Tuesday, April 30, 2013

Z is for zero

It's the end of the countdown when you reach zero. It's the point when things happen: we have lift-off. It's the the end of something and the beginning of something else. At least, that's what you hope. But sometimes zero is simply zero. The end of the journey. No more.

And this is the last post of the Blogging from A to Z April Challenge. It's been an interesting month. I've written about things that I never have before. I visited a lot of blogs I had never visited before. I had to scramble many times to figure a post that went with the letter, but I did. All in all, despite how it pushed my schedule in ridiculous ways I'll have to recover from, I've enjoyed the experience.

Will I participate next year? A definite maybe. Thank you all for reading and for your support.

Lift-off.

(This post is part of the 2013 Blogging From A to Z April Challenge. Learn more about the Challenge HERE.)

Monday, April 29, 2013

Y is for yarraman

It's an old word. It means "horse." It's from a native Australian language. I don't know if it's still used. I hope so. I'd like to think old languages survive somehow, although scientists report that many
languages are disappearing quickly. Soon we will speak English, Spanish, or Chinese. Or actually someday that will happen. Probably not in my lifetime.

There's wisdom in old languages. Old mysteries. Wisdom that may no longer apply, but we won't know unless we learn the language and preserve it. Those old words give us old stories. And stories are always important. We know a people by their stories, their myths, and their dreams.

No one really cares about old languages. Oh, there are scientists and linguists who are racing to preserve what they can, but there are no telethons or Congressional pushes to give them money. They do what they can, but mostly they watch helplessly as the old stories disappear.

And it's a loss for all of us.

(This post is part of the 2013 Blogging From A to Z April Challenge. Learn more about the Challenge HERE.)

Saturday, April 27, 2013

X marks the spot

When I was a kid, I'd read about pirates and their buried treasures, and it seemed grand. The high seas, the gold and jewels, the pitched battles, and those maps where X marks the spot ... all combined in a glorious myth. What little boy didn't want to be a pirate at some time in his life?

Of course, the truth was much different. Their lives were short and brutal. They murdered people. They were uneducated and smelly. They had personal habits that would embarrass a rabid pig. They didn't have a heart of gold, and X never marked the spot.

So few dreams survive into adulthood. At least not in the sense that we can believe they are real. Unrelenting reality beats dreams down, mugs them in an alley, and leaves them for dead in a ditch by the side of a road. I don't know how we make it when so many of our dreams can't survive the harsh light of day. We're fairly irrational people, we humans, and somehow we muddle through our daily routines. We get up and go to work and give up our dreams or try to force them on our children. If we're miserable, we think it's nothing more than we deserve for our crime of being born.

But I hope that maybe in our heart of hearts, we still believe. Maybe in our secret fantasies, pirates sail the high seas and rescue beautiful princesses and fight the good fight against oppressive governments. Maybe we  pit our wits and strength against the unforgiving storms. Maybe we stand at the bow, shouting our wild and glorious defiance at the raging ocean. And we win.

Maybe in our heart of hearts, X still marks the spot.

(This post is part of the 2013 Blogging From A to Z April Challenge. Learn more about the Challenge HERE.)

Friday, April 26, 2013

W is for waver

Ever waver? You know what's right, you know what you should do, but you waver. The cost seems too high; the opposition seems too strong. So you give way. You keep quiet. You watch from the sidelines as an injustice is visited upon the innocent. You justify it. You forget it. You bury it.

You should know better. Some things won't stay buried. One-time injustices turn into many-times injustices. And if you finally make your stand, the cost will be higher, the opposition that much stronger. Of course, you don't have to make a stand. You can stay silent. You can go down into your grave with your words locked in your throat.
 
The most they will say about you is: "He wavered. She didn't rock the boat. Nice quiet people." And then you'll be forgotten.

Get. Off. Your. Lazy. Ass. And fight for the right. You can do it. There are lot of us doing it. And if you're good at it, you'll make the world -- or at least your part of it -- better for you having been here. That's a good epitaph.

(This post is part of the 2013 Blogging From A to Z April Challenge. Learn more about the Challenge HERE.)

Thursday, April 25, 2013

V is for viper

Ever know someone like that? Viper tongue and not afraid to use it. Supremely confident of their right to cut someone down to size with the appropriately vicious comment. Never do they imagine that they're busy removing a mote from their victim's eye while ignoring the huge pole in theirs. It takes a special kind of smallness to speak without kindness. To lay waste just because you can. It took me so many years to realize that being kind was the true power. Any pig can be snarky and smug. Any lout can be loud and mean.

But to be kind ... to try to look beyond a person's faults and mistakes and find their good qualities ... to be more than lip service to the idea of compassion ... that's hard. That's what we should strive for. It's not as much fun, it's not as smart, it's not smug, it's not as ego boosting ... but it's how we humans could be if we were willing to work on it. If we were willing to bend.

If kindness wasn't such a bad taste on our viper lips.

(This post is part of the 2013 Blogging From A to Z April Challenge. Learn more about the Challenge HERE.)

Wednesday, April 24, 2013

U is for ubiquitous

"Ubiquitous" is the favorite word of one of my friends. She says it's fun to say, but hard to spell, and it's such a useful word. Webster's defines it as: existing or being everywhere at the same time : constantly encountered : widespread. Cell phones are ubiquitous. Cars are ubiquitous. Fast food restaurants are ubiquitous. Mosquitoes are ubiquitous. You get the point.

I don't think ubiquitous carries any negative connotations. It would be nice if being kind was ubiquitous. Generosity, kindness, compassion ... the world would be a much better place if they were ubiquitous.

It is fun to say, although I'd wonder if someone said it repeatedly in the same conversation. In other words, ubiquitous shouldn't be ubiquitous.

(This post is part of the 2013 Blogging From A to Z April Challenge. Learn more about the Challenge HERE.)

Tuesday, April 23, 2013

T is for time

Lately, I seem to running out of time. Or at least hours in day. I have a crazy schedule and will have until the end of November, when my life should get back to what I laughingly call "normal."

Here's what I have coming up:

July 30th or before: Publication of my book "Murder by the Mile."
August: Book signings and publicity for "Murder by the Mile" AND the publication of "Creations: 34 Ways to Look at Love," the latest anthology by Ada Writers.
September 1st: Publication of my book "Undying: Poems of Fantasy and Science Fiction" AND book signings and publicity for "Murder by the Mile," "Undying," and "Creations: 34 Ways to Look at Love."
October: Book signings and publicity for "Murder by the Mile," "Undying," and "Creations: 34 Ways to Look at Love."
November: Tentative publication date of Gail Wood's book: "Red Bird Woman." This is a collection of her poetry. This will be published by Many Rivers Harbor.
December: A mini book fair at Karen's Art & Framing (during the first week of December) where various local writers will set up a book table and help people get a leg-n their Christmas shopping. What better gift than a signed book from a local author? This is still in the early planning stages, but I think it's a go right now.

Anyway, as you can see, my plate is full. Heaping. Overflowing even. Got to stay focused. But one thing that is on the plan that I should mention now: I plan on having a nervous breakdown as soon as the book fair is over. Just thought you should know.

Monday, April 22, 2013

S is for Supernatural

Yes, Supernatural. That show with Dean and Sam. I confess to being a fan. It reminds me of Buffy The Vampire Slayer, but in a way, it's more realistic and grounded ... if you can apply that to a show about vampires, demons, witches, ghosts, ghouls, etc. I confess I'd like a bit more humor and a bit less angst, but the writers do a good job. Although ... exactly how many times will Dean and Sam be killed and brought back? That's a story line that the writers have drained dry. Time for a new narrative ... or new writers. And could they get a girlfriend or two that doesn't end up dead or isn't revealed to be a demon or some other nasty creature?

Still, those quibbles aside, I'm still watching. Eight seasons later. I hope they go on for eight more.

Saturday, April 20, 2013

R is for randy

I once had a randy friend. I met him in my third year in college. And when I say randy, I mean he was always ready for sex. Always. I had never met anyone like him. Never have since. He slept with women and men. He had threesomes and foursomes and once participated in a group.

He was happy about it. By all accounts -- well, his lovers that I know -- he was an enthusiastic lover. A caring lover. And he made sure his partner enjoyed the experience.

He was always careful to tell them that he liked them, but didn't love them. Sex was separate from his heart. He loved them, but he didn't love them.

He would wander back in the dorm after having spent a night out, and he'd always be wearing a smile. He'd grin bashfully if anyone asked how his night went, and he always answered, "Awesome!" I used to talk to him about God. He called me "the Preacher," a nickname that I didn't deserve. 

I don't know how his life would have worked out if his behavior had continued after college -- I would guess messy and sad -- but life wasn't going to work out that way. On his way home from OSU, he was in a wreck. He survived, but his injuries were terribly severe. It took nearly a year, but eventually -- after another surgery to repair his spine -- he passed away.

I went to his funeral. He was the first of my college friends to pass away, but sadly enough, he wouldn't be the last. A group of girls and guys were there -- I was surprised at the identities of some of his former lovers -- and they were all grieving. I think his parents didn't know what to make of those guys who wept heart-broken over his coffin.

The minister said a few words, we sang a few songs, and then that was the end of him except in memory. And I do remember him.

I once had a randy friend. 

Friday, April 19, 2013

Q is for quiet

(This post is part of the 2013 Blogging From A to Z April Challenge. Learn more about the Challenge HERE. It's also part of National Poetry Writing Month. Learn more about NaPoWriMo HERE.)

Twilight Grace

We drift now in the quiet space,
the black between the stars,
Engines torn away months ago
by an errant cosmic string
or some unexpected particle.

No rescue possible. No engines, no
highspace communications. Command
cannot find us. In this vast empiness,
another warpship lighting on this tiny
point of nothing beggars imagination.

Most of the crew now dead or missing.
The doctor drank poison; captain
fled to his quarters with a bottle.
The engineer nurses our life support;
he says mad things about what he sees.

I wander the arboretum ring. Alone
except for the green plants whose
names I never learned. I touch their
leaves. I water the green rows.
The flowers turn blind faces.

This is the last log of the warpship
Twilight Grace. Listen oh listen
to me. At times, I can hear moans,
shuffling footsteps in the corridors;
but no one answers when I call ...

(Copyright 2013 by Stephen B. Bagley.  From the forthcoming Undying: Poems of Fantasy & Science Fiction. All rights reserved. No copying without express written permission.)

Alien by the Atlanta Rhythm Section

One of my favorite songs despite it hitting too close to home at times.

Thursday, April 18, 2013

Books

(This is part of National Poetry Writing Month. Learn more about NaPoWriMo HERE.)

Books

Humans think they write us.
With type and sweat,
they pour their energy
into the stories we give
to fevered imaginations.

Some of them break --
not all livestock is meant
for the long run --
but a few of them write,
write, and write more.

They pour themselves
into our worlds,
rapt at new horizons
and as they stare,
transfixed, we feed.

Page after page, chapter
by chapter, we drain
them dry as we have
since we came to this
world on literatureships.

If they knew, they'd think
we defined symbiotic, but
we know ... wait, someone
starts a thousand page
epic. So so so sweet ...

(Copyright 2013 by Stephen B. Bagley. From Undying: Poems of Fantasy and Science Fiction. All rights reserved. No copying without express permission. Thank you for reading.)

P is for perfect

PERFECT

Once there was a perfect boy
who made perfect grades,
enjoyed perfect friends,
dated a perfect girl,
and lived a perfect life.

He grew into a perfect man
who had a perfect job,
raised perfect children,
resided in a perfect home,
and loved a perfect wife.

So we were perfectly shocked
when this perfect man
bought a perfect gun,
wrote a perfect note,
and killed himself one perfect night.

(Copyright 2013 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved. No copying without express written permission.)

(This post is part of the 2013 Blogging From A to Z April Challenge. Learn more about the Challenge HERE. It's also part of National Poetry Writing Month. Learn more about NaPoWriMo HERE.)

Wednesday, April 17, 2013

O is for Open All NIght

I often feel my muse was born under the sign: Open All Night. She -- and it has to be a woman because only women drive me this crazy -- is quite willing to shoot my idea at three in the morning, but let it be a decent hour in the day and she's sleeping in. If I attempt to wake her, she glares at me with bloodshot eyes and throws a bottle at me.

I don't know how this happened. I've never been a night person. I like to get 14 hours a sleep a night. People have even wondered if I had sleeping sickness. Why oh why would I be charged with energy starting at midnight?

I'm told it has to do with biorhythms. Apparently I have the biorhythm of a bluesy jazz singer from a New Orleans speakeasy. I didn't use to. I don't know what happened. It probably has to do with sunspots. Or chemicals in our food. Maybe the CIA or ancient aliens, whichever of those you believe exists. I would even suspect Bigfoot, but he's such a nice guy.

So there I am. Up at night. Blearily typing. Think of me as you dream, you lucky devils.

(This post is part of the 2013 Blogging From A to Z April Challenge. Learn more about the Challenge HERE.)

Tuesday, April 16, 2013

N is for nowhere in particular

Did you ever get the urge to run away? Nowhere in particular, just somewhere else. Maybe a distant city where you'd start a new life without all the history that weighs you down, holds you back, all those expectations that you can't meet or that you can but don't want to any longer.

Maybe you even make plans. Maybe not real plans. But you pick up brochures at the travel agent. Google a city you might like. Consider who you'd tell your new address. Wonder where you would work. What your new job would be and how you'd find new friends. Friends who would be different, friends who didn't know your failures and follies. Friends who would wholeheartedly support you.

And of course, the new location changes you. You're braver. Smarter. Funnier. Kinder. Capable. Cherished. You finally become the person you've always thought you could be. You find a new love.

Yes, a new love. Someone who would love you as much as you loved. Maybe even more. Maybe you'd be the needed one. Romantic dinners. Walks at night on the beach or picnics in the park or a stroll across a flower filled meadow.

It's all very lovely. Only one thing -- one person -- mars this picture. Because you know -- you know -- that you carry all your hurts and insecurities and pain with you. You'd seek out a different dead-end job and find friends who would take more than they gave and a new love who would treat you like the old one did.

You throw away the brochures. Shut down the computer. Turn on the TV. That's how it always ends.

But maybe not this time. Maybe this time you pack a suitcase. You hail a taxi and hop on a plane. And as it climbs into the sky, you leave all those old sorrows behind and soar away into a new glorious life. Maybe that's what will happen this time.

Maybe.

(This post is part of the 2013 Blogging From A to Z April Challenge. Learn more about the Challenge HERE.)

EndlesS

(I actually published this poem in my book EndlesS back in 2008, but I couldn't resist reworking some of the lines to better reflect what I mean. I guess I never really stop revising a poem. This poem is part of National Poetry Writing Month in which we write 30 poems in 30 days. Learn more about NaPoWriMo HERE.)

EndlesS


black in the sky black sound in the mouths of those who stare blindly
at spiraling void descending on jagged wings soundless screams
swallowed by endless hunger the awful infinity of the void
requires our presence in the last dance Hawkings
would approve as the events of our lives
vanish beyond the horizon spiraling
down into eternity beyond
which we cannot see
divide by zero
divide by
zero
o
oh the
stars are like
a thousand diamonds
but I see your face and laugh
I kiss your face and laugh and angels
dance on pins skies pour forth blinding light
powers move upon the deep and the seraphim sing
as we hurl ourcometselves together bodies feeding glowing
hunger gasps your hands grab my back burn through pain sorrow
we’re falling flying soaring shouting exclaiming rejoicing sigh breathe
and you turn to me fully alive as only you can be and say let’s fall in again


(Copyright 2013 by Stephen B. Bagley. First published in EndlesS. Revision from the forthcoming Undying: Poems of Fantasy and Science Fiction. No copying without express prior permission. Thank you for reading.)

Monday, April 15, 2013

A Leaving Dream

(I'm enjoying National Poetry Writing Month, where the participants write 30 poems in 30 days. Here's my poem for the 15th day Learn more about NaPoWriMo HERE.)

A Leaving Dream

She always had that dream
of leaving. Someday she'd walk
away from her life and start
anew in a distant city of light.
Ads from a travel daemon littered
her tablet. Links to exotic places.
The plains of Mars or the oceans
of terraformed Venus. Maybe
the comet cloud resorts resting
on the edge of the solar system
where the privileged skied
on ice formed when time
had barely begun to count.
Anywhere had to be better
than Lunar City Seventeen.

And she'd find new brave friends.
Friends who would support her
wholeheartedly and give more
than they took. And a new love.
A new lover who would love
her more than she loved him,
who would cherish her as if she
carried within her his reason for
being born and continuing to live.
She always had this dream
of leaving, but her courage failed
every time. Every time turned
into maybe this time. Until
one day they found her loft empty.
Only a forwarding daemon pointing
to Olympus Mons -- and beyond.

(Copyright 2013 by Stephen B. Bagley. From Undying: Poems of Fantasy and Science Fiction. No copying without express prior permission. Thank you for reading.)

M is for murder

Of my two (so far) murder mysteries, I had the most fun writing Murder by the Acre, the sequel to Murder by Dewey Decimal. The characters were easier to handle, the townspeople more real, the dialogue funnier and more realistic at the same time. And I think the relationship between Bernard and Lisa "worked" this time while it was a bit dodgy the first time around. I actually didn't intend for Bernard and Lisa to get together -- Lisa was meant for Sims -- but that's how it worked out in Murder by Dewey Decimal, and the story was better for it. But it made a lot of work for me.

People ask me why I write murder mysteries. I think they think it's because I have some dark impulses. Maybe I do, but the real reason I write them is because I like the puzzles they present and I like to see justice win. Those are the books I like to read, so they're the ones I like to write. It's that simple.

(This post is part of the 2013 Blogging From A to Z April Challenge. Learn more about the Challenge HERE.)

Sunday, April 14, 2013

Space Shuttle Reference Manual

(Besides participating in the 2013 Blogging A to Z April Challenge, I'm also participating in National Poetry Writing Month. In NaPoWriMo, I'm to write a poem a day for the whole month. Here is the poem for the 14th day.)

Space Shuttle Reference Manual

T minus 10, "go for main engine start" issues.
Flares ignite and burn away residual hydrogen.
A half second later, computers open valves.
(We have only breaths to consider.)
Liquid hydrogen and oxygen feed the turbopumps.
T minus 6.6, main engines ignite at intervals.
Engines throttle up to 90 percent in 3 seconds.
(If we had regrets, the time has passed.)
At T minus 3, ignition sequence begins.
At T minus zero, holddown explosive bolts
and umbilical explosive bolts blow.
We are completely committed.
Solid rocket boosters ignite. The beast roars.
The shuttle climbs into the golden sky.
Empty boosters fall in the azure ocean.
Gravity holds us until we are finally free.

(Copyright 2013 by Stephen B. Bagley. From Undying: Poems of Fantasy & Science Fiction. No copying without express prior permission. Thank you for reading.)

Saturday, April 13, 2013

L is for lost

(This post is part of the 2013 Blogging From A to Z April Challenge. Learn more about the Challenge HERE.)

I've been lost before. Not in the physical sense. That has happened rarely in my life. But in the emotional sense. In the spiritual sense. In the life sense. Yes, I've had that happen more often than I'm comfortable admitting.

The situation is always the same. I think I know where I'm going and what I'm doing, and then something unexpected happens. It's never a happy something. And it jars me, forces my head up, and I look around and realize I'm lost. Somehow my decisions led me to an unknown place, and I'm confronting choices I don't want to choose. Or -- and this is more common -- I find I have no choices at all. I have to follow a path that's only going to end badly. It's like being in a slow train wreck, and you can't jump off or stop the train or save yourself. All you can do is wait for the collusion.

Of course, I've lived long enough to know that sometimes the wreck doesn't happen. We can't control events, and the train can veer off or stop. You're saved. It happens.

If you're lost, then I can give you this advice: Do your best to get found. Keep hope. Just as you didn't expect the events that led to being lost, events can happen to save you.

And if not, well ... stay tough. Survive. Learn. Grow. Get up and go on. That's all you can do.

Spaceman Jones

(Besides participating in the 2013 Blogging A to Z April Challenge, I'm also participating in National Poetry Writing Month. In NaPoWriMo, I'm write a poem a day for the whole month. Here is the poem for the 13th day.)

Spaceman Jones

Spaceman Jones went riding,
blasting into the night,
flying his atomic spaceship
out to see the sights.

They rumbled past the moon
and touched down on Mars.
Them settlers needed a sheriff
so they pinned on some stars

Rocket outlaws were rustling
ice and other valuable grub
so Jones and his posse chased
the crooks to an old space tub.

Them varmints fought back hard.
Energy bolts crackled and ripped,
but Jones soon drilled their leader
and put the stolen goods in his ship.

The posse came back to town,
but now here's a curious thing:
although they looked high and low
Jones was never again seen.

So if you're homesteading a planet
and crooks be troublin' your homes,
be careful where you pin those stars --
you might be pinning Spaceman Jones.

(Copyright 2013 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved. No copying without prior permission. Thank you for reading.)

Friday, April 12, 2013

K is for killer

(This post is part of the 2013 Blogging From A to Z April Challenge. Learn more about the Challenge HERE.)

Besides getting asked where I find my ideas (everywhere) and if I want to write the asker's life story (no, I don't), I get asked -- a lot -- how do I come up with a killer for my books. It's not easy. For one thing, while the killers in my books may actually be insane, they don't get the comfort of being insane. Instead, they must screw up their courage and choose to remove someone -- for revenge, love, money -- but no voices speak to them. No, their sins belong wholly to them.

Sometimes, I push my killers to the brink, and then they crack and kill. Other times, I let jealousy or anger eat at them for a long time. They began to think dark thoughts" If only he would die in a car wreck ... if only she would fall down the stairs ... Their lives would be better if their victims were dead. They only have to think that thought a few times ... and then it begins to fester. As it festers, it gathers strength, and they begin to plan. Eventually that plan leads to action. And those actions bring in the police. The story goes from there.

And that's how I make my killers.

An evening entertainment

(Besides participating in the 2013 Blogging A to Z April Challenge, I'm also participating in National Poetry Writing Month. In NaPoWriMo, I'm write a poem a day for the whole month. Here is the poem for the 12th day.)

An Evening Entertainment

The evening has not gone as you planned.
I acknowledge your confusion and pain,
but you have only yourself to blame.

And maybe those movies where monsters
sparkle and sigh with immortal angst.
Do you think the flickering images held truth?

Or was it the endless books in which
the beauty tames the beast, ignoring
the fact the beast might not want to be tamed?

Perhaps you thought your youthful beauty
would conquer my baser instincts
even though I am centuries old

and have loved ladies whose beauty
sank a thousand ships and for whom
the poets opened their wrists.

It hardly matters now, does it?
I will say this: You have lovely eyes.
They will be simply delicious.

(Copyright 2013 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved. No copying without prior permission. Thank you for reading.)

Thursday, April 11, 2013

J is for Jesus

When I was writing Tales from Bethlehem, which contains the stories of people who might have been at the birth of Jesus and how it affected their lives, I was very conscious that I could easily offend people. People take the Bible seriously, and I think they should. Even if they don't believe in God, the fact a lot of people do means your disbelief should be expressed respectfully. Live and let live and so on, although, of course, that's easier said than done.

I approached the stories with three goals: one, to express the power and wonder of the night; two, to find humor and humanity among the people in the Tales, but particularly humor; and three, within the constraints imposed by the situation of the individual Tales, to respect the Bible's accounts while aiming for a historical slant as much as possible.

Admittedly, some of the Tales, such as "The Star's Tale" or "Tale of the Humble Donkey," are based on fantastic elements, The Star's Tale being science fiction or science fantasy. But even with these unrealistic concepts, I tried to stay true to the truth of the Nativity.

I think I succeeded. At least the reviews have good so far, and readers have seemed to respond, so much so that many ask for more Tales. I don't know if there will be any more. I think I've written about almost anyone who realistically and otherwise would have been there, but we'll see. You'll never know who might step forward and want their Tale told.

 (This post is part of the 2013 Blogging From A to Z April Challenge. Learn more about the Challenge HERE.) 

Flight

(Besides participating in the 2013 Blogging A to Z April Challenge, I'm also participating in National Poetry Writing Month. In NaPoWriMo, I'm write a poem a day for the whole month. Here is the poem for the 11th day.)

Flight

From the beginning the stars
called us from endless falling,
but earthbound our steps fell
until the Brothers Wright wrought
wings for their brethren.

Silver arced through the clouds
and then into the black beyond --
silent moon and ancient Mars, 
fiery Venus, molten Mercury,
gas giants three, and comet cloud.

Humanity homesteaded the system.
A few of the early explorers died,
but the stars still endlessly called.
We planned worldships, but physics
found a loophole in the laws.

Remember always this moment.
Remember where you stand
while those left yearning behind 
hold their breath as the first
starship finally answers the call.

(Copyright 2013 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved. No copying without prior permission. Thank you for reading.)

Wednesday, April 10, 2013

Cthulhu

(Besides participating in the 2013 Blogging A to Z April Challenge (see post below), I'm also participating in National Poetry Writing Month. In NaPoWriMo, I'm write a poem a day for the whole month. Here is the poem for the 10th day.)

Cthulhu

With blood and ancient spells,
we called forth Great Cthulhu,
Dread One and Old God,
to sweep away this world.

This cowardly new world
had no place in it for us.
Better to cast everything
down into the dust.

We have poisoned the earth,
dimmed the skies, and slain
the beasts. Our cities burn.
Rivers choke with filth.

Scientists craft killing germs.
Bombs tear apart atoms.
Millions of children starve --
We do not deserve life.

So we called the Old God forth.
It turned its mighty head
toward us, then faded away
with a terrible cruel laugh.

It only spoke once, its voice
driving some mad. We understood then --
What horrors could it do to the earth
that we had not already done?

(Copyright 2013 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved. No copying without prior permission. Thank you for reading.)

I is for innocence

Stephen R. Donaldson in his book The Wounded Land puts forth the idea that innocence is powerless and that only the guilty have power because they're willing to do things that are bad to protect what is good. It is a curious restatement of the old adage: "The ends justify the means." But do they?

I'm reminded of Operation Overcast. It was later renamed Operation Paperclip and was undertaken by our government at the end of WWII. We snatched up German scientists and technicians  At first, the military was told not take scientists who were active Nazis, but that restriction was rapidly dropped because those active Nazis were too valuable. And we definitely didn't want the Russians to get them.

So we brought thousands of them to the United States. Many were given new names and new identities. And their crimes -- the use of slaves and outright murder of innocent people -- was quietly swept way. Supposedly, it was necessary so that we could maintain our superiority over the rapidly growing threat of the Soviet Union. I'd like to think the worst of them were punished after we got their information. And I'd like to think most of them were swept helplessly into the Nazi war machine and lived good lives after they came here.

But the fact remains that our government decided their crimes didn't matter as much as our nation's security. I wonder if the people who made that choice realized what they were doing. I wonder if it weighed on their conscience?  I wonder if the ends actually justified the means. And I wonder about the victims. How would they feel?

In all of this, they were the only ones who didn't have a voice. They were the innocent that someone was supposed to be bad to protect.

Tuesday, April 09, 2013

Cursed

(Besides participating in the 2013 Blogging A to Z April Challenge (see post below), I'm also participating in National Poetry Writing Month. In NaPoWriMo, I'm write a poem a day for the whole month. Here is the poem for the ninth day.)

Cursed

When she threw herself in the pit
to escape our murderous grasp,
we knew the witch would fall and die,
splattered on the black bones below.

We rushed eagerly to the edge
to revel in the bloody scene.
We thought her insidious voice
would be silenced permanently.

Instead she rose out of the dark,
her arms outstretched, her voice singing
praises to an ancient goddess
as we fled and bolted our doors.

We had thrown many bold women
into the pit and let them rot.
None were witches we all now know;
a few of us knew that before.

Stoughton said we must keep order,
sometimes the innocents must die,
and no one is without some sins.
We listened to his pious lies.

She walked too proudly while in town.
She did not give way when men spoke.
She knew her mind and went her own way.
So we sent her to fall and die.

But then we huddled in our homes
while above us the witch soared
through the golden sky, rejoicing
in freedom we will never feel.

Before she vanished in the clouds,
her voice rang out. “I leave you in
the tiny prison you have made
of life. That is my blackest curse!”

It has been more than two centuries.
Time trickles slowly for us now.
No one is born. no one can leave.
No visitors ever come here.

We see the same faces each day.
We work the same chores each day.
We mouth the same words each day.
Just our eyes show our empty souls.

We finally understand her curse:
to be exactly – and only –
what we are. The truth is: we fell
in a pit and we cannot die.

(Copyright 2013 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved. No copying without prior permission. Thank you for reading.)

H is for Helios

(This post is part of the 2013 Blogging From A to Z April Challenge. Learn more about the Challenge HERE.)

In Greek myths, Helios was the sun god, son of the elder god Hyperion. Helios was thought to drive his chariot across the sky from east to west daily. He was the sun's avatar, the personification of the sun.

I thought about Helios as I was driving to the store today. The sun peeked out from the clouds for a moment sending shafts of sunlight across the countryside.

Of course, then I wondered why I would think about a Greek myth. My brain often surprises me with what will surface at odd times. When I was in high school, I was fascinated by Roman and Greek myths. In a lot of ways, I think they were the first science fiction/fantasy stories. But then I remember people actually worshiped the gods featured in those stories. I wonder how many of them truly believed. Or were they like a lot of people today who give lip service to believing in God, but don't really reflect any sort of good behavior in their lives?

It's hard to imagine anyone really believing in the Olympians, but maybe they did. Or maybe they thought that the gods might exist, and it was better to be safe than sorry. I think a lot of people approach God that way these days: They're not sure He exists, but they hedge their bets just in case.

Monday, April 08, 2013

Three monstrous limericks

(Besides participating in the 2013 Blogging A to Z April Challenge (see post below), I'm also participating in National Poetry Writing Month. In NaPoWriMo, I'm supposed to write a poem a day for the whole month. Here are the poems for the eighth day. They're short so I thought I should do three.)

The Thing Without A Brain

My brain and I once lived in Rome
but it wandered far from home
     It left an empty space
     a hollow behind my face
And now all I can do is moan

Vampire

I bit old Aunt Elizabeth first
I thought she'd sate my thirst
     But she didn’t fill me up
     so my cousins I supped
And now they too are cursed

Zombies

They wake from death craving brains
Brains and brains their only refrain
     They fumble and bumble
     They'll kill if you stumble
But the zombies would eat you in vain

(Copyright 2013 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved. No copying without prior permission. Thank you for reading.)

G is for gratitude

(This post is part of the 2013 Blogging From A to Z April Challenge. Learn more about the Challenge HERE.)

I try to thankful for my blessings. I try to approach every day with gratitude. Yes, I have health problems. Yes, I have money problems. Yes, I worry about many things. But I have a roof over my head. I have food to eat. I have my family and friends. And I have a computer and an Internet connection. 

My life is better than 90 percent of the world. I tell myself that when the black dog has me by the throat. Not that I take pride in being better off. No, it's a reminder that I mostly suffer from First World Problems. This is not a fix for depression, but it does help me to keep perspective. 

My life isn't perfect. No one's life is. I have many trials and disappointments behind me and many in front of me.  But I'm still here. As long as I'm alive, I have hope. 

And that's something to be grateful for.

Sunday, April 07, 2013

Highlands

(Besides participating in the 2013 Blogging A to Z April Challenge, I'm also participating in National Poetry Writing Month. In NaPoWriMo, I'm supposed to write a poem a day for the whole month. Yes, I'm crazy. Here's the seventh poem.)

Highlands

In the highlands a beauteous lass lived,
skin like winter snow, hair radiant red,
lips that curved in an impish grin.

In the highlands a handsome lad lived,
strong of back, eyes as green as the sea,
a smile like the summer sun.

At a gathering called by the High Lord,
they danced the Foursome Reel,
with eyes only for each other's flesh.

Late that night they crept quietly out
to the meadow with a soft gray blanket
and shared their fiery passion.

"I will love only thee," he declared.
"No one else is there for me," she swore.
Naked bodies intertwined until the dawn.

But he came from the Clan Campbell
while she sprang from Clan MacDonald,
no fiercer foes or feud ever there was.

So the lovers stole away at the dark
of the moon to escape to the coast,
but pursued by warriors of both clans.

Running hand in hand across the meadows,
past the barrows of ancient dread kings,
the lover fled, but the hounds drew nigh.

At last the lovers came to a cliff high,
down below the waves crashed.
"Trapped," she cried despairing.

He drew his sword, swearing
to sell his life dearly for their love,
but then a light appeared.

A blue white glow surrounded
a tall woman, beautiful and bright,
powerful and perilous. She beckoned.

When the warriors and hounds
reached the cliff, they found no one,
only the waves crashed below.

Then they fell to fighting among
themselves until the dawn
and they withdrew, muttering,

blaming the other clan for the loss,
for it be plain to all the lass and lad
had leapt to their deaths.

But to this day, the old-timers say,
on certain nights, when the moon is dark,
the lad and lass love and then twirl

while the Wild Folk pipe tunes
that entrance all who hear
to dance the reel on the cliff high.

(Copyright 2013 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved. No copying without prior permission. Thank you for reading.)

Saturday, April 06, 2013

F is for Floozy

Floozy and Other Stories was my third book. A collection of my various humorous (I hope) essays from newspapers, magazines, online zines, and other publications. Here's one of the essays in the book.)
Happy Dirt Day!

Every April 22 we celebrate Earth Day. A day meant to make you feel guilty because – let’s be honest – you’re an untidy, unclean, energy wasting, stinkin’ slob, and it’s time you faced up to it. And yes, I do mean you. Turn off a few lights, walk around the neighborhood, pick up trash, choose paper over plastic, recycle something! Or you will be doomed to spend eternity listening to Al Gore drone on and on and on and on and on and on. Has anyone checked that man’s pulse lately? It’s quite possible he’s one of the walking dead.

However, Al’s not as boring as Vice President Joe Biden. Biden has actually killed people with boredom. Sure, most of them committed suicide, but Biden drove them to it. I think that’s why the VP likes to throw out outrageous comments when he speaks; he’s trying to keep people awake. He’ll be talking: “We need to look at the gross output of the nation so that we accustomize ourselves to the need to increase output in a productive fashion (Let’s bomb Texas and wear flashy high heels!) to offset non-useful activities...”

Of course, I’m Baptist, and we’re used to sitting still and not moving for long periods of time. My pastor likes to ask for “amens” when he’s preaching, and it’s not so much that he needs encouragement as he wants to make sure we’re still breathing.

Anyway, the point of Earth Day is that we – and by “we,” I mean you – are using too many valuable resources that should be preserved so that they can be used by me. No, no, no, just kidding. We’re preserving those resources so that they can be used by our children and their children’s children, even though we know they aren’t going to come see us in the nursing home. Rotten kids with their video games and Twitter. Why don’t I Twitter my cane upside your head? What do you think of that, you punk!

I seem to have wandered off my point. I wonder where I am. Maybe we should call the nurse. No, wait, here I am. My point is that today is Earth Day, and we should all work to preserve the environment so that our children and their children and even their children won’t blame us for turning this green earth into a dry cinder that looks like Sarah Palin’s been in charge.

Here are a few quick tips:

1. Choose paper over plastic, except for breast implants. Most plastic bags are made of polyethylene and can take up to 1,000 years to biodegrade. I refuse to use anything that will outlast me, which is why I date older women. And they have more money.

2. Breathe shallowly so you won’t put out so much CO2. In fact, give up exercise completely as that makes you breathe hard. (I’m going to see if my diabetes doctor buys this. I’ll get back to you.) Conversely, you could plant a tree. Outside is best.

3. Replace one light bulb with a compact fluorescent. CFs use 60% less energy and save 300 pounds of carbon dioxide per year per bulb. Or you could sit in the dark, thus conserving even more energy that I can use for my 52 inch plasma screen.

4. Turn your thermostat up two degrees in the summer and sweat a bit. Or, if you’re a woman, glow a bit. I was told once – by a woman – that men sweat, women glow. At my fitness center, some women glow so much you can smell them from 40 paces away.

5. Reduce, reuse, recycle. Reduce waste, reuse waste, recycle waste. Waste not, want not. Only you can prevent forest fires. Lottery tickets are not investments. Don’t spit straight up.

6. Walk, walk, walk. Don’t drive that car. Walk everywhere! Or bicycle. I’ll wave as I drive by. No, seriously, I will wave.

7. Don’t buy bottled water. Or refill the bottle and use it more than once. Plastic bottles make up 3.6 billion pounds – yes, I said billion – each year in our landfills. I don’t know who’s counting them, but I wouldn’t want that job.

And in conclusion on glorious Earth Day, we need to recycle more and look at the gross output of the nation so that we accustomize ourselves to the need to increase output in a productive environmentally friendly fashion (Let’s moon Ohio while dressed as a Klingon!) to offset non-useful activities...”

(Excerpted from Floozy and Other Stories. Copyright 2013 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved. No copying without the permission of the author and publisher. Thank you for reading.) 

 (This post is part of the 2013 Blogging From A to Z April Challenge. Learn more about the Challenge HERE.)

Undertow

(Besides participating in the 2013 Blogging A to Z April Challenge, I'm also participating in National Poetry Writing Month. In NaPoWriMo, I'm supposed to write a poem a day for the whole month. Yes, I'm crazy. Here's the sixth poem.)

Undertow

I sink beneath your waves
into indigo wonder
down where charts end
beyond safety limits

Above the sun still shines
against a pale blue sky
the boat circles aimlessly
divers split the water

But you lead on, diamond
scales sparkle in wan light
smile a flash of white
webbed hand cool in mine

And now you and I dwell
in the lovely deep dark
slow dancing as we flow
in love's irresistible undertow

(Copyright 2013 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved. No copying without prior permission. Thank you for reading.)

Friday, April 05, 2013

E is for excerpt

Murder by the Mile will be published late May or early June of this year! Woohoo! Here's an excerpt from MBTM.

From Murder by the Mile.
Proof cover for Murder by the Mile.
In his dreams, Bernard would look up and see the hanged man open his eyes and stare at him. In those dead eyes, Bernard would see an accusation that he could have saved him. In his dreams, Bernard would try and try to hold up the man to give him slack so that he could remove the rope from his neck. All the while Bernard would scream at his dream self what he should do. The man would thrash and moan until Bernard woke up. In reality, the hanged man never opened his eyes, barely moved at all, and never made any sounds as he died, but Bernard would dream it differently for years.

On this beautiful day in early November – chilly in the shade, but pleasant in the sun – Bernard M. Worthington limped along Watts Ridge Road as part of the two hundred or so people participating in the Ryton Many Mile Marathon. Occasionally other runners passed him. Some of them he knew, and they asked if he was okay.

“Got a cramp in my hamstring,” he told Merriman Smith who stopped when he saw the limping librarian.

“Done that before,” Merriman said. “Unpleasant. Did you warm up first? I’ve been more flexible than I ever thought possible since I started yoga at the community center.”

Startled, Bernard glanced at his elderly friend. Merriman smiled at him.

:You’d be surprised what this old body is capable of,” Merriman said. “Lots of miles left in me.” He patted his stomach.

Bernard nodded doubtfully. He had never thought of the City Treasurer as being in good shape. Merriman had a sharp mind ideally suited for numbers and budgets, but he had to be at least seventy-five.

“Bimmer, slothing off?” Ron Sims greeted him as the police lieutenant ran up and jogged in place.

“He didn’t warm up,” Merriman said. “He’s got a cramp in his leg. Always warm up, I say.”

“Where’s Lisa?” Sims asked, looking around as if Bernard had hidden her in the surrounding woods.

“She had things to do with Lorena Jo about the wedding,” Bernard said, not liking the question. Bernard had often thought Sims was romantically interested in Lisa even though Lisa disagreed. But she’s mine, bucko, he thought.

“What’s going on, Bernard?” Jerry Ruebuck asked as he joined them.

Bernard groaned inwardly. One thing he didn’t need or want was the help of the overly cheerful and seemingly perfect husband of his former girlfriend. When the former Sherry Hyatt married Jerry, she apparently ordered him custom-made to her specifications.

“Cramp,” Merriman said. “He didn’t warm up.”

“Probably doesn’t get much exercise at the library,” Sims said, smirking.

“Do you need help?” Jerry asked. “I can run back and get my car. Would only take five minutes. I can run this much faster than I can jog. Been saving my strength for the long haul.”

“I brought my cell phone,” Merriman said. “I could call someone.”

“Sherry’s at the aid station up ahead,” Jerry said. “She could drive her car down here.”

At the mention of Sherry, Bernard straightened up. “It’s better. I’ll walk it out.” He didn’t know if Jerry knew about Sherry and him, but he liked to avoid situations where they were all together. Particularly since Sherry seemed to take an unholy pleasure in needling Lisa. One day Sherry was going to go too far, and Lisa was going to deck her. Bernard didn’t want that to happen. Or do I?

“Are you sure?” Jerry asked. “I don’t mind at all.”

“You can’t be too careful,” Merriman said.

“Not at your age,” Sims said.

All three men laughed. Bernard forced a grin on his face.

“I’ll be fine,” Bernard said. He took a few steps and found he could actually move easier. “I may finish walking, but I’ll finish. You can go. Go on. Don’t mess up your race times for me.”

Sims nodded and jogged on.

“You’re sure?” Jerry asked. “I wouldn’t mind a reason to quit. Sherry made me do this. Not that it isn’t for a good cause, but I’d rather sponsor someone else and go and play golf. Besides, this race isn’t a real marathon.”

“It’s enough for us around here,” Merriman said loyally. “It’s been going on for over forty years now just fine.”

The Ryton Many Mile Marathon started in the late sixties during the first running craze. It would have petered out, as a lot of local races did over the years, but it became a charity event. Residents sponsored a runner, and the money went to whatever good causes had been selected by the organizers. This year, the money raised would go to the Ryton Humane Society, the Shelter for Women and Children, and the local Call-A-Ride.

“Oh, it’s a good little race,” Jerry said. “But I like something that stretches me. And it’s not even certified.”

The organizers of the marathon had looked at getting the race certified by several racing organizations, but decided they didn’t like the restrictions. That meant the race didn’t attract serious runners, but because it gave away t-shirts, ribbons, and at least twenty trophies, many amateurs ran each year and raised a surprising amount of money.

Merriman frowned at Jerry. It was one thing for a Ryton resident to criticize anything about the town, but it was quite another for a newcomer to do so. Bernard had lived in Ryton only two years himself and had learned to never say anything disparaging about the town in Merriman’s hearing.

“If it’s stretching you want –” Merriman started.

Jerry’s cell phone went off. The ringtone was a cut from the ’70s song Brick House. “That’s Sherry’s ring,” Jerry said. “Probably wants to know where her man is at.”

Merriman’s face twisted.

Jerry answered his cell and jogged on down the road.

“Humph,” Merriman said. “That wouldn’t be a ringtone I’d use for my wife. If I had one. And not that Hyatt girl. She’s no brick house. She’s skinny as a rail and got a tongue like a rusty nail.”

Bernard thought it best to say nothing. Merriman had probably forgotten Bernard’s history with Sherry and the Hyatt family. Or maybe not. The treasurer hadn’t held on to his office through four different mayors without knowing what to discuss and what not to.

“Well, I’d better get on,” Merriman said. “I’ll tell the aid station you’re coming so they can watch for you.”

“That’s not necessary,” Bernard said, but Merriman had already jogged on.

“Great,” Bernard said to the nearest tree. “Just great. It will be all over town that I couldn’t keep up with him.” He sighed. In high school, Bernard had been a long distance runner. He had expected he would do better in this marathon than he apparently was going to, but too many tacos and not enough exercise had slowed him down. He vowed to start an exercise routine tomorrow. If I live through this race, that is.

He started off again. He found he could walk briskly. His leg seemed to be loosening up. He might even be able to jog in a few minutes if he was careful. He certainly didn’t want to finish the race last. That really would give the town tongues something to wag about as if he and Lisa hadn’t already given them enough when they helped Chief Donaldson solve two different sets of murders.

At the moment, he had the road to himself. He could see a few people in front of him, but everyone behind him had yet to make the turn off from Oak onto Watts. He slowed. He wasn’t trying to win anyway, just finish so that his sponsors would give their pledged money to the Friends of the Ryton Library. The FRL was only a few months old and needed all the support it could get. While the library had a comfortable budget due to the fortune Eliah Ryton had left the library, Bernard was conscious the library lacked grassroots support among the Ryton residents.

In many communities, libraries operated as a social and cultural hub for the surrounding areas. During the many years when the late and unlamented Agatha Ryton-Storer, Eliah’s daughter, had been the Ryton librarian, she had fiercely protected “her” library from any outside activities. For years, the Ryton residents had been able to use the library only within her restricted rules. It was no wonder they didn’t see the potential it offered to enrich their lives. Bernard was determined to change that. He had many plans for the library. He hoped he would be able to implement all of them, but he would be satisfied this year if he could get the FRL up and off the ground.

He followed the curve of the road, not paying attention to his surroundings, although he noticed the treetops were growing across the road. Few people used Watts Road now that the new highway had been completed, but it was a scenic run and the lack of traffic made it well suited for the marathon.

Noticing his left shoe had come untied, he stopped to tie it. He heard a movement in the brush at the side of the road, but he couldn’t see anything. Probably a raccoon or more likely a dog.

He stood and took a step.

His face ran into something.

A shoe.

His gaze traveled up.

A hanged man dangled in front of him.

Bernard stumbled back in horror.

He rushed forward to try to hold the man up.

“Help!” he yelled. “Help me!”

But it was a good five minutes before anyone else ran up to help. By that time, Bernard knew the man was dead, but he kept holding the man’s legs, trying to lift the man up to ease the rope around the man’s neck even though it was too late.

(Excerpted from the forthcoming Murder by the Mile. Copyright 2013 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved. No copying without the permission of the author and publisher. Thank you for reading.)

(This post is part of the 2013 Blogging From A to Z April Challenge. Learn more about the Challenge HERE.)

Undying

(Besides participating in the 2013 Blogging A to Z April Challenge, I'm also participating in National Poetry Writing Month. In NaPoWriMo, I'm supposed to write a poem a day for the whole month. Yes, I'm crazy. Here's the fifth poem.)

Undying

You cannot know
the things I have seen
the loves I have lost

Empires have fallen
kings become dust
Nothing remains

Should I tell you of
Alannah, auburn hair
and pale sweet body?

Or of fiery Elizabeth
who rode white horses
across the verdant moors?

A hundred or so Janes,
A multitude of Marys –
and even a few Siennas.

I loved them all
from youth to elder
I watched them die

Love didn’t protect
them from diseases,
wars, or old age.

A few learned my secret
They begged me to give
them the blood sacred.

I told them I could not;
humans were meant
to burn bright then die

Some understood
some fled in fear
some tried to slay me

Still I continue on
four thousand years
and a score more

Searching for anything
-- anything at all --
worth dying for

Love me while you live
and I will love you eons
after you are dead

April 2013

(Copyright 2013 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved. No copying without prior permission. Thank you for reading.)

Thursday, April 04, 2013

D is for diabetes

I think the worse thing about diabetes -- besides the risk of blindness, kidney failure, liver damage, and of course, early death -- is that you don't get to take a day off. Your diabetes doesn't care if it's birthday and your best friend made you a cherry chip cake; it doesn't care if it's Thanksgiving and Aunt Edna's cranberry and mushroom dressing is super delicious; and it doesn't care if it's Christmas and you've waited all year for pumpkin cheesecake and you've been good and by St. Nicholas, you deserve a piece!

Diabetes doesn't care. It doesn't give you a day off. If you break your diet, your blood sugar will soar no matter what your reasons are. Yes, you can have small indulgences, but that's it. And even those have to be factored in and carefully off set. There are no quick decisions with diabetes. Everything has a carb cost, and it has to be counted.

Diabetes is about control. Never ending vigilance. You have to plan and scheme and work and make the right choice every single time. It's no wonder that people give up. They get tired. They get worn by all the carb counting. Trying to decide if the side effects of the meds are worth their effects. Trying to stay up on the latest advances because they can't count on their doctor doing so. Choosing the right meds, the right diet, the right exercises, the right doctors, the right food ... Sometimes people give up.

I have at times. Sometimes it just overwhelms me. Sometimes I don't care. Sometimes I let diabetes win. It's not smart. It's not wise. It's because I'm only human, and I get worn.

But -- I made choice to live a long time ago. So I get back up, clean up my diet, get to walking and exercising, and I go on. It's like this: diabetes is a war. We're going to lose a few battles, suffer some setbacks, but we can and will win the war. Even though sometimes it feels like we're facing the worse thing.

(This post is part of the 2013 Blogging From A to Z April Challenge. Learn more about the Challenge HERE.)

Parts

(Besides participating in the 2013 Blogging A to Z April Challenge, I'm also participating in National Poetry Writing Month. In NaPoWriMo, I'm supposed to write a poem a day for the whole month. Yes, I'm crazy. Here's the fourth poem.)

Parts

He made a parts list:
the arms of Mrs. Harris
who worked out daily;
the legs of young Ginny
who rode a bike to work;
the body of a stripper
who whirled around a pole,
the lovely face of her, too,
but not her sad eyes;
instead the orbs of a calico cat.
The lips he made full and lush,
his dream of an ideal mate.
“She will be perfect,
more than a person born.”

Lightning crashed,
machinery threw sparks.
“She's alive! she’s alive!”
She rose from the table,
with the beauty and grace,
only the exactly crafted have.
He was her first sight,
a flawed creator who
claimed he owned her.
Stretching forth her arms,
she embraced then broke
his fragile neck, whispering,
“A perfect woman only
wants a perfect man.”

April 2013

(Copyright 2013 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved. No copying without prior permission. Thank you for reading.)

Wednesday, April 03, 2013

C is for characters

After people read my books -- particularly Murder by Dewey Decimal and Murder by the Acre, which are both set in the fictional small town of Ryton, Oklahoma -- I've been asked how I keep the facts about all those characters straight. Truthfully, it's not hard because they "live" in my mind. In many ways, they become more real than real people I meet.

I think it's because I spend days and days with my characters. I think about them almost constantly. I wonder what they're doing, how they would react in certain situations, what they would say. Bits of dialogue appear in my mind, almost like I'm hearing the characters say them. I can close my eyes and see their faces and what they're wearing.

My characters live interesting lives. They deal with murder and secrets, love lost and found, danger and thrills. It's easy to pay attention to them; compared to real life's mostly boring chores and duties, my characters are fascinating.

There are times when I've felt my characters speak to me so strongly that I've worried they might be overcoming my personality or I might be developing multiple personalities, some of whom should definitely not be allowed in the real world. But then I finish the story, and they go away, safely tucked away in a book.

Until I start writing again. And there they are, just waiting for me to give them life again. In some ways, it's a bit scary. But in other ways, it's exhilarating.

(This post is part of the 2013 Blogging From A to Z April Challenge. Learn more about the Challenge HERE.)

Moon

(Besides participating in the 2013 Blogging A to Z April Challenge, I'm also participating in National Poetry Writing Month. In NaPoWriMo, I'm supposed to write a poem a day for the whole month. Yes, I'm crazy. Here's the third poem.)

Moon

She sent the kids to her parents.
Then cleaned the house
spotless like he wanted it.

She cooked his favorite foods,
ham and loaded potatoes,
coconut cream pie for dessert.

She put on the yellow dress,
but wore nothing underneath
because he always liked that.

And when he came home
she waited by the door
with an icy beer to sate his thirst.

After dinner, she gave herself
to him, pretending to enjoy
his uncaring and clumsy hands.

When they finished, he laughed
and said, "I'm glad you learned
your lesson last night, babe."

She smiled as her hands
slide over the bruises
on her arms and neck.

He rolled over and slept
self-satisfied, while she waited
for the sacred moon to rise.

The silvery light touched
their bed and slid over her face,
her eyes gleamed yellow.

When the morning sun rose,
neighbors found his body
here and there and even over there.

(Copyright 2013 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved. No copying without prior permission. Thank you for reading.)

Tuesday, April 02, 2013

B is for bounce

Can you bounce? Can you be knocked down and get back up? Can you come at a problem from a different angle when your first, second, or even third approach has been blocked? How resilient we are determines how well we will do in this world.

I've always been fascinated by resiliency and how people possess it in varying degrees. A friend and I were talking about her much younger sister who committed suicide several years ago. Even as a little girl, her sister was unable to handle problems. She would cry for help and wait for someone to rescue her. As an adult, she was bright, funny, and compassionate, but whenever life threw something at her, she would collapse or grab a handful of pills and a bottle.

My friend doesn't know why her sister lacked resiliency. There doesn't seem to be any good reason that her sister -- who had many more advantages than my friend -- couldn't bounce. But she lacked the ability to recover from setbacks. And when her husband left her -- exhausted from caring for her -- she took her life. She didn't even try to survive.

I'm not talking about optimism. In fact, I've often seen people who were optimists crumble when they receive a shock. Of course, I've also seen pessimists falter, too, so I don't think that attitude necessarily has much to do with bounce. I think it is deeper than attitude, stronger than stubbornness ... I think it's a quality of pragmatic bloody-mindedness. It's a hard faith in yourself that you can endure, survive somehow whatever life throws at you, and that you're going to do it no matter what.

I don't know where it comes from or how one acquires it. But I do think it helps if you decide to bounce. You make your mind up to get back up. A bit of anger helps. Maybe even fury. And definitely a realistic view of the world and what you can do.

Bounce. It's what helps us survive. I hope you have plenty of it ... and never have to use it.

(This post is part of the 2013 Blogging From A to Z April Challenge. Learn more about the Challenge HERE.)

Healer

(Besides participating in the 2013 Blogging A to Z April Challenge, I'm also participating in National Poetry Writing Month. In NaPoWriMo, I'm supposed to write a poem a day for the whole month. Yes, I'm crazy. Here's the second poem.)

Healer

Our Rebecca died, then came back,
a miracle the doctors said,
her hands now could heal,
take another’s pain and disease,

We disbelieved at first,
until we watched wounds
fade and ghastly terminals
restored to perfect health.

One by one, two by two,
frantic we crowded her,
talons outstretched,
grabbing, grasping, taking.

Too much, she screamed,
but we would not hear.
We forced her hands
open upon our heads.

She wept, she suffered,
she struggled, but we
were legion, and none
would listen to her pleas.

Finally, she turned her hands
upon herself to expel our
burdens. Our afflictions
returned, but she faded away.

If she returns, we will be wise,
Carefully we’ll cherish her healing
hands. We have made plans;
She will not escape next time.

(Copyright 2013 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved. No copying without prior permission. Thank you for reading.)

Monday, April 01, 2013

A is for Alphabet

I'm participating in the Blogging from A to Z Challenge for April. What is that? To quote from the website:  "Using this premise, you would start beginning April First with a topic themed on something with the letter A, then on April Second another topic with the letter B as the theme, and so on until you finish on April Thirtieth with the theme based on the letter Z.  It doesn't even have to be a word--it can be a proper noun, the letter used as a symbol, or the letter itself.  The theme of the day is the letter scheduled for that day."

So now you know what we'll be doing in April. Except on Sundays. And I'm going to be a bit freer with the theme, I think, than some of the bloggers I've read have been. You wouldn't expect anything less from me, would you?

Speaking of the theme, A is for Alphabet applies because I'm (re)learning how to write in cursive. No, I'm not learning how to curse; it's that flowing writing we all used to do in grade school. A couple Saturdays ago, during the program at writers group, the presented asked us to do a five-minute timed writing using cursive. Yikes. I'm typed everything for years. I actually couldn't remember how to make some of the letters using cursive. (Do you know how to write a q or z in cursive? Right off the top of your head? I thought not.)

To relearn, I've been writing the alphabet in cursive. I have a goal of doing it 1,000 times over the next month or so until my hand learns it again. I doubt it will improve my handwriting, which is bad enough that doctors point to it with pride and say, "At least, I don't write that badly," but at least I will know how again.

Supposedly, writing cursive using a different part of our brain than printing or typing does. I'm all for exercising my brain, particularly since it looks so attractive in workout gear. Trust me on this.

Hope you have a wonderful April 1st.

(This post is part of the 2013 Blogging From A to Z April Challenge. Learn more about the Challenge HERE.)

Dryad

(Besides participating in the 2013 Blogging A to Z April Challenge, I'm also participating in National Poetry Writing Month. In NaPoWriMo, I'm supposed to write a poem a day for the whole month. Yes, I'm crazy. Here's the first poem.)

Dryad

In the shadow of an ancient tree,
she stood nude, watching my labors
until I laid down my rake and saw her.

Fair skin like the flesh of an oak,
hair like the golden leaves of autumn,
she smiled at me and beckoned.

What manner of man could resist
such a lovely creature, her only
clothing the spring wind.

Cradled in her long arms,
I only heard her whisper,
“To live requires blood.”

Once, twice, the scythe gleamed.
An ending pain and now I spread
budding limbs toward the blessed sun.

(Copyright 2013 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved. No copying without prior permission. Thank you for reading.)