A Book Review for Ann Simpson’s, The Genealogist’s Guests

A Book Review for Ann Simpson’s, The Genealogist’s Guests

          Ghosts are known to come out at midnight; Ann Simpson’s favorite time of the day is 4 AM.  I recently read the first book of her three part series titled, “The Genealogist’s Guests”.  It is an exciting construction full of nonstop action.  When one sees a movie, the climax usually captures our attention with a finale of occurrences.  I felt as though the entire book was like the finale portion of a classic film: not a bad thing. Continue reading

The Desk

The Desk

Alone, I sat.  I wondered, “What are the real differences in coffees, anyway?  I know I like mine cold… I can ‘slam’ it and go.  No noisy gurgles originating from sipping.  Arabica blends and over thirty other kinds of coffees – I still think they are all highly similar.  My favored ‘South American Espresso’ blend is still hard to outdo, according to me.”

Thoughts on coffee dominate a percentage of my mental effort during the day.  I enjoy thinking of sociology and money, too.  I ask me, “How can I better myself and others?”  Today was going to be a good day; I had plans.  A favor for a favor, I only needed one other person and I could do this terrible and horrible deed that no one would ever be able to forget.

I, at one time, was down on my luck.  I asked a stranger, a student in law school, if he would buy me a meal.  He did.  I gave him my information, told him that if he ever needed a favor to let me know.  I told him that I am an honest man, a man true to my word.  He said, “I am a creative person.  Are you sure you mean it?”  I told him, “I am an honest man.  I mean it.”

Four years went by and I received a phone call from a probable sexy secretary with an attractive voice named Vanecia.  She said her boss was a lawyer who needed a secret favor, that she had a note.  I picked the note up from a stranger at a specific time at a familiar intersection in the city.  The note said:

“Here is your first favor; fulfill this task successfully and I will contact you in the future.  I will pay you for the next tasks, if you accept them.  Your goal is to enter into the insurance building on 14th and Tree St.  Go to the 22nd floor and find an office with the title ’22-A Office 10-Z’ above the door.  It should be unlocked.  There will be a large desk with the name ‘Mr. Hardens Gilma’.  Throw the sizable desk out of the large window to the streets below.  Exit the building via a stairway unseen.  We will be in contact.”

I would have done this alone, however I needed some anonymous muscle.  During the years I was away from the law student, I worked a great deal.  As an odd job, I swept out a bar for its owner early every Saturday morning due to its busy Friday nights.  I asked him for the help; the person he sent to help me would meet me at this very cafe at 8 am, I got here at 7:30 and began drinking a pot of coffee I paid for in advance.

It was 7:55 am and a man of enduring build approached me.  I was wearing a white shirt with an “X” marked directly on my chest, so he could identify me.  He asked me what my name was.  I told him it might as well be unspoken.  His code from the bar owner was to say that he had been looking for me.  “I have been looking for you,” he said.  “Good,” I said, “I saved you a cold coffee, down it.”  He happily did it; I was nice.  He drank one more cup of cold coffee, said it was not too bad that way.  I would have drunk more, yet I already met my own expectations for my morning coffee requirement.

We left the cafe and he kept pace with me.  A sturdy man, he was also in shape.  We jogged 3 blocks and made a right onto Tree St.  We jogged about half a block to the insurance building and entered.  We walked past various people.  A woman behind the front receiving counter did not even see us.  She was on the phone while reading a magazine.  I pushed a button to ride the elevator up.  The building was approximately 60 stories tall; the stairs were right next to us.  I took one look at my “all-knowing yet not wired whatsoever friend” and decided to just take the stairs.  The elevator would take too long.

We took the stairs and found a forked vestibule on Floor 22.  The hallway went left and right, so we chose to try going to the right.  We walked past various offices with differing titles and found the correct title with relative ease after having seen half a dozen or so.  We entered the large office.  No one was there.  We found the desk!  A small plaque with the name Hardens Gilma was there.  I saw the one window large enough for the task and pointed it out to my companion.  He saw it and knew what to do.  We both got one end of the desk and ran towards the window with it.

With all of our might we thrust the large desk through the window.  It fell its approximate 20 stories to the streets crashing into broken parts on the pavement.  People stood back as if they had never even seen such a thing.  They then carried on.  I shook hands with my companion, and we jogged down the stairs and out of the building.  I tipped him the few dollars I promised the bar owner I would.  We were not caught; the lawyer contacted me on another day; and the day was fine.

An Adventure of Anh

An Adventure of Anh

One time there was a female named Anabeth Garza.  She was nearing thirty-five; she was pondering her life, considering death.  She walked late in the night to a closed fairground.  So dark was the night, so quit in its loneliness, the moon lit her way, albeit.

As she found her way to the monkey-sized puppet in a box, she noticed a small orange bulb in the lower back of the “vending mechanism” to still be on.  “Anh” inspected the back of the large box, noticed it was not plugged in.  “The machine must have stored energy from a busy night,” Anh thought to herself, “That or it is magical.”

She reached into her pockets thinking she just may, by some crazed off-chance, have a coin.  She did not.  She looked below the machine and found one.  She deposited the coin in the machine and the small monkey spun around in a glowing light.  The monkey was well-dressed, as if ready for dancing on a stage.  It looked directly to Anh and said, “No one is looking.  What is your tentative wish?”

“‘Tentative’,” Anh thought to herself.  This was sure to be some form of hard-to-appreciate fun adventure.  “I want to be 12,” was the only thing she could think to say.  She said it before the monkey’s glow disseminated, and warped immediately to small school in Southern Mexico.

“This is a run-down heap,” she thought to herself, as she was surrounded by Mexican students in a classroom with a chalkboard and a clock on the wall.  “They have  a clock,” she noticed.  “Es ocho,” said the teacher, starting class at 8.  Anh only spoke English, though she may have known a few words from the Spanish language.

The day was sure to be an adventure.  Anh noticed that the other students mostly kept to themselves or distracted each other; she could stay mostly quite and say only  a few words like “Si” and “No.”  Lunch came and they all ate beans and rice with milk.  Anh was surprised that the small meal hit the spot.  Recess came.

During recess, Anh played on the swings with another young girl she sat next to and was close to from class.  They were swinging and not saying much.  Anh noticed, across the playground, a larger, heavy-set boy was taunting a boy and a girl.  Anh instinctively went over to see why.  The boy did not have much of a reason, appeared to Anh to be being mean for no real cause.

Anh tapped the boy on the shoulders and he turned to her as if he knew all about it.  “Leave them be or I will beat the breaks off of you,” said Anh.  The larger boy pushed Anh and she fell to the ground.  Her friend begun to run from the swings to where Anh was to try to stop her.  “Anh!” she cried, “Do not do it!”  Anh stood without brushing off her nice outfit, leaped into the blow she delivered to the bully, landing the blow with the lower part of her palm.  She made contact to his brow directly between his eyes, hearing his skull crack.

Anh landed on her feet, ready to see what the big boy was going to do, as he fell to the ground crying with blackened eyes.  Anh’s friend caught up with her and Anh apologized by saying, “Lo-ciento.”  Her “amiga” was disappointed, though somehow understood.  Their instructor found them and Anh endured meeting the principle of the small Mexican school.  He was bilingual, said that she should have informed the instructor and to conduct her actions differently next time.

Anh agreed, hoping the bully learned his lesson.  She warped back to the puppet in time to see light condense from its immense brightness to a small glowing orange bulb.  The monkey looked as though it went to sleep.  “Wow,” thought Anh, and she carried on.

Ned’s Reply

Ned’s Reply

One time, a young boy named Ned sat across from his grandfather in a park.   It was on a Saturday.  He could see his grandfather for doing well in school for the week, as he had many times before.  All was going well.  The two had their game going fine – pieces were about to be taken from the board, as usual.  It was towards the end of August; Ned seemed to have the blues.

His grandfather looked over to him, thinking he would cheer him up.  Ned knew he was going to talk and did not really have that much warning.  He did not know what was going to be said.  “So, has your mother taken you back-to-school shopping?” asked his grandfather.  “I knew you were going to ask that!” said Ned, “Yes, she did.  As usual, it was a most exciting day.”

“Did you accomplish any difficult feet or tricky, hard-to-do shenanigans?”

“Have you been speaking with my mother?”

“I have not spoken with her in over two weeks.”

“Are you telling the truth?”

“Yes”

“We went to the store and she said she only had a certain amount to spend on school supplies.  I had a list to fulfill from school; it took about 55% of my spending limit up.  I thought I was in the clear, the good little boy giving.  I would easily get this over with, and my mother would be able to keep the rest of her decided amount.”

“So?  What happened?”

The two both moved a piece on the board; Ned tried to plan a good exchange-attack and king-trap sequence.

“I saw it.”

“What did you see?”

“I had examined every pen and pencil, notepad and other inch of the store.  It was near the register on the way out… a calligrapher’s ink and pen set, complete with a wooden storage box and seven interchangeable pen heads.  It contained a black ink bottle as well as a bottle of dark indigo blue ink derived from a rare Australian fern.”

“Wow.”

“Wow was right.  I could have grabbed it and ran; they saw me see it, albeit.”

“What did you do?”

“I decided to let her decide.  I said, ‘I will do anything you say.  What must I do to have it?’  ‘You had better come up with a dandy chore list,’ she said.  I had to think quick and hard…  ‘What if I mow the neighbor’s yard every other Sunday afternoon for two months or four times?’ I pleaded.  She balanced her checkbook and said it would be fine.”

“So you got the calligrapher’s set?”

“That I did, and I have already mowed Mr. Nabrowski’s yard one time, three times to go.”

“Have you written anything?”

“Yes, I wrote a 112 line poem about a dove who visited Shakespeare in spirit for conversation.  I figured out the characters in pencil and then wrote the poem out with both black and blue ink, depending on the characters’ dialogue.  The dove drinks a gentle trickle of his blood to come back to life, flies away.”

“Can I see it?”

“The bird?”

“The poem, silly.”

“Do you enjoy mowing?”

Neds grandfather just looked at him.

“I am sorry, I plan to submit the poem to a contest hoping the penmanship can be noted.  I will photocopy a copy of it for you.”

“What if I want to mow?”

“You know you are more than welcome to come and help me.  Checkmate.”

Ned won the game.  Ned’s mother pulled up.  Ned got into the car.  They drove away waving goodbye as always.  Ned’s grandfather put the chess pieces up as always, in tears.

 

– angry again m-death video link –

A Jog for More

A Jog for More

One time I was scheduled off for the day and woke just before sunup to go out for a run.  My trusted cold glass of coffee with a shot of syrup nearby, I drank it down.  I put on clothes good enough for the venturous goal, a pursuit of, yet again, undue fatigue.  I made my way down the stairs outside and jogged down the city sidewalk for a while, a few blocks.

New to the city, I continued my exploration.  I decided to dart down a random alley, as if something was running with me.  I took a few steps to catch my breath walking, and I picked my pace back up as if on my way to the other side of the city, altogether.  The alley was interesting and wet.  A danger due to friction, I was cautious not to lose my footing.

As the alley was nearing an end, I would be coming out onto another main city street.  I ran by a young woman crying.  She had her head between her knees as she sat on the ground.  “What a waste of time,” I thought to myself.  She was possibly seeking attention; I walked over to her just in case I could actually be of help.  I knew better than to fall into some form of a trap or foolish ploy.

Are you okay?” I asked.  She looked up to me with a furious and evil stare saying, “No! No I am not!”  “What happened?” I asked.  “I was jogging down this alley, slipped, and lost my headphones.

That is terrible.

It would not have been so bad, had I not been waiting all morning to hear a selection of heavy metal tracks.  I really wanted to rock hard and get some good exercise in this morning.  Oh no, however, I lost my headphones and they fell through the grating back there.

Can we get them out?

No – I checked.  They are gone.

I thought about this for a second; my heart went out to this young girl.  She was either a great actress, as some are, or she really lost her headphones.  I decided to believe her story.

Little did you know;

fire breathes from my soul…

I am a bringer of rock and roll.

Here and on this day we can make our own.

She stood up and helped me climb up on top of a dumpster close to the corner of the more busy sidewalk nearby.  She looked at me as if she was thinking, “I will go first, and then you chimb in.  We will wreck this crowd.

In a low tone she sang, “Out from the depths of evil, I do come…

I yelled, “Never will I sympathize!

From the darkness I am strong;

“I drink the blood of evil all day long;”

“So join around, and hear our song;”

“Bang your heads, and dance along;”

“Your off to work;”

“You will buy it, too;”

“The devil in me;”

“Must live in you!”

By this time their were some people below us enjoying our new song.  It was naturally best to sing at the same time and repeat the words so that our crowd of people could enjoy it, too.  We both sang,

“So come along, sing our song, you can move those bones and live your day long!

So come along, sing our song, a fight-for-some-evil and we will die to live strong!”

The crowd sang, too,

“So come along, sing our song, you can move those bones and live your day long!

So come along, sing our song, a fight-for-some-evil and we will die to live strong!”

Then, we all sang the new improv one last time, singing,

“So come along, sing our song, you can move those bones and live your day long!

So come along, sing our song, a fight-for-some-evil and we will die to live strong!”

We both were helped down from the dumpster and I could tell she was at least happier and somehow motivated.  I did what I could to depart on a positive note and said, “I hope your day gets better.

As she was laughing, I thought she gave our singing a complement when she said, “Do not quit your day job!”  She smiled, jogged on.

To My Followers, A Rare and Fun Song or Two

To My Followers… some fun

Hello, all.  I have estimated that at least two people will see this post.  Hencethoughtforth I present to you a favorite song to listen to.  It is my guesses that this band did not have the time to properly market their talent, must have pursued survival via another method.

At any rate, I found this great video and hope you can enjoy it; it is one of my favorites.  Will I e-e-e-ver get back to my other two novels? … ma-a-a-aybe.

Happy Blogging!

Here is my current favorite site for easy listening, nin dot com

and fun video from slipKnot: cool, psychosocial

and yet another, here… love you guys!

I enjoyed Rammstein, too… here is a link to many of their videos. 🙂

“My work will never be done -” me.

My Most Prized Possession

My Most Prized Possession

Like the cleanliness of a floor with nothing on it, and as the deep sea’s endless flatness presents to us a peaceful existence when it can, I prefer nothing.  My most prized possession is not having one.  John Lennon mentioned this idea in a song or two; Buddhists consider the notion, too.  Even Christians are against forms of greed, though Satanists enjoy the notion of indulgence.  No one wants to make a mistake… I have goals.  Many people do.  I love to write; being able to is a talent I consider to be somewhat of a possession of mine.

I am new to writing as a craft, compared to what I want to be able to do with it eventually.  I have been able to write well for most of my life; I realize that there are techniques that I still have yet to master.  Anyone can sit and jot some prose without too much difficulty; I am still new enough with writing to be in pursuit of my own style and voice.  I do already have both a voice and a style; you do, too.  Being able to choose your own voice or writing style can be a challenge if you make it hard on yourself.  It will be a worthwhile endeavor, even if we do not find these goals to be easy.  Not for me… natural talent is one thing; I still have some exploration to do in the world of grammar and style.

For the most part, though, I am happy with what I can already do.  My talent is hard for me not to covet; being too proud would certainly have its mindless drawbacks from a secondary perspective.  I love to write.  I plan to.  I like reading others’ writings; I want to do better than most.  I think I can.

So, to be new to an old art is a fun and exciting adventure.  I do not have a lot, worldly possession wise.  I am not overly concerned with the notion.  I will be thrifty or giving when I can – I hope my books sell to millions of readers before  I die.  I have a few projects that I am working on.  Life is not easy for me, for now.  With tentative financial debt and a dedicated quasi-addiction to writing; I do what I can.

Hats off to you though, if you chose a car or house or even a week-willed person.  You can have something and suffer the consequences as a calculated cost.  Praise that idol.  Keep it well.  Let it all go; the choice is indeed yours when you are able… know that I am behind you.  I hope you as the audience enjoy my words.  I, from time to time, put what thought I can into them.  My goals with writing are usually achieved in my opinion.  I have nothing else I want more, and I plan to gain, gain, gain.

I have no possession to covet; my writing is my breath of life.  If you have read this, thank you for your time and more power to you.  Be what you can be.  Choose well, for the future is at hand.

Specs of Time

Specs of Time

She sat on her porch watching birds and the wind blow the trees.  They swayed to and fro in the early morning, the spring breeze was nice.  Amy awaited the arrival of her grandmother; her wait surely would not take too much time.  At the age of ten, she was always interested in various curiosities.  Of course she had “grown-up” things on her mind; she was dressed and headed for church.  Her new white shoes shined like porcelain; Amy’s Sunday dress was pale in hues and fitting for spring.  She was thinking of the afterlife.  Amy considered the every sermon she heard, each Sunday.

“What are we all, anyway?” thought Amy, “And what will we be if we make it to heaven?”  She thought and pondered for some time, almost fell asleep.  Suddenly a little brown finch dove from its normal flight in the wind and landed on the railing in front of her.  The finch seemed to look right at Amy and then to the porch’s wooden planks.  There was a small bug there.  The bird acknowledged Amy and flew down, snatching up the bug and flying away.

“Surely the small bird could think,” thought Amy, “It looked right at me.  I imagine most other forms of life can, too.”  She thought about it a while longer and decided.  For one, her grandmother was taking forever, and two, we must all be mere specs in time, able to come and go as any form of life as some form of a gift.  We live; we die; and we most probably can be anything or anyone, depending on certain circumstances.

Amy continued to wait, there with her small Bible.  Eventually, her grandmother drove up.  The huge black car probably weighed 8 tons.   It pulled up and Amy got inside.  “Good morning, grandma.”  “Good morning young girl; buckle up properly.  Did you remember to bring your Bible?”  “Yes ma’am.”  Amy secured herself snugly with her seat-belt, and they drove off to church.  Amy’s parents attended a different congregation.  Amy had been to church with them, before, yet she sometimes went with her grandmother, too.

The day was sunny and bright, the breeze gentle and nice.  Amy’s grandmother drove down the dirty old farm road, and Amy took in the scenery as they traveled.  The vast pastures were mostly the same every time Amy got to see them.  Some of them had cows.  One was used for farming wheat, and others were fenced yet not necessarily maintained too often for farming.  This Sunday would certainly be one that Amy would remember for years and years.