Allan Hudson's Blog, page 62

The FarOut Mall - Shops of Outer Space.

Shopping beyond the Ionosphere.

May 5, 2657 

The FarOut Mall is 603 miles above Earth. It’s located in the 16-A Octagonal of the InterCosmic Manor 2599 (the year it was completed). The Off-Earth Living Pod (LP) is two miles long, two miles wide and three hundred feet deep, taking twenty-one years to complete. Shaped like an octagon, the frame is built of lunarium, the hardest and lightest metal known to man, mined deep below the surface of the moon. The ore was smelted, refined and the frame was shaped in the Galactic Forge 2412. The surface is covered with a golden skin of polyalymel, a combination of high density plastic from Earth, malleable alloys and elements from Mars. It has the ability to absorb and store light, providing all the power the manor needs. Sand, immense heat and pressure have been added to the compound to create the nine hundred and fifty-seven transparent glass panels through which its populace can view the stars, other Pods and Earth. Each of its thirty levels is divided into eight sections called an Octagonal.  Each floor has 20 bulk elevators and 78 HTDs - human transmission depositories.
InterCosmic Manor 2599, informally referred to as “Mac99” in reference to the original pioneer of living Off-Earth in self-sustaining  Pods in the twenty third century, Macintosh Fairweather , is home to over 80 thousand people. More than nine hundred of them tend the gardens and the forest on level four, unofficially referred to as the ‘feed and breathe’ level. Hundreds more tend the animals on level three, or manage the silage and fodder or control the enormous stores. Another seven thousand inhabitants work on levels one and two which are devoted to the power plants, the waste center, water control, ventilation, heating, maintenance, computer and communications center, robot and probe repair, janitorial, the recycling complex, the air transport garages, emergency response department and the morgue. The shipping and receiving docks for goods traded with Earth, Jupiter, Venus, Moon stations and the other satellites occupy their own Octagonal on levels one and two.
The owner and the extremely wealthy occupy enormous, extravagant suites on level thirty. They, their robots and their appointed staff are the only ones allowed at that level. Even the HTDs are programmed to detect designated biological signatures from each person’s Mac99 implant that they receive when arriving or are born here. Refusing the implant is not an option. LPs beyond the 200 mile ISB or International Space Boundary are responsible for their own safety, their own laws. Of the 263 LPs circling the earth, only two are hostile. Both orbit at miles 450 and 455 respectively, in the Scatter Zone between miles 445 and 465, where LP 2290 was destroyed by an asteroid. There are very few rules there, every vice you can conceive and slavery is legal. The owners and their mercenaries are ruthless; people do as they are told.  The rogue LPs are officially called LV2477 and LV2501 but the populace refer to them as LV1 and LV2. Only one other LP orbits in this zone, the former InterCosmic PRT(prison/rehab/termination)2344,. It revolves the over populated Earth mostly uninhabited, a floating rusting hulk.  
On Mac99 manufacturing takes up levels 14 and 15. Level 16 is dedicated solely to education. Security headquarters, the armory, admin, governmental offices, entertainment facilities, a worship hub, and hospital are all on level 17, as is the shopping center. One Octagonal is solely devoted to trade.  The ethnic food franchises are in main entrance. The second hub is where the larger franchises are located, SpaceMart, Future Shop and Fong’s Hardware taking up half the floor area. Beyond that there are boutiques and specialty shops.
On the coveted outer wall the shops face Earth. Each boutique offers full transparent panels where guests can view the ever changing sky as they browse or shop. Luxuriously appointed, only the wealthiest of store owners can afford the lease. Alexander’s Fine Jewellery is one such occupant.  It is situated in the very center of the outer perimeter with the entrance facing the fine dining concourse, the upscale cafes where the moneyed take their lunch. The varied cuisine emits pleasant aromas of spices and rare herbs. People of every possible nationality roam the hallways, searching for baubles or necessities. If the buying patrons venture this deep into the shopping mecca, the only common denominator would be wealth.  Yet, dreamers and the regular drifters roam the halls.
A baby’s cry rises above the gossip and stray chatter that fill the open areas causing people pause. Babies are rare. The mother, her escorts and personal defense droid follow her to an open park-like seating area in the next establishment, Vittorio’s Gardens.  Joe Average cannot afford the protection and usually opts for sterilization. Dreaded creatures called virkon-eptiles, are carnivorous and prefer humans, especially their young. It is only preceding this interruption that patrons eye the golden droids hovering abundantly around the ceilings. One is stationary in front of every HTD which are busy today transporting shoppers.  Every defbot can react within a millisecond of sight, sound or smell of a virkon-eptile, destroying the worm like parasite instantaneously with a powerful laser blast. There is no hesitation from the droid, no matter what or who comes between the dreaded monster and the laser; it will be vaporized as well.
There has not been a sighting for over a year within Old Mack, until last week in Loading Bay 14 on Level 2. It was assumed it ate the driver only minutes before docking his water transport. It took two lasers 1/100th of a second to simultaneously detect and destroy it. Nothing remained except a small gathering of gray ash. Virkon-eptiles grew from dormant bacteria captured on an astronaut’s clothing when the mining of Asteroid Pliney took place last century, his name was Dismas Virkon. Exposed to high CO2 levels and water, the beings that evolved are reptilian, they can think and are able to manipulate their own DNA to replicate anything organic it comes in contact with. It can perform this function for only a short time, thirty minutes or less needing ten to twelve hours to regenerate. Scientists from the InterCosmic Lab2424 are making terrific headway at being able to duplicate this unique ability by experimenting on both dead and live specimens.  All but a small cache of virkon-eptiles have been eradicated. Only those alive are corralled on Prison 2344; they live off the human detritus from LV1 & LV2. Some of them escape. They are extremely fast. Sometimes LPs experience power malfunctions shutting down most defense systems. If a virkon-eptile is hiding, lying in wait, it is this moment it will feed. There was an outage on Mac99 yesterday.
That was why Alexander’s Fine Jewellery is having a PLS – Personal Laser System - installed. During the blackout Mac99’s emergency power went to where it was most needed, especially the HTDs and weapons on the top four floors. The general power was interrupted for only two minutes but 65% of the LP remained weaponless for that short time. That was too long when beings that could eat three humans in ninety seconds might be present.
G racia Moeller, nee Alexander, does not want to experience such fear like she did when they experienced the outage before closing time yesterday.  Every unit went to immediate lock-down. Doors shut whether you were in or out or in between. Everyone was scrambling for a place to hide, knocking over the chairs, sliding and bunching up her antique carpets, tipping her Moon Drop display with several of the rare crystals shattering. People beating at her glass doors that she was unable to open broke her heart. She shakes her thick auburn hair out of her face as she tries to forget about last night and concentrate on serving her guest. Handing a gaily colored gift bag with the Alexander A in gold foil gracing the outer flap, to a young man distinguished by his spindly frame and bushy eyebrows, she says,
“Thank you for your business Mr. Dubrowski. This is a moment neither you nor your dear friend Candace will ever forget. Please bring her in sometime so we can meet her.”
‘Thank you for helping me pick out that beautiful ring, I know she’s going to love it.”
Blushing and grinning he waves as he hastens to leave, already late on his lunch break from the Orbital Control Center where he monitors the propulsion systems in the eighth sector. 
Gracia waves back before surveying her premises. Beside her the PLS Installer, a bent- over middle aged man, terribly bowlegged and much too serious, is sliding a black box into a cubicle he shaped under the serving area that centers the premises.  The work station is within the twelve foot circle. The base is uncommon red pine harvested from underwater fifty years after the flooding of the lower mountains in Canada when a large portion of the Arctic polar cap melted rapidly in the twenty third century. Crafted into a perfect circle, the lacquered wood supports a thin 30 inch horizontal panel where the clients are served. The total surface of the counter is a layer of durable, touch and voice sensitive, extreme-tech plasma. The overall screen shows a replica of the circles of Saturn. The point of sale or POS system can be anywhere they are standing.
Gracia has her hands upon her shapely hips, jewels sparkling from several well-manicured fingers. Her silk jacket is tucked neatly behind them. She regards her number one sales person, Aisha regale one of their regular patrons to the joys of owning a four carat Martian cyntonium, the largest available Off-Earth.  Her part time worker, Cristofer, is rearranging her Moon Drop display, adding new pieces to replace the broken ones. Michelle her manager is helping a young couple select their wedding bands. There are two other patrons in the store, “just looking”. The Installer is replacing his tools in the small cloth bag he brought in with him. Wiping his hands on a faded blue cloth he turns to Gracia.
“Everything is ready to go Ms. Moeller.”
He hands her two pulse pistols, the latest in fashion weaponry as well as two stylish holsters that are chameleonized to change color with whatever outfit they may be wearing. One is custom built to fit in her hand only, programmed to recognize the ID signal from her implant only, the trigger activated by her nerve impulses only. The other is for her manager. With a long face that expresses little joy for his work, the installer adds as if by rote.
“These will be charged tomorrow by one of our guns specialists. He or she will be explaining the usage, the dangers, the responsibilities, the laws, the licensing and the deadliness of these weapons. I urge extreme caution, always. I hope you never have to use them. There are holders for these in the console I just installed, where they will remain at night to hold their charge. Did you have any questions before I leave?”
Gracia eyes the large letters emblazoned on the chest of his coveralls, BOB.  Thinking that the letters are his name, she says,
“So the guns are harmless now Bob?”
Scrunching his brow with a questioning look he replies,
“Name’s Ralph and yeah, you couldn’t kill a mars-bugg with these.”
What Ralph had no way of knowing is that the apprentice armorer, in her zealous approach to her new responsibilities did indeed charge these weapons. Not understanding the flag in the work orders, the “gunrat”, as they were referred to in the armory, loaded a full force to each one in her work station. In a parlance from the twentieth century, that still defines a deadly readiness –they are, locked and loaded.
Placing the paraphernalia on the counter top, Gracia turns to him with her hand out adding a smile.
“Oops, sorry Ralph.” She points her finger at the letters on his chest, “I thought…well anyway, thank you for the nice work. Please come back and visit again, bring the Mrs.…”
She is interrupted by the distinct sound of sharp heels clicking on the hard stoneoleum in the hallway. She stops shaking Ralph’s hand standing motionless with her ear cocked towards the sound. A frown crosses her pretty face, the dimples more pronounced. Ralph bug eyes at her sudden hesitation, deciding he should leave. Releasing her hand he hastens away.
“Good day to you Ms. Moeller.”
Gracia is ignoring him, all thoughts of the installer vanished, all thoughts of the loaded weapons eliminated. Pursing her lips, rubbing her hands in anticipation, she realizes from the gait of the approaching clackety-clack it is that damn Mrs. Abernathy.  The woman will not quit. Turning to Michelle who has heard the announcement as well, they nod in confirmation. They already planned what to do when the bothersome shopper turned up.
 
Agnes Abernathy is not as wealthy as she pretends to be. Inheriting a suite of rooms on the 27th level from her fourth husband is difficult to maintain when the slime left everything else to his mistress. Using the last of the currency her father bequeathed her, the botcreditsare going quickly. She has the annoying habit of buying expensive jewels and returning them after she wears them to some social function that the rich dally in. Her relentless pursuit of spouse #5, in her mind, requires being seen at all the ‘right’ places, as well as being seen in the latest and richest baubles. Even after the passing of centuries, the advancement in sciences, the ease of living, some things never change.
The latest acquisition was a pair of earrings. Flawless 1.4 carat shycetic gems from Phobos, the largest moon of Mars. Only 3000 carats were mined before the operation was deserted as being too costly with fewer gems being discovered. Light that is captured in them returns to the beholder’s eyes as a dazzling spectrum of strong colors. They are very hard to find. Making them even more valuable is that they are they only precious stone to have a scent, emitting an aroma that can only be depicted as floral. The stones adapt to each human’s chemistry to evoke a unique perfume. Highly sought after, they are very expensive. Mrs. Abernathy purchased them on Friday. She will want to return them today.
The irritable noise of her approach is hushed when she turns into the store to walk upon antique hemp rugs woven by hand in the 24th century by weavers from the “Double LP” (Love & Peace Living Pod 2401). Agnes Abernathy is doomly clad in this season’s colors, black and blood red. Only her pink hat covering short silver locks softens her somber presence. Her face and hands are dyed a silver slightly darker than her hair which is quite the rage for those that visit Earth frequently. For some unexplainable reason many rich men find it attractive. Holding a matching pink clutch in one silver hand, she swings a small tote with the recognizable A upon it. When she reaches the counter where Gracia is standing she moues as she waves the bag in the air before setting it upon the sales area.
“I’m sorry Gracia but these just won’t do, there is too much blue in their dispersion and it clashes horribly with my wardrobe. I’m afraid I’ll have to return them my dear.”
Gracia is trying very much to be nice, it is ingrained in her from her ancestors to show their clients respect but this has got to come to an end. With a smile that might freeze butter, she says,
“I’m afraid not Mrs. Abernathy. Did you not read the notice on your communicator when you purchased them? They are not returnable. It states very clearly on your notification?”
Abernathy steps back in astonishment at the boldness of Gracia’s delivery. Her immediate thought is the five hundred thousand botcreditsthe jewels represent. Currency she cannot afford to be without. Indignation takes precedence over kindness as she replies coldly,
“I care little of what is posted on my “communicator” as you call it. I’m much too busy to trifle over mere receipts of payment. I purchase many items here Ms. Moeller”
The speech is more formal. In her guest’s hesitation Gracia speaks up.
“You indeed make many purchases Mrs. Abernathy but you return everything.”
Gracia cannot contain herself any longer. She does not run a rental shop.  One hand akimbo, the other with an accusing finger pointing at her client’s grey pallor made pinkish by the boiling blood within.
“I’m wise to you Mrs. Abernathy, you wear the purchases to one of your calendar events and then return them but not always this soon. Of course we do not move in the same groupings, I did however, see you at the Spatial Charity Experience. Those very earrings caused quite a sensation amongst the hundreds that attended. I searched for the owner, knowing you had the only ones aboard the Manor. I’m sorry, but you own those now.  Now if you please, I would appreciate it if you would leave.”
Almost sorry she said it Gracia softens somewhat. Agnes Abernathy does not. In a loud voice so that everyone can hear, she exclaims her disappointment, the way she is being treated. More angrily she goes on about her distaste for anything she purchased, her demands for the return of the earrings. Gracia cannot calm her down. She has a sudden hate for this woman that continues to harangue her. Everyone in the store is still. The two “lookers” decide to leave. Patrons in the restaurants across the way have paused in their dining to listen. There is no stopping the dirge of anger that passes through Abernathy’s mouth. When the language begins to turn profane, Gracia decides it is time to summon security.  When she reaches down to the console she spies the pulse pistols. Picking up the one that is hers, the molded weapon slides easily into her grip. The sleek weapon is the most advanced available. It takes fifty thousand nanoseconds to respond to Moeller’s ID. Wishing it was loaded she points it at the yelling woman in a mocking gesture, even though it is illegal to use it on human beings.
Abernathy knows what is in Moeller’s hand and immediately shuts up, backing several steps from the serving area. Gracia thinks the weapon is sterile. Nerve impulses to the sensitive tellium surface of the trigger tells it to fire. A beat of pure energy is released to consume the first obstacle in its path which in this case is Mrs. Abernathy. Like a black hole, the woman implodes, every iota of her being is consumed within seconds.
Gracia Moeller cannot believe what she has done. Her voice is a shocked whisper.
“Ohh Shit.”
 




Watch next week when guest author Mitzi Szereto from the United Kingdom shares some of her awesome writing.  

Good musicians need Geat Producers - Allon McCall

In addition to all the authors and other artists, I’ve been very fortunate to have some very fine musicians as guests on 4Q. Today we look at the studios that turn their dreams to realities. Allon McCall is originally from New York City and is the owner/president of Moncton’s newest music production studio, TheWE Music Productions. Allon is a producer, musician, song writer; he reaches out to fellow artists to assist them in the development of their careers. Allon is a big man, gregarious, big smile, big spirit and he likes watches. His website is listed below.
4Q: It’s obvious that music is very important to you. How did a musician from the Bronx, New York end up in the city of Moncton? Tell us a bit about your journey here. AM:Wow- where to begin lol. I moved here almost 13 years ago. My son's mother who is from Moncton was 6 months along with my son and we decided to move. I lived here on and off for 8 years. I became a permanent resident 4 years ago. It’s been an interesting transition. It honestly took years to get used to how Moncton is – its people, economy, culture. I think I’m a bit more settled now and accepting the fact that I’m not going anywhere for a while yet.  
4Q:How did WE Music Productions come about?
AM: The lack of a serious music scene here has always bothered me. When I first moved to Moncton the music scene was decent- a good amount of venues and bands. I personally had a heavy alt rock band- DELIVERE- we landed a deal in Europe- showing that we had to go outside of Moncton to get a deal. In the past several years it’s taken a huge decline. I’ve met and still meet musicians, singers, artists, actors, dancers, that live here and there aren’t any really opportunities for them to pursue their craft seriously- as in make a living off of their talent – or to reach outside markets. TheWE Music Productions was born out of my desire to help local musicians attain their goals- to be that doorway to bigger markets and opportunities- to be a serious path to success. The other catalyst is the lack of commercial music coming out of the Maritimes – especially Moncton. There are other genres besides Acadian, Country and Folk- all of which have their place- however not everyone likes those genres. There are Rock, Urban, World musicians and music lovers that live here and who deserve to be recognized. This is the market I do and will continue to target in doing business and promoting.   
4Q:Pleas share a childhood memory or anecdote with us.

AM:  Let’s see- well when I was about 4 or 5 my mom told me to clean my room.- So as the story goes, I went to my room and began to “clean” . So my parents come to check up on my progress and the room was tidied up.  Later that evening there was a knock at our front door. It was the neighbors- their driveway was full of toys. Apparently I threw my toys out the window when I was told to clean my room. At 4-5 years old- that made perfect sense to me.     
4Q:What’s in the future for Allon McCall personally, as well as WE Music?
AM:Another loaded question, lol. Personally- I’m just looking to keep moving forward- grow the business, balance both family and business and just be successful.  As for TheWE Music- we have 8 artists signed to the company currently. We have artist management in place as well. We have just released 5 singles  on bandcamp.com for nominations for the Music NB Awards. We are releasing EP’s this fall as well as launching our record label- The WE Music Records, our own radio station- The WE Music Radio. We are also launching an online web series called WE Cover- profiling local singers along with a industry showcase for our artists and industry to connect and network.  
Thanks so much Allon for taking the time to share your thoughts here at 4Q. Wishing you much success in the future, we‘ll keep an ear to the ground for further developments. Allon’s website is www.thewemusic.com Photography of Allon and studio is by Dee Sinner. Next week you can read about Shopping in the Stratosphere???????   Vol.1 of SHORTS is available at amazon.com for $0.99.

   

Guest author - Jo Marshall. Leaf and the Long Ice.

Jo Marshall lives in the Pacific Northwest near volcanoes, rainforests, and coastal wetlands. She is concerned about climate change impacting the wildlife and forests in this region, and so her timely, eco-literature novels describe this transforming world by means of fantastic adventures about impish, stick creatures called Twigs. Her website is listed below. Copyright belongs to the Author, used with permission.


Leaf & the Long Ice
 
Chapter One
 
Buds
 
The wolverine escaped the gray wolves only to be trapped in the tunnels at the glacier’s edge.  She had splashed through streams of melted ice, and skidded from one blue tube to another.  Now she realized there was no way out.  Young but shrewd, Musty was not afraid.  She backed into a low cave, and quieted her heavy panting.  Only one howler at a time could attack her here, and she was a ferocious fighter.
Musty imagined the pack tracking her to this one place of safety with its narrow opening.  How one might crawl, its belly pressed to the ice so it could wedge its body inside. How its fangs would gleam in the dark.  Musty held back a deep, snarling growl, and listened.  They’ll never make it this far.
But these howlers were excited by the hunt – these tall, gangly wolves wearing shaggy coats that sparkled with snow stirred by alpine winds.  Nose to ice, eyes narrowed, they sprinted into the glacier’s maze of tunnels.  They padded over scratches made by Musty’s claws, and discovered where she hid.  One wolf snarled at the rest to stay back, and flattened itself on the ice, seeking the pungent scent of the wolverine.
A moment later there was a sickening CRACK! as the glacier  shifted.  Massive icicles showered Musty, and stabbed the howler.  Startled yelps echoed within the tunnel as the other wolves scrambled away.  At a distance, the pack paced back and forth, waiting and watching.  Then the glistening pile of spears fell away.  The injured howler staggered backwards, and shook the blood from its back.  The pack returned to sniff and paw half-heartedly at the crystal debris, but their prey was now beyond reach, so they trotted back to the brilliant light of day at the tunnel’s gaping mouth.  A distant, lone howl from the forest far below the glacier greeted them.  For a time, the pack joined in.  Then they grew silent.  The howlers crossed sheets of glittering ice, and vanished.
Back in the tunnel, Musty clawed her way out.
 

Far below Echo Peak, an impish, stick creature named Leaf looked up, startled by the mournful call of the howlers.  The glare from the white, glistening glacier on the massive mountain’s tip blinded him, so he shielded his eyes, and squinted to see better.  A moment later, the cries of the howlers faded away.  Leaf did not fear them because he was a Twig. Since he was no taller than a blue jay, it was easy to hide in the fern-like fronds of ancient cedar and hemlock, or be overlooked within their gnarled roots.  And he usually smelled like bark or dirt, anyway.
Leaf stood ankle-deep in the cool pond, and studied his toes thoughtfully.  He had mashed them deep into the mud, so he could no longer see how curly and root-like they grew.  He wriggled each one.  At once, bubbles rose to the surface, grew into rainbow-spattered balls, and burst.  They made a very satisfying burp!  Leaf grinned.
“Hey, Leaf!  Watch us!  Watch us jump!” screeched two annoying voices from a cliff high above Leaf.
The shouts broke Leaf’s concentration.  He looked up, and scowled.
On the edge of the cliff, where the water fell, his younger brothers - twin buds - waved and shouted to get his attention.  Teeny leaves had just begun to sprout all over their stick bodies.  Their leafy hair had not even uncurled yet, so their heads were covered with knob-like bulbs.
“I never stop looking at you!”  Leaf yelled back.  Buddy and Burba weren’t sprouts any more.  Still, they demanded a lot of attention.  The twins had grown so much since the cold season.  It’s because of Mumma’s earth-stew and this hot season sun, Leaf decided.  The twins now stood chest high to him even though their bellies hadn’t lost their bulby look.  Yet Mumma still thought of the buds as young shoots, and so it was Leaf’s job to take care of them while Mumma, Pappo, and Fern were off on their journey to the gorge.
Mist swirled high in the air, and all around the falls.  At the top of the cliff a flat, granite boulder jutted out, and split the flow of the water in half.  The water unwound like two ribbons.  Their lacy splashes murmured fssshhhfsshh as they billowed up, and sank into the pond.
“Watch us!” shouted Buddy and Burba, their voices shrill and irritating.
Leaf searched for his brothers.  At last, he spotted their eyes peeking through the mist.  Tiny hands appeared beside grins as the twins tried to swirl the mist away so their big brother could see them better.  Two orange eyes sparkled like fire.  There’s Burba, groaned Leaf.  Why do I always feel like I’m sitting on a bristle burr when I see him?  Next to Burba blinked two large, golden eyes above a delighted smile.  And there’s Buddy, Leaf grinned at his favorite twin bud. 
The twins jostled each other on the granite slab to be near the edge, but Leaf didn’t worry about them.  He had tied pine cones around them to keep them afloat should they fall.  The hot season had begun so early the scales of the cones had already opened and cracked from the heat, their seeds cast out long ago.  Leaf had crushed the scales on one side, and tied the cones with tough honeysuckle vines around the buds’ bellies, so now the twins perched on the slab like fat, bristly cones waving arms and legs.
Behind them, a curious cluster of sticks, mud, and stones stretched out between granite cliffs rising on each side of the waterfall.  It was an enormous beaver dam built by a colony of goliath chompers – friends of Pappo.  A few seasons ago, the chompers had built this dam, and saved Leaf’s home, the Old Seeder.  The ancient tree had almost drowned when the river called the Rushing Waters had flooded.  Now only a pretty stream slipped out under the dam.
Behind the dam, a turquoise colored lake filled a deep valley in the mountains, and spread out along the slopes of Echo Peak.  Near the lakeshore beaver lodges dotted the surface.  It was an unusual place for a chomper colony – an alpine lake – but these goliath chompers were loyal friends.  Leaf was grateful the colony had made their home here for the chompers kept the dam strong.
“Watch!  Watch us!” Buddy and Burba screeched again.
Leaf forced his green, almond-shaped eyes into round circles, stared at the twins with exaggerated interest, waved, and nodded.  Bright green leaves – his unruly hair – hung over his eyes. He brushed the leaves aside, and shouted, “Go on then!  I’m watching!”
Buddy and Burba stepped to the edge of the slab, held out their arms, and spun circles on the slippery granite.  “Look at us!” they yelled.  Buddy’s giggles floated with the mist.
Then, with an unexpected side-step, Burba slipped behind Buddy, and shoved him hard.  Buddy tumbled off the slab.  With a shocked look on his face, he disappeared headfirst into the waterfall.
Leaf sucked in his breath.  That Burba!  He might snap Buddy in half like that!
With a gleeful shout, Burba jumped into the waterfall, and popped up beside Buddy, who bobbed around coughing in the middle of the pool.  Burba laughed and laughed.  Ripples carried them to the bank where Leaf stood waiting.
“Did ja’ like my new trick, Leaf? Did ja’?” yelled Burba.
Leaf scowled.  “Get out!  Get out now!”  He dragged the twins up onto the muddy embankment.  He untied the vines, and threw the cones into the pond.  Buddy scooted onto a flat rock.  Burba stood in the mud, wearing a stubborn smirk.  Leaf turned to Burba, placed his hands on his hips, and frowned.  “That was dangerous,” he growled.
Burba scooped up a handful of mud, and threw it as hard as he could at Leaf.  “Then play with us!” he shrieked.
Leaf ducked.  “Stop it, Burba!”
“How ’da ya know it’s me?” Burba cried out with an evil sparkle in his eyes.  “We look the same, ya know.  Ya don’t know it’s me!  I bet you think I’m Buddy!  How do ya’ know I’m not Buddy!  I could not be me, you know!”
Buddy giggled.  He had a gurgling sort of voice, and usually grinned and blinked a lot whenever he spoke.  “Leaf knows dat ya not me, ya silly. Ya can’t fool Leaf.”
Burba sneered, “You’re just mad, Leaf, ‘cause Fern got to go with Mumma and Pappo, and you hav’ta stay here, and take care of us!”  He scooped up another handful of mud.  In a sing-song cadence, he marched around in a circle, and chanted, “Fern gets to see Star!  Fern gets to see Star!  And you doonnn’t!”  With an off-balanced whirl, he threw the mud ball so hard he tumbled headfirst into the pond.  The mud ball smacked Leaf’s belly, and splattered on his face.
That’s it!  Leaf sprang over, and caught Burba’s arm.  He dragged him deeper into the pond, and dunked him.  Burba fought Leaf’s grip.  He clawed at his fist, but Leaf dunked him again, and again.  At last Leaf was satisfied, and he let him go.
Sopping wet and spluttering, Burba scampered on top of the rock, and sat beside Buddy, who watched Leaf with an anxious expression.
“Stay there!” Leaf ordered.  He crossed his arms, planted his feet apart, and blocked Burba’s path back to the mud and the pond.  What a slimerslug! Leaf thought, but he didn’t say it.  Burba was right.   I should have gone to the gorge, not Fern!  But Pappo had told him it was Fern’s turn to have an adventure, and so Leaf was stuck taking care of the buds.  They were too much trouble to take anywhere.  Bored to brittles by buds in a too hot season.  “Time for your nap!”  Leaf declared.
“No!”  The buds blurted out with a unified shout of defiance.
Leaf scowled, and then issued a dare.  “All right, then.  No sapsuckers!  I’ll eat them all myself!”  He marched off at once on a path that wandered between enormous trees.   “Come on, both of you, whoever you are!” he yelled over his shoulder.  “I might even tell you the story about Pappo and the rover on the Long Ice.  If you race me to the Old Seeder, I promise to tell an extra long story!”
With a surprising burst of speed, the buds shot past Leaf.  They hopped over sun-spotted ferns, and ducked under flat-topped mushrooms.  In no time at all, the twins reached the wandering roots of their home, a massive, towering tree – the Old Seeder – the tallest tree in the forest.
Burba shouted, “I’ll get to the knothole first!”  He shoved Buddy into the moss between the roots, leapt on the trunk, grasped the deep furrows in the bark, and scuttled up the Old Seeder as fast as a beetle escapes a woodpecker.
Leaf pulled Buddy from the soggy moss, and brushed him off.  He gave him a quick kiss on his head.  “Go on now, Buddy. It doesn’t matter who’s first – it only matters who climbs the best.  I’ll be right behind you.”
“Danks, Leaf,” burbled Buddy with a hopeful expression.  “I’m best, right?”  With slow and painstaking movements, Buddy picked his route hesitantly like a praying mantis walks – swaying back and forth, and never looking back.  Being afraid to climb was a funny way for a Twig to be, but Buddy grew dizzy when he looked down from their knothole, and so he preferred to stay inside.
Half-way up the trunk, they reached a weird-looking knothole.  It was huge, twisted, and looked like the fierce face of a grizzly.  Stuck in its center was a small door with a round window.  Just outside the knothole, Burba hung over the side of their porch-branch, and smirked at his brother’s progress.  Finally, Buddy pulled himself up on the branch, and blew a relieved spit-bubble.  “I’m here!” he announced proudly.
“Great!” muttered Burba.  “Come on, Leaf.  We wanna’ hear about the rover!  Pappo and the rover!”
As Leaf opened the door, the twins dove through the knothole, and tumbled across their large hollow, which was stuffed full of moss chairs, woven flax rugs, and sun-spotted pillows.  They snatched sapsuckers and berry cakes from the cupboards, and shoved them in their mouths at the same time.
Leaf enjoyed a moment alone by the door.  There was a cool breeze from the glaciers of Echo Peak.  The view is awesome this high up!  Leaf could see the twinkle of the waterfall and the turquoise lake behind the chomper dam.  He gazed at the rolling Blue Mountains on the other side of the Wide Valley, and smiled, remembering his friends, Rustle and Feather, and their adventure together.  And, of course, the goliath chompers had built a gigantic dam over there, too, but since the horrible flood, the colony had moved here.  The wide valley!  The popper fields!  Now that was a journey!
Leaf sighed.  He stood on tiptoe, and tried to spot the gray, burned trees of the North Forest and the deep gorge where his friends Star and Moon lived, but it was too far away.  The vast forest only turned to a drifting, green haze on the horizon.  Leaf shivered at the memory of being chased by swarms of barkbiters, but then he laughed when he thought of the brightly feathered Cappynuts twins.  I bet Ruffle and Tuffle are having fun guarding the South Forest from barkbiters!
“Come on, Leaf!” yelled Burba.  The twins sat by the cupboards with expectant expressions, and globs of sapsuckers stuck on their fingers.
“Yes, yes.  A story,” Leaf said with a resigned shrug.  “A long one.”  He grabbed some blue petals, dipped them in an acorn filled with water, and tossed them to the twins.
They patted their faces, dropped the petals to the floor, and rushed down a narrow tunnel that led to their own small hollow.  Burba trampled on Buddy’s feet as he squeezed past so he could be first in bed.  On the headboards of their large, rocking baskets Mumma had woven a chipmunk for Buddy, and a porcupine for Burba.  In their hollow, sunbeams pierced tiny knotholes, and crisscrossed through golden dust stirred by the buds’ scampering feet.  Fluffy dandelion heads skittered across the floor.  A collection of Twig Branch dolls made from different trees like hemlock and maple sat on shelves dug out of the soft, scented cedar. The buds lay on their bellies, and bunched their soft, leaf-woven quilt-covies tight against their chins, ready to be frightened out of their wits.
Leaf sat cross-legged on the golden-grained floor.  He grinned wickedly.  “Ready?”
With wide eyes – golden and orange – and nervous grins, the buds nodded.


Thank you to Jo for sharing. You can find more Leaf stories and more about Jo at www.twigstories.com
   Next week, 4Q Interview will be chatting with Allon McCall, musician, song writer, producer,  owner and manager of The WE Music studios. An interesting man, big smile, big spirit. Don't miss it.

My Hero - Drake Alexander from Dark Side of a Promise.

My intentions this week was (and still is) to feature guest author Jo Marshall with an excerpt from one of her Twig stories. Due to a technical glitch, Chapter 1 of her story Leaf and The Long Ice will only be available Monday, however, I am re-posting a short bio of my hero Drake Alexander from Dark Side of a Promise, for the weekend.


  To really understand who Drake Alexander is, we would have to journey back to Glasgow, Scotland to the year 1911, when his great grandfather drank himself to death, after all a liver can only filter so much poison before it finally stops working. Joachim Alexander left his wife and seven children desolate, therefore, Lucretia Alexander had no choice but to give up some of her children to relatives or neighbors. She vowed none would go to an orphanage.
Drake’s grandfather, Dominic, was the middle child and ended up living with his uncle, his father’s bachelor brother. He was eleven when he moved in with Robert Alexander, but everyone called the middle aged man Duff. Dominic never discovered why.  Disgruntled and grumpy at the crick in his lifestyle, Duff was none too welcoming. The first weeks were the hardest for Dominic, no sibs about although the quiet was not unpleasant at times. He missed his little brothers the most, it was easy to make them laugh. Alone at nights, the comfort of his own bed was not as satisfying as the squirming of warm tiny bodies he shared his quilts with before. And he missed his mother.
It wasn’t to say that Duff was mean or uncaring, he actually liked the shy boy who smiled easy and believed everything he said. He noted that Dominic was obedient and quite smart, unlike his sot of a father. Duff was a fine cook and his haggis served with “neeps and tatties” was the best the lad had ever eaten.  Haggis is a tradition, Scotland’s national dish. One of the first things Duff taught him was to prepare the sheep’s pluck, add the oatmeal and minced onions, suet, salt and spices that made up the tasty pudding.
Duff was a goldsmith, his best friend Angus was a carpenter and the old maid that shared a sheet with Duff on occasion was a teacher. The three of them molded the young man over the next seven years. Dominic was taught to be frugal but not cheap, how to repair and make gold and silver trinkets for those that had the money, how to build a house, how to treat a lady, how to dance,
how to sip good Scottish whiskey, how to stay away from trouble and how to make friends. By the time his uncle died a tragic death when his home burnt to the ground near the end of the First World War, Dominic had been forged into a respectful, honorable and skilled man. The small fortune Duff left him did nothing to fill the emptiness he felt, the bond of friendship had been broken.
 
At the end of the War, Dominic followed the soldiers returning home to Canada. The ship he sailed on docked in Saint John on December 19th, 1918. It was the same year that the two largest railroads were merged by the federal government into the Canadian National Railway. When he heard of the railway’s large shops in Moncton, he spent his first Christmas in Canada at the Westmount Victorian Hotel on Main Street. 1918 was also the year of the influenza pandemic in Moncton. The New Year found Dominic one of the over three thousand sick but thankfully not one of the 85 that died from the disease. He spent the first two weeks of 1919 in hospital on King Street in the east end of the city.  Weak and recovering he moved into a rooming house on Lutz Street. From there he developed his plan to buy his own land, build his own business and settle in to his adopted city. 
It didn’t take long for Dominic Alexander to become a successful entrepreneur.  Buying a parcel of land on the west end of the city where there was no other businesses was a bit of a joke in the community until the populace noticed an elegant building rising from the dirt by a lone immigrant that spent his days from early morning until darkness supervising the establishing of what would become Alexander’s Jewellery & Repairs downstairs and his home upstairs. Only eight months from opening day, he realized he would need additional staff, at least one full time. He hired a young girl from Cocagne to be his sales clerk.
As fortune would have it, he and Maria Desjardins fell in love.  A pleasant seaside wedding preceded several children of which the oldest was Jacob Alexander, Drake’s father.  Jacob was like his Dad, sensible, honest to a fault and a good business man. He and his father eventually opened several more stores. There had never been enough time in Jacob’s life for love as he was just too busy. That changed in 1950 when he was attending a jewellery show in New York and happened upon the most amazing woman, Mellissa Wilbraham., the only daughter of another jewellery family from Plymouth Massachusetts. Romance followed, a wedding, amalgamation of the businesses and then a family. Drake came first then his sister Glory. Tragedy followed, Mellissa died from complications and Jacob brought up the children with the same dedication he placed on the family’s fortunes. Jacob also hoped that one day, his son Drake would follow him into the business but it never happened.  Imagine a small boy, about eight with big brown eyes and curly dark hair, standing at the fence that divides his grandfather Desjardin's land from his neighbor's. With bug-eyed fascination he watches a group of reservists, bedecked in battle gear, bivouacking near the forest at the end of the properties. he can see the sweat glistening from their brows in the hot afternoon sun; he can smell the diesel fumes from the large camouflaged six-wheelers that rumble through the furrowed fields. "War games", his papere has informed him, warning him to stay out of the way. One of the soldiers spots him along the fence and approaches him. The man is huge and muscled but stares at the boy with the kindest blue eyes.The C7A1 assault rifle he carries gleams from the fresh bluing upon the barrel and polished stock. he gets close enough to the boy to toss a khaki beret with the Canadian Armed Forces crest blazing from the cap, telling  the boy to keep it and dream of becoming a soldier. In fact, it inspires the lad to do that very thing and the hat, though tattered now, remains one of his treasured keepsakes. Thirty years later the boy will be a toughened man with warrior skills hunting the wrong doer that killed his best friend's sister. This is Drake Alexander  and you will meet him in my novel, the Dark Side of a Promise.  
  Watch Monday for guest author Jo Marshall with an excerpt from her novel Leaf and the Long Ice.           
  
 

The Ghoul Archipelago, an excerpt from Guest writer Stephen Kozeniewski

Stephen Kozeniewski lives with his wife and two cats in Pennsylvania, the birthplace of the modern zombie. He was born to the soothing strains of "Boogie With Stu" even though The Who are far superior to Zep, for reasons that he doesn't even really want to get into right now.
During his time as a Field Artillery officer, he served for three years in Oklahoma and one in Iraq, where due to what he assumes was a clerical error, he was awarded the Bronze Star. The depiction of addiction in his fiction is strongly informed by the three years he spent working at a substance abuse clinic, an experience which also ensures that he employs strict moderation when enjoying the occasional highball of Old Crow.
He is also a classically trained linguist, which sounds much more impressive than saying his bachelor's degree is in German.



The Ghoul Archipelago


***Jim, sometimes mockingly called “Tuan” or “Lord,” is a Filipino swabbie aboard the freighter Potemkin.  He refers to zombies as “pugot,” a sort of boogey man in the Philippines.  He is doing an inventory in the ship’s hold when the light burns out.  Jim waits alone in the darkness while the ship’s engineer, Hannibal Mo, fetches a new bulb.***He had never been a religious man or a superstitious man – some back on Mindoro would have called it the same thing.  But darkness, well, that was just a natural human fear, wasn’t it?  Darkness and snakes, he had heard somewhere.  There had been tales in his youth, things which he couldn’t properly name in English, fairies and devils that haunted the islands, and there had been times on summer nights when they had even seemed credible.  Of course, he had never believed in the pugot, and now they were everywhere.Now in the silent dark, alone but for his thoughts, all of the fairy tales of his youth came rushing back.  It almost seemed ridiculous, he reflected, to worry about ghosts and goblins in a world where the dead walked.  Surely, nothing needed to be more dangerous than that.  Pressing his lips together he attempted to whistle a tune, but his lips and tongue were as dry as sand.  Only a sad little half-screeching puff escaped his mouth.          
Something tumbled off in the distance.  Not too distant, the hold wasn’t immense, but it didn’t feel immediately close.  Then again, the echoes of the chamber were deceptive with regards to noise.       “Mr. Hannibal?” Jim tried to shout, but his words came out in a feeble whisper instead. 

He heard a clank, like something metal or wood striking the deck, followed immediately by a squishy sound like a bag of peeled oranges being dragged across the floor.  Jim shrank to the deck like a turtle retreating into its shell.  The noise recurred.  He was not alone in the hold.“Captain?” Tuan Jim said, a little louder this time, “Mr. Hannibal?  Anybody?”
His voice sounded pitiably small in the dark chamber, but it was certainly loud enough to draw the attention of…whatever it was.  A clank followed a squish, then again.  Step.  Drag.  Step.  Drag. 
Slowly, pressing his hand to the wall, Jim forced himself to his feet.  He pressed his back to the bulkhead and backed away from the sound (or what he perceived to be away from it…who could tell?) and snuck along the wall taking special care not to step hard.
Step.  Drag.  Step.  Drag. 
Tuan Jim paused mid-step and listened to the empty silence so hard he could feel his ears flaring.  In a way, he almost wanted to hear that telltale moan pierce the air so he would at least know that it was a pugot he was dealing with.  A little tiny part of him held out hope that it was an animal or one of the regular crewmembers pulling a hazing prank on him.  Not enough that his hackles were lowered any, but enough that he had a distant outside hope in his heart that he might not be about to be devoured by some infernal man-devil.
But there was no moan.  No sound of breathing, labored or otherwise.  No scratching or pecking of an animal.  Just that infernal step followed by that endless drag.  Step.  Drag. 
Jim decided there was nothing for it.  He plunged his hand into his pocket and fumbled around until he came out with a small cardboard box of matches, the windproof/waterproof type that cost a little extra but always turned out to be worth it when a squall was blowing out everybody else’s pipes and cigarettes.  He had never smoked in his life, but neither had he let one of his social betters go without a light because he had failed to carry matches.
Only three matches remained.  He didn’t want to do it, didn’t want to signal his invisible enemy, couldn’t, knew it was death to do it. A guaranteed death sentence from anything that wasn’t a hoax, but he had to know, it was eating at him, gnawing at him, he couldn’t die without knowing, he’d rather know and die than anything else and suddenly he struck the match.
Two tiny glittering yellow eyes reflected the match light deep in the black of its pupils.  Jim was mesmerized by those eyes, but they weren’t the dull, green, empty abscesses of a walking corpse.  In fact, they were bare centimeters from the ground and…“Hisssss!”“Shit!” Jim shouted and jumped back, although the rat darted off in the opposite direction.
So it wasn’t rabid.  Thank God for small favors.  It did drop the morsel it was feasting on, though.  A human trachea.  Jim wouldn’t have recognized the tube for anything more than an organ if a bit of a skin wasn’t still attached revealing an Adam’s apple, like the whole throat had been gnawed away and ripped out together.  Jim bent over and, with a shaking hand, plucked the gruesome vermin delicacy from the floor.  The dried, rotting skin still bore a recognizable tattoo, a butterfly cocoon. 
“Mr. Papillon?” Jim whimpered. 
The man they had left behind.  Neither the captain nor the first mate had found him that day they had put out, but who knew if they had even searched.  Perhaps they had gone off into the woods for a prolonged fucking session.  Or maybe they had searched all day and just never found him. 
A puff of air on the back of his neck alerted him to the presence of the pugot.  He did a quarter of a somersault away and saw Papi, his throat gouged out and teeth outlined with dripping ichor, desperately and violently attempting to groan in triumph without a throat.  In the same instant, the flame from the match reached his finger.
“Ahh!” Jim shouted, dropping the matchstick and waving his arm wildly in the air to ward off the pain. 
The blackness closed back in like the ocean claiming a castaway.  Jim felt the Papi pugot reach out and clutch at his clothes.  He fell almost totally backwards, and grunted as he fell on his coccyx.  Then the horrible step-drag sound began again, and for the first time Tuan Jim knew what it was: the Papi-thing throwing his crutches forward and then dragging his desiccated leg along with it.  Without a leg, the pugot was incapable of regular ambulation, or even of Papi’s crippled movement, but it had found its own brutish way of pursuing what prey was down there.  And right now that prey was the poor swabbie.    A big thanks to Stephen for sharing a small part of his novel. You can find Stephen's novels here - http://www.amazon.com/author/Kozeniewski Next week, The South Branch Scribbler will feature author Jo Marshall as our guest writer.  Jo Marshall lives in the Pacific Northwest near volcanoes, rainforests, and coastal wetlands. She is concerned about climate change impacting the wildlife and forests in this region, and so her timely, eco-literature novels describe this transforming world by means of fantastic adventures about impish, stick creatures called Twigs.  

4Q Interview with Christian Brun - World Traveller, Poet, Artist,and a super nice guy!

Christian Brun is the Executive Director of the Maritime Fisherman’s Union. He has travelled extensively throughout the world, lived in Mozambique, Africa. He and his wife Vanda and daughter Txentchela  live in Shediac, NB. He is an exceptional artist and author of several books of poetry. A man of many talents (pardon the cliché but it fits). His website is below.
4Q: Before we talk about your writing and painting, tell us about your desire to travel as much as you have and how did you end up in Africa where you met your wife?
CB: Travels fuel my great curiosity. I have a never ending almost obsessive need to generate new information through observation. I can only go so far with a book and with local travel and have discovered the great wealth of geographical displacement. The movement and grace of difference through people, contact, communication, architecture, food, weather and nature have provided an energy that is hard to describe. While the pizzazz might have somewhat phased with age, I yet feel like an adolescent going through puberty when I leave the country. When I am in a foreign area, I prefer walking, so I can slowly grasp the nuances and the beauty. In 1994, in France, I walked from Spain (San Sebastian) to Biarritz for example. My own little “Randonnée de compostelle” of sorts. After that experience, I understood how travels were not only exploration of sight, touch, sound and smell, but were also experienced from within: all of these new found observations were having a profound effect on my thoughts and perceptions of life. A relatively short travel experience had changed who I was almost immediately; imagine if this was to happen for a longer period…
A few years later, I was confused about what I wanted to do with my life, quite frankly. I was completing my articling with a small Law Firm in Ottawa and was disappointed as to the realities of the practice. Pushing paper was not very fulfilling. Just as I was to pass my bar exams, I was offered a job. I had applied with many Canadian NGOs a year previous as I had a great interest in more long-term travels – so I could get immersed into culture and language. Mozambique was a perfect opportunity: 1- the project was about civil disarmament and turning weapons into art, 2- Maputo, the Capital where I would be working, was a coastal town, 3- Portuguese was the language spoken, a Latin language, therefore accessible through French basics, another cousin Latin language, and finally, 4- the field of international development seemed much more real and substance oriented than what I had survived in the urban legal world. I took a week to think about it, confirmed and was off a month later in November of 1997.  

4Q: You have three books of poetry published at present. What is it about poetry that that you enjoy and what inspires you.
CB: I like to say things in a snapshot. I like to also play with words. Mostly, I am in love with the metaphor, always have been. The metaphor lets you be true to yourself and not always reveal absolutely all of who you are. I have learned earlier in life that one must protect oneself to be free. Life is not all roses and blue skies and there are some people and circumstances that can hurt and damage. I have always been myself, I believe, with others, but often, I only share what I feel I should. I have created an invisible filter coming in and going out. That is why poetry is so powerful. It enables you to divulge who you are, but not completely.
I am inspired by nothing and everything. I have written about the most mundane act of human stupidity (the fact that one needs to go to the washroom once in a while, hopefully throughout his/her whole life - lol). I have also written of the most typically exciting and cliché moments of love, despair and drama. I have found that some of the blandest past photography can become incredibly strong 30 years later – have a look at Dennis Hopper’s photos as an example. Therefore, the mundane of today could very well enlighten the future. I was also amazed in my twenties at how French poets like Rimbaud, Prévert, Apolinaire and Éluard could speak of everyday events and make them so interesting… or how Verlaine, Beaudelaire and Neruda could make the cheese disappear when thinking of love, death and depression.
What finally really clicked the switch was when I began reading our own Acadian literature, how real it was and how it was part of our conflicted collective soul. In some ways, our Acadian identity was somewhat like I was: for many years, it could not, and preferred not to reveal all of what it was. Poetry in l’Acadie, is a code and an extremely important one at that.  
I am getting off subject aren’t I? Back to your next question. 
4Q: Please share a childhood memory or anecdote.
CB: Well… hmmm… I will share one that has shaped who I am. I had built a very badly strewn tree house near our home in Cormier-Village with leftover wood, planks, tar paper and rusted nails. I remember sitting there in the doorway looking at the water flowing in a nearby brook and the nature that surrounded me. It was the first time I really had a different perspective of the world, I guess, from a different height in something I had built with my bare two hands. Moral of the story is that my creation had enabled a new perspective of the same things I looked at everyday… I realized much later that the creative process was synonymous to youth and renewal.
 4Q: You have many fine paintings to your credit. How did you get into painting and where can your work be seen other than your website?
CB: The visual arts came naturally as a complement to writing… I am mostly visual in my concepts, but more literary in my communication… so I decided to use both as a survival guide to procrastination! When I find one creative process less motivating, I refer to the other… and they both meet rather often. For example, I am attempting to write a text for every painting I have produced (good or bad – lol). I’m hoping this will be a lifelong project.  
I have one exhibition per year at Galerie 12 in the Aberdeen Cultural Centre in downtown Moncton. This keeps my blood flowing...
 
Thank you Christian for sharing your thoughts with us. We look forward to more of your creativity in the future. Christian’s website is www.christianbrun.webs.com.  *An interesting note: Christian's sister Nathalie is the cover model for the novel Dark Side of a Promise.   Next week I will be telling you a bit about myself; who I am, what are my passions, who is my family and why I write. I lived in an orphanage for the first ten months of my life...... 
 

Guest writer Lockie Young. The Lone Shepard.

This is Lockie Young's third visit to the Scribbler. You will be hearing more from this talented writer as he wraps up the sequel to his YA novel, Ryan's Legend. Watch for it at Morning Rain Publishing. His website is posted below. The Lone Shepard  A long, long time ago in a far away land there lived a young shepherd boy named Ewan. Now Ewan was a good boy, who lived with his grandparents in the hills just east of the Stone Wood. He tended his sheep and was very diligent, as there were many wolves in the hills. The wolves lived in the Stone Wood, which was rumored to be haunted. The wolves would venture into the hills and kill the sheep, if not for the very brave boy who protected them. Now you may ask, how can a mere boy defend against a pack of wolves? The answer may astound you. You see even though Ewan was just a boy, he had in his possession a very strange weapon indeed. It had saved his life many times, and the lives of the flock he protected.
One day, one of the sheep wandered away from the hill, where the flock was grazing. Ewan, who kept a very keen eye on his precious flock, noticed the number of sheep was down by one, and as he gazed off in the distance, toward the meadow that gently sloped toward the Stone Wood, he saw his quarry.  He noticed the faintest of white disappear into the haunted forest. Gathering all his courage, Ewan rushed to save the poor woolly creature from a certain death, should the animal venture too deep into the place where only Devils and Trolls dared to go.
At the edge of the great forest, Ewan stopped to gather his breath, and his courage, before venturing forth into the unknown, for neither he nor any of his kin had ever set foot into the Stone Wood. Oh he knew full well the possible consequences of such a foolhardy quest, for it was told and retold many times around the open fire pits late at night, when the shadows were long and fear was ripe. No one ever returned from that unholy place.
Ewan gulped down his fear, and tramped it deep into his soul, as he ventured into the dark, dank foliage. The leaves were so thick; the sunlight did not penetrate such gloom. There was even a bitter stench, that left its acid mark on the poor shepherd’s tongue. With eyes big and round as saucers the brave little boy headed further into the wood. All at once, off to his left, he heard the scared bleating of a sheep. He followed the sound and soon he saw the poor trapped animal. It had wandered into a bramble so thick, it could neither go forward nor backward. It was so scared, and so pitiful, that the boy ran instinctually to its rescue. Without a thought for his own safety, Ewan carefully and skillfully removed the thorny sticks and twigs that stuck fast to the thick woolen coat. Soon he had freed the desperate young sheep from its trap and in shepherd fashion, slung the young lamp around his shoulders, and carried on his trek out of the forest. Before too long he saw sunlight shinning through the leaves and knew he had finally, once again, reached the edge of the Stone Wood. With jubilant heart the young boy ran the rest of the way, and once well into the meadow, he set his rescued lamb back down to earth. But before he let the creature go, he noticed a rather stout stick sticking out of the thick wool. He wiggled and pulled the stick free, and upon closer inspection, he saw that it was a very strange looking stick indeed. It wasn’t exactly crocked as it was curved. The wood was rock hard and hollow. What a fine whistle this stick will make he thought, as he stashed his prize into the pocket of his frock.

The sun rose high in the noon day sky, and the hill side was quiet, as the lazy sheep grazed on the rich grasses there. Ewan took the strange curved stick from his pocket and began to look at it more closely. He blew into one end and a low tone emitted from the other end and he knew at once it was as he expected. The stick was indeed hollow. He decided to try and make a hole in the strange, almost polished wood, so he took out his knife and began doing just that. His sturdy blade easily cut into the wood, and after each hole he made, he would try his whistle. Soon he discovered that he could make musical notes, and he decided his whistle was not a whistle at all, but was turning into a beautiful flute. As he played he noticed the sheep laying down as if to bed, and the more he played the quieter it got until the only sound was the magical notes from the flute. Soon everything around him was fast asleep. Even the birds were nestled in the trees with their heads tucked neatly under wing.
It was then, on a hill side long, long ago that a young shepherd knew he had an enchanted flute. Oh this was indeed a glorious day, for the young boy realized that he could also use his magical flute as weapon against the many animals that threatened his flock. He would never have to worry again if his sturdy staff would be enough against the hungry snarls of the wolf pack. He would never again fear anything, as long as he could play his magical flute.
Ewan played his flute for hours, practicing different songs, and different tones. And the gentle breezes carried the magical tunes past the meadow and into the town. It carried the tunes into the Stone Forest and beyond, into the city, and long before the sun set that day, not a soul was awake, but for one lonely shepherd, one brave and very lonely shepherd.


Thanks for the story Lockie.You can keep up with Lockie at www.poems-and-other-ramblings.webnode.com


Next week, join me for the monthly 4Q Interview when we have 4 questions for Christian Brun, a poet, artist and seasoned traveler. An interesting guy!



Also for your reading pleasure available at www.amazon.com