sulfuric clouds
over Limestone City
basic umbrella
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
Monday, January 30, 2012
Invasion of the Slinky Snatchers
In one night, every slinky in the entire world crumbled away. They were replaced by identical, but evil, copies.
Sunday, January 29, 2012
New authors
When you're starting out it's hard to know what to do. My friend Denise Dumars offers author services here http://www.denisedumars.com/authors.html. Check it out.
Saturday, January 28, 2012
Friday, January 27, 2012
Thursday, January 26, 2012
written a few days ago -- warning: contains cats
when I was writing without an internet.
So last night (January 24, 2012) I'm on the phone with Debbie Kolodji and I start hearing a thumping sound from over by the dining room window. We were talking about Science Fiction Poetry Association kerfuffles. The thumping goes on for a few minutes. Finally I look over to see Simon playing with something on the Duncan Fife table. Something green. A dog toy? (Forgetting that we have no dog toy that color green.) Finally he tosses it on the floor and it rolls across the room. He jumps down and follows it, batting at it like he would a half dead chipmunk. It's an apple. A Granny Smith apple. For several minutes he whacks it one way, runs after it, whacks it another way, runs after it again, thumps it on the top with his paw, tries to get his mouth around it (he can't), and so on. He has it trapped against a table leg at one point, so he rares back on his hind legs like a grizzly bear and falls on it with all 6 pounds. It almost escapes by darting under the dining room table at one point, but he's too smart for it. In the end, it appears to be slain, but he still can't get his mouth around it, so he just walks away. It mysteriously returned to the Duncan Fife table this morning. Has it lived to fight another day? Round two is eagerly awaited by all potential spectators.
Now, I have seen him playing with a chipmunk, and there is one difference. He saunters after the apple. He moves so fast going after the chipmunks, you almost can't see it.
So last night (January 24, 2012) I'm on the phone with Debbie Kolodji and I start hearing a thumping sound from over by the dining room window. We were talking about Science Fiction Poetry Association kerfuffles. The thumping goes on for a few minutes. Finally I look over to see Simon playing with something on the Duncan Fife table. Something green. A dog toy? (Forgetting that we have no dog toy that color green.) Finally he tosses it on the floor and it rolls across the room. He jumps down and follows it, batting at it like he would a half dead chipmunk. It's an apple. A Granny Smith apple. For several minutes he whacks it one way, runs after it, whacks it another way, runs after it again, thumps it on the top with his paw, tries to get his mouth around it (he can't), and so on. He has it trapped against a table leg at one point, so he rares back on his hind legs like a grizzly bear and falls on it with all 6 pounds. It almost escapes by darting under the dining room table at one point, but he's too smart for it. In the end, it appears to be slain, but he still can't get his mouth around it, so he just walks away. It mysteriously returned to the Duncan Fife table this morning. Has it lived to fight another day? Round two is eagerly awaited by all potential spectators.
Now, I have seen him playing with a chipmunk, and there is one difference. He saunters after the apple. He moves so fast going after the chipmunks, you almost can't see it.
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
012512
Redneck Rebellion
Chuck discovered that
Carlene had used the last
of the Earl Grey
gunrack tube stash
manifold wire-strapped kettle
cracked-mug relief
Chuck discovered that
Carlene had used the last
of the Earl Grey
gunrack tube stash
manifold wire-strapped kettle
cracked-mug relief
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
Monday, January 23, 2012
Sunday, January 22, 2012
Sample poem from "Brushfires"
Salad Days
Drop out of space-time,
Brushing fragments of your last relationship
From your back and arms
Divergent echoes of her
Spilling from your weary trail
Exhausted, yes, but
You're going to try again.
The intrinsic knot of nine
Microscopic dimensions:
Therein lies the key
The grooves that record reality
The underbelly of existence --
In one sense vanishingly thin
But with so many dimensions to play with
You can assign six of them to time
And still move in any direction you can perceive.
So take stock: what happened this time?
Everything was going so well
You aced every test
Graduated second place from the Academy
(wouldn't do to be too conspicuous)
And hooked up with the Vegephiles
Just as you planned.
But then things started to go wrong
Charlene was no pansy;
She was all tongue, and
For a while that seemed to be a plus.
She introduced you to new modes
Of stimulation – intellectual and sensual,
Of which you had not conceived.
Not since the Venus flytrap incident had you learned
So much from a woman or a plant.
But then you blew it,
I mean your paper about temporal interleaving
Laid it all out. She confronted you,
She understood poly-dimensional re-threading
Like no vegetation ever had
"I'm not your first!" (blades quivering
With suppressed rage, thinking of all those
You had put down roots with;
It didn't matter they had all had her name.)
"Baby, you are always the first!"
You pleaded with her to stay,
But you weren't watering any beds
With that line.
Then things really got tense.
She sicked Passionflower on you
Her unfurling tendrils racing you to the door.
Barely had you got free of the greenhouse when
Ivy burst through the sidewalk
Coiled around your ankles and
Crushed you in her toxic embrace
Bamboo palisades didn't just
Impale your flitter,
They hoisted it 50 meters in the air,
Ripped it apart..
The toad lily barked at you
When you got home and you almost
Didn't get in the door, the carpet needed a shave
And when you looked at your face in the mirror
It looked decidedly greenish.
In the end you had to call in the Goat Squad
And retreat from the world to try again.
The end
Another & where to order
http://dreamsandnightmaresmagazine.blogspot.com/2011/10/poem-reprinted-from-brushfires.html
Drop out of space-time,
Brushing fragments of your last relationship
From your back and arms
Divergent echoes of her
Spilling from your weary trail
Exhausted, yes, but
You're going to try again.
The intrinsic knot of nine
Microscopic dimensions:
Therein lies the key
The grooves that record reality
The underbelly of existence --
In one sense vanishingly thin
But with so many dimensions to play with
You can assign six of them to time
And still move in any direction you can perceive.
So take stock: what happened this time?
Everything was going so well
You aced every test
Graduated second place from the Academy
(wouldn't do to be too conspicuous)
And hooked up with the Vegephiles
Just as you planned.
But then things started to go wrong
Charlene was no pansy;
She was all tongue, and
For a while that seemed to be a plus.
She introduced you to new modes
Of stimulation – intellectual and sensual,
Of which you had not conceived.
Not since the Venus flytrap incident had you learned
So much from a woman or a plant.
But then you blew it,
I mean your paper about temporal interleaving
Laid it all out. She confronted you,
She understood poly-dimensional re-threading
Like no vegetation ever had
"I'm not your first!" (blades quivering
With suppressed rage, thinking of all those
You had put down roots with;
It didn't matter they had all had her name.)
"Baby, you are always the first!"
You pleaded with her to stay,
But you weren't watering any beds
With that line.
Then things really got tense.
She sicked Passionflower on you
Her unfurling tendrils racing you to the door.
Barely had you got free of the greenhouse when
Ivy burst through the sidewalk
Coiled around your ankles and
Crushed you in her toxic embrace
Bamboo palisades didn't just
Impale your flitter,
They hoisted it 50 meters in the air,
Ripped it apart..
The toad lily barked at you
When you got home and you almost
Didn't get in the door, the carpet needed a shave
And when you looked at your face in the mirror
It looked decidedly greenish.
In the end you had to call in the Goat Squad
And retreat from the world to try again.
The end
Another & where to order
http://dreamsandnightmaresmagazine.blogspot.com/2011/10/poem-reprinted-from-brushfires.html
Saturday, January 21, 2012
Sample poem from "The Tin Men"
A collaboration with Kendall Evans.
DYSON SPHERES
Detailed maps of heat signatures
showed millions of them
Dyson spheres radiating at
no more than 30° kelvin
shells of stabilized neutronium
skeined force fields
Möbius fabrics
things whose composition
eluded our analysis
At first the only one we could enter
was broken, long abandoned
a cinder at its core
nothing we recognized as habitations
on the inner surface
save, possibly, a field of geometric figures
covering three orders of magnitude in size
and a few trillion acres
Abandoned structure/ lost civilizations
Where had they gone?
Then, when we did figure out
how to open them
it was like cracking geodes
Dead stars in their Dyson shells
All-In-A-Row
Each Dyson interior the equivalent
In surface area
Of thousands of planets
All structures empty
No evidence of corpses
A mystery of scope beyond
That of the Anasasi
The Marie Celeste
The Flying Dutchman
Mad-tea-party-service
Inexplicably abandoned
Radiometric dating indicated
they were at least
10 billion years old
which meant the builders had achieved
this kind of technology
in the amount of time we'd
evolved and learned enough
to open their front doors
When their suns died
was there anybody left inside the spheres
did they move on to something new
did devolved descendents freeze to death
or starve?
(If so, what happened to the corpses?)
Perhaps they have moved on
or no longer exist
except as a myriad scattered atoms--
yet they may await our arrival
somewhere beyond Time and Thought
the end
Another example, and how to order http://dreamsandnightmaresmagazine.blogspot.com/2011/10/poem-from-tin-men_06.html
DYSON SPHERES
Detailed maps of heat signatures
showed millions of them
Dyson spheres radiating at
no more than 30° kelvin
shells of stabilized neutronium
skeined force fields
Möbius fabrics
things whose composition
eluded our analysis
At first the only one we could enter
was broken, long abandoned
a cinder at its core
nothing we recognized as habitations
on the inner surface
save, possibly, a field of geometric figures
covering three orders of magnitude in size
and a few trillion acres
Abandoned structure/ lost civilizations
Where had they gone?
Then, when we did figure out
how to open them
it was like cracking geodes
Dead stars in their Dyson shells
All-In-A-Row
Each Dyson interior the equivalent
In surface area
Of thousands of planets
All structures empty
No evidence of corpses
A mystery of scope beyond
That of the Anasasi
The Marie Celeste
The Flying Dutchman
Mad-tea-party-service
Inexplicably abandoned
Radiometric dating indicated
they were at least
10 billion years old
which meant the builders had achieved
this kind of technology
in the amount of time we'd
evolved and learned enough
to open their front doors
When their suns died
was there anybody left inside the spheres
did they move on to something new
did devolved descendents freeze to death
or starve?
(If so, what happened to the corpses?)
Perhaps they have moved on
or no longer exist
except as a myriad scattered atoms--
yet they may await our arrival
somewhere beyond Time and Thought
the end
Another example, and how to order http://dreamsandnightmaresmagazine.blogspot.com/2011/10/poem-from-tin-men_06.html
Sample story from Nursery Rhyme Noir
R.I.P., Easter Bun
I have my soft, sensitive side, just like anyone else. I don’t show it to just anybody who walks in off the street, but it’s there. That’s why my last assignment really hit me hard. I caught the dirty rat who did it, but nothing can bring back the Easter Bunny. The fact is, life is just like that sometimes. Especially in my business. Men call me Deadbolt, Hasp Deadbolt.
I’m a private eye. It started like this….
I was leaning back in my desk chair, feet up on the desk, reviewing my notes from the Muffet case, when my keen ears detected a knock on the door.
“Come in,” I called, after shoving all the crap on my desk into a neat pile.
In walked the Easter Bunny. I knew who it was. You know how sometimes you just have a gut reaction that slips you information you didn’t know you had? Well, this was like that. Plus, she was wearing a fur-tight pastel jumpsuit embroidered with Easter eggs, and a baseball cap with the words “Easter Bun” embroidered in pink and pastel green thread. She moved up to my desk and put her hands on it, leaning forward until my face was just 3 inches from her cleavage. “Mr. Deadbolt,” she breathed (her chest expanding alarmingly), “I need your help.” I eased back from her decolletage and got up to open the window. It was getting pretty warm.
“Care for a drink?” I asked, as I manhandled the sash in its cheap aluminum frame. I turned around and she was right behind me.
“Please,” she begged, putting her hand on my arm, “I don’t know where else to turn!”
Anyone who’s read my reports in the past knows that I’m not
species-centric, but business is business. I cleared my throat and escorted her to a chair.
“Miss Bun,” I began, “why don’t you tell me all about it?” I got out my notebook, she took a few more deep breaths to settle her nerves and unsettle mine, and told me the following story.
It seems that a large dog or wolf had been hanging around the hutch for the past few weeks. Every time she went outside, he was waiting for her. She wouldn’t necessarily see him right away, but he was always there. Sometimes she’d see his tail sticking out from behind a bush. Or maybe a shadow would dart behind one of the painting sheds. She could feel his eyes on her, undressing her, possibly even skinning her. He seemed to have designs on her person, she said, that had more to do with the kitchen than the bedroom, if I caught her drift. I sure did. She couldn’t work, she continued, Easter was coming up very soon , and she had eggs to harvest, sort, and paint, not to mention all the candy chicks and so on that had to be prepared. She was way behind her schedule and losing ground fast.
“I’m afraid for my life,” she concluded, “won’t you help me?”
I promised her that I would give her problem my undivided attention. “You can rest assured I’ll find out who this wolf is and see that he stops bothering you,” I told her, and she seemed relieved.
“I’ll take that drink now, Mr. Deadbolt,” she said, and I mixed her a stiff one. I was on duty, so I went easy on mine. We talked for awhile, or rather, she talked and I listened. She talked about her business, how she’d inherited the job from an aged pika who wanted to move back to Mount Lassen, how she really loved making little children happy. I asked her about the hat. She’d made it herself and she hadn’t had room for the last two letters. She thought it looked OK and I assured her it did. She’d made the jumpsuit too, and done a fine job, I might add. By the time her drink was gone she seemed to be a lot less nervous.
“I think I’ll be able to focus on my work now,” she said, setting her glass on the credenza, “it’s so nice knowing you’ll be protecting me.”
We’d been chatting a while, and I’d almost forgotten how good she looked, but when she turned and picked up her purse, I saw that, just as her hat had made accommodations for her slender ears, her jumpsuit had had to adjust to her tail. I had to do some adjusting myself, so I quickly saw her to the door, telling her I’d get right on her case.
A few minutes later I was out the door and beating the street. I didn’t know who this wolf was who’d been stalking my client, but I knew how to find out. In half an hour I was downtown, leaning up against the bar in The Jumping Cow. The Cow is located in an old warehouse, and minimal efforts have been made at decoration. The bar is the nicest piece of furniture in the place, and it looks like it fell off the back of a truck. The tables and chairs
were probably picked up from the dumpster outside another bar in a better part of town. I’m certain the Cow doesn’t contain a broom, a mop, or even a rag. It’s not an ideal spot for a classy date, but it’s the best place to find the Weasel. The Weasel knows all the low-lifes and tough guys around, and if this dog or wolf had been in the area long, the Weasel would have the scoop. The Weasel would squeal, too, for the right price.
“Gimme a draft,” I told the ox behind the bar, and when he brought it to me I pumped him. “Seen the Weeze?”
He nodded and glanced over to his left. Sure enough, the Weasel was sitting alone at a table in the corner. “Thanks,” I said, grabbed my beer and headed over there. I slid into the seat across from him and shoved the beer into the middle of the table.
The Weasel took a sip. “Long time, no see, Deadbeat,” he hissed, “whatcha need?”
“That’s Deadbolt,” I told him, “I’m looking for a big dog or a wolf, been stalkin’ the Easter Bun. You know anything about it?”
“Yeah, whatever,” he said. “I know something.” I knew that’s all I’d get without the green, so I slipped him 5 twenties under the table. I had to give him another 3 bills before he spilled the beans. He knew the wolf alright. Went by the handle of BB (the Weasel didn’t know what it stood for) and he was one bad-assed dude. Wanted across the state line for all kinds of thievery and violence, and maybe murder. It seems he’d been under suspicion
in the case of three young swine who’d been killed and devoured right in their own homes. In fact, the homes had been pretty much destroyed by the unknown assailant. He was evidently one tough customer. Nothing had ever been proven, but the Weasel said BB had been overheard bragging about some “bacon” he’d “cooked.” At this point, I started to get worried, and I headed out to see my client. I wanted to make sure she was safe. She might need to move to a safe house until I could apprehend BB.
The Easter Bun lived way out in the country, and it took me quite a while to get there. She had a big ranch, with chicken houses, dormitories for the staff, painting and decorating areas, huge warehouses, a fleet of trucks, and more; it was a busy place. I was almost as impressed with her operation as I had been with her configuration. I pulled up in front of the main office and strode in. A spring chicken was behind the desk, chewing gum.
“I need to see the Easter Bun,” I snapped, “and make it snappy.” She blew a bubble and it snapped in my face.
“She’s back there,” the desk hen told me, “but she don’t wanna be
distoibed.” I pushed on past and opened the office door. I knew right away that something was wrong. The bunny that had embroidered more than 100 eggs on her jumpsuit would not willingly leave her office in this condition. Plus, the window was broken. I looked out in time to see a sorry-looking black Chevy pickup disappearing among the Easter-egg trees in a cloud of exhaust. I ran back out to the front, hopped in my Nova, and took off after the truck. The car took a beating going cross country, and I couldn’t make good time no matter how hard I pushed on the gas pedal. “Damn!” I slammed my hand on the wheel. Why hadn’t I bought an SUV!
I found the truck, finally, parked in front of a weather-beaten shed up against the big woods at the back of the Easter plantation. Smoke rose from the chimney. The license plate of the truck read “YUM YUM.” I had a sinking feeling in my gut as I slammed the Nova to a stop, jumped out with my gun in my hand, and ran for the shed. I took a deep breath, kicked the door hard,
and the whole place fell in.
And there he was. Seated at the table. Napkin tucked in. Red checked table cloth, white china plate, and the clean-picked bones of my client, as graceful in death as she had been in life. “Want some?” he asked, holding out a bloody tibia in his paw.
It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, not shooting him down in cold blood, but I didn’t do it. He’s doing 10-20 for consuming a mythic figure, and when he gets out, THEN I’ll shoot the bastard. In the meantime, there’s a new Easter bunny, a bright young fellow named Raoul. I’m sure the kids are happy, but I’m not. I’m just sitting here, drinking carrot juice and waiting for another case that might serve to draw a temporary veil over my painful memories of the best thing I ever saw in a pink jumpsuit.
“Here’s to you, Easter Bun. I’ll always remember you the way you were when I first saw you, and not the way I saw you last, a litter of white curvilinear elements, blood-spattered, dotted with clumps of fur, your little jumpsuit in tatters by the fireplace … Oh, God!”
END
Here's another, and a link to the e-book sale page on Smashwords.
http://dreamsandnightmaresmagazine.blogspot.com/2012/01/from-nursery-rhyme-noir.html
I have my soft, sensitive side, just like anyone else. I don’t show it to just anybody who walks in off the street, but it’s there. That’s why my last assignment really hit me hard. I caught the dirty rat who did it, but nothing can bring back the Easter Bunny. The fact is, life is just like that sometimes. Especially in my business. Men call me Deadbolt, Hasp Deadbolt.
I’m a private eye. It started like this….
I was leaning back in my desk chair, feet up on the desk, reviewing my notes from the Muffet case, when my keen ears detected a knock on the door.
“Come in,” I called, after shoving all the crap on my desk into a neat pile.
In walked the Easter Bunny. I knew who it was. You know how sometimes you just have a gut reaction that slips you information you didn’t know you had? Well, this was like that. Plus, she was wearing a fur-tight pastel jumpsuit embroidered with Easter eggs, and a baseball cap with the words “Easter Bun” embroidered in pink and pastel green thread. She moved up to my desk and put her hands on it, leaning forward until my face was just 3 inches from her cleavage. “Mr. Deadbolt,” she breathed (her chest expanding alarmingly), “I need your help.” I eased back from her decolletage and got up to open the window. It was getting pretty warm.
“Care for a drink?” I asked, as I manhandled the sash in its cheap aluminum frame. I turned around and she was right behind me.
“Please,” she begged, putting her hand on my arm, “I don’t know where else to turn!”
Anyone who’s read my reports in the past knows that I’m not
species-centric, but business is business. I cleared my throat and escorted her to a chair.
“Miss Bun,” I began, “why don’t you tell me all about it?” I got out my notebook, she took a few more deep breaths to settle her nerves and unsettle mine, and told me the following story.
It seems that a large dog or wolf had been hanging around the hutch for the past few weeks. Every time she went outside, he was waiting for her. She wouldn’t necessarily see him right away, but he was always there. Sometimes she’d see his tail sticking out from behind a bush. Or maybe a shadow would dart behind one of the painting sheds. She could feel his eyes on her, undressing her, possibly even skinning her. He seemed to have designs on her person, she said, that had more to do with the kitchen than the bedroom, if I caught her drift. I sure did. She couldn’t work, she continued, Easter was coming up very soon , and she had eggs to harvest, sort, and paint, not to mention all the candy chicks and so on that had to be prepared. She was way behind her schedule and losing ground fast.
“I’m afraid for my life,” she concluded, “won’t you help me?”
I promised her that I would give her problem my undivided attention. “You can rest assured I’ll find out who this wolf is and see that he stops bothering you,” I told her, and she seemed relieved.
“I’ll take that drink now, Mr. Deadbolt,” she said, and I mixed her a stiff one. I was on duty, so I went easy on mine. We talked for awhile, or rather, she talked and I listened. She talked about her business, how she’d inherited the job from an aged pika who wanted to move back to Mount Lassen, how she really loved making little children happy. I asked her about the hat. She’d made it herself and she hadn’t had room for the last two letters. She thought it looked OK and I assured her it did. She’d made the jumpsuit too, and done a fine job, I might add. By the time her drink was gone she seemed to be a lot less nervous.
“I think I’ll be able to focus on my work now,” she said, setting her glass on the credenza, “it’s so nice knowing you’ll be protecting me.”
We’d been chatting a while, and I’d almost forgotten how good she looked, but when she turned and picked up her purse, I saw that, just as her hat had made accommodations for her slender ears, her jumpsuit had had to adjust to her tail. I had to do some adjusting myself, so I quickly saw her to the door, telling her I’d get right on her case.
A few minutes later I was out the door and beating the street. I didn’t know who this wolf was who’d been stalking my client, but I knew how to find out. In half an hour I was downtown, leaning up against the bar in The Jumping Cow. The Cow is located in an old warehouse, and minimal efforts have been made at decoration. The bar is the nicest piece of furniture in the place, and it looks like it fell off the back of a truck. The tables and chairs
were probably picked up from the dumpster outside another bar in a better part of town. I’m certain the Cow doesn’t contain a broom, a mop, or even a rag. It’s not an ideal spot for a classy date, but it’s the best place to find the Weasel. The Weasel knows all the low-lifes and tough guys around, and if this dog or wolf had been in the area long, the Weasel would have the scoop. The Weasel would squeal, too, for the right price.
“Gimme a draft,” I told the ox behind the bar, and when he brought it to me I pumped him. “Seen the Weeze?”
He nodded and glanced over to his left. Sure enough, the Weasel was sitting alone at a table in the corner. “Thanks,” I said, grabbed my beer and headed over there. I slid into the seat across from him and shoved the beer into the middle of the table.
The Weasel took a sip. “Long time, no see, Deadbeat,” he hissed, “whatcha need?”
“That’s Deadbolt,” I told him, “I’m looking for a big dog or a wolf, been stalkin’ the Easter Bun. You know anything about it?”
“Yeah, whatever,” he said. “I know something.” I knew that’s all I’d get without the green, so I slipped him 5 twenties under the table. I had to give him another 3 bills before he spilled the beans. He knew the wolf alright. Went by the handle of BB (the Weasel didn’t know what it stood for) and he was one bad-assed dude. Wanted across the state line for all kinds of thievery and violence, and maybe murder. It seems he’d been under suspicion
in the case of three young swine who’d been killed and devoured right in their own homes. In fact, the homes had been pretty much destroyed by the unknown assailant. He was evidently one tough customer. Nothing had ever been proven, but the Weasel said BB had been overheard bragging about some “bacon” he’d “cooked.” At this point, I started to get worried, and I headed out to see my client. I wanted to make sure she was safe. She might need to move to a safe house until I could apprehend BB.
The Easter Bun lived way out in the country, and it took me quite a while to get there. She had a big ranch, with chicken houses, dormitories for the staff, painting and decorating areas, huge warehouses, a fleet of trucks, and more; it was a busy place. I was almost as impressed with her operation as I had been with her configuration. I pulled up in front of the main office and strode in. A spring chicken was behind the desk, chewing gum.
“I need to see the Easter Bun,” I snapped, “and make it snappy.” She blew a bubble and it snapped in my face.
“She’s back there,” the desk hen told me, “but she don’t wanna be
distoibed.” I pushed on past and opened the office door. I knew right away that something was wrong. The bunny that had embroidered more than 100 eggs on her jumpsuit would not willingly leave her office in this condition. Plus, the window was broken. I looked out in time to see a sorry-looking black Chevy pickup disappearing among the Easter-egg trees in a cloud of exhaust. I ran back out to the front, hopped in my Nova, and took off after the truck. The car took a beating going cross country, and I couldn’t make good time no matter how hard I pushed on the gas pedal. “Damn!” I slammed my hand on the wheel. Why hadn’t I bought an SUV!
I found the truck, finally, parked in front of a weather-beaten shed up against the big woods at the back of the Easter plantation. Smoke rose from the chimney. The license plate of the truck read “YUM YUM.” I had a sinking feeling in my gut as I slammed the Nova to a stop, jumped out with my gun in my hand, and ran for the shed. I took a deep breath, kicked the door hard,
and the whole place fell in.
And there he was. Seated at the table. Napkin tucked in. Red checked table cloth, white china plate, and the clean-picked bones of my client, as graceful in death as she had been in life. “Want some?” he asked, holding out a bloody tibia in his paw.
It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, not shooting him down in cold blood, but I didn’t do it. He’s doing 10-20 for consuming a mythic figure, and when he gets out, THEN I’ll shoot the bastard. In the meantime, there’s a new Easter bunny, a bright young fellow named Raoul. I’m sure the kids are happy, but I’m not. I’m just sitting here, drinking carrot juice and waiting for another case that might serve to draw a temporary veil over my painful memories of the best thing I ever saw in a pink jumpsuit.
“Here’s to you, Easter Bun. I’ll always remember you the way you were when I first saw you, and not the way I saw you last, a litter of white curvilinear elements, blood-spattered, dotted with clumps of fur, your little jumpsuit in tatters by the fireplace … Oh, God!”
END
Here's another, and a link to the e-book sale page on Smashwords.
http://dreamsandnightmaresmagazine.blogspot.com/2012/01/from-nursery-rhyme-noir.html
Friday, January 20, 2012
Butterfly photos
Painted Wings: Southern Butterflies
An exhibit of butterfly photographs by Larry Herr and Dr. Andrew Rindsberg
There will be an opening reception for the exhibit on
Wednesday, January 25 in Webb Hall Parlor from 1:00 p.m. until 2:00 p.m.
The exhibit will be on display through March 23.
Many of these pictures were taken on the University of West Alabama campus,
especially at the Black Belt Garden and the Lake LU Nature Walks.
Sponsored by the Center for the Study of the Black Belt
For more information:
centerforblackbelt@uwa.edu
An exhibit of butterfly photographs by Larry Herr and Dr. Andrew Rindsberg
There will be an opening reception for the exhibit on
Wednesday, January 25 in Webb Hall Parlor from 1:00 p.m. until 2:00 p.m.
The exhibit will be on display through March 23.
Many of these pictures were taken on the University of West Alabama campus,
especially at the Black Belt Garden and the Lake LU Nature Walks.
Sponsored by the Center for the Study of the Black Belt
For more information:
centerforblackbelt@uwa.edu
Thursday, January 19, 2012
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
Evolution film & lecture next week
We are so lucky to get them here!
January 26 2012
“No Dinosaurs in Heaven” documentary screening with National Center for Science Education director Dr. Eugenie Scott & filmmaker Greta Schiller.
7:30 pm, 127 Biology.
http://as.ua.edu/evolution/speakers-2011-2012/
January 26 2012
“No Dinosaurs in Heaven” documentary screening with National Center for Science Education director Dr. Eugenie Scott & filmmaker Greta Schiller.
7:30 pm, 127 Biology.
http://as.ua.edu/evolution/speakers-2011-2012/
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
Monday, January 16, 2012
Sunday, January 15, 2012
Saturday, January 14, 2012
Friday, January 13, 2012
Thursday, January 12, 2012
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
No Dinosaurs in Heaven
See this film, and meet the filmmaker and Genie Scott, head of the National Center for Science Education, in Tuscaloosa on January 26.
http://www.nodinos.com/
http://bama.ua.edu/~evolution/alleleindex.html
http://www.nodinos.com/
http://bama.ua.edu/~evolution/alleleindex.html
but does it make sense?
We only mock the things we love.
My only regret
When the stars are right
He who must not be named will return
And great will be the lamentation therefrom.
A certain star, 1,000,000,000 light years from Earth
Will have reached the position from which
Its baleful radiance gleamed
One billion years ago.
He who waits dead, or a semblance thereof
Shall arise and drive men (and some women) mad.
Other stars, roughly 17,000,000 light years from Earth
Will have reached their fateful positions etc.
Roughly 17 million years ago
But not at exactly the same time.
She of the myriad Young
Will at last turn them loose to devour the populace
Beginning with the inhabitants of
Rural New England.
Yet another star, a mere 57 light years from Earth
Will have reached a position from which
Havoc may be wrecked
Just three years before my birth.
It of the multitudinous pustules
Each of which...
Oh please,
This is even more confusing than General Relativity
And there are not even any equations
That most of us can't understand.
We'll know when the stars are right
We'll know when our time is done
Or if we don't
Someone will tell us
A tendril will tap us on the shoulder
And in a sepulchral voice
Someone will say
"Yo! Humans, you're out!"
Or words to that effect.
End
My only regret
When the stars are right
He who must not be named will return
And great will be the lamentation therefrom.
A certain star, 1,000,000,000 light years from Earth
Will have reached the position from which
Its baleful radiance gleamed
One billion years ago.
He who waits dead, or a semblance thereof
Shall arise and drive men (and some women) mad.
Other stars, roughly 17,000,000 light years from Earth
Will have reached their fateful positions etc.
Roughly 17 million years ago
But not at exactly the same time.
She of the myriad Young
Will at last turn them loose to devour the populace
Beginning with the inhabitants of
Rural New England.
Yet another star, a mere 57 light years from Earth
Will have reached a position from which
Havoc may be wrecked
Just three years before my birth.
It of the multitudinous pustules
Each of which...
Oh please,
This is even more confusing than General Relativity
And there are not even any equations
That most of us can't understand.
We'll know when the stars are right
We'll know when our time is done
Or if we don't
Someone will tell us
A tendril will tap us on the shoulder
And in a sepulchral voice
Someone will say
"Yo! Humans, you're out!"
Or words to that effect.
End
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
Inverted Folk
I have assembled a three-fold pamphlet of my favorites of my own scifaiku from the list year or two. It might be of some slight interest, and is available for $2 or comes free with a subscription or subscription extension to DN.
DN 91
The issue has been printed and is ready to mail. I get paid at the end of the week, and it should go in the mail at the beginning of next week. My wife, an honest critic, said this is the first issue ever for which she has really liked every single poem. I can hardly wait for reviews from critics who will be seen as less biased.
Monday, January 9, 2012
Sunday, January 8, 2012
Read these today
"At the Duck Convention" -- see www.strangehorizons.com poetry archive
"Taking it Slow" -- ideomancer.com Dec. 2011
"Doing Free Time" -- http://www.dailycabal.com/2008/04/doing-free-time/
Folks laughed & one fan wanted the paper I read from! I'm a * now!
"Taking it Slow" -- ideomancer.com Dec. 2011
"Doing Free Time" -- http://www.dailycabal.com/2008/04/doing-free-time/
Folks laughed & one fan wanted the paper I read from! I'm a * now!
Really?
I support the Move Your Money movement. I agree with its premises. That the multinational banks took huge bailouts from us, United States taxpayers. That they are keeping that bailout money for themselves instead of lending it to those who need it, which is what they were supposed to do. That one highly appropriate response is to take our business elsewhere. I would do just that, except my business already was elsewhere.
But, it is difficult to resist a grammatical and conceptual smackdown. Particularly when the (linguistic) subject has almost literally been in our faces for months.
So I was listening to "interfaith voices" this morning on the radio and I almost literally jumped out of bed and did the dance of semantic rage on the bedroom floor. Maureen Fiedler was interviewing a Seventh-day Adventist minister from California about the participation of faith communities in the move your money movement. She fed him one of those straight lines (you have to imagine her opening her eyes very wide and pretending to be 15 years old) "What is the moral component of taking your money out of banks that have caused many people to lose their homes and starve to death etc.?" He referred to the parable of the unforgiving servant. A servant owes his King 10,000 talents, which is probably the modern equivalent of about a billion dollars. The king forgives him, whereupon the servant goes home and chokes his own servant who owes him a much smaller amount of money. Isn't that the way it goes! But then the guest speaker said that major banks were literally choking their customers by refusing to lend them desperately needed money. I wish they were! They might go to jail if they were literally choking people to death. Almost literally robbing almost literally millions of people so that they almost literally starve to death seems to have no punishment at all. At least if you are the kind of "person" who happens to be a very big bank and a major congressional donor.
So keep on fighting the good fight. I am almost literally right there with you. But I almost literally experienced faith healing through my reaction to your unwarranted expansion of the meaning of the word "literally." That would have been nice.
But, it is difficult to resist a grammatical and conceptual smackdown. Particularly when the (linguistic) subject has almost literally been in our faces for months.
So I was listening to "interfaith voices" this morning on the radio and I almost literally jumped out of bed and did the dance of semantic rage on the bedroom floor. Maureen Fiedler was interviewing a Seventh-day Adventist minister from California about the participation of faith communities in the move your money movement. She fed him one of those straight lines (you have to imagine her opening her eyes very wide and pretending to be 15 years old) "What is the moral component of taking your money out of banks that have caused many people to lose their homes and starve to death etc.?" He referred to the parable of the unforgiving servant. A servant owes his King 10,000 talents, which is probably the modern equivalent of about a billion dollars. The king forgives him, whereupon the servant goes home and chokes his own servant who owes him a much smaller amount of money. Isn't that the way it goes! But then the guest speaker said that major banks were literally choking their customers by refusing to lend them desperately needed money. I wish they were! They might go to jail if they were literally choking people to death. Almost literally robbing almost literally millions of people so that they almost literally starve to death seems to have no punishment at all. At least if you are the kind of "person" who happens to be a very big bank and a major congressional donor.
So keep on fighting the good fight. I am almost literally right there with you. But I almost literally experienced faith healing through my reaction to your unwarranted expansion of the meaning of the word "literally." That would have been nice.
Saturday, January 7, 2012
Friday, January 6, 2012
"No Dinosaurs in Heaven"
January 26 2012
“No Dinosaurs in Heaven” documentary screening with National Center for Science Education director Dr. Eugenie Scott & filmmaker Greta Schiller.
7:30 pm, 127 Biology Auditorium, University of Alabama, Tuscaloosa.
Free and open to the public.
http://as.ua.edu/evolution/schedule-of-talks/
“No Dinosaurs in Heaven” documentary screening with National Center for Science Education director Dr. Eugenie Scott & filmmaker Greta Schiller.
7:30 pm, 127 Biology Auditorium, University of Alabama, Tuscaloosa.
Free and open to the public.
http://as.ua.edu/evolution/schedule-of-talks/
010612
From -2 to 18 today, Celsius; TGFGW!
birthday trip
salt-water fishing
from a dock in Kansas City
so
Cretaceous or post-human
this plastic trash hath
not a dromeosaurid look
so we won't
need that mosasaurid
hook
birthday trip
salt-water fishing
from a dock in Kansas City
so
Cretaceous or post-human
this plastic trash hath
not a dromeosaurid look
so we won't
need that mosasaurid
hook
Thursday, January 5, 2012
Global climate changeth
The IPCC is the international group responsible for the best information/science on climate change, but the U.S. has a large federal research initiative independent of the IPCC. The "United States Global Research Program" has hundreds of scientists and policy-makers from many different agencies. Their assessments (last 2009) are published. Here are some links. Note also under Key Findings the following:
"Global warming is unequivocal and primarily human-induced.
Global temperature has increased over the past 50 years. This observed increase is due primarily to human-induced emissions of heat-trapping gases. (p. 13)"
You can download the 2009 report.
http://www.globalchange.gov/
http://www.globalchange.gov/publications/reports/scientific-assessments/us-impacts/key-findings
http://www.globalchange.gov/index.php?option=com_content&view=article&id=417&Itemid=401
http://www.globalchange.gov/publications/reports/scientific-assessments/us-impacts/download-the-report
Thanks to Leslie Rissler for summary and links.
"Global warming is unequivocal and primarily human-induced.
Global temperature has increased over the past 50 years. This observed increase is due primarily to human-induced emissions of heat-trapping gases. (p. 13)"
You can download the 2009 report.
http://www.globalchange.gov/
http://www.globalchange.gov/publications/reports/scientific-assessments/us-impacts/key-findings
http://www.globalchange.gov/index.php?option=com_content&view=article&id=417&Itemid=401
http://www.globalchange.gov/publications/reports/scientific-assessments/us-impacts/download-the-report
Thanks to Leslie Rissler for summary and links.
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
Monday, January 2, 2012
From _Nursery Rhyme Noir_
The Purloined Letter
My name is Deadbolt, Hasp Deadbolt. I’m a P.I. I try to stay away from family disputes, but somehow that is the kind of sordid crime that people persist in bringing me. I have to eat, and I’m not comfortable living off of Alma’s largesse. Fortunately for my bank account, this year had been very busy. In fact, I hardly had any time to pay the bills and buy groceries. For instance, I returned from my last court appearance in connection with the pumpkin murder case, to find a handsome young woman sitting on the bench outside my office door. “Good afternoon,” I said to her, “are you waiting for me?” She indicated that she was hoping to speak to Mr. Deadbolt about a potential case, and I invited her in to discuss it. It seems that she had mislaid a letter, a rather steamy love letter, and it had fallen into the wrong hands.
“My lover sent me that letter, Mr. Deadbolt, and I’m not ashamed of it. Unfortunately, his wife probably would take a dim view of the intimate nature of our relationship.”
Blackmail. One of the oldest tricks in the book. Not that there really is any such book, but if there were, blackmail would be covered pretty near the beginning. She wanted me to find the blackmailer and steal the letter back.
“I can’t break the law Miss...?”
“Daw. But you can call me Marjorie.”
“And what about your friend?”
“His name is John Sprat, but everyone calls him Jack. His wife is horrible. She’s this domineering, fat, selfish...”
“I get the picture Miss Daw. Let me do some scouting, and I’ll see whether I can find a satisfactory solution to your problem.” So it was agreed. I got a little more information from her, she thanked me and left, and I immediately got to work. It didn’t take long to find out where both Marjorie Daw and the Sprats lived. The problem was, Marjorie hadn’t had much of an idea of where she lost the letter, so I didn’t have a good lead about where to look for the blackmailer. I spent some time casing the neighborhoods where Marjorie and the Sprats lived, and nearby parts of the city, but I didn’t get any ideas. I decided to try a different approach. It was time to pay another visit to the Weasel. There might be word out on the street about who the blackmailer was, and if the word was out, the Weasel would know about it.
I slid into a seat at the usual place. When the waiter came over I ordered two drafts and asked about the Weasel. A few minutes later, the Weasel dropped onto the bench across from me.
“What is it this time, Deadbeat?” he asked.
“Information. I need information,” I replied. “Marjorie Daw had a letter in her basket, but she dropped it.”
“The basket?”
“The letter.”
“What color was the basket?”
“Green and yellow. Where’s the letter?”
“A little boy picked it up. He put it in his pocket.” If I wanted to know any more, it would cost me, the Weasel said. Soon I had all the information I needed. Next stop: the Pumpkin Eater house.
I walked up the four steps to the front door and rang the bell at a rundown brownstone in the old part of town. The whole neighborhood was dilapidated, but this house was the worst on the block. It looked like it was owned by someone who either was down on his luck or didn’t care enough to maintain it.
“Hello?”
“Mr. Pumpkin Eater? Peter Pumpkin Eater?”
“Yes.”
“I’d like a word or two with you.”
“What about?”
“Home maintenance. This place is about to be condemned. But I can help you.” Oldest trick in the book, but he went for it. Okay, maybe it’s the second oldest trick. Anyway, it got me inside, and that’s what counted. Once I made it through the door I confronted him about the letter. “Blackmail is a serious crime, Mr. Pumpkin Eater. You could go to jail for a long time. What’s it gonna be?”
“It’s my wife, it’s not my fault,” he wailed. “No matter what I do I just can’t satisfy her. It takes more money than I have. I already had to move into town and neglect my farm but it hasn’t done a bit of good.” I had an idea.
“I have an idea,” I said. “If I solve your problem, will you return the letter?”
“Mr. Deadbolt, if you solve my problem I’ll be forever in your debt.” He was actually wringing his hands. “I’m at my wits’ end.”
“Here’s what you’re going to do,” I said. “Put her in a pumpkin shell. There you’ll keep her very well. Trust me. Women go for that kind of stuff.” I was flying by the seat of my pants here, but he seemed goofy enough to go for it. Sure enough, he did.
“A pumpkin shell? Why, I have plenty of those on the farm. Thank you, thank you!” He gave me the letter, promised to never blackmail anybody again, and thanked me so many times that I started to feel guilty. But I had what I needed.
Marjorie Daw was very grateful. Almost too grateful, considering we both had other romantic attachments. But that’s another story. As for Peter Pumpkin Eater, I ran into him a couple of months later. Everything was fine between him and his wife, he said. Best advice he’d ever received, he told me, and he said I could have all the pumpkins I wanted every year at Halloween, free. Go figure. I guess if the P.I. business ever gets too low I could hire out as a marriage counselor.
The end
If you like this story, you might want to know that there are plenty more where it came from. You can get the whole book (Nursery Rhyme Noir) as an e-book for less than $2.
http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/42875
My name is Deadbolt, Hasp Deadbolt. I’m a P.I. I try to stay away from family disputes, but somehow that is the kind of sordid crime that people persist in bringing me. I have to eat, and I’m not comfortable living off of Alma’s largesse. Fortunately for my bank account, this year had been very busy. In fact, I hardly had any time to pay the bills and buy groceries. For instance, I returned from my last court appearance in connection with the pumpkin murder case, to find a handsome young woman sitting on the bench outside my office door. “Good afternoon,” I said to her, “are you waiting for me?” She indicated that she was hoping to speak to Mr. Deadbolt about a potential case, and I invited her in to discuss it. It seems that she had mislaid a letter, a rather steamy love letter, and it had fallen into the wrong hands.
“My lover sent me that letter, Mr. Deadbolt, and I’m not ashamed of it. Unfortunately, his wife probably would take a dim view of the intimate nature of our relationship.”
Blackmail. One of the oldest tricks in the book. Not that there really is any such book, but if there were, blackmail would be covered pretty near the beginning. She wanted me to find the blackmailer and steal the letter back.
“I can’t break the law Miss...?”
“Daw. But you can call me Marjorie.”
“And what about your friend?”
“His name is John Sprat, but everyone calls him Jack. His wife is horrible. She’s this domineering, fat, selfish...”
“I get the picture Miss Daw. Let me do some scouting, and I’ll see whether I can find a satisfactory solution to your problem.” So it was agreed. I got a little more information from her, she thanked me and left, and I immediately got to work. It didn’t take long to find out where both Marjorie Daw and the Sprats lived. The problem was, Marjorie hadn’t had much of an idea of where she lost the letter, so I didn’t have a good lead about where to look for the blackmailer. I spent some time casing the neighborhoods where Marjorie and the Sprats lived, and nearby parts of the city, but I didn’t get any ideas. I decided to try a different approach. It was time to pay another visit to the Weasel. There might be word out on the street about who the blackmailer was, and if the word was out, the Weasel would know about it.
I slid into a seat at the usual place. When the waiter came over I ordered two drafts and asked about the Weasel. A few minutes later, the Weasel dropped onto the bench across from me.
“What is it this time, Deadbeat?” he asked.
“Information. I need information,” I replied. “Marjorie Daw had a letter in her basket, but she dropped it.”
“The basket?”
“The letter.”
“What color was the basket?”
“Green and yellow. Where’s the letter?”
“A little boy picked it up. He put it in his pocket.” If I wanted to know any more, it would cost me, the Weasel said. Soon I had all the information I needed. Next stop: the Pumpkin Eater house.
I walked up the four steps to the front door and rang the bell at a rundown brownstone in the old part of town. The whole neighborhood was dilapidated, but this house was the worst on the block. It looked like it was owned by someone who either was down on his luck or didn’t care enough to maintain it.
“Hello?”
“Mr. Pumpkin Eater? Peter Pumpkin Eater?”
“Yes.”
“I’d like a word or two with you.”
“What about?”
“Home maintenance. This place is about to be condemned. But I can help you.” Oldest trick in the book, but he went for it. Okay, maybe it’s the second oldest trick. Anyway, it got me inside, and that’s what counted. Once I made it through the door I confronted him about the letter. “Blackmail is a serious crime, Mr. Pumpkin Eater. You could go to jail for a long time. What’s it gonna be?”
“It’s my wife, it’s not my fault,” he wailed. “No matter what I do I just can’t satisfy her. It takes more money than I have. I already had to move into town and neglect my farm but it hasn’t done a bit of good.” I had an idea.
“I have an idea,” I said. “If I solve your problem, will you return the letter?”
“Mr. Deadbolt, if you solve my problem I’ll be forever in your debt.” He was actually wringing his hands. “I’m at my wits’ end.”
“Here’s what you’re going to do,” I said. “Put her in a pumpkin shell. There you’ll keep her very well. Trust me. Women go for that kind of stuff.” I was flying by the seat of my pants here, but he seemed goofy enough to go for it. Sure enough, he did.
“A pumpkin shell? Why, I have plenty of those on the farm. Thank you, thank you!” He gave me the letter, promised to never blackmail anybody again, and thanked me so many times that I started to feel guilty. But I had what I needed.
Marjorie Daw was very grateful. Almost too grateful, considering we both had other romantic attachments. But that’s another story. As for Peter Pumpkin Eater, I ran into him a couple of months later. Everything was fine between him and his wife, he said. Best advice he’d ever received, he told me, and he said I could have all the pumpkins I wanted every year at Halloween, free. Go figure. I guess if the P.I. business ever gets too low I could hire out as a marriage counselor.
The end
If you like this story, you might want to know that there are plenty more where it came from. You can get the whole book (Nursery Rhyme Noir) as an e-book for less than $2.
http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/42875
my great aunt visits
My Great Aunt ____ (my mother's mother's older sister) used to visit us without warning. She lived in New London Connecticut and we lived in Charlottesville VA. This must be about 10 hours by car. She would call from the train station on a Saturday afternoon and tell us to come pick her up. One time we weren't home when she called, so she took a taxi to our house. We came home from shopping or something like that, and met the taxi leaving. We talked about how odd it was to see a taxi on our road. Only 4 families lived on it at that time, and none of us got many visitors. Most of the people who came down our road, other than those of us who lived there, were couples who wanted to neck in their cars at the circle a few 100 yards past our house. Even the mail carrier didn't come down; the mail boxes were at the outer end of the road. Anyway, when we got home, there was Aunt ____ on the porch. "What if we were away for the weekend?" Mom asked. "I would just have gone back." This would have been after a quarter-mile walk to the nearest house; no cell phones in the 60s. Mom always told her that she should call in advance to make sure we'd be home, but she never did. And I don't think she ever came when we were out of town. She probably visited us less than once a year. I remember one time we took her out to the swimming pool near Ivy. She didn't swim, just sat at the picnic table wearing dark glasses, reading and talking. She probably weighed less than 90 pounds. She'd always help clean up in the kitchen after meals. Mom hated it, because Aunt ____ put things in the wrong places. But after we grew up, Mom did the same thing.
Sunday, January 1, 2012
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)