The Little Princess (part 2)

On Myrddin Publishing’s blog this week, I posted part of a chapter from my forthcoming novel EPIC FANTASY *WITH DRAGONS which described how Princess Adora came to be born. Here is what happened nine years later. (You can read the preceding section here.)

 

As was the custom, lost in the eternal fog of ancient ritual, if the thing produced from the loins of woman had been a male, it would have been quickly removed from the chamber as though it had never been created. No mourning would occur and no announcement of the failure would be made. A female child was placed into the breast cradle and offered a nipple to suck and encouraged to dine with great passion from that first day forward and for as long as the motherly teats gave milk.

Adora, the little princess, noted the arrangement, standing quietly beside the nursing lounger, watching her mother lovingly press the new babe against her large breast.

“What words have you to say to your new sister?” asked Queen Dorothea nine years after birthing little Adora.

“I suppose I will say ‘Welcome to Sannan’ to her.” The pretty girl thought for a moment. “What shall I call her?”

The queen smiled, her chubby cheeks flushing as they often did when she was delighted.

“Let’s call her . . . Lumina. She is so bright. How is that?”

“Lu-mi-na. Yes! I like it!” exclaimed the girl.

“So it is done. The naming. A lovely name for a queen. Almost as great as Adora. Now let the realm know my second daughter is to be called Lumina—Princess Lumina.”

The chief maid exited the slumber chamber to pass the news to the court crier who would make the official announcement.

“What will happen to the other babe?” asked Adora.

The nursing maids chuckled. Such a beautiful, naïve child, they seemed to suggest. Once she returns to her tutors, she will learn more of the customs of Sannan.

“It’s none of your concern. Go and make play for yourself.”

Adora turned to the basket on the floor beside the great slumber seat. In the basket the babe gurgled, threatening to cry, its tiny feet wriggling above the basket’s rim. She wanted to step closer and get a better look, to see if this one was as cute as the babe resting on her mother’s chest sucking the nipple.

“Sometimes the goddesses bless us with extra measure,” the glad queen spoke in a soothing voice. “As always, we must dispense with males, the sons and brothers, fathers and uncles, lest they return our great realm to ancient depravity and ring loud the bellicose bell. You must remember the history of womankind.”

“I do,” said Adora. “I listen to my tutors always.”

“As you should.” The queen spoke to her maids a moment. When she returned her eyes to Adora, she said: “I hire only the best tutors for you, so you can trust what they tell you.”

Adora stared at the babe in the basket. The queen saw her abject attention and waved at one of the nursing maids.

“Remove the waste,” commanded the queen.

When the basket was taken out, Her Majesty turned as best she could, rolling on her side upon the slumber seat, and gazed at her elder daughter.

“When your time comes, little one, a suitable sire will be arranged for you. You need not trouble yourself until then. After the necessary coupling you need never have to see that beast again. Until then, you have plenty of lovely girls to play with. So go on now and play. Those twins Countess Nadal has . . . you always get on with them, don’t you? Delightful girls.”

Adora pouted.

“Do not show a sour face. The maids will think you have erred in some way. And we shall not call you Adora any longer, for you won’t be adorable any longer.”

“But, Mama, I want—”

“Adora!”

“I’m sorry, Mama.”

“Mama? You forget who you are, child!”

The girl bowed her head. “Yes, Your Majesty. Forgive me, Queen Dorothea. I’m only a child.”

“Very well, forgiven you are.”

After a moment, Adora raised her eyes to her mother.

“May I keep it for a pet?”

The queen stared at the child, then shifted her weight upon the great slumber seat, tucking the newborn daughter into the cleft of her elbow with a warm smile. The nursing maids gasped, fearing that the newborn would be crushed.

“A pet?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Already you fancy a pet? You’re not yet of the age for that.”

“I just want to play with it.”

“You must know such creatures will grow into adulthood, just as  you shall. It is not a good thing. Not much of a pet then. By such age it will be dangerous. They surely will be violent.”

“I only wish a pet for now,” said Adora, daring to raise her eyes to the queen. “If it please Your Majesty. I think caring for a pet will teach me many responsibilities.”

“Responsibilities!”

The queen chuckled. She rolled over onto her back once more to hand off the newborn babe to a nursing maid.

“Better you had a canine or feline for that kind of lesson, or even a small dragon would do as well. Not a male babe.”

“I beg you, Ma—Your Majesty!”

“Begging? That’s not very becoming of a princess.”

The queen thought for a moment, her chubby fingers stroking her daughter’s soft cheek.

“Very well, child. You shall have the male babe as a pet. Yet only until it reaches the size you are now. Then it must be set aside as the others are. Before it can do any harm.”

“What will become of the babe then?”

“Likely it will be sent to the workhouse for training. All the males we keep become either warriors or laborers, as you should know. The lesson needs teaching to you this week. Ask your tutor for the lesson about males. Only the tests will determine which path it goes. If a warrior, then we may need a few battles to be able to determine who of them is worthy of service for our younger women.” She raised her voice for the note taker’s benefit: “We owe a battle to Anjoz, don’t we? They dare encroach on our south shore once more.” Returning her attention to the princess, she continued: “Those warriors who are victorious will endure and serve. Those who do not pass become at best common laborers, at worst farm fodder.”

The girl gasped, as though expecting a pinch of pain.

“And laborers do not touch maidens.”

“Correct, child. Your tutors have taught you well. I shall add to their wages.”

“Will there be a battle soon?” asked Adora.

The queen chuckled. “Why soon?”

“I wish to know if it will stay or go before I devote my attention to caring for it.”

The queen patted the girl’s head. “You will make a fine queen some day, Princess Adora. You are always planning for the future and wanting it now. Such a delight!”

The queen gave the command and the basket was retrieved with some effort and returned to the slumber chamber.

Set on the floor at Adora’s feet, the male babe wriggled and cooed contentedly in the basket as though nothing awful had happened or was about to happen. That was as it should be, thought Adora as she gazed down upon her baby brother.

Authors beware: A new danger for KU authors

This is one more reason why I will never go Kindle Uunlimited. I’ve never had problems with the Big A, but I don’t want all my eggs in their basket. I use Draft 2 Digital to post to all other venues. That way, in one day of uploading in 2 simple steps, Amazon and D2D, I am able to make sure my work is available in all formats. If a person wanted they could even post to Amazon through D2D, but I prefer to keep that separate as most of my sales are through Amazon.

K.J's Athenaeum

Hi all,

Anyone who follows me closely will know my book was removed from Amazon for almost a fortnight after they registered some unusual activity. At first I was at a loss. What was it, where had it come from? But since I have learnt a terrifying truth behind Kindle Unlimited, it is one all authors need to be aware of. It is a KU scam that could ruin your career and put your money into fraudsters’ pockets.

In this post I will detail my own experience, in hope you know what to look out for.

I was running a book promotion, a push to generate interest in my first book. After approaching blogs and book promotion sites I began to run a 99cents promotion on Darrienia, which at that time was number one in two of its categories. Book two is coming out at the end of the year…

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#flashfictionfriday: Short Poetry: I Have Seen the Stars

Reblogged from Life in the Realm of Fantasy

Life in the Realm of Fantasy

Admiring the Galaxy |CCA 4.0 ESO/A. Fitzsimmons

---

I have seen the stars hung bright

Across the inky dark of night

Such beauty there displayed for me

I scarce can know their mystery.

Heaven’s vault with diamonds flung

Summer’s sky with beauty hung

Bursting forth, the joy in me

Humbled by the majesty.

---

I have Seen the Stars © Connie J. Jasperson 2016

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A Piece Of Homage And A Beer

Peter Wells, AKA countingducks delivers a great character sketch in this short piece. Humorous, scarily accurate, and always worth reading, countingducks is one of my favorite blogs.

countingducks

“Was he the last man alive,” I asked myself. He who’d walked another life than mine; climbed mountains I would never see but whose eyes lit up with understanding when I talked . You do not have to be young to be lost, and living on the edge of approval, sited somewhere near exile, was a fate we had in common. I was twenty four and he “just over eighty” as he’d said for several years.

He was difficult by all accounts, and refusing to be wrapped in his obituary: we shared a common horror of the commonplace as seen from Chaos Road. His morals were doubtful, his career had been patchy, but he was exuberant and a celebrator of the smallest episode.

He was there by force of circumstances and I, because I lacked vocation, but our bond was to “Grab the moment and let the morrow damn you if…

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The Latest Trend in Alternate Realities

An Epic Fantasy *With Dragons…

Somehow I got roped into joining the fine establishment known as the Edgewise Words Inn. It probably had something to do with what I drank that night. Then I saw my blog post about Thanksgiving was plastered all over social media. That did it for me: enough was enough.

Now I’m supposedly a regular contributor. Semi-regular, in my thinking. Possibly even a demi-semi-regular, who knows? For my first contribution, I thought I would share the opening scene of my brand-new work-in-progress. Granted, the sharing of new and untested material is always a risk, but I’m just bold enough to throw it out there for your entertainment!

If you wish to know how I got hooked into writing this new novel, you can click over to my regular blog.

I call this new novel EPIC FANTASY *With Dragons …because, well, that’s what it is!

1

The Beasts Above

The dragons were a given, as ubiquitous as rainbows after rainstorms. These aerial beasts, however, had developed such a vile temperament in their endless quest for dinner that Corlan had no choice but to rip the lead winger out of the formation.

It wasn’t that he enjoyed culling the herd; it was his job. And he didn’t much care how he came to be employed in such a capacity. He would say “Politics, mere social squabbling was all it was, not what people assume!” to anyone who asked. One day he was the son of the king, the next an outcast making his way across the battlefields of the Americus offering his tactical services where he could. Then, retiring from conflict, he took up the massive dragonslinger weapon, as long as he was tall, and hired himself out. Fear gripped the lands in those days so it was lucrative, more than mercenary work. The best payer so far was his current employer, the foolish young prince of Nerk who seemed to fear dragons more than anyone Corlan had ever met.

However, such an act of violence, Corlan knew, would compel the reptilian lieutenants to turn upon him with the full fury of all the gods and all the devils united in flesh-ripping horror. Like dragonslayers before him, their lives were measured in minutes. A toasty end to regrets unimagined and mostly unfulfilled.

Corlan had little concern at the moment, refitting his weapon with another iron bolt, the metal dart as long as his arm, trident-barbed. For good measure the tip also included the best poisons man could create encased in a capsule which would burst upon impact and hopefully spill its rotten juice within the body of the beast—in case the wound itself did not take down the creature.

As he prepared to fire the weapon again, he kneed his broad-shouldered muscular mount, the hefty hippor, into the shadows of the cliffs where they would be safe a moment longer than in full view. The hippor grunted its disagreement but complied. The quivers of bolts hanging from each side of the hippor rattled like chains on the devils in Hell. As heavy as the collection of metal was, it required a hippor to carry them.

Corlan scanned the sky, measured the distance with his well-trained eyes. It might be a good day, he decided. The more dragons dropping from the sky, thought Corlan, the better the sky. The better the ground, as well. And his fine clothes! He hated stepping in dragon shit.

Pressing his foot against the side of the cliff, Corlan dismounted, dropping to the dirt beside the red-brown hippor he rode as others did who needed to range far and wide through the mountains. The hippor was a slow-footed, wide-shouldered creature yet the only means of travel left to his people other than by foot.

Fat and easily guided, the hippor yawned. Its broad throat opened for a full minute, flashing its long twin tusks before closing and firing a snort out of its long nostrils.

Corlan cursed, kicking dirt over the toes of his boots to dry the mucus sprayed from the hippor’s slimy nose. He tore a cloth from his saddlebag and wiped his leg from knee to hip. Keeping his eyes on the incoming dragons, he let out a long breath. If only horses still existed. The last horse was already dead more than a hundred years. It had been kept in a small pen on the palace grounds where the prince’s grandfather thought it would be safe from hungry peasants. In the end, it was not safe.

The wizards in their long white robes used Clona magic to create this new riding beast, he had heard. It was a long, expensive process so he felt special that the prince would offer him one. First, the wizards took dust from a dead animal that had been kept in a jar and locked in a secret vault. Then they mixed in many potions and set it all into an oven. What came out of the oven was placed into a larger container and fed many liquids until, after many days, a beast could be seen. It grew from a thimble of flesh into a full-sized baby animal in a few weeks. The animal then grew normally within the confines of a farm pen. Or, in the case of the hippor, in the marshes below the palace walls.

Some people said dragons came into being the same way. A few deviant wizards chose to mix their potions and create the flying reptiles. That happened a few hundred years past. They came into being either as the result of a rogue element of magical turpitude or as an accidental outcome of attempting to produce a new food source for a starving populace. “What starving fool would dare eat the flesh of a dragon?” Corlan mused whenever anyone sought to discuss such history. It was now well-known that dragon flesh was poisonous. No matter how they entered the world, from that initial formation they had grown into nine distinct species roaming all regions of the world, some of them with viable subspecies.

Overhead the dragons were circling, locating their prey against the side of the mountain, Corlan’s red-brown clothing merging into the red-brown cliffside—as did his red-brown hippor.

The familiar cries did not alarm Corlan, an expert in this necessary occupation. With boots planted, he leaned back against the hippor, urging it to move tighter against the cliffside. Then Corlan took his stance, the bolt loaded, another leaning against his knee, ready to load next.

A large gray bull with teal throat markings came in first, wings open and talons drawn, making a ridiculous spectacle.

Corlan’s shot went through the dragon’s throat and the beast instantly dropped from the sky, falling past the human’s position on the cliffside, down to the valley floor.

In went the next iron bolt, prepared, aimed.

The second, a tan female with orange wing tips, came at him, apparently upset about loosing her mate. He could tell that by her fluttering throat skin and the high-pitched cry of anguish. She gave Corlan an exhale of noxious air which, with a deliberate hiccough, caught fire. The dragon blew the fireball at the cliffside and Corlan crouched quickly under the hippor.

Squealing, the hippor bumbled forward, its bulbous rump and hairless tail lit and burning. There was nothing Corlan could do. A canteen of water would not be enough. And he needed the water for the journey back to the city. He had ridden the hippor for the past season, lent to him by his employer, the prince. It was an expensive accommodation, thought Corlan, standing and staring hard at the tan dragon, still approaching the cliffside for further vengeance, making an arc in the sky and returning.

The iron bolt was set into the weapon, Corlan’s hands working without thought. He raised the weapon, released the bolt, and struck the dragon under its lower jaw.

The beast crashed into the cliffside, a wingtip scraping along the trail that hugged the rocks. Corlan dove aside—as his eyes caught the last of the hippor disappearing over the side of the cliff, its rear end well-burnt and smelling almost delicious.

In the same moment, a large beige dragon swooped up from below him and snatched the fat animal in its mouth. The dragon sailed high into the sky—boasting of its prize, it seemed to Corlan. With a quick toss upward, the dragon caught the hippor in its mouth and bit off half, letting the other half fall. The dragon then swooped down and saved the second half, downing it in a second tremendous gulp. Taking on the extra weight forced the dragon to a lower course than the clan. Others seemed to scream at him to keep up. The dragon only burped in response and a cloud of black smoke formed around its mouth, then trailed the beast as it flew on.

The formation decided to continue, he saw. They could not spare any more time or energy to deal with another pesky gamekeeper. Three of them already lost on this passage through the mountains. They should count themselves fortunate. Beyond the mountains, Corlan knew, was the valley where they would settle for the cold season and do their mating. After the cold season, the nests would be full of little dragons.

If only he could make his way there and destroy all the nests before they hatched. Then the kingdom would be safe for humankind. And the less he had to step around dragon droppings, the better. He was already into his third pair of boots this year!

Now he had no beast to carry him and his supply of the heavy iron bolts through the mountains and back to the city. It would be a hard journey on foot.

The hippor was a sturdy animal with thick legs and large three-toed feet, with a back wide enough for a large man like him to have lunch on. The animal’s small eyes were set far apart above a cavernous mouth full of large, rounded teeth designed for chomping the stalks of river plants, an activity which occupied them most of their days. Until they were tasked for travelling.

Corlan brushed off his sleeves, straightened his leather jerkin, blithely ran his fingers through his long auburn hair as though he were about to step into the private chamber of a certain lady of the Court whose attentions he had garnered in recent weeks—yes, her! the lovely blond buxom Petula!—and not merely setting himself on the road back home. He could not continue his hunting without more supplies.

His boots had gotten scuffed and the snot of the hippor made every particle of dust cling to them. He sat on a rock and pulled off his boots to clean them properly. As he worked, the winds picked up and he could hear the fading cries of the dragon clan as they winged their way west. It was a smaller clan than he usually saw so perhaps his work was actually reducing their number.

“Pity,” he grunted, examining the results of his cleaning.

When the dragons were all gone, he would be out of a job. No more enjoying the Prince’s favor. No more the ladies at Court to dabble with after the feasts. They loved being with a dragonslayer. He was the only true man in the Great Hall—or in any tavern.

He shook his head. No more the steep hikes up into the mountains on the back of a hippor to hunt dragons at  their own elevation.

“Pity….”

Rebooted, Corlan set out at a brisk pace, arms swinging, the heavy spring-loaded dragonslinger, one last bolt loaded,  dangling from a strap over his shoulder. It would become heavier as he hiked. A side blade swung at his hip for lessor dangers.

He decided to whistle a tune as he walked the trail, the cliff rising to his right and dropping to his left, the space for footwork only double the width of his shoulders. Likely the hippor would not have fit this section of the trail and they both would have tumbled over the side. Then where would he spend the night?

“Lucky day,” Corlan snorted, clapping his hands.

 

More has been written, but I shall not bother you with it at this time. Be confident that I shall continue until the last word is written, no matter how long it takes, no matter what obstacles I need to overcome, no matter how many dragons I, or my stand-ins, must slaughter. Thank you for your indulgence!

Nectar

Sue Vincent’s photography and poetry never fail to make me smile. Today’s post is a reminder that winter can’t last forever!

Sue Vincent's Daily Echo

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Hibernation

As a resident of dark, dreary Washington State, I am in complete agreement with Sue’s thoughts on hibernation here. I go to bed early during the long nights and have no desire to leave the house unless I am forced. Come spring, you can’t keep me inside!

Basic Lessons of Life – Number Two

The train of buses rolled through the main gate like young bulls in a squeeze-chute about to be de-horned and neutered. A wooden sign announced “Fort Bragg Home of the Airborne.” Smartly dressed soldiers manned the gate and watched the procession go by. Joe noticed one of them turn away and shake his head—a bad omen to Joe. Sweat dripped from his arm pits; it was 8:00 AM—another bad omen.

The eight busses pulled into a large parking lot. The drivers commenced a dance of sorts that ended with the busses perfectly aligned, eight abreast, in front of a large multi-floor brick building. A six foot border of neatly trimmed grass fronted the building to the left and right of the entrance. A 2’ by 10’ sign above the double doors identified it as “Reception Center – Fort Bragg.”

Joe laughed when a big black guy sitting next to him said, “Like we’d think it was Fort Knox’s reception center.”

“Hello, I’m Jefferson Lincoln Washington. Call me JL,” the black guy said.

“Hey man, I’m Joe Appleton. Nice to meet you. Where’re you from?” Joe asked

“Long Beach California. You heard of it?”

“Shit yeah man. I’m from Huntington Beach.”

“No shit? You play ball?”

“Football. Linebacker—Go Oilers.”

“Hot damn. I played tight-end for Long Beach Poly. I bet we busted heads once or twice.”

“Could be JL, but I thought you Jackrabbits always ran from trouble.”

“No way white boy. We just couldn’t hang on to your oily bodies so we had to run around your slippery dicks.”

Joe laughed. “Call me Joe.”

The budding friendship was nipped when the driver yelled, “Get out of my bus. I’ve got better things to do than watch your sorry asses sweat.”

Everyone milled around the front of the bus hanging on to their one piece of luggage like it was a lifesaver. Most guys carried gym bags or small carry-on bags, a few guys had grocery bags, but one guy carried a new Samsonite suitcase.

The guy wore polished dress shoes, black slacks and a white shirt and tie. A black and gray plaid sport coat hung over his shoulder as if he was Frank Sinatra. Joe nudged JL. “Pretty fancy dude. Huh.”

“My ten year old sister is bigger than that little bug. Hell, my six year old brother could blow him over. That boy ain’t never gonna make it. But, he’ll look good at the funeral. Maybe Sammy Davis Jr. will sing for him.”

“Are you laughing at me surfer boy?” Joe stopped laughing when he realized he was the target of the question. A tall, trim and very black man stood in front of the group. His Dudley Do-Right hat sat perfectly parallel to the ground above an impeccably pressed uniform. Everything in its place, even his perspiration stayed out of view.

“No sir.”

“What did you say? I’m not sure I heard you clearly.”

“I said, No sir. Sir,” Joe said louder.

“You just called me sir three times in less than one minute bird-brain. I work for a living. I’m not a sir. You and the rest of your flock can call me Drill Sergeant, Sergeant Davis or Sergeant, but you better not call me sir again.”

Joe fidgeted.

“Did you hear me bird-brain?”

“Yes s…ergeant Davis.”

Sergeant Davis organized the group into four rows of ten. It took longer than he liked apparently, because he screamed finally when he was satisfied with the formation. Forty tired young men stared at Sgt. Davis and awaited the unknown. His forehead wrinkled as he glanced at his watch. Joe assumed a decision had been made, “Everyone, turn to your right,” Sgt. Davis said.

Samsonite and two others turned left, but quickly corrected themselves. The sergeant shook his head and told them to stay together and follow him. They didn’t enter the Reception Center as they’d expected but instead walked a few blocks to a little clapboard white building with a red roof. A row of painted white rocks formed a curb in front of the building. Sgt. Davis lined up the formation, four abreast behind the curb and sent the first four guys into the building.

JL whispered, “What’s happening?” Joe cautiously pointed to a diminutive red blue and white barber pole hanging by the door. A few minutes later, the guys exited the shop shorn of their locks. Sgt. Davis pointed to a grassy area nearby and told them to relax, smoke if they wanted to and to be quiet. Joe waited in line.

“Oscar, looky what’s I got here—a blond beach boy,” the barber said and held Joe’s tresses up with both hands like a lions’ main.

“James. You may be today’s winner with that one,” Oscar said as he carved a deep furrow through JL’s afro. “But, if I straightened these curls the decision could be in doubt.”

Joe and JL grabbed their bags with one hand and rubbed their heads with the other as they left the shop. They sat on the lawn and sighed in unison. Joe held out a pack of Marlboros to JL, “Want a smoke?”

“Nah, I choke on them things something terrible,” JL said. “My aunt Sadie…she’s a nurse. Anyway, she told me that if I smoked, my pretty pink lungs would become as black as my big ass. I don’t know why, but the image of my lungs looking like my ass turned me off to those things forever.”

Joe took a deep draw and blew out circles within circles of blue-gray smoke and said, “Good, more for me. Hey, with your afro gone and my hair buzzed, we kind of look alike, well not twins, but more alike than before.”

When the last four shaved heads exited the barber shop, Sgt. Davis lined the four up in the roadway and yelled, “Get off of my grass you maggots and form up on me.” A chorus of moans rose from the flock as they stood and stretched. “Get your butts in line behind these guys or you’ll never see your loved ones again.”

No one doubted him.

The group headed toward the Reception center and walked right past it. Two blocks later, Sgt. Davis halted them before a windowless single story brick building. Joe guessed it was 40’ by 40’ and couldn’t figure out why an AT&T bell sign hung by the only entrance.

“Alright maggots, this is your one and only opportunity to call your family and let them know you haven’t died yet. Line up here.”

Joe waited in line behind JL and thought about who to call. His folks had died when he was fourteen. His uncle Robert, who’d raised him until he graduated high school, was serving six months for petty theft so he wasn’t a candidate and he wouldn’t give a shit anyway. His head said to call Julie, but his sense of self-preservation said let it go for now, so he planned to call Paul at Claude’s Tool & Die.

Paul Brown, Claude’s son and now the business’ owner, had been a big booster for the Oilers football team. For reasons Joe never knew, Paul had taken a liking to him and had offered him a part-time job during his sophomore year. It had changed Joe’s life in many ways, not least of which was his being able to buy food when Uncle Robert was strung-out or in jail.

The guys at the shop had become his family in a way. Paul taught him the importance of keeping your word and doing your best. Big John, the shop lead, forced him to accept responsibility for his fuck-ups. John once said, “If you screw up and hide it, the die you made could kill babies on an airplane. If you admitted your fuck-up, you’d save those babies.” Even at eighteen, Joe had known Big John was being dramatic, but the lesson stuck just the same.

He looked forward to talking to Paul, but by the time Joe got to a phone, the heat and humidity in the building was oppressive. He fed quarters into the phone. Mary, the receptionist, answered, “May I help you?”

“This is Joe. Please get Paul.”

“Oh. Hi sweetie. How are you?”

“Hot. Please get Paul.”

“Hey, Joe what’s up?”

‘Hi Paul, I’m safe. Say hi to the guys. I’m sorry but I’ve got to hang up.”

Joe staggered out of the phone barn and collapsed on the lawn. His Levi’s darkened with sweat and his eyes stinging from salt laden perspiration. He glanced at his watch; it was 11:15 AM.

The line to eat wrapped half way around the building. Joe hadn’t eaten since a bag of peanuts the night before. The mess hall looked like a school cafeteria with four food lines. Grab a tray, move down the line, take what you’re given, don’t talk, hurry, hurry. He consumed the food as fast as he could, but it wasn’t Army fast—perfectly good mash potatoes joined soggy lima beans in a trashcan on his way out.

Reception Center seemed like a misnomer to Joe when medics started poking and prodding after the paperwork was done. It wasn’t as bad as his physical in L.A. a few months before, but it wasn’t fun either. He stood in line to use the toilet. He stood in line to get boots. He stood in line to get pants and shirts and underwear. The heavy canvas duffle bag he’d been given early on filled with his civilian clothes and military gear as the day wore on and it became quite heavy.

Samsonite had a hell of a time. He couldn’t force his suitcase into the duffle bag so he had to carry both of them. An officer noticed him dragging the bag and read him the riot act for abusing government property. From then on everyone carried the bag over their shoulders.

The recruit assembly line moved in spurts. It would stop suddenly for no apparent reason and then everyone would be jogging to catch up to the guy in front of them. During one of the stops Joe watched Samsonite sneak out of line and shove his suitcase into a janitorial closet. Gutsy, Joe thought.

Joe finally exited the Reception Center and joined dozens of other recruits sitting in a field behind the building, waiting for the next unknown. Forty minutes later the building stopped producing recruits.

“On your feet,” yelled a drill sergeant that Joe hadn’t seen before. Four other drill sergeants stood next to him. “Quiet down. I’m Senior Drill Sergeant Cocker these are Sergeants Bliss, Hanner, Tonga and Edwards.” Each stepped forward as their name was called. “They will be your platoon sergeants. We don’t have time to get your platoons squared away ‘cause we got to feed you and march you to the Company barracks so’s you can get some rack time. Therefore, I want you all to line up in front of me.” He pointed to JL. “What’s your name?”

“Jefferson Lincoln Washington, sergeant.”

“That’s senior drill sergeant, Washington. Stand in front of me.”

“Yes senior drill sergeant.”

“All righty then, I want you ladies to form up on Washington.”

Joe had no idea what Cocker wanted, but he was afraid to do nothing so he stood behind JL. The other recruits followed suit and stood behind him. Within a minute, the line grew until it encroached on a busy road. Cocker’s face turned so red his freckles disappeared.

“Stop. What are you pissants doing? Form up damn you.” Cocker shook so badly that Joe though he’d collapse. Cocker forced himself to calm down and turned toward Sergeant Bliss and said, “Bliss, take over here. I’ll make sure the mess hall is ready.” He didn’t wait for a reply and walked away.

At 8:00 PM Joe lay in the bottom bunk of a bed manufactured before he’d been born, on a dilapidated mattress. He didn’t care. He was fed, showered and dead tired, yet he had trouble sleeping. His mid bounced around from his parents to Julie then to Uncle Robert and eventually settled on a conversation he’d had with Big John before he left L.A.

‘You’re a good kid. You’ll do okay in basic, but I’ll give this advice. Keep a low profile, don’t volunteer for anything and keep your eyes and ears open. Don’t get on a DI’s radar. If you do, he’ll ride you like a mustang until he breaks you. I’ve seen it happen and another….’ Fatigue took over.

***

Bang! Bang! Bang! The crushing sound of galvanized trashcan lids being used as cymbals shattered Joe’s dream about Julie’s thighs. Groggy and unaware of his surroundings he rolled onto his back and said to no one in particular, “What time is it?”

He opened his eyes and stared into the bloodshot whites of another human being whose nose hovered a fraction of an inch from his own.

“I ain’t no fucking alarm clock! Get up!” Sgt. Tonga screamed.

Joe’s heart stopped for an instant then he jumped out of bed. He’d been in the Army for less than twenty-four hours and had learned another lesson. He belonged to the Army and he’d better get used to it.

To be continued.

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© 2015 David P. Cantrell He is a contributing member of the EWI staff.

Prior chapters:

Basic Lessons of Life – # 1

#flashfic: Bleakbourne on Heath: Ambrose

The Prodigal Son in the Tavern, Rembrandt van Rijn

Morning had come to the Ploughman’s Inn. Hannah, Polcock’s new barmaid and all-round help, had the knack for making the most delicious hand pies Leryn had ever tasted, even better than Polcock’s, which were quite tasty. She’d just taken a large batch from the oven when he came downstairs, lured by the scent of breakfast.

She handed him one for him to eat, and then as always, gave him one wrapped in newsprint to take to the docks, to give to Noman the Beggar. “Mind you tell him he’s welcome here,” she said. “He’ll die this winter, poor old thing.”

Leryn pledged he would tell him and left for the docks, grinning. No man on earth was less of a “poor old thing” than Noman, but if it made Hannah happy he would play along with it.

Since Rosie had left him, the heart had somewhat gone out of his music. Noman swore she would be back, but wouldn’t tell him why he thought that. Just as disconcertingly, the day after Rosie left Lancelyn had suddenly vanished, returning to his wife. And Galahad had accepted it, saying only it was for the best. Noman had only grinned, saying he’d be back too.

Polcock had agreed with Noman on all counts.

Somehow, Leryn found the knights’ parting the most difficult of all to accept, but he didn’t know why.  Maybe he’d thought Lance loved Galahad more than that—he didn’t know. Still, Galahad had remained in Bleakbourne, and was acting as Polcock’s stableman, although there were only two horses in the village, Leryn’s horse, Elsinore, and Galahad’s new horse, Trystan.

Leryn arrived on the docks that comprised Bleakbourne’s port on the River Heath, walking past the neatly stacked nets and fish-baskets, trying not to inhale the odors of the river, a mix of sewage and dead fish.

He passed the bargemen, who wandered toward the Ploughman’s Inn for a little rest while the dockworkers offloaded the barges under the captain’s watchful eye, carrying the goods to a warehouse. Other workers loaded a barge with barrels of dried, salted fish bound for Londown—the main product Bleakbourne had to trade, and one that was in high demand.

He turned up the narrow lane near the gutting and drying shed. Behind that terrible smelling place, a pile of crates and scrap-metal was stacked together, leaning against the back wall of the drying shed, looking no different than the rest of the rubbish that was abandoned there. The odd cavity formed beneath the pile was the home of Merlin, who was posing as Noman the Beggar.

The old man was awake, sitting in front of his shelter. Leryn handed him the pie. “Noman—you should at least take Polcock up on his offer of a place in the stable. Winter is coming. This shelter of yours won’t survive the first storm.”

Noman slowly ate his pie, considering Leryn’s words in silence.

Leryn tried again. “Hannah is fretting about you. It would make her happy. And Polcock doesn’t want his grandfather out in the weather.”

Noman finished the pie and licked his fingers. An icy gust of wind blew the cold stench of the River Heath into his shelter. “I’m not actually his grandfather, you know. There’re several more generations than that between us.”

“I do know. But they’re right. This is no place for you to spend the winter. You risk giving yourself away if you use magic to keep this pile together when November comes. Rickety as this mess of boxes and junk is, there’s no other way to do it. A real beggar would take the innkeeper up on his offer.”

“Why are you worried about November, bard?”

“I don’t know. But the dark, stormy time of the year is when the disturbing things occur. We may find ourselves facing—something bad.” Leryn didn’t know why he felt that way, but he was sure of it. “I’d like you to be there when it does.”

“I suppose you’re right. I may as well pose as Polcock’s poor relation. The traffic on the river is slowing now, so news will arrive at the Ploughman sooner than it will here. I guess…perhaps Noman will have to go back to Londown town to live with his daughter. But who should take his place while we wait for the demon to make his next move?” A crafty look crossed the old man’s weathered features. “I know! Tell Polcock that Noman saw his uncle Ambrose in town. It’s likely he’ll arrive on the Ploughman’s doorstep this evening, destitute as always.”

Walking back to the Ploughman’s Inn, Leryn wondered how the old man would fake his departure, take on his new identity, and plan his arrival in a town that knew him as old Noman.

Once he arrived home Leryn drew Polcock aside. “Noman is going back to Londown. Apparently he saw your Uncle Ambrose in town? Does that mean anything to you?”

Polcock smacked his forehead. “I liked Noman. Why couldn’t he just— No, no. No! Not Ambrose.”

Leryn said, “I don’t understand.”

“I’ve been down that road before, and it’s exactly what I don’t need. A ne’er-do-well artist selling his daubs and blotches in my tap-room and drinking my profits? Well, he’ll have to find somewhere other than my tap-room to hawk his wares!”

Leryn’s eyebrows had risen at his landlord’s outburst. Quietly he went to his corner, and began working on his manuscript as he always did during the day. Galahad dropped onto the bench opposite him. “I take it things are about to get interesting around here.” The knight’s green eyes sparkled.

Leryn laughed. “Polcock doesn’t really like ‘interesting,’ you know. He prefers ‘calm.’”

>>><<<

The tap-room was crowded. Hannah was everywhere, serving folks with cheerful efficiency.  Polcock had been in a bad mood all day after hearing the news, and every time the door opened he scowled until he saw who entered. Sometime around six, just as supper was being served, the door opened and a tall, thin man of about forty-five, with dark auburn hair curling around his shoulders, and a dark, neatly trimmed moustache entered. Heads turned, and the room fell silent.

His scarlet cloak and black, broad-brimmed hat with a large white feather marked him as a dandy, and the glint in his eye was that of a born rascal. He carried a large valise and a large, flat, leather case. He was immediately recognized. Gasps went around the room. Widow Brown stood up, taking two steps toward him.

No one had ever met the late Mr. Brown and it was assumed he’d never existed. Janet Brown was the daughter of the late local herb-woman whom everyone had trusted. But she didn’t have the gift her mother had, and was given to enabling her second-sight with assistance of mushrooms to enable her visions, which she believed as the gospel truth. She was tolerated, considered part of what made Bleakbourne the strange place it was, but her wild hair, colorful garb, and confused ramblings made most people avoid her unless they absolutely had to seek help from her.

“Ambrose Polcock.” Widow Brown spoke his name as if the words soiled her tongue. “And what brings you back to Bleakbourne, three years too late to make things right? Down on your luck again? Nowhere else to turn?”

Satisfied at having had the effect he wanted, Ambrose held his hands up. “Peace, Janet—I’ve been in Londown. I’ve had several lucrative commissions, don’t you know…I’ve come home to share the bounty with my nephew—who’ll welcome me home to our family hearth, I’m sure.”

Polcock stood with crossed arms, glowering at him. “What bounty? When did you ever hang on to bounty long enough to bring it home?”

Ambrose’s tone was placating. “I have what I owe you, Nephew. I did promise to repay you, and I have it with me now.”

Looking down her long nose at him, Janet said, “I knew you’d be back. You’re like a clipped coin, love—you’re shiny and nice to look at, but worthless.”  She raised her tankard to him and took a sip, daring him to comment.

Ambrose set his gear down, the valise with a thud, and the case more gently. “Janet! How can you say such a thing? I had no idea you were—that you could have been—I’d have stayed if you’d said anything.”

“I wasn’t with child after all, so you didn’t really have to scarper all that fast.”

Leryn nearly dropped his harp. Nervous titters could be heard as folks looked from Ambrose to Widow Brown.

“I wasn’t scarpering lass—”

“Oh, tell that to someone who doesn’t know your ways. There’s not a woman in this town will give you the time of day. You’re known here. Pay your nephew what you owe him, if you really have it. Put your coins where your talk is.”

Ambrose bowed to her, sweeping his hat off in a grand gesture. “I shall do just that, dear lady. Observe!”  With a flourish he reached into his cloak and removed a small purse, which he dropped into Polcock’s outstretched hand.

Polcock’s smile was brittle. “Thank you Uncle. I assume that, since you have come into a large sum of money, you will be purchasing a home nearby?”

Ambrose’s smile slipped a bit. “Well, ah…I had hoped…I’ve just repaid a great many debts and I’m a bit short at the moment.”

Polcock spoke through gritted teeth. “You get the room off the cellar. You’ll keep the floors clean here every night and you’ll empty the chamber pots every morning, or you are out on your ear. If you’re still painting that awful rubbish you were last time you were here, you can hawk your wares elsewhere. I won’t have it in my tap-room.”

Ambrose waved his hand. “Relax, Nephew. I’ve gone back to painting landscapes and portraits. That’s where the money is in this business—no one appreciates true art.” He turned to Hannah and bowed. “And who is this lovely flower?” His winning smile could have charmed the birds from the trees.

Hannah actually giggled.

Polcock grabbed his uncle by the arm, dragging him to the kitchen and the steps to the cellar. “Galahad. Bring his things.”

>>><<<

When he returned, Galahad’s emerald eyes shone with mirth. He sat next to Leryn and said, “Things really are about to get interesting around here.”

Leryn replied, “But how does he do it? Ambrose looks nothing like Noman. Noman is old! Ambrose isn’t much older than Polcock.”

“I rather suspect Ambrose is the face of the real man, but Noman is who he is under the skin.”

After thinking about it, Leryn agreed. “I’ll miss the old man. I don’t have much faith in Ambrose—not like I did in Noman.”

“That’s the point, I suspect. They have to be perceived as different people, and folks have to underestimate him.” Galahad chuckled. “The real trick now will be to keep Ambrose under control long enough for us to get Polcock married off to Hannah. Then we can all go back to being a happy family.”

————————————————————

To Read the Further Episodes of “Bleakbourne on Heath” click here:

Bleakbourne on Heath Series

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Bleakbourne on Heath © 2015 – 2017 Connie J. Jasperson, All Rights Reserved

Connie J. Jasperson is an author and blogger, and a regular contributing member of the Edgewise Words Inn staff

#Thanksgiving Guest Post: Stephen M. Swartz: How to Stuff a Wild Turkey!

 ‘Tis time to tickle the titillating turkey!

Soon many will be slouching and slumping and snoring or snorting, content in the afterglow of their gluttonous indulgences and warm family camaraderie the put off for almost 365 days each year.

That is our holiday tradition in the north of America, no matter how the origins and historical developments and political corrections have affected it. I, for one, do not indulge much on these sordid days called holidays; however, I always enjoy a day off from the usual.

I recommend this source of information about Thanksgiving because practically all of it is wrong, or considered wrong to someone somewhere. Or the official source, Plymouth Plantation, if you care to surround yourself with facts and speculations. They may yet be debated, if you have time after dinner and between the games.

 

I choose to boil it all down from whatever origins are true and run with the general idea of being thankful for what I have and be humble about what good things I may be thankful for in the coming year. You are welcome to believe likewise.

(A bit of personal connection: I visited the Plymouth site in Massachusetts as a child, gazed down upon the 1621-stamped big rock called Plymouth, yet did not travel there in a Plymouth automobile. The irony!)

Nevertheless, holiday traditions die hard (though the turkeys are fairly easy). From time immemorial I and all my relations would gather at the grandparents’ house with much food in hand and have a grand feast. I recall dinners with a giant turkey at one end of the long table and a giant ham at the other end, and a hundred side dishes and a thousand desserts stacked everywhere. I was a little boy with big eyes; later, I was a starving teenager with a bottomless stomach. I do not recall having much leftovers.

Now, however, I can barely finish a turkey sandwich and a side of baked sweet potato. Then my cousins grew up (and I suppose I did, too) and we all had our own families. By then, the grandparents had passed on and Thanksgiving dinners became separate and self-contained. At some point it became pointless to go to the trouble of it, even at the risk of having no leftovers.

I remember the best of the worst:

• 2003. Stuck in my doctoral program in the snowy hills of western Pennsylvania, it did not make sense to travel back to Kansas to visit family members for three days. Especially when I had final papers to prepare. So I just made burritos at home and kept typing my papers.

• 2010. Nobody was interested in going to the trouble of cooking a big dinner, so I went out to the grocery and bought a portion of smoked turkey and side dishes from the deli in the store. Ended up I ate it all myself.

• 1988 and 1989. I was living in Japan so it wasn’t even a holiday. And turkey was an unfamiliar bird. I cannot recall exactly what I ate on those days yet it was likely something with teriyaki sauce on it.

• 2007. I had the turkey dinner, which was fine. On the drive back to Pennsylvania, however, I had a flat tire on a rainy Sunday night passing through the bad part of Columbus, Ohio, and had to stay over to get the tire fixed the next morning. I ate at the Waffle House next to the cheap motel.

• Another year in my youth. To gain the favor of a certain young lady, I agreed to participate a “starve-in” at a local church. Young people would empathize with the starving masses of the world by not eating Thanksgiving dinner. At all. To help us endure our hunger pain we played games and had other entertainments. When it was done, I went home and dove into the leftovers my parents had. I only went to that event to impress a girl. What a turkey I was!

• Not sure of the year but it was while I was living at my parents’ house, so I must have been young. We had a goose at my request. Richer taste, oily meat, less meat for leftovers, a free portion of pate de fois gras (liver), and a bad case of indigestion which was later identified as ptomaine poisoning. Cook your bird thoroughly!

Or, as the early founding chefs had prominently placed on the menu, stick with venison and lobster! Or, in the alternative, try soybean pudding, sometimes called “tofu.” Perhaps a turkey substitute could be created from various local vegetables and exotic fruits. Use your imagination. And don’t forget the turkey chili . . . for the next two weeks!

No matter what happens this year, indulge in moderation and may your moderation be indulgent. See you on the other side!

Stephen’s Stuffing 

 

[please, no weird puns, ok?]

Ingredients: a loaf of cheap bread, stick of real butter, medium summer sausage, bag of dried apricots, bunch of celery, little jar of sage, a bottle of orange juice, salt & pepper to your tastes. (You could substitute cooked/dried cranberries for the apricots, if you wish; in that case, skip the OJ and use cranberry juice.)

Spread butter over several slices of bread. Tear up the bread into little pieces, putting the pieces into a large bowl.

Cut up the sausage; slice then dice. Put that it the large bowl with the bread pieces. Cut the apricots and celery into little pieces and put the pieces into the large bowl. Shake in a good amount of sage, salt, and pepper. Mix up everything in the large bowl.

Take the mixture from the bowl and put it into a small pan, something like 8×8 inches will do–or 9×9, 10×10, 12×12, whatever fits the size of your appetite. (I do not recommend stuffing the turkey itself because it is rather gross when you think about it and you don’t know for sure what is still inside the turkey.) Then sprinkle some sage on top. Pour some orange juice into the pan; not a lot, but get everything wet. The OJ will make it slightly tart; you can skip the OJ if you want to and it will still be good.

Put the pan with the stuffing in it into the oven and bake until it starts to smell good, perhaps 30 to 40 minutes at 350*F. I’m going on memory now, so be careful. Putting foil over the top may help it along. It seems to me that we always put it in with the foil-wrapped potatoes for the same time and temp, so try that.

Or, you could layer each ingredient in the pan: bread pieces first, then the pieces of sausage, celery, apricot, sage, and repeat. Pour the orange juice over the top, let it soak down into the mixture, then bake.

NOTE: I am not, nor have I ever been, a cook, chef, or baker. However, this recipe is a hybrid of recipes I assisted with in my youth, standing alongside one or the other grandmother, so it checks out. You will not get sick from eating it. Enjoy!

This shall also serve as an example of a process essay for students who do not know just how easy it is to write one.

And thanks to all of you for your indulgence, your patience, and your constant attention to whatever the heck I post here, lo these many months!

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© 2015 by Stephen M. Swartz. All Rights Reserved originally published  November 23, 2015 on Deconstruction of the Sekuatean Empire

Stephen M. Swartz  is an author and blogger, and a professor of English at a major university. He is the author of the scifi Dreamland trilogy, along with numerous other fantasy and Mainstream novels. His works can be purchased at amazon.com and other fine retailers. He can be found regularly  blogging at Deconstruction of the Sekuatean Empire.