Roland Yeomans's Blog, page 29

MOMENTO MORI

 

Sentient may have delivered Major Richard Blaine to an arena more dangerous for him than a gladiator in the Colosseum.

MOMENTO MORI

“Remember thou art but mortal.”

 (In the ancient parade of the Roman Triumph, apublic slave would stand behind the honored general in his chariot repeatingthis phrase. Sadly, Caesar ignored its wisdom.)

 

I looked at the grandness of thebriefing room, filled with its illustrious, self-important men and thought darkthoughts.

Of all tyrannies, a tyrannysincerely exercised for the good of some noble cause may be the mostoppressive. It would be better to live under quarreling politicians than underomnipotent moral “Surists.”

The ambitious politician’s crueltymay sometimes sleep, his cupidity may at some point be satiated.

But those who throw our livesaway for the good of a cause torment us without end for they do so with theapproval of their own conscience.

During this terrible war, manyorphaned babies in France were being cared for in overcrowded hospitals.

Though adequate food and physicalcare were provided, the mortality rate was astonishingly high—until it wasnoted that the babies who died had the least personal attention.

When all the infants startedbeing given attention, the death rate dropped dramatically.

Human nature requires more thanjust food, shelter, medication, and exercise for survival. Love provides acushion for the hard knocks of life and a reason for living.

The haughty expression on thesegenerals’ faces shouted that this lesson was lost on them.

Perhaps that was why they calledthe men under them “troops” and not “soldiers.”

The men under them were justchess pieces.

Churchill was sitting here,looking stunned and angry. Sentient had a way of doing that to you. Beside me,Bradley looked much the same.

As a child, Churchill had toysoldiers made of ivory as his family was of the highest elite. I frowned. Now,his toy soldiers bled real blood. Did he realize that?

‘St Paul’s School is just outsideLondon. This is the most significant meeting in your civilization.’

Sentient’s laughter in my mindwas mocking.

‘This gathering of the primaryleaders: military, civilian and monarchical of the European theatre. They arehere to address for the first time to all, the plan to invade France in lessthan three weeks’ time.’

Her mind-snort was so harsh, Iwas surprised it didn’t flutter the rich wall hangings.

‘A confederacy of Dunces. They haveheard of this ill-advised plan before but have never seen it presented by theprincipal commanders for each and every part. They are much too impressed toask needful questions.’

My hair was again ruffled byinvisible fingers. ‘That is why you are here … to represent the cannonfodder.’

Bradley whispered a bitlaconically as if he shared Sentient’s viewpoint.

“St Paul’s School was whereBernard Montgomery attended as a boy and is now 21st Army Group’s operationalheadquarters for the invasion.”

 ‘This ancient assembly hall, a large two-storyroom in an opera house configuration with center stage was chosen by Montgomeryfor this event.’

Sentient mind-sighed as if on theverge of tears or brittle laughter.

‘This briefing is a microcosm ofyour pathetic species. Attendance was strictly controlled by MPs with lists ofthe permitted august personages ranking from King George VI to DivisionCommanders of all Allied forces.

‘Bah, no lesser lights allowed!See how the dark narrow oak and walnut benches curve around the room in tieredstep backs to near the ceiling. The seating protocol was rigidly but politelyenforced with stars literally ascending to the heavens. The less stars on theshoulder, the more celestial the seating.’

I felt my left chest patted byinvisible fingers. ‘Which is why I transferred all your medals from yourpillow to your chest.’

I looked down and mind-groaned, ‘Theywill just love Rommel’s Iron Cross on an Allied Dress Uniform.’

Sentient chuckled. ‘I know.Especially that Frog-Faced Eisenhower.’

I looked over to Bradley. He,too, was in his dress uniform. ‘Fancy rig, General. I guess Sentient wanted youto attend after all.”

“Why aren’t they all jumping upand pointing at us?”

“Sentient has eased us an onionskin back in time, sir.”

“Me, I understand. What does shewant you here for?”

“There are a lot of pompous menhere. She thinks it’s time for them to hear from the cannon fodder.”

“Eisenhower will execute you forthis.”

“You’re sending me on the firstwave to Omaha Beach. What worse could he do than that?”

I shrugged. I looked about thehuge chamber.

Division commanders were in thetopmost rows with ground Corps commanders and senior Air and Naval personagesscattered between them and the first two rows at center stage. General Patton wason the second row with General Bradley to indicate the ranked array.

General Bradley?

I don’t know who looked moreshocked, Eisenhower or Bradley. I would have hated to live off the difference.

Eisenhower barked, “Bradley? Whatare you finally doing here?”

Bradley overcame his shock andshrugged. “You wanted me. I came.”

Eisenhower growled, “Who let youin?”

Bradley smiled coldly.“Sentient.”

Admiral Ramsey, sitting besideEisenhower, frowned, “Who?”

Going pale, Eisenhower husked,“Later.”

I smiled drily. I just bet itwould be later. Much later.

Montgomery had created a huge mapof the invasion dimensional model on the floor. There was a small walking spaceon the sides of the model for presenters to use.

On the edge of the stage, seatedin leather chairs, were the King, Churchill, Eisenhower, Montgomery and themost senior Air and Naval commanders along with Alan Brooke, the British Chiefof Staff. Most of the attendees were intently smoking, but barely speaking.

My nose wrinkled at the harshsting of the nicotine in the air. I guessed being back in Time still left me vulnerableto smells.

Lucky me.

Glaring at Bradley, Eisenhower slowlyrose from his chair, walked to center stage, hesitated for a moment and beganto speak. He did not have to wait for silence and attention. On his facing theaudience, there was a sudden collective hush of anticipation.

The invasion had begun.

‘Let the callous donkeys bray.’

I felt my hair brushed back frommy forehead. ‘Then, the Cannon Fodder will have his say.’

At that moment, I would ratherhave been in the Roman Colosseum facing off against gladiators.

At least then, I would have had asword.

AGNUS DEI

Sentient has cast Churchill and Cloverfield Blaine knows not where. 

She merges him into a reality where the MPs, Cronkite, and Nurse Reynolds are missing ...

Leaving him to face an enraged General Omar Bradley alone.

AGNUS DEI

“Every time you make a choice youare turning the central part of you, the part of you that chooses, intosomething a little different from what it was before.”

- Sentient

 

I looked at the stunned GeneralBradley and thought oddly enough of the haughty expression of Eisenhower.

I pictured Hell as a state whereeveryone was perpetually concerned about his own dignity and advancement,

where everyone had a grievance,and where everyone lived the deadly serious passions of envy, self-importance,and resentment.

Was this oh so important briefingat St. Paul’s School that Bradley was missing like that?

‘Yes. Prepare yourself, littleant. When the whole world is running towards a cliff, he who is running in theopposite direction appears to have lost his mind.’

I felt my hair ruffled byinvisible fingers. ‘Come, little one, let us be off to tweak self-importantnoses. You cannot go back and change the beginning, but you can start where youare and change the ending.’

General Bradley suddenly noticedme. “Damn you! Where have you been?”

I held up my bandaged hands,wiggling fingers I couldn’t feel. “Getting these.”

“Hands? Where?”

“When actually … which was 413years in the future. I got to see the travesty this world becomes if the Naziswin. Humans become animals … literally.”

“Sentient! It ….”

“Her, General. Her. I think youreally do not want to anger her.”

His face clouded, and the stormburst. “That tears it, you insubordinate thorn in my side! You and your Spartan3oo are back in the 1st Infantry Division.”

I smiled sadly. “You’re sendingthe Big Red One onto Omaha Beach?”

“Yes. It’s an injustice, butthey’re the best seasoned troops I have what with their, and your, time inSicily. I have no choice.”

“There’s always a choice,General. You do recall the enormous casualties we suffered in Sicily and now,you’re sending them into the meatgrinder named Omaha. Lambs to the slaughter.”

“Major, in war there arefollowers and leaders. And the followers do not get the right to gainsay theirorders!”

His eyes narrowed. “As I recallwe had this exact same discussion New Year’s Eve. I sent you on that suicidemission as a consequence. Now, I ….”

He should have listened to mywarning.

My whole body tingled as an asleepfoot does when coming awake.

Copper snowfall all around us …then ….

The general and I stood as ghostsin the midst of St. Paul’s School. I smiled wearily. Bradley was going to makethe meeting after all.

I could almost hear Sentient laughing. At whose discomfort? Bradley's or mine?

Or both?

HOW TO KEEP ON WITH YOUR NOVEL

 

HAS IT ALL CAUGHT UP WITH YOU?

You're in good company:


Mark Twain  Mark Twain's brilliant authorship of American classics such as Huckleberry Finn 

might have had its roots in his tendency to depression. 


But this famous depressed writer also lived with a lot of family drama 


that could have contributed to his STRESS
 and depression. 

Depression's role with creative writing will also be a function of the individual writers,


 their personal history, their circumstances, and the nature of their depressions.

 Stephen King  Stephen King, a modern master of suspense and terror, has quite a body of work to his name. 

Yet his fame and talent didn't forestall the devastating effects of the drugs and alcohol 


he allegedly had been using to cope with ongoing unhappiness.

Substance abuse and alcohol use 


often play roles as people struggling with depression attempt to self-medicate. 


During those years, this famous depressed writer also produced some of his best-known works, such as The Shining, Pet Cematary, and Carrie.

 F. Scott Fitzgerald  F. Scott Fitzgerald and his wife Zelda were known for their glamorous and tumultuous lifestyle, 

full of wild parties, travel, and larger-than-life characters. 

The Great Gatsby remains his best-known work, 


but other novels such as The Beautiful and the Damned detail a lot of the same ground. 


Their glittering life had a dark side, punctuated by alcoholism and depression for both of them, 


and their legacy includes being famous depressed writers. 


HOW DO YOU KEEP ON WRITING DESPITE FEAR, DOUBT, & SELF-CRITICISM?
1.) ASK YOURSELF WHAT YOU WOULD DO IF YOU'RE WEREN'T AFRAID OR DOUBTFUL.

The mere act of doing usually makes the fear recede in just a few minutes.” 


Pretend, just for a moment, that rejection or failure isn’t the end of life as you know it.


2.) STOP INDULGING YOUR FEARS, DISCOURAGEMENTS, REJECTIONS, & DASHED DREAMS.

Much as we’re driven to write, we feel we must be in the mood – 


as if the clouds should part, the sun should shine and every possible interruption should be silenced

.None of that matters. Write anyway. 

Don’t think about how you feel or if it’s a perfect time to write 

or that you have a thousand other things to do. 


Write anyway. 

You have nothing to share and nothing to sell if there are no words on the page.



3.) REMEMBER THAT REJECTION ISN'T NECESSARILY ABOUT YOUR WRITING. 

You have to be totally dedicated to your writing. 


Forget about rejections – they’re a mandatory part of any career. 

A writer writes. 
If you feel you’ll keep writing even if you never get published, then you’re a real writer.

The markets want they want.  


Tastes will change.  You will grow as a writer if you do not give up.


4.) SEE PAST YOUR EXCUSES TO YOUR REAL FEARS

Writers need to look at their fears directly.


 Recognize them for what they are, 


and be honest with yourself about why you’re not moving forward with your writing goals.

This can be difficult because we give excuses rather than facing our fears.


5.) SET SMALL GOALS

Long-term goals are great for inspiration, but keep a list of small, attainable goals, too, 


and allow yourself to feel proud when you achieve them. 

Reward yourself for finishing a chapter or short story. 

Recognize that sending a few query letters to agents takes time, thought, and effort, 


and don’t discount the success.

DO YOU BELIEVE?

 

I am not asking about your belief or lack thereof in God.

Each person's theory of God is their own 

and worthy of respect and freedom from prying questions.

No, I mean  

"Do you believe you are meant to be a writer?"

Yes?
Then what are you doing about it?



Dreaming of climbing to the mountain top is fine.  

But no mountain is going to reach down and lift you up to its top.



You have to force your way up the side of it, braving the cold, winds, and the weariness all on your own.

 Not everyone makes their idea happen.
You've met those whose heart, head, and hands are congruent, aligned.


They turn talk into walk.
If we want to badly enough, we find a way.
We live the possibilities we love.

We don't have to remember we are on fire.  

We just are on fire! 
When you are committed to your dream, 

people will sense it in you ...

Some of those will help you on your way... 

for none of us makes it solely on our own.



There will be challenges.

But challenges are merely problems ...


and problems can be solved.
Every road block has a detour that can be taken.  

It may not be the journey you envisioned, 

but the destination can still be reached.


Impossible just gives birth to legends

WHAT ARE YOU DOING 
TO MAKE YOUR DREAM  COME TRUE?
TOMORROW MAY BE THE START  OF YOU BECOMING LEGEND.

SEIZE YOUR LIFE AS A SWORD

 

Things get crazier for Churchill, Cloverfield, and Blaine 

thanks to Sentient wanting to lift herself from depression.

SEIZE YOUR LIFE AS A SWORD

“A question that sometimes drivesme to distraction: am I or are the others crazy?”

― Albert Einstein

 

My face must have shown mytroubled thoughts at what Sentient had just told me.

Churchill clamped a firm hand onmy shoulder. “Now this is not the end. It is not even the beginning of the end.But it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning.”

Cloverfield got into the act, andI figured my face must have been a sight. "Death, in itself, is nothing;but we fear, to be we know not what, we know not where."

“Thanks … I think.”

I believe Sentient wanted totweak my nose because of my tattle-tale face.

‘Vitus Bering, shipwrecked in1740 on Bering Island, was found years later preserved in snow. An autopsyshowed he had had many lice, he had scurvy, and had died of a “rectal fistulawhich forced gas gangrene into his tissues.’

‘And you’re telling me this justwhy?’

‘That there are many worse waysto die than the one which will probably befall you.’

‘Probably?’

‘Nothing in this life is certain… especially in your life.’

Before I could think of anappropriate retort, General Bradley barked, “There you two are!”

I quickly looked up, fearful thathe had spotted Nurse Reynolds and Cronkite. I need not have worried. TheGeneral had the two MPs by the nape of both necks and was shaking them as ifthey needed fluffing.

“Where have you two AWOLs beenthese past two weeks?”

“Two weeks?” the two of themyelped. “We’ve been right here!”

“Sure, you have! What did you twodo with Prime Minister Churchill and Major Blaine?”

The taller, more erudite of thetwo gasped, “We ain’t done nothing, sir!”

The other gulped, “What he said,sir.”

“Really? Then, why is Whitehallchewing my ass, right along with Eisenhower saying otherwise?”

Nurse Reynolds walked right up toGeneral Bradley with a reluctant Cronkite trailing behind ,,, way behind.

“What is this rubbish, General? Mr.Cronkite and I just left Major Blaine’s hospital room only minutes ago. He wasstill comatose, looking near death. Mr. Cronkite even took a photograph of thepoor man. He wants to send it to ….”

Bradley barked, “He already has,Nurse Reynolds. Two blasted weeks ago!”

Cronkite lifted the camera fromaround his neck staring at it as if it had betrayed him. “The film of thatphoto is still in this, General.”

The general in question ripped anewspaper photo from his right shirt pocket.

 “You mean this photograph? Blaine looking likea male Snow White all pale and wan. His Spartan helmet gleaming beside the mostdecorated pillow in the United Kingdom?”

Bradley ironed his face with arough hand.

“In my office … from which I havejust been so rudely and incomprehensibly wrenched … is the DistinguishedService Cross and the Silver Star that President Roosevelt pushed through for Blaineat the uproar generated by your photograph of him laying comatose in bed in juxtapositionwith your photo of his severed hands still clasping the handles of that newfangled gun which saved the lives of all those rescued soldiers.”

Bradley growled, “That damnpillow. King George himself pinned a reissued Victoria Cross on it to replacethe one Churchill was supposed to have pinned on it. The outrage on both sidesof the Atlantic over Blaine’s, Churchill’s, and your disappearance is drivingEisenhower to a frenzy.”

Churchill reached inside his coatand withdrew the box with the royal seal on it, looked hard at it, and shookhis head.

Rachel frowned. “I do not understand.I have gone nowhere.”

Bradley sighed,

“You have been missing for twoweeks. I would say you being here is impossible except for the fact that notthirty seconds ago I was in my office being chewed out by General Eisenhowerfor not showing up for the briefing at St. Paul’s School … which my calendarsaid was scheduled for tomorrow!”

Bradley muttered, “My life wouldhave been so much easier if Blaine had just had the good taste to die at the handsof Rommel’s men.”

Nurse Reynolds exclaimed, “BloodyHell! He lost his poor hands! Is that not good enough for you?”

And with that, she slapped him sohard that his head rocked back from the force of the blow.

Cronkite sputtered, “Nurse Reynolds!That man is a general!”

“Then, he should bloody well actit.”

Bradley rubbed his jaw. “You …have a point … and a mean right cross. I should not have spoken like that infront of a … woman.”

Cloverfield drawled low, “Younotice he did not say ‘Lady’.”

Nurse Reynolds said menacingly, “Youmeant those words?”

The general wisely backed up. “Imean everything I say, Nurse. I just should have considered you were a …civilian.”

Churchill exclaimed an echo ofthe thought in my own mind, “What is going on?”

I looked over at him. He wasdisappearing … as was Cloverfield.

I cried out to the former MI6agent. “Go to the barracks. Check out the rest of the Spartans!”

And he was gone … along with Churchill.

A strange strength flooded throughme. My ears popped painfully. I staggered up from the stone bench.

Bradley appeared clear to my eyes… and alone. No MP’s or Cronkite or Nurse Reynolds.

‘Having fun, Sentient?’

‘It’s just beginning, little ant.’

 

“When I cannot understand where OurFather is leading, and life seems to be but a hard and cruel fate. Still, Ihear that gentle whisper ever pleading, ‘God is working, God is faithful. Onlywait’.”

– Rabbi Lt. Amos Stein

THE LAST NIGHT OF YOUR LIFE

 When I had my massive heart attack last Halloween, that question occurred to me. Yeah, right. I certainly got a trick for Halloween!

"If you would indeed behold the spirit of death, open your heart wide unto the body of life. 

For life and death are one, even as the river and the sea are one. 

In the depth of your hopes and desires lies your silent knowledge of the beyond; 

And like seeds dreaming beneath the snow your heart dreams of spring."

-Kahlil Gibran

One of the last photographs of Kahlil Gibran

"You talk when you cease to be at peace with your thoughts;

And when you can no longer dwell in the solitude of your heart you live in your lips, 

and sound is a diversion and a pastime.

And in much of your talking, thinking is half murdered.

For thought is a bird of space, that in a cage of words may indeed unfold its wings but cannot fly." 

- Kahlil Gibran

"T he silence of aloneness reveals to their eyes their naked selves and they would escape."

Where will you spend the

last night of your life?

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01J7F9HTI

In the 2nd tale in the above book,

I detail the last night of Kahlil Gibran, the gangster, Legs Diamond, Whilhelm Murnau, director of Nosferatu,

and Ida B. Wells, the valiant anti-lynching journalist of the late 1890's ...

all at a fateful 1931 New Year's Eve Party.

The Kindle version is only 99 cents. How can you can go wrong?

THE STARS DO NOT DEMAND

 

The Past is not dead. It is not even gone.

 Like a stubborn cold, it waits for you to forget and then returns stronger than ever as Richard Blaine is reminded by Sentient.

THE STARS DO NOT DEMAND

“Like a dead owl, God does notgive a hoot how you live … unless you wish to know Him.”

 – Rabbi Lt. Amos Stein

 

God does not demand that we giveup our personal dignity, that we throw in our lot with random people, that welose ourselves and turn from all that is not Him.

God needs nothing, asks nothing,and demands nothing … like the stars. It is a life with God which demands thosethings.

You do not have to sit outside inthe dark. If, however, you want to look at the stars, you will find thatdarkness is necessary. But the stars, like God, neither require nor demand it.

Sadly, Darkness all too oftensought me out.

Like now.

‘I would cry if I but had theducts to do it,’ murmured Sentient within my mind.

‘What did I do now?’

‘You are an ant waxingphilosophic as your hill wages war against another, all the while a bulldozeris heading your way to decimate every hill.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Of course, you do not. My perspectivearches over millennia. I have seen Pivotal Periods such as this one multipletimes.’

‘Pivotal Periods?’

‘The world has ever beeninterconnected in ways most at the time thought would go on forever.’

Sentient’s voice was a lashagainst my consciousness. ‘Forever! As if! Take the Bronze Age. A half dozenor more little empires and statelets, the most influential being Egypt.’

‘So?”

‘Asks the ant blinded by hissmallness. Tin, my small ant. Tin! Bronze was made by mixing Copper, quiteplentiful, with Tin which could only be found in central Afghanistan – a countrythat will prove pivotal next century.’

‘Again, I ask SO?’

‘In those days, it was a longsupply chain stretching from South Asia to the Mediterranean. A supply chain disruptedby a combination of things.'

I felt my nose pinched. Hard. 

'Some of these factors were human populationpressures from outside the region, a rise in piracy, intra-regional warsbetween the empires, and later riots, when highly centralized rule could nolonger provide for burgeoning populations and the madness it caused.’

 I felt my nose pinched again. 

‘Otherfactors lay beyond human control; earthquakes and megadroughts made even worsein those days because people did not know their causes … as they will not nextcentury.'

My nose was pinched very hard.

  'And voilà! Civilization died in1177 B.C. as your kind designates it, ushering in the first Dark Age.’

‘Ancient history, Sentient.’

‘Is it? A Cycle, my little ant –repeating itself now, and sadly, next century.’

‘What?’

‘You are living in such a cycle now. Yourindustrial civilization is overly complex, utterly dependent on globalintegration, and lacks resilience, often thanks to the demands of politics oncommerce. As in 1100 B.C., your collapse will not happen overnight (sansnuclear war) but rather over some decades.’

‘What kind of war did you say?’

‘The kind which I hope toeliminate its very possibility by making sure that weapon is never made. But thatis for a later time. Now, I find myself depressed, so I have decided to amusemyself with your tribal chieftains.’

My wrists suddenly throbbed less,and Sentient mind-chuckled, ‘I have, as your Cloverfield would say, “playedHob” with a fortnight of Time.’

I didn’t understand. But apparently,General Bradley did as he shook the now useless telephone receiver in his righthand up at the clouds.

“This isn’t funny, Sentient!”

‘To me it is, and that is allthat matters.’

Like I said: sometimes Darkness seeksme out.

‘Oh, no, my little ant, I misspoke-- not weeks, months have passed; years have passed. Whatever ground gained hasslipped away. New obstacles arise with faintness of heart and dread.’

Like I said … Darkness.

‘Do not equate human fragility tothe short lives of roses. It insults roses.’

Like most things Sentient said tome, that last made no sense. Most frightening of all, I was getting used to it.

SAINT OR FOOL

 

Wherever we humans go, thereseems to be only one business at hand—

that of finding workablecompromises between the sublimity of our ideas and the absurdity of the fact ofus.

Which Richard Blaine discoversanew as he tries to reason with one of his Spartan 300 and Churchill outside Time itself.

SAINT OR FOOL

“By God’s good design andmetaphysical dream of the world I am here. Where is here, by the way?”

 – Richard Blaine

 

The four points of the compass arelogic, knowledge, wisdom, and the unknown.

Some bow in that final direction.All of us advance upon it.

To bow before the one is to losesight of the other three. I may submit to the unknown, but never to theunknowable. The man who bows in that final direction is either a saint or afool.

 I have been both … but only in the eyes ofthose who did not know me.

I looked up as Cloverfield mockedme. Sentient, for some reason known only to her, touched my eyes or myawareness or my senses.

My vision seemed to cut throughthe atmosphere, and I saw the spinning stars, grateful, sad and proud, as onlya man who has outlived his destiny and realizes he might yet forge himselfanother, can be.

My mind, more than my body,yearned for sleep.

Of all the things a man may do,sleep probably contributes most to keeping him sane. It puts brackets abouteach day.

If you do something foolish orpainful today, you get irritated if somebody mentions it, today.

If it happened yesterday, though,you nod or chuckle, as the case may be. You've crossed through nothingness ordream to another island in Time.

I longed for that other island inTime.

Cloverfield interrupted mymusings. “Speak of the Devil. Here comes reporter Cronkite down the walk. Andhe has the Temptress with him.”

I followed his gaze and saw NurseReynolds, worry etched on her aquiline features, walking beside the journalist.I smiled drily. The man was dressed as if on a forest picnic, in a plaid shirtand quilted vest.

“That is Sgt. Savalas’ lady,James.”

He snorted good-naturedly. “Itsounds so natural when you say it.”

“In the Spartan 300, we have eachother’s back.”

Cloverfield grinned, “You sureReeves knows that?”

I felt my face become stone.“I’ll explain it to him.”

He asked, “Are we ever going tosee your lady, the mysterious Helen Mayfair?”

“Hopefully, not.”

His face darkened. “You don’ttrust me?”

I smiled ruefully. “Oh, I knowyour reputation with the opposite sex, James. But it’s not that. The farthershe is from me, the safer she will be.”

Churchill studied me. “So, she isa fragile flower, then?”

“Quite the opposite, sir. Shecarries the daintiest revolver you ever saw tucked under her belt at the smallof her back.  If you had a wad of gum inyour mouth for every man I have seen her kill with that gun, you would looklike a chipmunk smuggling walnuts in its cheeks.”

He laughed, “Up until I startedlosing weight from this cursed war, I had started to look like that.”

Cloverfield said low, “Weaponscan be taken from you.”

I nodded. “Which she found outwhen she was kidnapped to be sold to a near-by house of prostitution.”

Churchill exclaimed, “By the goodlord, such things transpire in New Orleans?”

“All the time, sir.”

“What happened?” frownedCloverfield.

Making a long story short andmuch less colorful, I said, “I happened.”

I made a face at the taste of badmemories. “That is when Sister Ameal took her under her razored wing and taughther how to kill with most every part of her body.”

Churchill snorted, “A nun?”

“Before entering the convent, shewas the highest paid assassin in Portugal.”

Cloverfield smiled wide. “Soundslike she would fit in quite nicely with our band.”

I shook my head. “She would, butI do not know how well we would fit in with her.”

“Prim and proper now?” asked thePrime Minister.

“No. Deadlier than ever, hersails steered by winds whose source I cannot decipher.”

Cloverfield stiffened and pointedto our left. “Speaking of not being able to decipher ….”

I followed his forefinger. Merde.A disheveled, capless General Omar Bradley stood in the middle of the walkway, lookingstunned and holding a telephone receiver to his ear. A receiver from whichdangled a severed phone cord.

I drew in a deep breath.

Life is a deadly jester for thecourt of chaos.

It is also full of barbed surprises.What some misguided fools from the sidelines call “the adventure of life.”

 The thing is, chaos doesn't allow us to enjoythe adventure.

Sometimes it kills us.

“History is full of surprises,and things that seemed absolutely certain one day are often quite unimaginablethe next.”

– Adolph Hitler

TIME IS AN ONION

 

Richard Blaine continues his conversation with Winston Churchill.

" If mankind is to continue inother than this present barbarism, 

a new path must be found, a new civilizationbased on some other method than mere technology." 

- Sentient

TIME IS AN ONION

“Time is a cruel thief to rob usof our former selves. We lose as much to life as we do to death.”

- Elizabeth Forsythe Hailey

 

Between the black of yesterdayand the white of tomorrow is the great gray of today. I was tired of gray. Iwas tired of a lot of things that were not about to go away.

Then, as so often happened whenlife proved too much, I heard the velvet voice of Helen Mayfair:

“If you ever loved anything inyour life, try to remember it. If you ever betrayed anything, pretend for amoment that you have been forgiven."

I almost felt her hand lightly caress my cheek as it did on that faraway day.

 "If you ever feared anything, pretend for aninstant that those days are gone and will never return. Buy the lie and hold toit for as long as you can. Press your favorite memory, whatever it may be, toyour breast and stroke it till it purrs.”

Winston Churchill stiffened,“Your eyes. They’ve become so haunted. I am sorry, young man. Lucy is right. I ammore prone to bursts of temper of late.”

He looked morosely at my heavilybandaged hands. “Anger is a waste of energy. Steam which is used to blow off asafety valve would be better used to drive an engine.”

I shook my head and was afraid Ionly managed a sad smile. “I was merely hearing the voice of my own Lucy, HelenMayfair. I … will never see her again outside of my memories. And thatknowledge is a bleeding wound inside me.”

He looked intently at me. “Is shedead, then?”

“No, sir. But I have so manypowerful enemies ….”

“Good! That means you have stoodyour ground for what you believed was right. Eisenhower is but a man. Well, theman I see before me is not dead, is he? So, there is hope. Cling to that hope,nourish the love that you feel, and let your enemies be damned!”

He sucked in a deep breath. “Ifeel better already. I must put you on my staff.”

I smiled, thinking he was makinga jest. I was wrong.

An impish sparkle gleamed in hiseyes. “Yes, that is exactly what I will do! I will make you and your ‘Spartan3oo’ my official liaison between my office and that pompous Supreme Commander.”

The Prime Minister slapped hishand on my left shoulder. “I will even make Nurse Rachel Reynolds my aide as acourier of sorts to speak between us.”

“I don’t understand, sir.”

Cloverfield sighed, “GeneralEisenhower put pressure on the hospital to let her go as she went aboard the Rocinantewithout official sanction.”

“But she and Doc Tennyson saved….”

“Over a thousand soldiers betweenthem and your efforts … at least according to that journalist … ah, what was hisname again?”

“Walter Cronkite, sir,” saidCloverfield.

The New Zealander shook his head.“But he claims he did not write those articles that the McCord Newspaper Chainis printing under his by-line. In fact, he visited the Major’s hospital roomafter those MP’s escorted you off the floor. He was yelling he had beenbetrayed by the United Press.”

Churchill snorted, “That's life:trust and you're betrayed; don't trust and you betray yourself.”

I look back at that exchange nowand mourn how naïve we all were then, how ignorant of the horrors the war yearswould bring.

In the mirrors of many judgments,my hands are the color of blood.

I sometimes fancy myself an evilwhich exists to oppose other evils.  

And on that great Day of whichthe prophets speak but in which they do not truly believe … on that day when theworld is utterly cleansed of evil, then I, too, will go down into darkness,swallowing remorse for things done … and for things not done often enough.

Until then, I will continue bloodyingmy hands and refuse to let them hang useless.

Cloverfield frowned. “Speaking ofthose MP’s they’re running all around us as if good sense had left them. Theydon’t bloody look as if they even see us.”

I sighed, “Sentient just told methat she has slipped the three of us an onion layer back in time.”

Churchill snorted, “Is such athing possible?”

I nodded. “Time is not the linearconcrete concept Einstein believes. It does not easily fit into a black andwhite world of equations that runs to a logical conclusion.”

I bit my lower lip. “Time is … anonion of sorts. It exists whole as one unit. No beginning. No end. It does notrun on and on. It has … layers which Sentient can slip between … which how shetook me 413 years in the future to get these strange new hands.”

I started to run those bandagedfingers through my unruly hair and just managed to stop myself in time.

“In time.”

I grinned drily at the phrase.The three of us were “in time” indeed.

Churchill snorted again. “Areyou, then, smarter than Einstein?”

“Sentient has made it so.”

“You do not talk like a genius.”

I shook my head. “My enemy in NewOrleans uses language as a blunt instrument to batter those with whom he speaksto prove how much smarter he is than they. But I believe he is trying to provesomething else entirely different to himself. Just what I haven’t quitedecided.”

I remembered Helen groaning atwhat I called the vocabulary I used.

 “I speak in what I call ‘Jimmy Stewart’English. If I can imagine the actor saying it on the screen, I say it toothers. To me, language is meant to clearly communicate one to another without needlesslylabyrinthine terms.”

James Cloverfield shook his head.“You know what is truly frightening?”

“What?”

“I believe you.”

NO RIGHT PATH

 

In fleeing a future that only wishes to take from him 

(not too different than our present, right?)

Richard Blaine is flung into a fiery limbo ... wbere up is down and wrong is right ... not unlike our present politics.

NO RIGHT PATH

“War breaks more than lives. Itbreaks minds.

 I have seen too many officers trapped in thegrasping responsibilities of their unrelenting command.

Observed too many officers drawnand quartered by opposing needs that demanded immediate gratification.

Years of such punishment breaksminds. General Eisenhower’s was one such mind.”

 – Rabbi Lt. Amos Stein

 

The world was suddenly flame.

I smiled with a face I couldn’tfeel. In fact, once again, I couldn’t feel my entire body. The cessation ofpain from my throbbing wrists was more than welcome.

Sentient certainly knew how toshow a guy a good time. I expected a curt come-back.

But like so often in my life, Idid not get what I expected. Perhaps she was busy getting us the hell away fromthe Harvester and its hellish future.

I wasn’t complaining.

‘For once. Now, hush! I amconcentrating.’

Easy for her to say. You try tothink of nothing. Not a thing. Can’t be done this side of death.

I focused on the icy flamesswirling about my body or mind or soul or whatever it was that made up my perceptions.

Flames.

They look like objects but arereally processes.

Humans are like that as well. Nohuman actually is complete. He or she is in the process of becoming.

But becoming what? We answer thatquestion with our choices.

We all write the script of themovie of our life “on the go” so to speak.

That endeavor is tricky. We don'tget the luxury of time to reflect, muse, or ponder at leisure.

Life is a harsh mistress. As westruggle, she flashes us that "beauty-queen" smile: all sharp teethand no heart. And in her games of chance, the House ultimately wins.

We plan and prepare. Lifegleefully throws her monkey wrench into our preparations.

We must write our lives in thecrosshairs of illness, accidents, wars, dysfunctional humans, and our own innerdemons.

We are all in Life's crosshairs,and none of us know when she will pull the trigger. We just know that she will.

OOOF!

I went from standing up tositting down. Hard!

‘Next time, I will ask you tothink non-stop, driveling nonsense since you seem compelled to do the oppositeof what I ask.’

I blinked my eyes to clear them.

‘Where are we?’

‘On the stone bench in front ofthe dreary hospital in which I have placed the illusion of you laying neardeath’s door. Do not worry. On this bench, you are clothed in the uniform you wore aboard the Rocinante.’

‘I don’t know about death’s door,but I was certainly in her neighborhood back there in the future.’

‘Oh, just so you know: in thatfuture, the Third Reich won this conflict.’

‘What?’

‘Do not let your ego becomeinflated. Your absence merely prevented you from being the needed catalyst forthe progression of certain events necessary for victory.’

‘At least I know I serve apurpose. There are many in this damn war that do not know even that.’

‘I believe you are mistaken.’

‘Both our opinions are rooted inour experience. Both of them are true. It's just that we've had differentexperiences.’

‘You have no idea. At least, Ihave been spared your constant maudlin yearning over that Helen Mayfair.’

“This time, you are mistaken. Sheis in my heart like music at the edge of silence.’

There was a bellow of outragedistant from us. It roared from the front of the hospital. I grinned crooked.Leave it to the Army to make a building grimmer and more utilitarian thanseemed possible.

It had the oddest portico overits yawning porch. But then, you should never judge a porch by its portico.

‘You think such things toirritate me, do you not?’

‘No, I’m just me.’

‘More the pity.’

Two men stormed their way to mybench. Both of them I knew. One from news reels and the other from sailing intoHell beside me.

Former MI6 operative JamesCloverfield had once left me to die alone, but then, thought better of it ---and for that I thought better of him.

He had charged into certain deathwith me on board the Rocinante. He was family … at least an orphan’sdefinition of the word.

When everything goes to hell, thepeople who stand by you without flinching -- they are your family.

Winston Churchill, fuming as Ihad never seen him do on the news reels, stopped directly in front of my bench.He looked as if he didn’t even see me as Cloverfield tried to calm the man downto no avail.

‘He does not see you. I have nudged you atiny layer back in time.’

As an orphan, I had sympathy forhis unhappy childhood, redeemed only by the affection of Mrs. Everest, hisdevoted nurse.

Reading his adventures with awandering Texas Ranger, Samuel McCord, in 1895 Sudan fired my youngimagination.

He married the beautiful LadyLucille Wentworth in 1910.

 It was a marriage of unbroken affection thatprovided a secure and happy background for his turbulent career.

“Turbulent” was the exact wordfor his mood at the moment.

“How dare those MilitaryPolicemen deny me access to Major Blaine’s hospital room?”

He pounded his massive chest. “Iam the bloody Prime Minister!”

Cloverfield sighed, “They weremerely obeying the direct orders of General Eisenhower, the Supreme Commanderof the Allied Forces for Overlord.”

“And I am the ruddy PrimeMinister! I have half a mind to charge up those steps and dare those cretins toarrest me!”

Cloverfield sighed, “You know howunstable Eisenhower is when it comes to Major Blaine. Besides, my friend is noteven conscious.’

‘Sentient, would you nudge meback into reality and have my voice sound like King George VI?’

‘I am not your servant! Yet … Iam curious as to just what your devious mind plans to do.’

My whole body tingled as my footmight have done when going from being asleep to becoming fully awake.

”Prime Minister.”

He jerked in place as if beestung. He wheeled around. “Your Majesty, I ….”

He froze as Cloverfieldexclaimed, “Bloody Hell! I just left you, looking like Hell’s Vomit not aheartbeat ago. No, wait! That was a savage trick whipped up by your DarkPassenger, was it not?”

“Yes,” I answered and turned my eyes tothe still shocked Churchill. “Who was the sorriest at the return of theProdigal Son?”

The Prime Minister shook off hisshock as a washed dog might have done to the unwanted water. “I seem to beunaware of that particular verse of Holy Scripture.”

“The fatted calf.”

As the two both snorted, I said,“Please do not be the Fatted Calf in this scenario.”

“You are lecturing an elderstatesman, young man!”

“Yes, sir. But I learned the hardway in New Orleans that anger is just anger.”

I sighed, “It isn't good. Itisn't bad. It just is. What you do with it is what matters. It's like anythingelse. You can use it to build or to destroy. You just have to make the proper choice,choose the right path."

“Constructive anger," Churchillsaid, his voice dripping sarcasm.

“Sometimes called resolve,"I said softly.

"Resolve has overthrowntyrants and freed prisoners and slaves. Resolve has brought justice where beforethere was savagery. Resolve has created freedom where before  there was nothing but fear."

I tried to reach him somehow. "Resolve hashelped souls rise from the ashes of their horrible lives and build somethingbetter, stronger, more beautiful.”

Sentient sighed within my mind asChurchill’s face hardened.

‘A man who believes he knowseverything can learn nothing.’

‘I had to try.’

‘Last time you did that, you lostyour hands, remember?’

‘I never claimed I was a fastlearner.’