Push Comes to Shove

A Tidy Kitchen

2012-01-20T10:33:00.000-06:00

“You killed him with snickerdoodles?” Charlie gaped.

“I didn’t know he was allergic to cinnamon.”

“We can be together now.”

She traced a heart on the steamed glass. “After sufficient mourning.”

“I can wait.” He snuck a brownie off the plate.

She finished the dishes, dried her hands, and stepped over his body. “Walnuts, Charlie. You should have asked first.”

With the house locked up, she slid into the seat of the new truck. Hers, now. Just down the road, a young man with strong hands and an easy smile waited. He’d promised not to ask her to cook.

Gallery

2012-01-20T10:31:00.000-06:00

“You gon’ say t’weren’t none of your doing, but I ain’t blind.”

“Mostly, Gran, you are.”

“Only to the living world.” Gnarled fingers flicked as she tatted lace, the motion so ingrained she did not need to see. “What you call your piece of art?”

“The Pulchritudinous Dream.”

“Dead Girls in the Swamp a better name.”

“I bought the dresses at auction,” I protested.

“Then why them three in the corner so mad at you?”

I didn’t want to see the girls, still dressed in the matted gowns I’d hung for my photo. They smiled – again – and came for me.

Baptism

2012-01-20T10:21:00.000-06:00

He took me to the chapel, long abandoned by the dead. You’d think spirits would linger to protest the removal of their corporeal forms. There was nothing but monsoon winds without water, as if the ocean knew better than to rise up against him as we had.

He took me in the chapel, by the altar of a fickle god, no murmured endearments, no matrimonial promises. I knew the moment I changed, transcending from human to that which serves, ever ready, never sated. Then I knew nothing but His love, His will, His truth.

Thus was the world made new.

Pastime

2012-01-20T10:19:00.000-06:00

Gary throws a knuckle ball, believing I won’t make the connection. Imagine his surprise when the crack of a bat sends 5 ounces of leather-covered hell directly towards his head. He ducks, too late to miss impact entirely, too soon for my taste. He’s laid out, but not out cold.

I don’t drop the bat as I head in his direction. He thinks I’m going to help him up, and maybe I would, if he hadn’t spent the last year telling me “Be a winner; dial up your game to ten.” Fucking corporate buzzwords. He deserve what comes next.

Sown

2012-01-20T10:16:00.002-06:00

Blades of grass tickled my nose. Just above the rise, ruby sunflowers tilted toward afternoon. Hot, loamy smells came off the rotting compost near meimei’s garden. I tried to rise, but sharp pain interfered.

“Musta been pretty drunk to sleep here.” The ground was wet under me. I didn’t remember the storm.

I pushed the button on my necklace. For a young man, I am very old.

No one came to evacuate me.

Teeth gritted, I pushed up onto my knees. All around me, the things my sister had planted writhed. I was the only one to crawl away.

Hall of Truth

2012-01-20T10:06:00.002-06:00

I sweep the steps of Pharaoh’s Pleasure Palace. You stumble in, drunk on cheap wine and looking to warm your cockles. When I was fair, I turned away your kind. My ruination did not add to your appeal.

Yesterday, you kicked a boy for failing to service you. I bandaged him up in the alley. His mum gave me bricks for the fire. Same ones I set, glowing warm, under the seat in your carriage. There’ll be enough time to unhitch the horses, but no cabman will think to save you from burning.

I hope Amenti eats your wasted heart.

Step Up, Step Down

2011-11-23T11:32:00.000-06:00

Chance came down gutter road all sleek and spiff, doled up for the rent boys. Like they’d care.

He reeked of woods and spice cologne, but couldn’t hide the candy. He believed his money was a passport into my world.

Stupid fucker.

I licked the smile off him. With his teeth bared, breath bated, eyes rolling back, he finally looked something like a man – but not much.

They never expect you to interrupt their glamor, like none of us know tricks to hide what we are.

I sent him back out, hollow with insatiable need.

Fairies make the best whores.

Clean up in the Aisle of Man

2011-11-23T11:30:00.002-06:00

Michael sets aside the newspaper, rubs his forehead. He should have been the one with horns, with all the damage he’s done. Righteousness still masks his pleasure at the smiting, but he’s moved from blood and black bile to slow withering. More time to enjoy the sad attempts at repentance.

“When your basement is littered with the corpses of cats and children, you have missed your shot at ascension.”

“But…It wasn’t me! I would never do that!” As if Michael cannot see the soul stains.

Given free reign, he’d shrivel them all.

Perhaps it is time to release his brother.

Objective

2011-11-23T11:28:00.000-06:00

“Why is treasure always deep in caves or in rooms atop a spire?” Lorelei grumbled.

“They’d hardly stick it in the hall closet.” Talking made it harder to climb, but kept her calm.

“Why not? We never ransack normal homes.”

“Fair point.” I looked down on the glossy twist of two rivers far, far below.

“What does the item we’re after do?” she asked.

“Maybe it keeps lovers from roaming.” I slid in the window.

“Why not just cut ‘em loose and find better?”

“Sentimentality, I suppose.”

I watched her fall, my once clever girl, then took the elevator down.

Burying the Lead

2011-09-26T16:36:00.000-05:00

The headlines said Look up! Look up!
The sky – or parts of it – could fall
and you’ll only be safe
if you keep looking up.

So we looked up in panic.
And every time we thought
about how our neck hurt
or that maybe we should check
on the kids or the flowers
or the old lady next door,
the sirens would wail
Look up! Look up!

We kept our eyes trained
on the sky so long
that our bodies got comfortable
looking up.
And they told us how much safer
the world was
because we listened.

One day, the people
who wanted flowers
and a life for their children
and to look after the old people
stopped
looking
up.

They raised their voices
in desperate cries
to warn the world
waken the world
save the world.

But we were too busy looking up
too busy being safe
to hear them tell us
about the monsters.

For their brave stance
they were corralled
shackled
tenderized and seasoned.
And they still tried to warn us
we were surrounded.

When we finally look down,
look back,
we will regret
that we were not blessed
to be the first
to be consumed.

- R. R. Kovar 9/26/11

Penance

2011-05-27T13:32:00.002-05:00

Jana says the soulless were Angels once, the template for all of us gone terribly wrong.

I asked how He could make such a mistake. The priest slapped me so hard I slammed into a pillar. After a day on my knees where the terrible things happen, I didn’t ask again.

Mama cried because my beauty had been spoiled and penance had made me worthless.

Headaches came, like spikes in my brain, every time I passed the church.

I prayed, and Angels came to paint the cathedral red. I sprinkled them with water, blessing their recycled souls.

No one kneels anymore.

Sunshine Laws

2011-05-27T13:30:00.000-05:00

“Stand,” the matron says. “Observe.”

We obey, wanting to look away. Stephen glares, defiant. Doomed. I want to rescue him, hold him close. I have loved him for ages. He doesn’t know my name.

“Structure keeps us safe,” the matron says. “You know the dangers out there.”

We don’t, having never seen. Others have been caught trying to look outside. This is my fourth Assembly, but the first time I’ve cared.

Blades fall.

Stephen vaults. Up, over. Gone

He flings open the blast doors.

We scramble for the shadows, skin smoking.

Stephen blows me a kiss, and bursts into flame

Truth and Consequences

2011-05-27T13:27:00.000-05:00

I murmured her true Name, sang liquid metal into a ropy structure. I’d observed her so long, sculpting her curves took little effort.

“What is it?” She hugged me, his scent on her skin, her smile his doing.

Bile rose from the pit of my stomach. “A dress form. It needs to be fitted.”

Metal vines enveloped her. She laughed until leaves sprouted to seal her lying mouth, her nose.

“We had an agreement.” A simple fact. I should not have had to remind her.

As thorns grew, pierced skin, her eyes offered desperate apologies. Too late.

“All you had to do was ask first.” Why do they never believe me?

Thursday

2011-05-27T13:16:00.000-05:00

“Say grace.” Darla scowls by her cast-iron stove.

“It’s your death cult, not mine.”

“Blasphemy.” She flips another pancake.

“Can’t be condemned if I never believed.”

“Someone neglected your education,” she says. “If enough people think you’re disrespecting their beliefs, you’ll hang for it.”

“Faith should withstand challenges and dissent.” I pour syrup over the flapjacks.

The perfect beauty of the Light-Bringer forms in the sticky liquid. No one would report this daily miracle. People have forgotten Him.

I swallow the divine, go to school, and wait to be blessed as a true believer when Iblis awakens the world.

Patterns

2011-05-27T13:08:00.003-05:00

I hate making wedding dresses, but like the money. Tense brides, begging to be worthy of white, hear promises I don’t make.

One bad stitch, a single mistake, and my clumsy fingers will ruin the enchantment of their day. You’d expect them to use better magic, stronger, to bind a man forever. Those with the proper spell rarely divulge the price for casting.

Our mothers started a revolution, organic wisdom of the self. We tried to swallow it, but candy-coated romance tasted so much better.

A tiny drop of blood mars a hidden seam. I do my part for freedom.

Transition

2011-04-16T22:35:00.000-05:00

New moon leaves the middle night dark. Soft grass and bramble take turns against my ankles. Useless in the woods, my eyes adjust in starlit meadow where the fox waits, panting, and I imagine the low light comes from him. I lower myself, crawl on my belly, slow and steady lest he flee or become unreal.

His breath tickles my ear like a sigh, and warmth pools in my nethers. He stretches out beside me, ginger hair framing a sharp, pale face. He pulls me to him, knowing I have come to surrender.

I am so tired of being human.

Pillar of the Community

2011-04-16T22:32:00.000-05:00

Mandear denounced me as barren. Stood up in the square like the wicker witch, I burned with anger they all mistook for shame. When cold night came and I remained tethered, I wept.

He came to me then, the horned one, perhaps mistaking my form for his sacrificial bride. Leather ties broken by his will, I slid into the comfort of his arms, tears forgotten, and let him make me his fertile home.

Eyes avert at my fecund strength, round, whole, His. When the child comes, I will slake its thirst with their blood, binding them to the new god.

Quick note

2011-02-20T09:21:00.005-06:00

The sudden influx of posting is largely due to my having been pointed in the direction of Lily Childs' Feardom. Each Friday, she posts a three word prompt for no more than 100 words of dark fiction. I am enjoying the challenge. If you write dark things, or think you may want to, that is a lovely forum and a great space to share and learn. If you simply like to read dark things (which are sometimes also funny), you're encouraged to do that, too.

Wed

2011-02-20T09:21:00.001-06:00

She arrived on the tide,
his Irish bride,
with her too-bright hair
and her soft green eyes
alight with love.

Her gloved hand paused on the door
of his coach and four, as she skipped
the creaky step as though she knew
it made the sound of dead things.

I’ll wager he never told her
how that came to be,
the things he’d done to me
not so long ago
when I was pretty.

She will learn, tonight,
of his unnatural appetite
for terrible tangles
of flesh and fear.

His desire satisfied,
she will fly from him.

Straight to me.

Stock in Trade

2011-02-20T09:17:00.000-06:00

“Not your night.” He takes a long drag.

I shrug. “Dreamers got the mark first.”

“You’re slow.” It’s a warning.

Can’t let my nerves show. “I’ll get the next one.”

“Best had.”

I follow the stench of copper. Iron, too. Ahead, a boy pushes a girl up against the wall. She doesn’t resist. I wrap myself around them, my shape their shape, their breath my breath. They topple, fall.

I hold their essence in my mouth until Shadow arrives.

“Girl tasted bitter.” He knows I swallowed the boy.

“Girls always do.”

He smiles. “Only some.”

Definitely not my night.

Tribute

2011-02-10T21:54:00.001-06:00

Skin like papyrus rasps against mine. I would close my eyes if I could. He slithers, scents me, savors tiny sounds I can’t suppress. I shiver, but remain, a sacrifice required for another year of food for the town’s children. Children I will never have.

My corruption began when he entered the room. It compounds when he enters me, a sharp dart in a dark place. I bleed as I was meant to. His skin warms, softens.

“Inhuman, that’s what it is,” a witness whispers. She means inhumane, but speaks the truth.

He isn’t human.

And now, neither am I.

Recompense

2011-02-03T22:13:00.000-06:00

He walked the spirals willingly, each step a memory. Here was her hair like fine silk on his pillow, there taut tendons as he stretched her beneath him. A twist brought mornings spent tending their bruises – some on the inside, where the dark thing grew.

A thousand steps for the days he’d kept her. A thousand pinpricks, each in a different spot, his poisoned nerves dying upward, until he could barely make the final turn.

She stood, pitiless and perfect, her malice a reflection of his love. At her feet, the darkling child crooned to taste his heart.

Portrait

2010-03-30T20:27:00.003-05:00

Everyone said Sela had a feline grace to her. I never understood what they were talking about. She was more of a snake, slithering into my life and wrapping herself around me until I could hardly breathe. It was her ability to unhinge her jaw that kept me from walking away. Not too often you see a trick like that, much less get to experience it intimately. Unfortunately, the novelty wore off after a while, and I was stuck in a hell of my own making.

Back in the day, I was the big draw on the art scene. The critics said I was daring in my approach to painting, subtle with the elements of horror, hiding monsters in every day moments. Sometimes, they were so obscure that you only saw them when you looked away. That was a trick I learned from an old man down in the fens. He told me to make sure the monsters were held back by something, so they didn’t escape the painting and wreak havoc on the world. I thought he was crazy, but I always included the proper sigils or gates or real silver in the paint.

Don’t bother asking how to find him, or even his name. He gave me a dozen different ones he’d been called over the years, some in languages so obscure I’d never heard of them. I was too busy being flattered by his attention to think about how weird that was. See, a lot of people had tried to get the old artist to teach them, but most of the time he didn’t answer the door. When he did, he’d just blink at them and close it again or swear a lot, then close it. I saw my friends’ failure as a challenge, so I persisted. On my twelfth visit, he sighed and let me into his house, a mess of twisted sticks and mud on the outside. Inside was a whole different story – thousands of stories, carved into dark panels, curled around twisted pillars, dripping from the ceiling in a riot of color and texture, so real you expected them to move when you touched them. That was part of what he taught me. I should have listened to the rest.

Trouble started when Sela asked me to paint her. She didn’t want a classic portrait. She had seen my work and wanted something macabre. I couldn’t figure out why someone like her wanted to be surrounded by horror, real or imagined. You’ve seen her. Hell, her picture is everywhere you look. Tall, glossy blond hair with that natural curl that catches the light no matter what the source, smoky gray eyes, the perfect pucker. And her curves…well, you’ve seen those, too, if you’ve opened a magazine.

I thought I was hot shit when she called me with her request. Naturally, I wasn’t going to deny her. Even if she hadn’t hit on me, I would have taken the commission. A painting like that has a good chance of becoming iconic. I was all about making a name for myself in those days. When it comes down to it, I guess I got my wish. More people have seen that portrait than anything I’ve ever done. Search the internet for images of Sela, and it’s the first thing to crop up – dozens of sites expressing all sorts of opinions on it, but whether or not they approve, they’re all willing to post a picture of her, arms spread out, covered in blood. Too bad it’s not what I painted.

I couldn’t do what she asked of me. I couldn’t soil her image. So I put the horror in the corners, at the edge of the mirror, in the shadow of the half-open closet door. Her I left pristine and beautiful, the way she’d been made. The bitch threw a fit like you wouldn’t believe over that. It was a stunning piece of work, probably my best and most commercially viable painting. And she hated it. She paid for it, of course, and she didn’t leave me the way I thought she would. Instead, she walked into that painting and sent out her flawless image, all because I forgot what the old man taught me: never give the monsters a way out. No, I didn’t see her do it. But I know what I know.

You probably think I’m insane for talking about her this way, when a year ago I would have told you she was the love of my life. That hasn’t changed in fact, just theory. It took me a little too long to figure out that this Sela is a walking disease. You heard that right. She doesn’t have one, she is one – a special sort of illness that settles in through the skin and slowly corrodes the internal organs until your system shuts down completely. Doctors were baffled by my rapid aging, white blood cell count, the toxins raging through me. I didn’t tell them the truth because I don’t want to spend what’s left of my life in a nuthouse.

Instead, I sit here, watching the smoke from an endless chain of cigarettes fill my studio. The walls used to be robin’s egg blue, but they’re closer to slate now. From time to time, I open all the windows and let the smoke clear, until it almost smells good. Almost. There’s still my rotting body to contend with. If I didn’t reek of stale tobacco, I’d recognize the slaughterhouse stench of my corruption. Then I might be tempted to leave the windows open until the cold seeped in and blessed me with an end. Pneumonia would be welcome, since I’m too messed up to go outside and try to contract that fancy new strain of influenza. And to think, I used to be a motivated guy. But I know what will happen if I walk through that door. The monsters are out, and they’re waiting for me.

Monkey in the Middle

2009-05-30T10:11:00.005-05:00

Grizzled Bear and the Old Wolf sit on the porch, drinking in companionable silence. Neither of them are close to being old men, but they wear the titles well. Very few pack leaders make it to old, though the current Old Wolf has held the position for at least twenty years. Grizzled Bear has it easier. There are fewer bears to challenge him, and most of those that come around aren’t looking to run things.

Old Wolf wears his hair long, grey streaks stark against the dark brown. His clothing is loose, as if he could mask how muscular he is. Or maybe it’s to make the changing easier, in case he has to do it in a hurry. I’ve never seen anyone who could rush the Wolf, and I’ve no mind to. Thing like that should send a person running before it was too late. Once he’d changed, you’d be forced to stand still and pray you didn’t get noticed.

That tactic never did work on the bears. They aren’t inclined to chase you, but if you stay where you are, they’ll come right up to check you out. They try to get you to do something interesting, like a little kid at the zoo egging on the monkeys. If you move, the bear will either take offense and swat you, or decide you want to play – and swat you. If you stay still, they get bored and still swat you. There’s no winning with bears. Unless they’re in a good mood. Then they just ignore you and go about their bear business.

At least most of them do. Grizzled Bear is a different story. He likes to stir things up a bit from time to time, just to see what happens. You wouldn’t think it to look at him. He presents as almost normal, with short cropped hair barely touched with grey, always dressed like a cross between a hippie and your favorite uncle – just a little disheveled. His clothes don’t hide what he is, either. Shoulders and chest like that, strong legs and more fur than most men allow practically advertise what he is. I still don’t know how he goes from tall, lean guy to six hundred pound bear, but maybe that’s because I never had the guts to ask him.

According to all the old stories, Bear and Wolf shouldn’t be friends. The wolves like to run off any other were-folk in the area, or at least keep them confined to territory the wolves don’t want. If they’d had their way, the humans would have been run off all together. They don’t like the way we smell, the things we do to the land, the way we treat women and children. There’s not much we do right in their eyes, and I can’t say I blame them for thinking that way. Personally, I think they keep us around because they like our liquor stores and the supermarket.

The bears don’t care about us one way or the other. They don’t much care about the wolves' territorial boundaries either. They expect everyone to get out of their way whenever they come around. It’s always the men as come to town. After you’ve been here a while, you start to recognize them. Not that they look alike. They just have a way of moving, deliberate, relaxed, and quietly dangerous.

Nothing quiet about the wolves, at least not when they’re in a group. The young men are rambunctious – before Old Wolf beats them into shape or kicks them out. The girls are a lot more laid back. Plus, they’ll talk to you without acting like you’re garbage. Or food. I never did like the way the boys looked at me. Still don’t. Well, except for Old Wolf. He’s not what you’d call friendly, but he’s generally polite. Maybe that’s why he and the Bear get along. They both know enough to pick their battles.

I’m not that smart. Standing in the street, looking up at them, I’d like nothing more than to shake the two large men and toss them out on their ears. But I can’t. For one thing, they weigh too much. For another, it’s their house as much as mine, on account of my letting them sleep there whenever they’re in town made it their de facto den. At least that’s what they say. I think they’re messing with me and just want me to think I have to let them hang out, because their other option is to go back and deal with their respective political situations, and they’d rather crank up my air conditioners and drink all my beer.

Come to think of it, I can’t say as I blame them for that, either. I do, however, want them to work for it. Last time I brought that up, they both told me how much they’d like to take care of me properly. By which they meant permanently. By which they meant they’d like to mate with me. At which point, I’d walked out and kept walking. I didn’t need the house. I’d lived without for most of my life.

Now I was back, and they were looking at me with twin amused expressions, waiting for me to pick which version of hell I’d like to spend eternity buying curtains for. I’ve always been able to find new and unusual ways to get into trouble. This tops them all.

A Liberated Woman of a Certain Age

2009-05-30T10:06:00.004-05:00

Reginald Brash did not look up as the door opened and closed. “What is it, Arthur?”

The young researcher fidgeted, as he always did before delivering news he felt important. He was rarely right. “I was looking through the observation window.”

“That’s what you’re paid to do.” Reginald slid the file to one side of the mahogany desk.

Arthur twisted his bony hands. “She’s pacing a lot.”

“If you were put under observation by your spouse, you’d be agitated, too.” Reginald folded his hands across his belly. He ought to get to the gym more often. “What is concerning you?”

“It’s her movement. It seems… wrong. Animal.”

“As are we all.”

Arthur drew himself up. “Her movement mimics that of a predator. She doesn’t cover the same ground repeatedly, as most people do when pacing. I think you ought to take a look at her.”

Reginald decided to ease up on the boy. He’d only been there for three months, had not yet been allowed into the secure areas. Reginald had found it prudent to give the new scientists time to adjust before exposing them to the more unusual cases. It cut down on turnover.

“I trust you. Continue to monitor her actions. She hasn’t shown any signs of the violent outbursts that brought her to us. If there’s no change in her personality within the next few days, we’ll release her to her family and tell them to seek less extreme treatment.”

“So far, all we’ve done is change her diet,” Arthur grumbled. “I see no reason to keep her locked up. There doesn’t appear to be anything wrong with her that cannot be explained away by boredom.”

“Yet you came to me with concerns,” Reginald pointed out.

Arthur looked down. “Perhaps I overreacted. She’s spent so much time moping I thought her behavior was worth review.”

“Write down your observations, and we will discuss them tomorrow.”

Arthur withdrew, looking a bit like a kicked puppy.

Reginald sighed. He agreed with Arthur’s assessment of the woman. She was forty, bored, and likely contemplating divorce. She’d shown no signs of aberrant behavior. Her husband was probably distressed because his still vibrant trophy wife no longer doted on him. She had almost certainly agreed to check into the facility so they could confirm her sanity. Neither of them realized the researchers cared not a whit about her emotional stability, though they’d happily attest to it in court as part of the package.

Reginald picked up the phone and punched speed dial. “Send me the blood work on the Ridgeway woman. Tomorrow morning is fine.” He’d rather have had it that night, so they could free her in the morning, but the lab was always backed up.

He dropped the stack of files in his drawer. They could wait until morning, too.

Nigela continued her circuit of the room, changing direction as she encountered the spare furniture. It never occurred to her to turn on the TV. The images hurt her head, and she couldn’t bear the noise. She vaguely remembered liking it, once. If nothing else, her time in this cage had granted her some measure of peace. The only real drawback was the sterile smell of the place. Requests for flowers had been ignored. The scent of barbeque on the last orderly to visit had damned near driven her as mad as Cory believed her to be.

She was ravenous. That was part of what had landed her here. Cory had noticed her increase in appetite. Knowing she was not pregnant – could not be – he had worried when she’d put on weight. It mattered little that it took the form of muscle. Their home gym had been used more in the two weeks before his tantrum than it had in years. Nine days without access to any real exercise had increased her irritation with him. This was a ploy to get rid of her so he could carry on with his tramp in a more public way. She’d be damned if he railroaded her into breaking the terms of their prenuptial agreement. He’d never been a proper mate, but he’d been tolerable. No longer. Better to be a lab rat and skewer the rat where he lived than walk away from their farce of a marriage with nothing. She licked her lips. They could serve her a rat right now and she’d ask only for a decent sauce. The hunger ate at her.

As if hearing her desire, a scrawny man wearing a lab coat entered holding a covered dish. She managed not to lunge for it. He asked her inane questions while her brain spun with a mad desire to eat. She growled at him. Fear tickled her nostrils. She didn’t question how she knew the scent. His eyes grew wide as he backed toward the door.

In a second, she was on him. The lock engaged as she pushed his back against the door, every possible inch of her pressed against him. He smelled divine. Fresh. She nuzzled his neck, her heart racing as his vein pulsed under her probing tongue. She purred and rubbed against him. He reacted as a man should. But he was not her mate, either. He was something much more important. She barely heard his scream as she began changing.

She left her clothes in the shredded mess by the door. She donned the nightdress they’d allowed her to keep and gathered up her small make up bag, another concession from her captors. She searched the pockets of the relatively whole lab coat, until she found the key card. Closing the door behind her, she made her way to the observation room. While the record of her stay was erased, she calmly applied fresh lipstick. The young man had thoughtfully left her a raincoat. She turned off the lights and stalked out of the building unhindered. After a quick stop at home, she could fully explore her new life as a cougar.

The Trouble with 'Ol Mister

2009-04-27T09:12:00.005-05:00

Mrs. Collins came to see Grandma this morning. I hid in the backyard, but the window was open so I could hear what they said. Seems ol’ Mister was hunting in her yard again. If she don’t want cats up in there, she oughtn’t put all them feeders and houses and whatnot out for the birds. That’s like setting up a smorgasbord in front of hungry folks, then telling them they can’t eat. Soon as you turn your back, that buffet’s gonna be stripped bare, and not one of them will feel bad for having a full belly.

It’d be one thing if those bird lures were hung high up where the cats couldn’t get at them, but Mrs. Collins don’t want to crane her neck to see the birds, so she hangs them at eye level. Well, eye level from where she sits in her chair most of the day. Come to think of it, this is the first time I’ve seen Mrs. Collins move. When I first got here, I thought she might’ve died sitting in that chair, and no one had noticed. She was there when I went to bed at night and there in the morning.

Okay, I don’t really get up in the morning when I’m on vacation. Grandma says a growing girl needs her rest. I sure wish I could live with her all the time. Ma says I only want that because I never had to live with Grandma. She swears if I was here all the time, I wouldn’t get so spoiled. Course, I don’t see it as being spoiled, just because Grandma makes the sorts of food I like and lets me spend hours reading without having to stop and do chores. Not that I don’t pull my weight. I spent half a day weeding her garden. Got the sunburn to prove it. But Grandma understands how you can’t set a book down because not knowing what comes next is so distracting you wouldn’t be good for anything anyway.

Oh, right. Mrs. Collins and the cat. She told Grandma that if she didn’t keep ol’ Mister inside, she’d call the animal control people to take him away. Grandma asked if Mrs. Collins was volunteering to chase the rabbits and squirrels from her garden the way ol’ Mister does. Well, Mrs. Collins didn’t take too well to that. She huffed and sputtered and called ol’ Mister a menace. Grandma said as how she reckoned that was his job, the same way a dog guards a farm yard. Then she asked if Mrs. Collins thought putting a bunch of raccoons in front of a farm dog wouldn’t have the same effect as putting bird feeders within reach of a barn cat. Mrs. Collins screeched about how it was different, since birds aren’t vermin; they’re beautiful, delicate creatures who don’t deserve to be slaughtered like that.

“How do they deserve to be slaughtered, then?” says Grandma.

I couldn’t help but laugh at that, especially since I could imagine Mrs. Collins turning all purple with outrage. I covered my mouth, though. Grandma doesn’t like it when I eavesdrop, even if it is the what most folks around here do. I swear if they didn’t gossip, they’d have nothing to say at all. Back home, you have to be really close to someone before you discuss their business in the wrong company. The way they do it here just doesn’t seem respectful.

While Mrs. Collins sniffed in outrage and tried to make Grandma change her way of thinking, I snuck off to find ol’ Mister. I figured there was no point in listening anymore. No one gets Grandma to change her mind, unless it was what she was gonna do anyway. Well, almost no one. I did manage to convince her that Russia wasn’t Russia anymore. I mean, it is, but it’s smaller, and there’s a bunch of little countries where it used to be huge. She knew about some of them, but she wouldn’t believe me about how many.

I had to go to the library and beg them to let me take home the volume of the encyclopedia with all the maps in it. They don’t like you to take out reference books, but the lady at the library knows Grandma, and she said I’d never win the argument if I didn’t have proof in hand. Not that it was an argument so much as a discussion. I showed Grandma the new map – and it was even out of date because Kosovo wasn’t a separate country yet – and Grandma said it seemed I knew a thing or two after all. Neither one of us mentioned that Kosovo wasn’t ever a part of Russia to begin with, because we figured Russia always sort of thought the Slavs and Slovaks and the rest of the people around there half-belonged to them anyway. Folks around here get a bit sensitive about stuff like that. As if you could tell a Czech from a Slovak and any of them from the Slavs once the lot of them got to America.

But back to the cat. I found ol’ Mister asleep in Mrs. Collins birdbath. You heard right. There wasn’t a drop of water in the thing, so I don’t know how she thought she was doing the birds any favors, seeing as how when it’s dry, it looks an awful lot like a platter. I don’t know if ol’ Mister had the blue plate special or not, but I wasn’t leaving him there for the old witch to pick up. I watched that movie when I was little, and I don’t care to see what a tornado looks like up close, even if it does take you to a magical land. Oz didn’t seem any stranger than Kansas, but that’s not saying much. I dropped ‘ol Mister in the garden, where he curled up, burped out one feather, and fell asleep.

Tomorrow, he gets a bell.

Blood Stone

2009-04-22T14:36:00.002-05:00

Chimes tinkled as the door opened and was closed again. The soft shush of ballet slippers moved closer. The jeweler allowed himself a small smile but did not look up.

“Mr. Ormand?”

He set down his tools and rose. “You must be Juliana.”

“You expected me?” She sighed, the way only teenagers could. “Grandma.” Again, spoken with the weight of derision reserved for youth toward their elders.

He did not correct her assumption. “How may I help you?”

“I need to have a jewel set. Grandma insists it be done by tomorrow. I told her I can wait for my birthday present.”

“Ah, a gift. May I see the stone?”

As she placed it in his hand, the weight of familiarity settled over him. Dark red with a hint of brown, the cut hadn’t been replicated in over a hundred years. Longer. He didn’t dwell on that.

“How would you like it mounted?” He smiled at Juliana. She looked nothing like her mother, nor her grandmother in her youth. She’s the fourth. He wondered if he would remain steady enough to be the first in his line to see a fifth.

“Grandma says it has to be something I’ll wear all the time, so a bracelet is out. It’s too big for a stud, and besides, there isn’t another one.” Juliana looked up. “Unless you could cut it in two? That would be cool.”

He suppressed a shudder. “No, I don’t believe I would be able to do that.” No one could.

“Then I guess it’s a ring or a necklace.”

“That has been tradition for…” He stopped himself. “…jewels of this nature.”

She shrugged. “What do you suggest?”

He licked his lips. None of the others had asked. “Are you a Christian?”

“I was baptized, but I don’t go to church. I’d feel weird wearing a cross, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

“So you don’t have faith?” He knew he should not push, knew that he needed to.

She blushed. “Well… I do, but grandma doesn’t know about it.”

“And your mother?”

“My mom doesn’t know anything about me!” She took a shaky breath. “She left when I was small.”

“I did not mean to upset you.” He would have to tread carefully. “You said you have faith. Let’s work with that.”

Her jaw set as she looked up at him. “I’m Wiccan, okay? I doubt you know what that is.”

“I am well-versed in the symbols of most religions. I suspect your grandmother would dislike a pentacle. Perhaps something less obvious.” He sketched a flowing knot, three swirls moving out from the center.

“It’s a triskele.” Her fingers traced the lines of their own accord.

“I could make it fancier.”

“No! This is perfect.” She looked up at him. “Do you work in silver?”

“This stone should be set in gold.” He noted her frown and continued quickly. “White gold would work just as well as yellow. Silver would corrode the gem.” He prayed she believed the lie. He’d told so few in his life. Surely, he could be forgiven for one that served the greater good.

She placed the stone in the center of the drawing. “Yes. That’s what I want.”

“It will be done by your birthday.”

“You don’t have to rush.”

“When inspired, I will work through the night to see the result.”

“I’ll stop by tomorrow night, then.”

“If I know you’ll come straightaway, it will be ready when you get out of school.”

She smiled. “You’re the best, Mr. Ormand! Grandma was right to send me to you.”

She had no choice.

Juliana was out the door before he could respond aloud. He slipped the stone into its velvet pouch and returned to his workbench. The chimes rang again. He looked up to see if she’d forgotten something or changed her mind.

It was not Juliana.

He turned the page over and tucked the jewel into a box, pocketing the key. A small creature jumped onto the counter and glared at him. In all his years, he had yet to discover what sort of animal it was. His gaze moved past the creature, knowing what he would see. The young man by the door remained unchanged by time.

“Hiding the stone, Francois?” Rich laughter brought images of lush woods with pools of sparkling water. “I am hardly going to take it from you.” The boy tilted his head and smiled. “Though if I’d a mind to, you couldn’t stop me.”

“You cannot touch it.”

“Oh, I could touch it. I simply won’t.”

“And her?”

“Well, that all depends on whether or not she keeps her jewelry on like a good girl, doesn’t it?”

“Leave them be,” Francois pleaded. “It’s long done.”

“It is not yet done,” the young man said softly. “Had I a choice, it would have ended with Irina, as you well know. This is her doing, not mine.”

“She’s a century dead.”

“More.” The word struck like iron.

“Why take out your hatred on her descendants?”

The young man ran elegant fingers through dark auburn curls. A red jewel sparkled in his lone ring. “I do not hate them. I have befriended and protected each one. Loved them unconditionally. And I will go on loving them until one decides to love me back. That is my curse, laid by the first woman I loved, who could not find it in herself to return my affection yet refused to let me go. In all these years, you are the only one to have asked.” He turned away. “Juliana is made in Irina’s image.”

The creature jumped onto the young man's shoulder. He scooped it up and dropped it in his pocket. It gave an irritated squeak.

The young man turned to regard the jeweler. “If you think me evil, make the necklace so beautiful she can’t bear to take it off. I will feel my heart break again, unable to reach her, and when her daughter comes of age, it will begin anew.” He moved toward the door. “Teach your successor well, Francois. Love should not come because of defective work.”

The chimes played discord as the young man closed the door behind him.

Gifts

2009-04-17T12:46:00.012-05:00

Tires grinding on the driveway meant Ted was home. Sarah put the bread in the oven, set the timer, then washed the cutting board. She had it back in place before he could drop the fish on the counter. It was cod, of course. She’d expected to grow sick of it, but after ten years, it only tasted better, probably because he’d caught it, and if he was bringing some home, he’d had a good day on the boat.

“I’d kiss ya, but…”

“…you don’t want me to stink like you,” she finished for him. “I’ll collect your clothes while you shower. I’ll wait to start the washer.”

“You’re so good to me.” The sarcasm was almost genuine. She was good to him, and both of them knew it.

She peeked around the shower curtain, taking girlish delight in seeing him naked and wet. He flicked water at her, and she withdrew. By the time he came down, she had the fish cooking. He kissed her forehead and went to start the laundry.

She smiled at his back. Not many men like Ted in the world. She was glad she’d ignored those who’d said being a fisherman’s wife would be hell. There were moments of it, especially when the sea got rough and everyone went down to the pub to wait for the telephone call they hoped wouldn’t come. It was easier to be with people as scared as you and anyway, it was faster to get the news in one place than make a dozen or more calls.

Some years were worse than others, for both weather and catch. When it looked like things were getting too tight, she did temp work to keep them afloat. He always laughed when she put it that way. She could have worked all the time, but there was enough to do around the house, and she liked having things nice for him when he came home. Besides, spending time with lawyers should be limited to absolute necessity.

“Gee, what’s for dinner?” Ted bent down and wrapped his arms around her. She liked the way his breath tickled her ear.

“Something the cat dragged in.” She tilted her head to regard him. “He’s a mighty fine cat.”

He kissed her. She slapped at his wandering hands. “Set the table.”

“You set the table. I’ll open the wine.”

“What’s the occasion?”

“Tell you in a minute.” He gave her the crooked smile that had drawn her to him in the first place.

“I think there’s a white on the second shelf,” she called after him.

“That go with fish?” He laughed and emerged with the bottle. He handed her a glass and leaned against the counter, his tall frame seeming too big for the little kitchen. Then again, Ted was too big for most places. His body was still lean, but his personality filled the corners of a place.

“So, what’s the news?” She sipped her wine and waited. He always paused to build up tension before answering important questions.

“I got the loan.”

She squealed. “When?”

“Martin was at the dock, waiting for his boy to get done unloading. He figured there was no sense in making me wait until morning.”

Sarah wrapped her arms around her husband. For years, they’d set aside money. At first, it had nothing to do with the boat, but after seven years, they figured that they weren’t likely to have kids. Ignoring all the advice about doctors and treatments, they’d made plans for a different future. He’d worked hard for that boat, deserved it. Ted rocked her in his arms, radiating happiness.

“Jake Tulley was there when Martin told me.”

Sarah pulled away. “How’d that go?”

“Don’t think I’ve seen someone actually turn green with jealousy before.” Ted chuckled.

“Well, you did ruin his business when you left.”

“He ruined it himself by treating his crew like shit.”

“True.” The timer went off. Sarah let the bread cool while she finished cooking the fish and asparagus. She tried to feed them from her little garden as often as possible and had managed to do some bartering with the Greene sisters for fresh eggs. Small town life suited her in ways she’d never have believed.

They had just finished eating when the phone rang. They both tensed, then relaxed. No one was out, so the chances of it being bad news were slim. Sarah got up to answer while Ted cleared the table.

“Mrs. Richardson?” Sarah didn’t recognize the woman’s voice.

“Yes.”

“I’m Maureen Stanton, from County Hospital. I’m sorry to be calling so late, but I just got out of surgery and found Dr. Banks’ note.”

Sarah paled. She’d been worried about a lump by her hip. When the doctor didn’t call, she figured it was nothing. Besides, it had gone away. “I haven’t heard from him.”

“Oh.” The pause was longer than any Ted could manage. “Perhaps he should speak with you first.”

“You called for a reason.” Sarah steeled herself for the news.

“Yes, well… we try to find out what sort of plans you have, so we can make arrangements.”

“So soon?”

“Just in case you want a midwife or a water birth or something.”

The world spun. “I… I… oh, god.” She burst into tears and dropped the phone.

Ted hung it up. “What is it?”

“Dr. Banks. Oh, hell.” Words wouldn’t come.

“Shit.” He took a deep breath. “Is it cancer?”

“No.” She swallowed hard. “I’m pregnant.”

He swore. She backed away from him, eyes narrowed.

“What’s wrong?”

“You’re pissed about this!”

“God, no! Just surprised. I was prepared for you to tell me you were dying!” He laughed.

“This isn’t funny.”

“Yes, babe, it is. We finally get what we wanted, all in one day.”

“But your boat…”

“Screw the boat.”

“No. You get the boat anyway. We’ll manage the rest. It’s what people do.”

“I love you.” He picked her up and carried her up the stairs. “Both of you.”

A Cut Above

2009-04-17T12:44:00.004-05:00

Rich stood in the kitchen, shades pulled low in a futile attempt to avoid the bright light of morning. His shirt smelled of whisky, though he had no memory of wasting the amber liquid. A quick inventory of his parts uncovered no bruises, proof he hadn’t been the one to spew the bourbon. Matty would have punched him for that. His best friend knew how to leave an impressive mark. It was part of Matty’s job, if not his charm. Sometimes, he couldn’t shake the enforcer personality.

The coffee maker shrieked to let him know it had finished brewing. Most days, he used it as an alarm clock. Today, it worked like a drill. Hands shaking, he filled his cup. It was too hot. He sipped it anyway. His mouth tasted like a monkey’s asshole – or what he imagined that to be like. As far as he knew, none of their adventures with toxic chemistry had resulted in animal abuse. Someone would have taken pictures if they’d fallen that far.

“Close enough to the gutter,” he muttered. He needed a new hobby – one less likely to end in illness or arrest.

The thought brought him up short. He searched the pockets of his leather jacket. Empty. His jeans yielded nothing. He sighed with relief. No bail receipts. Considering the venue, that was impressive.

Matty should never have suggested they meet in a high-class place. All his money meant nothing to those folks. He and Matty weren’t even people to them. They were a momentary diversion at best. At worst, they were freaks and animals. Which, to be fair, described them pretty accurately.

“The thing is,” Matty had said, “some of these women get off on that. You know, walk on the wild side before heading back to the gated community. And how is that not jail for a spirited woman anyway, I ask you?” He was always on about stuff like that. Funny thing was, all of the women he spent time with genuinely cared about him. He said it was because he didn’t ask for anything. He sure accepted what they offered, though.

“There’s something to all that feminism stuff,” Matty had said. “Treat women like people and all. Makes sense. We’re all the same when it comes down to it.”

It was bullshit, of course. Not the part about treating women decent, just the crap about how everyone was the same. Rich snorted. They weren’t the same as those people in the hotel bar last night. Even the bartender had looked at them like they were something he’d thrown away, only to find his garbage had crawled up and sat on a stool to order a drink.

“Fuck them.” Rich stripped off his shirt and threw it toward the hamper. Almost made it, too.

His coffee cup empty, he began the second step to recovering from a night out with Matty. The hot shower washed away the worst of the night, and restored memory. Part of it, anyway. There was a girl with hair the color of sun through honey and the sweetest brown eyes. Rich hummed as he remembered her fingers on his arm, so delicate and fine, jewels flashing in the light. He’d hardly breathed when she laid a kiss on his cheek and told him to call her.

He blinked, then cursed when shampoo ran into his eyes. She’d given him her number, tiny print on the back of a business card. Where the hell had he put that? He rinsed, shut off the shower, and practically ran back to his room, a trail of wet footprints in his wake.

He found the card on his nightstand, one of the few places not covered with crap. He picked it up as if it was one of those artifacts he’d been shown as a kid. He really should have stayed in school. All his teachers said he was smart. Fat lot of good that did when your old man couldn’t even pay the mortgage, much less chip in for college.

She would be educated. All those women were. So, what the hell did she want with him?

He peered at the card and whispered her name. “Celia de Benneville.” It came out like music.

He was glad she’d left before they’d gotten truly drunk. Vague memories of being escorted from the club surfaced through his haze. Rich shoved them aside. That didn’t matter now. A society girl had given him her number. He ran his hand through his short-cropped, blond hair. Maybe she did it as a joke. He set the card down and got ready for work.

When the foreman called the break for lunch, Rich sat with the rest of the guys, feet dangling off a beam. He loved the view from up here. The money for this job didn’t hurt, either. For once in his life, he was flush. That was a damned good feeling. He wasn’t rich Matty, but he did okay for himself. If he saved enough, maybe he could even take a night class at the community college. Then he’d have something smart to say if he ever ran into Celia again.

He shook his head. I’m such a mook. He wasn’t going to call that girl. He put on his hard hat. This was what he was, who he was. It was good enough. He went back to finish the job, balancing precariously above the world.

When he came down at the end of the day, she was waiting for him, her perfect mouth curved in a smile. The other guys stopped and stared.

“How about a drink and dinner? We could see what happens after that.” She practically purred.

“No, thanks.”

She frowned, confused. “Why not?”

“Because I’m dirty, tired, and not inclined to be a performing monkey so you can piss off your parents or tell all your friends how you went slumming.” He left her there, mouth hanging open, and walked home, whistling the whole way.

Feathers of Spring

2009-04-17T11:56:00.009-05:00

Feathers of Spring

He rolled in like the first hint of spring, stormy and raw but so full of potential I could almost taste the earth waking up. If there was anything of awkwardness about him, as he insists there was, I did not see it. The barest hint of light in the alcove kept him from being a shadow. Stray strands of sunshine lit the edges of his hair to a burnished gold.

Yes, I still say it was blond then, if only because it irks you so.

The whispers overheard brought my gaze back to him, where I might otherwise have moved on. Rebel. Rakehell (or words that mean much the same). Wild. A bit more interesting than the average boy, those descriptors, whether I gave them credence then or not. My curiosity does lead me down odd paths. More than once, I’ve come to the end of those and not liked what I found. I knew a little then – not much, not enough – which led me to contemplate not following my eyes for once. And then she pushed me, that mutual friend looking out for my safety.

“Stay away from him. He’s dangerous.” Such sincere concern for my well-being.

It had, of course, the exact opposite effect. I looked right at him, and was caught. He’s got a core of iron, like a planet, though he didn’t know it then and doesn’t believe it now. Either folks are drawn to him or find they can’t abide being too close. They’ll make all sorts of excuses for why that is, but it comes down to nature in the end. I was pulled in, sure as if I was his moon. Where he was, I came alive, maybe for the first time. I suppose everyone feels that way about their first true love.

Yes, I can admit it now. Laugh if you want. Lord knows we deserve to after all this time.

I spent as much time with him as the inconvenient expectations on a young woman allowed. My mother thought about killing me, and I dare say his wasn’t as sanguine as she seemed. Not that we cared about such things. Or propriety. Or the tell-tale signs of spending too long in the woods. Hiking shouldn’t have brought us back with such smiles. We weren’t as clever as we’d thought.

He brought me feathers and we attached them to braids in our hair. He gave me books of the sort that opened my eyes, fed my insatiable desire to know. Don’t know what it was I gave him, except myself. He soaked up the sun and handed it to me, the bright light of summer on his skin and hair, in his smile and eyes. Oh, those eyes. I lost myself in them. Folly, I know, but I didn’t then.

No, I don’t regret it, though I did for a while. “Time wounds all heels,” you say. I can’t help but think you have enough scars. I don’t need to lay open the ones you gave yourself on my behalf.

The trouble with spring is that it can’t last. It hides itself in the green of summer, but when the leaves are set to turn, it has to let go. And so did he. I knew it before he even spoke. The little world we explored wasn’t enough for him. He needed bigger skies, harder places to bend him to them. He’d thought the ocean sang to him, and maybe it did once, but he’s too much of the earth in him – and where there is coastline, there are too many people, too many cars, too many things to separate him from what he needs to be. He still can’t abide a city. No, he needed plains and mountains and the cry of things wilder than I.

Foolish children, we thought love was something you could hold onto. Came to find out it only stretches so far. Time, distance, changing seasons – all that pulling until the thread of love is so thin you can cut yourself with it. Lord, how we tried to stay tethered. Words by the thousands passed between us, written in moments of quiet contemplation, frantic loneliness, desperate hunger.

When we came face to face again, we found we were strangers. Still in love, but the meaning had changed. The frenzied kisses born of too much time alone couldn’t hold the truth at bay for long. We didn’t have the words to explain what we no longer had. We parted, still pretending, still dreaming of ways we might come together in time. Foolish children.

In the end, he broke my heart. And I let him. I’d taken too much of his steel into myself to do anything else but rail, never once considering that he’d broken his own heart, too. I didn’t know then that he’d made me stronger.

I marched off to the war that is growing up and never looked back to that girl I’d been. Somewhere in the fight to survive, I lost her entirely. I don’t regret what I became, the things I did. If my first love had never done anything but give me that taste for adventure, the willingness to take risks, I would still be grateful to him. Without that, I’d not have ended up as happy as I am.

There. I’ve said what I shouldn’t. I can see your smile, older now and a little weary with the burden of time and your own long journey.

But it wasn’t all he gave me. What sort of story would that be? Seasons have changed, come round to autumn, and when I looked up from the table where I spin my yarns, there he was, as full of life as ever, brimming with tales. He hands me the stars, holds me despite time and distance, makes me laugh, brings me home to who we were when we played with the world instead of carrying it with us. And I remember the taste of spring.

Riddle me this...

2006-06-16T10:29:00.000-05:00

You know what I've never been able to figure out? How is it that wingnuts are so opposed to abortion but okay with killing. I mean, we know that no true Christian or right wing republican would ever get an abortion, right? Surely they have enough control over their women folk to make sure they don't get one. And it's okay to advocate for the murder of liberals because they're in league with Islamofascists (just wtf does that word mean, anyway?). So why not just allow all the liberals to get their abortions, thus reducing the number of potential tree hugging, dirt worshipping, homosexual marriage loving traitors? I believe they really haven't thought this through yet.

Unlesss......nah, it couldn't be.....well, maybe.....maybe it's because the liberals they think of most are over-educated white folks and since they feel like they're losing the ethnicity race, we have to find a way to prevent the white women from controlling their reproductivity (yes, I made that word up. so what?). If they could actually be forced to breed, then maybe the brown people wouldn't take over in 10 years or so. I think there was a book about that, but I've never read it.

Thoughts on Marriage

2006-06-06T09:50:00.000-05:00

Or, more appropriately, on why politicians feel the need to tromp on the idea of two loving people commiting to a partnership that's protected by law. That's the issue they aren't discussing, of course. They don't want gay couples to have equal protection under the law. If we do that, folks might start thinking that your sexual orientation doesn't define you every waking moment of the day. Instead of seeing a gay couple, we might see the lawyer and the landscaper who own the house down the block. We might see the dedicated parents who suffer through the screeching of the 6th grade band with that same rictus smile we all put on while our eardrums bleed. There's community in that sort of trauma. Can't have people reacting to each other according to whether or not we have ideas or beliefs or dreams in common. Much better to categorize us according to who we want to shag.

And that leads us to divisions. If fundamentalists can successfully divide people by sexual orientation, then they can move on to dividing by gender. And religion. And whatever other category they decide should be used to create a subset one can label "Other." The divisions on party lines provided a model for how this should be done. It required co-opting the media to pound out the message that the two sides are radically different to the point where there cannot be agreement. Repeating that idea for a couple of years ingrained it in those who were listening, and while a good number of us are skeptical about "news," a large portion of media consumers are not. Or, if they are, they are skeptical in a way that the media has informed them they should be. Hence, the "liberal bias" to newspapers that no liberal can actually find.

Activist judges decided that people of different races could get married. Most of the people were not in favor of that at the time. Other activist judges decided that married women could own property without their husbands. Judges are not supposed to focus on the will of the people. They are supposed to interpret the law. Sometimes, the people are wrong and need a push to see that. We are a nation of laws. Politicians should be ashamed to propose making discrimination legal again. If they are not, we should make them ashamed. These folks are actively working on that, and while I am not always in agreement with them, I support this initiative.

Yeah, this glosses the surface and is covered better by bigger bloggers than I. Doesn't stop the whole shebang from pissing me off.

Worth a thousand words....

2006-06-01T16:18:00.000-05:00

First Lady Laura Bush counts the days until she can remove her tracking device and finally be free....

Photo by: REUTERS/Lee Celano (UNITED STATES)

Where art thou, common sense?

2006-02-10T09:48:00.000-06:00

While Western diplomats at the meeting were unwilling to accept a link between Western military intervention and Islamic radicalism, he says, it remains one widely believed across the Muslim world. BBC News

And here's the thing....it doesn't really matter whether or not western diplomats are willing to accept the link. It exists in the minds of millions of people and therefore must be addressed. Denial is not going to work in this situation and, in fact, will make things worse. Diplomats can believe whatever they damned well please, but their job, as I understand it, involves taking into consideration that the folks they are dealing with are quite likely to have a different view of things. If that wasn't the case, we wouldn't need diplomats, so unless they want to believe themselves out of jobs, it might behoove them to start figuring out a way to find a middle ground. Funny thing about middle ground - no one likes it but quite often it is seen as acceptable simply because it is not what the other side wanted, either.

I'd give a whole lot for some middle ground right here at home, but I'm not holding my breath because blue isn't my color...

2006-01-31T14:52:00.000-06:00

Well, I built this particular room and then failed to return to it. Not unlike me, really. I think it needs to change focus. My wonkishness needs an outlet. Or maybe my photos do. Or something, anything. The amazing thing is that I remembered the password. I will ruminate on the best use of this blog and get back to it. Not like I've told anyone it was here, so no pressure.

From hence came I

2005-03-25T13:19:00.000-06:00

Just one wall

and only part of one wall, at that. There are two more, and back to back shelves forming the "wall" of the office in my parents' one room school house. Over 300 of those books are about Watergate. I kid you not. I thought I would share a glimpse into why I read so much. I only have shelves on two walls so far, but I expect we'll need more shelves shortly. I do not expect, however, to get an ultra-high tech, high def, wide, flat screen TV like the one peeking out of the corner of this picture any time soon. Probably not ever. More books? That's a given.

Friday Cat Blogging

2005-03-25T10:37:00.000-06:00

Sleeping their way towards apocalypse...

So this is it

2005-03-25T09:45:00.000-06:00

The place is empty. New places are, of course, but in my imagination, the blank spaces are filled up by ideas and comments and a healthy dose of snark. It's not the fanciest place, but it's a good place to start. I think I'll like it here.