From the Library of C.S. Lewis, a Review

From the Library of C.S. Lewis is a reference book filled with selections from C.S. Lewis’ personal library.  This book, compiled by James Stuart Bell and Anthony Dawson, is broken into eighteen sections.  The primary focus of the book is to highlight works (and writers) who influenced Lewis’ spiritual journey, as Lewis is regarded as one of the finest Christian thinkers of the 20^th Century.  There are a few other sections that are not dedicated to religion (such as a section on fantasy & imagination), but these are definitely the minority of page takers.

I found the concept interesting and so I requested a review copy from the publisher.  I like Lewis (especially Mere Christianity), but I’m not fanatic about him by no means.  I’m also finding myself getting a bit more interested in biographical works as I’m getting older, and I’m a believer that you can tell a lot about a person by the types of things they read.

Unfortunately, my initial excitement quickly faded.  Page after page I read through archaic texts and dated sermon notes.  The material was interesting, but my daily dose of deep theology and introspective meditation could not handle deluge.  As such, I took to skimming things, and that’s not what I wanted to do.  So then I decided to read devotionally, just picking a page a day or something and seeing what was said.  I noticed a lot of repeated writers and works, and I suppose these were more influential on Lewis than others, but that’s pure speculation on my part.

Each selection is presented with a title, its source, the text, and then a mini author biography (Twitter-esque).  This format is perfect, and each selection spans at most three pages.   Much of the text is heavy and deep, as I’ve said, and I recommend it in small chunks to avoid duress.  This format inevitably leads to bias, as quoting out of context is wont, but I believe the intent of Bell & Dawson is to tease the Reader to dig deeper into the cited works.

From the Library of C.S. Lewis is an interesting little reference book.  It is dry and sometimes complicated, but that will fluctuate based on the Reader and the day.  There are many pearls of wisdom in this book, and it was a pleasure to think about how they affected Lewis’ works (and life).  I would have liked more descriptive correlations between works and Lewis’ life, but that was outside the scope of the book.  To a casual Lewis fan this may not be the book for you, but if you would like to find out what kind of things C.S. Lewis liked to read, then by all means check out From the Library of C.S. Lewis.

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FTC Thingy: I received this book for free in exchange for an honest review.  Nothing more was required.  I was not coerced or bribed to review positively or negatively, nor was I offered any extra incentives for a positive review (i.e., baked goods, especially cookies).  As such, this review is reflective of my inner self's inner self.

Catch-22, a Review

Joseph Heller first published Catch-22 in 1961.  The book is a modern classic that has received universal praise.  The book directly created the eponymous “catch-22” phrase that has entered into the vernacular.  Catch-22 has been on my TBR since high school, always on the shelf to get to one day.  Thanks to the 2012 Manifesto, that day has come.

It is hard to pin down exactly what Catch-22 is all about.  On the surface it’s a biting satire of war and disillusioned life in the mid-19^th century.  Yossarian, the twenty-something chief protagonist, is a captain in the U.S. Air Force serving in the 256^th Squadron in the Mediterranean during World War II.  He’s hilarious and honest and completely against flying any more missions.  Again, superficially, this is the main dilemma of the book.  Colonel Cathcart wants to impress his superior officers and so he keeps increasing the number of missions the men have to fly. 

It doesn’t take much to see that Catch-22 is really something else altogether.  Absurdity abounds, often to the confusion of the characters within the pages and to the Reader without.  I scratched my head a few times trying to understand what had just happened.  It doesn’t help that Heller uses a third-person rotating POV omniscient voice, as well as a proclivity to disregard chronology periodically.  The book reminded me a lot of Kurt Vonnegut’s Slaughterhouse-Five.

I struggled at first with this book, wondering whether or not to abandon it.  There start is somewhat slow, and getting used to Yossarian’s (or whoever’s) mind takes some time.  But once I had the tone established my enjoyment level dramatically increased.  The characters were funny, but I was more drawn to discovering their true motivations.  Heller paints a picture of utter confusion and absolute chaos in the leadership ranks for the military, one that required a constant suspension of disbelief and several groans.  This was another struggle I had, and I can easily see how some could take issue with plausibility.  In fact, practically every character is irrational to varying degrees, which conveniently fits nicely into a major theme of Catch-22.

So what exactly is the catch?  Heller writes,

There was only one catch and that was Catch-22, which specified that a concern for one's safety in the face of dangers that were real and immediate was the process of a rational mind. Orr was crazy and could be grounded. All he had to do was ask; and as soon as he did, he would no longer be crazy and would have to fly more missions. Orr would be crazy to fly more missions and sane if he didn't, but if he were sane he had to fly them. If he flew them he was crazy and didn't have to; but if he didn't want to he was sane and had to. Yossarian was moved very deeply by the absolute simplicity of this clause of Catch-22 and let out a respectful whistle. (p. 56, ch. 5)

This review really doesn’t give an in depth understanding of this novel.  Heller’s constant rotation of POVs is jarring but fitting.  Heller’s wit is perfect.  There is a rather bleak and fatalist view of things, but it’s World War II and that’s understandable.  The characterization (especially Major Major Major Major and the Chaplain) is brilliant.  There is much to write about with the book, but finding the appropriate words are difficult.

Ultimately I very much recommend Joseph Heller’s Catch-22.  It offers a fascinating glimpse of war and sanity.  It is an adult book with some coarse language and wanton sexuality, but comparatively it’s much more vanilla than contemporary mediums.  If you’ve never read Catch-22 and you’re looking for something bizarre and thought provoking, then I strongly recommend you try this book.  It’s worth its many accolades. 

About My New Job

I am working for a large, international aluminum product manufacturing plant, where we make rolled aluminum coils and sell them out to people that want to customize the stuff.  This company is not called Manuel's Mousepad Emporium (MME), but that's what I'm calling it so as to give myself one level of anonymity.  I am in the Health, Safety & Environmental department, where we have two staff environmental engineers and a handful of safety specialists.  My title is, officially, Environmental Compliance Technician.  I'm pretty sure that that is the most prestigious sounding job title I've ever had.

So what do I do?  To answer that would require a small understanding of the rolled product manufacturing facility itself and how the processes work.  In extreme brevity, MME buys recycled aluminum and melts it down to a certain level.  This molten aluminum goes through a casthouse until eventually it is poured into molds and cast as large (~22 feet long) ingots.  The ingots make their way through the mills, getting chopped and scalped and cut along the way.  Eventually they go through a machine that smashes the ingot down over and over, kind of like rolling a piece of clay in your hand until it is a long and thin snake, except the aluminum stays rectangular in shape and not round.  One the aluminum is flattened into a sheet it is then rolled up into a coil (~20,000 lbs.) and hauled off on a crate to sit and await shipping.  That's the short version.

MME also does customized sheets with embossed designs.  There's also a paint process if customers want colored aluminum (and many of them do).

So what do I do?  I basically make sure that all the water that we're pushing out of the property is within the acceptable limits for a variety of things (coliform, chlorine, pH, oil & grease, etc.)  To do this requires a daily visible inspection of our main outfall and the waste water treatment outfall.  In addition to the regulations surrounding a WWTP, MME also has its own drinking water supply.  I am responsible for all the routine inspections of these areas.

Next I work with the waste side of environmental engineering.  There are a few hazardous byproducts left over and I have to make sure that they are properly labeled and disposed of correctly.  Non-hazardous and universal waste regulations also fall into this realm.  MME doesn't generate a lot of varieties hazardous waste, most of it being from paints and solvents.

The last piece of environmental that I deal with is the air side.  Air regulations are some of the most difficult things to understand and regulate.  I have several binders in my office on Air Regulations due to the Clean Air Act from the EPA and I have wracked my mind over the billion+ acronyms and numbers.  There's a lot of stuff that I don't understand right now, but eventually I'm going to have to know everything that pertains to the aluminum industry, or at least a portion of it.  I've not really got into this much yet, but it's coming so very soon.

The EPA has the authority to wage some monstrous fines on violations, so I'm employed to do the routine checks (daily, weekly, monthly, quarterly, etc.) to make sure that we catch any problems and get them corrected before anything major happens.  It's a job that keeps me away from my desk for much of the day, and I'm loving it.  The casthouses are awesome, but I'll have to get into those again some other day.

Until then, I must retire.  I get up earlier now and I have an incredible amount of things going on that I can't disclose currently.  Rest assured, though, that I have not forgotten this blog or the Readers of it.  Perchance once Stewartland is out of my hands things'll swing back closer to normalcy.  Here's to hoping.

The Children of Odin, a Review

I grew up a fan of Greek mythology, amazed by the esoteric worldviews of long ago. This love crossed over into a few other cultures—Egyptian and Roman mostly—but nothing compared to Greek. As I grew up I began looking to related things: fairy tales, urban legends, and folklore. I loved the language and mood these stories had, and to this day I still enjoy reading these kinds of things. When a friend suggested I read the free Kindle book The Children of Odin I dismissed it, chiefly because it was not on my 2012 Book Manifesto. But the seeds were sewn and soon I was swept away by unfamiliar tales.

The Children of Odin: The Book of Northern Myths (by Padraic Colum) is a collection of Norse mythology. This collection is composed of thirty-six myths and broken down into four parts. This review will discuss each part and what the tales are about as opposed to individually reviewing each story.

The Dwellers in Asgard: Any self-respecting book on mythology will begin at the beginning, and The Children of Odin makes no exception. Here the Reader learns of the Gods of Asgard, of Odin All-Father, Thor, Baldur, Tyr, Freya, Loki, and many more. We learn of the ever-waging war between the Gods and the Giants and the building of the Wall. Many of these names were very familiar (especially to the Final Fantasy gamer, comic book reader, and Neil Gaiman fan), but I knew very little about the Norse Gods. These histories were both fascinating and funny and a great way to start the book.

Odin the Wanderer: At the end of Part One Odin decides to leave Asgard and roam the world. This section deals with Odin's wanderings and the things he sees there. Additionally there are a few very important stories ("The Dwarf's Hoard, and the Curse that It Brought" chiefly) that set up a lot of things for the eventual Ragnarok.

The Witch's Heart: This is the last main section that deals with the Gods. Here we really get into the cunning and deception of Loki, the dreaded fate of Baldur, and all of the implications of these things for Asgard. I really liked this section a lot, especially the stuff concerning Loki's children. This was probably my favorite section of the book.

The Sword of the Volsungs and the Twilight of the Gods: There is a sudden (and unexplained) shift in the focus of the myths here. While the first three parts deal with the Gods of Asgard and mentions little of Man (of Midgard), Part Four deals almost exclusively with Men. This section is basically a life story of Sigurd, the most fearsome and noblest of all warriors. Sigurd is a man of legend and brawn, equipped with a fierce flame sword and a steed from Odin's stock. There are several stories about Sigurd, and I enjoyed them all. They reminded me of medieval knight's tales. This section also finishes the book with "Twilight of the Gods," an eschatological story of death and rebirth.

One thing that stood out to me throughout this book was Colum's propensity to fall into Old English with his characters. There were several times I chuckled due to a particular word choice or phrase structure. I don't think too many people talked in Old English in 1920, though I suppose contemporary literature at the time was a bit dated. Nevertheless, I found these instances funny whenever Colum would drop into Old English. I could just imagine larger than life Norse Gods speaking like Hamlet.

The Children of Odin is a wonderful collection to introduce the Reader to Norse mythology. Some tales could have been better flushed out, but all really fit the mold of classical myths. I very much enjoyed some of the ideas in the mythos (like the serpent that's wrapped around the world) and am interested in pursuing more Norse mythology.  If you've never read any Norse mythology and you've an e-reader then you should definitely check out this free collection. Quite enjoyable and easily recommended.

And Just Like That...

...Vacation ends.  Well, if you want to call it a vacation.  Technically we didn't vacate our beloved and despised Stewartland for sandy beaches or wooded vales.  No, we stayed home and worked our butts off. As I mentioned in a blog post a few moons back, we're trying to get Stewartland on the market.  To achieve this amazing feat we must first deep clean and sponge bathe the house.  This goes hand in hand with one of our 2012 goals: to rid ourselves of material goods, and we spent the majority of the week cleaning and weeding and boxing and tossing.  It was a busy week, but we got a lot finished.

...I started my new job today.  Technically I didn't really do anything other than orientate myself with the Manuel's Mousepad Emporium (MME).  I'll continue to be orientated all week, going through safety and policy and whatnot.  But after going through my benefit package today, I'm extremely excited at how much God has blessed me.  My paycheck will be a little less than I have been making, but only slightly, and the benefits are so offsetting that it's negligible.

...I started exercising and getting healthy.  Technically I started a month ago.  I'd been feeling the faint stirrings in my ticker box to do so, but Carl's post on June 11--"(It was) Time for a Change"--gave me the final nudge into that not-so-gentle good morning.  (He also inspired a ton of others to shape up and live healthier, and those of us joined an email support group.  You should definitely read his post.)  Starting just a day or two later I began getting up an hour earlier than I normally did, right around 5:30am.  I started educating myself on eating healthier.  I took initiative.  I ran 2-3 miles every other day or so.  I've stopped with Doritos.  And since then I've definitely gotten* much healthier.  It's a wonderful feeling that I'll probably elaborate on sometime in the future.

...Blogging stalled.  Literally.  Rememorandom takes the back burner while life is in full throttle, and life is well into full throttle.  I very much enjoy blogging and the community, but there's just too danged much going on to have the time to do it all right now.  I'll continue to post intermittently until things calm down.  Winter is coming, after all.

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*this is one of my least favorite words in all of English.  But the Dude abides.

The Speculative Edge #1, a Review

The Speculative Edge is a brand new speculative fiction magazine with a goal set to push boundaries in the genre by publishing stories, reviews, and other assorted tidbits in a monthly digest form. Its Editor-in-Chief is Mr. Shane Collins. I've reviewed a magazine similar to this before (ResAliens #4, where I was first introduced to Collins' writing) and I enjoyed the short tales quite a bit. Needless to say, I jumped at the opportunity to review the inaugural issue of the magazine.

As explained in the "Letter from the Editor," The Speculative Edge treads familiar territory in the zine world. There are several of these types of things out there, so why add another? The answer, as Collins says, is to create a magazine that caters to the readers by blending pieces from new writers as well as established (i.e. published) authors. The magazine would also contain film and book reviews, excerpts from novels, poetry, essays, and several unique short stories. 

The majority of the magazine is devoted to fiction. For this first edition there are two interviews with established authors as well as two excerpts from their respected novels. Additionally there are four short stories, ten poems, a smattering of dated book reviews and summer film reviews, and an essay on genre and literary fiction by the Editor-in-Chief. I like to review these types of things like I review anthologies, by each individual story. I will not be reviewing the poetry or the reviews (although a review of a review could be interesting).

"The Cosmic Stringbusters," by D. L. Chance, opens the magazine's short fiction set with a sci-fi yarn infused heavily with bluegrass. Now since bluegrass runs deep in my veins (being from Western Kentucky, where bluegrass was literally born and living in the selfsame city where the International Bluegrass Museum is located) I was immediately curious about this story. On board a space vessel with a mission of spending 100 years away from earth the people are segregated into two groups: those that look back to Earth and those that look to the future. Suffice it to say that there is some tension between the two. "The Cosmic Stringdusters" is more philosophic than action-filled, but it was nevertheless a rather unique and fun story to begin with.

"Of All the Gin Joints," by C. T. Hart. This is a rather standard android/cyborg story with a slight misfire. I had questions after finishing the very short story, wondering the plausibility. Even so, when the Narrator goes into a normal bar for an evening drink and everything suddenly grows weird, I was left wondering more about the world the writer created as opposed to what just happened.

"Gravity 101," by Christian Riley. Aliens and UFOs appear. The aliens are upset and the earthlings have to pay for it. As uninspired and trite as that sounds, I actually enjoyed this piece a lot. It is another very short story, but I liked the voice of the Narrator. My imagination had fun with this story.

"They Call Her Miss Hood," by Matthew Sideman. I honestly struggled to finish this story. I'm not much of a fan of pulpy noir stuff with a whimsical self-righteous narrator, and after the first two paragraphs I groaned. The gimmick gets old very quickly. This is a story about a private investigator named Miss Hood (the Fable from "Little Red Riding Hood") and her quest to make rent by uncovering the truth from some wolves. I couldn't help but be reminded of Bill Willingham's Fables, of which I've been a fan for many years. This genre is too crowded and I did not like this story at all. Perhaps had it been shorter? Or if the writer had used a different voice?

Skipping over the poetry (Rosie of New Bedford and Asylum were my favorites) and reviews. Mr. Collins' essay, The Writing War, offers a beginners guide to literary and genre fiction. He treads no new territory, but I don't think that he was intending too, either. I've long wondered the same things he's pondered here, why we have the distinction in our books when so many of them span multiple genres. It was also nice to see Mr. Collins in support of expanding one's reading sphere and stretching out and trying new things. I've personally found that to be beneficial and enjoyable.

It's hard to say what my final feelings are concerning the first edition of The Speculative Edge. Of the short stories I enjoyed three of the four. I honestly skipped over the interviews because, well, I almost never am interested in those, regardless of the author. However I did read the two book excerpts--A Tale of Two Moons (George Wilhite) and Fallen World (C. R. Rollinger)--but neither story intrigued me enough to purchase the books. Poetry isn't something I normally read, and having no real gauge for this field I'd give it a mostly passable grade. The reviews were heavily dated, each focused on books that are a few years old. My recommendation for future editions would be to expand the fiction section, lessen the poetry section (but don't get rid of it), and have reviews for somewhat current books. The Speculative Edge is a fledgling magazine. It's not worth the print edition for a subscription, although a digital subscription isn't completely off the table. Much depends on where the magazine goes with the upcoming issues. 

If you're looking for a speculative magazine that you can get on your e-reader on the cheap (from $1.99 to $2.99 per issue), then check out The Speculative Edge, especially if you like reading stories by young and (relatively) unknown authors. Check the magazine out at their website, linked here. The first edition hits the shelves August 1.

FTC Thingy: This magazine was provided to me for free because I am ruggedly handsome and have a face made for the silver screen. Sometimes when I smile I literally break people's hearts. There were no monies exchanged between myself and The Speculative Edge, nor were there any baked goods.

The Curse, a Cover

Been a while since I've done a cover. This song is by one of my favorite artists out at the moment, Mr. Josh Ritter. The lyrics are haunting, and I've puzzled over the implications of the song and would be curious to know your reactions, too.  I've put my cover first followed by the original.

(Don't those puppets add a certain creepy mmph to the song?)  After listening to Ritter's it makes me wonder why I even did a cover.  Honestly I just wanted to share the song and, more importantly, the story.  Wow. I can't stop thinking about it.

Theory One: The mummy is cursed and malevolent
Theory Two: The woman spends her whole life researching this thing and has a great imagination

The Question: Does the mummy truly love her? I think yes. Keisha thinks not so much. I think a great, thought-provoking song, unlike any other love story I know.

Lyrics?

He opens his eyes, falls in love at first sight

With the girl in the doorway

What beautiful lines, how full of life

After thousands of years what a face to wake up to

He holds back a sigh as she touches his arm

She dusts off the bed where till now he's been sleeping

Under miles of stone, the dried fig of his heart

Under scarab and bone starts back to its beating

She carries him home in a beautiful boat

He watches the sea from a porthole in stowage

He can hear all she says as she sits by his bed

Then one day his lips answer her in her own language

The days quickly pass, he loves making her laugh

The first time he moves it's her hair that he touches

She asks "Are you cursed?" He says "I think that I'm cured"

Then he talks of the Nile and the girls in bullrushes

In New York he is laid in a glass-covered case

He pretends he is dead, people crowd round to see him

But each night she comes round, and the two wander down

The halls of the tomb that she calls a museum

Often he stops to rest, but then less and less

Then it's her that looks tired, staying up asking questions

He learns how to read from the papers that she 

Is writing about him and he makes corrections

It's his face on her book and more and more come to look

Families from Iowa, upper West-siders

Then one day it's too much, he decides to get up

And as chaos ensues, he walks outside to find her

She's using a cane, and her face looks too pale

But she's happy to see him, as they walk he supports her

She asks "Are you cursed?" but his answer's obscured

In a sandstorm of flashbulbs and rowdy reporters

Such reanimation, the two tour the nation

He gets out of limos, he meets other women

He speaks of her fondly, their nights in the museum

But she's just one more rag now he's dragging behind him

She stops going out, she just lies there in bed

In hotels in whatever towns they are speaking

Then her face starts to set and her hands start to fold

And one day the dry fig of her heart stops its beating

Long ago on the ship, she asked "Why pyramids?"

He said "Think of them as an immense invitation"

She asks "Are you cursed?" He says "I think that I'm cured" 

Then he kissed her and hoped that she'd forget that question

Check out more Josh Ritter if you want some great writing and excellent songs.

Avonlea Enjoys Swimming

A quick post to share this great picture of Avonlea trying out her float for the first time. Looks like she's rather enjoying the water. This is such a fun time in my life right now, and I'm so incredibly fortunate to be blessed with both a wonderful daughter and a phenomenal wife. Just thought I'd share.

Flash Fiction Friday (Retro): The Story of Irvin Milhouse

[I discovered a cache of floppy discs that have stories and poems from when I was in middle and high school. This was written as a senior in high school for unknown reasons. I am putting these unedited works up here for archival purposes. Word Count: 1275]
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     It was a Thursday in July of 1934. Irvin Milhouse sat on a tree stump in Kentucky. He had left New York on Black Tuesday without saying goodbye to anyone. He feared that the mafia was after him, and any person he saw dressed in a black suit Irvin generally avoided. If a gunshot rang in the distance, Irvin thought the mob was getting closer: Irvin Milhouse was a wreck. 

     He had not eaten in two days. It had been five years since the stock market had fallen, and since then Irvin had lost much of the weight he once possessed. Now he longed for it back. He bore a beard, old clothes, and a crumpled leather hat. He looked Kentuckian. Often he contemplated suicide. It would put an end to the suffering, but for some reason he could not bring himself to do it. He thought occasionally of the beautiful apartment he once owned and it brought tears to his eyes. All of the luxuries he had once taken for granted had simply vanished on that Black day. But, he rationed, was it payment for his sins? 

     Somewhere in the distance he could see a figure drawing closer. Too tired to run and too tired of hiding, Irvin simply sat on his stump, waiting for the person to come to him. As the shape grew close enough to see, Irvin made out that the figure was simply an old man, weary and bone-thin like everyone else. The man said nothing until he stopped beside Irvin. 

     "Howdy." The traveler peered sadly into Irvin's eyes. "You got a name stranger?" 

    "Yes, sir," said Irvin. "I used to use it back before everything went wrong. Irvin's the name. And you?" 

     The man shook his head and spit in the dirt. "Nope. I don't reckon I'm worthy of a name anymore. Haven't used one in so long." 

     Irvin stood and shook hands with the strange old man. "Take this here seat, Mister. An old man like you needs all the rest he can get." 

     "What are you doin' in these parts?" Asked the old man as he sat down on the stump. "You're not from around here, are ya?" 

     Irvin shook his head and shrugged. "I guess I'm doing what every other person in this country's doing. I'm looking for work and food." He paused. "No, I'm not from here. Does my voice give me away?" 

     The old man laughed. "Yep. You Yankees all sound the same to an old man, but I s'pose we hicks sound the same to you. But ye ain't gonna find work or food around here. I used ter work in them mines fer enough money ter s'port my fam'ly. Had me a wife and two kids. My woman died two years ago and my kids left me. Said they'd find 'em some work and then they'd help me out. Well, it's been two years and I ain't heard from 'em yet." 

     Irvin did not know what to say. Since the crash he had heard countless stories similar to this, and each one broke his heart anew. The whole world had been drastically altered in just one day. People were roaming the streets looking for work; people were crossing the country to find work anywhere they could in America; people were seeking desperately for just a small bite to eat and to end the suffering. Irvin and the stranger were two people out of millions who could tell similar stories. 

     "What's yer reason fer sticking ‘round here?" The man's voice brought Irvin back to the present. 

    "Well, I used to work on the stock market up in New York before that dreadful day. Somehow, I got involved with the mob and since Black Tuesday, I have been running from them. I think they are always after me because I lost my boss millions of dollars. Last I heard there was a bounty on my head, but I'm sure that's just a bluff. The Don doesn't have any money either." 

     The old man was shaking his head. "A bounty huh . . .. Aw, it's a shame when a man ain't got no place to sleep without being skeered o' somethin'. To be a runnin' fer five years must have quite a toll on a feller like you." 

     "Yep. I ain't ate in two days now. I ain't bathed in Lord knows when." Irvin paused. "What about you, Mister? How long has it been since you ate?" 

     The man had to think for a minute before responding. "Lemme see. I reckon I et me somethin' last night. I was gettin' off a train, and I found me an apple tree. Plum near every apple was plucked off 'at tree, but I got me one." 

     "Sure wish I had me an apple right now. I could eat the whole tree probably." The old man reached into his pocked and pulled out a small Golden Delicious. 

     Irvin's eyes lit up with hunger and the man smiled. "Here, son. You take this here apple and eat it. I'm old and ain't got much life left in me, but yer young and in need of some food." Irvin looked apprehensive. "Go on, son. I got more." 

     Irvin took the apple from Mister's hand and began eating. Between a bite he managed a "Thank you" and Mister smiled at his fortune. "The Lord is gonna look out fer ya', Irvin. He's got plans to fix up this country. You just wait." 

    For a while longer the two men just sat and said nothing. They enjoyed each other’s company. It was rare for a friendship to start in such hard times, but Irvin figured that people all around the country were pulling together, trying to overcome the hardships. Irvin looked at his new friend and smiled. The stranger could offer hope in Irvin's life where others could not. God was showing him that there was still a reason to hang on. 

     Night fell and the men were resting peacefully on the Kentucky grounds. Mister stood up from his stump and talked quietly "Irvin, son, are you awake?" 

     "Yeah. I'm just sittin' here thinkin'." 

     "Me too. I think I'm gonna be a headin' on." 

     "Where ya goin'?" Irvin asked rising up. 

     The man shrugged. "I dunno. I got a fam'ly out there somewhere. I sho' would like ta' see 'em again before I go on to meet the Lord. I guess I'll go a lookin' fer food, a job, and my kids. What about yerself?" 

     Irvin shook his head. "I don't know, either. I'm probably going to head on down the river and see if I can get me a job sharecroppin' with someone. Only the Lord knows." 

     Mister extended his hand, and Irvin happily grasped it. "I thank'ee son fer givin' an ole' man yer seat. If ya' travel a piece east, you'll find that apple tree I was tellin' ya about." 

     "Thank you, Mister. I hope God watches over you on your trip and I'll be praying for you to find your kids. Thanks for that apple, too." 

     The old man smiled. "I'll see ya again one day." 

     Irvin watched as his friend started walking away in the dark night. He was amazed at how strong the man was, how determined he was to find his kids and secure a future, and this offered inspiration to Irvin. He watched until Mister disappeared and then he sat back down on the stump. For the first time in years, Irvin Milhouse slept unafraid. The future would bring with it change for the better, and he would be there when it came.

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I GOT A JOB, or A Polite Notice of Resignation

To all of you that have been praying for my job situation, I would like to let you know that God has provided me with an opportunity that went beyond my hopes. The job search has been slow and stressful and extremely down-putting, but through the many months I have never doubted. My hopes were to stay in the relatively same area that I'm at, but if I had to move I had to move. As it turns out,  God allowed us to stay in the relatively same area, thus answering another prayer.

Today, officially, I handed in my two week notice. It was awkward and I had no idea what to say as I handed it to my boss. I explained how I'd been looking ever since the kerfuffle about late paychecks and reduced work weeks. He understood and wished me good luck.

So, after three years and two months at the Mexican Lightbulb Company* as a Highway Drainage Engineer, I am hanging up my, um, keyboard. My last day of employment will be Thursday, July 19.

Where am I going? My new company is an aluminum manufacturing plant located a simple half-hour drive from Stewartland. There I will take on the mantle of Environmental Technician, where I will work extensively and exhaustively at reducing pollution. I will be involved in air, water, soil, and all other facets of environmental engineering. The work will be much more physical than what I've been accustomed to these past three years, but I am very much looking forward to that.

It is a bit sad that I'm no longer going to be a practicing engineer. Even so, this technician position is muy rewarding, as I will be working hand-in-hand with the environmental engineers at the plant. One of them is eligible to retire, and I was practically told (twice) in my interview that I would easily be able to step up to the environmental engineer position in the future. What excites me about the technician is what I said in my interview: I want to actually see how things come together and work from the ground up, and the technician position is perfect for that.

I'm sure there will be more to come in the future about my new place of work, but for now I just wanted to get the word out. Now I need to come up with another catchy fake name that'll make a good acronym.

Once again, thanks to all of you that prayed.

--
*Obviously my current employer is not actually named the Mexican Lightbulb Company, though that would be pretty sweet. Actually my current employer is named after the three founders of the company. One of them (and I'm not yanking any chains here) is Johnny Depp's grandfather. Johnny Depp is from Owensboro, KY, and his grandad helped give me my job. So that's that.

ROMP Festival

It’s been record high temperatures here in Kentucky. We’ve had triple digits for nigh a week and I expect that they’ll continue on for the next span of days, too. Mother Nature has its own mind and does not heed the plans of mere mortals, and when the International Bluegrass Music Museum scheduled its annual River Of Music Party (ROMP) they did not anticipate the heat. ROMP is a three day music festival where people come literally from all over the world and camp and listen to great music the whole time. Guests also enjoy a bit of Kentucky hospitality and our lovely environment.

If I had not already purchased two non-refundable tickets well in advance I might not have made the journey to ROMP on Saturday. But I did, and so I cleared the day and prepared for the onslaught. I lathered on Avonlea’s SPF 50 to my fair-and-freckled skin hoping to avoid a burn. I filled my canteen with ice water, grabbed a popsicle, and headed out to Yellowcreek Park at around 2pm (whereupon my arrival I realized that I did not bring any lawn chairs and had to turn around and drive back to my house and pick up some before making my way back to the park).

First of all the ROMP festival is misleading. While the bluegrass museum is the host of the party, the music is anything but your typical bluegrass. In fact, of the six bands I watched I would say only one was a traditional bluegrass band. Most of the acts are newgrass, alternative bluegrass, or contemporary acoustic, though they all borrowed heavily from bluegrass and Old Time music. The crowd—numbering near 10,000 for the final act—was also very reflective of the music. By that I mean that a large percentage were very stereotypical hippyish. By that I mean to imply a bluegrass meets Bonaroo vibe. That said, the heat makes people do crazy things, which was simultaneously amusing and annoying.

But I was not there to people watch. No, I was there for the music, primarily for the acts beginning at 6:00pm, with a band by the name of Pokey LaFarge and the South City Three. Pokey LaFarge played predominately Old Time music or songs that sounded befitting of the genre. The guitarist was unbelievable, picking out impossible riffs with apparent ease. LaFarge’s songs were humorous and dark and the energy the band had onstage was a perfect way to start the evening.

The 23 String Band came on next. This band was probably the closest thing to bluegrass of the night (excepting NewFound Road, which played in the early afternoon) and was one that I’d heard of before. Many of their songs were about typical bluegrass subjects, and once again the talent was phenomenal.

The next band up was one of the main acts of the night. The Carolina Chocolate Drops are getting loads of praise all across the States due to their unique style and song choice. The CCD play “black” bluegrass, old songs that sound straight from plantations of the mid 19th century. They preceded many of their songs with an attribution to who taught the band the song, and some of these were interesting. (Perhaps the most interesting one was the song done entirely in Gaelic.) A lot of the crowd at ROMP was there for the Chocolate Drops, and after sitting through the set I was unsure why. Yes they had talent and some of their songs were good, but a large portion of their show was, well, boring. They stayed on their chairs throughout most of their set and in between songs there was a dead lull in the air. Perhaps this was from the still 100 degree temperatures, but even so, I was not too impressed by this band.

Old Crow Medicine Show had the headlining event of the night. I’ve been to an OCMS show before and it was loads of fun. (The description under my "Concerts" tab says "This was an absolutely crazy concert.")  The band has so much raw energy that it’s almost impossible to listen to their music without having fun. At around 10:20pm the band came on, their first time playing live in several months. They played until midnight-ish, belting out several new tunes from their soon-to-be-released new album. They also highlighted some of their back catalog, including their mandatory “Wagon Wheel.” This was a great act, but I remarked to my friend that the band seemed more subdued than previously. Perhaps it was from losing longtime bandmate and founding member Willie Watson. Perhaps it was the oppressive heat.

ROMP continued on even after the main act finished with a few after-party concerts. I was sapped of energy and sleepy, as was my friend, so we decided to head home. Looking back I did have fun and definitely enjoyed listening to some good music, but at the same time I’m a bit let down. I think I was expecting more from the festival, but instead got mostly the experience of listening to a radio outside in the heat. I enjoyed all of the acts to varying degrees and I can see myself going again next year, but I can only hope that it won’t be so hot.

Go and Do, a Review

Go and Do, written by attorney and director of the Global Justice Program Jay Milbrandt, is an ambitious book with a simple goal in mind, to get the Reader to get up, go out, and actually do something to change the world. (Ambitious, see?) Through real life stories Milbrandt himself experienced, written with passion and potency, Go and Do is a challenging and thought-provoking book.

Go and Do is part memoir and part rally call. Milbrandt's sincerity shines on every page, and it's easy to see that his heart lies in helping others. He's very candid about his life and his plans, opening the book with a story from his college years. He reveals how his goals were to basically graduate and get into a high-profile law firm and make the big bucks. Instead, after he found himself overseas and looking into the faces of children of the red light district in a Thai city, his plans took a sudden and unexpected shift.

Jay Milbrandt, to use one of his terms, "came alive." He found that actively participating in helping out those in need was something that he enjoyed. Doing it actually made him feel alive, and he realized that this was what he wanted to be doing with his life. Yes he had a law degree, and that could be used for justice and aid, but what he found even more useful was simply being present. Time and time again he saw that his presence, just playing with kids or listening to their stories, made more of an impact than any gifts.

Soon Jay founded the Global Justice Program at Pepperdine University and set out to get students into a "go and do" lifestyle. This book is largely a collection of how going and doing affect people, both the ones going and the ones being visited. The stories are fascinating and inspiring, but the depravity of the world is also terribly eye opening. It's wonderful to know that there are people--many, many people--that are willing to go and do and help out, whether it's traveling to a faraway land or going to a homeless shelter just down the street.

Milbrandt has a true passion for helping others, and his book instills that mindset in the reader. His heart lies overseas, but he respects that other's may be in their own towns and communities. His main argument is to find whatever makes you come alive, whatever you're passionate about, and get involved. Does human trafficking stir something deep in your soul? Is water quality an issue you're interested in? Do the hungry of Uganda twist your gut a different kind of way? Whatever it is, just get involved in it and live life with a purpose of helping out people. No one is more special than anyone else and everyone is able to help.

Go and Do is an interesting book that I very much enjoyed. It's further solidifying the feeling in my soul to get more active in helping out others. I'm not entirely sure yet where my heart lies, but I do know that I need to be doing so much more. I am incredibly fortunate and blessed beyond my wildest imaginings. I help where and when I can, but I squander a lot, too. Books like Milbrandt's Go and Do and Stearns' Hole in Our Gospel stir my heart and make me want to be a better person. More than that, they make me realize that it's really quite simple to do, to change the world. And what loftier goals can a person have?

""Go and do" is not a zero-sum game. We don't have to hang our lives on one anchor in order to go and do. We certainly need individuals who are willing to make huge sacrifices to serve. I, however, don't find it realistic for the majority of us. It's more realistic to envision a properly tensioned life system." - Pg. 111

"A lifestyle is not a series of random acts, but a strategic, long-term relationship with kindness. It's intentional." - Pg. 50

"...you are meant to change the world by changing yourselves." - Pg. 203

FTC Thingy: I received this book free of cost from Tyndale House Publishers in exchange for an honest and open review. I was not required to write a positive review. Also, no cookies were exchanged, if you're wondering.

Farm Fresh Southern Cooking, a Review

This could be the first time I've ever reviewed a cookbook.  I'm not really even sure how to review a cookbook.  Obviously the recipes are important, but what else?  And aren't recipes prone to human error and experimentation?

I was intrigued by the premise of Farm Fresh Southern Cooking, as its subtitle promises recipes "straight from the garden to your dinner table."  I'm a bit of a gardener myself, and so I was intrigued.  Then, after reading the book description, which spoke of farmer's markets and the joys found there, I was double-plus hooked.  I requested the book from Thomas Nelson publishers, and soon it was at my home.  I've decided to review this book as two separate sections, one on the book itself, the other on a selected recipe.

The First Part: The Book

Farm Fresh Southern Cooking is printed on nice paper with gorgeous colors that really accentuate an organic and healthy lifestyle.  I'm not certain, but I believe the front and back covers are made from recycled paper, bound surprisingly strong for a paperback cookbook.  A criterion for cookbooks is that they must have pictures of the food that I will be preparing.  Thankfully, Algood has several of her recipes photographed, but there are still plenty that are not.  Another interesting bit for this cookbook is the interjected features about the different things found at farmer's markets and the farmers who brought them there.  Algood has several of these one-page essays about all types of products (hams, tomatoes, honey, etc.) and their providers, and she includes contact info. for some of her favorite providers.

The meat and potatoes (I love puns!) of a cookbook is the recipes.  True to her word, the recipes all focus on home grown garden vegetables and farmer's market crops.  Additionally, Algood seems to have included uncommon vegetables in many of her recipes, things that plenty of farmers grow but not too many people seem to eat.  The recipes are all relatively simple and seem to be presented plainly, and from the two that I tried I had no issues.*

The Second Part: A recipe review of "Skillet Chicken Thighs"

Whenever Keisha and I cook chicken we almost always buy and prepare boneless-skinless breasts.  The cost savings of legs/thighs/wings just isn't enough to lessen the things we like about breasts.  That said, when I read through the recipe for this meal, I thought the ingredient combination sounded delicious, and we pretty much had everything available but the chicken.

I picked up some thighs and prepared the meal, making a few substitutions for things that I didn't have.  (Note: Apple cider vinegar is not a good substitution for red wine.  Now I know.)

Skillet Thighs (recipe appears on Page 174)**

3Tbs. Olive oil, divided

6 large chicken thighs

1 tsp. salt

1 tsp. black pepper

3/4 lb. button or cremini mushrooms

3 c. grape tomatoes

1/2 cup dry red wine

3 garlic cloves, minced

1 tsp. chopped fresh rosemary

1/4 c. chopped fresh basil

Wash chicken thighs. Sprinkle with salt & pepper and add to preheated hot skillet.

Meanwhile, if you don't know the fancy mushrooms, just chop up any available.

Saute chicken 5 minutes on each side with warmed olive oil.

Transfer chicken to large bowl once finished.

Chop up fresh rosemary and basil and garlic and other things.

Add mushrooms to skillet. Saute until wilted.  Add to removed chicken.  Add the remaining oil to skillet, as well as tomatoes, wine, garlic, and rosemary.  Cover and reduce heat to medium.  Cook 5 minutes.

Crush half of the tomatoes with a potato masher. Return chicken and mushrooms to skillet.  Reduce heat to medium-low. Simmer uncovered for 20 minutes.

Place chicken on platter. Stir basil into sauce. Adjust the seasoning if necessary and spoon over chicken.

The meal actually turned out pretty tasty even with my substitutions.  I do think had I used red wine instead of the vinegar the meal would have been even better, but even so, it was still succulent and different.  The thighs were very juicy and tender, though I had to cook mine slightly longer than the recipe called for.

I also did not have any fresh basil, as my plant was in its infancy at the time.  (Now its a behemoth, like all the rest of the herbs in the garden.)  Even so, the plated presentation is pretty, but would have been better with a touch more green.  The colors remind me of something Middle Eastern, especially with the tomatoes on there contrasting.

All in all, Southern Cooking is a fascinating and simple cookbook with quite a few practical recipes.  There are several pictures and interesting tidbits to read.  If you enjoy farmer's markets and like to cook and try new things, this book is a sure bet.

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*The other recipe I made was "Hot Water Cornbread."  Now Keisha (and my mamaw) both make some of the world's finest iron skillet cornbread, so I was hesitant to even try this.  Nevertheless, intrigued by the simplicity and the few ingredients I did.  The result was okay, and a fan of greasy, fried goods would approve.  I personally prefer the fluffier, less deep fried stuff.

**My presentation is obviously much different than the way Algood presents.  I take no credit for the recipe.

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FTC Thingy: Ironically, I did not receive cookies or anything like that, but I did receive a cookbook from the publishers, which cost me zero dollars, and a solemn oath that I would review the thing on my blog honestly. I have endeavored to do just that, and my appetite was sated thanks to the cookbook at hand.

Flash Fiction Friday: Something Like Midnight (Epilogue)

(Note, this comes a touch early because Friday is a busy day for me this week.)

This is the post-conclusion to the 6-part serial "Something Like Midnight."  If you've read this far, thank you very much.  If you need a refresher, follow the provided links.  Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, and Part 6.
-----

--Epilogue--

Sometime Later.
     The shopkeeper looked out at the bustling city through the streaked glass of his tiny shop. Buildings called skyscrapers literally pierced the clouds, constructed by machines of impossible power. Automobiles clogged the saturated roadways, ubiquitous and loud. Great, flashing screens covered nearly every flat surface, displaying advertisements for various and sundry goods. It was a city like so many others, filled with modern people with modern ideas and modern values.
     The shopkeeper had spent the better part of the past century living in obscurity. His only companion had been a half-demon with a heart of gold. They would spend a few years here and there, lending a hand however they could. The full-man wanted to make amends for his past deeds; the half-man just got a thrill out of helping. But they could never stay long or the locals would notice their anomalies: neither of them aged properly.
     The citizens of the current city barely paid him any mind, and the ones that did only thought of him as the eccentric owner of the convenient store at the intersection of Fate and 15th Streets. When asked he would happily talk about life in the Old Country Across the Seas and tell stories to any open ears. But more often than not customers spared him not a word and sometimes not even a glance. All were too busy, too wrapped up in their own devices and their own stories. He didn’t blame them.
     He stepped away from the window and surveyed the store. He had not sold much merchandise, not that it mattered, but it still had been a good day. He had shared a fable with a child with sticky fingers, explaining the importance of honesty and the rewards of hard work. He told the boy that he would not call the constables as long as the boy promised to never steal again. “And by what do you promise?” he’d asked.
     “By the, uhm. I don’t know. What do you mean?”
     “Promises are very important. Making a promise is one thing, but keeping it is something else entirely. When you promise by something, then you give meaning to the promise. The stronger your words, the more powerful your promise.”
     “So, like, I should promise by the money in my billfold or the shoes on my feet?”
     The shopkeeper scowled. “Money is a temporary thing, child. It has no worth. And shoes wear out and rot. No, promise by something that means something to you. A friend, a relative, a body part, an ideal. Something with life. Then I will know that you mean it.”  The boy looked uncomfortable. “It’s either that or I call the authorities. Your choice.”
     “So like a pinkie promise?” The shopkeeper’s frown deepened.
     “That no longer has any value, either, I’m afraid. Try again. Think hard.”
     “Okay, okay. I, uh, I promise by my, uh, by my quick right hand that I will never steal from you again.” He looked sheepish.
     The shopkeeper removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “You’re a clever lad,” the shopkeeper said. “Don’t let it get to your head. Remember your words, son. Don’t you dare try and break ‘em or you’ll rue this day. Now scamper on.”
     The boy had jumped up from his seat and scurried from the shop as quick as old Jack Robinson. Ancient copper bells rang out announcing a customer, pulling the man from his reverie.
     “Hello,” he greeted, smiling wide and inviting. “Can I help you find something?”
      A young girl, perhaps thirty. Her eyes were tired and her face thin and ragged. The unmistakable look of a person searching hard for something hard to find. “You Corgan Mercy?” Her voice wavered.
     The shopkeeper dropped his smile. Few people knew that name. “I am. And you are?”
     “I’m in the business of storytelling,” she answered. “And I hear you’re one of the best in the world.”
     “Flattery is ill-becoming, dear.”
     The girl blushed, but continued. “A truth, though, surely. Least that’s what I’ve been lead to believe. Been hunting you for quite some time now.”
     Corgan raised an eyebrow. “Is that so? And how, may I ask, did you get my name?”
     Her eyes flickered around the shop. Satisfied they were alone, she licked her lips and dropped her voice. “A demon told me.” Her face darkened to an even deeper shade of red.
     “A demon, huh? And why would a young lady such as yourself be on speaking terms with a demon?”
     “I’ve got my reasons, same as you have yours for keeping your identity secret.”
     Corgan studied the deep bags under the girl’s eyes. She doesn’t look haggard, he thought. She looks haunted. “I suppose that’s true. Why are you here, miss? What sort of story you chasing?”
     “I need to know everything you can tell me about the Gyarmr,” she said, her voice now desperate. “I need to know how to escape it.”
     “Oh child. What have you done?”

Word Count: 827

Total Word Count: 6372

----------------

First, a sketch of the Draughters.  They look mostly humanoid, but with slightly pointed ears and diamond shaped noses.  Weseley definitely has an aged look about him, and Wenton seems to be a bit fleshy, almost like he's been eating a bit too much...

Overall I generally enjoyed this story quite a bit, especially the worldbuilding going on in my head.  Some of that made it out into the story, which was nice.  As for the epilogue, I was conflicted.  The first draft had quite a different ending, where instead of the girl responding about a demon she said something like "A man named Dillon sent me."  This twist ending was abandoned however, and I think for the better.

All in all I'm not sure that the epilogue is entirely necessary.  It does provide a little extra characterization for Corgan, as well as a "happier" ending than that of Part 6.  Like I said, I was conflicted.  Nevertheless, I figured I'd go on and put it up here.

Thanks to all who've read.

Flash Fiction Friday: Something Like Midnight (6)

This is (mostly) it for the tale.  Many thanks to all you that have read and given me feedback.  If you need a refresher, follow the links to Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, and Part 5.  Tune in next week for the (relevant and possibly non-extraneous) Epilogue.

--Part Six--

     “M-m-mister Merc-mer-mercy? Ca-c-c-can you he-hear m-m-m-me? S-s-sir?”
     Corgan opened his eyes. Weseley’s face peered at him for a second before the brightness of the sun blinded him. “Gah!” Corgan coughed, flinching. His head throbbed. He felt like he’d been driven over by a steam engine. “Weseley? What happened? Where am I?”
     A cool hand rested upon Corgan’s forehead. “Y-y-you’re ou-outs-s-side, s-sir. A-a-at y-your b-b-br-brother’s-s h-house. Ar-are you a-a-alive, s-sir?”
     Normally Corgan would have laughed at such a question. “I think so. Maybe, I... I don’t know. I...” Corgan pushed himself up, his hands falling into something cold and sticky. Blood, he saw. It was everywhere, dark and syrup-like. “Is this all mine?” He asked, painting red smears on his trousers.
     “No.” Weseley pointed up to the house. Corgan followed the blood trail, from the puddle that was below him to the propped-open front door. Dillon was sitting inside, strapped to a chair and gagged by what looked like thread from the infinite spidersilk. His head was the only thing sticking out of the cocoon. A decapitated corpse kept the door ajar. Wenton. “Bo-both o-o-of th-their’s, t-t-t-too. I k-kept y-your b-br-brr-othher alive s-so y-you c-c-could fulfi-fi-fil y-your oath.”
     Corgan turned back to Weseley and raised an eyebrow. “Remind me of this oath, Weseley.”
     “S-sir?”
     “Entertain me. My head is muddled from my recent... excursion.”
     The Draughter held up a solemn hand, palm outward. “I s-swear by th-the s-still blood of m-m-my b-b-beloved that I will f-f-fii-find the m-mu-murderer-er and I w-will k... k... k-kill him and his whole fa-f-family, and no p-pa-powers in heaven ab-bove or the d-d-depths below will s-s-st-s-stop m-me.”
     Corgan’s own part in the contract had been redeemed. His death had been necessary, albeit temporary. Dillon’s, on the other hand, would be as permanent as the sun. Corgan’s brother had to die, that much was certain, if only to stop the Gyarmr from taking everything. Still, it saddened him to think of his brother’s wasted life and the part he had played in it all. Had he been nicer to him things might have gone differently.
     “Thank you, Weseley. You’ve done me an unbelievable kindness with this, and I find myself in your debt.” Weseley blushed, shaking his head.
     “N-no, s-sir. You, you d-don’t owe m-me n-nothing. I was ju-just d-d-d-doing my d-d-duty.” Weseley stared at the blood on the ground.
     “Perhaps, but even so I sincerely thank you, my friend.” Corgan offered a bloodied hand, which Weseley took in his own. “I suppose I must finish this dark business, huh? No sense in dawdling.”
     Each step sent bursts of flames through Corgan’s legs and sides.  He felt like the knife was still in his flesh.  As he walked over the body in the door, the heady smell of gore overwhelmed him and he unceremoniously vomited on the dead body. Serves you right, Corgan thought.
     “Dillon."  He let the words fall, enjoying the surprised look on his brother's face.  “I know you won’t believe me when I tell you this, but I never meant for this to happen. None of it. I didn’t mean to cause you grief when we were young, and I certainly didn’t mean to perpetuate that as we grew older.” Swollen black eyes stared back at him, unflinching. “I saw my... indiscretions just a few minutes ago after poor Wenton plunged his dagger in my back. I saw all of them, too many sins to name. I saw the damage I caused, how each choice shaped you into a monster. I had no idea that I was poisoning you. I didn’t think...” Dillon held an unblinking gaze.
     “And Veleste... What a wretch I was to her. She deserved better. Better than either of us. I poisoned her as surely as I poisoned you.” He was crying now. Crying for wasted lives and thoughtless words. Crying for the body at the door. Crying for what he had to do. “And the worst thing about it, Dill, is that I don’t have a choice in the matter. If it were up to me I would just leave you here and disappear, out of your life and out of mine. After all the hurt I’ve caused, I’d just leave and let you be. But I can’t. The Gyarmr...” He remembered its eyes, its teeth clamping shut, its hot breath on his face. “The Gyarmr’ll... I don’t have a choice! It’s either you or me, and I... I won’t face it again.”
     Corgan might as well have been practicing a monologue.  “I don’t blame you for the man that you’ve become, not really. Much of it is my fault. For that I truly am sorry. I wish that I could change things.” There were purple bruises on Valeste’s throat, he remembered. Her voice was mangled beyond the grave.  Broken.  Horrible.  Darkness came to him then, familiar and comforting. It poured into his vision, into his soul, filling him with bloodlust and thoughts of revenge.  His momentary pity for his brother vanished beneath the black.
     “I can’t take all the blame for your actions though. Each man is responsible for his own deeds, and yours are worthy of death. You murdered my wife, Dillon. In cold blood you tracked her down and killed her, and I swore that night that whoever did it would pay. I’ve paid my part, and now your’s is due.”
     Dillon narrowed his eyes. Corgan grabbed his brother by the throat, squeezing as he imagined Dillon had done to Valeste. Dillon stomped hard on the floor, but the spidersilk held strong. His brother’s tattooed face turned red then purple. Sweat beaded at his brow. A terrible wheezing sound escaped through gagged mouth and desperate nostrils. Something coughed in the corner of the room. Distracted, Corgan glanced up.
     The Gyarmr embodied the darkness beneath heavy purple curtains. It watched the brothers with idle curiosity and angry eyes. Dillon must have saw it too.  He began convulsing, trying to free himself.  His boots pounded against the floor like hammers on stones.  He screamed in muffled rage, a death wail, a curse, a confession, a plea.  Corgan held firm, wondering if Valeste would feel any sort of closure at her murderer’s death. Would her soul finally be allowed a measure of peace? Or am I just a character in her own vengeance plot, he wondered perversely. Dillon’s kicking ceased, but Corgan hardly noticed. He saw only the Gyarmr.
     It seemed to be made entirely of shadow, of a darkness born from midnight. It growled low and angry. Corgan growled back, feeling stupid and bold. “It’s finished. I’ve held up my end of the deal. Go on. We’re through, you and I. No more. I won’t be seeing you again for a long, long time.” He unconsciously clutched the necklace around his neck as if his soul had returned to it and not his own body. It might have, he thought briefly. “Leave me be, monster. You don’t belong here.” The Gyarmr bared its teeth, growled once again, and dissolved into shadow.
     The darkness lifted from his eyes and he saw clearly once again.  Corgan frowned.  He tried to think of something to say but could not focus. He closed Dillon's eyes and walked out into sunlight.

Word Count: 1210

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I dunno.  I'm somewhat disappointed by the conclusion.  There are definitely questions that weren't answered (like who or what are the Draughters?), but the answers are hinted at.  It also feels like this final scene is somewhat rushed and incoherent and possibly even anticlimactic.  I easily can see it being fleshed out a little more.  Even so, it is what it is:  a tragedy.

Thanks for reading and hope you all enjoyed.  Don't forget about the epilogue next week!  

Avonlea's First Birthday

Avonlea turned one on Saturday.
Avonlea turned one on Saturday.
Avonlea turned one on Saturday.

Perhaps if I keep on writing that then I will eventually believe it.  I'll believe that I'm actually a daddy and that I have a little sixteen pound bundle of energy and charm and love and slobbers and four-five-six-almost seven-nearly eight teeth.  I'll believe that she's eating real food and has been for a few weeks now and that Keisha will soon be weaning her from the breast.  I'll believe that this little girl calls out for me "dada" as surely as she calls everything else "dada."

I cannot believe one year has passed.  It's been a whirlwind, for true.  Just a handful of weeks ago Avonlea was immobile and satisfied to remain stationary in her jumper.  Then one day she flipped over and took a few bumbling movements.  And then she was crawling at light speed and Mommy & Daddy could barely keep up.  The little rascal is part cheetah.

Perhaps I should say part dog.  Keisha and I were talking in the kitchen, watching Avonlea crawl around, and we noticed her looking up at us with a curious look in her eyes.  We noticed she was in front of Stella's food and water bowl.  Our eyes all clicked and we ran at her.  She had eight pieces of tiny dog food chunks in her mouth.

For Avonlea's birthday we rented a shelter at a local park and invited some friends and family.  It was hot, but we had a nice breeze.  Peggy (Keisha's mom) made the cakes.  Keisha and I started Avonlea a savings account for her birthday.  Keisha also made her a quilt, a milestone, as it was Keisha's first.  I'm insanely proud of her feat and how beautiful it is.  Next task is to make one for our bed. (You can kind of make out the quit in the picture below.)

And my mind is distracted, thinking of the infinite possibilities of the future, of my relationship with my little baby girl.  She's taken a strong liking to me of late.  I've always been the one to rock her at night after Keisha finishes nursing, but within the last week or two she's really wanted me.  I take her and she nuzzles right up against my chest, listening to my heart, hearing the words I sing to her as she gets sleepy.  I typically alternate between "You Are My Sunshine", "Come Thou Fount", or an original-Daddy-penned lullaby that goes something like "Avonlea, Avonlea, you are my sweet baby."  (Brilliant, no?)  But my favorite one is Andrew Peterson's "Beautiful Girl."  Turns me into a bubbling fool almost every time.

Wow this is a random post.  What's happening to my stoic, staunch control of emotions?  My clear headed engineer's logic?  I'm not certain, but my heart definitely beats to the tune of a one-year old now.

And yes, my day began with a beard but ended without one.  First time smooth-faced in months.  Feels odd.