Sarah Black's Blog: Book Report, page 7
October 30, 2013
HOLY TOLEDO!! VOTE FOR MY POEM!!
My poem about fishing is one of the finalists for the month in the poetry group!!
Come out and vote for my poem, darlings!! Can you believe it?!
Come out and vote for my poem, darlings!! Can you believe it?!
October 29, 2013
an excerpt from The General and the Elephant Clock!
Kim picked up before the first ring was done. “Uncle John. We saw it. Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine, nothing to worry about. How’s everything there?”
“I’m going to put you on speakerphone. Abdullah and Billy are here with me.”
“Shouldn’t you boys be asleep?”
“Uncle John, are you okay?” It was Billy. John could hear the thread of anxiety in his voice.
“Oh, I’m fine. It was just a piece of democracy theater, Billy. Nothing to worry about. You know, just like in the movies.”
“Really.” Kim could inject so much disbelief into his voice. “Did the other guy, the one punching you, did he also know he was engaging in a little democracy theater?”
“That was part of my genius,” John said. “Listen, boys. I need your help.”
“Me and Abdullah, we’re already packed. We should be there tomorrow.”
“No! Oh, my God. No, Kim. It’s dangerous over here.”
Now Abdullah spoke. “It’s dangerous? Thank you, Uncle John, but I’ve been to the Middle East before, remember? And you might also recall that I speak Arabic, and I look like an Arab, in fact, I am an Arab! So I might be of some help. Oh, and did we tell you? We’re grown up now.” He laughed, and John could hear Billy’s voice in the background. “Hey!”
“Okay, me and Kim are grown up. Not Billy, though he is getting close.”
“Uncle John, you’re fifty-two.” Kim had his soothing voice on, like he was trying to talk John down from the ledge. “You’re really too old to be punched repeatedly in the stomach. It’s dangerous. You need younger guys for the physical stuff. You can still be the brains behind the operation, though.”
“Thank you so much!” John wanted to scream, just a small scream, to vent his frustration. Okay, he thought, be the brains. Be the brains of the operation. “I called to tell you guys I was okay and to ask for some help. I need you to research something for me.”
“Sure, of course.” Kim had control over the phone. “What do you need?”
“I went to Tunisia with Abdullah’s father a long time ago when I was finishing up my dissertation. On that trip, we went through Istanbul and visited a museum. I think I saw a copy of a book there, called The Book of Knowledge of Ingenious Mechanical Devices by Al-Jazari. I need you two to track down where the other copies of that book are, what libraries and museums. I know there’s a copy in Oxford, at the Bodleian. Figure out where the rest are and e-mail me the information as soon as you can.”
“Are you giving me busy work to keep me from flying to Tunis?” Kim sounded outraged.
“No, son. This book might be critical to getting us all home. I got the boys out of prison last night. They’re here in the hotel, but they’re still charged with blasphemy. One of the boys, he came here with a copy of a page in that book, the Elephant Clock. His middle name is Hannibal. You get it? He wanted to look at the Elephant Clock of Al-Jazari in the Bardo Museum on his first trip to Carthage.”
“Yeah, I’m fine, nothing to worry about. How’s everything there?”
“I’m going to put you on speakerphone. Abdullah and Billy are here with me.”
“Shouldn’t you boys be asleep?”
“Uncle John, are you okay?” It was Billy. John could hear the thread of anxiety in his voice.
“Oh, I’m fine. It was just a piece of democracy theater, Billy. Nothing to worry about. You know, just like in the movies.”
“Really.” Kim could inject so much disbelief into his voice. “Did the other guy, the one punching you, did he also know he was engaging in a little democracy theater?”
“That was part of my genius,” John said. “Listen, boys. I need your help.”
“Me and Abdullah, we’re already packed. We should be there tomorrow.”
“No! Oh, my God. No, Kim. It’s dangerous over here.”
Now Abdullah spoke. “It’s dangerous? Thank you, Uncle John, but I’ve been to the Middle East before, remember? And you might also recall that I speak Arabic, and I look like an Arab, in fact, I am an Arab! So I might be of some help. Oh, and did we tell you? We’re grown up now.” He laughed, and John could hear Billy’s voice in the background. “Hey!”
“Okay, me and Kim are grown up. Not Billy, though he is getting close.”
“Uncle John, you’re fifty-two.” Kim had his soothing voice on, like he was trying to talk John down from the ledge. “You’re really too old to be punched repeatedly in the stomach. It’s dangerous. You need younger guys for the physical stuff. You can still be the brains behind the operation, though.”
“Thank you so much!” John wanted to scream, just a small scream, to vent his frustration. Okay, he thought, be the brains. Be the brains of the operation. “I called to tell you guys I was okay and to ask for some help. I need you to research something for me.”
“Sure, of course.” Kim had control over the phone. “What do you need?”
“I went to Tunisia with Abdullah’s father a long time ago when I was finishing up my dissertation. On that trip, we went through Istanbul and visited a museum. I think I saw a copy of a book there, called The Book of Knowledge of Ingenious Mechanical Devices by Al-Jazari. I need you two to track down where the other copies of that book are, what libraries and museums. I know there’s a copy in Oxford, at the Bodleian. Figure out where the rest are and e-mail me the information as soon as you can.”
“Are you giving me busy work to keep me from flying to Tunis?” Kim sounded outraged.
“No, son. This book might be critical to getting us all home. I got the boys out of prison last night. They’re here in the hotel, but they’re still charged with blasphemy. One of the boys, he came here with a copy of a page in that book, the Elephant Clock. His middle name is Hannibal. You get it? He wanted to look at the Elephant Clock of Al-Jazari in the Bardo Museum on his first trip to Carthage.”
October 27, 2013
A Snowball's Chance- a free short story
A Snowball’s Chance
Ahmed crouched behind the back tire of the Humvee, then lay down with his cheek in the snow. The American soldiers were running, leaping like goats and shouting. Ahmed could see the powdery explosions when the snowballs hit the ground.
Ahmed’s older brother, Hamid, peeked around the muddy back bumper. “They’re throwing snow at each other.”
Ahmed sat up, joined Hamid at the bumper. The soldiers were wearing their uniforms. They had their bulletproof vests and their helmets and some of them had their rifles slung across their backs. But they were playing, flying across the ground and throwing balls of snow, ducking behind the vehicles, then popping up with great shouts.
“Let’s go,” Hamid said, tugging on his arm. “They won’t have any work for us if they’re playing.”
Heavy boots crunched through the snow, and a giant American soldier ducked behind the Humvee. Ahmed froze, made a tiny bubble of noise, and the man flinched, his hand jerking toward his belt. Then he relaxed and smiled. Ahmed knew this soldier. He had carried his laundry sack twice and the American had given him quarters.
“Hey, little buddies, what are you two doing back here?” A snowball hit the bumper of the Humvee, and soft snow rained down on Ahmed’s face. “You ever have a snowball fight? Sure you have. It’s in our boy chromosome.”
The soldier had eyes that were deep, clear blue, like the sky in summer. He reached for a couple of handfuls of snow, formed a rough snowball, and handed it to Hamid. Hamid dropped it and backed away, his face stiff. The soldier opened his mouth, then he knelt down on one knee next to them. “It’s just a game.” He made another snowball and handed it to Ahmed.
Ahmed turned the snowball over and over in his hands, packing the snow down hard.
“Stop it!” Hamid tugged on his arm. “You can’t throw anything at them. They can shoot you. They’ll say it was a rock and shoot you!”
“It’s just a game, little buddies.” He was still down on one knee.
The soldier make a tiny snowball, tossed it at Ahmed. It disintegrated with a splat, and an icy tickle of snow slid down his chest. Ahmed felt a sudden delight, like his head was full of clear blue summer sky, and he threw his snowball at the soldier. The soldier fell over backward in the snow with a comical gasp, clutching his chest. Ahmed’s heart stuttered and he leaned forward, but the soldier popped up with a big goofy grin, knocked on his chest with his knuckles. He was wearing a bulletproof vest.
The soldier gathered a small lump of snow, the size of a nut, and tossed it at Ahmed’s chest again. He threw one at Hamid, too, but Hamid had his arms crossed over his chest and was staring at the ground.
Ahmed slid around the back of the Humvee, scooped up snow on the fly, pounded snowballs, leapt up and threw them at the soldier as fast as he could. The soldier ducked and yelled and fell over backward, threw some snow, but mostly he just opened his arms and made his big American chest a target. Ahmed’s arm felt as strong as his grandfather’s. He was running so swiftly he didn’t feel his feet touch the ground until one of his snowballs hit the soldier in the face.
The soldier gasped and put his hands to his cheek, and when he pulled them away his fingertips were bloody, with a cut dark as night under his eye.
Hamid gave a low, keening wail, slapped Ahmed hard over his ear. Ahmed landed on his knees in the snow. “Ahmed, what did you do?”
“Whoa, whoa, little buddies, let’s not get…” But Hamid was gone, racing across the compound. Ahmed was still down on his hands and knees, gasping form the blow, and the soldier bent over and lifted Ahmed into his arms.
Ahmed felt his hands suddenly, aching with wet and cold. The soldier carried him to one of the B-huts where they slept. There were eight bunks inside, with lockers and shoes and games and a microwave and a stereo and a computer. Ahmed couldn’t believe how many things the American soldiers slept with.
The big soldier set him down on his bunk, went down to his knee again. “You’re not in trouble, okay? Just relax.” The soldier took a white cloth and wiped the blood off his face. Then he taped the cut closed. He turned around and winked at Ahmed and checked his ear carefully. “Bandaids. Great American invention.” He wiped muddy tears off Ahmed’s face. “You got an arm like a rocket, kid. In America, I’d have you signed up for Little League in a minute. You ever played baseball? You look a little like Nolan Ryan. But you and me? We’re Diamondback fans.” The soldier winced, pressed his fingers gently next to the cut. “Can you say Diamondbacks?”
Ahmed shook his head. The soldier reached down and pulled a cap out of his locker. “What’s your name?”
“Ahmed.” His head was spinning a little, and he held his hands between his knees to warm them up. The soldier wrote something inside the cap. “I put your name in there so you’ll know it belongs to you. You better run on home, okay?”
Ahmed scrambled off the bed. At the door he looked back, but the soldier wasn’t looking at him anymore.
He ran through the compound, the cap hidden against his belly. When he was close to home he pulled it out and looked at it. It had a purple brim, and a picture of a snake curled up and a fancy letter D. Ahmed fitted it over his head. “Diamondbacks,” he said to himself. “An arm like a rocket.”
Ahmed crouched behind the back tire of the Humvee, then lay down with his cheek in the snow. The American soldiers were running, leaping like goats and shouting. Ahmed could see the powdery explosions when the snowballs hit the ground.
Ahmed’s older brother, Hamid, peeked around the muddy back bumper. “They’re throwing snow at each other.”
Ahmed sat up, joined Hamid at the bumper. The soldiers were wearing their uniforms. They had their bulletproof vests and their helmets and some of them had their rifles slung across their backs. But they were playing, flying across the ground and throwing balls of snow, ducking behind the vehicles, then popping up with great shouts.
“Let’s go,” Hamid said, tugging on his arm. “They won’t have any work for us if they’re playing.”
Heavy boots crunched through the snow, and a giant American soldier ducked behind the Humvee. Ahmed froze, made a tiny bubble of noise, and the man flinched, his hand jerking toward his belt. Then he relaxed and smiled. Ahmed knew this soldier. He had carried his laundry sack twice and the American had given him quarters.
“Hey, little buddies, what are you two doing back here?” A snowball hit the bumper of the Humvee, and soft snow rained down on Ahmed’s face. “You ever have a snowball fight? Sure you have. It’s in our boy chromosome.”
The soldier had eyes that were deep, clear blue, like the sky in summer. He reached for a couple of handfuls of snow, formed a rough snowball, and handed it to Hamid. Hamid dropped it and backed away, his face stiff. The soldier opened his mouth, then he knelt down on one knee next to them. “It’s just a game.” He made another snowball and handed it to Ahmed.
Ahmed turned the snowball over and over in his hands, packing the snow down hard.
“Stop it!” Hamid tugged on his arm. “You can’t throw anything at them. They can shoot you. They’ll say it was a rock and shoot you!”
“It’s just a game, little buddies.” He was still down on one knee.
The soldier make a tiny snowball, tossed it at Ahmed. It disintegrated with a splat, and an icy tickle of snow slid down his chest. Ahmed felt a sudden delight, like his head was full of clear blue summer sky, and he threw his snowball at the soldier. The soldier fell over backward in the snow with a comical gasp, clutching his chest. Ahmed’s heart stuttered and he leaned forward, but the soldier popped up with a big goofy grin, knocked on his chest with his knuckles. He was wearing a bulletproof vest.
The soldier gathered a small lump of snow, the size of a nut, and tossed it at Ahmed’s chest again. He threw one at Hamid, too, but Hamid had his arms crossed over his chest and was staring at the ground.
Ahmed slid around the back of the Humvee, scooped up snow on the fly, pounded snowballs, leapt up and threw them at the soldier as fast as he could. The soldier ducked and yelled and fell over backward, threw some snow, but mostly he just opened his arms and made his big American chest a target. Ahmed’s arm felt as strong as his grandfather’s. He was running so swiftly he didn’t feel his feet touch the ground until one of his snowballs hit the soldier in the face.
The soldier gasped and put his hands to his cheek, and when he pulled them away his fingertips were bloody, with a cut dark as night under his eye.
Hamid gave a low, keening wail, slapped Ahmed hard over his ear. Ahmed landed on his knees in the snow. “Ahmed, what did you do?”
“Whoa, whoa, little buddies, let’s not get…” But Hamid was gone, racing across the compound. Ahmed was still down on his hands and knees, gasping form the blow, and the soldier bent over and lifted Ahmed into his arms.
Ahmed felt his hands suddenly, aching with wet and cold. The soldier carried him to one of the B-huts where they slept. There were eight bunks inside, with lockers and shoes and games and a microwave and a stereo and a computer. Ahmed couldn’t believe how many things the American soldiers slept with.
The big soldier set him down on his bunk, went down to his knee again. “You’re not in trouble, okay? Just relax.” The soldier took a white cloth and wiped the blood off his face. Then he taped the cut closed. He turned around and winked at Ahmed and checked his ear carefully. “Bandaids. Great American invention.” He wiped muddy tears off Ahmed’s face. “You got an arm like a rocket, kid. In America, I’d have you signed up for Little League in a minute. You ever played baseball? You look a little like Nolan Ryan. But you and me? We’re Diamondback fans.” The soldier winced, pressed his fingers gently next to the cut. “Can you say Diamondbacks?”
Ahmed shook his head. The soldier reached down and pulled a cap out of his locker. “What’s your name?”
“Ahmed.” His head was spinning a little, and he held his hands between his knees to warm them up. The soldier wrote something inside the cap. “I put your name in there so you’ll know it belongs to you. You better run on home, okay?”
Ahmed scrambled off the bed. At the door he looked back, but the soldier wasn’t looking at him anymore.
He ran through the compound, the cap hidden against his belly. When he was close to home he pulled it out and looked at it. It had a purple brim, and a picture of a snake curled up and a fancy letter D. Ahmed fitted it over his head. “Diamondbacks,” he said to himself. “An arm like a rocket.”
October 26, 2013
October 24, 2013
Al-Jazari and the Book of Knowledge of Ingenious Mechanical Devices
http://scatteredthoughtsandroguewords...
Thanks to the lovely Melanie M for hosting me today! You get my exciting views on why all the wildlife has moved to Canada, and the story of Flasher-Santa, and lots of gorgeous pics. I’m not in any of them, because nobody touches mom’s camera, and I mean no one.
The new book, The General and the Elephant Clock of Al-Jazari, is out tomorrow and I feel very happy and excited to share this book with everyone. Al-Jazari is one of the coolest inventors from the Golden Islamic Age. He studied mathematics, and then turned his hand to practical problem solving. Since he lived in the desert, what used to be Persia, he worked on various mechanical water lifting devices.
He was an artist at heart, though, and soon his water lifting devices turned into fountains and toys and robots, maybe the first mechanical robots.
And then he started making clocks, gorgeous perpetual motion machines that worked with shifting water weights and were several stories high, designed to fit into town squares. The elephant clock is one of the most famous, but he also built the castle clock shown here
For you geektastics, here are some youtube videos so you can see the elephant clock working! Is this cool, or what?
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=doYPp-...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9q9G0S...
Here’s a link to the new book: http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/stor...
Thanks to the lovely Melanie M for hosting me today! You get my exciting views on why all the wildlife has moved to Canada, and the story of Flasher-Santa, and lots of gorgeous pics. I’m not in any of them, because nobody touches mom’s camera, and I mean no one.
The new book, The General and the Elephant Clock of Al-Jazari, is out tomorrow and I feel very happy and excited to share this book with everyone. Al-Jazari is one of the coolest inventors from the Golden Islamic Age. He studied mathematics, and then turned his hand to practical problem solving. Since he lived in the desert, what used to be Persia, he worked on various mechanical water lifting devices.
He was an artist at heart, though, and soon his water lifting devices turned into fountains and toys and robots, maybe the first mechanical robots.
And then he started making clocks, gorgeous perpetual motion machines that worked with shifting water weights and were several stories high, designed to fit into town squares. The elephant clock is one of the most famous, but he also built the castle clock shown here
For you geektastics, here are some youtube videos so you can see the elephant clock working! Is this cool, or what?
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=doYPp-...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9q9G0S...
Here’s a link to the new book: http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/stor...
October 22, 2013
Darlings, Please! It's CLOCK!
But you know what they say about noses...
October 17, 2013
Thursday Night at the Foodbank
So we’re not in Atlanta, having wild fun and watermelon margaritas, but Boise has its nightlife, too, and not a little excitement! Tonight the kid and I helped pack frozen chicken nuggets at the Food Bank.
We had large crates of frozen nuggets that we packaged into Zip-Lock bags, then repacked into small boxes of eight bags each. Each bag held about a four person serving of nuggets. The boxes were destined for the small church pantries and partner food banks across Idaho. We were paired up to work. The volunteer coordinator told us the five second rule did not apply, and if a nugget hit the deck, it had to stay down.
Since this is America, a certain amount of friendly competition devolved. Several pair went with specialized roles—one to scoop nuggets, one to pack and seal boxes; two pair joined forces and set up a streamlined table like an assembly line. Some groups filled all their bags, then packed them into boxes. Most of the people were work colleagues, and they were taking the competition rather seriously. I could tell that the pair with the most boxes packed at the end of the night was going to earn some serious mojo in the workplace. My son managed to park us at a table next to a teenaged girl with a long blonde braid and her mom. They did not speak but were painfully aware of each other.
The manager who had arranged the workplace group put up a boom box and played the Rolling Stones Greatest Hits, and the goodhearted Mormons and the felons working off their community service and the rest of us who fell somewhere in between packed nuggets to Mick singing Brown Sugar.
My assessment was that one way of packing was not particularly faster than any other, and I was never going to look a nugget in the face again. I also considered that I was packing food that would contribute significantly to coronary artery disease in America. Since I make my living prescribing cholesterol medication, among other things, could this be considered a conflict of interest? I also noted a recent statistic I had read but not believed: that in America 25 million chickens were killed and processed every day. Let me repeat. 25 million, every day. I now understood where these millions of chickens were going. My God.
Two pallets of frozen nuggets later, and only one teenaged boy had to be told not to eat any of the nuggets. All the parents hugged their kids and there were some high fives to the pair with the most boxes. I had a slight attack of nurse and scrubbed down all the work tables with bleach and water and felt really pretty good.
We had large crates of frozen nuggets that we packaged into Zip-Lock bags, then repacked into small boxes of eight bags each. Each bag held about a four person serving of nuggets. The boxes were destined for the small church pantries and partner food banks across Idaho. We were paired up to work. The volunteer coordinator told us the five second rule did not apply, and if a nugget hit the deck, it had to stay down.
Since this is America, a certain amount of friendly competition devolved. Several pair went with specialized roles—one to scoop nuggets, one to pack and seal boxes; two pair joined forces and set up a streamlined table like an assembly line. Some groups filled all their bags, then packed them into boxes. Most of the people were work colleagues, and they were taking the competition rather seriously. I could tell that the pair with the most boxes packed at the end of the night was going to earn some serious mojo in the workplace. My son managed to park us at a table next to a teenaged girl with a long blonde braid and her mom. They did not speak but were painfully aware of each other.
The manager who had arranged the workplace group put up a boom box and played the Rolling Stones Greatest Hits, and the goodhearted Mormons and the felons working off their community service and the rest of us who fell somewhere in between packed nuggets to Mick singing Brown Sugar.
My assessment was that one way of packing was not particularly faster than any other, and I was never going to look a nugget in the face again. I also considered that I was packing food that would contribute significantly to coronary artery disease in America. Since I make my living prescribing cholesterol medication, among other things, could this be considered a conflict of interest? I also noted a recent statistic I had read but not believed: that in America 25 million chickens were killed and processed every day. Let me repeat. 25 million, every day. I now understood where these millions of chickens were going. My God.
Two pallets of frozen nuggets later, and only one teenaged boy had to be told not to eat any of the nuggets. All the parents hugged their kids and there were some high fives to the pair with the most boxes. I had a slight attack of nurse and scrubbed down all the work tables with bleach and water and felt really pretty good.
October 13, 2013
Gabriel's New Spongebob Playlist and an excerpt from The General and the Elephant Clock of Al-Jazari
Gabriel’s New Spongebob Playlist! (And an excerpt from The General and the Elephant Clock of Al-Jazari)
(author’s note: The playlist didn’t make it into the new story because John threw the Spongebob speaker against a wall. But I love this playlist.)
Gabriel was grinning at him. “I’ve got something new, and I downloaded all the new songs to the iPod. Kim gave me this portable speaker that looks like Spongebob so we can have a little private dance time.”
“Spongebob?”
“Spongebob Squarepants.”
“What the hell does that even mean?”
Gabriel studied him, hands on his hips. “Let me go talk to the crew. Get your swimsuit on. When I get back, I think you and I need to test out that beautiful pool. John, this hotel is like where you go for your honeymoon or something. I am not leaving before we get a chance to swim.”
“Yeah, okay. Wait, wait! I need to speak to Sam. Go over the backup plan in case Jen gets snatched tomorrow. Send him in here.”
Gabriel sighed. “Yes, General.”
Sam stuck his head in the door. “Sir?”
“Come on in. Okay, let’s go over the plan if something happens to Jennifer, like she gets arrested or separated from the rest of the group, and you’re on your own.” Sam’s face blanched. “It’s not a crisis as long as you have a plan, Sam. Okay, so what’s your job?”
Sam pointed to himself. “My job?”
“Yes! What is your job with regards to Jennifer Painter?”
“My job is to protect her with my life.”
“Correct. Now, what do we do if she is taken? What will you do if I’m not here?”
Sam thought a moment. “I go to the embassy. I can also get Wylie and Jackson to help.”
“Perfect. No problem, kiddo. You’ve got backup for a snatch and grab, and then you get her to her father’s people in Algeria. This is absolutely not going to happen, but you only ever need a backup plan when you don’t have one.” John studied his shattered face. Sam was more than a little overwhelmed, but John had no doubt he would rise to the occasion if need be. “You’ll be fine. I have every confidence in you.”
He gave John a doubtful look, then closed the door quietly behind him. Gabriel still had his hands on his hips. “You are out of control. I’m about to wrestle you to the ground and stick a tranquilizer dart in your butt.”
John stopped in mid-thought, his mind wheeling like a flock of starlings. What had he just said? Tranquilizer dart in the butt? Gabriel’s eyes were smiling, dark and wild and full of light, like the night sky over New Mexico. Gabriel walked across the room, put his hand flat on John’s belly. “Breathe, General. There we go. We’ve got plenty of time. Everything’s going to work out.” He slid his hand lower. “Just breathe.”
80’s Spongebob Playlist
ZZ Top Tush http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KCLXy-...
James Brown Living in America http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oHqUip...
Bruce Springsteen Dancing in the Dark http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=129kuD...
John Cougar Mellencamp Pink Houses http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=53OV4E...
Bob Seger Like a Rock http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=keIvA2...
(author’s note: The playlist didn’t make it into the new story because John threw the Spongebob speaker against a wall. But I love this playlist.)
Gabriel was grinning at him. “I’ve got something new, and I downloaded all the new songs to the iPod. Kim gave me this portable speaker that looks like Spongebob so we can have a little private dance time.”
“Spongebob?”
“Spongebob Squarepants.”
“What the hell does that even mean?”
Gabriel studied him, hands on his hips. “Let me go talk to the crew. Get your swimsuit on. When I get back, I think you and I need to test out that beautiful pool. John, this hotel is like where you go for your honeymoon or something. I am not leaving before we get a chance to swim.”
“Yeah, okay. Wait, wait! I need to speak to Sam. Go over the backup plan in case Jen gets snatched tomorrow. Send him in here.”
Gabriel sighed. “Yes, General.”
Sam stuck his head in the door. “Sir?”
“Come on in. Okay, let’s go over the plan if something happens to Jennifer, like she gets arrested or separated from the rest of the group, and you’re on your own.” Sam’s face blanched. “It’s not a crisis as long as you have a plan, Sam. Okay, so what’s your job?”
Sam pointed to himself. “My job?”
“Yes! What is your job with regards to Jennifer Painter?”
“My job is to protect her with my life.”
“Correct. Now, what do we do if she is taken? What will you do if I’m not here?”
Sam thought a moment. “I go to the embassy. I can also get Wylie and Jackson to help.”
“Perfect. No problem, kiddo. You’ve got backup for a snatch and grab, and then you get her to her father’s people in Algeria. This is absolutely not going to happen, but you only ever need a backup plan when you don’t have one.” John studied his shattered face. Sam was more than a little overwhelmed, but John had no doubt he would rise to the occasion if need be. “You’ll be fine. I have every confidence in you.”
He gave John a doubtful look, then closed the door quietly behind him. Gabriel still had his hands on his hips. “You are out of control. I’m about to wrestle you to the ground and stick a tranquilizer dart in your butt.”
John stopped in mid-thought, his mind wheeling like a flock of starlings. What had he just said? Tranquilizer dart in the butt? Gabriel’s eyes were smiling, dark and wild and full of light, like the night sky over New Mexico. Gabriel walked across the room, put his hand flat on John’s belly. “Breathe, General. There we go. We’ve got plenty of time. Everything’s going to work out.” He slid his hand lower. “Just breathe.”
80’s Spongebob Playlist
ZZ Top Tush http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KCLXy-...
James Brown Living in America http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oHqUip...
Bruce Springsteen Dancing in the Dark http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=129kuD...
John Cougar Mellencamp Pink Houses http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=53OV4E...
Bob Seger Like a Rock http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=keIvA2...
October 10, 2013
The New Book! The General and the Elephant Clock of Al-Jazari!
Fresh out of the closet, General John Mitchel and Gabriel Sanchez are settling into their new life together when an old army colleague taps them for a rescue mission to Tunisia. Eli and Daniel, two former Rangers working security, have been arrested in Carthage, charged with blasphemy and thrown into prison.
With rampant unrest in the ancient city and an old enemy targeting them, John gathers a team to liberate the two captive men. When he discovers Eli’s boyhood obsession with Al-Jazari’s Elephant Clock, the rescue becomes complicated and strangely beautiful, and John and Gabriel have to risk what they love the most to bring their team home.
Cast of Characters
General John Mitchel:
John Mitchel is a retired army brigadier general, a scholar and leader. His last assignment before retirement was for the Joint Chiefs of Staff, where he made his reputation as a man who could find peaceful solutions to some of the world’s thorniest problems. After retirement he brought his skills and knowledge to the academic world, and, at the urging of his longtime lover, Gabriel Sanchez, took the first steps out of the closet.
The Horse-Lord, Gabriel Sanchez:
A legend among the wild brotherhood of helicopter pilots for his daring and bravery, Gabriel Sanchez was the man who had John Mitchel’s back during twenty-five years of military service. He also had John’s heart and loved him with great passion. After the army, Gabriel went to law school, took the bar in Albuquerque. He convinced John the time was right for them to step out of the shadows and love in the light.
The Families:
Kim Baker: John’s beloved nephew, adopted from a Korean orphanage when he was six months old. An artist, Kim has a wild and brilliant mind, and John spends much of his waking time wondering what Kim is up to and how to keep him safe.
Abdullah al-Salim: The son of John’s old professor. Gabriel and John rescued Abdullah from war-torn Kuwait when he was a child. A cellist with the San Francisco Symphony, Abdullah has been roped into one of Kim’s projects.
Billy Dial: A young art student, Billy lives with John and Gabriel since his attack by an abusive professor several months earlier.
Cody Dial: Billy’s father and a former world champion bull rider, Cody Dial is a man of action, not words. He has a cattle ranch in Cheyenne.
Martha Sanchez: Gabriel’s wife, Martha is furious and heartbroken since he asked her for a divorce. She doesn’t give a shit if John and Gabriel have been in love for twenty-five years, but she is trying to keep it together for the kids.
Juan Sanchez: Gabriel’s son is fifteen, and he’s having a crisis of his own.
Martie Sanchez: Martie thought the whole thing was cool until she realized her dad was actually moving out of the house.
General David Painter: a former colleague, David Painter hires John to head up a rescue mission for a couple of his men thrown into prison in Tunisia.
The Wardroom in Tunisia:
Sam Brightman: a former Ranger, Sam is roped into duty as General Mitchel’s aide.
Jennifer Painter: General Painter’s daughter, Jen has been in Tunisia, developing a network for pro-democracy women bloggers. She thinks it’s her fault the guys were thrown into prison.
Eli Hannibal Green: Beat up and thrown in prison for blasphemy, Eli just wanted to look at a picture of the elephant clock on his first trip to Carthage.
Daniel Forsyth: Eli’s best friend, he went along for the trip and to watch his buddy’s back. He’s looked up to the Horse-Lord since he was a kid.
Wylie and Jackson: USMC, assigned to the embassy, they provide security at critical moments.
Friendlies in Tunisia:
Greg Mortimer: Regional security officer at the US embassy in Tunis.
Madeline Grant: Head of station for the US embassy, Tunis.
Youssef Shakir: a man of great heart and bravery, father to Amira, a pro-democracy blogger on the run from the Salafists, and also the father to the young doctor who came to their aid.
The director of the Bardo Museum, Ibrahim ibn Saeed ibn Ahmad al-Aziz: A man of great wisdom and learning, he offers his hand to Eli and Daniel and helps them bring a sky full of color and joy to Carthage.
Bad Guys in Tunisia:
Ali Bahktar and his gang of Salafist thugs and bullies. Ali has been a thorn in John’s backside since he was a teenager.
Chapter One
John studied the candy-colored sky, raspberry pink edging to smudgy purple the color of a grape lollipop. The colors reminded him of Turkish delight, a candy he’d been offered once in a Bedouin’s tent. He’d been there to negotiate passage for troops and troop trucks over the old man’s lands. It was rumored that the Bedouin was somehow involved in the nasty little conflict that had disrupted the flow of food aid to the region. John had been sent in to stomp on the sparks before civilian casualties escalated.
The old man’s grandson had filled two cups with mint tea so sweet John could smell the sugar over the dust and sun-warmed canvas of the tent. Then he’d offered the plate of Turkish delight with a flourish and a bow. The boy had black liquid eyes, long, thick lashes, and John had felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up. Eyes that beautiful and dark should have been filled with warmth, but the boy was young and didn’t know how to hide what was in his heart. John had watched the boy slide his hand down his leg, clutch the bronze dagger in the top of his boot and pull it free.
Then Gabriel was there, quiet as smoke, his rifle cradled in his arms, and the boy froze. John set his teacup down, refusing the Bedouin’s hospitality. It was an insult, a hard line drawn in the sand, nearly as hard a line as the one drawn when your grandson cut someone’s throat over a plateful of Turkish delight. The old man had eyes like the boy, a raptor’s eyes, cold and wet and black. John stood up, backed out of the tent without a word, and Gabriel spread his arms, the rifle in one big hand. No one could mistake the gesture. It said, No one touches him. You come through me to get to him.
They were in Gabriel’s chopper, heading back to base, before John spoke. “What were you doing? You just spread your arms wide, showing your big chest to a little shit with a knife in his boot.”
Gabriel glanced over at him. “He was a backstabber. Not the man who would look you in the face and throw a knife. I was just showing him that I knew what he was.”
“Thank you for saving my ass.” John closed his eyes, let himself feel the weariness that seemed to have settled across his lower back. “I was sitting cross-legged and my left foot had gone to sleep. It might have been touch and go if I’d had to run.”
Gabriel’s eyes were dark as the night sky, warm and full of stars and so beautiful they caused an ache in John’s chest when he looked into them.
“My pleasure, General Mitchel. Call on me anytime.”
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October 8, 2013
My Tuesday Afternoon
Come home from work, then
1. Go fishing
2. Write a poem
okay, it's a poem about not writing a poem, which in fiction would be meta but I don't know what it would be in poetry
3. Drink a beer
4. Take a nap
This is my perfect day.
Here is the poem:
This is the Way Fishing is Like a Poem
You walk down to the lake with your fishing pole over your shoulder, feeling like Huck Finn.
The lake is actually a reservoir, but everyone calls it a lake, and it looks like a lake, reeds and blackberry brambles on the shore,
and the word is the brambles are where the trout are hiding.
You cast your weighted bobber into the water.
You aren’t quite ready to commit to a hook. The weighted bobber is a decent stand-in until you’re ready to consider the implications of a hook.
The lakewater is murky, greeny-brown, with leaves floating on the surface, red and yellow leaves, and you can’t think of a decent descriptive word for autumn leaves if your life depends on it.
Think, think. Leaves, red and yellow, and some long weedy things, some floating something, but actually they look slimy, which is not a word that belongs in a poem,
and all you can think of is that this lake is going to be a hell of a mess in another couple of weeks.
The Canadian geese are holding a meeting on the outdoor deck of that high-dollar bar and grill across the way, speaking of hell-of-messes.
One of the ducks comes swimming over to check you out.
He has spotted your weighted bobber, which is the color of a Cheeto.
Is someone feeding ducks Cheetos? That can’t be healthy.
Huck Finn should be coming along any time now, paddling his raft. It’s late afternoon, and the boy is probably hungry.
That stiff shoulder is warming up. It’s all in the rhythm, fishing: cast, plop, reel it in.
Cast, plop, reel it in. Fishing-rhythm. No poems yet, but your head feels good.
You aim your weighted bobber for a leaf, a duck, a patch of sunshine. You can’t think a single poetical thought. So you say screw it, and wonder what it is about fishing that makes a person want to drink beer.
The sun is warm, the breeze is cool, the lake is murky, and your weighted bobber is flying out over the water like a magical Cheeto.
You know there must be better ways of saying all this. But it’s October and you’re fishing.
1. Go fishing
2. Write a poem
okay, it's a poem about not writing a poem, which in fiction would be meta but I don't know what it would be in poetry
3. Drink a beer
4. Take a nap
This is my perfect day.
Here is the poem:
This is the Way Fishing is Like a Poem
You walk down to the lake with your fishing pole over your shoulder, feeling like Huck Finn.
The lake is actually a reservoir, but everyone calls it a lake, and it looks like a lake, reeds and blackberry brambles on the shore,
and the word is the brambles are where the trout are hiding.
You cast your weighted bobber into the water.
You aren’t quite ready to commit to a hook. The weighted bobber is a decent stand-in until you’re ready to consider the implications of a hook.
The lakewater is murky, greeny-brown, with leaves floating on the surface, red and yellow leaves, and you can’t think of a decent descriptive word for autumn leaves if your life depends on it.
Think, think. Leaves, red and yellow, and some long weedy things, some floating something, but actually they look slimy, which is not a word that belongs in a poem,
and all you can think of is that this lake is going to be a hell of a mess in another couple of weeks.
The Canadian geese are holding a meeting on the outdoor deck of that high-dollar bar and grill across the way, speaking of hell-of-messes.
One of the ducks comes swimming over to check you out.
He has spotted your weighted bobber, which is the color of a Cheeto.
Is someone feeding ducks Cheetos? That can’t be healthy.
Huck Finn should be coming along any time now, paddling his raft. It’s late afternoon, and the boy is probably hungry.
That stiff shoulder is warming up. It’s all in the rhythm, fishing: cast, plop, reel it in.
Cast, plop, reel it in. Fishing-rhythm. No poems yet, but your head feels good.
You aim your weighted bobber for a leaf, a duck, a patch of sunshine. You can’t think a single poetical thought. So you say screw it, and wonder what it is about fishing that makes a person want to drink beer.
The sun is warm, the breeze is cool, the lake is murky, and your weighted bobber is flying out over the water like a magical Cheeto.
You know there must be better ways of saying all this. But it’s October and you’re fishing.
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