My favorite scary short story August Heat

August Heat by W. F. Harvey

PHENISTONE ROAD, CLAPHAM, August 20th, 190—. I have had what I believe to be the most remarkable day in my life, and while the events are still fresh in my mind, I wish to put them down on paper as clearly as possible. Let me say at the outset that my name is James Clarence Withencroft. I am forty years old, in perfect health, never having known a day's illness. By profession I am an artist, not a very successful one, but I earn enough money by my black-and- white work to satisfy my necessary wants. My only near relative, a sister, died five years ago, so that I am independent. I breakfasted this morning at nine, and after glancing through the morning paper I lighted my pipe and proceeded to let my mind wander in the hope that I might chance upon some subject for my pencil. The room, though door and windows were open, was oppressively hot, and I had just made up my mind that the coolest and most comfortable place in the neighbourhood would be the deep end of the public swimming bath, when the idea came. I began to draw. So intent was I on my work that I left my lunch untouched, oniy stopping work when the clock of St. Jude's struck four. The final result, for a hurried sketch, was, I felt sure, the best thing I had done. It showed a criminal in the dock immediately after the judge had pronounced sentence. The man was fat— enormously fat. The flesh hung in rolls about his chin; it creased his huge, stumpy neck. He was clean shaven (perhaps I should say a few days before he must have been clean shaven) and almost bald. He stood in the dock, his short, clumsy fingers clasping the rail, looking straight in front of him. The feeling that his expression conveyed was not so much one of horror as of utter, absolute collapse. There seemed nothing in the man strong enough to sustain that mountain of flesh. I rolled up the sketch, and without quite knowing why, placed it in my pocket. Then with the rare sense of happiness which the knowledge of a good thing well done gives, I left the house. I believe that I set out with the idea of calling upon Trenton, for I remember walking along Lytton Street and turning to the right along Gilchrist Road at the bottom of the hill where the men were at work on the new tram lines. From there onwards I have only the vaguest recollection of where I went. The one thing of which I was fully conscious was the awful heat, that came up from the dusty asphalt pavement as an almost palpable wave. I longed for the thunder promised by the great banks of copper-coloured cloud that hung low over the western sky. I must have walked five or six miles, when a small boy roused me from my reverie by asking the time. It was twenty minutes to seven. When he left me I began to take stock of my bearings. I found myself standing before a gate that led into a yard bordered by a strip of thirsty earth, where there were flowers, purple stock and scarlet geranium. Above the entrance was a board with the inscription— CHS. ATKINSON. MONUMENTAL MASON. WORKER IN ENGLISH AND ITALIAN MARBLES From the yard itself came a cheery whistle, the noise of hammer blows, and the cold sound of steel meeting stone. A sudden impulse made me enter. A man was sitting with his back towards me, busy at work on a slab of curiously veined marble. He turned round as he heard my steps and I stopped short. It was the man I had been drawing, whose portrait lay in my pocket. He sat there, huge and elephantine, the sweat pouring from his scalp, which he wiped with a red silk handkerchief. But though the face was the same, the expression was absolutely different. He greeted me smiling, as if we were old friends, and shook my hand. I apologised for my intrusion. "Everything is hot and glary outside," I said. "This seems an oasis in the wilderness." "I don't know about the oasis," he replied, "but it certainly is hot, as hot as hell. Take a seat, sir!" He pointed to the end of the gravestone on which he was at work, and I sat down. "That's a beautiful piece of stone you've got hold of," I said. He shook his head. "In a way it is," he answered; "the surface here is as fine as anything you could wish, but there's a big flaw at the back, though I don't expect you'd ever notice it. I could never make really a good job of a bit of marble like that. It would be all right in the summer like this; it wouldn't mind the blasted heat. But wait till the winter comes. There's nothing quite like frost to find out the weak points in stone." "Then what's it for?" I asked. The man burst out laughing. "You'd hardly believe me if I was to tell you it's for an exhibition, but it's the truth. Artists have exhibitions: so do grocers and butchers; we have them too. All the latest little things in headstones, you know." He went on to talk of marbles, which sort best withstood wind and rain, and which were easiest to work; then of his garden and a new sort of carnation he had bought. At the end of every other minute he would drop his tools, wipe his shining head, and curse the heat. I said little, for I felt uneasy. There was something unnatural, uncanny, in meeting this man. I tried at first to persuade myself that I had seen him before, that his face, unknown to me, had found a place in some out-of-the-way corner of my memory, but I knew that I was practising little more than a plausible piece of self-deception. Mr. Atkinson finished his work, spat on the ground, and got up with a sigh of relief. "There! what do you think of that?" he said, with an air of evident pride. The inscription which I read for the first time was this— SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF JAMES CLARENCE WITHENCROFT. BORN JAN. 18TH, 1860. HE PASSED AWAY VERY SUDDENLY ON AUGUST 20TH, 190— "In the midst of life we are in death." For some time I sat in silence. Then a cold shudder ran down my spine. I asked him where he had seen the name. "Oh, I didn't see it anywhere," replied Mr. Atkinson. "I wanted some name, and I put down the first that came into my head. Why do you want to know?" "It's a strange coincidence, but it happens to be mine." He gave a long, low whistle. "And the dates?" "I can only answer for one of them, and that's correct." "It's a rum go!" he said. But he knew less than I did. I told him of my morning's work. I took the sketch from my pocket and showed it to him. As he looked, the expression of his face altered until it became more and more like that of the man I had drawn. "And it was only the day before yesterday," he said, "that I told Maria there were no such things as ghosts!" Neither of us had seen a ghost, but I knew what he meant. "You probably heard my name," I said. "And you must have seen me somewhere and have forgotten it! Were you at Clacton-on-Sea last July?" I had never been to Clacton in my life. We were silent for some time. We were both looking at the same thing, the two dates on the gravestone, and one was right. "Come inside and have some supper," said Mr. Atkinson. His wife was a cheerful little woman, with the flaky red cheeks of the country-bred. Her husband introduced me as a friend of his who was an artist. The result was unfortunate, for after the sardines and watercress had been removed, she brought out a Doré Bible, and I had to sit and express my admiration for nearly half an hour. I went outside, and found Atkinson sitting on the gravestone smoking. We resumed the conversation at the point we had left off. "You must excuse my asking," I said, "but do you know of anything you've done for which you could be put on trial?" He shook his head. "I'm not a bankrupt, the business is prosperous enough. Three years ago I gave turkeys to some of the guardians at Christmas, but that's all I can think of. And they were small ones, too," he added as an afterthought. He got up, fetched a can from the porch, and began to water the flowers. "Twice a day regular in the hot weather," he said, "and then the heat sometimes gets the better of the delicate ones. And ferns, good Lord! they could never stand it. Where do you live?" I told him my address. It would take an hour's quick walk to get back home. "It's like this," he said. "We'1l look at the matter straight. If you go back home to-night, you take your chance of accidents. A cart may run over you, and there's always banana skins and orange peel, to say nothing of fallen ladders." He spoke of the improbable with an intense seriousness that would have been laughable six hours before. But I did not laugh. "The best thing we can do," he continued, "is for you to stay here till twelve o'clock. We'll go upstairs and smoke, it may be cooler inside." To my surprise I agreed. ~ * ~ We are sitting now in a long, low room beneath the eaves. Atkinson has sent his wife to bed. He himself is busy sharpening some tools at a little oilstone, smoking one of my cigars the while. The air seems charged with thunder. I am writing this at a shaky table before the open window. The leg is cracked, and Atkinson, who seems a handy man with his tools, is going to mend it as soon as he has finished putting an edge on his chisel. It is after eleven now. I shall be gone in less than an hour. But the heat is stifling. It is enough to send a man mad. Happy Haunting!

excerpt Sins Of Angels

Another excerpt from an unpublished work.... tomorrow a full story of scares! But that will not be my own. 

The cold fingers of the tombstones clutched at the darkening skies as if in warning of the coming abomination. The crosses once whitewashed now leaned together in a wretched purgatory of gray neglect and misuse. The cemetery seemed to shiver beneath the icy shadows of Black Golgathia Castle. And although the vast city of Lotus Shire shuddered under the castle’s threat, the graveyard seemed to nearly convulse at its presence.

Unprotected by the loving arms of the great elm lie a grave forgotten. This person had been buried well away from the other plots. This grave stood as alone in death as the occupant had stood in life. While others had been buried in a direction opposite the menacing castle, this poor soul had been buried as if facing the desolate building, for none but the mad could look upon it and in her life Elizabeth Ness had been quite, quite mad indeed.

It was said that as a child she had burned down the schoolhouse, with her classmates still inside. It was said that she had conversed with the unclean spirits that while away the hours in cobwebs. It was said in some parts that she was a witch and in still others that she had been the wife of the devil himself. It was said that she had killed her own daughter. It was said that she was a mental patient. It was said that she was a victim. It was said that she was a martyr. Many things were said of Elizabeth… but only the long, dead shadows of the castle knew the truth for sure.

She was no longer a threat. She was no longer able to lure children to their fiery deaths nor smite newborns with cursed deformities. Her powers had died with her. To the people of Lotus Shire if that meant that the truth about her had died also then so be it. Fine! Fine… so long as she was good and dead.

The wind became frost when it pushed its warm breath upon her tombstone and in the skies a storm seemed to gather above her grave, even in the most agreeable weather. When the wind bellowed loudly and screamed her name, no one was near enough to notice… for no one mourned her. When the veiled figure of a young woman passed through the dark fog that gathered itself above her plot… not one visitor to the cemetery noted it, for they stood always with their backs to her grave. When a voice whispered across the grave, they refused to hear. They refused to hear the voice that murmured, “Arise dear Mother, for I have need of you.”

When the soil split apart and spit up her body not a soul stirred to turn in the direction of the grave. They dared not turn after 200 years. They dared not turn and face the truth… for the truth is sometimes ugly. And as it has always been the truth refuses to stay buried for very long. 

Here is another first page hook from one of my YA horror /fantasy novels. 

Black Golgathia

The castle at Black Golgathia was built from the petrified bones of beings whose lives were taken away in their prime. The walls were blackened with sins not yet confessed, and so left unforgiven. It was a castle formed of guilt, bloodshed and prayers. Prayers stolen before they could ascend to heaven.

The walls whispered with the echoes of redemption’s forgotten travail. The murky windows gaped like the empty sockets of graying skulls. The gates were jutted and razor-like, the lost swords of fallen heroes, now forgotten. The turrets spiked in claw-like spirals under the ominous fog. They reminded one of lost souls scratching at the doors of eternity. Wretched, mangled and hopeless… buried alive forever under inescapable torments.

Every ghostly brick haunted mortal memories with debaucheries untold. There was something more than death here… more than death and less than life. There was undeath in this place. The towers of Black Golgathia threatened passers-by of something even more terrifying. The wind there whispered with the breathless sounds of a million tortured souls held for all eternity in a state of catatonic purgatory. It murmured a sickening warning audible only to the sub-conscious. ‘Step one foot in this direction and you could end-up as we have!’

Had safety been as simple as not walking in a particular direction, perhaps the castle would not have loomed above the providence of Lotus Shire. More probable, it would never have stood at all. Even staying on the straight and narrow was never enough. Neither strong moral codes nor location meant anything to Black Golgathia Castle.

Black Golgathia was not unlike the eyes of an otherworldly portrait. A seemingly faceless picture depicting an obsessed, nightmarish gaze that follows you across a crowded room. Incensed eyes that pry deep into the enthusiast’s soul and with wraith-like acuity judge the admirer well after the artwork is forgotten. The sinister remnants of this affixed stare were common place feelings for those who lived in the castle’s shadow.  


Now this as you can see is a simple setting... but NEVER underestimate the power of a setting to build tension to a climax or hook a reader!
That's my side of it!
Angel 

It's going to be a scary week! So I have decided to post a couple of excerpts from my old fantasy/horror YA novels.... just the first scene or chapter as the case may be. Today is from a novella (unpublished) entitled, "To Dance With the Dead" Enjoy and Happy Haunting!

These are also to show how a hook works in writing.

 A Fatal Omen

'Breathe! Just breathe! One lung full of air… that's all!' thought Avanterus. He clawed frantically at the top of the closed mahogany box, trying to will it open with nothing more than bloody fingernails and sheer desperation. 'The fear of a coffin is too large to live in and too small to die for.'

He urged himself to keep struggling… keep fighting. As long as he kept his focus he would live. It was a simple and beautiful thing. If the fear did not wrap itself around his soul and suffocate him… at least then he might stand a chance.

He could block all of it out. The close proximity of his wooden cell, the smell of damp earth, even the slimy decaying corpse beneath him would dissipate if he only held his concentration for just a little while longer.

Eventually there was nothing left of the extensive studies. All the knowledge obtained in hours of pouring over books… gone. His flesh seemed to be an invisible wish stripped down to an open soul. His thought process was absent. There was only one word left in his vocabulary… and everything came down to that one word… "Breathe!"

He tried for awhile to reason it out. 'A cube can have only so many sides… only so many angles. This must apply to a submerged casket as well. A base, a lid and four sides… how hard could it be?' Simple geometry … finally something that he could understand. Every equation has its solution.

He repositioned his lithe elfin body. He tried to stand upright, placing his feet on the bottom of the coffin. He raised his hands above his head and summoned every instinct within him.

'The shortest distance between two points is a straight line,' he recalled an old professor saying. He remembered asking himself why this knowledge should ever be useful. And finally his muscles grieved under the burden of his short attention span.

He kicked against the lid and beat upon the sides and after a lifetime he heard that erotic response. Crack! The top of the coffin busted, and rocky soil crashed inwards filtering down to take its place. Avanterus pushed sideways with both hands clawing through rock and dirt feverishly. Upward and onward towards the freedom that is life.

He kicked his powerful legs back and forth; he thrust his arms outwards shoving the heaviness of the dirt off of himself, only to have it return to him. Burying his face, chest and limbs repeatedly. His nostrils burned with the fiery hatred of inhaled mud. His mouth prevented hysterical screams with dirt encrusted silence and he realized to his terror, that he was still descending. He was drowning in earth.

His palms burst upward once, then again. Triumphantly his fingers stretched forward until he touched nothing.

He pushed his arms sideways with circular motion. His fingers had found their prize and now all that was left to do was claim it. He grasped wildly at solid earth above him and forced his legs to the assistance of his weakening arms. At last he felt it… the most invigorating lover of all… air!

Atop solid ground he vomited mud but the wrenching in his gut did nothing to darken the luminous threshold of victory. He looked to the tower of Dark Sorcery and dared it with complete arrogance.

"You'll have to do better that that boys!" he ridiculed the unseen wizards beyond. "I have passed your first test and I am hungry for more! Bring it on!" he crowed and suddenly he was falling.

The hook I wrote was in the first sentence wherein the elf is struggling to breathe. I carry this though out the scene building intensity of the story by begging the question.... why is he buried alive and can he escape. Action and the unexplained create a hook that makes the reader want to read. I'll have more of these this week! Happy Halloween!

That's my side of it,
Angel

I thought it being Halloween soon it might be fun to look at a few short stories.... scary stories! BwaHaHa. Here is one of my favorites. Happy Haunting (NO I didn't write this!)
LAMB TO THE SLAUGHTER by ROALD DAHL The room was warm, the curtains were closed, the two table lamps were lit. On the cupboard behind her there were two glasses and some drinks. Mary Maloney was waiting for her husband to come home from work. Now and again she glanced at the clock, but without anxiety: She merely wanted to satisfy herself that each minute that went by made it nearer the time when he would come home. As she bent over her sewing, she was curiously peaceful. This was her sixth month expecting a child. Her mouth and her eyes, with their new calm look, seemed larger and darker than before. When the clock said ten minutes to five, she began to listen, and a few moments later, punctually as always, she heard the car tires on the stones outside, the car door closing, footsteps passing the window, the key turning in the lock. She stood up and went forward to kiss him as he entered. "Hello, darling," she said. "Hello," he answered. She took his coat and hung it up. Then she made the drinks, a strong one for him and a weak one for herself; and soon she was back again in her chair with the sewing, and he was in the other chair, holding the tall glass, rolling it gently so that the ice knocked musically against the side of the glass. For her, this was always a wonderful time of day. She knew he didn't want to speak much until the first drink was finished, and she was satisfied to sit quietly, enjoying his company after the long hours alone in the house. She loved the warmth that came out of him when they were alone together. She loved the shape of his mouth, and she especially liked the way he didn't complain about being tired. "Tired, darling?" "Yes," he sighed. "I'm thoroughly exhausted. And as he spoke, he did an unusual thing. He lifted his glass and drank it down in one swallow although there was still half of it left. He got up and went slowly to get himself another drink. "I'll get it!" she cried, jumping up. "Sit down," he said. When he came back, she noticed that the new drink was a very strong one. She watched him as he began to drink. "I think it's a shame," she said, "that when someone's been a policeman as long as you have, he still has to walk around all day long." He didn't answer. "Darling," she said," If you're too tired to eat out tonight, as we had planned, I can fix you something. There's plenty of meat and stuff in the freezer." Her eyes waited to an answer, a smile, a nod, but he made no sign. "Anyway," she went on. "I'll get you some bread and cheese." "I don't want it," he said. She moved uneasily in her chair. "But you have to have supper. I can easily fix you something. I'd like to do it. We can have lamb. Anything you want. Everything's in the freezer." "Forget it," he said. "But, darling, you have to eat! I'll do it anyway, and then you can have it or not, as you like." She stood up and put placed her sewing on the table by the lamp. "Sit down," he said. "Just for a minute, sit down." It wasn't until then that she began to get frightened. "Go on," he said. "Sit down." She lowered herself into the chair, watching him all the time with large, puzzled eyes. He had finished his second drink and was staring into the glass.
"Listen," he said. "I've got something to tell you."
"What is it, darling? What's the matter?"
He became absolutely motionless, and he kept his head down. "This is going to be a big shock to you, I'm afraid," he said. "But I've thought about it a good deal and I've decided that the only thing to do is to tell you immediately." And he told her. It didn't take long, four or five minutes at most, and she sat still through it
all, watching him with puzzled horror. "So there it is," he added. "And I know it's a tough time to be telling you this, but there simply wasn't any other way. Of course, I'll
give you money and see that you're taken care of. But there really shouldn't be any problem. I hope not, in any case. It wouldn't be
very good for my job."
Her first instinct was not to believe any of it. She thought that perhaps she'd imagined the whole thing. Perhaps, if she acted as
though she had not heard him, she would find out that none of it had ever happened. "I'll fix some supper," she whispered. When she walked across the room, she couldn't feel her feet touching the floor. She couldn't
feel anything except a slight sickness. She did everything without thinking. She went downstairs to the freezer and took hold of the
first object she found. She lifted it out, and looked at it. It was wrapped in paper, so she took off the paper and looked at again --- a
leg of lamb.
All right, then, they would have lamb for supper. She carried it upstairs, held the thin end with both her hands. She went into the
living room, saw him standing by the window with his back to her, and stopped.
"I've already told you," he said. "Don't make supper for me. I'm going out."
At that point, Mary Maloney simply walked up behind him and without any pause, she swung the big frozen leg of lamb high in the air and brought it down as hard as she could on the back of his head. She might as well have hit him with a steel bar.
She stepped back, waiting, and the strange thing was that he remained standing there for at least four or five seconds. Then he
crashed onto the carpet.
The violence of the crash, the noise, the small table overturning, helped to bring her out of the shock. She came out slowly, feeling cold and surprised, and she stood for a few minutes, looking at the body, still holding the piece of meat tightly with both hands.
All right, she told herself. So I've killed him.
It was extraordinary, now, how clear her mind became all of a sudden. She began thinking very fast. As the wife of a detective, she
knew what the punishment would be. It made no difference to her. In fact, it would be a relief. On the other hand, what about the
baby? What were the laws about murderers with unborn children? Did they kill them both -- mother and child? Did they wait until
the baby was born? What did they do? Mary Maloney didn't know and she wasn't prepared to take a chance.
She carried the meat into the kitchen, put it into a pan, turned on the oven, and put the pan inside. Then she washed her hands, ran upstairs, sat down in front of the mirror, fixed her makeup, and tried to smile.
The smile was rather peculiar. She tried again. "Hello, Sam" she said brightly, aloud. The voice sounded peculiar, too. "I want
some potatoes, Sam. Yes, and perhaps a can of bean.s." That was better. Both the smile and the voice sounded better now. She
practiced them several times more. Then she ran downstairs, took her coat, and went out the back door, through the garden into the
street.
It wasn't six o'clock yet and the lights were still on in the neighborhood grocery. "Hello, Sam," she said brightly, smiling at the man in the shop.
"Good evening, Mrs. Maloney. How are you?" "I want some potatoes, please, Sam. Yes, and perhaps a can of beans, too. Patrick's decided he's tired and he doesn't want to eat out tonight," she told him. "We usually go out on Thursdays, you know, and now I don't have any vegetables in the house." "Then how about some meat, Mrs. Maloney?" asked the grocer. "No, I've got meat, thanks, I've got a nice leg of lamb, from the freezer." "Do you want these potatoes, Mrs. Maloney? "Oh, yes, they'll be fine. Two pounds, please." "Anything else?" The grocer turned his head to one side, looking at her. "How about dessert? What are you going to give him for dessert? How about a nice piece of cake? I know he likes cake." "Perfect," she said. "He loves it." And when she had bought and paid for everything, she gave her brightest smile and said, "Thank you, Sam. Good night." And now, she told herself as she hurried back home, she was returning to her husband and he was waiting for his supper. She had to cook it well and make it taste as good as possible, because the poor man was tired; and if she found anything unusual or terrible when she got home, then it would be a shock and she would have to react with grief and horror. Of course, she was not expecting to find anything unusual at home. She was just going home with the vegetables on Thursday evening to cook dinner for husband. That's the way, she told herself. Do everything normally. Keep things absolutely natural and there'll be no need for acting at all. As she entered the kitchen by the back door, she was quietly singing to herself. "Patrick!" she called. "How are you, darling?" She put the package on the table and went into the living room; and when she saw him lying there on the floor, it really was a shock. All the old love for him came back to her, and she ran over to him, knelt down beside him, and began to cry hard. It was easy. No acting was necessary. A few minutes later, she got up and went to the phone. She knew the number of the police station, and when the man at the other end answered, she cried to him. "Quick! Come quickly! Patrick's dead." "Who's speaking?" "Mrs. Maloney. Mrs. Patrick Maloney." "Do you mean that Patrick's dead?" "I think so, " she cried. "He's lying on the floor and I think he's dead." "We'll be there immediately," the man said. The car came very quickly, and when she opened the front door, two policemen walked in. She knew them both. She knew nearly all the men at the police station. She fell into Jack Noonan's arms, crying uncontrollably. He put her gently into a chair. "Is he dead?" she cried. "I'm afraid he is. What happened?" In a few words she told her story about going to the grocer and coming back, when she found him on the floor. While she was crying and talking, Noonan found some dried blood on the dead man's head. He hurried to the phone. Some other men began to arrive -- a doctor, two detectives, a police photographer, and a man who knew about fingerprints. The
detectives kept asking her a lot of questions. They always treated her kindly. She told them how she'd put the meat into the overn -- "it's there now"--and how she had gone to the grocer's for vegetables and how she came back to find him lying on the floor. The two detectives were exceptionally nice to her. They searched the house. Sometimes Jack Noonan spoke to her gently. He told her that her husband had been killed by a blow to the back of the head. They were looking for the weapon. The murderer might have taken it with him, but he might have thrown it away or hidden it. --- "It's the old story," he said. "Get the weapon, and you've got the murderer." Later, one of the detectives sat down beside her. Did she know, he asked, of anything in the house that could have been used as a weapon? Would she look around to see if anything was missing. The search went on. It began to get late -- it was nearly nine o'clock. The men searching the rooms were getting tired. "Jack," she said, "Would you like a drink? You must be extremely tired." "Well," he answered. "It's not allowed by police rules, but since you're a friend." They stood around with drinks in their hands. The detectives were uncomfortable with her and they tried to say cheering things to her. Jack Noonan walked into the kitchen, came out quickly, and said, "Look, Mrs. Maloney. Did you know that your oven is still on, and the meat is still inside?" "Oh," she said. "So it is! I'd better turn it off." She returned with tearful eyes. "Would you do me a favor? Here you all are, all good friends of Patrick's, and you're helping to catch the man who killed him. You must be very hungry by now because it's long past your supper time, and I know that Patrick would never forgive me if I let you stay in the house without offering you anything to eat. Why don't you eat up the lamb in the oven?" "I wouldn't dream of it," Noonan said. "Please," she begged. "Personally, I couldn't eat a thing, but it'd be a favor to me if you ate it up. Then you can go on with your work." The detectives hesitated, but they were hungry, and in the end, they went into the kitchen and helped themselves to supper. The woman stayed where she was and listened to them through the open door. She could hear them speaking among themselves, and their voices were thick because their mouths were full of meat. "Have some more, Charlie." "No, we'd better not finish it." "She wants us to finish it. She said we ought to eat it up." "That's a big bar the murderer must have used to hit poor Patrick. The doctor says the back of his head was broken to pieces. "That's why the weapon should be easy to find." "Exactly what I say." "Whoever did it, he can't carry a weapon that big around with him." "Personally, I think the weapon is somewhere near the house." "It's probably right under our noses. What do you think, Jack?" And in the other room, Mary Maloney began to laugh.

Saddie Lady looks the same way when shown a toy as I do when there's ice-cream? Hmmmmm!

Face Book Humor

I swear that Face Book is making me retarded! It all started innocently enough.... just an online way of keeping track of friends and family. Alas, good intentions paved the way to hell! I began to see jokes on my page and at first I had decided I would not repost any joke that was offensive in any way. But a joke is an all-powerful thing! Be warned; take heed! Jokes can change you unwittingly from a nice little author and housewife into a ruthless laugh-seeking monster if it is funny enough! If it shocks me enough that my soul makes any sound that even closely resembles laughter, I find myself acquiring a “Who gives a @#$%, it's funny” attitude and reposting the foulest of jokes!

At another time my sister was down and so in way of support anything she posted, I also would post.... just to show her that I love her. Now suddenly I began to think of my neighbors, friends, family's posts in much the same way. Before I knew what I was doing, I was posting virtual crap everywhere. It no longer mattered if I believed in it or not. I hit the “share” button.

Then in my sick addiction I began to live in denial of my problem, telling myself repeatedly, “In kindergarten I taught kids to share the first day. I only did this because my parents taught me sharing was good,' and so as addiction grew I of course sought out the obvious excuse.... “This is all my parent's fault!” and so refused to take responsibility for my problem! I began hitting the share button without even reading the posts I was sharing! I was so out of control I began to post to blackout.... reading what I had posted later and being left to wonder, “Why the hell did I post that? I don't believe in that cause.”

Then it got worse as it always does.... Face Book was as cunning as any other addiction.... instead of just letting me walk away.... dare I say it aloud? Face Book started spamming me with celebrities! They had everything! Rock bands, talk show hosts, celebrity endorsements, sports figures! Before I knew it I was full on hooked on the hard stuff. I began hitting the share button not only for bands I liked, but for any celeb I recognized! I was quick becoming the voyeuristic paparazzi of Face Book . I began going to these celebs pages looking for any evidence that they truly exist... it was almost like stalking. But my darkest moment came very soon. I realized I had a real problem yesterday. I am ashamed to say it, but I almost posted Oprah's diet secrets.

I am unable to ween off now and so I am asking all those who care about me and this terrible problem... is there a FBAA support group I can join?

That's my side of it,

Angel 

Entitlement and Responsibility

Just an observation on “entitlement” and responsibility

I was looking closely at my spending today.

Truth before we moved in here I watched my spending very closely. This is such a nice neighborhood that I began to covet nicer things. I began to feel as if because the neighborhood was nice, everything I own must be brand new.

It's a funny conundrum because not one year ago I was a serious bargain-hunter and had no trouble shopping at thrift stores.... until now. I took the money my husband gave me for winter clothes (knowing full well we now have a mortgage) and for the same amount of money with which I could have bought 3 skirts and sweater at a thrift store in decent condition... I instead bought a brand new jacket. It's a very nice jacket but I have done myself successfully out of winter clothes... simply over status quo.

Until I moved here I never understood the how addicting “keeping up with the Jones” is. Not even what it meant really. But once put in a prettier situation... I caved to luxury and lost all practical thought. I became part of the “entitlement crowd,” in my own way simply because my ego got out of control. Shame on me!

Now you will say, “Oh Angel give yourself a break! You made a bad decision... so what?' But it IS a big thing that I feel has gotten out of control. We make bad decisions, give ourselves a break.... and then don't have to take responsibility for said action! Ergo, no work on changing that behavior, ergo an excuse to do it again later, ergo a good reason to sit the pity pot when we don't have something!

I want now to address something very controversial... the outrage I feel about frivolous law suits. I see people suing fast food places because they got fat and suing tobacco companies because they chose to smoke. To me this is insanity! Just because a product is put in front of you does not mean you are forced by law to buy or consume it!

The way I feel is that, if I go to a casino, gamble away my money, my husband's car, my kid's college fund.... the casino doesn't OWE me anything! I made the choice to gamble with my life. Therefore it is my responsibility to take the lumps I earned. That, to me, is what being a grown-up is all about.

Now I did not want to belittle anyone or make anyone feel as if their troubles aren't important. I am quite sure they are horrible problems. I am only saying that if we do not ever bother to take responsibility for our own actions, bad decisions and so on, we do not, learn, change, or grow.

Remember that when we point our finger at the rest of the world, there are still 3 fingers pointing back at us.

That's my side of it,

Angel

I want to share news with you on the book tonight and when it will be out... but I haven't any news as of yet. I will let you know first when and what as I know them. I am ill again tonight and will blog again as soon as I am able.

That's my side of it,

Angel

Domestic Abuse

Tonight my heart and mind is with a friend. Some women don't even know they're abused. In order to help break the chains of abuse instead of blogging tonight I am posting a checklist of abuse. Take the quiz... what have you got to lose?

http://www.abuse-against-women.com/abuse_checklist.html

Be blessed,
Angel

Man-made Miracles!

Happy Birthday to my sister-in-law Rita for all the joy she brings into my life every day!

And happy Birthday to my best friend in the world, Ms. Ruby!

Now tonight I want to talk about miracles.... man-made miracles, if you will. There are some people on this earth that you just know have the finger of God on them. Let me explain, I was leaving an extremely unhappy marriage and I had no place to turn. I knew I couldn't really run away. I didn't want to be in the street, but I couldn't bare to stay either. I felt that to stay would be detrimental to myself and to my daughter... the relationship was that bad.

I had this friend, Ms. Ruby. Ms. Ruby had lost her husband, had 3 kids, no income and she was in foreclosure. Do you know that she brought her own car to move me and allowed us to stay in her home? Never mind the added expense or inconvenience. Never mind the bills piling on her head or the stress that adding 2 people into a mix like that would create. She took us in, no questions asked. She gave us shelter, food and helped us learn our way in the world. She taught us so many things, how to pay bills by phone and how to balance our priorities. She is the best friend I have ever had, because for the most part she taught me to finally see the strength of a woman. She is an angel of mercy and that is one debt I could never repay.

Now on to Rita. She is silly and has a twisted sense of humor. (NO REALLY! IT'S WORSE THEN MINE!) She is loving to a fault. She is brilliant and so good at so many things. Those are the nice things we say about people on their birthdays isn't it? So let me get to the truth of it.... the real deal.

When I am broken and lonely and I feel like the world just doesn't give a rat's ass... Rita will stay on the phone with me until I feel better... always! That's a loyalty that most people lack. That's yet another example of “touched by God,” And it is yet another example of a debt that can never be repaid.

Listen, if you want to be an angel on earth... not like me... but a real angel on earth... it is not so difficult to make a difference. The people who make a real difference don't usually think about it much. They just do “the next right thing.” In truth it is a pretty simple matter to pick up the phone and check on someone who's feeling down. It is a simple matter to say, “I will be decent to other people and extend my hand to those in critical situations.” Now perhaps you can't open your home like Ms. Ruby, I get that... but that is no reason to close your heart.

That's my side of it,

Angel 

Hey guys, I missed Pow wow because I was just too sick to go. That makes me very sad. So let's get ourselves lifted up. Try a bit of silliness tonight because I for the most part am down.

Things to do while at work

1. Paint your cubicle in florescent black light paint. Put in a strobe-light When someone comes in for a job interview ask them, “Are you experienced?”

2. Call worker's comp and ask if they cover paper cuts.

3. Fill your co-workers cubicle with balloons. Tell her she has written the millionth sticky note of the year.

4. Announce that today is National hide-n-seek day. Invite your co-workers to a game.

5. Place a camera in your lunchroom. Put a pizza on the table with the words “5 second rule” inscribed on the box. See how many people still take a piece.

6. Again 2 words, “Marco Polo”

7. Tell the boss you are staying late to work. When he leaves assemble a slide in the lobby.

8. Put out a memo that announces “Time and a half for Arbor Day.”

9. Put a tie on your dog. Bring him in and ask if he can interview for the new position.

10. Make a professional looking collection can and then ask people for donations for the cause. When they ask you what this cause is reply with “Cause I'm broke.”

Things I don't get:

1. If all ninjas are invisible then how do they put their children's diapers on properly?

2. If vampires can't see their own reflections then how do they know if there's something stuck in their teeth?

3. If the governments have “secret agents” then why does everybody know they exist?

4. If kids aren't supposed to take candy from strangers... can someone please explain Halloween?

5. How does aspirin know where I hurt?

6. You know that Santa Claus song, “He sees you when your sleeping. He knows when you're awake,” are we talking Santa or stalker here?

7. Shouldn't they lower taxes so that shorter people can just step over them?

8. Why is it I can only get people to listen when I say, “I shouldn't be telling you this?”

9. Do elephants only buy PCs that have no mouse?

10. Why are the most motivational words in history still, “I betcha can't?”

That's my side of it,

Angel  

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ug2TrGD7INY

So you can join me at pow wow

ACOA Adult Chidren

ACOA

Adult Children of Alcoholics

To be an adult child you do not need an alcoholic parent, this is a misnomer. You need only an alcoholic family system. Well hey Angel what does that mean? Briefly it means that somewhere in your family there was an alcoholic or addict who created a dysfunctional or even sometimes abusive boundary system or method of raising children. When a child is raised in abuse, they sometimes carry that onto their own children and so it passes throughout the generations.

There are others still who have been raised in a healthy family system, but suffered some truly horrible abuse such as sexual abuse from an outside source. Many times this will rob people of the tools they need to create a safe living-space for their children and or loved ones.

The trick is to break the chain so that these horrible things do not befall you or your children. Now that is easier said then done, isn't it? In truth you can't keep a stranger from grabbing your child and so we as parents worry. However, if the dysfunctional behavior is your own.... Aye there's the rub.

Change is very hard because it means changing a mindset. It means too much work, too much guilt, too much thought / talk about unpleasant sometimes soul-wrenching events. Doesn't it? Nobody wants to work that hard. But ask yourself this, “Do I want my children talking about me the way I talk about my abusers?”

In an ACOA group you can help yourself to work on these problems with others that grew-up in the same thing. There is a link on my website:

www.streetlighthalo.com

If this does not work for you you can try the usual, pastor, psychotherapy... whatever your doctor recommends.

Perhaps you are saying to yourself, “Self, my family was dysfunctional but not nearly as bad as all that. What can I do to help my kids?” Well did you ever report to your parent some really nasty remarks made by a family member only to hear, “Oh that's just the way she is.” How did that make you feel? As if maybe your pain was not important enough to matter? As if maybe your boundaries shouldn't exist at all? As if perchance the adult that reassured you that it was all so fine and normal was actually allowing the abuse to continue? There's a reason you felt that way.... that is called enabling. (See CoDa link)

If you answered, “yes” to the above and you don't want to continue that cycle with your loved ones then my advice is to seek the help of a spiritual adviser, organization, or doctor. Remember my fine feathered friends a Native proverb that will always ring true, “We do not inherit this world from our ancestors... we borrow it from our children.”

That's my side of it,

Angel

Pow wow

Pow wow is this week and I am so excited! Most people go for the fancy dancers, if I were to say I did it would be the babies that are just learning the sacred dances that I would go for. They are so cute. Some of them have costumes that are bigger then they are! I do however love that some of our traditions are kept alive.

My very best childhood memories are of my Pappaw taking me to Pow wow and telling the stories. By telling the stories we keep our ancestors alive and with us. You almost never see a story-teller there any more (well unless you attend 5 Nations) but that is Florida. The Pow wow in Texas is only really the dance circuit, which is nice... but it is not anything near as grand as when I was little. Is anything ever as magical when you have grown? Lol

My daughter is a rabbit, a keeper of the stories... but many people would debate that if they saw her dance. She dances backwards... like a Heyoka... like a sacred clown. Last year at Pow wow I got the honor of watching her finally dance with our people. I finally felt that I really was a part of them. I have never felt that much before (you see my father was white.) I got to see her take her place among us. It was a moment that is so breath-ta kingly beautiful as can not be described by heavy-handed words... much like when you hold your new-born in your arms for the first time. THAT kind of perfect!

To hear the drums is another kind of magic... A sad one sometimes as well, because I can no longer dance with them. Last year my daughter offered to push my wheelchair up to the ring for the friendship dance, but I thought I would just be in the way so I declined. The sound of the drum is like the heartbeat of the people and it climbs inside you until all you want in the world is to dance, to live in that moment forever.

The smell of the fry bread, the beat of the drum, the dances of our people, the mini-tipis... even the vendors it all lends something to this time of year.

I would like to show you my daughter's sacred drum that the Medicine Man chose for her. It is painted with the White Buffalo by a shaman to represent her destiny. For more on the meaning Google Yellow Medicine Dancing Boy (last white buffalo calf born and they are so rare!) Also the skin of her drum is buffalo hide and so it carries the spirit and power of the buffalo in the drum's voice. I am very proud when we hold circle and she beats it to clear the negativity from the room and call us to order. (if she didn't do that me and Ruby would just have a joke telling marathon and maybe no prayer! Lol)

So here it is. Remember it is hand-made.

Miracles

The following is a true story of abortion and miracles. A tale from my own life, that is much too personal to share. Lol So why then am I sharing it? Believe me it is not to convert any one or take sides on an issue. I am not yet perfect and so can't judge others. So then why? Because the question, “Is the Creator listening?” is something I hear a lot. I can't say. I only can tell you how it happened and let you make up your own mind. The following is 100% true.

My daughter Sarah is a miracle. Sit down, grab a cup of coffee and I shall weave for you the real-life fairytale of Sarah and the butterflies.

I had lot of medical troubles when I was young plus I was premature so I really didn't develop right. Doctors seven different specialists in fact said I would never be able to get pregnant and if I did we would both die any way. my OB advised a medically necessary abortion. I am not pro-life but that is not for me.... I would die of obsession and guilt.

Bob drove me home from the doc and when I walked in my Pappaw and Nanna were waiting for me at the table. But they had this very strange look... I had never seen that look before and it frightened me!!! My Pappaw said, "You cant expect us to watch you die. We couldn't go through that Have the abortion or you'll have to move out."

I was beside myself. I went into my room. One part of my brain said, but you can't get pregnant! Certainly there is a reason. The child has a path already. The other side of my brain said,"NO! you must have the abortion. How could you bare a child that will suffer and die? A mother wouldn't do that!" Back and forth went my brain. I was getting so upset and unable to decide.

For no reason (because it was the furthest thing from my mind) I heard my sister saying (when she was 5) "When you see a butterfly, it is Jesus coming to say, I love you." and just at that moment I looked out the window.

You have to understand my grandparents kept 42 stray cats in the back yard. There is no way there were butterflies here.

But when I looked..... billions of California Monarchs in the back yard. BILLIONS. You could not have walked without stepping on a butterfly. They aren't ever seen in Florida either. I made up my mind,

I went to my Pappaw and said, "Well I guess you might as well throw me out because I'm having this baby." He looked like he was going to cry, but never did throw me out.

For 2 long weeks neither of my grandparents would talk to me.... but then they mustv'e gotten over it pretty well. They started buying toys and baby clothes every chance they got. AND THAT my fine feathered friends is the story of Sarah and the butterflies!!

The moral of my story is, 'Get quiet and listen,”

That's my side of it,

Angel

More silliness

It's been such a horrible week... but a good week too, because it all worked out.... with the exception of the pipes breaking. Any way I need very much to lift myself so tonight I'm going silly again and I hope it lifts you too!

Things I don't get:

1. Why is it sheep don't shrink when it rains?

2. How do they keep those BBQ beans they advertise from dropping through the grill?

3. Why is it when people are wearing a shirt that says, “Guess” and I say “Metro sexual?” they get pissed?

4. Why do they call it a digital camera if it can't count?

5. Why is it that when you laugh the world laughs with you but when you cry you look like Alice Cooper?

Fun things to do in a public restroom

1. Pretend to read the graffiti and shout loudly, “That creep got my phone number wrong!”

2. Set off a stink bomb then run out yelling, 'That was one spicy meatball!”

3. Tell the person in the booth next to you, “We've got to stop meeting like this!”

4. Name the soap dispenser George then tell the people around you that he graduated, “Magna suds laude.”

5. Replace the toilet paper rolls with gift wrapping paper.

6. Pass out award ribbons to people exiting the stalls for their great achievement!

7. Tell people around you that you're going to be awhile and invite them to play chess with you while they wait.

8. Hand out thank you notes to people exiting the stalls.

9. Loudly sing, “Old Man River” while at the urinals.

10. Invite people to play water polo with you!

That's my side of it,

Angel  

My prayer

I pray today that the Creator will have use of me, that God will guide me by His will and not mine.
If that means I never get rich or famous, drive a fancy car or whatever, then that's what it means. If it means I die and people believe that I have never accomplished a thing.... well then it does. If it means SM finally snaps my spine.... hey it happens. My point here I think is to lend a helping hand, as best as I can in my little way to all of God's creations. So if I never accomplish anything at least I accomplished caring about others... as modest and small as that might be.
AHO!

AA

Good meeting!

Went to an AA speaker meeting today. I really liked what I heard. The man speaking was a prominent lawyer who owns a law firm. He is also a sex addict and rage addict.

While alcohol is a disease it is also a symptom of some larger issue during childhood, (for most of us abuse and or incest) and while he never stated his childhood issue he did address the subject. Self esteem issues come into play a lot with us. Our parents did the best they could with what they had.... no matter how poorly we might have been raised. That having been said, they may not have had the tools, but we were still left with the consequences. That, he said is separate. While we can not blame our parents we still have to deal with the consequences. We have to deal with the pain... without drinking/drugging.... without self-medicating, because otherwise our sobriety is just a flash-in-the-pan and will not last long.

TRUTH... we drink because we are drunks. No one else can be blamed for our drinking but us. We all reach an age of accountability wherein our discernment tells us right from wrong. If I shot you out of pain... would you still be just as dead? Yes and you can't be put on trial for being dead now can you?

In other words, pain is NO excuse to injure those around us EVER. As I said self-esteem issues come into play for a LOT of us. However drinking, drugging and injuring those we claim to love has never really increased anyone's self-esteem. Therefore if you are an injurious person, expect those around you to see it as an excuse to drink and drug.

So how is the best way to increase one's self-esteem? By doing esteem-able acts. In other words if you are using “Mommy didn't hug me enough as an excuse to destroy those around you.... how does my sponsor put it to me when I am being an ass-hat? Oh yes... Come down off the cross and use the wood to build a bridge to get over it.

If we want people to respect us, if we want to respect ourselves then there is only one solution left and that is to behave in a respectable manner.

That's my side of it,

Angel

PS. Don't know what's going on with my book. Will let you know when I have it sorted. Xxxooo
Sorry it should say on the bottom www.streetlighthalo.com

I have left Solstice Publishing. Will let you know what my intentions are with the book when I figure it out.
Ever just have a bad feeling in the pit of your gut? That's how I felt so I walked. Don't be mad. We'll get there together.
That's my side of it,
Angel

Taking a bit of time off to paint. Hopefully with some luck I will have a nice pic to post when I return.
www.streetlighthalo.com

www.streetlighthalo.com

I am asking a HUGE favor. Go on my website (link above) and let me know if I need anything else there?
That's my side of it,
Angel

My comercial

As the scene is set a really bad commercial plays in your brain!

You desperately smash your fingers on the remote buttons but.... no luck! The commercial is for.......

(drum roll please)

The MOST interesting author in the world!

See Angel Dunworth dressed like Indiana Jones and wrestling a ferocious bottle of ketchup... until her whip breaks.

Voice over “the voices in her head speak other languages.”

See Angel Dunworth butt-dialing the White House to order pizza.

Voice over 'she has telepathic telemarketers calling”

See Angel Dunworth unsuccessfully juggling rabid weasels.

Voice over “Her dog is a sheep in wolves' clothing”

See Angel Dunworth shopping for groceries in the auto parts store.

Voice over, “All her thoughts are subtitled in Russian... she is THE MOST INTERESTING AUTHOR IN THE WORLD!”

Pan in on authors face splattered with motor oil

Angel Dunworth says, “I don't lambada often.... but when I do I stash goldfish crackers in my armpits. Stay crazy my friends!”

Fade out

DISCLAIMER: No actual goldfish crackers were harmed during the writing of this blog. 

That's my side of it,

Angel  

  My new publishing house Solstice has asked me to write these down for you so:

5 fun things you didn't know about the author

1. I like dogs... I love big slobbering hounds!

2. I have learned to make a diabetic Zuppa Engleis that would knock your socks off! I'm pretty skilled at diabetic cooking now.

3. My daughter does the counter clockwise circle dance like a Heyoka (She can only do it backwards) SO if you ever need to lift my spirits just tell my daughter to do a sacred dance! Lol

4. I usually call people by their screen names instead of their real names. I even do it to my husband!

5. I love trees! You might be a water baby or an earth baby. I'm a tree baby!

So hey there's all my deep, dark secrets. Excellent news on the book. It could be out in just a couple of months! OH I'M SO EXCITED! A book launch takes a lot of work.... writing a book can take years, but that is just a tiny smidgen of the work involved. The real work begins after they sign you! Edits, rewrites, website, blog, social media, promotion, bookings, tours (if you're doing those) demographics, then sales. I am exhausted just thinking about it. It does however put me in a great mood to think I accomplished something. Who'da thunk it!?

I am really hoping that no one expects me to try to be someone I'm not. I suck as an actress and in truth enjoy being myself. Any way I think a real mark of success is to be who you genuinely are. I really disapprove of people who pretend that because they have accomplished something that they are better then the rest of the world and must start social climbing to prove the point. I really am unsure of who that kind of behavior is supposed to impress any way. Because if you achieve something and then you take the time to ask your friends what they have achieved.... guess what? They achieved something too! I try always to remember that the same God that made me made everyone else too. And TRUTH some of the greatest accomplishments are the ones that have been achieved by people we have never heard of. In example ever heard the saying, “Greatest invention since the fork?” Ok so who invented the fork? I doubt anyone really knows that. Yet still today everyone uses them. Don't they? Just sayin'.

All of the stories are updated as far as I see on the website. The only work not added yet is the competition piece. That is rather long and may put me over word count so we'll just see what Carly decides. The links are up too, so let anyone you know, know that these are available because you never really know who might need the help.

You know when I first started blogging I was so confused and scared about it that the very idea made me nauseous. I have changed my mind on that! I love this.... it's like talking to an old friend. I am sorry though old friend, I hear work calling!

That's my side of it,

Angel  

Silly stuff!

Yes the silly is back! Sorry I am a bit of a nut! But a very wise woman told me once, “You gotta laugh honey or you'll be crying all the time!”

Fun things to do:

1. Pay off all your parking tickets with rolls of pennies!

2. Find a serious protest or picket line and join in with a sign that says, “Pickles are shaped funny.”

3. Put a tutu on your cat. When friends ask, insist that he would have had the lead in The Nutcracker if it hadn't been for that damn rat!

4. Buy some of those plastic Easter egg things. Name them. When your friends come over introduce them as “my peeps.” Then shout at them repeatedly!

5. When you're out at a nice restaurant order the unleaded.

Things I don't get

1. Why do people tell me to shoot my own turkey for Thanksgiving when it just entirely pisses off the people in the supermarket?

2. Is it rude to dress your dog up and then try to convince her that the other dogs are talking behind her back?

3. When you throw away your shoes, do the soles go to heaven?

4. If you crossed a laptop with a lap dance and a lap dog, would your PC then be able to tango and pee on fire hydrants?

5. Why can't I find Candy land on a map? I can find Turkey.

6. Why is it that 2 wrongs don't make a right but 3 rights make a left?

7. Why can't we put a sky-light in the debt ceiling? There's one in the ozone layer right?

8. Does it give your pet lemming false hopes if you attach him to a bungee cord?

9. Is it wrong to to keep refering to the telemarketer, “Oh sire King of the Butt munches?”

10. When a heavy metal fan says, “Death to all false metal” is he just picking on the aluminum foil?

That's my crazy side of it!

Angel

Hi guys,

As you know my publishing house is merging with a larger company. How will that change things? I don't know really but I will let you know as I do. I know I get to keep my editor Carly and I trust her implicitly. So I guess wait and see. They have movie deals and things. I guess that's exciting.

TRUTH: I couldn't care less about fame and fortune. I am simple. My book I wrote to give kids, parents, teachers some tools they need to get out of crappy situations. Do I want my book in the hands of every kid in the whole world? Of course because it will help some one. Would I like a big, fat pay check? Well sure I'm not stupid (Okay that's a matter of opinion! LOL) But in the end I want to help.

Part of the reason alcoholics are considered self-centered is because we seem to think we MUST fix the world. It's true. And anyone who so much as sneezes in an argumentative way will be met with a rebellion on our part. It has taken years to train that mind set out of me... yet it rears it's head as it comes from having been ingrained in me in early childhood, That is DEEP. Hard to see anything in another way when your entire childhood you were trained to think differently.

Kids are my cross and my cause! Especially kids in trouble. I was always in trouble and it is a true testament to my Pappaw's patience that he never shot me in the face. YES, I was that kid. I think I turned out okay. At least I try to improve myself a bit every day. That's what counts in my opinion.

On this blog, I'd really like to hear yours!

Might post some more of my silly humor tomorrow as those seem to be popular. It's cool with me to keep it light on this as the troubles sometimes run screaming once you laugh. But I would like to hear what you would like to read too.

OH BTW more links and story titles for my book will be posted sometime soon as I have extended it... A LOT, including a competition piece that is a rather long short story. So look for that on the website.

www.streetlighthalo.com

That's my side of it,

Angel  

I have been ill for a few weeks and had to rest I do apologize. Also my publishing house is merging with a larger publishing house. I will let you know the details when I get them. I will try very hard to blog tomorrow.

Angel xxoo

Silly Story I started

Cosmic Toothless Space Monkeys Gumming Their Way to Happiness

123 looked at his assignment in the human realm.. It was just no good studying like this, nothing ever stuck with hm anyway. Being a 3000 year old alien certainly had it's drawbacks at times. He squinted in the dim light and read:

“The first thing to remember about humans is that they believe that they come from monkeys. They believe this thoroughly and without question. The fact that there are monkeys in every zoo does not deter them from the belief. From this we can gather only: that they display the same behavior as animals. Confirmation of this data was gathered during their strange habitual ceremonies such as a thing they call, “Super Bowl Sunday”. And in the female of the species a sacred ceremony observed religiously every year entitled, “Black Friday.”

However our top minds have discussed this and researched it thoroughly. We have come to understand that they actually evolved from a thing called a “banana.” Our top scientist 708 has confirmed this information. Your mission on earth: Gather data and over throw the human race.

123 sighed and smacked his intercom switch to the “ON” position. The ancient intercom was faulty and filled with wiring misconceptions that were firmly believed in and implemented by 123 himself. Upon his orders the efficiency manual was followed to the letter, so that worried staff would get only parts of his commands. He figured it was safer that way, it allowed him plausible deniability and it saved on batteries.

“Crew,” he screeched in his least high-pitched speaking voice, “let me draw your attention to the screen. We have an important mission. We must defeat the animals that call themselves humans. This will indeed be a historic day when we do indeed attack! I have implemented a strategy that will no doubt render our enemies helpless. The humans it is said derive from the most base fruit entitled the bananas. See screen.”

However since 123 had refused the help of any snobby mechanic his message was sparse and sporadic. So what the crew actually heard was this, “Crew Draw your attention to the mission. We must defeat historic, helpless bananas.”

At this moment the spaceship hit a pod of space trash floating higglty-migledy through the milkyway. This might have caused no trouble at all had it not been for the fact that 123 had again rejected any advice from the snobby guys in mechanics and installed the air-breaks himself. His ship swerved and smashed right into a large asteroid, just as the two teen aliens on the ship were sneaking an escape pod out for a joy-ride. The 2 had gotten away unscathed but only just in time to watch as the Mother-in-law ship smashed into the asteroid and exploded.

The 2 teen aliens having been brother and sister tried hard to console each other. Fazer looked at 591 as if she might cry. 591 put his webbed arm around his sister and said, “Perhaps they survived.”

“I doubt it, “replied Fazer, “And that can only mean one thing.”

“What's that?” 591 inquired.

“From now on we have to clean up after ourselves.” And at that thought both were reduced to tears.

It was a while before the whole mourning mixed with a sense of patriotic duty flooded the teens minds and so they headed to earth but not until their sullen teen-age bellies were sufficiently stuffed with the alien equivalent of pizza. It was clearly their mission to defeat the bananas in loving memory of their ancestry. The how and why was still not very clear to them but being naturally curious they decided to do their best.

An hour or so later Fazer stood atop an earth hill that looked down on a human community. Lights and neon signs dotted her view and as her brother walked up beside her he stated, “Wow. It's really ugly. Probably the fault of the bananas.”

“I dunno,” Fazer mused, “I kinda like it. It's shiny.” She began to walk towards the stone steps cut into the side of the hill when her brother anxiously wailed, “Where are you going?”

“We can't fight the bananas if we can't find them. Can we?” Fazer pointed out.

“You can't go down there. You don't know what's out there. They could be waiting in ambush. You don't even have any weapons. Things have to be planned!” 591 snapped.

“How long will that take?” Fazer asked rolling her eyes at waiting for something that was so obviously designed to keep her from having any fun in the human city below.

“Well, we have to make a plan, then we'll write them up somewhere and send them to the orbital space congess where they can be debated and voted on by the public. Once that's done we will wait while the space-buerocrats argue and debate the pro's and con's of the actual plan of invasion. Then...”

“How long?” Fazer interuppted.

“Could take years... I'd say best case scenario... about a century for it to become an actual law,” 591 informed her bluntly.

“I haven't got time like that! I'm going,” Fazer proclaimed and stomped off.

“Okay then report back to me at 0500,” ordered her brother.

“What time is that here?” Fazer asked turning on her heel.

“No idea,” explained 591, “I only just got here.” This reponse was met with Fazer again rolling her eyes and was puncuated with a sigh and a grumble. She turned her sights to the city below.

Fazer stood outside of a dwelling from which came sounds of boisterous laughter, loud whoops and yells comingled with the sound of synthsized musical notes that seemed to hang high in the air, encircle her and disapate into the hills all at the same time. She had no idea of what music actually was... but she could already tell she liked it.

The first human she saw walking up to the establishment was dressed in garments that must not have been made for him as the trousers hung too low in the back. He called him self Baby Love in order to make all of the lovely ladies swarm to him where ever he went.

At this moment Fazer had busied herself trying to decode the message that the blinking neon sign was obviously sending out in Morse code. Her face changed here and there as the sign flashhed long for dashes and short for dots... yet could make no sense out of it. “Guess it's encrypted,”she thought.

Baby Love looked at Fazer standing there and though he usually didn't go out for bald girls, he was in an adventurous mood due to a few too many shots of tequilla he'd consumed at another club.

Fazer watched as the being with the ill-fitting trousers approached her. By way of greeting Baby Love tried out his never-fail pick-up line, “ S'up Dawg!”

Fazer waited before she spoke. “If the Morse code in the neon blinking of the sign is encrypted this could be a ploy. I am unarmed. I'll just try to fit in, ' she thought.

Baby Love now more adamant then ever to score tonight repeated his pick-up line, “S'up dawg!”

Fazer thought for a moment as to what response might be socially acceptable in this setting. The boy with the ill-fitting trousers had called her a dog, and so she decided to play along. She began to bark loudly.

Baby Love jumped backwards as he had not yet consumed enough liqour to make a bald, meth-head honey look sexy. He shook his head and walked into the bar alone, wondeing to himself why the sure-fire pick-up line had never worked for him once.