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 |    A log of the magnificent journey across the vast sea of my imagination. |
 A log of our magnificent journey. |
| The old house reeked with the musty milieu that comes from neglect. Dust clouds and cobwebs greeted us as we mounted the front steps to the porch. For some reason, my grandfather Abaddon Webster had bequeathed the old place to me in his will when he finally succumbed after spending the last years of his life in a nursing home. My new bride Monique and I decided that refurbishing the two-story New England structure with quaint gables and a wrap-around front porch would be a better investment than pouring rent money into an apartment. Since the place was obviously without electric power, we had purchased some nonperishable provisions and lanterns to tide us over until we could get the place straightened out and have the power restored. When we entered the main room, we were relieved to find protective coverings spread over most of the furniture. We made our way to the kitchen and deposited the bags of supplies on the table. Then we set about exploring the remainder of the house. Removing the coverings from the furniture in the den, we found rich upholstered chairs and sofas adorned with strange embroidered glyphs in gold and silver on a burgundy background. The walls were covered with shelves full of all manner of tomes, ranging from tales of high adventure to strange writing in alien gibberish. “The Testimony of the Mad Arab” proclaimed “The wolves carry my name in their midnight speeches, and that voice summons me from afar with unholy impatience,” and warned of horrors that stalk about and lurk in wait at the door of every man. “The Book of the Dead” told of profound secrets handed down from generation to generation by worshippers of the Ancient Ones. “The Maklu Text” cautioned that incantations shown therein “must not be shown to any but the properly instructed, and when used, the markings must be burned utterly, and the ashes buried in safe ground where none may find them.” Needless to say, these writings were a bit disquieting and dampened our enthusiasm for the refurbishment project. Thinking a good night’s sleep would refresh our resolve, we fixed some savory strawberry jam sandwiches to eat and then retired to the bedroom on the second floor. I removed the dusty old bed coverings, and Monique spread fresh satin sheets with a lavender fragrance over the mattress. In the security of each other’s arms, we extinguished the lantern and went to sleep. Somewhere in the night, Monique nudged me and asked, “Did you just hear something in the attic?” |
| Hallowe'en, a night for waking dead folks, crammed full of creepy cuisine. "Trick or treat!" kiddies shout in unison in pursuit of something sweet. Children scream when skeletons suddenly jump up in frightening scheme. Party starts with Frankensteins frolicking and ends with some tasty tarts. Ghastly scene, which we all love and cherish, becomes happy Hallowe'en. Notes on the Treochair form of Irish poetry ▼ |
| Remember the brave and all that they gave to stop the tidal wave of brutal tyranny. Remember the cost in precious lives lost when opposing paths crossed on beach at Normandy. Remember the gore when so many more never saw the war past that bloody shore-- a day of agony. Remember their names etched on that wall. They answered the call and gave their all so we can be free. |
| TXTNG cryptography befuddles me. It's not EZ 2 C value in such cultural debris. It's so cheesy. My GF K8 has such an obsession, she falls into a ST8 of depression if she can't TXT. She's so perplexed, I think she needs an intercession. Notes on Fabliau ▼ |
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