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A Year of Poetry – Day 213

There’s the girl who clips your ticket for the train,
And the girl who speeds the lift from floor to floor,
There’s the girl who does a milk-round in the rain,
And the girl who calls for orders at your door.
Strong, sensible, and fit,
They’re out to show their grit,
And tackle jobs with energy and knack.
No longer caged and penned up,
They’re going to keep their end up
Till the khaki soldier boys come marching back.

There’s the motor girl who drives a heavy van,
There’s the butcher girl who brings your joint of meat,
There’s the girl who cries ‘All fares, please!’ like a man,
And the girl who whistles taxis up the street.
Beneath each uniform
Beats a heart that’s soft and warm,
Though of canny mother-wit they show no lack;
But a solemn statement this is,
They’ve no time for love and kisses
Till the khaki soldier-boys come marching back.

— Jessie Pope, War Girls

Announcement and Snippet

Quest to the North goes live today on Amazon.  Like I said the other day, this is the next book in the Minivandians series and it picks up where Tales ended. A snippet from the more serious story can be found here.

There are also a few of the shorter stories that are inspired by real life, and I thought I’d let you all have a taste of one of those.


They continued to wend their way down the hall, then heard loud cheering from one of the doorways.

“Is there a game going on?” asked Elsked, peering through into the chamber.

“Ah, the merfolk are having an afternoon match,” Weerdington said as he caught up to the boy. “Would you like to watch for a moment?”

Elsked did not answer, but instead walked through the door into a large room which smelled of salt water. In its center was a large, open tank, in which swam several merfolk, both male and female. Across its middle someone had stretched a net, and the merfolk were batting a leather ball back and forth over it. As one made an acrobatic strike at the ball, another on the other side hit it with her long tail. This raised a cry of hoots and cheers from the small crowd of merfolk in a nearby pool, who were relaxing and watching the sport.

On the other side, a well-muscled merman with long, blonde hair tracked the approaching ball and used his head to send it arcing high over the net and out the back of the tank. Derisive boos and catcalls came from both the other players and the spectators. Elsked ran to catch the ball, which had bounced across the floor and come to rest next to the wall. He picked it up and walked back to the edge of the tank, holding it out to the mermaid waiting there for him. His pale blue eyes were transfixed on the creature, who sported a head of wavy dark hair and twinkling eyes the color of waves after a storm.

She took the ball from him, saying “Thank you, sweet child!” in a breathily melodic voice, then paused. She looked from the boy to his father, then back again. After a moment, a knowing smile came to her lips and she looked back to the Minivandian.

“Hello, DaddyBear! It’s been such a long time since I saw you last!” she cried out in a sultry tone, waving a shapely arm at the Northerner. Ruarin looked up to her husband in surprise, then her lips grew thin as she saw his face blush a deep red under his beard.

“Uh, hello, Cichlidia. Indeed, it has been quite a while,” he called back, looking as if he wanted to melt into the floor. The other merfolk saw his discomfort and began to laugh and call out to him.

“Join us!”

“I know he can swim! I’ve seen it!”

“But not with those heavy clothes on!”

“Yes, he’ll have to strip down like last time!”

Ruarin, her head held high and a serene expression on her face, walked to the tank and took Elsked’s hand. She looked up at Cichlidia, still floating in front of the boy and rolling the ball between her hands, with a glare which should have set her dark hair alight. The mermaid laughed as she splashed back to her position in the game.

“Come, son, let us leave these… lovely creatures to their relaxation,” she said gently, her eyes never leaving those of the mermaid.

With a regal air, and without looking at her husband, she walked across the room and out the door. As he followed his mother, Elsked looked back for one more glance at Cichlidia, returning her wave as he went.

The Minivandian motioned to Master Weerdington to go before him, and turned to leave the hoots and cries of the merfolk behind. The deepening redness of the back of his neck was the only sign he gave of emotion as he followed his wife and child.

Once they were a few feet down the corridor and out of earshot of the merfolk, Ruarin wrapped her arm around her husband and pulled him close. “I love you,” she whispered in his ear, “but I want to know how she knew you.”

DaddyBear, for his part, mumbled a quiet “Yes, my lady,” and continued his escape from the merfolk.


The rest of the story, along with much more, can be found in Quest to the North, available now at Amazon.  Hope you enjoy it, and if you do, please leave a review!

A Year of Poetry – Day 212

Once we were happy, I
Loving and beloved,
You loved and loving, sweetly moved.
Then you became the enemy
Of love, and I to disdain
Found youthful passion change.
Disdain demands I speak,
Disdain, that in my breast
Keeps the shame of my neglected offering fresh:
And from your laurel
Tears the leaves, now dry, once beautiful.

— Torquato Tasso, Once We Were Happy

A Year of Poetry – Day 211

Looking at the grinding stones, Kabir laments
In the duel of wheels, nothing stays intact.

searching for the wicked, met not a single one
When searched myself, ‘I’ found the wicked one

Tomorrows work do today, today’s work anon
if the moment is lost, when will the work be done

Speak such words, sans ego’s ploy
Body remains composed, giving the listener joy

Slowly slowly O mind, everything in own pace happens
Gardner may water a hundred buckets, fruit arrives only in its season

Give so much O God, suffice to envelop my clan
I should not suffer cravings, nor the visitor goes unfed

In vain is the eminence, just like a date tree
No shade for travelers, fruit is hard to reach

Like seed contains the oil, fire in flint stone
Your heart seats the Divine, realize if you can

Kabira in the market place, wishes welfare of all
Neither friendship nor enmity with anyone at all

Reading books everyone died, none became any wise
One who reads the words of Love, only becomes wise

In anguish everyone prays to Him, in joy does none
To One who prays in happiness, how sorrow can come

— Kabir, Looking At The Grinding Stones

Quote of the Day

Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.

Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battlefield of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field, as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this.

But, in a larger sense, we can not dedicate, we can not consecrate, we can not hallow this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us—that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion—that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain—that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom—and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.

— President Abraham Lincoln,  November 19, 1863

A Year of Poetry – Day 210

1
God moves in a mysterious way,
His wonders to perform;
He plants his footsteps in the sea,
And rides upon the storm.
2
Deep in unfathomable mines
Of never-failing skill,
He treasures up his bright designs,
And works his sov’reign will.
3
Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take,
The clouds ye so much dread
Are big with mercy, and shall break
In blessings on your head.
4
Judge not the Lord by feeble sense,
But trust him for his grace;
Behind a frowning providence
He hides a smiling face.
5
His purposes will ripen fast,
Unfolding ev’ry hour;
The bud may have a bitter taste,
But sweet will be the flow’r.
6
Blind unbelief is sure to err,
And scan his work in vain;
God is his own interpreter,
And he will make it plain.
— William Cowper, Light Shining Out Of Darkness

Musings

  • I made a total impulse buy and got myself a “Holiday Spice Flat White” from Starbucks, because sugary coffee with nutmeg smelled good at the time.  It was… different.  Imagine piping hot, slightly sweet, caffeinated chicken gravy.
  • My youngest son needs to learn that I have excellent hearing outside of noisy environments.  I can also go from “grumpy” to “growly” in 2.8 milliseconds.
  • I’d like to thank the Ford Motor Company and the CSX railroad for parking a freight train across the road I chose to get to work this morning.  No, seriously, I’m even considering sending their CEO’s nice watches for Christmas, because obviously their !#@$!! companies don’t realize when !#@$!! rush !#@! hour is in !@$!@# Louisville by God Kentucky!
  • If you are eating your lunch in your cubicle and chew with your mouth open so loudly that I can hear it in the next row over, don’t be surprised if someone desecrates the graves of your ancestors with common household materials.

New Minivandians Story on Pre-Sale

“So, what happens next?”

In 2014, a good friend handed me a copy of his first book and then asked “When’s yours come out?”

It was quite a challenge, considering that I hadn’t the foggiest idea of what I could or would write about. I got to work, and “Tales of the Minivandians” was the result of that conversation.

I had so much fun doing it, I immediately started thinking of the next steps in the story. Thing is, life intruded, and I wrote two more books before picking up where Tales left off. To be blunt, I outlined the first third of the book, then the last third of the book. Then, when I tried to connect the two, I got stuck.

After staring at a blinking cursor for a month, I gave it a rest and went off on a tangent about a Roman senator sent on a suicide mission, which led to the beginning of the “Via Serica” series. Then, a bunch of ideas that wouldn’t grow into full novels became “Escort Duty,” which includes a short tale about one of Simon’s earlier, and happier, adventures.

Then, just as the weather got hot this summer, a red-headed Eyrisch healer started whispering in my ear.

“So, what happens next?”

Quest to the North” is the first third of “what happens next”, and it’s up for pre-sale now.  It will be available for reading on Tuesday.

Here’s the blurb:

In the first of three adventures, the Minivandian’s son finds a hidden story of his parents’ past.

Long before the comfortable adventures of the everyday, Ruarin, the Lady of Eyre and Daddybear the Minivandian make a harrowing journey to track down the ghoulish remnants of a friend, and the captive he took.

In the frozen north, they must brave not only killing weather and hidden monsters, but the secrets of Daddybear’s past, including his true name…

All three parts of the story have been written, and they’ll be released as they are polished and ready. The Young Prince is going to hear about how his mother and father found their way home, and I hope you all come along for the ride.

The next installment, “Lost Children,” will come out in January 2017, and the final story, “Lady of Eyre” is expected to show its face in February or March.

Hope y’all enjoy Quest to the North.  Please take a moment to leave a review once you’re done.  All it takes is a few minutes, and it makes a world of difference for the book’s visibility.

A Year of Poetry – Day 209

Brother, that breathe the August air
Ten thousand years from now,
And smell—if still your orchards bear
Tart apples on the bough—

The early windfall under the tree,
And see the red fruit shine,
I cannot think your thoughts will be
Much different from mine.

Should at that moment the full moon
Step forth upon the hill,
And memories hard to bear at noon,
By moonlight harder still,
Form in the shadow of the trees, —
Things that you could not spare
And live, or so you thought, yet these
All gone, and you still there,

A man no longer what he was,
Nor yet the thing he’d planned,
The chilly apple from the grass
Warmed by your living hand—

I think you will have need of tears;
I think they will not flow;
Supposing in ten thousand years
Men ache, as they do now.

— Edna St. Vincent Millay, If Your Orchards Bear

Musings

  • Fatherly love – the act of purchasing an audiobook because the book your son left at school and needs for his homework is not available as an ebook and he has to do his homework.
    • Add to this spending time scanning around said audiobook to help him find where he left off reading the dead tree version, then listening to the same chapter 17 times so that he could answer questions about it.
  • I’m not going to say that I’ve had a rather frustrating day.  I’ll just say that I dare not start drinking tonight, because I might not quit for several days.
  • You’d think that working for a large shipping company would be a good way to teach yourself to enjoy the holidays, but then you’d be wrong.
  • Boo made his First Reconciliation last night.  Should I be worried that it seemed he was in there talking with the priest a bit longer than the other kids?
  • I’d like to thank my health insurance provider for putting a hold on Irish Woman’s coverage in January and not calling me to let me know.  There’s nothing like having your doctor’s office tell you you’re about to go to collections to get you to call the insurance company.