Wednesday, December 31, 2014

"Curious Folding" Willem Partridge Recounts...

"It may be appropriate to recount my business in Menlo first: I am contracted by the State of New Jersey as an assessor of telegraph lines, especially as they service government agencies and the general commerce.  There are trunks that were used with much more frequency when Edison was still at his laboratory, and, with their disuse, I was sent to calculate lines in service.  As you must have found yourself, the area has fallen far from when I first was contracted seven years ago.  I can assure, my lady, it was not in this sorrowful condition not so long ago."

The use of the anachronism, being addressed as a lady, proved to Ida that Patridge's stern demeanor was, in fact, his true one.  He must see the world in perfect contrasts of one or another.  He spoke with no movement of his neck or shoulders.  His collar was perfectly straight and the long lines in his jowls as they rose horizontally upon his face all led to those impervious brown eyes.  Although still in much pain, she was able to find the appropriate attentiveness to sit through Patridge's comprehensive detailing.

"As much as I expected, vagabonds and squatters took over the buildings, I didn't, or I daresay, wouldn't, have believed the bounds of civility are wholly lost in the poor.  They did little to maintain the necessary commitment for the structures, and, almost assuredly, felt instead compelled to make upon them a worser condition than before.  Forgive me if I see it in such a stark light, but, like the wires I maintain, such a modicum of work can do wonders to maintain the basic necessities of life.

"Here I am, astride my black tawny, riding through the Parks and their overgrowth of dried vines and refused wood, I see the tracks of several canines (may they be wild dog or wolves, I cannot tell unless offered by a tracking expert).  I follow them through the pockets of fields and note that they are striving further to the Park.  It was, upon spotting the buildings, and upon the porch of the Main,  I spotted your small frame.  I only first saw the black cloth of your dress and I took it for drapery.  But I saw then a wolf come closer and you swung to life.  I was taken aback that there was still life in you.  The air was frigid that day, and you lay upon the bare ground, without appropriate attire and surrounded by wolves.   There was cautious movement upon their part, and then I saw the swing of a large stick in your hands.  This was the only thing keeping them from you, but these wolves were patient and looked upon you as they would a toy.  It was chilling how little care beasts have for their victims.  As I pondered how to help, the wolf opposite the other, there being five in all, rushed in and took an excruciating bite from your side.  I leapt into action from there.

"You let out no scream, but sunk inwards, passing out.  The wolves then cautiously led themselves to you.  I found the easiest mark and show within a few paces, I dismounted my horse and had her walk alongside me, luckily she obeyed.

"I walked as close as I could and fired into the wolf that offered its side to me.  I didn't want to kill, but put the fear of the Almighty into them.  It worked.  The wolf jumped backwards, if by some curious preternatural force, which frightened the other animals.  I only had the single shot so I reverted to my club and awaited them.  They looked around harried, but the confusion blinded them to me, so I moved position and was allowed the reloading of the rifle.  I was quite lucky then, the shot wolf yelped and mewed to the attention of its brethren.  It would die from its wounds.  The others lost some confidence and turned away from you.  Before they could even spot me, I fired again and hit another wolf in the bottom.   This was the one that took a bite from you. This sent all of them to run forward and away from the main building.

"However, 'your' beast was from Hades itself.  It did not run but limped around as if it knew exactly where I was.  It growled fiercely, your blood along its maw like a wicked make-up.  He quickly crossed the distance between us before my horse or I could react.  It half-charged, with only little locomotion left, and I had to strike with the club.  I beat it to submission and ensured his demise.

"I took you back inside, but found you had little warmth and even less food.  Luckily, I carry a repast, and gave you want little you would take.  Keeping you awake was much more difficult.  Then," he moved in close, to a whisper, 'and sorry if this sounds harsh, but you had no food in the lab nor toiletries.  I thought that you were a vagrant, until I saw that you were working on an experiment non-paraleil.  As you see from my experience, I took fast interest to your designs and this put urgency to find you help before you died.

"You were close to expiring my lady, on several occasions.  The sisters here are well-experienced in keep you alive."

Ida felt the sores, but didn't know that it was a wolf that attempted to feast upon her.  She shuddered and felt suddenly ill.  She thought the words of gratitude but all she could do was stare at Patridge, her eyes glassy and faint.  She then passed out.

Saturday, December 27, 2014

"Ariel: The Restored Edition" Sylvia Plath, HarperCollins, 2004, Foreword by Frieda Hughes...

"I appeared to me that my father's editing of Ariel was seen to 'interfere' with the sanctity of my mother's suicide, as if, like some deity, everything associated with her must be enshrined and preserved as miraculous....But my mother, inasmuch as she was an exceptional poet, was also a human being and I found comfort in restoring the balance; it made sense of her for me."  - Frieda Hughes (xviii)

Ariel contains 40 poems in its first section, a facsimile of the manuscript in the second, drafts of Ariel next and appendices with a restored version of "The Swarm" and the script for the BBC broadcast of 1962 (where you will find her introducing in a few clips circulating on youtube).

Here are some favored lines:
Morning Song - "And now you try your handful of notes; The clear vowels rise like balloons."
The Rabbit Catcher - "I felt a still busyness, an intent.  I felt hands round a tea mug, dull, blunt, Ringing the white china."
The Detective - "We walk on air, Watson.  There is only the moon, embalmed in phosphorous.  There is only a crow in a tree.  Make notes."
Daddy - "I made a model of you, A man in black with a Meinkampf look, And a love of the rack and the screw."
Stopped Dead - "Is it a penny, a pearl - Your soul, your soul?  I'll carry it off like a rich pretty girl..."

"Ariel: The Restored Edition"



"Kiss me and you will see how important I am." - Sylvia Plath

Tuesday, December 23, 2014

"The Journals of Sylvia Plath" Foreward by Ted Hughes, 1982, Anchor Books

"A real self, as we know, is a rare thing....Most of us are never more than bundles of contradictory and complementary selves....When a real self finds language, and manages to speak, it is surely a dazzling event - as Ariel was."  - Ted Hughes

I held this in my hand at the bookstore.  It was my birthday and I buy a requisite tome each year, something I typically hold off on otherwise.  Even up to the queue I struggled with it.  It is a journal surely, but it is raw and unflinching.  I find myself needlessly embarrassed.  Plath and Hughes have passed on ages ago at this point.  With Hughes the most recent, in 1998.

Knowing of Plath's suicide and having seen the photograph as a clumsy, sad death in an oven.  Two children left behind.  A seemingly ignoble end.  However, Mr. Hughes exalts it with a terse, honest forward.   Plath had, in most respects, as he attests, allowed her true self out, which would become Ariel.  The outcome, in her death, can be either obvious or an awfully painful exercise of the human condition.  The journal is proof of an internal life, lived and relived.

So inspired by her energy, the crisp, knowing lines, I read a few excerpts before deciding on must having it.  I wanted to immediately fly to a corner of a library and spend the day poring over it.  Having read through most of it over the last few weeks, it is an easy book to recommend for anyone that is a fan of Plath, or of poetry, or of pain.

It is broken up into corresponding points of her adult life, although it does start with her life at Lookout Farm as an 18-year-old.  The naivete of this time is broken by the orchestration of an old pervert.  She captures each moment lucidly, acknowledging the people and critical points that led her down that unfortunate road.

The years generally fall from her maroon colored journals as: Smith College, 1950-55, Cambridge, 1955-57, Smith, 1957-58, Boston, 1958-59, and England, 1960-62.  Hughes leaves out the last weeks leading to her death, piquing interest of words spoken and words that he had to shield from the children.  There's heartbreak there and he admits that forgetfulness here is necessary.

Sylvia was born in 1932, attempted suicide in 1953, married Hughes in 1956, succeeded in her second attempt in 1963, while in England and her masterwork, Ariel, was published in 1965.  This title was released in 1982 and printed in paperback in '98.

There are pictures of the glowing young thing.  How I would have loved sitting with her for a few moments, with that electric smile.  She wore her hair short, she seemed a focused spirit in her writing, I bet she wore overly long sweater jackets.  I bet she smelled of light florals and light cigarettes.  She has slight cramps in her hand, as poets do, writing and rewriting, tapping typewriters and scribbling masturbatorily on long sheets.  Literary lights as she were uncommon.  I find myself staring at photographs of a facade, an unhonest image.  The words define, and there's exploration here in these pages.



Monday, December 22, 2014

Victoire Se le Monde

The drithers colmed, what weer there naught in bawdy draughts the tempest deigned
In mee mind and in thee deepy coifs of foggy brine
Breathe on me, on my cutted cheek, like an exposed whuttle to the sea collecting and sharpening this face
You'll no love for me is believed

Not to all eve's proven in a trial of a travail or in try as i shall may
As sun light its past to or passed in shadowed disarray, no longer day
Whereio, whereito, but a center i surely be the clouds liftily fluffer on a silkscreen down
Let me crack your conventions of love

They are thin and wanting, barely e'en hungry
Mine are a ferocity, globbuling want and tearing the thick fabric of the day asunder
Allow it and fear, for it is truth and truth will rake you in ecstasy In the riches of flame
You in turn return changed

Your eyes open, your body wrecked in exhaustion, seeing the abalone edges in the charged air
Dark tendrils of sweat soaked black cooling on your temple
Thought has entered you Its triumphal clenched declarative 
It resonates infinitely tho wait for the chord to stop yet it bows and quivers still

Satiation is shared in thunderclaps and saliva
We can take but little more...but hold each other in a tangle of completed orchestrations
Hide in one another for thee storm's fierce and it seeks what evaporated seconds ago
Unfettered breath signals victory.

Thursday, December 18, 2014

...topaz...

Wondrous humble as I briefly held your hand in mine
The eyes oft dreamt in mine for the briefest breaths
But held now infinite in the frame of this proclaimed time
The pulse regains strength and fight the urge to weep
As I head south on the 101

It rained, I only remember it now, as you were the centerpiece
In the stain glass of my mind, the foci topaz
The color of light, the bright of your smirk
The dimples, the hair
The moment always
Your smile radiates along the frame entire

Soft sullen laconic brass welled in my heart and eyes
The softs of your gentle hand
A song on the periphery of my consciousness
Mellowed by fine tequila
And here in the confines of sheets
I long to think of you
The rain tumbling down in joy.

Tuesday, December 16, 2014

An Edwardian Jackal's Deceptively Bagatelle Dinner

The menu being that of a Ballast Point Bloody Mary and Wine Pickled Eggs...

Being branded a perfectionist today (what a word!), I was emboldened to take upon a nightly excursion, post-employ, to purchase the necessary constituents of a Bloody Mary.  A young naiad had recently went to some effort (so great in my mind then) for a mix from the what was once called the 'Golden City'.  It's name is Ballast Point* and it is fine as any freshly made concoction.  To compare it to other bottled Bloody mixes is a slap to its saucy face (this face being that of the aquiline).  The term 'mix' seems incomplete.

The emporium I hardly frequented had little of the ingredients, although it did have Sapphire Gin.  A few green onions (in lieu of celery), lemons, sea salt and the house hot sauce** were brought together in anticipation.  [As this was my repast for the evening, and it was well past 9pm, I also deigned a quick meal of soft boiled eggs in red wine vinegar and sea salt.  I have not alluded that this was to be healthy.]

A capital feast if there was any.  The eggs mellowed the overt spiciness of the concoction.

To whit - two parts of gin to the three of the Ballast was a perfect ratio - I din't taste the alcohol.  Mix the parts in a separate glass with ice, long enough to cool, but not too long to dilute.  Slowly pour to a new glass with fresh ice.  Garnish with green, lemon, hot sauce, a dash of salt, a dash of pepper.

It was the fortunate notes of tomato, pepper and spice coming together in a foundry of heat and flavor.  I drank to the naiad's health and well-being, may she be well loved and cared for all of her days.

*http://www.ballastpoint.com/spirit/bloody-mary/
**http://store.davesgourmet.com/ProductDetails.asp?ProductCode=DAIN

The Offices of Letters and Light


I received a parcel most intriguing today in the afternoon post.  It had quite an enigmatic puff to its belly.  It was addressed to me.  Curious!  Upon opening I found a treasure trove of magical materials.  A bookmark signed by Chris Angotti and Grant Faulkner of NaNoWriMo.  Apparently they have a department that handles all sorts of wizardry and majick.  I have a bracelet to prove myself to others as a 'wizard' of some high esteem.  The aforesaid bookmark.  And a triumvirate of stickers: inspiration, plot bunny and troubling characters.  They shall guide me as I someday return to Freeway for a second draft.  First is the first: third draft of Filipino Cookbook.


A Most Curious Case of Folding 1.6 [Part After the Doctor's Illness]

The Doctor Scientist awoke in an infirmary.  The lining of her throat felt torn as if it were tatters, a ripped sheet, tender and raw. Her mouth ached with sores.  Breath burned it fiercely, the cold lil a sharp nailed claw. She could not speak.

Her arms were useless, her shoulders bruised.  Beneath the strings of bandages she could see  the skin was black, like a wild duck underneath its down.  Her head buzzed and she suffered through a term of never ending headache.  She could not sleep, instead longing for the warmth of unconsciousness than this state.  The pain was tremendous and only frequent administration of salicylic acid eased it.

Not being able to speak, her nurses, all nuns, could offer little in the way of exposition.  It was only after the second day did one of the more desultory nurses let slip that she was at the Saint Barnabas hospital in Livingston.  She was well North of Menlo.  Far enough away to have no affectation on the goings on there.

Ida managed to write instruction, but her hands lost their impotence after little more than a few words.  The nuns learned her name and did what they could to lead her to health.  "Dearie, it's God's Providence that you are even here, so let there be less talk (and littler worry) over your affairs at Menlo.  The young man that brought you here, Partridge, had to fight off wolves to get to your cold body.  You were on the verge of death, if you had not died already.  God sought to bring you back from the Nether.  Are you not humbled?"

The question was loaded to her.  She was humbled.  Perhaps there is a God, but I seek to find out in my work of the spaces in between.  She asked for a new roll of pencils and wrote up plans.  After the fourth day, the headache finally broke and she was eating her first solid food.  They gave her a aspic of chicken with cranberries.  It was meant to kill any infection.  It was delicious and proved its potency for vigor.

Ida was harangued for attempting to stand.  During one such episode a striking figure came to the aid of the nuns.  The Scientist felt instantly ashamed for her behavior and was the freshest moment that her wont could be considered insane.  Her cheeks flushed.

The man stared at her quizzically.  His eyes were sharp and black.  His face was long and oval, almost perfectly so.  He had a shock of thinning black.  He showed signs of his age around his mouth.  Partridge.  Willem Partridge.  The nun introduced him but was ashamed herself for the display that Ida put them both into.  It was uncalled for.

Partridge hardly blinked and felt the need to detail each moment of her saving...

Sunday, December 14, 2014

...Literary Gifts for Christmas, 2014...

My shopping done, my mind at ease (at least here), I offer these to your family and friends that uphold the literary and fantastical.  Play a mix of R&B Christmas and stroll on down.


Have (and use) the full format version, mention this one because it is effective and it comes in a pocket sized edition for the holidays.  So cute.

Wear your heart of darkness on your neck, not as a noose but as a lovely scarf.  This one is of "The Cask of Amontillado".  I spent a healthy part of high school memorizing the opening lines.

These days playing chess by yourself is a normal part of a nerd's life.

Absinthe and sandalwood tones embue this candle.  Write whilst smelling Edgar's smoking jacket I suppose.

Demeter Fragrances:
Dramatic fragrances for a night of reading or writing.  I put a few drops behind my ears before sitting down with Sylvia Plath.  

Hope Necklace in Silver - Emily Dickinson 
"Hope is the thing with Feathers that perches in the Soul, and sings the tunes without the words, and never stops at all."  Oh Emily, you've enlivened my demeanor.
These charms are getting increasingly more ornate and specific.  Saw another today that is for those fond of zombies.


A very comprehensive bit of jewelry, with the opening paragraphs of one of my top five romantic novels.


I can't think of a better gift for the true purveyor of the written word.  It is 216 pages long and allows you over a hundred pages to log the books you've read, a section on books you'd like to read, where you buy your books, ones you've borrowed, ones you've lent.  OMG OCD.

Gardenia, Tuberose and Jasmine.  As but I could rest on her bosom and smell these notes.

Those Barnes & Noble "Little Gifts"
You've seen these for years: small palm-sized boxes that house a bit of fun in all forms.

Classic book covers and author photographs will call out as we play a game together.

...

...from the club...and a few blue drinks...




A longing for control that no man could possibly claim
Hard press you to me
Eager hands and discerning mouth
a mind that will not falter
til a thousand pleasures sought along your body.


Saturday, December 13, 2014

Word Counts of Short Format Novels

When winding down on "Freeway 1979", I came to a conundrum that intrigued me, 'Fifty thousand words does not a novel make'.  Freeway is an action novel and the tenor of it is crisp and sharp.  I abhor extraneous back story for some of the characters, instead opting that their terse words and actions speak to their past.  The last mile, about four thousand words, had me sloughing through that very exercise.  I felt like I was writing a college assignment that I cared little for.


First Edition Cover
Out of the 50k+ words for Freeway, I think the perfect word count would come down to 32k and no more than 35k.  After that, it will certainly plod.  In response, I thought over many shorter form novels I've read and wondered at their word count.  My admiration for them is that they put forward a bold story and in a format that frames its immediacy.

In the process of this discovery, I found this site: http://www.hemingwayapp.com/.  It's promise is that it will analyze your story and find ways to whittle down what it considers too much.

Novels that came immediately to mind were:

Old Man and the Sea - Earnest Hemingway 6,162
The Great Gatsby - F. Scott Fitzgerald 47,094
The Red Badge of Courage - Stephen Crane 47,180
The Snows of Kilimanjaro - Earnest Hemingway 9,162

Of them, Gatsby is just a powerhouse.  All of them are memorable.  Others came up like, 
Old Yeller - Fred Gipson 35,968 and Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe - C.S. Lewis 36,363.  Taunt prose and an efficiency of words.

First Edition Cover
All told, I have 18k words of inefficiency.  Nothing beyond what should be considered notes.  It'll be integral on the second pass, I'm sure, but it was painful.

For grins, I checked in on my favorite novel of all time to see its word count: Adventures of Huckleberry Finn - Mark Twain 110,668.

Sometimes it takes as many words as you need to tell that story.

Sunday, November 30, 2014

poem: ...tempestuous night...from 30nov14...


...the night will always win...Elbow...

The night has a thousand eyes,
And the day but one;
Yet the light of the bright world dies
With the dying of the sun.

The mind has a thousand eyes,
And the heart but one;
Yet the light of a whole life dies
When love is done.
- Francis William Bourdillon



'Abraham Lincoln Walks at Midnight' - Vachel Lindsay
It is portentous, and a thing of state That here at midnight, in our little town 
A mourning figure walks, and will not rest,   
Near the old court-house pacing up and down, Or by his homestead, or in shadowed yards
He lingers where his children used to play,   Or through the market, on the well-worn 
stones   He stalks until the dawn-stars burn away. A bronzed, lank man! His suit of 
ancient black, A famous high top-hat and plain worn shawl
Make him the quaint great figure that men love, The prairie-lawyer, master of us all. 
He cannot sleep upon his hillside now. He is among us: as in times before!   And we who
toss and lie awake for long, Breathe deep, and start, to see him pass the door. His head is 
bowed. He thinks of men and kings.   Yea, when the sick world cries, how can he sleep?
Too many peasants fight, they know not why;   Too many homesteads in black terror weep.
The sins of all the war-lords burn his heart.   He sees the dreadnaughts scouring every main.
He carries on his shawl-wrapped shoulders now   The bitterness, the folly and the pain.
He cannot rest until a spirit-dawn Shall come; the shining hope of Europe free:   A league of 
sober folk, the Workers’ Earth,   Bringing long peace to Cornland, Alp and Sea.      
It breaks his heart that things must murder still,   That all his hours of travail here for men 
Seem yet in vain. And who will bring white peace   That he may sleep upon his hill again?

Saturday, November 29, 2014

25,000!

To put an optimistic spin on things, this month started out rough and remained that way through half of it.  Despite the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to, I have been able to push out of my aching fingers 25,000 words right before midnight.  The math not being too difficult, that means I have to push out another 25k in two days!  No, it's not going to happen unless I can sit in front of the computer with my eyes pulled open like young Alex from A Clockwork Orange and type like a monkey on cocaine...like that movie about the monkeys on cocaine.

Being a bit thoughtful about it, I will definitely strive to hit another 7k by Sunday night.  This novel is not meant to be 50k to begin with.  It may eventually reach 40k at the very end.  But it's meant as a potboiler, more in the style of dime drug store novellas of the 1940s.  On average, I understand they would reach 40k.  It's a ham-fisted fast affair and not derived on exposition but action (like the titular Jackson).

Thursday, November 27, 2014

NaNoWriMo "Freeway 1979"

Here's an excerpt from the novel I'm using as part of NaNoWriMo by 11/30, "Freeway 1979".  It was a script several years ago that was far from being fully fleshed out, so this has been a lesson in how to turn a script into narrative form.

The story follows an illegal street race on Highway 5 in California, extending from south LA to Tijuana Mexico.  Fourteen hopefuls vie for an opportunity in a time where gas and jobs are hard to come by.  Trevor Bogues puts his vagrant father's '69 GTO up in the race along with his friend Carey as his navigator.  It's a deadly race but with a substantial kitty for the winner.  It'll be the step for Trevor to turn his world of crap around, if he can out race and out think the competitors and the underworld organization that finds the race and the lives of its hopefuls mere toys.

...
                Carey keyed the radio again, “How do you copy for that Duster?”  Vincent was staying out of it, he must be loving watching the drivers squirm.  Carey was getting pissed at the crew.  He hated the boss and all of his minions for that reason: they’re waiting for them to fuck up for their own enjoyment.  “Haze, any idea on the pig chatter?  Anything we need to worry about?”  Make them do some fucking work.  He looked over at Trevor, “For all we know this could be some big fucking dragnet for their own pleasure.”  He shouldn’t have said it now, but he was lit like a torch.
                “You’re saying that now?”
                Carey put his finger up to answer so what.  He lit a cig and lit one for Trevor too, “One thing I kept in mind, and you can too, we can leave anytime.  This is a big freeway, we only need to pull off and go home.  Any sign of them dicking us in the ass, and trust me, I’ll call it before you.”  He handed over the cigarette and leaned back in his seat, "I know these guys too well."
                Trevor felt more confidence at this. They were in this together, that’s for sure.
                Pete came up on the radio [from the Duster], “We’re taking the Euros advice.”
                “Copy that,” Carey put the radio down.  “That’s good, we can’t have their stink on the rest of us.  It’s been smooth sailing so far.  Better for them to figure it out so we can continue."
                “I worry about [Cindy].”  Trevor squirmed in his seat, “She’s too reckless.”
                “That’s what makes the boys like her.”
                “Yeah, too many boys.  Too many toys.  Too many times she plays with fire.”


                “She’s a big girl.”
                “The bigger they are…”
                Trevor pushed the GTO forward once he was able to come around to civilians that were running neck and neck, well below the 55 mph speed limit.  Why be on the freeway if you can't go the bare minimum speed?
                "Stand-by for it, Trev.  That Camaro is up ahead there somewhere."
                But can I get the lead again?
...


Saturday, November 8, 2014

A Most Curious Case of Folding [Story Extract]

Where the Doctor Scientist Conquered the Electrical Park at Menlo

1889.

Doctor Ida Bartholomew was forced to complete a fair amount of work to the structures around Menlo Park in the weeks prior to experiment No. 11.  Edison had abandoned the Park a year prior, but structures had already fallen into disrepair years before.  Squatters had overrun a few of the buildings.  She did not need the sheds or the main residence, she did insist on the main laboratory.  It was here that power still existed in a capacity to continue her experimentation.  To insure its security for the following weeks, she had purchased a questionably functioning shotgun so that a group of vagrants saw the need to vacant the premises and not return.

"This building is still the property of Edison and the National Government, so if you return, you will be duly persecuted [she realized the mistake later] and sent to Federal Prison!"

The Doctor felt no guilt for the escapade, only hating that she was forced to deal with the dregs of society.  This was not Allston/Brighton, the laboratory not Boston University.  She carried the shotgun on a sling when dusk came.

During the day, she worked feverishly, awaking at dawn after only a few hours of sleep.  She was building two transformers according to her colleague, Nikola's [Tesla] specifications.  The coil required was perfectly manufactured by a steel producer in Pittsburgh.  It was the coil threading that took the bulk of her energies.  She wanted the coil structure to maintain the appropriate tensile strength.  The electrical power that would flow through these would easily greater than any experiments that were performed here.

At night, she locked every door and window and shut herself into a room that allowed her protection.  She sat against the far wall from the door, shotgun in hand.  She awoke in the morning, having fallen over sometime over the night.  The lack of adequate grooming had taken its toll: Ida would have appeared to any person to be one of the very vagrants she expelled from the lab three weeks prior.  Her eyes twitched uncontrollably and she felt that spirits inhabited the structure.  They whispered at her while she focused on her work.

Then, without pomp or circumstance: completion.  Ida finished the last of the copper finery that induced energy according to the calculation she had made before.  The copper filament, the large iron coils, the ceramic capacitors that topped the towering structure: all were in place.  She walked around it with an introspection few of her gender possessed [at this time].

She walked about the building, closing up the windows and latching the doors.  She blew each candle out and fell against the caster-wheeled chair.

She swung the shotgun to the back of the chair and put her hands to her eyes.  They smelled of metal and scoring.  Her eyes burned from exhaustion, her body sore from hours and days slumped over the structure.  She took in a breath.  It felt as if she were born anew.

Moonlight fell through the slats of blinds.  She could hear a night bird singing, but from far away.  There was a world out there and five weeks had gone by without her in it.  She didn't remember the last time she ate.  Hunger fell upon her like a ravenous, black cloud.  But exhaustion ran the better of her and she fell into a deep sleep.
...
She dreams of Paris.  Nikola was there, as was Edison.  They were pulling conduit through the streets.  The black clouds roiled over the sky, promising a catastrophic lightening storm.  She reveled in it, but it did not come.  She wandered the dark streets.  Shadows whispered to her.  An orchestra played under the cobblestone of the Rue Laurent.  She stood in the middle of the Rue hoping for the electricity to come.  It never did.  A locomotive screeched instead, pounding out of the ground, thundering toward her and she awoke.

It took time to realize that two days had passed.  The danger of malnutrition threatened her: she had no energy and her body was convulsing from within.
...


Sunday, November 2, 2014

Juntos Nosotros ~ Nov 2014

Pablo Neruda ~ Juntos Nosotros
Qué pura eres de sol o de noche caída,
qué triunfal desmedida tu órbita de blanco,
y tu pecho de pan, alto de clima,
tu corona de árboles negros, bienamada,
y tu nariz de animal solitario, de oveja salvaje
que huele a sombra y a precipitada fuga titánica.
Ahora, qué armas espléndidas mis manos,
digna su pala de hueso y su lirio de uñas,
y el puesto de mi rostro, y el arriendo de mi alma
están situados en lo justo de la fuerza terrestre.
How pure you are by sunlight or by fallen night,
how triumphal and boundless your orbit of white,
and your bosom of bread, high in climate,
your crown of black trees, beloved,
and your lone-animal nose, nose of a wild sheep
that smells of shadow and of precipitous,
tyrannical flight.

       



And there are things that we think we dream
And there is darkness from which we never wake
Why pretend and separate the two?
For to wake from its comfort is a pitiable mistake.

NaNoWriMo 2014: "Freeway 1979"


While I polish up the second draft of "A Filipino Cookbook", I'm pulling double duty and writing my second novel, Freeway 1979.  I'll be tracking it at the NaNoWriMo dashboard here: http://nanowrimo.org/participants/edwardianjackal/novels/freeway-1979/stats.

The story finds a young Trevor Bogues working his fingers to the bone for his family and scrapping by.  He learns of a yearly race to Mexico in an attempt of an underworld boss seeking new drivers for border crossings.  One day, a few hours, free gas and three hours to Mexico.  The winnings are a purge of $500 and everything to lose.

Saturday, October 25, 2014

...A Buffet of Short Horror...25OCT14...


Robert Louis Stevenson wrote horror.  I didn't know this until I was randomly looking up my favorite authors and relating them to horror.  Assuredly, I came across The Body Snatcher, first published in 1884, as part of a magazine extra.  The story follows a pair of questionable medical students that make sure they never run low on cadeavors for their employer.  It is based on the real-life case of the Burke and Hare murders.  Murder as a business came long before Izzy Azalea - this pair made sure that sixteen bodies made it to the nefarious Doctor Robert Knox.

No these are gone....GONE!!!  This is
the greatest horror story of modern times.
That had treacherous murder.  But raspberry
donuts.  Raspberry...donuts.
M.R. James wrote The Tractate Middoth and was published in 1911 in a second collection of ghost stories.  Middoth recounts the deathbed story of a dying man.  Some twenty years earlier the titular book is sought out by one John Eldred, but a ghost takes the book before it can be retrieved.  The ghost is a protector of sorts, as the pages hold within it the inheritance.  There is vengeance from beyond the grave for Eldred.  The story has been adapted several times on British television.

The Lottery by Shirley Jackson (1948), is one of the most famous horror stories of its time, with a theme very well known today.  Not to spoil the ending, but as the name suggests, a small town holds a yearly lottery.  From it, a name is chosen and the fun begins.  This theme has been copied several times since.  There was an episode of Sliders in fact that ran the lottery directly from an ATM.  There's also little known movies like The Hunger Games.

Washington Irving's The Legend of Sleepy Hollow is well known, in fact being one of the earliest pieces of American literature to have survived in popularity since it was first published in 1820.  Irving also wrote Rip Van Winkle.  When Disney started to adapt Legend they found the running time not long enough for a feature, so it was packaged along with Wind in the Willows during WWII.


Mark Twain's A Ghost Story comes to us from his 1875 Sketches New and Old.  As Twain is a man of sincere wit, especially as it comes to the pitiable type, he delivers in spades here.


Starburst Flavored Candy Corn
Like Stevenson, Charles Dickens' Three Ghost Stories is an epic writer, and the supernatural is a natural fit for his style.  Dickens and Poe can be considered on the same playing field in many respects.  In Three, the most popular of them is The Signal Man, but The Haunted House and The Trial for Murder are just as effective.  In Signal, a railway signal-man tells the story of sighting a ghost, each time preceding a disaster upon the tracks.  It calls back a disaster five years before Dickens wrote the story, the Clayton Tunnel Disaster in 1861.

The Phial of Dread by Fitz Hugh Ludlow.

For full site, please visit edwardianjackal.com

Zots - never had them.