Memorial Day 2013

In honor of those who have left us, by force or by choice, I wish to say: You are Remembered.

Spambox Sunday: Watch Out for Brussels!

This weekend I've been inundated with spam. The post that's getting hit? Week Five of WoE's Write at the Merge, La Douleur Exquise. I've had 100 spam comments since Friday, and the Google stats say I've strong readership rise in Russia and India. Coincidence?

Some of these are down right ridiculous. I thought I'd share my favorites:

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 I mean, those pesky brussels pop up everywhere, right?

But wait, there's more:

Fastidious replies in return of this query with genuine arguments and describing the whole thing on the topic of that.

On the topic of THAT. With genuine arguments. I'm fastidious and proud!

And another:

Many bodybuilders make this same mistake, and take the hard road. While they are struggling to pack on any muscle at all, you. The reason is that too often people consume too much protein at one time and most of it goes to waste

Um, I don't remember writing anything about muscle building. Maybe the protein isn't going to waste, it's just wasting my memory?

But that's not all. I'm apparently responsible for someone's meal:

An outstanding share! I have just forwarded this onto a friend who was conducting a little homework on this. And he actually bought me lunch due to the fact that I stumbled upon it for him. .. lol. So let me reword this.... Thank YOU for the meal! ! But yeah, thanks for spending the time to talk about this topic here on your web page.

And the following I don't even think is English:

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I mean OW! My brain itches!

And last but not least:

hey there and thank you for your info – I have definitely picked up something new from right here. I did however expertise several technical points using this website, as I experienced to reload the site lots of times previous to I could get it to load properly. I had been wondering if your web hosting is OK? Not that I am complaining, but sluggish loading instances times will often affect your placement in google and can damage your high-quality score if advertising and marketing with Adwords. Anyway I'm adding this RSS to my e-mail and could look out for much more of your respective fascinating content. Ensure that you update this again soon.

I'm on strike folks. I think it's too much work to load and reload instances times, let alone to expertise several technical points from right here.

Geez, spam robots from India and Russia, as entertaining as you have been...GET A LIFE!

Broken Chopsticks (WoE #20 Orphan and Pianist challenge)

Have five challenges really passed me by? I'm so sorry. I've been neck-deep in the self-publishing world, prepping for The Trouble With Henry's little big debut. And Write On Edge has been speaking about me, as in the inactivity that takes root in creativity with a vengeance. Like the garden in the backyard, it's time to weed.

Sooo, this week we have the word "orphan" and a sketch of hands at piano keys.

Cracking knuckles.

Blank screen.

Here we go.

I give the following in response:  Broken Chopsticks

Rubble lined the plot where her home once stood. Tendrils of smoke and ash danced with earth and brick, framing forgotten memories with no future. Sofie clutched a scrapbook to her chest in attempt to shield her heart, to preserve her fragile innocence, to keep her wits from fracturing under the weight of the end. It was an unbearable struggle, and useless. She survived, but to what end?

Her mother made waffles in the kitchen every morning, but Sofie couldn’t remember ever eating them. The scent of butter coated everything and white cabinets yellowed at daybreak. Her father poured syrup…no, not syrup. Something darker, richer... Molasses. Her father poured molasses in methodical squares, with the precision of a little boy coloring inside of lines in a book, frowning if the darkness overflowed onto the plate. And she would, what? Sofie wiped the memory away as it slipped through her eyelids, leaving her cheeks cold and damp.

“It’s not good for us to be standing here.” Tiko was born with a voice of reason. His parents were divorced several times over. He was an orphan, too, but the kind that comes from neglect and a couple bottles of $10 scotch. “Not if we’re still going to make Amarillo.”

“I just can’t believe it’s all gone.” Her ankle twisted as she balance-beamed towards the remnants of the back porch. “It’s all gone and I don’t know what waffles taste like.”

He folded his arms. “We came a hundred miles out of our way for waffles? Sofie, we could’ve just stopped at IHOP.”

She leaped across some bricks and recovered from a shaky landing. Her voice stuck in her throat. “It made sense at the time.”

“You’re crying.” Tiko scratched his temple. “Why are you crying?”

“Because I can’t remember any of it, Tiko.” The scrapbook escaped her grasp and scattered memory fragments across the broken earth. She cursed as she bent to collect the pictures. Frustration fought the images, creasing and dog-earing scrap in her hands.

He stooped to help, gripping her hands until she had control again. “Is she your mother? She was a looker.”

Sofie concentrated on the face in her hands. The photograph showed signs of improper storage and acid erosion. She cringed. Her memory was the same, darkened edges, acid-bleached faces, like she came from a long line of Amish dolls. “I wish I could say for certain it was. But honestly, it could be my aunt, or my grandmother.”

“Stop it, Sofie.”

“Stop what?” She shoved her past back into the book.

“Stop…this. Take a deep breath and embrace what you have, not what you lost.”

“That’s easy for you to say. You’re not…”

“I’m not.” He sighed. “My grandmother was a concert pianist. You know what I remember? Nothing but thin, spindly fingers fighting arthritis to play chopsticks.” He helped her stand and brushed dirt from her jeans. “It’s not fair. I get it. But this isn’t going to fix it.”

Sofie exhaled. “Amarillo.”

“Amarillo.”

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.