R. Harrison's Blog, page 40
December 4, 2015
The Dragon Master.
This is part two of my short dragon story. You can find part one here.The Princess is on a quest, to become a dragon herself, and needs the Dragon Master’s help.
The Dragon Master.
Hamish Macrae, a rather stocky, not particularly handsome, sheep farmer, was returning to his house from a lambing when he saw the princess. She was drenched from the rain, shivering with the cold and standing under the eaves of his farmhouse by the door. He shook off his oilskins, opened the door and invited her into his humble abode.
“It’s not much your highness, but it’s warm and dry.”
“Thank you.” She entered his house, then paused and asked, “How do you know I’m a princess?”
“Silk, Samite gowns, a golden necklace and a purple leather cloak. You’re either a witch or a princess, and with respect, your majesty, you’re much too pretty to be a witch.”
She inspected him while he went to stir up the fire. He was stocky, pleasant enough looking, with short red, almost orange hair. No one would ever call him handsome, but he wasn’t exactly ugly. He just looked sort of average, boring.
“Where’s your wife?”
“Not married, your highness. None of them town damsels could stomach living out here with,” he paused, “the likes of me. I’m not considered a great catch, you see.”
He looked at her in the flickering firelight, then lit a tallow candle and put it on the table beside her. “You’re blue, shivering. How long were you in the rain?”
“Most of today. I came from the Witch Elmira, on a mission.”
“On foot?”
“How else? You can’t find a dragon master from an orb.”
The man shook his head, then said, “I’ll ask more later, but first you need dry things.” He clumped off and could be heard rummaging in the other room. She heard him open a chest and say, “There it is,” followed by “No, that’s not it.” Eventually, he returned carrying a coarse woolen robe. “Take this, it was my mothers. It’s not elegant, but it will keep you warm.”
She started to take off her cloak and then paused. Her wet gown revealed more of her figure than she would willingly show a common farmer. He said, “Oh, sorry your majesty. I’ll go into the other room.” He started for the door again. “Tell me when you’re changed.”
She said, “Thank you, but you can just call me ‘Princess’. That’s what everyone does.”
He paused and looked back at her. “Princess what?”
“That would be telling. One of my first lessons under the Great Wizard Bloom was never to reveal my real name.”
“That old buzzard,” he spat, “Sorry, it’s just he’s a power grabbing crotchety old man.”
“You know him?”
“Get changed and we’ll talk over supper.”
A few minutes later her gown was steaming on a chair in front of the hearth. She was sitting by the fire with a hot cup of broth in her hands and was enjoying the fragrant smell from a pottage slowly simmering away by the fire. She asked “Farmer, what’s your name and how do you know Wizard Bloom?”
“I’m Hamish, Hamish Macrae, Princess. Why are you here, so far from a palace?”
“You didn’t tell me how you know the wizard.”
“And I won’t Ma’am. Where are you bound?”
“I was told to come out here and look for the Dragon Master. I need some dragon tears for a transformation potion. One that will let me become a dragon.”
Hamish thought for a moment, then he stared hard at her and said, “Did you bring something with you?”
She sniffed, “A vial of maiden’s tears. Elmira said I’d need maiden’s tears and dragon’s tears for the potion. Why do you ask?”
“Are they your tears?”
“No, I haven’t been a maiden for years. I was trained to bind the dragon to human form with my feminine wiles. Didn’t work because he couldn’t shape-shift into a man. So I thought I’d learn how and show him.”
“You think all dragons can shape-shift?”
“Of course they can. That’s fundamental dragon magic. You might as well say they can’t shoot flames.”
Hamish was silent, then stirred the pottage. “Here Princess, grab the plate, it’s done.” She found a big wooden plate on the table, “This one?”
“That’s my trencher. All I use. Unless, Princess, you’re too dainty to share. I hope you don’t mind being trencher-mates with a farmer. You get your own spoon.”
“I’m hungry, pile it on, whatever that vile looking concoction is.”
“Pottage. In lambing time, I can’t always plan for a proper meal. The ewes don’t run on clockwork. Pottage just stews away and is good for whatever ails you. Sticks to your ribs, it does.” It certainly stuck to the ladle. He had to give it a shake and with a plop it landed on the plate. He poured a little water in, stirred it around and put the pottage back next to the fire.
She took the cleaner of the two spoons from the table and started at one end of the plate. He used the other and until they met in the middle they ate in silence. She because she was hungry and the pottage, vile looking as it was, tasted, well. She couldn’t find the right word, but it tasted much better than it looked. He ate in silence because he was shy and the words to converse with a princess did not rise to his mind. Or if they did, the confidence to speak them didn’t.
Eventually, their spoons collided over the last mouthful. He got it onto his spoon and offered it to her. Much to his surprise, she let him feed her and smiled at him. Then she said, “Nobility, sir farmer, seems to be found in unusual places.”
“Humph. Those tears, they need to be yours if the spell is to work right for you.”
“I told you I’m not a maid.”
“That’s not the problem. They have to be your tears, from longing after someone.”
“Hamish, But,” she paused, “I don’t understand.”
“It’s the maiden’s heart that matters, not the state of her.” He paused, not having the decent words to describe it. “If they’re your tears, I’ll ask the dragon for his.”
“You know him?”
“He buys my mutton.”
“Buys mutton? Wizard Bloom said he stole animals.”
“Wizards lie.”
“And Dragons don’t?”
“They may omit parts of the truth to mislead the unwary, but they don’t lie.” He waited, then added, “Not honorable to lie.”
She looked at the fire, then back at him and said, “What do you want me to do?”
“Give me the tears.”
She rose and pulled a small vial from a pocket in her cloak.
Then she handed it to him. He opened it, sniffed it. He said, “This smells of that witch.” A look of disgust crossed his face and he tossed the tears into the fire. There was a flash of green in the flames. He took the vial and washed it. Then he handed it to her. “It needs to be your tears, princess. Otherwise, it will go wrong.”
She looked at him from her seat, and said, “What are you going to do?”
He rose, stretched and replied, “Tonight, I’m going to sleep. The dragon will still be there in the morning. Then I’ll get some tears from him. Might take a couple of days to get them.”
“What about me?”
“It’s up to you, but I’d try to think of someone you love. Some unrequited real love to cry about. You can stay here while I’m gone. It will be safe. Oh, and pray none of the ewes gets in trouble.”
December 3, 2015
The Lighted Window
Sara Teasdale
He said:
“In the winter dusk
When the pavements were gleaming with rain,
I walked thru a dingy street
Hurried, harassed,
Thinking of all my problems that never are solved.
Suddenly out of the mist, a flaring gas-jet
Shone from a huddled shop.
I saw thru the bleary window
A mass of playthings:
False-faces hung on strings,
Valentines, paper and tinsel,
Tops of scarlet and green,
Candy, marbles, jacks—
A confusion of color
Pathetically gaudy and cheap.
All of my boyhood
Rushed back.
Once more these things were treasures
Wildly desired.
With covetous eyes I looked again at the marbles,
The precious agates, the pee-wees, the chinies—
Then I passed on.
In the winter dusk,
The pavements were gleaming with rain;
There in the lighted window
I left my boyhood.”
To Court A Dragon
A short humorous story, put out under one of my many pen-names. This is the first chapter, with more to follow.
The Dragon.
The princess called on the dragon. He was a most civilized dragon and, therefore, he invited her into his cave and served her dinner rather than served her as dinner. As she entered the cave, she removed her cloak revealing a buxom body in a jeweled bikini. It left little of her figure or ability to put it to good use it to the imagination. The dragon ignored it and produced dinner instead. Roast mutton always tasted better with company, even if it had the sulfurous overtone from dragon fire.
After they had eaten, she complimented her host on his shiny red scales, deep yellow eyes, and fearsome teeth. He smiled at her. “Do you know how to charm a dragon?”
“That’s why I’m here.”
“Really?”
The princess stroked the dragon under his chin. He purred.
“Can you turn it down? I’m going to go deaf.”
He stopped, “What’s wrong Princess?”
“Can’t you shape-shift?”
“What’s so important about shape shifting? Every damn princess I’ve met for the last century has asked about it. Here’s a penny for your thoughts.” He flicked a small ruby from his hoard to her.
“I thought all dragons can shape-shift.”
“I can’t, won’t, at least not for you.”
“That’s a shame.”
“Why?”
“Well, you know.” She pouted. “Things. It’s been a while.”
“What do you mean?”
She rubbed his brow and pressed her soft body in his face, “I’m hot.”
“You’re not wearing much. Not that I’m complaining, it becomes you, but how can you be hot?” He snorted, and the flames singed her hair.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know.”
“But aren’t you able to change shapes, become a prince?”
“Why should I want to become such a tiny weak thing as a human prince?”
She continued to stroke his chin, then she said, “Don’t you wish to love me?”
“I’d love you better roasted.”
She stopped, “No, I mean as a female.”
“You’re puny.”
“I am not.”
“Yes, you may be a buxom brunette human female. You might be well-endowed for a woman, but you’re puny for a dragon. Besides.” The dragon came as close to blushing as a dragon could, “I’m better endowed as a dragon than a man. I have two of them.”
“Two?”
“Two hemipenes. Each is as big as your arms, at least. At least that’s what I think. I’m always too busy when they’re out to measure them.”
He rolled over and showed her his underside. “Down there, on the sides of my cloaca.”
“I don’t see anything.”
“They’re inside. Are you a dragoness?”
“No.”
“That’s why they’re inside. Unless you’d like to put your hand in and feel.”
The princess blushed and said, “No thank you.”
“Oh well, you don’t know what you’re missing. In the season, we have quite a ball.”
“When was the last season?”
“A long while ago, there aren’t that many dragonesses left.”
“There are a lot of princesses, even some with-” She pouted and then produced her best seductive moue. The one she’d been practicing for years. Her teacher said it was the best he’d ever seen.
He ignored it. “I know. They taste good when they’ve been roasted. Although, I have to admit, I prefer sheep. Tenderer and less gamy than princesses.”
“So you won’t shift, will you?”
“No.”
“Then I’m going.”
“Suit yourself.”
The princess stood and walked out the front of the cave. The dragon reminded her, “It was warm, almost summer weather when you came in this morning. It’s winter weather now, up here in the mountains, and you’re not dressed for it.”
She turned and faced him. Then she said. “That’s my problem.”
“Just don’t forget your cloak. You’ll catch cold and then where will you be?”
When she walked out of the mouth of the cave, she called, “Wizard Bloom I’m out.”
A few moments later a blue ball of light appeared. She stepped in and a minute later stepped out into a room full of wizard stuff, and things. It was a veritable trash dump of magical arcana. An old man with a long grimy white beard accosted her.
“What went wrong?”
“He doesn’t want to switch.”
“Dragons are liars. Why didn’t you push the issue?”
“I did. As hard as I dared.”
While they chatted, a blast of flames came out of the mountain on the distant horizon. It was followed by a flying dragon. He shouted, so loudly that all the windows in the village rattled, “Where’s that princess? I’m hungry” She was nowhere to be found, so he scanned the farms, and looked for sheep. A fat ewe would do for dinner in her absence.
The Wizard looked at the princess and said, “See what happens when you fail?”
“I failed?”
“The idea was for you to trap him with your womanly charms, that magic. Bind him to human form so we can eliminate him.” The wizard paused, “as a threat I mean.”
“He’s not interested in humans. We’re too puny, and I don’t blame him. Imagine two of them and as big as my arm.”
“That small. Poor fellow.”
“He’s extremely nice. For a dragon, that is.”
The Wizard paused, “Well since you’ve been trained in your female magic, how about a go?”
“Get lost creep.”
Outside, in the distance the sirens of the Valley fire department could be heard. The dragon, had, in his hurry, set a barn alight.
“This is what is going to happen every night until you bind him with your enchantment, your delicious enchantment.” He reached for a squeeze. She slapped him silly. “How many times do I have to tell you, it’s not for you creep. I’m not an apprentice any longer and don’t have to put up with your lechery.”
The Wizard charmed up an ice pack for his face, then said, “He’s the only dragon left, you know. The rest have all been charmed or killed.”
“There aren’t any dragonesses?”
“No. In a way, it’s a pity. But if you’re not going to charm him, then I’ll have to talk to the prince. He’s been itching for a fight with a dragon.”
She was stunned; this was an aspect of her charge that she hadn’t considered. “You mean – if I don’t charm him, then he’ll be hunted down and killed.”
The Wizard nodded his head, then winced. The princess packed one heck of a punch.
“He seems to be afraid of shape-shifting. Said he can’t, then said he won’t.”
“What a wimp.”
“He’s a very nice dragon. Polite and elegant.”
“Still, a dragon that won’t shape-shift. What a loser.”
“I think he just needs to be shown that it’s safe. Can you teach me the way?”
“Maybe.”
“What’s the price?”
The wizard reached out to take a squeeze and once more was slapped. He charmed up a fresh ice pack for the other side of his face. The princess packed a punch with both hands. She said, “Sorry, I’ll find someone else. Maybe the Witch Elmira.”
“She’ll want payment too.”
“Greedy lot, you wizards. Don’t call the Prince yet, I haven’t given up on my dragon.”
Early the next morning the wizard was woken by someone banging on his door. When he finally stomped downstairs and opened it, grumbling all the time about his lazy good for nothing servants, one of the local farmers was standing outside. He barked at the farmer, “My visiting hours are this evening. What are you doing raising me from my slumbers at this unheard of hour?”
“Mr. Wizard, Sir,” the farmer respectfully saluted, “My barn’s been burned down. That dragon last night.”
“What do you want me to do about it?”
The man sheepishly showed the wizard a ruby. “He left this for payment. Can you spell the barn back, or-”
“Or What?”
“At least make some change for me? The builders can’t break it, and it’s worth 454 marks, three shillings, and a pfennig. That’s too much for the builders, and I need some of it for the replacement livestock.”
The ruby awakened the wizard’s interest. He was suddenly friendly, “Come in young man, come in. Let me see what I can do.”
A feminine voice called from upstairs, “Bloom, what’s going on?”
“Nothing princess.”
“Nothing my shapely derrière.” She came downstairs to see what was happening. She had changed from her dragon hunting clothes to a nightdress. It was silk and carefully embroidered with silver and gold thread, but still just something to sleep in. Its elegance took the farmer’s breath away when he saw her. He bowed and saluted, “Your Highness.”
“You trying to think how you can stiff that farmer out of his ruby?”
“No Princess, but it would be interesting to know how he came by such a valuable stone.”
“Sir,” the farmer bowed again, “honestly. The dragon left it after he burnt down my barn. Said it was an accident. He’s good about that you know. Always pays for his mutton.”
The princess asked, “Is this the dragon that lives in that cave in the Grey Mountains?”
“The one up the cliff with all the broken armor at the base?”
“Yes, is it that one?”
“Of course, there aren’t any others ’round here, are there?”
The princess glanced at the wizard, and said, “That settles it Bloom. I’m searching for a dragon master. This dragon is too nice to turn into burger meat.”
Wizard Bloom eyed the princess. This one, like all the rest, had finally gotten too uppity for his tastes. Elmira could deal with her; she had a taste for pretty young things like the princess. He called a yellow orb into being and said, “Princess, the Witch Elmira is a specialist in shape-shifting. Go!”
The princess stepped into the orb and was gone.
The wizard turned back to the farmer and said, “What cretin told you this stone was worth that much? Maybe a hundred marks tops.”
“Get bent old man.” The farmer said, “If you’re not going to help me, then I’ll-”
“No, no, I didn’t mean that at all. Now let me see, a spell to rebuild a barn. I think I can find one. It will cost you though.”
December 2, 2015
The Desolate Field
William Carlos Williams
Vast and gray, the sky
is a simulacrum
to all but him whose days
are vast and gray, and—
In the tall, dried grasses
a goat stirs
with nozzle searching the ground.
—my head is in the air
but who am I…?
And amazed my heart leaps
at the thought of love
vast and gray
yearning silently over me.
Cranes in a cotton field near Centre.
(c) 2015 Robert Harrison
December 1, 2015
The Curious Profession of Dr. Craven
The Resurrection Men.
THE VICAR intoned the familiar words from the Book of Common Prayer while the family mourned their loss. She died quickly, almost overnight, and now being placed in the family crypt.
FORASMUCH as it hath pleased Almighty God of his great mercy to take unto himself the soul of our dear sister here departed, we therefore commit her body to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust; in sure and certain hope of the Resurrection to eternal life, through our Lord Jesus Christ; who shall change our vile body, that it may be like unto his glorious body, according to the mighty working, whereby he is able to subdue all things to himself.
That night, the four resurrection men met the verger in the dark churchyard. They carried shaded lanterns and intended to retrieve the ‘vile body’ before it became too vile for their client to use. They wore scarves over their faces to mask their identity. Grave robbing, while technically just a misdemeanour, was a serious offense so they made sure to leave nothing to chance. Still, the money they earned was good, and the likelihood that they would be caught was small.
Elias, the verger, pocketed the four crowns the oldest resurrection man had given him. Then he led them to the Patterson family crypt and put the key in the lock on the barred, iron gate and gave it a turn. He pushed on the gate, and as it creaked open, he turned and said to the resurrection men, “She was just put in here this morning. Should be fresh.”
“That’s what the doctor wants.”
“Take care, this hasn’t been a quiet one.”
“What do you mean?”
“I thought I’d heard noises.” They all listened and other than the distant “goo-de-who” of an owl it was quiet.
“Elias, you daft bugger. You’ll have us jumping out of our skins. Which one is it?”
Elias led them to the newest coffin. There hadn’t been time to etch a metal plaque for its occupant. A temporary paper label attached to the top said, Cecelia Jane Garth 1790-1810. Resting in Peace with the Lord.
He pointed, “That’s her. The poor lass, she was just engaged to a rich suitor. She faded so quickly, and even Sir William Knighton couldn’t save her. One day she was happy, and then she was gone.”
Then he anxiously looked at the four resurrection men, “Do I have to watch?”
“Nay, man. Not if you don’t want. Why don’t you keep an eye out for the curate?”
Elias stood at the door to the crypt and kept watch while the resurrection men pulled the coffin off its shelf and lowered it to the floor. They opened it and gazed at the contents.
“Aye, Dad,” the youngest said, “She was a beauty. Pity to anatomize her.”
“That’s how we stand the nonsense, Lad. Up with her, and careful. The doctor wants them unblemished.”
“She’s not stiff, and a touch warm.”
“Maybe she’s not as fresh as Elias said. Starting to rot mayhaps.” The senior resurrection man turned to the verger and said, “Elias, are you sure this is the one?”
Elias looked, “That’s her. Miss Cecelia Garth. God rest her soul.”
The four resurrection men stretched her body on the hard ground of the crypt. It was wrapped in a winding sheet for burial, with ties to bind her legs and arms together. A bandage around her head held her mouth shut. Then they put rocks in the casket, resealed it, and replaced it in the crypt. In the process, the paper label ended up on the inside of the casket.
Then they carried her out of the crypt and into the dark churchyard.
The gate creaked again as Elias shut it. There was a faint gasp at the same time as he turned the key in the lock.
“Did you hear that, Da?” the youngest resurrection man asked, shocked at the noise.
Elias said, “That’s what I mean. She hasn’t been a quiet corpse.”
Jonas, the eldest resurrection man, spat and then said, “What a lot of superstitious buggers you are. It’s just the wind.”
Together they carried the body to a waiting cart. It was tied to the kissing gate at the church, and the sorry looking excuse for a horse waited patiently to take up his labours. Since the body had been a beautiful young woman, they carefully laid it in the back. They pulled a blanket over it and then covered that with straw. It wasn’t often they encountered the watch, but it was just as well to be prepared. They hopped onto the cart, and Jonas held the horse. They clumped off into the night at the fastest pace the horse could manage.
Elias pulled the four crowns from his pocket and carefully examined them. The pound they summed to, equivalent to almost half a month’s work was a welcome addition to his meagre wages.
He said, “Just hope I don’t get caught,” to the wind that was whistling in from the dark of the night. He pulled the gate to the graveyard shut with a loud creak, then latched and locked it. The noise seemed to echo forever in the distance so he listened for the footsteps that would presage a hue and cry. All he heard was that bloody owl.
“Dad,” the youngest resurrection man said, “where are we bound?”
“We’ll drop these two lads off at the Red Lion. Then you and I shall take the young miss to her final destination.”
“Jonas, you said.”
“Now shut your gob. I’ll pay thee. No reason to risk us all getting run in by the watch. Now is there?”
“Reckon not. Still, we should be there when you meet the anatomist. How do we know you’re not trimming us over the price?”
“Listen Lads, the less you know, the safer you are and the safer he is. The safer we all are. I’m only taking my boy because I need his muscle. Gettin’ old. ‘Sides which, he’s family and we’ll both hang together, any road.”
“It’s not a hanging offense, is it?”
“No, but it’s a fine and prison if we’re caught.” While not technically a death sentence, a long stay in prison wasn’t exactly good for the health. Scanty, poor quality food and the lack of light or ventilation in a crowded building tended to eliminate prison overcrowding.
The wagon pulled up to the pub, and the two unnecessary resurrection men jumped down. Jonas passed them a crown each, “More for you tomorrow after I’ve been paid. Now keep your blubbers shut.”
An hour later, Jonas pulled the wagon up in front of the old tithing barn in Streatham and tied it to a hitching post. An ancient building left over from the dissolution of the Abbey under King Henry; the barn was a massive stone building with high narrow windows that discouraged the curious. The tall arched roof still kept the rain out, at least most of it. While it was far enough from the centre of the village to avoid prying eyes, it was also slowly falling into disrepair. Dr. Richard Craven used it for his private laboratory.
The massive door squeaked as he opened it and greeted them, “Jonas, what have you for me tonight?”
“Just what you wanted, a young woman, fresh.”
“Excellent. Now bring her inside.”
“You’ll be paying me now. Like we agreed?”
“Ten pounds. I have it here.” Dr. Craven pulled a note from his coat pocket.
“Ten, nay man, twenty.”
“Twenty? You said ten before.”
“Twenty or we take her straight back.” Twenty pounds was almost a year’s wages for a skilled labourer.
Dr. Craven was in no place to argue. He needed a woman to continue his studies, and there she was almost close enough to touch. She was just another cadaver, on her way to returning to the common clay.
“Twenty it is, you rogue.” He handed Jonas two banknotes.
Jonas nodded to his son, “Bring her lad.”
The boy uncovered their cargo and shouted, “she’s moved Da’. She’s moved.”
“Nonsense boy. Must have been shifted by the roads. Now stop yer yammering and bring her in.”
“Da’ alone, by myself?”
“She’s a light one. Not like some of them.”
Light or not, a body is hard to carry one handed. The boy staggered under the weight. He followed his father inside with the good doctor. Once there, he asked, “Dad, can you help?”
Together they laid her out on the cold stone floor.
Dr. Craven inspected the body, gave it a sniff, and then nodded. “She looks to be in good shape. Smells fresh. Did you want the winding cloths?”
“Of course, and it has been thirsty work. Bringing her here. Deuced thirsty.”
The doctor sighed, “I’ll get the brandy for you.”
Then he walked to the far end of the barn where he kept a small store of run French brandy. Jonas, a man with a nose for the spirits that was only matched by his capacity for imbibing them, followed him. The dark shadows hid the debris of the doctor’s studies, the prepared examples, the bottles of preserved organs, and the strange retorts of his research from their view. A chorus of squeaking rats from the cages at the far end of the building only added to the atmosphere. What little Jonas could see through the flickering candlelight was disturbing enough, even for a hardened resurrection man.
Jonas tugged on Dr. Craven’s sleeve, “You will take the brandy from the right cask, won’t you? Not one of these odd spirits and poisons?”
The doctor laughed, “Of course, I need a dram myself. It’s been a cold night.”
In the meantime, the boy undid the bandage that held the woman’s jaw shut tight. As he pulled it off her, her mouth opened and she gasped for air.
He ran to his father and the doctor, shouting, “I tell you, Doctor, she’s alive!”
Jonas and the doctor walked back to him, carrying a decanter of the brandy with them.
Dr. Craven said, “Can’t be, Lad. That must have been gas escaping from the body. They do that, you know, as they decompose.”
The elder resurrection man nodded, “I’ve seen it before, many times.”
“So have I Dad, but this wasn’t that. She gasped for breath when I undid the bandage.”
Dr. Craven said, “I’ll prove she’s dead. Put her on the table.”
The resurrection men lifted the body from the floor and put it on the examining table. It having once been a delicate young female, they were gentler with it than they were usually. The doctor gave his hands a quick rinse. Something he did more for superstition than any rational basis, and then he proceeded to examine the body.
“She is warmer than I’d expect. The decomposition must be advancing rapidly. I’ll need that ice.” He paused. It, no not it, she breathed. It was a gasp, a weak one at that, but a breath.
“Brandy!” He shouted, “and be quick about it, man. She’s alive.”
The youngest resurrection man ran for the decanter and returned as fast as he could. “Here, sir.”
The doctor took some and moistened the woman’s lips with it. She gasped again and stirred. “She’s cold, bring a blanket and a warm brick.” He immediately unwrapped the winding bandages from her body and untied the bindings on her legs and arms. “Come man, rub her legs. We must get the blood flowing.”
Between the warmth, the brandy, and the commotion, the woman’s eyes suddenly opened, and she sat up. She saw this handsome dark-haired man looking at her. His concern for her was evident in his face.
“Is this Heaven?”
“No. England.”
“Close enough.” Then she lay back and closed her eyes again.
I’m also looking for reviewers for my nearly ready book “The Curious Profession of Dr. Craven”
Sunrise
Lizette Woodworth Reese
The east is yellow as a daffodil.
Three steeples—three stark swarthy arms—are thrust
Up from the town. The gnarlèd poplars thrill
Down the long street in some keen salty gust—
Straight from the sea and all the sailing ships—
Turn white, black, white again, with noises sweet
And swift. Back to the night the last star slips.
High up the air is motionless, a sheet
Of light. The east grows yellower apace,
And trembles: then, once more, and suddenly,
The salt wind blows, and in that moment’s space
Flame roofs, and poplar-tops, and steeples three;
From out the mist that wraps the river-ways,
The little boats, like torches, start ablaze.
The sunrise from the tooth of time
(c) 2008 Robert W Harrison
November 30, 2015
Quick and Easy Bread Recipes You Can Do Yourself
On to my secrets!
Originally posted on Italian Home Kitchen Blog:
Have you ever wanted to bake some hearty, homemade bread but then realized you didn’t have all day to prepare dough, let it rise, and then (finally) bake it? Well here’s a secret: not all delicious homemade breads require half a day to bake. There are a variety of recipes that use baking powder or baking soda, instead of traditional yeast, for leavening, cutting your preparation time by at least half. You can make sweet and savory loaves, muffins, scones, biscuits, pancakes and even popovers without taking hours out of your day.
We have compiled a list of some of the best-loved and best-rated quick bread recipes, all of which you can easily make with your own two hands. These tried-and-true recipes will enable you to have a sweet or savory bread on your table in a pinch.
Popovers and Pancakes
Whole-Wheat Buttermilk Pancakes
Biscuits…
View original 187 more words
Jabberwocky
Lewis Carroll
‘Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
“Beware the Jabberwock, my son
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!”
He took his vorpal sword in hand;
Long time the manxome foe he sought—
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.
And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!
One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.
“And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!”
He chortled in his joy.
‘Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
November 29, 2015
I Am a Little World Made Cunningly (Holy Sonnet V)
John Donne
I am a little world made cunningly
Of elements, and an angelic spright,
But black sin hath betrayed to endless night
My worlds both parts, and oh! both parts must die.
You, which beyond that heaven which was most high
Have found new spheres and of new lands can write,
Pour new seas in mine eyes, that so I might
Drown my world with my weeping earnestly,
Or wash it, if it must be drowned no more:
But oh! it must be burnt; alas the fire
Of lust and envy burnt it heretofore,
And made it fouler; Let their flames retire,
And burn me, O Lord, with a fiery zeal
Of thee and thy house, which doth in eating heal.
This shows the effects of a forest fire some ten years on.
photographs (c) 2011 R Harrison
November 28, 2015
FrankenKitty 7 #wewriwar #amwriting
Welcome to Weekend Writing Warriors. This is a sample from my work in progress, “Frankenkitty”, and I hope you enjoy it. It started out as a young-adult superhero book, and well, you’ll see. The week before last they met Mrs. Jones, nee von Volkstein. Despite the premature reports of her death, Mrs. Jones was still alive. Last week they started in on making the surprisingly powerful “pink solution.” This week Jenny and her father meet Mrs. Jones and arrange for an exchange student to visit.
When they knocked on the door, Mrs. Jones answered; her voice was beginning to reflect her frailty, but her joy when she greeted them was unmistakable.
“Velcome, come in please.”
Jennifer’s father began, “I’m so sorry, we thought-”
“Jennifer explained it to me this afternoon; these things happen.”
“Still, I’m sorry.”
“Vell, it’s just as good that you’re here; my grand-niece Gertrude is looking for a place to stay as an exchange student; she’s about Jennifer’s age.”
“Jennifer, it might be fun to have a foreign student here; for how long and what do we have to do?”
“All you have to do is sign the paperwork and my nephew, her vater will handle the rest, including the costs.”
Jennifer’s father asked to see the forms and Mrs. Jones handed him a thick sheaf of papers, some in German, but mostly in English. A yellowing black and white photograph of a teenage girl was stapled to the upper left corner.
This is a work in progress. In other news, I’ve become a booktrope author, but more on that latter. It has meant a change in pen-name. The week before last is here, last weeks is here, and you can read the whole last chapter if you’d rather.
I’m also looking for reviewers for my nearly ready book “The Curious Profession of Dr. Craven”
