tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-72402859964046098722024-03-05T03:39:11.914-08:00Tales by Toonbeing the writings and musings of S.E. ToonS. E. Toonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01779341199387862248noreply@blogger.comBlogger31125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7240285996404609872.post-85386681862278870902013-06-19T05:53:00.003-07:002013-06-19T05:56:51.892-07:00Review: A Monster CallsMy neighborhood has been saddened by the passing of one of our own due to cancer. It prompts me to offer up this remarkable independent reader/young adult title for anyone who has children grappling with the emotional fallout of such a tragedy. The novella also has deep resonance with adults. The unflinching honesty of the author's perspective and the mythic metaphor used leaves us no where for repressed emotions to hide. Out in the open air our emotional wounds can heal. Repressed inside they fester. This book is about being brave enough to heal what remains.<br />
Godspeed.<br />
<br />
<div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgULry2_wvJJq38wHvkLoR-3Ft-3Xf6oXomi-67g0Lbxx_tMsSXPV-iKdZomfvj-lipLIvaCvUgnekdUjhJfiFhivfl6uyLx7cCCrakMAwc7vdX64E8Ce04XmfngNHCScR2nVzWPkriXA/s200/amonstercalls.jpg" width="153" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Walker Books)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>A MONSTER CALLS </b></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>by Patrick Ness </b></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>inspired by an idea from Siobhan Dowd</b></span></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>illustrated by Jim Kay</b></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>(trade paperback) </b></span></span> </b></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">“You do not write your life with words...You write it with actions.
What you think is not important. It is only important what you <i>do</i>.” </span></span></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>This
is dark fiction at its best, the marriage of terrifying imagery with
the true fears of the flesh. Grown from an outline by cancer victim and
fellow Carneige Medal winner Siobhan Dowd, Patrick Ness weaves a gentle
tale of a young teen's journey through his guilt, anger and sorrow as he
comes to terms with the real monster in the room, his mother's
advancing cancer. </b></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>The
monster, the towering green man comes to intrude on the boy's living
nightmare insisting on sharing tales with twisted morality in hopes of
saving the boy from his own collapse. All the boy needs to do is tell <i>the truth</i>. </b></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>The
monstrous visitor is a wicked, fearful and, yes, funny sage as intent
in his mission as he is with destruction. His manifestation allows young
Conor to get out of his head and confront himself. What's better when
you feel like a monster yourself than to have him hound you in the flesh
(or in this case, in the twig).</b></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>The
book is for all ages so don't let the fact that it is illustrated give
you the wrong impression. Jim Kay's work is manic and organic, a wash of
grey shadows, images as equally fascinating as they are menacing; a
perfect backdrop.</b></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>Death,
however it is doled out is what links man to man. How we deal with the
looming figure and the fallout after it touches our lives is our truth.
There are no words for its power over us... or so I thought. With its
macabre visitor this book forces us to confront these moments in our
lives with more emotional clout than a heartbreaking memoir ever could.
Only by having the shadows of our darker, quiet moments actually speak
to us, for us, could these authors speak to our battered souls.</b></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>Share
this book with any family touched by this relentless disease. Everybody
knows one or lives in one. This novel is a new classic sure to be a
perennial favorite on young adult shelves for lifetimes to come.</b></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b> </b></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>THINK:<i> </i>Animated
combination of Ness' artwork with image capture directed by Rob Reiner,
ghost written by all remembered by a pink ribbon.</b></span></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>1<sup>st</sup> LINE – <i>“The monster showed up just after midnight. As they do.”</i></b></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b><i>winner of</i></b></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b><i>
<a class="award" href="http://www.goodreads.com/award/show/690-kate-greenaway-medal">Kate Greenaway Medal (2012)</a>, </i></b></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b><i><a class="award" href="http://www.goodreads.com/award/show/1693-galaxy-british-book-awards">Galaxy British Book Awards for Children's Book of the Year (2011)</a>, </i></b></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b><i><a class="award" href="http://www.goodreads.com/award/show/3812-los-angeles-times-book-prize">Los Angeles Times Book Prize Nominee for Young Adult Literature (2011)</a>, </i></b></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b><i><a class="award" href="http://www.goodreads.com/award/show/4024-red-house-children-s-book-award">Red House Children's Book Award (2012)</a>, </i></b></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b><i><a class="award" href="http://www.goodreads.com/award/show/4444-ala-teens-top-ten">ALA Teens' Top Ten Nominee (2012)</a>
<span class="toggleLink"></span>
</i></b></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b><i><a class="award" href="http://www.goodreads.com/award/show/5496-carnegie-medal-in-literature">Carnegie Medal in Literature (2012)</a>, </i></b></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b><i><a class="award" href="http://www.goodreads.com/award/show/7397-the-inky-awards">The Inky Awards Nominee for Silver Inky (2012)</a>, </i></b></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b><i><a class="award" href="http://www.goodreads.com/award/show/8285-galaxy-national-book-award">Galaxy National Book Award for Children’s Book of the Year (2011)</a>, </i></b></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b><i><a class="award" href="http://www.goodreads.com/award/show/11391-kirkus-reviews-best-teen-books-of-the-year">Kirkus Reviews Best Teen Books of the Year (2011)</a>, </i></b></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b><i><a class="award" href="http://www.goodreads.com/award/show/12115-grampian-children-s-book-award">Grampian Children’s Book Award Nominee (2013)</a>, </i></b></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b><i><a class="award" href="http://www.goodreads.com/award/show/12522-yalsa-best-fiction-for-young-adults-top-ten">YALSA Best Fiction for Young Adults (Top Ten) (2012)</a>, </i></b></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b><i><a class="award" href="http://www.goodreads.com/award/show/14059-the-kitschies">The Kitschies for Red Tentacle (Novel) (2011)</a> </i></b></span></span></div>
S. E. Toonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01779341199387862248noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7240285996404609872.post-2974305023457301632013-05-23T05:30:00.001-07:002013-05-23T05:30:16.719-07:00The Few for All<div class="post-title entry-title" itemprop="name" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">For the men and women and their families </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">who because
of their sacrifices </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">we are free to launch Summertime </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">with barbeque,
beach and beer. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">As you share a slice of the American dream </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">this weekend
remember that we are forever in their debt.</span></span><br />
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwzadYKRhdY7ooXFC2pZy7Y-qV2EfsvWXK3tIuqgo186kTpIEWappq0q3yblzeMjN-uk-mLTIPoV9kIl1EBOEGOURHz8Y1ZGdlejuBwaOQ-LCWkfdBb6fGnoOwSPoUzFVB6Kr3fSiy4A/s1600/brant+rock+flag.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwzadYKRhdY7ooXFC2pZy7Y-qV2EfsvWXK3tIuqgo186kTpIEWappq0q3yblzeMjN-uk-mLTIPoV9kIl1EBOEGOURHz8Y1ZGdlejuBwaOQ-LCWkfdBb6fGnoOwSPoUzFVB6Kr3fSiy4A/s320/brant+rock+flag.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><i><b><span style="font-size: large;">The Few for All</span></b></i></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">F</span>or all we take for granted,</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">for all we’ll never know, </span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">for the promise in our parent’s smiles, </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">and the price paid to keep it so.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">F</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">or the men once boys, and grown women,</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">who answer the call and know not when,</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">their hopes and schemes and lifelong dreams,</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">might be put on hold with a solemn, <i>'til then</i>.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">F</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">or the courageous few, who in our midst,</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">know this world as it truly is;</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">that life is not just the here and now,</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">fond farewells, fist bumps<span style="font-size: large;">,</span> whoops and wow;</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">but that life is all these fleeting things and more;</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">fragile at best, worth preserving; hence the chore.</span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">F</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">or those who lost their lives in service, </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">alas, each has won the war of wars,</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">by giving us all on familiar shores,</span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">through struggle, strife and immeasurable sorrows,</span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">a promise fulfilled of more blessed tomorrows.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">F</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">or the stalwart soldiers, ambassadors of peace,</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">your actions prove to all the prayers we keep,</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">of a world where wars need not be fought,</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">of a world where loved ones need not weep, </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">these are more than ideals from a gifted state,</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">but are vows that make our country great.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: right;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="font-size: medium;">-S.E. Toon </span></span></span></div>
S. E. Toonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01779341199387862248noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7240285996404609872.post-69468892541368653212013-04-26T03:45:00.002-07:002013-04-26T03:48:00.922-07:00Story Circle Tale #3<h2 style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;"><i>Thanks to all the kiddos who helped craft a story at our <b>Story Circle</b>
conducted at the playground at </i><b>Library Plaza</b><i> in </i><b>Marshfield </b><i>on April
17th in front of </i><b>Ocean Village Bookstore</b><i>. Here is the resulting story. Enjoy and keep checking back at <span style="color: blue;">www.OceanVillageBookstore.org</span> for info
on the next circle. What is a Story Circle? It is part improvisation,
part storytime. Our resident author weaves a story based on the
contributions of the attendants. This opens children up to their
creative side, enforces positive social skills through participation and
gives them a sense of pride and accomplishment when the final product
is read and they can say, "I helped make that!"</i></span></span></h2>
<h2 style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><i><b>Prince without a Crown</b></i></span></span></h2>
<div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 20px;">O</span>nce
upon a time there was a dog, not your ordinary dog mind you, but a royal
dog. You could tell because he wore a crown; that, and he was confined
to the Queens lawn. That wasn’t a bad thing because her lawn was always
green and manicured. Most of all it was safe.</div>
<div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: justify;">
One morning however the dog, let’s call him
Prince, pranced out of the castle to do his royal business in the back
end of the Queen’s estate, the only place that wasn’t clover green and
lush. It was there, far from the castle, out of eyeshot of all that
could see that an arm sheathed in black leather napped the regal pup. It
wasn’t a difficult task for the dog no more than a handful. Now I know
what you’re thinking, <i>‘You should have said that Prince was nabbed’</i> but he is after all a dog and being such I’m pretty sure you would say napped, as in dog-<i>napped</i> not dog-<i>nabbed</i> but I digress…</div>
<div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: justify;">
No one from the castle saw the dark night,
the stormy knight, the Black Napper as he galloped away with the Queen’s
Prince. No one save for me. ‘<i>This shall not stand!</i>’ a inner voice braver than my own hollered. My own fear-filled voice called out towards the castle.</div>
<div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: justify;">
I stammered, “G-g-g-guards? GUARDS! Bad
Knight. Dog napped! Crown nabbed!” Why anyone would listen to the
hollers of a commoner I’ll never know, but yap I did, not as loud as the
voice in my head but far louder than Prince as he disappeared past the
edge of the forest.</div>
<div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: justify;">
The Queen’s guards must have heard the
urgency in my howling for they charged out of the castle in pursuit of
the Black Napper and the royal pooch. They chased them hill and dale, <i>swoosh</i> past the low lying trees, <i>ca-splash</i> through the not-so-shallow stream and <i>ba-doom</i> in and out of the pothole in the middle of the forest road.</div>
<div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: justify;">
The Napper cackled though his black metal helmet. “Moo har, har, I have indeed done it! I have nabbed <i>(he obviously didn’t know the correct word for his nefarious actions either)</i> Yes, nabbed the royal…”</div>
<div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: justify;">
He lifted his arm that cradled the pooch
only to find just the smallest of crowns, not a hair of the dog to be
found under his flapping dark and stormy cape. With the guards closing
in he had to keep retreating into the dark of the forest and tend to the
now un-napped later.</div>
<div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: justify;">
A crownless dog ran down the meadow that
hugged the path to a quant village bordered by waves of heather that
grew so high that all one would see was Prince’s perky tail if one chose
to look. No one did for there was no one in the village to come to the
dog’s rescue. Prince yapped in the village square but not even the echo
of his bark replied. Sitting in the center of the abandoned village he
felt all kinds of alone. First he had been stripped of his regal crown
and now he had no subjects to bark orders at. No stone wall protected
him from the outside world. He looked side to side. Nothing. Prince
looked down preparing to let out a whimper that no one would hear. He
stopped mid-whimp, more of a mew really, when he realized that without
his crown his load had been lightened. Carrying the weight of royalty
with him his whole life Prince never before knew what freedom felt like.
His head felt as light as a balloon. He felt, well, free. He ran back
to the forest path his body cutting through heather like a feather
slices sky.</div>
<div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: justify;">
He came to the edge of the path; to the
left the Queen and hers castle, to the right the Black Napper with the
guards on his tail. Prince sat down to ponder a second time. His
less-heavy head turned from side to side and back again. He panted as he
pondered. We all have crowns be us canine or kid. It was true since the
top of everyone’s head was indeed a crown. Prince scratched at some
fleas which were aplenty in the meadow. If we all have crowns we all
have a royal duty to one another whether one’s crown was encrusted with
jewels or just hair. With that thought Prince stopped his slobbering
panting and swallowed. The little pup knew what he had to do. Rising
slowly and with purpose, his little chest puffed up, his slight
shoulders broad, Prince journeyed toward the dark and stormy knight who
had nabbed his crown <i>(I’m sure of it now, you nap a dog, you nab a crown… whatever.). </i></div>
<div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: justify;">
His fear had been replaced with freedom,
now freedom was replaced with bravery. Prince’s stride was close to a
strut as the forest seemed to swallow him whole. It was his royal duty
to his people just as it is everyone’s to stand up to that which they
fear.</div>
<div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: justify;">
It was not long before he caught up with
the guards or should I say the guards caught up with him as they
retreated back out of the pitch of the forest. They past Prince and
retreated to the Queen’s castle, a whirlwind of hooves, dust and
desperation.</div>
<div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: justify;">
When the dust cloud cleared something black
against the black of the forest shifted. Prince could hear the gold of
his crown as it clanked against the horse bridle as the Napper neared.
The knight painted bad straddled his matching steed. More darkness
shifted behind him. White, bony arms and legs shuffled and clattered in
the dark. It was the Black Napper’s army of ghouls; let’s call them
hench-zombies for lack of a better name, flanking him on both sides.
They were skeletons actually, not exactly the monster of choice when
confronting a cur. A dog would just assume claim a bone for his own,
gnaw away until bored, then bury the bones back in the ground where they
had arisen. They were poor excuses for zombies now that you think about
it, no bellies at all. Even if they were hungry their munching would be
futile. O.K. they were definitely not zombies, not the best ghoul for
the job but they were definitely <i>hench</i>.</div>
<div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: justify;">
Prince barked as dogs are wont to do, just
like panting and scratching fleas. It wasn’t fear-filled or a
my-dinner-bowl-is-empty yammer, it was a warning. Even with the threat
in his growl what could a dog no larger than a good-sized house cat do
to back up such a bark. Royal or not, he had only one option. He ran…
home. It’s O.K. He didn’t chicken out. If he did he would have ba-cawed.
Prince you see had a plan.</div>
<div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: justify;">
The Dark Napper would have caught the dog
with the tail between his legs in short order if it wasn’t for the
knight’s rattling lackeys who’s all out attack was nothing more than a
shamble. Slow but sure, the bumbling horde followed Prince to the
Queen’s castle. The drawbridge was down awaiting his return. Prince
crossed the bridge as fast as his little legs would carry him. Despite
his urgency the guards were unable to raise the gate before the Black
Napper and his white hench-bones arrived.</div>
<div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: justify;">
Prince barked. It was an order now not a
warning. From behind him a legion of commoners, the good folk of the
village filed out of the castle to confront the evil. The Napper’s
horse reared and the crown fell between Prince and the Dark One. Another
bark and the townspeople pushed to either side. The long shadow of the
queen neared. The Napper’s henchmen cowered, bones chattering against
bones in nervous rhythm. The Napper’s horse turned to run throwing the
knight alongside the crown. His army returned to dust. The Queen’s
shadow neared. Another bark and it was the Dark Napper’s turn to howl.
He lumbered to his feet and ran disappearing in a whirl of ash as he
cleared the bridge. The remnants of the banished evil fell from the sky
like tears of coal.</div>
<div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: justify;">
The Queen ever so gracefully went to the
side of Prince. With her snout she retrieved the crown. A few strikes of
her paw straightened the bedazzled crown on the one we all possess. The
village cheered, “Good Queenie!” The coat of her collie coat around her
neck glistened like ermine, each hair danced on air. The townspeople
applauded their miniscule hero, no longer a mutt but their one true
Prince. From that day forth whenever the townspeople bid one another a
good <i>knight</i> it was in reference to him.</div>
<div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: justify;">
From that day forth everyday was a dog day and a dog day was always a good day in the kingdom where everyone wore a crown.</div>
S. E. Toonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01779341199387862248noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7240285996404609872.post-41837428928229009522012-12-29T05:24:00.000-08:002012-12-30T05:59:22.322-08:00A Lighthouse in Wintertide<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDR9RPAmd-j88GOuhaAJwZLwA2ELRx5K14hUYsO-LOOezUptPHS7ZNGYTA5vg7iTsdJ_aaxNrFwvtco7coE9Xp8let-lBOc8CzN7S3rkiZBD9GvI7FM-ygMbGb-8m81B533tejl3vPHw/s1600/wintertide+lighthouse.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDR9RPAmd-j88GOuhaAJwZLwA2ELRx5K14hUYsO-LOOezUptPHS7ZNGYTA5vg7iTsdJ_aaxNrFwvtco7coE9Xp8let-lBOc8CzN7S3rkiZBD9GvI7FM-ygMbGb-8m81B533tejl3vPHw/s320/wintertide+lighthouse.jpg" title="" width="296" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sean Harris BGN</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">It has something to do with light. <br /><br />Candles, bulbs, roaring fires and the stars above; this time of year is heralded by them, cutting through the darkness of a Winter’s night. Mankind has always followed the illuminated path for eons as we search for light in the darkness of insanity. <br /><br /> They not only light the way, they <i>are</i> the way. Singular candles hold vigil in households beckoning loved ones safe return. We watched 26 lone flares disappear in the chilled night sky, snuffed out by the darkness between the stars. Cathedrals and roadsides are adorned by a congregation of candles lit to honor the memories of the lost. The Maccabees saved their tribe's tradition by coveting the flame. Churches, Mosques, and open hearths draw diverse peoples closer to the warmth. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">Stars
are nothing but the brilliance of our past; events ceased long ago;
memories hanging in the night sky. They have embellished many a nation’s
flag inspiring hope. The very twinkle of that which may no longer exist
lights the way for all to wish to deliver either exotic spices or
goodwill. </span></span> <br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />Not all candles are so hallowed. Some sputter more smoke than light. These candles forged long ago are cast of poor tallow. It is a reflection of generations of starless nights. If their lone spark hasn’t been extinguished there lies hope. Otherwise the smoldering ash is a child of the unbridled wind. <br /><br />The world is a calamity at best, randomness we spend lifetimes forcing symmetry to. How can one stoke this sacred flame when the reckless winds of time are so relentless? We have all seen lives pass away and new ones begin in this dark Solstice. We’ve seen flames that once burned bright falter and cease. Like remembrance candles, each flame will eventually be snuffed out by the passing of time. <br /><br />Then I look into a baby’s eyes as they perused the </span></span></span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">beauty and complexity</span></span></span></span> of our world. There the flame burned the brightest and the most pure, its glow reflected in her parent’s eyes, their parent’s eyes, and in all who bear witness. How can such a fragile entity capture such power so effortlessly? <br /><br />I spoke with a person whose loss was as raw as a freshly scraped knee in a schoolyard. Despite her melancholy a glow came over her face as tales were told, warm memories rekindled, and as words were shared a smile not thought possible moments before shone. <br /><br />Then I got it. What broke through the shadow of her smile was not solely hers; it was that of her deceased loved ones. Their legacy was passed on in her every thought, deed, and grin. In those moments we are at our best; reflective, resilient, and humble. It was the same flame burning bright in that child’s eyes, a reflection of her soul and those of all who preceded her. In the shadow-play cast by that dancing flame, I believe I saw God wink. <br /><br />Shelter that flame. Remember when it burned brightest and pass that memory forward. No darkest night, no tempestuous wind can permeate its glow. Don’t worry if it withers down to a spark. You are never truly in the dark. You still possess the makings of a righteous fire. <br /><br />May you find safe harbor led by the light that burns within. Hold your loved ones close, be them by your side, away, or in the hereafter. Shine. Then passion enflammée; your passion will reawaken. Then you too can look into a fire through a child’s eyes and get it. <br /><br />It has something to do with light. </span></span><br /><b><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i><br /><span style="font-size: small;">(special thanks to Lotti, Amy, Shelagh, Charles Bukowski, Nick Lowe, and Newtown.)</span></i></span></b></span></span>S. E. Toonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01779341199387862248noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7240285996404609872.post-70439740054462689182012-12-01T05:14:00.002-08:002012-12-01T05:16:48.707-08:00Writing Hell week 4<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZCly0BLDqdGROi_eljE2Huzf31_Hl_KKcjgEE2RjG22lsXovTJ7WVftum7JdlypQBDvs8mceobdWXz1uB2eIu98eq2kSpvd80p8TsnqbZtr5tZLnGk_l3pieVW1VfhTzuc8rdcPlvMA/s1600/nanowrimoballs.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="118" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZCly0BLDqdGROi_eljE2Huzf31_Hl_KKcjgEE2RjG22lsXovTJ7WVftum7JdlypQBDvs8mceobdWXz1uB2eIu98eq2kSpvd80p8TsnqbZtr5tZLnGk_l3pieVW1VfhTzuc8rdcPlvMA/s320/nanowrimoballs.png" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">It is </span>the end of <b>Nanowrimo 2012</b>.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">What is this Nanowrimo<span style="font-size: small;">?</span><b> National Novel Writing Month</b><span style="font-size: small;">, <span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;">50,000+ words of a novel in 30 days<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;">.<span style="font-size: small;"> </span>As of midnight I clocked in at 90135 words<span style="font-size: small;">, well over 50,000</span> </span> of <span style="font-size: small;">the tallied words</span> less than a month old so in the course of this exercise I over double<span style="font-size: small;">d the pages of my manuscript to now just over 300 pages. My last novel clocked in at 400 pages so because I took on this task and kept to it I am <span style="font-size: small;">three quarters of</span> the way to a completed 1st draft of <i>The Kahunas of Lobster Cove</i>. <span style="font-size: small;">Now </span>I don't expected the pages to actually be readable to others until Springtime but I appreciate the productivity of my efforts.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;">So according to Nanowrimo I am a winner<span style="font-size: small;">, right? Does the novel have to be finished as well to qualif<span style="font-size: small;">y. FYI: just in case I added the words "The End" to the conclusion of my last <span style="font-size: small;">w<span style="font-size: small;">riting, <i>Chapter 16; Ebb Tide</i><span style="font-size: small;">, so there!</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;">Now there is a new manuscript to be dealt with, one I can no longer shove into the bottom drawer of my writing desk. </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<ul>
<li><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>STILL</b> my job search is a total failure, I am still unemployed with the nation's and my own personal fiscal cliff looming.</span></span></li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>STILL</b></span></span> my toilet sings to me <span style="font-size: small;">(at least is stopped crying<span style="font-size: small;">)</span></span></span></span></li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>STILL</b></span></span> my tub decides to not drain, then drain, and then not drain, at<span style="font-size: small;"> wil<span style="font-size: small;">l.</span></span></span></span></li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>STILL</b></span></span> my car rabbles and shakes<span style="font-size: small;"> and now decides to pee through whatever gas I can afford to give i<span style="font-size: small;">t</span></span>. Mechanics say driving <span style="font-size: small;">it can't make it much worse and as I listen to its ch<span style="font-size: small;">oppy id<span style="font-size: small;">le I agree.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>STILL</b></span></span> my phone and internet connections cut out long enough to contact my provider, then return after an appointment has been set, then return. "They can<span style="font-size: small;">'t fix what ain't broke" they tell me and for them to come to my home would be fruitless and they would have to <span style="font-size: small;">give me a<span style="font-size: small;">nother bill I can't pay.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>STILL</b></span></span> my thermostat is locked at 40 degrees as it have for three seasons now</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span> </li>
</ul>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<ul>
<li><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>STILL</b></span></span> my writing continues.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></li>
</ul>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> You can see how each bullet point impacts the others, a quantum theory that make my nights long and my teeth grind. Now it seems the only place where the rush of "What if"s and "What Now"s fade into the distance is when I write. Who would have thought?</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;">Nanowrimo forced me to write out of my comfort zone. During the scary ride I learned the depth and the strength of my charac<span style="font-size: small;">ters<span style="font-size: small;"> much to my surprise. Pl<span style="font-size: small;">ot-points, never charted or even dreamed of, appeared <span style="font-size: small;">on the page leaving me as surprised as the characters dealing with them. Most of all I <span style="font-size: small;">read as they led with their hearts. On my best pages they weren't pontificating about<span style="font-size: small;"> life, they were living it.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;">I will take their lead. When this new novel is complete (<span style="font-size: small;">or for the Nanowrimo p<span style="font-size: small;">olice, "Now that my new novel is complete...) I hope that the readers can gleem what I have from its telling.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;">Its December 1st. </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>N</b><span style="font-size: small;"><b>aNoWriMo</b>, National Novel Wri<span style="font-size: small;">ting month</span> is over.</span> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>Per</b><span style="font-size: small;"><b>FiJoMo</b>, Personal Job Finding month has begun.</span> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;">oh yeah, and coming soon, <b>NaHo-Ho-HoMo</b>, but I don't even want to think about that yet. </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;">One deadline at a time.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: right; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;">-S.E. Toon</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
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S. E. Toonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01779341199387862248noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7240285996404609872.post-49228642558131325222012-11-22T05:47:00.004-08:002012-11-22T07:13:17.060-08:00Writing Hell week 3<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic9hA7qZB4AzV8vkuGpt1Vo9IlIjkahG0b4X11Cn7sRnW_mZNb7EkAL56rsVICQRaOuo2BQLPLs882mRWwseQ7D5HljwAb4b39cvwPbsFDHs3p_X_KGIGiVL8tXdDO7qxTaxq6o3wxQw/s1600/NANOParticipant.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic9hA7qZB4AzV8vkuGpt1Vo9IlIjkahG0b4X11Cn7sRnW_mZNb7EkAL56rsVICQRaOuo2BQLPLs882mRWwseQ7D5HljwAb4b39cvwPbsFDHs3p_X_KGIGiVL8tXdDO7qxTaxq6o3wxQw/s1600/NANOParticipant.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Kahunas of Lobster Cove</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">So today is Thanks<span style="font-size: small;">giving.</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">It is also </span>the end of the third week of <b>Nanowrimo 2012</b>.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">What is this Nanowrimo<b><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></b><span style="font-size: small;">of which you speak</span>? It is<b> National Novel Writing Month</b><span style="font-size: small;">, a<span style="font-size: small;"> godless endeavor <span style="font-size: small;">where thousands of people at<span style="font-size: small;">tempt to write 50,000+ words of a novel in 30 days<span style="font-size: small;"> while</span> the rest of the nation honor<span style="font-size: small;">s</span> veterans, giv<span style="font-size: small;">es </span>than<span style="font-size: small;">ks for our freedom, honors the misrepresented history of our country's discovery, hel<span style="font-size: small;">ps our fellow man through whatever a bittern<span style="font-size: small;">ess</span> Mother Earth can dish out, and<span style="font-size: small;">, let's not forget participates in the </span></span></span><span style="font-size: small;">contact sport <span style="font-size: small;">called</span> Black Friday. Nanowrimo is a <span style="font-size: small;">narcissistic</span> prac<span style="font-size: small;">tice of the Literati and I am a participant. You're welcome.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">As if <span style="font-size: small;">reaching 50,000 words wasn't enough<span style="font-size: small;">,</span> I decided to double the word total. Trust me<span style="font-size: small;">,</span> in doing so I am nothing close to the heroes that inhabit the pages I am churning out. I <span style="font-size: small;">decided to </span>include previous pages that I have been <span style="font-size: small;">conveniently</span> rewrit<span style="font-size: small;">ten</span> to fit the changes in the story's plotline that <span style="font-size: small;">arose</span> while cranking out 2,000-3,000</span></span></span> <span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">words a day. My three week total is 70,763 words <i>HOWEVER</i> the new<span style="font-size: small;">-</span>page total<span style="font-size: small;"> is only a mere 34,498. There are only 9 days left. For me to reach the 50,000 words minimum and a be an honest-to-<span style="font-size: small;">God </span>Nanowrimo Winner I need to crank out 1,723 a day. This is <span style="font-size: small;">achievable</span> since I have been averaging 2000 <span style="font-size: small;">new words per day.</span> </span>I thought I was writing not doing math (which I was NEVER good at, thus, writing... duh!)</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Someone who became a master by <span style="font-size: small;">twisting their legs into pretzels <span style="font-size: small;">once said "Its not the destination its the journey." (<span style="font-size: small;">humble apologies to writing guru, </span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span class="st">Natalie Goldberg,</span>author of <i>Writing Down the </i><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Bones</i> and to anyone <span style="font-size: small;">e<span style="font-size: small;">lse </span></span>who <span style="font-size: small;">is flex<span style="font-size: small;">i</span>ble enough to do the downward pretzel and have that <span style="font-size: small;">feed their writing</span>.) Writing is its own <span style="font-size: small;">transcendental</span> <span style="font-size: small;">discipline<span style="font-size: small;">. S</span></span>elf<span style="font-size: small;">-</span>imposed goals s<span style="font-size: small;">uch as Nanowrimo force the writer to <span style="font-size: small;">experience the insights of the process. Its like the writer<span style="font-size: small;">'s mantra. "Writing is writing<span style="font-size: small;">, so write" Of course Nan<span style="font-size: small;">owrim<span style="font-size: small;">o does ignore the second tenant of a writer's philosophy, "Writing is Rewriting" but I digress.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;">I did an exercise with my creative writing students where they came had to come up with affirmations on writing and <span style="font-size: small;">the creative process. We <span style="font-size: small;">posted them in our writing space to inspire us each day we approached a blank page. I started them <span style="font-size: small;">off </span>with this little chestnut;<span style="font-size: small;"> </span>"Write <span style="font-size: small;">right</span>, right?" then followed it with "Write, write, write!" Nanowrimo could care less about the first phrase but it burn<span style="font-size: small;">s <span style="font-size: small;">incense at the alter of the second. Enough said.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;">Its Thanksgiving so here's<span style="font-size: small;"> my obligatory short list of grateful shout-outs:</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<b><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></b>
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: large;">Family.</span><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">Having a creative in the family must be a lot like Michael Jackson's Never-land. While it </span></span><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: small;"> initially sounds like a really fun idea to have an amusement park in your backyard, it's still kinda weird to everyone else. Thanks for your patience.</span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: large;">Friends. </span><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">They say you can count your true friends on one hand. I have been blessed in my life to the extent that I'd need to be the Indian goddess Shiva to count them all.</span></span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: large;">Beasts. </span><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">Pallet<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">,<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"> the miracle cat of Borders.</span></span> </span><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">You are here for me, and I for you.</span><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"> Without sounding like a cat lady, let me say you are a constant reminder of just how interdependent we are.</span></span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: large;">Children.</span> <span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">The ones I teach, the ones who decorate my neighborhood<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> <span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">with inspiration and ears eager for a story</span></span>, and my newborn niece, little Lotti. May I always see the world through your fresh eyes.</span></span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: large;">Past. </span><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">Writers don't have bad times, they gain material. One of my mother's favorite phrases was, "This, too will pass." Whether it is good times or bad, her words hold true. It is all the more reason to write, as she did in her day, and I in my own twisted way, do now.</span></span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: large;">Muse. </span><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">The miracle of a story on a page will never cease to amaze me. Being a conduit to bringing a tale to life is forever a humbling experience. It is there we do our best work.</span></span></b><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;">With 1,700 words a day in 9 more days<span style="font-size: small;"> it feels <span style="font-size: small;">appropriate</span> to close with the beginning</span> of the poem <i>Sea Fever</i> by John Masefield that my Dad would recite from <i>his chair</i>. (I have even included<span style="font-size: small;"> an excerpt of it</span> in my latest novel.) Thanks Dad for that. It was probably those magical moments listening to him pull <span style="font-size: small;">words out of thin air </span>and the patient hours my sister read to me that still puts me in the writing chair day after day. </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
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<b><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;">I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></i></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b><i><span style="font-size: small;">And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by. </span></i></b> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span> </div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;">Thank you all for being my ship as I shoot for the stars.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;">-S.E. Toon</span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 7.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></div>
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S. E. Toonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01779341199387862248noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7240285996404609872.post-83604066601355857152012-11-15T10:25:00.005-08:002012-11-15T10:30:20.122-08:00Writing Hell week 2<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrYdBzvnOXppkNnTWvV5wAGlDjDbF4HJR-8Uu7P7WL1vTzqTKsiaKKpvOBKvD4-zEztAVvHr-NTBPdwk0r_wlKYdWK4Mi396cvub8Djmxzxso4EslLV72MBNqesCuNgSQsouhyphenhyphenfwcKGg/s1600/NANOParticipant.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrYdBzvnOXppkNnTWvV5wAGlDjDbF4HJR-8Uu7P7WL1vTzqTKsiaKKpvOBKvD4-zEztAVvHr-NTBPdwk0r_wlKYdWK4Mi396cvub8Djmxzxso4EslLV72MBNqesCuNgSQsouhyphenhyphenfwcKGg/s1600/NANOParticipant.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><b>The Kahunas of Lobster Cove</b></i></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">So today is the end of the second week of <b>Nanowritmo 2012</b>.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">What pray tell is nanowritmo? It is<b> Nation Novel Writing Month</b>.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">In November.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Turkey time.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">During the past decade I had found myself in the wonderful world of
retail which, by definition, requests that you surrender all other
aspects of your life to your job. In most business environments near 60%
of annual profits occur in just five short weeks. To succeed it demands sacrifice. As much as I think opening during the holidays, the dreaded
Black Friday and elongated hours are a blight on humanity, from a
business perspective, I understand the desperation in the retail establishment's hellbent
efforts.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">It always seemed an impossible task, to write, to work, to fit living a life between the two.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">But here I am unemployed with a manuscript in need of completion. What excuse could I possibly have not to embrace this crazy proposition. I should feel liberated and free to write with abandon, shouldn't I? But no. I know this sounds like the crazed words of a syphilitic mind but I miss it all, so much. The team leading, the feverish multi-tasking, the communing with shoppers like an elf with the perfect gift for everyone on their list. Unemployment wears on you. It slowly eats away at your self-worth while the financial crisis that grows with each passing week gnaws at your innards each sleepless night.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">A lot of noise to cut through when you want to concentrate on story and character.Still, I made a commitment to myself, daunting as it may be, 100K or whatever it takes to finish a draft by December 1st.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">What could go wrong?</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>Toilet.</b></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">For no reason it starts dripping, tap, tap, tap as I try to tap, tap, tap on my keyboard. Then it starts to trickle just as my words cease to flow, then a stream, in the bathroom, not from my imagination. No funds for a new toilet or, god forbid, a plumber <i>(you are such the joker!) </i>so I spend the next two days, dissembling, replacing piece by piece to no avail. Once, Twice, thrice. Tap, tap, tap now only on the bathroom floor. In a last ditch effort I reassemble it once again, this time reenforced with silicone throughout, even on the inner porcelain walls where I suspect a hairline crack. Finally dry on the outside. It grumbles every now and again just to remind me that I have just put the beast to sleep. Before bedtime I threaten it with a roll of Duct tape like a priest with holy water. "The spirit of Christ compels you, out demon!!"</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>Car. </b></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">If that wasn't enough madness to keep me from the keyboard, my car, or as I have come to name her, Beelzebub, decides to have a conniption, its idiot lights blinking a cartoon engine while the motor shakes in fits and starts. As I accelerate it sounds like a prop engine on a dingy. I make it to the repair station and leave it, heading home to wait the prognosis. The bathroom goes tap, tap, tap. I try to mimic it with keystrokes. The car will cost over a quarter of my monthly income so I have to figure that out alongside automatic payments, a mortgage payment and holidays looming. With a lot of penny pinching I might be able to swing the car in time to dash through the woods to the new grandmother's house. I'm told that I can drive the car at my peril without any more damage to the engine (save for it stalling and not being able to be restarted.) Driving now is like sitting in front of a Jack in the box as someone slowly turns the crank. You drive forward, not unlike the country, hands clenched to the wheel waiting for Chuckles to burst forth as soon as you let your guard down.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Still, the story waits for me.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Enough bitching. It could be deadlines, papers that need to be graded, lives that need to be saved, bones needing to be mended, babies that need to be burped. Its <i>always</i> going to be something. It's called life. The key is to persevere. Success never comes to those who don't try. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Nanowritmo is a marathon. You just don't quit the race because to get a stitch or run out of metaphors </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><i>(that, perhaps, could be a good thing -wink-)</i></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Tap, tap, tap... <i>(this time not coming from the bathroom.) </i><i><b><br /></b></i></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Week Two: </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">44948 words in 14 days</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">GOAL: 100,000 words (or the finish line, whichever comes first.)</span></span>S. E. Toonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01779341199387862248noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7240285996404609872.post-62226983824673877382012-11-08T09:01:00.000-08:002012-11-09T13:13:45.998-08:00Writing Hell week 1<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSmdrqhiv9kbo-PmXr8vFNJ0L_-WLfwQ3o-12I5LdhVja-sGpbTY6R4Kqr0aFiFJ4dNUmoxae7aV3kyQ6Z-begHiRiU3AZzSwrwIkTGqJH616PMjzYhUIQuABTLa8Yi07zmDHSjHFX7A/s1600/nanowritmo12.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSmdrqhiv9kbo-PmXr8vFNJ0L_-WLfwQ3o-12I5LdhVja-sGpbTY6R4Kqr0aFiFJ4dNUmoxae7aV3kyQ6Z-begHiRiU3AZzSwrwIkTGqJH616PMjzYhUIQuABTLa8Yi07zmDHSjHFX7A/s1600/nanowritmo12.jpg" /></a>So today is the end of the first week of <b>Nanowritmo 2012</b>.<br />
What pray tell is nanowritmo?<br />
<br />
Why <b>Nation Novel Writing Month</b>. It is always November because no one has anything else to occupy their time during that month. No impending holidays and the stress that they can compound. Thank the stars, that would making trying to crank out a manuscript for a novel that clocks in at 50,000 word in 30 days a nerve-wracking experience.<br />
<br />
I'm all in. Let's start writing. This is my own personal method.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>S.E. Toon's First Level of Writing Hell.</b></span><br />
Now my process of writing involves taking extensive notes both on plot and on character development. I write the first draft in long hand because I find it an organic form of making my thoughts real. I can cross things out, put an asterisk on a passage and add to it or question it for a re-write. I can lasso parts and draw arrows to where it should be moved to. In short, to anyone but myself, it is an indelligable mess. The secret service should use my method.<b> IMPORTANT:</b> No one should ever read this draft.<br />
<br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">S.E. Toon's Second Level of Writing Hell. </span></b><br />
Then I decipher my mad scribbles and type them into my word processor. At this stage I am editing, waxing poetic, polishing as I write. Reading the computer screen, making another pass then print.<b> IMPORTANT: </b>No one should ever read this draft.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>S.E. Toon's Third Level of Writing Hell.</b></span><br />
Then its time to make the pages bleed. I take out my trusty read pen and correct grammar, dreaded adverbs, delete extraneous back story. Delete, delete, flesh out, delete again. Get another pen because the present one has run out of ink, and repeat. Then I type the bloody page back into the computer, futzing and tweaking as I type. <b>IMPORTANT: </b>No one should ever read this draft at this time but I let them just so they can drill me a new one. I've learned from my experience as a graphic artist that what you usually miss on your third pass, the final markups, is not the mouse type, its is what is in the largest font size. Same with writing for me. Dumb tense mistakes, passive phrasing, more show, less tell. Only another writer's eyes can take off my blinders.<br />
<br />
Then its rinse and repeat.<br />
<br />
<b>You can't do this in nanowritmo! </b><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><b>Nanowritmo</b>'s New and Improved (?) Level of Writing Hell.</b></span><br />
This is a race, not a stroll. Your writing needs to be a stream of consciousness relying on your inner voice. The words need to go directly into the computer devoid of editing save for a smidgen of spell checking. This is so against my nature I find it maddening. I still refer heavily to my notes to get me on a writing jag and I confess I have already broke down and hand written a passage before typing. So you do what's necessary, write like every letter is sacred and when you get to the finish line this warning still applies, <b>IMPORTANT: </b>No one should ever read this draft.<br />
<br />
I keep thinking of what I tell my creative writing students. Writing is rewriting. First you need something to rewrite. You can't create a sculpture without a block of stone <i>(and if you are some kind of smarty pants that wants to say, 'Sure you can. You can make a sculpture out of steel, paper, even macaroni.' I'll have to hunt you down and stab you in the throat with my metaphor.)</i><br />
<br />
See what's happening?? ARRRRG! Now I so want to add this blog to my week's total (645 words) alongside the words I enter each week into LiteraryBookie.Blogspot.com (1602 words), even my grocery list (88 words, very hungry). I could use them all woven together as an example of extreme fiction to create a YA <i>House of Leaves</i>.<br />
<br />
Or maybe I should just stop typing here and get on with my story.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Week One: </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">27,103 words in 7 days</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">GOAL: 100,000 words (doable but at what cost?)</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">If you want to join in the insanity, better late than never. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Share the misery. See you in hell!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">http://ywp.nanowrimo.org/user/register</span>S. E. Toonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01779341199387862248noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7240285996404609872.post-8104564603408471932012-10-30T08:56:00.001-07:002012-10-30T09:08:16.352-07:00Got Your Nose <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWEBJCEOqdVUb-IOfOpNuFlF4UtRV6ekATC7ACBeMifaLnuueOA2hBRRq74sZr6fbk3cWODkpOtsI0cwA8wmroXb6tMiDXxnh366jj_r-l-2RESERj2z5iJUqYD7GHEpv7OX1SuKThTA/s1600/asylumbars.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="124" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWEBJCEOqdVUb-IOfOpNuFlF4UtRV6ekATC7ACBeMifaLnuueOA2hBRRq74sZr6fbk3cWODkpOtsI0cwA8wmroXb6tMiDXxnh366jj_r-l-2RESERj2z5iJUqYD7GHEpv7OX1SuKThTA/s200/asylumbars.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> IN CELEBRATION OF ALL HALLOW'S READ YOU CAN UPLOAD YOUR OWN COPY OF THIS SHORT STORY BY</span></b></span></b><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> S.E. TOON,</span></b> </span></b>NOW UNTIL MIDNIGHT HALLOWEEN NIGHT. </span></b><br />
<br />
<span style="color: red;"><b><i>The only thing you have to fear is fear itself.<br /><br />Meet your worst fear.</i></b></span><br />
<span style="color: red;"></span><span style="color: red;"><b><br />Three teens find themselves the victims of a cruel prank and are locked in an abandoned asylum on, of all days, All Hallow’s Eve.<br /><br />Even worse, the building knows what really scares them and conjures personal nightmare worlds for each of the intruders. </b></span><br />
<span style="color: red;"><b><br />It is up to each teen to battle the malevolent building’s manifestations and confront the real fears haunting their lives. Only then will they truly be free. <br /><br />Come inside. Don’t be afraid. <br /><br />Good luck with that.</b></span><br />
<br />
<i></i><br />
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: left;">
</div>
<i>
</i> It is formatted as a booklet and has (2) PDF files. One is the text, the other the cover. You can go to your local print shop and have them make the booklet for you (est. cost $2.40) or just read it on your computer. You can also load it into your personal reader if you choose. Copyright. All Rights Reserved. Not for sale.<br />
<br />
the link is <a href="http://talesbytoon.jigsy.com/" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">Http://TalesbyToon.jigsy.com</a><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Special Thanks goes out to fellow storyteller Kymberly Anderson for getting the story up on the web and to my junior high Creative Writing Boot Camp participants, Haley, Mellissa, Alyssa, Alexah, and Allison, who inspired this story during one of our "cluster" sessions. Pleasant screams!</span><br />
<br />
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</o:shapelayout></xml><![endif]--><span style="font-family: "Oldstyle HPLHS"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho"; mso-fareast-language: JA; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast;"><br /></span> S. E. Toonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01779341199387862248noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7240285996404609872.post-83888167405110686192012-10-24T06:30:00.003-07:002012-10-24T06:38:10.026-07:00All Hallow's Read Treat<div class="post-body entry-content" id="post-body-169873308806622947" itemprop="description articleBody">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRRq0IByNDATCBt4LRomlToagoP80p3pzfxMJ7ClXlhhP2zHRtdKlr2gIbqLIYrxDKNQvHOQOeyPRVmHhXrhNb9o8d5jqk1QpbYdXwLmIF-KXYAE7jSQMlIF-iSCCUN-gUXb2invZ-fA/s1600/AllHallowsRead.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRRq0IByNDATCBt4LRomlToagoP80p3pzfxMJ7ClXlhhP2zHRtdKlr2gIbqLIYrxDKNQvHOQOeyPRVmHhXrhNb9o8d5jqk1QpbYdXwLmIF-KXYAE7jSQMlIF-iSCCUN-gUXb2invZ-fA/s200/AllHallowsRead.jpg" title="" width="156" /></a><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">FOR ALL HALLOW'S EVE I AM GOING TO POST A NEW SHORT STORY.</span></div>
<div class="post-body entry-content" id="post-body-169873308806622947" itemprop="description articleBody">
</div>
<div class="post-body entry-content" id="post-body-169873308806622947" itemprop="description articleBody">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">It is entitled <i>Got Your Nose</i>
and I will be posting a link to PDFs of the story for you to download.
It is formatted to be a chapbook (2 pages fit on 1 8.5x11" page and can
be printed as a booklet. There is also a PDF of a cover. You can take
the files to your local printer and they will make the booklet for you
OR you can read it on your computer, OR you can, if you are device
savvy, import it into your reader.</span></div>
<div class="post-body entry-content" id="post-body-169873308806622947" itemprop="description articleBody">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">It will only be available until Midnight on Halloween, then it will disappear (spooky,huh?)</span></div>
<div class="post-body entry-content" id="post-body-169873308806622947" itemprop="description articleBody">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />The seed of the story came from a Creative Writing boot camp I taught this past summer with a group of creative junior high students.Special thanks go out to Haley, Mellissa, Alyssa, Alexah and Allison for sharing their fears, at first hackneyed then slowly dug down deep to the good stuff. Thanks for sharing. </span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">What
is <i>All Hallow’s Read</i><i> </i>?</span></span><br />
<br />
Scary books. Halloween. <br />
<br />
This new tradition is the brainchild of macabre author Neil Gaiman and 2012 will be the third year the event will be celebrated. It’s simple! During the week of Halloween, or on the night itself, you give someone a scary book. It doesn’t take the place of trick or treating, it’s in addition to all the usual Halloween fun stuff. The book should be age appropriate but scary.<br />
<br />
Here’s Neil Gaiman’s initial proposal:<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>On Hallowe'en or during the week of Hallowe'en, we give each other scary books. <br /><br />Give children scary books they'll like and can handle. <br /><br />Give adults scary books they'll enjoy.<br /><br />I propose that stories by authors like John Bellairs and Stephen King and Arthur Machen and Ramsey Campbell and M R James and Lisa Tuttle and Peter Straub and Daphne Du Maurier and Clive Barker and a hundred hundred others change hands -- new books or old or second-hand, beloved books or unknown. Give someone a scary book for Hallowe'en. Make their flesh creep...<br /><br />Give a scary book.<br /><br />If you don't know what kinds of books there are, or what would be appropriate for the person you're giving a book to, talk to a bookseller. They love to help, most of them. (The ones that don't tend not to be booksellers for long.) Talk to librarians. (Do not plan to give away their books though, unless they are having a library sale.)<br /><br />That's it. <br /><br />Scary book. </i><br />
<i><br />Hallowe'en.</i>S. E. Toonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01779341199387862248noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7240285996404609872.post-11303841668574137142012-09-19T12:08:00.001-07:002012-09-24T14:03:06.105-07:00Pirates of Lobster Cove Chapter 1 - Ahoy!<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small; font-weight: normal; line-height: 200%;">Here's the first chapter of <i>The Pirates of Lobster Cove</i>. Since it will be offered online in October when the entire book will be available as an E-Book, </span><span style="font-size: x-small; font-weight: normal; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 200%;">I figured to post it for the devote now. We'll let you know when you can upload your copy for $2.99. We need to sell LOTS of copies to catch the interest of the agents and legitimate publishers. Enjoy!</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Century","serif"; font-weight: normal; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Century","serif"; font-weight: normal; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span>I</span>t was during the summer of my
fourteenth year when I first rubbed elbows with legend.</span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Century","serif"; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"> </span></i><span style="font-family: "Century","serif"; font-weight: normal; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">There he was in all of his pirate glory, stopping before my
cottage porch. The man clutched the guardrail to remove his sandblasted leather
boot and emptied whatever sand or pebble that was irritating his good leg. He
slipped the boot back on and tucked his pant leg inside its lavish cuff. The
boot’s ample leather slouched down his calf in a jaunty, well, piratey way. As
he stood up and pulled out a red handkerchief to wipe the early morning
humidity from his brow, our eyes met for a moment. The stranger at my front
stoop stared at me through the screen. </span><br />
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<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: 200%; margin-top: 12.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Century","serif"; font-weight: normal; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">‘Billybones</span></i><span style="font-family: "Century","serif"; font-weight: normal; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">,’ I thought.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
didn’t dare utter the nickname that came to me as I stood there transfixed by
every childhood fear I ever had of pirates. I just mouthed the name </span><span style="font-family: "Century","serif"; font-weight: normal; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">as he loomed before me</span><span style="font-family: "Century","serif"; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">.</span><span style="font-family: "Century","serif"; font-weight: normal; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: 200%; margin-top: 12.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Century","serif"; font-weight: normal; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">BillyBones was a sight to see. His lanky form stood a
crooked six foot four. He was thin but in no way frail. His bare forearms
revealed a taut musculature, rippled like suspension bridge wire wrapped with
tan skin, a coat of faded red hair in full effect. He looked English, or what I
assumed an Englishman would look like from my grandfather’s tales of WWII, the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">big</i> one. He always commented how
threadbare their uniforms were and how gaunt and battle-worn they looked, but
to <i>“beat’m,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>you’d have to kill’m”</i>.
That was tough, BillyBones tough.</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: 200%; margin-top: 12.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Century","serif"; font-weight: normal; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The rest of his appearance also fit the pirate profile. His
pants faded brown canvas that hung heavy on his form. His shirt billowed in the
salty air where the white gauze hadn’t clung to his perspiration. A large
buckled belt tied the two together, a walking stick slung beneath like a sword.
His face possibly forged in the heat of a hundred summers was sculpted in sun
burnt highlights and dull brown hollows that looked more like smudges of dirt
than tan. In contrast, his eyes shone sea blue, eyes that knew history, eyes
with tales to tell. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: 200%; margin-top: 12.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Century","serif"; font-weight: normal; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Mornin’, kid.” the
stranger muttered in an exhale as he adjusted the bag slung on his back. It was
a statement not a greeting. His eyes lingered for a moment, sizing me up like a
wild animal that had stumbled into a clearing only to find the threat of
campers. Sensing a safe haven, his look softened ever so slightly and he turned
from me, the doe-eyed boy behind the porch screen, and turned his gaze to the
path that went from the shoreline towards the center of town.</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: 200%; margin-top: 12.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Century","serif"; font-weight: normal; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I’m a see’n ya,
I’m<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>a walkin.” He paused a moment in
thought. “Morning . . . good mornin,” he muttered to himself. He swung his
favored leg out in front of himself to walk away and then turned back to me.
Making a double check of his safety level he gave me a slight nod of his
unshaven chin. With a squint of his one good eye he shielded from the early
sunlight he turned up the path. Perhaps it was a wink. The connection was
unspoken but very much real. He knew me, and I might have just met a pirate. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: 200%; margin-top: 12.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Century","serif"; font-weight: normal; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Before I tell you what happened next and the adventure that
unfurled that summer, I need to fill you in on the world where my small circle
of friends and I were transplanted every summer. To us, summer was the Cove,
Lobster Cove on the map, but it was <i>“Lobstah Cove”</i> to us. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: 200%; margin-top: 12.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Century","serif"; font-weight: normal; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">There were snowbirds, locals and daytrippers. Snowbirds
would fly into town in June as soon as hometown schools closed and stayed in
the Cove right through Labor Day. My friends and I were said birds. We did
enough time on the Cove so we were welcomed like migrant geese crossing an
early spring sky. Locals found themselves trapped in the Cove year ‘round,
through the vicious Nor’Easter snowstorms and coastal flooding that would ensue
off-season. They were mostly blue collar workers in the fishing industry who
worked hard and long through the best months of the year only to find downtime
between plowing gigs in the misery that can be winter on the Atlantic coast.</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: 200%; margin-top: 12.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Century","serif"; font-weight: normal; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">So what is a daytripper you ask? They were the time shares
and weekend warriors that congested our fair fishing village just long enough
to wear out their welcome.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They came
from Albuquerque to Zaire from Memorial Day to Labor Day. They pronounced
Lobster Cove devoid of any discerning accent leaving a week later with the best
New England accent that they could muster.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>‘<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lopstahhh!’</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: 200%; margin-top: 12.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Century","serif"; font-weight: normal; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The term “Lopstah” became a slur of sorts like “Arrr!” must
be to a pirate. When daytrippers would try to get all chummy and butcher our
local-speak with phrases like, “So, how are the <i>Lobstahhh</i> biting?!”, we
would just roll our eyes and bite our lips. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">‘Go
home, ‘tripper! Lopstahs don’t bite; you do!’</i> we wanted to say. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: 200%; margin-top: 12.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Century","serif"; font-weight: normal; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">We knew better. They spoke with cash. The adults, no matter
how much the daytrippers looked down their nose at them, refrained as well.
They realized that these people were their bread and butter during the short
summer months.</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: 200%; margin-top: 12.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Century","serif"; font-weight: normal; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Half-awake locals would head to the docks about the same
time each morning as my first pirate sighting. They would carry lunch buckets
or brown-bag leftovers. Many had beer bellies covered by soiled t-shirts for
Red Sox Championships or last year’s NASCAR winners, their glory and color as
faded like these shore men’s memories of youth. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: 200%; margin-top: 12.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Century","serif"; font-weight: normal; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">They worked hard and they played hard: up before first
light and catching last call in the neon-lit confines of <span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">locals-only</span> watering holes. At
another time and place Billybones would impart to me, “Good men, lobstah men,
workin’ with what God gave’m. Can never have a bad drink with a lobstah man,”
sounding nothing like a daytripper. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: 200%; margin-top: 12.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Century","serif"; font-weight: normal; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Ye worst day drinkin’ with a lobsterman is league’s better
than drinkin’ top shelf with a landlubber.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: 200%; margin-top: 12.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Century","serif"; font-weight: normal; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I had to take Billybones word on that. The one time I had
tasted alcohol it tasted like paint thinner. I assumed the difference between
shelves was similar to Mountain Dew and the generic drink at the Cove Market, a
beverage so poor in taste; they didn’t even bother to give it a catchy name,
just Lemon-Lime Drink.</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: 200%; margin-top: 12.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Century","serif"; font-weight: normal; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">First looking upon him I knew that he wasn’t a daytripper
or a snowbird. You sensed he was older than the bleached docks at the harbor
though he looked barely fifty. He was of old blood, as local as the coastline
itself. He could say “Lopstahhh” any time he chose and no one would ever
challenge that he didn’t belong.</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: 200%; margin-top: 12.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Century","serif"; font-weight: normal; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Billybones had shuffled his way up the street, lame but
strong in stride when two of the aforementioned lobstermen crossed his path.
The men instinctually knew not to look the man directly in the eyes. They
passed, heads bowed slightly, almost reverently. They were a good three paces
past before they even dared look back. They huddled together like school boys
passing notes in class, fearing of being caught by teacher. One man whispered
to the other. BillyBones stopped. The men cowered and stopped in turn. The
assumed pirate adjusted his duffel bag and continued towards town. The two men
waited a few strides before walking further. Billybones was alpha dog, and no
curs in the Cove would contest it. <span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: 200%; margin-top: 12.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Century","serif"; font-weight: normal; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">My first vision of the pirate faded into the morning haze.
I sat transfixed on the porch. Was it real or remnants of a dream? I needed to
know. I sprang to my feet and bounded out of the breezeway to find someone
awake who could confirm my pirate sighting.</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: 200%; margin-top: 12.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Century","serif"; font-weight: normal; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The golden hue of first light cast a warm sepia tone on the
kitchen walls. The toaster popped up similarly tinged slices of bread. ‘<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The toaster!</i>’’<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That would mean Mom must be about. And as
luck would have it, she came around the corner from the pantry with a jar of
flour and a wire mesh basket of eggs. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">‘Alas,
a witness!’</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Failing to find words, I
grabbed my mother by the arm and dragged her into the porch, almost breaking an
egg in the process.</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: 200%; margin-top: 12.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Century","serif"; font-weight: normal; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Tyler Lewis Byrne! What in the heavens has gotten into
you?” </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: 200%; margin-top: 12.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Century","serif"; font-weight: normal; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">She whispered in hopes of keeping my brother asleep. I
escorted her briskly to the porch and pointed repetitively like a mute. She
followed my finger and looked up the road to the crest of the hill leading to
town. The outline of BillyBones could still be seen in the distance through the
glare of the sun. I swallowed, more of a gulp, and found my voice.</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: 200%; margin-top: 12.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Century","serif"; font-weight: normal; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Look Ma…” I whispered in a tone even quieter than my
mother’s. What if the stranger heard my accusation all the way up the road? I
pictured him turning on his heel and looking back with plundering intent.</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: 200%; margin-top: 12.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Century","serif"; font-weight: normal; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“…a pirate… see’m?” I asked as if merely asking would
question my very own sanity.</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: 200%; margin-top: 12.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Century","serif"; font-weight: normal; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There must be a
place where they put delusional kids who see things. Perhaps only adults know
of the existence of such institutions. They only talked of the place when they
were not within earshot of a child. “Haven’t seen the youngest around these parts
in a while, dear?’ ‘Well, one thing led to another and he had to… go away. Saw
pirates, the poor thing.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: 200%; margin-top: 12.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Century","serif"; font-weight: normal; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Admitting the vision to my mother might usher in a fate as
fearsome as the potential pirate at my door. If she didn’t see him, then it
would surely be a one-way ticket to the booby hatch.</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: 200%; margin-top: 12.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Century","serif"; font-weight: normal; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">My mother squinted at the figure at the top of the hill,
tilted her head a bit to focus and then let out an exasperated sigh. Then she
did something that made my heart stop. She opened the front door screen and waved.
With a lilting tone she called to him. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: 200%; margin-top: 12.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Century","serif"; font-weight: normal; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Ahoy!” </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: 200%; margin-top: 12.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Century","serif"; font-weight: normal; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">It all happened before I could pull her back inside to
protect her from whatever wrath was yet to come. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">‘Ahoy?! You might as well go Arrr, Ma!’ </i>my inner voice shrieked.
The man turned, gave us a curious glance then managed a halfhearted wave as he
turned back to the road. My mouth fell open. We had dodged a bullet.</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: 200%; margin-top: 12.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Century","serif"; font-weight: normal; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Mother closed the screen and went back to preparing
breakfast. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: 200%; margin-top: 12.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Century","serif"; font-weight: normal; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Him? He’s the curator at the new nautical museum opening
in the square. A mister. . . Smythe I believe.” Her air of familiarity was
unsettling. She looked at me with a mother’s eyes, all too aware what a short
time of this childlike innocence was left. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: 200%; margin-top: 12.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Century","serif"; font-weight: normal; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Stopping her morning chores, she giggled, “A pirate? Of
course, a pirate.” Her amused voice was louder than before and was enough to
rustle my older brother Ryan from cutting <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Zs</i>
on the living room couch. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: 200%; margin-top: 12.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Century","serif"; font-weight: normal; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“Maaa? Wh’d ya say,”</span><span style="font-family: "Century","serif"; font-weight: normal; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"> he muttered half-awake under a rubble of sheets. I looked
desperately at my mother silently pleading, <i>‘Noooo!’</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Century","serif"; font-weight: normal; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“I said pirate dear, imagine
that! Tyler thought he saw a pirate.”</span><span style="font-family: "Century","serif"; font-weight: normal; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"> My
inner voice lamented, <i>‘O man, here it comes…‘</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ryan’s head popped up from under the sheets
like a maniacal teenage jack-in-the-box. He was all cow-licked hair, pimples
and smiles. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: 200%; margin-top: 12.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Century","serif"; font-weight: normal; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">My 16 year old poor-excuse-for-a-brother paused a second so
that his slow mind could load up with verbal ammunition. The sound and smell of
sizzling bacon filled the cottage as both the strips of pork and I were
grilled.</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: 200%; margin-top: 12.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Century","serif"; font-weight: normal; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“A pirate ya’ say? Sure it wasn’t the Easter
Bunny, twerp? I hear that Santa Claus vacations here this time of year. He’s
got that whole beard and boots thing going on too. Sure it wasn’t the jolly old
elf? Snap!”</span> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Century","serif"; font-weight: normal; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">He rolled back into the sheets in a fit of uncontrollable
laughter.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Century","serif"; font-weight: normal; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The morning all but faded from memory. I spent the rest of
the day awash in daydream questioning whether or not I had even seen the
supposed pirate at all. The man I had named BillyBones became a half-real,
half-imagined figment of my imagination. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Century","serif"; font-weight: normal; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">It wasn’t until after dark that the moment played back in
my mind, sharper and more vivid than it had in the hazy morning light. I was
alone in my bed, tucked snugly into the eaves on the second floor of our
cottage. The repetition of the tide lulled me to dreamland. I saw his figure
fade into the distance as my mother turned away from the door. Then, just as I
started to turn to follow her to the kitchen, I looked back. BillyBones face
appeared not three feet before me on the other side of the screen, smelling of <i>Old
Spice</i> and chum.</span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Century","serif"; font-weight: normal; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">‘So, yer thought ya’ mighta’ seen a
Pirate, did ya Lubby??’</span></i><span style="font-family: "Century","serif"; font-weight: normal; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">, he spewed,
one eye blazing blue in my direction, one hazed over, not quite looking my way.
His jagged teeth, a sickly yellow grimace. <i>“Well, did ya or didn’t ya!,”</i>
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<span style="font-family: "Century","serif"; font-weight: normal; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Suddenly there was the tip of a sword, a flash of steel, a
spray of crimson. The blade tore through the screen, just shy of my right ear.
I heard the rapier blade sing, its warmth cutting air. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Century","serif"; font-weight: normal; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I awoke, rushed to the upstairs window and look down on the
road below. It was basked in pockets of streetlight. From the shadows I heard a
footfall, then drag, footfall, drag. I looked further up the road to see the
profile of BillyBones in the distance disappearing past the road’s far horizon.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Century","serif"; font-weight: normal; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Writing it all off as a bad dream, the result of one too
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on my pillow lay a sheered lock of my hair, a halo of crimson pin dots
encircling it. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Century","serif"; font-weight: normal; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I then went to the linen closet to change my sheets.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">________</span></div>
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<br /></div>
S. E. Toonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01779341199387862248noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7240285996404609872.post-86997403948388051572012-09-06T07:33:00.001-07:002012-09-24T14:02:46.381-07:00Truth Be Told<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">I moderated a panel of non-fiction writers on Tuesday, August 14<sup>th</sup> for <i>The Book Shack</i> in
Kingston, MA. It was entitled <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><i>Truth Be Told</i>. </span></b></span></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">My guests were: </span></span></b></span></b></span></b></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #990000;">Ted Burbank</span>, <span style="color: red;">Alberta Sequira</span>,</span></span></span></span>
</span></span></span></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="color: #6aa84f;">Jim Coogan</span>,
<span style="color: #76a5af;">Susan Trausch</span>, and <span style="color: #a64d79;">Joyce Keller Walsh</span>.</span></span></div>
<br />
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Being strictly a writer of fiction, and in most cases, tales very loosely based in reality, I found myself a unique choice. To make it my own, I composed an introduction to celebrate this diverse group of driven writers and the power of their truth-telling pens. I have color coded the passages that refer to the certain writers in the piece. Please, look them up, buy their publications and celebrate their independent voices.</span></b></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></b></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">Truth <b><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">is</i></b> stranger than fiction.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">A horde of oppressed hooligans break the
law and discard crates of breakfast beverage into the sea unleashing the
mightiest country the world has ever known.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #990000;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">A business and investment entrepreneur
finds the muse that normally has him share business strategy now calls to him to
pull away the shroud of mystery deep within Plymouth’s Burial Hill.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">Yet another horde of the oppressed armed
with cell phones, a mighty app and the taste of freedom birth a democratic
state.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: red;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">A woman finds that the strength of
memoir is enough to free her from the shackles of generational predisposition
and discovers the joys of unburdened living.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">Another horde, ok, a gaggle, no, a
couple of nerds in a garage string together a series of 0 and 1s with punch
cards and a Frankenstein of machinery ushering in a new era of man.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #6aa84f;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">A man with a life-long love affair with
the land where he was raised discovers the healing properties of looking at the
lighter side of life.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">This time they were definitely a horde,
men playing a boys game defy all odds with no exceptional talents bestowed on
them from the Gods, free a state of optimists from a formidable curse.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #45818e;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">A woman after caught in what appears to
be the rudder-less future of retirement finds direction in following her heart
and what has driven her from day one.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">Yet another horde of talented youth
fueled on pride and talent bind together peoples of diverse lands and
philosophies for fleeting moments of pomp and circumstance based solely on a
thousand life stories and the purity of ambition.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #a64d79;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">And an accomplished playwright/author
writer unearths a murder that reads better than most mystery novels simply
because it really happened.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">And one man builds a device that gives
the hordes of hordes the ability to document their world, inspire their world,
even transcend their world and it never needs batteries or power save that of
imagination, thank you Guttenberg.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">Ladies and gentle, truth <b><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">is</i></b> indeed stranger than fiction.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt;"><br clear="all" style="mso-special-character: line-break; page-break-before: always;" />
</span></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #cc0000;"><b>Theodore
P. Burbank (Ted)</b></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #cc0000;">celebrates Plymouth’s pride and
some of its hidden treasures. </span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #cc0000;">Founder of Lighthouse Financial,
a family business guru and publisher a several interactive tools to aid
individuals through the quagmire of small business to retirement. Titles such
as <i>The Handbook of Business Valuations</i>,
<i>Valuation and Sale of Small and Mid-size
Companies, </i>you get the picture, and then all of a sudden comes </span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #cc0000;"> </span></span></span>
</div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: red;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>Alberta
Sequeira </b></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: red;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">four-time award
winning author of three memoirs
including <i>Please,
God, Not Two</i>
was nominated for the Editors Choice Award 2010 and appeared in the December
20, 2010 issue of <i>Publishers Weekly</i>.</span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: red;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b><i>Someone
Stop This Merry-Go-Round</i></b><b>; <i>An </i></b><a href="http://www.awb6.com/aboutalbertasequiera.html" title="Powered by Text-Enhance"><b>Alcoholic</b></a><b><i> Family in Crisis</i></b><i> </i>memoirs life as the wife of an
alcoholic</span></span></span><br />
<span style="color: red;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b><i>Please
God, Not Two</i></b><b>; <i>This Killer Called </i></b><a href="http://www.awb6.com/aboutalbertasequiera.html" title="Powered by Text-Enhance"><b>Alcoholism</b></a><b>.</b>
A sequel the tells story of her daughter’s struggle with alcoholism and her
consequent demise.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="color: red;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b><i>A
Healing Heart; a Spiritual Renewal</i></b>
a heartfelt tale of her father, her family, and finding herself on a journey to
Medjugorje. (2006)</span></span></span><br />
<span style="color: red;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Co-authored <b><i>Loose Ends</i></b> by <i>Authors Without Borders </i><i>(New Bedford) </i>books for troops.
</span></span></span><br />
<span style="color: red;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">In progress, a novel entitled <b><i>The Rusty Years</i></b><i> </i>and<i> </i>editing stories of
alcoholics and addicts and their views of various <a href="http://www.awb6.com/aboutalbertasequiera.html" title="Powered by Text-Enhance">recovery</a> programs for future publication.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="color: red;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>
</i>Website:</span></span></span><br />
<span style="color: red;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="http://www.albertasequeira.com/">www.albertasequeira.com</a><br />
Blog: <a href="http://www.albertasequeira.wordpress.com/">www.albertasequeira.wordpress.com</a></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #6aa84f;"><b>Jim
Coogan</b></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #6aa84f;">Here’s somebody who knows what to do with his
retirement! After teaching Mr. Coogan has written;</span></span></span><br />
<h3 align="left" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #6aa84f;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Cape-Cod-Companion-History-Mystery/dp/0967259606/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1344953840&sr=1-2">Cape Cod Companion: The History and
Mystery of Old Cape Cod</a>
in 1999.</span></span></span></h3>
<h3 align="left" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #6aa84f;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Cape-Cod-Voyage-Journey-Through/dp/0967259622/ref=sr_1_3?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1344953840&sr=1-3">Cape Cod Voyage: A Journey Through
Cape Cod's History and Lore</a> In 2001.</span></span></span></h3>
<h3 align="left" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #6aa84f;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Sail-Away-Ladies-Stories-Women/dp/0967259649/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1344953840&sr=1-1">Sail Away Ladies: Stories of Cape Cod
Women in the Age of Sail</a> in 2003.</span></span></span></h3>
<h3 align="left" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #6aa84f;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Cape-Cod-Harvest-Gathering-Stories/dp/0967259665/ref=sr_1_4?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1344953840&sr=1-4">Cape Cod Harvest: A Gathering in of
Cape Cod Stories</a> in
2007.</span></span></span></h3>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #6aa84f;">Interspersed
between some of these were the children’s books.</span></span></span></div>
<h3 align="left" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #6aa84f;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Clarence-Cranberry-Who-Couldnt-Bounce/dp/0967259630/ref=sr_1_6?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1344953840&sr=1-6">Clarence: The Cranberry Who Couldn't
Bounce</a> in 2002.</span></span></span></h3>
<h3 align="left" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #6aa84f;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Saw-Sea-Monster-Yes-Did/dp/0967259614/ref=sr_1_8?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1344953840&sr=1-8">I Saw A Sea Monster, Yes I Did!</a> In 2004.</span></span></span></h3>
<h3 align="left" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #6aa84f;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Priscilla-Amazing-Pinkywink-Jim-Coogan/dp/0967259673/ref=sr_1_7?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1344953840&sr=1-7">Priscilla the Amazing Pinkywink</a> in 2008.</span></span></span></h3>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #6aa84f;">And most currently</span></span></span></div>
<h3 align="left" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #6aa84f;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Cape-Odd-Strange-Unusual-Stories/dp/0967259681/ref=sr_1_5?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1344953840&sr=1-5">Cape Odd: Strange and Unusual Stories
About Cape Cod</a> in
2010.</span></span></span></h3>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #6aa84f;">A collection of anecdotes and unusual stories
about the Cape showcasing strange happenings and curious events--both natural
and man-made.</span></span></span><br />
<br />
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #6fa8dc;"><b>Susan
Trausch</b></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #6fa8dc;">Former, and that’s the operative
word here, former award-winning Boston Globe columnist addresses facing the
world of retirement head on in her memoir <b><i>Groping Toward Whatever –
or How I Learned to Retire (Sort Of)</i></b>. </span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-align: left; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #6fa8dc;"><span style="-moz-font-feature-settings: normal; -moz-font-language-override: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"></span></span> </span></span>
</div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #a64d79;"><b>Joyce
Keller Walsh </b></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #a64d79;">Now we have someone who hails
from the world of fiction to embark into the “just-the-facts-ma’am” world of
non-fiction. How’s this for a dossier?</span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #a64d79;">Author of The <i>Pittsley Couty
Chronicles</i> trilogy.</span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #a64d79;">(<i>Juckets, Swamp Yankees, Bog Men</i>)</span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #a64d79;"><i>Winterkill</i> brought some
histirical fact into the psychological mystery genre.</span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #a64d79;">And most recently, (love the
title) <i>Strummin’ the Banjo Moon</i> in 2012.</span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #a64d79;">After all this and numerous stage
plays as well she has just had published her first foray into non-fiction with</span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #a64d79;"><i>SLEUTH-blog</i> an account of her real-time
investigation of a cold-case murder in 1969 in Fall River, MA. </span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #a64d79;">She is also a co-founder of <i>Authors Without Borders </i>along with<i> </i>Alberta Sequeira<b> </b></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #a64d79;"> Look for her first blog in June,
“Thoughts from a Country Road.”</span></span></span><br />
<div style="text-indent: 7.5pt;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: #a64d79;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Website: <a href="http://www.joycewalsh.com/">www.joycewalsh.com</a></span></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span>
<div style="margin-left: 43.5pt; mso-list: l1 level1 lfo6; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="-moz-font-feature-settings: normal; -moz-font-language-override: normal; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></span><span style="font-size: 16.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
S. E. Toonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01779341199387862248noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7240285996404609872.post-55792948333530396562012-07-26T05:53:00.002-07:002012-09-24T14:02:23.895-07:00A World of Invisible Things.<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><b>JUST FINISHED A CREATIVE WRITING GROUP AT DANCE DIMENSION. ONE CLASS WAS CHILDREN PRE-SCHOOL TO GRADE 3. I HAD EACH OF THEM ALL CONTRIBUTE TO GROWING A STORY. IT ALWAYS AMAZES ME WHAT THEY COME UP WITH. HERE'S THE RESULT INSPIRED BY ALL THEIR PRECIOUS THOUGHTS </b></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><br />Once upon a time there was a full moon in my backyard. <br /><br />It was all I could see. A neighbor who never saw my moons told me to look to the sky. <br /><br />When I looked up I saw not stars but the most magnificent dragon, <br /><br />wings unfurled, blotting above with a blanket of black.. <br /><br />I should have run as people did when there be dragons. <br /><br />I should have been in awe of him as I was with the moon. <br /><br />Instead I felt bad, felt sad, felt everything but glad, <br /><br />for the dragon wore a frown, not a snaggle-toothed sneer. <br /><br />A spear jutted out from between his teeth. <br /><br />Then the moon and the dragon were gone, like that. <br /><br />Days past, the world turned, I could feel the earth rotate beneath my feet. <br /><br />Once upon a time there was a crescent moon in my backyard. <br /><br />It rest, one point anchored to the earth, beside a fountain. <br /><br />This was no ordinary fountain for it reached high into the sky, far beyond the clouds. <br /><br />Water sprayed from its spouts as if it was raining all over the world. <br /><br />It rained on the dragon’s wings and he clumsily landed on my lawn, <br /><br />a splinter of a spear remained between his lips. <br /><br />I should have run as people did when they were face to face with a fire breather. <br /><br />I should have feared the fire behind his stove, hot breath. <br /><br />Instead I felt his need and my need too, and I reached out and patted his armored head. <br /><br />Then the rarest sight of all, rarer than dragons and backyard moons, <br /><br />a dragon’s tear fell, just one, that dried up on the dragon’s hot scales as soon as it was. <br /><br />Should I call for my parents to rush us to hospital, a veterinarian or whoever cares for dragons?<br /><br />Alas there are no such things, so with a sorry on my lips and a plea to not be burnt toast, <br /><br />I grasped the spear and with both hands pulled it out. <br /><br />Another tear, perhaps for the sting of his wound, perhaps for being a dragon to start with, </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">or perhaps for the same reason a tear flowed from my eye as well; because aside from this</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"> fantastic moment, this budding friendship could not be in a world</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"> that didn’t believe in flying dragons and fallen moons. <br /><br />More days past, the world kept turning. I looked up at the stars every night. <br /><br />Once upon a time there was a new moon in my backyard. <br /><br />No one could see it, but me but I knew it was there, <br /><br />just as I knew on that starless night that I had someone watching over me.</span></div>
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S. E. Toonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01779341199387862248noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7240285996404609872.post-48804932893593868462012-07-19T14:05:00.002-07:002012-09-24T14:01:49.539-07:00Dark Tales Reviews - The Age of Miracles<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><b>THE AGE OF MIRACLES </b></span><b><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: medium;">by Karen Thompson Walker</span></span></b><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi89Vmo2KRxDY29-HLW9ZK5CahSPtYjEChdoztNP4h3E7NTuFjgoGRDpxwh8Ie6oGeyC3zrv0tWOf50TVTpE3FwmxPRsoS6Es14THHtQW4Tka6SGf4LahBmfP7oPaLUbpLf6ostsXI79A/s1600/age+of+miracles.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi89Vmo2KRxDY29-HLW9ZK5CahSPtYjEChdoztNP4h3E7NTuFjgoGRDpxwh8Ie6oGeyC3zrv0tWOf50TVTpE3FwmxPRsoS6Es14THHtQW4Tka6SGf4LahBmfP7oPaLUbpLf6ostsXI79A/s320/age+of+miracles.jpg" width="214" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Ahoy!You won't find this book in the Young Adult section of your <a href="http://talesbytoon.blogspot.com/p/dark-tales-for-teens.html#" id="_GPLITA_0" style="text-decoration: underline;" title="Powered by Text-Enhance">bookstore</a>
although at first glance it seems like the appropriate category. This
is a quintessential coming-of-age story. For a teen summer read the
verbiage makes for an easy read and the ample sprinkling of metaphor
delicate. Not to say that the novel is lightweight. It has all the
textbook trappings of a YA novel; first love, unstable domestic
situation, illness, loss of loved ones and a daunting obstacle to
overcome. The point of view is a filter of teen malaise, everything is
high drama, Romeo and Juliet, every new day bringing something new to
mope and grouse about.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Except
in Julia's world her reactions are, if anything, understated for the
Earth is slowing its rotation which begins a domino effect of natural
disasters that should make bullying and lunchroom alliances non-events.
Not for Julia. What follows is one part dissertation on the breakdown of
society and the malleable nature of Man and one part a chronicle of the
transformation of child to adult.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">The
miraculous age refers not to the end of the world, but puberty when
body's and mind's transform in strange and wonderful ways. The days and
events that determine who we will become.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">A
well respected, well read acquaintance of mine commented as she read
this novel, "I'm waiting for something to happen." Excuse me? Its just
the end of the world as we know it. People are drooping dead like the
birds that fall from the sky. Neighbor vie against one another for
survival. Crops wither and the future is as dark as the nights that grow
longer each sunset. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Here's
the one trick pony that is making this such a critic's favorite. This
distopian future seen through Julia's eyes plays as melodrama because in
her world view the world doesn't rotate around its core, it rotates, or
<i>should</i> rotate, around her. When that is challenged, when it is
realized to never have existed at all, that is a teen Armageddon far
worse the erasing of suburbia.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">This
is a realization teens are already keenly aware of. Adults barely
remember the stage production of puberty, how the little things stung
and scarred. Behaps it is to avoid revisiting the pain and because in
hind sight the events seem trivial in the grand scope of things.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">I
stand corrected. This book does belong in the General Fiction
department alongside the grownup books for it is a reminder to us with
our teen years in the rear view mirror how the little things matter.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;"> </span><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;"><b>THINK:<i> </i><i>Mean Girls </i>written by Ray Bradbury.</b></span></div>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><b>1<sup>st</sup> LINE – <i>“We didn't notice right away.”</i></b></span>S. E. Toonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01779341199387862248noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7240285996404609872.post-38265297655289422492012-06-20T05:11:00.002-07:002012-07-18T04:57:38.125-07:00Dark Tales Review: Railsea<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><b>RAILSEA </b></span><b><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: medium;">by China Mieville</span></span></b><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_Q58YCn2OhaGK1USpmqisFMyK59f7ubqZAIcycxg1gCkAcOIfXhfYpQJVH6DRMF8RytlkhNq3l9L7Hc5Lis36yWH2aDhPyOGM0xmKFC2rcwH99rDVGpsDn_3rlwxVh17s9bViKMenxg/s1600/railsea.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_Q58YCn2OhaGK1USpmqisFMyK59f7ubqZAIcycxg1gCkAcOIfXhfYpQJVH6DRMF8RytlkhNq3l9L7Hc5Lis36yWH2aDhPyOGM0xmKFC2rcwH99rDVGpsDn_3rlwxVh17s9bViKMenxg/s320/railsea.jpg" width="210" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Ahoy!Not
only have I come across a YA novel that doesn't write down to the teen
level, it challenges them with a post-modern awareness of all the grand
sea adventures that preceded it. Here oceans are desert wastelands
littered with twisted railroad ties and rusted salvage, the ships that
sail them, trains. At first glance Railsea is a steampunk reimagining of
Melville's Moby Dick. You wouldn't be entirely wrong if you replace the
white whale with a massive mole. Replace Ahab with a female sea captain
named Miss Naphi and you're even closer. Her arm has been replaced with
robotics, the arm rumored to be taken by the great pale, sound
familiar? But as the first line declares (and reverberates throughout)
this is really about something else altogether.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Mieville
has been awarded so many accolades in the realm of science fiction he
needed to build an alternate world just to fit them all. His master
craft is etched on each page. His reverence for storytelling and his
respect for the power of word guides his hand throughout. His splendid
asides weave the multiple story lines together. There is even a chapter
that explains his use of an ampersand (&) to replace any use of the
word and in the novel relating it to the twisted rails and the twisted
world his characters navigate) Throughout the narrator reminds you that
you are being told a tale and he is at the helm.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">The
main character is Sham Yes ap Soorap, a boy fated to be a doctor's
assistant on a moler's ship. His melancholy comes from his knowing that
he was meant for more than what he had been instructed to accept. The
malaise sparks curiosity and finally courage as he comes to the aid of
the Shroake twins who are also searching for meaning in their lives.
Where they are destined to search will lead them to the far reaches of
the Railsea towards treasure, Heaven or possibly their ruination.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Mieville
fleshes out a most impossible world.What starts as a laundry list of
set pieces; mechanisms, life forms, and terrain seems neverending until
all the details congeal into a fleshed out post apocalyptic hellscape.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Sham
as our innocent guide leads us towards redemption. In a world where a
captain's obsession is considered a philosophy it is a thrill to what
this unabashed boy become a man developing a philosophy of his own, an
ideal more human than iconic in its focus. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Did I mention the are pirates? Yes! </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">A
great read for anyone who wants a swashbuckler they can chew on, a
tale that reads like at any moment it could bite back. P.S.- This book
will make you to befriend a pet bat. The daybat may be the true hero
here.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;"><b>THINK:<i> </i><i>Moby Dick </i>as written by, well, Mieville <i>directed by Ridley Scott</i>.</b></span></div>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><b>1<sup>st</sup> LINE – <i>“This is the story of a blood-stained boy.”</i></b></span>S. E. Toonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01779341199387862248noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7240285996404609872.post-9155914832208735082012-06-02T05:26:00.000-07:002012-06-02T05:36:37.181-07:00Dark Tales Review: Perception<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><b>Click the DARK TALES FOR TEENS tab above for more reviews. </b></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><b><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">It is a collection of novels that I recommend for IR and YA readers and
for all of our inner children. Since I write young adult fiction of a
macabre nature, I gravitate towards authors who cover similar terrain. I
have included the first lines of each book for I fervently believe that
there is nothing more important in a novel, save fulfilling the promise
of those carefully honed first words. May they enrich you in their
storytelling, inspire you in their battles between right and wrong and
most importantly, keep you up nights. -S.E</span>.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;"><b>PERCEPTION </b></span><b><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: medium;">by Kim Harringon</span></span></b><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX_EoATKZU61FEcEUPsiArGryaSnk6pTcPbiUgjjqxf-Z1uRRZAL-CbDGVAuH5haxC8GzqW7MJla40F_Ai_8YG8ds87jh75bZs8x06FR4FdQEtvLxJSL09KKwocaNOl6JWMdiQ8XHiww/s1600/Perception.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX_EoATKZU61FEcEUPsiArGryaSnk6pTcPbiUgjjqxf-Z1uRRZAL-CbDGVAuH5haxC8GzqW7MJla40F_Ai_8YG8ds87jh75bZs8x06FR4FdQEtvLxJSL09KKwocaNOl6JWMdiQ8XHiww/s1600/Perception.JPG" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Want to talk about something spooky? How about the
infamous sophomore effort, be it a novel for writers or an album for musicians,
it haunts the artist. If you come out of the gate making a wicked awesome red
velvet cupcake how can you be expected to wow your fan base with green velvet.</span></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Perception</span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> is the second novel in YA paranormal
romance author Kim Harrington’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Clarity</i>
series. The first book (reviewed here) has Clarity Fern, a psychic who can see
a person’s past through touched objects, and her equally gifted Mom and brother
search out a killer with the backdrop of a bustling coastal town on Cape Cod.
It also has Clare deal with being ostracized by teen society and juggle an
emerging romantic triangle.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">In her second outing Claire is playing super sleuth
again but things have changed in her life. The hounds of her affections, his cheatin' heart Justin and hunkalicious Gabriel, are
still there but she has new found fame to deal with and a potential stalker. Kim,
having a successful first novel and adoring fans, can relate to Claire’s
predicament and Claire’s voice with its barrage of sympathetic questioning proves
it out.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">From the boardwalk salt water taffy of summer to the
caramel apple of Fall in New England this breezy read does miss the sunny
tourist season of the debut. Also, you don’t have to be psychic to foresee some
of the plot reveals. My tastes would have preferred a little more "para" in with
the "normal" but the author admirably aims for something different this time out.
</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">In truth, to compare the two books is like comparing
caramel apples to orange taffy. Here Clare relies on her humanity far more than
her powers, the paranormal taking a back seat in her emotional roller coaster
Autumn. The strength she has to conjure is powers we all possess. She takes
chances in her social life to various degrees of success and dismal failure.
Here is where the real fear lives. Even scarier is the real monster, the boogieman
in the dark, the fine art of bullying in all of its guises. The novel is a
study of the cause and effect, how the bullied can become bulliers, how the
process brings people to perform desperate acts, and how elusive true
friendship is. Now that’s scary!</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;"><b>THINK:<i> </i>TV's <i>Dangerous Minds </i>meets Film's<i> Mean Girls</i>.</b></span></div>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><b>1<sup>st</sup> LINE – <i>“I stepped forward with forced confidence.”</i></b></span>S. E. Toonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01779341199387862248noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7240285996404609872.post-19745040472974515882012-05-26T08:37:00.000-07:002013-05-23T05:27:29.942-07:00The Few for All<div class="post-title entry-title" itemprop="name">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">Thought I'd re-post this for the men and women and their families who because of their sacrifices we are free to launch Summertime with barbeque, beach and beer. As you share a slice of the American dream this weekend remember that we are forever in their debt.</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwzadYKRhdY7ooXFC2pZy7Y-qV2EfsvWXK3tIuqgo186kTpIEWappq0q3yblzeMjN-uk-mLTIPoV9kIl1EBOEGOURHz8Y1ZGdlejuBwaOQ-LCWkfdBb6fGnoOwSPoUzFVB6Kr3fSiy4A/s1600/brant+rock+flag.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwzadYKRhdY7ooXFC2pZy7Y-qV2EfsvWXK3tIuqgo186kTpIEWappq0q3yblzeMjN-uk-mLTIPoV9kIl1EBOEGOURHz8Y1ZGdlejuBwaOQ-LCWkfdBb6fGnoOwSPoUzFVB6Kr3fSiy4A/s320/brant+rock+flag.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> </span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">F</span>or all we take for granted,</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">for all we’ll never know, </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">for the promise in our parent’s smiles, </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">and the price paid to keep it so.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">F</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">or the men once boys, and grown women,</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">who answer the call and know not when,</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">their hopes and schemes and lifelong dreams,</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">might be put on hold with a solemn, <i>'til then</i>.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">F</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">or the courageous few, who in our midst,</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">know this world as it truly is;</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">that life is not just the here and now,</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">fond farewells, fist bumps and whoops and wow;</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">but that life is all these fleeting things and more;</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">fragile at best, worth preserving; hence the chore.</span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">F</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">or those who lost their lives in service, </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">alas, each has won the war of wars,</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">by giving us all on familiar shores,</span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">through struggle, strife and immeasurable sorrows,</span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">a promise fulfilled of more blessed tomorrows.</span></span></div>
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<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">F</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">or the stalwart soldiers, ambassadors of peace,</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">your actions prove to all the prayers we keep,</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">of a world where wars need not be fought,</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">of a world where loved ones need not weep, </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">these are more than ideals from a gifted state,</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">but are vows that make our country great.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="font-size: medium;">-S.E. Toon </span></span></span></div>
S. E. Toonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01779341199387862248noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7240285996404609872.post-33987168379091964782011-08-17T05:48:00.000-07:002011-08-17T05:53:11.813-07:00The Art of Life<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRQN0nmDyowysGi_KmZLLDYdujxzMlYZ17yZOJMT6PFuMcRUzXf2YZ5OEg-MKVAGtqVe-C5qMZuNNr5fPld6ngCFAVzxmbrRLh2sRlrmkdZQtjaq_66rGTZkftYOC55cMu1HIeqcd77Q/s1600/mr4thof+july.JPG" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRQN0nmDyowysGi_KmZLLDYdujxzMlYZ17yZOJMT6PFuMcRUzXf2YZ5OEg-MKVAGtqVe-C5qMZuNNr5fPld6ngCFAVzxmbrRLh2sRlrmkdZQtjaq_66rGTZkftYOC55cMu1HIeqcd77Q/s320/mr4thof+july.JPG" width="249" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">PHOTO: Kevin Stryke</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">WWII bred a generation defined by action, not words. Arthur, the father of a close friend, was a member of </span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">the greatest generation though he would never use those words to describe it. He was reminiscent of my Dad; words were few, well chosen and laced with a humorous poignancy that deflected the impact of the trials in one’s life. </span><br style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><br style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">Whenever he was asked about “the big one” he’d mumble, <i>“Me, didn’t do much.”</i> This is from a man who was well decorated for bravery and valor, too many citations to count. On the topic of dogs he’d sport, <i>“I hate dogs… but they love me,”</i> all the while concealing a pocketful of doggie treats. While he never acknowledged the many accomplishments in his life he was quick to praise others, my Tiki porch, Lynda’s garden of dreams and the achievements of the many youth who crossed his path while he visited our humble seaside town. </span><br style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><br style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">This was Arthur, but not always. </span><br style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><br style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">Returning from the war Arthur found his bride Kathleen, a dance ticket that found him his life partner. Together they hunkered down, had children and cultivated the American dream. </span><br style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><br style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">Dreams don’t last forever. The harsh reality inevitably wakes us from our bliss. The scourge of Alzheimer’s disease took his wife, the mother of his children. She was still there in the room he visited daily but only in the physical sense. Like the war he served without question, it went on too long. Still he stoically held vigil as days turned to months, months to years. Gradually his social, albeit measured, countenance withered with his love’s memories. </span><br style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><br style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">This is when I met Arthur, a man of few words, going through the motions because his God so willed it. He had survived five heart procedures, all but lost his sight and even his hearing was going south. Such a series of trials would make one think that the Fates were testing his dauntless resolve. If you asked him between his perpetual visits to the nursing home and his tending to his yard how things were going he would likely respond, “not much,” few words, all action. </span><br style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><br style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">It was the 4th of July weekend, a holiday when all Americans celebrate what they hold most dear. These liberties were paid in full by the men and women like Arthur who faced mortality and its toll so that we could all eat grilled hot dogs and shoot off fireworks at dusk. </span><br style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><br style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">My job was to disc jockey the block party. Arthur attended. This was a big thing. Arthur doesn’t party, well, not any more. I was cordially introduced to him as he was escorted, much against his will, to a safe chair where he wouldn’t fall. Arthur didn’t need help. He was determined to stand on his own even if his body wasn’t up for the task. </span><br style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><br style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">The afternoon slowly past, tolerant would best describe his demeanor. When I approached his table I began some pleasant small talk when he stopped me mid-sentence and asked me if I had the song <i>Quiet Village</i>. I did. </span><br style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><br style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyxjwmhMxzBAMB4kdupUqFSaWdLbw7snbGguusy_LxWN5nqeY0ymxRl6Wbr2hR8BVkXOLXt2dggA9UZ4YInOyfERmYF7mZFTqqgePhNDk6-fZxXplCxv_O3v27YtMjWNLRWFh0JH_GCA/s1600/quiet+village.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyxjwmhMxzBAMB4kdupUqFSaWdLbw7snbGguusy_LxWN5nqeY0ymxRl6Wbr2hR8BVkXOLXt2dggA9UZ4YInOyfERmYF7mZFTqqgePhNDk6-fZxXplCxv_O3v27YtMjWNLRWFh0JH_GCA/s200/quiet+village.jpg" width="200" /></a></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">Quick history lesson. <i>Quiet Village</i> performed by Martin Denny and his Orchestra was an instrumental hit single in 1959. It was a beautiful mistake. He performed regularly at the Shell Bar, a Hawaiian resort with an outside lounge. Enlisted men stationed there would frequent the nightclub. One day a soldier requested that he play the song with all the bird calls and frog sounds in it. There was no such number. On the day the troop had heard them perform live birds and animals were chattering all around. An idea was born and the band added bird calls to the lazy exotica tune and the rest is history. It was the highlight of the exotica era, a time when American servicemen could put on a record or go to a Tiki bar and recall faraway shores and boomers struggling to build a life could escape on the first of what we now call <i>staycations</i>. </span><br style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><br style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">Soon Lynda's garden was filled with the sound of tookie-tookie birds and tickled ivory. The music, Lynda’s palm trees and party lanterns, and the wave of smiles and laughter around him must have taken Arthur back to a time when his burden was not quite so heavy. He opened up, smiles were quickly swallowed and he slowly joined in the festivities. It was subtle, but distinct. The next day as we cleaned up the party’s aftermath his daughter told me, a bit astonished herself, that Arthur actually enjoyed himself that day, words Lynda so wanted to hear. </span><br style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><br style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">Years past and Arthur became a part of our lives. He looked forward to whenever we got together. We were welcomed to call him anytime and catch up. He even let one of our teens write a paper on his life. I personally appreciated his warm, fatherly affection as I found myself faltering. The last time we were together he hug me so firmly as if to absorb my petty tribulations and add them to his own, a burden he was more accustomed to carrying. We had become his extended family and we in turn were able to help this man enjoy once more what his sacrifices gave us, a land where freedom, friends and family could lift us all up. </span><br style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><br style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">On the day he past he called his daughter Lynda and matter-of-factually told her to go to the hospital because he was dying. No joke. No swan song, no dramatic bedside finale, just a man taking on the chin what life gave him once again. I was floored by this. His passing was an eventuality as much as we pushed that fact aside, but his spirit was deathless. </span><br style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><br style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">I will always be inspired by his time in my life and will try to learn the lessons he offered. I pray for such resolve but know that I will go kicking and screaming, nailing the door shut in a feeble attempt to keep Death from darkening my foyer. </span><br style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><br style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">I’d like to think that Arthur has found again a quiet village, his bride in his arms, toasting with my Mom and Dad who both shared the same spunk and heart, but that’s just me. I’m not Arthur. Me, I’m just a freshman in <i>Art</i> school. </span><br style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><br style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><br style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;" /> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<div style="text-align: right;"></div>S. E. Toonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01779341199387862248noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7240285996404609872.post-65956625743342875722011-08-02T11:57:00.000-07:002013-02-16T06:33:21.292-08:00Colour My Worlds<div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><b>I just finished a series of creative writing workshops I presented for Dance Dimension, a school specializing in dance and theater. The oldest group were tweeners (10-14 yrs.) During the first session I told them about the different elements that comprise a story and the magic of brainstorming/clustering techniques that prompt the right hemisphere of the brain. At the conclusion of the Thursday session I proclaimed that when we met again on Monda I would create a short story based on all the diverse elements we had pulled from their fertile melons. Kiss that weekend goodbye! I took the task to heart and was still editing at 7AM on Monday.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><b> 72 hours had past. Driving to class Monday morning there is a news reports of a juvenile who threatened to blow up her school on Facebook from the very town where I was going to present this story. Read on and think how well the previous exercises tapped into the psyche of the age group. </b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><b>A thank you to all the participants. This story would not exist without you!</b></span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">The result was </span></i></b><br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">COLOUR MY WORLDS</span></i></b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">a fable by</span></b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">S.E. Toon</span></b><br />
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">This short story will soon be published by the online literary publication,</span></b><br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> </span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: small;"><em>The Write Place At the Write Time</em></span></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: small;"><em> </em></span></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;">in the Spring of 2013</span></span></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">We will provide de<span style="font-size: small;">t</span>a<span style="font-size: small;">i</span>ls at that time.</span></b></span><em> </em></span></span></b></div>
S. E. Toonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01779341199387862248noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7240285996404609872.post-38739950269244634252011-07-28T18:41:00.000-07:002011-07-28T18:44:08.140-07:00The Tale of the Girl Who Wore Her Smile Upside Down<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>I have just finished the first day of my Creative Writing Boot Camp with Dance Dimensions. The theme of the day was, of course, PIRATES! There were three different seminars. The youngest class was for swabbies from 3 to 6 years of age. After reading a “safe” passage from my novel <i>The Pirates of Lobster Cove</i>, we talked about novel writing and what makes a good story.</b></span></div><div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: left;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>Afterwards we played a storytelling game where they chose a setting. They chose kids talking about pirates. Then they were given a series of nine images, one at a time they had to insert into the story they were building. Each time I repeated the story by memory up to that point we left off at and went, “and then?…” The next child would continue to grow the story.</b></span></div><div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: center;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>Here are the words/images they were given in order:</b></span></div><div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: center;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>Frown, Clock, Fire, Flashlight, Eyes, Magic Wand, Lightning, Flower, and Dice</b><b>.</b></span></div><div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: center;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; margin-left: 0in; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>What follows is the story pulled from their collective imaginations.</b></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;"><b><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Tale of the Girl who Wore Her Smile Upside Down</i></b></div><div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;"><b>by Brooke, Ava, Riley, Lylah, Sophia and Olivia</b></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>It was a humid summer day when the children came to play. All the talk was pirates which made them all very happy. That was save for one lonely little girl in the corner wearing a frown. All that she could do was look at the clock hoping that time would fly by and all talk of pirates would cease.</b></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>While the other girls talked pirate this and pirate that she looked anywhere but at them. It was then that she saw a spark in the opposite corner. The spark turned to flame and the flame grew into a fire.</b></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>“Look, look, use your eyes! Can’t you see the fire? Look, smell, can’t you smell the smoke? Look, smell, hear, can’t you hear it crackling in the corner?” she cried.</b></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>She waved her hands over her head and back and forth to get the attention of the only other girl in the group she called a friend. The girl always carried a flashlight that dangled from her belt. This was unusual since her parents never let her wander by herself after dark, the only time when a flashlight would come in handy. Still, every day she wore her “ flashi”e which made her stand out as much as a frowning girl afraid of pirates.</b></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>She turned and saw the spark, now a raging fire, and ran to her friend’s side. Suddenly between the two girls and the hungry flames appeared a wand, a magic wand they assumed since there really isn’t any need for a wand unless it is so.</b></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>“If we can just grab that wand we can magically make the fire stop,” the flashlight girl shouted all full of spunk. Before the girls could muster the courage to run towards the heat wouldn’t you know it, the very thing the other girls had been chatting about walked through the door. A pirate sneaked in and saw the magic wand on the floor, its gold glistening in the glow of the fire. “Arrr, that’s gold, me must have it!” He mumbled a laugh as pirates do, especially when considering stealing treasure.</b></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>He was able to grab the wand before the girls and felt its magic power and laughed. “Harr, this be better than gold. With this thing-a-ma-bob’s magic, I can find all the gold I want and that be quite a lot.” He cackled and raised the wand towards the ceiling to give it a whirl.</b></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>The girls cowered as it began to rain. Rain inside! If that wasn’t bad enough they could hear the threat of thunder rolling in. Then there was a flash as lightening bathed the room in white for an instant followed by an immediate boom that made all the girls in the room as scared of pirates as the girl with the frown.</b></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>The floor was covered with water. The only good thing was the storm snuffed out the fire. Now smoke filled the room which wasn’t much better but at least it couldn’t burn you.</b></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>The floor tiles then began to crack then peel away altogether and from beneath a flower sprung up. It sprouted full grown, a sunflower with a thick green stalk and a beautiful bloom of chocolate brown, butter yellow petals lining its face like a wreath.</b></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>It looked surprisingly like a wand the girl with the frown. To be fair at this time there wasn’t a smile in the room. She grabbed the flower by the base, snapped the stem, then pointed it at the wand-wielding pirate. He pointed his weapon back at her and sparks sputtered between them.</b></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>“Drat! This be a stand-off.” the pirate grumbled determined not to be beaten by a sad little girl brandishing a magical flower.</b></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>The other girl, realizing that if someone didn’t do something soon they would be in the smoky, rainy room all day, pulled her flashlight from her belt and aimed it at the pirate. With a flick of a switch into the on position, a powerful beacon of light cut through the smoke. It took the pirate all his might not to drop his wand in defeat.</b></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>“Two against one ay? Spare me you wily lasses and I will give you me pirate’s dice. They be magic as well. Just let me have the wand and I’ll be on me way.” Everyone knows that, save for treasure; dice is a pirate’s favorite plaything even if they weren’t magical. The two girls chatted together, all the time keeping the flower and the flashlight locked on the pleading pirate.</b></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>Unannounced to the pirate, Flashie’s batteries were low and soon the girls would lose the fight. They had to take his offer. They agreed and on the count of three they all lowered their magical weapons. The pirate kept his vow and gave each of the girl’s one die. The pirate chuckled to himself for in his mind the deal was far from fair. All the girls received were his magical dice; one roll of good fortune and that was it. With his newly acquired magic wand he could get infinite wishes. He could possess all the riches of the world. His life would be lined in gold.</b></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>The girls looked down at the dice in their hands and whispered to one another. The two girls turned to face the pirate. They rolled the bones and when they stopped, two single dots, snake-eyes looked up.</b></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>“Arr, so what be your wish? Diamond-encrusted tiaras? Stunning beauty? Eternal life? Puppies??”</b></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>“We… wish… we wish there was no such thing as pirates.”</b></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>And with that he girl from the corner, the one would could not find her smile, finally did. It was a smile most unpleasant, unbecoming for a little girl with a wish come true, was the pirate’s last thought.</b></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>And at least the girls lived happily ever after.</b></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>The end.</b></span></div>S. E. Toonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01779341199387862248noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7240285996404609872.post-40216183570245553512011-07-01T09:34:00.000-07:002011-07-02T05:52:31.217-07:00The 3rd of July<div align="left" class="MsoBodyText2" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdQnjTwLK9YpCL5bjw1RMhVuRkUaA9qVCz6u8DESSl_ttsB26r_3VshDne2-cMrN_C5Od-T3qM8_M9jj7NffVpIf-YfAZXSc1GikHu9eQT3ADVzdWphCebfnxn0k3-C0NFkUi56PEA5Q/s1600/fireworks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdQnjTwLK9YpCL5bjw1RMhVuRkUaA9qVCz6u8DESSl_ttsB26r_3VshDne2-cMrN_C5Od-T3qM8_M9jj7NffVpIf-YfAZXSc1GikHu9eQT3ADVzdWphCebfnxn0k3-C0NFkUi56PEA5Q/s320/fireworks.jpg" width="252" /></a><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">In celebration of the holiday weekend I am posting the following excerpt from <i>The Pirates of Lobster Cove</i>, It is the back story of <b>Francis “Frankie” Gambino</b>, the trusty compatriot of <b>Tyler Bryne</b>, the narrator. </span></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoBodyText2" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">He is one of the four teens who call themselves The Cyrkle. His friends include <b>Sandy Womack</b>, the resident drama queen and bookworm, <b>Bess Duvall</b>, a tomboy’s tomboy, and Tyler, his inquisitive and over imaginative best friend who believes he has seen a flesh and blood pirate walking the streets of Lobster Cove.</span></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoBodyText2" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">During the years it took to complete the first novel I read this passage countless times to the children of my own seaside town by the light of a campfire. Those evenings were always special to me, made me a better writer and kept me grounded in the world of the teenager. Thank you to all who listened and stayed enthusiastic as months turned into years. </span></span></div><div class="MsoBodyText2" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">Feel free to read it aloud. Celebrate the holiday and the ensuing fireworks but remember, be careful. We are all not as lucky as Gatto Gambino. </span></span></b></div><div class="MsoBodyText2" style="margin-left: 1.0in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 200%;"><br />
</span></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoBodyText2" style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">At first, the nickname Gatto came from the uncanny way he cheated death. Like his namesake, he had nine lives. At the beginning of this summer he was on life three. </span></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoBodyText2" style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">The end of his first life was a mystery to us. It had something to do with his birth, tentative first months and his mother’s tears. All we knew was that Gatto was <i>damn lucky to be here</i> . His mother frequently warned him of this fact whenever he was even remotely in danger. Her voice would peal through the screen door of their porch. </span></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoBodyText2" style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">“For the love of St. Pete, Francis Anthony Gambino! If I told you once, I told you a million times, stop it! You know you’re damn lucky to be here, don’t push it!”</span></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoBodyText2" style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">Every summer, pushing it became our favorite pastime. It was more than just the thrill of the risk; it was about testing the patience of Mama Gambino and Gatto’s guardian angel. We swam past the bobbers at the beach, cannon-balled off of the high ledge of the jetty, shot tennis balls out of a makeshift cannon, anything to set off his mom. We’d time how long it took for her to remind Gatto of his lost life. Summers are long on the Cove, you find fun where you can. </span></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoBodyText2" style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">We weren’t daring, we just liked to appear so. Every stunt was performed with the utmost regard for safety. Take the homemade rocket launcher, Gatto’s invention, it sounded dangerous as all get out but was fortified with precautions. The tennis ball can was secured on a cinder block anchored with duck tape lit with a match attached to the end of a yardstick. One of The Cyrkle stood poised with the gun nozzle of a garden hose at the ready. We weren’t stupid. </span></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoBodyText2" style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">Gatto’s second life had been snuffed out just the summer before. It went out in a blaze of glory. </span></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoBodyText2" style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">The Fourth of July weekend in any coastline tourist community is a celebration of everything American. Every stoop and railing is festooned in our nation’s colors. The marches of John Phillip Sousa drift in the air intertwined with whispers of <i>Kokomo</i>, <i>Hot, Hot, Hot</i> and rump-shaking dance beats blaring from boom boxes. The lapping surf, the occasional racket of firecrackers and the laughter of the young and old join the medley. Every patio has barb-b-q; charcoal and burnt hot dogs fill the air. Everyone is at leisure; all is right with the world.</span></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoBodyText2" style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">The shore slowly transforms into an American Carnivale. The sun hangs low; clouds glow in bursts of orange and red. Freedom is in the offing. At this time the illicit proceedings dial gets turned up to eleven.</span></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoBodyText2" style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"> Now, fireworks are illegal in our state, but you wouldn’t know it by the evening’s proceedings. There are no fewer than six bunkers of amateur fireworks simultaneously being shot off the Cove’s beachhead alone. Sulfur taints the pleasant scents of late afternoon revelry. The gathering crowd breaks into swells of “Ooos” and “Ahhs”.</span></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoBodyText2" style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">These aren’t every day, ‘look, honey, what I smuggled out of South Carolina during my last golf outing’ brand of fireworks. These are ‘You need a permit, a fire truck at the ready and at what time would you like the Boston Pops to break into the <i>1812 Overture</i> type of fireworks.’</span></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoBodyText2" style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">The proceedings are four straight hours of unsupervised mayhem. It is an adult recess with no fear of timeouts. Ramparts and fountains of ill-directed color shower from the trenches on the beach. Fishing boats join the fury with their own displays shooting from their top decks. Looking through the smoke you can see the distant glowing balls of bonfires littering the shoreline. More fireworks blossom in miniature in the far distance. The night is on fire. </span></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoBodyText2" style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">On the last summer of Gatto’s second life, a group of us local kids decided that the view wasn’t good enough behind the safe confines of the concrete seawall. That wouldn’t do at all. We had to climb down to the rock and sand of the beach to get closer to the action, we had to push it. </span></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoBodyText2" style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">To our credit we were in a group. There was safety in numbers. The Cyrkle plays it safe, right? Wrong, not that night.</span></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoBodyText2" style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">Why the following occurred is still up for debate. It could have been the beer-goggled lack of judgment of the yahoos shooting off artillery grade fireworks at high tide. It could have been a freak act of Nature like an East Coast version of the Santa Anna Winds. Perhaps Fate the Dealer was sending the message to Gatto that he’s been gambling at his table of life a bit too long. Whatever the cause, folly or fate, what went down that night still plays in my memory in slow motion.</span></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoBodyText2" style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">This all occured in less than twenty seconds. One firework, instead of going skyward, burst forth in a horizontal trajectory, only inches from the sand. Its direction moved from the water’s edge toward the seawall with us, the Cyrkle, stuck in-between. We all dove from its path, that is, everyone except Gatto. As if aware of our counter move, the white-hot comet made impact against a rock that protruded from the shore like the molar of some ancient animal skull, and burst into four separate projectiles fanning across the entire perimeter of the beach.</span></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoBodyText2" style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">Instinctually, I dropped flat and rolled into the safety of the sand. I would have burrowed to China if I’d had time. Others grabbed one another, forcing themselves to the ground. We were all safe; that firework had Gatto’s name on it.</span></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoBodyText2" style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">I remember Gatto’s eyes, brown, awe-filled, and puppy dog wide. He fell to his knees as if the pearly gates themselves were opening to him. I could see the reflection of the orb growing wider until it eclipsed his pupils. I didn’t have the time to open my mouth, never mind call out.</span></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoBodyText2" style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">Then there was sizzle, darkness and silence.</span></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoBodyText2" style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">That accounts for the snuffing out of Gatto’s second life, but what happened in the minutes that followed astonished me more, binding Gatto and myself as friends for life. The accident called up something in him that, frankly, I had never possessed.</span></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoBodyText2" style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">I thought back to when my mother would try to rattle some religion into me. Whenever I was the least bit blasphemous she say, “Who do you call when you are at your most troubled, what is the name you call out? God, that’s who”. </span></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoBodyText2" style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">I would look back at her and shake my head. “No, I holler, Maaa!” </span></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoBodyText2" style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">Gatto didn’t set off the <i>Ma</i> alarm that night. He deftly peeled the loose firework from his cheek. It fell to the ground shattering into embers. Cupping his eye like an EMT at an accident site, he stared through the haze for the first adult that came into view. He said in an unsettling rational voice, “It burns.”</span></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoBodyText2" style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">The neighborhood panicked for him, grabbing him up by the arm and carrying him to safety like a fallen soldier. Once inside the nearest seaside estate, Gatto remained cool as a cucumber giving his caretakers information when asked. “Can’t open it”, he instructed, the pressure building moment by moment. “Hot.” “Blurry.” “Ice.” </span></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoBodyText2" style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">Only when danger was a good distance past him, when the hysterical adults had given him a moment alone, did he cry. He never told me this, but I knew he did; he had to. If a flaming ball of consequence attempted to blind me, I surely would have.</span></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoBodyText2" style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">Gatto’s coolness under fire and Angel Gabriel’s intervention scorched a badge of courage across his young face. He was Rocky Balboa in miniature; his stocky twelve-year-old Italian features highlighted with a plum of a shiner around his left eye.</span></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoBodyText2" style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">They took him to his family cottage to rest. I finally battled through the distraught crowd to see him. Opening the door, I got a good, long look at his face. <i>‘Too close!’</i> my inner voice stammered. </span></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoBodyText2" style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">We looked at each other… well, I looked, he half-squinted, half-winced. I held back the quiver of my concern. I hollered, “Adrianne!!” in the best Sylvester Stallone imitation I could muster, cracking a forced smile. A trembling grin replaced Gatto’s wince-squint.</span></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoBodyText2" style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">At that moment our friendship was forged; a bond tested during the months ahead. This summer would take Gatto’s third life. He was the Robin to my Batman, the Poncho to my Quixote, and that summer, the Black Bart to my Captain Blood. In truth, the roles should have been reversed. </span></span></div><div align="right" class="MsoBodyText2" style="font-family: inherit; text-align: right;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 200%;">(excerpt from<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> The Pirates of Lobster Cove </i>by S.E. Toon)</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoBodyText2" style="text-align: left;"><br />
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</div>S. E. Toonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01779341199387862248noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7240285996404609872.post-46668945407256729202011-06-25T05:24:00.000-07:002011-06-25T05:51:54.297-07:00Closing Chapters<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS8oDVvctyAIggr-UiYys3fmD4havsLndSluIQO8xcvyM4xKcXD5RTMYsxBVbfuveeWe2atmqcX5-k7VBiZ58lQw6bSMfsd_ZVtW2uUy1hEoRw_BjbdvWP1RfQTjnfkc0HGapMDpXslQ/s1600/savebookstores.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS8oDVvctyAIggr-UiYys3fmD4havsLndSluIQO8xcvyM4xKcXD5RTMYsxBVbfuveeWe2atmqcX5-k7VBiZ58lQw6bSMfsd_ZVtW2uUy1hEoRw_BjbdvWP1RfQTjnfkc0HGapMDpXslQ/s200/savebookstores.jpg" width="154" /></a><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></div><div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"> In celebration of <b>Save Bookstores Day </b>I am posting this 5 part chronicle in its entirety. Read it, become a person of interest, sign up for email alerts, share my reviews of Young Adult titles with the readers in your life, and, for the sake of the printed word, buy a book. If we make a blip on the radar of retail book sales today it will prove that it is the readers who have the real muscle in the industry.</span></div></div><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;"><b><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 20pt; line-height: 115%;">Closing Chapters</span></i></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 20pt; line-height: 115%;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;"><b><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Reflections on my time as a bookseller</span></i></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Closing Chapter 1 - Lip Service</span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span></div><table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="MsoNormalTable" style="margin-left: 12.0pt; mso-cellspacing: 0in; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 0in 0in; mso-yfti-tbllook: 1184;"><tbody>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN8vfWLMac_TBYaekF9F3dQ92PHjkKSVcFeofOdmkXTGh5-f1Q2tty-CZenlGUA1RSa6s_BbMIFn_1IPaaeL2_qjXSkiZ_5XsJ22melDuHbifbwp13ydmHz7Pl8LgOFAEmQuqYlm-vdg/s1600/borders+closing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN8vfWLMac_TBYaekF9F3dQ92PHjkKSVcFeofOdmkXTGh5-f1Q2tty-CZenlGUA1RSa6s_BbMIFn_1IPaaeL2_qjXSkiZ_5XsJ22melDuHbifbwp13ydmHz7Pl8LgOFAEmQuqYlm-vdg/s200/borders+closing.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo: Bill West</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">We’re closing. The death knoll was rung on St. Patty’s Day and outside of the fact that it gave us all a damn good reason to drink nothing positive could come from it… or so I thought.<br />
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In the days that followed we festooned the retail space with garish banners that transformed our beloved bookstore into a bargain basement. The signs proclaimed, ‘Everything Must Go!’ which was truth in advertising for it included my entire staff. We were all given one-way tickets to the curb, departure six to eight weeks.<br />
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We did our jobs. It’s what we do. It was all part of the work ethic I tried to instill into each of my teammates during the past six years. Even though the task of masking every square inch with signage felt like we were measuring and cutting planks for our own caskets; we toughed it out. We knew no other way.<br />
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I had it in my head that I needed to be strong for my staff. I was upbeat, always lending a shoulder to anyone who needed it. I must have appeared delusional to the others, wallowing in the denial pool of Kubler-Ross’ stages of grief. It was what they needed, what I needed.<br />
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As the liquidation began I found a comfort level incorporating a script in my mind to use when interacting with the public. It insulated me from the barrage of emotions on the sales floor. “yada yada… no coupons.” “blah blah blah… no checks.” “wink, half-smile… all sales final.” Each word was delivered with the bravado of a bartender barking out last call, “Ya don’t hafta go home but cha can’t stay here!” Insulated, effective… safe.<br />
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As I faced customers one-on-one it became harder to divorce myself from the grim reality of the situation. Inevitably the words, “I’m so sorry this store has to close.” I would nod, biting my tongue not to extrapolate on just how true those words were to every one of the soon to be unemployed on the floor. Many, whose faces were not familiar, quickly switched gears. “So when are you closing for good? When are the prices going to lower? Why is everything such a mess?” they would ask while their fellow shoppers trounced about like pirates pillaging a village. I again gave an anesthetized nod of the head and would reply, “We don’t know, don’t know, and…” and concluded our meeting by looking out across the devastation that was once a bookstore, again a measured response.<br />
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Then there were the regulars who began the same way, “I’m so sad…” It wasn’t merely a formality, they meant it. They were sorry for us, sorry for themselves, sorry that we lived in a world where the greed of the few can so easily decimate the futures of the many. Mostly they were sorry that they were losing a safe haven. We became a part of their social life, a habit of sorts and going cold turkey was going to be a bitch. Then came the silence; as strong as the space between ex-lovers. Words would not suffice. Assorted small talk would follow closing with the obvious, “It’s a damn shame.”<br />
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Near the end of the first weekend a woman came to me. Her eyes were glassy, tears held back. With a fragile warble in her voice she opened up to me how much our store had meant to her. She had met the love of her life amongst the stacks of books, searched for answers and solace during her pregnancy in the parenting and baby board book section, shared with us the upbringing of her children through our story times and numerous kiddie events and watched them grow from learning to read to an independent reader who couldn’t wait for our next Harry Potter extravaganza. Now she had to face telling her children that one of their favorite places would be gone forever. It was a life lesson no parent wanted to teach until a family member passes.<br />
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I nodded, thanked her and shared with her that inspiring children to be excited about reading is one of the highlights of the job. You don’t get that spark of fulfillment by meeting your quota of widgets but opening a young child’s eyes to the world of Dahl, L’Engle, Reardon and Rowling makes being a bookseller more than just picking up a paycheck. I invited her to bring her children on by next time so that I could put on my jester hat, strike up the band and give them a jovial goodbye. I closed the conversation with the lightest hand on her shoulder and the calculated and safe closing, “The best we can get from this is a bargain.”<br />
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I continued through the shift, insulated from the unruly shoppers. (all I could think of was Peter Lorre in Casablanca, ‘Vultures, vultures, everywhere.’) I charmed the twenty minute line that ran half-way through the cavernous store. “yada yada… blah blah blah… all sales final.” I closed my autotron speech by putting my two palms together before me, so Buddha-esque, and concluded, “… and thank you for your years of loyalty, you will be missed.” I should have stayed on script. Looking across the line my eyes fell upon the same young mother looking up at me. I took a ten and I never take a ten. It was her lip, quivering, that got me.<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> None of us are safe.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Closing Chapter 2 - Blindsided</span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span></div><table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="MsoNormalTable" style="margin-left: 12.0pt; mso-cellspacing: 0in; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 0in 0in; mso-yfti-tbllook: 1184;"><tbody>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDpq_xYfPcdPJk8VA6WhpSzgnjejQwhM67xvoZSN74FoUgROcOsthUjafcpbwQjMzU0L7aD2c1QM2yLqeg2-aL1ml7siGeBcpU8DkRWn980wg4fMLodeepz7rAhZsVR0szMCFfFQCWxw/s1600/everything+must.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDpq_xYfPcdPJk8VA6WhpSzgnjejQwhM67xvoZSN74FoUgROcOsthUjafcpbwQjMzU0L7aD2c1QM2yLqeg2-aL1ml7siGeBcpU8DkRWn980wg4fMLodeepz7rAhZsVR0szMCFfFQCWxw/s200/everything+must.jpg" width="172" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo: Bill West</td></tr>
</tbody></table><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I didn’t see it coming, not that our store became just another unit number of over two hundred stores shuttering their doors. Sure, we were a profitable store when others wallowed in the red during the recession, so yeah, I was a bit dumbfounded by the news. What took me more by surprise was the importance my bookstore had in my life and the lives of the regulars who frequented it.</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I was confident that we would ride the storm of corporate restructure with nary a scratch. I was a veteran of downsizing, having three companies in my career go through the motions. Two companies did the bankruptcy mambo and one avoided having their dance ticket punched. The end result was always the same, me having to again redefine myself.</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">There was an unintentional cruelty to it this time though. <i>The List</i> was posted online for the world to see. We were not on the list. Huzzah! My team was elated and quickly worked at fluffing down the feathers of our skittish patrons. “It’s because of you that we still are here! “ It was all about the love. Because of the numbers, a product of our customer’s loyalty, we dodged a bullet. Gratitude re-energized the staff.</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Then the hammer came down. The landlord of every remaining unit were approached and asked to come to the table to renegotiate the lease. Twenty-eight refused, twenty-eight were slated to be closed. It was business and we were about to get struck with the business end of the stick.</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">What was I going to do? I was currently being paid 50% less than my last career job, barely enough to pay the bills (welcome to the world of retail). If something didn’t happen and quick I would see my mortgage, already a monkey on my back, slip quickly into foreclosure. I spent over six years of my life slaving for this company and for what, to be collateral damage of some real estate overlord’s tax write-off? </span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">All those years wasted… or so I thought.</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">It would be so easy to hold a pity party my every waking hour if it wasn’t for my staff. Each had their own situations, many far more dire and urgent than mine. I am humbled in their presence not only by their coping mechanisms but how they continued to do their jobs unflinching. Damn, they make me proud.</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Our fate hit the news. Customers arrived in droves, heads hung low; emotional husks approaching each and every one of my booksellers to pay their respects. Each day that I made announcements to the shoppers it felt like a Twilight Zone episode where I was the lead character who for reasons unbeknownst to her was doomed to be the director of their own funeral. The wake is 9AM – 10PM, come as you are.</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">The patrons shared the same emotion we all felt, loss. At first it seemed rude and absurd that they would come up to us with, “I just feel horrible about this store closing.” </span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Each member of my staff fought back the response<i>, ‘You feel horrible!’</i> The customers after all were just losing a local haunt, we were losing our livelihoods. I pictured myself in a month or two homeless, galumphing in the rain while playing with a stick and contemplating the moral of <i>Ferdinand the Bull</i>. It was hard to be empathetic.</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">As they fumbled with their words, it became clear that their sadness wasn’t just self-serving. We had become a fixture in the community, more the spirit of a library than a retail store. We were a part of their lives, the good part. It was here they escaped the day to day grind for a cup of joe, a comfy chair, and a momentary escape into a world of intrigue, romance or heady meandering.</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">When I was young my mom told me “You can go anywhere between the covers of a book” That was in part an excuse for the family not going on any fancy, shmancy vacations, but as I lived my life no truer words have ever been said to me.</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">My regulars (or irregulars depending on the given day) took those words to heart as well. They would find a place in the store and prepared to be transported. I would recommend titles based on their likes, more a travel agent than a bookseller. Many would head to the registers to take their new found destinations home. We didn’t sell books, we sold dreams; some escapes, some aspirations, some meditations on or from this thing called life.</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Our closing wouldn’t just be another empty storefront, a blight on the landscape of the American dream. It would be the removal of a part of the town square. Each customer (and I mean our customers not the myriad of bargain hunters who never frequented our store in the first place) shared their sadness in their own way while trying to keep a lid on their pent up anger. Then there was the silence, nothing more to say and they would leave to find new treasure in our now depleted stacks.</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">We cared. We made them feel welcome. We love books and were willing to share that love with them. We sold books and we were good at it. </span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">It made no difference now. It was over. The weeks that would follow would just be a long stream of farewells and crowd control.</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">All my staff and I can do is what we do. My store is well into its second week of liquidation, its stock growing increasingly lean. Still, I can commune with my guests, perhaps pull out of the rubble a small gem to capture their imagination and for a few moments take them away from lower pay, higher prices and an undetermined future.</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Perhaps they can find passion in a war torn land, rise out of poverty and abuse by their bootstraps or discover just how cellophane the human experience while contemplating the miracle of the opposible thumb.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Then, for as long as those pages turn, everything will be alright.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Closing Chapter 3 - Madcap</span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEIIx0OChwAWNbYPeNXAo8fQC-37izWVEDz7pDEM8upw_j2TN3vsvwTIPsnJXCtQYz9W3WWvbGoih4hQmv4kEsOlnQLJ1AsVFohqhr_Gjix6z25EAo5x5hvoiETg3X0yps12rdSwQ4xg/s1600/DONT+KNOW.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEIIx0OChwAWNbYPeNXAo8fQC-37izWVEDz7pDEM8upw_j2TN3vsvwTIPsnJXCtQYz9W3WWvbGoih4hQmv4kEsOlnQLJ1AsVFohqhr_Gjix6z25EAo5x5hvoiETg3X0yps12rdSwQ4xg/s200/DONT+KNOW.jpg" width="185" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo: Bill West</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">“Got mad?” </span></div><table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="MsoNormalTable" style="margin-left: 12.0pt; mso-cellspacing: 0in; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 0in 0in; mso-yfti-tbllook: 1184;"><tbody>
<tr style="mso-yfti-firstrow: yes; mso-yfti-irow: 0; mso-yfti-lastrow: yes;"> <td style="padding: 0in 0in 0in 0in;"><br />
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</tbody></table><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">His eyes were brimming with glee, this perfect devil fallen from my shoulder now before me, full size, confronting me eye-to-eye. The Pigman was a manager cut from the same cloth; loyal to his staff and his local clientele with the uncanny ability to interject levity into the most menial of tasks. Instead of the printed word he hawked B-B-Q and if smoked meat were books his would be on the <i>New York Times</i> bestsellers list.</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I paused, then replied with a tone as confused as his, “No, not really.”</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I suppose I should be. Our bookstore was closing by no fault of its own. While many of the stores in our district wallowed in the red during the recession, we remained profitable. Heck, it is rumored that Dennis Lehaine announced at a national mystery writer’s convention that we were the best bookstore in the country. When our company decided to celebrate Stephanie Meyer’s <i>Twilight</i> franchise with première edition parties (klieg lights included), they funded three stores; Los Angeles, natch, Ann Arbor, the company’s hometown, a given, and yes, or lowly store on the South Shore.</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Was I dismayed? Yes. But mad… ?</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">While waiting for the best smoked chicken wings this side of Tennessee, I explained to my inquisitor what you may have read already, about being there for the staff and consoling customers. </span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">“Then ya got mad, huh?” my impish Beelzebub prodded.</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">“No.” I replied too quickly.</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Perhaps I was repressing some pent-up anger that was simmering just below the surface. It’s not like I was moments from turning into a crazed, disgruntled employee, climbing onto one of the library stacks, holding my employees captive until they each purchased a copy of <i>Wicked Appetite</i> by Janet Evanovich and <i>America by Heart </i>by Sarah Palin (both titles which I had an excess of two hundred copies.) Still, for the sake of my mental health and my innocent patrons, I decided to list some of the annoyances I observed during the past two weeks in hope that by doing so, I will ferret out my inner mad woman.</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">THE STACKS: To the best of our ability we struggled day and night to keep the titles in each section in order, alpha by author, the more tempting titles faced out to attract potential readers. Before, when a customer asked for a certain title, we could strut briskly to its shelf and procure said title as if my magic. We no longer had smoke and mirrors. Due to bargain hunters filling their arms with books only to discard the titles that didn’t make the cut anywhere they happened to be, and the sneaky shoppers who squirreled away titles hoping to unearth their little chestnuts a week later when the discounts increased, the store was a shambles. The only assistance we could offer was informing the customer that a title <i>might</i> be in house. Then their scavenger hunt would begin. No more hand holding, no more suggestive selling. So much for the magician’s reveal.</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> THE QUESTION: Everyone is inquisitive when a store closes, I get it. A series of answers are scripted by the home office which each bookseller is expected to know by rote. One question however eventually comes up in every conversation, “Soo, when are you closing?” Even the loyalist of patrons ask, the tone changing from Sméagol to the Gollum. One of my veteran employees, a good quarter century of bookselling in his rear window, tapped into his anger and inserted a sheet of paper into his lanyard tag. The plastic pocket was reserved for ‘Hello my name is…’ , current promotions and announcements of personal merit. Now it held a sheet of paper with the coarsely scratched words WE DON’T KNOW all in capitols, accented with an exclamation point. The manager in me went ‘No, No No’ but my off-the-clock, soon-to-be-unemployed self went ‘way to go.’ The liquidator was cool with it and so it stayed, dangling from his neck, point made, anger abated.</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">SIGNAGE: We play by the liquidator’s rules now. Attention to merchandising standards has been thrown to the wind replaced by the tree depleting overkill of posted flyers and garish signage turning the bookstore from a streamline of maple shelves and cover art into an imploded piñata. Old standards served a purpose when we were a bookstore; the current signapalooza has been proven to work for what we are now, a clearing house. It takes a while to understand that you are no longer a bookseller.</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">FIXTURES: Everything must go! Nothing held back! That means every display, every tool of the trade. The desks, the shelves, even the paperclips were up for grabs. Understandable, it’s what a liquidator does, liquidate. No harm, no foul. Still, rectangles of neon orange stamped with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">For Sale</i> and an indiscriminate price tagging every square inch of where you spent the majority of your waking hours gnaws at the bottom of your stomach. That was a good six years for me. The first day price tags were put on my past I exclaimed, “You’re selling my trident!” which I used to help bring Rick Reardon’s words to life. “You’re kidding, my cauldron too!” referring to my mystical bowl where I conjured up countless celebrations of all things <i>Harry</i>. Thankfully my vampire cape and fright wig were at home, now made powerless, no longer able to entertain young and old customers enamored by the sparkling undead. Some things, like my costumes and this store are fixtures, fixtures in this community you can’t put a price on.</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">THE VOID: As product dwindles, we consolidate the titles; migrate the remaining stock closer and closer to the front door where it is expected they will past with all-sales-final receipts. Two things happen in result. First, sections move every other day, shrinking like puddles after sun showers. This means the location of a certain category you could walk to in your sleep was no longer there. God forbid if you took a day off. This made it near impossible to guide a customer where a desired book may be hiding. Second, as the categories constrict, they leave the back empty, sanctioned off by yellow caution tape. Walking the back of the store surrounded by bay after empty bay, walls ribbed by vacant shelves, you feel like you are in the belly of a beast. The ghosts of retail past reside there. Each day the hollow grows. One day soon all there will be left is this whale carcass with a padlock in front. I don’t like to go there.</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 1.0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> - - - - -</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I head home, battled commuters, stopping and starting my way towards my humble abode. I may soon lose that as well as my job if fate doesn’t intervene. The devil’s burning question and this burgeoning list buzzed in my head. </span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Once home I opened my to-go bag to discover that the tray tipped to one side in my car seat and the hot ‘n sloppy sauce had leaked away from the wings, pooling in the bottom. I let out a series of expletives that would make a longshoreman blush. Coughing through a well of tears I salvaged my guilty snack that I soon would not be able to afford. </span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 1.0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">At work I wear several hats; bookseller (always first and foremost), manager, teammate, friend, consult, liquidator, confidante, custodian but only in the confines of my home, surrounded by a menagerie of inanimate objects all in need of a good tongue-lashing, will I wear my mad cap.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Closing Chapter 4 - Foot Notes</span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span></div><table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="MsoNormalTable" style="margin-left: 12.0pt; mso-cellspacing: 0in; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 0in 0in; mso-yfti-tbllook: 1184;"><tbody>
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</tbody></table><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhejOR4MyJvbXIoiXg9rLzvZuiRSqid1LMEXt-l0vMjQ-7hHAuX773EIGy1d7g79wTGjbzGXxChNdO4Y3585yI1Ar5ItZaxr-t7JXuw6WdmUl4X5d_peX-xJqEFqZrA1TNO3ty-c3p6HQ/s1600/shoppers+hugs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhejOR4MyJvbXIoiXg9rLzvZuiRSqid1LMEXt-l0vMjQ-7hHAuX773EIGy1d7g79wTGjbzGXxChNdO4Y3585yI1Ar5ItZaxr-t7JXuw6WdmUl4X5d_peX-xJqEFqZrA1TNO3ty-c3p6HQ/s200/shoppers+hugs.jpg" width="154" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo: Bill West</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">The store’s closing, the date set and the banners up, 10 days left! We fight the inevitability of our situation to no avail. No matter how stellar our performance we can’t alter the demise of our store. There will be no call from the governor; we are a dead store walking.</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">We do our jobs to the best of our abilities. They have been redefined, we are no longer booksellers. I was the last to come to this realization. Someone would ask about a title long since gone. I would give the customer a thirty second thumbnail recommendation if the title warranted it, tell them where else in the area they may be able to get a copy, even suggestion another title they might be interested in, another title that is just a ghost in these parts. Some would be appreciative, most merely aggravated that they would not be able to scoff up the title at half price. I would chime in, “Remember a good book is priceless.” That went over well.</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Take the long short walk to my sentence with me while I reminisce.</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I will miss the staff:</span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">So few have jumped ship, granted food on the table and a roof over the head is a fine motivator but those who have stayed on aren’t merely going through the motions for the sake of a paycheck. Just when I get a case of the ‘why-me’s I am humbled by how they confront all their personal challenges. I have many with young families, some single income, still able to provide for their children on part-time pay, others juggle schedules with their partners always putting their exceptional children first. I have teammates caring for life-partners with the same selfless zeal, others, fragile survivors who don’t even know their own strength just struggling to get by. </span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I have had formers lawyers, dentists, teachers, students, all sharing two things in common, they were all intelligent and they all made do with what little compensation the job offers. When you interact with a bookseller in a closing store or in one issued a pardon, be respectful. Their pedigree and life experience deserves it. They have more to offer than a dot-com’s fuzzy logic search engine ever will.</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I will miss the repartee: </span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">My staff does what they can to entertain one another especially when stress and anxiety rears their ugly heads. No longer will I be able to dole out my trusty chestnuts such as when a customer asks, “Where is humor?” responding, “Humor is where you find it sir” or when a customer asks “Can you show me where self-help is?” chiming in with, “That would defeat the purpose, ma’am.” Some questions from customers are just stultifying such as, “Where is the non-fiction department?” (that is of course is 80% of the store, if it’s not fiction or, at times, politics and government, it’s non-fiction) or “Is that a Bestseller, I love that author?” </span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">One of my employees, an encyclopedia of pop culture references has lately come up with this comment after interacting with such a patron. He’ll walk up to me and go, “Hand me the mallet,” specifically an Acme Brand mallet that he can use to pound his own head in feverishly like he was in a Tex Avery cartoon. The violence would be self-inflicted, his frustration momentarily abated. I respond by pulling out an imaginary mallet from behind my back. Me, I have no mallet for my melon.</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> I will miss the children:</span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">They have frequented our store during countless book events and story times. Now that we are closing they have come back one final time to stare up at me doe-eyed as if I was The Grinch and they are all Cindy Lou Whos asking me the one question I couldn’t answer, at least not in a manner that would satisfy a child. “Why, why, Santa, why?” One of these emotional stealth bombs approached my most stoic team members and reduced him to jelly within a minute. Some even presented us with homemade cards (one started, ‘Sniff, sniff,sniff.’ How can you read that without welling up?) They fight off bashfulness to tell us how sad they are we are gone. Yes, past tense, for they see already that it is over. The first section to get decimated in the liquidation was the children’s department. There would be no more stimulating their creative imaginations. All that remains is an empty space where stories and silly games unfurled. It now looked like an abandoned playing field that no one gave a <i>Hoot</i> about, prepped for demolition, correction, our community did but the bulldozers still came.</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I will miss the authors: </span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">It has been an honor to coddle and nurture their babies as if they were my own. I had to cancel no less than four events after my store’s death notice was issued and it broke my heart. It is so easy for authors to insulate themselves from the public when their name is sold as much as their intellectual properties, its self-preservation, but never have I had a single bad interaction with an author. Hank introduced me to her award winning doppelganger Charlotte McNally with wide-eyed enthusiasm, Her fellow mystery writer Carol McCleary also shared her simpatico with her protagonist, the legendary Nellie Bly. They both shared a similar lesson, not necessarily write what you know, but write what you feel through your characters. It shows in their writing. Dennis Lehaine shared the handwritten draft of his great American novel <i>The Given Day, </i>a manuscript as big as the Gutenberg Bible. Mo Willams taught me how to perform for children like an agitated elephant or a persnickety pigeon. Raffi Yessayan brought me to the mean streets of Boston, Suzanne Collins, guided me through the battle torn dystopia of the heart and countless others all shared their inspirations, not because I was good at hand selling their novels but because it was in them to do so. They let me in; we talked of craft and method and the life of a writer. Thank you for welcoming me into your circle. I am truly blessed.</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I will miss being missed: </span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">It will happen despite good intentions. When this store is no more I will lose the friends I spend most of my days with these last six years. As I allude to in my novel, time can be a bitch and its greatest strength outside of the decrepitating effect it has on everything is its ability to make our past fade. For many that can be a good thing, a healing salve for the brutality of life’s tougher moments. Time though is indiscriminate at what it diminishes. All of you, my friends, employees and patrons alike, will go along with your lives, take a turn around the bend and disappear from view. We may meet once and again, smile, laugh, catch up, then return to our new familiar. </span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Absence doesn’t make the heart grow fonder, it turns what’s past to fodder. Harsh, sure, maybe I’m just a little bitter for having to walk closer towards the hole left when everything that was this store is gone.</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">You should go now. I’ll walk the last steps alone.</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Closing Chapter 5 - All Skate</span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span></div><table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="MsoNormalTable" style="margin-left: 12.0pt; mso-cellspacing: 0in; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 0in 0in; mso-yfti-tbllook: 1184;"><tbody>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF0wDNLpeDEigziQ10z11J_m8qYfAoqashB6qe60V2DTt7AE-gB0lECFDctRoDfNrDKF5qzp2AT7aTCu39S5BsL70iK6emw7UZjmaDihbbKnboAf7fAHxDc22QDlfAerYnI4FiE4NJcA/s1600/allskate.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="175" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF0wDNLpeDEigziQ10z11J_m8qYfAoqashB6qe60V2DTt7AE-gB0lECFDctRoDfNrDKF5qzp2AT7aTCu39S5BsL70iK6emw7UZjmaDihbbKnboAf7fAHxDc22QDlfAerYnI4FiE4NJcA/s200/allskate.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo: Laura Vona</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">When I entertained my minions during one of our many celebrations of the <i>Harry Potter</i> novels I told the crowd manically, “There is magic everywhere!” I would proceed in a drunken stagger, as a defrocked teacher from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Pigpimples School of Wizardry and Refrigeration Maintenance</i>, to create potions (think, volcano in a beaker with baking soda, food coloring and vinegar) and generally make a combustible mess proclaiming the natural miracles all around us. My finale would be a soda rocket ignited indoors. </span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">“Not only do these treats have the ability to transform an individual into a maker of <i>fresh</i>, they can, with a little Transformium Sodaruptus, Sharkbait Brew Ha Ha and Bippity, Boppity, Boo… show us the magic all around us!” </span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">With a wave of my cape I dropped in the Mentos into the bottle and a geyser of soda reached for the ceiling of our store. Fans go wild! The true magic was that the words of an unemployed woman written in a coffee shop could create such fervor over books.</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">We have sold much of our bookstores magic to the walls. Fixtures have disappeared as if invisibility cloaks had been draped all over. Still between the empty stacks and the shelves devoid of titles, a little magic remains hidden amongst the dust bunnies.</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Our café was a Mecca for the literate and disenfranchised. It was there we had a slew of coffee house events, musicians, poetry slams, author signings; whatever we could dream up to have us stand apart from the run-of-the-mill. It has been reduced to a way station for the last lonely fixtures up for grabs, no magic here save for what the entrepreneurial minds will re-purpose these remnants into.</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">One of our stellar events that bonded the employees to one another and to our community were poetry/prose reading events we called <i>Borders Bards</i>. While I coined the phrase, all of the credit goes to one employee, Laura Vona. I have refrained from tagging any specific person during these chronicles but here I need to make an exception. Laura was not just an exemplary employee. For as long as I have known her, she has been a force of nature, a Gaelic storm of boundless energy. Her passion for the arts is infectious, her positivity makes my <i>Pollyanna</i> pale in comparison, and she possesses such a selfless dedication to all that is right and good that I wonder at times how we can even see her at all.</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">The <i>Bards</i> was her baby. I exploited the event, just as I have admittedly all my employees, to bring my novel to fruition, think a writer’s group with an audience needing to be entertained. Laura gathered everyone in the community, from teens to seniors, to read from their hearts. Despite the quality of their craft, the emotional sincerity and courage each brought to the events was nothing short of magic. </span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">They are but memories now, mostly unpublished, moments lost in this building’s past. Still, the walls resonate those words spoken as well has the words read, purchased and dreamed. I had been too busy in the day to day minutia of closing a store to feel that power. </span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">That was until I saw it, magic, captured on video like a lumbering ghost, a trick of light and imagination captured in the green incandescence of a ghost hunter’s night vision goggles. Where it came from I know not where. It starts with a static shot of the gutted carcass that is our store just days before the doors would close forever. I was familiar with that backdrop; it brought a lump in my throat, which I swallowed only to have it gnaw at my gut. The camera moved through the empty space, floating on air, providing an ethereal tour through the facility.</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Then I heard the sound, breaking the vacated silence. It was familiar, childhood recollections of cavernous halls, sawdust strewn floors and an amplified voice from above announcing, “All skate!” The chatter of roller skate wheels whispered as they sped up. The sound was as whimsical as the whirr of a hamster wheel. I smiled and continued watching. The visual passes shelf after empty shelf in a giddy stampede. </span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Then the caution tape that was wrapped around closed sections of the store came into view. It kept the public from danger and kept thieving hands from giving purchased fixtures a five-fingered discount. ‘Danger, Do Not Pass.’ repeats across its side. The image rushes towards the tape at the far end of the building, full throttle. The message is not heeded and an instant before the screen is enveloped in yellow, the skater ducks beneath and ‘Ta-da!’ we are on the other side. The wheels dance on the floor reclaiming balance, almost applauding the feat and continue to ride in graceful sweeps through the emptiness where our bookselling selves once lived; a jubilant celebration of being in the moment. </span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">After one more euphoric run around the circumference of the store the video ends facing the door as if challenging the viewer to walk through them. The doubt about the future, the fear of loss, and the challenges on the other side of those doors are stripped of their strength. </span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I will look back on my memories of this store and the unbridled whimsy of that video as I move forward with my life. The wheels of inspiration will propel me forward as I stand on one leg, wheels a chatter, my other leg stretched out horizontal behind me, my arms outstretched on both sides as they cut the rush of the air, my face forward and raised high with a smile, always a smile.</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Magic!</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dzlLg2YmjMkAUQL6q69lk_wtrzmcETCg2w6zuJuoe4rwu5ucR3q4Msbr2i1YZA9yRIoH_gIseDGkN4wSf3f_Q' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div>S. E. Toonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01779341199387862248noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7240285996404609872.post-32470314861962066292011-06-11T05:32:00.000-07:002011-06-11T05:42:19.614-07:00Dead Men's Tales<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfRU-rRkqMdId8JamgLoY6bIq9uQ1WxAhCIk-CefL-qMTgVRDtjAIb6rojpgao_GQ9ns8t2ZGD0wS4ezaBtI-miys9l86l0u0cC3lidYvyZwhFUyypnblHLe5-RQ6XfoC7j6wTMKUaqQ/s1600/brantrock+gull.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfRU-rRkqMdId8JamgLoY6bIq9uQ1WxAhCIk-CefL-qMTgVRDtjAIb6rojpgao_GQ9ns8t2ZGD0wS4ezaBtI-miys9l86l0u0cC3lidYvyZwhFUyypnblHLe5-RQ6XfoC7j6wTMKUaqQ/s1600/brantrock+gull.jpg" /></a></div><span style="font-size: small;"><b style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">This is the epilogue of <i>The Pirates of Lobster Cove</i>. I have been told it sounds like a commencement address and since it has no spoiler alerts for anyone who hasn't read the book, I present it here for all this graduation season. </b><b style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">To everyone, good luck on your next adventure!</b><i style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b> </b></i><i><b style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">(FYI: GREEN MEMORY occurs in the book as memories that have faded to the point that they don't seem real or can't be recalled. THE CYRKLE is the group of four heroes in the novel and DAMMEDS, well, they are nasty, hungry things that wouldn't be appropriate discussing here.) </b></i></span><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"></div><br />
Now I don’t want to get all L. Frank Baum on you with some <i>Wizard of Oz</i> moral. What I leave you with is this, once you find a home, be it where you sleep or where you summer with inseparable friends; live there. <br />
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In that classic book and film the Good Witch says ‘there’s no place like home’. It was all Technicolor pretty and lollipop sweet. Pay no attention to the terrifying flying monkeys, falling houses and chicks painted green. Take it all in and go along for the ride with every thread of your being invested in the outcome. Go too slow and the fantastic in life will fade. You’ll see the boom mike hovering in shot over a little girl marked for tragedy or the shadow of a set worker dangling from a rope backstage between papier-mâché trees. <br />
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There is really only one pirate, time itself. It holds in its possession the ultimate of treasures, the gift of memory. We emulate its piratical actions in hopes of capturing just one more to add to our collection. The pirate, time, is one tough adversary. As we grow older it takes the very gifts it has given, one memory at a time. Ah, but it can be beaten. Hold on to your few green memories that matter most. When you talk to the elderly, many stumble over the day to day but recall the highlights of their past vividly. <br />
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That’s the trick, tell your tale. The only thing that differentiates us from other animals is opposable thumbs, the ability to tell stories and free will. May your will allow the tale of your life to be told with your every breath. <br />
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May you all find your own Cyrkle. Soak up the sun while it shines and to quote Kurt Vonnegut, “wear sunscreen”. The Hallmark cards speak the truth; home is where the heart is. Not located north of the rib cage, a waiting dinner for dammeds, but where your passions lie. Oh… and stay out of the shadows no matter how much they beckon you to their home. <br />
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Think of this as Zen and the Art of Inner Pirate Maintenance. Time is but a fleeting thing, feathers dancing in the faraway. It is a vision let loose, a gull riding the wrath of a Nor’easter, motionless in midair. The turbulence feeds its bliss. The only way to beat this pirate of all pirates is to refute its very power over us; to cherish our past but live fearlessly in the present. <br />
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Live for the moment, live in it and don’t try to control where it may lead. Be an active witness and like a sea breeze over a fading sunset, its beauty will take you places your mind can only dream. Be in that moment always. <br />
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I wait for the day when I look out over the new day given and get it. After this summer I may know more than most, but it comforts not. The only solace is in the faith that our efforts, however feeble, matter in the grandiose scheme of things. The end to all tales is always the same. All will pass despite good intentions. <br />
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Do may be better than try, but try ain’t bad when it’s all you’ve got. In the end it’s just the eternal battle between the devil and the deep blue me.S. E. Toonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01779341199387862248noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7240285996404609872.post-8912551078633786682011-06-05T12:27:00.000-07:002011-06-06T05:28:04.109-07:0050 words<div style="text-align: center;"><i><b>A picture paints a thousand words, a thousand poorly chosen words.</b></i></div><br />
I am a member of 196southshorewriters, and that feeds part of the writer in me, but I am in need of a group that specializes in what I write to share work with as well. I looked into Cape Cod Children's Writers. Although I write primarily Young Adult fiction I thought they still might be kindred spirits.<br />
<br />
FYI: They have an event I would like to promote:<br />
One-Day Writer's Workshop on Sat. July 23rd in Sandwich, MA.<br />
Get the deadline and cost at<br />
<b>http://www.capecodchildrenswriters.com/events.html</b><br />
<br />
While sizing up the group I came across an exercise for the writer's group to participate in and, like I have nothing better to do being unemployed, cranking out a novel and reviewing teen literature, thought I would take a stab at it. I have to believe the constraints were intended for young children's stories as opposed to young adults for there was a 50 word limit. Tell a tale in 50 words? It took more than 50 words for Tom Kitten to learn his lesson. What to do?<br />
<br />
The topic was <b>My Backyard</b>. I looked at the essential words to be included:<br />
<b>Marshmallow</b><br />
<b>Sunshine</b><br />
<b>Scholorship</b><br />
<b>Honey</b><br />
<b>Love</b><br />
<br />
Now I am the former college student who received A/Fs on my work until I resubmitted the work with hefty corrections. Typos, like life, happens, but that was all I needed for inspiration.<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">The letter awaited hungry eyes.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Barbeque was at six, the clock, ticking. </span></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“Take a moment… read.” </span></i></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Sunshine congealed the marshmallows into gelatinous ooze.</span></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Sticky hands tore open the envelope. </span></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">‘Application declined,’ handwritten beneath, ‘We don’t award <i>scholorships</i>.’</span></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Adding Graham Crackers, chocolate, a drizzle of honey: dessert.</span></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“What is this!?” </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“<i>Smoros</i>.”</span></span></div>S. E. Toonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01779341199387862248noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7240285996404609872.post-31158666503714470632011-05-29T05:26:00.000-07:002011-05-30T09:19:55.690-07:00The Few for All<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwzadYKRhdY7ooXFC2pZy7Y-qV2EfsvWXK3tIuqgo186kTpIEWappq0q3yblzeMjN-uk-mLTIPoV9kIl1EBOEGOURHz8Y1ZGdlejuBwaOQ-LCWkfdBb6fGnoOwSPoUzFVB6Kr3fSiy4A/s1600/brant+rock+flag.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwzadYKRhdY7ooXFC2pZy7Y-qV2EfsvWXK3tIuqgo186kTpIEWappq0q3yblzeMjN-uk-mLTIPoV9kIl1EBOEGOURHz8Y1ZGdlejuBwaOQ-LCWkfdBb6fGnoOwSPoUzFVB6Kr3fSiy4A/s320/brant+rock+flag.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> </span></span></div><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">F</span>or all we take for granted,</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">for all we’ll never know, </span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">for the promise in our parent’s smiles, </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">and the price paid to keep it so.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">F</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">or the men once boys, and grown women,</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">who answer the call and know not when,</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">their hopes and schemes and lifelong dreams,</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">might be put on hold with a solemn, <i>'til then</i>.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">F</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">or the courageous few, who in our midst,</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">know this world as it truly is;</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">that life is not just the here and now,</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">fond farewells, fist bumps and whoops and wow;</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">but that life is all these fleeting things and more;</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">fragile at best, worth preserving; hence the chore.</span></span><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">F</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">or those who lost their lives in service, </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">alas, each has won the war of wars,</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">by giving us all on familiar shores,</span></span><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">through struggle, strife and immeasurable sorrows,</span></span><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">a promise fulfilled of more blessed tomorrows.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">F</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">or the stalwart soldiers, ambassadors of peace,</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">your actions prove to all the prayers we keep,</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">of a world where wars need not be fought,</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">of a world where loved ones need not weep, </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">are more than ideals from a more gifted state,</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">but are vows that make our country great.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: right;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">-S.E. Toon </span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div>S. E. Toonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01779341199387862248noreply@blogger.com0