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Welcome to the 14th century, in a farflung outpost of the Holy Roman Empire, and a new Convent outpost of the terrrifically powerful Roman Catholic Church. Sound historically dull? Hopefully not so--for this is NOT an ordinary 14th Century Convent.

Back after a six-year hiatus....


From NaNoWriMo historical Supernatural novels in Scotland, Michigan, South Alabama and historical horror in Standwood Station, GA-to the Phantom Northern Woods-to singlehandedly refighting the American Civil War-to exploring Social Justice and standing for First Amendment rights under the U.S. Constitution-we deal out horror, Supernatural, Historical, fantasy, mystery, and more. We do not fear outspokeness.
And always, always, always, We Do History.
Find it here.




We write it. We read it. We hold strong opinions. We orate.

Meanwhile, whether we're writing or just reading, we love to rave about books and authors right here!


Tower View at Rear of Brightmoor Asylum

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June 12, 2010 at 7:44am
June 12, 2010 at 7:44am
#698971
Abby's older brother Zak circumnavigated the globe by sail when he was 17. I don't remember reading about that, so I don't know how much publicity or "fuss" that trip received. However, many are in an uproar about young Abby, who is only 16, and has been sailing the globe on her solo trip since Jan. 13.
Abby had mast damage this week and has been rescued now by not one, but three, other vessels. Seems the International Maritime Organization has regulations about disrupting commercial fishing venues for rescues (?) so at the moment it's still up in the air as to WHICH ship will move her to a port.
Does that mean she's returning to California? I don't know. I would tend to hope so, but then I don't fall into the category of those who are publicly stating that she should be allowed to sail the world by herself, a lone female at age 16, no problem.
The L.A. Times Blog shows multiple comments from readers who have varied opinions. Me? I'd be terrified if it was me, at my age; and for a lone girl, a minor? Weather! Piracy! Danger! Unbelievable-to me. Yes, her family are "born-again Christians," but does that exclude the use of common sense?


http://latimesblogs.latimes.com/lanow/2010/06/abby-sunderlands-parents-defend-le...
http://www.latimes.com/news/nationworld/world/la-fgw-abby-sunderland-20100613,0,...
June 11, 2010 at 8:46am
June 11, 2010 at 8:46am
#698887
Good news in a scary situation: sixteen-year-old solo sailor Abby Sutherland was discovered alive, and well, although with some boat problems, in the Indian Ocean. Abby is sailing on a circumnavigation of the globe since Jan. 13. I'm sorry, I just have difficulties featuring either the mindset that would encourage anyone to undertake this alone, let alone a minor, a female; and I cannot feature parents allowing this. Their publicized rationale is that they are born-again Christians, and that they believe the Lord to be in control of everything. Her brother Zac completed the solo circumnavigation sail at age seventeen. Maybe I am just too cynical, or too imaginative, but I can think of way too many possibilities, none of them pleasant, many of them injurious, some of them fatal. I hope and pray Abby Sutherland succeeds.

http://www.latimes.com/news/local/la-me-0611-abby-sunderland-20100611,0,5376286,...

Interesting comments on solar flares on the 13WMAZ.com Weather Blog:
http://13wmazweather.blogspot.com/

Two notes on this one:
NASA's prediction on a Solar Flare expected in 2013:
A century-class solar storm could result in 20 times more damage than the devastation caused by Hurricane Katrina in the south-eastern US in August 2005. The storm killed 1,800 people and caused damages worth $81 billion.

Second: the blog writer basically says, not to worry; Earth is protected by its atmosphere. My comment: Atmosphere? If the current weather trends are NOT indicative of global warming and severe ozone layer depletion, then what do they mean? Ozone layer depletion means increasingly LESS protection via the Atmosphere for Earthlings, including wildlife, plant life, and humanity. Yes, I am worried.

Free Reading:

Chapter Twelve


         Another hard slap to the right side of his head while Monica's right hand simultaneously dropped away from his forehead, and the replay of Danny's day stopped abruptly. Unfortunately for him, he hadn't been expecting the suddenness of the sensation, and he had been deep into the emotion of the moment, watching Alice in his mind and as it really had occurred earlier in the afternoon, about one PM, at the Root Beer Stand. Everything emotion showed in his expression, and his mother saw it all. Monica wasn't brilliant, but she was cunning, a quality she attributed to her “catch” of “Mr. Joe” (conveniently forgetting that all she received from “hooking” that worthy was a stillborn child who grew to adulthood just like a living child; a house; and trust funds for their support. She did not receive marriage, a fine fancy house, nor servants. After all, she still had to do all the housekeeping herself, and they didn't even own a car. But still, in her mind, the fact that she and this boy of hers were set for life (or in his case, set for the duration of his death) signified a powerful act of cunning and cleverness on her part. In addition to her good looks and ability to dress with style when she wanted to, Monica was self-centered and vain (all qualities on which the Vice President of Personnel had counted of course).

         Popularly known as “Mr. Joe” even in the office, and to those employees on outside sites with whom he came into contact, the Vice President of Personnel was the second most powerful man in The Testament Logging Corporation, answerable only to the ectoplasmic Chief Executive Officer, Jepthah Starkes Kenneally, and of course to The Testament Core. He insisted that his inferiors call him “Mr. Joe.” They thought it was his way of being folksy; but rather it was self-protection. As a ceremonial magician, he knew full well the value of a Name, and he was not about to give away his-to anybody. So it was always “Mr. Joe.” To those outsiders, such as at an occasional Chamber of Commerce breakfast (though neither he nor CEO Kenneally were invited to the City businessmen's prayer breakfasts after the disasters of January and February 1932) He allowed himself to be called “Mr. Smith,” or “Mr. Joseph Smith” in introductions. He had adopted the pseudonym “Joseph Smith” because it secretly tickled him to take the name of the great Mormon prophet, who after all, himself didn't mind taking extraneous wives.

         Monica spewed venom at her Dead son, an eruption that must have been a long time in the formation, like a dormant volcano which deep inside is hard at work diligently creating fires and lava production, just waiting for its inevitable moment. So too had Monica Wilber become, her pasty complexion by turns peaked and fiery, her mouth open so wide her jaw must have felt stretched. She resembled at once a Great White Shark and a tiny shrew, pinched beak snapping shut on an unsuspecting vulnerable worm. Definitely not the facade she had presented to little Alice Cavendish in the Park restroom hours earlier (though Alice had found her scary enough), this Monica Wilber was someone even her Dead son had never seen. Nobody had witnessed this version. Maybe nobody else ever would.

“Disgusting! Filthy! Dead! Pig! Oooh! I hate you! Never could do nothin' right! He gives you a Concession Stand to make you a few dollars a week and you mess it up! Gives you the biggest job of your life today and WHAT DO YOU DO?
YOU MESS IT UP FOR ME!”


          By now, it would have been clear to any disinterested observer that Monica's tirade was no longer about her Dead son Danny, nor even about the “most important job” he had been given to do by “Mr. Joe.” It was not about her sudden discovery (or perhaps, not so sudden after all) that Danny had more than an inkling for Little Alice Cavendish. No, this tirade-this volcanic overflow-had now become All About Monica. And Monica was on the edge of making a very serious, and fatal, mistep; if she didn't moderate her tongue quickly, she was about to call out the very wrong name.
June 10, 2010 at 11:28am
June 10, 2010 at 11:28am
#698791
Chapter Eleven


“You will born for the right reasons but you can't even do this one important thing! You KNOW what Mr. Joe wants! You KNOW! And you still did it wrong! What in the world is the matter with you?”


Monica's rage was near to overflowing now, and its eruption scalded her son Danny with the lava of her resentment. When “Mr. Joe” had first singled her out for his attention twenty-nine years ago, visions of upscale mobility danced in her eyes. A fine-looking educated man like “Mr. Joe,” in a position of importance, the second most important person at The Testament Corporation-interested in Monica Wilber? What a fairy-tale dream come true! Finally, all Monica's little girl dreams of a fancy big house, her own suite, gardens and laws cared for by a legion of gardeners, her own maid, a housekeeper, a butler, and a kitchen staff; a nanny for the children, all of whom would be lovely or handsome, depending on their respective genders: oh, the dreams that Monica Wilber wove! So of course she acquiesced to anything “Mr. Joe” asked of her:
first the coffees shared in his office, then a lunch, then dinner dates at an expensive restaurant (also owned, though Monica didn't know it, by Testament Corporation, with Management and employees who knew not to gossip), then the inevitable dalliance, to which she agreed because she was sure she had heard a proposal.

          About eight months after this “courtship” began, Monica discovered herself expecting. Still not wed, but expecting; by now of course she feared that “Mr. Joe” would not marry her, but dump her. But neither occurred: not what she dreamed of, not what she feared. Instead, he asked her to resign her employment at Testament Corporation, where she had now progressed from file clerk to Second Secretary to the Vice President of Finance, and instead to remain at home resting and caring for herself and her unborn child. In return, her lover promised that she, and the babe, would be cared for financially, in perpetuity. In this, the Vice President of Personnel (who did, after all, hold the present and future of all Testament Corporation employees in his tender care) kept his word, and continued to do so. A tidy small house in Heathside was purchased for Monica and her child-to-be, not too far from a nearby park; farther, of course, from The Testament Tower, so she would not be encouraged to visit. A trust fund in addition to a Savings account and a checking account were set up in her name at First Stoneforth Bank in Rennald, which conveniently opened a branch just at that time in Madison Mills, near the Heathside Shopping Center (which itself had just opened, including a small but well-stocked grocery, a pharmacy, and a small clothing store offering both women's and children's clothes). “Mr. Joe” was nothing if not an efficient and generous provider.
”I thought he wanted Alice,” Danny finally mumbled sullenly. He had backed so far against the front wall that if he had been any scrawnier he would have seemed like just another wall tapestry.
“He told me to get the little girl, make sure she drank the poison so he could work with her this weekend.”

“Not the pale one, you precious fool! The redhead! The little meanie! The smartmouth, arrogant, conceited, Little Miss Everything-My-Own-Way one!”


For a minute Danny, who in addition to having been stillborn, was also not of high-level intelligence, understood his mother to be referring to herself, but as he opened his mouth to ask why, she interrupted him.

“Don't you know anything, Son? THE HUDSON GET! Mr. Joe wants the HUDSON GIRL!”


[Oh, Danny realized, guess she isn't talking about herself after all. Well then who?]

“Alice Cavendish's playmate! Will you listen?! No? Then look!”



And with that, Monica marched to Danny huddled against the outside wall, clapped a hand across his forehead, and SHOWED him. Inside his mind replayed the entire day, from the moments he had first left his house early in the morning to walk to the Root Beer Stand, which he always tried to open by ten AM, especially on weekends and during the Summer months. He saw himself unlocking the Stand, preparing the float ingredients, checking the ice cream levels, and heating up the grill for chili dogs. He wondered for a moment why he didn't watch himself interacting with the RC Cola truck driver, but then he realized that delivery had occurred yesterday, on Thursday, not today. It didn't occur to him to wonder why, since his mother had tapped his forehead, he was revisiting his day. The replay continued, and Danny saw himself serving customers, some of the neighborhood kids, and adults on their lunch hour, some of whom headed to the park to enjoy the warm sunshine. Eventually his mother came to the back door of the concession stand and tapped. He noticed now that this happened after the last lunchtime customer rush, when no one else was around. He could hear laughter and conversation from the park, but no one was in sight. He opened the rear door and his mother handed him in a dark, opaque bottle. Once again, he heard her instructions, cemented with the essential information: “on orders of Mr. Joe.” Then he saw himself place the bottle in the hidden cupboard beneath the front cabinet, and place a single root beer glass beside it.

         It wasn't long from that point in the replay of the day's events that Danny saw Lisabeth and Alice appear from around the corner. They had walked up from the cross street, which led to Lisabeth's house, just a couple of blocks from the park. Danny's face lit up when he glanced out from the side of the open front of the Stand and saw Alice, little Alice, his favorite child of all. Now that really made his day! Danny smiled as he watched the replay too, until his mother's other hand came up and slapped his right cheek smartly. Since she did not remove her right hand from his forehead, the replay didn't stop, but continued on. The Danny watching it bit his lip in pain, and to keep any more emotions from showing on his face. He really liked Little Alice-slap!

         In his mind Alice and Lisabeth walked up to the Stand, and of course as always Lisabeth had to order first.

“I want the BIG vanilla cone, Mr. Danny! Two scoops, no sugar cone cause I won't eat it! And no sprinkles either, like you tried to give me last time!”

Danny, who was already all moony-eyed over Little Alice, forbore to remind Lisabeth-as if it would do any good-that he had never put sprinkles on her cone, he had never even offered her a sugar cone-except the very first time she had come to the Stand-and besides that, it was someone else-hmm-yes, the little Standish girl, what was her name? Another little blonde, but about Lisabeth's age, hmm-anyway, it was the Standish girl who had asked for sprinkles on her strawberry ice cream AND a sugar cone and that's what he gave her. Lisabeth had just happened to be standing beside her at the time, because they had come to the Stand together-an after school play time excursion-and of course Lisabeth had had to order first and then the Standish girl-yes, Janice-had ordered second. But Danny had NOT given Lisabeth sprinkles!

Now Danny-in the replay and watching it at home in his mind, slumped against the front wall, realized that he had spaced out yet again and was standing there with his mouth crumpled, arguing with himself about who got sprinkles. So he turned on the charm, and asked that lovely Little Miss Alice what she would like, even though he already knew.

“Just a root beer float, please, Mr. Danny, but a tall one. Lisabeth and I just had lunch a bit ago.” and she smiled at him.


         Danny's heart skipped half a dozen beats, then he smiled at her, and added,

“Tall root beer float comin' right up! And you know what? I think I'll have me one too! It's a hot day and we've been real busy for a while!


         Alice didn't see why he needed her permission to have whatever he wanted, but she just smiled a little and nodded, then turned slightly away, staring toward the park so it wouldn't seem like she was rude. Lisabeth was skipping and jumping in place, pretending she was pounding out a hopscotch pattern, and so neither child saw Danny walk to the back wall and select two glasses, then move to the front cabinet, where he was hidden by the front wall, and setting down one glass, replace it with the one he had earlier hidden, into which he poured a substantial offering from the opaque brown bottle his mother had carried to him earlier. The bottle was tall and narrow, oddly shaped, like a cylinder with a rounded top, almost as if the glass had been blown to contain folds. It looked antique, but Danny didn't have the time nor the inclination to study on that, so he poured some of the poison into the “special” glass, recorked and replaced the bottle, and then carrying the specially-prepared glass in his right hand, so that his body would hide his actions if the girls did happen to glance in, he moved to the founatin against the back wall and filled Alice's glass first, making sure to put two extra scoops of whipped cream atop it to distract her from the taste. Then he filled his, not quite so full and without the whipped cream, and returned to the front window, where he handed Alice her special concoction, with a smile that would have scared off adults and most birds of prey.
June 9, 2010 at 9:12am
June 9, 2010 at 9:12am
#698661
A trio of interesting articles this morning on the B.P. situation, oil spills in general, and the effects on wildlife provide food for thought:

http://www.latimes.com/news/nationworld/nation/la-na-oil-spill-plume-20100609,0,...

http://animals.change.org/blog/view/bp_tries_to_block_photos_of_dead_wildlife

http://food.change.org/blog/view/toxic_soup_how_we_can_help_prevent_another_oil_...


Free Read: Child Puppets of The Testament Logging Corporation

Chapter Ten


“You fool! You utter, simpering fool! You deadbeat!”


Monica Wilber paced her small living room in Heathside, a somewhat less upscale neighborhood a few blocks from the Hudson's better class neighborhood of Westwood. Still in her black heels and red business suit, which she had donned at lunch time to impress Alice when she caught up to her at the Park, Monica's stomping echoed through the thin scraggly carpet on to the hardwood beneath.

”You never do anything right! Never! I raised you from stillbirth, I kept you because he told me to, told me you'd be some use to them, and now-now look what you've gone and done! You FOOL! Do you know you've almost ruined everything?”


         Monica overreacted, of course; EVERYTHING had not been ruined. But certainly her Dead son Danny stood on shaky ground, the flames of wrath licking at his feet. For Danny had committed a serious error-perhaps unforgivable-in selecting the wrong recipient of the poison “Mr. Joe” had provided him. The poison had been intended by Testament to work on Lisabeth Hudson. True, the destined victims of the Child Puppet's initial killing attempt were to be Alice's adoptive parents, the Cavendishes-and if Little Alice died too, well so much the better. The Testament Core had little use for that mealy-mouthed pure and innocent child. What good was a child who could not be corrupted? They all should be like Lisabeth Hudson: vain, arrogant, self-referential, and mischievous. Those were easy to convert. The children who were born purely evil, like Clyde Jenks in The Big Forest region, could be useful too, but since their entire beings were already bent on evil, they didn't always choose to follow the prescribed Testament line but instead desired to go their own way too often.

         But that little Lisabeth Hudson now, she was a treasure, a real find. If not for her, Jed Hudson would never have been appointed Vice President of Logging Operations Division. If not for her, well, Jed and Mrs. Hudson might be the first victims chosen. But for the time being, Testament was perfectly content for Lisabeth to continue to live in Westwood, on the Western side of Madison Mills, and for that it needed to leave Her father and mother in place, and alive; at least until it found a Dead Tool sufficiently clever to take over Logging Operations and to raise Lisabeth. Then, maybe, the Hudson parents would disappear too.

         In the Wilber house, Monica continued to fume while Danny tried to back out the front wall, unsuccessfully. He was unused to this kind of tirade, for he almost never made a mistake when it came to orders from Mr. Joe. Even Danny wasn't certain why he had erred when it came to Alice. The real truth was concealed in Danny's own true nature.

         Danny Wilber himself had been the product of a Testament experiment. When “Mr. Joe” had been appointed by The Testament ectoplasmic Chief Executive Officer to become Vice President of Personnel (both living and Dead) for The Testament Logging Corporation (because it's not just Logging any more), the second most important role in The Testament Corporation, one of his first assignments, after organizing the living and Dead employees, was to begin the campaign of making Child Puppets. Now at this early time, Testament already knew about Clyde Jenks, but because Clyde was so headstrong so early (already independently evil at six days old) Testament wanted to make, or use, child puppets who would be easier to work with, more amenable to Testament's plans, and less likely to hare off on their own evil endeavours, as was Clyde.

         The first chore, of course, was to set some of the employee tools to hunting for children, ages newborn to twelve or so. Once a child reached puberty, she or he was less likely to listen to the ministrations of the Testament minions, since hormonal surges tended to obscure the ability to listen carefully. Such a process took time, but not as much time as did the second task of the Child Puppet campaign: creating Tools by procreation. Neither “Mr. Joe” nor the ectoplasmic CEO, Jepthah Starkes Kenneally, knew for sure that this plan would work either, which is why the first order of business had been to seek out established potential tools: children already in existence, who had either proven to have the proper bent toward destruction, or who seemed to be easily molded. Either would work for now. Once that segment of planning had been instituted, though, “Mr. Joe” had time to devote to the second task, creating a Child Puppet from scratch. If this worked, he and CEO Kenneally assumed, the plan could be instituted on a wider scale, using some of the Dead Tools as well as the living. But first, it would be tried out singly, by “Mr. Joe,” not involving anyone else-just in case the plan was not successful.

         ”Mr. Joe” began to look around the office for a living employee. He wasn't sure just how, or if, it would work with a Deat Tool. Useful as they were (much more so than the Living), so far none had produced offspring, and “Mr. Joe” didn't know if that was even possible. If only it was, his “life” would be made so much smoother! So he searched for a living employee who would be eager, willing, and perhaps not overly gifted with intelligence. Cunning would be fine; cleverness acceptable; even street sense would pass. Just not high intelligence. But then, he chuckled to himself, he was hunting among employees of The Testament Logging Corporation. Those of high intelligence usually were too smart to apply for work here, and if they did, they didn't last long. Most ended up departed, or dead-or both. Too much intelligence could ruin even a Dead Tool, so Testament simply preferred to employ those who were far from genius level IQ.

          “Mr. Joe” needed not to look for long. A new file clerk had been hired, who lived in the Heathside neighborhood, a fair but not impossible walk from the Testament Tower. The distance proved to be important, because Miss Monica Wilber lacked transportation. She also lacked that unuseful genius level intelligence. She was single, alone, lonely, and agreeable. All that made her an excellent choice for “Mr. Joe's” first attempt.
June 8, 2010 at 11:29am
June 8, 2010 at 11:29am
#698550
I have three series-in-progress. Under the criteria given here, the first two would qualify as “unplanned” series. In both series I continued beyond Book One because I became so enamoured of the protagonist I didn't want to release them to oblivion. So I will not deal with those two series in this homework.

The third series I began in April; it started simply as a Stage Play for Script Frenzy. From there I had planned to write a series based on one of the secondary characters, Obax, to be titled The Yoruba Series. Instead, once I finished the Play, I researched (for a total of about 6 weeks-2 months) on The Civil War and Reconstruction (till it was coming out my eyes and ears) and decided to write a series on those topics, chronologically. Unfortunately, perhaps, I started this as a straight historical-and just as with my intended straight historical novel about the execution and life of Rosa Luxembourg, it didn't fly.

So the result on The Civil War Series is two chapters on Book One, and eleven chapters on Book Five.

Here is the outline I prepared for the Series back in April or May. Oh, at the time I began this series I was participating in Ann's workshop on Karen Wiesner's First Draft in 30 Days and studying the book on my own, so there was much more outlining done (not all included here) for this series. I just counted twenty separate files including setting sketches, plot sketches, many individual character sketches, dialogue worksheet, timeline, summary outline, and so forth, so I'll include only a few of these here.
B. A critical examination of my proposals and outlined work on this series reveals a couple of serious and fatal flaws. One, once again I have proven to myself I do not have the creative capacity to write straight historical fiction. Although I love and devour the genre, reading almost anything in almost any time period or era, it's not in me to write it. If it's not haunted, horror, Supernatural, paranormal (EXCLUDING vampires, werewolves, and shape-shifters), or at minimum mystery, suspense, thriller, or possibly fantasy-esp. Dark fantasy-forget it, I'm not going there and can't go there. So two months of research six weeks of outlining and planning is basically for naught, not apropos, and now rendered irrelevant. The best I can hope for from this experience (barring the deus ex machina of a ghostwriter or a co-author) is to take Book Five (Season of the Night-Riders, add in what I can that I would otherwise have included in Books One-Four, and run with it as a simple stand-alone novel. So this Series of five novels is now officially condensed into one novel.
June 8, 2010 at 7:18am
June 8, 2010 at 7:18am
#698534
http://www.latimes.com/entertainment/sns-ap-obit-marvin-isley,0,4921393.story

Marvin Isley passed away Sunday, June 6. Marvin, the youngest of the Isley Brothers, was only 56. He had been in very poor health since 1996, when due to complications of diabetes, he had lost both legs and the use of his left hand. As horrible a situation as this would be for any human, I have to consider whether it is worse for the creative. Marvin Isley played bass guitar, for which the use of one's hands are essentials. As a writer and reader, I worry frequently about my vision difficulties. Think of creative artists who use their hands (Joni Earecksson Tada comes to mind, who after paralysis learned to pain with her toes): painters, illustrators, cartoonists, sculptors, designers of jewelry, handbags, crafts, quilters.

Please don't anybody think I am downplaying how awful such health conditions would be for any individual. I am just pointing out here how certain types of Creativity would be more affected by certain types of health difficulties, and all this has been inspired by the untimely passing of Marvin Isley. Indeed, the Night Shift is filling up fast, it seems, as more and more of our musical talent leaves us for a better place and time.


Today would be the 143rd birthday of prominent architect Frank Lloyd Wright, a man whose Prairie Style I totally admire. Today is also the 42nd anniversary of both the assassination of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., and the funeral of Senator Robert F. Kennedy, who himself had been assassinated. I remember hearing the radio news of Dr. King's death in my bedroom that day-I was young, yes; and I bawled my eyes out. It didn't help that I was the only member of the household who cared at all: Dr. King was, after all, like the murdered students at Kent State University four years later, considered to be “uppity.” So I guess the thinking was that all uppity people deserved to die. Funny, here I still am!

http://www.biography.com/articles/Frank-Lloyd-Wright-9537511
June 7, 2010 at 12:12pm
June 7, 2010 at 12:12pm
#698444
Sometimes I should learn to engage brain before typing: seems I failed to make myself clear on the subject of market research. I called it irrelevant, forgetting that readers do not in addition read my mind. I have no problem with market research: it's an invaluable tool for the vast majority of writers. In today's publishing world, most writers, other than the already-established and famous, need all the help they can get to break into publishing. So: market research becomes a very valuable and important tool-for those aiming toward potential publication. For those who aren't, then it becomes irrelevant. That's all I mean. 'Nough said. Back to the Writing.

Speaking of which: the newest novel kept me awake last night, writing sentences in my mind, calculating scenery, developing and adding characters, comparing geographical locales. Writing was interrupted this morning for a trip to the Library (have to go when I'm offered a ride, you know) so I'm just now getting back to it. Not only is this a new novel, new sub-sub-genre niche; now the novel's got me singing Beatles sons, something I've NEVER done before in my life. I'm singing “Yellow Submarine,” rather apropos to Chapter One.

Chapter Nine


         Alice and Lisabeth, due to the latter's insistence, had remained much longer in the Park than Alice had expected. She still did not feel much better, but some of the roiling in her stomach had quieted. Her head still pounded though and she stayed out of the sun. When twilight came on, she was glad because that seemed to relieve the head pain. Since the girls were late returning, Mrs. Hudson walked over to the park to fetch them. Her husband had just arrived home, but she offered to go, as she wanted to pick up banana splits for dessert. She stopped in at Danny Wilber's stand and ordered four banana splits to go, telling the proprietor she would be back to collect them just as soon as she fetched the two girls from the park.

“All right, Mrs. Hudson, I'll stay open just for you all. After you come back and get the splits, it'll be time for me to close up for today.”


         Nancy Hudson strolled on to the Park and quickly located Alice on the swings, and Lisabeth, who had since returned to the merry-go-round and was spinning so mightily that Alice's tummy began to feel queasy again.

“Let's go, girls. We've got a special dessert for after supper, and we have to stop by and pick it up on the way home. Oh, and Lisabeth, Daddy's home too.”

“I doan wanna go yet, Mumsy! We just got here!”

“Well, not quite just, little lady, you've been here since at least one PM. Now come on, I've ordered banana splits for your dessert, and we have to hurry and go pick them up. Mr. Wilber wants to close and go home to his supper.”

“He can get his supper at the Stand! I'm not ready to go!”

“Lisabeth! Tomorrow is your birthday, it's a big day, you've got Alice over to stay with you till Monday, and IF you don't come on home with me right now, I am going to eat your dessert and your Daddy's too!”


         That was apparently sufficient threat, for Lisabeth suddenly let her foot up off the ground, no longer pushing the circular bench, and let the merry-go-round come to a stop. Then she jumped off, walked over to her mother, and sullenly took her hand. Alice had already hurried to Mrs. Hudson as soon as she had appeared, and had long been ready to go. They walked out of the park, stopped at the H&W Stand to collect the splits (Mrs. Hudson let Lisabeth carry her own, and Alice agreed to carry one even though she didn't intend to eat it. The entire time they stood in front of the Stand while the transaction was completed, Danny Wilber watched Little Alice with a leering glare, but there was nothing of sensuality involved. No, Wilber studied Alice looking for evidence of the poison he had placed in her very special Root Beer, a glass just for her, and he had hidden the empty under the counter. That poison was designed to weaken her will and make her amenable to the psychic manipulation of The Testament Core. Danny Wilber had been a loyal Tool of The Testament Core since his stillbirth, but he wasn't perfect-and this afternoon Danny had committed a very serious mistake. Soon he would arrive at the home where he “resided” with his mother, Monica, and by the time the first few sentences flew from her mouth, Danny would be expecting all hades to break loose, and he would feel the flames of Mr. Joe's wrath already licking at his feet.
June 6, 2010 at 12:26pm
June 6, 2010 at 12:26pm
#698317



When I went to sleep last night I surely wasn't considering starting a new novel, much less in a subgenre I have never attempted (though enjoy occasionally reading). But I had an odd dream, or series of dreams, very early this morning, and when I woke up, I decided to record what I could remember.

Voila! A new novel commences-an urban fantasy of all things! So Finding the Abandoned Child has begun, at least a Prologue. I also uploaded the epigrams, prologue, and first two chapters of Remembrance at Morning, The Civil War Series Book One; through Chapter Eleven of Season of the Night-Riders, The Civil War Series Book Five; and yesterday's new chapter, Twenty-One, of Child Puppets of The Testament Logging Corporation, The Testament Logging Corporation Chronicles Book Three. All three of these novels are now available, although as yet incomplete and unedited, to Registered Authors and above, rather than on private status.

Today's free read: continuation of Child-Puppets of The Testament Logging Corporation and a short story/flash piece:

Chapter Eight


         Lisabeth and Alice played in the park till almost twilight, though Alice, who still wasn't feeling quite well, remained quietly rocking in a low, slow arc on the swings. Lisabeth was always a much more active child, and she bounced from merry-go-round to monkey gym to slide to seesaw, where she commanded Alice's presence but wasn't successful. Alice's stomach was upset and her head ached; she certainly wasn't going to attempt the up-and-down motions of the see-saw, nor the spinning of the merry-go-round. Swinging low and slow was enough, and even that was almost too much. What she really wanted to do was go home and lie down, but of course she was not going home till Monday evening after Daddy's work, a full three days away. She was pleased when Mrs. Hudson arrived to call the girls home.

         Alice had only gone to an H&K Root Beer Concession a very few times, usually when Daddy took her and Mamma to the City to shop, a few times a year, on Saturdays. Daddy always brought groceries on Friday afternoons, after work, at the big S&S Foods on the Southwest side of the City. That grocery was part of a chain (Alice had heard Daddy say that S&S Foods had stores even as far West as Kenozsha, and Southeast to Collins Junction) and this particular location happened to be the headquarters. In addition to a very large Store outlet, also had the warehouse behind it, so just about everything a person could want to buy for food was here. Since Mamma didn't like the City, Daddy picked up the groceries on his way out of town, even though it was somewhat of a detour, as they lived Northwest from the City center, and the grocery store was Southwest. But several times a year, Daddy, Mamma, and Alice all went in to the City to do other shopping, such as clothes for Alice, who although slender, grew tall quickly, and shoes, and so forth. Sometimes they even got a new item of furniture, or dishes, and when Alice was small they had to buy feed for her pony. Unfortunately, the pony had died of old age when Alice was five, and Mamma and Daddy asked her to wait until she was eleven or so; then, they had promised, they would buy her a horse of her own.
When they went on these occasional trips shopping, they drove all the way diagonally across Madison Mills from Northwest to Southeast to shop at what to Alice was a very huge Department Store: The Testament Corporation Emporium. Yes, this was a Testament Company Store, much as mining companies and railways had provided employees throughout the 18th and 19th centuries, in both the Old World and the New World. The Testament Emporium, popularly known simply as The Emporium, also carried a stock of foodstuffs as well, and many of its employees did their one-stop shopping there. But their prices were higher than S&S, and their variety much more constrained, so Mamma and Daddy preferred S&S, a fact that did not go unnoticed by The Testament Logging Corporation's Vice President of Personnel-Jerralld Cavendish's superior (even though the positions were both labelled Vice President, as was Jed Hudson's job, Jerralld and Jed were secondary figures reporting directly to the Vice President of Personnel, who of course reported to the ectoplasmic Chief Executive Officer).

         When the Cavendishes shopped at the Emporium, Mr. Cavendish always treated the family to a stop afterward at the closest H&K Root Beer Concession, conveniently located at a corner of the parking lot. The Emporium stretched for three-quarters of a block, and an L-shaped parking lot ran alongside it, with the long bar of the L across the front, the short segment on the left. All along the long block behind the Emporium were thickly clustered, so that any view behind the Store, or from the houses beyond it toward the Store, was completely restricted. The Testament view was that this created an aura of “country in the city,” or so it was explained to customers by the Store's Managers (all of whom were reanimated Dead Tools except for one).

         The H&K Root Beer Concession stand nearest to the Testament Emporium stood in the far left corner, at the edge of the parking lot and within full view of a busy intersection, as the Emporium parking lot ran alongside a less-travelled East-West road, and the North-South road was a major City street, with much traffic. So the Stand was handy to shoppers and passers-by alike, and as it did so much business seven days a week (for the Emporium was open daily) it sported an outdoor seating area on the grass beside the building, plus indoor stools in front of a long counter. It was much larger than any other H&K Stand, except of course the “headquarters” stand in the City center, located just beyond the Testament Tower (which itself was separate from the only H&K sit-down restaurant, located on the ground floor of the Testament Tower). This particular venue also served food, including barbecue plates for enterprising Emporium shoppers, and thus was an extremely popular destination for shoppers and travellers both. The Cavendishes always enjoyed spending a half hour or so on each shopping trip, after the visit to the Emporium was completed, lunching on chili dogs, root beer floats, and a banana split for Mrs. Cavendish, who enjoyed those almost as much as did Lisabeth Hudson. Indeed, sometimes the Cavendishes stopped in at the Hudson home on their way into town, as their neighborhood was in the Western part of the city and so not much out of the way, and collected Lisabeth to go along. With every trip the Cavendish adults became aware of how much more Lisabeth Hudson had become quite a handful in terms of misbehaviour. Afterwards at home, out of Alice's hearing or once she fell asleep, they would discuss Lisabeth, wondering whether she would continue to be a suitable playmate for Little Alice, a much more reserved and always well-behaved child. Mr. Cavendish would wonder why Jed Hudson did not take more of a disciplinary role with his daughter; Mrs. Cavendish attributed the misbehaviour to Lisabeth's tenure in the City's public school system. Jerralld Cavendish would add that the two girls were brought together because of the fathers' careers, and that perhaps it might not be wise just yet to refuse Alice her friend. Even then Jerralld had begun to have niggling, although still mostly unconscious, doubts about the security of his position-but he had not yet learned to fear for his life. He did think, though, that Alice should continue to associate with Lisabeth for the time being, at least until the older girl became too completely unruly.

         Lisabeth was an uproarious child by nature, and due to lack of discipline as well. In this Jerralld Cavendish had discerned accurately. Yet the lack of parental control was not due to any dedication on the part of the Hudson paretns to permissive parenting; no, they allowed Lisabeth her head solely out of fear-fear of the child, not for the child. The “little monster” into which Lisabeth was fast turning had been formed, not so much by innate evil, as in the case of newborn Clyde Jenks in November 1900, but by the careful attention and molding efforts of The Testament Logging Corporation.

         All Child Puppets of The Testament Logging Corporation were by necessity experimental. The Testament Core, like its connected evil entity concealed deep in the heart of The Big Forest, had long understood how to work with the Dead, the reanimated Dead, and the evil (or at least malleable) Living. But working with Child Puppets was a relatively new venture, and one that had come about only in the New World, after the emigration of The Testament Core following its destruction (or so it thought) of the mortal incarnation of Alamathera Knutson in 1718, in Cornruush, in the Old World.

         Its first venture into the employment as Tools of Child Puppets did occur with Clyde Jenks, but he came into evil on his own recognizance. Testament had indeed hoped for a useful Tool to come along in Callwood Jenks' family line, for Callwood had himself been a boon, and very effective in steering trouble into the reach of The Testament Core, and of identifying folks in his area who could be either effectively suborned, or who might be difficult and thus needed to be put out of the way. But Callwood had managed to produce only one child, and that was shiftless, good-natured Willis, who was no use to Testamwent at all. Nor was he in Testament's way, so he was allowed to survive, going along in his aggravating lazy manner, of no use to anyone-until he met Clytie and the two of them produced newborn Clyde, a regular bundle of evil wrapped in a cloth shirt and nappy, an infant who single-handedly at the age of six and eight days, eradicated both parents, delivered himself by so doing into the care of his already bent-to-evil GrandPappy, and endeared himself mightily to The Testament Logging Corporation and The Testament Core.

         Clyde never needed much instruction; he could figure out evil doings all on his own. It was later in life, as Testament tried to mold him into their tool, that he began to prove intransigent, and so ended up himself, exterminated. Once he was Dead, he proved much easier to use.

         All Child Puppets of The Testament Logging Corporation were not like Clyde Jenks, though; in fact, so far none others had been found. In 1932 The Testament Core had tried to use Rory Lewes; It had deemed the time had come for his maternal grandmother Ilsa Knutson Calhoun, to depart from this life. With increasing middle age, her psychic Intuition had sharpened and she now saw far too much, and what was worse, she had begun to discuss it with her husband, and had decided to share her visions with her daughter. The Testament Core could not let such a disaster occur.

         It first went to her only grandchild, Rory, for help. Thinking that because he had not objected three months earlier, in February 1932, when The Testament Logging Corporation had first opened a Savings account in his name at First StoneForth Bank of Rennald, with a signature allegedly by him, and then composed a Last Will and Testament, again in his name and with his alleged signature, bequeathing his entire estate to The Testament Logging Corporation, its heirs, subsidiaries, and assigns in perpetuity (so that its lease remittances would eventually return to it of course). Rory showed no reaction to either of these events, nor demonstrated any inclination to battle back nor to cause conflict. Of course, any human would realize that little Rory Lewes was only two years old, had just turned two, and as yet had no concept of banks, savings, money, wills, or any other of these official and legal instruments.

         But nothing about Testament was human, and not much ever had been. It was evil, but in some ways not very clever. It often misunderstood the ways of the Living, which was its sole vulnerability. Since it expected Rory to be malleable, it first tried to mold his mind and bend his consciousness to the goal of destroying his mother's parents. But Rory was by nature too good and pure, like little Alice a few years later-born to Knutson and raised by Cavendishes and then a Cloverdale aunt married to a Grisham in the Village of Knox-and his mind would not bend to the whims of The Testament Core. All that was achieved were temporary blinding headaches for the child, and sheer frustration for The Core.

         So that option was out, and in this particular event, The Testament Logging Corporation was forced to give up on the use of a Child Puppet (even though its “evil” heart had been set on just that) and instead turned to two old reliables, Clyde and Callwood Jenks. Clyde was now thirty-one and a half, and Callwood approximately fifty years of age. Callwood was loyal in his allegiance to The Testament Logging Corporation Core, whereas his grandson Clyde was as always, pretty much of a wild card. Yet when Callwood learned of the mission, and let Clyde know the details, Clyde was immediately raring to head out, even before the situation had been prepared. Clyde liked destruction, almost as much as he liked summoning Demons, and this mission would provide plenty of destruction along with a tremendous agony for the victims. Clyde was on this one for certain.


Flash Fiction:
Hannah's Mail Order Mate


         He stumbled on the steps of the small commuter plane which had transported him from Chicago's O'Hare Airport to a small town in Northwestern Wisconsin, Opal Bay. A shorter-than-average man in a pale beige windbreaker open to the elements over a khaki polo shirt and brown trousers, he walked unsteadily, possibly because of the left leg, missing below the knee. Thick brown hair tousled gently in the breeze.

         I relented and stepped forward to offer my help.

“Martin? Hi, I'm Denise, Denise Lincoln from Mail-Mates.”


         He looked up then and scowled at the sight of me, but when I reached for his left hand, he allowed me to help him maneouver the stairs. Silent crossing the tarmac, he spoke only after we reached my LandCruiser.

“So where is she-my new wifey, then?”


         A gentle Welsh accent did nothing to render Martin Crossley any more appealing, as his words were strongly flavored with resentment. Perhaps he had been less than successful in his home country at finding a mate, or maybe he hoped to successfully emigrate to America via marriage-a guarantee of new citizenship. Whichever the case, he didn't impress me, but then I was only the Matchmaker, not the Mate.

“You'll meet Hannah shortly, I'm afraid. You do understand she has the right to rule for or against you, don't you?”


         That stopped him in his tracks. He whipped around to face me so quickly that he stumbled once again, nearly lost his balance, and fetched up against the side of the truck.

“What-what do you mean, missy? For or against me? I'm a mail-order mate! I've flown from Cardiff to London to Chicago to” (and here his voice rose to a whine pitched at the peak of a chainsaw motor) “HERE! And I am NOT GOING BACK!”


“Well, Martin, you've indeed made that quite clear. But would you please just step into the vehicle” (oh I knew that was a poor choice of words when he scowled even uglier)
“and let's get on to the office where you can meet with your intended Bride.”


         As he shifted his weight away from the passenger door, I opened it for him and gave him a fair push in. Then I slammed the door and walked around to the driver's side, schooling my face into a pleasant if robotic expression. Not a word was said during the twenty-minute trip into town, and not until I had parked in my assigned space did he react.

“What if she doesn't like me, then, Missy? What then?”


         I turned to look at him, and I so wished to say, “I'll drive you to Lake Owewosabee myself and throw you in,” but I remembered just in time that this job made the LandCruiser's payments and kept me dressing fashionably. Instead I simply smiled and replied,

“I'm sure that will be no problem,”
meanwhile gritting my teeth so firmly I thought I could taste enamel chipping.

*^*


         Once inside the office, I grimaced at the receptionist and inquired whether Hannah Mylee had arrived. Ginger replied that Hannah was waiting in my office, so I steered Martin into the conference room and suggested he have a chair, a coffee, and a pastry. He agreed to the chair and the pastry but declined the coffee, instead demanding tea! I explained that might take a while, and headed to my office to collect Hannah.

         Hannah Mylee had applied to my division some three months before, with very specific criteria. She had inherited a dairy farm and then expanded to raise beef cattle as well. Now thirty, she had decided it was time for a Mate, and she came to us to find her one suitable to work the farm along with her and to provide big strapping sons to inherit when she eventually went the way of all flesh. To that end, she had requested a tall (6'2” or above),hefty (225 lbs or better), muscular, strong, individual-of Slavic descent, preferably Russian or Eastern European. Hannah really could not care if he spoke English well, as long as he was strong, a hard loyal worker, and able to father many sons.

         Well, she was in for just a little surprise.

         Walking to the conference room, I told her,

“Hannah, your requirements were a little on the stringent side, and I must say, we had to relax them just a bit; but I'm certain you'll be very pleased with our results. After all, Mail-Order-Mates has been in business in this location for over six years now, and we have dozens of satisfied clients.”


“I know, my best friend Ginny and my cousins Irene and Charles all swear by your service. I trust them; that's why I decided to try it. But you know, I'm getting older, and I really need a husband now-my biological clock is ticking, and I'm almost getting too old to properly run the farms by just myself.”


         Oh, this could DEFINITELY become a problem.

         I opened the conference room door and stepped back as I announced,

“Hannah, Martin, MEET YOUR MAIL-MATES!”


         The expression on Hannah's face would have won First Prize at a photography exhibition, if the subject had been Rage. One glance at the short, wiry man slumped casually in the chair on the far side of the table, pastry crumbs decorating his polo shirt and jacket, would have been sufficient, but as she rushed forward and saw, stretching away from the table, his wooden peg-leg, Hannah lost all sense of reason. She lunged, spit at him, yanked away the leg, then pounded him in the head with it, all the while screaming incoherently. I stammered a demurral, but closed my eyes in resignation as she turned on me waving the wooden peg leg threateningly overhead. As it came whistling down on me I decided that perhaps Mail-Order Mates had been the wrong career choice for me.





June 5, 2010 at 12:15pm
June 5, 2010 at 12:15pm
#698228
Introductory:

This type of research is irrelevant to my purposes, but I'm going at it anyway for the purposes of this workshop. I did not research these topics in Frankie's January workshop for the reason of irrelevance.

Market: My niche is so sub-sub-sub-genre I can't even find it. I'm sure somewhere there are novels in my category; when I think of the nomenclature I've designed, “haunted historical,” I remember all those paperback, luridly spooky covered, “Gothic suspense” I devoured in childhood and adolescence. Victoria Holt and Phyllis A. Whitney were higher class examples, but believe me, they were many others. Similar to the romance tradition, there are authors who write well, and authors who just write.

To be more specific, there are indeed individual novels and I suppose series that qualify for classification as “haunted historical.” One author example is the late Michael McDowell, whose Candles Burning, left unfinished at his death, was completed excellently by the immensely talented author Tabitha King, and whose Blackwater Series definitely classifies as haunted-historical-horror. Mr. McDowell (and Ms. King, in her turn) craft intensely-delineated characterization with plots that have more twists than a boa constrictor, and unending horror, in historical settings.

An author who has done immensely well with generational historical horror is Robert McCammon-Usher's Passing, Mystery Walk, and Boy's Life come to immediate mind. More recently he has penned historicals which have their own spooky twists:

Speaks the Nightbird
The Queen of Bedlam
Mister Slaughter



Now, the McDowell Blackwater books were an immensely popular and critically well-received series. Mr. McCammon's early horror works qualified for immense popularity and critical acclaim, but were not series novels. The latter three listed above are part of his later to new “Matthew Corbett's World” Series.

I would never presume to compare my work to these authors; but, like Mr. McDowell, I do write “haunted-historical-horror- in series,” and like Mr. McCammon, I do write “generational horror sagas.” (Sorry, I used the word “saga.” LOL)




Designed by me for NaNo 2009



Designed by me for NaNo 2009



Designed by me for NaNo 2009
June 5, 2010 at 8:31am
June 5, 2010 at 8:31am
#698205
In the News:

R.I.P. John Wooden of UCLA, dead at 99, a man who lived a fulfilling and full life.

http://www.latimes.com/news/local/la-me-john-woodenlong-20100605,0,409375.story

I just read a thought-provoking column by Randy Banks in the L.A. Times on the recent announcement that Al & Tipper Gore are ending their marriage. I won't copy it here because it is copyright material, but I recommend it to you, Gentle Readers, especially the final two paragraphs. Very apropos.

http://www.latimes.com/news/local/la-me-banks-20100605,0,6610813.column

Oil Spill: In the imminence of my 40th high school reunion, to be held June 12, I've opened a new Facebook account to find “lost” classmates and have had some degree of success: notably one close “old” friend finding me with whom I had not had contact in, oh, probably 25 years! I mention this here because one gentleman of my acquaintance, now on my friends list, has much to say about the ongoing fiasco in the Gulf of Mexico brought on by British Petroleum's Deep Horizons off-shore drilling oil rig explosion. It's always a treat to read his thoughts, because his irony couches accurate perceptions of the events. Perhaps surprisingly, perhaps not-maybe because our discussions are couched in a more familiar venue and one in which I feel free from judgmentalism-I am able to discuss some of my thinking on this matter (BP, Oil Consortiums, Environmental Destruction).

I see this morning that citizens of Grand Isle, Louisiana-one of the many communities in the path of the imminent oil slick spread-have berated the source-British Petroleum. Grand Isle lost 40 families who moved away, and stayed away, after Hurricane Katrina. They seem to think one “natural” disaster is enough. I have to agree: Katrina was not man-made, but the current Gulf Oil Spill most certainly bears all the marks of human destructiveness. Reading the article on Grand Island has truly brought home to me the magnitude of the disaster: the loss of marine life, water birds, the damage to the local economies as tourism has of necessity been replaced by clean-up and containment efforts; the loss of scholarships for graduating seniors due to the cancellation of the fish rodeo, the potential necessity for residents to leave, temporarily or permanently, after surviving three hurricanes. I don't live very near the Gulf-approximately 250 miles; I don't eat seafood (religious dietary restrictions and allergies) but I am still affected. How? I live on this planet, just as do us all. We are all citizens of what is currently the only planet we possess, and despite a century or more of science fiction, we have no recourse to other moons or other planets to colonize. Folks, this is it, and we better take care of it while we still can.

http://www.latimes.com/news/nationworld/nation/la-na-oil-spill-grand-isle-201006...


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