Quid Pro Quo/Trick or Treat

Fresh cut mystery meat, where spiders crawl, so beware the dare of witches and Halloween. They only comes out tonight, and you may end up on the midnight menu. With evil murder on their minds, she knows who they shot and left for dead, a trick of revenge.
Creepy, crawly, squirming maggots wiggle their way to dinner, or they starve for a treat.
In the shadows stands Mayhem Manor. Thunder and lighting, high winds of the storm shake and rattle lofty windows. Dressed in black, she steps into the darkness of night. With lurking searching eyes, she stalks the killers, hungry for her own brand of justice.
It's a beautiful night in the neighborhood.

Back In Time

Believe it or not, the outer covering on these old birds is canvas. Sitting behind the loud roaring propeller, wind whistling through the wires, and me wearing my uncle's WWI helmet.
Remembering.
Aerobatics!
The scariest, most frighting maneuver is called, "The Hammer." Pull the stick back and climb until the engine stalls. Everything is quiet except the pounding of your heart, then the plane slides down like an arrow coming down, only tail first, back-ass-wards as my mother would say. This is where you have to keeeeep your wits, or...ya make a big hole in the ground. Rolling over like a pigeon having a fun, the plane is still out of control until you restart the engine. Throttle out, throttle, throttle...the engine kicks over...thank the lucky stars! Slowly pulling back on the joy stick so as not to kill the engine again, you make a wide looping recovery, and it's smooth sailing until you decide it's time for another act of insanity.
I regret never being up in a glider, but my experience of flying a biplane is a treasure to remember. I still have the Thunderbird patch my uncle gave me, it's pinned to the sun visor in the truck. The helmet, I gave to a friend who has a military museum.
Like ÃÝË would say, Good Times!

The Carolina Cousin Connection

"Margret honey, you know damn well daddy would have a hissy fit if he were to find out what you've been up-to."

"Papa is never gonna know unless you tell him. You say one word Leroy, and I swear, I will skin you myself and have your onerous hide tacked on that tree."

After waving a graceful arm over the porch railing towards General Breckenridge, an old historic front yard tree). Margret ripes off her gardening gloves and drops them on the white wicker table-- almost upsetting her Rosenthal porcelain coffee service. She kneels to retrieve a silver spoon that had bounced from the table to the porch's wide plank floor, her face red with pent up anger. When her eyes were level with her twenty-six-year-old younger brothers, who sat leaning forward in an antique rocker, Leroy Hastings smiled with a devilish grin.

"Temper, temper, dear sister, or I'll tell that old sawbones you seem to think so highly of, that you are not following his orders."

"Leroy, papa should have drowned you like a sack of kittens as soon as he found out you were not his son."

Leaning back in the wicker rocker, Leroy Hastings Clark laughed, his smile showing an expensive picket fence of peril whites. His pretty boy fresh from the shower clean looks and that smile usually got him what he wanted. Rocabar Hermes aftershave mingled in unseen ribbons of the cool October breeze, along with the smell of fresh coffee. Leroy closed his eyes to the breath taking eye candy of several blooming Amaryllis, as well as a half-dozen other flowering plants in hanging baskets that lined the estates rap-a-round porch. He had to admit, his sister's passion for flowers ran parallel with his own love of gardening.

"Maybe so dear sister." He said. "But you are the one in hot water, and I know how to save your sorry ass, so you better be nice to me."

"Leroy, I truly despise you!"

"I know you do darln'. Daddy always did like me best."

A look of seriousness fell over his handsome smile, as if it were a veil from an underpaid Arabian Nights exotic dancer. In a voice much older than his years, Leroy Hastings jerked a thumb for his older sister to sit.

"Now you listen to me, we haven't come all this way to loose what we have worked so hard for have we?"

"Work! Why you lazy good for nothing, chippy chasing, whisky drinking, worthless piece of white trash. You never lift a finger around here."

"Spitfire! That's the spirit. Old Hickory would be proud sister honey.

Gently picking up a fancy silver spoon, Leroy taps several times on a pretty rose pattern sugar bowl as if it were the bell to signal the end of round one in a boxing tournament.

Sidewalk Poets

Under an Autumn sycamore tree,

Three friends share time together.

Warm hearts of passion's fervor,

With laughter, smiles, and adventure.

Loving their poet's vigor,

Sisters, my wealth of treasure.

Cedar Planter and Driftwood

I was given a small round of cedar to split up as fire kindling, but it was to nice to burn, so I decided to make a potted plant stand instead. Cedar is wonderful wood to work with.
When I'm finished sanding the pieces, I'll apply tougue oil as a finish; it helps preserve the wood and brings out the colour.

Dancing To The Music

The Lady with the red sash is my friend Jill Marie. She lives in an enchanted forest and raises Navajo sheep. She is a powerful woman, a teacher that nurtures, and protects all within her world. I am truly blessed that she calls me friend.

Concord Grape Jelly

My friends Joann and Peter gave me a batch of Concord grapes from their arbor the other day. This morning I made grape jelly, or grape sauce for pancakes, depending however it turns out. Don't have any jars, so I just put the mixture in two stainless steel bowls, one for me and one for them, and that's not counting the spoonfulls I sampled. :)

It's mmm mmm GOOD!

The only drawback is my white kitchen wash cloth is now a beautiful colour purple. I like it too.

The Kettle River

The nights are cold now, yesterday I finally got the stovepipe put back together and started a toasty fire. Today I'll ware warm cloths, head up to the ranch for more firewood, and help my friend Johnna pick the last of this years apples.

First, I need to take a short walk and collect some "river sage" and "fresh mint" as well as pick up several pieces of drift wood. I found so many interesting pieces on my last walk that I couldn't carry them all back to the cabin, so I set them on the high bank about where the tall tree is the right side of the of the photo.

On Friday I spent some time shaping, sanding, and linseed oiling one piece. My friend Peter who also works riverwood, gave me a bunch of much needed sandpaper when I showed him what I was working on.

I plan to take some photos of some of them... that is if some trigger happy hunter doesn't shoot me. I have a red sweater to wear, but no red, or orange coat...so it's, be cold and be safe, or say, "What the Hell" and wear my blue down jacket. It's a gray overcast morning, which is good because the cloud cover keeps the ground and air warmer.

I'll be glad when hunting season is over and all the hunters go home. I already miss watching the deer in the field in back of the cabin, they are staying in the forest, coming to the river at night to drink. Most hunters don't walk far from their cars and trucks, they had rather sit in a warn vehicle and shoot a buck in the alfalfa fields. One of my friends who has land on one of the creeks up towards Canada paints orange spots all over her wolfhound to keep him safe. I plan to leave Sarah home this morning, she is white with black spots, a Dalmatian that looks nothing like a deer. Still I'm not taking any chances even though she loves to walk with me along the river.

Wish me luck on this mornings walk!

Reel Spool Tables

The line of ideas roll off what is possible.

Rounding every corner something new.

Turning cables, spools spin, the real deal.

Table top sets the stage,

Saving for the future race,

That was give away as waste.

Holding on to growing in light,

In comes old recycle of wood dark.

Sharing ideas of the future,

Thus your spinning top made new.

Rubber Boa

Here are a few photos of the Rubber boa snake that I found in my cabin this Summer. Although I write stories that most people would call fiction, some things are based on facts.

http://www.rubberboas.com/content/about.html

Fossorial...can you digg it?

http://www.northwestherps.com/bottae.html

Crepuscular...active in the twilight.

In Another World

Slowly pulling out her boot knife, she slipped it down between the wall and closet drawers, easily lifting the sparkling bobble from where it was wedged, and began softly humming a tune she had learned from her sister Jill Marie.

“There is treasure waiting for me,

There is treasure most can’t see.

There is treasure all a round,

What was once lost, is now found.”

Lifting a silver chain with a blue gemstone carved in the shape of a griffin, Jasmyn almost smiled. “This is very odd. I wonder what it is? It feels, it feels as if…” Suddenly, the built-in wardrobe seemed to move; actually it was sliding towards her. Quickly stepping back, a whiff of cool fresh air came from the opening in the panel wall.
“What the Hell?” she whispered.
Shinning the lamp into the darkness, a spiral staircase led down, down, down.
Picking up the kitten, again she gently placed it in the duffle bag and pulled the drawstrings tight, put on the black leather jacket she had found, and swung the considerable hefty bag over her shoulder. “It's time to go exploring, little one.”

She listened carefully for any of the tapping she had heard earlier. All she heard was the sound of the wind in the stairwell shaft. Still holding the chain and gemstone, she leaned against the cold outer brick wall and tucked the treasure trinket deep into one her thick pants pockets. Her calico passenger seemed nonresistant to her duffel bag confinement. Taking a quick mental inventory and without reservation, she darted down the spiraling steps with the supple fluidity of an animal.

She passed no doors, nor did she see any windows, the shaft was void of any light except for the small solar lamp Jasmyn kept focused on her boots and the descending stairs. The smell of the fresh air lifted her spirit even higher. From somewhere far below she heard the tapping she had heard earlier.

Then, suddenly from behind her, came a soft voice.

“Do not go down any further. Many who wish to kill you and what you carry, await below at the street level.”
Heart pounding in fear, Jasmyn spun around, bringing the pistol from shoulder holster to point into the face of a child.
“Who are you? How come I didn’t hear you behind me?” she demanded.
Without any fear or malice in her voice, the child answered, “Your weapon can not hurt me. I am not from your world. They know you are in the building, and are hunting for you.”
Quickly returning the antique 45 automatic to the shoulder holster, Jasmyn said, “Yah, I know about the police.”
“Oh no, not the police, they left hours ago while you were sleeping. You were smart to hide where you did. Not even the zombies would have looked for you there.” Dressed in a velvet robe with dark shoulder length hair, the dark eyed child put her finger to her lips, motioning for Jasmyn not to speak. She leaned in close and whispered, “They do not know about this secret stairwell. Follow me, I know a place where you will be safe.”
“Why in the hell should I trust you? Who are you anyway?” Jasmyn whispered back.
“I am from a different place. A magic place that makes the difference in time, the difference that makes the difference. Understand?”

“No!” said Jasmyn “How old are you?”
“Older than you can imagine, younger than you know. Please, we must go now. The evil ones will be sending out demons, and they are very nasty to deal with.”
Putting her hand on the brick wall, the wall began to shimmer with a pulsating glow of rainbow colours. “You must hold my hand, it is the only way you can step into my world.”
“Why should I trust you?” Jasmyn almost sneered, her voice as sharp as her boot knife.
With the heart of innocence, the little girl smiled back. “Because, I have traveled from another world to help you.”

From down below the tapping resumed, now much louder and with a quicking tempo . The metal staircase began to pulse with vibration. The brick wall swirling wider and faster in liquid colours.

Before Jasmyn could draw a breath to resist, the child pulled her through the shimmering brick wall.

Safe Hiding

Jasmyn stuffed several wads of assorted clothing against the closed closet doors; fumbled in a side pocket of the duffel bag, fished out a folding solar light lamp, and punched the activation button. Cool white light flooded the once elegant walk-in closet. Noticing the condition of what remained, she guessed the building had once been a fortress of a local big wig, a food dealer for the area. The lower floors of the building were probably used as barracks for gang, or soldier warriors. Like any other clan organization, a soldier could if he or she were smart and good at doing their job, climb up through the lower ranks to live on different floors of the building. The higher the floor, the higher the rank in echelon, thus the top floors were reserved for the elite. The elite were those who knew how to play the game of staying alive.

The concept was hard for Jasymn to understand although her mother had come from such a clan. Where money and power ruled there was always the need to fight to keep what was owned, or fight and steal more, even if it caused others to suffer and die. Growing up in the Free North West, Jasymn learned early that barter and sharing was the key to her survival. It was her father’s teachings before his death that had kept her alive so far. “Find a need and fill it to the best of your ability.” he would say, “…and you will always have a place to live, and friends who love you. People who need people will always help you if you’re lucky.”

Opening the drawstrings of the duffel bag, the calico kitten sat for a moment licking her paw and cleaning one ear as if he had been casually napping. Jasymn fed him a 3cc syringe of protein and vitamins that had cost her more than she normally paid for her own food. There were six syringes remaining and they had to last until they reached the border crossing. She remembered the first dog she had rescued. Gritting her teeth she cussed, vowing to fight even harder to find and store the precious life saving drugs the rich took for granted. Her food supply was running low: four packets of dehydrated apples and pears, and the rest a various assortment of dehydrated vegetables she had bartered for.
Each sealed packet held the equivalent of five to six pieces of fresh fruit. Even the elite did not enjoy such good food. Knowing the truth of where most food came from, sent a shiver down her spine. "Predigested" had been printed on a label of food cans she had seen in a glass cases of a building called a store museum. No wonder the plagues of illness came to wipe out most of the Americas population. They were eating processed shit with tons of poisonous chemicals to mask the product sold as food. Officials before the plagues came were selfish, uncaring and heartless. The Body Snatchers were called hospitals. In the many years of plagues that occurred between 2188 to the present date, many people died asking for forgiveness from what they called, " the sins of the far-there." Jasmyn's teachers said man-his-story was evil. She wasn't sure if the stories her teachers had told her were true. The one thing she knew, her animal teachers never lied. They always told the truth, and for that she was grateful.

Quickly counting her blessings while munching on a dehydrated ripe pear, the girl opened her laptop, entered the code numbers for the secret under ground channel and typed in a progress report, giving her location as, "The Hot Zone Central California." The keyboard had been damaged so typing wasn’t easy. Struggling, she finished the report and returned the laptop to the duffel bag, then covered herself with a black leather jacket she found in the corner of the cedar closet.

Sleep fell like feathers from the sky, Jasmyn dreamed of laughter with her friends, riding mountain trails on her horse, Stanford Major. Dreams of good times, when living was easy, and all the gentle animals that were her spirit teachers met in green fields of the magic flowers of long ago California were real enough to refresh her.

A tap, tap, tap from somewhere in the wall woke the young girl. Tap, tap, tap then silence, tap, tap, tap tap, again silence, tap, tap, tap. She put her ear to the cedar panel while holding the kitten. Not being fully awake yet, Jasmyn listened carefully. Standing up she started running her hand up and down the wall panel feeling for vibrations. She starting in the corner and working her way to the center of the closet where built-in drawers and shelves blocked the back wall. Switching the solar lamp to high, she stooped low looking at the carpeted floor. There, on the right side of the closet, the carpet seemed to have barely visible markings as if something had been slid across it and had snagged several carpet fibers. Getting on her hands and knees, she looked closely at where the built-in drawers met the back of the cedar panel. She could smell the faint order of fresh air. Then she saw it. A flash, a sparkle reflected back from the light of the lamp. Something was tightly wedged behind the wooden draws and the wall.

Roof Hopscotching To Rotten Leftovers

Sweeping her weight from side-to-side, young Jasmyn Sanchez scurried up the icy ladder in a swift motion spider crawl. Once on the bucking asphalt roof, she hunkered down behind a four-foot wall to catch her breath and think what her next move might be.
"That shooter on the roof across the street must be a rookie." she said, "and a very bad shot not to have hit me with so many rounds fired." She crab crawled with heavy duffel bag to the corner of the roof, then braced her back against the wet wall in the shadows. Quickly she lifted her boots from around her neck, pulling out the wool socks that were stuffed safely inside. Putting them on wasn’t easy with numb fingers. Her right hand fingers had been cramped so tight in a vice grip holding the Colt automatic, she had to pry them loose with her left hand. While lacing up one boot, and then the other, she began to feel the burning pin pricks of her feet and hands warming.

“Okay Francisco now what?” She wanted to check on the kitten, but already knew it was safe. Listening carefully, she noticed all the guns had ceased firing. SP squad units wouldn’t stop searching for her. The rain slowed to an icy drizzle, she stared into the dark night sky. Somewhere on the pitch black roof a generator kicked in, a window light flickered several times from the square block building that allowed access to the stairwell. The door was open.
In the distance came the faint throbbing of a flitter craft.

Running to the opposite side of the roof, she saw another fire escape. The lower roof of the adjacent building was a precarious jump. Scurrying down to the first turn about on the fire escape, she tossed the duffel bag to the other building then jumped. “Sorry about that sweetheart.” She said before slinging the bag over her shoulder once again. Running full out to the other side… there, just as before, was a fire escape and a lower roofed building. Four more times she repeated her hopscotch maneuver until she reached the tall building at the opposite end of the block. This time she jumped landing on narrow ledge that lead to a gridiron balcony with French doors. Pulling a balanced throwing knife from the human leather scabbard in her right boot, Jasmyn quickly lifted a pane of glass away from cracked and weathered woodwork.

The entrance was a piece of cake, as her brother would say. Cake! Jasmyn had never tasted cake in all her seventeen years. The old ones said their parents and grandparents had eaten cake. They said it made your teeth rot. Even if such a thing as cake really existed, who would want to eat cake if it made your teeth rot? “Thanks, but no cake for me.” She said, and slipped through the unlocked door just as the low flying flitter craft with yellow searchlight swept the building and passed overhead.

From her left boot she pulled a red filtered pin-light, replacing the knife to her right. Flexing her trigger finger several times, she pulled the 45 automatic from its shoulder holster. The room smelled rotten with decaying bodies and mildew. Stepping over the decomposing bodies she slipped several times in oozing viscous liquid. No one in their right mind would look for her in this room. The SP regiment boys wearing full combat gear were pussies when it came to facing death in the face. No, they would be combing the areas outside, thinking she would run for safety in the outskirts of the city. Laughing she opened a double door closet. Two bodies sat propped up against the back wall of the large ceder-lined closet. Setting the duffel bag down, she grabbed the pant leg of what looked to be a Catalina gang member, yeah, the tats were distinctive. The two-hundred-pound corpus was stiff and hard to move. The other dead weight was a woman dressed in black leather and fishnet stockings. When Jasmyn yanked on her foot, her head thumped like a ripe melon falling from a counter top, and arm and leg had been taken. Cannibals?

Ladder to Freedom

Two shots and then a single shotgun blast, after that, all hell broke loose. One second after the first shot was fired Jasmyn lunged toward the desk grabbing the 45 automatic. Quickly stuffing the laptop into a military duffel bag sitting upright next to the un-slept-in bed. The kitten crouched and pounced on the bedspread, it’s ears flattened back against raised shoulders. Hurriedly, it too went into the duffel bag, mewing in protest as the drawstring was cinched tight.

“It will be all right little one. Someone has just saved our bacon, as momma would say.”

The rain had not stopped pouring down in over two weeks which wasn’t unusual for early-December, soon the snow would come and blanket California from the mountains to the now SP controlled coastline. She shivered and took a deep breath against the cold rain that drenched her as soon as she opened the window, the icy wind cutting like sharp knifes.

A hail of large caliber automatic machine gun fire ripped an arch pattern from the bottom to the top of the bolted steel door, Jasmyn observed just before she stepped through the hotel window and onto the fire escape. The alleyway for some reason was clear of any local government’s Special Forces Police goons. Still barefoot, she slung her boots around her neck, her best pair of heavy wool socks tucked safe inside the toes. While juggling the duffel bag over her shoulder another spray of bullets peppered the door, punching holes that looked like smoking poker chips. She had lost track of the number of rounds fired, but quickly calculated there must be at lest five, maybe six other shooters in the hallway, not counting the four she had see through the peephole. Two people were firing automatic machine guns. The police didn’t carry machine guns any more. Guns were worth their weight in gold during the first plague ten years earlier, most weapons had been confiscated, or stolen and then sold to rich countries who could afford the outrages prices. No, someone in an underground group was fighting the SP Police, and right now she was still alive and breathing thanks to them. Whoever was in the hallway shooting was giving her the chance to escape. Having a computer, a pistol, and a pet meant a trip to the work camps, or a bullet in the head for being a rebel to the Unified Western Regional Government. Jasmyn Mariana Francisco Sanchez had squeezed through some tight places before, dodging capture as nimble as the animals she had freed in the Green Zones to the North. She prayed this time would be no different.

Starting down the ramshackle fire escape, gunfire erupted below. She could only see the flashes of three barrels firing toward the alleyways entrance. Again she said a short prayer for their safety, and started climbing up toward the roof. If she could make it to the roof, of course she could make it. “Think positive.” She said out loud. Water came down in sheets of cold rain. Ice was beginning to form on the rungs of the metal ladder. “Get you sorry ass up on the roof Francisco.” She said gritted her teeth and wanting to cry. Red neon flashed, blinking from the hotel sign below. The electric humming buzzed like an old Frankenstein movie she had once seen.

The duffel bag felt like a ton, the shoulder strap dug deep in to her bones like the cold rain. Her foot slipped. “You want to die here. No! No! No! Not Here… Not like THIS.” Holding on with all her strength, she carefully felt for and found a rail with her numb toes just as sparks flashed next to right hand. A bullet ricochet, she felt the reverberations shake the cold steel she was gripping. The next bullet exploded into a brick, sending shards flying. She felt a warmth on her cheek and knew it was blood. Exhausted, she struggled with Herculean effort. Looking up, she stretched to grip the rail above. Hearing soft mewing from the duffel bag made her remember she was not alone. With bullets slamming into the wet bricks she continued to scale the slippery fire escape.

Passing Summer Days

The pulling pulse of Summer,
Warm hazy afternoons,
Where blue skys drift,
In ribbons of scent.
Remember?
Sweet honey,
Breeze.
Cottonwoods along the river,
Leaves twist and shimmer,
Moving in rythemic motion.
Pitch in tune with,
Dance of pinecones's bough.
Devotion this musical mystique,
Strumming humm of joy,
Passing Summer days,
"And you My Lady..."

You Talking To Me Punk?

This is my protector Sarah, an Angel sent to me from heaven. She is most loving and friendly, and yet very brave when it comes to defending me. She even puts up with her little brother Micky, the Irish wirehair fox terrier who thinks he is the boss. He has learned the hard way, when she gives him "that look" it usually means, "Mom! He's pushing my buttons again."

I no longer chain her up, nor does she ware a collar. She has earned her freedom as long as she doesn't chase deer. It was hard for her to understand that she doesn't own all the land around here to protect. I keep the truck door open during the day so she can sit in the passenger seat and pretend she on the road again. She loves to ride shotgun in the truck.

How Do You Like My Screen Door?

What the hell! Those fancy french door curtains I saved did come in handy this Summer. The good news is, next year I can tack up another clean one. The brocade drapes I give away, they were to nice to get dirty.

I have another pile of wood like the one by my front door, only that one is stacked on pallets. Small rounds burn well in my stove and will last through the long Winter nights. It's no fun waking up to a cold house, and having to start a fire from scratch. Once the cold weather hits, the stove is pretty much going twenty-four-seven. I even clean the ashes with a fire going, using a large stainless steel restaurant mixing bowl, my welding gloves, and a wide plaster spatula.

I praying my Micky Boy recovers his health and stays with me through the Winter. He has been really sick, even puked on one of my language dictionaries...didn't need the dust jacket anyway.

I spoon feed him a gruel made of chicken stock and oatmeal, and let him drink all the slippery elm water he wants. He is a tough little guy and gets right back up when he falls over. He's comfortable and not in pain, and that for now is enough to make me happy. I think both of us, and Sarah too, have had a peaceful day, even the chainsaw worked well.

Being Real

She Has an Ax!

"Those casablanca fat cats are in for a big surprise if they think they can pussyfoot around in the dark."

Getting Ready

Saturday, time to haul in more wood.

A big stack of wood gives peace of mind.

This is no time to skirt the issue, the work must be done before Winter weather sets in.