Wednesday, November 02, 2005

Hell’s bells   I was the one who rang the bells in the village square so early this morning. My apologies if I woke you. But I was in a celebratory mood. You see, last night I found a sock. Not just any sock, but one that had gone missing perhaps a year ago or more. Its mate has occupied a corner of my sock and underwear drawer for all that time, conspicuously unpaired during the weekly folding and restocking ritual on laundry nights. But I never gave up on this missing sock. I knew that one day it would reappear. And tonight it did. Suddenly, there is was, statically clinging to an old bed sheet that had fallen out of the linen closet. I was delighted. I peeled the sock from the sheet, retrieved its counterpart from my dresser drawer, and put them both on my feet. After that I got drunk. (And who wouldn’t?) Next thing I know, I am knocking on the big wooden doors of the old stone church in the wee hours of morning. I woke the Vicar. He was none too pleased to see me standing there in such a state. That I woke him, and his family, too, was bad enough, but now he would have to talk sense into me (hopeless!) and then spend a few minutes on the alter praying for my wicked soul (again!) before he could crawl back into bed and resume his sleep. I told the Vicar my good news about the socks, and I lifted my pant legs to show him in the dimly lit vestibule. I told him that I needed to ring the church bells now. He argued, of course, along the lines of common decency – the late hour and all that – but in the end, being a wise man, the Vicar knew that it was easier to acquiesce in the form of a compromise than argue logic with a drunk. So, a deal was struck in which I believe I made some promises of redemption (that were quickly forgotten). Pleased by his covenant, the Vicar led me to the bell tower where I was allowed to ring the bells exactly six times. Then I went home to bed. As the morning light flooded through my bedroom window, I awoke to the sound of my own bells, the bells of consequence ringing within the tight confines of my aching head. My feet hung out beyond the edge of the worn duvet and my too-short bed. Even with my blurred vision, I could make out that I was still wearing the socks. My eyes slowly came into focus, first on the left sock, black, and then the right one, navy blue. “Damn,” I muttered out loud. “Damn, damn, damn.” A soft voice responded from the other side of the bed. “What’s the matter?” it said.  I looked over at the mass of hair splayed on the pillow next to mine. It was the Vicar’s daughter. She had crawled out of her bedroom window and followed me home. How could I have forgotten that? “Nothing, darling,” I answered. “Go back to sleep.” But it wasn’t nothing. It was very much something. No doubt about it. Soon, I would have to walk back down the hill from my house to that old stone church, knock on the big wooden doors, and admit to the Vicar that the socks don’t match. 9:22:06 PM    comments []

	Wednesday, May 04, 2005

NIMBY   I thought I smelled fire. At the same time, my ear detected the muffled sound of a harmonica. Alarmed, I put the dirty plate I was rinsing into the dishwasher and strained my head to look out the bay window over the kitchen sink. There, in my backyard, were a couple of cowboys sitting at a campfire, boiling up a pot of coffee. Their horses, hitched to the footings of the deck by long leather leads, were munching on the tender Kentucky bluegrass. "Damn," I cursed under my breath, "they're eating the tender Kentucky bluegrass." I've had trouble with rabbits and skunks and groundhogs in the backyard, but never cowboys. These two must have lost their way when they came through the mountain pass and ran into that new monstrosity of a Wal-Mart that sits on the old Stagecoach road. If they went east and took the culvert that carries the trickled remains of the once mighty Shenandoah River, well, that would pretty much lead them right here. "This won't do," I muttered to myself. "They can't camp back there – not in my back yard." I prepared my argument along simple lines of defense. First off, they were trespassing. Second, the County has laws against keeping livestock in suburban backyards. Then there was the open burning, the damage to the lawn, the lack of sanitary facilities. (Where were they going to pee? And worse!)  I took a deep breath, unlatched the patio door and stepped outside onto the deck. The cowboys jumped up when they saw me; instinctively, they pulled shiny metal pistols from their holsters. I heard two quick clicks as the guns were cocked and pointed my way. I put my hands up in a gesture of peace. "Easy, boys," I said, and slowly walked down the pressure-treated pine steps to the lawn. "Any more coffee in that pot?" 8:58:22 PM    comments []

	Sunday, March 20, 2005

Contest winner!!   The judges' results are in and we have a winner in the paragraph contest. Congratulations to Steve Raker for his entry “Armagotcha or Introducing President-elect Hillary Dead.” There were three independent judges (I did not participate in choosing a winner).  Seven people entered the contest. Two of the three judges picked Steve’s piece as their number one choice. The third judge had Steve in the top three.   Steve’s prize is the book “Zounds: A browser’s dictionary of Interjections” by Mark Dunn. Go here to hear a short piece about the book that aired on Morning Edition last week.   Contest background:   It’s January 19th, 2009. President Bush is packing up in the White House. The paragraph must begin here. The only other rule is the paragraph cannot be longer than 250 words. Remember that even though this is the end of W’s reign, it is the beginning of a novel. The end of the paragraph should only raise questions, not provide answers.   Steve’s winning entry (cartoon bomb his own):       "Those Democrats are so darn stupid.  They really think we're gonna leave.  Let's start callin' them Dummycrats, eh Karl."   "Sure thing Boss, good one.  Hand me that detonator, would ya?"  "This one?"  "No, that's the telephone.  Nevermind, I'll get it."  "You are so smart Karl.  I sure do love you."  "I know Mr. President, I love you too."  "How much stuff are we gonna blow up tomorrow Karl?"  "Remember sir, we discussed this, it's really better if you don't know.  You just need to remember your lines for when you climb on top of the rubble."  "I know, I know, I'm just so excited; this is so cool.  Can I use the bullhorn again?"  "Of course Mr. President, we've been over this.  Shouldn't you be getting ready for bed, sir?"  "Get ready for bed, not go to bed."  "OK."  "Those stupid Dummycrats."  "Yes sir, good one."    ~ ~ ~ ~ ~   I enjoyed all of the entries and include them here (in no particular order) for you to enjoy. Thanks to everyone who participated.   -- “A Political Thriller” by Al               “Whoda thunk it, huh?” the taxi driver said to Tom MacGilly, as he gazed past the heavily fortified security checkpoint that was the entrance to the District. “Bush is probably packing up his cowboy boots in the White House right now, and Santorum’s gonna be the new guy. Whoda thunk it?” Tom grunted and shifted uncomfortably in the back seat. He was running late. “These damn checkpoints,” the driver grumbled. “You know, sealing off the District to control all this traffic ain’t gonna stop the next anthrax cloud from killin’ more people, huh?” The car in front of them jumped forward – Tom could see the soldier lean into the car, scanning the offered license. “I’ll bet Santorum’s thanking whoever did that anthrax attack last fall. That asshole was scramblin’ to catch up to Edwards – man, talk about the perfect excuse to lock up the country.” Tom glanced sharply at the driver, who seemed happy to prattle on about politics. He was right to a degree. Former senator Rick Santorum’s pro-military, socially conservative agenda had not resonated with a public grown tired of alerts, curfews, and midnight raids gone wrong. On that night of September 11, 2008, the Baltimore Inner Harbor crowd had been exposed to inhalation anthrax. About 200 hadn’t gotten the antibiotics, or had just ignored instructions to pick them up. The public’s desire to strike at terrorist groups and lock down civil liberties was the perfect backdrop for Santorum to win the race. It was almost too convenient…   -- An untitled piece by Vanessa   "Thank you Mister President. It's been a pleasure to serve with you, sir." Gee Dubya's green carapace rippled in scaly pleasure as his chief of staff removed his ceremonial features, the rubbery humanoid disguise that had irritated, scratched and rankled him for so long now. Tongue flickering from side to side in contentment, he accepted the sacrificial votive, and smugly distended his jaw to engorge his throat with the severed hands of his servant, symbolizing the long service and loyalty his number two had just pledged to his leader. It would be an uncomfortable two weeks until Rice's forepaws grew back, and Gee Dubya's knowledge of the anticipated discomfort made the skin-crunch and bone-crackle of the honorific all the more precious, in these, his last hours in office.   -- “Bitter George” by Karen M   George finally had to admit he was feeling just a little bit bitter, and this was in spite of his many achievements over the past four (really, eight!) years. So what... if he had manipulated Congress, the Feds, the Courts, the effin’ Economy (Stupid!), and those suckers-- the American people, and had trashed the global environment, and had beaten them all up-- all those sacred cow institutions--enough to bring on the tipping point of the impending Rapture? So what.... if he was now packing up all of his mementos (like that gun presented to him by the Iraqis whose hands had been amputated) in preparation for his first space trip, where he would while away the final months before the End Times orbiting the moon in the space station? So what... if he’d finally had his ultimate revenge on all of those people who had thought they were so much smarter than he was, by ruining their world for them? He still couldn’t believe that it was real.... this last betrayal, by one of the wealthiest (and, okay, smartest) men in the world and the one other person he thought would always love him unconditionally. It was beyond the pale. They were both traitors to their class. Not to mention...Principle, Religion, Ethics... all that crap! How could Laura have left him--her devoted husband, for crying out loud!--for Warren Buffett? It was inconceivable. Sure, the guy may be smarter, and maybe even more principled, and, sure, he probably could have been president, too, if he’d wanted... but he’s old, dammit, old, and not nearly as fit as The One They Call 43. What, he wondered, is this world coming to, when the First Lady of the world’s foremost Superpower can just shrug off her responsibilities and go off gallivanting with one of the richest (and, okay, I said smartest) men in the world? Huh? Answer me that if you can! Hah! Bet you can’t, can you!?   -- An untitled piece by Matt   Jeb looked at W. "dude, we couldn't get the term-limitation taken away, but there's no rule against you being my vice-president." W said to Jeb, "rock on."   -- An untitled piece by Mark   Carrot Top could scarcely believe in his good fortune. Was it all that long ago that he was considered little more than an underachieving doofus, kept aloft by virtue of superior genetics? Shaking his orange locks, he smiled in sweet amazement at the new road that fortune had laid beneath his feet. There was, of course, the matter of poor tiny troubled Togo, but he pushed the thought away on this Inauguration night. The seltzer sizzled on his tongue.   -- “Waking Up, January 19th, 2009” by Jill   Some days, waking up to the news is a bad idea.  My eyes weren’t open before I hear, “President-Elect Condi establishes a mandatory national dress code.  ‘Not just for students,’ she explains, ‘but for everyone.  Let’s have some pride, people.  We’re Americans, gosh-darn it!”  Charlie’s already at work.  Most people aren’t working, which means Cops have plenty of overtime.  I made the mistake of staying in bed without turning off the radio.  “Foxnews, the United States’ only news network, announces a hostile takeover of NPR.  ‘When we say hostile, we’re not messing around.  We’re FOX, dammit.  We came in there armed to the teeth.  Not that we needed weapons; those bed-wetters ran and squealed like kittens when they saw Bill O’Reilly leading the charge.’”  I quickly turned off the radio just in time to hear someone running up the stairs.  Before I could stick my head under the covers, Charlie runs in and shuts the door behind him.  “What are you doing home?” I asked.  “I’m not going back out there,” he said, catching his breath.  “You can’t believe the smell.” 10:41:29 PM    comments []

	Saturday, March 05, 2005

First paragraphs   I've started many novels in my life but never finished one. In fact, I have never gotten beyond the first paragraph. The opening paragraph is so exciting to write. So full of promise. After that, though, I lose interest. I’ve got a short attention span and a small bladder. I sit down to write but very quickly I have to pee and the next thing I know I’m in the kitchen looking for something to eat. Then there’s this problem: novel writing is tedious. There’s all that research to do. Characterization. Plot development. In short, the damn thing isn’t going to write itself. Nah, you know what? Who needs it? It’s good to know your limitations. I’m a first paragraph kind of writer. There’s nothing wrong with specializing. The important thing is to write the best damn first paragraph you can. Never sell your vision short. Is there a market for first paragraph novels? Well, not yet, but there could be. Just as I am writing less, people are reading less. We already have the USA Today newspaper. How far off can first paragraph novels be? With that in mind, I want to be ready when the time comes. That’s why I’m starting a new category at this blog called “First paragraph novels.” * And here is the first entry. It’s the first paragraph of a historical/action-adventure/romance/science fiction novel I’m calling “Abe, We Hardly Knew Ya.” (Note: this work has an epigraph. Epigraphs don’t count as an opening paragraph. Do I have to explain everything?)   * Actually, it's "Novel beginnings."   ~   Play that funky music white boy Play that funky music right Play that funky music white boy Lay down that boogie and play that funky music till you die… (hey,hey) till you die…yeah, yeah - Wild Cherry     Chapter one          On his seventeenth birthday, Abraham Lincoln stepped away from his comfortable but safe life with his father, stepmother and siblings in their cramped log cabin home in rural Illinois to seek out some booty at a nearby brothel. At this tender young age, Abe could not have known that he was destined for greatness. He certainly could never have guessed that he would one day be elected president of the United States of America. Had he known this, he probably would not have fallen head over heels for a young black hermaphroditic prostitute named SamSam. Still, pretty quickly he ciphered that this probably wasn’t a good thing. Word had leaked out. His parents were outraged. Lincoln’s father was quoted as saying, “For crying out loud, we’re simple country folk, why couldn’t he marry his cousin like everybody else around here?” So, after six weeks of rapture locked up in a back room of the Knob Creek Saloon with his beloved girl/boyfriend, Abraham Lincoln, the future sixteenth president of the United States, climbed out of a bathroom window and ran naked down the road heading due east. He never looked back. 9:55:52 AM    comments []

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