Red and green summer grasses hid the tough, tundra-like ground, which was usually bare during the plain's miserable, long cold winters. But during the summer, the grasses miraculously burst from the hardened earthen floor. Grasses high enough, that in many places, a tall man's head could not be seen above them.
In other places on the plain the grasses would not grow. Occasionally there would be a field of jomet flowers, whose seeds could be ground into grain, or a forest of meatwood trees, whose bark could be flavored to taste like meat, or dangerous bogs whose only value was to provide peat for fires. Occasionally there would be an area, kept carefully clear of grasses, where a village would lie, with sod houses for the poor and houses made of meatwood for the rich. In the larger villages, there would be a great building made of stone imported for Rizza and Mizza. One such of these large villages is the village of Tybia.
Tybia lies upon the great Crowland Plain, thirty lengths west of the capital of the Crow nation.
Three lengths north of Tybia are ten men. Ten men who must cross a high grassland, a field of jomet flowers, a bog, and a forest of meatwood trees to reach the village of Tybia. These ten men represent the ten major tribes that make up the nation of Crow.
Why did these ten men have to make this journey? At the moment, the nation of Crow was leaderless, its King killed in the war against the rebellious tribes of Daz, Boby and Firt. The problem was how to select another king without further dividing the remaining ten tribes that composed the Crow nation.
The sorcerers of the tribes met in the city of Crow and tried to resolve a method for selecting a King, a strong King, with force and power, gained in such a way that the other tribes would not object. They decided to set up a contest, where each of the ten tribes would send their own selected candidate to compete for King.
The contest would be to travel the three lengths of treacherous land to Tybia. It would begin at sunrise, and the first candidate to arrive in Tybia would be declared the King. The only rule was that a player could not go more than one quarter length either to the left or right of his starting position. Doing so would result in death.
It was almost sunrise.
They stood waiting in line, with mislke horses thick with black fur by their sides, waiting in a row like jockeys, waiting for the dawn to come, and for the fat sorcerer from Roby to clap his hands, their signal to start their deadly trek.
Joulin the Swift of Paz, Trax the Brave of Aoby, Lorth the Determined of Poby, Craler the Noble of Matavia, Femor the sly of Fu, Belo the Daring of Zunnel, Hask the Great of Zoby, Marto the Agile of Toby, Nebil the Tyrant of Rody, and Demar the Sincere of Crow, all waiting for the dawn to come, waiting for a chance to rule an empire.
The sun began to rise, its red light flooding across the grasslands just ahead of them. The two fat hands of the sorcerer came together in a loud whack.
Three men dived into the high grasses leading their horses behind them, and quickly disappeared into the thick mass. Three others tried to mount their horses and bull their way through the thick grasses. One of the latter group, Marto the Agile, went at a slower pace than the other two. When those two, Belo the Daring and Trax the Brave, had not gone more than twenty feet, Marto the Agile swiftly sang an arrow into each of their backs.
Four men stayed at the starting gate, hoping to stay behind and then merge ahead of the slaughter they felt was going on. Three of these men were involved in the conspiracy led by Craler the Noble. Craler the Noble was offended by the contest, and felt it a highly improper way to choose a King. He wanted to see a King elected by reason, not by force or arbitrary games. He thought the best way to mess up the contest was to have more than one person enter the village at the same time. He enlisted the aid of the two men he trusted the most, Hask the Great and Demar the Sincere, and they readily agreed to his scheme.
A half-hour passed, and then the three conspirators mounted their horses and charged into the grassland. Femor the Sly remained at the starting gate, making no attempt to kill the three, not feeling he had the capacity to kill all three swiftly enough.
Lorth the Determined and Joulin the Swift met each other in the deep grasses. Lorth fought with the bitter determination he is named for, Joulin was too fast. Lorth fell to the ground, a knife twisted into his gut. Joulin kneeled towards him and whispered, his eyes reflecting his sincerity, "I am sorry," but Lorth did not seem to understand. Joulin jumped up, found his horse and quickly left. Lorth was left alone to die.
"Why," he cried in anger, "must I die? I strived. I tried. I gave up everything to win. Is it not enough to strive, to try, to use all of one's capacities? What else must one do to become a victor?"
Lorth tried to pull his body across the ground, continuing to strive out of instinct. But it was to no avail. He had only gone a yard before he died, and that was in the wrong direction.
When Marto the Agile emerged onto the field of jomet flowers, he hid his horse in the grasses that adjoined the field. He laid down in the flowers, perfectly still.
A few minutes later, Nebil the Tyrant emerged from the grasses. Nebil climbed upon his horse but did not have a chance to spur it, as Marto shot an arrow through his skull.
Soon afterwards, Joulin the Swift came bursting out of the forest, already upon his horse, his arms gripping the neck of his horse. Marto the Agile rapidly fired three arrows at the speedy target, but they all missed. Marto exclaimed a Tobian curse word, retrieved his horse and gave chase.
Joulin raced across the fields, with Marto in pursuit. Soon Joulin came to the boglands. He could not afford to go slowly across this bog-infested land, so he threw caution to the wind, and swiftly flew his horse over and between the bogs
But fate caught up to him. His horse landed in a bog, and threw him headfirst into another bog.
Marto came in time to see the horse's head and Joulin's feet sink into the bogs. Marto chuckled and with a grim smile said, "Sometimes we go too swiftly for our own good."
Femor the Sly emerged from the tall grasses and looked upon the open field. He decided to go cautiously left. After going almost one-half length, he still could see no one. His plan was to secretly move out of the playing area, and move back in when he comes close to the edge of the forest. He proceeded to do this.
Arrows pierced him from several directions. Men emerged from foxholes to claim the body of Femor the Sly.
Now only four remained in the contest, Marto and the three conspirators. Marto hid in the forest, waiting for those who remained to come. He wanted to be the only survivor, so that he would be the clear winner, and have no snivelers after his crown. He crouched hidden in a tree, where he could see the entire bogland playing area.
The three conspirators moved swiftly, but cautiously. They had only seen three dead bodies, so they believed four others to be alive.
Marto saw them coming across the boglands. He let loose an arrow that stabbed Craler the Noble in the leg. All three jumped behind their horses. Demar the Sincere shot an arrow that shook and cracked the tree where Marto was hidden. Marto, with his great agility was uninjured from the fall, but not from the arrow Hack the Great sent through his side upon his landing.
The three conspirators came up to Marto. Demar asked, "Has anyone passed through here yet?"
"No," replied Marto, lying bleeding upon the ground, looking towards the sky.
"Do you know how many are dead?," asked Demar.
Marto did not answer. He was dead.
"May the gods of Toby find peace for ye soul," Demar spoke gentle. "Come, we must be off."
The injured Craler led the group, a smile on his face despite the pain. Hask the Great, riding behind him, slowly withdrew his sword and put it an angle to slice the head off of Craler the Noble. Hask started to gallop his horse towards Craler.
Craler the Noble heard galloping and then the sing of an arrow. He turned around and saw Hask the Great slumping upon his horse, with an arrow in his back, his hand grasping his sword. He looked further back and saw Demar with a bow in his hand.
"Demar!," said Craler, turning his horse to face Demar. "Thank the gods! You stopped the traitor from ending my life! Now come, let's win this contest and end these silly games for good."
"No," said Demar.
"What do you mean, no?"
Demar started to withdraw an arrow from his quiver. "There will be only one King." Craler tried to defend himself but it was too late. An arrow penetrated his chest and went through his heart. "Me."
Demar the Sincere became the King. His rule resulted in the secession of all the tribes except the Crow, and this is the state the Pazorians found the island of Crowland.
The Pazorians, controllers of a huge continent, had never before heard a tale of such vicious competition. The only thing they could think of that remotely compared with it was their universities and schools. But of course, these institutions always produced good results.
Didn't they?
Another story I wrote in college. If only I had thought to make them younger and call it The Hunger Games.
Saturday, March 31, 2012
Sonnets from the Cycle of Man II
Prepare for me, boundless and uncaring sea.
Prepare to receive my shivering soul.
I loved thee with all my heart, to see
Thee drift away into oblivion, the roll
And straining heights of its green, lush
mountains.
The simple beauty of its villages.
In one of those villages I did train
In the joys of youth, turned the fond pages
Of life, and met the holy ring-bearer.
He made me a man, a warrior tall.
In his court I found a wife, no fairer
Woman ever was: gone my children, all.
Friends and foes alike vanish forever.
I am now an outcast, a vanquished lover.
Prepare to receive my shivering soul.
I loved thee with all my heart, to see
Thee drift away into oblivion, the roll
And straining heights of its green, lush
mountains.
The simple beauty of its villages.
In one of those villages I did train
In the joys of youth, turned the fond pages
Of life, and met the holy ring-bearer.
He made me a man, a warrior tall.
In his court I found a wife, no fairer
Woman ever was: gone my children, all.
Friends and foes alike vanish forever.
I am now an outcast, a vanquished lover.
Sunday, March 25, 2012
Sonnets from the Cycle of Man I
Long before man learned to record his pains.
Long before the staid encroachment of crusted
Civilization, I lusted without reigns
For thee: and long before man's fear to tread
Where the Queen forbade began to dominate,
I took you without restraint: thou wert dragged
By me into the fiery depths to satiate
The insatiable, forever to feed
The tyrant passion, ignorant of our fate.
Naked we are, forming our searing union,
Plunging and reaching up 'fore it's too late
And relation Death claims another son.
We live, for life's miracle is living.
We die, for life's betrayal is dying.
Written in college. Ah, college! What else can I say?
Long before the staid encroachment of crusted
Civilization, I lusted without reigns
For thee: and long before man's fear to tread
Where the Queen forbade began to dominate,
I took you without restraint: thou wert dragged
By me into the fiery depths to satiate
The insatiable, forever to feed
The tyrant passion, ignorant of our fate.
Naked we are, forming our searing union,
Plunging and reaching up 'fore it's too late
And relation Death claims another son.
We live, for life's miracle is living.
We die, for life's betrayal is dying.
Written in college. Ah, college! What else can I say?
Saturday, March 24, 2012
Tax Season BaDonky Donk
Lord, my mind is fried, and there's still 24 days to go. Some wankers decided instead of ending the season on Sunday April 15th, it will go through Wednesday April 17th. And so on and on it goes.
Important notes to consider. First, it is true that this is our primary tax season, but there are other tax deadlines throughout the year. I would say a full third of our clients extend their tax deadlines past the first due date. Some seem to think that 90% of work is done during January through April. I've often been asked what in the world we do the rest of the year. Well, like I stated, tax returns actually stagger throughout the year. And, as a full service CPA firm, we also have payrolls and payroll taxes, compilations, reviews, audits, and many other special assignments throughout the year. So let me set your mind at ease. We have plenty to do year round, and you don't need to worry about me.
Second, you can stop wondering why I'm not up to work 24/7 during this time period. I'm not a chief, I'm an Indian. I'm paid hourly, with overtime after 40 hours. So there is only so many hours that they want to pay me. Yes, I do work over, but there is a limit, both in what they want and in what I am physically/mentally able to handle. So don't worry about me that way either.
The work does leave me mentally exhausted, and it becomes harder to focus on writing. It also becomes less desirable for me to want to spend yet more computer time when that it is what I am doing all day at work. But this season will end, and a better balance will be restored. And there is some hope that over time, I can focus more on some things outside of accounting.
So thanks for hanging in there with me during this busy season. I promise, the best is yet to come!
Important notes to consider. First, it is true that this is our primary tax season, but there are other tax deadlines throughout the year. I would say a full third of our clients extend their tax deadlines past the first due date. Some seem to think that 90% of work is done during January through April. I've often been asked what in the world we do the rest of the year. Well, like I stated, tax returns actually stagger throughout the year. And, as a full service CPA firm, we also have payrolls and payroll taxes, compilations, reviews, audits, and many other special assignments throughout the year. So let me set your mind at ease. We have plenty to do year round, and you don't need to worry about me.
Second, you can stop wondering why I'm not up to work 24/7 during this time period. I'm not a chief, I'm an Indian. I'm paid hourly, with overtime after 40 hours. So there is only so many hours that they want to pay me. Yes, I do work over, but there is a limit, both in what they want and in what I am physically/mentally able to handle. So don't worry about me that way either.
The work does leave me mentally exhausted, and it becomes harder to focus on writing. It also becomes less desirable for me to want to spend yet more computer time when that it is what I am doing all day at work. But this season will end, and a better balance will be restored. And there is some hope that over time, I can focus more on some things outside of accounting.
So thanks for hanging in there with me during this busy season. I promise, the best is yet to come!
Saturday, March 17, 2012
Closet Doors
I went into the closet and found some things that I had forgotten. The Bearcat varsity jacket with the the varsity letter that I had earned for being the baseball team statistician. Copies of the newsletters that I had done for the paper carriers that I published during a brief stint as the circulation manager for a daily newspaper. A french beret that I had once worn in a play. The hatchway leading to the library. How could I forget that?
I went through the hatch and descended down the seven hundred and seventy-seven steps, coming out to the front lobby of the library. There at an ornate desk in front of the opening archway sat a wizened old man, dressed in a robe decorated with stars and moons, a long white beard flowing to the floor. "Master Tom!," he exclaimed. "So good to see you again!"
I thought, again? And then I remembered. He was Cornelius Frandor, and he had been the head librarian here for many centuries. "So, dear Cornelius, is the library open today?"
He looked at me with surprise. "Why, of course, Master Tom! For you, it is always open! And I must say, it is so good to see you again after so many years!"
We bowed deeply to each other and I entered the library. Literally miles of books, stacked in bookshelves twelve feet high, with ladders to climb to the top stacks. Countless rows, rows upon rows. It was hard to know where to begin.
I started with history. There I read The Rise and Fall of the Pazorian Empire, The Gospel of Christ according to Mary Magdalene, The Wizarding Families of Zanzanzin, and Atlantis Found.
Hours later, I arose and moved to the autobiographies. There I read I Was Just Goofing so Why Did you All Take It So Seriously by Ayn Rand, Profiles In Service: My Eight Years as President by John F Kennedy, and Exploring Pazoria:The Search for John Rose by Giovanni Rojeci.
Hours, perhaps days had passed, but I was still only hungry and thirsty for more books. I went to fiction and saw the great collection of George R R Martin's Song of Fire and Ice - all seven books! Stumbling into the S's, I finally found my own books. History of the Trap, Terror On Jubilee Island, Random, The Sands of Loren, New Coast Blues. I remembered that I left History of the Trap at a cliffhanger, and that I wanted to write a sequel to help wrap things up. So I bid adieu to this wonderful library to make my way back to the closet.
Stepping out of the closet, Alison saw me. "Tom! Where have you been? I've been looking all over for you!"
I realized I must have been gone a very long time. "I'm sorry to disappear for hours. It's just that I found this, ah..."
"Hours?" she said. You've been gone fifteen minutes, tops. I just didn't know where you were."
"Fifteen minutes? That's all?" Confused, I decided to bring her into the closet to show her. But the only thing there that I found that I had discovered from before was the beret. "Ahh I don't know. I , uh, guess, I just found this old beret from that play I was in, do you remember?"
"That's right. Barefoot in the Park, three years ago. Yes, that's great. Now I was wondering if you could help me get the kitchen around. Did you forget that the Becks are coming over tonight?"
"Yes, the Becks. Of course." And I remembered. The tax returns I had left to do at my CPA office, the family responsibilities, the bills to pay. A millions things, some very good, a few not so good, most just life, came flooding back to me. And it was the library that was fading away to me.
I look back at these words, and I find it hard to believe that I wrote them. They seem like wild nonsense. So I do the only thing that I can think of to do.
I shut the closet door.
I went through the hatch and descended down the seven hundred and seventy-seven steps, coming out to the front lobby of the library. There at an ornate desk in front of the opening archway sat a wizened old man, dressed in a robe decorated with stars and moons, a long white beard flowing to the floor. "Master Tom!," he exclaimed. "So good to see you again!"
I thought, again? And then I remembered. He was Cornelius Frandor, and he had been the head librarian here for many centuries. "So, dear Cornelius, is the library open today?"
He looked at me with surprise. "Why, of course, Master Tom! For you, it is always open! And I must say, it is so good to see you again after so many years!"
We bowed deeply to each other and I entered the library. Literally miles of books, stacked in bookshelves twelve feet high, with ladders to climb to the top stacks. Countless rows, rows upon rows. It was hard to know where to begin.
I started with history. There I read The Rise and Fall of the Pazorian Empire, The Gospel of Christ according to Mary Magdalene, The Wizarding Families of Zanzanzin, and Atlantis Found.
Hours later, I arose and moved to the autobiographies. There I read I Was Just Goofing so Why Did you All Take It So Seriously by Ayn Rand, Profiles In Service: My Eight Years as President by John F Kennedy, and Exploring Pazoria:The Search for John Rose by Giovanni Rojeci.
Hours, perhaps days had passed, but I was still only hungry and thirsty for more books. I went to fiction and saw the great collection of George R R Martin's Song of Fire and Ice - all seven books! Stumbling into the S's, I finally found my own books. History of the Trap, Terror On Jubilee Island, Random, The Sands of Loren, New Coast Blues. I remembered that I left History of the Trap at a cliffhanger, and that I wanted to write a sequel to help wrap things up. So I bid adieu to this wonderful library to make my way back to the closet.
Stepping out of the closet, Alison saw me. "Tom! Where have you been? I've been looking all over for you!"
I realized I must have been gone a very long time. "I'm sorry to disappear for hours. It's just that I found this, ah..."
"Hours?" she said. You've been gone fifteen minutes, tops. I just didn't know where you were."
"Fifteen minutes? That's all?" Confused, I decided to bring her into the closet to show her. But the only thing there that I found that I had discovered from before was the beret. "Ahh I don't know. I , uh, guess, I just found this old beret from that play I was in, do you remember?"
"That's right. Barefoot in the Park, three years ago. Yes, that's great. Now I was wondering if you could help me get the kitchen around. Did you forget that the Becks are coming over tonight?"
"Yes, the Becks. Of course." And I remembered. The tax returns I had left to do at my CPA office, the family responsibilities, the bills to pay. A millions things, some very good, a few not so good, most just life, came flooding back to me. And it was the library that was fading away to me.
I look back at these words, and I find it hard to believe that I wrote them. They seem like wild nonsense. So I do the only thing that I can think of to do.
I shut the closet door.
Saturday, March 10, 2012
Times Square Lament
Times Square
Objects everywhere
Neon lights flashing their fluorescent message.
Skyscrapers reaching up and soaring into darkness
Mechanical things beckoning through the window
to escape the rushage.
I am here.
Times Square
People everywhere
Surging in and out of buildings
Crowding on the sidewalks
Pushing people forward in a lemming tide
of hidings.
I am there.
Time Square
Me is there
Stopping in the middle of the pounding rain
Plating feet and staying firm; I watch the crowd
My heart twinges, my eyes wince with an all
too familiar pain.
I am alone.
###Originally written in high school. I was supposed to pick a favorite poem by a famous poet, and I forgot. So, I wrote this quickly that morning and read it in class. I couldn't come up with the name of a poet, so I said it was written by Arthur Ashe. Good poem or bad poem, I got away with it. At least if the teacher knew, she never let on.####
Objects everywhere
Neon lights flashing their fluorescent message.
Skyscrapers reaching up and soaring into darkness
Mechanical things beckoning through the window
to escape the rushage.
I am here.
Times Square
People everywhere
Surging in and out of buildings
Crowding on the sidewalks
Pushing people forward in a lemming tide
of hidings.
I am there.
Time Square
Me is there
Stopping in the middle of the pounding rain
Plating feet and staying firm; I watch the crowd
My heart twinges, my eyes wince with an all
too familiar pain.
I am alone.
###Originally written in high school. I was supposed to pick a favorite poem by a famous poet, and I forgot. So, I wrote this quickly that morning and read it in class. I couldn't come up with the name of a poet, so I said it was written by Arthur Ashe. Good poem or bad poem, I got away with it. At least if the teacher knew, she never let on.####
*****I rediscovered the original copy I wrote in ink in the cafetorium that morning. It looks like the fake name I came up with was Arthur Ashmun. It was definitely inspired by Arthur Ashe, but at least I had enough sense to disguise it. I also made minor changes to conform to the inked original I found.
Saturday Political Soap Box 21 - Simple Question
I'm going to try to keep it basic this week. Simple, basic question, for which I am hoping for direct, thoughtful answers - Can a strong, committed liberal/progressive be a good, devoted Christian?
I don't want to say too much, else people wander in the weeds too much. I just want to clarify that, other than the unpleasantly hot weather and gnats, I like living down here in South Georgia. I have many good friends, some of them very conservative, but on a personal basis, they are very friendly and kind to me. And when you drift off politics, many of them are personally generous and giving people. I have spent most of my life living in very conservative areas and am comfortable with it, for the most part. I live a personally conservative life, even though my politics and theology are distinctly liberal.
The most upsetting thing about living here has been the whole identification and combining of conservative politics with religion, to the point that it's become accepted dogma that only conservatives are true Christians. Some preachers in the area use liberal as a kind of curse term, identifying all the ills of society as being caused by liberals. One large church in this area even had a debate a few years ago about whether they could accept active Democrats as members. My son participated in Upwards Soccer, in which devotionals are given during halftime. One of the times, a couple giving a devotion just started whaling on liberals as being responsible for all our ills. This was at an event where the devotionals were supposed to be directed at young children.
I have asked this questions to several of my friends, and the look I get from them withers my very soul, like the idea that liberals could be Christians is just impossible for them to fathom. And it hurts plenty to see it.
I go to a church that is open and tolerant, and has a mix ranging from very conservative to very liberal members, both theologically and politically. I love being in that diversity, where what share in common is our love of the Lord and our devotion to the basic tenets of Christ, and our coming together in Eucharisitic communion. I think our diversity makes us stronger.
So, I wrote too much again. Sorry. To repeat the central question - Can a strong, committed liberal be a good, devoted Christian?
I don't want to say too much, else people wander in the weeds too much. I just want to clarify that, other than the unpleasantly hot weather and gnats, I like living down here in South Georgia. I have many good friends, some of them very conservative, but on a personal basis, they are very friendly and kind to me. And when you drift off politics, many of them are personally generous and giving people. I have spent most of my life living in very conservative areas and am comfortable with it, for the most part. I live a personally conservative life, even though my politics and theology are distinctly liberal.
The most upsetting thing about living here has been the whole identification and combining of conservative politics with religion, to the point that it's become accepted dogma that only conservatives are true Christians. Some preachers in the area use liberal as a kind of curse term, identifying all the ills of society as being caused by liberals. One large church in this area even had a debate a few years ago about whether they could accept active Democrats as members. My son participated in Upwards Soccer, in which devotionals are given during halftime. One of the times, a couple giving a devotion just started whaling on liberals as being responsible for all our ills. This was at an event where the devotionals were supposed to be directed at young children.
I have asked this questions to several of my friends, and the look I get from them withers my very soul, like the idea that liberals could be Christians is just impossible for them to fathom. And it hurts plenty to see it.
I go to a church that is open and tolerant, and has a mix ranging from very conservative to very liberal members, both theologically and politically. I love being in that diversity, where what share in common is our love of the Lord and our devotion to the basic tenets of Christ, and our coming together in Eucharisitic communion. I think our diversity makes us stronger.
So, I wrote too much again. Sorry. To repeat the central question - Can a strong, committed liberal be a good, devoted Christian?
Sunday, March 4, 2012
The Homer
Hi! I’m Smith Landers. I’m whatcha call a minor league pitcher, relief at that. Never had even a whiff of the big leagues, and now that I’m a-fixin’ to slam inta th’ big three-five, I’m not likely to see it either. Usually a guy like me is called inta a game to throw a few trick knuckleballs and just get the team to stagger to the next inning, certainly not for any slugging. The rare at bats I had were freak occurrences, some team playing by National League rules ‘n’ the coach thought I was pitching too hot fer just one inning. What I’d like to relate is the freakiest of those occurrences, in a game where I was incredibly selected as a pinch hitter. And not just any game, but a game that could either win us or lose us a pennant!
Me ‘n’ Joe Cheezy had settled down in the bullpen for a 9-inning stay. We were just scrub relievers and didn’t really believe they’d call us in on such an important game. It was a game between us, the Batesridge Stompers, and our traditional rivals, the Tri-County Black Sox. It was the last game of the season ‘n’ we was only a half-game outta first place. An’ you kin just guess who was sittin’ purty in first !
Well, it seemed ta me like the whole dagblasted town of Batesville was there. The entire stadium was filled. Okay, it wasn’t really a stadium. My high school had larger facilities for field hockey! Double A ball – gotta love it! Nevertheless, people were sittin’ all over the place. In the bleachers, on the ground, on top of Blakely’s Grocery Store. All we had to do to start the game was get’em off the outfield.
In their half of the first inning, The Black Sox scored five runs and used up our best pitcher and best reliever. In our half, we struck out twice and scored one run offa Brinky’s homer (Brink Satterfield was our starting third baseman).
By the fifth inning, they had used five of nine pitchers on our staff. The score was nine to four in favor of those black-hearted Black Sox. Fred Gibbs, normally a starter, was our new pitcher. The first man up hit a single that scooted into leftfield, jes’ past the diving shortstop. The second man walked putting men on first and second. The man on second then stole third. The third man walked loading the bases. What a revoltin’ development!
This was our cue. The bullpen coach, Lem Forest, whipped around toward us, and gave us the evil eye. “Okay, I want you and you!”
Jes’ to emphasize his malevolent stare, he pointed at me ‘n’ Joe. Joe teased him. “Aw, gee, Lem, I jes’ got ta sleep!”
“If you don’t get out there, I’mma gonna put you to sleep. THE HARD WAY! Now git!”
Me ‘n’ Joe bounced out of the bullpen and began our warm-up tosses. Whilst we was warmin’ up, Gibby walked another man to bring in another run. Oh, lordy, it was ten to four.
Ol’ Lem, in his infinite wisdom, decided to put in Joe, not quite trusting such a vital assignment ta little ol’ me, Smith Landers. Heck, I couldn’t quite blame him. I hadn’t had a stellar season. I had won 2 and lost 7, with a 5.72 earned run average.
Well, Joe clambered onto the field and immediately began to play ball. Joe struck the next batter out on 3 wicked sharp pitches. The crowd cheered wildly. Okay, they didn’t go wild bonkers, but they definitely startin’ ta feel th’ itch of a momentum switch. Joe threw a fast ball down low. Larry Johnson, the man at bat, hit it high for a pop-up to shallow centerfield.
Now our gang figured out whoever caught that ball would most likely be the hero of the game, because of putting out one and throwing out another, thus ending the inning without letting the game get completely out of hand. They knew that the big league scouts were watching this game, and impressing them was for many of our young players more important than winnin’ or losin’. So all of our outfielders, plus the shortstop ,’n’ second baseman came rushin’ in ta catch that blasted ball.
All five of ‘em screamed “MINE!” and not nary a one heard the others. They were all looking way up in the air for that crazy pop-up, so none of them saw the others. And so then, yep, you guessed it. CRASH! All five of ‘em…out cold! Time becomes all messed up and the ball jes’ seems to slowly float ta the ground, landing right in between them with a soft kerplunk.
For a few seconds, everybody who wasn’t unconscious jes’ looked at it, stunned down to their toes. Even the base runners were petrified. Not a sound was heard in the entire park. After an unknown period of time, immeasurable because the clock had been forgotten, the manager shook out of it and yelled, “RUN, you idiots, RUN!”
The runners, startled by their master’s voice, realized what was happening and started pushing towards home. Brinks, frozen like a deer in headlights, noticed the runner’s movement, and woke out of his trance, rushing over to where the ball lay betwixt the inert five. By the time Brinks picked up the ball, two runs were in. He panicked and threw the ball wildly to the catcher. The catcher, still shocked by the sight of the crash, missed the wild throw, an’ the ball sailed back to the screen. Three runs in.
Trying to prevent the last run from crossing home, Joe rushed in ta the plate, awaitin’ the catcher’s throw. The catcher groggily took the ball from the clutches of the backstop screen and threw it high to Joe. He leaped high an’ made a phenomenal grab. “Course there was only one thing to do. An’ that was to come down. Which he did. Right on top of the runner’s ol’ belly. “Safe!” called out the umpire. The runner pulled himself out from under Joe and laughed all the way to the dugout. Joe sat on home plate, put his face into his hands, and began to cry like a baby. I have to admit, that was probably the most terrifyin’ part of the whole incident, watchin’ ol’ Joe melt down. The crowd booed wildly, an’ the opposing team laughed lustily.
During the entire ruckus, the bullpen didn’t say a word. Nobody even breathed. Finally the silence was broken when the bullpen coach looked to the sky and softly said, “God, why us?”
And then he selected a sub for Joe. Poor Joe. While our unconscious quintet began to stir and moan, carried off in stretchers, poor Joe had to be carted off the field squalling like a temper-tantrummin’ toddler.
By the bottom of the ninth we had closed the gap to four runs. They were ahead 15 to 11. We had only two fielders and two pitchers (me an’ a young rookie who was the fourth starter) who had not yet played.
In the bottom of the ninth, Brinks hit a bases-loaded home run (his second of the game). The crowd dreamed of pennants. The players dreamed of more money and whiffs of the major league.
The tenth inning was pretty dry. Six batters went up and six batters went down. I can’t tell you what happened in the eleventh inning, or for that matter the twelfth, thirteenth or top of the fourteenth, ‘cause ta tell you the truth, I took a short excursion to sleepy town.
When I woke up, they were ahead 17 to 15. We needed two runs to tie up and three to win.
The first man up was the pitcher. I was surprised to find out it was that young rookie. But the youngin’ watched the pitches carefully and escaped with a walk. The next man up struck out. Binky Davis, our leading hitter (.362 average), hit a single, puttin’ the rookie at second an’ Binky at first. The next man his a deep sacrifice fly, deep enough to advance both runners.
Now everybody started a’whooping an’ a’hollering, ‘cuz they knew what was a’comin’ next. Brink was waiting on the on-deck circle. Jes’ as he was getting ready to come up to bat, the coach called ‘em back for a conference.
Now, I don’t know x’actly what happened next. People tell me the clod tripped over his own feet coming out of the dugout. Before I could absorb what was happening, our bullpen coach got a call.
Lem picked up the phone. “Hello, Sam.”
“But Sam, I only got one crummy guy who ain’t had a hit all year. I can’t recall if he’s ever actually hit the ball!”
I saw terror in Lem’s eyes. “But Sam, he’s stanky!”
Lem looked a cornered rabbit. “Ya mean we ain’ts got no choice?”
Once again, Lem turned his eyes skyward. “Oh, God, why us?”
Lem turned towards me. His eyes were watery. He pointed towards home plate. He struggled to make a sound. “You!”
“M-m-me?”
“YOU!”
I slowly stepped out of the bullpen and onto the playing field. The batboy handed me a bat. I walked slowly to the plate. I heard the announcer.
“Smith Landers pinch-hitting for Brink Satterfield.”
I had never heard a crowd change mood so fast, from hail the hero cheering to lynch mob jeering. I though I was going to get stoned to death.
Why me? In all my minor league career, I had only been to bat seven times. Six were strikeouts, and the seventh was a popup that hit the umpires head an’ I was thrown out of the game (probably shouldn’t been laughing at him so hard).
The third base coach came over and told me just to try for a walk.
So I did. I jes’ stood there at the plate. Strike one.
The catcher derisively said, “C’mon, Larry, dis guy’s jes up here for a walk.”
Wise guy. So I decided to swing at the next pitch. I thought if I just pictured nice things, I would hit it. I thought of winning the pennant, the major leagues, more money and a big-screen TV. By the time I was done thinking he had already thrown a pitch. Ball one.
Ooops. I decided I better listen to the third base coach. Strike two.
I was mad. I was determined to bonk it out of the park. The pitcher wound up. So did I. He threw. I swung. CONTACT!
Now I started to run like heck ‘cuz I knew I don’t hit far. But then I realized from the crowd reaction that I must have hit it pretty far. I rounded first as fast as I could. I stretched towards second. As I scorched past second, I heard the voice of the shortstop.
“Hey, nice going buddy, ya hit a home run!”
I slowed to look at the fences. I couldn’t believe it. “I did?”
“Nope.” And then that lying bugger tagged me out.
They scored another run in the fifteenth and beat us 18 to 17.
Now I’ve been cut from the team, ‘n’ I don’t know if’n I’ll ever get to play professionally again. But, y’know, I can’t bellyache too much. Overall, baseball was very good ta me. I got to go to a lotta places, I met a lotta great people, there were as many victories as losses (well, almost), an’ I didn’t get stuck in a low-payin’ warehouse job like my Daddy did. I guess the moral of the story is, if’n there is one, the next time someone tells what a great job yer doin’, make sure they ain’t hiding a ball behind their back.
Me ‘n’ Joe Cheezy had settled down in the bullpen for a 9-inning stay. We were just scrub relievers and didn’t really believe they’d call us in on such an important game. It was a game between us, the Batesridge Stompers, and our traditional rivals, the Tri-County Black Sox. It was the last game of the season ‘n’ we was only a half-game outta first place. An’ you kin just guess who was sittin’ purty in first !
Well, it seemed ta me like the whole dagblasted town of Batesville was there. The entire stadium was filled. Okay, it wasn’t really a stadium. My high school had larger facilities for field hockey! Double A ball – gotta love it! Nevertheless, people were sittin’ all over the place. In the bleachers, on the ground, on top of Blakely’s Grocery Store. All we had to do to start the game was get’em off the outfield.
In their half of the first inning, The Black Sox scored five runs and used up our best pitcher and best reliever. In our half, we struck out twice and scored one run offa Brinky’s homer (Brink Satterfield was our starting third baseman).
By the fifth inning, they had used five of nine pitchers on our staff. The score was nine to four in favor of those black-hearted Black Sox. Fred Gibbs, normally a starter, was our new pitcher. The first man up hit a single that scooted into leftfield, jes’ past the diving shortstop. The second man walked putting men on first and second. The man on second then stole third. The third man walked loading the bases. What a revoltin’ development!
This was our cue. The bullpen coach, Lem Forest, whipped around toward us, and gave us the evil eye. “Okay, I want you and you!”
Jes’ to emphasize his malevolent stare, he pointed at me ‘n’ Joe. Joe teased him. “Aw, gee, Lem, I jes’ got ta sleep!”
“If you don’t get out there, I’mma gonna put you to sleep. THE HARD WAY! Now git!”
Me ‘n’ Joe bounced out of the bullpen and began our warm-up tosses. Whilst we was warmin’ up, Gibby walked another man to bring in another run. Oh, lordy, it was ten to four.
Ol’ Lem, in his infinite wisdom, decided to put in Joe, not quite trusting such a vital assignment ta little ol’ me, Smith Landers. Heck, I couldn’t quite blame him. I hadn’t had a stellar season. I had won 2 and lost 7, with a 5.72 earned run average.
Well, Joe clambered onto the field and immediately began to play ball. Joe struck the next batter out on 3 wicked sharp pitches. The crowd cheered wildly. Okay, they didn’t go wild bonkers, but they definitely startin’ ta feel th’ itch of a momentum switch. Joe threw a fast ball down low. Larry Johnson, the man at bat, hit it high for a pop-up to shallow centerfield.
Now our gang figured out whoever caught that ball would most likely be the hero of the game, because of putting out one and throwing out another, thus ending the inning without letting the game get completely out of hand. They knew that the big league scouts were watching this game, and impressing them was for many of our young players more important than winnin’ or losin’. So all of our outfielders, plus the shortstop ,’n’ second baseman came rushin’ in ta catch that blasted ball.
All five of ‘em screamed “MINE!” and not nary a one heard the others. They were all looking way up in the air for that crazy pop-up, so none of them saw the others. And so then, yep, you guessed it. CRASH! All five of ‘em…out cold! Time becomes all messed up and the ball jes’ seems to slowly float ta the ground, landing right in between them with a soft kerplunk.
For a few seconds, everybody who wasn’t unconscious jes’ looked at it, stunned down to their toes. Even the base runners were petrified. Not a sound was heard in the entire park. After an unknown period of time, immeasurable because the clock had been forgotten, the manager shook out of it and yelled, “RUN, you idiots, RUN!”
The runners, startled by their master’s voice, realized what was happening and started pushing towards home. Brinks, frozen like a deer in headlights, noticed the runner’s movement, and woke out of his trance, rushing over to where the ball lay betwixt the inert five. By the time Brinks picked up the ball, two runs were in. He panicked and threw the ball wildly to the catcher. The catcher, still shocked by the sight of the crash, missed the wild throw, an’ the ball sailed back to the screen. Three runs in.
Trying to prevent the last run from crossing home, Joe rushed in ta the plate, awaitin’ the catcher’s throw. The catcher groggily took the ball from the clutches of the backstop screen and threw it high to Joe. He leaped high an’ made a phenomenal grab. “Course there was only one thing to do. An’ that was to come down. Which he did. Right on top of the runner’s ol’ belly. “Safe!” called out the umpire. The runner pulled himself out from under Joe and laughed all the way to the dugout. Joe sat on home plate, put his face into his hands, and began to cry like a baby. I have to admit, that was probably the most terrifyin’ part of the whole incident, watchin’ ol’ Joe melt down. The crowd booed wildly, an’ the opposing team laughed lustily.
During the entire ruckus, the bullpen didn’t say a word. Nobody even breathed. Finally the silence was broken when the bullpen coach looked to the sky and softly said, “God, why us?”
And then he selected a sub for Joe. Poor Joe. While our unconscious quintet began to stir and moan, carried off in stretchers, poor Joe had to be carted off the field squalling like a temper-tantrummin’ toddler.
By the bottom of the ninth we had closed the gap to four runs. They were ahead 15 to 11. We had only two fielders and two pitchers (me an’ a young rookie who was the fourth starter) who had not yet played.
In the bottom of the ninth, Brinks hit a bases-loaded home run (his second of the game). The crowd dreamed of pennants. The players dreamed of more money and whiffs of the major league.
The tenth inning was pretty dry. Six batters went up and six batters went down. I can’t tell you what happened in the eleventh inning, or for that matter the twelfth, thirteenth or top of the fourteenth, ‘cause ta tell you the truth, I took a short excursion to sleepy town.
When I woke up, they were ahead 17 to 15. We needed two runs to tie up and three to win.
The first man up was the pitcher. I was surprised to find out it was that young rookie. But the youngin’ watched the pitches carefully and escaped with a walk. The next man up struck out. Binky Davis, our leading hitter (.362 average), hit a single, puttin’ the rookie at second an’ Binky at first. The next man his a deep sacrifice fly, deep enough to advance both runners.
Now everybody started a’whooping an’ a’hollering, ‘cuz they knew what was a’comin’ next. Brink was waiting on the on-deck circle. Jes’ as he was getting ready to come up to bat, the coach called ‘em back for a conference.
Now, I don’t know x’actly what happened next. People tell me the clod tripped over his own feet coming out of the dugout. Before I could absorb what was happening, our bullpen coach got a call.
Lem picked up the phone. “Hello, Sam.”
“But Sam, I only got one crummy guy who ain’t had a hit all year. I can’t recall if he’s ever actually hit the ball!”
I saw terror in Lem’s eyes. “But Sam, he’s stanky!”
Lem looked a cornered rabbit. “Ya mean we ain’ts got no choice?”
Once again, Lem turned his eyes skyward. “Oh, God, why us?”
Lem turned towards me. His eyes were watery. He pointed towards home plate. He struggled to make a sound. “You!”
“M-m-me?”
“YOU!”
I slowly stepped out of the bullpen and onto the playing field. The batboy handed me a bat. I walked slowly to the plate. I heard the announcer.
“Smith Landers pinch-hitting for Brink Satterfield.”
I had never heard a crowd change mood so fast, from hail the hero cheering to lynch mob jeering. I though I was going to get stoned to death.
Why me? In all my minor league career, I had only been to bat seven times. Six were strikeouts, and the seventh was a popup that hit the umpires head an’ I was thrown out of the game (probably shouldn’t been laughing at him so hard).
The third base coach came over and told me just to try for a walk.
So I did. I jes’ stood there at the plate. Strike one.
The catcher derisively said, “C’mon, Larry, dis guy’s jes up here for a walk.”
Wise guy. So I decided to swing at the next pitch. I thought if I just pictured nice things, I would hit it. I thought of winning the pennant, the major leagues, more money and a big-screen TV. By the time I was done thinking he had already thrown a pitch. Ball one.
Ooops. I decided I better listen to the third base coach. Strike two.
I was mad. I was determined to bonk it out of the park. The pitcher wound up. So did I. He threw. I swung. CONTACT!
Now I started to run like heck ‘cuz I knew I don’t hit far. But then I realized from the crowd reaction that I must have hit it pretty far. I rounded first as fast as I could. I stretched towards second. As I scorched past second, I heard the voice of the shortstop.
“Hey, nice going buddy, ya hit a home run!”
I slowed to look at the fences. I couldn’t believe it. “I did?”
“Nope.” And then that lying bugger tagged me out.
They scored another run in the fifteenth and beat us 18 to 17.
Now I’ve been cut from the team, ‘n’ I don’t know if’n I’ll ever get to play professionally again. But, y’know, I can’t bellyache too much. Overall, baseball was very good ta me. I got to go to a lotta places, I met a lotta great people, there were as many victories as losses (well, almost), an’ I didn’t get stuck in a low-payin’ warehouse job like my Daddy did. I guess the moral of the story is, if’n there is one, the next time someone tells what a great job yer doin’, make sure they ain’t hiding a ball behind their back.
Saturday, March 3, 2012
Alice & Dorothy Into the Okee Faynoke Part 1
Alice & Dorothy Into the Okee Faynoke
Act 1 Scene 1
The stage is set to resemble a swamp.
Alice & Dorothy enter. Both are middle grade school girls, dressed in modern casual school garb. Both are happy as clams.
Alice & Dorothy (singing): Field Trip!
We’re finally on a…field trip!
It almost makes our hearts skip
To be out on a…field Trip!
No dusty schoolrooms today!
No heavy school books..no way!
We’re outside and free to play!
It’s a fun play day I must say!
Alice: And what about Marty?
Ain’t he a smarty?
And you got a crush
You act all a-mush!
Dorothy: And what about Jack?
I’ve seen you look back
Your eyes all a-moon
I think you will swoon!
Giggling, Alice & Dorothy skip offstage.
Enter Danny & Artie. Two nice but geeky boys, dressed like nerds, Artie with big coke bottle style glasses.
Danny & Artie (singing): Field Trip!
We’re finally on a…field trip!
It almost makes our brains flip
To be out on a…field trip!
We’re out in nature today!
Lots to discover…oh yay!
Put our science hat on this way
It’s a fun day to learn I say!
Danny: And what about Dorothy?
Is not she your key?
To open your heart
And give you a start?
Artie: And what about Alice?
Don’t try to be callous
I give you a dare
To say you don’t care!
Danny (not in song, pointing to someplace offstage): Oh, look! It’s a Didelphis Virginiana!
Excited, Danny & Artie exit.
Enter Marty & Jack. These are bigger, stronger boys, very athletic, dressed in the sharpest, most current fashion.
Marty & Jack (singing together): Field Trip!
We’re loose on a…field trip!
It’s good to make nerds slip
When you’re out on a field trip!
We’re going to have fun today!
We’ll find something to slay
Critters ‘n’ geeks we may
Anyone who gets in our way!
Marty: And what about teach?
It won’t be a reach
To scare him with snakes
As long as they’re fakes!
Jack: And what about Artie?
We can watch go him go flartie
With a frog down his pants
We can watch a nerd dance!
Exit Marty & Jack, as they punch each other in the arm.
Act 1 Scene 1
The stage is set to resemble a swamp.
Alice & Dorothy enter. Both are middle grade school girls, dressed in modern casual school garb. Both are happy as clams.
Alice & Dorothy (singing): Field Trip!
We’re finally on a…field trip!
It almost makes our hearts skip
To be out on a…field Trip!
No dusty schoolrooms today!
No heavy school books..no way!
We’re outside and free to play!
It’s a fun play day I must say!
Alice: And what about Marty?
Ain’t he a smarty?
And you got a crush
You act all a-mush!
Dorothy: And what about Jack?
I’ve seen you look back
Your eyes all a-moon
I think you will swoon!
Giggling, Alice & Dorothy skip offstage.
Enter Danny & Artie. Two nice but geeky boys, dressed like nerds, Artie with big coke bottle style glasses.
Danny & Artie (singing): Field Trip!
We’re finally on a…field trip!
It almost makes our brains flip
To be out on a…field trip!
We’re out in nature today!
Lots to discover…oh yay!
Put our science hat on this way
It’s a fun day to learn I say!
Danny: And what about Dorothy?
Is not she your key?
To open your heart
And give you a start?
Artie: And what about Alice?
Don’t try to be callous
I give you a dare
To say you don’t care!
Danny (not in song, pointing to someplace offstage): Oh, look! It’s a Didelphis Virginiana!
Excited, Danny & Artie exit.
Enter Marty & Jack. These are bigger, stronger boys, very athletic, dressed in the sharpest, most current fashion.
Marty & Jack (singing together): Field Trip!
We’re loose on a…field trip!
It’s good to make nerds slip
When you’re out on a field trip!
We’re going to have fun today!
We’ll find something to slay
Critters ‘n’ geeks we may
Anyone who gets in our way!
Marty: And what about teach?
It won’t be a reach
To scare him with snakes
As long as they’re fakes!
Jack: And what about Artie?
We can watch go him go flartie
With a frog down his pants
We can watch a nerd dance!
Exit Marty & Jack, as they punch each other in the arm.
Saturday Political Soap Box 20 - In Service to the Economy
I have a question, of which I am genuinely unsure of the answer. I am looking for answers and dialogue, however, only from those who agree with the basic premise that the key to a successful nation (indeed, successful planet) is a growing and vibrant middle class. If you believe that the world is better off with a shrinking middle class, please - pick another soap box to comment on.
I heard a panel discussion on the radio where a man brought up that some manufacturing jobs were coming back to the United States, but they were coming back at substantially lower wages than they were before they left. It was brought up that some plants were hiring young workers without the pay or benefits that the older workers were getting. Now, whatever you think of unions or how we compete in the world, you have to admit that represents a decline in middle class standards and not an improvement.
He also mentioned about how part of our solution lay in how we treat service jobs. We don't seem to want to pay them a wage adequate to middle class standards, yet that is where a lot of our future job growth is. So we have a manufacturing base that is declining (both in jobs offered and wages paid) and a service industry that is growing but whose wages are not. We also have a public sector that is being vilified and stomped on. Bizarrely, those low-paid private sector workers are going not "Hey, they get four weeks off, why can't I?" but instead, "Why should I pay taxes for them to get four weeks off when I have to beg for two?" dragging everybody down to the Lowest Common Denominator.
Manufacturing jobs were not always middle class jobs. It took the considerable efforts of workers through unions to make that so. It took thirty plus years of Reaganomics and globalization to batter it away. So my question is, why can't service workers be given the same dignity? Why can't they be paid middle class wages? Wages that enable them to have the basics in society - food, clothing, shelter, education, see a darn movie once in awhile, be able to dream for a better future.
A global economy based solely on manufacturing seems to me ecologically unsustainable. We are consuming resources at a rapid rate, and producing larger and larger junk piles. What if we had an economy that was based to a larger degree on the services that we render to each other?
It took me awhile, but that's my question. Is it possible to base the global economy as much or more on services as it is on manufacturing stuff, and if so, can those people in the service industry be compensated at a middle class level?
Let the squaloring begin!
I heard a panel discussion on the radio where a man brought up that some manufacturing jobs were coming back to the United States, but they were coming back at substantially lower wages than they were before they left. It was brought up that some plants were hiring young workers without the pay or benefits that the older workers were getting. Now, whatever you think of unions or how we compete in the world, you have to admit that represents a decline in middle class standards and not an improvement.
He also mentioned about how part of our solution lay in how we treat service jobs. We don't seem to want to pay them a wage adequate to middle class standards, yet that is where a lot of our future job growth is. So we have a manufacturing base that is declining (both in jobs offered and wages paid) and a service industry that is growing but whose wages are not. We also have a public sector that is being vilified and stomped on. Bizarrely, those low-paid private sector workers are going not "Hey, they get four weeks off, why can't I?" but instead, "Why should I pay taxes for them to get four weeks off when I have to beg for two?" dragging everybody down to the Lowest Common Denominator.
Manufacturing jobs were not always middle class jobs. It took the considerable efforts of workers through unions to make that so. It took thirty plus years of Reaganomics and globalization to batter it away. So my question is, why can't service workers be given the same dignity? Why can't they be paid middle class wages? Wages that enable them to have the basics in society - food, clothing, shelter, education, see a darn movie once in awhile, be able to dream for a better future.
A global economy based solely on manufacturing seems to me ecologically unsustainable. We are consuming resources at a rapid rate, and producing larger and larger junk piles. What if we had an economy that was based to a larger degree on the services that we render to each other?
It took me awhile, but that's my question. Is it possible to base the global economy as much or more on services as it is on manufacturing stuff, and if so, can those people in the service industry be compensated at a middle class level?
Let the squaloring begin!
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