An Iron Lady and a Mouseketeer

I find my heart is broken today. The last great fires of my golden youth have passed on and left my world a little darker. 

I wish to extend my deepest sympathies to the Thatcher family and the United Kingdom for the loss of former Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher. While my politics are my own, there can be no denying that this remarkable woman as left her footprint on the world. Even though I am an American, she still inspired me in my youth. I knew I wanted to be, like she, a woman of conviction, who in the face of adversity, can rally the support of those around me to make a united front.

Requiescat in pace, Ms. Thatcher. Your presence is missed.


My sympathies also to the Funicello family and Hollywood for the loss of Annette Funicello, a beautiful woman and a talented, talented performer, fondly known as America's Sweetheart.

I raise a glass in your honor and toast to your memory.

Typhoon Nancy (WoE #14, Euphonic Phrase and Propeller Challenge)

After a week's hiatus, I'm returning to Write at the Merge. The prompts this week include a picture of the propeller from the aircraft carrier, USS Intrepid, and the words cellar door.

Cellar Door is considered to be a perfect euphonic phrase, at least that is what was said in the film Donnie Darko. Phonaesthetics, the study of euphony (inherent pleasantness) and cacophony (inherent unpleasantness) in the sound of words was introduced by J.R.Firth in 1930.

Cellar door may be considered the most beautiful phrase in the English language, but it's beauty is lost on me.

Now, the aircraft carrier propeller, that is beauty that is not lost on me. I am the very proud daughter of a man who once served aboard an aircraft carrier, CVA-31 the Bon Homme Richard, fondly called the Bonnie Dick. The Bonnie Dick had several West-Pac tours and she was involved in World War II, The Korean War, and The Vietnam Conflict. I got to walk her flight deck with my father and to pay my respects to her in 1992 before they scrapped her. She was a beautiful, beautiful creature and a damn fine carrier. 

In September of 1961, a Catagory 5 super typhoon named Nancy wrecked havoc upon the West-Pac countries. She formed near the Kwajalein Atol, moving west and then north across Japan, eventually moving out to the open water of the Kamchatka Sea. In Japan alone, 157 people were killed, 18 missing, and over 3,000 injured, making Nancy the 6th deadliest cyclone to hit Japan.

Unable to steer from the Nancy's path, The Bonnie Dick suffered as well. Nancy claimed the life of a sailor as she stole an aircraft from the flight deck. Waves stood 100-feet high over the flight deck (the flight deck is 85ft above normal water lines). When all was said and done, they lost a large crane from the main deck, all the catwalks and walkways on the deck edge were stripped off, the starboard-side aircraft elevator was ripped loose and dangled in the water, the starboard catapult track, a 12in by 14in steel beam, was bent 50ft in the air, and the list of damages goes on from there.

My story this week is loosely based on a true story, my dad's story. I hope I've done you proud, Pop.

I offer the following in response: Nancy Ain't A Lady

“Hell, Typhoon Nancy’s going to chase us all the way to Kamchatka!”

The ocean leaned like a Jenga tower, 65-feet over the flight deck and Seaman Angler grabbed the nearest railing. The wave burned him when it hit, tearing at his eyes. The aircraft carrier slid beneath him. Forever he gripped the railing, feeling both heavy and weightless, counting the long seconds until the carrier righted and the water fled. He sucked in a welcome breath. Nancy’s trying to kill me.

“Woot! That’s what I call a coaster! You all right Seaman? You look green.”

“Respectfully, Sir, shut the hell up.” Angler set his feet and adjusted the cables on his shoulders.

The CO pushed another volunteer out into the weather. “Let’s haul, ladies. The United States will not lose another aircraft on my watch. Get those lines out. Move! Move!”

Angler followed orders, but with a 70-mile head-wind and a hundred pounds of cable tossed across his shoulders, the definition of move was lost in translation. “Join the Navy, see the world. Right.” He questioned his sanity.

Seaman Briggs was behind him; Angler heard his voice boom over the howling wind, “Wild! They say the captain’s gone nuts, ordering the waves to get the hell off his flight deck. Have you ever seen weather like this?”

“No, I’m from Kansas.” Angler coughed seawater from his lungs. “Nearest body of water was the neighbor’s kiddie pool.”

The pilot house broke the next wave. Several tie-downs snapped as the carrier slammed through the trough. Briggs tapped his shoulder. “We got another Skyraider loose.”

“Shit.” Angler forced his legs to increase speed. He and Briggs fought the typhoon, repairing what tie-downs they could with the new cables. The carrier shuddered, complaining, but the weather was merciless. The cyclone tossed the Bon Homme Richard around like a rubber float.

They resecured the jet, and pushed on to the next aircraft between waves, where the process was repeated.  Guide lights flashed across the liquid darkness, a signal their time was up. They fought for every inch of their return, thigh-deep in pooled ocean.

Inside, Briggs and Angler separated. Angler slogged towards his quarters, cursing the sting of soaked clothing. The Bonnie Dick rolled again, throwing Angler against the wall, and the hallway plunged into darkness. “Son-of-a…” Angler pressed against the midship, and waited.

The darkness belayed.

Angler inched forward, using the wall to guide him, his progress painful. Then, a voice whispered within his mind, Stop.

He looked down as the red battlelights flickered into existence. Angler balanced on one leg at the edge of the expansion joint. The sight of swirling ocean pumped ice through his veins. The developing chasm was six-feet across and a long way down.

The treadplate slammed shut. Angler’s heart stopped and he collapsed to the floor, shaken. There he stayed in deep conversation with God, a conversation long overdue, until his will returned. He would not leave his bunk for the rest of the night.

A New Partner (WoE #12 Legs and a Song Challenge)

Write at the Merge gives us a picture of a retreating woman's legs in film-noir style and a song by Justin Timberlake.

I liked the picture. It brought to mind The Thin Man and the Maltese Falcon, and the colorful characters created by Dashiell Hammett. The language used by his hard-boiled detectives I find delightfully crass, but ingenious. Lines like: “He felt like somebody had taken the lid off life and let him see the works.” (The Maltese Falcon) and “I first heard Personville called Poisonville by a red-haired mucker named Hickey Dewey in the Big Ship in Butte. He also called his shirt a shoit.”(The Red Harvest) make me positively giddy.

So when I saw the picture, the first thing that sprang to mind was: She had legs that went all the way to the floor. I needed a "she" to go with that phrase.

I'd like to return to Essie Dorely. She's just been hired as a reaper of souls.

I offer the following in response: A New Partner

Reaper walked Essie down a long, star-lit hallway. She tried not to feel like she was headed for the principal’s office. She also tried not to stare at his silent flip-flops.  “So we help with the transitioning to this new life. Do we ever have difficult customers?”

“All the time,” he turned and continued through a marble archway. “Not all souls transfer as easily as you did. Some experience extreme regret and disbelief, and they never really let go of their earthly existence.”

“What happens to them?”

“Oh eventually they come around to the idea, realize they’ve been scared of the change and embrace their new lives with euphoria. Until then, they wait.”

She chewed on her thoughts for a moment. “Like purgatory?”

“Like purgatory is a strong analogy to draw, but I suppose if you don’t have anything else to compare it to, it’ll do.” He stopped at the end of the hall where another magnificent archway framed a door. Stocks and Bonds was etched into the frosted glass and filled with flaking gold paint. His hand hovered at the door knob. “Sometimes, though, our...partners...claim the reaped soul, and custody battles ensue.”

His look worried her. “Partners? Fights?"

“Reaping isn’t an easy profession, Essie, but you needn’t fret. I am confident you are well up for the task.”  He opened the door and she followed him inside.

They stood on a platform that seemed to float above a chaotic gallery where a thousand people worked dizzying circles around each other. Hundreds of ticker-tape celebrations broke out with the constant clamor of a myriad bells and alarms. In the center of the sunken room spun a crystalline replica of Earth that reflected lights like a disco ball. Reaper leaned against the railing with a wistful expression adorning his perfect face. “This is where the struggles of the Adversary and our Architect are witnessed. We share in man’s brightest achievements and we weep in his darkest hours.”

“It’s so lovely.” The excitement in the room enchanted her, filling her heart until it bubbled over.

Reaper tapped her shoulder, turning her attention to the opposite end of the platform. “Here she comes, late as usual.”

“Who?” Essie spun around.

“Your partner. We usually go in teams of two, you see. One of their's and one of ours.”

A young woman stepped off the elevator in a puff of smoke. Red hair curled about her face like flames licking at porcelain in a kiln. She slinked towards them, her stride limited by a pencil skirt and stiletto heels. A black mink stole snaked around her neck. Her ruby lips parted, revealing pristine fangs. “Reaper, darling.”

“Miss Essie Dorely, Miss Abilene Fortesque.”

“Enchantez,” Abilene’s tongue traced her mouth.

Essie never associated with this type of woman during her earthly existence. She reached for anything to say. “The pleasure is mine, surely.”

“You’re so sweet, I could just devour you. We’ll be the best of friends, you and I.”

Somehow, Essie didn’t think so.

State of the Onion or What I've Been Avoiding

My State of the Union address is long overdue. I've been avoiding it.

My parents shuffle about, getting ready for dialysis. In truth, they're dragging their feet on purpose. Who wants to go to dialysis? Even as it's a necessary procedure to extend the life, dialysis has become a chore. Three days a week, my parents put their lives on hold to sit in a chair and do nothing for four hours straight. And lately, the staff, although professional and conscientious, is running hours behind due to a corporate takeover, making my parents thrice-a-week trek all the more unpleasant.

I sit in a state of onion: Layers of frustration and needs and chores and depression, all neatly packaged in a parchment-thin skin that makes me cry when I go to chop it up. When ignored, this onion only grows bigger and bigger, sprouting new life all on its own. I know what I need to do. I know how I need to do it. But instead I sit amidst my growing projects and feel like I've accomplished nothing for four hours straight. I'm spinning wheels like I'm stuck in Alabama mud and I'm going nowhere fast.

Or am I? I'll get back to this point in a second.

I'm still unemployed, after a year and a few months. In today's job market, I'm just not getting noticed. I probably need to fix problem areas in my resume, get out of the house and make connections, and/or pester all of my friends to point me somewhere, anywhere that will prove fruitful. But that's not the crux of the matter, and I know this. It is obvious even to me that I have been granted with an over-abundance of time. If I had used this time to my best advantage, I could have drafted and re-drafted at least three novels by now and had them ready for publication. I have squandered my time through false hope, lack of dedication, and poor work ethic. I have closed my eyes and my onion has sprouted a life of its own.

Time to wrestle Time back, peel back the layers, and get to chopping. That means focusing on the aspects of my life that I find exciting, so I can draw from that energy to apply to things that I should be doing.


Outstanding Personal Obligations Recently Completed:

• Scrivener: Learning the nuances of a new software. I'm now comfortable using it for bigger projects. As a result, Waking Grandpa is trotting along nicely.
• Knitting: I've completed several washcloths for baby showers and scarves for gifts.
• Camera: I HAVE A NEW CAMERA AND IT'S TOTALLY AWESOME!

Inserting proud camera moment here:

The camera is an important addition to my techie circus. My previous camera wasn't "Shelton-friendly" so all pictures I took with it look like...well...something that came out of the south-end of a north-bound kangaroo.  This new one has features and I don't need a Bachelor's in Computer Science with a Minor in Japanese to figure out how to use it. Now, I can dabble in photography and feel good about the pictures I take. Like the above duck. Don't make fun of it. I'm really REALLY proud of that duck. Soon, I'll be able to play in the Really Cool Sandbox of Really Cool Blogs with Really Cool Pictures along with the big girls. YEA!

The point is this: although I've avoided a few things and I don't feel like I've accomplished anything, I do have completed projects. I have seen remarkable growth in my creative writing (thanks in no small part to the wonderful WoE community and daily encouragement from my editor and good friend.) I have had job interviews that haven't produced offers, but that proves I'm doing something right somewhere. So maybe I'm not further along because I zigged when I should have zagged, but I've accomplished enough of my little goals from last year that I can devote some time to what comes next.

Next On My Pipeline:

• Novel: The second draft of The Trouble With Henry is back from my editor. There are only a few trouble spots to work through. But I'm seeing the end of the tunnel on this WIP. The next steps are: Revising and Tweaking: by the beginning of April, and formatting, cover art and (drum roll) PUBLISH by the end of April. (Hey, it can be done. I'm THAT close!)
• Novel II: Waking Grandpa second draft to be completed by the end of July.
• Camera: Three local trips are planned ('cause I can't afford to go farther right now) to exercise my budding photographing skills. Orfila Winery, Old Town San Diego, and The Huntington Library. Oh and the beach, which makes trip four.
• New Job: Time to pester those friends for a little assistance. 
• Taxes: yes, I need hold my wallet open for Uncle Sam and remember the IRS agents are only doing their jobs. I'm really not that important for them to have a personal vendetta against me.
• Knitting: Another scarf or three for my editor. And few gifts for the Hallmark Holidays. Maybe I'll actually knit something bigger than a scarf or a washcloth. Maybe a tea cozy?

So there it is. The State of the Onion that I've been avoiding from the beginning of the year is finished. I'm not where I wanted to be, but that's okay. The slow and steady pace of the tortoise is better than the flashing over-confident pace of the hare. And if I run the onion under water before chopping, I won't cry.

My parents will still have to trudge to dialysis, but perhaps I can have dinner ready for them when they come home.

Podgy-Warble (WoE #11 Bubble & City Hall Challenge)

Reporting from Write at the Merge week 11, we are provided two pictures for our inspiration. One is of the New Town Hall in Hanover, Germany with the lights on the facade for a charming display of evening colors. The other is of the perfect bubble suspended over a Norwegian valley at sunrise.

I was so captivated by the picture of the bubble that I didn't even think about the Town Hall. I found the picture simply breathtaking, the sort of picture I which I could take but never will because I won't ever have the right camera or software. Not to mention, I'm still a five-year-old around bubbles.

I was at Disney's California Adventure once when a cast member was using one of those bubble guns in the Hollywood section. "Look, fairy farts!" I exclaimed.

The cast member doubled-over, giggling incessantly with snorts and squeaks. I pronounced myself a winner.

That story shared, I believe you will see that I absolutely had to return to Sticky's world for this prompt. Sticky just learned of his destiny, but he's conflicted about what that means, and now all his friends are involved.

I offer the following in response: Introducing Podgy-Warble

“I don’t see what the problem is,” Pocker scratched his head as they gathered seeds in the farmer's meadow, “why is being a Fetcher a bad thing?”

Sellamina shot Pocker her withers-butterflies look and Sticky cringed instinctively. “Secrets are secrets, Pocker!” she hissed.

“Yeah but it’s not like he’d be lying or anything.” Pocker said in defense. “We keep secrets from all kinds of things, like other clans, humans, even squirrels.”

“Those secrets are different.” Sella gestured emphatically. “Those secrets are about protection.”

“Can we think about maybe heading back?” Sticky interrupted, pointing eastward. “The sun’s coming up.”

Sellamina continued as if she hadn’t heard him, her voice pitching in passion and her wings darkening with her mood. Lily appeared openly confused by the argument. “What do I think?” she whispered.

Sticky shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve never seen Sellamina and Pocker this at odds before.”

Topple materialized in the toadstool beside them. “You know what I don’t understand, is why the Seeress chose you as the new Fetcher to begin with. You can’t Fetch without us. Not to mention your camyflaging skills are sorely lacking.”

Sticky made a face, insulted, “They are not! I’m just not obsessed with looking like a toadstool.”

Lily groaned, “You two aren’t going to start fighting, are you?”

He didn’t feel like apologizing, but Lily made a point. The rising sun meant they would all be exposed soon. Inhaling slowly, he grumbled, “Sorry, Topple, you’re right.”

The fight between Sellamina and Pocker grew steadily louder, another threat that would need resolved for their protection. The sun would coax the balinogs from their dens for warmth and the amphibians would not resist a potential snack of pixies. Then Topple would never let them hear the end of it, his I-told-you-sos haunting them for the whole of the season.

Sticky turned away in frustration and was instantly taken in by an unfamiliar sight. A perfect sphere, full of the swirling colors of dawn clouds, drifted in mid-air. He flew into the eye of the argument to get their attention. “Stop, what’s that!”

The quintet watched the sphere float, awestruck. “Must we bring it back to the Seeress?” Lily-fathri whispered, her wings quivering like she was about to explode. “Or can I keep it? I want to pet it and name it Podgy-warble.”

The sphere did a curious thing then: it audibly popped, disappearing.

Sticky tasted soap on the breeze. “No!” Lily screamed, frantic tears pooling in her almond eyes, “Podgy-warble’s dead!”

Pocker flew to her, wrapping protective arms around her. “Shh, it’s okay Sweet-pea,” he whispered, but Sticky could tell Pocker didn’t have a clue if it would ever be okay again. Podgy-warble was gone and there was nothing left for them to plant in reverence. Lily shook and sobbed until they all had tears.

Sellamina pointed a shaky finger over grass, “Stars, look!”

An army of Podgy-warbles floated above them, each a perfect sphere of swirling color. Lily wiped her eyes and cooed.

99 Problems Challenge (WoE Surprise Prompt)

It's the 900th post at Write On Edge today and to celebrate, we get a surprise prompt! WoE gives us Hugo's song 99 Problems and they're not too concerned about word limit.

A while back I came across a prompt that involved an act of revenge against neighborhood kids who toilet paper houses. It wasn't until this prompt that a whole scene snapped into place.

I offer the following in response: Serving Revenge Cold
 

Kids. Urchins. Prepubescent dunderheads. I detest them. My shrink told me I suffer from ephebiphobia, but that’s not my only issue. I have several issues in fact. All of them have some sort of lengthy Greek or Latin beginning and end with –phobia. I have a trunk full of costly pills to address each one.

Apparently, killing teenagers is an act of murder punishable in a court of law, not an act of mercy that nominates one for sainthood. So I attend anger management classes, group therapy sessions, and practice yoga, and I'm proud to say I'm officially coping. It helps that my house is solitary on its little hill. The housing developers never got to build the rest of my block before the rare butterflies were discovered. So it was a no-brainer that I chose this house.

But I digress.

April Fools is a particular challenge for me each year, and the rotten, good-for-nothing vandals can smell my law-abiding inability to act. For over a decade, it’s been a rite of passage for the monsters to drudge up my hill with all the toilet paper they get their grubby mitts on. Two years ago, they even plastic-wrapped my car and egged my garage door in addition to turning my oak trees into weeping willows of TP. My sister douses my entire property with water so the toilet paper is washed away before I wake in the morning, but she shouldn't have to. She should not have to sit with me in my dark room each March 31st just to help keep my temper under control.

But last year was different. I had what my shrink labeled ‘a breakthrough moment.’ I went on the offensive.

My sister's fiancé gave me the idea. "You realize what they're doing is malicious mischief, don't you?" he asked. "It's a misdemeanor."

"Thanks, Brian," I replied, "but I'm not a cop like you are. I can't exactly enforce anything."

He shrugged, "I'm willing to help. Let me throw a party here. I'll invite the precinct. We'll take care of it."

Did I mention I love my future brother-in-law? “Isn’t that entrapment?” I asked.

He shook his head, “No, entrapment would mean we force the perps to do the crime. A person ready, willing, and able to commit a misdemeanor is not a victim of entrapment.”

Despite my irrational fears of crowds, germs, and body odors, the party was a ton of fun; something I wasn’t expecting from a sting operation. I met sergeants, detectives, their wives and significant others. They all brought food and drinks and for the first time since forever, I actually felt like a normal human being. Everyone was so kind and sympathetic; I almost forgot to watch the main event go down.

Just as the hoodlums crept across the front of my lawn, my sister flipped on the flood lights, exposing their intent to the night. The entire house emptied of arresting officers, surprising the brats and their accompanying adults alike. Citations were issued for malicious mischief, breaking city curfew, inciting a mob, contributing to the delinquency of minors and being drunk in public.

I summoned the courage to wish them all a Happy Fools Day as the dawn broke.