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Ghostwriting the King

It was the days of treating your neighbor like a fellow man, it was the days of not being able to tell who your neighbors are – days of knowing when to leave Miss Clawdy, and days of having no choice but to forgive her. Sometimes you’d see through the lies; others, you’d be hypnotized by big blue Spanish eyes to ignore them. Twenty days of light and twenty nights of starless sight turned my spring fever into blue Christmas nineteen days early. The two of us had it all and nothing, and only death would tell us what we had after because neither of us knew right then. It ain’t like it is now by a long shot. Those who know what it was like tell it like it was tall, ignoring the fact it was moody baby blue and all.

A Tale of Two Cities by Elvis Presley

A wee blurb written for my How to Make Money From Your Writing class. Lesson 7 discussed the possibilities and ideas of Ghostwriting. We were instructed to take the opening lines from Dickens’s work, “It was the best of times; it was the worst of times…” and give them a new voice. My attempts at Oprah and Confucius bemoaning the turmoil of the French Revolution were substantially worse than sorting through various song lyrics, so there you go.

The Story of the Artificer – Chapter 1

When the pearlescent blue liquid fizzed, Able’s nose caught the faint fragrance of fresh bread before the froth ignited in an explosion. The young gnome flew back through the air into a pile of discarded paper. He coughed, ears ringing. Around him, sparkles of blue and pink burst and hissed.

Light bloomed in his peripheral vision and Able turned his throbbing head to see a taller, older gnome thrust the workshop door open, panic on her round face.

As fast as Able’s heart sank, the panic morphed into a mixture of anger and worry. In quick strides, his mother crossed the ruins of the glass beakers and most of the table and knelt next to him. Her lips moved and he made out, “Are you hurt?” as she prodded his arms and torso in brisk examination. Shaking his head, Able winced. The ringing in his ears increased with a rising pain and warm fluid trickled down the right side of his jaw.

Continuing to glare at him, his mother cradled the side of his face in one warm, callused hand. Her grey eyes closed and her lips moved in words he could not hear nor identify. She raised her other hand and snapped her fingers next to his ear.

The click returned sound with full force; Able jerked his head away at the sudden roar of atmosphere. The bleeding ceased, the pain lessening but not ceasing entirely.

“Able Kingsage,” his mother did not shout. Able’s stomach curdled at her quiet tone and he dropped his gaze. She turned his chin up to stare into his eyes. No glare remained, her expression now disappointed. “What have I told you about going into Gramfer’s workshop?”

Photo by Kokaleinen on Pixabay
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Crystal Head Vodka microReview

“Doesn’t that sound awesome?” my friend Cora breathed as the advertisement ended. To be honest, I had to agree. Dan Aykroyd presented a glowing description of the vodka, as well as the world of spiritualism.

Crystal Skull Vodka was described by the “heart of the Ghostbusters” as “the purest as achievable.” It is distilled four times. The vodka is made from Newfoundland water and is triple-filtered through Herkimer diamonds. Each bottle is hand-filled. And there is supposed to be a slightly “creamy sweet flavor.”

At the end of eight minutes, my nostalgia and sentimentalism and appreciation for story burst in a raging font of need against my dam of common sense. Thankfully, my cynicism kicked in.

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Let Them Race Cake

To inaugurate a hospital or new building, one might cut a ribbon. To christen a ship, smash some champagne or three-buck-chuck on its bow instead of drinking the perfectly good bottle of booze. The Eastern Orthodox Church dunks infants in baptismal fonts brimming with olive oil, and boy, National Geographic has some haunting pictures of that.

But what if you’re a casino that’s just built a six-story parking garage and you want to commemorate the occasion with more than a few yards of 4″ wide red satin and a comically-oversized pair of scissors wielded by the nearest politician up for election next month?

Build a car out of cake and race it, of course! (Warning: Article viewing limit)

Photo by Michal Balog on Unsplash
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Game Stopped Short

Back in the day, I’d get my computer games at Fred Meyer. Then I found Electronics Boutique at the mall. Then the mall patrons decided two video game stores were redundant and the subsequent rise of GameStop put Electronics Boutique out of business. Then GameStop phased out their PC Game offerings in favor of console exclusivity. Then I found Steam and quit going to the mall.

All that to say, I should have spent more time paying attention in Economics 101 and less time conquering the known world with Attila the Hun in Age of Empires II. Because now GameStop is an unexpected battleground where hedge fund firms face off against individual investors gathered and spurred on by online message board WallStreetBets, a subdivision of Reddit.

Photo by Gilly on Unsplash
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Unto Us

City of a thousand dreams, graveyard of worry until the oncoming morrow, Las Vegas spread as gleaming gold under Night’s cloak. Within the city, among the towering edifices, standing in the entrance to The Templeton Casino and Suites’s parking garage, Dale Carmichael was neither a poet, nor in a position to see the vast city stretch out before him. He pushed his glasses further up the bridge of his nose and sighed. Jerking the lapel of his ill-fitting uniform straight again, he wandered back into the attendant station. The small booth reminded him of his apartment near the edge of the city, both being of equal size. And both coffee makers locked on the too-weak-to-caffeinate-a-cockroach setting. And the walls of the booth were thicker. And the booth had a television, albeit broken.

Dale ignored the groan of the chair as he sat down upon it. Management said replacing chairs on their last legs wasn’t high on their list of priorities unless he was a patron or worked in the gaming areas. Resigned to the ultimatum that if he didn’t want his rent checks bouncing, he supposed the depressed chair would be his friend for a long while yet. Dale picked up the battered copy of Les Miserablés his girlfriend gave him and opened it to the place he left off. “At that moment,” he read, “she suddenly felt that the bucket was gone. A hand, which seemed enormous to her, had just caught the handle, and was carrying it easily.

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Chocolate Library

Author’s Note: I first heard of Fortnum and Mason in the BBC version of All Creature’s Great and Small. Their hampers were treasure troves of the sweet, rich, and sumptuous. Back in October, my sister sent me a link to their writing competition. I didn’t win, but I did have a bit of fun assembling my entry. Have a gander!

Meltdown at Carnegie Hall

The stars were out and the stars were in. The hall hummed with conversation of the glamorous and eager, half an ear cocked to their neighbor, the other toward the stage. In the pit of the orchestra, James Doolridge wiped his mouth in dismay.

In his chest beat the tempo which the dervish delighted and the debonair despised, and small wonder! For in his dressing room, midst flowers and adornments from the adoring, a riffled drawer gaped, plundered.

For Doolridge, the strains, the melody, the symphony he guided with motion of hand and rosewood shaft sweetened his ears, but the richness of chocolate, the envelopment of treacle set sweetness upon his lips. The sugar imbibed instilled stanzas as his innards welcomed confection bonanzas. No Mozart was mastered before him, no Beethoven beheld his movement, no Debussy displayed without the lingering languor of chocolate, hastily masticated before returning to rostrum and continuing command. 

And now theft threatened to leave the last portion of the performance to pieces; his muse, plucked from his vanity, not long for the barbarous ministrations of a detractor he did not doubt, would not aid him in tending orchestral efforts.

Even as the hiss passed through backstage, muffled by curtain on the cusp of rising, “Thirty seconds! Places!” and Doolridge ascended his stand, his mind whirled. Was it the clarinetist, the scarlet-maned woman of simpering smile melting to glowering glare when he demanded she arise and move down one chair? Could it have been the concertmaster, bowed but unbroken before Doolridge’s shoe catching his violin case in hasty chocolate chase before the overture began? Or Vincent Van Veers, his assistant anxious for opportunity to co-opt a community and be the youngest conductor at Carnegie in years?

Introspection mingled with introduction, his arms raising in automatic attention, but as bows were set, the horns glinted and raised, James Doolridge was stricken with thought.

To apoplectic memory flew the percussionists sneer, the half-muttered comment loud enough to tickle one Doolridge ear, “’Give a fool two sticks and he calls himself a drummer?’ Check your pocketbook, grant him only one, and behold! A conductor.”

And was that a smirk on the villainous veneer, one curl of the lip over collar of lace? Where smudge of melted chocolate and gold tinted glittering grin, fresh in finkly face?

The orchestra and audience shared a high gasp, as conductor landed on timpani with an indecorous crash. Baton and mallet clashed in irregular rhythm and the guilty soon fought with all desperation within him.

Cast from conduction for conduct unconducive, Doolridge flounced off in fury. He consoled himself with what confections he’d buy, sending the energy into study, into examination, and soon before jury. One might feel sadness at seeing one so musically inclined turn to the tricks and trade of law-as-defined. Fear not, gentle reader, for he is not unhappy, though if he does not curtail his chocolate consumption, one Doolridge Esq. will soon be disbarred.

If You Don’t Write Fanmail, Start

Sir Ian Holm died.

I should have sent him a note saying I liked him as Bilbo in the Lord of the Rings films. And Fifth Element. And one of the audio versions of the Lord of the Rings. And in Day After Tomorrow, admonishing his colleagues to not waste fine scotch delaying the inevitable but instead enjoy it in the face of oblivion.

Dave Madden died. He played a wise-cracking, curmudgeonly, grumpy, sarcastic, Jesus-loving, story-telling janitor in the radio theater Adventures in Odyssey. He wasn’t my favorite character in my childhood, but once I grew up and listened again to the episodes, the humor then clicked for me. And since I’m now a janitor, well, I feel a kinship to the character. I never wrote Dave Madden fan mail.

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Don’t Stop Writing Fan Mail

It’s been so long since I’ve let poetry bubble up I’d forgotten what it was like to evoke emotion. To be honest, I don’t know as my words have had such an effect as this before.

Back in the days when I decided to be bold and try new things, I read in the paper about a local kickstarted pizza cart, Pizzeria La Sorrentina, near the car museum. I was (and still am) a foodie and was inspired to write an honest, albeit gushing, review on their Facebook page.

I never did that before. Oh, sure, I’d like a friend’s page about their small business or band, but they were always people I knew in person. With every bite of the pizza, I wanted more and more to meet Daisuke Matsumoto, the Japanese gentleman who studied pizza in Italy to not just learn how to make pizza but to become wonderful at it. I realized he was (and is) excellent at making pizza. His passion pours into every knead and stretch of dough. For me, paying sixteen bucks for what some would consider a “small” pizza is worth every single cent.

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The Horse and His Boy

Which is your favorite Chronicles of Narnia book?

Mine is The Horse and His Boy.

I didn’t know why. Growing up, I wanted to be Peter and kill wolves and rule Narnia as High King. I also wanted to be the oldest. And command armies. But even when I finished reading The Last Battle, still struggling to accept it as the completion of the series, my thoughts still trailed to the story of an orphan slave and a talking horse. I found more concepts there with which I identify than the rest of the series.

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