Roland Yeomans's Blog, page 72

The LEGEND of STINGY JACK

Jack O' Lanterns have been carved for centuries at Halloween.
The practice originated from an Irish myth about a man nicknamed “Stingy Jack.”

Stingy Jack invited the Devil to have a drink with him. 

True to his name, Stingy Jack didn’t want to pay for his drink, 

so he convinced the Devil to turn himself into a coin that Jack could use to buy their drinks. 



Once the Devil did so, 
Jack decided to keep the money and put it into his pocket next to a silver cross, 

which prevented the Devil from changing back into his original form. 


Jack eventually freed the Devil, 
under the condition that he would not bother Jack for one year and that, should Jack die, he would not claim his soul. 

The next year, Jack again tricked the Devil into climbing into a tree to pick a piece of fruit. 


While he was up in the tree, Jack carved a sign of the cross into the tree’s bark 

so that the Devil could not come down until the Devil promised Jack not to bother him for ten more years.

Soon after, Jack died. 

 As the legend goes, 
God would not allow such an unsavory figure into heaven. 

The Devil, upset by the trick Jack had played on him and keeping his word not to claim his soul, 

would not allow Jack into hell.


 He sent Jack off into the dark night with only a burning coal to light his way. 

Jack put the coal into a carved-out turnip and has been roaming the Earth with it ever since. 

The Irish began to refer to this ghostly figure as “Jack of the Lantern,” and then, simply “Jack O’Lantern.”

In Ireland and Scotland, people began to make their own versions of Jack’s lanterns by carving scary faces into turnips or potatoes 

and placing them into windows or near doors to frighten away Stingy Jack and other wandering evil spirits.

GETTING TO KNOW ME

"I have learned that friendship isn't about who you've known the longest, 

it's about who came and never left your side."
 - Yolanda Hadid

http://journalingwoman.blogspot.com/2019/10/fridays-interesting-people-featuring.html


T. Powell Coltrin has been gracious enough to renew her "Friday's Interesting People" with me, of all people.
How great of her, right?
Don't let her visitor count go down on my account.  
Pay my friend a visit and say HI.
You might even learn a thing or two about me that you didn't know!

The world is round so that friendship may encircle it.

WEP post: HOW YOU DIE

https://writeeditpublishnow.blogspot.com/

For Increased Effect read 
accompanied to music below post
HOW YOU DIE (999 words) 
Nola bizi, hala hil. 
(How you live is how you will die.) – Basque proverb




Scofield studied me with eyes holding all the warmth of a hawk’s  

 “ I’m unsettled by the mushrooms.”

We were playing chess not eating her cooking. Not that I would be so foolish as to eat her cooking.   
Her last name wasn't Scofield any more than mine was Templar.

  Her beauty when young was legendary, leading to the death of many of her assignments.   
Even in her sixties, Scofield was striking.

“There’s much that’s unsettling at Dunwich Estates.”

Her voice cracked with fear.   
“Those black mushrooms just appeared at the farthest mansion … 
their ring sprouting at twilight, circling a dead cat, though by dawn the cat was gone.”

 A black cat strolled lazily out from under the table to rub against my leg.

Scofield paled.  
 “When did you get a cat?”


I turned up the corners of my lips.  “There are worse things awaiting the living than death.”

Her thin lips tightened.  “I was enjoying the south of France until the Service forced me to move next to you.”

“You could have said ‘No’.”

“Ending up on the same list as you?”

“I’ve been on that list a long time.  I’m still here.”

“How have you managed that?”

“I … find a way to arrange a win/win situation for myself and … uneasy allies.”

The cat moved as if to rub against Scofield’s leg, and she rose quickly.  
 “I have to go.”

I watched her almost run to the front door, flinging it open, 
revealing a full moon against a stark night sky as if it had hungrily devoured all the stars.



The cat laughed in a man’s voice, “Tókša akhé.”   
‘Later’ in Dakota.

It looked up at me with hungry eyes. 

“Soon,” I promised.   
Its eyes said it had better be damn soon.  Emphasis on the damned.

 In the following days, I went about keeping my word.  
 I built one Dakota Burial Platform after another on the front lawn of my estate 
until the grounds bristled like some grotesque beard.

I was putting the finishing touches on the last platform 

when the black cat flowed out of the deepening twilight shadows. 
“Osiceca.”

“I know. The storm is almost here.  We’ve run out of time.”

Scofield appeared as if out of nowhere, holding a bowl of liquid.  I sniffed.  
 Mushroom soup.

Her voice was still her own. 
 “The lights have gone out all over Dunwich Estates.  Only your estate and mine have lights on at night.   
One manor after another has been swallowed up by those damn mushrooms.”

“Doesn't explain that soup.”

“Arthur’s grounds were taken over last night. I took these mushrooms from his front yard.”

“The President of the Community Board?”

“He wouldn’t answer any of my phone calls.  I went over to his front door just now 
and saw him and his wife standing motionless in the front room just staring at one another, 
their lips wiggling but no sounds coming out.”

I shrugged.  “At least none that human ears could hear.”

“Damn you!  You know something, don’t you?”


“The developers of these estates really knew how to pick their sites.   
Not just any Dakota burial site, mind you, but one whose spiritual energies blocked the way to ….”

I trailed off, not having the words that an assassin bred in the “real world” would understand.

“Dakota?  I thought you were Basque.”


I nodded.  “My grandmother was full Basque.  
 My grandfather didn’t stay around long enough to tell my father just what he was.”

“He was Dakota?”

“Apache.  But Elu's ability to inhabit dead animals helped him get around.”

Scofield asked as if to a madman, “Was that his name?”

I nodded to the black cat studying her like a red-tailed hawk would a lame mouse. 
“Is his name.  Meet my uneasy ally.  Everyone from the Service who've tried to kill me already have.”

Scofield dumped out the soup with a hurried flick of a wrist. 
The cat laughed in a very unfeline way.  She paled.



I nodded to the tiny mushrooms sprouting up from the spilled soup.    “As you have lived so you will die.  You failed them.  I’m sure they don’t forgive.”

“H-Help me.”

“You sowed the seeds. Now, comes the harvest.”

“Please!”

“If you run fast enough, you might make it to your front door before our possessed neighbors drag you down.”


Scofield watched the growing black mushrooms with ever-widening eyes for a heartbeat, then raced away into the night.

“Spry for her age.”



The cat grunted: “Hiya Onsi La?”

“No mercy in war, Elu.”

In the darkness beyond my gate, Scofield cried out.  
 Once.



I looked down at the impassive gaze of the cat. 
 Its eyes said there was a justice not written in books nor found in any court.


In the 19th century, the railroads exterminated the buffalo to force the Dakota onto reservations. 
After a harsh winter, the Minnesota government withheld food and payment for their lands. 
“Let them eat grass,” said one trader.


Bloodshed ensued, ending with the largest mass execution in U.S. history, 38 Santee warriors, 
after a trial of five minutes with neither attorneys nor witnesses allowed.


I looked up at the diamond dust of the Milky Way, the Hanging Road, which led to the Camp of the Dead.   

Trudging through my gate, the possessed of Dunwich Estates silently swayed and suddenly stopped.  
 Glazed eyes studied my 38 burial platforms for long moments.



Flying whips of fire hissed down from the sky to consume those platforms.   
What emerged were grim-faced figures of living flame. 
 The Wana’gi Elu called them.


In Karmic retribution, the Wana’gi sprang at the mushroom-controlled humans 
dispossessing the bodies and claiming them for their own.



More darts of strange fire sizzled down from the stars toward the houses beyond.

“Come, Grandson,” gruffed Elu’s voice from the cat.   
“As a White, you will not be welcomed.”


I nodded, walking into that darkness which never forgets … nor forgives.

WHAT WILL CARRY YOU THROUGH?

“Darkness cannot drive out darkness: only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate: only love can do that.” 
― Martin Luther King, Jr.


What will carry you through as a writer?
1. A Wild And Mad Daemon of a Muse:


If you want to survive, you’ve got to have an imagination that won’t lay down and die. 

Your cat has exploded?  Use it. 

Zombies are pounding on the door.  Ignore them.  Think of it as the pulse of your muse murmuring ideas to you.


2. Discipline:


No amount of imagination will help you unless you sit your tush in the chair, pound the keyboard, and put prose on the blank screen.

Need Motivation?

Come up with your own item of visual motivation. It might be inspirational words taped to your computer

(“You get what you dare, baby, and if you want big, you dare big”—author Leonard Bishop)


 The primary way writers keep discipline going is through the weekly quota. Most successful fiction writers make a word goal and stick to it.


Discipline is helped by a healthy body.


The imagination is housed in the brain. The brain is housed in the body. The body is the temple of the soul. Treat it as such.

Your productivity and creativity depend on it.  Take that brisk walk!  Both your body and muse need it. 


3. A Schizophrenic Frame of Mind:


You must be a triad:

Optimistic enough to believe your work will eventually be bought/

Realistic enough to know it will not be overnight/

Pessimistic enough to question the purity of human motives when you finally are handed a contract to sign.


4. Inner Strength:


You have to be able to pound nail after nail into board after board to build your Ark under a cloudless sky to the sound of derisive laughter behind you.

You must believe in yourself before anyone else will.

Face the Harsh Law:

What You Are Inside Only Matters Because of What It Makes You Do

You may believe your talent is one in a million, but it is what you do with it that counts.

Make it an inner contract to finish what you start,

to wring that final chapter out of your imagination, and to brave rejection and put it out there either by self-publication or submitting to agents/editors.


5. Curiosity:
 

"The important thing is not to stop questioning.

 Curiosity has its own reason for existing.

One cannot help but be in awe when he contemplates the mysteries of eternity, of life, of the marvelous structure of reality.

It is enough if one tries merely to comprehend a little of this mystery every day. Never lose a holy curiosity."
- Albert Einstein

Most writers are curious by nature. We look at the world around us and wonder at it.

Who are these people? What are we all doing here?

Where are we heading? Why do we do the things we do? How will we achieve our goals?

Remember how curious you were as a child?

Everything you encountered spawned a series of questions

because you were trying to learn and understand the world around you.

Bring that childlike curiosity back, and you’ll never need to look far for now, inspiring writing ideas.

By fostering curiosity, we can create a fountain of ideas.

It doesn’t matter what form your writing takes or what genre you’re writing in.

By coming up with intriguing questions, you’ll soon find yourself overwhelmed with inspiration.

Take the basic questions and put a riveting spin to them:

Who?
Who does my main character trust? What does that say about them? About the trusted person?

What?
What motivates people to take drastic actions?

Where?
Where do these people want to be?

When?
When does a child become an adult?

Why?
Why does this story matter?

How?
How do you describe something that doesn’t really exist? 

Hope this helps in some small way. 

A LIFE WORTH LIVING

THANK YOU 
to all those at Lifeshare who made me feel special 
on my birthday.



WHAT MAKES A LIFE  WORTH LIVING?

SCHOOL TEACHES US EVERYTHING  BUT WHAT WE NEED TO LIVE FULLY

1.) PARENTS AND SCHOOLS TEACH US  TO MEASURE OUR WORTH  BY HOW WELL WE ARE LIKED  BY IMPORTANT OTHERS.
Giving up the need to be liked by everyone frees us.
We stop wasting enormous energy in chasing a cruel Will O Wisp.
We can focus on just becoming.   
And those drawn to the Us that We become that way will be worth sharing the fascinating journey that is life.

2.) BEING AUTHENTIC IS NOT BEING A FREAK

You think an eagle feels a freak when it takes to the skies and soars alone.
In STRANGER THINGS 2, 
Jonathan tells his brother that the freaks are the ones who do great things.

Be true to who you are inside and fly like an eagle.
Perhaps if we taught students that in school, 
the persecuted ones would find their way without violence to themselves or others.

3.) WE TEACH OTHERS HOW TO TREAT US

Often we think to get along, we must go along.
But in giving in to bullies, we only teach them to treat us worse.
Standing up to a bully will cost.  Not doing so will cost more:
your self respect, inner peace, and joy.
Bruises heals.  Wounded souls often do not.
Strong boundaries reinforce our self-worth.

4.) WE ARE ENOUGH

Our culture seems intent on persuading us that our lives are lacking:
that we are not enough; 
that we do not have enough, 
that there is that elusive something out there that will make things wonderful --
Something external.
REMEMBER:

October 9th_My Birthday!

What is a day?
“Let gratitude be the pillow upon which you kneel to say your nightly prayer. 

And let faith be the bridge you build to overcome evil and welcome good.”
- Maya Angelou



Denise Covey & Alyssa McKendry are two with whom I share a birthday.  

Have you ever wondered what people share your birthday?


What are their hopes, their dreams, their life situations, their locations on this war-torn world?

Would one of your "bad" days be Heaven to them?  

Did they go to bed hungry or swallow bitter tears before fitful sleep swallowed them?


"Our birthdays are feathers in the broad wing of time."
- Jean Paul Richter

"The old age of an eagle is better than the youth of a sparrow."
- Greek proverb


On this day in 1849, Edgar Allan Poe's "Annabel Lee" was published,

just two days after his death from mysterious causes and in odd circumstances, even for him --

 theories include political thugs, rabies, brain lesion, or the most likely, 

a final binge either chosen or forced upon him by brothers of his newly-betrothed, who viewed Poe's interest in their sister as opportunism.

Oddly enough, Edgar Allan Poe is a major character in my THE RIVAL 

with Alice Wentworth the inspiration for Annabel Lee:


  
Joseph Conrad's Lord Jim was published on this day in 1900. 

During a pause in Chapter 13, a French officer muses,   

“Mon Dieu! how the time passes!”; this prompts a reflection by Marlow, Conrad’s narrator: 


"It's extraordinary how we go through life with eyes half shut, with dull ears, with dormant thoughts.

 Perhaps it's just as well; and it may be that it is this very dullness that makes life to the incalculable majority so supportable and so welcome."


 In her Common Reader (First Series),  Virginia Woolf cites the above passage as representative of Conrad’s lasting worth:

"His books, with their air of telling us something very old and perfectly true, which had lain hidden but is now revealed, stir the mind…. 

Complete and still, very chaste and very beautiful, they rise in the memory as, on these hot summer nights, in their slow and stately way first one star comes out and then another."


Will any of our books touch the reader in a like way?  Should we strive to be a touchstone for the person holding our book?


Enough wool-gathering.  Let us end with George Burns' and Mark Twain's thoughts on birthdays:

“I was brought up to respect my elders, so now I don't have to respect anybody.”
- George Burns

"Life would be infinitely happier if we could only be born at the age of 80 and gradually age to 18."
- Mark Twain 

And don't forget:
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07XKWX8H4
It's only 99 cents!and MIDNIGHT would appreciate a reviewfor the extra tuna.

IWSG: Helping Friends

 Writing friends.

They help one another
just because they are
friends.
Take Alex Cavanaugh.
The ghost of Mark Twain has often enough
FOR EXAMPLE
THE HANGOVER ... 
of Alex Cavanaugh
https://www.amazon.com/CassaSeries/dp/B01MDO0AYD/
Alex Cavanaugh held his head. “Ow! Where am I?”

I said, “I can explain ….”

His eyes popped open. “It’s never good news when you hear those words.”



The ghost of Mark Twain chortled, “Alex, old boy, you just set back and enjoy the ride. Captain Clemens is at the wheel.”

The wheel in question was straight off a Mississippi riverboat. Sadly, we weren’t on the Mississippi. We were in the Shadowlands of outer space.

Alex started to spring out of his seat, but the safety harness stopped him.


His eyes went wider as he took in his surroundings. We were on the command deck of a space ship. Or what Hollywood thought a space ship to look like in the 1930’s.

We were not alone.

Tied not too securely was Princess Ardala from the 80’s Buck Rogers show. 




She was muffling outrage through her gag. Ming the Merciless was out cold in the seat beside her.





A large teddy bear was busily half-doing the ropes on him. The teddy bear was dressed like Mr. Spock.

“A Hoka!” gasped Alex. “An honest to Gordon R. Dickson Hoka!”


“Commander Spock,” squeaked the Hoka, whose race lived to imitate all that fascinated it.

Princess Ardala spat out her gag, “You dare?”

Mark Twain beamed, “Why, ain’t you the feisty hellcat? Don’t worry none about your daddy, Ming. I just needed his space boat here.”

“He is not my father, moron! I am having a tryst with Ming!”

Mark frowned, “I don’t see any pastries.”

“Tryst, imbecile! T-R-Y-S-T!! We are having an affair!”


Mark Twain’s cigar dropped from his mouth. “With that honey dew melon?”

Ardala was about to spew something forgettable when the Hoka inserted the gag back into her snarling mouth and waddled to his blinking console.

“What?” sputtered Alex. “Where? How? Why?”

Mark Twain cackled with pleasure, spinning the wheel, sending the poor Hoka tumbling as I answered in reverse order.


“While we were guzzling Romulan Ale at Meilori’s, you mentioned you yearned to go into space in a real space ship.”

“This isn’t a real space ship! This is the movie set of Ming the Merciless’s space ship.”

Mark Twain twirled the wheel again, sending the Hoka tumbling across the deck in the opposite direction.  



“This is as real as it gets, Alex! This is the Shadowlands where everything thought of by Man exists for deadly certain.”

I groaned, “Would you stop spinning that blasted wheel? My head is killing me.”

“Son, I’m trying to keep those Klingons from doing that to all of us.”

“Klingons!” shrilled Alex, finally getting his harness undone.
 


He and I both looked, mouths ajar and eyes wide, at the view screen, showing the Klingon Bird of Prey preparing to blast us into tiny disbelieving bits.

The Hoka cocked its big head. “Most odd. Rudolph’s nose is glowing, and it is not even Christmas.”

Alex picked up the Hoka, shaking it while shrieking, “That is not a nose, you little Furball! That’s a plasma cannon!”

The teddy bear tilted its head. “Alex Cavanaugh, do I look in need of fluffing to you?”


Alex sputtered incoherently, dropping the Hoka.

The teddy bear muttered, "You were more fun drunk."

Alex started for Mark Twain when the view screen changed to show a confused Klingon who growled at us.

“Your vessel … it is being propelled by a wire on top?”

Alex stopped in mid-step. “What?”

Mark chortled, “You keep asking that question, son. That’s the way Hollywood got this danged thing to fly in the 30’s so that’s how it flies now.”

“No matter,” grunted the Klingon. “You are invading Klingon space. Prepare to die!”



Alex shrilled, “Twain, do something!”

Mark turned to the Hoka, “Commander Spock, you have a plan?”

“He’s a teddy bear!” shrieked Alex. “What kind of plan could he have?”

“An excellent one,” smugly smiled the Hoka, flipping a few switches. “I have taken control of their vessel.”

Alex danced in place. “Great! You’re turning off that cannon, right?”

The teddy bear frowned. “That would be rude.”

Alex’s eyes looked as if they were preparing to leap out of their sockets. “Rude? RUDE!? ”

The teddy bear sighed, “Really Alex Cavanaugh, your emotions will be the death of you.”

“That cannon’s going to be the death of me, you fuzzball!”



“No,” smugly said the Hoka. 

“Klingon Poop is the most devastating stench in the known galaxy. Observe as I re-route their sewage system through their ventilating shafts.”

Streams of thick brown ooze flowed through the vents above the Klingon Captain. 

Gagging wetly, he grabbed his throat, sinking to his knees along with the rest of his crew.

“H-Have you no shame, no honor, human?”



Mark Twain smiled wide as he lit up a new cigar. “No. That’s how I win, Turtle Brow.”

He turned to the Hoka. “Mr. Spock, the Borg Sector, if you please. I always fancied that Borg Queen to be a sexy little thing.”
 

“Nooooooo!’ Alex and I wailed.

Alex began clicking his heels. “There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home!”
***
Remember: Buy your own set of CassaSeries!
 https://www.amazon.com/CassaSeries/dp/B01MDO0AYD/

***
Want to read more of the Hoka (used copy for only $5.09!)
https://www.amazon.com/Earthmans-Burden-Poul-Anderson/dp/0380479931/
***

The ART of the BOOK COVER

The first page of your book is not your first page ...

   It's your cover
https://www.amazon.com/The-Last-Shaman/dp/B00DO91AIU

The Last Shaman remains one of my best selling books, and I think the cover has a lot to do with it.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B005NCUTAG/
Victor Standish is not far behind.
My Stetson is off to Leonora Roy for her artistry.
And off to Heather McCorklefor her cover skills.


It is with the cover that the book can communicate a little of the style and mood of the tale inside.
WHAT DO YOU THINK
OF MY LATEST
BOOK COVER?


https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07XKWX8H4

Here is a bit of history of the fascinating artof the Sci Fi Cover IF SELF-PUBLISHED, HOW DO YOU CRAFT YOUR COVERS?

It Pays You To Write A Short Story

“A short story is a love affair; 
a novel is a marriage."  - Lorrie Moore

In this modern, fast-paced culture ...
An intense love affair is often preferred over an all-consuming marriage.
You would think then that the short story would be more popular than it is ...

Which Brings Us to My
Not So Subtle Request
to gamble $0.99
on my latest:
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07XKWX8H4


Stephen King, at the start of his career, thought of a short story as a quick kiss in the dark from a stranger.
And like with kisses, some short stories are better than others!
In the beginning of his writing struggles, Mr. King thought of his short stories as a series of pinatas he banged on --
not with a stick but with his imagination. 
Sometimes they broke and showered down a few hundred dollars.  Other times they did not.
It was an easier market to sell short stories then.  Now, not so much. 
SO WHY SHOULD WE BANG 
ON THE PINATAS 
OF SHORT STORIES 
IN THIS HARSH MARKET?


1.)  IT HELPS YOU WRITE LEAN
Each scene in your novel should be spare and lean so that the drama stands out like stirring chords in a soundtrack.
The limited space in a short story forces you to keep only what is absolutely needed 
to paint the scene and leave the rest behind.
Like Elmore Leonard advised -- Leave out the boring stuff.

2.) SHORT STORIES APPEAL TO OUR MICROWAVE CULTURE
Many readers feel that they do not have the free time to commit to a whole novel.  
They want entertainment in bite sizes.
Why do you think James Patterson writes mini-chapters?
Short stories can be read in a doctor's office or before you drift off to sleep.

3.) WRITING SHORT STORIES SAVES THOSE NEAT IDEAS THAT ARE NOT UP TO FILLING OUT A NOVEL.
How many times have you come with intriguing ideas 
that you know do not have the essence of an entire novel with its many character arcs?
You have this riveting scene with sizzling dialogue that seems to exist all on its own
 with no future beyond that moment.
A short story is perfect for that idea.

4.) SHORT STORIES PROVIDE THE PERFECT BRIDGES TO MAINTAIN INTEREST IN YOUR NOVEL SERIES 
A book can take anywhere from one to two years to complete.
Publishing short stories with the same characters can keep the interest high in your world or with your prose.

5.)  SHORT STORY ANTHOLOGIES INTRODUCE YOU TO A WHOLE NEW AUDIENCE
Also be careful in submitting your story to anthologies whose cause or company of authors mesh well with your voice and personality.
Getting your "prose voice" out there may well draw you additional fans. 

Do You Write Short Stories?
Do You Read Anthologies of Short Stories?
Why?  Why Not?

Just Because this makes me laugh: 

A SIDE-EYE LOOK AT LIFE

 Short stores take a side eye view of life through theirown slanted lenses.

 I have always loved speculative fictionfrom science fantasy to horrorto history that could have been.
Short stories often fearlessly occupy a space of weirdness,
 smudging the line betweenhorror and literariness with far less trepidation than novels.
 From novels we retain certain lines or flashes of images.
But the best short stories stay with us wholly formed, often for years at a time
 The best thing about short stories is that they are short.
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07XKWX8H4 Think of how little effort it would take to read one right now. 
It is not even necessary to spend very much.
My latest collection of short storiessells for 99 cents.

Many complain that they just get interested in one characteronly to be snatched away to anotherin the next story.

I address that in my latest collectionby having 2 stories eachon my 2 most fascinating characters.
And I end the collection with a storytold from the perspectiveof a man only talked about in the 2nd and 3rd.
And in between them,I tell tales that reflectMontaigne's belief that  
"The finest thing in the world is knowing how to belong to oneself."

My short stories are my way of expressing my belief that

Reality is a complex affair, involving many different elements interacting across multiple scales in time and space.
It is a constantly revolving, evolving jewel whose dim facets tease us with flashes of clarity.
We think we know about the world but often we do not even know ourselves. 

Give my latest collection a try.