Saving For The Future, Mountain Grown

Above the average bare who wear the texture of strength and fortitude worn with a handmade silver fibula fasten at the shoulder with love.

The Fair Stratagem

Eureka is a captivating little frontier town tucked away between two mountains passes. A place where unsuspecting.... strangers come to get away from the poison gasses of city life among other reasons. If they linger to long, they may discover the haunting truth about the quantal place, the native people, and what lurks within the many abandoned mines.
The frightened townsfolk mass together, safety in numbers is their joie de vivre rule. Power lines feed electric wattage to hungry power consumers, never the less, calamities dispassion lays claim to giving the devil his due. And a river of tears flows to the sea in the name of half-hearted poverty.

The Portal Crossing

Siskiyou sat very still, starring at his salad plate, in deep thought, private hell... the look of a honorable man faced with an unsolvable dilemma. The salad dressing had a delicate magical flavor. He had to admit, Bobby Twofeathers was an exceptional apprentice chief. The new Commandor of the Western Republic Free Space Sector had not tasted such food in months. The smell of roast chicken continued to drift from the kitchen. Sweet floating ribbons of caramelized potatoes, carrots, turnips mingled, weaving their way from his nose to torture his mind and his empty growling belly.

The lights flickered several times in rapped succession, dimming ever so slowly until darkness folded like the sealing of a letter in an envelope.

"Not to worry." said Victor cheerfuly.

"How romantic!" Gertrude cooed. Shay Patrick leaned carefully forward toward the table's center piece, an arrangement of imported North Carolina magnolias and short needle evergreens with several candles artfully placed here and there on the white linen cloth. A metalic click sounded. The flame from the American made Zeppo lighter lit up the dark room like a torch. After lighting the table candles, Shay lit the tall candelabra that sat on the birds eye cherry credenza next to the rather large bouquet of purple lilacs.

"You are most correct my dear Gertrude. Romance is a mood that may be found in the most unfortunate circumstances." Soft light cast flickering shadows on Victor's porkchop

cheeks, his beadywide eyes were shinning brightly, reflecting the study flame of the homemade candles. The magic beeswax candles, a birthday gift given to Pendragon by Gertrude.

"Mother please, it's hard enough to sit here. This opulence is obscene. People in other worlds are starving. Wars rage throughout many lands while we sit here and play nice nice." Commander Dean Siskiyou's voice quivered in anger. He made a sweeping motion over the table. The candles flickered in the motion of air disturbed by the wave of his hand. We are consuming more food in this one sitting than some families I know eat in a month.

"My word." Jeff said, rolling his eyes at Shay Patrick who looked dumb struck.

"Well la-tee-DA! Tisk-tisk, and all that Jolly Rot." Siskiyou oozed, gripped his salad fork as if he were squeezing Jeffery's neck. The cutting edge of his voice, and his starring eyes were razor sharp.

"That's enough of that boys. I won't warn you again." Turning her head to look at Pendragon. She continued. "You must forgive Dean, he tends to be a bit sanguinary, bearish at times. It must be difficult to slide between the many poor and war torn worlds he visits. His passion to save the Republic Federation from the evil alien Corporate Magistrate is-- I suspect directly inherited from his father side of the family. I will say no more on the subject."

Thumping sounds could be heard from the kitchen, it was Junior chewing on his ham bone.

CloudMaker Mountain

Standing rigid and silent with his big hands tightly gripping the back of the dinning room chair, the stranger awaits Pendragons return from the kitchen and his little pep talk with Bobby.
The smell of cannon and gunpowder slowly wafts down the hallway, through the living room, and into the dinning room. Jeff and Shay Patrick look at each other in a casual haut monde manner, and roll their eyes.
"Captain Siskiyou, let me introduce you to my good friends, this is..."
"It's Commander now Victor. I do not wish to seem rude, but I have read the files on each of your friends that now sit at this table and..."
Gertrude stood up abruptly, her small blue eyes sending daggers of light at Siskiyou.
"I'm sure you have Commander, however, you will conduct yourself as a gentle man and an officer at this table. I am aware that you have come through from a parallel world at war. As you know this is a place of peace, a neutrality zone. Pendragon's hard working apprentice Bobby Twofeathers has been so gracious as to prepare a wonderful meal for us, and you will enjoy his efforts. Do I make myself clear Commander?"
"Yes Mother."
With his mouth agape, Pendragon's soup spoon shuttered to an abrupt stop, as did Shay Patricks. Bobby had just picked up the tail end of the conversation as he came from the kitchen carrying the heavy crystal salad bowl.
"Gertrude, you didn't tell us Captain Siskiyou is your son."
"Sit down dear Bobby, your Créme au Potiron is delightful. Don't you agree Jeffery? Jeff's head nodded like a glued on back window baseball Kewpie doll, minus the grin. Victor raised his napkin, light dabbed at the yellow soup that had spilled on his silk vest.
"The Chicken is done, although I think the oven needs calibrating."

A howl erupted from the back yard, a mournful howl as ever was to be heard on the moors of Lockmab. The windows suddenly shook as thunder and lighting light up the night sky. The rain pours down as if it would never stop.
"Go get your dog big shot." said Gertrude with a wave of her hand towards the kitchen and the backdoor."
"I'll get him for you." Bobby was up and heading for the kitchen before anyone had a chance to say a word. He peeked in the warming oven for a moment to check on his chicken, grabbed a large towel from the linen rack, then opened the back door. The wolfhound stood with a most mournful sadness about him. Those sad eyes tugged at Bobby's heartstrings. "Get in here Junior you're soaking wet and freezing by the looks of you." The ham bone remained firmly clinched in the big dogs teeth. Bobby bent to cover the shivering hound with a towel before he had a chance to shake water all over Pendragon's kitchen floor. "Dang dog, I need another towel".
"Here Bobby." Victor handed bobby a large towel, and lay a wool blanket down.
"He's gonna make a mess Mr. Pendragon."
"I know. It's okay, we can clean it up later. He'll be warm and safe for now."
"How come things never seem to turn out the way you would like them to?"
"Never? Are you giving up? "Victor Pendragon's smile always made Bobby feel better. Chin up my boy, wash your hands, and serve our guests their dinner. I'll open that special bottle of white wine I've been saving. I think this occasion calls for something special to go with your rosemary and thyme roast chicken.
The wolfhound lay with his head down as he stretched out on the warm wool blanket. Junior's big eyes seemed follow Victor and Bobby's every move as they returned to the dinning room. His big paw remained draped protectively over the well gnawed ham bone. Some things, like true friendship are worth holding on to.

Ham Bone Magic

Bobby pauses momentarily, almost respectfully, as he places both hands on the counter, and leans forward with his head down. As Mr. Pendragon's apprentice he has spent hours mopping floors, scrubbing pots, peeling vegetables...an experience that was not wasted on him. No one had ever given him a chance before Mr. Pendragon came into his life. Victor was a hard task-master, one had to earn the right to apprentice in his book. Bobby Twofeathers wouldn't give up, he would show up everyday at Pendragons door asking if he could help in some small way. To have a passion to learn about cooking is more than just wanting to cook, it's about loving those you feed, that's where the real magic is.
Taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, bobby reaches for the large cut crystal salad bowl, and the fresh herb dressing.
"What weighs heavy on you Bobby?" Victor's hand rest lightly on Bobby's shoulder. "When you do your best you're really in competition with yourself you know. We're here not to judge, or criticize your cooking skills Bobby, but to enjoy and share each others friendship. Food is a good way to do just that. Soon you will understand that the best cooks keep trying to please themselves first. Now into the dinning room with you and let me introduce you to Captain Siskiyu. That man will eat almost anything when he's hungry. By the way, isn't there a ham bone I was saving for stock in the refrigerator? I'm sure Junior would appreciate something to sink his teeth into."
"That big dogs name is Junior? Bruno, or Cereabus, Killer seems fitting... but Junior?"
A low growl comes from behind Pendragaon's big butt.
"Oh!" says Victor. "We were just talking about you."
A curled lip snarl and a rack of white fangs seemed less frightening than the Irish Wolfhounds big eyes that stared directly at Bobby.
"Don't you be drooling on my kitchen floor Junior, or I'll have Gertrude turn you into a Pink Poodle."
Throwing the ham bone out the back door, the Wolfhound was not far behind.. bounding out into the yard as if he were a happy pup.
"He might be big and scary looking my dear man, however, from the stories I've heard, he has saved Captain Siskiyu's life on many occasion."

The Magic Cook Book/part two

Jeff Fruitnick and Shay Patrick sat themselves on tall kitchen stools. Sipping their sherry, they began playfully ribbing Bobby Twofeathers as he stirred the simmering content of a copper sauce pan with a wooden spoon. With his starched white apron showing his fastidiousness, and his chiefs hat worn low and to one side Louisiana style, Bobby certainly looked the part of a man that could cook..
"Go ahead and laugh." he said with a pouting grin. "You can still be my friends when I'm a rich and famous Chief."
"What's money have to do with it Bobby?" Shay ask.
"What's money have do do with it? Why everything. Jeff has all those leisure suits, and you Shay Patrick are hung-up on bow ties, and I have a dream. Is it wrong to want to be somebody?"
A high pitched voice answered. "You already are somebody Bobby, a very special somebody, my friend, we love you." Gertrude Perlskin stood with her arms crossed, her shoulder lightly leaning against the the kitchen's archway entrance. Her wool tweed jacket, white silk blouse, and grey flannel slacks had seen better days, and yet she wore them as if she had just stepped off a plane from London on a boutique shopping spree. Her ironwood fox-head umbrella rested in Pengragon's Ohio Roseville umbrella stand in the foyer.
Gertrude Perlskin stood half the height of Bobby Twofeathers. She had to bend her neck back to an uncomfortable position to look him in the face. Bobby took several sideways steps from the stove, bent low to kiss her on the cheek.
"Thanks Gertrude." he said, then stepped back to the counter to glance over the notes Pendragon had written out concerning the various recipes for that nights dinner. Bobby vowed he would do his very best. Attention to detail was his forte...he loved to cook for his friends. After all, food prepared with love is a joy in life, pure magic as Pendragon would say.
"As always Bobby, whatever you're cooking smells wonderful. What are we having for dinner tonight?"
"Jeff, you're the man with a keen nose, can you guess?" Victors pearly smile and Bobby's toothy grin turned to Jeffery. Jeffery closed his eyes for a moment to answer.
"Roast Chicken with rosemary and thyme... caramelized potatoes, turnips, and carrots."
"Yes!" said Victor proudly, as he poured Jeff another sherry. Shay Patrick adjusted his bow tie as if he had known all along Jeff would know the answer.
"Victor, where is this mystery man you have invited to dinner?" Gertrude's bird like voice seemed to have a hint of impatiences in her question... just as the doorbell ring.
"Please, all of you into the dinning room." Bobby ladled the Créme au Potiron soup into a large tureen, and pulled a tray of golden brown croutons from the broiler oven. Pendragon's velvet smooth pumpkin purée with fresh ground white pepper is called comfort food. When cold winter rains pelted on the many window panes that looked out over the stormy moors of Lockmab, it is always a warm and cosy time for Mr. P's Créme au Potiron.
"Oh My!" said Gurtrude. She could see into the foyer area from where she stood as they all gathered around the dinning room table. She could see a big hulk of a man handing a wet oiled leather slicker, and a...'what were they called in the American West?' a tin gallon hat to Pendragon. The big man was not alone. By his side was the biggest dog Gurtrude Perlskin had ever seen.
Both Jeff and Shay sucked in air as if it might be their last breath, as they looked over their shoulders toward the front door. Coming from the kitchen, Bobby too looked towards the door just as he placed the hot soup tureen on the table. From the look on his face, and his shaking hands as he pulled away from the table, it was a good thing he hadn't looked a moment sooner, or they would have all been wearing Pumpkin soup for dinner. Without saying a word, Bobby did a quick about-face and hurried back into the kitchen.

Where Do We Go From Here?

A Place To Steep

If I had a postage stamp piece of land of my own, I would build something weird to live in, a place to steep. At this time in my life, I live in a rented house by the Kettle River, and my closet is full of shoes.

The Smell of Spring

After feeding my shadow by writing some weird sf stories, I'm looking forward to getting outside for some fresh air. The grass in the yard and meadow has grown a foot higher in the past couple of days. Spring has so many shades of green. The sheep across the road seem to be enjoying the new grass.







In her victory garden,
The grass grows all around.
She plants, you digs,
She waves her twig.
Sweet Anna Marie Brown .

The Bizarre Is Open

"Penelope! Fasten your fat ass seat belt, and hold on to your thinking cap. We're blasting off this primeval hell hole." From the blackness of night, a dense shadow moves slowly across the desert landscape towards the rocket-shaped silver ship.
"What the bloody hell. Look!" Pointing a shaking finger at the yellow view screen, the overlay web-grid flashes several times and blinks out.
"Didn't I tell you to fix that when we first landed? Didn't I?"
"Don't get your spandex in a wad mama. It's not like we don't know how to blast off blind." With a gloating glance at his brassy bimbo, Bruce Boston flips several agamic FDL switches into action.
"Okay Mr. Machismo." she says in his ear, "But just in case you haven't notced, that mordacious slithering thing has just coiled its self around our ships landing gear."
"It's time to Rock and Roll! Pump-up the electromagnetic magneto Baby, outrageous charcoal barbecue is on the menu. We'll show our Chitauri friend out there, his old space bucket still has a rare trick or two up her skirt fins."
Thumping the console twice with the back of his sausage sized knuckles, Bruce Boston watches the viewing screen explode in raw waves of flesh.
"Oh My! That had to have hurt." Penelope Boston adjusts her shoulders back and forth in her overstuffed chair, her zippered space suit showing the full extent of her full-noon cleavage. Looking at the back of her hand, highly polished plum-coloured fingernails reflect Bruce's toothy grin.
"Where to Baby Cakes?"
In a whorl of gray smoke, dust, and chard cinders, a silver cylinder lifts up.
"I hear close encounters of fifth dimension are playing in Alpha Draconis."
Against the backdrop of black velvet, the darkness swallowed them.

The Lock of Relegate

My ship I fear lost, I have no device to measure real time on this frightful prison planet. I try to blockout the alien's meslée, a mellifluous communication. Their sonic language can kill. It is similar to an earwig that eats into the brain, leaving only a hollow shell of a skull behind, When the madness of being alone weakens me, I listen in the night to their piped-in lies. It feeds on my brain, killing my strength ever so slowly. Soon the planet's temperature will increase, scorching all life on the surface.
"Good riddens remora." I say.
A nasty Epocolips death they called it. In my cell at the bottom of a deep cave shaft, I spit out a hot stream of salty blood after pulling another festering tooth, and I curse their fat rotting flesh to hell.
The cold slime in this prison grows thick, the stench unbearable. What little air allotted to me is feted. A gelatinous insect creature shimmers at my cell door. Casting a faint glow, it speaks in a high auditory tone.
"We offer you the same deal as we offered to your shipmates; comply and we will release you as we did them."
"Eat my shorts mush face." I suck a fresh clot of blood and spit it through the bars of the cave. The creature hue reddens as it turns away... again leaving me in the dark.
Something scurries over my bear feet. I stomp a shuttered dance to kill it, and wonder if there are more of them waiting to catch me off guard. There have been times when I have awakened to them feasting on my feet.
I have escaped this prison many times only to be recaptured and beaten. They torture me in ways only mankind can think up, yet I am still here.

Getting The Picture

"If a writer of prose knows enough about what he is writing about he may omit things that will have a feeling of those things as strong as though the writer had stated them. The dignity of movement of an iceburg is due to only one-eight of it being above water. A good wrier does not need to reveal every detail of a character or action." Ernest Hemingway

In todays fast-paced world Hemingway's "For sale: baby shoes, never worn." seems to fit. Flash fiction is snapshot photo in words, ideas and thoughts, something for the mind to savor, like the marrow of a tasty bone.

I remember my dad baking a pan full of beef bones he had brought home from the slatter house where he worked as a skinner. He told me only the very rich knew how to enjoy crackers spread with bone morrow. At the time I thought he was just trying to make me feel better because that all we had to eat. Many years later, as I was reading a menu while sitting in a La Tee Da restaurant in Paris, I remembered what he had said. He hadn't lie to me, and to this day I'm grateful. My dad(Emmit Author)had the mojo as he would say. A magic way of teaching me, that no matter where you are, no matter how rich or poor, food served with soul is love.

The Locked Door/A Short Story

They're not coming back for us are they?

The Enigmatic Game Book

In a mote the stardust matrix slept,

Formidable springe of memories kept,

Hidden, that now waiting end.

Grey manikin, these last days when

Draconian kiss the innocent mirror.

Awake, precisely, time travels in a aery cage,

And I sing of discernments sorrow,

Thus staccoto from my banding love.

Down, down the flexous energy drain,

A bitter rain of flagging stain sapience.

Yet hope to espy before the coda nix.

They betrayed, now nothing more than carrion?

An amalgamate stage and she a cunning thespian.

For to know the secrets of the light,

The brightest live in the dark.

Time erode a way kilter my navicular in life.

Beings lissom her rebellion,

Oh my ringing pate,

Learned junto's bite cut apart my neonate.

Corsairs! Requite reason is hidebound park.

Apogee bonhomie, is the tinny calix of Chimera.

Proscribe, suspire, now I tire...Goodyear but a name,

Fame fan the keloid flame of dormer laver avatar.

The Open Bottle Message

On high a choir of angels sing,

Goes down the lady and her man.

Dark alleyway led by unseen hand,

Both now wear a wedding ring.

Regal lead fat lamb fathered,

The first born misbegoten lame.

Born of natural way,

Up the rebate demond came.

Sticky sweet the soul of life,

Lost is screw-top, an empty bottle sap.

Many pray from pamphlet pages,

Indebt roll, an indecent assault.

Few believe, blood of rape war wages,

Fuel leaking, cold creeping on stage.

Her last chance, this love redeeming.

Introspection, Eat It, Or Wear It

The Flame Of Seide

There are places I remember, galaxies where energy forces appear to blur the boundaries of the natural known laws of physics. These places overlap what is possible and what is thought to be inherently impossible...regions where thought energy and physical reality come together. From the beginning of the idea of time, these places have been called many names in the ancient language of the little know space travelers that guard them.

"You must protect and care for her as if she was born to you. Teach her in the ways of her Drachon ancestors. She is from two heroic bloodlines that were forbidden to marry. However, as you can see, their love and the passion of attraction were stronger than the bonds of planetary rules." Wrapped in a silk woven blanket of rainbow colours, the baby cooed and gurgled, her wide eyes starring at the scare face man who roughly shoved the bundle into the grasp of Wonew Maet. The stout and heavily armored women stepped back in shock.

"You can't expect to take care of this. Are you out of your ever-loving mind? I don't know anything about babies. I lost an arm in battle. You need two strong arms to take care of a baby." Wonew Maet held up her stump left arm as she cradled the baby in her right.

"You will learn. Noblesse Oblige." said the Captain sternly. A slight smile folded the ugly scar that ran from his temple to his chin as if it were weathered parchment.

"What's done is done, what you cradle in your arm is the hope of our people and yours. All of you will be safe here on Ploutos. The Magistrate Dactyls will be hunting for her, so keep her hidden, keep her safe until she is of the age to fight them."

"Oh! Oh! The little..." with a look of disgust, and turned-up nose, Wonew Maet held the baby at arm length.

The laughter of the Captain echoed through the rocky canyon as he walked to his spaceship, the infamous Coq au vin.

Gag Factor

Diane Arbus a gutsy welder,
With a wild wonder eye.
Photos, see special people,
Camera breaking the rules.
Black and white showings,
Tool of the gypsy trade.
Tickets to see, easy to swallow.
To live by the polished sword...
We all get the point in the end.
Tent pegs hold ropes in the wind,
Finger snaps light study,
Caught in the nick of time.

To Be In Balance

This is a photo I took several years ago, it was taken outside by back door after a rain storm.
I'm learning about copyright rules.
When I started blogging, I learned to click on photos from around the world and save them to my computer so I could use them on my blog. Now I find out that's not lawful if the photos are copyrighted. I have a head full of ideas and questions as to why. I don't have the money, or know now to copyright. Does that mean only rich people can be an artist? People have stolen so much from me, I say, take it, but only if I give it.

I am blessed with many gifts. There are many people in my life who know and love me, and most of all, they trust me. I am a trustworthy person. I sleep very well at night (that's a blessing too). I wouldn't think of stealing somebody's art work and selling it as my own...Hell, I give most of my shit away. I would love to have some of my work published, but as you can see my spelling and grammar isn't up to par. So I'm not as smart as those who make moneyat writing. I don't need lots of money.

I know how to make money. Work! I have been self employed most of my life, and didn't have the time for school learning like most people. I was busy working, yet I love to learn, and have paid a high high price. Being cold and hungry, spit on, lied to, etc. is no fun, but it made me dig deep within myself. I can stand up straight even though I'm gay, look anyone in the eyes and be afraid and also have courage. I would like to say what other people think of me doesn't bother me, but that would be a lie, because I do. It hurts me...somewhere I read, "It takes a river of tears to water the soul."(I wonder if the saying is copyrighted?) As my mother would say, "You can't get blood from a turnip, and they can't cut you up and eat you." I don't know ma, they are sure trying. If she was here she would say, "Bless your little pointed head." and follow that with a kiss and a hug. (Mom, I could use a hug right now. Don't worry daddy, I'm still standing. It took four of then to knock me down, but I got right back up. Now there on the run.":) It's hard to stand in the middle ring, to be in balance, tell the truth to the best of my ability. When you tell the truth to the best of your ability... what more could a loving and kind God ask of me? I'm no saint that's for sure, but I am blessed with my life and what gifts that are mine to do with as I please.

I make mistakes true, but I am not a mistake. I learn from my mistakes. It's a blessing to know when to hold on and when to let go, when to fight, and when to forgive. I will try harder to understand about copyright laws, but what has been given to me, is mine to do with as I see fit. Stepping on people's toes just isn't me, but I'm tired of being stepped on.

Because I was taught as a child to be a giving person, people give me things, most of which I gave away to those who are in need more than myself. My daddy never had very much, because he gave everything away. It's a blessing to be able to give. Stealing is something else. As a friend of mine would say, "Touch my cup, and there will be hell to pay." I'll let my friends in high and low places judge my work.

I think my family has been, is, and will continue to be proud of me. My family may have been poor, but they gave me the best they had to give... heard lessions about life and a whole lot of love. Balance is the key. I stand on strong shoulders and walk a tightrope, my net has always been spirit's loving wings. They hold me high and protect me with their love. :)

In The Sack

Times how many do you hold out your hand?
This shaddow I, and the me of self, asking.
No replay...they die in another world,
There is voiceless dead, where heads count.

Rounding window, wings flap and fold.
Time passes, the old die slowly,
My friends, my love, the memories.
Blood, flesh, bones, weeping bodies sold.

The sound of dirt shifting...in fresh grave.
Real, asleep of death, where worms banket the meal.
In the taste of life, the corporal life half eaten,
"Dark this night of death", crows Black Raven.

Gnarled fingers grasp, jaws nash at thick cuts.
Here nothing go to waist.
Edgar's bitting edge, the horror's rich efficiency plan,
Poe's somber, sober, godforsaken, pecks on busting guts.