Story Bone - Youth's Dreams

"Our youthful dreams burning in the glow of green phosphors."

Story Bone

If God does have a voice it would sound more like Pee Wee Herman’s laugh than James Earl Jones telling us he’s our father and we should forget whatever Obi Wan told us.

Story Bone

"The moon got herself caught in the naked branches of a young maple tree this morning. She was moving across the northern sky, and was only partially full, so she couldn’t see where she was going when the tree stretched up in the night and snared her in his bare branches.

"He was just yawning and waking up from the warm weather when he found the moon caught in his arms. She was coppery and round, warm and brilliant, so he didn’t want to let her go."

Happy New Year

Hope you all had a great Christmas/Holiday Season and that the gift bearing entities were generous. They were to me.

Other than the Craftsman tool cabinet, I also received an iPod 60gig so I now can listen to all those books on tape at the day job. And many, many books. The guilt stack now teeters on the verge of burying me in my sleep. I now have enough Katharine Briggs to feed my research needs into the next decade, including scoring a copy of the Dictionary of Fairies (real title is much longer) at Half-Price for $5. Yes, you may be envious. It’s okay, I’ll understand. If you don’t understand I’ll let you check the used prices on Amazon for it. This was the paperback copy, so it’s a little less.

In other news I received the rejection letter from Asimov’s for my short-story “The Dead Are Busy” yesterday. They must have wanted to avoid the postage increase so just spiked it. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it. I talked with an editor at another magazine at the World Fantasy Convention this past November, they had passed on the story before because of being oversold. He asked me to send it back to them for consideration, so by this weekend it’ll be winging it way there.

Also, I did another walk through of “The Wild Hunt.” I think it’s close to ready. Maybe another full scale re-write will do it (this will make the fourth). Then it’ll be off to the Writer’s of the Future Contest, like it should have been back in December.

The War of the Wren

I’ve been ruminating about this so called “War on Christmas” and how so much of it is a McGuffin to get the proles all riled up and distract them from the real issues. It was while I was thinking about the Older/Traditional/True meaning of Xmas and remembering stories of earlier times when I recalled that in the Middle Ages, at winter’s tide (solstice), it was common for the hunters to go out and kill small birds to crown the local kings with. The wren, in England, was a favorite as the wren was the “king of birds.” So men would tromp through the cold and weather to gather enough wrens and other small birds to create a panoply winged beings to decorate the throne and the king himself. What a great image that is. Cold stone hall, gilded throne and back drop with a crown of birds, and birds hung from string in flight around the throne, the glint of a gilded back drop shining through the smoke haze and candle sputterings.

Oh, and for those of you who object to the “Xmas”, here’s the history lesson. “X”, or “chi” in the Greek, is the letter of the Christ. Xmas is perfectly legitimate shorthand and isn’t disrespectful. In fact, it is truer than the long term Christmas in symbology. While “XR” or “chi rho” is also used, “chi” is the most accepted version.

Story Bone

“The taste of cashews reminds me of Christmas.” When I was growing up we had this candy dish that was ceramic holly leaves formed into a sleigh with runners. Every Christmas it would be filled with cashews by my mother or my grandparents. I remember the look of the dregs of the cashews in the deep green, a fine dust of brown cashew parts and the remnant salt that sloughed off.

Assigment Update

Well, as was pointed out to me, I messed up. For my assignment paragraph I reused the words "to" and "fully." Well, time for a rewrite.

"Late night train whistle swirls snowflakes trapped by its blast. Paul wakes partially from deep sleep, nestled in dark downy comfort. “There is no railway past town,” memory tells. He comes fully awake after a second, closer sounding. Time’s hollow echo rings through another nearer blow. Sleety snow begins plinking windows with rhythmical rat-tick-tapping to come inside as the ghost locomotive thunders on, running down phantom tracks."

I brought up the point in class that this is an excellent exercise on the importance of rewriting. Just try the exercise, you'll have to rewrite that paragraph to make it work. My guess is that you'll have to rewrite it many times. That is the writing process. While some authors may have the blessings of angels that they can write pristine copy the first time, most of us have sinned and fall short of that grace. Rewrite is your friend. Visit your friend often.

Assignment 12-06-05

Well, tonight is my writer's group meeting. Every other week our leader gives an assignment, something usually short. This week's task is to write a six-sentence paragraph that has no re-used words. Here's mine for tonight, I used the train bone from earlier.

"Late night train whistle swirls snowflakes trapped by its blast. Paul wakes partially from deep sleep, nestled in dark downy comfort. “There is no railway through town,” memory tells. He comes fully awake after a second, closer sounding. Another nearer blow brings him fully conscious to hear time’s hollow echo. Sleety snow begins plinking windows with rhythmical rat-tick-tapping to come inside as the ghost locomotive thunders on, running down phantom tracks."

Everything but the “Oink!”

It’s said (and it is very true) that we process everything from a pig except the “Oink.” Well, there has to be some value in the oink, and someway to capture it. How would you do that (bottle, distill, cardboard box, blister pack) and what would you sell it for (both remuneration and destination)?

Get ready, there’s a train a commin’

Here in Ohio, we’ve been ripping up railroad tracks and putting in bike trails. We call it “Rails to Trails” and it’s an excellent program. Here is the bone though, what if there is a person who lives close to one of these, and he still hears the train going through at night. Interesting, no? As they say on infomercials, “But wait, there’s more.” If you’ve ever lived near an active train track, you’ll know that after a while, you don’t really hear the train. So why is he hearing the train now? And here’s the twist, this person didn’t live there when the rail track was active. If I write this story I might also bring into it a piece about the “Death Trains” of Gettysburg, which took out the dead and nearly dead after the battle. They only ran at night, and as a soldier in the hospital, you didn’t want to be taken down to the station as it was growing dark.

There’s also something about an old-fashioned steam train bringing in a snowstorm. I’m talking blizzard. I can see it in that mind’s eye, but I have no idea what the story is.

Christmas 1914

On Monday, Alfred Anderson passed from this world. Mr. Anderson was the last known survivor to have heard the guns fall silent on Christmas Eve, 1914. For those who may not know, during WW I, the Great War, on Christmas Eve 1914 a spontaneous truce happened along the trenches in France. Nothing was declared, the soldiers on each side just stopped firing at each other. After nightfall singing was heard coming from the German trenches, they were singing Silent Night. The English soldiers across the line responded by singing their own carols. The truce eventually escalated to an exchange of cigarettes, buttons, food and finally a soccer game by lit by flares. When morning came, the war resumed. Mr. Anderson didn’t participate in the soccer game, but he fought until 1916, was wounded by shrapnel, returned to Scotland and married. He was 109 when he died, the last person known to have experienced that extraordinary event. That living memory has passed out of this world.

Conspiracy of Podiatrists

Ever notice how once you've found good shoes, you can never find them again, but shoes you can't wear or that hurt your feet are always plentiful and continue to be made? It's a Conspiracy of Podiatrists. Isn't that a great title? I can see both a non-fiction piece and a horror piece made out of that.