Let's Dance

This morning I awoke thinking about a lady I never really knew.  In fact, I only saw her a few times at dances years ago.

When I was younger I loved to dance, swinging and swirling to peppy music, interpreting the joy within the melody and beat, feeling the joy of a young, vibrant body producing endorphins as a by-product of exercise.  It was more invigorating than a long run in the morning dew.

Ah, the dancing.  I wasn’t  good at it, but I went to dances and hoped to find at least a few people willing to overlook my lack of talent and share my exuberance.  If no dance partners were forthcoming, I had to just sit and listen to the music.  The joy was greatly diminished.

But the lady in my thoughts this morning didn’t wait for dance partners; she didn’t allow the lack of partners to control her joy.  This old gal would get up and glide and swirl around the dance floor by herself despite the snickering, laughing people. She’d close her eyes and glide, smile as she swirled, and ignoring the rude hicks, she seemed to enjoy herself far more than the dancers constrained by partners.

I don’t remember, but perhaps I laughed with the rest. I do remember feeling embarrassed for her and terribly, terribly sorry for her, as she not only lacked dancing partners but seemed to have no friends.  I remember watching her, awe-stricken at her courage.  I don’t think I was any shrinking violet, but I certainly did not have the courage to dance without a partner, to take responsibility for my own joy.

As I look back, I respect that courage even more than I did at the time.  I don’t know her story, not even her name. I suspect, though, that she had a life partner at one time, perhaps even a family. She could have chosen to be a sad, solitary, old lady.  And perhaps she was most of the time.  But in that moment, she danced.  In that moment, she took responsibility for own joy and faced life on her own terms.  She did not sit around waiting for a dance partner; she danced. She did not let circumstances control her; she just danced.

This year our extended family has been bombarded with deaths, medical crises, and personal trauma, but when I awoke with this lady on my mind, a lady I haven’t thought of in years, I realized we all have a choice – in this moment, we can dwell on the events of the past year or we can embrace the joy of Christmas – the birth of Christ.

We don’t need a dance partner, we need courage.  We don’t need a young, vibrant body, we need heart.  We’ve had a tough year, but tomorrow we can face our problems, our grief.  In this moment, let’s open our hearts to joy and let our souls dance.  

It is Christmas.   

In this blessed moment, let’s dance.

Snooky Kaye Dec 2010

Bring me no flowers

Bring me no flowers in

the silence of the kirkyard
Bring me no whispers and
professions of love

Cry me no tears in

the peace of the kirkyard
Cry not your lonliness
to blue skies above

Bring me hugs I can feel

in a sunny day of life
Bring me smiles I can see
filled with happiness and cheer

Bring warm, gentle love

in the light of the morning
'Ere the silence of the kirkyard
bring sweet laughter to hear

Sheraine is captured (Malik Story)

This is part of the Malik story.  Here the second protagonist is introduced.  As I mentioned previously, the stories of the two protagonists (Malikand Sheraine) run separately and parallel until they meet.

"Hie! Hie, there! Move you mangy beasts!"

The wagon tore across the prairie at breakneck speed, but Belzak continue to lash the span of Rhinovoren.

In the back, Sheraine lurched helplessly with every jolt of the wagon. Her shackled wrists, chained to the wagon bed, were bloodied and her arms felt as if they were being ripped from their sockets. Supplies, torn from their restraints, flew about striking her defenseless body.

"Turn me loose, Belzak!" she screamed. "I am being killed!"

"Hold on, Miss," Belzak yelled over his shoulder.  "We can't stop until we're clear!"

With both hands, Sheraine grasped the pin anchoring her chains and struggled to her knees.  She glanced up at Belzak's bouncing back.  Just then an arrow tore through the back of his head, spattering her face with blood and bits of bone.  Transfixed with horror, she stared at the gore-ridden arrowhead and short length of shaft protruding from Belzak's skull. Before she could close her eyes, he crumpled and disappeared from his seat.

Peering over the seat, Sheraine saw a mounted soldier attempting to grab the reins to gain control of the team.  Then he, too, was shot. He fell from his saddle and disappeared into a cloud of dust and flailing hooves.

The rhinovoren galloped on at full speed. Sheraine was at the mercy of the terrified, unchecked beasts and the deadly chaos in the wagon box.

Suddenly, one of the animals went down taking the other with it in a confusing jumble of legs, rolling bodies, and dust. Seemingly in slow motion, the scene unfolded before her panic-stricken eyes.  As the front of the wagon rose over the bodies of the fallen animals, she glimpsed a portion of azure sky through the canvas cover. The wagon turned end over end and she was cast into blissful darkness.

-------

Sheraine could hear muted voices.  The blackness in which she was enveloped seemed lighter, more gray than black, but her eyelids were too heavy to open. She struggled to lift them, then surrendered to sinking darkness.

She felt a cool, damp, soothing sensation on her forehead and someone lightly caressing her arm.
"Look. Eye movement.  I think she's coming around."  It was a pleasant voice, a woman's voice.  Even in her semi-consciousness, Sheraine felt the adrenaline coursing through her body.  Home, she thought foggily, I'm home again.

Reaching deep within herself for strength, she forced her eyes open. The figure before her blurred and faded, but slowly her eyes focused on a beautiful, red-haired woman with piercing blue eyes.  Beautiful, but not familiar. Sheraine sighed; she was not home.

"So at last you've decided to join us.," the woman said with a friendly smile.  "We wondered how much longer you would sleep."

As Sheraine raised her head, lightening flashed behind her eyes, and she winced. She became aware of pain in her knees, elbows, wrists, and left shoulder. She felt like she'd been overrun by a team of rhinovoren.

"Lie back," the woman gently commanded. "You'll not be up and about for some time yet."

Taking a deep breath, Sheraine sank back.  She exhaled to a stabbing in her ribs and a fire in her chest. She was lying on a bed of robes, warm and comfortable.  Or it would be comfortable, she thought if one excluded the pain. Continuing her survey, she realized she was in a tent.

Looking at the woman again, she whispered, "Where am I?"

The woman, still lightly touching Sheraine's arm, smiled faintly, then turned to a massive hulk of a man and asked, "Leopoldo, did you bring the gammaquaff?"

Leopoldo, nodded silently and presented her with a bag that looked as if it were made from an animal skin.

"Thank you," the woman said as she poured from the contents of the bag into a small gourd.  Placing the bag with the remaining liquid careful into his outstretched hand, she told him, "You may inform Solomon our guest has awakened."

He nodded and turned to leave the tent.

"And, Leopoldo, tell him to stay the hell out of here until I decide he may visit."

Without acknowledging that remark, the man bent his large frame and left the tent.

The woman turned to Sheraine and said, "When you feel better, there will be time for questions and answers.  For now, it is sufficient that my name is Thorn and you are safe. Thorn gently raised Sheraine's head and placed the gourd to her lips.  "Drink now.  This is gammaquaff. It will help to heal your injuries."

The liquid smelled vaguely like freshly mown hay. Sheraine drank and found it pleasantly sweet and refreshing.  She could feel new strength course through her body almost instantly. "Thank you, Thorn," she whispered and lay back amidst the robes.

Thorn rose.  "Rest now. I will be back soon.  Should you require anything simply ask Marissa. She will stay with you."

Marissa was an elderly, deeply tanned woman with a face heavily lined and creased by years in the sun and hair liberally streaked with gray.  Her dress of soft, tanned animal skin was adorned by patterns of colorful bead work. She smiled sweetly at Sheraine.

"Rest, child, and let your cares float away.  You are safe with our people," she softly advised as she gently tucked Sheraine into her sleeping robes.

Marissa had the manner and touch of a grandmother, and Sheraine did feel safe. But her cares did not float away. Her mind raced with possibilities.

Are these the people who attacked the wagons?  If so, they must be warlike and fierce. They live in tents and sleep on robes of animal skins. Does this mean they are wild and nomadic?  What would they do if they found they had kidnapped the princess of the Rhitwizah Queendom? Would they sell her, hold her for ransom, or let her loose? And where are the soldiers who were escorting the wagons? Have the soldiers told them who I am?

If this was the land of these people, why did they allow the wagon train to come so far before attacking? They had traveled for days through endless grassland and had seen no people, only vast herds of rhinovore, huge beasts with one thick, blunt horn on their nose.  Although these animals were the same as the beasts that pulled the wagons, the herd animals were fascinating.  The wagon beasts were tame and plodding, the animals of the herds were wild and free - free . . . Sheraine lingered on the word; it seemed so long since she had been free.

Sheraine's mind went back to the last day with the soldiers.  Belzak was the only one she knew by name.  It was he who brought her food, drove her wagon, and saw that none of the other soldiers came too close. Belzak was her shadow.  When she was permitted to bathe, Belzak was there; when she attended to her personal needs, Belzak was there; wherever she looked, Belzak was there.  Captivity was a humiliating thing.

Under other circumstances she may have liked Belzak. He was old, probably as old as her mother. Although not too bright, he was cheerful, but he was her jailer.  Even so, she was horrified at his violent, horrible death.

The attack seemed to come from nowhere - and everywhere. Sheraine was forcing down her morning ration of  mush and water when, suddenly, the sky seemed filled with arrows. Three soldiers went down almost as one, and the camp erupted in confusion.

An officer yelled at Belzak, "Get the woman into the wagon and secure her tightly."

Belzak lifted Sheraine as if she were a sack of meal and threw her into the wagon.  As he shackled her wrists and chained her to the wagon bed, he mumbled. "I'm sorry, Miss. I'm sorry, Miss."  His hands trembled and his eyes betrayed his fear.

Sheraine had not caught sight of the attackers. Were the people who now held her the warriors who had attacked? Or did they come upon the wreckage and rescue her? She decided she must be wary and began formulating a fictitious story before sleep overtook her.

---

Malik at Malgrey Castle, Cursed by Horobah the Malignant (Malik Story)

This, of course, is another portion of the Malik story.

Warning:  Although this part of tthe story is completed, some parts are not.  Large parts have not yet been written.  The story is not being completed in order, so changes may be necessary to make everything fit.  The parts I'm sharing I hope and plan will remain as is, but I'm not promising.

This is the beginning of Malik's participation in the story. (Another protagonist's story coincides with Malik's and then the two stories merge and continue together.)  The portions posted earlier happen after this part.


Helpful definitions: rhinovore is a large beast of burden, ornigress is a large flightless bird.



Malik glared at Horobah The Malignant like an angry baby ornigress defying a rhinovore.

"Ah," Horobah purred, "At last the Prince Dominus of Rijarik Realm pays me a social call.  I am most gratified."

Malik's lips tightened and his entire body tensed as though preparing to launch an attack, but he neither moved nor answered.  Though tired, filthy, and aching from traversing half the continent bound and chained, Malik was determined to hold his temper and maintain some semblance of royal dignity.

On his twenty-second birthday, as was the custom for all royal males of Rijarik, Malik had set out on his solitary trek inspecting the borders of the Realm.  As was also the custom, he traveled incognito and lived off the land.

Malik began his trek with inspecting the craggy, coastal borders of the Ahratay Bay. One evening as he sat near his fire contemplating the movements of the dark bay waters, five travel-weary men approached his camp. They claimed to be local peasants hunting the reindeer for sustenance for their families, but Malik suspected they were outlaws.  Still, his supplies and weapons were modest and he had nothing worth stealing.  Because these men, too, were subjects of the Realm, he shared his fire and meager provisions with them.

After the men had eaten, they and Malik all bedded down near the heat of the fire.  The warmth and the murmuring of the bay waters lulled Malik to sleep.

Suddenly, roughly, he was jerked awake to find himself surrounded by the five men.  Before his heart had ceased hammering, he was bound and chained.

The man who woke him laughed savagely, "Now, Princeling, let's go for a long ride."

Malik was not overly surprised they had recognized him.  Although he wore peasant attire, he knew it was a rather ineffective disguise.  His streaked flaxen hair, slightly darker mustache and beard, and sun-browned skin did not give away his identity in a land of blond outdoorsmen, but his intensely blue-violet eyes and unusual height did.

That they dared to assault him did surprise him. After all, no royal personage had been assaulted since the assassination attempt during the reign of Rijar Dominus Verohk more than three hundred years before.

Since then, both the Vicis and the the Dominus royalty had used their Powers to protect the lives of their families. When a child was born, a weardian spell, a protection ritual, was immediately performed. If the child died of violence, a curse upon the perpetrators was automatically activated.  Actually, Malik didn't know what sort of horrors would befall the killers and he doubted anyone knew anymore, but the threat of unknown horrors had kept the royalty safe.  Until now.

But the men hadn't killed him.  Instead, they had hauled him across the continent in a rhinovore-drawn wagon to the demesne of Horobah the Malignant.  Malik wondered if Horobah had devised a way to circumvent the curse.

"Come now, Princeling. Have you no manners? Is it not customary for a guest to greet his host and thank him for his hospitality?"

Staring into Horobah's colorless eyes was like looking into translucent ice in which small black bugs had been frozen. Malik dropped his gaze only to stare into the empty eye sockets of a small, fanged skull suspended from Horobah's neck. The sight loosened his tongue.

"Are you not aware of the curse that will befall you if I am harmed?  Surely you do not think having your minions do the deed will absolve you.  The onus will be on your head.  The curse will find you."  Malik wasn't sure of this, but it seemed likely that the curse would have such provisions.

Horobah laughed, or Malik thought that's what it was although it sounded more like the mating cries of the ornigress than human laughter. But then, he reflected, Horobah may not be entirely human.

"Princeling, Princeling.  That curse is only activated upon your demise. My hospitality does not include your assassination."

"Your minions spoke of the Prince Vicus Kador assuming the throne upon my father's death.  If I live, he cannot become heir to the throne."

"You err, Princeling. He will assume the throne if you have disappeared."

"Do you propose to keep me prisoner for the rest of my life, then?  I promise you I will make your life miserable. I will continue attempting to escape until I become free.  Then I will make your life even more miserable. I will be the Rijar Dominus and I will return -- with all the power of the Rijarik Realm behind me."

"You will not escape me, Princeling."

"I will. And what do you gain from taking this risk? What benefit to you putting Prince Vicus Kador on the throne?"

"I will gain power," Horobah said as he spread his arms.  The flowing sleeves of his filthy raploch burnoose hung from his upraised arms like wings.  With his large, sharp nose, colorless eyes, and malicious grin, he looked like an immense bird of prey about to swoop down from the dais to attack Malik.  "I will have control. I will have Rijarik Realm.  And when I have Rijarik, I will take Rhitwizah Queendom."

Malik drew himself up so sharply his chains rattled.  Incredible!  The demented, evil fool planned to control the entire continent! But, how? Kador?

"You lie, filth of the Malgrey Mountains! Your plan will not work, and I cannot believe Kador is behind this scheme."

Horobah swung his right arm forward, his burnoose wing flowing and swirling, and angrily pointed at Malik.

"Kador will take the throne, and I will have Rijarik and Rhitzwizah!"

"Kador is a good man. If he took the throne, he would not give control to the likes of you, daemon spawn," Malik replied.

"Kador is a weak man. There are those of his family who control him. And I control them. When your father dies -- which can't be long -- we will have Rijarik."

Malik's chains rattled again.  Who in the Vicis Royal Family could be behind this?  Impossible to tell. The two royal families shared government power, but the Dominus family held not only the Rijarship but all the primary posts. The Vicis family held only the deputy posts. When the throne falls to the Vicis family, they become the Dominus family and take all the primary posts. Therefore, virtually every member of the Vicis family stood to benefit from a change in rule. And this change could occur only when the Rijar died without a male heir to the throne.

Malik shuddered.  Horobah was right; Kador, though a good man, was weak.  Malik was the only male heir of the Dominus family, and his father was very ill, had been these past two years.  Anger boiled up knotting in his throat.

"You won't get away with this, you ill-begotten son of a sea serpent," he shouted.  "My father will search--all the land, if need be."

"They will not search, Lord Princekin."  Horobah's voice rose as he stepped to the edge of the dais. "They think you dead."

"Father will know the curse has not been invoked, Evil Breath of an Ogre. He'll know I'm not dead."

"Think, Little Princeling.  The curse is activated by killing, not accident nor natural death.  You were not killed; you were drowned in the bay. There is no body.  Ah, but the fishes of Ahrahtay Bay have eaten royally."  Another mating call of the ornigress escaped from Horobah's mouth. "Yet there was proof of your folly, and that proof is now in the hands of your father."

Malik slumped in his chains. "I will escape.  I have Powers. Fatherless Deamon!"

"Your Powers are puny, and you know not how to channel them.  You think to pit them against my mighty Powers?"

Malik's chains rattled again as he jerked upright.  Horobah apparently had efficient spies and informants in Rijarik, perhaps in the Dominus castle itself.  It was true; although Malik had his geaster, his magical birth-amulet, his powers were just beginning to assert themselves.  Over the years, he had received some informal instruction on how to deal with magic, but had not yet received his formal training.  That was to commence upon return from his trek.

"My Powers will grow.  I will destroy you, Grunt of a Peasant's Sty," Malik shouted.

Horobah's eyes seemed to sizzle like a hot poker set to ice.  And they're not just thawing, Malik thought, they're coming to boil, steaming. He knows I will become a threat, and it worries him.

Horobah lifted a bony arm and pointed a long, dirty finger at Malik.  "You shall have Power, Impotent Princelet. You shall name your own poison."

"I promise I will destroy you," Malik shouted.  "I will find a way, you mangy she-dog!"

Malik felt a dizziness, a weakness.  His surroundings blurred and leached of color. Rubbing his eyes, he crumpled to the floor and writhed in cadence to the rhythm of the pain pulsing through his body. Gradually the pain eased. But his eyes!  He rubbed at them. It felt strange. He looked at his hands--paws. Paws!

The mating call of the ornigress again issued from the dais. "Impotent princekin to bitch dog. How fitting. But your choice of mangy she-dog is not only fitting; it is perfect. You have solved my problem.  How, Princelet, will you now escape? How will you invoke your growing powers without voicing them?"

Malik's angry retort emerged as a furious growl. Lunging forward, he realized his chains had slipped from his thin canine limbs.  Free! He leaped onto the dais, growling his rage.

"Away, you mangy cur!" Horobah yelled, kicking at him.

Malik latched onto the leg coming at him and sunk his fangs into it. Horobah doubled his fist and slammed it into the top of Malik's head.  Malik involuntarily released his grip on the leg. Horobah let fly with another kick, connecting with Malik's ribs. Searing pain flashed through his body. Another kick connected. Malik fell from the dais.

"Prentice! Get in here!" were the last words Malik heard as his vision darkened and silence descended.

A World Apart

 I wrote this in 1995.  A camp in the woods, a late night campfire, and a perfect autumn night conspired to awaken my muse mouse.  The following resulted:


A firefly: glow dancing in the night
          just beyond the edge of light;
A silent choreography of love
          in glowing, graceflul flight.

The whispering wind: gently,
          gently caressing the trees,
Coaxing sighs, soft murmurings,
          from quivering, trembling leaves.

The stars: wickedly winking
          at foolish lunar retreats
To hide, shyly radiant
          'neath guazy cumulus sheets.

A campfire: casting light,
          waves of color and intensity-
Crackling, flaring - sharing the
          burning heat of passion.

Time: suspended - caught
          on a perfect moment
In an empyreal world
          delineated by love.

The Fire of Fall

Driving out on this bright and lovely fall day re-opened my eyes and mind to the great outdoors.  The trees, even whole groves, were aflame with autumn colors.  When had I last actually looked at the trees? Maybe at spring budding.

Seeing the trees afire with color reminded me of a poem I wrote some years back about walking through the crackling fallen leaves, thereby aurally rekindling the visual fire.

I have no idea where that poem is, but maybe I'll dig it up one of these days and share it with you.  Meanwhile enjoy the season.  Fall is the best - but always too short.

Misty River - Reflections on Life and Friendship

Misty, misty river
Views fore and aft are dim
Our destination is not clear
And neither where we've been

Fragile little vessels
Straining against the flow
Raging through the defiles
Lonely, lonely, on we row

Two lonely little vessels
Meeting blindly in the mist
Lashing the two together
Into a steady companionship

Bravely, bravely sailing forth
On this sturdy, steady ship
Seeking the eternal ocean
Together in the murky, murky mist

Malik and Kazar at the Pit (Malik Story)

This is part of a longer story. To make any sense of it you probably need to know:

Malik is a prince who has been turned into a female dog by an evil wizard (he can speak canine when in dog form)
Silas - a very high-strung chipmunk that Malik has met after escaping the wizard's keep (he is a linguist and knows canine speak)
El Kazar - a big wolf, fierce and territorial but not evil (of course he speaks canine)
geaster - a birth stone (received at birth) always a comfort to the owner, a channel for magic when wielded by a person with magic
This portion of the story takes place after a moonlit chase - El Kazar, chasing after Malik who was a stranger encroaching on Kazar's territory, ends up trapped in a pit


Silas, with an expression of horror, replied, "In the pit." His tone coarse with distress, he continued, "I couldn't stop him. He was intent on pursuing you and didn't see me signaling."

Malik slowly, painfully gained his feet and stretched his neck to look over the log. A dark pit gaped just beyond the downed tree. With Silas clinging to his back, he trotted around the log and cautiously approached the hole.

A sorrowful whine escaped from the shaft and reverberated through the stillness of the moonlit night. Malik's heart juddered at the sound. A strange sense of urgency overcame him, and he forgot his enmity and terror. This was a poor, helpless beast caught in a fatal trap. It would be a long, suffering death.

Maintaining caution, step by careful step Malik and Silas approached the rim of the pit. Peering in, they could dimly see by the light of the moon. Kazar was fighting to free himself from tangled, green tendrils. He seemed panicked. Somehow, Malik could feel Kazar's panic and his rapidly increasing exhaustion.

"Jump," Malik yelled. "Jump." El Kazar made a valiant attempt, but for naught. The pit was deep and the tendrils held him fast. This was not the way. "Save your efforts. Rest and we'll think for a moment."

If only I had my geaster, even though I'm a dog, I'd try to bring forth my undeveloped powers, Malik thought. Suddenly he felt an assurance in his heart. He didn't know where it came from, but he simply knew he would save this magnificent beast. He had to. After all, he was not only a dog, he was a prince of the Rijarik Kingdom. He only needed to calm himself and think. In man form, how would he solve this conundrum? Tools. As a man he would look at tools to solve this problem - somehow bridge the height, somehow use a line to pull the wolf up. As a dog, tools were useless.

Silas was pacing, muttering, peering over the edge of the pit, "Oh, dear. Oh, dear. What can we do? What can we do?"

"You can settle down. Settle and think." Malik hissed through his teeth. "We need to consider the problem calmly. Think. We could use the log right here next to the pit. It's conveniently situated." Silas began bouncing and chirping. "No, as a dog, I have no arms," Malik said pushing against the log with his head and one shoulder. "And I don't have the weight to push it to the proper position."

Silas, no longer bouncing and chirping, plopped down and sat with head hanging. Then he popped up, slid down off the log, and joined Malik next to the log. "I'll help. We'll be a team."

Malik nearly growled in anger, but instead put his shoulder to the log in furious frustration. Next to him little Silas pushed with all his might grunting loudly. Malik cocked an eye in his direction, his frustration growing until it felt as though it would vent through his ears. He knew they would accomplish nothing, but as his anger increased he pushed without letup. Suddenly, he fell to the ground. The tree was rapidly upending and Silas was flung up and away. As he lay panting, he watched in horror as Silas took flight.

Shocked, he realized what he was seeing. One end of the log was now up in the air, the other disappeared down into the pit! The height of the hole was bridged. Malek grinned widely as Silas came wobbling and wavering back and sprawled on the moonlit grass.

"What are you grinning about?' Silas asked testily. Malik, still speechless, just pointed his nose in the direction of the now upended tree. Silas stared, only now grasping the significance of the trunk poking out from the pit.

Slowly his eyes turned to Malik, who grinned again and said, "Silas, you sneak! Why did you not tell me of your magical abilities?"

"Me?" Silas squeaked. "I have no magic. No, no,no. I have none. Any magic in the deed had to have come from you."

Malik's grin disappeared and he choked. "Me? I have no magic yet." He faltered, then continued in a wondering voice, "Not yet. But I'm of an age for my powers to assert themselves. But, no. I'm a dog. I have to be a man, don't I?"

"Well, I don't know, I don't know. But it didn't come from me." He made a show of peering around the meadow. "Doesn't seem to be anyone else with magic in the vicinity, now, does it? Unless it came from El Kazar. But no, no, no. If he had magic he wouldn't be in the predicament, he's in, would he? So then, it appears your powers can assert themselves even while you are a dog. My, my, my."

Malik rolled over and studied the bright moon as he considered Silas' words. Well, now, this was an interesting turn of events. If his powers were developing, how would he direct and control them as a dog and without training? This he knew was a trying time even if the recipient was a trained young mage, as developing powers were difficult to control, capricious and unpredictable. It was rather like a boy's uncontrollable adolescent voice change, but with dire possibilities.

Kazar howled piteously, and Malik and Silas both started. "Oh my, oh my, oh my, is El Kazar pinned under the log?"

Both rushed to the edge of the pit. "Are you all right? Did the log crash onto you?" Malik called down.

"No, I didn't get hurt. But I'm still trapped."

"Just climb up the log," Malek offered.

"I think it is too steep, but I can't try it. I'm tangled in these confounded tendrils and can't get loose," Kazar growled.

"Silas can climb down and assist you." He glanced at Silas who hissed irritably. "Well, you can, Silas. Why not?" Malik said.

"I don't like that pit. Not one bit. Not a bit."

"Well," Malik replied. "You are built for climbing. You could easily climb down, help release him, and climb back out. No problem."

"No problem. No, indeed. Easy for me. Oh, yes, indeed, very easy," Silas grumbled sarcastically. Malik simply stared at him until Silas dropped his eyes. "All right, all right," he mumbled. He slowly approached the upended log, paused and said, "Nasty pit, dirty pit, I don't like this. Not one bit."

Malik merely growled softly deep in his throat.

"All right, all right. I'm going already, yes, I am," he said as he began making his way down the log.

Upon reaching the bottom, he climbed over and around the big wolf and examined the tendrils binding Kazar. "Yes, yes. I'll just gnaw apart this one at the back of your neck and this one at the base of your tail. Then I think you'll be free. Yes, yes, I think that'll do it. Then we'll escape from this dirty pit. Dirty, dirty pit."

He began gnawing at the vine which looped around behind Kazar's neck. After only a couple of chomps, he drew back sharply, spitting and choking. "Oh, bad, nasty. Oh, terrible stuff. I can't chew that. No, no, no." A low growl reached his ears; he looked up into Karzar's eyes and dropped his gaze to the dripping muzzle below. "Okay, okay. I'll do it. I'll do it." And he set forth on the task immediately.

Soon, Kazar was free of the tendrils and happily testing his freedom in the limited space, while Silas spit and gagged dramatically, groaning as if he were dying. Kazar shot a look in his direction and suddenly Silas forgot his misery and scampered quickly up the log.

Malik called down to Kazar, "Just climb up the log. You'll be free in no time."

Kazar attempted to climb but his paws did not offer the purchase that Silas' claws did. It was too steep. He couldn't do it.

"What can we do? What can we do?" Silas moaned.

Malik said, "Quiet. Think."

"Use your magic, my prince. Use your magic."

"Silas, I have no control over it. I don't know how to use magic." Malik pondered for a moment, then suggested, "Maybe we can use those vine tendrils. Do you think there is one long enough to reach from the top to the bottom of the pit?"

Silas groaned. "You'll insist I gnaw those putrid vines again. You will. I know you will."

"Well, you'll have to find a long one and bring one end to the top. I suppose you'll have to grip it with your mouth to do that."

"Not so bad as gnawing it. Okay, I'll go down in that dirty, dirty hole again." And off he scampered, down the log into the pit.

Kazar, having heard this exchange, had already scouted out the vines, carefully keeping his distance from them. He pointed out one that looked long enough and Silas grabbed it without a complaint. Pulling and tugging, he labored up the log saying nothing because his mouth was full, to his utter disgust. As he reached the top, Malik grabbed the vine, and Silas immediately let go and exaggeratedly began spitting.

Ignoring Silas' drama, Malik trotted out far from the hole to extend enough line to avoid any slippage back into the hole. When he released it, he was glad he was far from Silas and facing away from him, so Silas couldn't see him gagging.

Trotting back, he looked into the pit. "Grab the other end, Kazar. If I pull as you climb, we should finally have you free."

"I've been looking and I cannot find the other end. This vine winds around and around and seems endless."


Malik looked at Silas, who began moaning, "Why me? Why me? The little guy always gets the raw deal." Both Malek, nearby, and El Kazar, from the bottom of the pit, gazed, expressionless, at him. "Oh, all right. All right. Down into that dirty pit again."

Once more he climbed down the log. Ignoring Kazar, he quickly gnawed off the vine at the right length, gagged and spit, perfunctorily this time, then rushed up to the rim. "It's done. Now you pull, Malik, and I'll keep watch and direct you."

With Malik at one end, Kazar at the other end, and Silas officiously directing the action, the big wolf was soon free. All three were exhausted by this time, so Kazar thanked them quickly but profusely, then extended an invitation. "We're all tired, the night is soon done. We need a secure place to sleep. I know just the place."


Malik, feeling like a blushing young girl must feel when indecently propositioned, hung his head not knowing how to respond. "Uh, no, I think not. You see. . "

"She's a he. She's a prince. She doesn't want a mate," Silas burst in.

"I won't pretend I understood all that," Kazar said with a bemused expression. "But neither of you has anything to fear. You've saved my life and El Kazar will not forget it. You will always be safe, welcome guests in my domain. You have my friendship for life."

More Cliche' Mashing

Cliche' mashing was not an intended feature of this blog, but banishing one by writing about it did work (mostly). Now, it seems I have a couple more banging around in those nether regions I fondly refer to as my mind.

Just last week, I was introduced to a new way of expressing "testing his mettle." While reading a book, an old book utilizing the old convoluted and self-conscious prose of the time, I came across a reference to a man's metal. It was a free Kindle version of the book and I dismissed it as a typing error, but then it was repeated.

I thought, "Well, even authors of days gone by made mistakes." What intrigued me, though, was not only a total of three references to the man's metal, but also a description mentioning the iron in the man!

So now I have this mashed cliche' running through my mind while I wonder, "Did the author not know the difference between mettle and metal or was he deliberately playing with my mind?"

Wish he was still alive so I could ask.

So while we're at it, here's another that flits in and out of the cobwebs between my ears - "for all intents and purposes." I think the mashed version, for all intensive purposes, was brought to me verbally, but I don't remember for sure.

I think what intrigues me the most about mashed cliches is the way they sound like the originals and can mean almost exactly the same, but can also mean something different.

Okay, I'll admit it - I'm a word geek.

But still, I want these bothersome phrases banished. Begone!

College 30 Years Later

This post, too, is inspired by the young man entering University of Minnesota as mentioned in the previous post.

When I decided to go to college some thirty years after high school, family and friends reacted in a variety of ways. Some were very supportive, some carefully avoided comment, and some were openly amused. One even suggested that I may not have time to earn a degree before retirement!

I tried to play it casual, tried giving people the impression that this was no big deal, but it was, in fact, a very big deal to me, on a par with going to the dreaded high school.

Let me share some items from my journals. Here are some excerpts from entries near the beginning of my first quarter:

My first visit to the college was to the financial aid office to check on the costs and the various methods for paying for a venture into higher education. On that and subsequent visits to that office, I felt uncomfortable, but I could pass myself off as a visitor in the corridors, so it wasn't too bad.

Then came the day of assessment tests. Now there was no way I could pretend I was just a visitor. This was a test day, indeed, and the assessments weren't the only tests to face; I had to begin admitting I was a student.

I began worrying about the ordeal forty miles before reaching the school. It was tempting to just drop the idea. I think even my car was hesitant about it, because it didn't travel as fast as usual. But I summoned up some courage and speed and arrived with time to spare.

I decided I would do this thing and it wouldn't be too bad. I refused to think ahead to the beginning of classes. I would concentrate on how great it would be to complete my education. Somehow I would endure.

The first day of classes approached; this would be another real test! It was also the first day of a new job. Although my new employers knew I was going to school, one full day on the job was strongly encouraged. I was willing; I could put off the first day of class. Yes, I was very willing!

But there had to be a first day sometime, so the next day at the appointed time, I tripped off to class, albeit with a great deal of trepidation. As I walked through the corridors carrying books and supplies, I hoped everyone would assume I was faculty (in a matter of weeks I had promoted myself from mere visitor to faculty!).

Hoards of young people were passing through those corridors. They all seemed familiar with the layout of rooms, the routine, and one another. (Did I mention that I always seem to be the only one who doesn't know these things?) How do people know these things?

Arriving at my first classroom, I felt uncomfortable, but no one seemed to notice me and my advanced age. They ignored me. When the class began, I directed my thoughts to it.

Later in the journal:

I am amazed. The students either talk to me or ignore me -- either way they make no big deal of it. I guess I had expected the young people to be openly disparaging; I don't know why.

Because I did not expect to enjoy this experience, I had decided to grit my teeth and just endure. Though I still experience some discomfort, I am beginning to feel more at ease and am enjoying my classes.

Near the end of my first quarter:

As I was perusing the new schedule, I realized I am beginning to feel comfortable in the role of student. I guess I had resigned myself to feeling strange and uncomfortable for the duration, but I enjoy the courses and am gaining much from this experience. After all, the pursuit of knowledge should be a life-long project and not the exclusive prerogative of youth.

I'm excited about the next quarter. I do, however, sort of hate to see this quarter end.

So, young man beginning at U of M, if an old person can adjust in just one quarter, you, being young and probably mysteriously knowing all the rooms, routines, and other students, will settle in very quickly. You'll do great!

School begins anew

The school year has begun and I know a young man who is beginning his first quarter at U of M. I'm sure it has been a less-than-comfortable week for him. Brings to mind some of my school experiences.

I can still remember my first year of school (yeah, I CAN remember that far back!). We lived in a remote part of northern Minnesota on a farm and seldom went to town. We didn't see friends, relatives, or neighbors much, either. In other words, I was an isolated little 'fraidy cat when it came to meeting people (brave about hanging in the uppermost branches of trees, though).

We did not have pre-school or kindergarten but were plopped right into first grade. I had the advantage, though, of an older brother attending the same elementary school as I. He was in a different room, but rode the same bus with me, and it was a comfort to know he was in the same building.

Before I started school, my older brother missed the better part of a year due to a severe illness. During that time, he was home schooled by my mom while I hung over her shoulder. I learned a lot, including how to read. So although socially I was far from ready for school, academically I was more than ready and anxious to learn more.

I survived the shock of my first days at school and predictably loved the exciting new world of playmates and classmates and regimented learning. Each summer was a great break, but I was ready to return to school long before the next term began.

Until . . . high school!

For high school I was even less prepared. My little three-room grade school ran out of grades after eighth, then we were bussed to a consolidated high school. Okay, I'll concede the high school wasn't very large, but after a three-room school and an eight-person class, that place seemed immense!

And as it always happens with me, everyone else seemed to know all the other people, where things were, and what was expected. I knew none of it! I was terrified! I was lost. I was alone.

Unlike grade school, adjusting to high school took a long time. But I survived and finally did become comfortable with it. I suffered only one discernible lingering effect - for at least twenty years after graduating, I wandered the halls and corridors of that frighteningly large school in my dreams desperately hunting for my locker!

Well, back to the young man at U of M. The University truly is a very large school, but he is so much more prepared for the transition. He has attended large schools all of his life and previously has made successful transitions between schools. He's very talented academically and has experience with college courses. He's braver and socially more adept than I'll ever be. Although he may become lost or disoriented at first, I doubt he'll spend the next twenty years wandering around that school in his dreams.

The American Can

Every can along the road I feel a duty to inspect
And I sadly must report that some I must reject
For though they're billed as rest rooms, there is no room to rest
And as for cleanliness and comfort they'd never pass the test

You'll find no unused paper, clean towels you cannot see
Yet crumpled used towel litter there will always be
The pot won't flush, the sink won't drain, still we must confess
That even here, sometimes, we're pleased to be a guest

For tho there is no place to rest and the room's a total pit
It can seem a shining palace, 'cause there is a place to sit
We drop upon the throne and sigh, "Life's simple pleasures are the best"
For after all, nature's urgent call wasn't bidding us to rest

Mashing an Old Cliche'

For the past couple of weeks, an old cliche' has been running through my head like a refrain from a song sometimes does. Over and over. I'm so tired of it clanging about in there that I decided to see if writing about it will banish it. Maybe it will transfer to yours!

The maddening phrase is - to the manor born. This, of course, refers back to feudal times, when the lord and his family lived in the big house, the manor, in relative luxury and the serfs lived in comparative squalor on the land the lord owned. The phrase specifically indicated a person was born to wealth, luxury, aristocracy, to superiority -- or acted as such.

A few years ago, a friend asked me to proof-read an article in which she had used the phrase, which I guessed she'd heard, but not read, as she used to the manner born. Her usage intrigued me. In her context, it conveyed a similar meaning, but in another context it could convey a different meaning. Manor, in the phrase, has more specificity than manner. You could use to the manner born in another context to indicate a similarity to any behavior. For instance, a rude girl whose mother is known to be rude, could be said to be to the manner born.

It isn't as though I have occasion to use either phrase often, so why is this bouncing around my cranial regions! Begone! Begone! Banishment!

Coffee Break?

I snagged this from between the walls. It dates back, waaay back. But here, shaken a bit to remove the dust, it is.

Beverly sighed as she filled the coffee maker with water, closed the lid gently, and sighed again. Was it for this she had worked so diligently in college?

She hadn't taken "Coffee Making 101." Should have, though. Should have taken "Shopping for the Boss' Relatives and Friends," too. And what about "Running Personal Errands for the Boss?"

Apparently, she, an honors student, hadn't gone to the right school. Seems all of the really important courses, like coffee making, for succeeding in the business world were lacking from her university's curriculum.

Sucking her lower lip behind her upper teeth, Beverly grabbed the coffee can, pulled off the lid, scooped out some coffee, and dumped it into the coffee maker. There. Two scoops - the boss likes it made with two scoops. Releasing her lip, she dumped in another. Then with malice in her heart, she dumped in two more before setting the pot to perk.

Back at her desk, she fidgeted as she tried to concentrate. Soon she was interrupted by the inter-office phone. Picking it up, she made a conscious effort to moderate her voice before pleasantly inquiring, "Yes?"

"The coffee ready yet? I really need a cup. Oh, and run down to the bakery. I would kill for a Danish. Pick up a half dozen. When George arrives for our conference, we'll have Danish and coffee. Give us a few minutes, then bring in the coffee and rolls. But first, bring me a cup right now."

Beverly fought the urge to be sarcastic and won, merely answering, "Right," and set the phone down.

Taking a cup from the little cabinet above the coffee pot, she slammed it on the counter and sloshed some coffee into it. Grimly grabbing a paper towel, she mopped up the overflow before it reached the edge of the counter. Placing the cup and a napkin on a tray, she carried it into the inner office.

The boss didn't even look up, just reached for the coffee. Beverly turned on her heel to leave. She had nearly reached the door when she heard the boss choke and sputter.

"This coffee is terrible! Just awful!"

Beverly turned around and with wide, innocent eyes asked sweetly, "You don't like the coffee?"

"It's terrible! Awful! Dump this and brew another pot!"

"Oh, I don't think I can do it any better," said Beverly. "I just don't think I can do it any better. Maybe you should make it. I'll bet you make great coffee. After all, you are a woman, Mrs. Henderson."

Making History!

On Monday of this week, I helped make history! Doesn't that sound impressive? Well, I'm afraid full disclosure brings it down a notch or two - at least regarding my participation.

My part consisted mostly of sleeping or lingering somewhere between sleep and LaLa Land due to an Altru Hospital Cocktail Special. I need to tell you "cocktail special" is my name for the dyes and relaxants used in the Cath Procedure Lab. You may feel as though you've been awake through the entire procedure, but it is likely you've been sleeping at least part of the time and definite that you've been in LaLa Land whenever awake.

The Cath Procedure Lab is where angiogram and heart stent procedures take place. No, this wasn't the first time I've experienced the joys of that lab. In fact, I teased the young cardiologist performing the heart cath and stent placement I had about six weeks ago that I'd been through caths more often than he'd done them. He laughed at that idea and indicated he was older than I thought.

He actually is older than he looks, but I believe my remark about his youthful appearance prompted him to sprout a 'stash. This week he brushed a finger across the 'stash and asked me if he looked older, so I feel fairly confident the little under-nose growth is a result of my comment.

But that is not addressing the historical quality of the latest experience. On Monday the same youthful cardiologist and I met in the Cath Lab again. This time it was for the purpose of restoring circulation to my right leg by opening an extensive occlusion of the artery. Part of this procedure is fairly routine (if any arterial procedure can be called routine), but part of it used a laser inserted through the artery followed by insertion of stents. A laser small enough to insert through an artery and nimble enough to manipulate from the point of insertion is incredible to me!

The laser machine was ordered basically to do my procedure; it was new and a couple of company reps were gowned up and present to witness the event. Additionally, the procedure was revolutionary for this area - the first done in Grand Forks and the doctor also said he thought it was the very first in the state of North Dakota.

That's making history! And I was part of it. But as usual, I probably slept through the most important parts.

A footnote: The procedure went well; it was declared a success. I'm doing well, but very tired (probably due to the cocktail I mentioned as this was a lengthy procedure and I know I got a lot of that cocktail). I'm still moving quite slowly, but since it was done on Monday and this is Wednesday, even that is good progress.

A second footnote: You guessed it. If progress continues in this vein (pun), that young cardiologist and I will be meeting in the Cath Lab soon to repair the circulation to my left leg. This will not be an historical first, but still exciting to me. I pine for the ability to take long walks and for that I need two good legs.

Sherack

Sherack is a real place, a little country neighborhood, just a bump in the road as country folk say. The photo in the "Ghost of Sherack" posting below is truly of Sherack but edited to seem dark and ghostly. Here are some daylight photos to show that it is a quiet little bump in the road, not a threatening place at all.

The Ghost of Sherack

"Never drive through Sherack when the night is full black,
'Cause there's a ghost who wanders that road,
And when you drive through Sherack, he gets in the back
By methods completely unknown."

She spoke of Sherack, fielding laughter and flak,
Gravely warning her friends and her foes.
Hearing nothing but cracks from that wretched pack,
She continued to make sure they'd know.

Yes, she knew of Sherack and its ghostly trap.
Yet one night when hard-pressed for time,
Though the night was full black, she drove through Sherack
And told herself all would be fine.

But the ghost of Sherack appeared in the back,
And tho she heard but a wheeze and a groan,
Her muscles went slack; it got wet where she sat
'Cause she knew she wasn't alone.

As the ghost of Sherack sat there in back
And he spoke about dying and death,
Her eyes slowly tracked to the seat in the back,
Then the eyes of the ghost and hers -- met.

Her arm reached back and she gave him a whack,
Then threw back her head in a yell.
And the ghost of Sherack flew out of the back:
'Twas the worst he'd heard this side of hell!

So scared in Sherack, she'll never go back -
And even now her hair remains curled.
And the ghost of Sherack? He'll never be back
'Cause SHE frightened HIM right out of this world!

Malik Awakens at Malgray Keep (Malik Story)

Malik Awakens at Malgary Keep

This is an excerpt from a longer story:

Awakened by the sound of the door latch, Malik stirred. Without rising to his feet, he lifted his head and softly whined deep in his throat. Still after all this time, about a half-year by his reckoning, waking up in a dog's body was a shock.

The door opened and a slight female servant slipped in. She always entered like a ghost, silently and almost floating, and exited with even more care, cracking the door slightly, peering out, then quickly gliding away. Malik wondered if the young woman had been forbidden to visit with him and if she feared reprisal.

Whatever the case, she was a bright spot in a lonely existence, and he was glad she visited. His golden brown eyes followed her movements as she checked his water dish. When she knelt beside him, wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her face in his ruff, his tail thumped on his bed mat.

"Maliya, my friend," she whispered as her hand slid down his back smoothing his silky, rufous hair. While she silently continued to caress his back, Malik relaxed and half closed his eyes. Yes, he thought, a dog definitely did enjoy a few advantages.

Suddenly, Malik's ears perked up and the servant froze, her hand halfway down his back. An audible, quickly-in-drawn breath and rounded eyes betrayed her fear as excited voices and running footsteps advanced from deeper in the caverns. After the noise passed and receded in the direction of the keep, her eyes relaxed and she began breathing again. Shakily she arose from the floor, glided to the door, inched it open, and carefully peered out. Apparently seeing nothing, she inhaled deeply and widened the opening just enough to allow egress. Just as she was slipping out, a faint voice yelled. Malik knew the sound came from a distance, even perhaps, from an upper level of the caverns, but the servant jerked and then sprinted away as though chased by the ghost she herself resembled.

Malik stood in the doorway watching the fleeing form and wondered what caused such fear in the young woman. True, in the half-year he had been here, he had neither seen nor heard such commotion in the tunnels, but why react with terror? As she turned a corner, he marveled at how quickly she had disappeared down the corridor. Corridor! He was looking down the corridor! She had left his cell door open!

In his excitement, Malik nearly barked into the empty passageway, then reined in the urge and quickly looked to his left. Good. No one there. He nudged the door leaving it just slightly ajar, trotted across the room to look at his geaster, and raised himself up against the wall. No. He mustn't waste any time; he already knew he could not reach it. He dropped to all fours. Here was his opportunity, the chance he'd been awaiting, and now he did not know what to do with it. He needed time to think!