Dolphins Dance – Second Edition coming March 2014

I'm in the process of revising the Second Edition of Dolphins Dance, and I have decided to share with you the first draft of the cover – once again, the photograph is courtesy of Bradley Wong and the Photoshop work/design is by Daisuke Maehira. What do you think?

A little background... Dolphins Dance was my very first book published, with the vanity press organization called Publish America. I signed a seven-year contract with them, very foolishly. They set their prices much too high, asking readers to pay $25 for a paperback copy and $10 for the e-book – quite ridiculous. I didn't realize it at first, but they make their money NOT by selling books to readers, but by selling their bogus services to new authors like myself. A definite scam to be avoided... I argued with them for a couple of years, and finally they offered to sell the rights to my book back to me for $100. So now, I can revise it and publish through Amazon, set my own price, and have complete control over my first book. I'm very excited About it – I hope to be ready with it By early March 2014.

Four pictures on the wall...

Most of you understand that my physical view of the world is rather limited. I am blessed to have my voice and the ability to travel through cyberspace, the world of television, and the universe of my imagination through my writing, but what I actually see with my eyes every day is usually confined to what's in front of the hospital bed where I spend most of my time. With that in mind, I thought it would share with you some of the "things" that I do look at it each day and the meaning I have attached to them.

I'll start with the four pictures on the wall... (Take a look at the pictures in the entry below)

On the far left of my wall, is a print of a painting done by Peggy Chun. Peggy was a local artist that passed a few years ago from ALS. I never got to know her personally, but I always admired her work. This painting called "A Charmed Life" my wife and I purchased more than 15 years ago, long before I even knew what ALS was. We love the color and the hidden gecko amongst the mangoes. When I wrote The Hamster and the Gecko – a Survivors Story, I asked Peggy's daughter-in-law if I could use the artwork for my book cover –she graciously agreed.

To the right of that, is a cross-stitch given to me by a new friend, Michelle. She came to me out of the blue with generosity and kindness – something that I've experienced frequently in the last seven years. People that I only know as acquaintances, suddenly become good friends. They offer their time, services and friendship. Michelle's father died from ALS and when she read my first book, Dolphins Dance, she was inspired to give me this beautiful undersea world cross-stitch. I cannot even imagine how long it took to create. Whenever I look at it, I am reminded of the generosity of people.

In the center of my wall, just above the television, is this print of the town of Galilee, Rhode Island. My God mother lives in Rhode Island. I sent her a copy of Narragansett, and in return she sent me this beautiful signed print. It's exactly like one of the scenes from the book. Every time I see it, the painting reminds me of the importance of family and it also encourages me to continue writing.

Finally, on the far right of the wall, there is a beautiful South Carolina beach scene painted by my mother. My mother was a fabulous artist. She passed earlier this year and we spread her cremated ashes in the ocean not far from where I live. She's always with me. Looking at the painting, I remember all of the love that she gave me, and the lessons that she hoped I would learn. I think she would be proud of her son – I hope so. She inspires me to stay creative and to look for beauty in the world, no matter your perspective.

Four pictures on the wall – a different perspective

Pandora's Promise

Pandora's Promise, a CNN documentary about the perils and promise of nuclear energy is very much worth the time to watch. The documentary takes a unique perspective – four different lifelong environmentalists who were once anti-nuclear energy tell their stories and explain their journey from being against nuclear power, to becoming pro-nuclear.

The documentary is unashamedly biased from the beginning, but it does make an attempt to show both sides of the argument. The tipping point for these environmentalists is of course, global climate change, undeniably caused by the pollution created by human activity. If you still Doubt that climate change is happening, just turn on the news and take a look at the horrific video from Beijing and Shanghai, China – as well as the extreme storms, hurricanes, drought and monsoons occurring throughout the world.

Like the environmentalists in the documentary, I am against deriving energy from the burning of fossil fuels – oil, coal and natural gas. However, I differed with their stance against nuclear power in the 70s, 80s and 90s. For me, the nuclear energy question was always a confusing one. For several years, when I lived in Gaffney, South Carolina, I worked just a few miles from the Cherokee Nuclear Power Plant. I had friends who worked at the plant. I drove by it frequently. I swam in the Broad River, where it was located. I took students on tours of the facility. It seemed like a viable, clean alternative – well, almost clean, except for the nuclear waste that lasts for tens of thousands of years.

Then there was Three-mile Island, Chernobyl, and more recently Fukushima. Radioactive clouds, radioactive contaminated water dumped into the ocean and rivers, whole areas of land becoming uninhabitable – the images are terrifying. I think average citizens had every right to be scared to death of this radioactive technology. I believe that, as the documentary points out, large oil and gas conglomerates did everything they could to feed that fear. I had, still have, my doubts...

But, things have changed. If the world population continues to grow, develop, and utilize fossil fuels at the current pace – our planet will be in dire-straits within the next couple of generations. Kyoto protocols and United Nations Climate Summits will never solve the climate change problem... Solar, wind and hydroelectric power cannot produce enough electricity for the demand. And, for humans to change their insatiable desire for the necessities and luxuries that electric power brings, well, this is truly out of the question.

It's now the 21st century, technology has advanced considerably. Our understanding of Nuclear energy has grown exponentially. Many believe it can be deployed correctly and safely. Nuclear power is not the best solution, but at the moment it seems to be our only choice.

Some comments on "The Gunslinger" volumes

A good, but critical reader, friend of mine had these comments about my Gunslinger volumes. Getting these kinds of comments really help me continue to write – thank you!

Your writing is "compelling."

I am impressed with your knowledge of Native Americans. We give Native Americans far too little credit for their civilization and treated them like "savages during that time."

I wonder how Native Americans could have developed their mysticism. I think it was probably a natural evolution. I am impressed [from your writing] about their respect for nature – their ability to gain wisdom from nature.

You write well about things that are hard to understand.  I like the way you imply extra meaning and possibility of connection through time - as with the bird story of Nuuanu Valley.

I took from your writing that "all that happens has meaning." There is message for you in life.  Things around you have meaning.  [I particularly like the way you deliver this thought without beating the reader over the head with it.]

Yellow Ginger

 

'Awapuhi melemele is Hawaiian for Yellow Ginger, a beautiful, fragrant, common flower found here on the islands. My next novel, I'm still not sure of the title, has the sticky sweet smell of yellow Ginger as a central theme – it's a crime novel set in modern-day Honolulu. Many thanks to my friend Bradley Wong for the photograph. I think it will make a great cover – I hope to be published by March 2014.

Holiday mixed emotions

Many of us have mixed emotions during the holidays. I can remember as a child and young adult mostly enjoying the festivities, holidays and celebrations during this time of year. It wasn't until I was married with a family to support that the holidays began to lose their luster. I realized how hard my mother and father had to work in order to make our holidays special. I began to question the blatant commercialization, hustle and bustle, obligations and forced traditions. However, I was able to overlook these minor irritations and embrace the holidays for the sake of my son, wife, family and friends. Doing so, made the holidays a special time for me as well.

But now, in my current situation living with ALS for the last seven years, I find that I have extreme highs and lows during this time of year. My friends, caregivers and doctors assure me that this is normal—everyone has good and bad days. I'm sure it's a matter of perspective, so I thought looking back and reminiscing about all of the things I used to be able to do during the holidays might be therapeutic. Please indulge the following trip down memory lane.

Bringing holiday cheer to others make all the difference.

We usually invited friends and family over for Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Year. I threw myself into cleaning the house, decorating, and helping with the cooking. We played games, exchanged gifts and laughter. There's nothing like the joy of being with people you love during the holidays, and then the peaceful, soft, quiet of the house well-used after the parties are over. Christmas morning and New Year's Day were reserved for our small family only. We tried hard to wrap ourselves in the love we shared with each other.

Sometimes the quiet times are the best.

I am one of those that actually enjoyed writing and reading Christmas cards. I would include an annual wrap-up of the year letter, usually complete with photographs and pithy remarks. Sending the annual greeting helped me to remember how lucky and blessed we were as a family. Watching the news during the holidays was always difficult —the continuous war, natural disasters, poverty. I strived to understand our privileged place in the world as US citizens. I volunteered when I could at the homeless shelter or immigrant center, and even dressed-up as Santa a couple of times. We made what charitable donations we could afford.

Reflection during the holidays is an important endeavor.

As a small family, we tried to perpetuate some family traditions. My wife cooked special Japanese food for New Year's Day. While I enjoyed decorating for Christmas— hanging stockings, putting out Christmas lights, and setting up the manger my grandmother gave me. Even though we live in Hawaii—the land of palm trees, we still purchased a real Christmas tree each year. I remember paying over $100 for a tree one winter in the 1990s, and a week later, all of the trees on the island were sold out. I haven't checked, but I'm sure they are even more expensive today. Definitely crazy, but it was worth it! One of my favorite family traditions was the practice of opening one present each on Christmas Eve—this was easy to continue.

Family traditions, however small, bring peace and stability.

I even got into the shopping mood, occasionally joining the masses at the mall. I struggled to stay within budget and came home exhausted. I told myself not to, but I can even remember being pulled into the Black Friday discount spell. Looking for that special gift was a challenge, but when I was successful, the smiles or laughter the present brought was always worth the effort. Receiving was fun, but nothing gave as much joy as giving.

Gift buying and giving can really be lots of fun!

"So, why the mixed feelings?"

It really hit me hard yesterday, Thanksgiving day. There was no party this year. No friends or family visiting. Everyone was busy, and we just didn't make any real effort to plan anything. My wife was exhausted from work and from her duties as my caregiver. She needed a break. She did make a gallant attempt to cook a small turkey, mashed potatoes, stuffing and gravy for us. My son slept late, also tired from work, and he had to leave early because Black Friday now begins on Thursday! He was one of those retail workers on the job from Thursday evening until early Friday morning so that the rest of us could get a jump on our Christmas shopping and the big box stores could start ringing up the profits.

I fell asleep during the Macy's parade, the National Dog Show and all three of the NFL football games – since when are there three? There used to be just one football game on Thanksgiving. I drooled more than usual. And then, the thing that really brought me down was the fact that I could not eat more than a small bite of Turkey. The mashed potatoes and stuffing went down fairly easily, but I soon became full and I just did not have enough energy to chew. Swallowing was hard enough. When I choked and gagged I saw the tears in my wife's eyes, and I cried as well. I felt sorry for myself. I felt sorry for my wife. I felt sorry for my son having to work. My once semi-mixed feelings about the holidays, suddenly turned dark and depressing.

I guess I could go on and on, about the loss I feel. The loss of energy, the loss of mobility, the loss of independence and freedom, the loss of financial security, the loss of time with friends and loved ones. However, I know the infinite downward spiral this road can lead to if you allow it. Negativity breeds more negativity. Depression is never too far away.

The well-known author and inspirational speaker, Rita Schiano, sums it up quite well:

Talking about our problems has become our greatest addiction.

Break the habit – talk about your joys.  

So, I vow to finish this rambling about holidays past and present with a focus on the positive. There's still Christmas and New Year to come... I promise to be joyful. I will strive to be grateful. I will count my blessings. I will share my love with my friends and family. I will sincerely thank my caregivers. We will have a small party with friends and family. I will enjoy soft foods that are easy to chew and swallow. We will decorate the little artificial Christmas tree and place it near my hospital bed. My grandmother's nativity scene will come out of the closet and I will ask my son set it up in the living room. I will shop online and give the most important people in my life a few silly gifts. We will make a meaningful donation to a local charity, and I will send holiday messages through Facebook and e-mail. I will watch football and maybe even a Christmas special. I will make an effort to create new memories.

There's leftover stuffing and mashed potatoes!

Floating cities are a bad idea!

NBC today show announces floating cities are back on course – NO! NO! This is a very bad idea... We must respect the vital role our oceans play in the health and survival of our planet. They regulate our climate and provide us with precious resources – food and water, just to name two. The oceans, though seemingly inexhaustible and forgiving, are actually fragile ecosystems under assault by human activity. The oceans are absorbing the bulk of the CO2 emissions we create, depleting the level of dissolved oxygen in the water, threatening all aquatic life. The oceans are slowly but surely being polluted by runoff wastes, plastics and other garbage carelessly discarded. Calcification is increasing, destroying entire species of shellfish and crustaceans. Food chains are being disrupted by over fishing. Ted Danson's great book Oceana, describes in detail the threats that our oceans are facing everyday – a very worthwhile read if you're at all concerned about our planet.

And now, we want to place densely populated cities on the water! I can't even imagine the pollution the cities would create and the eyesore these monstrous floating debacles would present floating on the horizons, but more importantly, they would accelerate the rising temperatures in the oceans. If the ocean's temperature increases, even slightly, global climate change will accelerate. The gigantic thermal currents that regulate the weather and the seasons throughout the world could come to a halt. Global disaster would be evident.

I addressed this issue in my book, Sealand 1001, two years ago. I had hoped that the silly idea had been dropped, but now greedy entrepreneurs are looking once again to toss aside sensible growth and development, for profit. DO NOT support these efforts! Just say no to overuse and development of the oceans.

A Good Day

I marvel today at how smoothly the sound of my words roll off my tongue, through my headset microphone into the laptop's operating system, where the audio waves are translated by my Dragon Naturally Speaking speech recognition software and are seamlessly transferred to this Microsoft Word document. Things don't always go this well, but when it does, like today, it really is a miracle.

This may not seem so fantastic to most of you—you live with the miracle of modern technology every day. It's a given that your computer, your smartphone, your iPad, your radio, your television, will work without interruption. And, if there is a problem, a quick reboot often resolves the issue, or perhaps you might enjoy a few hours separated from the ever present technology while your device is being repaired or upgraded. You may even use the time wisely, taking a walk in the park or a swim at the beach. You see, you have a functioning body that you can rely on, that you can turn to in times of frustration or crisis. No matter how dependent we become on technology, our natural body provides the ultimate operating system. However, for me, the computer is my connection to the world. My laptop and this software are literally my lifeline, keeping me from depression. Allowing me to be productive and feel alive.

How does this miracle happen? It's almost too much for me to fathom, too complicated.

First, and foremost, my creative brain has to have something to say. Then, my lungs, diaphragm, vocal cords and Trilogy Resperonics ventilator, all need to cooperate together, pushing air in and out at the appropriate volume and pressure, in order for intelligible sounds to be created. I have to be positioned comfortably, just so. My head must be tilted at the correct angle, the screen set at the perfect distance from my eyes. My arms, legs, neck and back adjusted so that they are pain free. Finally, I must have the energy to keep this breathing cycle going on long enough, so that I can get my ideas through the computer system onto the page.

The process is hard—it takes patience, stamina, concentration. It doesn't always work smoothly. Sometimes my thoughts spill out faster than my body and my machines can interface, leaving me with gobbledygook on the page, random commands opening a variety of useless programs, or even the dreaded computer crash. When that happens, I yell for my caregiver.

"arrrgh!"

My heart races, my breathing gets labored. I am afraid that I may have lost precious thoughts or files. Perhaps the computer is really gone this time. When was the last time I saved? When was the last time I did a backup? I desperately want to fix it myself, but I have to rely on her eyes and fingers. I can't let go, I continue to give commands.

"Close that window. Click save. Down, to the right. Click cancel. Now, try to restart..."

"Everything is okay. It's just words on the page," I tell myself.

But thankfully, when it works, like today... The words fall solidly on to the digital page. They accumulate, magically combining into seed-like phrases which dig deep and grow roots. If they are worthy, and watered, they may develop into complete sentences that reach for the sunlight and sprout feelings. These feelings can become coherent thoughts and begin to intermingle. Each sentence looking for the perfect match, until they form into paragraphs. They spread and multiply further, filling more of the void whitespace with ideas and images. The once blank page begins to take shape. Images transform into description and background setting. Ideas become characters and plot.

If all goes well, the stalk, leaves and stem will be thick and strong. A theme will arise in the form of a cluster of buds. With care, and just the right conditions flowers will blossom, each with a unique scent and vibrant colors. A story will break free from the computer screen.

It really is a miracle.

Feedback for The Gunslinger's Fall

I signed on just now to report on The Gunslinger's Fall. I was prepared to report that mail has been amazingly light this day.

I have read at an amazingly slow pace, which is normal for me. You might have wondered about me - whether I was ever going to finish with Volume 2 of The Gunslinger. You have succeeded in leaving me in suspense at the bus station. I imagine since you are from the States, like me, that there is going to be an interesting rescue to this situation. The pieces are already in play - the Marshal and the Gunslinger there together amidst all the blood.

I have to say that I'm not fond of all the bloodshed and am also a bit prudish about some of the language [probably thinking of my mother reading those words, but she'll be quite all right - I'm sure it will not be her first exposure to profanity in her long life of now 97 years!]. The thing is that you hold me well even though this is not my favorite kind of environment [guns, outlaws, shooting].

My hat's off to you!

 

The Gunslinger's Vision

The Gunslinger's Vision, (Volume 3 of the Gunslinger Series), is now available on Amazon.com in print and Kindle versions. Please check it out! Please help me spread the word... Volume 4 is coming along, and should probably be published next spring.

link to The Gunslinger's Vision on Amazon.com

The Raven's watch

This is the last chapter of The Gunslinger's Vision, Volume 3 of the Gunslinger Series. I'm in the process of final proof, hope to be available in November.

The Raven's watch 

The Raven watched his three friends carefully from a perch high in the tallest pine on top of a cliff in the middle of Bear Bluffs. His keen eyesight allowed him to track their physical well-being, while his spiritual awareness gave him access to most of their emotions, thoughts and dreams. He knew enough not to interfere unless it was necessary, and that the interpretation of his friend's visions would only be completely understood after smoking the sacred pipes and hearing Looking Bear's translation.

The Raven paid close attention to his friends' dreams. He spied on the large brown bear as it followed the grey wolf, which was tracking the black bear and her cub.

The brown bear lumbered along slowly, but steadily, stopping often to munch on berries, roots and insects. The bear was particularly interested in the millions of moths inhabiting the grasslands beneath the Bluffs. He spent hours consuming them before he moved on. The Raven marveled at the brown bear's raw power, and yet it was his patience and deft accuracy that allowed him to catch thousands of the moths, enough to satisfy his enormous hunger, in a short period of time.

The Raven flew ahead to watch the grey wolf. The lone wolf traveled at a much faster pace than the bears, but when he got too close to the mother and her cub, he would stop and rest. Occasionally, he would veer off his chosen path and track the scent of deer or buffalo. He desperately needed to make a kill, but these fast moving game remained out of reach. The Raven admired the wolf's patience, persistence and stamina; him he was clearly an experienced hunter.

The mother black bear kept her cub heading north. The cub protested, wanting to rest or play, but she kept him moving, only taking respite during the hottest part of the day. The mother bear spent every moment teaching her cub how to find food, what was edible, and what was dangerous or to be avoided. He was a curious cub, intelligent and energetic, but the quick pace and lack of food continued to take a toll. He was tiring.

The Raven watched from a tree on the opposite side of a small freshwater spring that trickled out of some boulders at the base of a rugged cliff. The black bears had stopped at the spring and were wading through the shallow water. The mother bear was concentrating on teaching her young cub how to catch crayfish, salamanders and a variety of small fish in the clear water. The cub did his best to mimic his mother's motions, but the small, fast and slippery animals usually managed to escape. She grunted with satisfaction at her child's energetic attempts, and laughed when a crayfish latched onto his nose. He was learning. He might survive.

"A peaceful, beautiful scene," the Raven thought.

When the mountain lion sprang from the rocks above and landed on the mother's exposed back, everyone was caught off guard. The Raven startled by the sudden violence, screeched and beat his wings wildly. The cub cried and instinctively scrambled up the nearest tree. He held on tightly, shivering with fear. The mother bleated angrily, rolled over and slipped out from under the mountain lion's grasp.

The mountain lion's first bite to the back of neck had fallen short. The bear regained her footing and roared loudly, letting the mountain lion know that she was unharmed and ready for battle. She backed up against the tree where her cub had fled and stood on her hind legs. She bellowed at the mountain lion. She slashed her claws in the air. The mountain lion crouched low and growled. He had lost his advantage.

It was rare for a mountain lion to attack an adult bear—he was clearly after the cub. He weighed his options. His instincts told him not to take on the mother bear; she had the benefit of size, weight, and thick fur. Her sharp claws were capable of ripping deeply into his flesh and she was ready to defend her cub to the death. The mountain lion preferred to fight battles that he knew he could win. Deer and elk were formidable game and could inflict damage with their legs and hooves, but they were nowhere near as dangerous as a mother bear.

He spotted the cub in the tree above his mother. A rocky ledge jutted out within striking distance of the young bear—it was the cub he wanted. He snarled and glared at the bear, then slinked away into the shadows of the boulders. The mother bear relaxed her muscles, calmed her pulsing heart, and called softly to her cub. She kept her nose up, sniffing the air trying to decipher the exact whereabouts of the mountain lion. She stayed on alert, hoping that the mountain lion had fully retreated.

The brown bear and the grey wolf had heard the commotion. The sudden outburst and then the silence intrigued them. They advanced quickly. The grey wolf appeared at the edge of the spring first, hoping that one of the bears or the mountain lion were dead. A fresh kill would be a welcome feast. He smelled blood, but not death. He stayed in the shadows.

Moments later, the brown bear rumbled into the shallow water, making a loud splash. He smelled the wolf, he smelled the mountain lion; he locked eyes with the mother bear. They were predator-cousins that usually avoided each other. Unusual circumstances and the lean summer months had brought them together. He snorted loudly and made a confident show of his superiority, shaking the water off his fur, exposing his backside and lazily rooting in the grass along the bank. He wanted nothing to do with the mother bear, only the cub interested him—and then just to kill, not eat. For the brown bear, the effort would be worth it; one less male black bear would help keep competition in these parts to a minimum.

The Raven watched these powerful hunters, wondering what would happen next. He asked Mother Earth to seed the dreams of his friends.

Suddenly, the mountain lion jumped from a ledge and knocked the cub out of the tree. It hit the ground hard and lay still, dead or unconscious. The mountain lion quickly regained his feet and darted for its prey. Inexplicably, the mother bear and the brown bear charged the mountain lion at the same time. Adversaries had become allies. A great battle ensued. Claws swiped through the air. Jaws clamped on fur and flesh. Growls, snarls and roars echoed through the trees. Blood, spit and urine were spilled on the forest floor. The three giants, the apex predators of the Northwestern plains, smashed into each other and rolled through the underbrush.

The Raven watched, already unsure of the outcome, but even more amazed when the grey wolf grabbed the cub by the nape of its neck and pulled it to safety.

Soon, the mountain lion realized he was beaten. The bears were relentless in their attacks and they were steadily overwhelming him. Wounded, but still alive, he leapt for freedom. He left bloody tracks as he jumped from boulder to boulder, up the steep cliff out of reach of the ferocious bears. He would live to hunt another day.

The brown bear and the mother black bear watched the mountain lion retreat, grunting and growling loudly, giving one last warning to the great cat. The brown bear sat heavily on his haunches and began to lick his wounds. They were mostly superficial. The mother bear, however, had sustained substantial damage. She was in great pain from deep cuts, bruises and perhaps a broken hind leg. She limped over to where the grey wolf had dragged her cub. She poked at his small body with her bloody snout. He was alive. She lay down beside him and brought her precious cub close. They slept.

The grey wolf moved silently away when the mother bear approached. He watched as she comforted her cub. He could have taken advantage of the exhausted mother bear and her helpless child, but something deep inside his unconscious turned off the primal predator inside of him, and instead he remembered his mother—the warmth, safety, love and peace she had given. The grey wolf left them alone. He had taken note of the mountain lion's path, thinking that it might be worth it to track the wounded animal for a few days. He slipped quietly into the forest.

A few hours later, the Raven heard the last ragged breaths of the mother black bear. He watched the brown bear carefully, expecting the inevitable—he would kill the cub.

The huge brown bear, however, had different thoughts. Perhaps it was because he had lost his mother when he was very young, or perhaps it was the extraordinary way the mother bear had fought to the death to defend to her child. In any event, the brown bear comforted the small black cub and slowly coaxed the tiny bear to the freshwater spring where he fed him sweet roots, silverfish and salamanders. Every few minutes he would glance towards his dead mother, cry, and sometimes run back to her lifeless body. This continued for a while, but eventually the cub began to trust the brown bear.

The next day, the Raven watched in amazement as the brown bear led the black cub northward.

The dream ended. The vision quest was over. His friends had cried and lamented well. The Great Spirit had dispensed his guidance. Mother Earth had revealed her secrets. It was time for the sacred pipe to interpret the many messages the travelers had received. It was time to return to Looking Bear's lodge.

 

The gunslinger's Vision, volumes 3 – coming in December!

The cover for "The Gunslinger's Vision" volume 3 of the Gunslinger Series is nearing completion, I thought I would share it. The actual story is still in draft form. I hope to publish by December...

Not Babe

The Gotham writing assignment was to create a dialogue where one of the characters was keeping a secret from the other character... Back to my Southern roots in this one. 

Babe

"How was your trip to Chicago?" Samuel asked between mouthfuls.

"No luck, but at least I had two interviews," Paul answered avoiding eye contact. He was late for breakfast as usual, and he had no good news to share. He would have rather stayed in bed.

"Shall I get the pliers to pull more information out of you, or are you going to tell us who you interviewed with?"

"Let the boy be," Willamette said, unusually protective. "He's been gone for a week."

"Bacon?" She asked Paul, turning away from the stove, shielding the gas burners with her sizable girth.

"Both," Paul answered, wondering why his mother hadn't offered the sausage. The smell of the heavily spiced, newly ground, pork sausage patties filled the kitchen. He knew they were present. He could hear the hamburger-sized patties sizzling in the black iron frying pan.

She smiled, hesitated uncharacteristically, nodded okay, and got back to making breakfast with her usual flourish. She turned up the transistor radio just a tad, signaling not wanting to participate in any more conversation. A minute later, she plopped a large plate in front of her son.

"The Ford parts plant, and Bloomingdale's," Paul replied.

"Ford sounds good," Samuel said, forking a large grits and gravy covered bite of sausage into his mouth. "Don't know what the hell you'd do at Bloomingdale's. Okra needs pickin' today, and I need some help with the truck."

"What about the mill?" Paul asked, slapping several mouthfuls down without taking a breath. "Hmmm, good," he said in the general direction of his mother.

Samuel grunted, "No change, still just twenty hours a week. Willa, some more of that sausage patty..." he said, pointing to his plate. "Please... and more grits and gravy would be good," he added, bowing his head when Willamette glared at him.

Paul saw the glare, and more importantly, he saw his father's bowed sunburned neck. His father rarely lowered his head to anyone for any reason. Something was up. His father was in the doghouse for something. He never said please at the kitchen table; and Paul had breakfasted with his father at least ten thousand times, and not once had his father lathered grits and gravy over fresh sausage.

"Should I apply at the mill?

"Nah, wouldn't do any good both of us pulling part-time wages," his father replied. "Damn sure good we had plenty of rain this summer, a good crop of soybean and the hogs are fat..." His voice faded at the end as he placed another large piece of sausage on his fork.

Paul looked up from his plate. Suddenly, it dawned on him.

"Dad, not Babe...," Paul said, looking at his father.

When Samuel stood up and left the table without saying a word, Paul vomited.

 

*Samuel has butchered Paul's favorite pet hog

Bobby loves blueberry muffins

Another short writing assignment I did for my Gotham online writing class– sorry if it is a little bit morbid or disturbing. The idea was to convey a unique "voice" using of sentence structure, pacing, character thoughts...

 

Bobby loves blueberry muffins.

"Mom's muffins were the best."

Every morning, if he had been behaving himself and taking his medication, he was allowed to leave the minimum-security institution and take a one-hour unsupervised walk. He wore a large digital Casio that helped him keep track of the time. He always left at exactly at 10 AM and walked quickly to the pond near Thomas Square. He loves to feed the ducks.

"Dad took me to feed the ducks every weekend."

Fifteen minutes later, Bobby always makes his way to the basketball courts next to Washington Elementary School. From the wire fence, he watches the children play for several minutes. He even takes a few shots if they invite him inside. He loves basketball.

"Billy was a great basketball player. He taught me how to shoot free throws."

After this, he walked by the Sports Authority and admired the merchandise in the big picture window. He likes that it changes every couple of weeks. He wants to look closer at the guns on display, but he knows he shouldn't. He does anyway – Bobby doesn't love guns.

"I remember the smell of the gun that blew Sally's brains out of her head. I remember the blood."

Bobby checked his watch. He was on time.

Every day at exactly 10:35 AM Bobby entered the Muffin Top Café. The baristas all know his name. They know he orders a black coffee and a blueberry muffin. They know that he is a resident of the mental institution down the street. They like Bobby; he likes them too. He calls them all by their first name. Bobby is a polite young man.

"Mom taught me to be polite and cheerful, and address people by their first name."

Today, an attractive young woman is standing in line in front of Bobby. She looks a little bit like his sister Sally, brown hair and hazel eyes. Bobby is a friendly fellow, and even though he can't date yet—he's not allowed—he still likes to chat with the girls at the Muffin Top Café, learn their name and ask them out. He's never successful, but it's the thrill of the chase that excites him. Anyway, usually the women catch on pretty quickly that he is harmless and "special." They play his game for a few minutes, indulging his quirky personality, before he has to head back to the residence.

"Dad showed me how to carry on a conversation. Billy taught me about girls, Sally taught me to hate them."

"Sorry Bobby, that was the last blueberry muffin," Tony the barista said, pointing to the young woman.

Bobby was disappointed, but he understood the opportunity in front of him.

"Mom taught me to share with others."

He walked over to the table where the woman was sitting and asked politely for his fair share.

"Excuse me, but you have the last blueberry muffin," Bobby said. "Will you share with me?"

The young woman looked up from her coffee. She heard the voice of a man, but saw the body of someone who was caught halfway between an adolescent boy and a mature man. She wondered at the strange pickup line and was annoyed at the interruption. She was in no mood today...

"No, I'm not going to share my muffin with you," the woman said.

"But I love blueberry muffins," he said, moving to sit down in the chair across from her.

"Sally sometimes said no, before she said yes. Billy told me not to give up."

Bobby reached for the muffin.

She slapped his hand. "Get out of here you freak!"

Bobby was shocked. He was ashamed and humiliated.

"You're mean and selfish," Bobby said.

"You're a moron. Get out of my face!" The woman yelled.

"Sally talked to me like that before I pulled the trigger. She never shared. She never played basketball with me or brought me to the pond to feed the ducks. She was always nasty. She called me bad names. She hurt me. She made Mom and Dad sad."

Bobby stood up quickly, tipped over a chair and glared at the woman.

"I told Sally she shouldn't talk to me like that."

He ran out of the café, slamming the door behind him. It was 10:55 AM, he should have gone back to the residence, but instead he was drawn by his raw emotions to the Sports Authority. He stopped running when he got to the large window at the front of the store. The colors and variety distracted him. The reds, blues, whites and yellows of the T-shirts and sweatpants displayed neatly on racks and posed mannequins reminded him of the time when his mother used to dress him every day for school.

"Mom always said the first impression was the most important."

The golf clubs in the window brought back memories of his father. He played golf every other Sunday, and every once in a while he would let him ride along in the golf cart. Billy played with his father, Bobby watched.

"Dad never got angry when he made a bad shot. 'Control your temper and enjoy the game,' he would say to Billy."

The baseballs, bats, gloves and cleats brought back memories of Little League baseball games. Billy pitched and played third base. Bobby was the batboy. He could throw the ball just as hard and fast as the other boys, but he couldn't field, hit or run. He was better at football.

"Mom made blueberry muffins for the boys after every game."

Bobby looked at the guns for a long time. The pistols looked attractive, shiny and light. They were easy to carry, but his father had kept them locked in a closet. The rifles were sleek and powerful looking, but they were foreign to him. His eyes rested on the shotguns. They called to him in a familiar way. He knew how they worked, what type of ammunition was needed, how to load, cock and fire.

"Dad took us hunting and camping every fall, sometimes Sally would stay home. Mom said pheasants were best barbecued, but duck was better roasted. They had venison every winter. Mom and Dad were gone."

Bobby never touched his father's shotgun, until that day Sally lost her brains on the kitchen walls. It was an accident, at least that's what everyone believed. He wondered what the woman at the Muffin Top Café would believe.

He looked at his Casio. It was 11:15 AM. He was late. He was in trouble. He was upset and angry. He couldn't go back now.

Bobby went through the front door of the Sports Authority. He had never been inside, but he knew instinctively that the guns and ammo were at the back of the store. He wandered through the racks and aisles that were crowded with merchandise. He felt dizzy, disoriented. There were just too many things to look at, to attract his attention. He bumped into a woman with a full shopping cart.

"I'm sorry," he said, stumbling into a tower of red and orange rubber balls. They flew in all directions. He slipped and fell to the floor with a loud thud.

When he opened his eyes, the woman and several other people had surrounded him. They were talking to him softly and trying to help him off the floor. He recognized the woman. She worked at the residence where he lived. He recognized some of the other people trying to help. They were people from the neighborhood. They knew who he was; they called him by name.

"Bobby, are you all right?" The woman asked.

"I'm late," Bobby replied. He didn't remember why he had come into the Sports Authority.

"Okay, Bobby, I'll take you home," she said.

He nodded in agreement. He wasn't angry anymore. He wanted to go home.

"Would you like to stop at the bakery for a blueberry muffin?" The woman asked.

She knew that Bobby loved blueberry muffins.

"I'll share one with you," Bobby replied.

The Curator and the Corydonian

The Curator and the Corydonian

The Kraken rose from the frozen depths of the southern ice pack on the small planet of Corydon. He was a terribly huge, slimy black octopus-squid-like creature, extremely angry at being disturbed from his thousand-year hibernation. By his reckoning, he should have been sleeping for at least another hundred and sixty years. The fact that the reckless beings populating the surface of the planet had somehow managed to raise the temperature to a point where the deepest and coldest ice had turned to slush, infuriated him. However, what really sent him over the edge was the realization that while he was sleeping they had had the audacity to send sharp steel tentacles miles down into his innermost cavern. In search of who knows what, he didn't have a clue, nor did he care. This was more than he could stand.

He turned towards the light blue world above him, constricted violently and raced through the liquid he called home. "I'll annihilate them," he roared in an ancient language that had not been heard on Corydon for centuries.

He broke through the surface of the frigid southern water like a meteor smashing through a gas giant. The lack of friction and the sudden feeling of near weightlessness as he ascended into the thin cloud-filled atmosphere surprised him. He stretched his sixteen massive tentacles in all directions, grabbing for any foothold that he could find. There was none, he was airborne. His seven eyes blinked and squinted in the bright sunshine of the two nearby suns. The warm rays burned his heat sensitive skin. It smelled rancid, but above that was the smell of lush vegetation, nitrogen, methane, and carbon dioxide flooding his gills—this was not the world he remembered.

For countless millennia, his species had dominated the ice-encased world of Corydon. Even at the beginning, when his family was born from amoeba like microbes, they ruled unopposed. They had evolved at a steady, but careful, natural pace, underneath the frozen surface of the planet. Unlike many intelligent species on other planets, the cold nature of their world allowed them to grow gradually, physically and intellectually. There was no hurry towards a solution, a better future, or a final conclusion. They were perfectly suited to their perfectly balanced world.

The Corydonians, as they later named themselves, had enjoyed an unlimited supply of everything they needed to thrive. Algae trapped in the ice crust constantly regenerated the levels of pure oxygen in the planetary sea. Their gills, lungs and overall physiology efficiently metabolized the life-giving chemical. Breathing was never labored; oxygen was abundant. They fed, competition free, on the smaller warm and cold-blooded organisms that inhabited their liquid domain. They grew to gigantic size, unimpeded by disease, famine, war, or the need for exploration.

As the average Corydonian's dimensions expanded and the population bloomed, they developed a society based on one thousand year cycles. Adults adopted these cycles in order to keep the balance between the resources available on the planet and the stress created by the requirements of their huge size and appetite—half the population hibernated while the other half patrolled the seas. This agreed upon norm, along with their long life, the average Corydonian lived to be around 180,000 years old, and the fact that females reproduced only once during their lifetime, kept the population in check, and the planet in balance. They were at peace with nature and themselves. They were satisfied with their cold liquid world and their place in the universe.

That was then, during the apex of their evolution, before the Giants of Corydon made the fateful decision to break through the frozen layer of ice surrounding their world.

It was an accident, really.

Bits and pieces of the ancient memory flashed through his mind.

As a young Corydonian, less than 20,000 years old, he knew from the teachings of his elders that there was a thin inhospitable atmosphere above the ice. He had been taught that their planet was one of several in their solar system with two giant suns, and that an infinitely large and complex universe held everything in place. The Corydonians understood that they were not alone in the universe, but they had no need to venture beyond their borders. Nevertheless, a combination of boredom and curiosity, both byproducts of superior intelligence and millions of years of a peaceful mundane way of life, had pushed him to poke his bulbous head through a meticulously burrowed hole in the planet's icy crust. He had been hunting new species of algae, but he had gone too close to the surface. The ice cracked and a great hole opened. He was sucked up into the atmosphere—that's all he remembered. He had woken up in his father's cavern. The scolding and lectures, he preferred to forget.

And now, here he was again.

The Corydonian giant opened his mouth wide, fangs dripping with acidic saliva, and gasped as he rushed through the layer of clouds. His gills kicked into overdrive, straining what little oxygen was available from the warm mixture of gases. He thrashed about in the thin atmosphere, trying to make his way back to his liquid home, but he had gone too far. He had over extended himself. Gravity let go. Open space greeted him. The lack of oxygen and the feeling of weightlessness were vaguely familiar; he had lived through a similar experience once before when he was very young.

"They'll be no rescue this time," he thought. "I'm the last."

Strangely, this realization didn't increase his anger or need for revenge, instead, a sad calm overcame him. As soon as he had awoken, he knew that he was the last of his species. When Corydonians were awake, they retained telepathic connections with every other Corydonian on their planet. He knew instantly, that they were all gone. He had no idea what had happened to them. He was however, still slightly curious, that was his nature even during these last few minutes just before his impending death.

"It doesn't matter," he said to Corydon as he floated further and further away from his home. "I relinquish you to the humanoids now."

He stopped thrashing about. He stopped trying to squeeze the last bit of oxygen from the atmosphere. He retracted his fangs and relaxed. His superior intelligence took control of his runaway emotions. He calmly examined his current position and predicament. He was no longer angry. In fact, he was somewhat serene.

The clouds parted below him and with his seven magnificent eyes, he saw new landmasses and cities for the first time. The alien life that had come to his world just a short time ago had been busy. Over the last 850 years, while he had been hibernating, they had terra-formed most of the planet. Where shiny smooth white ice had once existed, mountains, valleys, meadows and forests had been born. The great under-surface seas had been reduced to small lakes and rivers; some contained by huge gray rock-like structures. He easily deduced their purpose, but lacked the vocabulary to name them.

Massive cities and sprawling industrial complexes spread across the landmasses. He knew what they were; he had seen images of them on faraway planets. The Corydonians had studied the flow humanoids for thousands of years, long before they had begun to conquer and explore the galaxies. These stone and metal zones created the heat that had destroyed his world. He looked at the city lights with interest. The light the dwellings emitted reminded him of the iridescent gems found in the deepest caverns. The scene represented something horribly beautiful and serenely deadly.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" a soft chirpy voice said.

The question smashed through his consciousness. His sonar-based auditory organs picked up the sound even though he was several miles above the Corydon Sea. His seven eyes broke wide open. He focused intently on the 360° view within his range of hearing, attempting to confirm that he had really heard something. He saw nothing, but suddenly the shrill, high-pitched voice came to him again.

"I'm glad to see you've lowered your blood pressure and calmed your nerves," the voice sing-songed. "Acceptance is good."

He twisted his gigantic body in all directions, trying to pinpoint the source of the tiny voice. Despite the reassuring words, which were not Corydonian, but still understood without translation, he was beginning to become angry again.

Corydonians were very polite. They never interrupted one another without permission, and they took great care to respect the boundaries of family groups and other relationships. The alto register and the confident nature of the voice irritated him. He refused to engage in conversation until he knew whom he was talking too. Its' useless comments were not welcome, especially during this final episode of his very long and happy life. He preferred to spend these last moments remembering, rather than creating anything new.

"Remembering is good," the voice said. "I apologize for not introducing myself earlier. Please call me Scarlett. I am a Red and White-Banded Cleaner Shrimp, a crustacean from the family Hippolytidae. My scientific name is Lysmata amboinensis. My relatives are commonly found on planets with warmer oceans and coral reefs."

The voice was real. It came from somewhere nearby, but vibrated throughout his inner brain. He sensed that the voice originated from someone or something that had attributes similar to the telepathic abilities of his species, but it was unlike anything he had experienced before. The voice, the words and the meaning played his head, but the evolutionary connection was not there. This was an intrusive voice coming to him through very different channels.

"I'm over here, just in front of your central eye," the voice said. "A response of some kind would be nice."

The Corydonian giant turned his attention to his seventh eye in the middle of his massive, oblong shaped head, above his gaping mouth. A tiny bright light blinked just out of reach of his longest tentacle. He focused on it. The light dimmed and the metallic silver skin of a coconut-sized starship revealed itself. He had never seen a coconut, nor a starship for that matter, but the words defined themselves as soon as they appeared in the language center of his brain.

"Who are you?" He boomed in his baritone voice.

"I'm Scarlett, a crustacean. My scientific name is..."

"I know all that already," he interrupted. "Who are you?"

A miniscule hatch hummed open on the top of the vessel and an unbelievably insignificant lobster like creature exited and floated just above the starship. He couldn't believe how small the organism was, yet it had a strangely powerful aura surrounding it. The starship was so minute that only a swarm of millions would make a decent mouthful, and the alien being talking to him was ten times smaller than that. It was barely visible, and only then because of his great powers of concentration and focus. Under normal circumstances, the tiny speck would be flushed through his gills without notice. It wasn't even big enough to require a thought or a cleansing sneeze.

"I am Scarlett, the curator for the Intergalactic Zoological Preservation Society, IZPS, for short. I'm here to preserve you."

Images of creatures and organs floating in large jars of formaldehyde passed through his mind—once again he had never seen these things, but as they appeared in his mind, they were instantly recognized, defined and understood. He suspected that Scarlett's remarkable communication abilities had something to do with it.

"Preservation does not appeal to me," he blasted, intentionally sending acidic saliva, pieces of food and fermented odors from deep within his multi-chambered bowels towards the shrimp.

"Oh, I'm sorry for that image," Scarlett said, easily waving off the moist saliva and bits of undigested food the Corydonian giant had spit his way with his long antenna and segmented arms. "I deserve that. Preserve, is the wrong word, perhaps rescue, save, relocate or protect, would be better."

Immediately an image of a beautiful ice world similar to Corydon, but much larger appeared in the giant's brain. The temperature was perfect, the ice silent and solid, the liquid underneath full of pure oxygen, microorganisms, and fatty nutritious foods. Other creatures similar to him were socializing and playing in the oceans, some were hibernating in caverns deep within the planet.

"I see what you're doing," he said glaring at the mostly cherry red, but white banded shrimp. "They are not Corydonians, and even if they were, the planet you are projecting is a million light years away. How would I get there? Corydonians don't travel beyond Corydon. Plus, by my calculation, I can only survive another five or ten minutes in this weightless oxygen-depleted vacuum. Leave me alone."

"Corley, may I call you by your given name?" Scarlett asked. "I can help you. I can take you to the IZPS's galaxy, where you can live comfortably for many more millennia. There may even be a chance to revive the Corydonian species."

"Leave me alone," Corley exploded. "How dare you presume to know me well enough to use the name my mother gave me? I think I shall crush you, and then die peacefully without the shrill noise of your voice penetrating my thoughts."

"Perhaps a demonstration is in order."

Scarlett retreated into his starship. Seconds later, a clear bubble emerged from the back of the starship and began to expand. It grew rapidly and began to engulf the Corydonian giant.

Corley tried to flee, but he could get no traction in the thin atmosphere. He panicked. He struck out at the bubble with his tentacles and bit down on it with his sharp fangs. He spewed acid at the transparent cloud coming towards him. Nothing stopped it. It kept growing, stretching through and around him. He tired quickly, because of the lack of oxygen. He knew that if he kept struggling, he would eventually pass out and die. Resistance was futile. He gave up and let the shrimp have his way.

"Scarlett, if that is your real name," Corley gasped. "I curse you for disturbing the last few minutes of life."

Suddenly, pure oxygen surrounded him. He drank the life-giving chemical deep into his lungs. Liquid encased him. He felt cool and comfortable inside the bubble. It was large enough to hold him, and big enough for him to swim freely about. He swam for the edges, and they flexed before him. He sliced at the outer walls with his tentacles, and the clear bubble stretched, expanded and contracted with his efforts, never breaking. He was trapped, but he had been saved. He was confused, angry, sad, dismayed and amazed. He stopped struggling and waited patiently. There was nothing more to do.

"Corley?" Scarlett asked, lowering his voice an octave.

"Yes, Scarlett."

"Do you believe me now?"

"I can't believe you anymore than I can believe that my species have perished and my planet has been destroyed. Let me die."

"I can do that, but that would seem to be a waste of effort. I saved you once so that this moment could come to pass. Letting you die now would be a colossal squandering of time and energy."

"Are you suggesting that it was you who rescued me more than 176,000 years ago?"

"Suggestion, statement, fact... Call it what you want. I'm not ready to let you go, but I am willing to give you a choice."

"May I devour you and then float peacefully into deep space?" Corley grinned, hoping that was one of the choices.

"No, of course not, and please don't make that horrible face," Scarlett said.

"You can come with me to the ice planet belonging to the IZPS and live a long comfortable life, or I can bring you back down to the seas of Corydon, where you will eventually die from starvation and heat exposure."