Serial Reader

The ninth—and, so I’ve heard, the last—Cal Leandros novel is due for release in August. I’ve requested it for my birthday and am presently blasting through the three volumes preceding so I can hit the ground running in September. I spent most of the weekend with my nose in Blackout, white-knuckling with Cal and Co. while deftly avoiding work on the novel.

I admit, I’m stuck and I don’t know how to fix it.

So it’s been handy having an excuse to ignore it. The Cal series is a nightmare ride that just won’t quit. I’ve raved about it before and won’t repeat myself here except to say again, damn, I wish I’d written it. I love a good series. I started as a kid with The Happy Hollisters, graduated to Walter Farley’s The Black Stallion in my tweens, Dorothy Dunnett’s Lymond Chronicle in my teens and from then … heck, I started writing my own. My bookshelves are loaded with multi-volume sets: E.E. Knight’s The Vampire Earth, Laurell K. Hamilton’s Anita Blake series (to volume 8; after that, it got stupid), Rob Thurman’s Cal Leandros novels, George R.R. Martin’s Song of Ice and Fire, of course, and most recently, the Weather Warden series by Rachel Caine. I get comfortable in another world and off I go.

Not sure what it says about me that I’m so comfy reading about guns and monsters and incestuous siblings, especially given my outwardly positive, optimistic mantra-chanting appearance. Perhaps I’ll simply file the irony under “contrast” and proceed on my merry way.

Flânerie Fun

Had a great time on my Sunday flânerie – I remembered a game my driving instructor had played while teaching me to get speeding tickets. It’s called “Right, Left” and it’s simple: turn right at the corner, turn left at the next, right at the following, left at the one after that, and so on. As it happened, my corners in that order took me exactly from the village to my front door. Had I gone left, then right, I’d have wound up downtown, which would have been okay so long as I had a fiver for an iced tea and my limo pass to get me home.

I took more steps on the winding route than if I’d taken a more direct one, but I’d also have missed the gorgeous gardens, the sound of kids playing their backyards, and shaky chalk drawings on the pavement. There’s a plethora of quirky little streets in Fairfield and no one but the locals use them—a walk through the village or along the water can be a challenge at this time of year because everyone and their literal dog comes down to enjoy the area, but half a block over and you’re in a Trisha Romance painting. It’s marvelous.

I was also packing a full-size bottle of Torani gingerbread syrup, courtesy of the friendly staff at the Moka House. I finally got my weekend Asian Mist and a lesson in making one from the curly-haired cutie working the bar. Use less hot water, he advised, rather than half-water, half-milk; the tea will be stronger—and don’t add the syrup until the tea is steeped. If you add it before then, the tea won’t steep properly. Three pumps of syrup for a 16 oz. cup, or to taste. And darn, I forgot to get the vanilla powder I like to sprinkle on top. It was fun to chat with the staff about how good the drink is, and I really appreciated their openness regarding the one drink that brings me into their shop. So I assured them I won’t be able to duplicate their version and will keep coming in for the real thing. It doesn’t sound nearly as amusing aloud, but my version is likely to be christened “Asian Missed”.

Write or Die

Cook Street Moka House - Home of the Mythical Asian Mist

No Asian Mist today, alas. A sweet milky drink a day for the past week has weakened my lactose resistance, so I’ve decided to lay off the lattes for a bit, at least until my bout of “milk gout” dissipates. I did, however, push my afflicted knee to indulge in my flex-Friday flânerie and got some cool pictures to support future writing exercises. It also gave me a subject for today’s “live” post.

Almost everyone who learns that I am a writer will ask me: “Are you sending anything out?” as in, “Are you trying to get published?” Well, since disqualifying for an online writing competition because the piece I planned to enter was originally posted here at CR, my pat reply is now, “I write a blog, so technically, I am published.” The other day a co-worker asked “the question” and this time, the truth popped out.

I said, “I don’t care about getting published. I write because I’ll die if I don’t.”

There’s a great scene in the film Anonymous where the Earl of Oxford’s wife discovers he’s been writing again and goes slightly ballistic because everyone knows that writers are possessed of the Devil. The Earl’s response is a scary truth for any artistic spirit: the voices inside will drive him mad if he continues to ignore them.

I was also reminded of J. C. Hutchins’ recent post over at terribleminds.com, where he gives all sorts of reasons why unfinished projects can stack up (I’ve got a bunch of the darned things), but counsels against abandoning any of them. Even if a piece languishes for years, eventually it will find its way back to the spotlight. I was vexed with myself because “Black in Back” has stalled, so remembering that advice helped me to move on.

Moving on today means going back to the unfinished novel. Reijo’s romance has been in limbo for so long that there’s dust on the half-finished hard copy. That doesn’t mean I’ve abandoned it; in fact, the voices have begun whispering again and this weekend, I’ve decided to ramp it up once more. I might drop it again next week, but as long as I’m writing something, I’ll still be alive.

My Hero

Swashbuckler (n) -   1:  a swaggering or daring soldier or adventurer

      2:  a novel or drama dealing with a swashbuckler

He started as a surly teenager; a bit of a bully with a sour attitude, but over the course of six-plus novels, Osmo’s Luko has evolved into the sort of character who might do justice to a Musketeer.

Nephew to my hero, Lucius Aurelius, he has found his swagger and confidently applies it at every opportunity. Witness his first encounter with the girl who will eventually wed his cousin, seen through her eyes after a day at the barracks with his uncle …

* * *

A squad of dusty soldiers returned from patrol while she stood waiting for Lucius to issue his final orders for the day; hearing the hoofbeats, she moved her mare clear and lost sight of him when the horsemen rode into the yard. They were dressed alike and mounted on dark horses—a sight to swoon over if a girl was so inclined. As it happened, Jannika was not so inclined, but she did appreciate the beauty of the horses cantering in step. They halted as one and their riders dismounted in kind, tossing reins at the grooms and good-natured jibes at each other. One of them spotted Fyr and elbowed another, pointing.

“Straighten up; the general’s here.”

“He’s not here to bother with us, idiot.” The elbowed one spat into the dust and scanned the yard through eyes narrowed against the sun. He did not see what he was looking for, but he did see Jannika. Squaring his impressive shoulders, he veered away from his mates and sauntered over to her. “Are you the new healer?”

She arched a brow. “What if I am?”

“I might have something for you to look at.” He hitched at his leathers, feigning the discomfort of an overly snug fit. Jannika almost rolled her eyes.

“Unless it burns when you piss, I’m not the healer you want.”

“Oh, I don’t know. You could be anything and I’d still want you. So tell me,” he carried on, ignoring her badly-stifled groan, “has my uncle convinced you to tangle with Ni-Wahn?”

The urge to laughter fled. “Your uncle?”

“General Aurelius.” He spoke with pride and a certain amount of smugness. Such a handsome young man had no need to tout his family connections except as a deterrent to chastising him for his manners—or lack of them. At closer range, handsome was too slight a word for him. He was heroically built and very well-muscled, with curly brown hair cut short and angled eyes that gleamed like wet granite. When he smiled, he bared straight white teeth in a close-trimmed beard, but his eyes retained their predatory intensity.

“You must be Luko,” Jannika concluded.

His gaze narrowed. “How do you know my name?”

“I had supper with your family last night.”

“Oh.” He relaxed, but the wary tightness remained in her chest. No dumb giant, this one knew his strength and was not afraid to use it. He asked, “Will you be at the feast tonight?”

She nodded.

“Maybe I’ll see you there.”

“Will you be on watch?”

He snorted, amused by her ignorance. “I’ll be off duty.”

“That’s a shame. I like the uniform.”

He moved closer than she normally allowed, dwarfing her in his shadow. “You might like it better on the floor by your bed.”

Jannika put up a hand, careful not to provoke him as she laid her palm to his chest. “That’s too bold,” she warned.

“For a Retahli girl? I don’t think so.”

“You should think again before you say something offensive.”

“Am I offending you?”

“Not yet, but you’re getting close.”

He leaned into her hand. “How close?”

“Do you truly want to offend me?”

“It’s not my first choice.” He leaned a little harder, forcing her either to submit or lock her elbow. She gave, slightly, and he smiled. Scenting victory, perhaps, or maybe just enjoying the chase. She was halfway enjoying it herself—the tricks she had learned but had no talent for seemed to be working on him. They did, on the ones who thought themselves irresistible.

She held him off with her fingertips. “I can guess what your first would be.”

“You’d be right.”

“What if I refuse? Would you hurt me?”

He bent his head, bringing his lips perilously near hers. “Would you like me to?”

“I doubt you could.”

She smelled the dust on his clothes, the sweat on his skin, and the smouldering lust beneath it. “I’m no gutless little boy,” he whispered. “I’ve killed a man.”

The words slipped out before she could stop them. “So have I.”

* * *

Might be a bit of a spoiler in there, but oh well. Think what you will of young Luko, but I believe he has one redeeming quality, admittedly not shown here:

He loves his mother. 

Swashbucklers

The Musketeers 2014

Plumed hat—check.

Boots—check.

Cloak—check.

Sword—check.

Pistol—check.

Open sea—

Open sea?? Bah. Forget pirates. When my swash wants buckling, give me the King’s Musketeers.

My fondness for the elite among Louis XIII’s military began with Richard Lester’s movie version in the 1970s. I saw The Four Musketeers something like 14 times because my then best friend was crazy nuts for the actor who played Aramis. Subsequently, I fell for Michael York, who played d’Artagnan (but that’s another story). During the course of flowering hormones, I delved into the Dumas novels and discovered a world that I couldn’t imagine had existed, a world without modern convenience, where hats were plumed and pistols played backup to rapiers. The Musketeers were a joyride in writing and on film. My imagination never recovered.

Though other attempts have been made, I’ve stayed true to the Lester films. Thanks to his direction, and to George MacDonald Fraser’s scripts, they still number among the best movies I’ve ever seen, and feature what remains one of my favourite lines of dialogue—Porthos playing cards with Aramis and lamenting that, “Either your priestly intentions have got all the saints on your side, or you’re cheating.”

Whether or not Aramis seriously intended to join the priesthood I don’t recall, though the theme continued via Jeremy Irons in The Man in the Iron Mask some thirty years later. One thing’s for sure: Aramis is the most romantic in the group. I’ve always been partial to d’Artagnan because of Yorkie, but these days it’s hard to choose a favourite.

The Musketeers are back, this time in a TV series produced by the BBC. Ter an I caught it this spring on Showcase and, yup, we got hooked. It’s the best spin on the legend since the Lester films 40 years ago; the writing is quick, the delivery is quicker and the actors playing the iconic foursome have each made his character his own. Particularly good is Tom Burke as Athos, who was the least appealing Musketeer in my teens, but now that I’m older, has assumed the perilous allure of dark water—a deceptive stillness that could all too easily pull me beyond my depth. But truly, the whole cast is brilliant for bringing the characters to such vivid life that there are no boring moments.

Once again, I am inspired by a good story peopled by distinct and unique individuals set in a time that feels like home. I would dearly love to pay homage to my heroes, but how does one write a good swashbuckler without it turning into a hokey bodice-ripper?

As with all good stories, it starts with a character …

The Importance of Tea (Part VIII)

“My Cups Runneth Over”

Our dinner dishes are routinely done by my 7:30 teatime, and though we have a dishwasher, I prefer to do them by hand. My evening teacup is usually in the load, left over from the night before and the first item to be used after washing, often within minutes of the sink being drained. I’ll dry it myself rather than use a different cup for my ritual chamomile brew.

You would think that the cup doesn’t matter. Apparently, it does. One night I was late getting to the dishes. I came into the kitchen, saw my gold teacup awaiting its wash, and experienced a curious bout of mild panic. I had naively imagined my tea steeping while I did the dishes, but could it happen in another cup? Ha! Rather than talk myself into sensible behaviour, I watched myself fill the sink with hot soapy water, wash the gold teacup, peel off the rubber gloves, hand-dry the cup, then set it aside with the bag o’ tea dust installed. Then I flipped on the kettle and proceeded to wash the daily dishes. End result: evening tea drunk from the evening cup—I neither use that cup during the day nor drink anything other than chamomile tea from it.

That got me to thinking. When I inventoried my teacup collection (they’re actually mugs; only when invited to tea at The Manse do I sip from a china cup and saucer—and yes, I have a favourite there as well), I realized that specific cups exist for specific teas, and now I’m wondering if I need professional help.

If I do, it likely began in childhood. Growing up as one of five kids, I specifically remember a set of Melmac (?) cereal bowls with different-coloured rims—mine was orange, and if I had caught anyone else spooning corn flakes from it, I’d have freaked out on them. Same rule applied to the coffee mugs that appeared in my teens. Truly, I don’t remember if I chose the mug or it was chosen for me, but once I’d drunk from the vessel with the taupe flowers garishly splashed upon the ceramic, it owned me. I drank everything but coffee (yuk) from that cup—soup, broth, hot chocolate, and herb tea. When I left home, the cup stayed behind to serve during visits to the parental units. And I began my own collection.

Today, Ter has one cup—fitting for a woman who only drinks one kind of tea. I, on the other extreme of first-world frippery, have five. Five. Excluding the glass tumbler I use on all-writing days. And when company demands that I share, I try not to cringe when my green-ginger-in-the-morning-on-a-day-off cup is conscripted to contain something black and sweet. How I’ve come to this “singular usage” policy is a mystery, but what truly alarms me is that I’ve started doing it at work, too, with three cups and counting.

A Declaration of Awareness

While Israel engaged Palestine and pro-Russian rebels shot a passenger jet out of the sky last week, the posts here at the Rebellion were about love, acceptance, finding peace, seeking joy and generally tripping out on the present moment. After hearing about MH17, I almost regretted scheduling those posts. In the space of a few short days, the world became an even darker and grimmer place, and I questioned whether it was appropriate to tout the power of positive energy when people elsewhere live in daily terror of losing something or someone precious. I went to bed on Friday night immensely grateful that I am not among those people. I am safe. I am employed. I have food, shelter, and enough money to live more than comfortably compared to folks trapped in a war zone halfway around the globe. Heck, I’m in better shape than people living in the BC interior, where wildfires have a handful of communities on evacuation alert if not on full evacuation order, so I don’t have to go far to ask myself how naïve am I, really?

Well, I’m not naïve. I’m not oblivious or insensitive, either. I believe what I believe, and a large part of my belief is that humans suffer when other humans make selfish decisions. Wars have raged in distant places for centuries—that doesn’t make it right, but we’re all made more aware of conflict and tragedy by a media that fixates on negative forces in pursuit of ratings. Just as we hear nothing of the countless air flights that land safely, we begin to believe that everyone is a terrorist, that no child is safe, and we’ll all be victims of identity fraud.

I sat out on my porch this morning and listened to the wind in the trees. The ocean was calm. The sun was trying to pierce the clouds and actually succeeding in spots. I watched a beam break through and remembered something. There is good in the world. Good people, brave people, loving people. People trying to cure cancer. People sheltering the homeless. People caring for sick children. People who aren’t aiming rockets at civilian communities or passenger airliners. Most of us are doing the best we can with what we have. Most of us are grateful. The rest of us are wounded and trying to heal ourselves. Yes, it’s horrible out there. Gods know the media is ever so delighted to keep telling us so, and by the same gods, we’re lapping it up like cream, but really, the scales are better balanced than we’re led to believe.

Please don’t be led. Please don’t lose hope. Please be grateful and please be compassionate—and if this seems aimed at you, it’s only my inside voice reminding Ru of what is truly valuable. That would be love, acceptance, finding peace, seeking joy, and generally tripping out on the present moment.

Be aware of the light as well as the dark, for both exist in equal measure.

With love,

Hanging By A Heart

It may seem like that’s what we’re doing. The world is tipping toward the Dark Side and all that keeps us from tumbling into a vortex of despair is the random act of kindness, the charitable work, the human impulse to help a stranger in distress.

Love.

A few fun facts:

A single hopeful thought will neutralize a hundred hateful ones.

A single compassionate gesture outweighs a dozen petty misdemeanours.

A single grateful moment is worth a thousand ungrateful ones.

As for the masses who struggle daily to find love and gratitude in the fight to survive, well, at least they’re looking, and if they’re looking, they will find it.

Here’s a tip:

Look inside first. It’s there. It wants to be found. And if you don’t see it right away, keep looking. Dig deeper. Look in the mirror. Smile.

Yes, smile.

It’s like turning on a light. The gloom immediately lifts, and sometimes, if you do it in company, the light will spread and before you know it, you feel better, others feel better, the world feels better.

She knows, you know. The world. She feels our energy and responds in kind. She feels our collective conflict, our misery, our greed, our sickness, and she is sick because of it.

But a single positive spark can keep her—keep us—from dropping into the abyss.

How?

Light a candle in a darkened room and see how far the little flame throws his beams.

That’s how.

With love,

It Is What It Is

I only think I'm a drone. This guy really is!

Hands up, everyone who is doing what they love!

Ah. Me, neither.

I suspect it’s been so for most people for millennia. Despite what self-help coaches say, circumstances are not so easily changed. Those who manage to improve their status or acquire their dream job/home/mate etc. more often discover a new set of args that differ but are no less, er, arguous than the args they were trying to escape. No one is happy all the time. And you know why?

Life is meant to be a challenge. Without adversity, there is no growth, no progress, and no awareness of the truly sublime. I refer not to society as a group, but to the individual, to each unique spirit in whatever role is being played this time out. The real challenge is to find peace whether or not you love what you’re doing. That’s not to say you must be content with what you have—by all means, reach for that dream. I hope you attain it. But happiness can happen any time, anywhere, in any condition.

Conversely, so can unhappiness.

The choice is yours.

I suppose I could dump my government job and step off the cliff in pursuit of a writing career, but I kinda like the regular paycheque and—given the amount of dental work I’ve had of late—the accompanying benefits. Decision made. I accept that the gov’t job ain’t my bliss, but it doesn’t have to be my life, either. Sometimes it is, or seems to be, and that’s when awareness kicks in. I can let it rule me, or I can rule it. Life itself is neutral. How I perceive it determines how I feel about it. I’m okay with hating it now and then; as I say, without contrast, boredom would kill me. But it is what it is, so it’s really up to me. Whenever possible, in whatever circumstance, wherever I find myself, my conscious choice is to find peace/happiness/contentment.

Why choose anything else?

Beatlemania

Ter and I are watching The Sixties series on CNN. Last week was the “British Invasion” episode and since then, the Beatles have owned my stereo. Pretty remarkable, considering that the recordings are over 40 years old and still relevant.

I didn’t even realize how many of them we have! More than not, methinks, and that’s absolutely okay by me. I remember them a little from when I was a kid, and Ter also had an older sibling who ignited her love of rock/pop music from an early age, so I guess it’s no surprise to flip through our present library and see everything from Meet the Beatles to Let It Be. My contributions were Revolver and Rubber Soul, but don’t ask me to name my favourite Beatles song because it changes from day to day. One song ends, another begins and I think, Oh, I love this one! It’s like trying to pick my favourite chocolate: it depends on my mood at the time.

No, it doesn’t. Taxman is my all time favourite Beatles tune. But don’t ask me to name my second favourite.

Okay. It’s Paperback Writer.

But my third? Can’t be done.

Yes, it can. You’ve Really Got a Hold on Me.

Why did I start this darned post????

“The King’s Man” (Conclusion)

Andrei’s brother, sipping brandy from a crystal snifter, waited in the lone armchair. Viktor paused in the doorway of his room, saw Yuri absorb the disheveled state of his clothes, then sighed and resigned himself to a longer night.

“Why have you kept this shabby little room?” the grand duke inquired, gesturing with his drink.

“I am the King’s Man, Your Grace.”

“You ceased to be the King’s Man when Andrei made you his equal.”

“I was never Andrei’s equal.” Viktor tossed his coat onto the narrow cot in the corner. “None of us were.”

Yuri took a violent swig from the snifter. He was merely handsome where Andrei had been beautiful, but there was a likeness, a reflection of shared features, that named them brothers. Yuri was darker, inside and out. Some found that darkness appealing. Viktor distrusted it.

“She disappointed you, didn’t she?”

“Your Grace?”

“Don’t play the dumb brute with me, Viktor. That’s what you were meant to be, but it’s not what you are. Andrei wasn’t the only one to see it. He was only the one who wanted to change it. He loved you.”

“He loved everyone, Your Grace.”

“Not the way he loved you—and I don’t just mean that way.” Yuri swallowed more brandy to conceal a distasteful twitch of his lip. Viktor saw it anyway. At first he felt compelled to defend his king, but there was little point when his king was dead. Yuri believed what he chose to believe. Still …

“I was not his lover.”

“Of course you weren’t. He’d have died years ago if that was so. No, you kept him alive beyond anyone’s expectation. Long enough to succeed our father, to wed the most desirable woman in the world and get children on her. How did that work, I wonder? Has she said?”

Viktor spoke tersely between clenched teeth. “You knew your brother, Your Grace.”

“And I know Stacia. A woman like that, wasted. Absolutely wasted.” Yuri cocked his head, his stormy blue eyes a little too bright on Viktor’s implacable face. For a skin-prickling instant, he seemed about to suggest something that would provoke the use of Viktor’s dress sword, but he shook his head and settled for more brandy.

The tension eased from Viktor’s shoulders. Slightly.

“Nicky did well tonight,” the grand duke remarked.

Viktor said nothing. Nicky had done well indeed, demonstrating a charm more lethal than what his sire had possessed. No bride had been chosen, but heartstrings had definitely been plucked.

“He’s asked you to stay. That doesn’t mean you have to.”

“I should like to see him crowned, Your Grace.”

“And then?”

And then … Viktor didn’t know. He thought he had known, but now he was unsure.

Yuri studied him from the depths of his comfortable chair. What the grand duke saw was nothing extraordinary in Viktor’s estimation, though he felt the heat of envy as the assessing gaze raked over him. Boots, breeches, open shirt, tousled hair, sharp planes, and sleepy eyes of a deep moss green …

“You couldn’t have disappointed her.”

Small praise, and unwelcome. Viktor was built to please a woman and had done so on many occasions, especially after Andrei had married Stacia. The door on the inner wall was all that separated his room from the Tsar’s, and the new Tsarina had made frequent use of her husband’s bed. There had been nothing to hear, but the strain of not hearing had quickly driven him to spend some nights elsewhere. Andrei had asked why, Viktor had lied; Andrei had offered larger accommodation, Viktor had declined. “My place is near you, my king,” he had said. Andrei had smiled and gently kissed his cheek, and had arranged to visit Stacia’s bed when duty called.

Those nights had been worse.

He took a deep breath. “I believe I did disappoint her, Your Grace.”

Yuri blinked, openly surprised. In the next blink, something occurred and he nodded slowly, releasing a low, “Ahh …” as he formulated his guess. He smiled; grinned, in fact, and Viktor disliked the grin for its predatory smugness. Here was a man who would use her as she willed, who saw her as flesh first and icon not at all; and since she had first been dazzled by his flash and flair, she would likely embrace his advances. Her children, too, would accept him in their father’s stead. They loved their Uncle Yuri, as fun-loving and mischievous as Andrei would have been had his health been less precari—

Viktor’s thoughts froze solid. Breath and body froze with them, doused in ice-cold horror that locked glacial fingers tight around his heart and would not be shaken free.

Yuri drained his brandy and stood up to leave. “Good night, Malokov,” he said on his way out the door.

* * *

Andrei’s tomb, a pale monument adorned with grieving angels in the stained glass recess of the cathedral. Viktor knelt beside it, his hands gripping the beveled edge, his brow pressed hard against the cool stone.

I failed you, my king.

All those years, his whole life, spent to preserve a flame that was snuffed while his back was turned. The blows, the insults, the jibes, the pokes and prods and punches he had endured for Andrei’s sake, and all the while, someone had watched and waited, and when Andrei had beaten the odds by living to manhood, an alternate strategy had been formed.

He had faltered on his way to a Cabinet meeting; only when Nikolai had asked his mother when Papa could play football again had Stacia made her fatal misjudgment. An innocent pleasure, a stupid mishap.

And everyone had believed.

“Not Nicky’s fault,” Andrei had whispered, struggling to get the words past the pain.

Everyone present, Viktor among them, had taken it as an order not to blame the boy. Viktor had been a witness to Nicky pleading with his father, to Andrei agreeing. He had played a little himself, stepping in while the Tsar caught his breath. A particularly accurate kick had sent the ball into Andrei’s gut as he dove to save a goal. He had shaken it off with such ease, no thought had occurred that something might have been jarred. Andrei himself had likely not realized it. He had simply relished the time spent with his son.

How could I have been such a dumb brute?

The brothers always shared a private moment before Cabinet meetings. Yuri was an advisor. Had he seen a chance and grabbed it? If he had, there had been time—not much, but enough, had he wanted justice—for Andrei to accuse him. The children had said their farewells, the girls sobbing and Nicky trembling with the stress of outward courage. Stacia and Yuri had remained—and Viktor, standing forgotten in the shadows by the head of his king’s bed, numb with shock and defeat. Stacia had wept freely, clutching his hand between hers as if her grip alone could stop the flood that was killing him.

His voice had bubbled faintly in the waning light. “Care for them.”

“I will,” Yuri had replied.

You knew, Andrei, Viktor thought. You knew and you said nothing.

“Care for them,” he had said.

Yuri had replied … but …

I am the King’s Man.

It meant something different from when he had been proclaimed as a boy. Andrei had seen to that. Andrei had made him more than he was intended to be, more than a dumb brute who took the blows to spare the Tsar’s heir. He had made him a companion, a friend, a brother of sorts, and a protector of all the Tsar held precious.

Care for them, Viktor.

Even Yuri, my king?

A long, bemused silence. A faint smell of incense, and flickering golden light as a candle began to gutter in its stand. The floor hardened beneath Viktor’s knees but he stayed in place, fingers cramping on the marble, forehead pushing hard against a growing urge to weep. The candle flame danced madly in its pool of drowning wax. Viktor lifted his head and looked at it. As if it had been trying to attract his attention, the fire steadied, then flared as bright as Andrei’s winsome smile.

Especially Yuri.

The candle went out.

The King’s Man rose stiffly from his knees and left the cathedral.

THE END

June 14, 2014

Ugger It

Three days of writing ahead and one letter of my keyoard craps out. Not a vital key in the ig picture – not a vowel, for instance, and if I was writing in Hawaiian I wouldn’t miss it at all … ut as with most things taken for granted, I miss it when it’s gone.

I’m not telling which letter it is, either. I’m just not correcting the gaffes (the key works if I strike it three times—WTF??) And when I get my allowance next Friday, I’m getting a new keyoard!

No More FGTs

Erin Morgenstern’s final Flax-Golden Tale was posted today, five years almost to the day from when she posted her first one. She says she started them when her blog was “newish and I wanted to show I was a proper writer who wrote things.”

She also wanted to do something inspired by the Mysteries of Harold Burdick—I had no idea what the Mysteries of Harold Burdick are, so I clicked on the link in her post and found myself at Chris Van Allsburg’s website. I don’t know who he is, either (I reckon he’s a writer, there are so darned many of us, mostly unknown to each other), but the history of the Mysteries is there, and wow, is it a creepy/cool story.

Read it here. Me paraphrasing would do it no justice anyway. The point of this piece is that, after July 11, there will be no more FGTs at erinmorgenstern.com.

Rats.

Her weekly ten-sentence stories have been a staple in my routine since I first read The Night Circus. Just as she was inspired by the Harold Burdick story, so have I been inspired by her Flax-Golden Tales. They are primarily why I decided to do my writing exercises, those odd little pieces attached to a photograph and often left dangling for the reader to finish in his/her imagination. I haven’t set myself the same parameters, though I try to draft something wonderful in twenty minutes or less. Some hit, some miss, all are me stretching my skill and imagination beyond my comfort level. Almost all of my writing is inspired by pictures, other writers’ works, music, lyrics, poetry, movies—if someone else has produced it, I can springboard from it. I can even do some things better, though at present I am no longer sure (if I ever was) what my preference really is. Is it personal non-fiction? Fantasy? Urban fantasy? Short fiction? Serial work? The never-ending novel? I know what I like to write, but I don’t want to be locked into a genre, either.

I am just a writer who wants to write things.

“Popcorn”

Grandma said to pick the plump ones near the bottom of the stalk, and not to pull too hard. “If you have to pull,” she said, “they’re not ready for eating and you’ll break a tooth for sure.”

“That’s not real popcorn,” Aiden argued, certain that she was funning him. Everyone knew that popcorn came from a bag in the microwave.

“It is, too,” Grandma insisted. “It’s the real deal, nothing at all like that farmed junk they sell at the movies or the grocery store. Go on, go and try one. You’ll never crave crap popcorn again.”

He laughed at his grandmother saying “crap”, but that’s how Grandma was. He wondered sometimes how Mom had turned out so proper with a mother like that, though he had way more fun at Grandma’s place that he had at home. Grandma’s place was magical.

So he ventured into the tall grass growing on the cliff and sighted a bunch of stalks covered with mostly fat yellow morsels. The ones at the top were small and kind of green, and so hard when he pinched one that it made a dent in his fingertips. The ones in between were fluffier, but probably had toenails that would stick in his teeth and make his gums bleed. Grandma called out when he eyeballed the lower third of the stalk:

“Bring a handful, Aiden, and we’ll have a snack.”

It looked like popcorn, all right. The biggest blossoms practically fell into his hand when he touched them, just like Grandma said. And if she was willing to eat it with him, then she couldn’t be funning him like he thought she was.

He made an apron from his t-shirt and filled it up with fluffy yellow flowers, then tromped back to where she sat waiting for him on a big rock. “I dunno, Grandma,” he said dubiously, giving her one last chance to hoot and come clean.

She plucked a beauty from the pile in his makeshift bowl. Aiden watched her toss it into her mouth, chew it, and swallow. “Yum,” she said. She reached for another one, not bothering to invite him to try one himself.

That made up his mind. He chose a big one that looked buttery (but how could it be when there was no butter around?) and put it carefully on his tongue.

It was the best popcorn he’d ever eaten. Drenched in hot butter sun and salted from the sea air, every single piece was perfection. Aiden crammed it by the handful into his mouth and went back for two t-shirts more. “Don’t tell anyone,” Grandma cautioned afterward, walking home with his hand in hers. “If word gets out, they’ll come and harvest every stalk ’til the cliffs are bare and only twigs remain.”

“Can’t they grow it as good on a farm, Grandma?”

“Farms are where the crap they sell at the movies and the grocery store comes from, son. Some things are best left where they belong. Nature knows the right conditions to get the best results. You remember that when you grow up, and you’ll do fine.”

Aiden did remember. When he grew up and had a son of his own, he took the boy to the oceanside cliffs and pointed out the cheerful sunny stalks waving gently in the breeze. “See the yellow flowers, Ty? That’s wild popcorn. You pick ’em from the bottom, but don’t pull too hard. If you have to pull, they’re not ready for eating and you’ll break a tooth for sure.”

Rock ’n’ Roll

I live in a world where people my age play golf on weekends and go someplace warm for vacation. What do Ter and I do for fun?

We go to rock concerts. Even now, in our fifties, we’re doomed fools for arena shows headlined by the artists/bands who figure prominently in our CD libraries. We have averaged one to two shows a year over the course of our adventure, starting with The Jacksons’ Victory tour in 1985. Actually, I started in 1979 with April Wine and Ter saw the Osmonds in Seattle before we knew each other, but since we became a team, yikes, have we set ourselves up for hearing aids in the nursing home.

Some bands we’ve seen more than once. Some more than twice, three times, do I hear six? That would be Sting … or Def Leppard … or is it Duran Duran, and do we count the Power Station show in their tally? Between the clusters, we’ve seen any number of acts but once, including some as opening acts—the Cranberries, for instance, when they opened for DD on their Wedding Album tour, kd lang ahead of Sting in 1998, and Hedley when they warmed up the crowd for Bon Jovi in 2007. (Okay, we heard Hedley from the concourse ’cause a Canucks/Oilers game was on and the show was at then-GM Place, but still.)

There was David Bowie, and Aerosmith, and Heart, and Rob Thomas, and Sheryl Crow. Then the PBS shows like Celtic Thunder, Andrea Bocelli, and Sarah Brightman—easier on the ears than the rock bands by far, and alarming evidence that we are becoming our parents. Back in the 80s, we caught Can-con acts like Glass Tiger, Kim Mitchell, and Corey Hart, but missed Platinum Blonde and Strange Advance. Corey retired from performing this year, but hey, if we really want, we can catch the retro-tour on just about everyone else.

Er, no, thanks.

Truly, a lot of the live arena shows are too loud and attended by really annoying individuals who invariably get tickets close to where we are positioned, but who make for dandy Darwinian reminiscing. The cokehead who somersaulted down the stairs at Def Leppard in 1992. The cokehead who nearly flipped over the railing at Aerosmith in 1993. The little dancing man at Sting in 1998. More shenanigans at Leppard and Duran gigs because we’ve seen them more than once—flailing arms and boogying butts in our faces, not to mention the rank stench of marijuana wafting over from somewhere we’re not. Oh, and the guy who was so smashed at yet another Lep concert that he lost his glasses and Security had to help him find them. That was rich. Ter has been beaned by bags at the swag stall and boots from the row behind, I’ve been elbowed aside and done some sharp elbowing back, and for what, you ask? Well, for the memories, of course.

We have also been privileged. Peter Frampton played guitar when he still had his hair (with Bowie in 1986). Roland Orzabal of Tears For Fears sang, and his voice was as deep and resonant live as on tape. Stewart Copeland stole The Police show from Sting by drumming like a madman with absolutely surgical precision. Discovering guitarist Dominic Miller when he joined der Stingle’s band. Sarah Brightman … geez, angels weep for lacking her purity of pitch. Most recently, Heart’s Ann Wilson loosed a kickass vocal on a bunch of Led Zeppelin tunes and my skin still hasn’t stopped prickling from the sonic waves. Later this year, we’ve got tickets for Sarah McLachlan when she comes to town.

Next year, who knows? We each have a David yet on our wannasee list—Garrett for Ter, Usher for me, and both acts are going strong so there’s a good chance we’ll check the boxes on them before we’re completely deaf. On the last Duran tour, I asked Ter how much longer she thought we could keep this going. She shook the sweat from her eyes and said something like, “When they stop, we’ll stop.”

That pretty well says it all.