the rescue notes?” he asked, as he wrapped the broken sword in his cloak. He was going to have to find someone to reforge the broken blade. He glanced around, looking for his missing mace.</div><div><br />
</div><div>“All part of her illness.” said the FGM. She was really enjoying having the opportunity to talk about the things he had learned, peering into the future through her crystal ball. “She and the dragon feed each other’s deepest needs, in some way. I haven’t studied that far, yet. Crystal balls aren’t easy to read. Anyway, part of her thinks she really longs for rescue, but the dominant part wants to continue the relationship with the dragon.”</div><div><br />
</div><div>“Maybe I’ll just become a monk. You know, one of those hermits.” said the knight, giving up on the mace. “Well, I guess I will be off, to look for a hermitage.” He waved and began wandering off through the woods in the direction opposite the dragon’s lair.</div><div><br />
</div><div>The Fairy God Mother took out the crystal ball, and pulled up her schedule. “Ah, a nice little county fair just two days away. I guess I better get ready.”</div><div><br />
</div><div>She glanced longingly in the direction the dragon had taken her young charge. Shaking her head, she turned away and lifted the edge of her cloak. Spinning the dark cloth around herself, she turned ninety degrees from everything and returned to her home in the netherworld.</div><div><br />
</div><div>The missing mace lay deep in the shadows, under a bush not far from where the knight had been. Having little else to do, it rested there quietly, and began to rust.</div><div><br />
</div><div></div><div><br />
</div>Michael Lockridgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06748256055779697021noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8570746411968593398.post-48672668801976195102009-08-05T20:23:00.000-07:002009-08-05T22:06:05.933-07:00Snow Globe Terrorist-Jason Willey stood patiently waiting for the basket containing his property to slide down the track. He had removed his belt and his shoes and put them in the basket along with his carry-on bag, passed through the scanner and now waited for his things to pass through x-ray.<br /><br />He had done this all before, here at the John Wayne International Airport and several others. Jason remembered times of easier travel, prior to the expansion of international terrorism and a catastrophic direct attack on the United States. It was inconvenient, and it made him a bit angry, but the changes in security seemed necessary and he could put up with it all.<br /><br />This time the basket was a bit slow in exiting the x-ray tunnel. Jason looked up at the operator and noticed the man looking rather concerned, staring at his screen. The man looked up, looked past Jason and waved over another security officer. They consulted for a moment, and then the second officer picked up Jason's basket.<br /><br />Jason felt some sympathy for the man. He looked haggard, and as he approached he also had a look of <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">apology</span> on his face. A look of <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">apology</span>, Jason mused. Not one of the most common expressions, but that is what he saw in the countenance of the man walking his direction.<br /><br />"We seem to have a problem, sir." said the security officer. "I will need to examine some items in your carry-on." The officer indicated an open table. Jason nodded and followed.<br /><br />The man moved a few things around in the basket, and handed Jason his shoes and belt. Jason always wore slip-on shoes when he flew, and these he slipped quickly on his feet. He watched the man respectfully probe through the carry-on items as he threaded his belt through the belt loops and fastened the buckle.<br /><br />"That's a teapot, from Disneyland." said Jason as the man opened a bag that obviously could have come from <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">no place</span> else. "Alice in Wonderland. I collect Disney."<br /><br />The man nodded, but did not attempt to open the box. Instead he picked up a paper wrapped item and glanced at Jason.<br /><br />"Oh, that's just a <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">snow globe</span>." Jason said. He nodded toward the officer, who began to unwrap the item. "Kind of a last minute purchase. I thought it would look cool on one of my shelves at home."<br /><br />The <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">snow globe</span> was revealed. It had a <em>Pirates of the Caribbean </em>theme, and the "snow" was actually bits of material intended to look like gold pieces. The security guard turned the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">snow globe</span> over and ran his thumb over a small label.<br /><br /><em>This item cannot be carry on baggage. </em>Jason's jaw dropped. He vaguely recalled reading about this but it had simply slipped his mind as he made the purchase.<br /><br />"Throw it away, I guess." Jason said. He sighed and gathered his things from the basket as the officer wrapped the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">snow globe</span> back up and placed it in a box under the table.<br /><br />Not looking at Jason the officer said in a low voice, "When is your flight?"<br /><br />"An hour and a half."<br /><br />"Which gate?"<br /><br />"Two."<br /><br />The officer nodded and said, "Have a nice flight, sir."<br /><br />Jason made his way to the waiting area adjacent to gate two. He sat and contemplated just what went through the mind of the airport designer who placed so many windows facing the setting sun. It was a bit warm and the light of the waning day was too intense, even through the tinted windows between where he sat and the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">tarmac</span> apron upon which the arriving and departing aircraft sat.<br /><br />He realized that he was just distracting himself. Though the price of the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">snow globe</span> was less than ten dollars it angered Jason that some terrorist without a face had cost him his relatively meaningless treasure. Sure, the terrorists probably fought for some obscure ideals of which Jason knew nothing, but that mattered little. They had touched his life and offended him.<br /><br />Jason went back and forth in his mind for most of an hour before he realized that someone was standing behind him. He glanced up and saw the security officer that had confiscated the snow globe standing there, looking out at the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">tarmac</span>.<br /><br />"I dropped a slip of paper under your seat." said the officer. "It has a web site and a phone number on it. Wait until I am gone before picking it up. I shouldn't be doing this, but I am very tired of these people impacting our lives. It's just a small thing, but at least it is something."<br /><br />Jason nodded, saying nothing. He waited until he was sure that the officer no longer stood behind him. He bent down, adjusted his pant leg, and then swept up the slip of paper. He tucked it into a pocket, not even looking at it.<br /><br />He felt better, knowing that the officer felt some sympathy for his small loss. The remainder of his wait went quickly. Soon he was winging his way home.<br /><br />It was late the next morning when Jason remembered the slip of paper. He had been tired when he got home, and had not even fully unpacked his things. He picked up the cast-off pants from the floor and went through the pockets to find the paper.<br /><br />There it was. A web address and a phone number. Jason took the slip of paper to his desk, sat down at his computer and typed in the address. Soon a rather simple website loaded. It at first looked like a news and opinion page relating to the activities of international terrorists. However, a theme appeared as he scanned the articles. Following a few hints Jason made his way through a couple of linked pages and found what the officer had intended him to find.<br /><br />There were short articles relating small inconveniences others had suffered as a consequence of the activities of these faceless terrorists. Most writers seemed angry and felt powerless. Here and there on the page were links associated with one question.<br /><br />"If you could strike back, would you?"<br /><br />"Yes." said Jason, under his breath.<br /><br />He followed one of the links. The page was simple. All text. No images. No links. One page address written into the text. The article <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">referred</span> to pieces of paper similar to the one he held. Then Jason came to the critical paragraph.<br /><br /><em>You can strike back, in a very small way. Somewhere in the world a terrorist is being held, captured by a private security concern. This particular terrorist is linked to the Internet through a remotely initiated electronic device. That device is constructed from a cell phone trigger taken from him as he sought to kill men, women and children with a backpack bomb. Now that trigger sends seventy thousand volts of electricity through his body whenever someone calls.</em><br /><br />Jason glanced at his slip of paper. A web site and a phone number.<br /><br />Jason copied and pasted the web site address <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">embedded</span> in the text of the article he was reading. He hit <em>go</em>. The screen opened on a live video feed. A young man sat in a chair. He was naked from the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">waist</span> up, and looked quite haggard. Jason had expected a mad man, a representation of every nightmare a child might have. This man just looked like some young guy. Like anybody.<br /><br />Anybody who happened to carry a backpack loaded with explosives, intent on blowing up a bus or train station or ice cream parlor. Jason visualized the children who would have been dismembered or burned in the explosion, had this man succeeded in his task.<br /><br />He opened his cell phone and punched in the number. Jason paused, staring at the number on the screen. This man had been acting on a set of ideals. From his own perspective this man had seen his intended actions as noble and right.<br /><br />Jason looked at the man on the computer screen. Yes, the man had ideals. Jason acknowledged that. In the context of his own world the man was noble. Jason acknowledged that.<br /><br />His thumb poised over the send button. Yes, he had his own nobility and ideals. But the man was wrong! Wrong, and no longer faceless.<br /><br />It was not dismembered old ladies that Jason visualized in this moment. Neither was it burned children. It was a <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">snow globe</span>.<br /><br />Jason pressed the send button, and watched the image on his computer screen.Michael Lockridgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06748256055779697021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8570746411968593398.post-87218588817100907672009-07-22T03:45:00.000-07:002009-07-22T04:17:55.822-07:00The Next Level-I have been long thinking on how to turn writing into more than a hobby. I would like to get at least some of my income from writing. I have studied a bit about <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">copywriting</span>, a <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">lucrative</span> field preparing copy for advertisements and promotions, as well as writing letters and such for those who need a writer's skill. It is not the creative writing I prefer, but it is an avenue I might follow in the coming years.<br /><br />More in line with my real interests I have written a novel, and begun a sequel. However, I have not yet gotten my novel published. Having studied the processes of getting published I have decided to go with a print on demand program through Amazon. This form of publication will leave promotion of my book in my hands, and so it will probably not make a huge splash in the realm of adventure fantasy fiction. Still, it will be out there.<br /><br />How to market my short story writing? I was inspired by my sister Donni to use <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Craigslist</span> as a tool for beginning my short story project. She promoted her private <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">pre</span>-school using <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Craigslist</span>, and the results have been far greater than I imagined. So, I have begun to offer short stories over <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Craigslist</span>.<br /><br />My purpose is to create short stories for people to present as gifts or commemorations to family, friends and <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">colleagues</span>. Other purposes will come to mind over time, and I can create tiny tales for whatever purpose my client might have.<br /><br />I have established a separate Google mailing address from which to manage the project, and a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">PayPal</span> account as a means of receiving payment. Once some revenue is generated I can apply it to getting my novel out into the marketplace, and once that is underway I can reinvest the income to build my writing into a business.<br /><br />This project will be very low budget, and only time will tell just where it will go.<br /><br /><a href="mailto:shortstoryguy@gmail.com">shortstoryguy@gmail.com</a><br /><br />That is the contact address. If you or anyone you know has need of a unique gift, write me at that address.<br /><br />Meanwhile, the tales I tell here remain free. Invite your friends and neighbors to stop by and visit. Leave a comment, from time to time. Writers love readers, and its nice to know someone is reading.Michael Lockridgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06748256055779697021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8570746411968593398.post-51904230896252498722009-07-20T22:45:00.000-07:002009-07-22T03:42:48.135-07:00The Medicine Man's Apprentice-The Great <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Botutsu</span> scrabbled under a low bush, digging at the roots until he came up with a large bulb. Shaking the dirt from his prize he tossed it to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Comasa</span>. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Comasa</span> caught it and placed it in the large bag hanging from his shoulder.<br /><br />The bag was heavy. It was <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Comasa's</span> job to carry for the Great <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Botutsu</span>. To fetch for the Great <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Botutsu</span>. To empty the gourd the Great <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Botutsu</span> kept next to his bed. To cook. To clean. To do what he was told.<br /><br />In exchange the Great <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Botutsu</span> would give <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Comasa</span> knowledge. He would teach <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Comasa</span> about the plants and animals, about their spirits and how they could be used to help and heal. He would also learn about poisons, or so he suspected. The Great <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Botutsu</span> never addressed the subject directly, and always deflected questions on the matter.<br /><br />"That is the root of the Tum Tum tree." said the Great <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">Botutsu</span>. "It brings sleep to those who have a wounded spirit. It heals the mind and quiets the small demons that harbor in the hearts of those who have been long sad."<br /><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">Comasa</span> nodded. He had seen it used on Mama <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">Kodumba</span> when she had lost her husband to a great beast in one of the hunts. Her heart had been wounded by the beasts spirit, or so the Great <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">Botutsu</span> had said. The beast having eaten her husband, the spirit of the beast had followed the bond of their marriage to consume the mate as well. She had lost the will to live, and was unable to care for her children.<br /><br />The Great <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">Botutsu</span> had given her the last of his dried root, a bit at a time over the course of two months. With the passage of time she had returned to herself, and the spirit of the beast had been driven out. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">Comasa</span> had been assigned to the nightly drum rituals to drive out the beast, and after much time the root and drum had prevailed.<br /><br />Mama <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">Kodumba</span> was again tending to her children, and cooking the wonderful meals for which she had been famous. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">Comasa</span> had entertained some concern that the fat those meals had put on Mama <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">Kodumba's</span> husband may have prevented him from escaping the beast that slew him, but he knew better than to speak of such things.<br /><br />The Great <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">Botusu</span> was the one to speak. It was <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">Comasa's</span> job to listen and learn.<br /><br />Now the Great <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22">Botusu</span> was looking at a plant that was unfamiliar to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_23">Comasa</span>. Perhaps it was unfamiliar to the Great <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_24">Botusu</span>, as well. The Great <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_25">Botusu</span> walked around the plant one way, and then the other. He looked it up from root to tip, and down from tip to root. He then sat before the plant, and held out his hand.<br /><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_26">Comasa</span> untied the small bag from his belt and handed it to the Great <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_27">Botusu</span>. The Great <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_28">Botusu</span> opened the bag and withdrew a pinch of smoke weed. He dug a small hole at the base of the plant he was studying and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_29">burried</span> the bit of weed. Tossing the bag back to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_30">Comasa</span> the Great <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_31">Botusu</span> began to chant.<br /><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_32">Comasa</span> sat down next to his master and joined in the chant. As he had been taught he visualized the plant as a seed, falling from the sky and coming to earth in this place. He imagined it growing, putting forth root and leaf and over time coming to be the plant before them.<br /><br />The Great <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_33">Botusu</span> got up and cut several branches of leaves from the plant. He dug at the base of the plant and brought forth some of the roots. All of these he wrapped carefully in his prayer shawl, and cradled them as they walked back to the village.<br /><br />When they arrived <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_34">Comasa</span> went to work preparing all of the things they had collected for drying and storing. When everything was cleaned and arranged on the drying racks he went in search of his master.<br /><br />The Great <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_35">Botusu</span> was sitting by a small fire in front of their hut. He had a clay vessel heating in the coals, and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_36">Comasa</span> could see some of the leaves from the unknown plant soaking in the hot water.<br /><br />"Sit, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_37">Comasa</span>." said the Great <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_38">Botusu</span>. "It is time for the next step in your initiation."<br /><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_39">Comasa</span> sat. The Great <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_40">Botusu</span> used some wooden tongs to remove the hot clay pot from the coals. He poured off a small portion into a little bowl. He held it up, allowing the vapors to enter his nose. He put in a finger and brought one tiny drop to his tongue. This he spit out. He offered the bowl to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_41">Comasa</span>.<br /><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_42">Comasa</span> also let the vapors enter into his nose. He touched the brew with one finger, and touched it to his tongue. He did not spit it out, but let it rest there. He waited, holding the warm bowl in his hands.<br /><br />The Great <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_43">Botusu</span> watched and waited with him. Then he took up his rattle, and began to shake the rattle first to the left of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_44">Comasa</span>, and then to the right. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_45">Comasa</span> drank from the bowl. He waited, watching the fire and listening to the sound of the rattle.<br /><br />Brighter and brighter grew the light of the fire. The sound of the rattle grew crisp and seemed to take on a strange color. That did not seem right. The light of the fire filled his eyes. The rattle went through his head. There was a sudden pain in his chest and then there was darkness and silence.<br /><br />Slowly the light came back to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_46">Comasa</span>. Rather than rattles his ears picked up the sound of a small bell occasionally struck. He opened his eyes and could just make out the shape of his master above him. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_47">Comasa</span> realized he was laying on his sleeping mat, and tried to rise.<br /><br />The Great <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_48">Botusu</span> pushed him back down. "Rest. You have been four days in the spirit realm. Fever and sweat, and strange words from your tongue. Four days. When you are strong again you will tell me of your journey."<br /><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_49">Comasa</span> expected his head to hurt, but it felt remarkably clear. His body felt worn, as if he had worked long and hard and then run many miles. As he lay there he began to think again about his decision to bind himself to the Great <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_50">Botusu</span>.<br /><br />He then recalled the long hours tending the fields or minding the goats. The long trail hunting in the forest, often with little to eat and not always with success.<br /><br />With the Great <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_51">Botusu</span> he had plenty of food. The village provided well for the medicine man, and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_52">Comasa</span> shared in that bounty. He enjoyed the learning, and mastering knowledge that was held by only a few.<br /><br />He would rest. While he rested he would try to recall his journey to the spirit realm. Right now he only remembered pain and darkness, but he was sure the truth of the journey would come to him as he rested.<br /><br />The little bell tolled by his ear. "I will name the new plant for you, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_53">Comasa</span>." said the Great <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_54">Botusu</span>. "You wrestled with demons while the plant held you in darkness. Reach back. Remember. Find the names of the demons. You will one day be the Great <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_55">Comasa</span>."<br /><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_56">Comasa</span> hovered on the edge of sleep. He could now see the demons in his mind. He could remember the battle. Yes. It would be a mighty tale to tell, when he woke again.<br /><br />Somewhere a bell rang softly in the distance.Michael Lockridgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06748256055779697021noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8570746411968593398.post-88129916050371012692009-07-12T23:21:00.000-07:002009-07-13T00:03:01.589-07:00The Witch of Wickham-John <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Fortner</span> was old enough to be aware of the war, but too young to really understand what was going on. He stood on the porch with his father, watching the soldiers march by. Word was that the enemy was just miles away. There would be a battle.<br /><br />A battle! The thought raced through young John's head. Visions of glory on the battlefield, with a vanquished foe at his feet!<br /><br />"Go muck out the barn, John." said his father.<br /><br />Far from dreamed-of glory, John did what he was told. He finished, and stepped outside of the barn for a bit of fresh air.<br /><br />He could see smoke on the horizon, and hear occasional shots and shouts. Rarely a cannon barked and echoed off of the surrounding hills.<br /><br />John's dreams of glory had faded to cow dung on his boots. He made his way to the porch and sat on the steps. One at a time he removed and cleaned his boots. He often thought his father was <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">stodgy</span> and <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">unimaginative</span>, but he respected the value the man placed on necessary things. John cleaned the boots with care.<br /><br />He looked up in time to see her come out of the woods, walking along the same road the soldiers had used to go past their small farm. The witch of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Wickham</span>. She looked like a ghost in the twilight, gliding along the way and looking neither left or right. He watched her pass, moving in the direction of the battle.<br /><br />As she faded from sight, John realized that the sounds of battle had also faded away. With a sigh, he finished his task and went into the small house.<br /><br />His father sat at the kitchen table, finishing a cup of tea. John poured a cup from the kettle, and sat down opposite the older man.<br /><br />John said nothing. He sipped at his tea, and looked down at his feet. His father had not gone to the war. "Growing food for people to eat is <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">contribution</span> enough." he had said some time ago, when John had asked. "Soldiers have to eat, and we know how to grow food."<br /><br />"<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">G'night</span>, Dad." John said, getting up.<br /><br />"Night, Son." said his father. John noticed that he looked much older tonight. Perhaps the light. John went off to bed.<br /><br />It was late in the night when John awoke. He shivered, even though the night was warm. He got up from his bed and made his way to the front door.<br /><br />His father stood there, looking out at the road.<br /><br />John joined him. Moments later he caught a glimmer on the road. It was the witch! She walked back up the road, heading toward the woods and the village of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Wickham</span> on the other side. She was singing an unearthly tune, one which made John's heart feel cold and hard inside his chest.<br /><br />As she drew abreast of the farm another glimmer in the direction from which she had come caught his attention. Slowly, two by two, soldiers were marching in her wake. They were keeping pace with her tune. As they drew closer the chill in John's heart grew colder still. He shivered as he watched.<br /><br />Some carried limbs in their arms. Legs, arms, bits of themselves or other men. One carried his own head. Some shared the burden of carrying a torn and mangled torso, or <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">unrecognizable</span> pieces of what once might have been men. None carried weapons or gear. John realized that they were beyond need of such things, now.<br /><br />He drew in a breath to ask his father a question. His father touched his lips, gently, and the question faltered on his tongue. He watched in silence as the price paid for a war he did not understand marched silently away into the woods.<br /><br />The last stragglers finally passed by and faded into the woods. They aided each other, for few were whole and walking was difficult. When the last one passed into the deeper darkness between the trees, John let out his breath.<br /><br />"Let's get back to bed, Son." his father said. "They may now be beyond need, but others will be in need of the food we can produce."<br /><br />A multitude of questions tangled John's tongue, and not a one made it past his lips.<br /><br />His father looked at him. "That is all there really is to the glory of war, Son." he said, gently. "She will lead them to a place of passing, and they will find peace. The rest of us have to carry on. Get some rest."<br /><br />John returned to his bed. He thought he would lay there the rest of the night, unable to sleep. Instead the haunting melody the witch had sung threaded itself through his mind. He saw a clearing in the woods, and a path that was lit by an unearthly light. The soldiers were now running up the path and into the light. They were whole and young and shouting for joy.<br /><br />He fell asleep, and dreamed a dream of quiet days and work well done.Michael Lockridgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06748256055779697021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8570746411968593398.post-69684688544084310652009-04-23T10:45:00.000-07:002009-04-23T11:49:09.810-07:00An Alternative to Torture-Michael Benson awoke. He was groggy. He was sore. He wondered what had happened.<br /><br />Sitting up, he looked around the room. It was clean, but obviously a prison cell of some kind. Moving slowly, he tried to remember how he had gotten here.<br /><br />The convoy. Some kind of explosive tipping his vehicle. Darkness.<br /><br />Mike realized that he was a prisoner of war.<br /><br />The door opened, and a soldier stuck his head in.<br /><br />"Come with me." he said. The accent was strong, but Mike understood. He stood and slowly followed the soldier down a long hall. There were other doors along the hallway. Solid doors. Locked doors.<br /><br />The soldier opened one of the doors using a large key. He nodded toward the opening, indicating that he wanted Mike to enter.<br /><br />Mike did so. Inside was a table and two chairs. A man in a dark suit sat in one of the chairs. The man waved a hand toward the empty chair. Mike sat down.<br /><br />He anticipated an interrogation. Mike reviewed his name, rank, and serial number in his still fuzzy mind. That was all he would give them.<br /><br />"How are you feeling, Mr. Benson?" asked the man in the suit. "Better, I hope. You were a bit damaged in the accident. We did a bit of surgery, and kept you sedated as you healed."<br /><br />"Accident?" Mike asked. He recalled the event, and suspected that the explosion had not been accidental. This was, after all, war.<br /><br />"Are you feeling well enough to go, now?"<br /><br />"Go?" asked Mike. He was confused. Prisoner of war. They didn't just let prisoners go.<br /><br />"Yes." said the man in the suit. "You were injured. We helped you. Now you can go, if you want."<br /><br />"I want." said Mike. He was confused, but not a fool. Of course he would go.<br /><br />The man waved his hand, and the door opened. The soldier reappeared. Mike was escorted away, still reeling from the unexpected turn of events.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />"I have him in my sights." reported the sniper. "He looks like one of ours."<br /><br />The Commander viewed the man coming across the perimeter through his scope. Another prisoner, coming home.<br /><br />"Drop him." he ordered. The sniper depressed the trigger, and a piece of death metal traversed the distance between him and the man in the field.<br /><br />The commander sighed.<br /><br />"Gonzales, and Johnson. You are with me. Let's get down there and have a look."<br /><br />Twenty minutes later the commander and a field surgeon were looking into the opened wounds of Michael Benson.<br /><br />"Tracking and telemetry devices." said the surgeon. He did not like these changes in the mode of warfare. Surgery had been conducted at a distance from the action. Here he was, now on the front lines.<br /><br />"Leave him." said the Commander. "Bug out!"<br /><br />The small forward team quickly gathered gear and began moving away from the opened body of their comrade. They were under way only a matter of minutes before the first surveillance drones buzzed overhead. As the drones sought the larger force they were trying to protect the small forward team sought a place of sanctuary.<br /><br />Someplace else.<br /><br />The men did not even flinch as an explosion rocked the ground. The body of Michael Benson was now dust and ashes. They kept moving quickly, hoping to be away from the area before the follow up rounds arrived. Not only did they have to worry about stopping the enemy, but now they had to stop returning comrades, as well.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />"That one didn't make it very far." observed the man in the dark suit. He was now sitting in a command center, watching the dust settle on the place Michael Benson had last stood. The surveillance drone gave a clear picture.<br /><br />"Far enough." said the General by his side. "We got a direction and general location. The drones will do the rest. We will find them."<br /><br />The soldiers at various panels in the command center directed their drones. One directed fire on the team that had stopped Benson. The team had been quick and evasive, and might just get away. They were wisely moving away from the still unknown location of the larger force they had been protecting.<br /><br />"I miss torture." said the man in the suit. He sighed, fondly reminiscing.<br /><br />"Not as efficient." commented the General. "So many lies and inaccuracies, just to end the threat of pain."<br /><br />"It was an art."<br /><br />"We have moved on." said the General. "Besides, nobody wins a war these days and gets to rewrite history. Torture makes for bad press. How can we be faulted for helping the wounded enemy and sending them back?"<br /><br />"Yes." said the man in the suit. He smiled. "Making them kill their own is a nice twist. How will they manage that in the press?"<br /><br />The two old warriors sat and watched the action on the various monitors. The were each lost in thought, wondering what new twists might come to mutate the love of their lives. Fighting wars in the news and on the Internet had robbed their darling of her old glory.<br /><br />Smoke still wafted from the place that Michael Benson had last stood. There it was, an alternative to torture.Michael Lockridgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06748256055779697021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8570746411968593398.post-12782554694199361612009-03-10T00:21:00.000-07:002009-03-10T02:43:50.144-07:00The Shaving Horse-Billy Todd sauntered quietly beside his grandfather as they walked deeper into the woods. When he was younger he would tend to run ahead on these walks, dashing between trees and jumping the many small streams as they moved through the shadows of the trees. Billy was ten, now, and had begun to appreciate what a precious gift it was to spend time with his grandfather.<br /><br />He still felt the urge to run ahead, but refrained so as to stay by the older man's side.<br /><br /><br />Hiram Todd equally treasured his time with Billy. Billy's father, John, had grown up during times when Hiram had to work a great deal to take care of the family. Hiram had not had the time to lavish on his precious son, and as a result they had grown apart over the years. Hiram was determined not to let this happen with his grandson, so using the free time purchased by his retirement to walk in the woods with Billy was a great reward for the many years of work and sacrifice.<br /><br /><br />Every once in awhile Hiram would point at a plant or tree, and Billy would call out the name. Hiram made sure Billy knew of the more useful herbs growing in the woods, how to spot them and how to use them. He taught Billy the many little bits of woodcraft that he had learned from his own father. Things he wished he could have passed down to John, had times been different.<br /><br /><br />Hiram turned them up a ravine they had not yet together explored. There was a treasure hidden there, one he felt it was time to share with his grandson. As they approached the cleft in the exposed stone of the mountainside Billy suddenly stopped. He glanced around, sniffed the air and turned slowly in a circle.<br /><br /><br />"Something is here." he whispered. He knew that his grandfather had a touch of some woodland magic about him, and had always suspected that he shared the peculiar gift. The way the woods always seemed to welcome him, the way he so quickly learned things about the woods. It seemed more like remembering than learning.<br /><br /><br />"Around the big rock." said Hiram.<br /><br /><br />Billy walked slowly around the rock, and spotted the small cave hidden behind several <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">tightly</span> grown bushes. He gazed into the darkness, but did not move forward.<br /><br /><br />Hiram just watched. Billy stood still, gesturing toward the darkness of the cave but unable to move forward. Hiram continued to watch as desire and something else struggled within the boy.<br /><br /><br />"Dad doesn't believe in magic." the young man said. His shoulders slumped and he turned away from the darkness at the base of the stone cleft. "He says that you talk <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">mumbo</span>-jumbo, that you pass on old wives tales and make them sound wise."<br /><br />"Yes, I know he says those things." replied Hiram. "Those things, and many more. He turned long ago from the knowledge that made up my education. He focused on school and career, and making much more money than I was ever able to do."<br /><br />Billy looked sad. He loved his father, as Hiram also did. However they both knew that John had grown distant from them, holding them away and never quite letting them inside his personal defenses. Billy knew this intuitively, his grandfather by experience. The death of Billy's mother was eight years in the past, but it had broke something in John Todd that time had not managed to fix.<br /><br /><br />"Your father has the same touch that I do." said Hiram. "The same touch that you feel <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">growing</span> in you. The touch that was my father's, and his father's before him. Where most of the Todd men read the woods, your father learned to read other things."<br /><br />Billy nodded, looking no less sad. Though he had lived with his father all of his life, they had not really been together. At ten years of age he was just beginning to sense the nature of that loss, that terrible distance.<br /><br />Hiram had retired a bit early, just to be available for his grandson. The coming years would be hard on the young man if his father continued to fester in his grief. Hiram wanted to be there for both of them.<br /><br />"Your father has used the touch to gather wealth, and does very well in that." Hiram said. "Rather than herbs and trees he learned stocks and bonds. He can short sell better than most, and his rewards have been substantial. Yet each year he seems to fall farther and farther away from us."<br /><br />"I miss him." said Billy.<br /><br />"I do too." said Hiram. "However, there is something here that can help with that. A little."<br /><br />Billy looked up at his <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">grandfather</span>, and then back to the darkness of the cave behind the thick green bushes. He turned and pushed past the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">foliage</span>, and waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness.<br /><br />At the back of the dry cavity in the rock sat an object the likes of which he had never seen. It was made of wood, and looked much like a long bench. <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Affixed</span> to the bench was a structure made of wood, configured to work in some unfathomable way.<br /><br />"It is called a <a href="http://www.primitiveways.com/shaving-horse.html">shaving horse</a>." said Hiram, in a quiet voice.<br /><br />Billy didn't have to articulate his question. He just had to wait.<br /><br />"A craftsman would cut limbs from trees and <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">affix</span> them in that holding device on top of the bench." his grandfather explained. "See the pedal down below? The craftsman could hold or release the grip of the machine on the limb by pressing on that pedal."<br /><br />Billy gazed at the machine, trying to figure out how it might work. It was very old, and looked like it might fall apart if he touched it. He was not sure if he <em>wanted</em> to touch it. It was not threatening. He even found it appealing, like some kind of museum piece.<br /><br />Something inside the thing frightened him.<br /><br />"The craftsmen would often bring these shaving horses to the woods where they found suitable limbs." Hiram continued. "They would turn the limbs into table legs and chair legs and lots of other things. Using a <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Drawknife">draw knife </a>they would work the limbs until they were finished and ready to be shipped to other craftsmen to be used in chairs and tables."<br /><br />Billy could almost see in his mind how it all was done. Without thinking he reached out and touched the device.<br /><br />He felt the sun on his back as he sat astride the shaving horse, pulling at the handles of his draw knife as he shaped the table leg upon which he was working. The knife shaved away bits of the wood, and as needed he would release pressure on the pedal and turn the work in the jaws of the gripping vice.<br /><br />Draw and cut. Draw and cut. Release. Turn. Press down on the pedal. Draw and cut.<br /><br />Karl <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Shaeffer</span> was his name. He had come to these woods to work. The trees were good and strong, and provided the right limbs for making fine table legs.<br /><br />Draw and cut. Draw and cut. The blade came against his leather clad stomach as he completed each stroke. Release, turn, press. Draw and cut.<br /><br />He paused to dress the blade, and then returned to his work. As he drew and cut and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">sweated</span>, he let his grief flow through his limbs and into his work. Each table leg carried away a bit of the pain. Even more flooded into the shaving horse upon which he worked.<br /><br /><br />Draw and cut. Draw and cut. Release. Turn. Press.<br /><br />Draw and cut.<br /><br />He remembered his young wife, as he <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">sweated</span> in the sun and the shavings piled up around him. He pulled a finished table leg from the jaws of the shaving horse, examining it with a practiced eye. He remembered the sturdy limbs of his young bride, his pride in her beauty. He wiped away a tear absently on his shirt sleeve.<br /><br />Karl set the finished leg to one side of his shaving horse, and reached to the other side to pull another piece of timber from the stack of trimmed limbs. He set the new piece in the jaws, touched up the edge of his draw knife, and set to work once again.<br /><br />Draw and cut. Draw and cut.<br /><br />He remembered the kindling of their first child. The swelling of his bride's form as she made room for their child in her own body.<br /><br />Draw and cut. Draw and cut. Release, turn, press.<br /><br />Draw and cut.<br /><br />He remembered the heat of the fever, the helplessness as he watched his bride and unborn child burn. Tears rolled with the sweat down his face. The past and present were one.<br /><br />Draw and cut. Draw and cut.<br /><br />He remembered the dark hole that waited to swallow all of his hopes and dreams. So many said they were sorry for his loss. They placed them gently into the earth, his bride and his child forever within her, and cast earth upon them. Karl felt his heart fall with the fist full of dirt as he said his farewell.<br /><br />Draw and cut. Draw and cut. Release, turn, press.<br /><br />Draw and cut.<br /><br />Karl could not remain on their small farm in their little house. The memories were too much to live with, yet he would not dishonor the love of his family and his loving community by taking his own life. He crafted the shaving horse with his own hands, and when it was done he gave his land to his sister and her family.<br /><br />He became a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11"><a href="http://www.britannica.com/EBchecked/topic/70967/bodger">bodger</a></span>, an <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">itinerant</span> craftsman making legs for tables, legs for chairs. He let the sun and rain and wind cleans him as he plied his knife.<br /><br />Draw and cut. Draw and cut. He poured his grief into his work and into his tools.<br /><br />This was a good place to work. Winter was coming, but he knew a good place to stow his shaving horse for the winter. He would return when the snows had melted and things had warmed enough for him to come back.<br /><br />"Draw and cut. Draw and cut." said Billy. His grandfather stood beside him. Tears <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">wet</span> their cheeks, and they were not ashamed.<br /><br />"You are too young to know such things." Hiram whispered. "But your father needs us, and to help him you needed to understand."<br /><br />"What happened to Karl?" Billy asked.<br /><br />"I don't know." said his grandfather. "Perhaps he went west. Many did, in those days. He left the shaving horse in this cave a great many years ago. Few can read the memories that stain this wood. It is a lesson I think you and I needed to learn to help your father."<br /><br />They exited the cave, and blinked in the sunlight. Slowly they began walking back toward Hiram's house.<br /><br />"What will we do?" Billy asked. "He hurts so much. What can we do?"<br /><br />"Perhaps we should build him a shaving horse." suggested Hiram.<br /><br />It seemed strange, the image of his father sitting astride such a device.<br /><br />"Draw and cut." said Billy. "I don't know how it will help, but I think you are right, Grandpa."<br /><br />As the afternoon waned and the two walked quietly through the woods, the shaving horse sat in the darkness of the stone cleft. It had given up its treasure of bittersweet memories to the lad with the right heart and mind and <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">proper</span> touch. With a sigh it collapsed into splinters and dust, as did the bones of Karl <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">Shaeffer</span> in some distant grave.<br /><br />In the following days other wood would come together, and an anachronistic wooden horse would be born. A shaving horse, a thing from another era to be given to John Todd as an improbable salve for healing a wounded soul and a broken heart.<br /><br />Draw and cut. Draw and cut. Release. Turn. Press.Michael Lockridgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06748256055779697021noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8570746411968593398.post-47580404281364166282009-01-23T05:50:00.000-08:002009-02-24T21:17:54.471-08:00Wordsmith-<span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,153)">Poet, Warrior,</span><br /><span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,153)">Philosopher, Priest.</span><br /><br /><span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,153)">World Maker</span><br /><span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,153)">Dream Hunter</span><br /><span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,153)">Nightmare's Scribe</span><br /><br /><span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,153)">Weaver of Shadows,</span><br /><span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,153)">Sculptor of Lights.</span><br /><br /><span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,153)">by Michael R. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Lockridge</span></span><br /><br />This was a poem I wrote some years ago to (at least in part) describe myself and my relationship to writing. I pulled out the <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Nightmare's Scribe</span> to title one of my short stories. That story follows this entry. I thought I would put it up here to provide some context for the story.<br /><br />That, and because I like it.Michael Lockridgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06748256055779697021noreply@blogger.com1