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Showing posts with label Shakespeare. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Shakespeare. Show all posts

Friday, August 17, 2012

CAN READING HEAL?

*
"What wound did ever heal but by degrees?," wrote Shakespeare.

Plato wrote, "We can easily forgive a child who is afraid of the dark; the real tragedy of life is when men are afraid of the light."

“If you would have me weep,
you must first of all feel grief yourself.”
~ Horace

1.) Each of these quotes made you reflect. IT MAY HAVE ALSO EXTENDED YOUR LIFE!

The world is gradually dividing into two populations.

Not the “haves” and “have-nots” of the political agitators. This is something much more precious than mere money: It’s those who learn and those who don’t.

In bald numbers, educated men live 14 years longer, on average, than uneducated men.

Educated women live 10 years longer, on average, than uneducated women.

But learning minds are not limited to those with degrees ... learning minds are merely those who read, reflect, and learn from the prose.

2.) READING AS VALIUM.

Reading is the best way to relax and even six minutes can be enough to reduce the stress levels by more than two thirds, according to new research.

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/health/healthnews/5070874/Reading-can-help-reduce-stress.html

And it works better and faster than other methods to calm frazzled nerves such as listening to music, going for a walk or settling down with a cup of tea, research found.

Psychologists believe this is because the human mind has to concentrate on reading and the distraction of being taken into a literary world eases the tensions in muscles and the heart.

The research was carried out on a group of volunteers by consultancy Mindlab International at the University of Sussex.

Reading worked best, reducing stress levels by 68 per cent, said cognitive neuropsychologist Dr David Lewis.

Subjects only needed to read, silently, for six minutes to slow down the heart rate and ease tension in the muscles, he found. In fact it got subjects to stress levels lower than before they started.

Listening to music reduced the levels by 61 per cent, have a cup of tea of coffee lowered them by 54 per cent and taking a walk by 42 per cent.

Playing video games brought them down by 21 per cent from their highest level but still left the volunteers with heart rates above their starting point.

3.) PLATO NOT PROZAC:

The idea that literature can make us emotionally and physically stronger goes back to Plato.

But now book groups are proving that Shakespeare can be as beneficial as self-help guides. There is a rise in bibliotherapy.


Medical staff tell stories of the remarkable successes they've seen:

the neurological patient who sat in a group saying nothing for months, then after a reading of George Herbert's poem "The Flower"

("Who would have thought my shrivelled heart

Could have recovered greenness?")

launched into a 10-minute monologue at the end of which he announced "I feel great."

The brain-damaged young man whose vocabulary significantly increased after he joined a book group;

the husband caring for his disabled wife whose exposure to poetry has proved not just a respite but a liberation.

To outsiders, the outcomes might seem small, but to the staff and patients concerned they're huge breakthroughs.

Judith Mawer of the Mersey Care Mental Health Trust explained,

focusing on a book is the decisive factor:

"People who don't respond to conventional therapy, or don't have access to it, can externalise their feelings by engaging with a fictional character, or be stimulated by the rhythms of poetry."

One particularly successful initiative has been reading poetry to and with dementia patients, some of whom have lost all sense of who and where they are but can recite the words of a poem learned at school 70 years ago.

"One sheds one's sicknesses in books," DH Lawrence once wrote.

Bibliotherapy, as it's called, is a fast-growing profession. A recent survey suggests that "over half of English library authorities are operating some form of bibliotherapy intervention.

Read the evocative words of Emmylou Harris from THE PEARL which touched the dark heart of a patient struggling with Cancer:

O the dragons are gonna fly tonight
They're circling low and inside tonight
It's another round in the losing fight
Out along the great divide tonight

We are aging soldiers in an ancient war
Seeking out some half remembered shore
We drink our fill and still we thirst for more
Asking if there's no heaven what is this hunger for?

Our path is worn our feet are poorly shod
We lift up our prayer against the odds
And fear the silence is the voice of God

And we cry Allelujah Allelujah
We cry Allelujah

Sorrow is constant and the joys are brief
The seasons come and bring no sweet relief
Time is a brutal but a careless theif
Who takes our lot but leaves behind the grief

It is the heart that kills us in the end
Just one more old broken bone that cannot mend
As it was now and ever shall be amen

And we cry Allelujah Allelujah
We cry Allelujah

So there'll be no guiding light for you and me
We are not sailors lost out on the sea
We were always headed toward eternity
Hoping for a glimpse of Gaililee

Like falling stars from the universe we are hurled
Down through the long loneliness of the world
Until we behold the pain become the pearl

Cryin´ Allelujah Allelujah
We cry Allelujah

And we cry Allelujah Allelujah
We cry Allelujah
***
For the Cancer patient there was emotional healing to these words.

*{A photo of some of the leather bound volumes in one of my bookcases.}

Wednesday, January 26, 2011

GYPSY_BEWARE WHAT YOU WISH FOR


Food Guy is still waging mortal combat with bronchitis ...

So I, Gypsy, warrior princess, must save the day yet again.

I have to ask you humans ... why do you do this to yourselves?

Fiction has got to be the roughest trade in prose. No textbooks. No reference. No quotes. Just your imaginations.

You have to invent something that is truer than true. Life doesn't have to make internal sense. Fiction does and still come across as life anyway.

Writing is something you can never do as well as it can be done. Always a challenge.

Jospeh Conrad suffered when he wrote. Called writing "un metier du chien" (a dog's trade)! I bristle and hump my back just writing those words. I have you know, Joe, that writing is NOT a dog's trade. And Food Guy only suffers when he does NOT write.

How about you, guys? Don't you itch and ache if you can't write? Let this feline know, all right?

Food Guy and I were just talking about the magic of short words :

I am the granddaughter of Bast, and I know that the most ancient of words are the short ones. Such words tend to be concrete and emotive :

sky, star, earth, cloud, sun, taste, food, drink, sight.

If an ancient word is a "concept" word, its concept is eternal and heart-stirring rather than abstract : life, war, love, death, peace, and friend.

The most ancient of those words have to do with us :skin, bone, blood, head, toe. The things we know best usually have a simple name.

My point?

To stir the blood and heart and mind of your reader : be simple -- use short, to the marrow words.

Short words don't war with one another in a paragraph like longer ones do. They mesh like a well-worn fighting unit.

In the beginning was the Word. And the end will mumur with one word as well.

Shakespeare could bruise your eye and mind with his arcane and showy phrases. But when he wanted to hit your heart, he used short words :

"My heart is turned to stone. I strike it, and it hurts my hand."

"As flies to cruel boys, are we to the gods. They kill us for sport."

In another incarnation, I sat beside Chief Joseph and wept as he said,

"No one knows where my People are. No food, no blankets, perhaps freezing to death. I want to have time to look for my children. Maybe I can find them among the dead. My heart is sick and sad. From where the sun now stands, I will fight no more forever."

If you would touch the heart, be simple, be short.
***

Sunday, September 19, 2010

GHOST OF A CHANCE_CHAPTER 34_TO FALL INTO DARKNESS


{"I could a tale unfold whose lightest


word

Would harrow up thy soul."

-Shakespeare : HAMLET I. v.}



{Ghost of Samuel Clemens : I should have gone with Roland.

I followed. But too late. Too late.

His charred journal tells us Roland saved Epona, the last unicorn,

only to see her race off deeper into Hell.

Are all our strivings merely empty boxing with the wind?

DayStar was mocking Roland when we last left him ....}



Behind me, DayStar chuckled, "All know the way to Hell but none know the way out."

I kept watching Epona until she blinked out of sight over the smoldering horizon, and I kept on watching for a moment more as I called back over my shoulder.

"I'm considering the source of those words."

"As you yourself once told me : the best lie is sandwiched between two truths."

I turned around and smiled sad. "You just challenge me to figure out what's the lie and what's the truth, is that it?"

He studied me like a scientist would a glass slide under a miscroscope. "That would be telling. And the scant amusement you afford me is watching you stumble over the truth right in front of you."

"Well, just so long as I have a purpose in life."

Something disturbing flickered deep within his eyes, then died before I could catch what it was as he murmured, "Oh, yes, primate, you have a purpose."

"Cue the spooky music," I muttered and turned to walk to my left, but his hand settled firm on my shoulder.

"You insist on scattering myths about you."

He glanced to his left. My eyes followed his. I stiffened. Epona. Or really an after-image of her, rearing and pawing at the darkness with her hooves. I shivered at the joy in her eyes.

I shrugged his hand off my shoulder. "I have a friend to get out of Hell."

The shadows masked all but his gray eyes, and even they seemed to be full of darkness. "In the hour you will die."

"Staying alive's not part of the job."

He cocked a brow. "Winning by dying?"

"Been done before."

He smiled like a satisfied wolf. "Your own personal Alamo, is it?"

"There are worse fates."

"You have a most peculiar code."

"Look who's talking."

"I have no code."

"Non servium."

"Oh, that. In that case, welcome to the club."

"Well, considering where I am it would seem to fit."

DayStar's face was suddenly hidden by shadow as if he did not want me to see it. "You have never fit, never conformed. It is why you will soon die."

"Probably so."

"But you will not relent, will not surrender."

"Probably not."

"In that case ...."

His eyes flared with actual flames, as his right hand gestured like a sword, "Go to Hell!"

Blackness swallowed me as I felt myself lifted off my feet and hurled down, down, down. I tumbled head over heels in billowing clouds of darkness and mist.

Faintly from above, I heard DayStar's bitter words, "The true pain, DreamSinger, is not the fall but the surviving it."
***


Wednesday, September 15, 2010

GHOST OF A CHANCE_CHAPTER 30_THE DEVIL YOU SAY


{"The iron tongue of midnight hath told twelve,

Now, is the very witching hour of the night,

When churchyards yawn, and Hell itself breathes out."

- Shakespeare A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM}

{Samuel Clemens, ghost and last survivor of Roland's epic journey, here.

His strange Lakota blood brings to life what he writes. He has written his hero, Samuel McCord, into Hell.

In an attempt to undo what he has unwittingly done, Roland has entered Hell despite my pleas. He is not alone long.

Tall and mocking, DayStar who claims to be the devil himself, has walked beside Roland.

Let Roland's words from his charred journal tell the rest ....}



DayStar swept his arm in a wide arc and laughed in the sounds of breaking bones.

"Look around you, primate. Absolutely breath-taking in its scope and power is it not?"

The living shadows parted from his face just enough for me to catch one mocking gray eye.

"All you see shaped by the hand of Elohim. In one fluid, majestic stroke. You have to love him. Literally. If not, he sends you here."

DayStar smiled like a wolf at me. I could barely stand from the hurricane's sand-filled winds.

DayStar's Armani clothes weren't even wrinkled. His tie hung down calm and unruffled,

his satin jacket flowed from his wide shoulders gentle and untouched like he was a manikin in a store front window. I guessed ruling here had its perks.

His face grew longer, less human. "Not so you would notice, mammal."

The horse screamed in agony again. To Hell with DayStar. Literally. I had to help the poor thing.

Disgust etched his features as he shook his head at me.

"There is no way you can hope to enter through that ruptured wall to rescue that pathetic creature."

His smile flashed like a knife from the shadows caressing his face.

"The last time that wall was breached was two thousand years ago. And he was perfect. Are you?"

I wondered if I drew him diagrams if I could get him to leave me alone.

"If I promise to miss you, will you leave?"

He sighed disappointedly. "You cannot possibly be that dense."

"You can have hounded me all my life and ask me that?"

"You are hardly that important that I would make it a point to hound you all your life."

"Not so I would notice."

His thin lips sneered. "What you do not notice would fill more volumes than a library could hold."

"When you're right, you're right."

His left eyebrow arched. "Be careful when you agree with me."

"You're asking a man who's jumped into the fire to be careful? Sorta like that proverbial barn door, isn't it?"

He smiled wider.

"You are in Hell of your own freewill. A living soul in perdition.

Your lifespan here will not be long.

But since you chose this place freely, Hell will not release your soul."

The shadows around his face parted to show the smile of a shark. "Ever."
***


Saturday, July 24, 2010

CHAPTER SIX : THE GAUNTLET

{"Not only is life a bitch, but it is always having puppies.
- Adrienne Gusoff.}

Mark Twain looked at me with narrowed eyes. "You killed pretty easy there, Roland."

I shook my head. "No, it wasn't easy. Not for me. Not for Shakespeare. But Marlowe took such delight in ... in ...."

I squeezed shut my eyes, knowing I would see the image of the Elizabethan assassin being literally swallowed by death for the rest of my days.

I smiled what I knew had to be a bitter twist of my lips. The rest of my days didn't promise to be much longer if I didn't start thinking smarter.

I smelled Marlene's perfume as I felt my arm hugged. "Come, Liebchen. You did what had to be done. There is no shame in stepping on a cockroach."

Mark Twain dourly snapped, "Human being, Marlene. A bad one. But still a human being."

I opened my eyes to see Marlene's icy face. "You are human because of your deeds, Twain, not your DNA."

His eyebrow rose. "DNA?"

"Unlike you, scribbler, I read more than my own writing."

"We're stuck on the wrong question," I said.

"Do tell?," frowned Mark Twain.

"Yes, it's not why I killed Marlowe, but why he didn't kill me."

Marlene's slim hand went to her mouth. "Mein Gott, he was not working for the ghosts but for those who want to know how to kill them."

Mark Twain looked uneasily over his shoulder at the narrowly watching patrons of Meilori's as they sat at their oval tables, sipped their drinks, and ran light fingers over knife edges and gun barrels.

Any one of them could be working either for the ghosts who wanted me dead or for those in the Shadowlands who wanted me alive just long enough to gasp out the secret on how to kill the unkillable.

The darkness, barely kept at bay by the old Victorian gas lights, suddenly seemed alive ... and deadly.

Mark Twain smiled grimly. "I do believe that Toya gal had the right idea : losing ourselves deeper in this beknighted hostel for the damned may be our only hope of keeping our scalps."

Marlene, her eyes even more grim than Twain's, nodded silently. I nodded along with her. And we walked into the waiting shadows.

We hadn't gone seven steps before a stout woman in Renaissance robes grabbed Mark's left arm. "Oh, Mr. Twain, where have you been all my life?"

"Avoiding you, Madame," he gruffed, extracting his arm with difficulty from the human killer whale.

She seemed to swell with indignation. "Why, I never!"

"Miss an opportunity to eat? And it shows, Madame, it shows."

And so the gauntlet began. What gauntlet? The one that always started whenever Marlene walked into a room filled with men and alcohol. A samurai hoisted up on the belt that held his twin swords, swaggered from the bar to our left, and winked at her.

"I know I could make you very happy," he leered.

"Why," she murmured, "are you leaving?"

A scruffy man in battered khaki and fedora shoved the samurai aside. "Out of the way, loser."

He flashed a wide smile, seeming to be glowing white appearing as it did in the midst of a two week’s growth of beard.

"Go on. I know you want to. Ask me out."

Marlene kept on walking past him. "Certainly. Get out."

We walked through the cluster of glowing tables amidst the hoots of the samurai.

A sound of a scuffle broke out. The rasp of a drawn sword. The snap of a whip.

Marlene sighed, "Men. So predictable. So full of ego."

With a graceful twirl of her hand, she plopped whip-boy's fedora on my head at a rakish angle.

"How?," I sputtered.

She smiled like an evil pixie. "Have you not heard the gossip, Liebchen? I am fast."

Mark Twain grinned crooked, "That is one word for it."

I turned to him. "You should be ashamed of yourself."

"I am ... most nearly every night."

I shook my head. "Marlene is a hero. For three years she entertained the troops on the front lines with a death sentence from Hitler on her head. She raised millions of dollars to buy bombs that were then dropped on Berlin -- where her mother still lived.

She risked not just her life, but the life of her mother, to fight Hitler. And it haunted her each night of that long, long war."

Marlene patted my cheek, kissing it lightly. "Always my champion, Liebling. I love you for it."

A tall, wiry man in a black suit with wide lapels, wearing a hat with an even wider brim, got up from his table. He shifted his shoulders in an unsuccessful attempt to hide the gun he wore in a shoulder holster. He strutted up to Marlene.

"Where have you been all my life, doll?"

"Hiding from you."

His face got hard. Unfortunately, his jaw was not. Marlene moved faster than my eyes could follow. A fast uppercut and he went down to the floor with a loud thump.

Quarters spilled from her tiny fist.

She frowned. "I had that roll of quarters for fifty years."

She stepped over him, with the grace of a lioness.

Mark Twain startled me by bending down, stripping the man of his coat and shoulder holster. He put it on awkwardly until Marlene helped him.

He smiled like Huckleberry Finn.

"Damnation. I'm beginning to list to the port. However does Captain Sam walk straight?"

I had hoped that this would put an end to our gauntlet. But male hormones are notoriously single-minded and short-sighted. I wondered how the human race has survived as long as it has. We traveled all of three paces before it started up again.

A musketeer, leaning on the bar to our left, reached out and stroked Marlene’s hair. "Haven’t I seen you someplace before, wench?"

She kneed him once, hard, four inches below his belt buckle. He went down huffing and squealing. She reached out and poured his mug of ale on his face.

"Yes, RĂ¼pel, and that is why I do not go there anymore."

A bare-chested black man walked like a rooster towards us. He seemed to be wearing a woman’s hose on top of his head and more gold chains than Midas would have found decent.

His baggy shorts went below his knees. His shoes were canvas. His fashions were tacky. His attitude was worse.

He walked right up to Marlene, looking her up and down, stopping where no man should look, much less stare. "Yo, mama, what it is?"

She flicked the point of her saber to his Adam's Apple. "Unobtainable."

He staggered backwards, holding his throat. "Chill, mama! I didn’t mean nothing."

Marlene murmured, "That is true, Flegel. You mean nothing. To me. To us. And sadly, it would seem you mean nothing to yourself."

She slashed a small cut on his throat. "Go! Be nothing downwind of us. Go!!"

He went.

Mark Twain rubbed his own throat. "Valkyrie, remind me never to rile you."

Her eyes were windows into a cold, unruffled sea. "Remind yourself and be spared much unpleasantness."

Looking into those eyes, I saw, not her, but the dead ghost body of Hemingway.

I shivered. Could a ghost kill another ghost?
******************

Friday, July 23, 2010

CHAPTER FIVE : MURDERING SHAKESPEARE


{"It is a sin to believe evil of others, but it is seldom a mistake."
- H. L. Mencken}

I recognized the face above the luger pointed at me.

He was dressed in a black, high-collar Elizabethan outfit of leather, hose, and sword.

His haunted face seemed to have seen too many of life’s bitter ironies.

His eyes probed me from under his brown, thinning hair. I judged him to be about thirty, and his manner whispered he was an adept at trickery, both verbal and physical.

But then, my knowing him was hardly the feat you might think. I recognized him from his drawing made in front of The Globe Theater in London when good Queen Bess was neither good nor regal.

Shakespeare.

Marlene grunted, "Shouldn’t you have a dagger in your eye?"

His face went hard, his eyes cold. "You have the advantage of me, dear lady."

"And of everyone else I meet, Christopher."

His eyes became a wolf’s. "I go by the name William now."

"As you did when I persuaded you to let me play the lead in your new play, The Taming of the Shrew."

Mark Twain chuckled, "Obviously, he was a believer in type casting."

She shot him a look a lesser man would have fainted from. "Cute."

"A living legend actually," Mark smiled wide.

"And humble, too."

Shakespeare/Marlowe snorted, "You should read your history better, Twain. Boys played women roles at The Globe Theater."

I turned to Marlene. "But that was before you were born."

She winked at me. "Time does not exist for ghosts as it does for you, Liebling. I go where there are challenging roles."

Mark muttered, "Hardly a challenge for the Valkyrie to play a shrew."

Marlene raised her saber towards my friend, but Shakespeare gestured with his luger. "No, no, dear lady. Another inch, and I will kill Roland."

Mark Twain growled, "If you don't lower that weapon, I will knock you so far into next week that it will take a team of surgeons to extract Thursday from your posterior."

Shakespeare half-covered a mock yawn. "I have not cheated death all these centuries to be threatened by a ghost who cannot even touch me."

I pulled up straight. Cheated Death? Death who had shaken me like a cheap blender, who had given me ... a box filled with darkness? I suddenly knew who the box was for. But could I give it to him, knowing what it held?

Marlene's ice-blue eyes narrowed. "You would hurt my Liebchen?"

So fast it was a blur, her right boot toe slammed into Shakespeare's groin. He squealed and bent double, clutching himself. He weaved unsteadily on his feet, the luger slipping from his fingers.

"L-Low blow, Milady."

Marlene snatched up the luger, shoving it into her own golden waist sash. "All blows are low, Marlowe."

She sneered down at him. "And were you as clever as you believe, you would have known that in Meilori's, ghosts become solid."

"You keep calling him Marlowe," I frowned. "But Marlowe died from a dagger in the eye."

Christopher smiled a thing of pure, gleeful evil. "I gave it to that young upstart named Shakespeare. He stole my lines. I stole his identity. Seemed fair to me."

Mark Twain frowned, "And how did it seem to young Shakespeare?"

Christopher’s face grew cold. "Quick."

And just like that are lives decided. The wrong word at the right time. A proud crowing when silence would have saved.

I have a weakness : bullies. They had made my life hell when I was a young boy, moving from city to city, school to school. Whenever I met one, I always went a little crazy ... as I did at that moment.

Clenching my teeth against the pain of the dry-ice agony to it, I pulled the rune-covered box from my jeans and shoved it into his right hand. "Here. This is for you. From a devoted follower."

The lid of the box snapped open. A billowing cloud of darkness swallowed Marlowe. It howled hungrily, the speed of it frightening the hell out of me.

Marlowe screamed wet and shrill like a little girl. I suddenly felt sharp regret for what I had just done. Then, in my mind, I saw a young, struggling playwright with a dagger in his bleeding, blank eye.

The regret ebbed back a bit. As quick as the turning off of a light switch, the cloud and Marlowe were gone.

Gone. But the memory and my regret stayed.

I forced my throat to work. "Say Hello to Faust for me."
********************************



****
And to hear the theory that Marlowe stole Shakespeare's life :

Thursday, July 22, 2010

CHAPTER FOUR : A BOX FULL OF DARKNESS

{"We are but of yesterday and know nothing because our days upon the earth are a shadow."
- Job 14th chapter, 1st and 2nd verse.}

Toya, manager of Meilori's and proud possessor of the shortest skirt in all creation, glowered at me. "What brings your sorry hide here?"

"Trouble," I said, hoping to ease on by her.

She pulled her cutlass from her buccaneer's sash and lightly touched the front of my black T-shirt. "Not good enough, writer boy."

Toya glared at me as if I symbolized everything she hated. Who knows? Maybe I did.

Marlene Dietrich, still trying to burst out of her snug Prussian calvalry outfit, slapped the cutlass away with her saber. "Dirne, the dead ghost of Hemingway has been found by his bed and me in that bed. What does that tell you?"

Toya appraised me with cool eyes. "It tells me you've been a busy boy, Roland."

"I didn't kill him!"

"Of course, you didn't kill him, writer boy. You a boy scout. But every creepy-crawlie out in the Shadowlands will think you did. So the ghosts want revenge and every other damned thing wants the secret of how you kill what can't be killed."

She shook her head, nudging her pirate hat a bit more to an angle. "You're screwed."

"Thanks for the newsflash, but I already had that figured out."

To my left, a leisurely Missouri drawl spoke. "Toya's like an elephant. Everyone likes to look at her, but no one wants to keep her."

Toya grunted, "Clemens, no likes a smart-ass."

I turned to see an auburn-haired Mark Twain laugh, "Why sure they do, Missy. All except the one he's talking to, that is."

Marlene smiled mischieviously. "Sam, your hair seems to have become as dark as Toya's."

He put a forefinger to his lips. "Shhh. When folks hear that name they think McCord, and he has too many enemies here who shoot first and look second."

Mark Twain winked at Marlene and stroked his auburn moustache. "The ladies like the color, don't you know?"

"Sa-Mark," I said. "You're married."

His face lost its light. "Yes, I surely am. And I have been looking for my Livvy ever since I died. I haven't found her. But I will. I will."

Marlene seem to glide more than walk to Mark Twain. "Old friend, you both have died. And so you both have parted. It is a harsh truth."

He patted her slender hand. "You have your truth. I have my dream. We'll see, Valkyrie. We'll see."

Toya gestured to the back of the club with her cutlass. "Shoo, all of you! I will have no maudlin scenes up here spoiling the mood of my place. To the back with all of you."

Mark Twain bristled. "Woman, I thought you liked Roland. The further back in Meilori's you go, the worse it gets."

Toya nodded. "Yes, with HIS creations from HIS unconscious. They haven't been talked about the internet and all God's creation. Roland dies. They die."

Marlene shook her head. "You have never heard of the fable of the scorpion and the swan?"

"Yeah, sweet cheeks, I have. And you'll just have to take your chances with their natures. Or do you want to deal with those Shadowlanders coming in through the front door?"

The three of us whirled about. No one was coming in. I turned back to Toya who only smirked.

"Not yet. But soon."

I suddenly realized Marlene wasn't holding Gypsy's carrier anymore. "Gypsy!"

Marlene smiled. "Do not worry, Liebchen. Elu has her safe in his mirror world."

I swallowed hard. Safe? With Elu? In his deadly mirror world? How safe was that? It occurred to me that it was probably safer than here with me.

Toya broke into my brooding. "Oh, I almost forgot. Death said to give you this."

She reached behind her sash and pulled out a small, ornate box covered in strange runes. She handed it to me. I almost dropped it. It was as cold as dry ice. With burning fingers, I shoved it into my right jeans pocket. It still burned, but not as much or as badly.

"What is it, Toya?"

"Death said it was a box full of darkness."

"How appropriate," softly spoke a silken voice behind me.

"Marlowe," snarled Marlene.

Toya sighed, "I tried to warn you." She spun about on her high heeled boots and left us.

I turned and froze.

"Shakespeare?"

The bard aimed his luger straight at my heart.


"Man wants but little here below,

Nor wants that little long."

His smile was even colder than his eyes. "You murder my prose. I murder you. Fitting is it not?"
******************

******************************
For my friend, Gardner West, the musical question of the weekend :

Wednesday, July 21, 2010

CHAPTER THREE : DEATH TAKES NO SIDES

{"... the time of life is short;
To spend that shortness basely were
too long."
- Shakespeare (HENRY IV)}

A tall Valkyrie held me in a crushing embrace. I went cold. She looked just like the Angelus of Death of whom I wrote in my novels.

"Rind?," I squeaked.

Long, platinum hair hid a long face already masked by living shadows. One eye of winter frost burned out at me from the darkness. The head shook. My heart sank.

"Not Rind," I managed to get out.

Words of living ice whispered, "No, son of Adam. I take this form only because of the pathetic limits of your imagination."

Her head tilted, the club's gas lights skating along the sheen of her ice hair.

"The life you seek

cannot be found but

endless paths exist."

She gestured with too long fingers, and a tiny globe of an cloud-splattered earth spun slowly in front of me.

"What if all Creation is but a dream inside the mind of God?"

I smiled sadly. "It's gonna be a real shock to all of us when He wakes up."

"Have a care, Roland. I am not Rind. But - I - am - Death."

I heard the capitol letter. "Not too surprising. Every creature in the Shadowlands thinks I can kill ghosts. The ghosts want me dead. The others want the secret ... then they want me dead."

I shook my head. "So of course you're Death."

The words were like lashes of sound. "You did not kill Hemingway."

"You believe me?"

She shook me like a dog would a wet sock. "I am Death, moron. Of course I know you did not kill Hemingway."

"Never figured Death for a coward," drawled a low, angry voice.

I looked around. I was in the front section of Meilori's, its dim Victorian furnishings off-set by its supernatural customers. And then I saw who had spoken.

Sam. He was glaring at Death. Marlene had her saber pointed at her. Death laughed, and it was the sound of breaking bones.

"I am threatened by echoes. How frightening."

I clamped my fingers around her frigid wrists. "You have to go through me first."

She leaned in close to my ear. "You will fold like a cheap paper bag."

"Ever hear of paper cuts?"

The laughter again, but it seemed warmer. "I like you, Little Lakota. Your time is not just yet. And when I do come for you, I think it will be as a ... friend."

"So you're going to help me?"

The laughter stopped abruptly. "No. And yes ... in a way. All here in Meilori's have seen me talk to you. When I walk away, there will be worrisome mutterings. Why did I not take you? Am I on your side? It will stop the more overt attacks on your person."

"What about the covert ones?," murmured Marlene.

Death wrapped the shadows around herself. "You were always greedy, Magdalene."

And she was gone.

A woman with the skin the color of cream coffee struted up to us. She was dressed as a buccaneer in a skirt so short it qualified as a wide belt. I smiled wide. The manager of Meilori's. She was my friend.

"You! You always bring us trouble," she snapped.

Or maybe not.

"Sam," she said, as she rushed to his side. "Victor's in trouble. Some undead gal's about to have him for dinner."

He nodded grimly and turned to me. "I have to go help him. He's just a boy."

Marlene protested, "You cannot leave us!"

Sam jerked a thumb at me. "Blame Roland. He's already written this chapter of CAPTAIN OUTRAGEOUS. I'm compelled to go."

"No," sobbed Marlene.

But she was protesting to empty air. Samuel McCord, our protector, was gone.

We were alone. Alone in his club of the damned.
*************

Tuesday, February 16, 2010

WRITING IN THE CROSSHAIRS




Why the title WRITING IN THE CROSSHAIRS?

All writers I believe write in the crosshairs. If you have beta readers and have submitted to agents/editors, you know the feeling of being in the crosshairs of their evaluations. Ouch. But no pain, no gain.

But I am thinking of the imagry of the hunter. He fixes his aim at his target, looking through his scope. The image is hardly crisp at the beginning. He must adjust the lens to achieve crisp clarity and the best chance of hitting his target.

Writers are like that hunter. At first the image of our tale is blurry. We tighten the focus with revealing dialogue, vibrant characters, engaging crises, and creative descriptions. Pacing and plot tighten the image even more. Sometimes we get it with dead-on clarity. Most times we don't. No one but Shakespeare is perfect. If you don't believe me, ask Harold Bloom or any university English professor.

It is a tricky endeavor writing in the crosshairs. How do we focus quicksilver humans into concrete mental images? Take flames. They look like objects but are really processes. Humans are like that as well. No human actually is complete. He or she is in the process of becoming.

But becoming what? We answer that question with our choices.

But there is more to my title than that. We all write the movie of our lives in the crosshairs. That endeavor is more tricky. We don't get the luxury of time to reflect, muse, or ponder at leisure. Life is a harsh mistress. As we struggle, she flashes us that "beauty-queen" smile : all sharp teeth and no heart. And in her games of chance, the House ultimately wins.

Like Indiana Jones we must make it up as we go along. We plan and prepare. Life gleefully throws her monkey wrench into our preparations. We must write our lives in the crosshairs of illness, accidents, dysfunctional humans, and our own inner demons. We are all in Life's crosshairs, and none of us know when she will pull the trigger. We just know that she will.

This is what my blog is all about : how to maintain a measure of grace and peace in the crosshairs of Life. I haven't figured it out yet. Let me know what helps with you.


I'm listening to BRISTLECONE by Trace Bundy, an amazing guitarist who learned to play on his own since he didn't have money for lessons. He's an inspiration since none of us are given many lessons on how to play the tunes of our lives. With no lessons, he has done quite well. Visit his website : http://www.tracebundy.com/.