Trying something new here

One of the things I've never really done much of other than a few random excerpts from my books is publish a complete work on this blog.

I recently wrote a short story titled The Dragon and The Princess. There are a couple of reasons for this story but at the moment, they aren't important to this posting. The story is about twenty double spaced pages long in Word format. So, what I thought I would do is post a page or so every night on my little blog here and let everyone in on the story. I will try to be diligent about getting something up every night but sometimes "the best laid plans", as they say...

So, if you like the story as it unfolds just tune in every night until the end. It's as simple as that. I hope you enjoy the writing. Without further ado ...

 

     The night is dark as pitch as no star shines from the heavens above to light this tower that has held me for so long.  The colder months begin to slowly fade, the ancient bricks that form this turret that is my resting place hold the heat from the midday sun and help to keep me warm as day fades to cool nights. But the night is a demanding mistress still and the warmth escapes long before the dawn again comes to the world.

     It is almost beyond my reckoning the length of forced servitude I have endured within these walls, to be set free to do their bidding at times of their choosing only to return again to mire my soul within. Free, they are not my equal by any measure yet their hold on me has truly been my undoing. It is a morbid life I lead, though one could hardly call it a life. Slavery. It is nothing more yet to call it so would be an insult to the vile term itself. I am a prisoner set free only to be called to return, which I must do of my own accord.

     This castle, this Whitehall as it is named has been built upon the backs of those whose allegiance is tied to safety, nothing more. Yet to pretend the king offers anything more would be preposterous. His well-being is tied to the peasants who tend the lands and his armies offer them solace from outsiders who would surely rape their lands and burn their fields of toil. It is a cruel master whose payment would be nearly the same as those who they seek protection from.

     The lands live forever and I have seen them slowly change before my downcast eyes. Meadows from my youth once rich and lush with wildflowers of uncounted hues now bring forth only golden grains that nourish the populace. Would it be that my time upon this earth would come to an end for I wish to no longer live within these constraints. Yet to leave my own treasure at the hands of the king is unthinkable. He has dwelled within Whitehall for a time that spans generations. His unnatural rule is of my own doing, unwittingly as it was, for my treasure is both my curse and the only reason I live on.

     My ear pricks at the sound of hooves as they approach Whitehall down the cobbled path, stones laid uncounted years ago. A single rider I note, his passing swift, the bridge lowered well before his entry. I suspect his arrival was anticipated as not even a torch signaled his journey through the night airs. Would I have had the notion of sleep this night his arrival would surely have awakened me. My slumber is not what it used to be you understand. These walls squeeze close as I have no space to stretch my wings. Perhaps I shall hear of the tale he brings from the West Country.

     The night slithers on and the dawn is just an hour off yet a soft glow emanates from the western hills where none should reside. As I crane my neck above the single opening in the ancient brick, pinpricks of flame begin to dot the horizon. It can only mean one thing; troops returning from the West Country. It is an unexpected journey as I have not heard tale of their arrival. I hear the jest in your thoughts; why should I, their prisoner be counseled of such matters? Ah, for I am dragon! Last in a line of mercenaries used by the kings of Whitehall against their enemies. Once our numbers filled the sky, Titans, but our petty differences and the growing swarm a men became our undoing. Yet I am not for hire as I reside captured in this hall, my freedom only to do the king’s bidding.

     Would I have my freedom I could spy from above their number as they march back down the long road. More and more of their torches make their presence known as they become a sea of luminescence winding their way through the turns cut into the rolling hills, once green pastures now reduced to lanes of commerce. It is peculiar the Army of Whitehall marches at night. There must be a confidence residing within to leave the fences of the West Country unguarded. Yet their light grows with each footfall eastward, the points of light massing to reduce the shadows to ghostly specters and withdraw before their time.

     Had I the notion I would extend myself to the night sky and watch their return, but the steel that binds me is my reminder that I have no voice of freedom. This chain I could snap with ease in the days of my youth, this peg driven deep into the mortar no more than a twig in a windstorm. Though my strength lessens as the years have passed it is my constant confinement that hinders my soul above all.

     I look again to see the dancing lights as they parade down the causeway. Perhaps they number less than I had imagined. No more than a garrison now I would guess. Their absence would not be felt along the fences. Strange though it is that they march in the night airs. It is not their habit. Men are creatures of the light. They fear what they do not know, what they cannot see in the shadows. Alone they are timid. Their strength lies in numbers where they are a formidable opponent as my race failed to realize until it was too late.

 

Thoughts from today

Just a couple thoughts I had today about some things to do with cars and technology and just some stuff.

We recently had to buy a vehicle for My Beloved as hers is fifteen years old with some significant miles on it. It's still a good car but it was time to upgrade for her. Why fifteen years you ask? Cause I'm a cheap bast..., uh, nevermind.

Anyway, this new ride is filled with all kinds of techno wonders neither of us have experienced before. For instance, it has a backup camera. On the surface that sounds like a good idea but after I have used it several times I'm thinking I'm not a huge fan. Why? It takes your focus off what is around you. When you're backing up there is more to see than just what is behind you. I've found myself not looking at what may be coming at me from either side as I stare at the screen. Maybe this just takes some time to get used to.

As well, it has a button on the side of the door handle so when you have the key fob in your pocket, to unlock the car all you have to do is put your thumb on the sensor. I'm not quite sure why this gizmo is actually needed. It just seems like something that is completely unnecessary and just one more thing that can go wrong as well as something else to drive up the cost of the car. What, like pushing a button on your key fob is so hard we had to make it easier?

Another thing that actually kind of ticks me off that happens to be in a car commercial but really has nothing to do with cars. There is a Buick commercial that has recently aired that shows the consumer the newer offerings of Buicks that aren't just sedans. It shows four scenes that show the versatility of their SUVs. Then after a few weeks the commercial was down to three scenes; football players, a couple coming from a restaurant and another couple coming out of a building. Cut was a scene of several girls/women in bathing suits holding surfboards. I began to wonder why. Then it occurred to me that most likely, and this is just speculation on my part, someone complained about girls in bathing suits.

Well, that's what ticks me off. Everyone complains about things that have nothing to do with them. What someone likes, someone else if offended by. It has long been established that companies, no matter how large keep apologizing for things that upset random groups. I think it's high time that companies stop running away with their tales between their legs because some group is offended. In these days of social media where everyone has an opinion (including this author) someone isn't going to like what you do and complain. How many times has a clothing company pulled a line of T-shirts because some group didn't like them? Well guess what, that group isn't really going to affect your sales one way or another. These companies need to just say, if you don't like it, don't buy it. We stand behind our advertising / product. The old adage that one unhappy person will tell ten people doesn't really hold any water these days. If you have a better car and sell it for less than the competition they will come buy your product no matter what the complainer yells about. You can't market to 100 percent of the public anyway.

Okay, rant over.

Design flaw

Consider the common push broom. It is a standard by which nearly every man or woman who has a workshop or large outdoor paved area is quite familiar with. It is a staple of the garage. Last week, my trusty old pusher snapped off the handle for the last time. It was a wooden twenty-four inch palmyra head. Too many handles have snapped off in the holes, and, the wood after twenty years was falling apart. Today, due to the whirlybirds littering my concrete I had to go buy another one.

Here's where things start going awry.

I have long noticed the design flaw these tools all have in common. My new one is no different than my trusty old one. Here's the rub; the angle of the handle to the brush head as it contacts the surface it is sweeping is incorrect. For the broom head to properly and efficiently do what it was designed to do, the bristles need to be flat against the ground/surface.

Now, even at my robust height of 5' 8", I must bend down slightly to be at the proper angle. For you freekishly tall people of 5'9" or above, you must put that much more stress on your lower back to do so. At the proper angle the bristles do their job efficiently. Unfortunately, most everyone who has a broom stands up normally to their natural height to use it. That means only the front bristles of the broom contact the surface to push the debris away. They bend beneath the weight/force applied to the forward stroke and that usually means a lot of stuff is left over from the path you just swept. That's the problem.

It's high time the hardware engineers out there do what is needed and design a properly working push broom without an overly inflated price for doing so. The world would be a cleaner place indeed.

Whirlybirds

If you were a kid growing up in Ohio, you know what these are. I suppose others had names for them, helicopters comes to mind but not much else. I was always fascinated with them. Each spring they come around and fall from the skies right as baseball season starts kicking it into high gear.

If you haven't figured it out yet, whirlybirds are the seed pods that drop from silver maple trees. They have a 'wing' of sorts on them and they casually glide to the ground. We had one in our yard when I was growing up. It was a difficult tree to climb as part way up the truck split into two main trunks. It wasn't long after a large piece hit the roof from a large storm that my father had it cut down.

For my brother, North Of 50 and I it was hours of swing practice. We would stand beneath the tree and take a swing at the falling seed pods with our Whiffle Ball bats. We would do this for hours, and no, that's not an exaggeration. It was a way to pass the time. We didn't have all the electronics back in those days to kill off an afternoon. It wasn't long after that we'd start playing a one-on-one whiffle ball game in the back yard. One would pitch while one batted. The catcher was a lawn chair up against the pine tree in the back yard.

Each place in the yard had a designation for either a hit and the type of hit it was or an out. Over the house was a home run as was over the garage and into Mr. Siliman's yard. Often that entailed chasing their dog around the yard getting the balls back. Following the rules of baseball, three outs and change places. The only thing that generally stopped play would be when too many balls hit the aluminum siding on the house and Dad would finally put a stop to the game.

Today my yard has three silver maples. As we were playing catch with Ragin' Cage in the yard today, all those memories came flooding back. I wish every kid has whirlybirds in their yard at some point in their childhood. It is a point of fascination to me to this day.

Happy Spring...and baseball season.

A new short

Every once in a while I stretch my writing legs and do something a little different. As I have been working on a science fiction series the last few years, sometimes you just need to write in a different style. My roots in fantasy fiction sometimes calls to me. There has been several times a short sprint into an idea has led to either a short story or even an entire book. Truth be told, the entire Home World Series started with a writing exercise to stretch my legs, so to speak.

This short began for my Daughter who has pestered me for years to write a 'Princess story'. So, this short is just that. Here are a few paragraphs of my ode to my daughter.

The Dragon and

      The Princess

     The night is dark as pitch as no star shines from the heavens above to light this tower that has held me for so long.  The colder months begin to slowly fade, the ancient bricks that form this turret that is my resting place hold the heat from the midday sun and help to keep me warm as day fades to cool nights. But the night is a demanding mistress still and the warmth escapes long before the dawn again comes to the world.

     It is almost beyond my reckoning the length of forced servitude I have endured within these walls, to be set free to do their bidding at times of their choosing only to return again to mire my soul within. Free, they are not my equal by any measure yet their hold on me has truly been my undoing. It is a morbid life I lead, though one could hardly call it a life. Slavery. It is nothing more yet to call it so would be an insult to the vile term itself. I am a prisoner set free only to be called to return, which I must do of my own accord.

     This castle, this Whitehall as it is named has been built upon the backs of those whose allegiance is tied to safety, nothing more. Yet to pretend the king offers anything more would be preposterous. His well-being is tied to the peasants who tend the lands and his armies offer them solace from outsiders who would surely rape their lands and burn their fields of toil. It is a cruel master whose payment would be nearly the same as those who they seek protection from.

     The lands live forever and I have seen them slowly change before my downcast eyes. Meadows from my youth once rich and lush with wildflowers of uncounted hues now bring forth only golden grains that nourish the populace. Would it be that my time upon this earth would come to an end for I wish to no longer live within these constraints. Yet to leave my own treasure at the hands of the king is unthinkable. He has dwelled within Whitehall for a time that spans generations. His unnatural rule is of my own doing, unwittingly as it was, for my treasure is both my curse and the only reason I live on.

     My ear pricks at the sound of hooves as they approach Whitehall down the cobbled path, stones laid uncounted years ago. A single rider I note, his passing swift, the bridge lowered well before his entry. I suspect his arrival was anticipated as not even a torch signaled his journey through the night airs. Would I have had the notion of sleep this night his arrival would surely have awaken me. My slumber is not what it used to be you understand. These walls squeeze close as I have no space to stretch my wings. Perhaps I shall hear of the tale he brings from the West Country.

     The night slithers on and the dawn is just an hour off yet a soft glow emanates from the western hills where none should reside. As I crane my neck above the single opening in the ancient brick, pinpricks of flame begin to dot the horizon. It can only mean one thing; troops returning from the West Country. It is an unexpected journey as I have not heard tale of their arrival. I hear the jest in your thoughts; why should I, their prisoner be counseled of such matters? Ah, for I am dragon! Last in a line of mercenaries used by the kings of Whitehall against their enemies. Once our numbers filled the sky, Titans, but our petty differences and the growing swarm a men became our undoing. Yet I am none for hire as I reside captured in this hall, my freedom only to do the king’s bidding.

There is more to come as I write this short. I'll let you all know when it's done. Thanks for reading along.