Another Ficton

This is something that has been on the back burner for quite some time... maybe posting it here will bring it back to a boil. It is cleverly titled "A Storm is Coming".

***

The day was hot; “stormin’ hot” the older folks called it. Not a breath of wind stirred the hazy white dust that hung over the parking lot. The sun punished the white canvas of the blue and white striped revival tent like lazy hellfire. Clouds to the northwest promised relief, but carried their own dangerous potential.

The people filed into the tent, ushers in white gloves holding back the flaps. Inside there was a sort of atrium where they had set up a card table carrying pamphlets like “Are You a Sinner?” and “The Rocky Path to Salvation”. The larger pamphlets went first; they made excellent fans.

Only about half the seats were taken when our local minister, Reverend Baker, began his welcome. He said a prayer of thanksgiving for our opportunity to see this up and coming evangelistic star, the Reverend Alvan Keye. As he spoke, my mind settled into a relaxed state, that state between waking and sleep, where thoughts tumble of their own accord. I thought of my mother at home, her gout too painful to allow her to attend the revival. I thought about how long the grass was getting, about my old blue-tick hound Hadley sleeping fitfully on the front porch.

A sudden gust of wind caused the tent to shift, the center pole creaking as it accepted its new burden. I snapped back to wakefulness. There was a slight murmur from the crowd, a shifting of weight and shuffling of feet that indicated I wasn’t the only one drowsing.

I realized with a flush of embarrassment that the Reverend Keye was standing center stage, his hands crossed in front of him, a microphone in his left hand, his head bowed as if in prayer. He stood silently, unmoving, the tension in the crowd increasing. When I started thinking that perhaps he was dozing like the congregation had been, he raised the microphone slowly; so slowly that I could see a bead of sweat run down the side of his hand, reverse itself, then run down his wrist to soak into the sleeve of his cream colored jacket. He held the microphone in front of his thin lips for a further silent moment, then spoke.

“There’s a storm comin’.” He said it quietly, so quietly that only the first couple of rows could have heard it. He waited another moment, and then spoke again, a little louder. “There’s a storm comin’.” The whole congregation heard him this time, and chairs creaked as their occupants settled in for the feature presentation.

“There is a STORM comin’!” He finally raised his eyes and scanned the crowd. His forehead was furrowed. His face was set in a severe scowl. His bushy white eyebrows gathered around the deep vertical line separating them like the frothing waters surrounded Moses’ Red Sea path. He looked like a real Old Testament holy-roller.

“There is a storm COMIN’!” He shouted it this time, the tiny speaker set into the podium distorting the final word.

He raised his right hand, fingers splayed, closing his eyes. “THERE IS A STORM COMIN’!” he yelled. A strong gust of wind suddenly blew the exit flap next to the stage open. Before an usher rushed over to tie it shut I caught a glimpse of the trees across the parking lot. They had a yellowish cast, as if the sun were shining through pale amber. That color, in June, in Kansas, meant only one thing: tornado.

Reverend Keye was now striding back and forth on the stage. He switched the microphone to his right hand and gestured broadly with his left, slashing the humid air with it.

“An’ this ain’t no storm of wind,” he continued. The congregation was now getting into the swing of things, a couple of amens popping up from the back of the tent. The tent darkened as clouds crossed in front of the sun.

“An’ this ain’t no storm of rain.” The first fat drops of rain plopped on the roof of the tent, making a sound like a toad dropped onto a sidewalk.

”An’ this ain’t no storm of hail. This ain’t no storm of thunder an’ lightnin’! No sir!” He strode back and forth on the ramshackle stage like it could barely contain him. “No ma’am!” He stopped and center stage and stared directly into my eyes. I heard an amen, only afterward realizing that I had said it.

“This is a storm of retribution!” He took a step forward. “This is a storm of judgment!” He took another step forward. “This is a storm of holy vengeance!” He stepped forward again, his toes now overhanging the edge of the stage. “This! Is! A! Storm! Of! Divine! Justice!” He raised his hands in the air, a look of sheer exultation on his face. The congregation rose to its feet shouting amens and hallelujahs.

“The Lord God has looked into each of your hearts and found you WANTING!” He backed up, cradling the microphone in both hands. He strode to the side of the stage and placed his hand against the fluttering side of the tent. “There ain’t no bed you can crawl under.”

He pointed at someone in the congregation. “Sinner! There ain’t no basement to hide in.”

He pointed at someone else. “Sinner! There ain’t no storm cellar to close up behind you.”

He pointed again. “Sinner! There ain’t but one shelter from this storm. Stand before the holy Lamb of God, and you will be safe from the wind.”

The storm outside was building. The tent quivered and shook, like an animal pulling at a leash.

“Sinner! There ain’t but one shelter from this storm. Kneel before the Son of God and you will be safe from the rain.”

The wind outside began to howl, thunder rolling across the plain.

“Sinner! There ain’t but one shelter from this storm. Prostrate yourself before your Lord and Savior Jesus Christ and he will shelter you from the stinging hail.”
A deluge of rain struck the tent. The weight of it strained the side ropes, the walls puckering at the attachments.

“Sinner! There ain’t but one shelter from this storm. Allow Jesus Christ into your heart, and he will armor you against the storm, though the very fires of Hell assault you!” The back wall of the tent was suddenly torn away in a blinding flash. A sound too loud for sound pressed against my ears, eyes and chest. The congregation fell away from the stage like wheat before a scythe, smoldering scraps of the lightning-blasted tent blowing over us.

I looked up and the Reverend Keye was standing triumphantly, hands raised over his head, a beatific smile on his face. Sinuous traces of St Elmo’s fire crawled over his body.

At that moment I had a vision. I saw my mother start awake, staring dumbfounded at her legs. She stood and walked, tentatively at first, around the bedroom. As she realized the pain was gone, she smiled and danced around the room.

I knew that the Reverend had healed her, and I have followed him to this day.

***

That last line is just kind of tacked on, but it gives an idea of where I was going with this: the whole apocalypse thing, which has always fascinated me in all of its incarnations.

Thanks for reading!

Practice, Practice, Practice

I read somewhere that the first line of a book is what really sells it. I believe "Call me Ishmael" was the classic example. While I've decided that novelling is strictly out of the question for me, I still enjoy the occasional short story.



I try to keep the above advice in mind when I write, and very often it's exercising that first-line muscle that generates a story for me.



So, let's practice.

Here's one: Though Harold was tan and lean, he had the eyes of a fat man.



Hmmm. Okay, let's try another: Basic laws of physics predicted Jimmy's imminent demise, but Jimmy had never studied law.



Ugh. Cliché. Sounds like Roadrunner and the Coyote.



One more: The calculator tape was too short to fall backwards under it's own weight and curled directly in front of the display. I hated that.



Ummm, okay. The adventures of your local neighborhood CPA, I guess.



So, no Hugo Award winners tonight. Maybe tomorrow.


Speaking of writing, it may come as a surprise to the thousands of readers I have that I have done some deep research into Norse runes, as well as Norse heathenry. Now the heathen crowd is a proud group, as a matter of fact their lifestyle demands it, and there are many that claim to be legitimate runesters. There are dozens of websites extolling the magical properties of this or that rune set; the Elder Futhark, the Younger Futhark, Anglo-Saxon Runes, Germanic Runes, blah blah blah.


They all have one thing in common. They claim that the runes carry intrinsic magic; that they are in and of themselves magical things. I find this thinking ridiculous. Runes are representations of vocalized sound, nothing more. They are no more special than any other alphabet, including our own.



Consider the archeological evidence of "rune magic", consisting primarily of brief phrases etched into physical objects, intended to endow these objects with kick-ass power. Most of them say something like "Frank made this sword therefore it will rip you a new one". Now, I do happen to believe that stating something as an absolute truth can help to make it true, as all good propagandists know.



The magic is not in the letters - it's in the claim. Runes have captured the imagination of the world, jump-started primarily by Tolkein. I understand the need of the Norse heathen to feel special, but what they really need to concentrate on is the idea (built directly into the faith via the Havamal) that no religion is more special than any other.



Now get off my lawn.

My Kind of Officer

I read about this over at CDR Salamander. Captain Conner is definitely my kind of officer.

His base newsletter, "The Lighthouse", has a column called "Ask the Captain!". In the January edition Captain Conner was faced with one of the most self-righteous critters out there (with a few notable exceptions), the officer's wife. Here's the question for the captain:

What is the deal with the gate guards not surrendering salutes to officer’s vehicles? I don’t think an admiral’s wife or your wife would appreciate that either. We’ve worked hard to get here and should be recognized. They learned to recognize your vehicles. On every base I’ve been on they have a sign WE RENDER SALUTES PROUDLY. Here they work on trying not to salute the vehicle if the active duty member is not present. Isn’t it by UCMJ code they are supposed to render a salute to an officer? The vehicle has a sticker so why do they not (salute) whether or not the active duty member is present or not? Fill me in!! DO THEY NOT TRAIN THESE PEOPLE ANY MORE?? If not, I see more and more laxness going on in this military. A CWO wife.

If I had been the captain, I'm not sure I would have even attempted a response, maybe gone for something safer, say, like when they were going to get Diet Dr Pepper in the mess hall. But soldier that he his, he took this one on. Here's the beginning of his response:

Wow. That’s quite a sense of entitlement you have. Are you sure a salute is sufficient? Perhaps a curtsy or a genuflect would be more appropriate? We could have one sentry prostrate himself before you while the other fetches some oats for that high horse you’re riding.

First, the irony of addressing what you perceive to be an issue of respect in such a disrespectful tone is not lost. Secondly, since you specifically brought her into the dialogue, my wife thinks your question indicates a regrettably narrow perspective. Third, yes, we have training which encompasses many things for which a post sentry is responsible and accountable, primarily focused on force protection, anti-terrorism, law enforcement, defense of critical assets and infrastructure, and the use of lethal force. But thanks for asking. Fourth, if you consider standing a post 65-70 hours a week as “laxness,” then I invite you to put on your winter coat and go stand on the asphalt in front of your house for four hours holding your vacuum cleaner when the temperature reaches 85 degrees. That will give you some very small sense of what it is like to man a post, without of course the lethal responsibility.

He goes on to correct her - salutes are "rendered", not "surrendered" - and gives a crystal clear thumbnail sketch of the history of the salute.

Like so many things that I am not and never was, this is probably why I was never an officer.

Kepler

The Kepler observatory was launched into space the other day. I can't tell you how awesomely cool I think it's mission is: to find Earth-like planets circling other stars.

What confuses me though, is how it works. I mean, I get the idea - examine stars looking for telltale dimming as planets pass in front of it. But something that no one talks about is the fact that this only works if we are in the same plane as the planets of the observed solar system. Seems like that would be a very rare thing.

What am I missing? Seriously?

The other method of detection is watching for stars to wobble as the star and it's planets revolve around their common center of gravity. Seems to me like this is the way to go... it works no matter where we are in relation to the plane of the observed system.

I'm thinking that this sort of thing is probably why I'm not a scientist.

Fiction

I like to write.

I'm no writer... I know that, but it's fun. I enjoy it.

Anyway, one of the reasons that I'm no writer is that I have no discipline. I wait for inspiration, letting the muse do all the work. As all writers know, inspiration is a fickle bastard, letting us have tiny snippets of ideas then kicking back like a car salesman who just made his quota, expecting us to do all the heavy lifting with plot and exposition and all that boring stuff.

Cruel.

Still, these snippets, these quanta of fiction (fictons, if you will) are fun, and reasonable distractions on an otherwise useless day.

To the point.

Since I don't seem to be all that good at blogging (I find myself woefully unopinionated) I figured I would use this venue to publish my fictons, maybe turn them into something, maybe give somebody else an idea.

So here's my first ficton.

***

Like Weights Around Your Heart

Y’all ain’t heard this story ‘cause, well, hell, there ain’t nobody left to tell it but me, an’ I ain’t told it yet. I figger a feller oughta tell his stories though, otherwise they’ll hang like a weight around your heart, maybe drag you all the way down to hell. Maybe if y’all hear it, well, maybe you can share a little of that weight.

I was runnin’ with the James boys back then. When I say I was runnin’ with ‘em, I mean that if they mighta needed a feller or two ta do a job, they might throw a little work my way. This was towards the end, I dunno, about a year before Jesse got shot by that pissant Bob Ford.

Both Jesse an’ Frank was mighty ticklish them days. Ya didn’t dare ta look at ‘em sideways, else you’d be more likely as not ta get Frank’s pigsticker stuck between your ribs. Still, they was good boys ta work for if ya minded your P’s an’ Q’s. Leastways with me, they was always fair with the split an’ generous with the chow.

***

Well, there's the first one. I'll try to split these up, not post them all at once.

Let 'em simmer a little.

Patriotism

Patriotism is a word that has been much-bandied about in the last eight years, and the last six months or so in particular.

What does it mean to me?

To me, patriotism is the willingness to sacrifice yourself for something greater than yourself.

Patriotism is not wearing a flag pin in your lapel. That's just a way to say "Yeah, I'm patriotic," without actually doing anything.

Patriotism is not blindly following someone because he happens to be in charge. Patriotism requires keeping an eye on the big picture.

(An aside here... soldiers these days are trained to vet every order and if it's illegal or immoral it is their right, their duty, to not carry out that order. If a soldier carries out an illegal or immoral order, the soldier is held responsible for that act. I don't know, but are there consequences that carry back to the officer that issued that order? Doesn't he or she carry responsibility for the act as well? I really don't know... someone let me know.)

But guess what... there is no implicit morality in patriotism. Suicide bombers are about as patriotic as they come, but I think we can all agree that blowing yourself up, along with your innocent neighbors, is an immoral act.

No, we mustn't fall into the trap of thinking that to be patriotic is to love America. Lots of patriots out there hate our guts.

For an American, patriotism is not hating muslims. This country was founded on the principle that religion is a personal choice. Many terrorists are muslim but to hate muslims in general, because of that, is not logical. The nearest this country has ever come to suffering an attack from a WMD was not that long ago. A man in Belfast, Maine had the makings of a dirty bomb (uranium, thorium, highly toxic beryllium powder and various explosive components). These substances were only discovered by the FBI because the man was extremely abusive to his wife, who eventually shot and killed him last December.

Guess what? The guy was not a muslim... he was a neo-nazi. A white supremacist.

There are crazies everywhere, of every religion. America is not served by its citizens hating others based on their religion, race or whatever. It is only harmed.

Patriotism means sacrifice. Sacrifice is not very popular in America these days, but I think it's making a comeback. Greed and commercialism make this country look amoral to the rest of the world (not to mention many of its own citizens). We need to get back to the idea that our country can be greater than any one of us, greater even than the sum of all of us.

What's The Matter With Kansas?

What indeed?



The Kansas legislature has passed a resolution stating that we don't want any of the prisoners from Guantanamo to be housed in Leavenworth or any other prison in the state.



These kryptonite-bearded, titanium-beturbaned super-villains are cleary too dangerous to be housed in the sunflower state. Pat Roberts and Sam Brownback, our distinguished senators, claim that housing the 200 or so prisoners from Gitmo in Leavenworth would:



A) Throw the guards in a tizzy, since the prison might not be prepared for such high-risk prisoners, and



B) Endanger the community, as the constant terror attacks that have been raining down on Gitmo would be transferred to the hapless citizens of Leavenworth.



Not only that, but officers that now attend the Army Command and General Staff College from our friends Egypt, Jordan and Saudi Arabia might not be able to attend, because apparently we'd be, like, holding their cousins.



So, the prison, THE prison, designed to contain prisoners from our very own armed forces, the place where we contain people who not only have committed crimes but are trained to kill, that prison isn't ready to contain Ibn al whoever because someone in the Bush administration decided that they were uber-dangerous.



I just don't get it. Hell, I say bring 'em in and put 'em on display. Leavenworth already banks on prison-tourism (a new brochure has the catchy phrase "Doin' time in Leavenworth"). They could set up Kiddie Torture Land... the Waterboarding Adventure Ride, that kind of thing.



I got nothin' else. It's just friggin' idiocy.