KjM - on the web

A Muse?

Asked, once, what my idea of a Muse was, I turned around and this is what happened.

---

The pressure doors slam closed but a hiss of escaping air can be heard.

"There is your beginning. Now, write your way out of it. You don't write, you die."

She's like that. Forceful. Insistent. Pain in the neck.

Her whisper's soft in my ear. "Write."

Her people are all like that, or so I've heard. They are old. They have had many names.

"Silence! That is not a tale you can sing." Her words bounce off the metal walls, harsh.

Can she read minds?

She looks at me, smiles enigmatically and closes her eyes. Her speech takes on the cadence of long-held memory.

"We were old, and the world older still, when first the northern peoples found us. We sang to them, calling on their wisest, putting their fears to rest.

"In the darkness while the Sun rested far away and the wolves ran thin, crying in the night, we sang to the people. We taught them the names of the stars and gave them words for what they saw. From us they learned to mark the times and cycles, when to birth, sow, to reap. When to die.

"Some of their own, a few, learned the songs and to sing. They became guides for their people. They sat at our feet and heard.

"We sang of the older time, when the darkness remained and the Sun, gone away, did not return. The wolves were more than thin and did not cry in the night. We sang of the white that covered all and wrapped the world in cold.

"We stayed with them and were there when the great stones were heaped, one upon the other. We taught those who would hear and learn, how to arrange the stones, how to make the pattern. We taught them songs to build and bind. We taught them songs to rip and rend.

"We held them to us through the long nights, and kept their fear at bay.

"We sang in shared joy as the Sun, returning again, rose over the Heel Stone or, seen through the roof box, brightened the inner chamber. We set them upon the road as the cycle began again, our songs as guides."

She opens her eyes and looks down at me, seeming to have gained twice her stature during the song.

"Some of them, a few, learned the songs and to sing. They became guides for their people."

"So," and she glances at the gauge on the wall. "You have lost 32% of your air. Write. Write or die."

---

#fridayflash

My Kindle DX is dead...

...and Amazon's customer service is alive and well.

So there I was, on the train, settling in for 30 minutes of reading in the AM.

Around me, others are tapping at email, spreadsheets or, heaven forfend, PowerPoint presentations. Others are reading, books that is, listening to iPods, or just dozing. I do a lot of that last on trains.

Out comes my Kindle, I open the cover and flip the on/off switch to wake it. First thing I notice is the screen-saver image remains on the screen. Looking more closely, I see the text of the book I'm reading behind it.

OK. We've been well trained in the software industry. If there is a problem, reboot (I can hear readers of dead-tree format books laughing, and bragging that they never have to reboot an honest-to-god book printed on honest-to-god paper as St. Guttenberg intended). I will concede the point.

So, reboot my Kindle I did. All the text and image that had been on the screen remained, now augmented by a flood bar as the software reloaded itself. Hitting menu added a menu to the mess. Dismissing the menu left the ghost of a menu on the screen.

Things were not good - and re-booting again wouldn't help. I know this, because I tried.

About this time I noticed the band of bright lines running down the screen, about a third in from the left margin. They ended in a triangle, small, perfectly formed, and quite out of place on my Kindle's screen.

I've seen the like on LCD screens that have suffered trauma. But this is not an LCD screen, and the only trauma being suffered here was by me.

I turned the device off, returned it to my case, and settled back to listen to Bach's Goldberg Variations on my iPhone. I can avoid problems with the best of them.

Later, at the office, I clicked on the "Contact Me" button on Amazon's Kindle Support page. I clicked, my phone rang. Impressive. Yes, I know a computer called me, but it did tell me the average wait for a human was under a minute. It had barely finished advising me of this when I got my very own human speaking to me.

He was quite thorough. We tried all the things I had tried on the train. The results were the same. So, he said they would send me another, along with a "return to sender" pre-paid label for my defunct Kindle.

He then said something about an estimated delivery date and the word "tomorrow". I understood this to mean I would receive an email regarding the estimated delivery date on the morrow. (I can extrapolate with the best of them too.)

No. He took pains to ensure I understood that I had heard incorrectly. The estimated delivery date itself was the following day. My goodness!

Later that day I received an email thanking me for the purchase of a Kindle DX. Looking more closely, I discovered this was the registration email. My new Kindle already knew me.

And, indeed, early in the afternoon the following day, the Kindle arrived. In little time, I had downloaded about 20 of my books. That would be enough to be going on with. The remaining 100+ are archived on Amazon's cloud. I can retrieve any one of them with a click or two on my Kindle and have it "whispernet-ed" to me over the air.

I was unhappy that my Kindle died. Amazon made me forget that with their impressive response.

Breaking Day

I owe the genesis of this tale to A. Victoria Mixon. I was reading the article at that link and came upon the lines "Or you’ll be lying at dawn watching the curtains blow in on two lovers, and one of them will get up ever-so-carefully, stand by the window for a minute, and silently begin to dress. . ." and the following simply flowed.

---

Stella shivered as she slipped out of bed. Glancing out the window she saw unmoving clouds, just beginning to redden. An hour, maybe two, yet before dawn broke.

She stood by the window, her thumb worrying the ring on her left hand, and watched the sky.

No longer night, not yet day, she thought. Caught in-between.

"Aren't we all," she whispered. "Aren't we all."

She shivered again, but stood a moment longer, as unmoving as the clouds.

What are you trying to do? Punish yourself? There's a lot more than a little chill needed for that.

Stella's skin was covered in goosebumps as she shook herself and turned, gathering her clothes from the bedside chair.

She slipped on her plain white cotton bra and panties but faltered trying to button her sensible, starched blouse.

Jesus, God. What's sensible anymore?

The palms of her hands hurt as her fingernails dug deep groves into them. Her eyes were as tightly closed.

An eternity passed before she drew a deep breath, forcing the emotion down, hard. Stella opened her eyes. The clouds through the window remained unmoving, just tinged with a deeper shade of rose.

She unclenched her fists and finished buttoning her blouse.

Enough, she told herself. You made your bed, you lie in it.

She caught herself as hysteria rose in her throat.

If this were your bed, Stella, your husband would be lying in it. Your kids would be down the hall. The banner for the church social would be over there against the wall.

She busied herself, pulling on her hose and zipping up her skirt. Earrings, cross and chain, watch. If she could keep doing, not thinking, then it would be all right.

All right? Exactly how is this ever going to be all right? 

Stella stepped into her shoes and moved to the mirrored closet door. She regarded herself for a long moment, an uncompromising audit of the lines on her neck, the creases at her eyes, mouth, the gray visible in her hair.

She turned and looked towards the bed. The figure there stirred, dark hair flowing over the pillows, but didn't wake up.

Jesus Stella, she's ten years younger than you.

She turned and opened the door, her face a mask of pain.

The door closed quietly behind her.

"But she's my life," she whispered to the dawning day.

Stand Clear of the Doors

"Caution."

Blake stopped at the edge of the platform. An immediate pileup formed as people, their iPods insulating them from reality, suddenly had to deal with it. Blake took distant note of glares and mutterings as the irresistible tide of people moved around an immovable him.

"Please stand clear of the doors."

The mechanical warning, heard every day, multiple times a day, for years, intruded again. He stepped back, bumping into a woman who was making for the train.

"Idiot," she snapped as she moved around him. "Why don't you look where you're going?"

Blake watched as she reached the train. She turned and glared at him, a triumphant look on her face. The doors slammed shut.

The train moved away from the station. Blake heard screams as each carriage passed him.

He decided to skip the subway.

Blake turned to go, and stared. There were no "up" escalators. Both of those he could see were steadily transporting people down to the platform. He stood a moment, lost in the steady "thump, thump" the escalators made as they moved. A mechanical heartbeat.

"May I help you?"

Blake jumped at the sound of a voice right behind him. He turned. A tall man stood there, dressed in a Transport Authority uniform.

Before Blake could speak, the man held out his hand.

"May I see your ticket?"

Blake handed it over; habit formed over many years of commuting. The man looked at the ticket and handed it back.

"I'm afraid you don't have a ticket out of here." He smiled, a flash of teeth.

The platform was filling up. People stared ahead, heads moving here and there in time with unheard music.

The man tapped Blake on the shoulder. "The next train is for you."

He moved away along the platform. As a train slid to a stop, Blake tried to identify a strange odor.

It came to him as he was swept by the crowd into the train. Sulphur.

"Caution. Please stand clear of the doors."

The doors slammed shut.

Storytelling keeps me awake...

...for who would sleep through life?

Of late my blog seems to have become a series of tales - attached to the #fridayflash tag. Well, a long time ago and far away - decades in the past and on another continent entirely - it was said of me, "With you, Kevin, everything is a story."

Can't help it. At least, I've no intention of trying. And I enjoy spinning these tales.

I'm coming to the end of the writing course I've been engaged with for, at least, a year and a half. My final assignment is due early next week. Truth be told, it's due this Friday. But it's not going to happen (I still have to finish writing it.)

It has been interesting, and educational, to watch my writing change over the course of the...ahem... course. Technique has improved, that's for certain. I approach short stories, that I wish to write, differently. I look for beginning, middle, end. For conflict, complication, climax.

As can be seen, it had not cured me of a fondness for fragments, nor my love of alliteration.

Now, two best-seller novels and a screenplay should do it. Then I can retire, no?

Probably not. I will continue to tell tales for I believe in the role of the Storyteller for us humans.

Lost and Found

Mamma had a love for other people's things. People should take care of their possessions, she would say, or someone else will.

"Careful, child. Mind your feet."

I paused, my foot hovering above the floor. Mamma bent down and picked up the object lying there. A single earring, silver, a green stone dangling from the base.

Mamma shook her head. "Mrs. Johnson's goin' be upset about this."

"Her grandmother's. For her daughter on her wedding," she said when she noticed me looking at her. "That's an emerald."

"Something old?"

Mamma nodded. "Let's put it away safe."

We went down the hallway to, what I always called, the Room. This was the place Mamma kept the things she was always finding. She placed the earring on a shelf that ran along one wall. It joined the many other single and pairs of earrings there. I looked over her shoulder. Something further along the shelf caught my eye.

"What's that?"

Mamma looked where I was pointing. It was a ring, big, gold. A man's ring, a wedding band.

Mamma frowned.

"Anderson. Bill, I think. Bill Anderson."

She nodded, certain now. She picked up the ring, weighing it in her hand.

"Oh yes. I remember Bill now. Yes, I remember him."

"How did he explain to his wife where he lost his ring? Why he took it off?"

She clucked her tongue and looked at me.

"People would do well to make their lives simpler. To take care of their things. Not to cheat on their loved ones."

"No good can come of it."

She moved through the room, past the table covered with all sorts of keys, and stopped at a wide, flat tray. I peeked around her at the things it held.

Mamma sighed as she looked at a long, pointed kitchen knife. The blade was stained red in places.

She shook her head again.

"No. No good can come of it at all."

She looked down at me and nodded towards the knife.

"That was lost too, like all the rest here. Didn't stop them though. Didn't stop them taking her to prison. Ended her days there, she did."

She set the wedding ring down next to the knife.

We stood there, in the room, surrounded by all those things people lose track of.

Mamma always had a love for other people's things.

I take good care of mine.

On reflection...

Roger glared at his reflection in the mirror.

"You'd have avoided all that trouble if you'd only remembered to--"

"Oh no you don't. Don't go laying that on me. That's all yours, friend."

Stunned, Roger staggered back from the mirror.

"Where do you think you're going? Get back here. I'm not finished with you."

Roger stared. His reflection stared back - and spoke again.

"This was your doing, not mine. You were supposed to set that alarm. Does it look like I could have done it?"

Roger's jaw dropped. He looked a moment longer and then glanced towards the door.

A hand reached out of the mirror and grabbed his tie. He was pulled forward and his face hit the cold mirror, hard.

"I said, I'm not finished. Where do you think you're going?"

Roger braced himself against the row of washbasins. He felt the pull on his tie lessen a little.

"OK. Now that I have your attention. If you weren't up half the night drinking with Andrea, you'd have remembered to finish Jack's presentation for today."

"What were you thinking?"

Roger threw up into the washbasin, spattering the mirror.

"Hey, watch it. Now look what you've done!"

Roger finished retching and stepped back. His reflection had let go of his tie and was busy wiping himself off. Roger shook his head to try clear a sudden pounding. It didn't help. Before his reflection looked up again, Roger made for the door.

"Where're you going?"

Roger sprinted through the door and down the hallway to the elevators. The doors opened. He stepped in.

"Glad you could join us."

Roger looked at his reflections, one on either side of him. At a tap on his shoulder, he turned to confront the reflection behind him. He turned back and jammed his arm between the closing elevator doors. Once out, he headed down the stairs.

He hit the lobby at a run, dashed through the revolving doors and down the street. His reflection kept pace, moving from mirrored doorway to store windows to the windshield of the bus that almost ran him down.

"Look at you, running from yourself. You think that's gonna help?"

Roger saw people turning to watch him, a young man running wildly along the street, veering from storefront to the edge of the street, from reflections in bus shelters to the relative safety of a quiet alley.

He sat, shaking, on a small wooden crate and placed his head in his hands.

"All I'm sayin'..."

Roger looked up. His reflection looked down at him through the bars covering a grimy window in the opposite wall. He sat back, resigned.

His reflection glanced at the bars covering the window.

"Not the best view. You know, I think Jack has something like this in mind for you. After all, it was a multi-million dollar deal -- and you blew it."

"Yeah", Roger answered. "I know. I know. If I'd just finished that damned presentation, the morning would have been very different."

"Exactly."

Roger sat bolt upright in bed, his body covered in sweat. He looked around, it was still dark. He peered at the bedside clock - five am. He shook his head and grimaced. His head pounded from the excesses of the previous night.

He slipped out of the bed, went to the bathroom and looked in the mirror. His reflection faced him, matching move for move, bloodshot eye for bloodshot eye.

It was OK. It hadn't happened. It was a dream. He had time. He almost shouted for joy. It was a dream! He cleaned himself up and headed for the office.

His reflection smiled as it watched Roger go, stepped out of the mirror and slipped into the bed beside Andrea.

Fridayflash works

I've been blogging for a number of years now. While it is good to carve out a portion of the wild, wild web for myself, I knew I was scribbling away quietly off in a corner.

I'm still off in a corner, and still scribbling quietly. But for a larger audience, for which I am very grateful.

The reason for the additional traffic is #fridayflash, a combination of the reach of Twitter and the imagination of J. M. Strother (http://www.jmstrother.com).

Jon's thought was to have a number of people write a flash piece (1,000 words or fewer) each week, post them, each to his or her own blog, and tweet the fact - including URL and the tag, #fridayflash. Re-tweeting extends the news of a new story beyond the range of an individual's own followers.

The traffic information shows the impact. The first couple of weeks attracted 20-odd visitors, no mean increment over the usual traffic to my blog.

The last two weeks. Well, they are quite different.

Many thanks to Jon and all the visitors and readers who wander over to my corner (including the occupant of a not-park-bench).

I appreciate the company.

[Posted with iBlogger from my iPhone]

Payment Due

They never think about the price. Never.

Not something I understand really, and I've been doing this a long time, let me tell you. Shortcuts. That's what I think it's about. A shortcut to wealth and happiness or whatever it is they've set their little hearts on.

Take Cindy for example. You know the one.

Now, don't get me wrong, she didn't have it easy. Those step-sisters of hers, they gave whole generations of step-siblings a bad name. Her father? Not much better. I suppose you'd say he was detached.

No. Her life wasn't going the way it used to and she couldn't see it improving. Mind you, I don't think making a doormat of yourself will improve anything. But who's asking my opinion? So there she was; a ball in the offing and she with her heart set on it being her ticket out. All she needed was someone to wave a magic wand and everything would be better.

That was my cue.

Dear me but Cindy was a fright. Dressed in rags and dirty with it. Well, we godmothers are used to working with what's available. The dress was easy. A few extensions, some tinsel and Cindy was made presentable. It's wonderful how a properly fitted push-up can lift a girl's confidence. In no time she looked fit for any ball. Footmen, transport; they were harder, but we got it done. Off she went, her head full of fluff and fancy. I gave her the usual warnings about midnight.

I knew she'd forget. They always do. That's why the glass slippers, but I'm sure you guessed that. Hardly the most practical of footwear. And dancing in them? You try it sometime and see what you think. But they were memorable, so it didn't take the Prince long to find the pretty toes he'd been looking at all evening. The Prince and feet? That's another story for another time.

So, Cindy found her way out and they all lived happily ever after.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I've an appointment with her.

We have to talk about payment.

Jeanne d'Arc - The Maid of Campbell

There she stood. Aged five, or maybe six. Everything about her - one foot crossed over the other, toes pointed to the earth, hands resting on hips, head raised - bespoke outraged indignation at guardian/parent/adult-who-would-infringe-upon-her-freedom.

I did not see her face. It wasn't necessary. I haven't seen that expressive a back in a very long time.

She was Jeanne d'Arc. She was Екатерина II Великая, Empress of All the Russias. She was The Firestarter.

I have no idea what transpired to cause such affront - but I hope she never loses her passion.