For anyone on list that enjoys Sword and Sorcery, Swashbuckling, Heroic
adventure or Historical Fiction, Flashing Swords is a magazine you'll want to read. Issue 9 is
now available at http://flashingswords.sfreader.com

You can read it for free online or you can get a print copy (but not
for free).

The sun shone upon a small patch of tilled earth, baking it to a crisp.

Marigolds blossoming around the edges wilted and drooped. An old woman stood

with her left hand on her hip and squinted at the garden through one eye.

"That garden ain't gonna grow."

She turned a two-inch square, cardboard box around and peered at the label on

the front.

"Instant water..." She tossed a dirty look over her shoulder at a bungalow and

wrinkled her nose. "Stupid late night T.V. shows...sellin' mah husband all

sorts 'a rubbish!"

She gave her attention back to the box and tried to make out the directions on

the back.

"Jest add water..." She raised an eyebrow at the box and snorted. "Yeah,

instant water all right. 'Fool an' his money be parted!"

She ripped the shrink wrap from the box, tore off the top and peered inside. A

fine white, glistening powder filled the box almost all the way to the top.

"Looks like sugar..." She turned the box upside down and poured its contents

into the grass next to the garden and tossed the container away.

"Idiot husband. Gotta fall fer every scam that comes along!"

She hobbled toward the house, leaving a pile of glittering white crystals

behind.

The sun continued shine, oblivious of her disgruntled unhappiness. Its rays

drew moisture from the grass. Water vapor, rising into the air, interacted

with the crystals and they began to vibrate. A rumbling began, rising in a

rapid crescendo and a monstrous tsunami erupted into existence, washing away

everything in a fifty mile radius.

A small cardboard box washed up onto the edge of the devastation and lay

drying in the sun, its waterlogged type visible for any survivors to read.

'Instant water,' the label read. 'Just add water. Caution. Contains enough for

one medium lake. Handle with care.'

Date:	2007-07-01 22:11
Subject:	Nemisis
Security:	Public
Mood:	amused

I found it sitting on my desk, staring at me with eyes as black as the night between stars. Silent. Motionless. Evil. Large pink ears protruded from its head like malicious radars, siphoning every sound into its gargantuan brain. Soft fur, grey with white speckles, coated its body. Fur that begged to be touched. Stroked. Cuddled.

I sat in my chair staring back while I struggled with my socks. I swear it laughed at me, though I heard no sounds.

Evil. Pure evil. And it had landed on my desk.

I dragged my pants onto my shuddering body, picked the monstrosity up by a tuft of its fur and flung it out the open window onto the newly mown lawn.

A soft step caused me to stiffen and turn. Behind me, an innocent child took her thumb from her mouth and said: “Dad? Where’s my Furby?”

Date:	2007-04-22 13:30
Subject:	Back from the North Texas Book Festival
Security:	Public
Mood:	happy

A very nice festival, held in Denton Texas once a year and its primary aim is to increase reading awareness. Not a huge festival as such things go, but considering the fact that Denton's not exactly the center of any where, there were a lot of people.

A lot of nice speakers as well.

For anyone in Texas, you might consider coming out next year and visiting the festival. The official website is http://www.ntbf.org/ and I'm sure that won't change between now and next year, just the dates, speakers and so on.

Date:	2007-02-26 09:32
Subject:	Faerie Light
Security:	Public
Mood:	cheerful

Dancing, flickering shadows,
Streaking through the leaves.

Glancing off the meadow,
Shimmers on the breeze.

Glittering on rain drops,
Dancing in the air.

Little bits of sunshine,
Tiny drops of light,

The world is full of joy,
The day is pure and bright.

It's been a while since I posted. Life tends to get hectic sometimes and when it does, time goes poof. You wake up on monday morning, turn around and it's friday night. Where the rest of the week went you have no idea.

That's how it's been for me lately so I'd tell you why I haven't posted... but I don't know where the days went, much less what I did on them... aside from work.

I just received a very nice review from a reader. He's posted it in his blog and I wanted to share it. It's online here;
http://www.words.fords.co.nz/

and it's under the entry for Wednesday, February 07, 2007

There was a man who set out to carve a statue. He spent days selecting just the right block of wood. He considered the color, the grain, the hardness and texture. At last, the perfect block of wood was found and he took it home.

He set the block of wood up on a table in his studio, and spent days selecting just the right tools with which to carve. He pondered the pencils with which to draw on the wood the first rough outlines of the statue's shape. He mused over the chisels, saw blades, and other implements. At last, he made his selections with utmost care and began to carve.

The man spent a month carefully, precisely, drawing the rough outline of the statue which he beheld in his mind on all four sides of the block of wood. Each line was exact, not too wide, not to narrow, not too dark. He painstakingly measured how far from the edges and the center every inch of the lines should be and with sweat pouring down his brow, sketched the shape onto the wood.

At last the day arrived when he was ready to carve. He removed each chip of wood precisely, agonizing over each action, sometimes taking an hour to make a single cut. At last, after several more months, the statue was roughed in.

Stepping back from his carving he looked at it critically.
"Hmmm," he said, peering at a spot on the upper section of the statue. "That's slightly crooked. I need to fix that."

Taking his tools in hand again, the man began to smooth the statue, refine it's lines, adjust the fine details.

As he worked, visitors came to his studio. They marveled at the statue, praised his skills, spent hours drinking in the beauty.

Still, the man knew that the statue wasn't perfect. It mattered not to him that everyone praised it, or expressed how beautiful they felt it appeared. He could see the rough spots, he could see where the outlines didn't quite match his vision, and so he smiled at their praise and continued to work.

Many more months went by, and one day a friend came to visit him.

"My friend," the visitor requested. "May I have a look at your marvelous statue? The one you were carving when I was here last year?"

"Certainly," the man agreed. He reached into a drawer, extracted a tooth-pick and handed it to his friend.

"This is certainly a fine jest," the visitor laughed. "But now may I please see the statue?"

"That is all that is left," the sculpture explained, a tear trickling from his eye.

"What on earth happened?" The visitor wanted to know. "Why it was taller than you are yourself when I saw it last!"

"I know," the man nodded his head.

"And it was beautiful," the visitor went on. "More so than any other statue in a museum!"

"Yes," the man agreed. "It was."

"Then what happened?" The visitor insisted. "Did someone break in? Destroy your work?"

"No," the man explained, sighing heavily. "I did that myself."

The visitor looked at him in shocked silence so the man went on.

"You see," he said. "All I could see were the rough spots, the places where it wasn't correct, the mistakes. I sanded, I carved, but the more I worked, the more it looked wrong to me. In my pursuit of perfection, the statue wore away until all that is left, is that tooth-pick you hold. I'm sorry."

"How terrible," the friend comforted him. "I feel for you. Well then, perhaps I could view some of your other works? Surely you have many of those?"

"I'd be glad to show you," the man agreed. "I fear though, that I have no other statues, but..." He opened the drawer again and took out a small box. "I do have a lovely collection of tooth-picks."

Darkness covered the city, flowing down the streets and collecting in the alleys. Silence sat heavily on the sleeping town, its buildings swathed in a thick fog, light pooling in liquid puddles under the occasional street lamp. The town drunk stumbled down the street, his head spinning from the pots of ale he'd just finished off in the pub. Reaching the nearest alley, he leaned heavily against the wall then slid down to sit on the ground. Reclining against the building wall, he threw his head back and began singing loudly, and badly off-key. A brief flash of light a few feet further down the alley startled him and he peered into the darkness. "Who's der?" he slurred, trying to make out anything in the inky blackness. No answer was forthcoming however, so after a few seconds he shrugged and went back to singing.

The reason for the flash stood silently several feet away, his eyes adjusting to the sudden darkness. The putrid smell of rotting garbage caused him to wrinkle his nose in disgust. 'Wonderful,' he thought sourly to himself. 'A backwater planet in the middle of nowhere. And where do I materialize? In the middle of their garbage dump!' He closed his eyes for a second, then took a deep breath, settling his nerves. 'Well, it could be worse I guess. I wonder just how primitive these people are.'

He picked his way slowly through the darkened alley, trying to avoid the larger concentrations of refuse. By the time he reached the street, the town drunk was happily snoring, the words to his song long forgotten in the stupor produced by the ale. 'At least,' he thought to himself as he inspected the drunk. 'I look like they do, physically.' He squatted down beside the drunk and carefully pulled his tattered cloak aside then frowned. 'Clothing...that's another matter.' he dropped the cloak back down over the snoring man and glanced down at his seamless, black jump suit. 'I'll never fit in dressed like this.' He studied the drunk's ratty attire, then stood and glanced cautiously around the street. The fog drifted past, swirling slightly in the faint breezes as he watched, but no other signs of life were evident. Satisfied things were relatively safe, he cautiously stepped out of the alley and turned left then made his way up the deserted street, hugging the rough brick wall of the building and trying to stay well out of the light as he made his way past silent store fronts.

The buildings ended fairly quickly and the street turned into a lane running out into the open land. The man stopped, sighed and turned around. 'Better and better,' he thought, shaking his head. 'Backwater planet, primitive culture, local inhabitants who appear to have all the civility of poorly bred pigs and now this.' He stared back up the street at the few buildings visible through the fog. 'Maybe it's bigger if I go the other way. I need clothes.'

He studied the buildings for several more seconds, then shook his head. 'No, I need a farm. With a clothesline. And a sympathetic farmer.' He grimaced, remembering the drunk's singing. 'A farmer whose language I probably don't speak.' He frowned and looked up at the invisible stars. 'Why me!?' He glanced over his shoulder into the inky blackness which shrouded the lonely countryside then turned back toward the town. If there was a farm out there it certainly didn't show up in the middle of the night. 'When I get my hands,' he thought vehemently. 'On the idiot that opened that warp...'

Light spilled out of a doorway a few feet ahead of him, and he flattened against the wall. A couple strolled out, waving behind them at a crowded, smoke filled room, then wandered off down the street arm in arm. He waited until they were lost in the fog before breathing a silent sigh of relief. 'Clothes now,' he reminded himself. 'And food. And sleep. Retribution later. After my powers come back.' He glanced around, then continued on up the street toward the alley he'd materialized in.

As the alley came in sight, he could see a dark figure bent over the drunk who was happily snoring away in its entrance. He froze, watching as the figure drew a knife out of a sheath and silently cut the drunk's pouch from his belt. The man narrowed his eyes and glanced around. The street was still empty and the alley was only a few feet away. Trained reflexes took over and he advanced silently, little more than a shadow, as the figure opened the pouch and began rummaging through it. He paused, waiting until the thief was completely absorbed in the contents of the pouch, then stepped forward, one hand going to the thief's throat, the other grasping its knife hand. In a single fluid motion, he bent the thief backwards, lifted it off the ground to its toes by the hand on its throat and forced its knife hand open. The knife hit the ground with a dull thud and he twisted his prisoner's arm up behind its back. The thief began to struggle, stopping as the man's hand tightened around its throat.

"You know, for a thief, you're not very observant," he growled, his voice low. His captive grunted and he applied a bit more pressure to the arm behind its back.

"Ow!" came the unhappy protest.

"Not only that, but your choice of targets is lousy," he continued, then waited for a reply.

"Let me go!" the other managed, then gasped as a bit more pressure was applied to his arm.

'Well,' the man thought. 'Language will evidently not be a problem. That's one positive aspect to this.'

"Let you go?" he asked in a low, dangerous voice. "Let you go? And then what? Wait while you pick up your knife and try to kill me? I think not." He squeezed slightly on the other's throat again.

"NO!" his captive cried out, sudden fear filling his voice. "Just let me go and I swear I won't.."

"No, you're right," he interrupted. "You won't...because you really won't like what I'll do if you try." He twisted the other's wrist slightly, provoking another cry. "I'll let go," he continued, his voice dark and threatening, "but you move and you die. Understand?"

"Yes," came the acknowledgment through tightly clinched teeth.

He let go and the thief stumbled forward, whirled around, then stood uncertainly before him, rubbing its wrist and watching warily. The fog drifted past behind him, diffusing what light the nearby street lamp shed and giving him an unearthly backdrop. The thief looked up into a pair of brown eyes that appeared faintly to glow and gulped, his blood running cold.

"Your name?" the man asked, looking down at the thief and crossing his arms.

"Why?" came the hesitant response.

"Because I asked."

"Kheri," the thief answered after a moment.

He nodded, bent over and picked the knife up off the ground. Kheri's eyes darted to the street but prudence kept him from moving.

"You can call me Dale," the man said, straightening up and handing the knife back to its owner.

Kheri looked at the knife suspiciously, then carefully reached out and took it, sheathing it quickly.

"So now what?" Kheri asked nervously, looking back up at the man who towered a full twelve inches over his slight, five and a half feet.

"First, give him back his pouch," Dale instructed, indicating the drunk. "Second, you just became my guide to this place. To start with, I need other clothing. You're going to help me find some."

Kheri opened his mouth to protest, caught the look on Dale's face, nodded once, then dropped the pouch next to the drunk. "What kind of clothes do you want," he asked, his gaze wandering over Dale's strange attire.

"Normal stuff. What any average, working man would wear."

Kheri stared at the jump-suit for a couple more seconds then nodded. "Alright," he decided hesitantly. "I know where you can get something but we'll have to leave town. The only stuff around here is either on someone's back or in a store. And they're locked."

"And stuff outside town isn't?"

"Well..." Kheri squirmed and tried not to feel frightened. "My aunt's got a farm. Its several miles out. I can try to get you some of my uncle's old things unless you object to a walk?"

Dale caught his eyes and held them until Kheri shivered and looked down. "Alright," he replied, satisfied that Kheri was telling the truth. "We'll go visit your aunt. Which way?"

"Uh.." Kheri stammered, his heart pounding, "T...this way." He moved cautiously past the larger man, stepped out of the alley and started up the street toward the center of town. Dale turned and followed silently behind him.

Kheri's thoughts raced as he passed the silent wooden buildings which lined the street. The desire to dash off into the fog filled him and he fought it down, certain that he would fail in the attempt. His arm still ached from the pressure Dale had exerted on it back in the alley and he had no desire to find out just how strong he really was. He rubbed his throat, still feeling the ghostly impressions which Dale's fingers had left in it and shivered. 'Clothes...' he thought, trying to control his overly active imagination. 'I gotta tell her something...' He pictured the ancient steamer trunk locked away in his aunt's attic, full of his uncle's rotting clothing and frowned. 'Maybe I can just offer to clean up,' he thought then shook his head. 'She'll have it locked. I gotta get her to give'm to me.' His arm twinged slightly and he rubbed at the shoulder, remembering the sudden, iron grip which had grasped his wrist, the ease with which Dale had lifted him from the ground then held him on the tips of his toes, and shuddered. The brief events in the alley sprang back to the front of his mind and overpowered his shaky attempt at planning. He swallowed hard, took a deep breath, then forced himself to consider what his Aunt might respond to. He was distracted, still deep in thought, when the last few buildings came in sight. Dale dropped a hand firmly on his shoulder, shattering his concentration and he jumped.

"Stop," came the soft command behind him.

Kheri froze instantly and glanced around. A movement in the shadows a short way up the street caught his attention and he flattened against the wall next to Dale, holding his breath, watching. A figure detached itself from the shadows and crossed the street, visible now as one of the town guards. The two of them stood motionless, waiting as the guard glanced around, then made his way on down the street.

"Alright, let's go," Dale hissed after the guard had vanished into the fog and his footsteps were no longer to be heard. Kheri nodded, then looked curiously at Dale as they started walking again.

Dale returned his gaze and lifted an eyebrow in question. "Yes?"

"How'd you know he was there?"

"I heard him," came Dale's quiet reply.

Kheri blinked. "You heard him?" he repeated dubiously.

"Yes." Dale answered without explanation.

A shiver ran up Kheri's spine and he stopped, turned to face Dale and took a deep breath. "Who...I meant what..." he stammered, unable to turn thoughts into words.

Dale sighed inwardly, crossed his arms and looked down into Kheri's eyes. "Are you sure you want the answer to that question?" he asked.

Kheri nodded, his eyes locked on Dale's face.

"At the moment," Dale told him. "I'm just a stranger who would prefer not to be noticed. You get on my bad side, I might turn out to be your worst nightmare."

Kheri swallowed nervously, unable to look away.

"You do as I ask, and behave, and I may turn out to be a valuable friend," Dale continued, still holding Kheri's gaze with his own. "You want more explanation than that, earn it. How far is it to your aunt's farm from here?"

"Uh..", Kheri stammered and shook his thoughts free from the somewhat frightening flight of fantasy they'd taken. "About three...four miles...not far. A hour or so walk."

"She get up early?"

"Usually yes," Kheri nodded. "And this is market day. There'll be traffic coming into town in a while too."

Dale regarded him silently, watching the younger man fidget. "In that case," he suggested softly, a flinty edge to his voice, "I suggest you turn around and we get going."

Kheri broke into a sudden sweat and turned quickly around, leading the way out of town.

(end of chapter 1)

For more information on this story, visit my website at
http://sojourn.omnitech.net

It's raining. Still. More. Lots. Oh well, at least it's not icy outside, just went. It's a boring sort of wet though. I love the sky when the clouds are dark, low and exciting. You can smell rain in the air, you know there's lighting on the way, the wind's picking up. I love that. But right now the sky is an even shade of light gray, there's no wind and it's just dropping water. Blech. Unpleasant. Necessary, but unpleasant.

My cats are annoyed as well. They've been cooped up in the house for more than a week now. Every time I open a door, they make a dash for the back yard, then skid to a halt and poke just the tip of a whisker outside. It's wet, which they don't like. It's cold, which they like less and they think it's all my fault!

Today's poem is silly, and written in the style of Lewis Carroll. If you don't know what I mean, go read Jabberwock from Alice in Wonderland. It wasn't my intention to write something that mimicked his work, it just crawled out of my brain this way.


The Doggerel and the Caterwaul

A doggerel and a caterwaul,
Agreed to have a free-for-all.
They hissed and howled and snarled as they fought.

The doggerel thought the caterwaul,
Would turn and flee, and thus forestall,
His being turned into a pile of mush.

But loudly squalled the caterwaul,
The sound it was just horrible,
And frightened the poor doggerel forsooth.

Then jumped the screaming caterwaul,
Upon the frightened doggerel,
And dug its claws into the trembling flesh.

A-yelping ran the doggerel,
Away from field and caterwaul,
And never did he even look behind.

Down sat the purring caterwaul,
The winner of the free-for-all.
And snickered as the doggerel ran away.

"That'll teach ya", thought the caterwaul,
"Ya' mean ol' ugly doggerel."
Then happily did he curl up to sleep.

The moral of this story y'all,
Is watch out for the caterwaul,
And don't be looking for to start a fight

I can't believe this is Friday night already. It was Monday just yesterday, or at least it feels that way. I'm not ready for the week to be over. Not that it matters.

I finally got my author page set up on Amazon.com. I like the features it has, and I'm hoping that maybe it'll help to get me a few more readers.

The link is here:

http://www.amazon.com/gp/pdp/profile/A30TJVT9M4XFM6


Today's poem:

Critters

Cats and dogs,
Mice and frogs,
Horses, squirrels and bats.

Creeping things,
Sweeping wings,
Mosquitoes, moths, and gnats.

Creatures all,
Big and small,
Delightful in their way.

This is a strange winter for Texas. We usually get a little ice and snow each winter, maybe a day or two but this year we've gotten ice 2x and it snowed last night. That makes almost a week that the freeze is hanging around.

I don't mind snow, in fact I like it but it's unusual for Texas anyway.

Not much else to even ramble about. I'm not doing well in the thinking department at the moment.

Back to work. Blech. At least I get to work from home right now which is incredibly cool. It's nice to be able to stumble out of bed, and have the commute to work be only 8 feet long... from the bed to my desk. I've been doing this for over a month now and I'm still amazed. It almost feels like not going to work at all.

Of course, I was previously driving for 45 minutes one way to get to work, so I guess I'm still in shock. Just hope this job lasts more than a few months. The contract's supposed to only be till May :( Well we'll see what happens.

Today's poem:

Commuting to work

City traffic hums and flows,
Flying down the street.
Like arrows loosed from heavy bows,
Their targets sure to meet.

The ice storm hit, and buried a large section of Texas. It came in friday night but didn't get bad until yesterday afternoon.

It's pretty thin here in Fort Worth though. A few icicles hanging from the eves of the houses across the street. Tiny frozen droplets dangling from the leaves of my roses just outside my back door. Not much else.

I love the landscape after an ice storm. The trees look like they were made of glass, the grass is crystal and everything smells clean. Of course the electric companies don't like it very well because ice is heavy and tree limbs break. But I still like how it looks.

Today's poem:

Snow falls gently down
Touches the ground
Covers the
Land with
White.

I hate waiting for Poser to render.

I'm sitting here, freezing because Texas has decided to provide it's residents with winter this weekend, and trying to finish up some art for a book cover.

Poser is incredibly slow at the best of times, even with a decent computer to run on. Tonight for some reason, it's slower than normal.

Or maybe I'm just impatient. I'm fighting with the lighting on the background, which requires re-rendering the image a number of times. I'm sure that each of the renders isn't really taking an hour but it certainly feels like it.

Onto other things:

One of my poems will be published in the #228 issue of Bewilidering Stories E-Zine :) I'm rather happy about that. I'm also hoping to get done with this image I'm working on sometime soon so I can finish up the art for book 4 of my series.


Today's poem:

January's Temperment

White snow, drifting down.
Covering field, forest, town.
Over all, a blaket of white.
A soft coverlet to keep out the night.

Icy rain that swirls and storms.
Covers the trees in crystaline forms.
Winter has come but behind it is spring.
A time of new hope for what the year brings.

There are a number of things that I'd like to post about however since the people involved might, at some point in the future, run across this entry, I won't.

I've got to get the rest of the art finished for Book Four of my series. I've got the cover, got 2 inside images but I'd really like at least 3 more. I can't seem to get my brain in gear though. Creativity apparently has taken a leave of absence, which is frustrating.

Today's poem:

Cats

They stand at the door.
Two sets of golden eyes, staring into the darkness.
Ears twitching,
Tail tips curled loosely.
Whiskers at attention.
They stand, peering out at the night, scenting.
Out the door!
Gone, vanished into the shadows!
Dead mice on my doorstep in the morning.
A present.

Texas has the wierdest winters. It bounces from being almost 90 degrees one day, to freezing cold the next. My cats can't figure out if they're supposed to be outside or in. My trees have lost all their leaves, but my roses still have theirs and occaisionaly put out flowers. Right now the temperature is trying to decide if it'll imitate an early spring today, or threaten to produce snow. It makes figuring out what to wear quite an adventure.

Today's poem:

The Father's Final Thoughts
(Words for fathers who can no longer say them)

The world spins
Around in space.
The sleeper sleeps
Upon his face.
The time has come
For me to leave.
The world behind
Now don't you grieve.
Things I have done
Or wanted to.
These are the things
I leave to you.
You are the now
I am the past
The sun has set
it fades at last.
So wipe your tears
And smile for me.
And plant just one
more little tree.
Let it grow strong
upon this hill.
And bide your time
as I surely will.
We'll meet again
'cross sea and stars.
There'll come a time
we can make ours.
So say goodbye,
with one last kiss.
Then close your eyes
But remember this.
I love you now,
I always have.
I've very proud
To have been your Dad.