Tag: fantasy

Straits and Turns

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excerpt

…lavishing her body, erotic and desirous, promising and promiscuous;
Mona, the nurse who came to replace his gauzes. Mona, a woman,
came to the help of a man desiring nothing more than what nature has
allotted to him: lust, even with his half-severed penis, a man desires to
ride on top of a woman’s body, this woman’s, Mona’s. In this war zone,
man never stopped longing for that exquisite moment of coupling,
nature’s first and most powerful expression: a man, an injured man,
coupling an eloquent, musical, poetic, female body.
His eyes still closed, he saw himself on a bed where he was battling
his last, three days and three nights, with his stressed breath in
irregular spasms of a living-dead man, skinny, leftover of stamina
recluse in his austere village bed. Shadow of a man left to perish as
nature commanded, yet, his last breath was delayed as for three long
days and three long nights, he kept on gasping for air unable to release
his soul to his creator while from time to time he would whisper in
his so ever weak voice one word, “pussy” to the amazement of his relatives,
especially to his two sons who didn’t know how to play out their
father’s last wish. And the night arrived again for the fourth time, and
the owls sang their lonely songs in the nearby barn while the moon
kept on playing hide and seek behind the clouds, while the unrested
soul of the old man repeated the same double syllable word, “pussy”.
Indeed, it was tragic and comical for the three relatives who stayed for
the vigil: one of his sons, the old man’s niece, and the servant girl who
attended to the wishes of the almost-dead man. Not any special wishes
did the moribund man have other than perhaps stir him from time to
time to check whether he was still on the upper stratum, although his
occasional whisper, “pussy” was witness to the fact.
At the desperate moment of ambivalence when no one of the three
knew what to do to help the old man relax and let his soul be released
to the elements, Mona, the twenty-four year old maid with her flaming
eyes and promiscuously half-open lips and her voluptuous breasts, an
angel of mercy nonetheless, neared the bed of the old man, raised her
skirt, took his fragile hand and placed it behind her light undergarment
and between her legs upon which time and upon feeling the touch of his…

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https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763866

Jazz with Ella

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excerpt

“Because you don’t want to face the consequences of not helping.” Shukshin glowered at the public official.
“What do you mean?” Pyotr became agitated. “Are you threatening me? If this is a joke it’s gone too far!”
“It’s no joke.” Pavel spoke again. “I need all of the documents: permits, propiska, passport, whatever is necessary, and I need them soon. As to why you should help me then I’m afraid it’s like Shukshin says. You don’t want others to know what we can tell them about you.”
Pyotr froze to his chair. It was not a joke.
To his surprise, Vera chimed in. They were all in it together. “You were seen…at the boathouse. You understand me?” He remained silent so she continued. “With the police chief’s wife—what’s her name, Tanya?—and we all know that the police chief would not like your activities with his wife, would he?”
Pyotr was stunned. It was all collapsing in front of him—the careful secrecy, the hidden assignations. “We…simply meet to talk. There’s nothing harmful….” He stopped. Vera was shaking her head. “We have photos,” and she pointed to a large American-style camera on the bed. “We took photos of you and Tanya together. Believe me, you were not just talking.”
“What! Devil take it! Give me those photos. You have no right…” He stood up, prepared to invoke some bureaucratic rule that would force them to comply—or what? Report them to the police? They sat politely while he worked through his tantrum, sputtered another oath or two and smacked the table with his fist. Finally he sat again and slumped in the chair.
“May I pour you another drink?” Vera inquired with a sweet smile as if he were a friendly visiting uncle. “I think it would be best to find the passport first, don’t you? That way we can make the other documents match whatever the name on the passport.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” Pyotr agreed at last. “I know of just such a widow who would probably give up a passport for a sum of money. I hope you people have some cash to pay her.”
“We’ll find the money,” said Pavel. “You find the goods.”
“And some cash for me, for my trouble in locating the passport,” the official continued. But Shukshin had only to glance at him quizzically and indicate the camera once more for Pyotr to understand that any cash benefit to him would not be forthcoming.

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562892

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763246

The Unquiet Land

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excerpt

…she died of consumption, God rest her soul. Flynn was well up in his teens by then and already working in McGuigan’s quarry. But he grew up with a chip on his shoulder as big as a boulder and a fierce hatred of the English that he’s nurtured for years.”
“He needs to learn the lesson of forgiveness,” Padraig remarked.
“Forgiveness is a rare commodity in Ireland, Padraig,” Mother Ross said. “Irishmen never forgive and never forget. That’s their nature.” She paused, staring into the hearth. Then she asked, “What about Caitlin?”
“What about Caitlin?” Padraig repeated with more feeling than he meant to show.
Mother Ross looked suspiciously at Padraig, but gave him no inkling of the thoughts that rushed through her mind. “Is Caitlin ready to be married in church?”
“She is now, yes,” Padraig replied with a touch of petulance.
“Finn didn’t know, did he?”
Padraig walked across to the door and leaned against the wall beside it. His shoulder and his broken ribs were painful. “Oh Finn knew all right,” he said, but his face had an uncomfortable, guilty look.
Mother Ross made no comment. She felt that Padraig and Caitlin together had indecently betrayed the man who had been closest to both of them. And yet she could not see how anyone but Finn MacLir himself could live outside the Church. She was happy for Caitlin, but disappointed at the same time. “Then they won’t have to wait long before they can be married.”
“They have only to name the day.”
Neither Mother Ross nor Padraig spoke, and they were still silent when voices and footsteps were heard outside, and doors opened both in the front and the back of the house.
“I still think we should have buried his wine alongside of him,” someone said.
“Yes, think how happy he’d be if he woke up one night and found it there beside him.”
“He wouldn’t want to get out.”
“Not till the bottle was empty at any rate.”
“Bottle be damned; he drank it by the barrelful.”
“What an old sot he was.”
“Ay, but you don’t find his likes below every hedge.”
“I’ve heard many a woman between Iceland and the Isle of Wight say the same thing about him.”

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562888

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763203

The Qliphoth

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In any case, she suspects that in recent months he became bored with the
whole techno consumerist thing, because she no longer heard the all-night jingle
of marathon game-play with Doom Wizards of Gorm, he abandoned his
painful experiments with sampling and sequencing old guitar riffs, he now longer
nagged her for a loan to buy a faster modem or a bigger hard drive. And
he’d play the drawling media philosopher over breakfast, displaying a growing
impatience with the digitised world-picture. “The trouble, you see, with Virtual
Reality, Pauline, is that it will all be designed in Tokyo. You’re going to
walk around in a Japanese executive’s dream helmet . . .” She’d ignored such
performances—typical of his late night TV manner, which she’d found so irritating
when she was trying to cope first thing in the morning with lesson plans
and job applications, an overdraft and and mental overdrive. But discs and cartridges
are littered all over the table, the floor, the bed, as if he’d tossed them
away in disdain, packages of memory that had somehow failed him.
His books are stacked on the sagging shelves behind the bed. Many were
actually hers, donated to help him with A levels, like all those Pelicans on sociology
and history. Of course, he never opened them. And he’d only done half
the literature coursework properly, and then perversely he’d concentrated on
a few obscure corners, like symbolism in Yeats, while flippantly trashing
George Eliot or Jane Austen in random bursts of invective, not for any clearcut
ideological reason. Lucas wouldn’t read systematically, he’d rather drift
around CND jumble sales trawling for dog-eared things like Colin Wilson’s
The Outsider or those poems of mad skinny Patti Smith, or coffee-table books
on Salvador Dali.. Here’s Labyrinths by Jorge Luis Borges. ‘These metaphysical
detective stories take the reader through the forking gardens of Time and
Space!’ Forking hell . . .
She sprawls across the bed for a closer look, across crumpled paper tissues,
yellowing vests, that horrible black shirt with eagles on the buttons, his broken
sunglasses . . . She never bought an ex-library copy of The Rosicrucian Mysteries.
Or The Ufo Encyclopedia. And what’s this disintegrating edition of Morning
of the Magicians doing in her flat? A signed copy. ‘Nick Beardsley, London,
1966’. She can hardly bear to touch it.
‘The black tide of occultism.’ That’s what old Daddy Freud called this yuck
stuff. This is a residu, a glistening slug-trail excreted by Nick, and it looks as if
it’s sticking to Lucas. She’d thought she’d got rid of all Nick’s ticky-tacky rubbish.
And here she goes again, hurling it across the room, any moment now
she’ll find some more lurid trash. They’re all the same, stupid schoolboy men.

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562839

https://www.amazon.com/dp/0978186508

Blood, Feathers and Holy Men

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excerpt

“They’re family. That’s different.” Ula stood up at the sound of footsteps and tumbling
pebbles just above their perch. It was Brother Ailan.
“You two are out early. Brother Rordan, Finten’s been looking for you. You
skipped morning prayer again.”
“Thanks Ailan. If I didn’t have you to look out for me, how would I possibly survive?
We’ll be there for breakfast.”
“You had better hurry then or Brother Keallach will eat your share. I’ll make sure
he leaves some for you, little sister.”
Ula smiled at the chubby monk. “Thanks Brother Ailan. We’re coming.” She offered
a hand to Rordan and pulled him to his feet.
Rordan and Ula allowed Brother Ailan to get well ahead of them before following
back to the Brothers’ lodge. For the first time in many weeks, the Native village
appeared to be deserted except for Finten, Ailan, Keallach, Bjorn, and Ari who stood
waiting at the lodge door until they saw Rordan and Ula arriving and Finten gave
the signal to enter. Once everyone was seated in the centre eating area, Ari produced
a steaming bowl of baked gull’s eggs and cod.
Father Finten intoned the grace.
Although Father Finten managed to rattle off the entire prayer, the first mouthfuls
were stopped short by shrieks and loud whoops coming from outside the Brothers’
lodge. Brother Keallach jumped up to look outside. “My God! We’re under attack.”
Bjorn grabbed a smouldering piece of wood from the breakfast cooking fire.
Keallach grabbed another and followed him through the door blanket with Ari, Ailan,
Rordan and Ula right behind. Finten didn’t follow but fell trembling to his knees,
seeking help from a Greater Power. No sooner were the six outside the lodge than each
was grabbed and clubbed over the head by warriors with partially shaved heads. Only
Father Finten remained behind, crying to God in whispered Latin,“Déus, salvam mé.”
Rordan came to with blood trickling down his face and into his open mouth.
Shards of pain stung his naked chest and privates. His hands were tied tightly behind
his back and he was standing, roped to a pole. He opened his eyes to a wild, painted
face before a blazing fire. The sky behind the face was filled with a million sparks.
Whoops and yelps of a hundred savage voices rent the air. Painted Face bobbed
up and down in front of him and banged a stick against a burning bough, sending
sparks to burn Rordan’s skin, shouting “Nikamu! Nikamu! Nikamu! Yi! Yi! Yi! Yi! Yi!”
Rordan gritted his teeth and shook his head to clear his thoughts amidst the
yowls. “Nikamu! Nikamu! Nikamu! Yi! Yi! Yi! Yi! Yi!” The warrior applied the burning
bough to Rordan’s hair and, as he felt the searing on his scalp, Brother Rordan
cried out the same “Yi! Yi! Yi! Yi! Yi!”
The warrior laughed and Rordan understood that he wanted him to sing. “Yi! Yi!
Yi! Yi! Yi!”
Again the flame singed Rordan’s scalp, and again he sang, more frantically than
before, Painted Face laughed and singed his scalp once more.
That song’s not helping. If I’m to die by fire, I will go out singing.
Rordan had one song he loved above all others. He raised his head, took a deep
breath and called out beyond the pain. “Salve, Regina, Mater misericordiae, vita, dulcedo,
et spes nostra, salve.”

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562826

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763106

Poodie James

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excerpt

“There’s no mistaking it, Mr. Mayor. I saw your face for fully
half a minute before you bucked me off and made your escape. I
have never forgotten your eyes, your distinctive eyes. I thought I
recognized you from the back of the hall when you spoke, but I had
to be certain. You know, indeed you know, what I’m talking
about.”
Torgerson glared across his desk at Engine Fred. “You expect
people to believe something dredged up from twenty years ago?”
Fred smiled. “I didn’t say how long ago it was, but your memory
is fairly accurate. It has been twenty-one years. Poodie James and I
were discussing it just this morning. As for people believing it, I
hope that it won’t be necessary for anyone to know. That includes
Poodie.”
“What do you mean?” Torgerson said.
“Poodie doesn’t know who beat him up. He doesn’t know who
attacked Old Sam, and he doesn’t know, as he puts it so simply,
why you don’t like him.”
Glowering at Engine Fred, Torgerson said, “I could have you
thrown out of here.”
“Yes, you could.”
Torgerson got up, turned around and stood looking at cars passing
on the street below. “What do you want?”
“I don’t know why you beat Poodie James when you were a
young man. I don’t know why you are persecuting him now. It
doesn’t matter. I want you to leave him alone, Mr. Torgerson. Just
leave him alone.”
Torgerson spun around and leaned across the desk. “I’ll tell you
why, mister. Because he’s a freak, an unclean little freak. He contaminates
the town. He should have left after he got his warning, but he
stayed here, dragging that wagon around, rummaging through peoples’
garbage, bothering children. All those things you said in the
hearing, all those things Gritzinger said, that’s crap. Poodie James is
nothing but a bum and a beggar. He’s bad for the town.”

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562868

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08W7SHCMV

Blood, Feathers and Holy Men

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The brothers replied: “Ad deum qui laetificat juventutem meam.” To God, Who
giveth joy to my youth.
Brown Bear strolled alone to the bluff overlooking the bay. High above green
waters and the multicoloured maples and birch on the far islands, he saw the first
arrowheads of honking geese. Three generations of large white birds announced the
coming snow and stirred the arrowhead of pain in Brown Bear’s heart. “My little
Namid, do you fly with Grandmother Snow Goose to the land of warm breezes? Or
does your spirit dance among your sister stars? My beautiful daughter, your father’s
heart still boils with anger for those who took you from your home and snatched
away your mother’s joy. It’s time, I know, my little Star Dancer, to take your bundle
to the resting place of our ancestors. But we cannot take you there until your brother,
Running Deer, and I make peace in our hearts, or else our anger will be carried with
your bones. We will not be long, my little one. Fly safely on. We will not be long.”
Though Brown Bear, Corn Mother and Running Deer had supported one another
as a bereaved family, Brown Bear needed to renew his own energy and that of
his family, within a village healing circle. As Sachem, White Eagle would organize a
cleansing sweat lodge, erected new for the occasion. The sweat lodge would be built
close to the stream, dammed to create a cooling pool. This work and the organizing
of a healing feast would be done by the women of the tribe.
All those who wished to join the circle knew they must make their intentions
known to White Eagle well ahead of time and prepare for the ceremony with fasting
and sitting apart in the forest. Brown Bear invited his friend White Bear, and
Running Deer invited Mountain Thrush. Kiche, Sky Spirit, also was invited out of
respect for his position among the newcomers. But Father Finten declined the invitation
when he learned to his horror the ceremony would take place in pagan nudity.
He forbade Brother Rordan to attend, but Mountain Thrush chose not to obey his
priest’s command.
Although she never attended the prayers of her companion Brothers, Ula felt
drawn to the Native spirituality and asked if she could be included. She wanted to
be closer to Corn Mother who had been so good to her when she was ill. Ula asked
White Eagle’s permission to be part of the healing circle.
Bjorn and Rordan knew that they represented the evil men who had brought pain
to Brown Bear and his family and to Grey Wolf for the loss of his ear and the pride
of his first kill. Now they’d listen and share with respect and truth and love, and help
in the healing of their new brothers and sisters.
In the days leading up to the healing circle, Bjorn, Rordan and Ula spent full days
sitting beneath single trees in the forest until they each came to know the individual
characteristics of their tree and how it was different from every other one in the
forest. The day before the circle, White Bear, Mountain Thrush, and Una, were honoured
with an invitation to the sweat lodge.
Drums announced the sweat lodge healing ceremony. The circular lodge, big
enough for thirty or more people, was built low into the ground with a framework
of twelve sturdy saplings and covered with woven reed mats and fallen leaves. The
tiny door, also covered with a mat, faced east, the source of life, power and wisdom.

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562826

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763106

Straits and Turns

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excerpt

The Wolf
George left Vratsa behind him, and after he walked for three hours, he came close to the Balkan Mountain range. He kept on going, knowing that with every step he took, he was coming closer to his destination. This was a thought that truly calmed him, and without any unexpected incident, his day passed as he covered the distance, he believed he had to cover every day. He followed Highway 15, which the next evening would bring him around the next big city of Botevgrad, 55 south of Vratsa. But for now, he was walking uphill and soon had to go off the road to find a place to spend the night.
Upon leaving the road, he climbed 100 meters, thinking it would take him another full day of walking to pass the mountains. He also knew that once he passed them, he would follow the valley southward until he came to the Struma River, called the Strimonas River in Hellas. The Struma River would be his landmark.
He noticed the trees around him weren’t too high nor too dense. He stopped at a little plateau and gazed around the surrounding area. The open area provided him with a good view of everything.
He walked further and found a spot between two trees and a big boulder on the far side. That spot welcomed him as his place for the night. He put his backpack against the boulder and gathered a bunch of leaves from a tree, which he used to make a makeshift bed onto which he laid his sleeping bag. He gathered a few pieces of wood and created a circle of a fire pit with a few rocks. He arranged the firewood and lit it with the help of some toilet paper. In a minute, his fire was ablaze.

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https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763866

Poodie James

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excerpt

“I came here to say what I know about hobos.You have been
told that we mean no harm. I believe that we cause none.”
Engine Fred paused to look at Stout. “No more harm than most
people do, and less than some.” He turned toward Torgerson and
halted again.
The room was suspended in silence.
“But now, this hearing about hobos turns into an attack on the
best, the bravest man I have known. He came to help after the train
ran off the tracks near the hobo jungle. If he hadn’t, I could not
have got the engineer out of the cab. I probably would have been
blown up trying. Mr. Stout says that Poodie James is my accomplice.
He says that Mr. James and I caused the train wreck so that
we could make ourselves look good. That is offensive, Mr. Stout. It
is also slanderous.”
The fat on Stout’s face quivered as he ratcheted his head in
Torgerson’s directon and back to Engine Fred.
“’If,’ I said. That’s what I said, ‘If.’ I was only raising a possibility.”
Stout’s voice had lost some of its vigor.
Engine Fred took a step in Stout’s direction. “That is the
defense of a bully and a coward. You made an accusation, Mr.
Stout.” He looked at Torgerson. “It did not occur to you that the
hobo or his accomplice would defend against it.”
He’s even better than I remembered, Sam Winter thought.
“Mr. Clarkson,” Spear’s voice cut through the tension, “under
the hearing rules, you may make a statement and answer questions.
You may not engage in debate.”
“Mr. Spear,” Engine Fred said, with the trace of a smile, “you’re
trying to be fair, of course. I’ll observe the rule.” He stepped back to
the lectern.
“I told the council that Poodie James is the bravest man I have
known. That is so not because he risked his life to save someone. It is
so because under circumstances that would defeat most of us, he lives
his life with independence, dignity and joy. He does not accept charity
and he does not seek institutional help. He makes his own way, gathering
and selling discarded newspapers and bottles.

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562868

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08W7SHCMV

Fury of the Wind

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excerpt

“She’d better not be Alan’s girlfriend,” said a raunchy male voice,
“because she’s Ben Fielding’s broad.” The speaker began to laugh
again but his mirth was cut short by an arm that reached out and
thrust him roughly aside.
“Here, what do you think you’re doing?” the speaker demanded,
glaring down at the short man with the furrowed forehead elbowing
his way, none too gently, through the crowd.
“Mind your tongue, Gus, and your own business,” Will snarled
through clenched teeth, “and everybody get the blazes out of my
way, or I’ll call the Constable over.”
The gawkers quieted and moved aside, their mouths agape. Some
of them raised their eyebrows and looked at each other as if to say,
What’s eating the station agent?
Will felt both relief and alarm when he saw Sarah – relief because
she was sitting up and did not appear to be badly hurt, but alarm
because of her obvious distress. All concerns about the Agricultural
Association’s involvement were forgotten, Sarah’s welfare uppermost
in his mind.
On reaching her side he took her hand. “I don’t think there’s a
doctor here, Sarah, but I’ll get you to the Bradshaw hospital right
away.” He thrust his clip board at Charlie Draper. “Here, Charlie,
find Arnold Johnson will you, and tell him he’ll have to take
over. And tell him he’d better damn well do something about these
bleachers or I’ll know the reason why not.”
Alan put a hand on Will’s arm. “No need for you to leave, Will,
I’ll take Sarah in Dave’s car.”
Will hesitated while he considered Alan’s offer. “Well, all right
then,” he said at last. “But you’d better go and find Penny and take
her with you.”
Sarah looked up at Will with eyes full of gratitude. Not only had
he ensured there would be no cause for gossip, but he was getting
her out of this crowd who seemed to be enjoying the spectacle of
Ben Fielding’s wife’s misfortune more than they were enjoying the
ball game.
“Just wait ’til Ben gets her home,” said a woman in the stands,
“he’ll kill her.”
“More likely he’ll kill Will Andrews for not seeing to the bleachers
afore they got in this condition,” a man answered her.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/0981073530