It’s time for the sounds and smells of summer: barbecue, people splashing in pools, coconut suntan lotion, happy laughter, freshly mown lawns, all is happy, happy, happy as people rejoice in the sunlight—except for me, of course, since I’ve been hiding in my darkened house as soon as the flocks of mosquitoes started returning from whatever nightmarish place they spent the winter at.
Yes, I know that supposedly they lay eggs that somehow survive the winter’s cold, and those eggs hatch into larva, which grow up to suck blood and lay more eggs to survive the winter, but I don’t believe it. Have you ever seen a mosquito nest? Me, neither. What really happens is they follow the sun to torment South Americans. Mosquitoes live many years, and all of them speak fondly of me, their Promised Land of white, soft skin that conceals the most delicious and nourishing liquid.
Not all of the mosquitoes hunt me, of course. Half of the mosquitoes are male, which only feed on nectar and Big Macs. The blood suckers are all deadly, single-minded females. (They are called Hillarys and Palins by biologists.)
Even though I’ve purchased enough insecticide to permanently alter the DNA of my entire town and my downwind neighbors are threatening to file an EPA suit, the mosquitoes remain.
Naturally I started looking for solutions, including some home remedies, such as these:
1. Wipe yourself dry after your shower with a fabric softener sheet. This doesn’t seem to do anything, but I do smell Ocean Breeze Fresh.
2. Avon Skin So Soft. Many people swear by—and at—this lotion that supposedly functions as a safe insect repellent. Only result for me was that the mosquitoes would tell their friends, “There’s a strange seasoning on him, but underneath is pure scarlet goodness.”
3. Drink a lot of whiskey. My friend Renaldo uses this and was telling me that it works. I stared at him and noticed his arms were covered by bites. I pointed that out, and he said, “I know, but I don’t care.” Later he would collapse from blood loss, but not before hundreds of mosquitoes were unable to fly in a straight line.
4. Eat several cloves of raw garlic a day. This might work. It does keep people away from you, so maybe it will insects.
5. Catnip. Tuck a several twigs of catnip in your pockets and in your collar. This works. You have to run from the crazed cats, and the mosquitoes can’t keep up. Except in my case, I run from one flock of mosquitoes into another. So this doesn’t work; besides, I hate running. God wouldn’t have given us cars if He wanted us to run.
6. The Native Americans used to rub a combination of mud and rancid animal fat on their bodies. Alligator, raccoon, opossum, or bear fat was preferred. Let us know how this works out for you, okay?
7. Mix six drops each of the essential oils of catnip, citronella, lavender, neem, and black pepper into organic soy oil during the waning moon with a spoon made of willow—oh forget it.
Anyway, think of me as I wave at you from behind the sliding glass doors of my house. I may be as pale as the underbelly of a frog from the lack of sun, but come the first frost of fall, I’ll be back.
(Copyright 2014 by Stephen B. Bagley. Excerpted from the forthcoming A Little Floozy. All rights reserved. No copying without express prior permission from the author and publisher. Thank you for reading.)
Wednesday, July 02, 2014
Friday, June 27, 2014
Hamlet by any other name would still be too long
I’m sure you all know Hamlet by William Shakespeare is one of the greatest plays ever written, besides mine. And if you didn’t know that, now you do, and you can go to bed knowing you learned one thing today. Woohoo!
You may be surprised to also learn I am not a fan of the play. Oh, I recognize the genius of it, and it has one of the most famous and moving soliloquies ever written (To be or not to be...) but frankly it doesn’t have a role for Dolly Parton, and I don’t like plays that preclude the chance of casting her.
If you’re unfamiliar with the story, it’s almost exactly not like Duck Dynasty. Hamlet, the Prince of Denmark, learns that his father, King Hamlet, has been murdered. He learns this from his father’s ghost who tells Hamlet that Claudius, Prince Hamlet’s uncle, killed him. Hamlet (Prince, not King) has doubts about this, particularly when Hamlet (King, not Prince) says Claudius murdered him (King Hamlet) by pouring poison in his ear. (Yes, ear. I’m not making this up.)
Prince Hamlet is confused by this. Uncle Claudius has already married Hamlet’s mother, Gertrude, which makes Claudius his uncle-father. Hamlet is so dismayed that he doesn’t avenge his father for three more hours, thus angering the audience who want to go home. Hamlet decides he will pretend to be crazy—pretend? He’s seeing ghosts, mind you—AND, because things aren’t confusing enough, Hamlet will use a group of traveling actors to put on a play that will depict a man killing a king to gain a throne by pouring poison in his ear. I wonder where he got that idea.
Meanwhile, Claudius and Gertrude naturally think Hamlet is crazy so they have two spies, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, watch Hamlet. (Much later, Rosencrantz and Guilderstern would have a play written about them; it still ends badly for them.)
When Claudius sees the play within the play, he runs away, but comes back after his agent tells him that he can’t get out of his contract. His leaving, however, convinces Hamlet that Claudius did kill his father by pouring poison in his ear. Hamlet plots to kill Claudius, but not fast enough for the audience. Instead, Hamlet wanders around basically killing innocent people and acting like a loon.
First, he mistakenly stabs Polonius, the Lord Chamberlain, who is hiding behind a curtain in the queen’s bedroom to spy on Hamlet and Gertrude. (At least that was Polonius’s story, but I wonder.)
Claudius has Hamlet exiled to England and sends Rosencrantz and Guildenstern with him, along with a sealed letter telling the English to kill Hamlet upon arrival. Hamlet finds the letter, changes the name of the victim to Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, who are hung while Hamlet returns to Denmark. The play is loaded with laughs like that.
Polonius, by the way, was the father of Ophelia, whom everyone but Hamlet thought Hamlet was madly in love with. Ophelia, already unsettled by Hamlet’s odd behavior, drowns herself after hearing of her father’s death. Then Hamlet decides he really did love her. Her brother Laetres and Hamlet argue over her body at the funeral about who loved Ophelia more. Funny stuff, huh?
Claudius conspires with Laertes to kill Hamlet in a rigged sword fight. Hamlet kills him, but not before Laertes pokes Hamlet with a poisoned sword. Gertrude drinks poison from a cup meant for Hamlet. Hamlet kills Claudius by making his uncle drink poison and then cuts his uncle's throat, but at least Hamlet didn't pour poison in his ear. And finally, finally, finally Hamlet dies. Thus ends the tragedy of Hamlet, the Prince of Denmark, and not a moment too soon.
(Copyright 2014 by Stephen B. Bagley. Excerpted from A Little Floozy. All rights reserved. No copying without express prior permission from the author and publisher. Thank you for reading!)
You may be surprised to also learn I am not a fan of the play. Oh, I recognize the genius of it, and it has one of the most famous and moving soliloquies ever written (To be or not to be...) but frankly it doesn’t have a role for Dolly Parton, and I don’t like plays that preclude the chance of casting her.
If you’re unfamiliar with the story, it’s almost exactly not like Duck Dynasty. Hamlet, the Prince of Denmark, learns that his father, King Hamlet, has been murdered. He learns this from his father’s ghost who tells Hamlet that Claudius, Prince Hamlet’s uncle, killed him. Hamlet (Prince, not King) has doubts about this, particularly when Hamlet (King, not Prince) says Claudius murdered him (King Hamlet) by pouring poison in his ear. (Yes, ear. I’m not making this up.)
Prince Hamlet is confused by this. Uncle Claudius has already married Hamlet’s mother, Gertrude, which makes Claudius his uncle-father. Hamlet is so dismayed that he doesn’t avenge his father for three more hours, thus angering the audience who want to go home. Hamlet decides he will pretend to be crazy—pretend? He’s seeing ghosts, mind you—AND, because things aren’t confusing enough, Hamlet will use a group of traveling actors to put on a play that will depict a man killing a king to gain a throne by pouring poison in his ear. I wonder where he got that idea.
Meanwhile, Claudius and Gertrude naturally think Hamlet is crazy so they have two spies, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, watch Hamlet. (Much later, Rosencrantz and Guilderstern would have a play written about them; it still ends badly for them.)
When Claudius sees the play within the play, he runs away, but comes back after his agent tells him that he can’t get out of his contract. His leaving, however, convinces Hamlet that Claudius did kill his father by pouring poison in his ear. Hamlet plots to kill Claudius, but not fast enough for the audience. Instead, Hamlet wanders around basically killing innocent people and acting like a loon.
First, he mistakenly stabs Polonius, the Lord Chamberlain, who is hiding behind a curtain in the queen’s bedroom to spy on Hamlet and Gertrude. (At least that was Polonius’s story, but I wonder.)
Claudius has Hamlet exiled to England and sends Rosencrantz and Guildenstern with him, along with a sealed letter telling the English to kill Hamlet upon arrival. Hamlet finds the letter, changes the name of the victim to Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, who are hung while Hamlet returns to Denmark. The play is loaded with laughs like that.
Polonius, by the way, was the father of Ophelia, whom everyone but Hamlet thought Hamlet was madly in love with. Ophelia, already unsettled by Hamlet’s odd behavior, drowns herself after hearing of her father’s death. Then Hamlet decides he really did love her. Her brother Laetres and Hamlet argue over her body at the funeral about who loved Ophelia more. Funny stuff, huh?
Claudius conspires with Laertes to kill Hamlet in a rigged sword fight. Hamlet kills him, but not before Laertes pokes Hamlet with a poisoned sword. Gertrude drinks poison from a cup meant for Hamlet. Hamlet kills Claudius by making his uncle drink poison and then cuts his uncle's throat, but at least Hamlet didn't pour poison in his ear. And finally, finally, finally Hamlet dies. Thus ends the tragedy of Hamlet, the Prince of Denmark, and not a moment too soon.
(Copyright 2014 by Stephen B. Bagley. Excerpted from A Little Floozy. All rights reserved. No copying without express prior permission from the author and publisher. Thank you for reading!)
Thursday, June 26, 2014
Thursday, June 05, 2014
Library to host book signing for Ada Writers
ADA, OKLAHOMA – Ada Public Library will host a book signing for “Creations 2014,” the newest anthology from Ada Writers, Thursday, June 19, 4:30-6:30 p.m.The book will be available to purchase at the signing for $12 and is available now at Lulu.com, Amazon.com, and other online retailers. Later this month, it will be on sale at Karen’s Art & Framing, Inc., in downtown Ada.
“We’ll have most of our authors at the signing,” Ada Writers president Stephen B. Bagley said. “It will be a great time to get your anthology signed by the writers and to meet them and talk about writing.”
A limited amount of the previous anthologies will also be available at the signing, and there will be a table featuring books by group members, including three new books. “Don Perry will be there with his new young adult book ‘Little Texas on the Pecos,’” Bagley said. “Tom Yarbrough will be bringing his new inspirational book ‘Treasures of the Kingdom.’ And Gail Henderson will present her new poetry and photography book ‘Bare.’” Other authors featured will be Bagley, Kelley Benson, and Martha Rhynes.
This is the third year that Ada Writers has produced an anthology. “Each year we’ve gained new authors,” Bagley said. “This year, we feature poems, essays, short stories, memoirs, and book excerpts from 17 local and area writers. Five of the authors have never been published in our anthology before.”
Authors will read from their works at the signing, Bagley said. “And we will have cookies. We can’t have a reading without cookies. It’s one of our traditions now.”
The local and area anthology authors include: Stephen B. Bagley, Kelley Benson, Eric Collier, Stacey Foster, Gail Henderson, Mel Hutt, Sterling Jacobs, Ken Lewis, Rick Litchfield, Don Perry, Martha Rhynes, James Sanders, Anna Tynsky, Joanne Verbridge, Tim Wilson, Tom Yarbrough, and Loretta Yin.
Ada Writers meets the second and fourth Saturday of each month at 11 a.m. in an upstairs meeting room at the Ada Public Library, 124 South Rennie. New writers are always welcome. For more information about the anthology and the writing group, please visit AdaWriters.blogspot.com.
Thursday, May 29, 2014
A dream for another life
Thought I would share a few of my recent photos from a small lake near my home. One of my dreams is own a home on that lake, but not in my budget right now. Maybe it's even a dream for another life, but it's a good dream.
Wednesday, May 21, 2014
A little night music
Another one of my music nights. Just listening to unfamiliar music on my computer. Unfamiliar because I haven't played the songs in months. I have thousands of songs on my hard drive, so naturally some aren't played much.
Mostly sweet, melancholy music. Violins and acoustic guitars. Quiet songs to fill up the empty places in my soul. Fill them up so nothing else can reside there.
Dan Fogelberg, Indigo Girls, Alexi Murdoch, Ed Sheeran, Rob Thomas... Talented singers with great gifts.
Do you have music nights? Or do you like your nights so still that the stars finally speak to fill the silence? Do you walk the fields at night and gaze up at the sky where the moon hangs like a ripe peach? Or do you gratefully close your eyes and fall into sleep until the sun dawns?
Whatever helps you to be filled with peace, that's what you should do. That's what I'm trying to do as I listen to a little night music.
Mostly sweet, melancholy music. Violins and acoustic guitars. Quiet songs to fill up the empty places in my soul. Fill them up so nothing else can reside there.
Dan Fogelberg, Indigo Girls, Alexi Murdoch, Ed Sheeran, Rob Thomas... Talented singers with great gifts.
Do you have music nights? Or do you like your nights so still that the stars finally speak to fill the silence? Do you walk the fields at night and gaze up at the sky where the moon hangs like a ripe peach? Or do you gratefully close your eyes and fall into sleep until the sun dawns?
Whatever helps you to be filled with peace, that's what you should do. That's what I'm trying to do as I listen to a little night music.
Thursday, May 08, 2014
Starfish
Whenever I get discouraged by the many, many, many problems in the world, I think of this story:
A little boy was on the beach after a terrible storm. Thousands of starfish had been washed up on the sandy beach. The little boy started picking starfish up one by one and throwing them back into the water.
A man watching the little boy's efforts thought, "There are so many starfish and only one little boy. He will never help them all." The man walked over to the boy and said, "Don't you know you will never make a difference? There are too many starfish washed up on the beach."
The little boy looked at the old man for a long moment. Then he picked up another starfish, threw it into the water, and said, "I made a difference to that one."
A little boy was on the beach after a terrible storm. Thousands of starfish had been washed up on the sandy beach. The little boy started picking starfish up one by one and throwing them back into the water.
A man watching the little boy's efforts thought, "There are so many starfish and only one little boy. He will never help them all." The man walked over to the boy and said, "Don't you know you will never make a difference? There are too many starfish washed up on the beach."
The little boy looked at the old man for a long moment. Then he picked up another starfish, threw it into the water, and said, "I made a difference to that one."
Monday, April 07, 2014
Saturday, April 05, 2014
E is for effort
"You get points for effort." Really? I've heard that phrase a few times in my life. And it leaves me with a few questions.
First, who is rewarding those points and why do they have the authority to give them? Did they go to college for a degree in point rewarding? Or are they just judgmental and think they're allowed to give points because they're more awesome than the rest of us?
Second, points for what? Can we cash in the points for merchandise? Is there a goal where we reach a certain number of points and win a car? Or win a game? Get a trophy? If they're not worth anything, I don't want them. You can keep your points.
Third, who thinks that phrase is a compliment? People pretend that it softens the blow when they add it after they've told you that you've failed. Here, I'll kick you, and then tell you that the kick could have been worse. Whee.
Fourth, why am I ranting about this? Well, I don't know. I haven't heard it in years, but I read a book recently in which it was used, and I think it made me angry.
Fifth, why angry? Because I get tired of people offering their opinions when they are unsolicited. I know people who believe themselves to be authorities on many things, but they are not. And their willful disregard for facts makes me crazy.
Sixth, when am I going to stop ranting about this? Now.
First, who is rewarding those points and why do they have the authority to give them? Did they go to college for a degree in point rewarding? Or are they just judgmental and think they're allowed to give points because they're more awesome than the rest of us?
Second, points for what? Can we cash in the points for merchandise? Is there a goal where we reach a certain number of points and win a car? Or win a game? Get a trophy? If they're not worth anything, I don't want them. You can keep your points.
Third, who thinks that phrase is a compliment? People pretend that it softens the blow when they add it after they've told you that you've failed. Here, I'll kick you, and then tell you that the kick could have been worse. Whee.
Fourth, why am I ranting about this? Well, I don't know. I haven't heard it in years, but I read a book recently in which it was used, and I think it made me angry.
Fifth, why angry? Because I get tired of people offering their opinions when they are unsolicited. I know people who believe themselves to be authorities on many things, but they are not. And their willful disregard for facts makes me crazy.
Sixth, when am I going to stop ranting about this? Now.
Friday, April 04, 2014
D is for Dance
I always wanted to know how to dance. I was raised in a very religious home, and that was simply something we weren't allowed to do. You could clap to music and maybe raise your hands, but no hip action and DON'T MOVE THOSE FEET!
When I went to college, I took a few girls dancing. Apparently they were torn between horror and hysterical laughter by my dancing. One of them finally told me that she loved me as long as I didn't dance. For many reasons, that relationship didn't last, but now that I think about, maybe that was a reason, too.
These days I dance in the privacy of home, especially when a happy song comes on the radio or plays on the music service. My dancing would still probably horrify any onlookers, but since I'm alone, it's no one's business but my own.
Someday, though, I'm going to meet a girl who dances as badly as I do and enjoys it as much as I do...and we're going to dance the rest of our lives together.
When I went to college, I took a few girls dancing. Apparently they were torn between horror and hysterical laughter by my dancing. One of them finally told me that she loved me as long as I didn't dance. For many reasons, that relationship didn't last, but now that I think about, maybe that was a reason, too.
These days I dance in the privacy of home, especially when a happy song comes on the radio or plays on the music service. My dancing would still probably horrify any onlookers, but since I'm alone, it's no one's business but my own.
Someday, though, I'm going to meet a girl who dances as badly as I do and enjoys it as much as I do...and we're going to dance the rest of our lives together.
Thursday, April 03, 2014
C is for Catamount
"Catamount" is another name for a mountain lion or a cougar. Bet you didn't know that. Catamounts also are an occasional predator of humans. Mind you, this is mostly caused because the catamount population is increasing after years of decline due to conservation. It's not that the big cats seek us out or lure us to their den with offers of Twinkies and beer. No, it's that they're hungry and we're convenient and look tasty--it's the same situation that a cheerleader confronts when she attends a frat party, although not as risky.
Certainly we humans are the only species that considers ourselves a delicacy. Apparently, after one taste of human flesh, the consumer of said flesh desires nothing else, be that consumer an animal or a man. Notice how many books and movies show humans as the equivalent to potato chips. "You can't eat just one." I'm surprised Lays doesn't offer a human flavor; Hannibal Lector would be the spokesperson, of course.
Considering how many chemicals and medicines we consume, we're not health food. Definitely not organic and probably not free range. We should make other species aware of this. When we're walking in the woods and we hear a sound that could be made by a hungry bear or a ravenous sparrow, we should say, "I just had a soft drink that contained large amounts of Red Dye #1 and carcinogenic preservatives. I eat prepackaged foods all the time that are loaded with trans-fats." Naturally, a health-minded animal will turn away, and we will be assured of our continued well being until our arteries explode.
Catamounts are beautiful animals, but we shouldn't make them into our pets. I read a horrible news story the other day where this lady named Constance raised a cougar from birth, and it was as "gentle as an lamb," but then it turned on her savagely, stole her identify, destroyed her credit, and then ran off to Africa with the family dog. The lady was heartbroken, but it's her own fault.
Constance forgot the first rule of pet ownership: Don't let them know your financial information. I'm careful to make sure my fish never get any more information than they need to conduct their business affairs. At the very least, you shouldn't let catamounts drink and drive. Show some responsibility. And don't sprinkle yourself with seasoning before you venture into the forest. That's just asking for trouble.
Certainly we humans are the only species that considers ourselves a delicacy. Apparently, after one taste of human flesh, the consumer of said flesh desires nothing else, be that consumer an animal or a man. Notice how many books and movies show humans as the equivalent to potato chips. "You can't eat just one." I'm surprised Lays doesn't offer a human flavor; Hannibal Lector would be the spokesperson, of course.
Considering how many chemicals and medicines we consume, we're not health food. Definitely not organic and probably not free range. We should make other species aware of this. When we're walking in the woods and we hear a sound that could be made by a hungry bear or a ravenous sparrow, we should say, "I just had a soft drink that contained large amounts of Red Dye #1 and carcinogenic preservatives. I eat prepackaged foods all the time that are loaded with trans-fats." Naturally, a health-minded animal will turn away, and we will be assured of our continued well being until our arteries explode.
Catamounts are beautiful animals, but we shouldn't make them into our pets. I read a horrible news story the other day where this lady named Constance raised a cougar from birth, and it was as "gentle as an lamb," but then it turned on her savagely, stole her identify, destroyed her credit, and then ran off to Africa with the family dog. The lady was heartbroken, but it's her own fault.
Constance forgot the first rule of pet ownership: Don't let them know your financial information. I'm careful to make sure my fish never get any more information than they need to conduct their business affairs. At the very least, you shouldn't let catamounts drink and drive. Show some responsibility. And don't sprinkle yourself with seasoning before you venture into the forest. That's just asking for trouble.
Wednesday, April 02, 2014
B is for Bond
"Bond. James Bond." And with that iconic line, the original action hero introduces himself to people that he will be soon either be loving or killing and sometimes both. I grew up on the Bond films and even read the Bond books and short stories. I'm among that small crew that likes Roger Moore's Bond best, mostly because his movies were bigger and funnier.
But I confess here: I often found myself rooting -- well, not rooting -- maybe admiring the villains. After all, they build things: hovercrafts, lasers, solar ray satellites. Amazing things. One of them built an underwater city; one of them built a space station. Admittedly, there's that whole pesky destroy-the-world plan, but otherwise, they're doing great work.
Bond, on the other hand, just blows things up. You always know where he's been by the trail of destruction he leaves. Even Q only makes devices to destroy Bond's enemies. Where is His Majesty's Secret Space Station? Nowhere, that's where.
Bond villains, of course, always lose, mostly because they spend their time bragging about their plans instead of SHOOTING BOND ON SIGHT. If I were a Bond villain, the movie would go like this: "Bond. James--arggggh" And then I would proceed to conquer the earth.
But I confess here: I often found myself rooting -- well, not rooting -- maybe admiring the villains. After all, they build things: hovercrafts, lasers, solar ray satellites. Amazing things. One of them built an underwater city; one of them built a space station. Admittedly, there's that whole pesky destroy-the-world plan, but otherwise, they're doing great work.
Bond, on the other hand, just blows things up. You always know where he's been by the trail of destruction he leaves. Even Q only makes devices to destroy Bond's enemies. Where is His Majesty's Secret Space Station? Nowhere, that's where.
Bond villains, of course, always lose, mostly because they spend their time bragging about their plans instead of SHOOTING BOND ON SIGHT. If I were a Bond villain, the movie would go like this: "Bond. James--arggggh" And then I would proceed to conquer the earth.
Tuesday, April 01, 2014
A is for Alpha
Alpha is, of course, the beginning, and this is the beginning of the Blogging from A-Z Challenge.
A is also for April, which is the month of the Blogging from A-Z Challenge.
And A is for Anecdotes, which are little stories. FLOOZY & Other Stories is basically filled with anecdotes of various lengths. I'm not sure when an anecdote becomes a short story--maybe when it's longer than a few paragraphs. I don't think there's governing body that decides the various story length. But maybe so. There are governing bodies for just about anything these days. I want to be on one of those bodies. It must be satisfying to make those decision--as long as you have the ability to enforce them. Otherwise, you're just being annoying.
Anyway, that's my first post for the Challenge.
Monday, March 31, 2014
Blooms!
I went to the little lake near my home on Sunday and took these photos. Love the blooms. All the other vegetation is still brown, but there are signs of spring everywhere. In two or three weeks, things will be green! I can't hardly wait.
Monday, March 24, 2014
The Burden of Beauty
Excerpt from A Little Floozy
By Stephen B. Bagley
I just had a sudden insight that I’m sure may have escaped your attention. Well, don’t feel bad. After all, I’m a genius, and you’re not. But you have a sweet spirit and will probably be spared when I conquer the earth. But that’s not a promise. Stop being so needy.
Anyway, my insight was about The Burden of Beauty. The capitals on The Burden of Beauty should clue you in that this will be our topic. Or really my topic. I’m writing, and you’re reading. It’s good to keep those roles straight.
Yes, it’s true that beautiful people get the best jobs, make the most money, get better care in emergency rooms and hospitals, receive more respect from their peers and loved ones, and live longer. These statements are all supported by statistics, and not ones I made up, either.
Naturally, you might think this would mean everyone would want to be beautiful or handsome as their gender may be, but let’s take a closer look at these beautiful people—and I don’t mean by hacking into the webcam on their computer or lurking outside their house at 3 a.m. until they call the police and get a protective order. I miss you, Dolly Parton.
But imagine, if you can, that you are a beautiful person. You have always been beautiful. In school, you were the football captain or head cheerleader, as your gender may be. You married another handsome and/or beautiful person, and you both have beautiful jobs. Naturally you have two or three beautiful children. You attend a beautiful church and play golf and/or tennis at the beautiful country club. Your life is just beautiful, beautiful, beautiful. And then you die beautifully and go to beautiful heaven... No, wait, that wasn’t where I was going with this.
It’s the mirror that trips you up. Around forty, you look in the mirror and discover to your horror that your face looks like a National Geographic relief map of the Grand Canyon. How did that happen? Just yesterday you were crushing some poor ugly person’s heart at the prom as you let him or her down gently.
Now you look ... old ... older ... not as young as you once did. Let’s just say somewhat less young and be done with it.
If you’re a woman—and some men— you hightail it to a plastic surgeon who pulls the skin on your face so tight that even mannequins look at you with horror. And you have other body parts tucked, bobbed, lipo-sucked, fat-vacuumed, and generally lifted until your knees are floating around your chest. You sigh in relief—which is the only noise you can make until your face relaxes.
The bad news is this is all temporary. Well, it’s good news for your plastic surgeon because he needs to keep up those alimony payments to his first through fourth wives. But the bad news for you is that gravity is relentless as is time, and baby, they’re coming for you no matter where you hide.
Think of what a burden it must be for a beautiful person to always have to fight to be beautiful or handsome as their gender may be. They never get any rest. They have to constantly worry about maintaining their looks. It’s a hard life. Of course, I know. Oh, how I know.
But you, you happy hideous thing, will never suffer as I have. I would almost trade lives with you. Oh, who am I kidding? No, I wouldn’t.
Excerpt from A Little Floozy. Copyright 2014 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved. No copying without express prior permission from the author and publisher. Thank you for reading.
By Stephen B. Bagley
I just had a sudden insight that I’m sure may have escaped your attention. Well, don’t feel bad. After all, I’m a genius, and you’re not. But you have a sweet spirit and will probably be spared when I conquer the earth. But that’s not a promise. Stop being so needy.
Anyway, my insight was about The Burden of Beauty. The capitals on The Burden of Beauty should clue you in that this will be our topic. Or really my topic. I’m writing, and you’re reading. It’s good to keep those roles straight.
Yes, it’s true that beautiful people get the best jobs, make the most money, get better care in emergency rooms and hospitals, receive more respect from their peers and loved ones, and live longer. These statements are all supported by statistics, and not ones I made up, either.
Naturally, you might think this would mean everyone would want to be beautiful or handsome as their gender may be, but let’s take a closer look at these beautiful people—and I don’t mean by hacking into the webcam on their computer or lurking outside their house at 3 a.m. until they call the police and get a protective order. I miss you, Dolly Parton.
But imagine, if you can, that you are a beautiful person. You have always been beautiful. In school, you were the football captain or head cheerleader, as your gender may be. You married another handsome and/or beautiful person, and you both have beautiful jobs. Naturally you have two or three beautiful children. You attend a beautiful church and play golf and/or tennis at the beautiful country club. Your life is just beautiful, beautiful, beautiful. And then you die beautifully and go to beautiful heaven... No, wait, that wasn’t where I was going with this.
It’s the mirror that trips you up. Around forty, you look in the mirror and discover to your horror that your face looks like a National Geographic relief map of the Grand Canyon. How did that happen? Just yesterday you were crushing some poor ugly person’s heart at the prom as you let him or her down gently.
Now you look ... old ... older ... not as young as you once did. Let’s just say somewhat less young and be done with it.
If you’re a woman—and some men— you hightail it to a plastic surgeon who pulls the skin on your face so tight that even mannequins look at you with horror. And you have other body parts tucked, bobbed, lipo-sucked, fat-vacuumed, and generally lifted until your knees are floating around your chest. You sigh in relief—which is the only noise you can make until your face relaxes.
The bad news is this is all temporary. Well, it’s good news for your plastic surgeon because he needs to keep up those alimony payments to his first through fourth wives. But the bad news for you is that gravity is relentless as is time, and baby, they’re coming for you no matter where you hide.
Think of what a burden it must be for a beautiful person to always have to fight to be beautiful or handsome as their gender may be. They never get any rest. They have to constantly worry about maintaining their looks. It’s a hard life. Of course, I know. Oh, how I know.
But you, you happy hideous thing, will never suffer as I have. I would almost trade lives with you. Oh, who am I kidding? No, I wouldn’t.
Excerpt from A Little Floozy. Copyright 2014 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved. No copying without express prior permission from the author and publisher. Thank you for reading.
Saturday, February 22, 2014
Walking among the dead
Today I walked among the dead.
Not my dead.
Strangers in an old cemetery a few miles from my house.
Thought I might take photos...that the late winter sun might illuminate a particular stone or give a halo to an old weathered angel.
Instead I just carried my camera and walked among the rows of graves. Stopping to read a date or name. My feet crunched the old brown leaves. The few trees were bare except for a row of bedraggled evergreens along one side of the cemetery.
And I thought about life and how it goes so fast. How we can't hold our dead no matter how much we try, no matter how much we cry, they slip away when we're not looking.
I thought about those who have left us and how I miss them. My grandparents, my parents, aunts and uncles, cousins ... my baby brother ... My mother was so sharp, so smart, she would see right through your soul, and my father loved to laugh and loved to make me laugh. All those losses. Is that why we're ready to go at the end of our lives? Do the losses pile on until our spirit is ready to fly, to escape the burdens of sorrow? Or maybe we're just ready to meet them again. Maybe we're tired of not being with them. Maybe we're just tired of this earth.
I sat down in an old concrete bench beside an empty tree.
Across the rows, I heard a mockingbird and saw a robin. I watched a lonely cloud make its way across the pale blue sky. And I felt the stillness settle into me, the quiet calm that I call peace for the lack of a better word. I stopped thinking for a while, stopping imagining, stopped remembering.
For a few moments, the horizon held me. That beckoning sky. The endless heavens beyond.
Then I took a deep breath of the cool wind. I smiled for no particular reason other than it felt better than not smiling. I stood, walked back to my car, and drove back to my life.
Not my dead.
Strangers in an old cemetery a few miles from my house.
Thought I might take photos...that the late winter sun might illuminate a particular stone or give a halo to an old weathered angel.
Instead I just carried my camera and walked among the rows of graves. Stopping to read a date or name. My feet crunched the old brown leaves. The few trees were bare except for a row of bedraggled evergreens along one side of the cemetery.
And I thought about life and how it goes so fast. How we can't hold our dead no matter how much we try, no matter how much we cry, they slip away when we're not looking.
I thought about those who have left us and how I miss them. My grandparents, my parents, aunts and uncles, cousins ... my baby brother ... My mother was so sharp, so smart, she would see right through your soul, and my father loved to laugh and loved to make me laugh. All those losses. Is that why we're ready to go at the end of our lives? Do the losses pile on until our spirit is ready to fly, to escape the burdens of sorrow? Or maybe we're just ready to meet them again. Maybe we're tired of not being with them. Maybe we're just tired of this earth.
I sat down in an old concrete bench beside an empty tree.
Across the rows, I heard a mockingbird and saw a robin. I watched a lonely cloud make its way across the pale blue sky. And I felt the stillness settle into me, the quiet calm that I call peace for the lack of a better word. I stopped thinking for a while, stopping imagining, stopped remembering.
For a few moments, the horizon held me. That beckoning sky. The endless heavens beyond.
Then I took a deep breath of the cool wind. I smiled for no particular reason other than it felt better than not smiling. I stood, walked back to my car, and drove back to my life.
Sunday, February 09, 2014
Sunday at Smith Lake
Went out with my camera and took a few photos of Smith Lake this afternoon. Man, it's still cold, but warmer weather is supposed to be headed our way. I sure hope so. Winter is dragging me down.
Monday, January 27, 2014
Our Romance
Our Romance
Not each other’s first love
or even each other’s second.
We both lived a life before
and carried the scars to prove it.
We did not love at first sight --
life would never be so neat --
you grimly committed to him,
and I determined to stay with her.
How we fell into each other’s arms
proved more to be a laugh there,
a shared moment here, a meeting
of minds and battered hearts.
Remember our sweet surprise
when this casual acquaintance
grew into a firm friendship
and fantastically something more.
Not each other’s first love
or even each other’s second,
but if fate is finally kind
we will be each other’s last.
Copyright 2014 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved. No copying without prior express written permission from the author and publisher. Thank you for reading.
Not each other’s first love
or even each other’s second.
We both lived a life before
and carried the scars to prove it.
We did not love at first sight --
life would never be so neat --
you grimly committed to him,
and I determined to stay with her.
How we fell into each other’s arms
proved more to be a laugh there,
a shared moment here, a meeting
of minds and battered hearts.
Remember our sweet surprise
when this casual acquaintance
grew into a firm friendship
and fantastically something more.
Not each other’s first love
or even each other’s second,
but if fate is finally kind
we will be each other’s last.
Copyright 2014 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved. No copying without prior express written permission from the author and publisher. Thank you for reading.
Wednesday, January 15, 2014
Full moon tonight
I bet the wolves are howling tonight. Below the photo is a poem from my forthcoming book Undying: Poems of Fantasy & Science Fiction.
Moon
She sent the kids to her parents.
Then cleaned the house
spotless like he wanted it.
She cooked his favorite foods,
ham and loaded potatoes,
coconut cream pie for dessert.
She put on the yellow dress,
but wore nothing underneath
because he always liked that.
And when he came home
she waited by the door
with an icy beer to sate his thirst.
After dinner, she gave herself
to him, pretending to enjoy
his uncaring and clumsy hands.
When they finished, he laughed
and said, "I'm glad you learned
your lesson last night, babe."
She smiled as her hands
covered the mottled bruises
on her bare arms and neck.
He rolled over and slept
self-satisfied, while she waited
for the sacred moon to rise.
The silvery light touched
their bed and slid over her face,
her eyes gleamed yellow.
She ran her tongue
over her newly sharp
teeth and tasted the air.
She reveled in her soft fur
as her nails became claws
and muscles writhed.
Then she turned her great head
toward his sleeping form
and smiled a predator’s smile.
When the morning sun rose,
neighbors found his body
here and there and even over there.
Copyright 2014 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved. Excerpted from the forthcoming book Undying: Poems of Fantasy & Science Fiction. No copying without express permission from the author and the publisher.
 |
| Photo copyright 2014 by Stephen B. Bagley |
Moon
She sent the kids to her parents.
Then cleaned the house
spotless like he wanted it.
She cooked his favorite foods,
ham and loaded potatoes,
coconut cream pie for dessert.
She put on the yellow dress,
but wore nothing underneath
because he always liked that.
And when he came home
she waited by the door
with an icy beer to sate his thirst.
After dinner, she gave herself
to him, pretending to enjoy
his uncaring and clumsy hands.
When they finished, he laughed
and said, "I'm glad you learned
your lesson last night, babe."
She smiled as her hands
covered the mottled bruises
on her bare arms and neck.
He rolled over and slept
self-satisfied, while she waited
for the sacred moon to rise.
The silvery light touched
their bed and slid over her face,
her eyes gleamed yellow.
She ran her tongue
over her newly sharp
teeth and tasted the air.
She reveled in her soft fur
as her nails became claws
and muscles writhed.
Then she turned her great head
toward his sleeping form
and smiled a predator’s smile.
When the morning sun rose,
neighbors found his body
here and there and even over there.
Copyright 2014 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved. Excerpted from the forthcoming book Undying: Poems of Fantasy & Science Fiction. No copying without express permission from the author and the publisher.
Wednesday, January 08, 2014
Mess
Discipline requires order, but creativity requires mess.
A particular kind of mess, but mess nonetheless. All writing -- for that matter -- creative endeavours of all types -- are the product of the tension and cooperation between mess and order ... or if you want to be fancy ... creation and entropy.
Here's a good example. I have a huge folder filled with all sorts of news articles, briefs, scraps of paper with curious words scribbled on them, photos from various magazines, movie and sporting event ticket stubs, you name it. When I feel blocked or drab or bleak, I rummage through the folder. I jumble things up. Could this photo be linked in some way to this ticket stub to that word? Rarely do I glean a complete idea from this mess, but bits float up or drift by.
From this mess, I gain an idea, perhaps for a humor column or a short story. And then order comes in. I figure out the length and the words and what I need to do each day to finish the project.
Once in a while, I have the impulse to organize the folder -- which is actually a couple of boxes now -- but I resist. That mess, those odd juxtapositions, spark creativity.
Perhaps other writers -- you maybe -- are ordered all the time. I admire you. But I will never be you. I will be here in mucking in mess striving to make order out of the drifting ideas.
A particular kind of mess, but mess nonetheless. All writing -- for that matter -- creative endeavours of all types -- are the product of the tension and cooperation between mess and order ... or if you want to be fancy ... creation and entropy.
Here's a good example. I have a huge folder filled with all sorts of news articles, briefs, scraps of paper with curious words scribbled on them, photos from various magazines, movie and sporting event ticket stubs, you name it. When I feel blocked or drab or bleak, I rummage through the folder. I jumble things up. Could this photo be linked in some way to this ticket stub to that word? Rarely do I glean a complete idea from this mess, but bits float up or drift by.
From this mess, I gain an idea, perhaps for a humor column or a short story. And then order comes in. I figure out the length and the words and what I need to do each day to finish the project.
Once in a while, I have the impulse to organize the folder -- which is actually a couple of boxes now -- but I resist. That mess, those odd juxtapositions, spark creativity.
Perhaps other writers -- you maybe -- are ordered all the time. I admire you. But I will never be you. I will be here in mucking in mess striving to make order out of the drifting ideas.
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