Coming to an End and a Beginning

Goodbye 2011!

The New Year is upon us.    

The year 2011 has signaled a new challenge for me -- writing.   My therapy.  My cleansing of the soul.  My creative outlet.   My goal is to make 2012 all about writing -- the craft, character and plot development, vocabulary building, different styles of narration, etc...   I hope to take a few classes this next year as well.

I have new short stories in the works.   As part of my new year's resolutions, I am planning to edit/revise/expand my previous short stories.

In regards to my book, I am almost done editing the second half.   The editing process feels more like writing than the initial process of getting the chapters and storyline written.

 Hello 2012!

General Thoughts

So, my book is finished in the sense of telling the story.  While I am editing the second half, I got two very eager volunteers to read the first half.  Only one has commented so far and I am anxious to hear what the other one has to say.

Writing has been a real experience for me.   As I keep chuggin' away on this blog, I do wonder "Is anyone out there reading this stuff?"   But, that doesn't seem to matter.   I am writing.  It has taken my life down a whole new path.  And it feels like a great one to be on.

I have several short story ideas in mind and have a few new ones started.   One of my New Year's resolutions is to go back and edit each of them.   My goal has been write and post it with little editing.  After re-reading the second half of my book, now I know I really need an editor.  I have gained much appreciation already for them and what they do.

Cheers!

The Piano Teacher -- Part Five

And now the final part of...

The Piano Teacher -- Part Five

"That is correct.  Now let's play it again..."  The nimble fingers of Sarah Hart glided over the ivories perfectly. 

"Sarah, that was excellent."   Frances praised her 10-year old student.  David and Angela sat quietly in the back of the room watching.

David whispered.  "Looks like this one will be spared the Mozart whack."  Angela agreed with a nod.

"That will be all for today.  Keep practicing the pieces that I gave you and I will see you next week."  Sarah gave Frances a hug and said goodbye.   Frances was bright and happy.

"Frances," called Angela.  She and David walked over to her.

"Good morning, Angela.  And you are...  Oh wait, you're David.  I meet you the other day."

"It's good to see you again, Ms. Fitzherld."

"Please call me Frances."   David was surprised at the completely different composure from their previous meeting.

"David wants to talk with you about your music.  He wants to record your playing and make it available to everyone."

Frances' eyes lite up with delight.  "Oh... that would be wonderful.   Will you be using Edison cylinders?  We have one at home."

"Well, no, we'll use something like a gramophone to record them."

"Oh... whatever.  I'm just excited about my music being enjoyed." 

 David and Angela both thanked her and left just as her next student, Johnny Watkins entered the room.

"As you can see, she is very different today," said Angela.

"Yes, I noticed that.   Well, I will be back in a few weeks with my recording devices and we begin."

David shook Angela's hand and they parted company.

The Piano Teacher -- Part Four

The Piano Teacher -- Part Four

"August 14th was the day Frances lost almost everything except for three things.   Frances' parents and younger brother died in an horrific house explosion and fire.   She was at a piano practice when it happened."  

"How awful.  To lose your family all at once."

"Movers had just left with their piano.  It was in need of minor repair before Frances' first east coast tour as an American protege.  She'd planned on using it on the tour.  The bust of Mozart was sitting on the front porch.  Apparently, her mother had taken it out there to clean it.   The bust served as an inspiration to Frances, so it would be traveling with her.  The story made many of the major newspapers."

David refilled his cup as well as Angela's.  He added more cream while she continued.

"So, Frances still has the piano and the bust, but the third thing that she kept... or gained maybe is a better term... wasn't visible at first.  It's only been recently... in the past 5 years... we have noticed that Frances' ability at the piano is still very strong... if not stronger.   She can sit and play music without sheet music.  And not just the classics but new songs as well.  Somehow she has become a living encyclopedia of music."

"Really.  From your notes, I understand she can play any piece of music composition."

"Yes.  She even can play songs that are on the radio right now.   She refuses to listen to one, but can play current hit songs of any genre.  Just the other day, I heard a new song on the radio.  I came in and she was playing it. I asked her how she new it.   Her response was 'It just came to me.'"

"Has someone being smuggling music in?"

"No.  We've watched and limited the staff that sees her."

"And what about the students?

"No, they aren't allowed to take anything in with them."

"Very strange..."

"And how about this delusion that she's killed her students?"

"As you read, it's all in her head.  No students have died.  She just imagines it.  We think it's a form of anger release.  Johnny Watkins left the other day after his lesson fit as a fiddle."

"So, in order to support her care, you have allowed her to provide music lessons to kids."

"Yes, parents pay big bucks and all are very satisfied with her teaching ability."

David scratched his head.  "Strange.  Very strange.  Have you ever thought of letting her... go out on her own?"

"Yes, in fact, we tried to release her, but no family member would take her.  They were afraid she really would kill a student.  Plus, she likes it here."

The Piano Teacher -- Part Three

The Piano Teacher -- Part Three

The next morning, Angela arrived a little late to work. She put her winter coat on the peg board near her office door. The weather man had promised a warmer day, but she wasn't sure that would happen.  Sitting down at her desk, she flipped the calendar to the next day. Tuesday, January 9th, 1937.

As she began to look over yesterday's notes, there was a knock on her office door.  She could see the glass window it was David.

"Come in." said Angela as she motioned with her hand.

"Good morning.  Cold isn't it?  I thought it was supposed to be warmer."

"That's what I thought.   Weathermen can only predict so much.  Did you get the chance to look over the file I gave you yesterday?"

"Yes, absolutely amazing information.  I think this has story major potential.  Imagine one of America's piano proteges here."

"Yes, we've taken very good care of her.   In fact, we've spent more time with her than any other."

"So how many of her students has she killed again?"

"Let's see. After yesterday's count, it comes to 17 all together."  Angela chuckled with a grin.

"Really.  That's a lot.  All the same way?  With her bust of Mozart?"

"Yes.  She won't use any of the others.   We gave her Beethoven and Liszt, but she says they don't have the same weight."

"I see.  She's very particular.  Well, if you're going to use a master of the piano, it might as well be Mozart."  David and Angela laughed over the witty comment.

"Frances is stuck on August 14, 1923.  It's been that day since she arrived here at the institution."  Angela sipped her coffee as she began to tell the tale.

"So what exactly happened that day?"  asked David as he stirred his own cup of coffee.

The Piano Teacher -- Part Two

The Piano Teacher -- Part Two

Angela never flinched as she scribbled her notes.   David glanced at her then over to Frances who smiled and nodded at him.

"May I ask a question?" said David to Angela.

"Sure, be my guest."

Turning to Frances, he said:  "Are you saying that you killed a man today?"

Frances, momentarily closing her eyes, shook her head.  She became fixated completely on David.  "No, I killed one of my students.   Johnny Watkins.  He's ten years old, you know.  I told him once... twice... and finally a third time...  Damn that boy... Just didn't listen...   No hitting the B flat...  Plain and simple...  The music clearly says C sharp..."

Looking stunned, David didn't know what to say. 

"So, Frances," said Angela.  "How many does that make this month?"

"I believe Johnny makes..." Frances rolled her eyes up counting in her head.  "That makes nine all together this month... No wait..."  She recounted.  "No... I'm sorry..." She smiled.  "Only eight..."

David's mouth hung open.   Angela remained stoic.  Frances seemed to enjoy the announcement of her achievement.

David's mouth dropped open. Frances enjoyed her achievement.

Already aware of David's shock, Angela remained stoic and quizzing Frances. 

"What's today?"

Frances snickered.  "Why that's a silly question...  It's August 14th.  I believe it is Friday."
   

"And the year?"

Frances snickered again.  "Why, 1923, of course."   She turned to David.   "I just turned 19 one month ago.  July 14th."

Angela finished a few notes.  "Thank you Frances.  David and I should check on the body."

"Oh yes, do." France fanned herself.   "In this warm weather, it'll start to smell.  Plus the blood will need to be mopped up."   Frances waved nodded as if to say goodbye as they left the room shutting the door behind them.

The Piano Teacher -- Part One

This week has been a whirlwind of writing.   I have completed two short stories and more on my book.  My short stories have very little editing other than spell check.  At some point, I am going re-read these and do some editing! 

This story has 5 parts. 

The Piano Teacher -- Part One

Frances Fitzherld perched perfectly in the chair, wringing her slender hands at the plain wooden table.  Beads of sweat rolled down her temples plastering hairs to her pale skin.   Her teary eyes darted from the two vacant chairs across the table to the door with a single window.  The nervous tension she emitted could have blown the door right off its hinges.   Her thoughts swirled like a tornado.  

I have to tell them...  I must confess...  I did it...  I killed him... I told him if he hit the wrong note one more time that was it...

Finally, a shadow appeared in the window cutting off the light.  Angela Harvey, stepped into the small room followed by a man in a grey pin-striped suit. Frances stood up.  Her thoughts flowed from inside her head out of her mouth into the air.

"I have to confess...  I must... I did it... I killed him... Just like I told him I would..." 

Immediately, Angela took command in a calming, yet stern, fashion.  "Please sit down, Frances.  We'll talk about that in a moment.  Right now, I'd like you to meet a friend of mine.  His name is David Templeton."

Frances, despite her intensity, returned to acting like a respectable lady.  Her hand wringing and her desperation dissipated as if Hyde had let Jekyll return in an instant.

David smiled at Frances.   "It's a pleasure to meet you. I've heard a lot about you, Ms. Fitzherld."

In a prim and proper manner, she replied in her New England accent.  "That's very nice.  Unfortunately, I cannot return the compliment since I have not heard about you."

"Most understandable."  David was gracious and charming.  She liked him.

Angela laid her notepad on the table.  While jotting the date, she asked:  "So Frances, what did you want to tell me?"

Remaining calm and collective, yet confident, Frances said:  "I killed Johnny Watkins this morning.  I struck him in the back of the head with my Mozart."  

David raised his eyebrows at Frances' statement remaining there through Angela's casual explanation to him.

"She's referring to her bust of the classical composer sitting on her upright piano."    

Frances turned to David.  "Yes, I told him if he hit the wrong note one more time I would hit with my Mozart.  And that's what he did and I whacked him good."

The Bearded Men’s Society – Part Two

The Bearded Men’s Society – Part Two

Finally, the silence was broken.

“What would happen if we all resigned?” said the Canadian. “We could do it. I don’t see why we couldn’t.”

“Ach du himmel! Ve could not resign,” said the German. “Ve have very important job. Millions rely on us. Zink about the global markets… Ze economics… Ze broken hearts…”

The other three just stared at the German. He raised his voice: “You must understand. Ze change would destroy ze whole world economy!”

The door flew open and in stepped Bob, the society’s attendant, followed by a sharp bitterly cold wind.

“Blast! Shut the bloody door.” Shouts came from the group. Bob slammed the door behind him.

“Gentlemen, the last two have arrived. They are getting changed in to more comfortable attire and should here shortly.” Bob walked around the room picking up empty bottles and straightening as he went. “Dinner will be ready shortly.”

The Russian perked up. “Dinner! Great! I almost forgot.” The group agreed dinner would be great.

Bob rolled his eyes and said under his breath: “As if any of you had forgotten.” Overloaded with bottles, he managed to open the opposite door and exited.

The men went back to drinking. Just as the warmth returned, the door flew open again letting in the same cold rush of air. Two men walked into the room.

“Blast it again! Shut zat damned door. We’re not Eskimos.”

The Canadian spoke up: “Finally! We’ve been waiting for you.”

The American and Italian had arrived with the latter speaking first: “Ciao, everyone. We have arrived.”

“La-dada. We were done hours ago. What’s your excuse?” The Russian got up and stood in front of the fireplace to warm his hands.

The American rolled his eyes. “We may have small territories to cover, but we have larger populations.”

The men turned to chatter of comparison and who has the most work cut out for them.

Bob entered and announced. “Dinner is served, gentlemen.” With that they all began to stir from their chairs. In the corner, the grandfather clock started to strike six. They all stopped and turned to look at it.

The American spoke: “Gentleman, the hour has arrived. Our job is done. May I propose a toast?” He had poured himself a glass of whiskey. “To another year of delivering presents and a job well done. I wish us in the Bearded Men’s Society another Merry Christmas. Until next year!”

The Bearded Men’s Society – Part One

Guess where I got the inspiration to write this one...  It's a two part story.


The Bearded Men’s Society – Part One

Four men sat around the large round table, all in their stocking feet with shirts untucked and looking very relaxed. Each drank their choice of liqueurs. They came from different countries. Their individual characteristics could been seen in their mannerism. Yet, they had one thing in common – beards. Each had a beard and each were different -- long, short, full, stubble.

“Ahhhhh… dis vodka really hits de spot,” said the Russian who had the longest beard in the group. His accent resounded from the bottom of his pot belly which hung over his belt with a plain square buckle.

“And I just can’t get enough of this wine,” raved the one with the British accent as he poured more from the bottle. “You know… these nights are getting longer. It’s so bloody difficult to satisfy everyone these days.”

The Canadian stroked his short white beard adding: “I know. I am so tired I just want to go somewhere warm and lie on a beach. You know it’s always winter in the Upper Yukon. And I am so tired of this damned beard... and the cold… and the snow!” He tugged on the end of his whiskers making a face of pain.

The last one just sat there looking at the other three. He lifted a medium-sized beer stein to his lips. After a long swig of beer, he banged the stein back down on the table. In his German accent, he spoke: “Zere is no satisfaction anymore. In fact, zat eez it… more… more… more. Especially those swinehunde in America… Zey just get so greedy.”

“Do dey have any idea of the vork we do?” said the Russian in a demanding voice. “Ve vork all year and vhat spasiba do ve get?”

The Brit added: “Perhaps if the buggers knew there were seven of us that actually do the work!"

Before taking another big swig from his stein, the German said: “Speaking of seven, vere eez zat Italian and zat American?”

“Probably finishing up their rounds,” said the Canadian. “The American has the largest population. And of course, Mario’s taking care of everyone not assigned to a region.”

“Thank god there isn’t a chap for China!" said the Brit. Could you imagine what that would be like? I would be afraid one of us would be reassigned to that area."

“Or even wurse… have it added to our own!” said the German.

“Yeah, not everyone needs us,” added the Canadian. “Some large areas of the world don’t need us. And I just have to say thank you god!”

The room fell quiet of conversation as they relaxed and drank. Now only the sound in the room was the crackling logs burning bright in the fireplace.

New York City!

There is nothing like being 10 feet aware from Alan Rickman!  I saw the most riveting play called Seminar while I was in New York City.  Absolutely riveting!  The play centers around a group of writers who enroll in a private seminar with Leonard (played by Rickman), who is a well-known writer who has fallen from grace.   Each students presents their writings to the group who in turn critics them.  Leonard is the most critical.  I almost saw it again.   It gave me lots to ponder about writing.  But overall, it was just RIVETING!

While in NYC, I wrote one short story in long-hand, so it will be a week before I get my scribblings into a word-format to post.   How about a piano teacher who kills her students for simply hitting a wrong note...

I also had time to ponder two multi-part questions:  

What is a writer and when does one become a writer?   When you write something?  Or when you get published?  Who decides if you are a good writer?  How do you know if you are a good or bad writer?   Is it based on your choice of words?  Sentence structure?  Ability to tell a good story?   Keep the reader's interest?

What is the role of an editor?   Are they allowed to take your work and rework so that it sounds better?  If so, based on whose opinion?   Theirs?   If they do that, does it matter whether you are a good writer or not and it's all idea based?

The Tale of Oliver T. Horsephat -- Part 7

I will not be posting for the next several days while I take time to ponder, wonder, hither and yon...

And now the conclusion of...

The Tale of Oliver T. Horsephat -- Part 7

Oliver T. Horsephat and Mrs.Olive Treehousen parted company vowing to search their ancestral past for clues to the curse's origin.  Both spent many hours, days, and weeks exploring boxes, papers, journals, clippings, and letters searching for clues.  For Oliver, many boxes were kept in attic, dusty and unorganized.  It wasn't until the forth week of their search that Oliver T. Horsephat found himself standing on the doorstep of the Treehousen mansion, ringing the doorbell, with a small parcel in hand.

Shown to the front parlor by the house servant, he was joined by Mrs. Olive Treehousen.  At once, they both started talking about their discoveries.   Oliver, being polite, stopped and asked her to continue.   She told him of Horatio P. Treehousen's, her great-great grandfather, attempt to marry a young lady who he refers to as "sweet Virginia."  Olive read from an July 27th, 1872, entry from his red-rot-diseased journal where he writes of his sweet Virginia being taken from him.   No last name was given; however the next line provided information about paying a local witch and using her abilities.   Olive Treehousen rested assuredly that the curse began with her.

At that point, Oliver T. Horsephat excitedly opens his parcel to reveal a few letters and proceeded to unfold an July 28th, 1877, letter, from Oleander V. Horsephat, his great-great grandmother.  She speaks of the man she was to marry.  His name was Paul.  The next letter also mentions the same local witch and her curse abilities.  Olive sat stunned.  She informed Oliver that her great-great grandfather's middle name was Paul.  Oliver confirmed his great-great grandmother's middle name was Virginia. 

All at once, a hurried wind blew through every open window.   The journal and the letters both flew about the room.  Oliver T. Horsephat and Mrs. Olive Treehousen both squinted their eyes until the wind died as quickly as it arrived.  They agreed the wind was strange.   After gathering the letters and journal, they had no idea how to proceed and called it a day. 

The next morning, Oliver T. Horsephat brewed tea in the kitchen and had just sat down when the door bell rang.   Upon opening the door, he was surprised by the most angelic face he had ever seen.   He immediately felt his heart strings twinge.   She smiled back at him.

"Hello, are you Oliver T. Horsephat?  My name is Virginia Paulette Treehousen.  I've came to inform you that my great-aunt Mrs. Olive Treehousen peacefully passed away last night.   I stopped by this morning for a visit and she had left me a note to come and tell you personally.  I had no trouble finding you."    For no reason at all, she blurted out that she was 28 and single.   He invited her to tea.

One year later, their son, Oliver Paul Horsephat was born.  Curse-free.

The Tale of Oliver T. Horsephat -- Part 6

And now part six...  Tune in Friday for the thrilling conclusion...

The Tale of Oliver T. Horsephat -- Part 6

Mrs. Olive Treehousen for the first time in recorded history had told a Horsephat about their personal life.   She had crossed a line drawn many years ago.   She let her emotions take over her whole mind, body, and soul.  Oliver sat listening, stunned by this display.   Never before had he heard such information from a Treehousen.

Upon completion of her prognosis and desire to meet a gentler end, Mrs. Olive Treehousen took the first step towards a solution.   She asked, politely, that Oliver T. Horsephat, a member of the rival family, to end the curse that plagued her family.  He sat stunned by her request.  The proverbial ball bounced into his court.  For the first time in his life, he actually pitied a Treehousen.   And furthermore, he felt a twinge on his heart strings.   And to make matters even more exciting, from somewhere in the cosmos, Oliver T. Horsephat's first thought was to break these damned curses.   To make amends.  To clean the slate and start over.   For one very long moment, he saw into his future.

The name Oliver T. Horsephat would be credited with the discontinuance of an age old family curse.  A curse of unknown origin...  That one singular fact jumped up and tap-danced its way across his mind.  What was the origin of the curses?   This could be the salvation of the rivals.  The Treehousens and Horsephats endured these curses so long that, even when he inquired of Mrs. Olive Treehousen, neither knew the origin of them. 

Together, they would have to search for the beginning.  Someone, sometime, somewhere doomed their future.   Whoever that was now became the hunted.   Olive and Oliver both felt the answer to the riddle would be their salvation, not just for them but also their present and future families.

The Tale of Oliver T. Horsephat -- Part 5

The Tale of Oliver T. Horsephat -- Part 5

That morning, Oliver T. Horsephat made also history.  He invited a Treehousen into his home.   Mrs. Olive Treehousen crossed cautiously into the hallway.  She feared being stuck down by an unseen force of Treehousen generations.   He invited her into the room he had christened the "sitting room" and offered her a seat.  

This gesture was then followed by another groundbreaking offer of tea.   She agreed and he exited to the kitchen, leaving the adjoining door open.  This decision was not only to keep an eye on her but also to commence the conversation.   He was suspicious of her since after all she is a Treehousen.  She on the other had eyed carefully all of his movements about the kitchen.  Occasionally, she had to lean forward, to the left, and to the right in order to see him.  Her eyesight was better than an eagle during the day and an owl at night.

Upon returning to the sitting room, he placed the tray on the table between their chairs.   He inquired if she wanted sugar, milk, or both.  She gave a specific procedure for the mixture -- first two lumps of sugar, then fill half of the teacup with milk followed by the tea.   Oliver, on the other hand, just poured the tea and dropped in one lump and then sat back to wait for the opposing team to make a move.

After the first sip, she complimented him on his ability to follow directions and in return he thanked her for it.  And then, like a newly-formed waterfall, she began to cry and told the prognosis of her visit with her doctor.

The Tale of Oliver T. Horsephat -- Part 4

I need an editor!

And now another episode of...

The Tale of Oliver T. Horsephat -- Part 4

Yesterday, Mrs. Olive Treehousen received word from her doctor that she had a slow growing tumor in her lower intestines.  Eventually it would become very painful considering its location and advised nothing but broth.  Between her age and the tumor's location, an operation was near impossible.

She began to fear the future.  Last March, she had turned 81.   She knew the speculation of her age by many people.   This remained one of her favorite secrets.   She believed a lady should never indulge or provide her actual age.  Even her doctor didn't know.   And now, she had some 20 years to go if she was unlucky.

Now Mrs. Olive Treehousen cursed the curse followed by cursing the Treehousens who cursed the Horsephats.  She almost cursed the Horsephats themselves but that may have only lead to more trouble.  She feared her life would be prolonged another twenty years slipping into a lingering painful death.  This possibility sent fear.  She cried.   After contemplating what to do, she made an historical decision.

Now, she stood on the front porch of the rival family.   The time had come to end this damned curse.

The Tale of Oliver T. Horsephat -- Part 3

Good news on my book.   I have been cranking away at it the past few days.   I am actually getting close to the end.   My goal is to finish it by the end of January.   I think I can... I think I can... I think I can...

After that comes the editing... but then what?   Yes, I should try to publish it, but how and what does that entail?   I'll cross that bridge when I get there.

The Tale of Oliver T. Horsephat -- Part 3

  

That morning, Oliver opened the front door only to face Mrs. Olive Treehousen. Some guessed she was about 87 while others gambled that she was actually 103.   Regardless, her unknown age had yet to stop her from being a rival of the Horsephats.   The two families had a turbulent history greater than the Hatfields and McCoys.   Only these didn't shoot at each other.   They opted for something more devious.  They had cursed each other.  

The Treehousens had made their fortune in olive importing.   Their business had grown substantially since its beginnings.  They had purchased land for warehouses next to the Horsephats farm.  However, they lived in the neighboring county of Olive Branch and had established its county seat, Olea, in the 1864 as well.   Like the Horsephats, the Treehousens were involved in everything, receiving high respect from the community.

 

While the Horsephats had received "the none-past-47 curse," the Treehousens in return got "the no-rest-for-the-wicked curse."  Not one Treehousen had ever died before the age of 100.    No matter what happened to them, they lived to ripe old ages.  

Ada Treehousen, Olive's third cousin, had literally been whittled to nothing.  First, she lost her left hand in a mountain lion attack which in turn spread gangrene up to her shoulder.  Later, she lost a leg to run-away tractor; the remaining leg meet its fate from a large boulder.   Eventually, she was noting but a torso with a head.  Excitedly, at the age of 101, she expired.  Her grave stone read "She lost everything but her head."  Many similar tales existed for the family.  Unlike the Horsephats, the Treehousens had branched out, thus cursing several generations to long, and often painful, lives.

The families remained rivals to this day with no end in sight.  

The Tale of Oliver T. Horsephat -- Part 2

And now part 2 of my new short story...

The Tale of Oliver T. Horsephat -- Part 2

As a well-respected citizen, Oliver T. Horsephat's civic engagement was well-know throughout Sugar Beet County.  He lived contently in his simple home on Sweet Street in the county seat of Maple Leaf.   His claim to fame was inheriting The Horsephat Candy Company from his parents.

Maple Leaf, nestled in a shallow valley, was established in the 1864 when the Horsephats had migrated there to farm sugar beets.  Eventually, they had become the most respected sugar beet families in the area.   In fact, they were the only sugar beet growers.  In 1877, the family started the candy company, producing a wide range of sugary sweets, and gained a stellar reputation.

All was not easy with the Horsephats rise to fame.   They excelled in their share of misfortune.    While inspecting a bumper crop, Oliver's great uncle Horace was avalanched under the vegetable when the straps broke on a wagon filled with them.   It took two hours for the workmen to unearth him.    On his grave stone, his epitaph read "Gone to the great sugar beet farm in the sky." 

Later, one February night, his great aunt Miranda meet her death in the kitchen from drowning.  Being a cheap-skate, she had turned on one lone light. In the dimness, she misjudged her step, fell, and hit her head on a door frame.   While trying to get up, she passed out, ending up face down in a pot of sugar beet juice.   No one found her until it was too late.  They buried her next to great uncle Horace.   "Here lies Miranda who penny-pinched her way right into the sugar pot."  

These were only two examples of the strange and unusual deaths in the Horsephat family.   A curse hovered over the family that didn't allow one Horsephat to live beyond the age of 47. 

The Tale of Oliver T. Horsephat -- Part 1

As I promised, this is a less intense short story.   After reading about different writing styles, techniques, etc., I decided to write this one in strict narrative format.   I have grown accustomed to lots of dialogue.  I prefer dialogue, so this was a good challenge for me. 

Here is my second short story in seven parts.   This is part one.

The Tale of Oliver T. Horsephat -- Part 1

Oliver T. Horsephat turned 47 years old a few days ago.  So naturally, today, he continued fretting over this fact and the family curse.  He knew what he had to do.   Go about his daily business.   Death couldn't be cheated if it came for him.   Oliver hadn't married so no wife would fret nor had he brought any more Horsephats into the world only to meet the same fate.

However, for Oliver T. Horsephat, this day would bring the chance to change his life -- to redeem the family and break the curse.  Perhaps then, he could marry and start a new generation of Horsephats to continue the family business.

The adventure would start with an early morning knock on the door.

Copyright

I have had two people ask me about copyright.  Apparently, the moment you write it down, you own the copyright.   This I have verified on the U.S. Copyright web page.  I can register my book.   So now, before I post, I have to research and see when to register.

Did Charles Dickens have to go through this?

Latest on my book

For the past two mornings, I have actually worked on my book.   I've always heard they can take on a life of their own.   Mine is not exception.   Sam keeps running around in my brain.  Write me!  Write me now!   I'm stuck in the same place you left me!

Ah, what it must be like to be Stephen King or Fannie Flagg or Kathryn Lasky or... well I could go on for days.   Surely, they must just have minds that watch the world and write about it constantly.  

The Witch Tale -- Part 4

And now, the thrilling conclusion of The Witch Tale...

The Witch Tale -- Part 4

"Well, ladies, here's to us!" said Hazel.   All three of them lifted their mugs and toasted.

"Down the hatch!" added Hettie.

The trio drank the potion.   During and after swallowing, their faces grimaced at its taste.

"Oh dear god!" said Bertha.  "That's a taste I'm glad we only have to endure every fifty years!"

"What do you think gives it that nasty taste?" said Hazel.  "Maybe something washed off that girl.  You are sure she was a virgin?"

"Yes, not to worry," said Bertha.  "I couldn't take the other one.  She's a slut."

"I don't know, but I wish we could get a better recipe." said Hettie.

"Well, now we just sit and wait."  Bertha plopped down onto the couch and grabbed an issue of "Housekeeping for Witches."  Meanwhile, Hazel sat by the fire in her rocker and Hettie put away potion bottles organizing them in alphabetical order.

After an hour,  Bertha looked in the mirror.   At first, she glanced, then getting closer, she pinched her cheeks.   Her fair skin remained pale, her hair blond, her eyes blue, and cheeks still rosy.   Bertha turned to Hazel and Hettie who had stopped and looked at her.

"Well, how do we look?" said Hazel glancing at Bertha, then over to Hettie.   Bertha cocked her head a little examining both their faces.

"The same," said Bertha.   Hettie and Hazel both stepped in front of the mirror.   Hettie's hair remained auburn, her eyes green, her lips red, and her skin clear of any blemishes.  Hazel's brown bobbed hair still shined, her brown eyes twinkled, and, like the others, her skin remained soft and fair.  All three looked like ideal female models.

"DAMN!" shouted Bertha. "It didn't work."  Bertha kicked the end of the sofa, while Hettie cried.

"I can't believe this!" said Hazel. "All that work! Rounding up those damn kids!  Putting up with 'em! We did everything by the book!  Word for word! We measured each ingredient!"  She shook her head and started crying.

"I want to be pretty like other witches," lamented Hettie.  "I want the green skin... warty nose... black nasty hair...  But no, I look hideous!"

The Witch Tale -- Part 3

And now Part 3 of The Witch Tale...  It's like being on an old radio show... only on-line!

The Witch Tale -- Part 3

"Dinnng donng."  Mike raced to the front door and quickly opened it.  The light illuminated the front porch.  The grandfather clock started to strike eleven. The streetlights glowed.

"Joellen..." said Mike sadly. 

"Hello to you, too...," said Joellen sarcastically.

"Sorry, I was hoping it was..."  Tears began to well in his eyes.   Joellen stepped in and gave him a hug. 

Hannah had gone missing the day before.   The police, his parents, and several neighbors were out combing the neighborhood and surrounding areas.  It was one of their worst nightmares.  Mike stayed home in case she showed up or called. 

Mike and Joellen sat down in the living room.   "Dinnng donng."  Mike jumped up once again and ran to the door.

"Hey," said Seth.  "Any word?"   Mike shook his head and began to well up again.  Seth gave him a passionate hug before sitting down in the living room.

"Hey Joellen."

"Hey Seth."

"Dinng donng."   Mike once again jumped up.  When he opened the door, the porch was dark.  The metal light fixture swung back and forth despite the lack of wind.   He noticed a strange odor.

"Hello?" said Mike as he gazed in the darkness and wrinkled his nose.  There was no answer. 

"Who is it?" said Seth from the living room.   He and Joellen came into the hall.

Just as Mike stepped out, the porch light slowly glowed back to its original brightness.

"Hannah!" yelled Mike.  Hannah laid unconscious on the front porch.  All three bent down next to her.  

"Yuck!" said Joellen.  "What's that smell?"

Seth held her wrist.  "She's alive."

"Let's get her inside," said Mike.  "Joellen, call an ambulance."

Mike and Seth carried her into the hall.   Hannah moved a little.  She was alive.

Writing, editing, and find a place

I just re-read part 1 and 2 of my short story, The Witch Tale.  I found it interesting that I let myself go crazy and into dark places.   Cutting out someone's heart!   Really!   That's like Hannibal Lecture level stuff.   Although, I have no regrets about writing it.   And I also feel like my stress level had gone down.  

My personal thoughts are that I have found something that I can do to let my creativity go wild as well as letting go and lower my stress.   I finished parts 3 and 4/the ending.   These will be posted this week.

I was just telling my co-worker, Ann, that I can't write fast enough.   Now, I have lots of ideas for stories and I can't write fast enough.

Anyway, thanks for taking some time to read this.   I know that everyone is busy with so many other things that making choices is necessary.     Keep watching/reading -- I will be posting the first chapter of my book, The Fingerprint of Jack, very soon.

The Witch Tale -- Part 2

Here it is -- Part 2 of my short story.   I finished it, re-read it, and said to myself "Did I just write that?!"  Stay tuned for part three of this four part series.

The Witch Tale --Part 2

Hazel stood over the large metal pot on a wood fire stirring the steaming concoction.  After brushing her hair from her face, she finally looked up at her sister.  "Hettie,  have you noticed these kids today just aren't the same as what we used to get?" 

"I know," said Hettie as she shook her head in dismay. "It's just not like what it used to be.  Remember when they used to beg for their lives?"

Hettie was standing next to one of the boys who was strapped to a chair.  His eyes were starting to open.  "Uh-oh, looks like this one is coming to.  I just hate it anymore when we have to knock them out." 

The boy came to and looked up at Hettie before realizing that he was strapped to a chair.  "You fuckin' bitch!  I'm gonna kill you!  You bitch..."  Hettie pushed his forehead back and slit his throat before he could finish his last sentence.  Blood gushed down his shirt and all over the floor.   He choaked and tried struggling free, but his actions slowly faded.

"Such language these days," said Hettie.  "And that last batch of knock-out spell must have been weak."

"You have to look at it this way," said Hazel smiling.  "We still get to see lots of blood."

Hettie sighed.  "I know.  But I want them to be awake and aware that they're young lives are coming to an end."  She shook her head again in dismay.  "It's just not the same."

"I don't see how we can be so upset with them," said Hazel.  "They don't appreciate their lives any more than we do."

"Yes, but they used to be so nice about it," said Hettie. "Today all they do is swear at us.   They don't even beg for their lives.   I feel that this generation just doesn't care about their lives or anyone elses." 

Hettie was trying to drag the dead boy to long narrow wooden table.  Hazel stopped stirring and laid the ladle on a nearby table.  "Here let me help you with him."

"Thanks.  He was a bit heavy."   Hettie took a long blood-covered knife and sliced open the boy's chest. 

"You know I'm surprised that I even find hearts in these kids these days."  She reached in and pulled out his heart cutting the arteries with the knife.  

"Here's one more." Hettie tossed it into the pot.   "Eleven down and one more to go."

"When do you think Bertha will be back?" asked Hazel who was tossing in some herbs and started stirring again.

"I don't know," said Hettie.  "Hopefully she will find someone who will help finish the spell.  It's not easy these days."

"Was she going to try to find one of those girls that saw us?" said Hazel.

"Maybe.  I'm not too worried about them.  Who would believe them anyway?"

"You're probably right." 

Hettie left the room and returned a few moments later dragging a large girl by the legs behind her. 

"Hazel, help me with this one.  She's really heavy.  How did we get her back here?"  They both panted and heaved the girl across the floor.  They stopped by the table with the boy's body on it.  Hettie rolled him off to the side hitting the floor with a thud.

"Oh now, Hettie, you mustn't be so rude to them."

"Phttt... Like he would have cared."

"Hettieeeee...," said Hazel.  "You are becoming insensitive."  They picked up the girl and Hazel laid her head gently on the table.   Just as they finished adjusting her, the door flew open.

"I'm back," announced Bertha as she carried a body over shoulder.

"Oh Bertha, you shouldn't be carrying somebody by yourself like that.   You might hurt your back."   Bertha unloaded the body onto a nearby sofa.  

"Well, I got that last one we need.  That should do it.  Boy, was she hard to catch!  I had to chase her down the street."  Bertha smiled proudly at her accomplishment.   "How's the brew?"

Bertha and Hettie walked over the steaming pot.   "Well, the spell is fine.   I wish I could say the same about Hazel."   Hazel made a face over disapproval.

"I am fine," said Hazel.   "It's this damned generation that upsets me.  They have no respect."  She rolled her eyes, shook her head, and proceeded to cut open the girl's chest.  As she cut, she mumbled "I just don't get it.  Damn kids today."   After she laid the knife down, she reached into the cavity and yanked out the girl's heart.  And with a quick turn, she tossed it into the pot.

"There that's all! Hehe haha!"   Hazel announced with joy and a big smile.  "There I'm being happy."  Her dismal look returned quickly.

Bertha and Hettie just looked at her.   After a few moments, Hettie went back to stirring and Bertha helped Hazel carry the bodies out of the room.   They returned with mops in hand.  Blood was everywhere.  They started to mop the floor, clean off the chair and table, and push the blood towards the floor's center drain.

"I wish we could find a spell that would make all of this blood just go away in an instance."  Bertha lamented.

Hettie stopped for a moment from her stirring.   "Is that girl ready to go or do we have to prep her?"  Under her breath, she mumbled "Please let her be ready..."

"Nope.  She's all ready to go."

"Good," said Hettie. "I checked the pantry and we have plenty of forget potion so she won't remember a thing tomorrow."

After the mopping, all three stood around the pot.

"Yuck!  Why does this potion always have to smell so bad?    I remember that smell from the last time."

"Really!  That was over fifty years ago," said Hettie.  "I'm impressed by your memory."

"How could you forget that smell!"  Bertha grimmaced.

"Alright girls.  Let's get this done."   Hazel went over the limp girl in the chair.   "Let's get her out of these clothes and into the pot.   Did you check the temp?   I don't want her to get scalded."

"Yes, it's fine," said Hettie as she swirled her hand in the pot for a quick check.  The trio undressed the girl and carried her to the pot.

"Careful, don't hit her head," said Bertha.   "She's sleeping like a baby.  Let's try not to wake her up.  That would be such a mess."

The trio hoisted her into the pot holding her head so it wouldn't sink into the potion.   Hettie grabbed the ladle and started scooping it over her shoulders.  After about ten minutes, they pulled her out, dried her off, and redressed her.

"That's should complete the potion." said Hazel.

"Look it's turning bright purple," said Hettie excitidly.  "That's means it worked.   Good job on selecting the girl."  She patted Bertha on the shoulder.  They all breathed a sigh of relief.
 

"I'll have her home in no time," said Bertha,  After uncorking a small purple bottle labled "Forget potion," she put a couple of drops of the contents into the girl's mouth.   "That should do it."

Bertha heaved her over her should.  "I'll be back in a little while," she said closing the door behind her.  "Don't drink without me."

More to come...

Next week, you should see Part 2 of my short story, The Witch Tale.   It is such a tale of strangeness.   I re-read the second part and thought "Did I just write that?"

Also, I am planning on posting chapters of my young adult novel starting the first week of December.    I figure if I get a date on the schedule, I will make it happen.  

The Witch Tale -- Part 1

I've had no success getting back to my book... It's lying there waiting for me...

Since I can't get back to it, I have decided that I just need to keep writing. So, I'm working on a short story. And guess what! Here's part one. Be prepared; it gets pretty wild!

The Witch Tale -- Part 1
"You bastard!" Hannah yelled at her cousin Mike. Although she was only thirteen, her vocabulary was well-rounded for a girl her age. She had learned a lot of similar words from the numerous arguments between her mother and step-father, both respected people in town but had a rough marriage.

"Don't call me that! You sawed-off bitch!" Mike, now sixteen, knew just as many words himself, learning them from the same source as Hannah. Mike had come to live with the Anderson's when he was nine. His mom and Marge Anderson were half-sisters. Hannah was six at the time being raised as an only child gave her an edge of being the center of attention. They lived in the new average middle class home with the typical middle class family.

"Just 'cause you're older, doesn't mean you get to boss me around!" Hannah returned in this fiery argument that had begun three days before.

"I'm not bossing you around! You're just mad 'cause I don't believe you."

"And why would I lie?"

"You've been known for a few strange stories in your life but this one is too much."

"Alright mister smarty-pants! So how did those kids disappear?"

"How the hell should I know! Maybe they all moved at once."

"I'm telling you right now. Those witches came out of the sky and picked 'em off one by one..."

"Witches my ass! There are no such things."

Three days before, on a late October evening, a gang of local hoodlums had mysteriously disappeared from the sidewalks of a near-by neighborhood. The newspaper headline read "Twelve local teens missing all in same evening. Police baffled but suspect another gang." The article spelled out how last Saturday night, a gang of both boys and girls had been harassing the locals and causing damages to private and public property. Most had already been in trouble with the law.The group was last seen along Windsor Drive running over to Middlebury Street. By the time police had arrived in the area, the teens had disappeared. It wasn't until the next day that parents began to call stating that their teenager had not come home. Finally, the list stopped with twelve disappearances.

Mike and Hannah continued to walk and argue.

"I'm tellin' you there are witches. Joellen and I saw them that night. Flyin' around. Lookin' like three black clouds."

"You mean Joellen from over on Wesley Street. She's nothing but lyin' whore."

"She is not!"

"Is too! She got caught with Billy Stevens in the back seat of his dad's car. She was down between his legs..."

"That's not true. She said he had something stuck on his pant leg and she was lookin' at it."

"Ha! She was more than lookin'. And how about just a few weeks ago when she was doin' the same thing to Paul Dempsey's mom... You know she's a big ass dyke!" Mike grinned and shook his head. Joellen Finney was known as the neighborhood slut.

"Just shut the fuck up! I don't care what Joellen does. She can do whatever she likes. I'm more concerned with those witches. We're both worried they saw us."

Mike stopped in front of their house and turned to face Hannah.

"So let me get this straight. You and dykey Joellen..." Hannah rolled her eyes making a sour face. "...Saw three witches flyin' on their broomsticks in the sky come swoopin' down and grab up all twelve and fly off into the wild blue yonder..."

"Not all of them at once... Just one by one... They seemed to pick out the one laggin' behind... quietly fly down... grab 'em even before they even had a chance to scream. These are smart witches."

Mike rolled his eyes before walking up the sidewalk. Hannah lagged behind him tired of his disbelief.

In her bedroom, Hannah searched her book bag for her cellphone before plopped her back pack on the floor. She sat down on her bed and called Joellen.

"Hey girl, what's going on?" Joellen answered.

"OMG! I just had a huge argument with that jerk of a brother of mine..."

"Is he even your brother? Isn't he like your cousin?"

"It doesn't matter. I tried to tell about the witches. He didn't believe me." Hannah rolled her eyes. "Why is he such a jerk!"

"Well, he is a homo. You know how prissy they can be at times."

"He is not!"

"Oh yeah! Why don't you ask him about Seth Tourner? They were seen kissin' behind the high school."

"They were not! They're just good friends." Hannah knew better. She remembered the night a couple of weeks ago when Seth came over while their parents were at a meeting. They were supposedly keeping an eye on her and studying for a big biology test. She had taken a break from watching television upstairs. She heard them in the kitchen talking about some movie star. Saying how hot he was... How hot he was making them... By the time she tiptoed to the kitchen, they were lip locking. Even though she argued with him, she loved Mike and approved of Seth.

"Whatever you want to believe..." added Joellen.

Hannah moved on. "I don't have time for this conversation. I am more concerned about those damned witches. Do you think they saw us?"

"Hell, no. They were too busy pickin' off the gang. And I say good riddance to them. They caused more trouble."

"But twelve all in the same evenin'! What would they need all of them for?"

"Probably some big spell?"

"Well, I am still concerned they saw us. What'll we do if come back for us?"

"How the hell should I know? Google it and see what you get."

"Fine, but I am tellin' you. Those witches are gonna come back and get us! And if they do, I wanna be prepared."
Three days later, the newspaper headline read "Local girl missing. Police suspect same gang."

Back from vacation!

I just returned from a week at Walt Disney World in Florida where I stayed at the Polynesian Resort. Loved it! It was exciting and invigorating. Not only did I get some much needed rest, I also edited part of my book.

Yes, I took it with me and re-read and added and deleted a hard copy. How many writers actually edit a paper copy of their book? Oh well, I did.


I also worked on the chapter where Vincent and his side-kick, Quentin, are lurking in The House of Lords and they are about to... Well, wouldn't you like to know!

Anyway, I have lots of edits that I have to work on. So many edits... Why did I edit so much?

Welcome!

Once again, I am trying my hand at blogging. The last one that I tried did not work out that well. This time, however, I am trying something new.

I am writing a book. I call it “The Fingerprint of Jack.” I can’t believe that I am writing a book, but it seems to have flowed along nicely… well except for the last few months while my attention has been elsewhere (like housework, laundry, keeping tabs on my father’s health, getting rid of stuff that just seems to collect dust, keeping my crushes on totally unobtainables at bay…), but enough about all of that.



Back to my book… What can I tell you about it? Sam is my main character. He’s 11 year old, bright, curious, and a little bit of a loner. He has a couple of good friends, but none as close as Mrs. Lottie Steers, the apartment’s landlady, who at first he thinks is crazy… Or is she?

Enough for now. Stay tune for another exciting post.