An aspiring young lawyer was sitting in her office late Christmas Eve night when Satan appeared before her. The Devil told her, "I have a proposition for you. You can win every case you try for the rest of your life. Your clients will adore you, your colleagues will stand in awe of you, and you will make embarrassing sums of money. All I want in exchange is your soul, your husband's soul, your children's souls, the souls of your parents, grandparents, and the souls of all your friends and law partners."
The lawyer pondered this, then finally asked: "So, what's the catch?"
Friday, December 15, 2017
Boosting the Signal
Boosting the Signal: Back up your computer! Recently I heard that a writing friend's laptop died. I don't know what was lost, but I imagine lots of things. We all have precious photos and documents on our computers and phones now. BACK THEM UP! One of the easiest ways of doing this is by paying for Carbonite, an automatic backup system for computers. I use it and recommend it, but if you do use it, make sure you know what folders it's backing up, particularly if you use different folders than its presets. But there are other apps that will do that, also, for your computer and phone. (If you use a backup system, please share it in the comments.) Don't lose your digital memories.
Thursday, December 14, 2017
Christmas Joke 14
A clergyman is walking down a country lane, enjoying the freshly fallen December snow, and sees a young farmer struggling to load hay back onto a cart after it had fallen off.
"You look exhausted, my son," said the cleric. "why don't you rest a moment, and I'll give you a hand."
"No thanks," said the young man. "My father wouldn't like it."
"Don't be silly," the minister said. "Everyone is entitled to a break. Come to my house and have a hot chocolate while I change to work clothes."
Again the young man protested that his father would be upset. Losing his patience, the clergyman said, "Your father must be a real slave driver. Tell me where I can find him, and I'll give him a piece of my mind!"
"Well," replied the young farmer, "he's under the load of hay."
"You look exhausted, my son," said the cleric. "why don't you rest a moment, and I'll give you a hand."
"No thanks," said the young man. "My father wouldn't like it."
"Don't be silly," the minister said. "Everyone is entitled to a break. Come to my house and have a hot chocolate while I change to work clothes."
Again the young man protested that his father would be upset. Losing his patience, the clergyman said, "Your father must be a real slave driver. Tell me where I can find him, and I'll give him a piece of my mind!"
"Well," replied the young farmer, "he's under the load of hay."
Wednesday, December 13, 2017
Christmas Joke 13
A husband and wife were driving down a country lane on their way to visit some friends at Christmas. They came to a muddy patch in the road, and the car became stuck. After a few minutes of trying to get the car out by themselves, they saw a young farmer coming down the lane in a tractor. The farmer stopped when he saw the couple in trouble and offered to pull the car out of the mud for $50. The husband accepted, and minutes later the car was free.
The farmer said to the husband, "You know, you're the 20th car I've helped out of the mud today."
The husband looked around at the fields incredulously and asked the farmer, "When do you have time to tend your farm? At night?"
"No," the farmer replied. "Night is when I put the water in the hole."
The farmer said to the husband, "You know, you're the 20th car I've helped out of the mud today."
The husband looked around at the fields incredulously and asked the farmer, "When do you have time to tend your farm? At night?"
"No," the farmer replied. "Night is when I put the water in the hole."
Christmas Factoids 2
“The Nutcracker” is the most famous Christmas ballet and was used by the Chinese to break the
wills of political prisoners. It is outlawed by the Geneva Convention as is the playing of “Jingle Bells” more than 1,754,322 times during the holiday season.
If you received all of the gifts in the song “The Twelve Days of Christmas,” you would receive 364 presents, none of which you could return. By the way, why are there so many birds in that song? Doesn’t it seem fowl?
Holly berries are poisonous, which does explain why holly berry cookies aren’t popular even though there was a heavy marketing push for them during the 1950s. It joined the ranks of other failed food products: stone ground hemlock bread, foxglove fajitas, poop pie, and of course, green tea.
In 1843, A Christmas Carol was written by Charles Dickens in only six weeks. Many of us feel he should have taken more time with it and added some spaceships and several hot alien females.
If you received all of the gifts in the song “The Twelve Days of Christmas,” you would receive 364 presents, none of which you could return. By the way, why are there so many birds in that song? Doesn’t it seem fowl?
Holly berries are poisonous, which does explain why holly berry cookies aren’t popular even though there was a heavy marketing push for them during the 1950s. It joined the ranks of other failed food products: stone ground hemlock bread, foxglove fajitas, poop pie, and of course, green tea.
In 1843, A Christmas Carol was written by Charles Dickens in only six weeks. Many of us feel he should have taken more time with it and added some spaceships and several hot alien females.
Excerpted from Floozy and Other Stories on sale here:
Bonus Christmas Joke 13
The traffic was terrible as Herman was driving down the freeway to the mall. Everyone was out shopping for Christmas presents, and they were driving like crazy people!
His cell phone rang. Answering through the car speakers, he heard his wife's voice urgently warning him, "Herman, I just heard on the news that there's a car going the wrong way on Interstate 77. Please be careful!"
"It's not just one car!" said Herman. "It's hundreds of them!"
His cell phone rang. Answering through the car speakers, he heard his wife's voice urgently warning him, "Herman, I just heard on the news that there's a car going the wrong way on Interstate 77. Please be careful!"
"It's not just one car!" said Herman. "It's hundreds of them!"
Tuesday, December 12, 2017
Christmas Factoids 1
Christmas trees started in Germany in the 16th century. On Christmas Eve, Martin Luther was walking home under a starry sky, which was so beautiful he wanted to recreate its beauty for his children. He decorated a large evergreen with lit candles. He followed his creation of the "First Christmas Tree" with the development of the "First House Fire Caused by a Christmas Tree."Since 1947, the people of Oslo, Norway, have given a Christmas tree every year to the city of Westminster, England. The gift expresses Norway’s gratitude for Britain’s help during World War II, despite the fact that the tree is never on Britain’s Christmas list. Britain would prefer a gift card.
The first president to decorate the white house Christmas tree in the United States was Franklin Pierce. This is the only notable thing Pierce did while in office and as such should be remembered, but not by me. I’ve already forgotten it. Franklin who?
Traditionally, Christmas trees are taken down after Epiphany or whenever the husband has been nagged beyond human endurance.
Excerpted from Floozy and Other Stories on sale here:
Wednesday, December 06, 2017
Recommended book!
By Barbara Shepherd
Historical - Belle Strong expected her husband to meet her when she stepped off the ferry in north Texas, but she was in for a surprise—her husband is dying. Pregnant and alone, she faces challenges along the Red River where her world includes fur trappers, Indians, and a rugged sea captain.
Jacob Owens spends most of his life on the high seas and is a self-proclaimed bachelor. But when a green-eyed beauty enters his world, he finds his thoughts drifting in different directions. Why can’t he stop thinking about her, and why is he trading fine beaver pelts for exquisite fabrics to surprise Belle to use in her quilting?
Can she protect her son in such an uncivilized country? Or will she be forced to rely on a complete stranger?
Monday, November 13, 2017
FCB Excerpt
If a woman asks you if you think another woman is pretty, the answer is simply “no.” I don’t care if a multitude of angels are singing the other woman’s name because of her glorious beauty, you say, “No.” If you can convincingly add, “She’s an ugly hag,” things will go even better.
But don’t get cute on this. A friend of mine and his wife went to a cocktail party, and afterwards, as they drove home, his wife casually asked if he thought a woman at the party that they knew from college was pretty.
He immediately said, “No. She has aged so badly.”
“Now, don’t be rude,” his wife said, slightly smiling and resting her hand on his knee.
Warmed by her approval, he stupidly continued, "It’s obvious she’s had her boobs done. They’re so perky and round.”
Poor guy.
-- From the forthcoming book Floozy Comes Back, copyright 2017 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved.
But don’t get cute on this. A friend of mine and his wife went to a cocktail party, and afterwards, as they drove home, his wife casually asked if he thought a woman at the party that they knew from college was pretty.
He immediately said, “No. She has aged so badly.”
“Now, don’t be rude,” his wife said, slightly smiling and resting her hand on his knee.
Warmed by her approval, he stupidly continued, "It’s obvious she’s had her boobs done. They’re so perky and round.”
Poor guy.
-- From the forthcoming book Floozy Comes Back, copyright 2017 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved.
Saturday, November 11, 2017
FCB Excerpt
"Many people are horrified the Pilgrims practiced pillorying, the act of fastening someone in a wooden framework in a public area so the Pilgrims could insult and demean them. You should remember this was long before Facebook and Twitter. The Pilgrims had to make do with what they had. And it was better to be pilloried in the New World than in the Old World. In the latter, they would throw rotten vegetables at the pilloryee. The Pilgrims had no food to spare for such fine sport and had to make do with mud, rocks, and—wait for it—dung. On second thought, it wasn’t better at all."
-- From the forthcoming Floozy Comes Back by Stephen B. Bagley. Copyright 2017. All rights reserved.
Friday, November 10, 2017
FCB Excerpt
"Pumpkin spice is a powerful movement these days. You can find that spice in lipstick, candles, lotions, body sprays, perfumes, bath salts, shampoos, potpourri, air fresheners, facial tissue, toilet bowl cleaners, deodorant, sachets, dog biscuits, toothpaste, lip balms, and much more. And that doesn’t count all the pies, cakes, coffees, tarts, fried pies, muffins, and other desserts. There’s really something quite uncanny about it. It’s entirely possible that zombies want pumpkin spice brains, and vampires want pumpkin spice blood."-- From the forthcoming Floozy Comes Back by Stephen B. Bagley. Copyright 2017. All rights reserved.
Tuesday, October 10, 2017
Perfect for Halloween!
Blackbirds Second Flight
Perfect for Halloween!
Featuring thrilling stories and poetry from Stephen Bagley, Wendy Blanton,
Gail Henderson, Ken Lewis,
Jean Schara, and Heath Stallcup!
Wednesday, October 04, 2017
A bit about the Blackbirds
The anthology Blackbirds First Flight featured stories from Stephen B. Bagley, Kent Bass, Wendy Blanton, Gail Henderson, Jean Schara, and Tamara Siler Jones.
To quote Pru Simmons: “Blackbirds First Flight is an anthology of stories and poetry with a dark, sensual twist. The stories run the gambit from thrilling Gothic adventure to modern urban fantasy to fantastic encounters with the macabre. The poetry is uniformly excellent and tells dark stories of its own, many related to mythology.”
Here's a bit about the authors:
Stephen B. Bagley wrote Tales from Bethlehem, Murder by Dewey Decimal, Murder by the Acre, Floozy & Other Stories, and EndlesS and co-authored Undying with Gail Henderson. His works have appeared in Writer's Digest, Creations 2014, Creations 2013, Creations 2012, ByLine Magazine, Free Star, Nautilus Magazine, OKMagazine, and other publications. He graduated from Oklahoma State University with a Bachelor of Science in Journalism. He is a member of Oklahoma Writers Federation, Inc. Visit https://stephenbbagley.blogspot.com for more info.
Kent Bass enjoys writing Gothic action/adventure stories. He graduated from Oklahoma State University with a Bachelor of Science in Business and from the University of Oklahoma, with a Master of Science in Accountancy. He and his family live in Dallas, Texas, where he works for the nation’s leading tax software company. Blackbirds First Flight was his first publication.
Wendy Blanton published three fantasy novels, The Dragon’s Lady, Rogue Pawn, and Sword and Scabbard under the pen name Elizabeth Joy with co-author Scott Carman. She has a Bachelor of Applied Science in Business Management from the University of Mount Olive and served in active duty for the United States Air Force for eight years. She is an apprentice bard and tells Celtic folk tales at Scottish Highland Games and other venues. Visit https://wendyblanton.wordpress.com for more info.
Gail Henderson co-authored Undying with Stephen B. Bagley. She collaborated with noted Oklahoma photographer Michael Duncan to produce Bare, a book of poetry and photography. Red Bird Woman, a collection of her poetry, was published in 2013. Her work has appeared in Creations 2014, Creations 2013, Creations 2012, and ByLine Magazine. She holds a Masters of Education in English and Social Studies from East Central University. Visit https://redbirdwoman.blogspot.com for more info.
Tamara Siler Jones is a wife, mom, writer, quilter, and cat-wrangler from rural Iowa. She has numerous novels in print/eBook, including Ghosts in the Snow, winner of the Compton Crook Award for best first novel of the year in the Science Fiction/Fantasy/Horror genre; Threads of Malice; Valley of the Soul; SPORE; and the newly released Morgan's Run. Visit http://www.tamara-jones.net for more info.
Jean Schara retired from a 28-year career in the United States Air Force in 2008 and took up residence in Texas. She is a graduate of the University of Maryland University College with a Bachelor of Arts in Professional Writing and of the Troy State University with a Master of Science in Adult Education. She has had several book reviews published in the Air Power Journal and several articles published in Vision: A Resource for Writers. Visit http://pmtoo.jeanschara.com journal for more info.
Blackbirds First Flight is available from Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Lulu, and other online retailers. Visit https://blackbirdsflights.blogspot.com for more info.
Tuesday, October 03, 2017
Perfect for Halloween!
Enjoy stories and poems from authors
Stephen B. Bagley, Kent Bass, Wendy Blanton,
Gail Henderson, Jean Schara, and Tamara Siler Jones
in this dark, thrilling anthology!
Friday, September 22, 2017
Interesting idea
Apparently, Walmart is testing a program where it delivers groceries to your fridge even when you're not home. As long as it pays for them, too, I could support this. And what about cooking the food, too? Come on, Walmart, step up!
Thursday, September 21, 2017
Autumn come quickly
I am so looking forward to that first hard freeze of autumn...that nip in the air, the changing leaves, the crunching sound made by the tiny frozen bodies of mosquitoes as I walk down the lane...autumn...time for you to come now.
Tuesday, September 05, 2017
Horse to water...
You cannot help people who don't want to be helped. Why is it so hard for me to remember this and to accept it? Maybe it's the sheer illogical thinking that I rebel against. Why would someone choose ugliness instead of something better? My brain refuses to comprehend it.
Saturday, September 02, 2017
We're all in this together
I think it's important in this day and time to remember we're all part of the United States. We're one family going into the future together. And most importantly, you're completely wrong.
Friday, September 01, 2017
I do
I want tacos. The sheer ridiculousness of wanting them at this time of night.... But I do want them. Three of them. Maybe four.
And no, I'm not driving to Taco Bell at midnight. My diabetes nurse would lecture me within an inch of my life. Not that I would care as long as my mouth was stuffed with tacos!
And no, I'm not driving to Taco Bell at midnight. My diabetes nurse would lecture me within an inch of my life. Not that I would care as long as my mouth was stuffed with tacos!
Wednesday, August 30, 2017
Visiting the Pope
Former White House Press Secretary Sean Spicer met the Pope on Sunday. One assumes it was for an exorcism....
Tuesday, August 29, 2017
Cafe Stephen
The weather was so pleasant last night. Cool. Calm. The only sound was the slurping noise as the mosquitoes sucked my blood...and the smacking noises as they licked their tiny mosquito lips...hmmmmmm good blood, they buzzed.... I think I might be delirious from blood loss.
Monday, August 21, 2017
Misinformed
Hmm. I thought the eclipse was supposed to make people go crazy and strip off their clothes and run up the streets, shouting, "Bumpdabump my baby woogie woogie." Well, now I just feel awkward....
Thursday, August 17, 2017
Jungle creatures
Tomorrow morning, I will get up, and despite personal failures, diabetes, family tragedies and illness, rotten health, global warming, riots in the streets, the sun burning out in five million or so years, I'll still be right here.
Praying, hoping, believing against all intelligent thoughts otherwise, striving, writing, dreaming unreasonable unlikely things, losing, winning, loving for all the wrong reasons...
Living.
Still here.
I'll still be here.
You be here, too.
Praying, hoping, believing against all intelligent thoughts otherwise, striving, writing, dreaming unreasonable unlikely things, losing, winning, loving for all the wrong reasons...
Living.
Still here.
I'll still be here.
You be here, too.
Eleanor: We're jungle creatures, Henry, and the dark is all around us. See them ... in the corners? You can see their eyes.
Henry: And they can see ours. I'm a match for anything. Aren't you?
(From The Lion In Winter by James Goldman)
Wednesday, August 16, 2017
Turn the page
Closing The Book
By Stephen B. Bagley
It surprised me when I swept off
all the books on the shelf. I thought
I had long since spent my passion
in purchasing your faithless heart.
You feel uncertain of our life,
you tell me. What you mean is your
better love than me may still be
out there. Why settle for less here?
So go. Leaving is how you show
how little you care, how little
you understand the rarity
of love in this non-fiction world.
If this were a story, you would
come back broken, and I would let
you love me or even better
introduce you to my new love.
Since this is not, I will pick up
the scattered books and set them back
on the shelf, being careful to set
yours to one side to box later.
.
Excerpt from Undying by Stephen B. Bagley & Gail Henderson.
Copyright 2015. All rights reserved.
Tuesday, August 15, 2017
"Places I'd Rather Be"
Places I'd Rather Be
By Stephen B. Bagley
On a beach --
No, on a beach with white sand --
Wait, on a beach with white sand and the only sound the ocean --
Hey, on a beach with white sand and the only sound the ocean and a tall cold fruity umbrellaed drink in my hand --
Yes, on a beach with white sand and the only sound the ocean and a tall cold fruity umbrellaed drink in my hand as I lounge in the shade beneath palm trees and you walk toward me, smiling, the sun glistening on your wet skin as you rise out of the waves ...
In your arms.
(Copyright 2017 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved. From the forthcoming book "Eternal." Thank you for reading.)
By Stephen B. Bagley
On a beach --
No, on a beach with white sand --
Wait, on a beach with white sand and the only sound the ocean --
Hey, on a beach with white sand and the only sound the ocean and a tall cold fruity umbrellaed drink in my hand --
Yes, on a beach with white sand and the only sound the ocean and a tall cold fruity umbrellaed drink in my hand as I lounge in the shade beneath palm trees and you walk toward me, smiling, the sun glistening on your wet skin as you rise out of the waves ...
In your arms.
(Copyright 2017 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved. From the forthcoming book "Eternal." Thank you for reading.)
Monday, August 14, 2017
Weary
Do you ever feel inexpressibly weary of this world's stupidity? Or really just the stupidity of man? No, I'm not throwing in the towel on us yet, but I remain astonished and dismayed by the utter and complete disregard for true science and true faith that is rampant these days. We have set ourselves up as little gods, and the reckoning will be terrible. God really doesn't have to do anything for us to destroy us in an apocalypse; we'll do it all on our own.
We'll blame Him, of course. We always do when bad things happen, even though many of these disasters are the result of our bad planning and bad decisions, but we won't take the blame for not installing tornado shelters, for not moving populations away from earthquake and tsunami zones, for not following safety standards in food and buildings, by not addressing inequities in food and wealth so that children don't starve to death, for letting hate-filled demagogues win our political offices, for not stewarding our environmental resources so that we can be sure our children's children's children will still have farmland and forests.... You can easily add to this list of disasters. They're all our decisions. It's easier, cheaper, faster to make bad decisions now. After all, we can always blame God later on.
I think the biggest tribute to God's love and mercy is that He hasn't swept us off this earth already. If I were God, I know...as I watch the news about North Korea, Charlottesville, Burkina Faso, Wisconsin...I know I would be sorely tempted.
And this is why I rarely watch the news, Alice. Now you know.
We'll blame Him, of course. We always do when bad things happen, even though many of these disasters are the result of our bad planning and bad decisions, but we won't take the blame for not installing tornado shelters, for not moving populations away from earthquake and tsunami zones, for not following safety standards in food and buildings, by not addressing inequities in food and wealth so that children don't starve to death, for letting hate-filled demagogues win our political offices, for not stewarding our environmental resources so that we can be sure our children's children's children will still have farmland and forests.... You can easily add to this list of disasters. They're all our decisions. It's easier, cheaper, faster to make bad decisions now. After all, we can always blame God later on.
I think the biggest tribute to God's love and mercy is that He hasn't swept us off this earth already. If I were God, I know...as I watch the news about North Korea, Charlottesville, Burkina Faso, Wisconsin...I know I would be sorely tempted.
And this is why I rarely watch the news, Alice. Now you know.
Sunday, August 13, 2017
A religious ramble
A good friend of mine has said that she has reached the age where she doesn't have to associate with people she doesn't like or simply doesn't enjoy. I understand this. I think time and self-respect do the same for most of us. However, it does mean when I don't hear from her in a while, I wonder if I'm in that group now. :)
The danger in this may be if you're basing your choices on skin color or race or other superficial qualities. There's much to be said for going outside what you usually enjoy. We grow in that way. She isn't basing her choices on that so don't think I'm taking a potshot at her. In fact, in many ways, I've done that, too, in my life, but I try to ensure I'm including a diversity of friends in who I'm keeping.
One subset that I've been dropping is people who blame the world and circumstances for their problems instead of realizing their decisions have consequences. I want to point out a common error in so-called Christian thinking--the Bible never says God will rescue you from the troubles caused by what you did on this earth; He promises to be with you throughout and will welcome you into His care after your life is over, but He's not a genie granting your every little wish.
I call such thinking "The Gumball God." We put in a prayer, and we expect a blessing as easy and simple as that. Just like putting a quarter into a gumball machine, out pops our blessing. We're busy in attempting to make God into something we can control or at least understand. We keep trying to put Infinite into the Finite and are frustrated when God just doesn't fit.
One of my ways of looking at God is He is the ultimate artist. He made this beautiful world filled with mountains, oceans, forests, humans, animals, and so much more. Like any artist, He doesn't like it when people destroy His art. A good way to make decisions might be to ask yourself if what you're doing is making His art more beautiful or if it is marring His work. It's how I try to live my life. I fail often, but it's what I aim for.
Yes, I've wandered all over the place in this. Hope you enjoyed the ramble.
The danger in this may be if you're basing your choices on skin color or race or other superficial qualities. There's much to be said for going outside what you usually enjoy. We grow in that way. She isn't basing her choices on that so don't think I'm taking a potshot at her. In fact, in many ways, I've done that, too, in my life, but I try to ensure I'm including a diversity of friends in who I'm keeping.
One subset that I've been dropping is people who blame the world and circumstances for their problems instead of realizing their decisions have consequences. I want to point out a common error in so-called Christian thinking--the Bible never says God will rescue you from the troubles caused by what you did on this earth; He promises to be with you throughout and will welcome you into His care after your life is over, but He's not a genie granting your every little wish.
I call such thinking "The Gumball God." We put in a prayer, and we expect a blessing as easy and simple as that. Just like putting a quarter into a gumball machine, out pops our blessing. We're busy in attempting to make God into something we can control or at least understand. We keep trying to put Infinite into the Finite and are frustrated when God just doesn't fit.
One of my ways of looking at God is He is the ultimate artist. He made this beautiful world filled with mountains, oceans, forests, humans, animals, and so much more. Like any artist, He doesn't like it when people destroy His art. A good way to make decisions might be to ask yourself if what you're doing is making His art more beautiful or if it is marring His work. It's how I try to live my life. I fail often, but it's what I aim for.
Yes, I've wandered all over the place in this. Hope you enjoyed the ramble.
Saturday, August 12, 2017
I'm a tree
My diabetes nurse has this chart where she logs your weight and then figures out how tall you should be. Apparently, I should be a Redwood.
Friday, August 11, 2017
Unsent Letter
Dear Diet,
Our relationship is in terrible trouble. You're bland and boring, and I can't stop cheating on you with Little Debbie.
Worried,
Me
Our relationship is in terrible trouble. You're bland and boring, and I can't stop cheating on you with Little Debbie.
Worried,
Me
Thursday, August 10, 2017
My inner voice
My diabetes education nurse says we all have an "inner fatty" who talks to us. Mine talks all the time, and I must say he has many tasty ideas.
Wednesday, August 09, 2017
Seriously
Autocorrect is a terrible nuisance. The other day I tried to order "salad" and autocorrect changed it to "four tacos and an order of nachos." They really need to get that drive-in microphone fixed.
Tuesday, August 08, 2017
Doctor's orders
Well, my doctor told me that I cannot host dinners for six people. Unless, of course, the other five people are actually there eating their share of the food. Spoilsport.
Monday, August 07, 2017
Problem
So sad. I saw my coffee cup by my desk and I thought maybe there was coffee left in it because I usually take it to the sink when I finish the cup so I raised it up and it was empty.... Sigh. It's actually too late to be drinking coffee if I want to sleep--and I do despite what you may have heard--but I thought a swallow or two wouldn't hurt. But it was empty. Then I thought I would share this because the world is facing real problems and so am I. I should probably do a Facebook post, too....
Sunday, August 06, 2017
Good Advice
It's hard to find a friend who is intelligent, handsome, funny, charming, humble, and kind...so y'all shouldn't misplace me. Who knows when you'd be lucky enough to find someone like me again?
Saturday, August 05, 2017
Wish someone would try
Listen, you can't buy my love, really you can't...but you sure can buy a whole lot of liking from me
Friday, August 04, 2017
Wednesday Night Writers Discuss Aging Characters
"What I want to know is why every older person in a book either has to be filled with wisdom or is decrepit," Faraway said. "What's wrong with having a mature person who is just like the other characters in the book -- messed up and passionate."
Divine looked startled. "Passionate?"
Faraway frowned at her. "Don't tell me that you believe old people don't have sex."
"I believe they do, but I try not to think about it," Aromance muttered. She shuddered.
"America is aging," Faraway said, glaring at Aromance. "The Baby Boomers are going to be in their sixties and seventies soon. They won't be content to wither away quietly. Books should reflect that, and they don't. Instead, books feature young people. TV shows feature young people. Movies feature young people. Listen, kiddies, I don't worship in the cult of youth. I never met a teenager yet that could carry on a decent conversation about anything important."
"The blueberry muffins I brought have fiber added," Cookbookins said. "And we each get two. TWO. No more, no less." She held up two fingers.
"Did you say two?" Realer asked, with a smirk. He waggled three fingers at her.
"I think fiction will change to accommodate an older audience," Begenre said. "I've recently read several mysteries that feature sleuths in their sixties and seventies. I think fiction overall will reflect an active maturity as we see more vital people in real life who are in their sixties and seventies. Remember, it's only been in the past few decades that medicine has allowed people to live longer and healthier lives."
"TV is to blame," Eongo said.
The others sighed.
"Even I can see that TV isn't the greatest evil on earth," Divine said. "And I write letters protesting that degenerate MTV all the time."
"No, listen to me," Eongo said. "Advertisers want to buy advertising on programs that target young people because young people spend more on disposable items."
"Like bling," Faraway said.
"Exactly," Eongo said. "So networks and television studies make shows that feature young people because those are the ones that make the most advertising revenue. Remember what happened to Murder She Wrote when it was placed opposite of Friends?"
"I saw those shows on NetFlix, I think," Teenwriter said, uncertainly. "Don't any of you watch Game of Thrones?"
"That was more of an audience decision," Begenre said. "More people wanted to watch Friends than Murder She Wrote. You can't blame the networks for that. They're only giving the public what they want."
"I can blame them and do," Eongo said. "They create the demand for the shows. They only show us programs with young people so people are influenced by those shows to want more shows with young people. They create the demand for youth-oriented shows and so they produce youth-oriented shows and that creates more demand for other youth-oriented shows. It's a vicious circle."
"If the choice is between older people and hot young people like Matthew Perry, the hot young people are always going to be the audience's choice," Aromance said.
"Angela Lansbury was just as hot as Courtney Cox," Eongo declared.
Realer spewed muffin across the room as he coughed. Begenre thumped him on the back.
"Seriously, do any of you watch Netflix?" Teenwriter asked. 'And who is Matthew Perry?"
"Just because you wasted a good muffin doesn't mean you get another one," Cookbookins said.
"That's my point," Eongo said, pointing at Realer. "We've been conditioned to think youth people are desirable. What's wrong with showing older people who are desirable?"
"I'm not sure that has anything to do with fiction," Begenre said. "I think it has to do with babies."
"Babies?" Eongo asked.
"Throughout history, men have wanted younger wives because they could produce more babies," Begenre said. "If you believe in evolution, then we have a biological need to reproduce, and so we orient toward young people because they can have more babies than an older person can."
Divine frowned at the mention of evolution.
"Then you saying fiction will continue to feature young people," Faraway said. "That's unacceptable."
"I agree," Divine said. "We are more than biology." She looked at Begenre. "Much more. Fiction doesn't just reflect reality; it can also shape reality. As writers, we have a responsibility to write books that uplift the readers and change their values in a positive way. To claim that you're only giving the public what it wants is to cater to the lowest common denominator. It's using your writing gift simply to profit yourself and not others. Great fiction challenges the reader. It helps them grow."
"It's like chocolate-dipped pineapple chunks," Cookbookins said, shaking the crumbs of a muffin off her dress.
The others looked at her.
"See, I was dipping strawberries in chocolate for my niece's wedding reception," Cookbookins said. "But I didn't have enough strawberries because the store was out. So I looked around my kitchen and saw several cans of pineapple chunks. I drained the chunks and then dipped them in chocolate." She smiled at the group.
A pause.
"I don't quite follow you," Begenre said slowly. "How does that relate?"
Cookbookins sighed. "Isn't it obvious? I wrote in my newspaper column about using pineapple for dipping, and several of my readers wrote in to tell me that they had tried it and liked it, too. I wrote about it yesterday. Doesn't anyone read my column?"
"I haven't had a chance," Faraway said. "But I will as soon as I go home."
"I don't take the paper," Begenre muttered.
"My point is that by writing what I did, I influenced my readers to do the same," Cookbookins said. "So I -- how did you put it? -- shaped reality."
"Ah," Begenre said. "I get it."
"That actually made sense," Realer said with wonder.
"And it related to what we were talking about," Aromance said.
"Of course, it did," Cookbookins said. "I always make sense. You just don't understand me."
"We'll try to do better," Realer said. He exchanged bemused glances with the others.
"Since we can shape reality, we need to careful to portray mature characters in an active and interesting fashion," Faraway said. "Old age is not the same as useless and uninteresting."
And on that note, we were out of time.
(Copyright 2017 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved.)
Divine looked startled. "Passionate?"
Faraway frowned at her. "Don't tell me that you believe old people don't have sex."
"I believe they do, but I try not to think about it," Aromance muttered. She shuddered.
"America is aging," Faraway said, glaring at Aromance. "The Baby Boomers are going to be in their sixties and seventies soon. They won't be content to wither away quietly. Books should reflect that, and they don't. Instead, books feature young people. TV shows feature young people. Movies feature young people. Listen, kiddies, I don't worship in the cult of youth. I never met a teenager yet that could carry on a decent conversation about anything important."
"The blueberry muffins I brought have fiber added," Cookbookins said. "And we each get two. TWO. No more, no less." She held up two fingers.
"Did you say two?" Realer asked, with a smirk. He waggled three fingers at her.
"I think fiction will change to accommodate an older audience," Begenre said. "I've recently read several mysteries that feature sleuths in their sixties and seventies. I think fiction overall will reflect an active maturity as we see more vital people in real life who are in their sixties and seventies. Remember, it's only been in the past few decades that medicine has allowed people to live longer and healthier lives."
"TV is to blame," Eongo said.
The others sighed.
"Even I can see that TV isn't the greatest evil on earth," Divine said. "And I write letters protesting that degenerate MTV all the time."
"No, listen to me," Eongo said. "Advertisers want to buy advertising on programs that target young people because young people spend more on disposable items."
"Like bling," Faraway said.
"Exactly," Eongo said. "So networks and television studies make shows that feature young people because those are the ones that make the most advertising revenue. Remember what happened to Murder She Wrote when it was placed opposite of Friends?"
"I saw those shows on NetFlix, I think," Teenwriter said, uncertainly. "Don't any of you watch Game of Thrones?"
"That was more of an audience decision," Begenre said. "More people wanted to watch Friends than Murder She Wrote. You can't blame the networks for that. They're only giving the public what they want."
"I can blame them and do," Eongo said. "They create the demand for the shows. They only show us programs with young people so people are influenced by those shows to want more shows with young people. They create the demand for youth-oriented shows and so they produce youth-oriented shows and that creates more demand for other youth-oriented shows. It's a vicious circle."
"If the choice is between older people and hot young people like Matthew Perry, the hot young people are always going to be the audience's choice," Aromance said.
"Angela Lansbury was just as hot as Courtney Cox," Eongo declared.
Realer spewed muffin across the room as he coughed. Begenre thumped him on the back.
"Seriously, do any of you watch Netflix?" Teenwriter asked. 'And who is Matthew Perry?"
"Just because you wasted a good muffin doesn't mean you get another one," Cookbookins said.
"That's my point," Eongo said, pointing at Realer. "We've been conditioned to think youth people are desirable. What's wrong with showing older people who are desirable?"
"I'm not sure that has anything to do with fiction," Begenre said. "I think it has to do with babies."
"Babies?" Eongo asked.
"Throughout history, men have wanted younger wives because they could produce more babies," Begenre said. "If you believe in evolution, then we have a biological need to reproduce, and so we orient toward young people because they can have more babies than an older person can."
Divine frowned at the mention of evolution.
"Then you saying fiction will continue to feature young people," Faraway said. "That's unacceptable."
"I agree," Divine said. "We are more than biology." She looked at Begenre. "Much more. Fiction doesn't just reflect reality; it can also shape reality. As writers, we have a responsibility to write books that uplift the readers and change their values in a positive way. To claim that you're only giving the public what it wants is to cater to the lowest common denominator. It's using your writing gift simply to profit yourself and not others. Great fiction challenges the reader. It helps them grow."
"It's like chocolate-dipped pineapple chunks," Cookbookins said, shaking the crumbs of a muffin off her dress.
The others looked at her.
"See, I was dipping strawberries in chocolate for my niece's wedding reception," Cookbookins said. "But I didn't have enough strawberries because the store was out. So I looked around my kitchen and saw several cans of pineapple chunks. I drained the chunks and then dipped them in chocolate." She smiled at the group.
A pause.
"I don't quite follow you," Begenre said slowly. "How does that relate?"
Cookbookins sighed. "Isn't it obvious? I wrote in my newspaper column about using pineapple for dipping, and several of my readers wrote in to tell me that they had tried it and liked it, too. I wrote about it yesterday. Doesn't anyone read my column?"
"I haven't had a chance," Faraway said. "But I will as soon as I go home."
"I don't take the paper," Begenre muttered.
"My point is that by writing what I did, I influenced my readers to do the same," Cookbookins said. "So I -- how did you put it? -- shaped reality."
"Ah," Begenre said. "I get it."
"That actually made sense," Realer said with wonder.
"And it related to what we were talking about," Aromance said.
"Of course, it did," Cookbookins said. "I always make sense. You just don't understand me."
"We'll try to do better," Realer said. He exchanged bemused glances with the others.
"Since we can shape reality, we need to careful to portray mature characters in an active and interesting fashion," Faraway said. "Old age is not the same as useless and uninteresting."
And on that note, we were out of time.
(Copyright 2017 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved.)
Thursday, August 03, 2017
Whispers
Whispers
By Stephen B. Bagley
He whispered as he held her:
This could get messy --
this thing between us.
We could lose everything
for a stolen moment.
Stolen from this empty world
that breaks everything
eventually. We will break
too, you know.
A cross word, a sideways glance,
a silence at the wrong instant.
I'll be cold, you'll be hot,
timing is everything and all
clocks wind down.
We shouldn't. It's not wise.
It's beyond stupid. We're
risking battered hearts.
We might not survive.
So we walk away now.
We forget. We go back.
We do the smart thing.
The smartest thing.
She whispered:
I'm sure you're right
but if it's so,
why then am I
still in your arms?
He didn't reply
and held her close
as the moon sailed toward
the shores of morning.
(Copyright 2017 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved. From the forthcoming Many Rivers Harbor book Eternal.)
By Stephen B. Bagley
He whispered as he held her:
This could get messy --
this thing between us.
We could lose everything
for a stolen moment.
Stolen from this empty world
that breaks everything
eventually. We will break
too, you know.
A cross word, a sideways glance,
a silence at the wrong instant.
I'll be cold, you'll be hot,
timing is everything and all
clocks wind down.
We shouldn't. It's not wise.
It's beyond stupid. We're
risking battered hearts.
We might not survive.
So we walk away now.
We forget. We go back.
We do the smart thing.
The smartest thing.
She whispered:
I'm sure you're right
but if it's so,
why then am I
still in your arms?
He didn't reply
and held her close
as the moon sailed toward
the shores of morning.
(Copyright 2017 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved. From the forthcoming Many Rivers Harbor book Eternal.)
Wednesday, August 02, 2017
Bit of an update
I've been looking for authors who might be a good fit for a professional writing group that I lead. I thought I had found one, but fortunately before I asked her, I discovered that she didn't support other authors. She said she needed readers, not authors, and she wouldn't read other authors' posts nor buy their books because she was focusing on her own career.
I have no patience with that. Like I said, I hadn't yet mentioned the writing group to her, so no harm, no foul.
The minimum an author can do is cheer on fellow authors. People who do not...I do not respect them and will not waste my time helping them when they do not help other people.
That professional writing group is meant for authors helping other authors, authors supporting other authors, authors contributing to other authors, and authors sharing knowledge with other authors. She did not belong, and it is no loss to us...but it might be one for her.
But with my energies focused on my health, I find my imagination mostly focuses on sleep. I've always struggled with getting enough sleep--my brain is a busy monster--so I imagine what it would feel like to get eight hours uninterrupted sleep and wake refreshed and ready to go. Like when I was 20 and didn't think about bouncing out of bed.
I've been wondering I need a new bed. I see a lot of commercials talking about various beds, so many so that I can't figure out what would best. It's something I'm going to research over the next few months. Input would be appreciated.
Anyway, this is me signing off. Hope you have a great night.
I have no patience with that. Like I said, I hadn't yet mentioned the writing group to her, so no harm, no foul.
The minimum an author can do is cheer on fellow authors. People who do not...I do not respect them and will not waste my time helping them when they do not help other people.
That professional writing group is meant for authors helping other authors, authors supporting other authors, authors contributing to other authors, and authors sharing knowledge with other authors. She did not belong, and it is no loss to us...but it might be one for her.
***
I've not been pursuing my creative goals the way I would like to. Lately, I've been focusing on my health. I'm determined to regain my strength and endurance if that's possible, and I believe it is. Right now, simply walking a fair distance leaves me exhausted. It's slowly getting better, but oh so slowly. I have to keep reminding myself that it took years of neglect--and bad genetics--to get me in this shape. Fixing the problems isn't going to happen overnight. As for the genetics, there's research that shows exercise, proper diet, and healthy lifestyle can cause bad genes to stop expressing themselves and trigger good genes. So...it's possible. Just going to take some time. A friend likes to say, "You're not in a dash; you're in a marathon." True.But with my energies focused on my health, I find my imagination mostly focuses on sleep. I've always struggled with getting enough sleep--my brain is a busy monster--so I imagine what it would feel like to get eight hours uninterrupted sleep and wake refreshed and ready to go. Like when I was 20 and didn't think about bouncing out of bed.
I've been wondering I need a new bed. I see a lot of commercials talking about various beds, so many so that I can't figure out what would best. It's something I'm going to research over the next few months. Input would be appreciated.
Anyway, this is me signing off. Hope you have a great night.
Tuesday, August 01, 2017
Modern Life
It's good advice to dance like no one is watching you. Because they're not. They looking at their iPhones. Unless you dance like fire ants have invaded your undies and then they're pointing their phones at you so that they can post the video online. #IHateModernLife #DoNotAskHowIKnow
Monday, July 31, 2017
"A Lazy Day" by Paul Laurence Dunbar
Recently, Poem-A-Day featured this lovely poem by one of my favorite poets.
"A Lazy Day"
By Paul Laurence Dunbar
The trees bend down along the stream,
Where anchored swings my tiny boat.
The day is one to drowse and dream
And list the thrush’s throttling note.
When music from his bosom bleeds
Among the river’s rustling reeds.
No ripple stirs the placid pool,
When my adventurous line is cast,
A truce to sport, while clear and cool,
The mirrored clouds slide softly past.
The sky gives back a blue divine,
And all the world’s wide wealth is mine.
A pickerel leaps, a bow of light,
The minnows shine from side to side.
The first faint breeze comes up the tide—
I pause with half uplifted oar,
While night drifts down to claim the shore.
(Paul Laurence Dunbar was born in 1872, in Dayton, Ohio. His collections of poetry include Lyrics of Love and Laughter (Dodd, Mead & Company, 1903) and Poems of Cabin and Field (Dodd, Mead & Co., 1899). “A Lazy Day” was published in Lyrics of Sunshine and Shadow (Dodd, Mead & Company, 1905). He died in 1906. You can subscribe to poem-a-day at Poem-A-Day.)
"A Lazy Day"
By Paul Laurence Dunbar
The trees bend down along the stream,
Where anchored swings my tiny boat.
The day is one to drowse and dream
And list the thrush’s throttling note.
When music from his bosom bleeds
Among the river’s rustling reeds.
No ripple stirs the placid pool,
When my adventurous line is cast,
A truce to sport, while clear and cool,
The mirrored clouds slide softly past.
The sky gives back a blue divine,
And all the world’s wide wealth is mine.
A pickerel leaps, a bow of light,
The minnows shine from side to side.
The first faint breeze comes up the tide—
I pause with half uplifted oar,
While night drifts down to claim the shore.
(Paul Laurence Dunbar was born in 1872, in Dayton, Ohio. His collections of poetry include Lyrics of Love and Laughter (Dodd, Mead & Company, 1903) and Poems of Cabin and Field (Dodd, Mead & Co., 1899). “A Lazy Day” was published in Lyrics of Sunshine and Shadow (Dodd, Mead & Company, 1905). He died in 1906. You can subscribe to poem-a-day at Poem-A-Day.)
Friday, July 28, 2017
Observation
So a friend of mine was carrying a little bag at lunch, and I made a joking remark about how lovely his alligator purse was.
"It's not a purse," he said. "It's a tactical bag."
"Oh," I said, admiring the marketing geniuses who had come up with a way to sell traditionally feminine things to men. "It must be a handy way to carry your tactical lipstick and tactical perfume."
Which is why I finished the meal alone.
"It's not a purse," he said. "It's a tactical bag."
"Oh," I said, admiring the marketing geniuses who had come up with a way to sell traditionally feminine things to men. "It must be a handy way to carry your tactical lipstick and tactical perfume."
Which is why I finished the meal alone.
Thursday, July 27, 2017
Unsent Letter
Dear Fitness Coach,
Yes, I know exercise is good for us. In fact, there are few things I enjoy more than a good, brisk nap.
Me
Yes, I know exercise is good for us. In fact, there are few things I enjoy more than a good, brisk nap.
Me
Wednesday, July 26, 2017
Inuit poem
I love this poem. It's quoted at the end of the movie Never Cry Wolf.
I think over again my small adventures,
My fears,
Those small ones that seemed so big,
For all the vital things
I had to get and to reach;
And yet there is only one great thing,
The only thing,
To live to see the great day that dawns
And the light that fills the world.
- Anonymous (Inuit, 19th century)
I think over again my small adventures,
My fears,
Those small ones that seemed so big,
For all the vital things
I had to get and to reach;
And yet there is only one great thing,
The only thing,
To live to see the great day that dawns
And the light that fills the world.
- Anonymous (Inuit, 19th century)
Tuesday, July 25, 2017
Observation
Wedding ceremonies are always so happy. It's the years afterward where people seem to run into trouble. At least at the ceremony, you get cake.
Monday, July 24, 2017
Observation
So many of my friends have beards now, and I don't think it looks good on the women at all.
Sunday, July 23, 2017
Observation
Saw a t-shirt the other day that read: "Been there, done that."
Mine would say: "Been there, done that, didn't learn, did it again, still didn't learn, repeated it a few more times because I have all the vast intelligence of gravel, Lord help me."
Not as pithy, though.
Mine would say: "Been there, done that, didn't learn, did it again, still didn't learn, repeated it a few more times because I have all the vast intelligence of gravel, Lord help me."
Not as pithy, though.
Saturday, July 22, 2017
Unsent Letter
Dear Friend,
Whenever I'm burdened with sorrow, you're beside me.
Whenever I struggle with life, you're beside me.
Whenever I'm hurting, you're beside me.
I think it's time we faced the truth: you're a troublemaker.
Cut it out.
Regards,
Me
Whenever I'm burdened with sorrow, you're beside me.
Whenever I struggle with life, you're beside me.
Whenever I'm hurting, you're beside me.
I think it's time we faced the truth: you're a troublemaker.
Cut it out.
Regards,
Me
Friday, July 21, 2017
I Want a New Drug
What I really want is the meds that the hosts on the shopping channels must be using. I just saw a woman shout with joy over a new mop. No kidding.
Thursday, July 20, 2017
Observation
At night, when I'm in bed and the house is quiet and I close my eyes...I can't hear anything and I can't see anything. What? You were expecting wisdom at 1:12 a.m.?
Wednesday, July 19, 2017
First Pomodoro
And we're off! I'm using a Pomodoro timer to time this writing. And what is Pomodoro? It's a time management technique where you work for 25 minutes, take a 5 minute break, and then resume. Because it's so late, I will only go 25 minutes.
I've read a lot about Pomodoro. It sounds simple, but apparently a lot of creative people have found that it keeps their "muse" from becoming fatigued. I hate to use "muse" like that, but it's a shorthand expression that's too convenient. Thus does expediency encourage sloppy whimsy.
A few of my author friends work by schedules. I've always admired that. I find my mind wanders a lot. I suspect I have ADHD, but I've lived with it this long. I prefer to think it's simply my brain being busy. I hate that it decides to be busy at night so consistently. I would like more sleep. I have been taking naps sometimes, but I can never seem to time them correctly. Either I sleep too long and wake up feeling terrible or not enough and receive no benefit. Naps require skill.
Even as a kid, I wasn't a napper. I wanted to be up and looking around. A lot of things needed my attention. Sleep? Who needs sleep?
Well, I do. And most of America does. According to the experts, despite our time-saving machines and routines, we're getting less sleep than any prior generation. I wonder if it has to with all the screens we look at: TV, computers, tablets, iPads, phones, etc. I wonder this even as I look at a screen as I type this.
Supposedly, the blue light of our screens disrupts our sleep patterns. According to Scientific American: "The light from our devices is “short-wavelength-enriched,” meaning it has a higher concentration of blue light than natural light—and blue light affects levels of the sleep-inducing hormone melatonin more than any other wavelength." You can adjust your screen to emit more red light at night. They say it helps.
Anyway, I was determined to try out writing in 25 minutes intervals today. Time got away from me, as it often does, but I decided I would put in at least one 25 minute writing period before heading off to toss and turn.
Now, I'm thinking about all the power strip and clock and TV lights in my room. I might start covering them up. They seem bright when I wake up in the middle of the night. I wonder if anyone has ever studied the effect they have on sleep. I know they use more electrical power than we think. Many studies have shown that standby devices consume significant amounts of electricity. Same studies say we should have everything on power strips so we can turn them off at night. I would, but they have clocks on them. I might have to figure out a way to power the clocks separately from the other devices. Funny thing though, my power strips also have bright lights on them.
We live in a world of light these days. So much so that many people have never seen the Milky Way. Or rarely do. Even in my small town, there's enough light to obscure many of the stars. One of my friends is an amateur astronomer, and he drives out into the country and uses special filters on his telescope to attempt to compensate for the artificial light flooding the sky. I know professional astronomers have attempted to get cities to use special lights and shields so that the light is aimed at the ground instead of the sky. They have only had limited success. It would be great if every town and city did so, but that takes money and municipalities have plenty of other issues that need money and attention.
Well, my time is up. I will be using Pomodoro more, if only to give it a proper evaluation. For tonight, I'm ending this here.
I've read a lot about Pomodoro. It sounds simple, but apparently a lot of creative people have found that it keeps their "muse" from becoming fatigued. I hate to use "muse" like that, but it's a shorthand expression that's too convenient. Thus does expediency encourage sloppy whimsy.
A few of my author friends work by schedules. I've always admired that. I find my mind wanders a lot. I suspect I have ADHD, but I've lived with it this long. I prefer to think it's simply my brain being busy. I hate that it decides to be busy at night so consistently. I would like more sleep. I have been taking naps sometimes, but I can never seem to time them correctly. Either I sleep too long and wake up feeling terrible or not enough and receive no benefit. Naps require skill.
Even as a kid, I wasn't a napper. I wanted to be up and looking around. A lot of things needed my attention. Sleep? Who needs sleep?
Well, I do. And most of America does. According to the experts, despite our time-saving machines and routines, we're getting less sleep than any prior generation. I wonder if it has to with all the screens we look at: TV, computers, tablets, iPads, phones, etc. I wonder this even as I look at a screen as I type this.
Supposedly, the blue light of our screens disrupts our sleep patterns. According to Scientific American: "The light from our devices is “short-wavelength-enriched,” meaning it has a higher concentration of blue light than natural light—and blue light affects levels of the sleep-inducing hormone melatonin more than any other wavelength." You can adjust your screen to emit more red light at night. They say it helps.
Anyway, I was determined to try out writing in 25 minutes intervals today. Time got away from me, as it often does, but I decided I would put in at least one 25 minute writing period before heading off to toss and turn.
Now, I'm thinking about all the power strip and clock and TV lights in my room. I might start covering them up. They seem bright when I wake up in the middle of the night. I wonder if anyone has ever studied the effect they have on sleep. I know they use more electrical power than we think. Many studies have shown that standby devices consume significant amounts of electricity. Same studies say we should have everything on power strips so we can turn them off at night. I would, but they have clocks on them. I might have to figure out a way to power the clocks separately from the other devices. Funny thing though, my power strips also have bright lights on them.
We live in a world of light these days. So much so that many people have never seen the Milky Way. Or rarely do. Even in my small town, there's enough light to obscure many of the stars. One of my friends is an amateur astronomer, and he drives out into the country and uses special filters on his telescope to attempt to compensate for the artificial light flooding the sky. I know professional astronomers have attempted to get cities to use special lights and shields so that the light is aimed at the ground instead of the sky. They have only had limited success. It would be great if every town and city did so, but that takes money and municipalities have plenty of other issues that need money and attention.
Well, my time is up. I will be using Pomodoro more, if only to give it a proper evaluation. For tonight, I'm ending this here.
Tuesday, July 18, 2017
Magic
My hairstylist has decided that she now wants to be known as my magician. And I must say that she dyes my scalp better than anyone else.
Monday, July 17, 2017
Unsent Letter
Dear Fitness Coach,
With complete sincerity in your voice, you just told me that someday I would enjoy these punishing workouts. Listen, a man who can lie like that should go into politics. You're a natural for Congress!
Me
With complete sincerity in your voice, you just told me that someday I would enjoy these punishing workouts. Listen, a man who can lie like that should go into politics. You're a natural for Congress!
Me
Sunday, July 16, 2017
Unsent Letter
Dear Fitness Coach,
I read your health plan for me: "Exercise daily. Eat right. Get enough sleep." Humph. I didn't know I would be doing all the work.
Disgustedly,
Me
I read your health plan for me: "Exercise daily. Eat right. Get enough sleep." Humph. I didn't know I would be doing all the work.
Disgustedly,
Me
Saturday, July 15, 2017
Limit of Logic
My therapist: Any problem can be solved if you apply logic to it.
Me: There's this woman that...
My therapist: Oh, no, I didn't mean you can apply logic to women.
Me: Hm. Ooookay.
Me: There's this woman that...
My therapist: Oh, no, I didn't mean you can apply logic to women.
Me: Hm. Ooookay.
Friday, July 14, 2017
Awkward
So I went to dinner with a couple who had just returned from their honeymoon (his second marriage and her third) and they went to an island, which sounded wonderful...white beaches, palm trees, great service, the emerald ocean.
And I said, "Show me your pictures."
The wife glanced at her husband and said, "You wouldn't be interested."
"No, I love vacation photos," I said, which is true. I am a great armchair traveler.
The husband shrugged, messed with his phone, and then handed it to me.
I put on my glasses and looked at the first photo. Then I took my glasses off and handed the phone back as my face and ears began to glow Rudolph red while they laughed.
It turns out that my friends are closet nudists.
I've had some awkward moments in my life, but I do think that is a particularly notable one.
And I said, "Show me your pictures."
The wife glanced at her husband and said, "You wouldn't be interested."
"No, I love vacation photos," I said, which is true. I am a great armchair traveler.
The husband shrugged, messed with his phone, and then handed it to me.
I put on my glasses and looked at the first photo. Then I took my glasses off and handed the phone back as my face and ears began to glow Rudolph red while they laughed.
It turns out that my friends are closet nudists.
I've had some awkward moments in my life, but I do think that is a particularly notable one.
Thursday, July 13, 2017
Revulsion
I'm reading this news story, and I come to last word of this sentence: "His admission about his New Zealand citizenship opened the possibility that the Commonwealth could pursue him to pay back years in salary and allowances, but Mr Ludlam said he was confident that would not eventuate." Eventuate? EVENTUATE? What in the name of Strunk and White is that?
Oh, I know it's a word. A word which I will never use and which arouses in me a true sense of revulsion.... Imagine, by the way, Hannibal Lector saying what I just said. That's the voice I used in my head.
Oh, I know it's a word. A word which I will never use and which arouses in me a true sense of revulsion.... Imagine, by the way, Hannibal Lector saying what I just said. That's the voice I used in my head.
Wednesday, July 12, 2017
Unsent Letter
Dear Insomnia,
I always try to be a gracious host. I figure if someone makes to my house through the warning signs over the moat past the dogs under the razor wire, then they should be welcomed if only to lull them into a false sense of security before I send their sorry hides packing. However, you are here and should leave. Remember what Ben Franklin supposedly said about house guests: "Fish and visitors smell after three days." You're reeking like a Congressman's promise now.
Disregards,
Me
I always try to be a gracious host. I figure if someone makes to my house through the warning signs over the moat past the dogs under the razor wire, then they should be welcomed if only to lull them into a false sense of security before I send their sorry hides packing. However, you are here and should leave. Remember what Ben Franklin supposedly said about house guests: "Fish and visitors smell after three days." You're reeking like a Congressman's promise now.
Disregards,
Me
Tuesday, July 11, 2017
Unsent Letter
Dear Naps,
I need to apologize to you. As a child, I fought you terribly. You were my sworn enemy, and I vowed I would utterly defeat you when I was older. Well, I'm older now. As it turns out, you're awesome. I was wrong and welcome you now. Just thought you should know. Hope you will forgive me.
Regards,
Me
I need to apologize to you. As a child, I fought you terribly. You were my sworn enemy, and I vowed I would utterly defeat you when I was older. Well, I'm older now. As it turns out, you're awesome. I was wrong and welcome you now. Just thought you should know. Hope you will forgive me.
Regards,
Me
Monday, July 10, 2017
A good thing
I did a good thing. I stepped outside briefly, and three mosquitoes landed on me. I did the noble thing and helped them back into the karmic circle of life so that they can be reborn as a higher life-form on their journey to Nirvana...or I squashed them. Take your pick.
Sunday, July 09, 2017
Of course
Of course, there are lot of people with anxiety disorders these days. It just makes sense. Have you watched the news lately? Just the morning report is enough to give the Pope the shudders.
Saturday, July 08, 2017
Truth
A friend was telling me how good her five mile run made her feel, and so I asked if it was as good as hot peach cobbler topped with vanilla bean ice cream.
There was a long pause, and then she said, "No. And I hate you."
There was a long pause, and then she said, "No. And I hate you."
Friday, July 07, 2017
Child proof
I had to open a new bottle of meds tonight, and it had one of those child proof lids.... Apparently, I'm a child. But I'm a child with a hammer. I think Houdini himself couldn't have got into it.
Thursday, July 06, 2017
Bon chance mon ami!
My therapist is actually leaving the therapy field. It's so sad. His other patients must have been really tough on him. Why, sometimes he would weep during our sessions after a hard day of talking to them. Poor guy, I hope he's happy as a long haul trucker.
Wednesday, July 05, 2017
Roly-poly
Have you heard of the elephants graveyard? Where the elephants all supposedly went to die? Apparently my entry way is the roly-poly graveyard. Where are they coming from and why are they coming here to die? I give them a respectful burial as long as you define "respectful" as being being sucked up by a vacuum, which I think most of us do.
Tuesday, July 04, 2017
Happy July 4th!
Yes, we have problems as a nation -- and what nation since the dawn of time has not? -- but I'm proud to be an American, blessed to live in this diverse and amazing nation, humbled by the sacrifices of those who have given their lives to keep us free, and excited when looking forward to our future. The naysayers and political pundits like to highlight our shortcomings, conveniently ignoring our past and continuing accomplishments. We truly have changed the face of the world, and although we have made grievous mistakes, we have also been an unrelenting force for freedom and liberty. God has blessed us immensely, and may He continue to do so! Happy Fourth of July!
Monday, July 03, 2017
Future needs
I think a robot car would be nice. I could nap or watch movies. People get upset when I do those things now while driving.
Sunday, July 02, 2017
Pastoral visits
I have always found a great way to see my pastor is to be in some totally innocent, but seemingly compromising situation that I can never adequately explain. Although I really think he's used to me now. At least he doesn't toss holy water on me anymore. Which was quite refreshing at times.
Saturday, July 01, 2017
Scene from the End of One Story
"Scene from the End of One Story"
By Stephen B. Bagley
...This is how one story ended...
Eve walked into Milligan's with her friend Bette, and as always, her eyes searched the restaurant for his shoulders and that ratty leather jacket and his soft worn hat that felt like velvet when she touched it. For seven weeks, she had searched all their places. The coffee shop, the bookstore, the library, the pier, the Seafood Shack. But Jeremy had disappeared from her life.
She didn't know how to live without him, but she was trying to learn how. She took a gym class, went out to movies with Bette and her other friends, and focused on work, turning out reports with an efficiency that even her boss noticed. A couple of guys--Kevin from Sales and Joel from Receivables--asked her out, and she said yes. Nice enough dates, and she had enjoyed them. Kevin even made her laugh, and Joel was sweet. But she kissed them good night at the door.
Bette threaded her way through the crowd, looking for a table. Eve followed, wondering when she would stop feeling that pit in her stomach when she didn't see him. She stumbled and caught herself on the edge of a table. The men seated at it smiled at her. She apologized, backed away, turned toward Bette, and saw Jeremy.
He didn't see her. He stood by a table talking to two other men. The crowd closed between them, and she lost sight of him. For a moment, she paused, feeling her heart beating hard. Then she pushed forward, leaving Bette behind, weaving her way forcefully toward her last chance.
"Jeremy," she said.
He turned and saw her. He started to smile, but it faded away.
"Eve," he said. "How are you?"
"Fine," she said. But that wasn't what she meant to say. She meant to say she was falling to pieces, her heart broke, her life in shambles, but the words wouldn't come.
"Where's Ben?" he asked.
"I don't know," she said. "Back with his wife, I guess. We're not together."
Jeremy nodded. "Sorry to hear that."
"I broke up with him," Eve said, wanting him to understand. "I sent him away. I remembered what you said. 'If he cheats on his wife, why wouldn't he cheat on you?' I should have listened."
"He cheated on you," Jeremy asked with a flash of anger in his voice.
Surely that meant something, she thought. "No, but I realized he would. I realized the love of his life was him." She laughed.
Jeremy took a deep breath. "Well, I'm sorry to hear things didn't work out. It's good to see you. I've got to go. I'm leaving New York in a couple of days. I have a lot of packing still to do. Got a job in Boston."
"Oh," she said. "Boston. Good. Good. Is it one you wanted?"
"It's a job," he said. "I've always liked Boston." He grinned. "Great clam chowder."
She laughed to keep from crying out. He's moved on, she thought. He's moving away.
"It's good to see you," he said. "You look...beautiful." He smiled. "Well, take care. Tell your parents I said hi."
"I will," she said. "You take care. Enjoy that chowder."
And he walked away while she stood in a crowd of strangers and she realized that would be her life--to always be alone in a crowd.
"No!" she said. She took three quick steps and grabbed his arm. "Jeremy, wait."
He turned back, his face surprised. "What?"
She couldn't find the words.
"What, Eve?" he asked again. "I need to go."
"Okay," she said. "Can we talk outside? Just for a minute."
He looked down at the floor. "I don't think that would be a good idea. Don't you think we've hurt each other enough? I can't take any more."
She swallowed. "Just for a minute. I need to tell you a few things. It won't take long."
He took a deep breath. "For a minute."
They found a bench in the tiny park across the street.
"Well," Jeremy said. "What do you want from me, Eve?"
"Nothing," she said, but her heart called her a liar. "I needed to apologize."
"No," he said. "No. I don't want to do this."
"Please," she said. "I just wanted to know how sorry I was. How I would give anything to go back and fix things."
"Eve, we're--"
"I know you're not in love with me anymore," she said. "I know we can't go back. And that you don't want to. You've moved on. Good. I'm glad. I want you to be happy." She could feel the tears behind her eyes threatening to overflow. "I wanted you to know I will always want the best for you."
He looked away.
She wiped her eyes. Time to go. Time to walk away. Time to let him walk away. Time to face the bleakness ahead. She needed a few moments to gather her strength.
He stood and took a couple steps away. She wanted to weep, but she didn't. This was the result of her decisions. She had made them, and she would live with them. She had enough courage to do that.
She rose. "I'd better let you go. I'm sorry if I hurt you."
He turned, his face shadowed. "I'm at a place in my life--"
"You don't have to explain," she said. "I understand." She shook her head and wiped her eyes. "We had something lovely, and I broke it. I didn't mean to. But I guess that doesn't mean a thing. I wanted you to know I miss you. Oh how I do."
"Let me finish," he said. "I'm at a place in my life where there are more good-byes than hellos. More people lost than found."
She watched him, almost afraid to breathe.
"Comes with getting older," he said with a short laugh. "You can't imagine how...lost I've felt without you. How empty. But then I saw you with him, and I was angry. It was better to be angry than empty. But now...."
He was silent for longer than she could bear, but she bore it anyway. Please God please, she prayed. Another chance and I won't blow it. Please oh please.
"Too many goodbyes," he said finally. "Not enough hellos. I don't want that for my life. I don't want to tell you goodbye." He looked at her. "Hello. How are you? I missed you. I missed you."
She sobbed and launched herself into his eager arms.
...This is how one story ended and a new one began...
(Copyright 2017 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved. Thanks for reading.)
By Stephen B. Bagley
...This is how one story ended...
Eve walked into Milligan's with her friend Bette, and as always, her eyes searched the restaurant for his shoulders and that ratty leather jacket and his soft worn hat that felt like velvet when she touched it. For seven weeks, she had searched all their places. The coffee shop, the bookstore, the library, the pier, the Seafood Shack. But Jeremy had disappeared from her life.
She didn't know how to live without him, but she was trying to learn how. She took a gym class, went out to movies with Bette and her other friends, and focused on work, turning out reports with an efficiency that even her boss noticed. A couple of guys--Kevin from Sales and Joel from Receivables--asked her out, and she said yes. Nice enough dates, and she had enjoyed them. Kevin even made her laugh, and Joel was sweet. But she kissed them good night at the door.
Bette threaded her way through the crowd, looking for a table. Eve followed, wondering when she would stop feeling that pit in her stomach when she didn't see him. She stumbled and caught herself on the edge of a table. The men seated at it smiled at her. She apologized, backed away, turned toward Bette, and saw Jeremy.
He didn't see her. He stood by a table talking to two other men. The crowd closed between them, and she lost sight of him. For a moment, she paused, feeling her heart beating hard. Then she pushed forward, leaving Bette behind, weaving her way forcefully toward her last chance.
"Jeremy," she said.
He turned and saw her. He started to smile, but it faded away.
"Eve," he said. "How are you?"
"Fine," she said. But that wasn't what she meant to say. She meant to say she was falling to pieces, her heart broke, her life in shambles, but the words wouldn't come.
"Where's Ben?" he asked.
"I don't know," she said. "Back with his wife, I guess. We're not together."
Jeremy nodded. "Sorry to hear that."
"I broke up with him," Eve said, wanting him to understand. "I sent him away. I remembered what you said. 'If he cheats on his wife, why wouldn't he cheat on you?' I should have listened."
"He cheated on you," Jeremy asked with a flash of anger in his voice.
Surely that meant something, she thought. "No, but I realized he would. I realized the love of his life was him." She laughed.
Jeremy took a deep breath. "Well, I'm sorry to hear things didn't work out. It's good to see you. I've got to go. I'm leaving New York in a couple of days. I have a lot of packing still to do. Got a job in Boston."
"Oh," she said. "Boston. Good. Good. Is it one you wanted?"
"It's a job," he said. "I've always liked Boston." He grinned. "Great clam chowder."
She laughed to keep from crying out. He's moved on, she thought. He's moving away.
"It's good to see you," he said. "You look...beautiful." He smiled. "Well, take care. Tell your parents I said hi."
"I will," she said. "You take care. Enjoy that chowder."
And he walked away while she stood in a crowd of strangers and she realized that would be her life--to always be alone in a crowd.
"No!" she said. She took three quick steps and grabbed his arm. "Jeremy, wait."
He turned back, his face surprised. "What?"
She couldn't find the words.
"What, Eve?" he asked again. "I need to go."
"Okay," she said. "Can we talk outside? Just for a minute."
He looked down at the floor. "I don't think that would be a good idea. Don't you think we've hurt each other enough? I can't take any more."
She swallowed. "Just for a minute. I need to tell you a few things. It won't take long."
He took a deep breath. "For a minute."
They found a bench in the tiny park across the street.
"Well," Jeremy said. "What do you want from me, Eve?"
"Nothing," she said, but her heart called her a liar. "I needed to apologize."
"No," he said. "No. I don't want to do this."
"Please," she said. "I just wanted to know how sorry I was. How I would give anything to go back and fix things."
"Eve, we're--"
"I know you're not in love with me anymore," she said. "I know we can't go back. And that you don't want to. You've moved on. Good. I'm glad. I want you to be happy." She could feel the tears behind her eyes threatening to overflow. "I wanted you to know I will always want the best for you."
He looked away.
She wiped her eyes. Time to go. Time to walk away. Time to let him walk away. Time to face the bleakness ahead. She needed a few moments to gather her strength.
He stood and took a couple steps away. She wanted to weep, but she didn't. This was the result of her decisions. She had made them, and she would live with them. She had enough courage to do that.
She rose. "I'd better let you go. I'm sorry if I hurt you."
He turned, his face shadowed. "I'm at a place in my life--"
"You don't have to explain," she said. "I understand." She shook her head and wiped her eyes. "We had something lovely, and I broke it. I didn't mean to. But I guess that doesn't mean a thing. I wanted you to know I miss you. Oh how I do."
"Let me finish," he said. "I'm at a place in my life where there are more good-byes than hellos. More people lost than found."
She watched him, almost afraid to breathe.
"Comes with getting older," he said with a short laugh. "You can't imagine how...lost I've felt without you. How empty. But then I saw you with him, and I was angry. It was better to be angry than empty. But now...."
He was silent for longer than she could bear, but she bore it anyway. Please God please, she prayed. Another chance and I won't blow it. Please oh please.
"Too many goodbyes," he said finally. "Not enough hellos. I don't want that for my life. I don't want to tell you goodbye." He looked at her. "Hello. How are you? I missed you. I missed you."
She sobbed and launched herself into his eager arms.
...This is how one story ended and a new one began...
(Copyright 2017 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved. Thanks for reading.)
Saturday, June 24, 2017
Excerpt: "Thoughts at a Picnic"
(Excerpt from the forthcoming Floozy Comes Back)
By Stephen B. Bagley
Bittersweet is that moment when you slap down on an annoying fly on the picnic table and gleefully crush it on your palm and then you realize its guts are on your hand and it probably just finished chowing down on a poop platter thoughtfully provided by the 127 feral cats who haunt the park. So you wipe your hand on your napkin, wishing you had hand sanitizer even though you watched an exposé on Channel 4 showing how sanitizer could easily ignite and you shouldn’t use it near a fireplace or an open flame so it might not be safe since you’re sitting four feet away from the barbeque where they are sacrificing wieners to the flames.
You look back at the table and realize there’s that green-reddish smear from when you crushed Mr. Fly and you don’t want to see that so you move your plate to cover the remains, but the thought of it being there bothers you, and for a moment you think about that Poe story, “The Tell-Tale Heart,” where the murderer has hidden his victim under the floorboards of his house, but then he thinks he hears “the beating of his hideous heart!”
Hardly a nice thing to remember on a nice day like this with the sun shining and your friends laughing beside you, and you blame Mr. Simmons who told that story to your seventh grade English class and gave you nightmares because he did it so convincingly and kept looking at the students with such a mad look that it’s no surprise that he was arrested for public nudity at a zoo and went to prison for five years and the poor flamingoes never recovered and went around looking shell-shocked and losing pink feathers everywhere.
You look back at your plate, which now you can’t do without thinking of the corpse it’s concealing, and pick up your fork to have some of that potato salad that Kathy brought and your mind flashes back to that report Channel 4 did about food-born pathogens and how they lurk in every picnic food which should never sit out for more than a few minutes, otherwise they become something so lethal that they could wipe out entire civilizations, which might be what happened to the people who built Stonehenge. You can imagine them gathering for a rock-raising picnic, and a few hours later, they’re all gasping their last breath like that fly you crushed. But the fly’s death was so fast it probably didn’t have time for a last breath; one moment it’s on the table looking at the feast spread before it, thinking happy thoughts, and then it’s not thinking anything. This makes you feel better because, after all, you gave it a quick, happy death, which is not such a terrible thing, and many people might want such a parting from this life, although how they’d find a giant picnic table is anyone’s guess.
Still, you put the fork back down and pick up your ham sandwich—WITH THE FLY CRUSHING HAND! A hand that’s probably contaminated with the bacteria and viruses that the fly picked up when it dined on the poop of a cat which had escaped from a secret lab conducting research into bio-weapons and this...this innocent picnic is how the zombie apocalypse starts!
With mounting panic, you realize you’re sure thinking about poop at lot at this picnic and now you’re afraid you will always associate picnic with poop and you frantically start thinking of better things that happen at picnics: laughing, games of Frisbee® and softball, splashing in pools, playing games of tag with the grand-children, and once at a college picnic years ago a curvy blonde fellow journalist let you find her in the woods for a bit of friendly necking—wait, that’s not an appropriate thought for now.
You carefully take a bite of the sandwich avoiding the side that touched your palm, and it’s good. Ham, lettuce, tomato, Swiss cheese, mustard, thick wheat bread.... Of course, if you were serious about your low carb diet, you wouldn’t be eating the bread at all. According to the carb commandos, grains are poison, POISON, and maybe that’s what actually wiped out the Stonehenge builders. Between raising multi-ton rocks, they were happily eating bread, French fries, ice cream, white rice, tacos, peach cobbler, potato salad.... Happy, heavy people who one day were felled by heart attacks, diabetes, and dreaded lard-bottom disease. All in all, there are worse ways to go if one has to go.
Which makes you think of an article you read recently in a science magazine about those people who think they don’t have to go and plan to upload their brains into a supercomputer so they can live forever, ignoring the fact that the original person would go ahead and age and die, leaving behind some monstrous thing that only faintly resembled a human, like a Congressman.
By now, everyone else is finished or finishing their plate of food and either getting seconds or thirds or deciding they’d better stop, and you have barely touched your food, which might make them think you’re on your second or third place when you’ve barely eaten enough to keep a fly alive...that fly again. Sigh. Now you’re regretting you killed the thing. Maybe you should have shooed it away, thus not incurring a Karmic debt. But you don’t believe in reincarnation anyway since you’re Baptist, and if it were true, then you’d only be releasing the soul trapped in the fly to move up into a better body, like maybe a boil weevil or a rodent. Unless it had been a bad fly, and then it would drop down in worth and become a telemarketer.
They’re cutting the watermelon now. You like watermelon and can easily make yourself sick eating too much given half a chance, but watermelon is basically sugar water held together by a fibrous matrix and loaded with carbs. You mentally add watermelon to the diet of the Stonehenge builders while taking a plate—a small plate—of the melon, vowing to yourself that you will walk several miles and burn off that sugar before it has time to damage your body even though you insisted the picnic was close to a parking lot because you didn’t want to walk.
The watermelon has seeds—the best ones do, in your opinion—and one of the black seeds moves! It’s another FLY! But you wave it off and examine the melon flesh closely, like you could see germs, and take your life into your teeth and hungrily devour the fruit.
It’s the end of the picnic, and it would hardly look right for you keep eating, so you regretfully drop your plate and cup in the trash, and stop at Delicias Mexican Restaurant on the way home for chips, dip, and a platter of enchiladas.
(Excerpt from the forthcoming Floozy Comes Back. Copyright 2017 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved. Please do not copy without explicit permission from the author and publisher. Thank you for reading.)
By Stephen B. Bagley
Bittersweet is that moment when you slap down on an annoying fly on the picnic table and gleefully crush it on your palm and then you realize its guts are on your hand and it probably just finished chowing down on a poop platter thoughtfully provided by the 127 feral cats who haunt the park. So you wipe your hand on your napkin, wishing you had hand sanitizer even though you watched an exposé on Channel 4 showing how sanitizer could easily ignite and you shouldn’t use it near a fireplace or an open flame so it might not be safe since you’re sitting four feet away from the barbeque where they are sacrificing wieners to the flames.
You look back at the table and realize there’s that green-reddish smear from when you crushed Mr. Fly and you don’t want to see that so you move your plate to cover the remains, but the thought of it being there bothers you, and for a moment you think about that Poe story, “The Tell-Tale Heart,” where the murderer has hidden his victim under the floorboards of his house, but then he thinks he hears “the beating of his hideous heart!”
Hardly a nice thing to remember on a nice day like this with the sun shining and your friends laughing beside you, and you blame Mr. Simmons who told that story to your seventh grade English class and gave you nightmares because he did it so convincingly and kept looking at the students with such a mad look that it’s no surprise that he was arrested for public nudity at a zoo and went to prison for five years and the poor flamingoes never recovered and went around looking shell-shocked and losing pink feathers everywhere.
You look back at your plate, which now you can’t do without thinking of the corpse it’s concealing, and pick up your fork to have some of that potato salad that Kathy brought and your mind flashes back to that report Channel 4 did about food-born pathogens and how they lurk in every picnic food which should never sit out for more than a few minutes, otherwise they become something so lethal that they could wipe out entire civilizations, which might be what happened to the people who built Stonehenge. You can imagine them gathering for a rock-raising picnic, and a few hours later, they’re all gasping their last breath like that fly you crushed. But the fly’s death was so fast it probably didn’t have time for a last breath; one moment it’s on the table looking at the feast spread before it, thinking happy thoughts, and then it’s not thinking anything. This makes you feel better because, after all, you gave it a quick, happy death, which is not such a terrible thing, and many people might want such a parting from this life, although how they’d find a giant picnic table is anyone’s guess.
Still, you put the fork back down and pick up your ham sandwich—WITH THE FLY CRUSHING HAND! A hand that’s probably contaminated with the bacteria and viruses that the fly picked up when it dined on the poop of a cat which had escaped from a secret lab conducting research into bio-weapons and this...this innocent picnic is how the zombie apocalypse starts!
With mounting panic, you realize you’re sure thinking about poop at lot at this picnic and now you’re afraid you will always associate picnic with poop and you frantically start thinking of better things that happen at picnics: laughing, games of Frisbee® and softball, splashing in pools, playing games of tag with the grand-children, and once at a college picnic years ago a curvy blonde fellow journalist let you find her in the woods for a bit of friendly necking—wait, that’s not an appropriate thought for now.
You carefully take a bite of the sandwich avoiding the side that touched your palm, and it’s good. Ham, lettuce, tomato, Swiss cheese, mustard, thick wheat bread.... Of course, if you were serious about your low carb diet, you wouldn’t be eating the bread at all. According to the carb commandos, grains are poison, POISON, and maybe that’s what actually wiped out the Stonehenge builders. Between raising multi-ton rocks, they were happily eating bread, French fries, ice cream, white rice, tacos, peach cobbler, potato salad.... Happy, heavy people who one day were felled by heart attacks, diabetes, and dreaded lard-bottom disease. All in all, there are worse ways to go if one has to go.
Which makes you think of an article you read recently in a science magazine about those people who think they don’t have to go and plan to upload their brains into a supercomputer so they can live forever, ignoring the fact that the original person would go ahead and age and die, leaving behind some monstrous thing that only faintly resembled a human, like a Congressman.
By now, everyone else is finished or finishing their plate of food and either getting seconds or thirds or deciding they’d better stop, and you have barely touched your food, which might make them think you’re on your second or third place when you’ve barely eaten enough to keep a fly alive...that fly again. Sigh. Now you’re regretting you killed the thing. Maybe you should have shooed it away, thus not incurring a Karmic debt. But you don’t believe in reincarnation anyway since you’re Baptist, and if it were true, then you’d only be releasing the soul trapped in the fly to move up into a better body, like maybe a boil weevil or a rodent. Unless it had been a bad fly, and then it would drop down in worth and become a telemarketer.
They’re cutting the watermelon now. You like watermelon and can easily make yourself sick eating too much given half a chance, but watermelon is basically sugar water held together by a fibrous matrix and loaded with carbs. You mentally add watermelon to the diet of the Stonehenge builders while taking a plate—a small plate—of the melon, vowing to yourself that you will walk several miles and burn off that sugar before it has time to damage your body even though you insisted the picnic was close to a parking lot because you didn’t want to walk.
The watermelon has seeds—the best ones do, in your opinion—and one of the black seeds moves! It’s another FLY! But you wave it off and examine the melon flesh closely, like you could see germs, and take your life into your teeth and hungrily devour the fruit.
It’s the end of the picnic, and it would hardly look right for you keep eating, so you regretfully drop your plate and cup in the trash, and stop at Delicias Mexican Restaurant on the way home for chips, dip, and a platter of enchiladas.
(Excerpt from the forthcoming Floozy Comes Back. Copyright 2017 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved. Please do not copy without explicit permission from the author and publisher. Thank you for reading.)
Friday, June 16, 2017
If Only
Over the years, I've written a lot of poetry, so much so that sometimes I forget a poem and rediscover it after several years in my journal. I found this one the other day. I changed a few words, but overall, I left it as it was. Funny thing is that I don't even remember who--if anyone--I was writing about.
If Only
By Stephen B. Bagley
If only I could stop loving you
my life would be better now
in more ways than I can imagine.
If only I could forget
the taste of your lips,
your face as you slept,
those blue, happy eyes,
the silly way you smiled,
I wouldn't feel so empty now.
If only I could stop hurting
when I recall those days
of loving and laughing
and yes even fighting,
crying, and arguing--
I wouldn't run from love now.
If only I knew you, too,
had regrets when you
think of me--if ever
you do--and missed
me and our flawed love,
I could finally begin to heal.
If only you read these words
I'd know you'd finally know
I still carry the memory of us
and it's breaking my back
because you lack the courage
to share this heavy burden.
In more ways than I can imagine
my life would better now
if only I could stop loving you.
(Copyright 2017 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved. Thank you for reading.)
If Only
By Stephen B. Bagley
If only I could stop loving you
my life would be better now
in more ways than I can imagine.
If only I could forget
the taste of your lips,
your face as you slept,
those blue, happy eyes,
the silly way you smiled,
I wouldn't feel so empty now.
If only I could stop hurting
when I recall those days
of loving and laughing
and yes even fighting,
crying, and arguing--
I wouldn't run from love now.
If only I knew you, too,
had regrets when you
think of me--if ever
you do--and missed
me and our flawed love,
I could finally begin to heal.
If only you read these words
I'd know you'd finally know
I still carry the memory of us
and it's breaking my back
because you lack the courage
to share this heavy burden.
In more ways than I can imagine
my life would better now
if only I could stop loving you.
(Copyright 2017 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved. Thank you for reading.)
Tuesday, June 13, 2017
Enjoy "Blackbirds Third Flight"
Blackbirds Third Flight is available at
Amazon, Barnes & Noble, BooksAMillion, Lulu,
& other online retailers!
Enjoy these dark fantasies:
➧ A dead girl asks one final question.
➧ A young man rides a forbidden dragon.
➧ With claw and fang, Malone will fight.
➧ Justina Grave battles a dangerous witch.
➧ A father faces his family's terrible secret.
➧ The end of the world begins in a backyard.
➧ A predator prowls on Halloween night.
➧ Thunder Mountain will kill the careless.
➧ Learn the final truth of the Tooth Fairy.
➧ A wolf reveals the face of the true beast.
And much more in this anthology of thrilling tales and poetry from Kathy Akins, Stephen B. Bagley, Wendy Blanton, Michael Canton, D.E. Chandler, Erin Cochran, Gail Henderson, Mariana Llanos, Jean Schara, and Heath Stallcup.
Monday, June 12, 2017
Excerpt from "Murder by the Mile"
Excerpt from Murder by the Mile
The Many Mile Marathon Chairperson Dolores Hyatt had been working in the huge race tent when runners began to share the news about what was happening on Watts Ridge. She had been horrified as the details emerged, but she kept the volunteers focused on processing the racers and making sure they all received their t-shirts and giveaways.
“Dee,” Abby Lange hissed at her. “It’s him!”
Dolores looked up from her clipboard. Michael stood in the entrance scanning the tables. Strangely enough, he was dressed in his jogging suit even though she knew her soon-to-be-ex-husband hadn’t run in the race. Or had someone else checked him in?
She saw when his gaze locked onto her. She tried to control her rapid breathing as he strode over to her.
“We need to talk,” he said flatly. “Now.” The anger in his voice made her flinch.
For a moment, her body nearly betrayed her. She had always done what her husband said, had always taken his anger as her due, and had hid the bruises to protect him. But she would never do that again.
“You need to talk to my attorney,” she said, proud that her voice didn’t
quiver. “Call Harold Hast –”
“I know who it is,” Michael cut in. “I read the papers you had served to me today.”
“I guess the server couldn’t find you yesterday,” Dolores said. “Call Harold.”
“Don’t tell me what to do!” Michael yelled. “Now, come with me!”
People looked at them. Abby rose and came to stand behind Dolores.
Dolores looked down, feeling the old familiar shame flood her. Only Abby’s hand on her shoulder kept her in her chair.
“Michael, you should go,” Abby said.
“Stay out of this,” Michael snarled. “If you know what’s good for you.”
“She does,” Abby’s husband Mack said from behind the real estate agent. Mack, a construction foreman, stared down at Michael. “And if you think you’re going to beat my wife like you beat yours, you got another think coming.” Mack brought his face down to an inch from Michael’s. “Why don’t you just go before I make you go?”
For a moment, Dolores thought Michael was going to throw himself at the much larger man, but he mastered himself.
“This isn’t over,” Michael told Dolores.
“Call Harold Hastings,” she said, not trusting herself to look up. “I won’t talk to you.”
“You will.” Michael turned and left the tent.
“He’s so mad,” Dolores said, sick with fear.
“It’s okay,” Abby said. “It’s okay now. He can’t hurt you now.”
“He’d better not try,” Mack said. “I’ll snap him like a twig.”
“Mack, that’s enough,” Abby said. “Dee, are you all right?”
Dolores nodded. “He wasn’t supposed to be here.”
“Mack, take her clipboard,” Abby commanded. “Dee and I are going to take a break.”
“But I don’t know what to do,” Mack said.
Abby glanced at him. “You’ll learn.” She handed the clipboard to Mack. “Dee and I will be right back.”
Abby led Dee over to the refreshment table where she got them both a cup of black coffee. “We can sit in my car,” Abby said. “It’s right over here.”
In the car, Dolores cried for a good ten minutes while Abby held her hand.
Finally, Dolores pulled herself back together. “I’m sorry, Abs.”
“Sweetie, I’m always here for you,” Abby said. "You were very brave in there."
Dolores shook her head.
“You know what I think?" Abby said. "I think it’s so sad that a nice man like Cyrus Fowler is dead while Michael Hyatt isn’t.”
“Don’t say that,” Dolores said. But she secretly agreed, and for a moment, wondered how to do it.
(Excerpt from the forthcoming mystery novel Murder by the Mile. Copyright 2017 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved. Thank you for reading.)
The Many Mile Marathon Chairperson Dolores Hyatt had been working in the huge race tent when runners began to share the news about what was happening on Watts Ridge. She had been horrified as the details emerged, but she kept the volunteers focused on processing the racers and making sure they all received their t-shirts and giveaways.
“Dee,” Abby Lange hissed at her. “It’s him!”
Dolores looked up from her clipboard. Michael stood in the entrance scanning the tables. Strangely enough, he was dressed in his jogging suit even though she knew her soon-to-be-ex-husband hadn’t run in the race. Or had someone else checked him in?
She saw when his gaze locked onto her. She tried to control her rapid breathing as he strode over to her.
“We need to talk,” he said flatly. “Now.” The anger in his voice made her flinch.
For a moment, her body nearly betrayed her. She had always done what her husband said, had always taken his anger as her due, and had hid the bruises to protect him. But she would never do that again.
“You need to talk to my attorney,” she said, proud that her voice didn’t
quiver. “Call Harold Hast –”
“I know who it is,” Michael cut in. “I read the papers you had served to me today.”
“I guess the server couldn’t find you yesterday,” Dolores said. “Call Harold.”
“Don’t tell me what to do!” Michael yelled. “Now, come with me!”
People looked at them. Abby rose and came to stand behind Dolores.
Dolores looked down, feeling the old familiar shame flood her. Only Abby’s hand on her shoulder kept her in her chair.
“Michael, you should go,” Abby said.
“Stay out of this,” Michael snarled. “If you know what’s good for you.”
“She does,” Abby’s husband Mack said from behind the real estate agent. Mack, a construction foreman, stared down at Michael. “And if you think you’re going to beat my wife like you beat yours, you got another think coming.” Mack brought his face down to an inch from Michael’s. “Why don’t you just go before I make you go?”
For a moment, Dolores thought Michael was going to throw himself at the much larger man, but he mastered himself.
“This isn’t over,” Michael told Dolores.
“Call Harold Hastings,” she said, not trusting herself to look up. “I won’t talk to you.”
“You will.” Michael turned and left the tent.
“He’s so mad,” Dolores said, sick with fear.
“It’s okay,” Abby said. “It’s okay now. He can’t hurt you now.”
“He’d better not try,” Mack said. “I’ll snap him like a twig.”
“Mack, that’s enough,” Abby said. “Dee, are you all right?”
Dolores nodded. “He wasn’t supposed to be here.”
“Mack, take her clipboard,” Abby commanded. “Dee and I are going to take a break.”
“But I don’t know what to do,” Mack said.
Abby glanced at him. “You’ll learn.” She handed the clipboard to Mack. “Dee and I will be right back.”
Abby led Dee over to the refreshment table where she got them both a cup of black coffee. “We can sit in my car,” Abby said. “It’s right over here.”
In the car, Dolores cried for a good ten minutes while Abby held her hand.
Finally, Dolores pulled herself back together. “I’m sorry, Abs.”
“Sweetie, I’m always here for you,” Abby said. "You were very brave in there."
Dolores shook her head.
“You know what I think?" Abby said. "I think it’s so sad that a nice man like Cyrus Fowler is dead while Michael Hyatt isn’t.”
“Don’t say that,” Dolores said. But she secretly agreed, and for a moment, wondered how to do it.
(Excerpt from the forthcoming mystery novel Murder by the Mile. Copyright 2017 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved. Thank you for reading.)
Sunday, June 11, 2017
This is the day
Psalms 118:21-24
(New King James Version)
Verse 21
I will praise You,
For You have answered me,
And have become my salvation.
Verse 22
The stone which the builders rejected
Has become the chief cornerstone.
Verse 23
This was the Lord’s doing;
It is marvelous in our eyes.
Verse 24
This is the day the Lord has made;
We will rejoice and be glad in it.
(New King James Version)
Verse 21
I will praise You,
For You have answered me,
And have become my salvation.
Verse 22
The stone which the builders rejected
Has become the chief cornerstone.
Verse 23
This was the Lord’s doing;
It is marvelous in our eyes.
Verse 24
This is the day the Lord has made;
We will rejoice and be glad in it.
Saturday, June 10, 2017
Lost & Found
Lost & Found
By Stephen B. Bagley
I was lost in my town
living in back alleys
of lost youth and wasted time
until you found me
I wandered aimlessly
from one love to another
all just sad and empty
until you found me
Blind to important things
my light taken by ashes
with sorrow as my friend
until you found me
until you found me
I didn't know
how a real kiss (sweet and sharp)
tasted like cherries
until you found me
I didn't know
how true passion (sweat and shouts)
burned in delicious fire
until you found me
I didn't know
how I had not been
truly alive
Until you found me.
(Copyright 2017 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved. From the forthcoming book Eternal. Thank you for reading.)
By Stephen B. Bagley
I was lost in my town
living in back alleys
of lost youth and wasted time
until you found me
I wandered aimlessly
from one love to another
all just sad and empty
until you found me
Blind to important things
my light taken by ashes
with sorrow as my friend
until you found me
until you found me
I didn't know
how a real kiss (sweet and sharp)
tasted like cherries
until you found me
I didn't know
how true passion (sweat and shouts)
burned in delicious fire
until you found me
I didn't know
how I had not been
truly alive
Until you found me.
(Copyright 2017 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved. From the forthcoming book Eternal. Thank you for reading.)
Friday, June 09, 2017
Passion
PassionBy Stephen B. Bagley
If I could, I would seduce you
into poetry. I would run
feathery words over the bare
shoulders of your muse, touch gently
the moist secret places of your
metaphors, delicately brush
your lips with similes and plunge
rhythm and rhyme into your soul.
I would take you past the threshold
where passion and structure meet, where
one image means the difference
between indifference and glory.
If I could, I would do these things
and do them long and do them well
until when you heard poetry,
you would gasp, don’t stop oh don’t stop.
Copyright 2015. All rights reserved.
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