Southern Legend

Southern Legend
Somewhere between highway 17 and 17A, where the points of longitude and latitude meet, lies a small, southern town called, Moncks Corner.

I resided in the moist, deep south for well over two decades. Being a Yankee or rather a damn Yankee- (the difference between the two - the first visits and the second stays), allowed for me endless solitude. At times the years take their toll on a person being lonely and one is grateful for company and the learned art of observance.

Standing back and hearing stories of ghostly, rebel soldiers waking living residents with the sound of pounding horse huffs just before dawn, becomes a regular tale of intrique. Hand dug wells hold the crying of small children, and can be heard, if you listen carefully at the hour of dusk - that time of day when fog fills the dirt roads and shadows are long.

Root doctors - preferably of the male persuasion, can be seen feeding small mounds of dirt,which contain fire ants, with fierce ritual, just before noon. Fire ants are used, talked to, and stirred up with a short, oak stick for casting spells upon bothersome neighbors and the occassional relative who persists in borrowing items and not returning them or paying a small fee for the geniousity of the root man.

Sitting on the flower, filled porches - (stoops, being the proper southern term), perhaps on the edge of a cushion and rocking back and forth in a white - washed wicker chair to sip an iced coke, I learned to absorb the art of story telling with the added advantages that comes with southern hospitality from my charming neighbors.

There comes a time when we all will meet our maker. This is not to be taken lightly where grape vine wreaths are heavily laiden with magnolia blooms placed upon the graves of their dearly departed family members. Southern wakes are an extradinary journey and not for the weak or sickly as they can last up to and not exceeding five days.

Twenty years allows one to attend sadly, many funerals. The south still deeply divided by color and race separates heaven into three catorigies - black, white and other. I have had the honor of experiencing all three. The most extraordinary funeral of all was that of a much loved Grandmother, mother, and my friend.

I stood outside the small, white church, peering through the painted red doors. There wasn't room inside to stand. The music and song filled my ears with great sorrow and my eyes with uncontrollable tears. The service ended within a couple of hours as the family members left first, in long black cars with curtained windows.

As the day progessed, I felt as though I was watching and yet a part of a slow motion of spinning centuries in deep respect and tradition. All the adults and close family members are dressed completely in black, while the great grandchildren and grandchildren are dressed in white.

Any child below the age of accountability to required to form a line beside the open grave after the casket is ceremoniously lowered within the confines of the plot. Two men stand on each side of the open ground, where each tiny child is passed from one man to the other across the grave.

Astounded, I stood frozen.
A kind woman must have felt some sort of embrassment for me as she felt the need to come to my side and gave an explanation as to what was taking
place.

Evil spirits awake during death, causing mass confusion for the dearly departed before reaching their heavenly destination. The process really can become confused if the destination is not in heavenly territory. The new spirit can easily enter into a small child due to a lack of acceptance on the child's part. By passing the child over the open grave the spirits of the dead cannot enter that child. The acceptance is taken by the 'passers' as they are the accountable adults.

I thought of my friend and her stories shared with me on her stoop. I know she had no wish to stay in her earthly dwelling and especially among her grandchildren.

We really as a whole know so much less about our different customs, or where they come from. I am grateful to the woman who I will call the 'funeral whisperer' with all do respect, for sharing her knowledge.

I now have grandchildren of my own. I feel their venerability and we often have discussions of life and death. I have asked them to scatter my ashes on the fast moving Sante River, the points of longitude and latitude being, where I met my dear friend while fishing on a hot humid day when magolias were in bloom.

My days in the south are heavily missed - my need to return to my own roots brought about this absence, but a part of my heart and perhaps a piece of my soul belongs south. I would now call myself part Yankee and part Rebel. Better are the two parts combined, than being either / or.

Rogue Fashion Magazine

Prompt:write a piece for a magazine .....
Rogue Fashion Magazine
This weeks Feature
Diary of a Shoe Snitch

Some guys rob banks, others pharmacies or high-end specialty shops. See, either it depends on the market- if you're a direct seller, or like in my case, your Fence. I got a particularly sweet deal in that department, me and Gertrude Step go back a long ways. She's what you'd call a 'specialist', there's nothing about the shoe trade that gets past her- from imported Chinese tire-tread flip flops to hand-made Italian leathers. Her 'clientele' includes everybody from Hollywood types, to Podiatrists, to greedy little housewives lookin' to be one up on their girl friends. Its all the same to me, I pick up the orders on Mondays, and deliver the goods on Fridays. So you might say it was a bit unusual for me to be headin' for her joint in the middle of the week.

Talk about the best place to hide a grain of sand being the beach, this dame's got it made. She runs one of the biggest Day-Cares in the City right out of her domicile, the biggest damn boot you've ever seen! The front steps are right where the laces would be, and the main door is shaped like a tongue. I drive around to the back, hit the ole garage door opener and drive up into the heel.

She was waitin' for me at the top of the cellar steps, and I could tell by the look on her face I'd better cut to the chase- this broad don't like surprises. I walked all slow and important-like, back around to the trunk, and as I lifted the lid, there stood the garbage can filled with them stiletto-heeled, red, Italian-leather pumps, I turned around fast, not wanting to miss to miss the parade of jaw-droppin' expressions marching across her face.

by Beetle Bug Coffee Mug

Red Shoes

“Wait, wait for me.”

All I have to do is put on my red shoes, make sure I have my amulet bag and I’m ready to go. Let’s see, yes, here is my anchor for keeping my place as I flit about the world, my unicorn medallion representing strength, courage, pride, beauty, and lifting up of unity. And last but not least my rose colored glasses. What a lovely way to look at life.

I also carry within me, a curve which represents my smile, a cross which represents my heart, and a line which represents the path that I must follow. And oh those shoes, but not just any color shoes; they must be red. The sacred red color brings the gift of earth from the West. Indigenous traditions throughout the world understand and are masters in the use of knowledge and the nurturing and healing of Mother Earth. And now that I have my red shoes on I’ll dance to my own tune for a change. They’ll take me wherever I wish to go, as they transform me into whatever I wish to be.

So come on everyone, grab your cache, slip on your red shoes and let’s begin our journey. There’s no stopping us now.

namaste’
sage

Remember to Fly

Whose feet will fit into the winged red shoes that le Enchanteur is offering to travellers? And where, for that matter, will the shoes take the lucky traveller? Maybe one size fits all and everyone can take a flight to remember.

Memories of Red Shoes

I was only about 8 years old I think
Or maybe I was 9 or maybe 10, but I think it was 8
I had a friend who lived up the street from me in Port
Her name was Hillary Burrell, an only child
She came from South Africa with her Mum and Dad
The family was born in England
Hillary's Father was in the Air Force
They lived in South Africa for 5 years

I met her when she rode past on her new bike
I never had a bike,only a steel scooter
my Father ( a boilermaker) made for my Brother and I
Her bike was quiet,black tyres and a basket on the handlebars
Our scooter was loud, no rubber on the wheels
just steel ....it went fast and you certainly could hear it coming
It didn't matter what you crashed into, the scooter remained in one piece
The boys loved to ride it around the block, down the driveways & over the gutters
Not much traffic in the 1940's.

Back to the story of Hillary Burrell
We became friends as we always had lots of kids at our place
Mostly the boys were in Dad's shed fixing up things
The boy's liked Hillary, she had long black plaits,long black eyelashes
And she was 10, quite grown-up and she spoke so beautifully
Would she have flirted with the boys at 10
I didn't even know what flirting was
Except when my cousin who was 15 told me that Hillary
was flirting with the boys

Now Hillary was enrolled in ballet lessons
In Melbourne ,in the city at at school
I was asked if I wanted to go and watch
Of course, Mum said it was ok
So one Saturday morning we hopped on the bus
with Hillary' Mum.
We walked up from Flinders st to Collins St to the ballet school
Being in town was great,I loved going to the city
We used to meet my Aunt at Coles Cafeteria,
in the school holidays,with my 3 cousins
Lunch out was a big event, only once mind you

We went up to the ballet school in the lift
And there I saw another 20 or so young girls
all in their costumes (Leotards)-another new word
I sat with Hillary's Mum and watched them go through the lesson
After 1/2 an hour a break, then another 1/2 an hour all dancing
steps done to a piano player in the corner.
Hillary had Red Ballet shoes, some girls had black,some blue
and some pink and white as well
But I loved Hillary's red ones best

After an hour and a half, we troddled off home
down Elizabeth st to Flinders st
to catch the Garden City bus home
What an exciting day, I knew what I wanted to be
Even at 8 I knew I wanted to be a ballet dancer
I dreamed about those red ballet shoes all the way home
We called into Hillary's place for a drink of milo and a biscuit
(They always had the best shortbread) her Mum made them
My Mum never made biscuits or cakes
Rice puddings ,sago pussings,bread and butter puddings were
her specialty

That night I asked Mum if I could learn ballet
and have a pair of Red Ballet Shoes
I was not worried about the leotard, just the red shoes
Mum said " We might not be able to afford them"
" You ask Hillarys Mum how much the lessons are" and the shoes as well "
I did this and then brought back the brochure for Mum
" Oh heck " said Mum (I think she said heck or maybe it was (Oh Hell)

My face dropped....I knew I wasn't going to get my wish
The cost of the ballet lessons plus the shoes were far out of our
price range
Mum didn't work,Dad's wages as a boilermaker were low
They were paying off the house
We didn't have this sort of income
Nobody in Garden City went to ballet
Some girls went to tap dancing at the local hall
I could go there Mum said
BUT.....I wanted a pair of those Red ballet shoes
so much, never argue with Mum...No meant No.

So I never got to go to Ballet school
and I never went again on a Saturday morning with Hillary
But when I turned 10 my cousin paid for me to go ice skating
at the local St Kila St Moritz rink
My Aunt made me a short frilly frock
I was given a pair of boots and
my Dad made me the chrome blades
I thought I was Sonja Henie (Is that the right spelling).

So the Red ballet shoes and the lessons
faded into the past as I skated round and round that rink
The ice skating lasted till I was 16 and if I do say so myself myself
I cut a georgous figure in my little frilly short skirts
Whirling, dancing, figure skating every Saturday morning
Never a star but not bad even if I do say so myself....

Ah- Ballet and red shoes sounded nice
Especially to a starry eyed 8yr old
but so was ice-skating at the St Moritz rink,
when I grew up to be 10.

Lois (Muse of the Sea) 25.4.06

Red Shoes

by Elizabeth Atkinson

Red Shoes, Brown Shoes, and Italian Pumps

Red Shoes, Brown Shoes, and Italian Pumps

I work with a woman who is really into shoes. She typically wears fashionable, high-heeled pumps, narrow and pointy at the toes, probably Italian, and very expensive. They look uncomfortable and may account for the pained and pinched look that is often on her face. I have nothing against people who wear uncomfortable shoes, but this person actually judges the character of others by the shoes they wear (I kid you not!).

Now, I typically wear flat shoes for comfort and economy. I regularly wear the same two pairs of brown and black flat dress shoes for work and social events and a pair ratty sneakers for non-important running-around. I do have other shoes, but I like these three pairs because they are broken-in and comfortable.

My co-worker thinks people who wear flat shoes are poor and unfashionable and, therefore by her standards, people with whom she has nothing in common. I create a problem for her: she likes me, but I wear flat shoes. To make me fit into her "shoe paradigm", she has rationalized that I cannot wear high heels because I am "too tall already" (yes, she actually said this to me). Since being "too tall" is more unfashionable than wearing flat shoes, she tolerates them.

In light of this odd relationship, I am forced to ponder the symbolic relevance of shoes, and I do this by examining the story of the girl who wore the red shoes. One popular variation of this story is Dorothy and her ruby-red slippers in the Wizard of Oz; however, the classic telling of this tale, immortalized in Hans Christian Andersen's The Red Shoes, delves much deeper into its psychic implications. In Andersen's tale, a young girl, whose hand-made red shoes are taken from her, disobeys her rich caretaker and wears a different pair of red shoes to church. She is punished by being forced to dance in her red shoes until she repents of her vanity and evil ways.

A simple reading of this tale may compel the reader to reject the seeming lesson of the story: girls who violate the conventions of their communities are punished until they realize the error of their ways. Women and girls should should be able to be non-conformists without retribution. If one reads the tale on this level, then this is a valid point. However, I think if we go to a deeper level, a more archetypal level, then this story does have something to teach us and should not be dismissed.

Clarissa Pinkola Estes, in her popular book Women Who Run With the Wolves, states that shoes protecting the feet are symbolic of protecting "mobility and freedom" (p. 239). Furthermore, she states that in the tale, when the young girl puts on the red shoes, she is trying to regain the freedom she lost when her hand-made red shoes were taken from her. However, her new red dancing shoes, though similar to her handmade shoes, are not the same and are, in fact, detrimental to her. Estes' point is that sometimes when a woman loses her true self (that is, her wild wolf nature) she sometimes tries to compensate by taking on behaviors, obsessions and addictions that are ultimately harmful (pp. 252, 269). This interpretation of the tale is valid and should be heeded.

In light of Estes' reading of the story of The Red Shoes, it is important that if we do suffer great loss in our lives, we must be so very careful in attempting to fill that loss with imitations of that which was lost. These imitations ultimately harm us.

In my ongoing attempt to return to my authentic self, I will strive not to put on red dancing shoes (or Italian leather pumps). I will not try to find false fulfillment in superficial things and destructive habits. I will keep wearing my comfortable old sneakers and keep on walking.

Reference: Estes, Clarissa Pinkola. Women Who Run with The Wolves. New York: Ballantine Books, 1997 (Paperback edition).

Lori Gloyd (c) April 25, 2006

Myth No 19

List 18 other myths
Choose a myth and write a piece for a magazine that debunks it once and for all.
or
Simply write a Red Shoe Story.

It's Been Good

Daddy

“Daddy, daddy” I push his bare shoulder, “Daddy, wake up.” He isn't moving. Why doesn't he get up?

My daughter's sweet voice – candy for my ears – sounds farther and farther away even though she hasn’t moved. I love my singsong girl, calling me, worried. Her small hand grazes my forehead - warm like bread just out of the oven. Is this it? Am I going? It feels so quiet. My girl by my side.

Windows

The curtain moves at the living room window as I speed into the driveway. My oldest daughter runs out the front door and into my arms before I get to the house. We move inside, up to the bedroom, and I have one quiet minute beside him before the ambulance arrives. He is so big, so still on the brown shag carpet. His head in my lap and all is quiet. A moment later, the bustle of saving a life. People all around, lights glaring. I move aside. The EMTs and I climb into the ambulance. Just me and Dick now. The world disappears through the tiny window. Did I just feel his hand squeeze mine? Run into the e.r., fill out paperwork. I turn my back for a second. He goes into another room. I watch from the small window. Doctors attach tubes. His arm falls over the edge, heavy.

Didn’t any of you see that nurse? She came over and took my wedding ring. Took off my clothes, then the ring that I haven’t been able to remove for years. Are my eyes open? Am I dead? Does she know? Does she have someone she wants to give it to? Where is Phyllis? Where am I?

The E.R.

“Is he an organ donor?”
“Let me check his chart – yes, he is – all organs.”
“Somebody talk with the family. We don’t have much time. Someone find out what is needed.”

So that’s what my body looks like. Better than I imagined. Not blackened from the cigarettes, the alcohol. Red, alive. Will someone else live now? Where is Phyl? My girls? I think this is it. There she is - holding my hand. Crying. So strong. I love you, Phyl. Don’t look back. Here I go.


Celebration of Life

“Dick Gordon was a big person. He lived hard, played hard, worked hard, loved hard. A big heart. A big mind. Big, warm arms that embraced life….”

So many people! Do they really mean what they say? Of course they won’t say, “He was a bit of a drunk. Kind of loud. Uncoordinated as hell...” It’s not so bad. My girls will be happy. I will watch them grow up. Jen will always dance. Meredith will embrace her brain, her intellect. Phyl will love again. It’s been good.

Solitude

I always craved solitude
A time to think, to be, to breathe
I craved "my" time.

When you died, in front of me,
there on the floor,
my time of bitter lonliness began.

I had time in abundance,
time to think, to be, to breathe....
I craved your presence.

Now when I think of solitude
I remember lonliness
and how thin the air is between them.


This is the first draft of this poem ....I will come back to it in due course. Please forgive its faults but I wanted to "see" it.

What the Dead Woman Heard

Exercise: What the Dead Woman Heard

From my vantage point in the corner near the ceiling of the funeral home….

“Dearly Beloved, we have gathered today to celebrate the life (and death) of our departed friend and family member.

What can we say about her?

She was a resident of the City of the Angels all her life, was an artist and writer who had the same day-job for 26 years, read a lot, particularly trashy romances novels and treatises on theology, had an emerald green aura and a really screwed up root chakra, claims she saw a UFO, practiced Tai Chi Chuan, was a “by the book” parishioner who, more than once, got caught belly-dancing in the parish hall, collected Mexican folk art, enjoyed libraries, museums, and theatre, enjoyed action/adventure films and could talk to you for three straight hours on what happened on last night’s episode of “Lost”, would tell you exactly what she thought straight to your face, then turn around and say ‘I got your back,’ (and you knew she meant it both times), was a bookstore junkie in recovery, an unrepentent java-fiend, a royal pain in the butt, and someone we will never forget.

Okay, let’s eat.”

And with that, I wafted to the other side.

Lori Gloyd (c) April 17, 2006

What The Dead Man Heard

For some reason this excercise was hard for me to do. Guess it hit a little to close to home...
http://www.dailywriting.net/Attic%20Diary/InnerEar.htm

Completed on April 16,2006



The Dead Man was wrapped in plastic and resting on the lower shelf of a C.U in a Funeral Home exactly four miles from where he once lived and exactly a half a block from where he died.

" So this is the guy that bought it outside the cemetery, I mean, is that a smack down or what?" the Dead Man heard. " Like, to DIE right outside a Funeral Home." The plastic was pulled back from his face and the Mortician, a young woman with vines and flowers tattooed around her neck, hidden while she worked with a high neck collars shook her head. " Dude, normally I don't pass judgment on the dead or how you got that way.... but that has got to be a major burn."

Her name was Alissa and she liked to listen to music as she worked. Loud music, especially at night when she had to work alone. The caretaker who had seen her drive up and knew he was about to be treated to hours of something called The Ramones asked her why she had to have the stereo up so loud and she said, " You know, we really shouldn't be here at night. You ever get that feeling?"

The Caretaker nodded because he understood it all right; he didn't like having a night shift around. He wished that the Morticians quit slacking off or doing whatever it was during the day that managed to put them behind schedule.

What he really hated though was that they called these night shifts " Embalming Parties" and when more then two of them were at these "embalming parties" they ordered Pizza from 4 different places and took bets on which delivery would actually show up.

Morbid little psychos.

" So, anyway, wouldn't want to over hear something I shouldn't."

The Caretaker agreed, "No you wouldn't" and he smiled and Alissa thought that The Caretaker (Tony) was one of the rare human beings who were lucky enought to be exactly where he should be in this life.



Alissa spent hours rebuilding the Dead Man’s face. At least only one side was damaged and she could use the other side as a guide. When she was finished she pulled the skin back up and over and looked at him for a very long time.

Then she started over.



Alissa was cleaning the Dead Man up when she heard someone walking up behind her, felt someone look over her shoulder and they were close enough that Alissa could feel their chest press against her shoulder.

“ You do wonderful work” the voice that was neither male nor female said but one thing she was sure of it was cold.

Alissa shook her head and wouldn’t allow herself to turn around because if she did that she’d end up running and leaving the Dead Man alone with that cold voice and she couldn’t.

Until they put him into the casket he was her responsibility.

Then she heard rustling behind her, and she knew that whatever was back there had just sat down on the little green chair they kept in the room and they had slid it forwards towards the embalming table.

“I do enjoy watching you all work. After all with the flick of a scalpel and the plunge of a needle you try, and the word is try to not only hide my art, but also deny I even exist. Young lady, we’re speaking artist to artist here. How would you like it if I reached out and did the same…”

Alissa turned her head away and she felt a hand push at her waist to move her aside and she knew it was reaching towards the Dead Man, to the stitches on the right side of his neck. She pushed back and ignored the voice.

She even managed to smile.

The she placed her hand on the Dead Man’s shoulder and she told him, “ Here we go Sir.”

Alissa gently slid The Dead Man off the embalming table and onto the cot and she was about to wheel him out of the Embalming room when she saw the radio through the doorway next to the lockers in the Prep room. It was sitting on an orange plastic chair, like always only this time the cord was neatly coiled and resting on top of the stereo.

She had forgot to plug it in.

Home Is Where The Heart Is

Back along on Deception Road is a little farmhouse that no one lives in.

After the house was built and then put up for sale the orchard out back died, the little vegetable garden died and all of the pumpkins and squashes and tomatoes rotted right on their vines.

Even the flowers in the window boxes shriveled up and turned to dust within a day or so after they were set out and all the little farmhouse could do was slam its doors open and shut and make the clock in its kitchen strike twelve over and over again.

The man who built the farmhouse, Travis Janosik, use to stand out at the road and wonder what the hell was going on in there, why was it that nothing could live near that place without giving up the ghost.

There was nothing about Travis that would make you say, ‘you know that killer house? The one on Deception Road? It was built by Travis Janosik” and the person you would be talking to wouldn’t reply, “ Well of course it was a strange house. Look who built it.”

No, the house turned bad all by itself and this bothered no one more then Travis. What bothered him more than that though happened when the house was two years old.

That’s when someone actually bought it and moved in.



The ‘someones’ who bought the farmhouse were the Korbar Family.

Travis use to drive out to Deception Road and park across the way from the Farmhouse and watch it. He’d see Darius Korbar working the vegetable garden or see him sitting on the porch with one of the many children he and Mrs. Korbar had and they acted like any other family living in those hills.

Unless of course you really watched them the way Travis did.

At first he had no interest in the Korbar family. His interest was in that house and what it was up to now. It didn’t have to settle for killing plants and the odd field animal that got to close to its walls. Now it had the Korbar children who scuttled around the property in their ill-fitting clothes.

At least that’s how it looked but then Travis realized it wasn’t the clothes that didn’t fit right, it was the bodies inside the clothes that weren’t right.

The children’s heads were to large for their small bodies and their hands and feet didn’t seem to be the same size and when they talked Travis felt the hair rising up on his arms and the back of his neck and that’s when he’d cut his daily vigil off.

Once Travis saw Mrs. Korbar come down the front steps with a tall glass in her hand and make her way to the garden to where Mr Korbar was working. She handed him the glass and he kissed her cheek and then she made her way back up the steps and Travis watched her but didn’t notice that as she climbed the steps her head was tilted slightly backwards and her back was straight as a pole and she never bent her knees.

It was like she was gliding up the steps and not walking up them at all.




Towards the end of the summer the gardens were dead and rotten and Mr Korbar was out there working it like it as if it were alive and thriving. The ground was water logged and moldy with green slime. The vegtables were rotting and decayed and you could actually smell it when the wind shifted.

On top of the fact that Travis was watching a man harvest from a garden full of rotten vegetables he was also sure that some of that smell was coming from Mr Korbar too.



Travis promised himself after that visit he wouldn’t go near the Farmhouse on Deception Road. Something was wrong with it, something was wrong with the people living inside of it and Travis was certain if he didn’t stop going over there something would be wrong with him too.

Of course, it was too late because that something had already happened to Travis and he found himself standing at the end of the drive leading right up to the Farmhouse the next day.

He was in plain view and Mrs. Korbar must have seen him from one of her windows because he wasn't there for long before she came down the steps and met him with a basket of rotting carrots and maggot filled tomatoes on her arm.

“ We never got the chance to thank you for building this wonderful house Mr Janosik. Its perfect and we love it so.”

Travis was looking into the basket of dead and decaying vegetables and he said, “ How could you love it so? Nothing can live inside of that thing…”

And Mrs. Korbar said, “ Well, Mr Janosik nothing does…”

On the Nature of War: A Garden Meditation

Under the dropping of the cherry blossoms, next to the peace stone, we meditate...


On the Nature of War: A Garden Meditation

A temple bell sings at dawn
clear and resonant
in the key of G,
a silver-tipped psalm in the night.

A tribe of birds clamor,
erupting from a thicket,
cawing hateful protests
against their awakening to the world.

The faithful wait
to pray,
to shut out the darkness,
to close their ears to their cries,
to offer incense for peace.

A temple bell sings at dawn
rising above the swirling mists.
A caretaker opens wide the gate and nods,
knowing the key of G can never change.

Lori Gloyd (c) 2006

The photograph was taken in the garden at Angel's Gate Park, San Pedro, California. Lori Gloyd (c) 2003

A Place of The Heart

This magnificent image of Japanese Gardens with Standing Stones is the work of fantasy fibre artist Helen "Halla" Fleischer.

Use the stones as a place of meditation and contemplation or share a place that is dear to your heart with us this week.

Standover Merchants

This exercise brought back memories of school, and that pit bull sure looks menacing on the blog photo at Mad Hatters. No doubt the days at school present a picture of this kind of presence, a standover merchant, someone who was "all up front". There were kids like that, teasing and belittling others, for reasons unknown to many. Everyone knew who they were. We all liked a trick and a joke amongst our friends, but we never belittled anyone or made them feel less. There was a senior who liked to inspect the junior's lunches, for goodness knows what reason:-). She would stalk up to you at lunchtime in the yard and tower over you, and insist you show her what was in your sandwiches. Most of us just went along with her and told her, rolling our eyes after she got her answer. Sometimes she would take the sandwiches off some kids, and eat them herself. This all sounds very strange, but true. It wasn't until much later that we found out she was from a troubled home, and no doubt did this to gain back a sense of power. Our school was benevolent so there were a few troubled kids in the girl's school. Years later I saw work colleagues who did similar things in various ways. Perhaps, like pit bulls, who are trained only to fear and attack, some kids were told at home that the world was full of fear? But is it really? Does thinking make it so? I feel sorry for young kids, who become disturbed by these unfriendly tactics, and get confused about the world, because of these early experiences. Nowadays, fortunately, there are strategies in place to pinpoint these problems before they get out of hand. Modern psychology may well have some new answers. Seems peculiar to humans too, as trees happily share each other's space*, share nutrients and the benefits of the sun, rain and even wind. They know that if they "band" together and "get along", it's just better. Also, they "know" there is enough for everyone, and perhaps this is the difference?

*info from David Suzuki/Wayne Grady Book "Tree", which outlines how trees co-operate, link roots, and share nutrients.

Bullies

THE STRANGE ADVENTURE OF OLIBANUM FRANKS AND THE THIEF OF WORDS

This is a a story about a man named Olibanum Franks who met a very dangerous thief and bully on a night like this…

It was snowing on the night Olibanum Franks disappeared from his cottage on the cliffs and Olibanum who thought electricity was an uncontrollable monster just waiting to strike him down lived alone in that house by lamplight.

On that awful night there must have been some sort of accident with one of those lamps or maybe a candle because that little cottage on the cliffs burned down and from the valley below the burning trees looked just like the candles that Olibanum used to read by when the Sun went down.

All they could do in the little village of Ninebones Cross was to watch and hope the fire didn’t spread down the hillside and take them the way it must have taken poor Olibanum up there on the cliffs.

Four days later it was safe enough to go up to Olibanum’ s cottage and they didn’t find a trace of their friend; not a bone or a button or even the melted remains of the little silver rings he wore on his left hand.

So with nothing to bury the Villagers wondered what kind of funeral should they hold for their friend and in the end they didn’t have a funeral because none of them really believed Olibanum was dead.

He was just gone.




Of course Olibanum wasn’t really gone, but he knew if he didn’t get away from the crazy woman sitting in front of the computer soon he would be.

Olibanum remembered the fire and he remembered the roof caving in on his head and he even remembered the smell of his own flesh beginning to burn.

And then there was a bright light and he was lying on his back and looking up into the very unwell face of Tamara Osterick and when she smiled he knew he was in trouble.

Lots and lots of trouble.



At first Olibanum wouldn’t say a word, he went to the window and looked out into the strange world that this strange woman had brought him into. She lived in a tall building and the people and cars below were the size of children’s toys. But looking out into this awful world was much better then looking into the face of that awful monster that brought him here.

He didn’t want her to talk to him; he didn’t want her to look him. Because when she did she got into his head and that was somewhere he wanted to keep her out of as long as he could.

So as long as Olibanum’ s eyes were opened and he was looking around the woman at the computer wrote and the screen filled with words and images and she ignored him.

She didn’t care that she was stealing from him…that she had stolen him from Kamala. She just wanted the words; no matter what she had to do she wanted the words for her own.

He was nothing except for letters and words and punctuation marks to Tamara Osterick and that was how she treated him.

It was only when he sat down and closed his eyes that she seemed to take notice of him. “ You’re not helping either one of us by refusing to cooperate Ollie.” She stopped typing and looked up at him and then she shuddered.

“ Geeze, the first thing we’re going to change is that hair cut. Really, is that the best Kamala could come up with at the end of her long and prolific writing career? A crazy man who cuts his own hair and lives on a cliff and gets blamed for murders being committed by vampires?

“ I’m not crazy. “

“ Dude, you’re crazy she wrote you that way.”

“ No, she didn’t.”

Tamara laughed “ look at me, I’m arguing with a character a dead woman made up. Is that a riot or what Ollie?”

And all Olibanum could do was back up against the wall and try not to panic. But it was hard too because that woman was about to murder him and there was nothing to stop her from doing it.

Nothing.

All he could think to say was “ Don’t call me Ollie.”

But of course Tamara wasn’t listening.

She was too busy stealing…and losing her mind.



Olibanum couldn’t know it but his world was gone; Ninebones Cross, his burned out cottage and all his friends. Gone and the woman sitting across from him was the reason why.

There was no way for him to know, but he did and the quiet gentle man that lived on cliff in a small cottage and read by candlelight felt it…and then he began to change.



He watched the screen fill up with words and words and more words and as they appeared Olibanum could feel himself becoming less. He could see his reflection in the mirror over Tamara’s couch and his hair was changing. It was lighter and longer and his eyes were dark green now. He held his hand up and saw that all of the silver rings Kamala had given him in her first book were gone. She’d written it into the story just for Olibanum because he had suffered so much in that story. As she ended the story she thought the gift of those little rings was the least she could do for him.

He remembered the sound of her fighting with someone she thought of as EDITOR over what was called a “throw away scene.”

He’d heard her yell, “ No, its staying in there. I know it doesn’t make sense! But if you take it out I take a walk and I take those four books you want with me!”

And in the end the rings stayed and Olibanum had something in that forest of words that Kamala grew over 30 years of writing just for him.



Now Olibanum didn’t have his cottage on a cliff, he was being moved to an apartment and his hair was blond and neatly trimmed and he murdered women for fun. That’s what he picked up as the Monster re- wrote and butchered away at Olibanum’ s life.

Tamara’s thoughts weren’t as clear as Kamala’ s. They were dark and twisted and Olibanum didn’t like them rolling around in his head. But the more she wrote the more clearly he could hear and see them.

They were making him crazy.

“ Will you answer just one question for me?” Olibanum asked, “ What happened to Kamala?”

Tamara stopped typing and Olibanum saw her shoulders shake and he thought she was crying.

“ Freak accident, she was electrocuted “ Tamara choked “ her radio fell into her tub and fried her up like calamari.” And then Tamara laughed so hard she vomited all over her desk.

But she didn’t seem to care.

She just kept laughing.



So Olibanum’ s friends were dead and he was pretty sure his world was gone and pretty soon he would be gone too. Rewritten by this horrible woman and her dark thoughts.

And then he got an idea, he was inspired and he realized it was probably Tamara’s idea so it wouldn’t be like murder at all.

It was more like suicide.

With that squared up and neatly justified in what was left of his eroding brain Olibanum asked Tamara “could you open the glass doors Tamara? I’d like to feel the night air before…you know. I change. Just one last time. Please. I’d open the door myself, but I might… I don’t know... break.”

Olibanum held up his hand and Tamara could see both his hands were missing fingers and his left wrist had no flesh on it at all.

Then Tamara looked up into Olibanum’ s changing face and she felt sorry for him. Until she was done writing he was going to look like a poorly made rag doll and that of course he might stay that way if she never finished her story.

Oh well.

She opened the door and went into the kitchen to get some supplies to clean up the mess on her desk. When she came back out into the living room Olibanum was gone.

Tamara raced out onto the patio and looked down over the railing and then her feet left the ground and she was over the railing and as the ground rushed up to meet her Tamara's last thought was ‘ the world is melting”



The Villagers of Ninebones Cross found Olibanum wandering next to the remains of his burned out home. His face was scared and one of his eyes was gone but he was back and that was all that mattered.

“ Where did you go Olibanum? What happened to you?” they all asked.

And Olibanum said,

“It was snowing on the night I disappeared from my cottage on the cliffs and because I thought electricity was an uncontrollable monster just waiting to strike me down I live in alone in that house by lamplight…”

School Yard Bullies

Write a juicy story about a school yard bully who has come to resemble the infamous Pitbull dog.

To get started make a list of some of the qualities of a Pitbull. Remember some of the bullies at your school and write short portraits, trying to include facial, physical and Pitbull characteristics.

Read Dahl or Paul Jennings to get more ideas.

Solitude Revisted

I am here listening to my own breathing
Knowing that in a moment or two
My loved ones will be joining me

I take this short time to go deep within myself
To re-connect to the real me
Hoping that I can maintain it when I am not alone

I take a few minutes to remember who I am
To realise that there is enough of me for those whom I choose to share my life with

I take a few moments to send up prayers and praises
And be grateful for my many blessings

I take a few seconds to enjoy having my own personal space
In which to write and create and think positive thoughts
As much as I can

I am grateful for my moments of solitude
So lovingly given and so lovingly taken

I breathe in the sanctity of aloneness
And look forward to sharing my renewed energy
With the energy of those whom I love and care for
As much as I love and care for myself

Stacey Ann Cole

A Scientist in Our Midst

This past week was spent aboard and waiting for plane connections. There is no more difficult solitude imo as when alone, thinking of home in a strange city. I read this prompt in my hotel room at the end of an exhausting day of convention activities and it turned my perspective around 180 degrees...what timing! I sat back against the pillows with permission to let my thoughts wander. Thus was born MeeKnott.

1. Me not very good artist



2. But me have lots to say




3. Sometimes me get flash visions



4. Mind trumps Brain? Me not know ‘cept brain functions by rules and mind don’t.







5. If ugly men were pretty women, and pretty men ugly women, would the world be any saner? Me not know.








6.

from Beetle Bug Coffee Mug