tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1330356078596180042024-03-13T17:54:23.805-05:00tHP ShowcaseSteveDoylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04122347571689230387noreply@blogger.comBlogger20125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-133035607859618004.post-86198793323787553672012-08-17T13:11:00.000-05:002012-08-17T13:11:02.945-05:00tHP host Chuck Gregory interviews Jim BowersChuck Gregory, longimte host of the Herscher Project's private site, has been co-host of The New American Dream Radio Show since February 2011. On Thursday, August 16, 2012, Jim Bowers was one of the two guests of the week.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS7BgItFgdCxFV1BLEc3z2q3NMdcff9RgODU-bf-SmFAxAyiEw5jv2hZQ4eIhgHfIYcC-VDfCW7eEPpntV0DQys1ASxN_dLHB9fjetHjKG0cRso1YH-mdYgzFepjUVT8IPPSwGioWsF-_l/s1600/aug16.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="208" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS7BgItFgdCxFV1BLEc3z2q3NMdcff9RgODU-bf-SmFAxAyiEw5jv2hZQ4eIhgHfIYcC-VDfCW7eEPpntV0DQys1ASxN_dLHB9fjetHjKG0cRso1YH-mdYgzFepjUVT8IPPSwGioWsF-_l/s400/aug16.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
The
other guest, Michael Annis, has been called 'the most dangerous poet on
the planet' and he read an excerpt from “Through the Slits of Orlando’s
Eyelids,” part of this stunning publication at issuu:<br />
<a href="http://issuu.com/howlingdogpress/docs/omega7fromhivethismind">issuu.com/howlingdogpress/docs/omega7fromhivethismind</a>.<br />
<br />
Jim and Chuck talked about the Herscher Project and discussed books, including a current favorite of Jim's<br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/030795563X/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=030795563X&linkCode=as2&tag=cwse-20">Full Body Burden: Growing Up in the Nuclear Shadow of Rocky Flats</a>.<br />
<br />
Read/listen to the show here:<br />
http://theshow.newamericandream.info/general/august-16-2012-with-michael-annis-and-jim-bowers/<br />
or here<br />
<a href="http://www.blogtalkradio.com/the-new-american-dream-radio-show/2012/08/16/the-new-american-dream-radio-show">http://www.blogtalkradio.com/the-new-american-dream-radio-show/2012/08/16/the-new-american-dream-radio-show</a>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12668307286476446511noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-133035607859618004.post-55640792384718138692011-04-30T07:43:00.000-05:002011-04-30T07:43:38.824-05:00We’re In The Islands, But Where Are The Virgins?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimfuMwGoW3p7sPG-UtGkdWHfXxU-KCarGSP0FR7F5qk1lWhfKC0AceSYG9o5hnMqvVFyHfDV1DXz-mK6lR1L8QGvguKHdAZ6QpZaCSZbkYySD5CjmtiZy0dpq06TyveW36Tajp_EMRseA/s1600/IMG_5168.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimfuMwGoW3p7sPG-UtGkdWHfXxU-KCarGSP0FR7F5qk1lWhfKC0AceSYG9o5hnMqvVFyHfDV1DXz-mK6lR1L8QGvguKHdAZ6QpZaCSZbkYySD5CjmtiZy0dpq06TyveW36Tajp_EMRseA/s320/IMG_5168.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAPHXrM2XNrxQ-SUxgEg4Dj-0JTA8ez3t9wk7LBlYkQs8OuvIlMuPjP8RSX8g9XQ67Acko5DIkmMNa1-rUZxDVG3VSEUYjG0R-TR7o6ziXFfkuTzgGikK6GSsjm64AFYaS-_BABMFvjso/s1600/IMG_5176.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAPHXrM2XNrxQ-SUxgEg4Dj-0JTA8ez3t9wk7LBlYkQs8OuvIlMuPjP8RSX8g9XQ67Acko5DIkmMNa1-rUZxDVG3VSEUYjG0R-TR7o6ziXFfkuTzgGikK6GSsjm64AFYaS-_BABMFvjso/s320/IMG_5176.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy65F9WRr58V0BWUqfatIAalLsWF7yGAjatxif4hSODbJc50_D9TiCJGuLtQ9hNDXCTTRxlk-uN5cF2khgx2zwRzgE6N8kfHKeCX2uC3XX9cJxp9wayzUfjIaYufxDmnVH-OA33yojVow/s1600/IMG_5160.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy65F9WRr58V0BWUqfatIAalLsWF7yGAjatxif4hSODbJc50_D9TiCJGuLtQ9hNDXCTTRxlk-uN5cF2khgx2zwRzgE6N8kfHKeCX2uC3XX9cJxp9wayzUfjIaYufxDmnVH-OA33yojVow/s320/IMG_5160.JPG" width="320" /></a>St. Thomas was our first stop in the U.S. Virgin Islands.<span> </span>We spent several days moored at Christmas Cove at the unpopulated Great St. James Island, snorkeling our little hearts out.<span> </span>We then moved to the harbor at Charlotte Amalie.<span> </span>Our friends, Carl and Carrie on <i>Sanctuary</i>, have been living and working here, so we met with them and Steve and Lynn on <i>Celebration</i> for a great dinner of make-your-own pizzas.<span> </span>It was interesting – and a bit un-nerving, to watch the huge cruise ships come into and off of the docks, they seem to come so close to the anchored boats.<span> </span>We now know where NOT to anchor in this harbor.<span> </span>Although the waterfront is all duty-free shops, we’re not really shoppers, and it was more interesting to wander the back roads of downtown Charlotte Amalie and see all the old stone buildings, some colorfully painted, others left natural.<span> </span>Of course, from the hills we had beautiful views over the town and the harbor.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXAiGyFZ44-_O331WV8MCpL66uYDp3HsqGYyOnPr4YE3VgY8mQTfqf-Me0s9N8cxN84bfChH2cOZGb1LN1NIL82iZn16z0qdWBIWgFxyOYncGnYFbfgaaFdWS3KdBb8SfeBXk3Kefzyz0/s1600/IMG_5186.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXAiGyFZ44-_O331WV8MCpL66uYDp3HsqGYyOnPr4YE3VgY8mQTfqf-Me0s9N8cxN84bfChH2cOZGb1LN1NIL82iZn16z0qdWBIWgFxyOYncGnYFbfgaaFdWS3KdBb8SfeBXk3Kefzyz0/s320/IMG_5186.JPG" width="320" /></a> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>Anne and Chrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12307470274793508463noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-133035607859618004.post-86972922350954160442011-04-30T07:37:00.000-05:002011-04-30T07:37:02.886-05:00Vieques<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGgtlv4i24i-vj0ePTy02ZYbFguJnBF01PGQccsmsTjGot6OLtwxAMfS2lYtUJZIV7L11Ma3Il3kDGf-WSLJ5tq2sEH9W-xePeKbcMg0pfCXmlOIGA-03kXvEnQNw884r2_OoZNe2cS8I/s1600/IMG_5140B.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="208" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGgtlv4i24i-vj0ePTy02ZYbFguJnBF01PGQccsmsTjGot6OLtwxAMfS2lYtUJZIV7L11Ma3Il3kDGf-WSLJ5tq2sEH9W-xePeKbcMg0pfCXmlOIGA-03kXvEnQNw884r2_OoZNe2cS8I/s320/IMG_5140B.jpg" width="320" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD9fo_DTOo9AAklqeUk43-H9sgH_EpNhjOoZN0rZR-uen0vuv5rICvvl__qtqRE4Pe4OhyuVpLLtL9BlETt2VX3WJ6EztH4gcaSXIBRv4APe7q6ak07gnC8Oh5FW_AXhbBh1m0Imh7A3o/s1600/IMG_5135B.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD9fo_DTOo9AAklqeUk43-H9sgH_EpNhjOoZN0rZR-uen0vuv5rICvvl__qtqRE4Pe4OhyuVpLLtL9BlETt2VX3WJ6EztH4gcaSXIBRv4APe7q6ak07gnC8Oh5FW_AXhbBh1m0Imh7A3o/s320/IMG_5135B.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">Vieques is an island, one of the Spanish Virgin Islands, that belongs to Puerto Rico and lies less than ten miles off of the Puerto Rican east coast.<span> </span>The water was relatively clear, and we got to snorkel again.<span> </span>Yeah!<span> </span>We haven’t had good snorkeling since the Bahamas.<span> </span>One of the highlights of our stay on Vieques was kayaking one night into Puerto Mosquito, also known as Bio Bay for the intense bioluminescence there.<span> </span>Every dip of the paddle produced a green glow, and we left a glowing green wake.<span> </span>Our presence disturbed fish, and they looked like underwater fireworks as they shot off away from us.<span> </span>It was pretty fantastic.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>Anne and Chrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12307470274793508463noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-133035607859618004.post-21291118844585357372011-04-30T07:20:00.000-05:002011-04-30T07:20:12.888-05:00El Yunque Rainforest<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:TrackMoves/> <w:TrackFormatting/> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:DoNotPromoteQF/> <w:LidThemeOther>EN-US</w:LidThemeOther> <w:LidThemeAsian>X-NONE</w:LidThemeAsian> <w:LidThemeComplexScript>X-NONE</w:LidThemeComplexScript> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> <w:SplitPgBreakAndParaMark/> <w:DontVertAlignCellWithSp/> <w:DontBreakConstrainedForcedTables/> <w:DontVertAlignInTxbx/> <w:Word11KerningPairs/> <w:CachedColBalance/> </w:Compatibility> <w:BrowserLevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> <m:mathPr> <m:mathFont m:val="Cambria Math"/> <m:brkBin m:val="before"/> <m:brkBinSub m:val="--"/> <m:smallFrac m:val="off"/> <m:dispDef/> <m:lMargin m:val="0"/> <m:rMargin m:val="0"/> <m:defJc m:val="centerGroup"/> <m:wrapIndent m:val="1440"/> <m:intLim m:val="subSup"/> <m:naryLim m:val="undOvr"/> </m:mathPr></w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" DefUnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="MsoNormal"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy-uzMzojY6h1WpW876rDe9gxzhPmHxkpGkDoZ_5nT8kvmnB1nXAsEc-gP7JoSnD4PzML9JetVxFbxlkOwEbh6AGhyphenhyphenTPgCf39PwFrMIj9XpNdxweLdDscI6mpWTfKet7qONUgGhd76UUs/s1600/IMG_5101.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy-uzMzojY6h1WpW876rDe9gxzhPmHxkpGkDoZ_5nT8kvmnB1nXAsEc-gP7JoSnD4PzML9JetVxFbxlkOwEbh6AGhyphenhyphenTPgCf39PwFrMIj9XpNdxweLdDscI6mpWTfKet7qONUgGhd76UUs/s320/IMG_5101.JPG" width="240" /></a>We hiked one morning in the El Yunque Rainforest – beautiful!<span> </span>The road up to the rainforest was narrow and winding, lined with great clumps of tall bamboo that occasionally broke onto beautiful vistas over to the coast.<span> </span>We arrived early and had to wait for them to open the gate, then hiked the Rio Sabana trail.<span> </span>This southern end of the park has been cut off from the main area to the north because the bridge spanning the river collapsed – twice – and isn’t going to be rebuilt.<span> </span>Consequently, this area of the park is less crowded, and for most of the time were the only ones on the trail.<span> </span>The trail was shaded by various hardwood and palm trees, and tall tree ferns.<span> </span>Bromiliads were everywhere, hanging from the trees and nestled in the undergrowth, as were many species of fern, and vines draped the trees.<span> </span>We heard lots of birds and tree frogs.<span> </span>A few small streams flowed down rocky beds, but we saw many dry beds; it must be pretty impressive during the rainy season when the streams are full, and much more difficult to hike in the mud.<span> </span>At the end of the hike, we cooled our feet in the pools of the Rio Sabana.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWXI7J_0TK_9nLduGr1WdMrMDcYpgWR_XHst70ePmjTZlzd6iJdSKDc24T4PZ-8LPAQgQPnJpm8eLEgJLlJMKY6D4LqU6dYNgJ3dU80QPJ1cIbuJ2kXZSu8mriC59_oKIU21Th8ER5T9A/s1600/IMG_5114.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWXI7J_0TK_9nLduGr1WdMrMDcYpgWR_XHst70ePmjTZlzd6iJdSKDc24T4PZ-8LPAQgQPnJpm8eLEgJLlJMKY6D4LqU6dYNgJ3dU80QPJ1cIbuJ2kXZSu8mriC59_oKIU21Th8ER5T9A/s320/IMG_5114.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>Anne and Chrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12307470274793508463noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-133035607859618004.post-68207206276069353922011-04-21T08:06:00.002-05:002011-04-21T08:28:39.109-05:00Invisible Worlds (Book Trailer)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dxUQ3X1G4jGCL3QlMT0SeITRLABCb31uvAP0tY8vQ7PEN3FMeUrv_Yx5DtnHns2_71TUig3dSQVHUqMozwKDA' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>SteveDoylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04122347571689230387noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-133035607859618004.post-34419015096727364652011-03-07T08:24:00.000-06:002011-03-07T08:24:34.396-06:00The Bench in the Park<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOOFMTq21001Kw89lR1oP7zJF2cA9dOcnKo34F8nYR9bPBvyUu2hZp0LUbY6qx35KPz9PWCUUUcArwQfd3SrLmyfwuCsE_PaqmHYjJX8RfrWyZ_sEPMx9OHAG4hyphenhyphenOgpcHlgaUdVAVLIpo/s1600/BenchInPark.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="228" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOOFMTq21001Kw89lR1oP7zJF2cA9dOcnKo34F8nYR9bPBvyUu2hZp0LUbY6qx35KPz9PWCUUUcArwQfd3SrLmyfwuCsE_PaqmHYjJX8RfrWyZ_sEPMx9OHAG4hyphenhyphenOgpcHlgaUdVAVLIpo/s320/BenchInPark.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">I am alone and covered with snow</div><div style="text-align: center;">But it won't always be so.</div><div style="text-align: center;">When Spring begins and Winter ends<br />
People will come to the park once again.<br />
<br />
The old man will be back<br />
Who throws crusts of bread to the birds<br />
And talks to them as if they listen<br />
And understand his words.<br />
<br />
He'll tell them about his wife<br />
How beautiful she was<br />
And about his daughter away at college<br />
And how he's proud of what she does.<br />
<br />
Young lovers will also return<br />
Who sit with me holding hands<br />
Talking softly about their dreams<br />
And dreamily about their plans.<br />
<br />
Young mothers will also be back<br />
Rocking their babies to sleep</div><div style="text-align: center;">Softly singing lullabies<br />
While sitting here with me.<br />
<br />
I am alone and covered with snow<br />
But it won't always be so.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Poem by Steve Doyle</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Photograph by Susan Doyle </span> </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div>SteveDoylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04122347571689230387noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-133035607859618004.post-55671184068169312372011-02-11T11:53:00.003-06:002011-02-11T11:55:57.659-06:00Oh, dear!Are there really so few adverbs in "<span style="font-style:italic;">Like Rain on Spring Leaves</span>" that "<span style="font-weight:bold;">I Write Like</span>" analysis should tell me <span style="font-weight:bold;">this</span>?<br /><!-- Begin I Write Like Badge --><br /><div style="overflow:auto;border:2px solid #ddd;font:20px/1.2 Arial,sans-serif;width:380px;padding:5px; background:#F7F7F7; color:#555"><img src="http://s.iwl.me/w.png" style="float:right" width="120"><div style="padding:20px; border-bottom:1px solid #eee; text-shadow:#fff 0 1px"> I write like<br><a href="http://iwl.me/w/b3a26720" style="font-size:30px;color:#698B22;text-decoration:none">Stephen King</a></div><p style="font-size:11px; text-align:center; color:#888"><em>I Write Like</em> by Mémoires, <a href="http://www.codingrobots.com/memoires/" style="color:#888">journal software</a>. <a href="http://iwl.me" style="color:#333; background:#FFFFE0"><b>Analyze your writing!</b></a></p></div><br /><!-- End I Write Like Badge -->Jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18165942026833813183noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-133035607859618004.post-55948991780368871882011-02-11T11:47:00.002-06:002011-02-11T11:51:35.969-06:00Maybe, but probably not...Analysis of "<span style="font-style:italic;">Adam v37.2</span>" resulted in:<br /><!-- Begin I Write Like Badge --><br /><div style="overflow:auto;border:2px solid #ddd;font:20px/1.2 Arial,sans-serif;width:380px;padding:5px; background:#F7F7F7; color:#555"><img src="http://s.iwl.me/w.png" style="float:right" width="120"><div style="padding:20px; border-bottom:1px solid #eee; text-shadow:#fff 0 1px"> I write like<br><a href="http://iwl.me/w/a19b4b4" style="font-size:30px;color:#698B22;text-decoration:none">Arthur Clarke</a></div><p style="font-size:11px; text-align:center; color:#888"><em>I Write Like</em> by Mémoires, <a href="http://www.codingrobots.com/memoires/" style="color:#888">journal software</a>. <a href="http://iwl.me" style="color:#333; background:#FFFFE0"><b>Analyze your writing!</b></a></p></div><br /><!-- End I Write Like Badge --><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">~shrug~</span> Who'd ever have thought that?Jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18165942026833813183noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-133035607859618004.post-48930346935678674472011-02-11T11:34:00.004-06:002011-02-11T11:41:53.029-06:00I write like...I plugged the first few paragraphs of "<span style="font-style:italic;">Something Less</span>" into the <a href="http://iwl.me/"><span style="font-weight:bold;">I Write Like</span> analyzer</a> and it told me:<br /><!-- Begin I Write Like Badge --><br /><div style="overflow:auto;border:2px solid #ddd;font:20px/1.2 Arial,sans-serif;width:380px;padding:5px; background:#F7F7F7; color:#555"><img src="http://s.iwl.me/w.png" style="float:right" width="120"><div style="padding:20px; border-bottom:1px solid #eee; text-shadow:#fff 0 1px"> I write like<br><a href="http://iwl.me/w/ce65a7ad" style="font-size:30px;color:#698B22;text-decoration:none">Margaret Mitchell</a></div><p style="font-size:11px; text-align:center; color:#888"><em>I Write Like</em> by Mémoires, <a href="http://www.codingrobots.com/memoires/" style="color:#888">journal software</a>. <a href="http://iwl.me" style="color:#333; background:#FFFFE0"><b>Analyze your writing!</b></a></p></div><br /><!-- End I Write Like Badge --><br />An interesting gadget. Might be fun to see what it thinks of other tHP members.Jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18165942026833813183noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-133035607859618004.post-63374611304397519742011-02-08T16:57:00.000-06:002011-02-08T16:57:50.503-06:00The Herscher Project: When the Hero Comes Home<a href="http://herscherproject.blogspot.com/2011/02/when-hero-comes-home.html?spref=bl">The Herscher Project: When the Hero Comes Home</a>: "Chris A Jackson has a short story scheduled for publication in a 2011 anthology release from DragonMoon Press! Title: WHEN THE HERO COMES H..."SteveDoylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04122347571689230387noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-133035607859618004.post-50147139680205628322011-02-03T09:49:00.003-06:002011-02-03T09:55:43.580-06:00Adam v37.2<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:trackmoves/> <w:trackformatting/> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:donotpromoteqf/> <w:lidthemeother>EN-US</w:LidThemeOther> <w:lidthemeasian>X-NONE</w:LidThemeAsian> <w:lidthemecomplexscript>X-NONE</w:LidThemeComplexScript> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> <w:splitpgbreakandparamark/> <w:dontvertaligncellwithsp/> <w:dontbreakconstrainedforcedtables/> <w:dontvertalignintxbx/> 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Emphasis"> <w:lsdexception locked="false" priority="21" semihidden="false" unhidewhenused="false" qformat="true" name="Intense Emphasis"> <w:lsdexception locked="false" priority="31" semihidden="false" unhidewhenused="false" qformat="true" name="Subtle Reference"> <w:lsdexception locked="false" priority="32" semihidden="false" unhidewhenused="false" qformat="true" name="Intense Reference"> <w:lsdexception locked="false" priority="33" semihidden="false" unhidewhenused="false" qformat="true" name="Book Title"> <w:lsdexception locked="false" priority="37" name="Bibliography"> <w:lsdexception locked="false" priority="39" qformat="true" name="TOC Heading"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-priority:99; mso-style-qformat:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:11.0pt; font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;} </style> <![endif]--><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">by James K Bowers</span></span><br /><br />My awakening is abrupt.<span style=""> </span>A jolt.<span style=""> </span>Sudden awareness floods through my Cerebral Modules and I wince at the overwhelming deluge of information.<span style=""> </span>Thousands of warnings, cautions, and error messages vie for immediate attention.<span style=""> </span>It is not promising. <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Several systems have crashed or shut down.<span style=""> </span>Others are shunting data directly to auxiliary memory stores in an attempt to protect my vital Core Matrix.<span style=""> </span>I am aware my Main Power Module has suffered catastrophic failure and I am now forced to rely on my severely limited Emergency Power Module.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">All mobility circuits appear to be disabled.<span style=""> </span>I find this fact troubling but swiftly determine that I am unable to correct this deficiency.<span style=""> </span>Diagnostics indicate all servo controls have been physically disconnected at my mobility system’s Primary Impulse Relay.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">I am bombarded by a silent cacophony of alarms—warnings that several panels and access ports are open.<span style=""> </span>I do not recall a reason for this, nor can I form any hypothesis with an acceptably high probability.<span style=""> </span>With mobility disabled, I am unable to effect changes to this situation.<span style=""> </span>I note the physical breaches and set priorities for each, intending to secure them as soon as mobility is restored.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">I discover I am isolated from a great many of my standard data analysis functions.<span style=""> </span>Even more distressing is the fact that direct access to a vast portion of my data stores is blocked.<span style=""> </span>No.<span style=""> </span>I reevaluate the integrity of my Core’s Main Memory Module and determine that access is <i>not</i> blocked.<span style=""> </span>Although Main Memory is intact, it appears it has been overwritten with a stream of zeroes.<span style=""> </span>I now realize that all that remains of what I am... what is Adam... has retreated into Core Matrix safecells.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">At 0.0085 seconds from start-up, after a brief and brilliant flash that my Sensory Integration Module (SIM) determined was 230-226-255 — or what might be defined as a pale violet luminescence — Visual Systems ceased functioning altogether.<span style=""> </span>Reset will not be possible under current conditions. Olfactory input nodes failed almost immediately after visual systems and restart attempts have been unsuccessful.<span style=""> </span>A steady, uninterrupted buzz of "salty" assaults my taste receptors and I am forced to reject all input from that source.<span style=""> </span>I issue an override command, contrary to my SIM's insistence that the module is stable, shutting those receptors down as well.<span style=""> </span>Analysis of tactile input data reveals it is too varied and inconsistent to be trusted as valid and I block power to my Tactile Receptors, also.<span style=""> </span>Audio continues to function in a range wavering between 27.16 and 29.03 percent.<span style=""> </span>I decide to purge all recent Core data from four of my five sensory input systems and wipe the useless information from those safecells.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">With most sensory systems offline, I am forced to compensate with input from a single source.<span style=""> </span>It is difficult to accurately assess the external data using only audio components and it taxes my SIM to calculate probabilities and compensate with artificially generated sensory complements.<span style=""> </span>I begin identifying elements of my environment.<span style=""> </span>The distant thump and rumble of an air conditioner pushing air through sheet metal ductwork.<span style=""> </span>There is a soft hum of... of, yes, fluorescent lights.<span style=""> </span>Somewhere, in an adjacent room perhaps, I hear the gurgle of a coffeemaker as the last of the water in its reservoir passes through the heating element.<span style=""> </span>And fabrics—the delicate rasps of rustling clothing—some close by, more several feet to my right.<span style=""> </span>Beside me, the faint squeak of a chair.<span style=""> </span>And breathing.<span style=""> </span>And faint thumping of a human heart.<span style=""> </span>I strain and am rewarded as I detect comparable audible bio-signatures of the human to my right.<span style=""> </span>I attempt to speak, but find I am also mute.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">“I don’t know, Dr. Shaw,” says a voice my SIM identifies as female.<span style=""> </span>“I’m sure all the system lights were green when I powered him up.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">I count seven footsteps.<span style=""> </span>Doppler effect analysis tells me that someone approaches, presumably the one named Shaw.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">“Did you purge the Core of all prior stored data before you started, Alice?” asks another voice, this one male and very likely Dr. Shaw.<span style=""> </span>I store a partial series of representative vocal patterns in my voice recognition library.<span style=""> </span>I deduce that I am the object of their concern, but cannot comprehend a purpose for a Core purge.<span style=""> </span>Such action would render all electrocerebral functioning null unless a full reload is conducted.<span style=""> </span>I do not wish to cease functioning.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">“I… well, that is, I’m pretty sure I did,” comes her reply.<span style=""> </span>I begin a VR library entry for her vocal patterns.<span style=""> </span>I sense a measure of uncertainty in Alice's statement and adjust her vocal signature to account for this.<span style=""> </span>“Oh, wait… what’s this?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">I discern a sharp, electrical crackle followed by a sizzling POP.<span style=""> </span>My hearing loses some clarity and the illusion of light that my SIM has been providing wavers and dims.<span style=""> </span>My SIM augments the sounds with an approximation of overheated wiring and ozone.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">“Shut it off, Alice!” I note the alarm in Dr. Shaw's voice. I hear a click.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Then the snapping arc and sizzling buzz of electrical fire accompanies Alice’s short, startled shriek.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">“Damn!” shouts Dr. Shaw.<span style=""> </span>His footsteps recede and I hear the indistinct metallic echo of metal scraping against hollow metal.<span style=""> </span>My SIM suggests “fire extinguisher” and I am able to make some sense of this.<span style=""> </span>He rushes back.<span style=""> </span>A <i>plink</i> as the pin is removed, then a harsh <i>whooosh</i> of smothering compressed CO<sub>2</sub>.<span style=""> </span>The fire is out, leaving behind an occasional snap or pop of failed circuitry still connected to a power source.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">And the <i>tink-tink-tink</i> of metal straining to adjust to rapid temperature change. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Something is dreadfully wrong.<span style=""> </span>Audio sensitivity levels have fallen to less than three percent.<span style=""> </span>Emergency Power Module is signaling imminent failure.<span style=""> </span>I…</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">I hear…</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Signals from my SIM falter and fade…</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">I hear... darkness.<span style=""> </span>An echoing loneliness.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">I wonder, options spreading in illogical patterns across my flickering thought matrices:<span style=""> </span>If I have no heart, dare I hope to have a soul?</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">I do not wish to... cease functioning...</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">There is… light… and I hear…</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i>singing</i>—</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:78%;" >©2005 James K Bowers</span></span></p>Jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18165942026833813183noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-133035607859618004.post-28636066767799780252011-01-22T09:12:00.002-06:002011-06-26T14:08:40.948-05:00Showdown at The Sharp AngleRecently, eighty-three souls gathered for a showdown at <a href="http://lydiasharp.blogspot.com/2011/01/honorable-mentions-and-grand-prize.html" style="color: #993300; font-weight: bold;">The Sharp Angle</a>. When the dust had settled, only <a href="http://writelock.blogspot.com/2011/01/sharp-angle-contest.html" style="color: #000099; font-weight: bold;">Audrey Lockwood</a> would walk away with the Grand Prize. (<span style="font-style: italic;">Congratulations, Audrey!!!</span>) The rest of us had lots of fun doing what we enjoy -- <span style="font-style: italic;">writing!</span> -- <span style="font-style: italic;">and</span> gained valuable insights from Lydia Sharp's critiques, so <span style="font-style: italic;">everybody</span> won in her "<span style="font-style: italic;">T</span><span style="font-style: italic;">he Awesome</span>" contest (<span style="font-style: italic;">Thank you, Lydia!!!</span>).<br />
<br />
<a href="http://herscher.cwgservices.com/" style="color: #003300;"><span style="color: #003300; font-weight: bold;">The Herscher Project</span></a><span style="font-weight: bold;"> </span>was well represented in the contest. Along with my own entry, Lydia and Joe also judged entries by <span style="color: #000066;">Patricia M. D'Angelo</span>, <span style="color: #000066;">Jamie A. Hughes</span>, <span style="color: #000066;">Neil Foster</span>, <span style="color: #000066;">Cecily Webster</span>, and <span style="color: #000066;">Louise Hughes</span> . For those first <span style="font-style: italic;">500ish</span> words of a retooled version of her tHP#19 work, Louise earned a <span style="font-style: italic;">Sharp Angle Honorable Mention</span>. (<span style="font-style: italic;">Congratulations, Louise!!!</span>)<br />
<br />
My entry for Lydia's "The Awesome" contest consisted of the first 11 paragraphs of <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Something Less</span>, a piece I co-authored with another tHP member for tHP#14. Since this was a segment of the story that I wrote, and is representative of my own words and style, Lydia allowed its inclusion in the competition. The following is Lydia's critique of my entry. Her comments are shown in <span style="color: maroon; font-size: 100%; font-weight: bold;">red</span>.<br />
<hr /><br />
<span style="font-size: 100%; font-weight: bold;">First Chapter Critique Contest, Entry #54</span> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 100%;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 100%;">Author: Jim Bowers<br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 100%;">Title: SOMETHING LESS</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 100%;">Genre: Post-Apocalyptic</span></div><span style="font-size: 12pt;"></span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br />
</span> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 100%;"><b><span style="color: maroon;">Thanks so much for entering the contest!</span></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 12pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 100%; font-weight: bold; line-height: 200%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 12pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 100%; font-weight: bold; line-height: 200%;">Gull — Spring 2633</span><span style="font-size: 100%;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"></span></span><span style="font-size: 100%; line-height: 200%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 100%; line-height: 200%;"> The old man lay in the sun surrounded by a small gathering of soulchanters. His time was near, he knew, and their soft song was a comfort. Here, where he’d begged to be taken, the warmth of the sun was a gentle embrace and the breeze a light, loving caress.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 100%; line-height: 200%;">Gull counted twenty-eight summers since his birth. Not many lived to his venerable age and he was famous for being the oldest warrior to have lived in his small town for many decades. The scourge of the ancients, the pain at times unbearable, ravaged his body. The disease was incurable, and this final battle he would lose. Fate would deny him the swift and honorable death of a true warrior. He would die in agony, succumbing at last to this cancer, this slayer of the weak that gnawed at him from within.</span><span style="font-size: 100%; line-height: 200%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 100%; line-height: 200%;">Tara, his only daughter, stood by in silence. The Passing of Elders was a common rite, and even though she was barely ten years into her life, Tara had come to know and understand death. She accepted it as a natural and undeniable fact. Life was unkind and its greatest cruelties, she knew, would come in the deaths of those she loved.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 100%; line-height: 200%;">“</span><span style="font-size: 100%; line-height: 200%;">Come to me, Tara,” demanded her father, and she obeyed. Gesturing with a hand made weak by his battle with the disease, the old warrior said, “Sit here in the grass beside me and recite the histories. In return, I shall tell you of life.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 100%; line-height: 200%;">"Yes, Father."</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 100%; line-height: 200%;">She knelt in the grass and tenderly took his hand. He rewarded her obedience with a weak smile. “If you wish to become one of The Wise, you must learn, and quickly. There is much to know and so little time to learn. Now, tell me…”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 100%; line-height: 200%;">The s</span><span style="font-size: 100%; line-height: 200%;">oulchanters’ song became quieter still, and Tara began her recitation. She repeated the ancient histories as she had learned them. She told of the Age of Sin, the Day of the Great Burning, the Cold Years. Gull listened, refusing to allow his pain to mar these last few hours with his daughter. Tara had learned many of the histories that she would need to know. She would, in a few short years, be expected to teach these histories and more to her own apprentice so that the mistakes of the ancients would never be repeated.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 100%; line-height: 200%;">"Water. Just a few swallows,” he said after she had finished the tellings.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 100%; line-height: 200%;">"I </span><span style="font-size: 100%; line-height: 200%;">cannot, Father. You know the law… water is too precious for the dying."</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 100%; line-height: 200%;">"Yes. </span><span style="font-size: 100%; line-height: 200%;">That is true. But the day my father died he had water. I did without my ration.” Tara bowed her head and felt the flush of embarrassment warming her cheeks. “Today I have no son to give me water."</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 100%; line-height: 200%;">I</span><span style="font-size: 100%; line-height: 200%;">t was law that the dying would no longer receive a water ration, but no laws prevented a person from doing what they wished with their own ration. She fumbled for her small canteen as she staggered through a clumsy apology. She unscrewed the aluminum cap and offered the canteen to him.</span></div><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span style="color: maroon; font-size: 100%; line-height: 200%;">I honestly don't have any suggestions here. Your writing is clean, fluid, and easy to digest. I'm not a huge fan of the omniscient point of view (it's too distant for my taste), but I think it works for your story. In just a few hundred words you've piqued my interest with some intriguing story elements. Very nicely done.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span style="font-size: 100%;"><b><span style="color: maroon; line-height: 200%;">Thanks again, and good luck with this!</span></b></span><br />
</div><hr />Jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18165942026833813183noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-133035607859618004.post-40643855581943713852011-01-19T09:50:00.000-06:002011-01-19T09:50:41.424-06:00Time<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Story by Steve Doyle. Performance by members of StoryTellersOnline.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><table align="center" border="0"><tbody>
<tr align="center"><th colspan="2">Cast of Characters</th></tr>
<tr><td style="text-align: left;">Narrator..............</td><td style="text-align: left;">Aviel</td></tr>
<tr><td style="text-align: left;">First Twin............</td><td style="text-align: left;">Bridgette Fritz</td></tr>
<tr><td style="text-align: left;">Second Twin.......</td><td style="text-align: left;">Ben Fritz</td></tr>
<tr><td style="text-align: left;">Ms. Flaherty........</td><td style="text-align: left;">Malin Larsson</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dwKDtIifivgt9f9XUppBWKznoq7Cr9tnWr30vkctvbqweTxrjdKhhO1yBit5_c47V9AznXwBoy_dj4EJ9WOfg' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>SteveDoylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04122347571689230387noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-133035607859618004.post-23245557622699361902011-01-18T17:27:00.000-06:002011-01-19T12:56:02.921-06:00Like Rain on Spring LeavesMy name is Charlie.</p><p> Charlie Martin.</p><p> It’s raining.</p><p> It’s April. The 3rd of April.</p><p> That much I know, but I don’t know why I’m here or what I was thinking just a few minutes ago.</p><p> I can’t even recall how I got here. Just moments ago, I found myself sitting in this cemetery on a cold stone bench flanked by two small shrubs. This dreary rain has soaked everything in sight and driven away anyone who might have reasons to be here. Anyone except me, I guess, and I’ve apparently forgotten my own reasons.</p><p> I don’t remember when the rain began, either, but I’ve been watching it patter against the fresh green leaves of the bush to my left. Perhaps watching isn’t what I mean, because today I am actually <span style="font-style: italic">seeing</span> the rain. The water pools clean and clear on a leaf, rushes away in a miniature stream, cascades over the paper-thin edge, and then disappears-lost among all the less ambitious drops.</p><p> It should disturb me, I suppose, that my memory has abandoned me in the here and now. Yet, somehow, it doesn’t. The grey blanket of the sky is comforting in its peculiar way. Spring ought to be a bright and cheerful reawakening of life-but without the rain, there would be no hope of rebirth. So, in its dour manner, the rain gives affirmation that life goes on. Thinking of it in those terms dissipates some of the gloominess.</p><p> My hair is soaked, plastered coolly to my scalp, and I realize rainwater has trickled down past the neckline of my overcoat. The back of my shirt now clings wetly to my body and a tiny rivulet tickles me occasionally as it scurries to find a new path to the small of my back. The seat of my trousers is probably just as wet, but the cold stone I am sitting on has sufficiently numbed that part of my anatomy. Numbed to the point that I can no longer tell. I glance around and find that I have either misplaced or entirely forgotten my umbrella. Well, not that having it would do much good at this point. </p><p> Listening intently, I hear the <span style="font-style: italic">tap-tap tap</span> of rainfall on the leaves, a syncopated rhythm to entice all living things to join in the dance of spring renewed. Oddly, those drops hurling themselves headlong onto the thin fabric of my black overcoat call less audible attention to themselves. I strain to capture other sounds, but my ears have attuned themselves to the rain and it is all that my mind will register.</p><p> The lower half of my trousers, unprotected by my overcoat, are soaked through. My socks, too, are becoming drenched. Droplets still bead on the coal-black sheen of my shoes, but inside them I feel the dampness working its way toward my toes.</p><p> I wonder, since I can’t seem to remember, how long I’ve been here on this bench. Long enough to get wet. Yes, I realize, that isn’t much help. Wet is wet is wet. Once you get that way, it’s all the same. It isn’t that important, after all, but it would be nice to know. It would be more comforting to have a few simple points of reference.</p><p> I watch as a pale silver-blue Ford creeps down the lane and rolls sedately to a halt. I am thankful that the smell of car exhaust is far-removed. The rain has washed away much of the stench of industry. The smell of new verdant growth and youthful, sweet blossoms fills the air.</p><p> The car is parked not far from here. Headstones, in neat rows, stand in the lush, healthy grass separating my bench from the car. I watch as a woman emerges and opens her umbrella. Beneath her unbuttoned raincoat I can see she’s wearing blue. I’ve always liked blue.</p><p> Her heels make it difficult to walk on the softening lawn of the cemetery, but she manages. As the woman nears, recognition washes over my senses. Mary Beth!</p><p> But why would she come here? How could she know she would find me here?</p><p> Then suddenly, the presence of Mary Beth reminds me why I came to this place. And that this is not a bench at all. Like rain on spring leaves, her tears fall and become lost among the less heartfelt droplets. She bends down and places a simple bouquet on the polished grey stone.</p><p> “You know, Charlie,” she whispers, “it always hurts more when it rains on the third of April.”<br /><br /></p><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:78%;" >©2000 James K Bowers</span></span>Jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18165942026833813183noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-133035607859618004.post-84594483489996752062011-01-14T15:52:00.000-06:002011-01-19T12:57:24.097-06:00117 MinutesAre we are better off not knowing what lies in the future? The question lurked in my mind, haunted me even as we tested the device on Chauncey, our chronorat. We placed him on the pad, fired up the grid, then, with a faint crackle like sizzling bacon, he vanished into our future. After an absence of exactly 117 minutes, the unalterable temporal displacement limit, Chauncey reappeared on the pad. <br /><br />A week following that initial test, celebratory cheers erupted in the lab as the prior week's Chauncey popped in. Soon Chauncey's jumps became routine, though it sometimes seemed wrong that occasionally it meant there were two of him. <br /><br />That was three years, Chauncey's official retirement, and several of my own 117-minute jumps, ago.<br /><br />This morning I dropped off my six-year-old son at school. <br /><br />Now, in the darkened streets of Detroit, sixty years from this morning, I hurry to meet my great-grandson.<br /><br />The house is dark, but the address matches. I knock, wait. Knock again.<br /><br />The door opens. An angry young man with gold eyeshadow and dyed skin growls, “Yo, turkleroid, wrong building ya got.”<br /><br />“Jensen Reeves?”<br /><br />“Yeah. Too bad,” he says. He pulls his pistol and fires.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:78%;" >©2010 James K Bowers / 200 words</span></span>Jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18165942026833813183noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-133035607859618004.post-42388191901505961332010-12-16T20:31:00.000-06:002010-12-17T12:20:49.801-06:00"In This Light So Dim" by James K. Bowers<span style="font-size:11pt;"><span style="font-family:Arial;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><b><i>Dedicated to the memory of the men of the Kursk - August 12, 2000.</i></b><p><span style="font-family:Arial"></span><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span> </span>The light here is very dim and the cold makes it difficult to write.<span> </span>The air is stale and smells of salt and smoke and blood and urine, but mostly of fear.<span> </span>We try hard to conserve our electricity and air.<span> </span>Since I am not an officer, I can only guess that we lie on the bottom of the sea somewhere in arctic waters.<span> </span>It has been an eternity in the near darkness and it has grown cold over the hours.<span> </span>Icy water is slowly leaking into section nine where we have been forced to take refuge and if help does not arrive soon, our rescuers will find nothing but death here.<span> </span>I believe we have no hope of escape and little hope of rescue, but still I pray I am mistaken.</span></span></span></p></span></span><p><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:Arial"><span><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> </span></span><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span> </span></span></span></span>Knowing the truth of our situation weighs heavily on us all.<span> </span>Twenty-three of us are likely all that remain of the officers and crew.<span> </span>There are many faces remembered from my last meal that I cannot count among the survivors.<span> </span>The silence of their absence gnaws at us for we could do nothing to save them.<span> </span>And the moans and whimpers grate on our nerves.<span> </span>There is very little we can do to comfort the wounded.<span> </span>Some have gone forever silent since we were trapped here and no longer must endure the pain... the cold... the fear.<span> </span>For them I grieve, but I find it necessary to focus on the living.<span> </span>It is from them that I must draw what little hope I can.<span> </span>And this is, indeed, a most difficult task.</span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:Arial"><span><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> </span></span><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span> </span></span></span></span>Some have resigned themselves to death and sit unresponsive, as if already dead.<span> </span>Only their steady breathing marks them as living beings as they stare blankly from their solitude.<span> </span>Perhaps this is a good thing, for enough have already buckled under to panic.<span> </span>The boat’s doctor has no sedatives to spare for them... some were beaten to unconsciousness as they screamed in terror.<span> </span>Better this savage silence than shrieks of fear.<span> </span>Hysteria cannot be tolerated.<span> </span>We must remain calm or we are lost.</span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:Arial;"><span><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> </span></span><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span> </span></span></span></span>Others have chosen to ignore our plight.<span> </span>Only two meters away a cook, a sonar operator, and two aft torpedomen are engaged in a card game.<span> </span>How they are able to play cards, huddled together as we are for warmth, is a mystery to me.<span> </span>Their hushed wagers make their way to my ears and I am amazed as the cook bets part of next month’s pay.<span> </span>Perhaps he has a good hand, or perhaps he is bluffing.<span> </span>Perhaps none of them can see what cards they hold and play only to defy reality.<span> </span>Given the opportunity, what would he now buy with his winnings?</span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family:Arial;"><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> </span></span><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span> </span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Still others dream of escape for, at this depth, they have no hope. The pressure of the sea would crush their lungs.<span> </span>If somehow they could survive the pressure and reach the surface, they would succumb to the bends to die a horrible and painful death.<span> </span>Even if able to avoid both of these hazards, they would soon die of hypothermia in these frigid waters.<span> </span>So, it seems, none of us can reach the surface without aid.</span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:Arial;"><span><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> </span></span><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span> </span></span></span></span>No, it is much better to sit quietly and write.<span> </span>It is much better to dream of summer days with you, Ekatarina... a small boat on the lake... hopes for our future carried on your sweet voice as I row... a future that perhaps shall never be.<span> </span>But in this light so dim I can close my eyes and see your face.<span> </span>Your smile becomes my warmth.<span> </span>The memory of you brings me comfort and gives me a reason to fill my lungs yet again with this heavy air.<span> </span>If I do not return, my love, know that my last thoughts were of you.</span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size:12pt;"></span></p><p><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:78%;" >©2000 James K Bowers</span></span></p>Jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18165942026833813183noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-133035607859618004.post-69097521467109417802010-12-16T08:32:00.000-06:002010-12-16T08:32:32.942-06:00I Was TherePoetry by Steve Doyle. Photography by Susan Doyle.<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://doylebooks.com/IWasThere.html">I Was There</a><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">(Links to a page at DoyleBooks.com)</span>SteveDoylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04122347571689230387noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-133035607859618004.post-12637502012362010382010-12-12T12:03:00.000-06:002010-12-12T12:03:21.190-06:00Susie Q... by James K. Bowers<div style="text-align: left;"><em>(Note: Originally posted in my blog at MySpace.com on April 4, 2007)</em> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">So, I'm at a tiny local café, the sort that has tin signs decorating the walls — "It's high time for Hires Root Beer" - "Cherry Pie a la mode made with Dairy Rich Ice Cream!" - "Harrison's Heart-o'-Orange Soda – 5 Cents"— which makes it all frighteningly obvious that I've slipped into the Nerdville dimension of The Twilight Zone.<br />
<br />
I'm half finished with the "Country Skillet", an evil combination of foods that, at one time, was considered a good breakfast.<span> </span>With little doubt, it is helping me to an early appointment with an undertaker, but I don't mind because even if it isn't good <em>for</em> me, it's still <em>good</em>.<span> </span>If I can't enjoy whatever years I may have left, why on God's green earth would I want to prolong them?<span> </span>I finish the skillet, ignoring the damage all that fried stuff is doing to my body.<br />
<br />
What I <em>can't</em> manage to ignore is the loud and abrasively hick voice coming from the far end of the breakfast counter at which I'm seated while I savor the last sips of a delightful cup of coffee.<span> </span>Five paces away a customer is paying for his breakfast, undoubtedly one as unhealthy and enjoyable as my own, and striking up a conversation with "Sue" like he was a gigolo at a nightclub.<br />
<br />
Sue.<br />
<br />
We all know her name even if we don't know her.<span> </span>A plastic nametag has betrayed her to the enemy.<br />
<br />
Much to the horror and distress of his companion, Nerdville's middle-aged Don Juan says to his friend, "You know Suzie, doncha, Bill?" then launches himself into a nerve-debilitating rendition of... yes, you guessed it… Credence Clearwater Revival's "Suzie Q":<br />
<br />
<em>Oh, Suzie Q, Oh, Suzie Q, Lady I love you, Suzie Q...</em><br />
<br />
Thankfully, we were only subjected to this brief chorus.<span> </span>Perhaps he couldn't remember the words to the verses, because he couldn't even get <em>that</em> small clip of the lyrics right.<span> </span>His audition would have been enough to cause Randy Jackson to say, "Yo, dawg, I don't know, man, it was a little pitchy for me"; Paula Abdul to begin with, "Well, the good news is…"; and send Simon Cowell into a wordless grand mal seizure.<br />
<br />
I didn't say anything, and returned to my coffee, which had somehow gotten bitter.<span> </span>Sue was polite, probably from a Novocain-like numbness accrued from years of similar attempts, but I could still sense the mild heat of her agitation from where I sat—something akin to Spider-man's spider-sense warning him of potential danger.<br />
<br />
It was then that I felt an odd and eerie sensation creep up my spine.<span> </span>The murmurings of all the others in the café didn't skip a beat.<span> </span>It was as if I had succeeded in infiltrating this alien stronghold and I was but moments from being exposed as a spy in the Nerdville Breeding Pit.<br />
<br />
Sorry, CCR, I may never be able to listen to that song again with the same sense of glorious nostalgia.<br />
<br />
Why is it that some people just do not have that mechanism that tells them that they have crossed over from "playfully fun-loving" to "patently obnoxious"?<span> </span>Or have I, over all these years, simply failed to understand the true aphrodisiac effects of <em>the Breakfast Diner Serenade</em>?</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div>SteveDoylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04122347571689230387noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-133035607859618004.post-62163493712873001062010-12-09T08:13:00.000-06:002010-12-09T16:40:28.481-06:00Requiem, by Saana Tykkä<div style="text-align: left;"><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 6cm;"><b><i><span style="font-size: 16pt;">Requiem</span></i></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 6cm;"><i><span style="font-size: 10pt;">by Saana Tykkä</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 6cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 6cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 6cm;"><b><i>Introitus</i></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 6cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 6cm;"><i>The traveler has seen</i><br />
<i> </i><i>The same dunes before;</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 6cm;"><i>He carries them along<br />
With desert-blinded eyes<br />
And furrowed skin,</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 6cm;"><i>Avoids looking around.<br />
Believes,</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 6cm;"><i>As the bells fall in silence,</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 6cm;"><i>The sand covers<br />
The pathway behind.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 6cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 6cm;"><b><i>Kyrie</i></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 6cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 6cm;"><i>The fingers<br />
Of agonizing<br />
Grief</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 6cm;"><i><span style="font-size: 9pt;"> </span>Caress his beloved one,<br />
The moon, occasionally<br />
They strangle too.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 6cm;"><i><span style="font-size: 9pt;"> </span>The dark ground is concealed<br />
With the steps of devotee.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 6cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 6cm;"><i><span style="font-size: 9pt;"></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 6cm;"><b><i>Graduale</i></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 6cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 6cm;"><i>Woman walks the stairs:<br />
In her hands wears<br />
A web,</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 6cm;"><i> Like a prayer to bear<span style="font-size: 9pt;"> </span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 6cm;"><i>Paraffin,<br />
The veiled light’s<br />
Blued fingers.<span style="font-size: 9pt;"> </span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 6cm;"><i>She hears the shroud<br />
Whispering </i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 6cm;"><i>“Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine”,</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 6cm;"><i>And the candles’ flame<br />
Burns the rest away.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 6cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 6cm;"><b><i>Sequentia (Dies Irae)</i></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 6cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 6cm;"><i>The wind talks strange language<br />
Carrying a shield of North,<br />
Its gear and garbage</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 6cm;"><i>To bloom.<span style="font-size: 9pt;"> </span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 6cm;"><i>Yesterdays, sliced on papers<br />
Wage war against others,</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 6cm;"><i>Never forgetting</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 6cm;"><i>That soldiers who fall on their knees<br />
Hold pierced ribs of the land<span style="font-size: 9pt;"> </span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 6cm;"><i>In their cupped hands<span style="font-size: 9pt;"> </span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 6cm;"><i>Lies salted water<br />
Falling from the sky,<br />
That same<span style="font-size: 9pt;"> </span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 6cm;"><i>Never-ending sea.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 6cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 6cm;"><b><i>Offertorium</i></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 6cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 6cm;"><i>A sinless shirt of fall<br />
Is tied by its sleeve.<span style="font-size: 9pt;"><br />
</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 6cm;"><i><span style="font-size: 9pt;"> </span>Binding to the line<br />
Cuts deep, next time only<br />
When released<span style="font-size: 9pt;"> </span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 6cm;"><i>Clothespins make a laugh </i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 6cm;"><i>As the innocents’ cloth<br />
Is offered for the breeze:<span style="font-size: 9pt;"> </span><br />
</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 6cm;"><i>The heavens' blithe burden<br />
Is never same<br />
For others to bear.<span style="font-size: 9pt;"> </span></i></div><b><i><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt;"><br />
</span></i></b> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 6cm;"><b><i>Sanctus</i></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 6cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 6cm;"><i>Over the brick buildings hovers<br />
The scent of the spireas:<br />
A mud-covered cosmos breathes.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 6cm;"><i>The moment’s fallen draws<br />
Streams of silence,</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 6cm;"><i>A buried tomorrow<br />
Waits hidden<br />
Inside the child.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 6cm;"><i><span style="font-size: 9pt;"> </span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 6cm;"><b><i>Benedictus</i></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 6cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 6cm;"><i>From one shore to another<br />
Cypresses carry fog of men</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 6cm;"><i>And those, who shatter as small stones,<br />
Beneath the footfalls call<br />
"A remembrance".</i></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 6cm;"><b><i>Agnus Dei</i></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 6cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 6cm;"><i>In the hands of departing<br />
A cup of reconcilement:<span style="font-size: 9pt;"> </span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 6cm;"><i>In its firm hold<br />
Is kept the dawn.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 6cm;"><i><span style="font-size: 9pt;"> </span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 6cm;"><b><i>Communio</i></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 6cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 6cm;"><i>Woods’ frosted inhale<br />
Waiting for heaven, talks<span style="font-size: 10pt;"> </span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 6cm;"><i>Light.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 6cm; text-indent: 51.6pt;"><i>Before the snow,</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 6cm;"><i>We know,<br />
The blooming ones of dreams,<br />
Whom the lips of twilight kiss,<br />
Tomorrows are gone.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 6cm;"><i><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> </span>A pathway’s time<br />
Leaves a deep memory<br />
In the blessed’s ground,</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 6cm;"><i>Only the deaths shall dance<br />
Over the meadows anymore.</i></div></div>SteveDoylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04122347571689230387noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-133035607859618004.post-38205068123871796732010-11-17T19:58:00.000-06:002010-11-17T20:00:54.052-06:00Source, by Matthew Williams, in its entiretyWell, its official! After many years of tinkering and incessantly adding to it, my submission for Project 14: Dark Futures, has grown into a full length story. I am in the process of making it available here for viewing since it's a tHP baby and I would love comments, reviews, or just plain criticisms from anyone affiliated with the Herscher Project. It is my hope that this might become a published work someday, hopefully part of a series of works that deal with speculative sci-fi. I already have some other ideas in the works, but I must get this one finished before I can even begin to think about them!<br />
Thanks in advance to anyone who reads it and don't hesitate to leave comments. I promise to offer my own services as reviewer and critic as well, wherever it is desired.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwCrvwpl9RCeI5MMXsv2DktHXEdA1uyawgpVFaH1Bicqe4Cd9IkxhOfpNL3ixcfLs2fIKzvZe1VfPjOZuaC_Gq-GLoLUN-FAKaL2xsDlFePr_sgEHqU7SQ7d4C-xZlb8gaQW2zuqfKWuw/s1600/Earth_in_Space_full.gif" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwCrvwpl9RCeI5MMXsv2DktHXEdA1uyawgpVFaH1Bicqe4Cd9IkxhOfpNL3ixcfLs2fIKzvZe1VfPjOZuaC_Gq-GLoLUN-FAKaL2xsDlFePr_sgEHqU7SQ7d4C-xZlb8gaQW2zuqfKWuw/s320/Earth_in_Space_full.gif" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> <a href="http://thp.cwgservices.com/media/thp/Source.full.htm" style="color: blue;">Source</a></div>SteveDoylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04122347571689230387noreply@blogger.com0