Monday Mind Opener

Happy Monday, ShakesQuillers! To get us started for the week we're going to play a little game called Autopilot. The concept is this: I'll give you an opening line, and then you start writing.

And when I say "Start writing" that's what I mean. Don't go back and fix any mistakes you may make, whether they be grammar or spelling or syntax. Just start writing. If you get stuck, you don't even have to make sense, just keep writing. When you don't want to write anymore, stop and hit send. Editing is a no-no.

Honestly, I've used this game as a way to come up with ideas to write or blog about. Some of my better humor efforts have come when I'm feeling totally blanked out and decided to just type. Very often a line or a theme emerges. But even if it doesn't, it's a fine way to get a week of writing started. Be as silly or serious as you like. There are no rules here except one - start writing.

Click to the "Turn Page" link to find the opening line. And have fun.

"The painter stopped her work when she heard the noise. Looking upward she thought "not again." ...

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I'm not as prolific as Bill

Hello, 'quillers, it's me, maurinsky, back from an extended and involuntary break from blogging. It's a long and surprisingly boring story about work-related travel and office renovations and bad, evil, computer viruses (viri?). But here is a second excerpt from my novel that a couple of you seemed to find intriguing.

***********************************************************************************

Peter. James' memory of the first time he saw Peter was so vivid, it played in his mind like it was a regular show on Turner Classic Movies.

He had just transferred from Columbia University in New York to the University of New Brighton in Connecticut, known as Unew, or the NewB to those who loved it. His father had succumbed to the tumors in his brain shortly after his second semester ended, and James didn't want to go back to school at all. He compromised with his mother, who convinced him to enroll at Unew, which was only about 15 minutes from their comfortable suburban home.

It was past the deadline for transfers, but the helpful admissions staff was willing to make special arrangements for a student who had so recently suffered such a devastating loss. So shortly before the semester started he found himself in line to register for classes. He had been standing in the same spot for 20 minutes, contemplating the back of the head of the young girl in front of him, who was so engaged in her conversaTion with the girl in front of her that she didn't seem to notice the line wasn't moving. James, however, was painfully aware of each moment as it passed, wondering if enrolling here was merely a bad idea or the worst idea his mother ever had.

Eventually, the line started moving again, and James handed his registraTion form to the registrar staff member. She quickly compared the sheet to a list she had and circled one class, a biology lab, saying it was full, but that there was another session available on Tuesday and Thursday mornings - at 7:00 a.m.

"7 a.m.?" James said with dismay.

A voice close to his ear said "trust me, you want to take this class."

James turned and felt an electrical jolt run through his whole body as he faced the voice.

His dark brown hair was carelessly tousled, the gentle waves crowning a face that James could only describe as beautiful - there was a bright spark in the man's dark brown eyes. His face was tanned, but with a golden hue, and his full lips were broken into a broad smile, revealing the bright white of his teeth. A dimple dotted the man's right cheek. His nose was perfectly proporTioned, and he had a strong jawline.

James realized he was staring, so he shook his head, and said "Is there some compelling reason why I should wake up at the crack of dawn for this particular class?"

"Well, first of all," the man said, "I'm in the class, and that means it will be fun."

James smiled. "I'm not convinced yet."

"Second of all," the man continued, "this professor kicks ass. He knows his shit and he knows how to teach it. And I'm a bio major, so I know what I'm talking about."

James hesitated. "Okay, but...7 a.m.?"

The young man tilted his head back and laughed. "I'll bring the coffee and you bring the doughnuts, how about that?"

James was ordinarily a deliberate sort of person, who made spent hours considering the pros and cons before he made a decision, but he felt under the sway of this magnetic young man. He smiled and said "all right, you sold me," and turned to register for the 7 a.m. class.

Before he stepped out of line with his schedule, he faced the young man again and put his hand out. "I'm James, by the way," he said.

The young man took his hand and gave a gentle squeeze. "Good to meet you, James. I'm Peter."

James set aside his thoughts of the past and looked down at the picture. He rubbed his hands with his face, feeling a quiet desperaTion from within his heart, and placed the picture back on the desk, a little token that reminded people that James was just a regular guy, with a lovely fiancee and a successful career, and a bright future. But James knew. He was in love with a dead man, and not just any dead man, either. James was in love with his fiancee's deceased older brother.

"Oh, yeah, this is completely normal," he said aloud, sarcastically, to no one.

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Sunday Fiction - Part X*

Parts One through Nine can be found in the sidebar at my place, for those who haven't been playing along and are interested.

So, the deal is that you readers submit comments and I weave them into a story (The submitted snippets are shown in bold). Below is this week's result.

.................

It was raining sideways that morning.

Which, arguably, is the perfect weather for a funeral. So it was a fairly small crowd that gathered at the cemetery on the hill for Dirk's funeral. We stood there, overcoats whipping in the wind, umbrellas all but useless. There couldn't have been more than 20 mourners; half a dozen of his fellow private investigators, friends from his club, and some cousins I was sure he hadn't seen in years.

The cousins had predatory looks in their eyes, and one of them kept looking over at me. I suppose they knew I was the executor for Dirk's estate. Some estate, I mused as the priest droned on. An office full of old magazines, some furniture in a small apartment, and a 1949 Plymouth Woody station wagon. That was it, as far as I knew, but we'd all find out together later at the reading of the will.

The ceremony finally finished, and we trudged through the rain back to the waiting vehicles. I ended up in the car with a couple from the Whole-ism Club, where Dirk had been a member for many years. Marge and Anthony Geklis had known Dirk since he had moved to the city in the mountains some ten years earlier. I knew them by sight, but that was about it.

We rode in silence for a bit, then Marge turned to me and spoke. "Bear in mind," she said, "You have far more going for you than you think."

"I'm sorry?" I answered, more than a bit confused.

"You seem to be somewhat morose, is all. Which is understandable, since you just lost a good friend - and in such a strange way..." her voice faded off as she turned and looked out the window at the dreary day.

Anthony took up the topic, saying, "Yes. To survive being shot in the stomach only to go from such an odd thing."

"What was it, again?" Marge asked, still watching the rain hit the windows.

"It was very strange," I answered, reciting for what seemed like the hundredth time, "'I am afraid', said the doctor, 'that you have a terminal case of Epidermophyton floccosum. I would suggest you get your affairs in order.'"

Tears rolled down Marge's cheeks as she said, "To die from athlete's foot." The rest of the ride passed in silence, except for the rain hitting the car.

We arrived at the Five Spot, where the wake was to be held, and hurried through the rain to the open door. There were many more of Dirk's friends here, which was not really that surprising. Most people would rather have a drink in a cozy pub than stand at a graveside in the driving rain.

The avaricious cousins had already arrived, one of them carrying a little dog. Like many little dogs, it barked. And barked. And barked. The incessant barking was enough to drive me to tears.

Eloise Black, whom I had assisted on a case several weeks earlier, was also at the wake, and when she saw me she came over to speak with me. "I can't believe someone would bring a yippy dog like that to a wake! Isn't it illegal or something to have a dog in a pub anyway?"

My motto had always been - An apple pie is better than an angry swarm of hornets, so I didn't really want to get involved in this, but Eloise looked at me with such a look that I couldn't resist. I walked over to the owner of the dog and introduced myself, and then mentioned that having a dog in a pub - and at a wake - was probably not the best course to take, and that the dog might feel more comfortable waiting somewhere else.

The cousin, whose name I still did not know, must have had more to drink than I thought, because he reacted quite angrily. "How dare you tell me what to do with Chesterton! He has just as much right to be here as any of these... Neanderthal!" he bellowed, glaring around in disgust at the crowd.

"Percy, calm down," one of the other cousins said.

"I will not calm down, James! And if this ... disheveled excuse of a person does not remove himself from my presence immediately, I shall--"

"Look, Bub," I said, drawing myself to my full height, "This pub is full of Dirk's friends, and we're here to celebrate his life, not listen to some useless little bit of fur yap its fool head off. I knew Dirk for 20 years, and never once did he mention any of you, and you certainly never visited him. Now, I suggest you take that dog and leave."

I wasn't sure why I was reacting this way, as I am normally a peaceable man, but something about this guy just raised my hackles.

"This is a public place!" Percy shouted. "I will not have you telling me what I can and can't do!! I'll call the police!! I'll report you to the ---" Suddenly, he clutched at his chest and started to fall forward.

His brothers caught him and gently lowered him to the floor as Jimmy the bartender grabbed the phone and dialed 911. James handed the dog to his other brother. "Edward," he said, "Take this dog to Mr. Paulson's house. He'll know what to do." He then turned his attention to his fallen brother.

"Is there anything I can do to help?" I asked.

Wearing a face as serious as a heart attack, he said in a matter-of-fact tone, "My daddy did that to me once. Once!"

I looked at my drink in consternation, confused by the non sequitur, and then stood back. Within a couple of minutes, we could hear the wail of a siren as the EMTs arrived. They went to work on the fallen man, and soon had him on a gurney and out the door, James trailing along behind him, talking on his cell phone.

The rest of the wake went surprisingly well.

When I staggered back to the office a few hours later, there was a message on my machine from Dirk's lawyer. The reading of the will was to be postponed until Percy's condition was determined, and I was to call the lawyer back the next day to discuss matters.

I turned off the lights, collapsed on the couch, and was asleep almost instantly.


I awoke the next morning, feeling like a coal train was rumbling through my head. I stumbled into the bathroom and washed my face, then started a pot of coffee. Once I felt almost human again, I tried to call the lawyer - no answer. I tried repeatedly throughout the day to contact him, to no avail. I went to the Five Spot for lunch, and found out that Percy was going to be okay. Jimmy had been concerned, since the man had had an attack there in the pub, after all, and had called the hospital.

Once I got back to the office I began trying again to get through to the lawyer. After trying to reach him for over ten hours, the line finally rang through! The reading was to be two days later, at three in the afternoon.

Back in the early days of my junior detective apprenticeship I had gotten into the habit of logging the outcome of each case. Although I hadn't had to investigate anything with Dirk's situation, I reached for my book and made a mark in the appropriate column.

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Word of the Day

Sublunary

sub•lu•na•ry
Pronunciation: \suhb-LOO-nuh-ree\
Function: adjective

Situated beneath the moon; hence, of or pertaining to this world; terrestrial; earthly.

"In Shakespearean drama, both tragic and comic, the storms and calamities that shake the sublunary globe are reflections of turmoil in the hearts of men."

— Pico Iyer, "The Philippines Midsummer Night's Dream", Time, July 21, 1986

Thanks to Constant Comment for today's WOTD entry

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Word of the Day

Emolument

Perhaps we could chat about some words that just don't sound like they should be what they are. Emolument falls into that category for me.

emol•u•ment
Pronunciation: \i-ˈmäl-yə-mənt\
Function: noun
Etymology: Middle English, from Latin emolumentum advantage, from emolere to produce by grinding, from e- + molere to grind — more at meal
Date: 15th century

1: the returns arising from office or employment usually in the form of compensation or perquisites
2 archaic: advantage

The word sounds to me like it should refer to a form of a liniment, something that soothes aches (perhaps because of mollify?), and if not that, to something that goes in a sandwich (cousin, perhaps, to condiment).

I find especially interesting that the etymology shows the word meaning, literally, "to produce by grinding."

Who here hasn't — at least at some point — found his or her means of earning an emolument a real grind? It's probably no accident that the two words – "emolument" and the colloquial "grind" -- are so closely related.

What words just don't sound right to you – don't sound like they should mean what they mean?

Thanks to Bitty for today's WOTD entry

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Sestina of a Salesman

It's late when he turns on his dimmest light,
And looks at his appointments calendar.
He squints his eyes to focus, tries to run
Along the pages, hoping that a plan
Suggests itself. Then, taking up his pen,
He marks his hopeful guesses for the year.

It's been some time since he has had a year
Unlike the last. His business has been light,
And sometimes he forgets to fill his pen,
He writes so little. On the calendar
Are few appointments. This was not the plan
He had, when he decided that he'd run

His own new business. He'd had a decent run
Of luck, and was the salesman of the year
(He's got the pin to prove it). Now the plan
Was simple: he'd help others see the light,
And show them that a simple calendar
Was all you needed. He set out to pen

An Art of Sales: Like cattle in a pen,
The people out there can be made to run
In herds, and as the seasonal calendar
Dictates the slaughter, so the retail year
Moves us to spend our money. With a light
But happy wallet, people think they plan

Their own consumption. Actually, the plan
Is not their own. It flowed out from his pen,
And soon he'd published it: a handy, light,
And useful paperback. Initial run:
A hundred thousand. Surely, in a year
He'd make a pile. He cleared his calendar

And quit his job. The Retail Calendar,
He'd called his masterpiece. He knew the plan
Would work. Consulting fees were good that year,
But not the next. And, twiddling his pen,
He realized there'd no longer be a run
On his techniques. He'd flared out like a light.

The calendar speaks softly to his pen:
"His plan was simple, yet it couldn't run
A second year by such a gloomy light."

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Word of the Day

Gloaming

gloam·ing
Pronunciation: \GLOH-ming\
Function: noun

Twilight; dusk.

In the gloaming, oh my darling,
when the lights are soft and low
and the quiet shadows falling
softly come and softly go..

When the trees are sobbing faintly
with a gentle unknown woe,
will you think of me and love me,
as you did once long ago..?

In the gloaming, oh my darling,
think not bitterly of me.
Though I passed away in silence
left you lonely, set you free..

For my heart was tossed with longing,
what had been could never be.
It was best to leave you, thus, dear,
best for you and best for me..

In the gloaming, oh my darling,
when the lights are soft and low,
will you think of me and love me,
as you did once long ago..?

"In the Gloaming," 1912, lyrics by Meta Orred, music by Annie Fortescue Harrison

Thanks to Constant Comment for today's WOTD entry

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Creatively Created Creative Writing - Request Post

Hello, All!

And so it begins. It's Tuesday, so it's time to put your creative juices to work and come up with a snippet of dialog or narrative for me to weave into a story, which I will write and post on Sunday.

Something like:

My motto had always been - An apple pie is better than an angry swarm of hornets.

Also, for those who have been reading the chapters I've done previously, you can read the rest over at my place (links in the sidebar there).

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Monday Mind Opener

The last Monday Mind Opener was a big hit as ShakesQuillers limbered up their brains and had some fun using some random words to create a novel title and description.

This week, your assignment is to write an entire novel. However, the word count is six. Yes, taking an idea from Melissa McEwan (who nicked the idea from The Heretik), your job, should you chose to accept it, is to find something in the news past or present that you can turn into an entire, six-word novel. An Example:

China's Olympic Glory
by William K. Wolfrum

Crush the workers, get an Olympics.

The End.

You can make your book about anything you like whether it be politics, entertainment, sports, or anything else you like. Basically, if something is on your mind this lovely Monday, then don't just sit there, write a novel about it.

As always, any questions will be answered in the comment section.

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Word of the Day

Shibboleth

shib·bo·leth
Pronunciation: (shb-lth, -lth)
Function: noun

1. A word or pronunciation that distinguishes people of one group or
class from those of another.
2. a. A word or phrase identified with a particular group or cause; a catchword. b. A commonplace saying or idea.
3. A custom or practice that betrays one as an outsider.

I came across this word from reading comments from an interesting
article on slashdot.org about the Bush administration's criminal
hiring practices in the justice department.

Apparently some of Bush's lackeys were doing LexisNexis searches
looking for shibboleths that would connect potential candidates with
Democrat or liberal causes.

Thanks to Dgun for today's WOTD entry

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Bob's CCCW, Chapter VI

"Why don't those birds ever stop circling!?", Bill said to Jerry. "Jerry? You still with me, man?" Bill craned his neck around as far as the bindings that had him staked to the desert floor allowed, trying to see his friend, who was staked out a couple dozen yards away. "Jerry!"

"Where the hell else would I be," Jerry croaked. "I'm staked to the ground just like you are! Besides, it's better for them to be circling than for them to land - cause then it's lunchtime!!" he finished with a hoarse laugh.

Bill sighed and went back to watching the buzzards circling. The hot sun had long since drawn all the sweat of him, and he could feel the dried, salty remains of the rivulets that hours before had run down the side of his face. And he thought he could feel his skin blistering in ... well, places that didn't normally get much exposure to the sun. He closed his eyes against the brightness of the sun as his mind drifted.


Suddenly, he found himself standing in a grocery store, looking at the peanut butter displays. He reached for a jar and thought, Smooth or creamy? The other shoppers would never comprehend just how much was riding on the decision. Wait. Smooth or creamy? He looked down and realized he was holding a bottle of sunscreen. He looked around as he felt a tap on his shoulder and saw his old college flame, Linda, the redhead that had started his fascination with that hair color.

I hadn't talked to her in so long that I wasn't sure any communication from me would be well received, he thought out loud in a film-noir non sequitur. "Oh, my God, Linda! I haven't seen you in forever!" She was wearing purple lizard shorts and a sequined leotard, and had a marmoset on her shoulder.

He reached out to hug her and she looked at him quizzically, "But Grandpa", she said, "I don't want hair on my chest. I want BOOBS."

Bill shook his head to try and make sense of her statement and found himself back in the desert, naked and staked to the ground, with Linda kneeling beside him, bottle of sunscreen in her hand.

"Step right up, step right up!! Try your skill!!" A voice drew Bill's attention, and he looked over to see Danny DeVito in a Ringmaster outfit, like in the movie Big Fish.

"Hey, Linda," DeVito whispered, "his winkie looks a bit burned. Maybe you should put somea that sunscreen on it."

Linda looked over at the Ringmaster and she couldn't help but be envious of the idea. She opened the bottle and began applying the lotion eagerly and liberally.

"Who will be the first to try their luck," the Ringmaster cried. "Three shots, and you only have to hit once to win!!"

Jerry stood up, his bonds shredding, handed the Ringmaster a dollar, and took the rifle from his hands.

First? How could he be first? And if he was first was it fair to take the first shot at the drunken birds? Bill thought as Linda's ministrations began to both soothe and excite him. While he tried to make sense of these conflicting sensations, Jerry fired the rifle at the circling birds.

Suddenly, a shadow fell on Bill's face, and cool, refreshing water hit him. He blinked the water out of his eyes, looked up, and saw Teresa standing over him.

"Oh, Bill. I'm so sorry. Thank God I found you before it was too late!" She knelt down and began untying the ropes that held Bill spread-eagle on the ground, and then handed him the canteen and moved over to Jerry.....

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Bob's CCCW, Chapter V

It was a humid night in the city in the mountains, but the afternoon thunderstorms dropped the temperature enough to make the humidity bearable. The waxing moon was just visible above the ridge on the east side of town as I walked over to the Five Spot for a drink.

"Hey, Guy," Jimmy said as I entered the bar and took my usual seat. "What can I get you this evening?"

"I think I'd like something different, Jimmy. How 'bout something chocolate? Maybe with a little Bailey's?"

"I got a new bottle of Godiva's just today. One Irish Lady coming right up, Guy," he answered and turned to his work.

"Excuse me, are you Guy Noir?" a soft voice behind me asked. I turned and saw her. The bar lights showed the highlights in her dark brown hair to perfection. She was wearing a short sleeve shirt so tight that it could stop traffic, and jeans that fit like a glove.

"Why, yes. Yes I am," I stammered. "May I help you with something? Buy you a drink?"

Another voice drew my attention "Ah, I see you found him." It was Dirk Easley, one of my fellow private eyes. We had worked together on a couple of cases, but his style was very different from mine. While I was a details man, Dirk tended to look at the whole picture.

He stepped up beside the woman and said, "Noir, this is Black. Black, Noir. You know what to do."

"Oh, forgive me for not introducing myself, Mr. Noir. I'm Emma Black." She paused as Jimmy set my drink in front of me, then said, "That looks good. May I have the same?"

"Put it on my tab, Jimmy," I said to the bartender. "And, please, call me Guy."

"I always call you Guy, Guy," Jimmy replied.

"I was talking to the lady, Jimmy."

"Oh. Right," he said, then went to fix another drink.

I looked into the brilliant green eyes of the woman and asked, "So, how may I help you, Miss Black?"

She flashed a brilliant smile and replied, "Call me Emma. My cousin, Eloise, told me that you might be able to help me. You helped her out a while back, remember?"

"Oh, yes. How is her research going, now that the simulacrum has been dealt with?"

"She says it's going well, and asked me to express her thanks to you." She took a deep breath and continued, "I have a similarly ... odd problem. I'm an Antarctic Ornithologist - I study petrels, skua and penguins in particular. Mmm, this drink is fantastic," she said to Jimmy, who blushed at the compliment - but then, Jimmy was famous for blushing when a pretty woman so much as walked by. Jimmy was ... inexperienced.

"Guy? ... Mr. Noir?" Emma's voice brought me out of my reverie.

"Yes, yes. Antarctic ornithology. Sounds fascinating. So what's... what's the problem?"

"I'd, ummm, rather not talk about it here. Could you come by my place tomorrow?" she asked, handing me her card.

"Sure thing. Around 10 okay?"

"Yes. Thank you, Guy. I'll see you in the morning." She finished her drink, smiled at Jimmy - which set him to blushing all over again - and left.


The next morning, I caught a cab to her address, and knocked on her door promptly at 10. She invited me in, and led me to her home office. As I looked around the office - typically, for a scientist, it was cluttered floor to ceiling - I noticed that Emma looked harried. She was dressed in sweatpants and a black ribbed tank top and, after gesturing me to a chair, sat slumped behind her desk.

As she sat there staring at nothing, I couldn't help but believe that she was thinking that, surrounded by piles of files and papers at work, surrounded by piles of dishes, laundry and bills at home, she began to wonder if she exerted some strange gravitational pull on paper and filth. It was just that kind of look she had on her face.

I waited patiently, since I had nothing else to do anyway, and she finally sighed and looked over at me. She smiled briefly and said, "I'm sorry, Guy. I was trying to figure the best way to explain what's going on.

"As I told you last night, I'm an Antarctic ornithologist. As such, I spend a lot of time in the field down at the bottom of the world. And, as you might imagine, there aren't a lot of people who specialize in my field. So, I spend most of my field time either alone, or with one or two graduate research assistants.

"On my most recent trip down there, I set up camp near a colony of Macaroni Penguins, to study mating habits. I was there alone for the first five weeks - my one assistant for the season would arrive then." She stood, and began moving around the room while she talked, straightening piles of books and papers, and moving things from one place to another, seemingly at random.

"The first few days, I was busy setting up camp and acclimating the colony to my presence. Then it was time to get down to serious business. I easily determined the leader of the colony, and concentrated on him.

"And... he seemed to be taking as much interest in me as I was in him. That was when..." she paused for a long time, then took a deep breath and said "that was when he started talking to me - and asking questions."

My only outward expression was to raise an eyebrow, but she obviously (and reasonably) knew that I was quite surprised - and a bit unnerved - by this statement, and she continued quickly. "Before you get up and walk out, please watch this." She pressed play on the DVD player sitting on a TV in the corner, and, for the next ten minutes I stared raptly at the screen as she and a penguin had a long conversation.

When the DVD stopped, she continued with her story. "As you can see, he was quite interested in human civilization, and what we're doing to the planet. I wondered if maybe I was going crazy, and waited anxiously for my assistant to arrive. In the meantime, though, I began - at his request - teaching him to read. There was a rock outcropping nearby, and I used the natural slate as a chalk board for our lessons."

She sat back down at her desk and said, "By the time Sherri arrived, Clarence - I couldn't pronounce his real name, but that's a close approximation - was reading on a high school level. I couldn't believe how smart he was and couldn't wait to see the look on Sherri's face when I showed her."

I leaned forward and said softly, "Let me guess. When your assistant arrived, he stopped talking?"

Emma hung her head and replied, "Yes. He continued to hang around the camp, and when Sherri was otherwise engaged he would whisper questions to me, but if she was in earshot... silence."

"Well, I'm not sure how I can help you."

She turned the gaze of those green eyes on me and said, "I want you to go down there with me. I ... don't know what good it will do, but you were so helpful to Eloise - not to mention not saying anything to anyone else about ... what happened in her lab - that I'm just sure you'll be able to help me!"

As I stared into the verdant depths of her eyes, I realized It was time. Time to escape the boredom, the mundane, the beloved and redundant familiar. I could use some time away from everything, and you can't really do that better than being in Antarctica.

"Okay, I'll do it."



A week later, the military helicopter landed gently near the large outcropping that Emma had told me about. The loadmaster helped us with our equipment and supplies, and then the chopper lifted off, leaving us on our own.

As soon as the aircraft disappeared in the distance, Clarence came over and started following Emma around as we set up camp - glancing often at me, and making no noise whatsoever. And so it went for the next five days. I was reassured to find out that she hadn't faked the video, because, just like the previous time, when it was just Emma and Clarence, he would talk to her, and she would record the conversations. It was only when I was around that he was silent.

Until, as I said, the sixth day.

I woke to the sounds of an argument. I couldn't make out all the words, but it was evident that Clarence wanted Emma to do something she didn't want to do. I lay in my tent, listening quietly, and when the voices stopped, I raised up to look out the flap.

Clarence was waddling back toward the colony, and Emma was stamping toward her tent.
I pulled on my boots, and clambered out of the tent, as she got to hers.

"Did you hear?"

"Sort of. I couldn't understand most of it, but I certainly got the ... intent."

"He... wants me to... join him. Join with him, I mean. I think... I don't know what to think." She pulled her pack out of her tent and got the bottles of Bailey's and Godiva Chocolate Liqueur that we had brought with us, along with some powdered milk.

I thought better of mentioning that it was a bit early in the day to be drinking, as Emma was clearly upset by this new turn of events.

I sat next to Emma as she downed several stiff drinks and talked herself into humoring Clarence, knowing that it wouldn't really mean anything if she did go through with the ritual. But she would have one requirement of her own - that I be allowed to attend and film the encounter.

She went off to tell him her decision and requirements, and returned with several fish. "Clarence says that it's part of the ritual. I'm to eat all of these before he comes to take me to the actual ceremony."

She lit the cookstove while I cleaned the fish, and then gave them to her to cook. She sat down to eat them, and was almost done when she turned pale. The chocolate and halibut suddenly disagreed in her stomach and she ran for the outhouse.

After several trips to the outhouse, she seemed better, and just in time, too, as Clarence and several other penguins were approaching across the snowfield. The attendant penguins each had a large fish grasped tightly in its beak and, when the entourage reached us, laid the fish at Emma's feet.

"Since you are not comfortable with eating the sacramental fish raw, your attendant will be allowed to cook it," Clarence said.

I scooped up the fish, quickly cleaned it, and put it in the skillet with the leftover halibut. When it was done, I dumped all the food onto a plate and returned to the waiting group. The attendant penguins began a muffled, braying chant as they led the party over to the edge of the open water.

Waiting there was the rest of the colony, including an ancient one that I immediately identified as a priest or shaman penguin. I set up the digital recorder on a tripod, as I was now part of the 'wedding party', and the ceremony began. When the shaman gestured to me, I held out the plate for Emma to take some of the cooked fish. I could tell that she was having a hard time not giggling, as she was still a bit drunk from the Irish Ladies, but she was able to maintain her composure as the ceremony reached what I assumed was its conclusion.

What happened next, neither of us expected.

A shimmering began, and quickly enveloped Emma's body. It grew in intensity until I was nearly blinded, but I realized that her body was changing shape. Emma looked over at me, horror in her eyes, because suddenly she realized that she had ingested the wrong fish. It was the sacrament of the herring, not the sacrament of the halibut, and obviously the Great Penguin was having His revenge upon her. She resolved to do double penance at the local Ice Cathedral at the next Celebration of the March of the Penguins.

When the light faded, Emma was no longer human, but a Macaroni Penguin. Clarence waddled over to me and said, "We shall be stronger and more complete with her joining to our society. Do not worry, as she is happy now." And with that, they all - including penguin-Emma - slipped into the water and swam away.

I walked over to the camera, popped out the memory card, and threw it into the ocean. Then I walked back to the camp, sent out an emergency call to McMurdo base, and waited for the rescue helicopter to come.....


FROM THE RESCUE REPORT, FILED BY CAPTAIN STEVE STEINER:
When I arrived at the temporary camp, I attempted to question Mr. Noir to find out what had happened. Subject was completely unresponsive. As he started at the blank slate he realized he had nothing to say.

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Word of the Day

Susurration

susurration
Pronunciation: \soo-suh-RAY-shun\
Function: noun
A whispering sound; a soft murmur.

"Across the road I can make out the grassy park that runs along the sand and hear, in the distance, the steady susurration of the Atlantic Ocean."

— Michael Dirda, "Excursions", Washington Post, January 2, 2000

If this word is not a perfect example of onomatopoeia [the formation of a word, as cuckoo or boom, by imitation of a sound made by or associated with its referent], then I don’t know what is. Okay, let’s just call this one a two-fer.

Thanks to Constant Comment for today's WOTD entry

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Bob's CCCW, Part IV

Previous chapters below... and comments for the newest chapter can be left here.

It's been a quiet week in Lake Wobegon, out on the edge of... wait, that's not right. *Ahem*

It was a slow week in the city in the mountains. I was still hoping to hear from Arianne, but was beginning to think that it would never happen. I had several of my PI compatriots all over the country looking out for any info about her, but all I could do was wait... and empty yet another bottle of gin as I sat at my desk brooding.

I was thinking about going down to the liquor store to get a fresh bottle, when my office door opened and in walked a tall blonde. She crossed the room and sat across the desk from me, flipping her long, silken hair over her shoulder.

"I understand you're a Private Investigator," she said as she pulled a cigarette from a silver case and lit it.

"Yes, I am," I answered, sliding the half-full ashtray across the desk. "It says so, right on my door."

"Oh. I ... didn't notice." She sat for a minute, silently smoking her cigarette. I was just about to ask if she needed my services when she spoke up. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have come here. Forgive me for bothering you."

She stood up and turned to leave, and I said "Wait, Miss ...".

I could see the hesitation on her face as she stood there considering her next move. Finally she sat back down. "Davis. Eloise Davis. I work in the research labs over at the university, and we have a ... situation going on. I was hoping you'd be able to help out."

"My standard rate is 200 a day, plus expenses," I told her. She nodded her head and proceeded to explain the problem.

"As I said, I work in the university labs. I specialize in AI - that's artificial intelligence. For the last three years my team has been working on designing intelligent home appliances. Not mindless robots that follow pre-programmed instructions like a Roomba, but ones that will actually foresee and take care of all housekeeping needs. These days, with two - or even three - income households being the norm, people just don't have the time and energy to maintain a spotless home.

"Anyway, two months ago, we got a grant from a new patron. It was a very large grant, but it came with a couple of provisos - one of which was the addition of a new researcher, Dr. Gary Smedlin. That's when the trouble started." She paused for a moment, then asked "May I use your restroom?"

"Help yourself," I said, gesturing to the door. I waited while she ... took care of business, and when she came back out I said, "I'm not sure how I can help. The only knowledge I have of computers is the PIN number for my ATM card." This wasn't exactly true, as I had both a MySpace page and accounts at several online poker sites, but that wasn't important now.

"Oh, it's not the science that I want to to look at," she replied as she looked in the full-length mirror on the wall next to the bathroom door. "I want you to check out Dr. Smedlin. There's something ... creepy about him." She was checking her stockings in the mirror when the phone rang.

"Noir," I said, speaking into the phone. It was my landlord, reminding me that the rent had been due the week before. I sighed and said, "Yeah, I've got a case I'm looking into right now. I'll have the money for you by the end of the week," and hung up the phone. "Looks like you've hired yourself a private eye, Miss Davis."

She gave me directions to her lab, and Smedlin's address, and I told her I'd be by later that day.


After she left I went down to the Five Spot for a cup of Jimmy's famous coffee, to help clear my head. Jimmy set the cup of steaming hot java in front of me and said, "Gee, Guy, you look like you've been run over. What gives?"

"Just keep the pot handy, Jimmy. I'm not in the mood to talk," I answered. I grabbed the powdered creamer container to add to my cup, but when I turned it up nothing came out. Peeking in the opening in the top, I saw that it was empty. Jimmy got me a fresh container, and I proceeded to drink three cups of the strong brew before I felt up to hailing a cab for the trip across town to the university.

Forty-five minutes later I walked up to the door of the lab where Davis - and Smedlin - worked. As I reached up to knock, I heard a scream, and then laughter, from inside. A quick check confirmed that my Special was in its shoulder holster, and I opened the door to see what was going on.

Eloise stood in one corner of the large room, a large shop-vac vacuum cleaner spinning around wildly, spewing water near her. Over by a bank of computers stood the laughing man - it must have been Smedlin. There was a look of mania in his eyes as he laughed, and I shivered a bit at the sight of it. When Smedlin saw me, he stopped laughing and ran over to the shop-vac, yelling imprecations at the appliance and flipping a switch on the side of an odd-looking box mounted to the side of the vac.

The vacuum cleaner took the tirade in stride, and calmly continued its task, sucking up the water that it had just spewed all over the lab.

"Who is this, Davis? Some knight in," he looked at my rumpled clothing, "dingy armor, come to 'save' you?" Smedlin cackled as he returned to his side of the research lab.

"I've had enough of you and your petty, insane practical jokes, Smedlin," Eloise hissed at his back as she stalked across the room, the squelching of her sodden shoes sending the mad scientist into further gales of laughter.

I fixed Smedlin with a gimlet eye, and said, "Soggy socks will never stop her." Adventures require fortitude, and we were going to experience much worse than wet feet. But I didn't yet know that.

"Who the hell are you, and why are you here?" Smedlin yelled, flipping a switch on the side of an iron, which started working on a pair of slacks lying on an ironing board. The shop-vac saw this, moved over to the ironing board and latched on to the dangling pant leg.

Before I could answer the question, the iron attacked the shop-vac and Smedlin reached for the off switches on the two appliances. The iron dodged his attempt and leaped across the ironing board and onto the adjacent counter top. The shop-vac tried to get away from the scientist, to no avail. Smedlin straightened from flipping the switch, thinking all was under control again, but then the iron got involved and it was asymmetrical warfare all over again.

The iron managed to reactivate the shop-vac, which in turn powered up a weed trimmer and a chainsaw, and ... the results weren't pretty. When the fury in the middle of the room subsided, there wasn't much of Smedlin left in one piece - but the bits lying about weren't human, they were machine parts. After making sure that the rogue appliances weren't going to attack Eloise or myself, I reached down and picked up the head of the "scientist", which was trailing hundreds of wires which had been attached to various other bits.

The back of the head popped open, and inside was a small jar. The jar contained a thick black sludge that looked as if it might be a new, or alien, life form. It had several wires of different gauge running from it to clusters of relays inside the head. Looking more closely at the jar, I discovered that there was a dead cockroach inside it.

I looked at Eloise, who was shaken but recovering, and said, "I'm assuming this was a straightforward case of insect asphyxiation."

....

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Triathlon

For me the triathlon is the perfect event,

A contest between competing ideals.

Three disciplines whose common intent,

Moves my mind, my arms, my heels.



Before the start, my thoughts are twisted,

A struggle between my hopes and fears.

I transform myself to a sporting hybrid,

A worthy competitor for my peers.



First the cold water shocks my body,

A small preview of the forces I face.

Like an amphibian I swim steadily,

Struggling against the water's embrace.



After the swim, the air is my enemy,

My bike and I are like a sail.

This cruel opponent pushes against me,

Fatigue results from fighting the gale.



Lastly, the ground takes its toll,

My legs like wheels, carry me onward.

The finish line a mesmeric goal,

Urging my exhausted body forward.



After the race, I am a trembling leaf,

Fatigue engulfs me completely.

Uncertainty steals from my relief,

My achievement clouded in mystery.



Briefly re-energized after my rest,

I get up to search out my standing.

Formidable challengers shared my contest,

Filling pages that record their timing.



Nervously looking for the results I received,

I carefully double check their values.

Fearing the worst, not wanting to be deceived,

The jumbled lists of numbers confuse.



Excitement builds as success dawns upon me,

I eagerly wait for the public confirmation.

As the award is handed to me warmly,

The crowd backs it up with tremendous ovation.

Submitted by MikeEss

About the Author:

This poem was written for the author's daughter: "I'm a proud (non-sporting) father of a (very) competitive daughter who has accomplished some remarkable feats."

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