Going to hell in a handbasket

A singing whale, a reluctant vampire, a brilliant fool or an artistic master – all characters with Moore appeal than your average dramatis personae. The best, by far, is BFF Biff’s narrative about the early years of a heavenly prince – Lamb. While condemning an unrepentant thief, I discovered what influenced the message my savior gave his life preaching.

Prompt #18: In 57 words or less, tell us about a favorite book or author.

*For three weeks in mid-2006 I served on a federal jury. Over the course of the trial, 15 people spent eight hours a day, five days a week in a courtroom listening to the attorney of a Ponzi scammer tell us why his client wasn’t responsible for the $65 million he unabashedly stole from his elderly investors.

We also had a significant amount of down time in the jury room where we were prohibited from discussing the case. Newspapers were verboten, as was the Internet, which left old-fashioned books for entertainment.

A fellow juror saw me reading a bargain table edition of Christopher Moore’s “Fluke,” and recommended I also read “Lamb: The Gospel According to Biff, Christ’s Childhood Pal.”

While “Fluke” was a good read, “Lamb” was laugh-out-loud, snort-soda-out-your-nose hilarious. It is both irreverent and thought-provoking as you’re taken through what happened during Christ’s early life, the missing years not found in the Bible.

As a reluctant believer, I’m not easily offended by religious humor. That Moore was able to treat this premise with both respect and satire won me over as a fan. I have devoured nearly everything he’s written since then, including the only vampire trilogy you’ll ever need to read – “Bloodsucking Fiends,” “You Suck,” and “Bite Me.”

Moore’s most recently published books are “Fool,” a retelling of “King Lear” from his jester’s point of view, and “Sacré Bleu,” a romance-history-mystery involving the Great French Masters. Start with “Lamb,” but any of Moore’s books would be a great summer diversion.

Take a seat

In my mind, I’m still young, still thin, and still agile. In my body, I’m feeling my age.

The simple task of putting away dishes have my joints complaining. I can’t take stairs two at a time any longer, but instead have to pull my old bones up with help from handrails. I’m not reduced to plodding along with a cane, but do need a lift sometimes to get out of a low chair.

It sucks getting older.

It’s not so much the slower pace I have to take that’s bothersome, it’s that loud Rice Krispies crunching that’s most annoying.

The 100 Word Challenge is to tell a story in only 100 words. This week’s theme is ‘Age’

Could be worse

I hoped for something a little more majestic. An eagle or hawk perhaps. If it had to be a shore bird why not a heron or even pelican. Everyone loves pelicans.

Not this. Why did I have to be a seagull this time around. The one bird that is alternately despised as flying vermin or ridiculed as a dimwitted clown.

It’s true… gulls are dumb as rocks and eat almost anything. I can’t subsist on a diet of cold french fries and stale crackers. All the flock wants to do is beg tourists for food and splatter parked cars with guano. They fancy themselves urban artists. That’s just a load of crap.

I’ve got to worry about getting caught in fishing nets or entangled in trash floating in the water. Ralph drowned just yesterday with the plastic rings from a six-pack wrapped around his neck. It was a humiliating death.

And the kids! Damn! I can’t enjoy a little peace and quiet on the beach, digging for mussels, without some maniacal kid chasing after me with a pail. I’m not available for pet adoption, back off brat!

It’s not all bad though.

I do get to fly. Skidding over the ocean at breakneck speeds. I can catch a thermal and ride it for hours. The view from up there is amazing.

The weather’s nice here too, warm pretty much year ‘round. No long flights south. There’s no one trying to shoot me and hang me in their den, or stuff and roast me for a holiday dinner.

I do have all the fresh seafood I want, if fast food isn’t my thing.

It could be worse. I could have come back as a pigeon.

This week’s Studio30 Plus prompt is “frequent flyer,” and/or “engage.”

Chasing ghosts

We spent most of the day pulling weeds from the tiny gravesite.

The child buried there was only three when he died, and only this first name, and birth and death dates were etched on the crude stone.

His very existance seemed to be a secret, and I was determined to shine a light on the secret, to make sure people rememebered him.

“Things had been much better when he had been hidden.”

Rising from his spot near the small headstone, Mason brushed the dirt off his hands.

“You can’t honestly believe that,” I stayed on the ground, my hands full of weeds. “He wasn’t an orphan. He had family who wondered what happened to him.”

“He was a bastard,” Mason’s vehemence was unexpected.

“That certainly wasn’t his fault,” I stuffed the offending dandelions in a trash bag. “Why are you so angry?”

Mason shook his head, shoving his hands in his pockets. “He caused a lot of problems in my family.”

I stood, picking up the full bag. The grave site, once obscured by weeds and underbrush, was now cleared. The stone was free of lichen, and the name finally visible.

“He didn’t do anything, he was little more than a baby when he died.” I stepped close to Mason, forcing him to look at me. “If you want to be angry at someone, be angry at the right person.”

He just shook his head again.

“Seems to me that you can’t bring yourself to place blame where it belongs.” I handed him the bag of weeds. “Just say it. Say that your mother had an affair, had a baby, and that baby died.”

“You’re out of line.” He grabbed the bag, and tossed it across the lawn.

“You can’t be mad at a little kid for being born, you can’t blame him for your parent’s divorce, and you can’t blame him for anything that came from that break up.” I jabbed a finger in his chest with each bullet point. “He had grandparents who loved him, aunts and uncles who mourned him, and a half-brother  - you – who should have been allowed to know him.”

He grabbed my hand to stop any continued stabbing.

“You don’t know anything.”

“I think you have that wrong,” I pulled my hand out of his grasp. “I know that he also had a half-sister. A sister who remembers him, and loved him.”

Mason stepped away from me, as if slapped.

“He was my brother too, and for a few short years, he lived with my family,” I was enjoying too much the wash of emotions playing across Mason’s face. “When he died, my dad and I moved away. We lost track of his grave site. Now, I’ve found him, with your help. I guess I should thank you.”

Mason stumbled back, tripping over the stone.

“Oh, relax, Mason.” I smiled down at him, lying on the ground in shock. “We share a brother, but we aren’t related in any way. We’ve done nothing… inappropriate.”

Inspired by Douglas Adam’s “The Long Dark Tea-time of the Soul” – “Things had been much better when he had been hidden.“

Week 20: Inspired by “orphan“

This end up

The others were making her do this. Said it was time, well past time. As if there was a time limit on grief. That after a set number of days, or weeks, months or even years, you could turn off the sadness like a light switch. A simple click and all sorrow and pain is gone, and your life can resume undisturbed.

It wasn’t like that. Nothing could take away that pain. Packing up all his belongings, wiping away all evidence of his life, could never erase his memory either.

They said they would help sort through everything with her, but they didn’t know what to do with any of it. They wanted to donate it, just give it away like so much junk. They might as well throw it all in black trash bags and dump it at the curb for the garbage trucks to haul off.

No, she would give his memories the respect they deserved.

Shutting the door behind her, she locked it so the others would leave her in peace. Boxes and wrapping tissue were laid out on the bed. A step stool stood in one corner so she could reach all the treasures lined up just so along the plate rail that encircled the room.

The desk where she worked was barren, bereft of textbooks and college rule paper. One by one she carefully packed academic trophies and certificates, tiny figurines of baseball bears and Christmas snow globes, photographs of happier days, and heirloom toy trucks. Each act deliberate, meticulous in its economy of motion. Slowly turning them over in her hands, imagining they were still warm from his touch.

As she placed each item in a box, reliving precious snippets of a glorious life, it was like burying him anew.

The last boxed filled, she unlocked the bedroom door and walked out. Leaving a life unfulfilled, packed away in four cardboard cartons.

A mother should never outlive her child.

The Trifecta challenge this week is: Deliberate [adj. \di-ˈlib-rət\] 3: slow, unhurried, and steady as though allowing time for decision on each individual action involved

Week 77

Backyard garden: flora edition

A combination of intermittent rain, traveling menfolk and unpredictable dogs, kept me close to home again this weekend. When a break in the weather gave me a small window of opportunity, I snuck out and took some pix of the shower drenched flora in my yard. The Girls, Hershey and Asta, followed me around, helping me decide what to photograph. They have a good eye…

You can click on any image to see a larger photo, or the series as a slideshow.

(Photos shot with a Nikon D60, using an 18-55mm, 55-200mm, 20mm f/2.8 wide-angle, 50mm f/1.8 prime lens, Nikon CoolPix S205 and/or iPhone4)

For more photos, please visit my Flickr photostream.

Submitted to Unknown Mami’s Sundays in My City

Eat at Joe’s

He taps out a rhythmic tattoo around the oak bole. A secret code only he and his brethren can decipher. Round runes as ancient as days, carve a message deep in the cork.

“Eat at Joe’s!”

Submitted to Weekly Photo Challenge. The theme was to “share a picture that means PATTERN to you.”