An excerpt from BOLDER COLORS

  It's the beginning of the TALE OF MICKEY DOG.

My tale begins in the dregs of a dark sylvan night, with me clinging to the final minutes of slumber, with Alvin the rescue mutt also asleep on my bed. His whiskers sometimes tickle my uncovered limbs, after I kick them free on tepid nights. Mostly we afford each other space, the wiry little character and me. On this early Sunday, just as the morning is spreading its glory throughout the neighborhood of junked out mobile homes, I awake to a feeling I associate with Alvin licking me. Except, it gradually hits that he is in no position to lick where I experience the warm sensation. In slow motion alarm, I sit up to view my feet.

Dimly visible, kneeling before my rather low bed with the lumpy mattress, I discern a figure with long hair and full beard. His calm aura quells the fear as he continues his task of washing my feet. I can’t make out his facial features, but I can’t help calling out, “Jesus?”

He looks up, glowing as the sunrise is glowing, making me believe.

“What are you doing here, Jesus? You know I am not in your camp.”

His eyes are soulfully beautiful and expressive. His mouth moves, exposing perfect white teeth. His gaze encompasses my total being. “Thomas: do you truly believe I am Jesus?”

“Well,” I begin, feeling suddenly doubtful. “I don’t know. You aren’t wearing the customary halo-”

Jesus assumes a demeanor comically dramatic. “Halo? I don’t need a stinking halo.”

He slaps the white cloth into the porcelain pan and rises. To his feet.

I relax back onto the pillow before rolling to get myself up. I do like this guy. But why was he washing my feet? I sit on the side of the bed, looking for my house slippers. Seems Jesus somehow moved them. I call him Jesus in the interim, waiting for something definitive.

“Here they are,” Jesus says, sliding them to me with his sandalled feet.

As I’m slipping on the slippers, I ponder out loud: “Why would Jesus wash a non Christian’s feet?”

Jesus smiles indulgently. “Not clean enough? Ought I wash them some more?”

I am twisting inside. “How can I know if you really are Jesus?”

With a slight grimace, Jesus steps away to avoid the rotating ceiling fan. Then he levitates himself. He floats above the floor, hovers, locks his gaze into mine, making me paralyzed. His voice roars, shaking the whole room. “Who doubts me doubts the truth.”

Alvin has been quiet, up until this point, at which he leaps into my arms, and I hug him, seeking to calm and comfort the poor thing. Instead, he rises with flailing front feet and wagging tail, wishing to make contact with the hovering form of Jesus, who is staring firmly, waiting for my reaction. Jesus takes note of the dog, waves a hand until Alvin’s body transforms in shape to that of a wiry young human. The stare returns.

Alvin safely slips to the floor and hugs Jesus’ dangling legs.

I don’t know what else to say, but, “Welcome to my humble if trashy home – Jesus.”

His demeanor softens. He sinks to the floor and casually strokes Alvin’s ears and wiry hair. “That’s much better.” He addresses Alvin. “Sit.”

Alvin sinks back on the edge of my disheveled bed, his face beaming adoration at this beautiful visitor.

I give Jesus a friendly nod. “Would you like some breakfast or some coffee? I’ve got to have these things before I can face the day.”

Jesus accompanies me up the narrow hall, and through a sparsely furnished living room, into a gadget laden kitchen – air fryer, blender, juicer, microwave. The usual stuff, largely unused. After fixing the coffee pot I dump a heaping amount of cold cereal into a bowl. Flood it with whole milk. After refusing the bowl, Jesus stands by, watching in curious disgust while I spoon it in. Alvin wants a share, but I wave him back, telling him to stay. After I drain the residual milk into my mouth, I start for Alvin’s food bowl. But I halt.

Instead, I fill a cereal bowl with kibble and set the mandog at the table, with a big spoon. Jesus and I watch with great interest as he learns to manipulate the spoon and shovels most of the kibble inside his mouth, while much of it rattles onto the table, with some spilling on the floor. Alvin happily looks on as I set a glassful of cool water before him. At first he laps but quickly discovers how much easier to gulp the water human style. He quickly finishes the meal, then looks to us for approval.

“You’re a good boy, Alvin,” I say as he rubs the top of his head against my palm.

Jesus can’t resist the coffee smell, so I pour us both a cup and we take it into the living room. With Alvin lying at our feet, we sip quietly.

I set my cup to the side and turn my gaze to Jesus, who is calmly sipping. He pulls the cup away from his lips. “You’re not ‘from my camp?’”

“You’re Jesus. How would you not know that?”

“I have a revelation for you.”

Jesus downs the remaining coffee in a few deep gulps. He slams the cup down on the rickety end table. “You Americans do make good coffee. I rate this one four and a half stars.”

“Why not five? It’s over nine bucks a can. I filter the water.”

“Don’t take it so hard. You can’t know about chicory.”

I frown. “Chicory was what was wrong with Aunt Cora’s coffee. I only forced some down to keep her smiling. She was easily crushed.”

Jesus gives me a pitying smile.

I suddenly have dark thoughts. I accuse him of dereliction. “Why haven’t you stopped any of the wars? The wanton killing?”

Jesus sighs. He sits back in the chair, eyes on the ceiling, the lone light bulb.

After an interminable wait, he returns to the conversation. He rolls his head to the side and faces me. “They aren’t my fights, any of them. My father gave humans self determination. It’s not within my province to handle that.”

I look down at Alvin. “But you can manipulate matter. He’s a prime example of it.”

“Parlor tricks,” he says. Then he shuts his eyes. “Do you think I enjoy seeing bodies blown to bits?”

“Somebody enjoys the hell out of it.”

He leans forward and snaps his fingers, undoing Alvin’s transformed body.

Alvin yaps happily. He leaps into the chair with Jesus and tries to reach his face for licking. Jesus hugs him as he speaks. “Do you know who is most responsible? The good citizens who opt for safety, who hope history will not notice them at all, who think minding their own business makes them exempt. They have the numbers and the power. They lack the spark that makes one human. They happily mow their lawns, unconcerned that entire populations are at risk of dying or are actually dying.”

I am almost moved to tears by this statement. “Can they be blamed if they are clueless?”

“Hey, they are letting others murder the planet in addition to mowing down their neighbors. Who’s going extinct? You’re going extinct.”

“Would you like more coffee? I’ve got to have a cup.”

Jesus smiles but it’s a sad smile. “Know who doesn’t get a coffee?”

“Yes, I know.”

“People who don’t have homes or lives don’t get a coffee.”

“I’m a retired old man,” I say. “A product of dirt-poor violence and autism. Living hand to mouth in a wreck of a mobile home. In a younger time I tried to have a voice. I still post about it online. You can see my circumstances. No money, no influence. Practically disabled by time and relentless physical labor. Yet you’re placing blame on people like me.”

Jesus strolls with me into the kitchen. “You didn’t storm any citadels. You stepped away from physical danger. It was in your conditioning to know the truth and be constrained by a psychic violence that isn’t your fault.”

He steps in front of me and stops. “Yet you tried. That sets you apart from the herd. You marched for civil rights and against a war in the 60s. You’ve been speaking on the devolution of society and the injustice of every war and sanctioned nations ever since. You think you are not ‘in my camp.’ Well, you are a lot closer to me than many believers.”

Tears dribble from my eyes. I go around him to pour fresh coffee. I set two cups-full on the table and take a seat.

Jesus sits opposite from me to silently watch and perhaps commiserate as I work through the pain while soothing myself with coffee. Alvin lies peacefully at his feet. He finally takes up his own cup and drinks from it. He pauses the cup inches from his face. “I came today to touch off a chain reaction,” he says, lowering the cup to the table. “It will reveal itself in your daily routine in the months ahead.”

I take our cups to the sink and wash them. After which I take a package of graham crackers from the pantry and lay the open package before him. Jesus smiles. “Your simplicity is touching.”

His immaculate fingers take up a cracker, and he bites off a chunk. “Thank you.”

My new book

It isn't getting the attention the last one did. I have not yet begun to fight.

Bolder Colors is an entertaining look at despair and disaster, with an underlying theme of self-regeneration.

My favorite sentence

 This is my favorite of all sentences, for it goes far beyond the intent of the author, being quoted endlessly. I wish I had written it.

It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents—except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind that swept up the streets (for it is in London that our scene lies), rattling along the housetops, and fiercely agitating the scanty flame of the lamps that struggled against the darkness.

Now you can buy

BOLDER COLORS has published. It is available at Barnes and Noble, Apple, and a number of other online bookstores. Soon to be available from Amazon.

An 83-year-old writer of fiction. I dabble in the dystopian realms, as well as lyrics, and painful to read short stories. 

In Bolder Colors:

These are stories of fantasy, dystopian themes, science fiction. I wrote dark stories of the human condition. Some are funny, at least in part. Some could make you say, "What?"

1. The Tale of Mickey Dog

2. Spacer

3. Invaders From the Shadow Planets of Twarr

4. Clark's Crossing

5. Falling

6. The Final Straw

7. Stumpy

     

coming soon

 

Telegraphic Writing

 As I was looking over some of my old projects, it hit me that my telegraphic style of writing can be off-putting. Well, I don't plan to become Hemingway or Shakespeare anytime soon anyway.

EndEarthers - get a copy today

 In EndEarthers, there is this big cockroach, a ring of still living severed heads, and a wild chimp on the loose with an assault rifle.

A short story collection available at Barnes and Noble and Amazon.

it's authorized, let's get on with it (C. Bukowski)

Look," he told me,
"all those little children dying in the trees."
And I said, "What?"
He said, "look."
And I went to the window and sure enough, there they were hanging in the trees,
dead and dying.
And I said, "What does it mean?"
He said, "I don't know it's authorized."
The next day I got up and they had dogs in the trees,
hanging, dead, and dying.
I turned to my friend and I said, "What does it mean?"
And he said,
"Don't worry about it, it's the way of things. They took a vote. It was decided."
The next day it was cats.
I don't see how they caught all those cats so fast and hung them in the trees, but they did.
The next day it was horses,
and that wasn't so good because many bad branches broke.
And after bacon and eggs the next day,
my friend pulled his pistol on me across the coffee
and said,
"Let's go,"
and we went outside.
And here were all these men and women in the trees,
most of them dead or dying.
And he got the rope ready and I said,
"What does it mean?"
And he said, "It's authorized, constitutional,
it passed the majority,"
And he tied my hands behind my back
then opened the noose.
"I don't know who's going to hang me," he said,
"When I get done with you.
I suppose when it finally works down
there will be just one left
and he'll have to hang himself."
"Suppose he doesn't," I ask.
"He has to," he said,
"It's authorized."
"Oh," I said, "Well,
let's get on with it."

Personal Snippets

 It might surprise some to learn that my formal education ended with the 10th grade. In the lower classes it was possible to fake it enough to pass with reasonably good grades. Never mastered English, math, or much else. I quit faking at the end and failed the tenth miserably.

In my home were no books. I never held one in my hand before my teacher had them passed out. As I looked at all those pages of symbols it seemed to me that I could never make sense of them. Yet, within a few days I was reading with the best of them.

A teacher read The Black Stallion, by Walter Farley, to the class, which stoked my interest in reading for myself. I found out about libraries, becoming a fequent visitor. Books about boxcar children and a dog named Jinks (of Jason Vally) soon led to Dickens and Ray Bradbury.

I was intrinsically unable to grasp my studies, as I mentioned before. But I read all the time. While in the Navy I aced the GED for my honorary diploma.

One day, at age 19 I discovered Generation of Vipers, An Essay on Morals, and Opus 21, all by Philip Wylie. I had never encountered a mind whose purpose was to make us think and feel. Wylie changed my life. He made me want to seek out other authors with unique perspectives.

I tried my hand at writing, but found I had little to say. Still I persisted by writing undisciplined verses and song poems. The years were cruising by. Turmoil from personal circumstances made my effort more irrelevant than ever.

At one point I became alcohol free, after practically swimming in it for years. Ate healthy food. Suddenly I could not just begin stories. I could finish them. I did not say they were good stories.

After I retired there was time to work at it. Not knowing Strunk from Wagnals, I relied on the good books I had always read for structure, syntax - whatever - as was imprinted in my memory. I made a book with Lulu to preserve these fledgling efforts.

One day I showed my brother a draft of the first chapter of EndEarthers. He made me promise to write it out in a book. And so I wrote the first of six stories, eventully publishing with Draft2Digital. Now I am nearing completion of a companion volume which I call Bolder Colors.

At 83, my time may be short, but I intend to go as long as nature will let me.

·

Support the authors.

 

 

EndEarthers, available at Barnes and Noble online, or Amazon

     I had to write away my personal trauma before I could write well enough to serve the people with these stories. In October, EndEarthers will be one year published. Six dystopic tales: 

     1. Quiet Beneath the Moon

     Based on my reminiscence of the 60s and the likelihood of civilization's imminent death spiral, Denny, a man in his eighties, shares an adventure with his gay twin, Danny, a revived love interest named Nellie, and several friends and acquaintances. From Long Beach, California, to a hidden location in Mexico, the struggle is within a cracking society and the inevitability of world war. 

     2. Over Here

     Previously, we were insulated from the ravages of war. The tables have turned. Amid the destruction, these four struggle to survive.

 

     3. From Off the Tumbrel Fell

     The severed heads that could not die. 

     4. Chimpanzee

     A rescued lab chimp plots his revenge.

 

     5. Teapot's Empire

     Teapot, an eccentric scientist, blends specimens to create a new species. An accident results in the birth of a child who is an amalgam of the new species and homo sapiens. The scientist empowers the new race to form an alternate to human dominance by tunneling deep within the Earth's crust. to establish a kingdom in waiting.  

     6. The Census Taker. 

     A thousand years in the future an extraterrestrial arrives to take stock of Earth's population. The catch: There is no population. 

Arlo

 

Six stories they don't want you to read

 Tales of life, love, desperation, and wonder. Can be found at Barnes and Noble online bookstore, as well as Amazon.

arlo vegan

 

How Long Do Grudges Last?

      

     Major, life-altering, grudges can be a different subject altogether. In my case, ten years of traumatic bullying by my stepfather had me thirsting for revenge long after the man passed away. I was writing of the story in a book titled "Beyond the Dark Water" when self-induced revelations somehow caused the grudge to collapse and expire. In other words, for me, it takes sixty years to let such a bastard off the hook. 

     Grudges have many levels. They affect millions of minds, some of which can be sensitively forgiving, while others seem set in stone. Some harbor grudges as manifestations of deeper problems.

     I don't claim to be an expert, and I have certainly carried unreasonable grudges in my rather long lifetime. My question is, "When do grudges expire?" How long can they be allowed to gnaw at one's entrails like ravenous worms? I have encountered people harboring minor grudges for decades. - While the target may be long gone, or not aware of it at all. In the end, who are we hurting most: ourselves or the target? 

      

ARLO, amiable arachnid

 

my lyrics

 Before my retirement life was so hectic I couldn't write stories. The discord was unreal. I used my creative impulses to write song lyrics, mainly to keep my hand in. Bonus: This kind of writing helps one make a habit of word economy. I don't read, play, or sing music. None of my family and friends do. So these samples of my lyrics are just a partial record of past activity. They have been praised by some, and disparaged by others. Here is a sampling:

1. Daisy Plumtree, Lady Outlaw

Daisy Plumtree was a lusty one,
She loved an old buffalo gun.
She'd shoot her round,
Then stand her ground,
Where many men might run.

If her ways was rough and raw,
She learned it from her paw;
Who killed eight men,
Then made it ten,
Which set his fate with the law.

She was Daisy Missy Plumtree
Rough and ready
Rode the outlaw trail
To rob the outbound mail
Missy Daisy Daisy Plumtree
(repeat)

She went on the lam in Mexico
And fell in with Two Feathers Crow
She leaned her gun
In Crow's wigwam
Made from hides of buffalo

But the soldiers killed her man
He was crossing the Rio Grande
Daisy got hung
Before she swung
Said Daisy Crow is who I am

She was Daisy Missy Plumtree
Rough and ready
Rode the outlaw trail
To rob the outbound mail
Missy Daisy Daisy Plumtree

2. Little Songs

When the world runs out of wrongs
I’ll be writing no more songs
But for now
I say wow
Business is very good

I’ll keep writing little songs
‘Til there’s peace in battle zones
‘Til congress notes
The change with votes
Until then I must conclude

When a child’s peaceful at night
When love’s a symbol not might
No hunger
No danger
Until then I’ll just be rude

I’ll keep writing little songs
Loud enough to rattle bones
To spit it out
In one big shout
Until then I must conclude

When folks die of poverty
The wrong ideology
Jealousy
Notoriety
Until then I’ll just be crude

I’ll keep writing little songs
Its my way to battle wrongs
To spit it out
In one big shout
Spit it out
One big shout
Spit it out
One big shout
Spit it out

3. Once Upon a Perfect Time

Cold yellow walls, chandeliers like diamonds.
Your body still and silent as a range of ancient tired mountains.
Attend to me, Love; can you feel it; the sadness in our holy mansion?
See, the listless ghost of beauty walks these lonely halls
And the dust of her passing lifts then slowly falls,
Meeting with your flesh and turning gray and ashen.
You look upon her the way any prisoner looks upon the warden,
Then wilt inside your tiny cell, for you know full well there will be no pardon.
Will you sit with me; rise up My Love; come out into the garden.
The sun will be shining there as I comb out your tangled hair
And braid it into a rope the size and length you wore it as a maiden.

Ah, every star`s a wishing star;
Dream you`re my princess; you are.
It was once upon a perfect time,
Your eyes were cast on mine.
Your hair descended like a jacob`s ladder.
I climbed into your den.
We lay down in perfect zen.
But now the forces of destiny gather.

And your body is cold, though the sun`s ablaze like diamonds.
My soul aches for you, My Love, even as it roves to look for future mansions.
We are betrayed by time and death, dear Murdered Rose. I must burn this house of pretensions.
The dogs of loss sniff outside the door impatiently,
Smell your flesh so sweet. Don`t feel hate for me
As I spill upon the floor in floods the gasoline, don`t mention
How your magic gave to me selfish love, oh bird in detention.
See the flames embrace the timbers and lace, then hug the lovely statue in the garden.
As I haste to leave, Good-bye, My Love, I know a mansion afar that`s waiting.
Animals dance without care for the sleeping maiden there
Whose love is a golden award for the one invading.

And every star`s a wishing star;
Dream you`re my princess; you are,
Every once upon a time,
Every once upon a perfect time.
See her on the bed asleep, My Love.
See; she lies so still and pure;
Our love will be cement and sure,
This one more once upon a perfect time.