Mad Hatter Monday

ON OUR BACKS!

2006-10-02T08:10:00.000-07:00

Verily I say unto ye when the fish populated the sea it was not with the intent of idyllic poetry, or films in triplicate, at least the three, of plastic Jaws. Fortunately I checked out word of the day which is 'recalcitrant' - I wonder how many of us being chased by ferocious inhabitants of Oz feel a little bit that way inclined and would like to mutter a smigen of backchat! ME FOR ONE!! A poem;

I was once chased about by a squid
Who offered a zillion quid
He asked me to dance
I told him 'NO CHANCE'
And waltzed with a hill goat called Sid!

Jan - or possibly JayJay.

There you go your worshipfulness - always helps to know a joker!!

Fish Words

2006-10-01T19:42:00.000-07:00

As I dangled my hot feet into the icy chill of the river, I saw a fish, slick and shiny, jump from the current--at least I thought it was fish. I squinted my eyes and leaned forward. No it couldn't be.... it was a word. I strained to see the word.... f-a-m-e.... Fame? Another leaped above the surface of the fast-moving water. W-e-a-l-t-h.... Wealth! What we they trying to tell me? I had to find out.

I stood up from the shore and waded into the water. Fame and Wealth kept leaping before me. I reached for them but they were just out of my reach. I waded into the river until it was up to my waist. I strained to grab the words. I slipped my fingers around Fame but it wiggled out of my grasp. Wealth swam by and I lunged for it.

I slipped on the rocky bottom of the river and fell forward into the water. The current caught hold of me and held me down. The freezing water shocked me and I could not move for a moment. Just as things were beginning to get dark around me, I burst through the surface of the water, gasping for breath and spitting water from my mouth.

I felt a hand grab me under the arm and I was hauled to my feet and dragged to the shore. I fell to the sand and began to cough.

"What were you thinking?!" said my rescuer.

I looked up and saw that it was one of my Soul Food Cafe traveling companions.

"Don't you know that you can't catch Fame and Wealth! Only people who don't reach for them actually acquire them." My companion shook her head and walked away.

How true, how true.

Lori Gloyd (c) 2006

From Anita's Wicked Garden Journal

2006-09-21T08:09:00.000-07:00

http://www.dailywriting.netWickedGarden.htm

Just some notes from my very own Wicked Gardening Journal...

Plant a Wicked Garden Here

Insert images of wicked plants

The Wicked Manzanillo Tree-so deadly so poisonous that legend says its shadow could kill you!

Deadly Nightshade, tended by the Devil himself...as the story goes.

List Twenty Wicked Words

Grave, Apparition, Ghoul, Shadow, Tomb, Demonic, Phantasm, Specter, Revenant, Rot
Curse, Hex, Demon, Shiver, Malice, Fiend, Infernal, Abandon, Desolate, Demented

Make some notes about a plant.

The berries from the Belladonna plant are sweet and I read about some cases where children ate them with tragic results. I never thought about deadly fruit tasting sweet, I assumed poison berries would be bitter. Its like the Belladonna plant wants to hurt you.

A plant that murders on purpose. Its a cold blooded killer. I'll bet there's a story there.

Sketch the voiceless woman and the midnight garden

Just Kidding..I can't draw.

Someone replies and explains why the plants are not working. Record their words:
" The plants from the Wicked Garden aren't plants. Not exactly."

PLEASE COME TO OUR PARTY!

2006-08-17T13:38:00.000-07:00

YOU ARE CORDIALLY INVITED TO THE SOUL FOOD CAFÉ’S
ANNUAL SAMHAIN FESTIVAL
ON HALLOWEEN HILL
AT

http://chahil.blogspot.com/

FOR AN INVITATION TO THIS EVENT CONTACT ANITA MARIE AT
Gargoyle642001@yahoo.com

WELCOME TO BOCKSBOHNE

2006-06-23T20:00:00.000-07:00

Based on The Soul Food Challange:
Rear Vision Mirror
http://www.dailywriting.net/RearMirror.htm

No doubt some of us would like to adjust the rear vision mirror of our lives so that when we look back we cannot see the events that hurtled towards us and marred our lives-Heather Blakey

Have you ever been on a road trip, and ended up driving down those dirt roads that lead into the dead empty towns with boarded up fast food places with names like “ Chicken Basket “ or “ Hank’s Hamburger Haven “ and have you noticed there’s always a gas station with those funny tin signs advertising a brand of cigarettes or beer that no one’s seen on a shelf in over 50 years?

No doubt on these trips you’ve seen the houses too, the odd gray houses sitting up off the road.

You’ve probably even seen curtains hanging in the windows and your not sure but you think you may have seen someone looking back out at you as you drove by. Maybe you’ve even seen one of those old time drug stores with the Soda Fountain in the back but you know, you wouldn’t stop there on a bet to check it out because you’ll tell yourself you don’t have the time…you’ve got somewhere to get to.

There, you’ll reassure yourself that sounds good.

But that little voice, it’s it the real reason you don’t stop because it’s screaming at you, “ don’t you dare stop! Hey are you listening to me? I don’t care if you run out of gas! You will not stop in this town because if you do you’re going to have to get out and push. Don’t you even think about stopping here, is that clear?”

Then when you hit the other end of “ Main Street” (which will only take about three minutes) and you’re back on that long empty dirt road that some joker of a map maker called “ interstate 101 or Highway 19” you’ll have forgotten you were afraid.

After a few more minutes that empty little town that scared you have to death will be long behind you and it’ll be like you were never there at all

That’s what the town of Bocksbohne is like; once you leave it you’ll never be sure you were really there.

One summer Audley Frame was driving to Seattle and somewhere along Amorita Pass high in the Olympic Mountains she passed through a town called Turnsole (clearly marked on her map) and after a few miles she was on a dirt highway that lead straight into Bocksbohne.

That’s what the white sign with the peeling black letters read.

Welcome to Bocksbohne

It wasn’t suppose to be there according to the map, it had no reason to be there out in the middle of nowhere but it was there all the same and before she knew it Audley Frame was speeding passed a drive in theatre with a rusted swing set and a fallen over carousel under a weather-beaten movie screen. Across the street from the drive in was Chieko’s Drugstore and further up from that was little brick building with a sign in its window.

She slammed on her brakes and was snapped back in her seat by her seatbelt and she hardly noticed the pain because all she saw was the sign.

It was a simple sign, the background was flat black and the letters were neon orange and the sign simply said:

Help Wanted.

The window was caked with dust and grime and right there in the center of the window screaming in brand new orange neon letters was the word:

HELP.

Not help wanted.

Now it just said

HELP

Audley’ s foot came off the brake and she let her car roll forward and she turned to watch the window as her car tried to pull itself away from building.

Now the sign read “ HELP WANTED INQUIRE WITHIN “. The letters were blood red and the ink was so fresh it had smudged a little on the filthy glass window.

“ Red Ink” she heard herself say, “ it’s red ink.”

Then her foot found the gas pedal and Audley’ s car roared passed buildings and houses with broken windows and doors that were falling off of their hinges. She ignored the rusty children’s toys abandoned on the sidewalks and she hit a few curbs and before she knew it she was out the other end of Bocksbohne and when she looked into her rearview mirror she saw her dark brown hair had turned white.

She put her hand to the mirror and turned it down, she had no intentions of using it until Bocksbohne was behind her.

Far behind her.

Burnstone

2006-06-17T17:18:00.000-07:00

Based on the Soul Food Challange
" Create an Urban Myth "
http://www.outbackonline.net/Advent%20Calendar/Advent2004_Day4_UrbanMyths.htm

In Burnstone, Washington one of my favorite places to visit is the Tymbal Cemetery and Funeral Home.

Tymbal is a pauper's cemetery from the old days so it's not great shakes. No fancy monuments, no fancy gates but there are trees and they’re covered with ivy which is nice because the trees have been dead for years and they don’t put leaves out anymore.

The sad thing is everyone forgot the Cemetery was there and for awhile the City of Burnstone Streets Department used Tymbal as a storage place for their work trucks and they used the Funeral home as office space until someone realized all those garbage trucks and lawn mowers and a bunch of other maintenance tools were leaking oil all over unmarked graves.

So before you could say ' desecration ' the City decided to build a new maintenance facility for the Street Works Department and without as much as a backwards glance they left the graveyard to choke on weeds and nettles and blackberry bushes.

Looking back, it was sort of odd the way the weeds came back so fast.

Anyway.

About a month after the big move a young woman named Tamus Bloodroot slammed her car into one of the dead trees near the cemetery entrance and she never left.

She never left because no one ever found her.

They found her car, they found the door open and they found a large pool of blood about three feet away from the crash sight.

But they never found Tamus.

The day after they found her car stories about an injured woman, who was identified as Tamus, asking for help at the side of the road started up. Some people said they actually stopped for her and picked her up and talked to her and she always said the same thing, “ can you help me now. “

When they turned to reassure her that’s what they’re doing she’d be gone.

You can imagine Tamus Bloodroot's family was pretty upset that they're daughter had become an urban legend and people were suppose to be talking to her ghost.

" I doubt " her Father had screamed into the face of a reporter doing Halloween stories for the evening news one year, " that if my daughter could come back from the grave she'd spend all of her time asking drunken teenagers for rides to the hospital."

That was true, in life Tamus wasn’t the sort of person who asked for anything, she’d tell you exactly what she wanted and if you didn’t come across…heaven help you. The girl had a temper and the holes in her bedroom walls and her trail of broken relationships were solid proof of that.

Life went on after that… even Tamus Bloodroot went on, people never stopped seeing her and they all knew she was out there asking for help.

Bryony Middleton and his family live out on Cemetery Road. He’s lived out there his entire life
And he knows that stretch of road so well he could drive it with his eyes closed.

That’s something he did almost every Saturday night after and evening on the town with his friends. He’s sort of famous around here for that, you might not know Bryony’s name or anything about him but you’ve heard of the ‘ guy who drives passed the cemetery in his sleep on Saturdays’.

Anyway it was one of his 10 or was it 12 kids that said to him after finding him and his truck at the end of their driveway one morning " if you're going to drive when you’re sleeping Daddy, at least wear your seat belt."

Not to be mean, and Bryony loved his 10-12 children a lot even if he forgot their names and didn't know exactly how many of them there were, but on more then one occasion Bryony was heard to say, " Geeze, my kids, you know they're okay as far as rug rats go but they sure aren't the sharpest tools in the shed, if you get my meaning."

But this time Bryony’s kids were right and on that winter evening out on Tymbal Cemetery Road his kids were the sharpest tools to be found in any shed anywhere on the planet.

The roads were iced over when Bryony left the " Corner Tavern " only he didn't notice. I mean he was sliding and tripping a lot...but you know he'd chalked that up to the liquid refreshments he'd indulged in for the past four hours.

So Bryony got into his truck and tried to buckle himself in, but he couldn't make the lock work so he put the belt on and tied it closed and then he took a roll of duct tape and somehow managed to tape himself to his seat.

I'm not kidding I wish I were. Like I said, Bryony loved his kids and he'd do any for them even if they only had a handful of brain cells between them.

Then he turned the key in the ignition (he always left it in because it was pretty hard for him to fit that key into that little hole after a long evening out) and he took a sloppy left and turned out onto the unlit road, marked as Old Burnstone Highway but known unofficially as Cemetery Road by the locals.

He was halfway home and nearly asleep when he came to Tymbal Cemetery and saw the Funeral Home with the tape on it’s cracked windows. Bryony mistook it for his house and in a panic he jerked the steering wheel and sent his truck into the ditch that surrounded the cemetery.

Like I said, Tymbal’s is a Pauper’s Graveyard and there are no frills about it. The people out there were forgotten in life and they were forgotten in death too.

So the residents of Tymbal's have numbers, not names and they have pine boxes made at the Prison in Fallen not fancy caskets with brass handles. And there is no fence surrounding the cemetery just a ditch cut into a “V” shape and it's lined with jagged sharp rocks that were once the face of an old Mansion that burned to the ground about 100 years ago.

The Old Mansion was wasn't a good place and it’s owners were sort of an embarrassment to the City so after the fire Burnstone hauled off a mountain of debris and they decided to put it to good use.

Anything they could salvage went into the construction of The Tymbal Funeral Home and Cemetery.

The " fence" is what Bryony hit that night. His truck went into the ditch head on and then it flipped and rolled and finally stopped almost in the middle of the graveyard.

Taped and tied to his seat Bryony was bruised and beaten and good thing he was sitting upright because if he'd been in any other position he'd probably have choked on his own vomit, of which he apparently lost a lot of that night.

When he was done he considered his options.

He could cut himself loose but more then likely he'd end up stabbing himself to death because at the moment one of his eyes was swollen shut and the other, well you know Bryony should probably be wearing glasses but he doesn't.

Plus the crash had done nothing to sober him up he wasn’t sure he could find the business end of the knife if he wanted to.

" Poor Daddy, " he could actually see one of his many children saying to his unborn grandchildren " he survived the worse car accident ever and he ended up stabbing himself to death trying to cut himself loose from his car seat. No, he wasn't trapped. Somehow he taped himself to his seat. No I can't explain it. I loved my Dad but he wasn't the sharpest tool in the shed if you get my meaning."

So Bryony figured all he could do was sit there and more likely then not someone would see him from the road in the morning. Resigned to a long cold smelly night he was about to try to catch some sleep when he saw the woman standing next to his car.

She was facing away from him and the way she was standing was wrong. Her shoulders were twisted and one of her arms seemed to be hanging a little lower then the other. At first Bryony thought she was tilting her head to the side like she was listening for something, but then he realized her head wasn't tilted it was flatter, much flatter then the other side of her head.

All Bryony could think to say was, " heck of a night, ain't it? "

" Can you help me now? " she said to no one " can you help me now?"

She started to turn and Bryony knew, he just knew that the front of that woman was going to look worse then the back and he didn't want to see that.

So Bryony did all he could think of to do. He turned the key, gave his battered truck some gas and there is a Heaven because it screamed (more then likely it was Bryony doing the screaming) to life and Bryony drove it blindly through the cemetery and towards the road…and the fence.

Only he never hit the fence, he never even made it out of the cemetery because before he hit the ditch he hit a tree and when he did the world around him exploded.

It was three of Bryony’s kids that found their dad and his truck the next morning. No, he wasn't dead; Bryony is made out of tougher stuff then that. Plus, I'm sure that with his dietary habits of fried food and alcohol he's pretty much preserved himself alive.

Which was good because Bryony had a story that people from all over the county wanted him to tell over and over again.

First of all the woman in the Graveyard, Bryony figured, wasn’t saying " Can you help me now " she was saying " Can you help me down " and he figured that out because on the night Tamus Bloodroot hit the Tymbal ‘fence’ she wasn't duct taped to her seat the way Bryony was so she smashed through her windshield and was thrown up and out of her car...

And straight up into a tree covered with Ivy.

That’s the story of Tamus Bloodroot and that’s how it ends…with parts of her raining down onto the hood of Bryony Middleton's truck.

The story about Old Burnstone Highway hasn’t ended. Earlier this year it earned this label as the most dangerous stretch road in the entire state of Washington.

It’s not a main highway and you can’t find it from any major roads but over 300 people have died along it this year alone. I mean, people from Arizona and Texas visitors from other countries in rental cars have met their end out there an if they don’t die in the wreck they can’t explain why they were there…at dark.

They never say though that they were lost.

Funny, isn’t it?

The Witch of White Ash Mountain

2006-06-14T21:54:00.000-07:00

Based on the Soul Food Prompt:
" Unbottle Your Emotions "
http://www.outbackonline.net/Advent%20Calendar/Journey_Day4_BottledEmotions_2005.htm

The Grave of Calisaya Stoneroot is lost back up in the hills of White Ash Mountain here in Washington State and not a year goes by a story doesn't show up on the evening news or the front page of a local newspaper with the headline:

" Remains of Hikers Found "

And somewhere in the story you will find that these Hikers weren't going to White Ash to admire the scenery. They’re out there looking for the grave of the infamous Witch of White Ash Mountain.

I know this story by heart and here’s how it goes…

Rocella Coffin was the law in White Ash back in 1964, she was short and dark and bad tempered, as most of the Sheriffs in the Duwamish Bay area are. To be specific none of the Sheriffs in Ballast County are known for their sense of humor but at times they do laugh and some joke and some smile all except for Sheriff Coffin.

Sheriff Coffin held her spot as the Ballast County" least likely to be amused by anything law enforcement official " with a grip so tight it’s unlikely anyone would ever be able to pry the title from her hand.

That title, however, became Coffin’s for all eternity when Avery Bowen showed up the day after the execution of Calisaya Stoneroot.

Avery pulled into the Sheriff's station and forgot to stop his truck. It only stopped because the Sheriff’s car (her own car, not her patrol car) was in the way. Avery wasn't hurt but he was bleeding and he was sort of running around in circles and no matter how loud she yelled he wouldn’t stop.

Sheriff Coffin didn't even read him his rights.

She just pulled her gun and shot him right between the eyes, right there in the parking lot in front of the Sheriff’s Station. When she was done Rocella stood over Avery's body and said down at his pale white face, " I told you to settle down, now start over. "

Avery looked up at her and said, " she's back Sheriff, and I saw her walking up the road not even an hour ago. Calisaya Stoneroot is back."

Rocella dragged Avery into her office and pulled a pair of tweezers from her desk drawer. She took a look at Avery's wound and dropped them back in and he saw she had a crochet hook in her hand. " Sit still " she told him.

Avery obeyed and he felt Rocella pull some of his skin away from his wound with her fingers and then with one smooth move the hook was in and out and in her hand was a small piece of mashed gray metal.

" Tell me what you saw, and I suggest you don't fool around with me because the next thing I'm pulling out are the silver bullets. Got it? "

Avery tried very hard to focus his eyes and he nodded, " I saw her down on Middleditch Road, walking kind of slow and funny and …”

If Avery hadn’t been so distracted by picking at the bullet wound in his forehead he would have found it a little amusing that Calisaya had been hung just the day before on November 5, 1964 at dawn for Witchcraft.

You read that right. Not 1664, 1564, 1264.

1964.

1964: That was the year Nelson Mandela was sentenced to life in Prison and China detonated it's first atomic bomb and US Surgeon General Luther Terry affirmed that cigarette smoking caused cancer.

You read that right, it was 1964, and back in the hills of White Ash Mountain a woman died laughing with a noose around her neck and she was buried with that terrible wide grin on her face and her mouth was stuffed with garlic and her eyes had been sewn shut.

Not that anyone in the town thought it would do them any good; they'd figure Calisaya would be back before dawn.

They were right.

The towns’ people of White Ash had for the past 20 years tried everything to rid themselves of Calisaya Stoneroot.

First they tried bringing in that Priest from Seattle.

The Sheriff from Duwamish Bay and two of her friends that worked the Sideshow came to watch Father Thomas bless the Cemetery the Witch and her Demons were living in and Sheriff Coffin thought it might actually work; when the Priest was done the Witch and the Demons rode out of the Cemetery Gates like the Devil himself was chasing them.

Later Sheriff Coffin realized Sheriff Blitzer and her friends snorting and snickering and stupid comments were probably what really drove Demons and the Witch away.

Four days later Stoneroot was back.

Another year they even tried to burn Calisaya at the stake and Blitzer and a woman with bad skin actually brought Snow Puffed Marshmallows and skewers and handed them to Rocella and her Deputy with the advice, “ you might as well get something out of this cause that won’t work either.”

Calisaya, over the years, went from tormenting farm animals and turning the water in the wells to blood and making the crops and the fruit trees go bad (which turned out to be a favorite of hers) and casting curses and playing petty tricks on the Towns People to grave robbing.

That was the last straw as far as Ballast County was concerned.

They sent word down that White Ash cut out the theatrical executions and do something about Stoneroot or they (Duwamish Bay, Fallen, Ninebones Cross and Abandon) were going to do something about them.

The Valleys and Mountains if Ballast County were full of barren dead places where it could reach over 90 degrees in the summer and it didn't matter because it was so cold you'd get frostbite if you weren't covered up.

The ground in these barren places are full of a fine heavy dust that’s almost impossible to wash from your clothes and if you aren’t careful it’ll work it's way into your skin and cause a nasty infection that acts like leprosy.

That dust is all that’s was left of the people and the places that Ballast County 'did something about' when things got out of hand.

Sheriff Coffin had no intention of letting the town of White Ash become another open grave.

No matter what it took.

Even if it meant going to Duwamish Bay itself.

The Duwamish Bay Curiosity Shop is famous for a lot of things: it's genuine Egyptian Mummy, it's collection of shrunken heads, it's electric chair (you could sit in it and get your picture taken) it's " funeral tools from across the ages” and it's jars.

People drove from all over the state to look at " The jars" which where kept behind a door riddled with bullet holes.

Inside of those jars are things like the three headed cat, a small alligator with human face, tumors and eyes and brains and limbs and hearts and medical experiments gone bad.

Most infamous of all in this collection is the 'devil baby”.

The Devil Baby not only had horns and a tail but an eye in the center of it's forehead and sometimes that eye opened and sometimes it was shut and no matter where you stood in the store you knew it was watching you.

The Shop was also famous for it's Soda Fountain but on that day Sheriff Coffin wasn't in the mood for a Strawberry Phosphate. She read over the menu tacked to the wall anyway and next to it on pressed tin sign was a sign that said:

OVER 2000 AMAZING ARTIFCATS
25 ARE GENUINE FAKES
FREE SUNDAES FOR A YEAR
IF YOU GUESS RIGHT

“ Want to take a guess?” the Shop's owner Ignancia asked Sheriff Coffin from behind the counter.

“ No. “

“ Go on, take a guess…I got all day and from what I hear you don’t.”

“ The Baby…” Rocella snapped.

“ Nope, you’re wrong. Everybody wants that baby to be fake. That’s how come we don’t have to cough up the free ice cream. It’s that baby bless it’s dark little heart. Nobody wants that baby to be real.”

It was true; Rocella felt her chest tighten when Ignancia told her about the baby. “ Look Mrs. Guzman, I need to get rid of a nasty tempered Witch who’s developed some weird culinary habits. Can you help us?”

Ignancia looked up at the ceiling like she was reading something up there and Rocella had to fight the urge to do the same.

Finally Ignancia said, “ Oh, this is going to be good, come on follow me, we have to go into the Workshop”

Rocella followed Ignancia behind the Counter and they went back into her Workshop and as the door clicked shut behind them it occurred to Rocella the door hadn't been there a minute ago.

As Rocella drove back up to White Ash she went over the instruction again, “ You can’t write these down you know. You have to memorize this so don’t blow it. “

“ You know why Calisaya is bothering you all up in White Ash and not us down here in Duwamish?” Ignancia asked

“ I don’t know she likes the View?”

“ Don’t be stupid, it’s because you’re all old world up there. All that garlic and chanting and potions. She’s a modern woman and none of that is going to work on her. You have to think, how do you trap and kill a modern witch? “

Rocella shook her head, “ Come on Mrs. Guzman, the Sun is going to set soon and the Auditors will be heading up soon. “

Ignancia handed Rocella three sheets of what she thought were paper. But as the Sheriff took each one from Ignancia’ s hand she saw what they were, she could feel what they were and worse they were still warm. “ I don’t want to know “ Rocella said.

“ Don’t be such a baby. Now listen. You go to that tree by your courthouse. You go up on a ladder this has to be at least 7 feet up and you nail this first…”

“ Spells? I thought you said the old world…”

“ It’s not what you think. This is strictly modern and legal. Don’t look at me like that … it is. See, this is a Summons for her to appear, the minute this goes up no matter what she has to come forward. This is a warrant for her execution you nail this up second. This time I think you’ll find your rope will do it’s job and so will fire. I’d go with the rope it’s so dry out right now you wouldn’t want to start a forest fire, would you? Now, this little puppy is the dealmaker. This is her death certificate. You just sign here and there and here “ Ignancia said as she flipped the heavy pages up one by one and I think you’ll find yourself short a citizen before morning.

But if this comes down, if someone is dumb enough to pull the nail out and this paperwork is disturbed. Well, it won’t be good for White Ash. Won’t be so hot for me either.”

“ Fine, you got a pen or something cause I have to be going…Oh let me guess” Rocella said as she sat down hard on a wooden barstool and tilted her head to the side. “ Don’t get any of it on the Uniform. I just had it cleaned.”

Ignancia pulled a scalpel from a little black bag and as she found Sheriff Coffin’s artery and nicked it open she asked, “ so Rocella, how’s the family?”

So did it work? You’re probably wondering.

Well, White Ash is on the Map, and you can go there if you want and see for yourself.

It’s small and old fashion and the Sheriff is bad tempered and has this funny scar on the side of her neck that bleeds at the wrong time (birthday parties, funerals when she’s in Court and swearing and using profanity isn’t something you don’t want to do at the tops of your lungs)

As for Calisaya Stoneroot, you know there isn’t a Halloween that’s gone by for the past 40 odd years since her execution that a bunch of weirdos from Seattle and as far away as Bellingham don't descend by the hundreds on poor little White Ash looking for the grave of the Witch of White Ash.

Was she real?

If proof is all you want all you have to do is go to the tree besides the court house and look up and there on one of the branches is an old frayed piece of rope still gray and covered with moss and further up still are three pieces of something that looks like parchment nailed firmly to the tree’s trunk.

Just make sure you leave White Ash before the sunsets.

And before the residents of White Ash start thinking about dinner.

Story in a Bottle

2006-06-03T16:56:00.000-07:00

You have all heard of messages in a bottle. Well now it is your chance to write a story to go in a bottle that le Enchanteur can keep in her cabin on board the Calabar.

After yesterday's tantrum Enchanteur seems much more tranquil and her cabin appears idyllic but it would be well to be cautioned that she is a shape shifter and can change with the breezes that puff up the Calabar's sails.

Keep Enchanteur happy by doing a bit of the Arabian Nights style story telling and create some stories to go in bottles. Of course it would be fun to have decorated bottles to match the stories.

Using Word of the Day

2006-05-23T01:09:00.000-07:00

Kris wrote:
I get the Oxford English Dictionary Word of the Day in my email. Sometimes, they send boring, common words, sometimes they send whimsical words (like the word "beamy"), but every once in a while, they send a special word, a word that perhaps 5 people in the whole world have heard of, truly obscure words that teach History, or provide a new way to describe something. Today was one of those days. This words made me think of Imogen Crest over at the Hermitage, as
these Nitrian's are her ancient kin. Enjoy

Kris

Nitrian, a. DRAFT REVISION Dec. 2003

Brit. /ntrn/, U.S. /ntrin/ [< the name of the region of Nitria (Byzantine Greek (4th cent.), Hellenistic Greek (Strabo)) in Egypt + -AN.

The modern site of the monasteries is the Wadi Natrun (Arabic Wd al-Narn, lit. `valley of natron') : see etymological note s.v. NITRE n. and cf. NATRON n.]

Of, relating to, or designating the desert region of Nitria, to the west of Cairo in Egypt, esp. as the place of settlement of a group of ascetic Christian hermit monks in the 4th cent.

1684 Philos. Trans. Royal Soc. 14 613 There is a town in Ægypt called Nitria which gives its name to the nitrian Desert. 1867 C. M. YONGE Pupils of St. John ix. 149 Christians..are said to have preferred the Nitrian valley because of the words of Jeremiah`though thou wash thee
with nitre'.

1888 Dict. National Biogr. XIII. 325/2 The most celebrated discovery which Cureton made among the Syriac manuscripts in the Nitrian collection was that of the famous Epistles of St. Ignatius to Polycarp. 1892 I. G. SMITH Christian Monasticism vii. 186 In the famous monastery of St. Gall, in Switzerland, as in the Nitrian monasteries of the fifth century, the whip..was suspended from a pillar in the chapter-house. 1904 J. O. HANNAY Wisdom of Desert 6 At the end of the fourth century the Nitrian mountains were dotted over with hermits' cells. 1958 L. DURRELL Balthazar iv. 80 His mind wingedaway like a swallow across the dunes into the Nitrian desert itself. 2002 Weekend Austral. (Nexis) 3 Aug. 13 The desert fathers in the
Nitrian desert never left their holy habitations, and while people came out to them, and some stayed on, the call of the world they had abandoned never pulled them back.

Doesn't Nitria sound like a mysterious, fantastical place, the kind that can only be reached through wardrobes or faraway trees?

Use Nitria as the setting of an adventure story!

AVAST YE SCURVY SEA DOGS!

2006-05-17T10:04:00.000-07:00

AVAST YE SCURVY SEA DOGS!
FOLLOW ME AND THE CREW OF THE CALABAR FELONWAY
IN OUR SEARCH FOR
THE DEAD MAN'S CHEST!

Ask Anita Marie for an Invite at gargoyle642001@yahoo.com (and for your secret Buccaneer instructions...shh don't tell anyone)and become one of the brave and foolish Souls that will venture into the treacherous dark Lemurian Waterways aboard the Mysterious Buccaneer Ship The Calabar Felonway and search for the infamous Dead Man's Chest.

ADVENTUROUS WRITERS, ARTISTS, POETS NEED ONLY APPLY!

Make a Treasure Map to help find Dead Man's Chest

2006-05-15T01:26:00.000-07:00

Design a map showing the location of Dead Man's Chest and gain entrance to a Pirate Ship moored in an inlet in the Lemurian waterways.

Writeboard story continues... keep editing this week

2006-05-07T14:55:00.000-07:00

Far off in the north woods lies a hidden door to a special land that can only be reached with the aid of a shovel and an ice pick. Wrapped in fur from the top of his bald head to to his nearly frost-bitten toes, Peter stood before the door, chipping away at the ice-bound lock. When the last bit of ice had fallen away, he took hold of the doorknob and turned it.

The old metal of the doorhandle was rusty and pieces of it stained his hand red. Mustering his courage, strangely quickened by his own sudden surge of expectation, he pushed open the ancient door. As he heaved himself against the last remnants of ice at the bottom of the door, the door suddenly gave way, causing him to tumble and roll head first onto a grassy knoll. When he was right-side-up again, flat on his back with his furry hood flung back against his shoulders, Peter found himself staring straight up into the bluest sky he had ever seen.

For a moment, Peter felt he was being drawn into the blue, as if he ceased to exist as an individual. The feeling passed as quickly as it came. He climbed to his feet. Turning to look back through the door, he saw the wintery world behind him. He closed the door behind him. Perhaps his mother was wiser than she knew, with her constant admonitions to ‘Close the door!’ It would never do to leave a door between worlds open.

Call it instinct, or a sudden deep sense of fear, Peter found himself reaching behind him for the knob again, twisting it, trying to turn it but it resisted all his effort.

The radiant blue sky, so welcoming and benevolent a moment earlier was now a steely gray, a fierce, icy wind was chilling him to the bone. Pulling up the hood of his parka he realized he needed to find shelter soon or he would quickly freeze to death. He’d seen no sign of any town, or road, not even a building, in his brief glimpse of the countryside. What was he to do? The feeling of losing himself returned stronger now as he began to panic.

Why had this beautiful land turned into the snowy, icy world he had left? He forced himself to stand and shake off the pessimism so that he would think more clearly. Then he began to walk.

He struggled against the wind, laboring with every step. After a half-hour of slowly making forward progress, he thought he saw something ahead – maybe a shelter. He rubbed the icy accumulation from his eyes and saw a polar bear. The bear, chewing on a seal carcass, turned its head in Peter’s direction. Its muzzle curled back to reveal 5 inch incisors and then it smiled and said to Peter, ” Join me. “

Peter began to back away ” No thank you. “

” I said,” the Bear whispered ” join me. “

The bear’s whispered invitation was seductive, and the man found himself slowly moving forward.trembling with every step.

“Why am I doing this?” Peter asked himself. “It feels as if my body is controlling my mind.”

The bear spoke again, this time more insistently, “Come to me, Peter—I know that’s what you want.”

Suddenly, Peter felt a vibration under his feet and a low rumble rose up from the ice beneath him. A crack formed in front of him and with a mighty roar, the ice split wide open between him and the bear. The bear, realizing his prey would soon drift away, rose from the carcass and charged towards Peter.

The roar echoed mightily in Peter’s head as the bear bounded towards him. He had a single moment in which to decide whether to run or to jump into the crack in the ice. He decided that a quick death by drowning or freezing might be preferable to being chewed by a bear and leapt into the chasm.

As he fell through an endless dark space he felt the air become warm and balmy. He had expected to fall to his death – instead he appeared to be falling into another new world. He expected it would prove to be same as the worlds he had just left behind, the door between the two being nothing more than an illusion of escape.

However…............

As his life flashed before him, he realised he had been running away from the many truths he so desperately wanted to believe and live.

What took only seconds seemed like hours as he fell to what he imagined would be his doom. Why didn’t he? Why did he? He should have done it this way and not that way.

Then suddenly, with a thump, he stopped. He wasn’t hurt at all, having landed in a thick layer of feathers, lots of feathers. Dazed, he peered around and saw four eggs. Then, with some hesitation, he looked out and up, and he was struck with the realization that he was in a giant eagle’s nest.

The view was amazing, undescribably beautiful! Well, he thought, what do I do now. I think I can only absorb the beauty, tranquility, view and peace of this moment – and so he did.

How could he explain all the things that now came to mind, that he came to realise, way up here, warm, comfortable and feeling so peaceful? It was like he was meant to look at things from here, from above.

And then, he heard a squawk and then another. He peered into the distance and understood—mother eagle was coming home. What would happen now?

Noticing the huge talons on the approaching eagle, Peter decided it would be a good idea to get out of the nest. Gingerly, he climbed out and clung to the trunk of the tree and slowly eased himself down. With his feet firmly on the ground, he pondered the same questions: where am I? why? who am I?

Suddenly he heard a sweet, clear sound, a voice that glided out of the ether and wound itself around his heart.

The voice was familiar to him. It was a voice he had heard many times before in a dream or somewhere, to which he had paid little attention. This time he had no choice. The voice was all he had to guide him now. The voice was almost inaudible and seemed far away, but he listened again, straining his ears to hear the words. It was a woman’s voice:

“Peter, you are never alone, nor will you ever be. Just follow the voice you hear and listen to none other—that is IMPORTANT, and very soon all your questions about who and where you are will be revealed to you.”

Her gentle words soothed Peter’s heart and and settled his restless soul. He found himself breathing steadily again, and his heart had slowed to a normal pace. He felt the tension ease out of his shoulders and back, and for the first time on this new journey—really in his entire adult life—he felt completely calm and at peace.

He breathed in the delightfully fresh air, slowly and steadily, and felt his tired feet sink into the springy grass. Looking down at his worn-out boots, he decided that now would be a great time to take them off, and refresh his aching feet on the dewy grass. He unlaced and pulled the boots off, with some difficulty. His feet were swollen and red. Upon setting his throbbing feet onto the cool lawn, they instantly became refreshed, and were no longer swollen and tired. His feet were completely rejuvenated, as if time had been turned back, and years of hard toil and hard roads had been erased instantly.

He felt like a young boy in summertime again and that his feet could carry him anywhere now. Looking at his dirty boots where his toes had worn holes, he heard the gentle voice whisper again, “Leave them behind. They serve no purpose in this place.”

Peter smiled with delight to hear the voice again, this gentle voice speaking to his soul. He left the boots there as they lay.

Looking around at the thicket of trees, he saw a clearing just up ahead and to his left. She said to him, “That’s the way” and with a bright, warming sun at his back, he set off towards the clearing with a bounding, fearless stride.

And then he passed through the clearing and towards a set of rusted wrought iron gates. Ahead of him was his home and standing on the top of the steps was a woman with a clipboard.

” Peter ” she said, ” where on Earth have you been? “

” Out there ” he told her.

Dr Valaria Redspur shook her head and laughed ” Come on in and tell me all about it.”

Peter followed the Doctor through the doors that opened and closed by themselves and after them a rusted chain snaked its way up from the ground and found the door’s handles.

The chain hissed and clicked and locked itself shut.

After awhile, just after sunset a cold little breeze settled around the entrance way the way a well fed cat would settle in front of a fire after a good hard hunt- and if that breeze had a face it would have looked just as self satisfied and well fed as that cat.

The cold breeze made the metal sign above the doors finally break away from its rusted nails and then it sailed aimlessly to the ground.

” DANGER DO NOT ENTER! “ It read in faded black paint “ Redspur State Lunatic Asylum condemned on May 7, 1940”

To edit go to the Writeboard and enter the password 'round robin'.

Round Robin Challenge

2006-05-02T18:24:00.000-07:00

There is a lovely new, blank WriteBoard titled Mad Hatters Round Robin just waiting for a group to create a story. To sign in simply use the password roundrobin. Some brave soul, perhaps you Anita Marie, will get us started and then it is just a matter of editing and playing all week.

Memories of the Past

2006-04-30T21:45:00.000-07:00

I read this day of Patrica's reminiscences
Of explanations of death and the customs
according to where and when one lives
She like me had this explained to her long ago
as I did by my Mother in the same way.
It was something that stayed with me

I was told that in times long gone, death was part
of living
and as we had looked after one another in life
we did the same in death.
Those in the family most often the women, took over the laying out of the person
In readiness for the service and celebration of the life of the deceased.
Perhaps when I look back it may have been from necessity
Times were hard,money was short ,professional services cost money
Money that was needed to feed their families,pay the rent etc.

My Maternal Grandmother whom I never met,dying before I was born
was one such family member.
She not only cared in the dying process for her family
but other neighbours as well
Some found this task too difficult,
or if it was a Mother and Child at the same time more so
for the grieving Father.
Thus Sophia was the one to call on

I took this on board,when my own Mother talked of my Fathers
imminent death from Mesothelioma
I said I will do it for him ,I will do the preparations when the time comes.she did not ask me I offered,she did not seem surprised and in December 1976 a new experience in my life happened
I have said often to others, perhaps it is easier if it is not not one close to you or it can be seen as a priveledge if it is.
Who else would know a parent more than a child of that parent.

So as I sit here remembering both my Mother and Father,
how I prepared them after death, and some time later
sprinkled their ashes underneath the old lemon tree
in the back yard where they had spent so many happy years
I know that they and I are together in spirit,and the
memories are strong,some bad ones as well as many many happy ones.

Coming back to this home I call mine
hastens me to repeat what I say over and over
MY Lemuria....is
my North, my South, my East, my West
It is where I belong.
I seek no distant visions
it is all on my doorstep
I am blessed.

Lois (Muse of the Sea) 1.5.06

Southern Legend

2006-04-30T17:57:00.000-07:00

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

2006-04-30T15:32:00.000-07:00

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

2006-04-27T16:11:00.000-07:00

“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

2006-04-27T05:53:00.000-07:00

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

2006-04-25T18:20:00.000-07:00

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

2006-04-25T18:17:00.000-07:00

by Elizabeth Atkinson

Red Shoes, Brown Shoes, and Italian Pumps

2006-04-25T13:47:00.000-07:00

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

2006-04-24T03:06:00.000-07:00

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

2006-04-20T20:01:00.000-07:00

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

2006-04-18T13:07:00.000-07:00

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

2006-04-17T14:51:00.000-07:00

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

2006-04-16T12:46:00.000-07:00

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

2006-04-15T19:53:00.000-07:00

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…”

The Vision

2006-04-11T08:42:00.001-07:00

It had been a long and trying summer. I was excited about the beginning of the school year. I got up early to make the kids breakfast and while I was cooking I packed a picnic lunch for myself. Scrubbed and dressed at last I stood at the curb with them waiting for the bus to arrive. When it came I gave them each a hug and told them to have a good day. As the bus pulled away I waved and I felt like I had been set free. I put my picnic lunch in the car along with my tackle box and fishing poles then I jumped in the car and headed for Fisherman's Point.

I parked the car and hiked about a quarter of a mile in to my fishing spot. Fisherman's Point is an isolated place deep in the Oregon woods. I reached the rocky outcropping where I was going to fish and got set up. I started casting and it was great the fish were biting like crazy. Everytime I cast my line a fish struck. It was like they were elbowing each other under the water saying, "Catch me."
"No, catch me."
"It's my turn, catch me."
The only problem was that the fish I was hauling in were little salmon that needed to go out to the ocean and grow up so even though I don't like catch and release as a rule I was letting them go. I said a prayer to the great spirit of the water and gave thanks for the fun of catching them. Then a really nice thing happened, the salmon stopped biting and the trout began. Once again I was hauling them in but this time I pulled out my trusty stringer and was keeping them for supper. After awhile even the trout stopped biting and it was starting to get really hot. It was one of those beautiful, glorious, September days when the heat of summer just doesn't want to let go.

I was getting sweaty and there wasn't another soul around for miles so I decided to go skinny-dipping. I slipped out of my clothes and dove into the wonderful, cold, clear water. This was heaven! After a few minutes I climbed out of the water onto a rock to dry. While I was sitting there lost in my own little world an amazing thing happened. It was like I was transported back to a time when the rivers ran full with salmon and the fires of my grandmother's people burned brightly. I saw the women tending the camp and the children playing by the water. For me it was like the veil of time had been lifted and I was given a glimpse of something very special. When I "came to," which is the only way I know how to describe it...I felt awkward and self-conscious like someone was staring at my nakedness. I put my clothes back on, packed up my stuff, hiked back to the car, and went home. It was a deeply spiritual experience for me and whenever I feel troubled I think about that day and the same peace and wonderment comes over me.

On the Nature of War: A Garden Meditation

2006-04-10T23:12:00.000-07:00

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.

A Place of The Heart

2006-04-09T18:12:00.000-07:00

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

2006-04-09T17:15:00.000-07:00

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

2006-04-04T17:16:00.000-07:00

Bullies in Petticoats

2006-04-04T08:32:00.000-07:00

Dovey Grace was the sweetest looking child in the fourth form, in all the levels put together for that matter. That she only looked sweet was something no adult could conceive, but Anna knew that creamy white skin was just the veneer of a little demon. Dovey was petite, the smallest damsel in the class. Her eyes were the bluest of blues fringed with sooty lashes. Her face was a model for a cherub, pale rose cheeks, cupid's bow mouth, surrounded by mounds of fluffy honey gold curls. Dainty and dimpled, a very kitten of a girl, with the soul of a pit bull.

Anna dreamed of getting even with her someday. The first day Anna came to Madame Chardon's Academy for Young Ladies Dovey took one look at the little gold ring on Anna's finger and narrowed her eyes. Anna's mama had given her the ring as a birthday gift before she died, a ring she had worn as a girl when her mama gave it to her, having worn it herself as a child. Anna was the third generation of Smithson women to wear the ring, a dainty gold band with tiny lapis forget-me-nots entwined around it. Dovey could not know the words 'to my beloved daughter' were engraved in delicate Spencerian script inside, but Anna did. When she saw the little band on her hand she felt her mothers arms around her and could smell her sweet perfume. The ring was her dearest possession. And Dovey wanted it.

At luncheon Dovey made her first attempt to get the ring. Dovey and her coterie circled around Anna, gushing over her Paris fashions and shiny satin boots and the ring.

"What a quaint little ring!" exclaimed Dovey. "I'll give you my pearl beads in exchange for it. They're genuine pearls, my papa paid a hundred dollars for them"

Anna had her doubts that the pearls were real, but even if they had cost a million dollars, she would not have been tempted to trade.

"I'm terribly sorry," Anna said, although she wasn't. She squared her shoulders and looked Dovey directly in the eye, "This ring was a gift from my mother and I could never part with it."

"Never, ever?" queried Dovey, in a tone of sweetness Anna would learn to loathe.

"Never, ever." Anna was quite firm in her reply, continuing to look Dovey in the eyes.

Dovey batted her eyes. "We'll see," she answered, in a voice even more dulcet.

Anna was not paying attention when Millicent Picardi told Madam Chardon her fountain pen was missing. She was not paying attention when Dovey sidled up to Madam Chardon and whispered in her ear, making quick little glances at Anna. Thus Anna had no idea what Madam wanted when she called Anna to her desk at the front of the room.

"Miss Smithson, would you please bring me your reticule."

Anna bobbed the obligatory curtsey and brought forth her reticule, handing it over to the Headmistress calmly.

Madam opened the reticule and pulled out a fountain pen. "Is this your pen, Miss Picardi?"

"Oh, Yes! I can tell by the cherub on the end. Papa brought it especially for me when he was in Vienna."

"Miss Smithson, how did this pen find its way into your reticule?"

"I don't know, Madam Chardon. Perhaps you should ask Miss Picardi or Miss Grace."

Millicent and Dovey looked appropriately shocked. Madam Chardon pressed her thin lips into an even thinner line. "Are you accusing them of putting Miss Picardi's pen in your reticule?"

"Yes, Madam Chardon."

"Why on earth would either girl do such a heinous thing, Miss Smithson?"

"Because I would not give Miss Grace my ring."

"That is most ridiculous thing I have heard in my life! Go stand before the board."

Anna did so, her head held like a princess, her face tranquil as a summer pond.

Madam Chardon wrote something above her head in terse letters and the other girls twittered. Madam Chardon whirled around. "Ladies, it is impolite to laugh at the misfortunes of others, even when those misfortunes are so rightly deserved." She shot Anna a withering glare.

"I am quite disappointed in you, Miss Smithson. This is not a good foot to be starting out on. I was under the impression you were a young lady of quality."

"I am also quite disappointed. I was under the impression this was a school for young ladies of quality."

Madam Chardon gaped at Anna, her mouth open like a codfish. The other girls looked at each other suppressing giggles.

Madam Chardon recovered her powers of speech, snapping her mouth closed. "Miss Impertinence! You may stay standing at the board until Matins."

Madam Chardon returned to her desk. Anna looked coolly at Dovey, who returned the stare coldly, neither backing down. Anna mouthed the word, "Never." Dovey smiled sweetly.

War had been declared.

THE STRANGE ADVENTURE OF OLIBANUM FRANKS AND THE THIEF OF WORDS

2006-04-02T19:22:00.000-07:00

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

2006-04-02T18:11:00.000-07:00

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

2006-04-01T14:56:00.000-08:00

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

2006-04-01T04:26:00.000-08:00

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

Gift of Solitude

2006-03-26T13:21:00.000-08:00

A 'view' of Owl Island
Actually taken near the Antarctic by an unknown photographer

We all need time alone. Even those of us who are social butterflies need some time to ourselves. Solitude is necessary for meditation and quiet reflection. We also may choose to isolate ourselves when we are busy and need to meet a deadline. We may cherish time alone when we want to give ourselves over to art or music, lose ourselves in a good book, or delve into a personal project. Having time to ourselves allows us to focus completely on our yoga practice or get into the zone while running or strength training. Sometimes we need to be alone to simply do nothing but enjoy the sound of silence. Our alone time revitalizes and replenishes us, grounding us in our own company.

Yet, too much isolation, especially when our intention is to hide, withdraw, or not deal with the realities of our lives is not physically, mentally, or spiritually healthy. It is during moments like these when being in isolation takes us away from our lives, rather than enhancing it. If anything, too much isolation can create a buffer whereby we don't have to deal with our problems. Sometimes, pushing ourselves to deal with our issues and be in our lives, rather than isolate, is one of the best gifts we can give to ourselves.

Also, just as it is important for us to have our "alone" time, we need to remember that as human beings, we are by nature social creatures that thrive on human contact. Our lives cannot occur in a vacuum, and we cannot fully live in this world without interacting with others. Consider using isolation as time spent for rest, reinvigoration, and personal growth. Isolation can then not only empower you, but it can allow you to return to your work and your relationships restored and ready for life. from Daily OM

Two of my favourite books are Journal of a Solitude by May Sarton and Gift From the Sea by Anne Morrow Lindberg. I have been enjoying the 'solitude' of Owl Island where I have been sketching and spending quality solitary time.

This week consider escaping from the madness of society, take some 'alone time' and share your thoughts and feelings here, at Riversleigh, lwithin the sanctuary of the Lemurian Hermitage or in the Salon du Soul.

The Tea Leaves Speak

2006-03-24T04:33:00.000-08:00

An Invitation

It's time to join the Mad Hatter and Alice along with their friends the White Rabbit and the Queen of Heart for tea. Write a story, whip up some lyrics, include lashings of dialogue, dance to drums or quite literally do whatever takes your fancy….

What is there to see in tea leaves?

Individuals form a unique pattern born of their energy. When energy flows freely through the body and mind, it imparts to the tea leaves a reflection of its light.

When the flow of energy is constricted, or banned from natural channels, the leaves are dense and severe.

I scry the leaves and speak their message; the translations of individuals’ own self, which they are unable to decipher unassisted. Just as physical insults alter the functioning of the organ systems, so do life experiences alter the unique quality of personal energy as it surrounds, enters, circulates, and emerges from each of us. Many avenues have been devised to read the river of energy as it carries the life current of self.

The tea leaves speak this to me.

He wandered casually in the door feigning indifference as he moved among the canisters of tea. I was seated at the window table surrounded by the usual brood of tittering matrons. The power of his energy virtually quivered the tea leaves in the bottom of my cup.

I watched in fascination as they spun through all the days of his existence then rested at this very moment. Oblivious to the surrounding banter, and momentarily transfixed by the revelation before me, I slowly raised my gaze to lock with his. Neither of us wavered as I pointed to the sign mounted prominently behind the counter.

Finally, his gaze shifted in this direction. The room drew silent. Then with ears flattened, he hopped silently out the door. I rose to retrieve the envelope from the floor.

by Beetle Bug

Mad Hatter Monday - floral arrangements

2006-03-23T00:30:00.000-08:00

These wonderful hats appeared in a French weekly review called "Illustrated Fashion" in April 1890.

I have decided to add a bit of my own madness with a view to wearing one of them to the Mad Hatter's tea party

Tea Time At Riversleigh Manor

2006-03-22T15:53:00.000-08:00

Riversleigh Manor isn’t just a house and it isn’t named for the River that runs below it that dried up and died years ago.

It was named for a family called Riversleigh.

The person who know this story best is named Acantha Deverell
and she takes her tea at Riversleigh Manor by Moonlight. If you’re really curious about Riversleigh and most of the guests here are you could join her and ask her about the Riversleigh Family.

Acantha is always dressed in black and she sits alone in the library
every night as she sips her hot poisonous drink and nibbles on her deadly dessert and admires the little fine bone china cup crafted by her own hand at her Father’s request.

The request came one dark winter many years ago on the night Mr Riversleigh rode out to Deverell Hall and demanded to see Mr Albido Deverell.

Mr Riversleigh stood in the Great Hall and called out over and over again until Albido appeared right behind him where he was warming his hands over a cold dark fire in the massive marble fireplace.

“ Mr Riversleigh what on earth would bring you out on night like this? What am I saying? What on Earth could get you to leave the Manor at all?”

Faxon Riversleigh could barely speak, “ you know why I’m here and I want you to do something about it. That new Sheriff from that town down the river in Duwamish Bay, she’s the reason I’m here. She knows about us and she’s coming for us all.”

Albido Deverell smiled, and Faxon backed up and away from those jagged pointed teeth “ she’s from the Sawajinn Family and my friend there is no getting away from them. Not for people like us. “

“ I don’t care what family she’s from, get rid of her.”

“ And why should I bring the Law and the Warden of Sawajinn into my house Riversleigh when you’re the one with the bodies. My heavens man they’re in the walls and below the floorboards and the River…how on Earth did you manage to kill that?”

“ I did it for you Deverell, I fed you and this nest of creatures you have as a family. “

“ And in return Riversleigh…oh the things you’ve received in return have you forgotten them? You handed me flesh and bone and in return
I handed you gold and jewels and art and immortality Riversleigh. Don’t forget that my friend… the immortality. Nothing can kill you, you and yours will never die.”

“ Oh thank you so much for that, my insane children, my wife has
turned into a living corpse that spends her time in the catacombs
below my home thanks you so much for that. “

“ You’re welcome. I’ve always liked Elizabeth.”

Riversleigh would have liked to twist Deverell’s head right off of his shoulders and he would have if he thought it would have made a difference.

“ The Warden only comes for things that bring attention to Duwamish Bay. She’s ready to take us all to Sawajinn and I have to say, I’m not anxious to go back there. So I’ve made a deal of sorts with her” Deverell sounded very pleased with himself.

“ With the Warden?”

Deverell wasn’t smiling now “ a most unpleasant creature to deal with. She was no sport at all. We’ve come to an arrangement.”

“ What’s going to happen to us? “

“ She wants assurance that you and your family never leave Riversleigh. If I can keep my end of the bargain she won’t take me back to Sawajinn. That foul beast assured me she would take me back piece by piece and to prove her point she killed my wives and staff right in front of me.” Deverell actually choked up and cried out in agony “Do you have any idea Riversleigh how hard it is to find good help now days? “

Riversleigh knew it was pointless to yell or run or beg so he just asked, “ are you going to kill us Deverell?”

“ The deal Riversleigh is to keep you in your house and I think I’ve found a way to do that, in fact I’ve started already.”

There was a mound of ash at least four feet high in the massive stone fireplace and Riversleigh saw scattered around the fireplace lttle gold and silver buttons and small bits of bone.

“ My daughter Acantha is a talented artist Riversleigh and she’s been away learning a new craft. I must say I found it a bit unappetizing but we do what we can to support those we love. Don’t we? She’s learned to make something called Bone China. Have you heard of it?”

Riversleigh shook his head and the floor dropped from beneath his feet.

“Go down to the basement where she works Riversleigh I think you’re going to be amazed at what you can create from a little ash and sand.”

Three months later Acantha brought a set of beautiful bone china teacups and a lovely teapot to Riversleigh Manor. Mrs. Clark, the housekeeper, allowed Acantha into the Manor and she watched as the young woman carefully set the table for tea.

“ It’s a shame Mrs. Riversleigh isn’t here to see this lovely setting. I don’t know where the family is. You know how they are Miss. The Riversleighs have always said they’d never leave this place.”

The delicate cups sat in a ring around the teapot and Mrs. Clark saw that there was one for each member of the family. They were painted with small purple flowers and little raised bumps that looked like eyes rimmed the saucers.

They were strange little things but all the same the Housekeeper felt her hands twitch and she was about to reach for one of the cups when she thought she heard Mrs. Riversleigh calling out to her. Or could it have been one of the girls? How faint and at the same time how close their voices sounded!

Then the sounds were gone.

Acantha brought one of the little cups to her cheek and smiled “ They’re closer then you think Mrs. Clark. Would you care to join us for tea? “

An Invitation

2006-03-19T04:00:00.000-08:00

Don't Be Late!
For a Very Important Date
"name" Birthday Party
If you're feeling quite MAD
We'll make you right GLAD
On the date that is given below.
Come in foolish Attire
For all to admire.

It's time to join the Mad Hatter and Alice along with their friends the White Rabbit and the Queen of Heart for tea. Create a mad afternoon tea for yourself and set out places for the Mad Hatter, Alic, White Rabbit and the Queen of Hearts. Get in the mood by wearing some foolish attire.

You might devise some large playing cards and come up with games such as
1. Pin the handle on the tea pot.
2. Hot Teapot.
3. Teabag Hunt.

Design clever, totally mad teapots.

Share your day, writing and designs with us. You can do illustrations in your sketch book, make an ATC, design a playing card poster, create a hat for the hat parade, write a story, whip up some lyrics, include lashings of dialogue, dance to drums or quite literally do whatever takes your fancy.

Post your responses at Riversleigh, the Salon du Soul or on your own blogger but do make sure to have your blogger listed here if that is what you choose to do.

Madness at Riversleigh

2006-03-17T23:50:00.000-08:00

http://www.dailywriting.net/MadPartyRoom.htm
I tried to play by the rulesI really did, but this is what I came up with for this prompt ( which was TONZ of fun )
So what can I say besides........
Abandon hope all who enter here.....

Do you know what’s buried under Riversleigh Manor? Do you know why it gets so dark there at night even when the lights are on and blazing?

All you have to do is follow the shadows.

Just don’t let them know you’re watching.

At nightfall the shadows break away from the corners and come from under the beds and out of the closets and they creep and crawl and hiss along the cold hardwood floors. They pass over sleeping faces and pull at hands and feet silly enough to stray from under heavy blankets and quilts sewn by women dead for over a hundred years.

They search the attics and basements and linger over places like the front hall where Mrs. Undercroft was found dead and cold with small purple flowers clutched in one hand and more of them falling from her lips.

They pass quietly over the desk where Mr Undercroft took the life of his daughter Elizabeth. He crushed the back of her skull with a small stone gargoyle carved from marble and he held it against her wound as it fed.

Then the shadows move to the attics where Mrs. Undercrofts daughter Bedelia was kept. The darkness liked Bedelia Undercroft and spent hours with her as she gave reading and math and music lessons to children born from Bedelia’s insane and unstable mind.

There were no children with Bedelia in that room.

That’s what the residents of Riversleigh would say; there were no children up there with Bedelia.

They’d cover their ears and chant over and over “ there are no children up there, there are no children up there”. They said that louder when they heard the laughing and chuckling and small voices dutifully repeating Bedelia’s lessons.

Bedelia gave art lessons to her Phantom school children and their dark and twisted images of screaming faces and twisted bodies with to many or not enough limbs were tacked to the walls under little green tiles decorated with the alphabet and ducks.

But the darkness knew those little students that attended Bedelia’s classes, and it was the darkness that took the students away when their lessons were done. Even the Manor’s soon to be gardener Mr Eramus Undercroft (at the time he was simply known as Uncle Eramus) would stop by and watch Bedelia teach her little pupils about bones and hearts and curses and poisons and fear.

Mr Eramus Undercroft who took lives and souls for the pure pleasure of the act (and he knew several dark acts) was stunned and humbled by the wealth of knowledge Miss Bedelia had at her fingertips.

And then one day after giving a long and difficult lesson in something Bedelia called
Sin Eating the carpet under her feet began to buckle and twist and she was pulled down through floors and then the ceilings over and over again until she reached the foundation of Riversleigh.

“ Bedelia, Bedelia teach me what you know,” something said into her ear.

Bedelia couldn’t really answer because her mouth was full of sour dark earth. But she opened her mouth and from the back of her throat she hissed, “ yesss… I'd love too.”

And she taught Riversleigh everything she knew.

She hasn't stopped teaching Riversleigh and she never will.

So now you know what’s buried under Riversleigh and that’s why it’s so dark there no matter how many lights are blazing.

Aren't you glad you asked?

by Anita Marie Moscoso

As the squirrel scampers

2006-03-15T03:43:00.000-08:00

As the squirrel scampers inside a nearby oak tree you leap to your feet and follow......

"Who is he kidding", I pensively pout.
The size of that hole has filled me with doubt.
His nutty-crammed cheeks barely cleared the slit,
Inside he taunts: "Fatso- you're sure unfit!!"
I swear he stuck out his tongue and pawed his nose,
With each of these gestures my blood pressure rose.
"This renegade rodent ain't gonna mock turtle me,
crashing this circle, disrupting all tranquility.

I spun on my heels and headed back to the ship,
slung my 20 gauge laser onto my right hip.
The moral is clear, better "Be what you would seem to be"
or your liable to get blasted from the trunk of your tree.
A squirrel should chatter, and scavenge hard for next winter,
not be a pain in the butt like a sharp wooden splinter.

by Beetle Bug Coffee Mug

March 13 Not Quite Alice

2006-03-15T02:17:00.000-08:00

You have been sitting within the circle of trees but you are beginning to feel tired of having nothing to do: your book has bored you as it has no pictures or conversation. Momentarily you consider making a daisy-chain, think of sitting under this tree checking to see if the daisies reveal your love of butter. You pick some golden yellow daisies and carefully break slits in the lush green stems. These daisies have nice thick stems and the chain forms quite easily. As you sit concentrating on the daisies you become aware that someone is watching you. A small brown squirrel, with a bushy tail that could easily become a duster, has sat right next to you. There is nothing remarkable about this, for in this part of the world squirrels scamper with gay abandon, busily collecting acorns from the heavily laden oak trees. The fact that the small creature sighs and remarks that "if you are going to come you better put your best clothes on" startles you. You realize that never before have you heard a squirrel speak, let alone seen one pull a watch out of its pocket and comment on the need to hasten. As the squirrel scampers inside a nearby oak tree you leap to your feet and follow......

Begin writing. Do not worry about grammar or spelling. Just write for twenty minutes.