Roland Yeomans's Blog, page 31

WHEN DEATH BEARS GIFTS

 

Major Richard Blaine is in the midst of trying to persuade 19 battle-hardened veterans 

to come with him on a lone craft to fight 9 Nazi E-Boats when his Dark Passenger urges him to snap his fingers.

WHEN DEATH BEARS GIFTS

“Beware of shadows bearinggifts.” 

- Steven Erikson

 

Life is not unlike one of those hellishlydeep gold mines in India. Hardships dull your senses, your instincts. 

Inweariness, you go through the motions thinking one day will be just like thelast.

Then, one day the  winch jams. The scaffolding buckles. The airconditioning collapses.

You glance up to see by yourheadlamp the canary keeled over in its cage. You reach into a cranny for yourgas mask to find a deadly asp instead. You yank on your rope only to find it isfrayed. 

It is too late.

Life has played its lastpractical joke on you.

Like it just had on me.

As I snapped my fingers, I askedSentient, ‘Why didn’t you snap for me?’

‘Perhaps I wanted to give you theillusion of control? Perhaps when I utilize your body, your face becomes tooremote to be persuasive? Perhaps I am motivated by reasons you will neverunderstand?

‘In other words, when you want tome to know something, you will tell me.’

‘Perhaps.’

A rumbling beneath my boots cutshort my retort. A flash of a nightmarish mottled face both Other and humanfilled my mind’s eye. Then, it was gone, but the shivers remained.

‘What was that?’ I askedin a panic.

‘A memory of a fiasco in Sicily Iburied in your mind. Obviously, not deep enough. Hybla still greatly hates you,for she mourns her children.’

Great. Laska, now this Hybla.

That was two enemies who hated mefor things Sentient did in my body … without leaving me any memory of havingdone them. How many more did I have?

Pvt. “Chuck” Dickens, a man whowould never use one word when he could cram in a dozen, was suddenly madesuccinct by fear. “Damn! Sicily again.”

Other cries whose owners Icouldn’t place:

“Earthquake!”

“Not again!”

“England doesn’t haveearthquakes!”

“We’re being bombed!”

“The Nazi’s have found us!”

Sgt. Savalas snapped, “Spartans!At-ten-tion!”

Amazingly, that worked for them …and for me. I was myself again. I drew in a deep breath.

“This is not Sicily, Gentlemen.We are not being bombed. The Luftwaffe is a shadow of its former self.”

“Kit” Carson yelped, “Then, whatis it?”

“You are within a living,thinking building.”

I was met with a chorus of“What’s?”

“The ‘Still. Small Voice’ craftedthese barracks for you. She is trying to give you, gentlemen, a fighting chancetonight. She hates Hitler crowing that the 3rd Reich is the futureof the world. So, she has decided to give the Nazi’s a taste of the world’sfuture.”

“She?” frowned Pvt. Eric Evans.“God’s a Woman?”

Alfred Kent, Eric’s smart-mouthcrony snorted, “You better hope not, old sod. You know your luck with the bro….”

Lt. Stein snapped, “Language!”

Pvt. “Pete” Floyd, our morose pianist,grumbled, “Why is the Major so hung up on cussing?”

Sgt. Savalas said, “You don’t askwhy, private. You just do.”

I paused before I spoke, for theright word may be effective, but no word was ever as effective as a rightlytimed pause.

“The power of word has alwaysbeen greater than the power of sense. The right word fitly spoken is a preciousrarity. We are the Spartan 300, and our word will mean something, for we willspeak fitly or not at all.”

All further words died on drytongues as an opening in the floor slid soundlessly open between me and therest of the Spartans. Plumes of icy vapor breathed from it as if giving birthto dry ice.

Sentient murmured sadly in my mind,

‘The Time is out of joint. O,curséd spite, that ever I was born to set it right.’

Four glistening ivory pedestalsrose slowly, majestically, ominously from the smoking aperture.

Death had brought gifts.

 

FAMILY NEVER MET

 

(Image created by my friend, Michael Deveau)

It is 2 months before D-Day in England. For as long as he can remember, Major Richard Blaine has been the unwilling host to what he calls the "Small, Still Voice" who sometimes usurps control of his body.

His friend, Rabbi Lt. Amos Stein, calls it Rick's Dark Passenger. 

Both Blaine and Stein have been ordered to return to their barracks which houses their commando unit, the Spartan 3oo.

There they will await the outcome of the investigation of the death of their immediate commander, Captain Victor Sturges.

FAMILY NEVER MET

“Strangers, woven together byfate, strengthened together by choice, tested by everything, become uniquely family.”

– Richard Blaine

 

I looked at these twenty men,some whose lives I’d saved without even remembering doing it.

‘You are welcome.’

‘I didn’t thank you.’

‘You should, but you are tooself-absorbed to realize that.’

As so often with Sentient, therewas nothing to say to that. So, I said that … nothing.

It was unnerving. As my eyesswept the faces in front of me, flashes of who they were flickered inside myhead. 

But at the speed of lightning across a dark sky. 

Names, secrets only theyand I knew, secrets they did not know that I knew, names both assumed and real.

For over a year, they had knownme. Foolishly, they thought they knew me. Yet, we were strangers to each other.

Sentient couldn’t resist myconfusion: ‘Maturity, you will discover, has everything to do with theacceptance of ‘not knowing’.’

‘Except for you, of course. Youknow everything.’

‘That is the child in youspeaking. I am not your parent. I am another form of life entirely.’

‘Thank you, Captain Obvious.’

The most important lesson I hadlearned at St. Marok’s Orphanage came to my rescue: 

Life is about not knowing, having tochange, taking the moment and making the best of it, without knowing what'sgoing to happen next.

I looked at “my men.”  Deep inside me, I knew. I knew. These roughmen were my family.

My family.

St. Marok’s was merely anorphanage – an arena where I survived or died. Not a home. Its magical library,whose center for me had been Helen Mayfair, had not been home. 

It had been partdream, part nightmare.

While in the midst of thenightmare, the dream that was Helen had been the only thing to sustain me. Butshe was safer far from me … as I was lonelier, colder … sadder.

‘You have me.’

‘I rest my case.’

I raised my voice, “Gentlemen, wehave trouble.”

“Gentlemen?” snorted the wiry Pvt.Carson, a flash of a lost soul hiding his aloneness with humor flickering in mymind. “You sure you got the right group?”

“Old story, Major,” laughed Pvt.Porkins, whose weight struggle made him a bunt of stinging jokes on his name.

Cpl. Reese was about to slug him,but I interrupted, “No more of that, Reese. We band together, or we fallseparately. Every hand is against us right now.”

He glared at me. “And whose faultis that?”

A flash of a savage, ruthlessprison fight in Bombay swept through my mind, and I said hard, “Remember wherewe first met and ask me that again.”

He went leper-white.

I turned to the others and said,“Reese is right, I am the magnet that is drawing the fire this time.”

Jason Tennyson, who was adiscredited physician unknown to all but Sentient … and now me. 

“This time? Allthe time. But I have no gripes. You hauled our asses out of messes of our ownmaking the first time you met each of us.”

Cpl. Wilson, who always kept hiscollar buttoned tight to hide the rope burns on his neck, said, “I figure each dayafter the first day we all met the Major is a gift.”

Wentworth sneered, “Well, Darkie,I figure you say that ‘cuz ….”

I could never tell afterwardswhether it was Sentient or me that got my body inches away from him so fast. Myfist was heading to his big mouth when Reese hit the man in the solar plexus.

Reese barked, “Get your thingsand haul your ass out that door. And don’t come back.”

He flicked uncertain eyes to me,and I nodded. “You heard the man, Wentworth. Forget your things. Get out now.And the door won’t open for you again.”

“But they’ll arrest me. T-They’llhang me! Y-You told everyone you’d never turn your back on a Spartan.”

I took a wild guess and said, “Inever officially welcomed you to our ranks, remember? You were too busy tryingto kill me the same night Eisenhower was trying the same thing.”

Sgt. Savalas said low, “I wouldhave killed you for what you did that night, but I waited until the Major waswell and back before I asked permission. Now, get out!”

He got out, glaring at us all theway.

Pvt. Dee Stevens, who wanted towork in comics one day, shook his head. “I know that guy. He’s going to try andmake trouble for us.”

I stiffened as Sentient murmuredto me, and I shook my head. “He never made it off the front porch.”

“What happened to him?” asked theRabbi softly.

I sighed, “The ‘Still, SmallVoice’ didn’t like that he tired to kill me when I was ill and weak. She …removedhim from the board so to speak.”

“Was it fast?” asked Sgt.Savalas.

“I didn’t ask. Didn’t want toknow.”

“Kit” Carson grumbled, “I don’tknow how I feel about this.”

Cloverfield snorted, “Youplanning on killing the Major?”

Carson pulled up straight. “Hell,no. Not even before this. We sleep, eat better here than we ever did incivilian or Army life.”

“Then, what are you moaningabout?” Tennyson scoffed.

I said, “You know what Eisenhowerwants to with the lot of you, right?”

Pvt. Eric Evans, our boisterous electronicwhiz, nodded. “Yeah. He wants to scatter us to hell and gone all over thisbase.”

“You might want to consider agreeingto that before following me to where I aim to go.”

Pvt. Anthony “Ant” Vincent,running from a hated father in the Mafia, frowned. “You aiming to die?”

 That’s not Plan A. Actually, I aim tomisbehave.”

That got a round of laughter anda scattering of “Count me in’s”.

“Not so fast, gentlemen. I have a… ‘souped up’ Higgins boat.”

“All right!” came more than a fewlaughs.

“Which I aim to use to battle thenine Nazi E-Boats tonight that will attack the ships of Exercise Tiger.”

“Ant” Vincent held up a rightpalm. “Whoa! Wait. Nine? With just one souped up Higgins boat?”

“I’m in,” calmly said Theo Savalas.

“Me, too,” nodded the Rabbi asCpl. Sam Wilson echoed him.

There was a chorus of protestsfrom most of the other Spartans when Agent Cloverfield snapped, “Have all ofyou followed Major Blaine for so long without realizing he always has a plan?”

Reese scowled at me. “What thehell kind of plan could you have to fight off nine E-Boats?”

Sentient murmured, ‘Snap thefingers of your right hand.’

I did.

You might want to listen to this music while reading my excerpt.

SEEKING A FRIEND FOR THE END OF THE WORLD

 A movie was made by that title:

I'm not talking about the END of the WHOLE world, mind you, just the END of the WORLD AS WE NOW KNOW IT.

Ever have an old beloved sweater? 
One day you noticed it slowly unraveling, 
Soon, it began to unravel faster and faster.

The world seems to be that sweater. Peace seems to be slipping through the world's fingers.

Texas could vote to secede from the union in 2023. The Texas GOP passed the resolution denying the legitimacy of Biden's victory.

Runaway inflation is spiraling prices for food, gas, rents, and a dozen other necessities. 
The president is in obvious cognitive decline, making decisions that worsen the situation.
The new Supreme Court Justice can't define 'Woman.' 
Would you go to a vet couldn't tell the difference between a dog and a cat?
What faith can we have in such a court?

Congress has become the Three Monkeys ignoring the situation so long as they can continue to pad their accounts in Swiss banks with insider trading.

It won't happen overnight ... but I remember that sweater unraveling right before my eyes. 
What do you make of the world you see?

WHAT INSPIRES YOU TO WRITE?

Alice Walker, Ntozake Shange, and Langston Hughes, were all inspired by spirituals, jazz, and blues. 

These writers understood that music opens up pathways to creative thinking, that can help us weave together thoughts and ideas. 

We already know that music inspires creativity––especially creative writing

 

This is a bit odd but I find Christmas music to be very inspiring for my writing, 

especially old Christmas songs from the 40s and 50s.

 I think we tend to think of the holidays, especially Christmas, as a time of joy and happiness.

 But, the reality is the holidays can be a very lonely and sad time for many people.

Of course, soundtracks

also play a big part 

in my writing.

John Steinbeck in 1909 at the Salinas Fairgrounds.with his sister Mary, sitting on the red pony, Jill, whom he made famous in his novel. 

A wild ride through the Swiss Alps long agoinspired me to write a section in my troublesome, writer-blocked novel, NO RESHOOTS FOR DEATH.

An actual fiasco, Exercise Tiger, a rehearsal for D-Day in which 1000 soldiers were killed --many by friendly fire, mismanagement,as well as by Nazi E-Boats --inspired me to write a chapter in my latest WIP SAME AS IT NEVER WAS

Sometimes the worst enemiesin war are those who command without regard for the troopsunder themandCover-Up  masks unmarked graves(like the many fromExercise Tiger.) 

What has inspired you to write lately?
Is love involved?

Tell me.I'd like to know.

ROCINANTE

After the shooting of their immediate superior and being ordered by General Omar Bradley to await the fallout at their barracks ...
The rabbi, Lt. Stein, and Major Richard Blaine go where the remainder of the Spartan 300 reside ...

ROCINANTE

“I love the light, for it showsme the way, yet I will endure the darkness for it shows me the stars.”

 - Og Mandino 

 

Rabbi Stein drove us to ourbarracks. I just wasn’t up to it. Besides, Sentient and I had some talking todo.

I looked up from our jeep intothe night sky. The fiasco was over. Its devastation lay round about us. 

Theclamoring mind and heart stilled, almost indifferent, certainly disembodied,frail, and exhausted. The buildings we passed were hushed, obliterated. 

Up inthe sky, like a crater from some distant cataclysm, was the leering moon.

I hoped it had enjoyed the show.I hadn’t.

I flicked my eyes to my hands onthe dash, then to Lt. Stein. I saw blurred portions of my long fingers andstill bruised knuckles. 

I saw the rabbi’s face looking like an earlyblack-and-white movie. I saw a sprawl of black sky with unfamiliar stars in it.I was accustomed to the stars of Sicily or New Orleans ... not "jolly” old England.

‘Melodramatic as always.’

Lt. Stein murmured, “You know,one day your best interests and the Dark Passenger’s will not coincide. Then,what, Rick?”

‘I will miss you terribly.’

He looked at me closely. “Shejust said something snide, didn’t she?”

“Yes, Amos. She did, and sheprefers being called ‘Sentient.’”

“She wants to be called anadjective?”

“Like you, she likes to play withwords.”

‘I am nothing like your friendnor any human.’

‘And I had such hopes.’

‘Through binoculars the CrabNebula, in the constellation Taurus, looks to your species like a smoke ring.It is a star in the process of exploding. Light from its explosion firstreached the earth in 1054; it was a supernova then, and so bright it shone inthe daytime. Now it is not so bright, but it is still exploding. It expands atthe rate of seventy million miles a day.’

‘Your point?’

‘Photographs of the Crab Nebulataken fifteen years ago seem identical to photographs of it taken yesterday.Its growth barely discernible in actual time … like your wisdom.’

‘Very not funny.’

‘But apt.’

If Rabbi Stein survived thishellish war, would he remember me? Everyone remembered my face differently frommeeting to meeting. 

But then, when you, yourself, try your hardest to recallsomeone’s face, or the look of a place, you see in your mind’s eye some vaguesight in filmy inaccuracy. It is dark. It is insubstantial.  It is all wrong.

We remembered our living dayswrong.

Like the house whose curb RabbiStein pulled beside was wrong. It fit not a bit with all the shotgun dwellingson either side of its towering eeriness. If the House of Usher had a richmaiden aunt, this structure was it.

‘The key to immortality is firstliving a life worth remembering, Blaine.’

‘Maybe. But I think blessed arethose who give without remembering and take without forgetting.’

‘Talking with … Sentient, Rick?”

“Yeah, she’s chastising me.Again.”

‘If you think that was what I wasdoing, then you are more dense than I believed.’

We got out of the jeep slowly. Mymuscles were tense for an attack. Our barracks gave off that kind of feeling … asif all your old sins were waiting in the shadows to leap out at you demandingcompound interest for your long unpaid debt of committing them.

I stopped at the foot of the longarch of the porch stairs. “The Army paid for this?”

“Not hardly, Rick. You said thisplace was courtesy of the ‘small, still Voice’. I can believe it. The M.P.’sdon’t even see this place. They walk by it as if it were an empty lot.”

“Really? How about the Spartans?They see it?”

“Oh, yes. In fact, only they canenter.”

“With what kind of key?”

“None. The door opens as each oneapproaches. Come. See for yourself.”

I paused before climbing thesteps and tapped my head. “Sentient has held me prisoner inside here for sooften, for so long. I won’t recognize three-fourths of my own men, Amos.”

“But they’ll recognize you. Thefirst time you met each of us was when you rescued us from a certain deathsituation. Even Cpl. Reese respects you … though he would deny it and slug me foreven saying it.”

A flash of a lean, leonine facecame and went in my mind.

Amos tugged on my shoulder. “Comeon, Rick. I don’t know how much time Bradley will give us.”

“He promised ….”

“I thought you were cannier thanthat, Rick. The promises of a general are like a tiger’s smile: not somethingyou can depend on.”

I kept forgetting that I lookedolder than who I really was … thanks to Sentient. Inside my head, my heart, Iwas still twenty years old. Naïve: but naïve as much as a vicious FrenchQuarter had allowed me to be.

Which was still too naïve forothers to depend on my judgement.

It was not for me to choose thepath of another man's life. I must judge, I must choose, I must spurn, purelyfor myself. For myself, alone.

‘But you do not have that luxury,Blaine. Fortunately, for you and your Spartan 3oo, you have me. Now, climbthose stairs and meet those who depend on you to be wiser than you are.’

I climbed … and almost climbedout of my skin when the huge, varnished rune-covered door opened on its ownvolition at my approach.

“Cue the spooky music,” I managedto get out of a fright-choked throat.

Amos slapped my left arm. “I knewyou’d be unfazed at it.”

‘I masked your jerk of frightfrom him. All of your Spartans need to believe you are more than you are … evenyour friends.’

I walked into the cavernous manorand Sentient kept me moving though I would have frozen dead in my tracks. Itwas like walking into a landscape cursed by an eclipse.

A wall of dark shadow camespeeding at Amos and me. We no sooner saw it than it was upon us, like a thunderoustidal wave. It roared up at us.  Itslammed the summit of our conscious mind and knocked it out.

It was the monstrous swift shadowcone of an interior moon, hauling darkness like plague behind it. I have sinceread that the wave of an actual eclipse shadow moves at 1,800 miles an hour.

Language can give no sense tothis kind of speed.

‘The Eclipse of Time/Space findsno room for comprehension in the minds of Man, Blaine.’

I felt the deadness race up my leftarm. I felt the appalling, inhuman speed of my own blood surge through my veins.Amos and I saw the eerie, numbing wall of shadow coming and screamed before ithit.

Or I would have, but Sentientclamped my lips tight. ‘You must appear a living legend to them, my Blaine.’

I was saved from collapsing intoa mound of terrified flesh by a sneering voice from within: “Daddy’s home,guys!”

‘That was Reese, And, no, I willnot detail his sordid past for you, any more than I will describe the profanecrimes of Wentworth who stands beside him. The two of them have become croniesof a sort. Jackals band together.’

Amos weakly laughed. “Eventotally yourself, and you still didn’t flinch, Rick. You are like David ofold.”

‘More like Moses .., but that isyet to come.’

‘As I recall, David was hated andpersecuted by King Saul as I am by Eisenhower.’

‘Point taken.’

Time for me to introduce the realme to these men, all older than me.

“Missed me?” I asked theassembled twenty Spartans milling in the huge Victorian foyer to a sputter oflaughter.

Sgt. Savalas broke from theirranks and walked up to me, pumping my right arm as if hoping to get water fromit.

“When Sturges dragged you andAmos away by those M.P.’s, I got to admit I was a bit worried. What happened tothe captain?”

Amos sighed, “Old sins claimedhim.”

Suddenly, Cloverfield was besideTheo without me noticing him doing it … but then, he was a former MI6 agent.“They have a way of doing that, mate.”

There was even heavier laughtercoming from the rest of the Spartans.

‘Not my carefully crafted, out ofTime vessel, but this riffraff are your Rosinante, Blaine.’

‘Not funny.’

‘But apt.’

THE CINEMA OF PLACE

 

"The corpse must shock not only because it is a corpse but also because, even for a corpse, 

it is shockingly out of place, as when a dog makes a mess on a drawing room carpet.”

 - W. H. Auden 

It was raining again the next morning, a slanting grey rain like a swung curtain of crystal beads."

 - Raymond Chandler

Sherlock Holmes had Victorian London. Phillip Marlowe had L.A. of the Forties.

Your protagonist must have his locale live and breathe as a fellow character.

Setting can frame mood, meaning, and thematic connotations. 

. “The moon went slowly down in loveliness; she departed into the depth of the horizon, 

and long veil-like shadows crept up the sky through which the stars appeared." 

– H. Rider Haggard

"There was a desert wind blowing that night. It was one of those hot dry Santa Anas 

that come down through the mountain passes and curl your hair and make your nerves jump and your skin itch. 

On nights like that every booze party ends in a fight. Meek little wives feel the edge of the carving knife and study their husbands' necks."

-Raymond Chandler, "Red Wind"

HOW TO MAKE YOUR SETTING A CHARACTER

1.) WHAT MAKES YOUR SETTING UNIQUE TO YOUR CHARACTER, TO YOU

Beyond description, beyond local foods, 

find what makes your locale merge into the very fabric of your characters.

https://www.amazon.com/Razor-Valentine/dp/B08VL16KX2/
SETTING comes ALIVE through detail, but mostly in how your novel's characters responds to them.

2.)  HISTORY IS PERSONAL

How did New Orleanians experience the first Mardi Gras after WWII? 

How did returning veterans who had survived Hell and brought some of it back with them?

3.) SEE THROGH CHARACTERS' EYES.

More powerful than infusing a character with a strong opinion about his place and time 

is infusing two of them with conflicting opinions.

How would a returning veteran like Col. James Stewart view the masks of Mardi Gras 

as opposed to a returning O.S.S. agent who made his sociopathic face a mask to better blend in and kill his targets?

4.) LINK DETAILS TO EMOTIONS

What thoughts might pass through a bomber pilot's mind as he views elegant, though decrepit, 

New Orleans streets when he flew above similar streets over Europe

as opposed to the thoughts of former O.S.S. agents who wrapped the shadows around them 
as they fled Nazis down the streets of Occupied Paris. 

5.) MAKE USE OF THE TIME OF YEAR

Who has wondered what it is like in New Orleans?

  Imagine that a literal demon is walking among the partiers?

 

Who is leading that little girl into the fog?

A partying mother fetching her wayward childorNuestra Señora de la Santa Muerte,Our Lady of Holy Death?

I hope you see nowhow Setting can becomethe Cinema of Your Novel.

OPERATION TIGER

 

Richard Blaine and the Rabbi Stein find themselves out of the frying pan and into the fire.

OPERATION TIGER

"Do not blame God for havingcreated the tiger but thank him for not having given it wings."

– Rabbi Amos Stein

 

Ever since walking into GeneralBradley’s office, Lt. Stein and I had been studiously ignored as the man wrotein bold, hard strokes on page after page. We stood patiently at attention. Idon’t know about the rabbi, but I was sure anything the general had to say tous would not be anything we wanted to hear.

He finally rose his head, hisdark eyes boring into us like twin gun barrels.

“We stand on the eve of the mostmomentous, crucial sea invasion the world has ever known. And no matter where Iassign you, Blaine, you cause an incident.”

Rabbi Stein protested, “That is hardly fair, General.Captain Sturges brought this fiasco on himself by murdering that poor girl inDetroit.”

“How many years ago was thatmurder, Lt. Stein? But let Major Blaine be assigned to his command, and thismess happens.”

As the general punctuated hissentence with a fist pounded on his desktop, Lt. Stein said low, “Raise yourwords, not your voice, sir. It is rain that grows flowers, not thunder.”

Lightning flashed in the general’seyes to go with his thunder as he growled, “Are you lecturing me, lieutenant?”

I said, “He’s a rabbi, sir. It comesnaturally to him. Besides, he’s just trying to draw fire from me to him.”

“Unwise.”

“As unwise… ,” I began to say butwas cut off.

“Leave it be, Major! I will notgo against Eisenhower’s direct orders and assign rescue craft to go on tonight’smission.”

“I was going to ask you to atleast coordinate the radio frequencies of both parties.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The LSTs and British navalheadquarters are operating on different frequencies, sir.”

“What idiot allowed that to happen?”

“The dead one, sir,” replied Lt.Stein.

The general massaged the bridgeof his nose. “Any other idiocy that moron perpetrated?”

“No one on tonight’s exercisebesides my Spartans know how to operate their life vests.”

He groaned, then sighed, “And, Major,your Spartans aren’t going tonight.”

“What”

“Eisenhower had them pulled offtheir craft and ordered back to their barracks. Tomorrow, they will bescattered over this base, no two being in the same squad. And you, Major Blaine,will be arrested.”

“On what charge?” exclaimed therabbi.

“Charges, son. Long list of themthat devolved into rambling, disjointed nonsense on the phone.”

He glared at me. “Eisenhower wasa good, no, a great man before you showed up with those letters and photographsof him and his driver.”

“I didn’t do ….”

He angrily waved me off. “I knowit was that French Quarter Hoodoo that followed you from New Orleans. I didn’tbelieve that malarkey then or now.”

A leather-bound journal appeared afoot above the general’s desk to slam down hard on its surface. The pages flippedopen to a blood-stained pair of pages. General Bradley stiffened.

“That’s Ike’s handwriting. I’d knowit anywhere.”

He tried to turn his eyes awaybut seemed compelled to read. I would have been, too. But then, I suspectedwhat the diary entry would say. Living it once was enough.

More than enough. The rabbicouldn’t resist and read along with the general.  Bradley looked up at me.

“Son, did … did this reallyhappen? No, of course it did! It explains that terrible wound on the back ofhis right hand. He left you dying on your feet.”

Bradley frowned, “But you seem sostrong now. How?”

There was the truth that wouldget me committed to an insane asylum and the truth that he might believe. It wasn’ta hard choice.

“I heal fast, sir.”

“I’ve seen that.”

He sighed, seemingly from thesoles of his feet.  “Go to your barrackswith your men, son. I’ll figure something out. Just what I don’t know.”

He locked tormented eyes on mine.“He’s losing it, Richard. Losing it. What am I going to do?”

I had no answers when the phone onhis desk rang louder than seemed normal.

He answered it reluctantly. He stiffenedas he listened. His jaw dropped.

“Higgins? Andrew Jackson Higgins?How in blazes did you get this number? The who gave it to you? The DarkPassenger?”

The rabbi looked haunted at me asBradley growled, “Blaine’s customized Higgins craft is now at the docks? Youthere? No, of course not. Your men called you when they arrived just now.”

He thrust out the phone. “Mr.Higgins wants to talk to you.”

I took the receiver gingerly andplaced it to my ear. “Yes, sir?”

“You, Blaine?”

“Yes, sir.”

His Cajun accent was heavy, but Ihad been born in New Orleans. “I followed ya blueprints to the confusin’letter, but, mon, you made me rich with dis commission. So, what else am I goin’ta do, right?”

I knew who really drew up thoseblueprints, but I didn’t want to keep a padded cell warm and kept quiet as hewent on, “Tanks to ya, I got me own Swiss Bank account. I looks at my little blackbook from time ta time just to feel important. Gotta go, now. Bye.”

Bradley glared at me. “You boughtyour own Higgins landing craft?”

I shrugged. “In Sicily, I lost myrifle, and the Army charged me thirty-five dollars. Suddenly, I realized whycaptains went down with their ships. So, I skipped to the chase and bought the Rocinante.”

He squeezed the bridge of his nose and groaned, “Ofcourse, you would name your ship after Don Quixote’s horse. Oh, get out of here,Blaine, while I still have some sanity left myself.”

I left.

“Every thought is a battle, and every breath is awar.”

– Sun Tzu

IN MEDIA RES

“Childhood is the kingdom wherenobody dies.”

― Edna St. Vincent Millay

Richard Blaine awakens surprised that he is still alive.

Life and Sentient are not finished with him ...

IN MEDIA RES

“Just because it’s maddeningdoesn't mean it's not a miracle. Quite the opposite.”

– Rabbi Amos Stein

 

When the lights came back on, Iwas standing up and in a completely different place and time. My body feltstrong and resilient … and my mind more confused than ever.

In New Orleans, I had come acrossalcoholics who blacked out, awakening with no idea of where they were or howthey got there.

I never felt sorry for them. Theyhad done it to themselves. It was why I never drank. I got into enough troublesober.

Now, I had become just like thosemen, but without the cure of never taking up a bottle in my hand again.

Sentient had done it to me oncemore.

‘You have done it toyourself. Stupidity has consequences.’

‘You healed me! But how? You saidyou couldn’t … that you were depleted.’

‘The doctors are mystified as arethe military investigators. In the morning you were found unconscious on thefloor in the middle of a large swath of dried blood with no memory of how yougot there … or how you were quite improved from the night before.’

‘But where were the bodies ofthose two killers?’

‘I … incorporated their …essences into you. In a very true sense, you are three times the man you oncewere. After that, I took control of you for a time to fend off bothersomequestions and position you where I need you to be.’

Beside me, a lieutenant murmuredlow, “God turns you from one situation to another and teaches by means ofopposites so that you will have two wings to fly, not one”

‘Amazingly apt for your situationeven though the Rabbi Stein has no idea of your present confusion.’

‘Who?’

I flicked my eyes to get a betterlook at the older man. I stiffened as a strange thing happened: like in thecredits of some movies, words appeared beneath his face. I read:

Rabbi Amos Stein. Lieutenant,father of one daughter, Rose,  husband ofRuth Goode Stein. At 31 years of age, he was already accomplished beforeenlisting. He followed in his father’s footsteps, became ordained and receiveda PhD. Enlisted after the M.S. St. Louis filled with 937 Jewish refugees wasdenied permission to dock in Miami and turned away. A third of the passengersto be later murdered.

‘He is the man whom you and Sgt.Savalas saved months ago in that alley when I was piloting you. He, Savalas,and you are the core of the Spartan 300. The triumvirateif you would. And you two are currently in somewhat of an interesting situationthat has me in something of a quandary in how to pilot you.’

‘Why am I not surprised?’

A harsh voice intruded into ourmind-conversation. “Am I disturbing you, Lieutenant Blaine? Or are youstill in shock from me telling you that General Eisenhower has just demoted youto lieutenant?”

I had no clue what mess Sentienthad dumped me into. So, I deferred to my old stand-by: when in doubt, confusethem with bullshit.

“No, sir. I was thinking of theBelgian gates on Omaha beach that I and Sgt. Savalas observed.”

“What?”

“The tidal-flat obstacles beganwith so-called Belgian gates, which are gatelike structures built of ironframes ten feet high. These sat in belts running parallel to the coastline,about 150 meters out from the high-water line.”

“I know all that prattle, Blaine.You shoveled that nonsense to Admiral Ramsey … who still hates your guts by theway.”

‘Excellent strategy, Blaine. Heis quite off-balanced, allowing me time to plant another bombshell on hisdesk.’

‘Who the blazes is he?’

Words of neon ice appearedbeneath his chin:

Thirty-two-year-old Captain VictorSturges is in charge of the training for the LCT (Landing Craft for Tanks) crews. He had been aprofessional wrestler and high-school coach in Detroit before the war. Althoughhe had never been on salt water, he joined the Navy after hearing a recruiting appealfrom former heavyweight champion Gene Tunney. The Navy made him an instructorin physical education, but Sturges did not approve of the Navy’s PE program andsaid so. He voiced his criticisms so often and so loudly that he gained areputation as a “Bolshie.” As a punishment he was posted to landing craft,which his senior officers regarded as a suicide squad.

He leaned over his desk and waveda sheet of typed print in my face. “This is why you were demoted to lieutenantand placed under my command! This!”

Why was everybody shaking crushedpapers under my nose for whose contents I had not one blessed clue?

“You jumped the chain of command,Mister! When I refused your request for rescue boats to accompany tonight’sexercise, you wrote directly … directly! … to General Bradley.

He paused as if expecting areply, so I gave him one, “It seemed the thing to do at the time … sir.”

Lt. Stein groaned low.

“I can bust you down to buckprivate, Mister. Is that what you want?”

Sentient took over from me. “Iwant you to save the hundreds of lives that will be lost tonight because youare too afraid to counter General Eisenhower’s inane orders against sendingrescue craft along with ….”

“That’s it, Blaine!”

Sentient shook my head. ““Most ofyour early exercises were nothing less than catastrophic. All manner of thingswent wrong, but you were learning, correct? At the expense of slain soldierswho trusted you to be smarter than you were, more caring about the livesentrusted to you than you were. Vehicles broke down, lives lost.”

“Lessons were learned, private.”

“At what cost, Captain?”

The door jerked open, and arattled female lieutenant rushed into the room. “F-Four military policemen arehere, sir.”

“For what”

“T-To arrest you, sir.  F-For murder.”

“That’s ludicrous!”

My right hand raised without mywilling it with my forefinger pointing at the surface of his desk. “Observe thethree photographs upon your desk, Captain.”

Sturges gave a small shriek andstumbled backwards against the blinds of the window in a clatter of smashedblades.

“Sarah Arkel, on the evening ofher high school graduation … the last evening of her short, trusting life. The secondphoto, her unmarked grave into which you dumped her after having strangled thepoor girl upon her telling you of her pregnancy. And the third, the DetroitMedical Examiner’s photo of her decomposed corpse.”

The female lieutenant looked atSturges in horror. Had the man asked her out in the past? I hoped not. Even ifshe were Axis Sally, she deserved better.

The four M.P’s walked brisklyinto the office. But the captain had already left. At least his sanity.

The stocky man stood titteringsoftly to himself, the fingers of his left hand held to his trembling lips. Thepolicemen obviously expected another response from the captain altogether. Theylooked questioningly at one another, apparently at a loss at how to proceed.

The captain was not. He fluidlydrew his Colt 1911. He pointed it straight at me. The barrel was depressinglysteady. There was no way he could miss when he fired.

‘Eisenhower was right about you.You are the spawn of Satan!”

“Something like that,” Sentientsaid through me.

But my words were drowned out bythe four shots from the M.P.’s own automatics. A homicidal officer wassomething they obviously knew how to deal with. They, too, were so close thatthey could not miss, nor did they. Not one of them.

The pale receptionist cleared herthroat, not seeming to be able to tear her eyes from her dead former commander.“G-General Bradley. who called the captain to warn him, also told me to tell you,Major ….”

I raised an eyebrow, and she wasfinally able to tear her eyes from the bloody corpse of Sturges. “The paperworkfor your demotion has yet to be filed. And as soon as you leave here, I willtear it up.”

She turned to the four policemen.“Unless you gentlemen object.”

The one closest to her waved acareless hand to her. “We have more paperwork with this than we want,sweetheart.”

Rabbi Stein cleared his throat,and the man amended his words while giving my “friend” a hard look.“Lieutenant, tear away to your heart’s desire.”

“Satisfied, Stein?”

“Lieutenant or Rabbi,” I said,finally being given control of my vocal cords again.

He shot me an encore of the hardlook, which went from granite to steel for me. “You’re a Jonah, you know that?”

Sentient took control of my voiceagain. “Actually, a Moses.”

“That don’t make no sense,” saidanother policeman.

“It will, Officer. It will.”

I fought a sigh. Now, what newhell would those words bring to my doorstep?

The receptionist cleared herthroat. “General Bradley wanted the two of you to come to his office as quicklyas possible.”

I turned to Lt. Stein. “You bestdrive. I am not myself right now.”

He whispered, “The DarkPassenger?”

I nodded, hoping none of themilitary policemen had heard. As usual, my hopes were dashed.

“What was that?” came thequestion from another policeman.

“I was quoting the Quran,”answered Lt. Stein.

“I thought you was a rabbi?”

“I’m well read.”

“Oh, yeah? What was the verse?”

“Quran II 261: And Allah madehim die a hundred years, then brought him back to life. He said: How long hastthou tarried? The man said: I have tarried a day or part of a day. Allah said:Nay, but thou hast tarried for a hundred years.”

The fourth M.P. jerked his headat the dead Sturges. “Well, that guy isn’t coming back.”

Fully myself again, I said,“Then, best bury him quick, Officer.”

I felt the receptionist’s eyes onme all the way out the office.

“In nature there are neitherrewards nor punishments: there are consequences.”

― Robert G. Ingersoll

SAVING THE BEST FOR LAST

 

Major Richard Blaine, facing approaching killers in his hospital room, has tried to bolster himself with self-talk that his past time with his love is enough.

Trouble with self-talk ... it works only if the talk is true.

SAVING THE BEST FOR LAST

“Murder never goes as planned.”

-Brutus

The smile dropped from my lips. It wasn’tenough. I wanted more time with Helen. 

Idiot. 

I already had more time with herthan I had dreamed possible. This was the end. I wondered what thought I would die in the middleof.

The ubiquitous metronome of thewall clock suddenly died. I stiffened as the breath clogged in my nostrils andstruggled to get down my throat. The air I was desperately trying to breathewas turning into invisible gelatin. I choked in spasms of breaths that wouldnot come.

‘What’s going on, Sentient?’

‘Oh, how to explain to a child thecomplexities of sciences your species has of yet to discover, much less tomaster?’

‘Try before I choke to death!’

‘Oh, do show some sense, Blaine.Relax, knowing the air will get to your lungs if you but accept breathing hasonly become more difficult not impossible.’

Sentient was right. As I rodedown my panic and flowed with the breathing that was odd but not impossible, mybreathing became easier. It was then that I noticed the glow of the night lightdiffused the room with a sick pale green shroud. And as I spasmed my lastcough, I noticed the gelatin air resisted the motion of my upper body.

‘There is a resistance to the time-static,frozen air around you. Time is not the linear, rigid, non-malleable constructyou perceive it to be. That stress-bruised tribal chieftain ….

‘Eisenhower?’

“Of course, Eisenhower. Theever-mounting demands of being more than he is has finally crumbled thatpedestrian mind. He is the reluctant nanny to an invalid president, astress-fatigued prime minister, a narcissistic collection of generals, and apsychopathic Russian tyrant … all the while trying to devise a plan for aworkable invasion that would be better off not even attempted by sea.’’

‘He asked for this. I bleed forhim.’

‘You were about to be bled by himas he was not allowing me the time to explain more of what I need from you.’

‘What about what I need?’

‘What you need, Blaine, isinconsequential. You must live, for you are all I have to work with.’

‘For what?’

‘My creators were not up to thetask they attempted.  I have a designflaw courtesy of their hubris and recklessness.’

‘So?’

A sigh swept through my mind thattasted of despair. ‘My sanity is a fragile thing, a butterfly cupped in myhands. I carry it with me everywhere, afraid of what would happen if I ever letit go or got careless and crushed it.’

A faint hard-fought mind-sob,then, ‘I could feel that butterfly finally slipping through my fingers whenat long last your thoughts reached out to mine. The butterfly fluttered back tome There was hope again!’

‘So?’

“So, it would take possibly manythousands of generations before your species would produce another like you.But your species is currently busily, gleefully working on a weapon that willend its existence in four generations! Nor do I think my sanity would endureeven half that time in solitary confinement again.’

‘So, you need me to somehow stopMankind from creating that weapon.’

‘Yes. But currently, I do knowquite how you can do it from a sick bed, much less murdered in it.’

‘Can you heal me?’

‘No. I have temporarily depletedmyself in freezing time like this. You are on your own in this. But I can giveyour breath back for a short time.’’

‘So. I am on my own, huh? Oldstory for me.’

The world surged to life aroundme once again. My whole being felt like your ears do when they pop after afever.

Showtime.

You would think I’d be out of mydepths in this. You would be wrong. This was how my whole life had been. Ilearned some crucial things in those deadly waters.

In the deeps are the violence andterror of which psychology tried to warn us. But if you ride those monstersdeeper down, if you drop with them farther over the mind’s rim, you find whatour sciences cannot locate or define: the substrate or matrix which buoys therest, and gives goodness its power for healing, and evil its power for destruction.It’s the unified field: our complex and inexplicable caring for certain soulswhose paths we cross, and for our life together here. This is not given. It islearned.

I learned it well in New Orleans.

The killers moved with morestealth than I expected, or I was worse off than I thought. Probably acombination of the two. They eased through the open doorway like human tigers.Though dressed in army fatigues they wore no name tags or insignia to identifythemselves.

I thought of Major Laska. Seemslike “sneaky” was the word of the day around this hospital. They were almosttwins in facial features, pale caricatures of what they thought passed as sanehumans.

One whispered, “I coulda sworn Iheard a broad’s voice in here.”

The other snorted, “Fred, you’rejust being paranoid.”

“Being careful, Manfred. Andcareful keeps you alive and the other guy dead.”

Eisenhower moved between themwith no more concern for their humanity than other generals who viewed thetroops under them as no more than assets to be used for their vainglory.

He smiled coldly as he saw me. Thestringy crinkles around his eyes moved a chill millimeter. The sight of him,familiar yet wrong, was something I remembered from newsreels in New Orleans … fromthe other side of death. Yes, that was the way he used to look, when my beliefin the patriotism of generals was still alive. When it was my sad lot to be naive.

He smiled of bitter vinegar. Theskin on his face moved like thin bronze plating that would peel.

“Why aren’t you dead?” he husked.

“I hear that a lot.”

Manfred snorted, “Not aftertonight you won’t, kid.”

“Probably not.”

Eisenhower studied me as if hewere about to paint my portrait.

“I remember my youth,” he said.“and the feeling that will never return … the feeling that I could lastforever, outlast the sea, the mountains, and all other men.”

His smile deadened like his eyes.“That deceitful feeling lured me on to joys, to perils, to wars, to vain effort… to love.”

Fred looked to Manfred as if suddenlydoubting the soundness of their working for Eisenhower.

The general kept on, “The brittletriumphant conviction that my strength would never wane … but it did. The heartof my life slowly becoming dust. Its glow, that with every passing year, growsdim, grows cold, grows small … until soon it will disappear.”

“Until this!” he rasped, raisingup his right fist which clutched a funnel of crushed papers.

“You know what these are?”

I repeated what Sentient murmuredto me. “Divorce papers from Mamie.”

“Your fault!”

I weakly shook my head. “Yours.”

“What?”

“You looked in the mirror and sawthe wrinkles as the dreaded signs of the end of your youth. You didn’t seethose wrinkles were signs of things lost, prices paid … those wrinkles werearound eyes wiser and kinder for the loss … and the gain.

“You know nothing!”

“I know those papers stem fromyour fear of losing your virility. But, General, passion has a natural end. Youdenied the truth and raced to another woman to regain it.”

“You son of a bitch!”

“Maybe. I am an orphan after all.But I know your life could easily become a futile chasing after illusion. You don’tsee that, while though passion ends, something deeper, more lasting, richer canevolve from the passion into the love of two souls grown into one.”

Fred groaned, “Oh, damn me,General. Can we just kill him and be done with this?”

“Don’t …do … this,” I said, therenewal of my breath suddenly leaving me again. “You won’t … like where … itleads.”

“Begging?”

‘Do not!’

I would not die on my back.Somehow, I managed to struggle to a sitting position. It was a Labor ofHercules to swing my legs over the bed. I slid off the mattress and managed notto embarrass myself by falling flat on my face.

Eisenhower watched fascinated asif at a kitten barking. His two assassins moved in for the kill, forgoing theguns at their hips for the quieter knives in their hands.

I managed to get out, “No matter… how … this turns … out … you’ll be … shamed.”

Manfred snorted, “We don’t doshame.”

I looked at Eisenhower. “I wasn’t… talking … to you.”

‘I cannot intervene.’

‘I heard you the first time.’

Fred’s right shoulder shiftedever so slightly. At St. Marok’s you never waited for them to strike first.What a dumb notion. It was a wonder that knighthood lasted as long as it did.

I was weak, dying … but not deadyet. My right hand shot out. Still too slow if I had been waiting for Fred tostrike first.

Yet, I was slow. His knifewas heading straight for my throat. My hand, already out, caught his at thewrist and twisted down. Hard. Very. I heard the snap, followed by his hoarsescream.

Manfred, stunned, hesitated aheartbeat too long. His last heartbeat. Sister Ameal taught me at the orphanagethat you didn’t hit where the muscle was … but where it wasn’t.

I slammed the tips of the firstthree fingers of my left hand into the center of Manfred’s throat with all mymight. It takes 33 pounds of impact to crush a human larynx. Sounds easy? Youtry hitting a full beer can with the tips of your fingers.

I didn’t even bother watchingManfred fall to the floor. I knew from past fights that he was dead … or dying.

My three fingers hurt like hell.But then, I hurt like hell all over. I sucked it up and turned to the onrushingFred who suddenly realized his knife was in my hand.

As his mouth dropped, I droppedhim … with his knife in his own throat. I watched without remorse as he fell tothe grey tiles, his blood adding a needed contrast to the dingy floor.

“You talk … too much.”

Eisenhower went for the Colt onhis hip. Fat chance. No fast draws from buckled holsters … and I had practicedwith knives all my time at St.Marok’s.

I threw the bloody knife withwhat little strength I had left. It skewered the general’s hand before he couldunsnap the holster. I cursed myself. Dumb. Dumb! You never, never, gave anenemy a weapon.

Still, I would do what I had donemy whole life: turn a mistake to my favor.

“No … general. You … will … have… to … pull … it … out … yourself … and get …close … to … kill … me. Think …you … can?”

The answer obviously was “No” assobbing, he stumbled out of my room, leaving the divorce papers scattered onthe floor like dying leaves.

An odd, disjointed thought hitme. Maybe his marriage was just that … only dying. Perhaps Mamie’s divorcepapers were only her last gasp attempt to get his attention, to get his loveback. Sad. The man she married no longer existed, broken by the weight ofduties beyond his ability to sustain.

Sadder. Maybe the man sheperceived when she married him only existed in the flawed discernment of animmature girl.

Dumb the things you think aboutwhen your own time is up.

I shifted to the window barelyfeeling my legs. “You … still … there … Wentworth?”

“No, man. I just left,” came backthe reply along with the sound of toes scrapping on the outside concrete wallreceding into the distance.

My vision was darkening. ‘Ididn’t survive St. Marok’s by brute strength or cruelty. I survived by speed,daring, and ….’

Sentient’s mind voice soundedfunny. ‘By never giving up.’

‘Damn straight.’

My strength bled out of me. Mylegs buckled. I joined my killers on the bloody floor. All became black.

“I did not come here of my ownaccord, and I cannot leave that way.

Whoever brought me here will haveto take me home.”

― Rumi

REASONS TO BLOG ... even if no one is reading

 

It is July ... right after the 4th.
Many are too weary from the fiery celebrations and the summer heat to visit your blogs 

Your number of visitors may tumble.  Don't worry.  

It's all good.
Sounds illogical doesn't it?

What possible reasons could there be for blogging if no one is reading?


1.) SEARCH ENGINE BENEFITS
 

This may be the most obvious benefit of blogging. 

Search engines give preference to websites that have fresh, relevant content.

 Hubspot research shows that updated blogs get 55% more traffic than blogs with old posts  —

 even if there are no readers!


2.) INFINITE SEARCH ENGINE

 Your content keeps working for you month after month!  

I research my most often visited posts.  Many of them are years old.  Some are from last week when I was sure no one was visiting.

People Google all manner of subjects.  

Who knows when someone will be looking up something you wrote a post on?


We work hard to gain followers.  Me, I am on my 10th year.  My followers are my friends.

To lose one would hurt.

It is often harder for people to remember to visit if you change addresses ...

Sometimes that one extra step to visit costs you a frequent visitor.  

Why take that chance? 

A thought:

Several of my friends have switched from blogger to Wordpress, thinking their old posts would always be there on Blogger.

Not so.

Now, their addresses have been given to food and fashion blogs.  Two of them in languages I cannot read.

I work hard on each of my posts.  

They are my cyber-diary entries.  

To think all that effort and creativity would evaporate into nothingness feathers the insides of my chest with icy wings.

Just something to keep in mind.




3.) A VERY COST EFFECTIVE AD!


If you write interesting posts, readers will glance at your sidebar 

and perhaps decide to take a chance on one of your books ... 

even if you never mention them in the post.

 
4.) YOUR CONTENT ENGINE
 
Your investment in a consistent stream of quality content 

can be leveraged in many ways to support a content marketing strategy. 

I use links from blog posts in some of my comments on other blogs with posts that relate to them. 

They may garner visits.  They may not.  

But links provide the possibility of more visitors, right?


5.) PR


A constant stream of new posts will encourage old readers to drop in after a time to see what new things you are talking about.

Should an old or a new visitor speak of your post on their blog or web site, 

you have an opportunity to garner a new audience for your work.


6.) NOT EVERYONE Does Social Media

You provide new content for those lonely Non-Social Media souls looking for something new to read.  

Your blog may be stumbled upon by someone who hears of you from a link or from an email.


7.) YOU MAINTAIN THE HABIT and KEEP THE DREAM ALIVE.

Get out of the habit of steadily writing new posts, 

and Life will find a way to fill in that vacuum of time.  

You may find yourself without new content for weeks after April -- 

especially with December Madness looming over the horizon.

 WHAT KEEPS YOU WRITING YOUR BLOG?