A Very Happy Christmas to You All

Praefigurare

On December 5, 1916, two children – a ten year old boy and a girl of seven – crouched in the gutter in front of 37 boulevard Saint-Michel in Paris, an icy wind whipping their scarves and mussing their straggly hair. The boy held out a cap while the girl moaned to passing strangers, “Please! Give us anything! Or take us home and feed us!”

One passer-by stopped and shared a bag of peppermints.

“Oh, thank you! You’ve saved our lives,” the children cried, “Our parents give us nothing but paper to eat!”

“You poor creatures! And with no socks on!”

At that moment, the door opened behind the two children and a nicely dressed woman stepped outside in a warm winter coat. She looked down at the two children in the gutter and shook her head.

“What are you two doing out here?”

The children, teeth chattering, looked meekly up and then back to the kindly woman who’d given them the peppermints. Suddenly, they leaped to their feet and bolted behind the woman and in through the door, giggling their way up the stairs.

“Those are my children, I apologize if they were bo-,” but her words were cut off by a slap to the face.

“You wretch! How could you? Not dressing them for the cold! Making them eat paper!”

Shocked, and yet not surprised, the mother turned and made her way back inside to find her mischievous children.

The “poor children” pranks were always planned by Andre but he soon found other ways to occupy his time and grew to become one of the mathematical geniuses of the 20^th century.

Simone Weil’s part in the pranks, however, was a foreshadowing of the voluntary suffering she would partake in as philosopher and mystic for the remainder of her short life.

Consider the Worms

Settled in the valley between the Adriatic and the Alps, not much happened in Montereale, Italy. The main source of excitement for most of the town was the local miller, whom everybody knew as “Menocchio,” and the excitement was in never knowing what he was going to say next.  On February 4, 1584, he sat down beneath a tree near the church to share a lunch with his friend Giovanni.

“Consider the worms,” Menocchio said, unwrapping the cloth from a wheel of pulsating cheese.

“Ah! Formaggio marcio,” Giovanni said, “it’s finally ready!”

A few maggots popped up into the air and landed on the grass. As Giovanni leaned to pick them up and plop them back onto the weeping cheese, he noticed the priest poking his head out of a window in the church, a fierce scowl on his face.

“Menocchio, you know I always enjoy your philosophizing but I think maybe you read too much.  You might be going too far, especially the silly things you say to the priest…”

The miller shrugged him off and pointed at the cheese, “…as I was saying: earth, air, water, and fire were mixed together, and out of that bulk a mass formed – just as cheese is made out of milk – and worms appeared in it, and these were the angels, and there was also God, he too having been created out of that mass…”

Menocchio’s explanation of creation was cut short when the priest appeared behind him.

“Domenico Scandella, you are to appear before the Inquisition for propagating heresy!”

Menocchio avoided judgment in that first trial but his inability to keep his self-educated views private led to him being burned at the stake fifteen years later amid the growing fears and reactions of a church facing a burgeoning and painful “protest.”

What Goes Up

The Key West Conchs were the patsies of the Single-A Florida State League at 32-79 and Johnny Crider of the St. Petersburg Cardinals wasn’t too concerned about being ready for the game. He’d been in the minors for three years and though he was batting a career high .248, he knew he would soon be on his way out.  Usually the team would arrive in town, warm up, play a game, and be back on the road before midnight without ever having seen anything but the ballpark.  But since the only bus available had them arriving in Key West some eight hours before game time on this August 6^th, 1974, there was time to kill so Johnny decided to see the sights, not knowing if he’d ever pass that way again.

From the free-roaming chickens in Mallory Square to the polydactyl cats lounging around the Hemingway House to the whispers heard along the docks of yet another overdue sailboat missing in the Bermuda Triangle, Johnny was finding Key West a fascinating place.

“Weird,” he kept whispering to himself as he sipped tequila at Sloppy Joe’s, “weird…”

When the first pitch was delivered in the bottom of the first inning at Wickers Field that evening, Johnny was in right field. A thick fog hung in the darkening sky despite a 20 knot wind and it amplified every sound; the lights in the outfield cast an eerie blue glow.

CRACK!

The pitcher turned and pointed straight up and Johnny raced in to field what he thought was a routine pop-up. The second baseman and the center fielder converged beneath the arcing ball also.  And then, the ball…

It didn’t go foul. It didn’t leave the park. It didn’t land.

It simply… disappeared.

“Weird,” Johnny whispered as the runner circled the bases. “Weird.”

And Another Welcome!

...to Saudi Girl, and thanks for the "follow!" I've taken another break but should be back with more next week!

Welcome!

...to Ch'kara SilverWolf, and thanks for the "follow!"

Caveat Emptor

Art Bell’s deep voice called out a familiar late-night invitation, “East of the Rockies, you’re on the air…”

“Hello, this is Chuck calling from Houston.  Well, I was out in my back yard looking at the comet through my telescope and I was wondering, does anyone know what that thing is next to it?”

“I’m assuming you mean the Hale-Bopp comet, Chuck?  What is it that you see?”

“I’m not sure, Art.  Astronomy is a hobby of mine and I’m always out looking whenever there are events like this… There’s a very bright light next to Hale-Bopp that, as far as I know, shouldn’t be there… it has sort of a ring around it, like Saturn… but it’s not Saturn and it’s not a star… it’s very large.”

“Chuck, this is the first I’ve heard of this, perhaps if I had a picture to look at, I might be able…”

“Oh, I’ve got a picture, Art.  I can send it to you.”

“By all means, please do and I’ll put it up on my website, Chuck.  Interesting… an object traveling along with a comet…”

Finger-pointing and argument continues today as to just who bears what blame for the tragedy that ensued several months later.  A radio host had given forum to an amateur astronomer with a question; who was responsible for vetting the hoaxers that turned it into something much bigger?  Charlatans have been pushing conspiracy theories on the gullible for fun and profit for many years prior to this, was this instance any different?

After all, Marshall Applewhite, leader of the Heaven’s Gate cult which committed group suicide on March 26, 1997 in hopes of being reincarnated onto the UFO hiding in Hale-Bopp’s wake, had already purchased Alien Abduction Insurance a full month before the photo was even published.

An Allegory Takes Flight

Ten days previously, there’d been seven ships, forty-nine days out of Batavia, en route to the Netherlands via the Cape of Good Hope.  But by the end of that day, three of them had simply disappeared, never to be heard from again.  The remaining four tried to stay within sight but the cyclone was beyond anything the Dutch East Indiamen had ever weathered.  The next day, without sails or rudder, the Arnhem found her hull being torn open upon the shoals of the Cargados Carajos.  The longboat went over the side and 108 desperate men piled in.

For nine days, they rowed and sailed as best they could to the southwest, following the white line of the reefs.  When they finally reached the shorelines of the island of Mauritius, only 80 of them remained.  Many died of injuries, some from starvation, others from drinking salt water.  A few had simply gone mad and were thrown overboard.

The castaways worked to make a life on the island, not knowing how long they’d be marooned.  Fortunately, Mauritius was lush, with plenty of fresh water, shelter, and food.  They broke up into groups and spread out, but maintaining regular contact in case of a passing ship.  On May 22, 1662, at the end of their third month on the island, an English ship was flagged down and they were rescued.

This account of shipwreck and survival would never have stood out from the dozens of others that occurred that year were it not for the journal kept by a sailor from the Arnhem in which he described how he and his companions would catch and eat a group of squat flightless birds they encountered on a small islet on the west side of Mauritius: the last reliable account of a live Dodo bird.

Man Bites Dog

On Friday afternoon, May 19, 1995, Patrick stopped by his bank on the way to the post office.  He laughed to himself as he inserted a deposit envelope into the ATM.  “I’d love to see the teller’s face when she gets this…”

 

Over the weekend, he thought about the deposit he made, endorsed with a smiley-face instead of a signature.  “I’m sure I’ll be getting a call from them on Monday… I’ll feign surprise when they tell me the news…”

Monday came and went without a call and Patrick simply shrugged it off.  “There’s no way… I’m sure they just round-filed it…”

 

Two days later, Patrick needed to withdraw some cash and stopped again at the ATM, no thought of the deposit he’d made the previous week.  After collecting his $20, the receipt buzzed out and he didn’t take two steps before stopping.  Double-checking the available balance in his account, his knees practically buckled beneath him.

Patrick knew that he had no moral right to the $95, 093.35 that First Interstate Bank mistakenly allowed him to deposit into his account via a “non-negotiable” personalized junk mail check, but he soon found out he did have a legal right.  And when the bank seized his account and began threatening him with hellfire, he’d already moved the money, via cashier’s check, to a safety deposit box ironically within the same bank.

 

In a time when governments have joined in open corporate partnership with banks “too big to fail,” with these same banks subsequently foreclosing on customers whose future tax dollars were pillaged to keep them in business, it’s almost with a morose delectation that we can secretly enjoy hearing of the little guy “sticking it to the man.”

Patrick Combs made them sweat it out for four months but returned every penny.

The answer, my friend, is blowin' in the wind

On July 26, 1954, a Mongol warrior rode bareback through the canyon lands of the Escalante Desert in southern Utah.  Jamuga had just scouted out a caravan and was now trying to convince his friend Temujin to not go through with his plans for attack.  But his friend would hear no such counsel.

"There are moments fer wisdom, Juh-mooga, then I listen to you… and there are moments fer action, then I listen to my blood. I feel this Tartar wuh-man is fer me, and my blood says, 'TAKE HER!'"

But before Genghis Kahn could finish his scene, a hot wind began to blow and a massive dust storm rose up, choking out everyone on the set.  Director Dick Powell called a halt to filming and the actors scrambled for cover behind the tarps set up specifically for this regular occurrence.  After a short lunch of slightly metallic-tasting locally-grown produce and beef, they were ready to shoot again one of the most important scenes in the Howard Hughes-funded epic, “The Conqueror.”  When filming was finished the next month, Hughes spared no expense in shipping 60 tons of sand back to Hollywood to ensure that scenes which needed to be re-shot were authentic to the original.

Of the 220 cast and crew who worked on the colossal flop (not counting the hundreds of additional unnamed extras and contractors), 91 of them were destined to contract cancer, including John Wayne, Pedro Armendariz, Agnes Moorehead, and Susan Hayward.  Under normal circumstances, 30 would have been the statistical probability.

Years later, a spokesman from the Defense Nuclear Agency, which was responsible for the dozen nuclear tests done in the area the year before, was asked about the toxic conditions at that site:

"We're not in the health effects business; we're in the defense business."

Sharing the Burden and the Joy

Things were slow, as was the new usual, on Broadway on June 4, 1941.  With only a quarter of the number of new productions underway since the happier days of just 20 years prior, the district had turned to the more time-tested business of vice - burlesque houses and “adult entertainment” venues. 

But just two blocks off Broadway in the St. James Theater, Orson Welles’ production of Native Son had been playing for a month and a half and had garnered more than its share of expected attention.  And as the saying goes in the industry, any publicity is good publicity.  The Brooklyn Diocese had issued a boycott of the show almost immediately and the Legion of Decency had set up pickets on the sidewalk.  Yet the crowds still turned out and the theater filled up every night.  The presence of police, as well as some very conspicuous communist-hunting FBI agents prevented any incidents.

Because of the topic of the play, the audience was uncommonly mixed, meaning there were a few black people in the audience and during the intermission a young dark-skinned man made his way to a side exit and slipped outside.  His name was Harry.  He stood in the alley smoking a cigarette until he was met by a friend, Sidney, and after a few moments of animated discussion he handed his ticket stub to him.  Sidney then entered the theater to watch the rest of the show, briefed on what had already taken place.  Harry would be outside waiting when it ended, to be filled in on the second half.

It was in this way that Harry Belafonte, a janitor, and Sidney Poitier, a dishwasher, could afford to see the latest plays for the price of one ticket as they made their first inroads into acting.

The Theater of Provocation

A small ferry shoved off from the Charing Cross Pier and motored out into the Thames.  She was named the Queen Elizabeth and would be used in just two days to carry celebrants participating in the Silver Jubilee of her namesake, Queen Elizabeth II.

The boat continued downriver until it reached the Chelsea Bridge.  As it came about, a banner was unfurled: THE SEX PISTOLS “GOD SAVE THE QUEEN.”  Amplifiers were flicked on and the feedback from an electric guitar shattered the eerie quiet of the foggy evening.  Johnny Rotten screamed out above the squeals: “God save the queen! She ain't no human bein’!” making a mockery of the planned river procession.  Police boats appeared and followed the Queen Elizabeth back upriver - “No future for you!” - past Parliament and Westminster – “No future for me!” - all the way back to the pier where a constabulary force was waiting to end the stunt.  A dozen arrests were made but authorities filed no formal charges against the band.

Although their single sold well amid the hype, their anarchic message was not generally accepted; most people at the time still carried a respect for their nation’s institutions.  Violent attacks on the band occurred everywhere they performed.  Before they disbanded six months later, Johnny Rotten remarked bewilderedly, "I don't understand it.  All we're trying to do is destroy everything."

Today, the Sex Pistols are actually remembered fondly enough that they were invited to participate in the 2012 Olympic ceremonies in London (though they declined), and ironically in the same year as their Queen’s Diamond Jubilee.

On February 21, 2012, another punk band made their own protest against their nation’s institutions.  It remains to be seen if they will be remembered as fondly in a future Russia after serving their lengthy prison sentences.

A Revolutionary Idea

Nikita Khrushchev was a satisfied man as he boarded his TU-114 aircraft at Andrews Air Force Base on the evening of September 27, 1959 and prepared for the long flight back to Moscow.  His first visit, the first of any Soviet Premier to the United States, was by his judgment an enormous success.

Khrushchev had visited factories and farms and met with union groups across the country.  He’d gotten to explain the “Soviet way” through first person contact.  His regard for President Eisenhower had grown and he genuinely felt that real progress was made between the two superpowers, that a détente was possible over the issue of a divided Germany, and that the two nations could work together to build a future free of mistrust and enmity.  Unfortunately, a series of dangerous international gaffes over the next few years would put an end to such hopefulness, but for a short time, the future was indeed rosy.

It hadn’t been perfect though.  The incendiary speech by Mayor Norris Poulson that greeted him upon his arrival in Los Angeles nearly had him flying back home.  Luckily, Hollywood’s finest stepped up and smoothed things over.  His children especially enjoyed the dinner with Kirk Douglas, Frank Sinatra, Gary Cooper, Marylyn Monroe, and Elizabeth Taylor.

As the plane taxied to the runway, Khrushchev pulled a paper from his breast pocket and called his Chief of Staff over to him.

“Ivan, when we get back to the Kremlin, have your people begin working on this immediately.”

Ivan glanced at the paper and remarked, “Very interesting…”

Of all the modern ideas that he could have taken note of on his historic trip, Nikita Khrushchev was especially impressed by the IBM factory he visited in San Jose, but not by the computing machines.

“…a self-service cafeteria!  How efficient!”

Proto-Prospero

Edward and John’s reputations were growing.  They’d received invitations from several Courts on the Continent to display their abilities.  Even after a series of successful esoteric demonstrations though, their stomachs were still more often empty than full.

John was a dreamer, and his dreams told him that a new apocalypse was dawning, that unless men resolved their differences and became as one, their world was doomed to eternal suffering.  He sought the advice of angels on how this was to be done.  Edward dreams however, were a little worldlier.

On August 6, 1585, Edward sat down before a crystal ball and began to scry new messages from the Archangel Uriel, the “Light of God.”  Uriel commanded that the two should henceforth hold all things in common.  Later, Edward would insist, this would also include John’s wife.    At this, John drew the line… eventually.

In any time and any place, he might be considered a genius; another Da Vinci or Francis Bacon.  In his particular place and time, he was widely recognized for his great learning and daunting intellect.  When the University at Cambridge had 450 books in its entire library, he personally kept thousands in his own home.  But John also had another aspect to his character that prevented him from becoming a household name today: a childlike trust; or more bluntly, a foolish naivety.  Wanting so badly to make peace in the world and in heaven, he spent the most productive years of his life being played.

John Dee was an astronomer, mathematician, scientist, philosopher, and political advisor to royalty.  But because of enabling and opportunist “friends” like Edward Kelley, he is better remembered as an occultist, alchemist, and magician, and by a few, as the man who signed his letters to Queen Elizabeth with the code name 007.

The Event

Nobody had heard from Leonid since he’d sent a progress report back from Taishet on the Trans-Siberian railroad.  That was two months and six hundred miles in the past.  Since then, he’d been on sled, horseback, and foot as he and his assistant made their way through the palearctic boreal forests and bogs, still frozen over but fast-approaching the spring melt.  It was imperative that Leonid found what he was looking for before the melt; if not, the floods and mosquitos would make travel impossible and he doubted he could ever find the funding again.

He was sick, malnourished, and exhausted.  But in his heart, he knew he was close, and this is what drove him on.  His Evenki guides, Potapovich and Okhchen, didn’t share his drive however.  They’d agreed to take him where he wanted partly out of their natural friendliness toward strangers and partly out of a curiosity to see if they’re old trapping grounds could be used again.  Even then, they made sure to see their shaman for a blessing before they left.  After two days of trekking through rugged terrain, Leonid noticed that the two had grown unusually quiet and they only answered his questions in hesitant speech and made no eye contact.

And then, on April 25^th, 1927, Potapovich and Okhchen stopped and pointed.

“There is only death here,” Potapovich said solemnly.  “Ogdy, god of storms, cursed this land…”

Leonid walked forward a few steps along the Makirta River and his heart shot up to his throat.  As far as he could see, trees were toppled like toothpicks, their bark and limbs stripped away.  Some nineteen years after the event, Leonid Kulik became the first scientist to visit the site of the Tunguska meteoroid impact, though the airburst epicenter was still forty barren miles away.

The Word on the Street

Like most everyone else in his south Philadelphia neighborhood, Tony worked hard.  He’d rise with the sun, grab his lunchbox, and walk the mile and a half to the docks at the Navy yard.  There, he spent the better part of each day behind a welder’s mask and at the sound of the whistle in the evening he’d pick up his empty lunchbox and walk the same route back to his South 7^th Street home where his Maria would have dinner waiting.  He’d usually throw down a few bottles of beer in front of the television and shuffle off to bed.

But sometimes he’d stay up a little later if a game was on; like tonight.  Maria and the kids kissed him goodnight and left him in peace to his one little luxury.  With the Phillies and Pirates all tied up going into the 9^th inning, the television began to crackle.  Tony groaned and pushed himself out of the recliner, “Not now…”  Adjusting the antennas didn’t help and he whacked the side of the set.  Then, as the headlights of a passing car illuminated his front window, the static broke and a voice came through his television.

“… dead molecules will be put back together!”

Tony ran to the door and saw an old car driving away, a massive antenna protruding from the roof.  Tony had seen it before.

“God help me if I catch you!”

First, he’d tried to form a group, tried calling radio talkshows, and tried broadcasting on short wave.  This mobile transmission was his last effort to express himself before the Toynbee Tiler finally found his perfect medium.  It wouldn’t be until October 19, 1994, that media outlets around the Americas began to take notice and not until 2012 that a mysterious suspect was named.

Upon Further Investigation...

Sayyid could tell that the soldiers were on edge; five of their bomb-sniffing dogs had been killed by snipers in in the first few months of 2008.  And now they were getting sloppy, afraid to spend too much time searching each vehicle by hand.  With no sniffer-dogs in sight, Sayyid was testing them; beneath his truck, he’d hidden some small packets of gunpowder.

The line of cars funneled into a blast area the size of an Olympic swimming pool, its six foot high concrete walls designed to contain any explosions.  Just as Sayyid was about to enter into the point of no return, the hair on the back of his neck stood up.

He saw one of the checkpoint guards walk with a swiveling antenna pointed at the trunk of a little Fiat.  The driver of the car suddenly jumped out and attempted to escape on foot but was quickly tackled.  Sayyid turned his wheel hard and drove off while he still had a chance.  Until he got his hands on one of these new sensors, there’d be no more attempts.

It didn’t take Sayyid long to figure out that the new bomb-detecting technology being used by the Iraqi soldiers was no threat to his schemes.  After all, it was simply a piece of metal in a plastic grip.  “It looks to be a dowsing rod,” he laughingly told his coconspirators, “They’ve basically spent $85,000,000 for a crate of magic wands...”

On July 11, 2012, British authorities charged the makers of the ADE651 with fraud.  The question remains why it took them 30 months of “scientific testing” to figure it out.

The question also remains as to why 20 nations around the world, including Iraq, Pakistan, Mexico, Thailand, and the Philippines, continue to use similar “molecular detectors” to this day.

6EQUJ5: In a Word...

Often, momentous deeds are accompanied by momentous words.  There are no prescriptions for placing the right words at the right time.  We know them when we hear them.

When Sir Henry Morton Stanley staggered into Ujiji and discovered another explorer who had for years been assumed dead, his “Doctor Livingstone, I presume?” became a hallmark of the brevity and understatement famous in the English.

General Anthony McAuliffe, when faced with the German’s demand for surrender during the Battle of the Bulge, sent back the official reply of “Nuts!” exhibiting a characteristic American flippancy in the face of danger.

And though Neil Armstrong bungled his article when he took that “giant leap,” the words he spoke will still echo through time as a monument to all of humanity’s indomitable spirit and determination.

Then we come to the happening at the “Big Ear,” a radio telescope the size of three football fields at Ohio State University.  The task of the monitors at the telescope was straightforward: watch for signs of extraterrestrial intelligence.  Parameters had been determined as to where that signal would most likely be found, in the narrow band range: TV, AM, FM, and HAM radio, and satellite transmissions.  The “Big Ear” had been scanning the skies since 1973 without success… until August 15, 1977.

Maybe.

It hasn’t been proven to have come from an intelligent source but is still today the only transmission that hasn’t been disproven.

The “Big Ear” is no longer there, since bulldozed to make way for townhomes and golf courses, but if that signal someday turns out to have been our first communication with a civilization from outer space, we’ll have to live with the simple description given by volunteer-monitor Jerry Ehman when he made a hand-written notation along the edge of a computer printout: “Wow!”

Suggestions Welcome

 (Easter Procession, 1893 ~ Illarion Pryanishnikov)

It's been a long time since I updated my sidebar and I already have a few new ones to add but if you have any suggestions for fascinating history links, interesting places, or great writing sites, please do offer them up!  If not, then just enjoy the picture!  

Found

Sergio Catalan’s day was nearly done; the last of the loose cattle had been rounded up.  He was a huaso, a proud horseman of Chile.  Like the cowboys of Texas, he was strong, and silent, and brave; and though he hadn’t yet realized it, he was the last of a disappearing breed.  Santiago, not too far away, was overcome with modernity in 1973, as well as military coups.  Still, he stared up at the snow-covered mountains to the east and felt confident in the permanence of his land and his life and a day’s hard work.

Sergio followed the Rio Portillo south until it intersected the Rio Azufre.  The waters were high and running strong.  Just as he was about to turn his horse to the west, he noticed a skinny man on the eastern shore, waving at him.  He was obviously out of place.  Sergio rode close by the bank to try and see what the stranger wanted but the noise of the river’s rush made it impossible for him to make sense of the shouts.  Besides, the sun was setting and his dinner was waiting.  “Mañana!” he called out to the stranger.  “Mañana!”

When he returned the next morning, December 22, the man was still there and he had another with him.  Sergio dismounted and pulled a paper and pencil from his pocket, tied them to a rock, and threw it across the river.  The stranger retrieved it, spent a minute writing, and then threw it back.

Sergio opened the note and read it in disbelief.

“I come from a plane that crashed in the mountains…”

The next day, after seventy-two days in the Andes, the remaining survivors of crashed Uruguayan Air Force Flight 571 were rescued and incredible tales of heroism, and cannibalism, soon captivated the world.

Welcome all!

 

I've missed quite a few new "followers" over the past month or so, thank you and welcome to all who have found their way here.  I had a "thing I had to do" but I'm back and my hiatus from writing here ends, more stories this week!  A thousand more bonus points to anyone who identifies the image!

I Don't Think She Killed the Cat...

...but the newest to "follow" here is Curiosity at A New Leaf - Welcome and thanks!  I hope to find time for a new tale tonight or tomorrow!

Here's a Hint

I'll be back with another story next week but I'm surprised no one has guessed from what great TV show that hotel is from.  Here's another hint:

Obviously on a Hiatus

It's been nearly a month since I've written anything here but that doesn't mean I've run out of ideas!  I'm just focusing on some other writing for now.  Reach me at Twitter, Facebook, or Goodreads if you need me!  And ten million bonus points to anyone who can correctly identify this hotel room.  Yes, I said 10,000,000!!!

Hello Sydney!

Thanks for "following" and a big welcome to Life As We Know It!

Münchhausen by Proxy

In a splendid manor house at Bodenwerder, two aged men relaxed over a pitcher of warm ale, relishing their retirement.

“Well, Hieronymous my friend, we’ve certainly earned the right to do something with our time,” said Gottfried, “what shall we do?  Maybe some traveling?”

Hieronymous slowly sipped from his mug and with a twinkle in his eye turned to his old comrade and said rather blandly, “I should think I’d like to return to Ceylon… yes, I think I’d like that, to see how my old friend Max is doing… he was the Governor’s brother, you know.”

Gottfried, astonished at his friend’s casual remark, shouted, “When on earth did you visit Ceylon?”

“Gottfried,” replied Hieronymous, “have I never told you of the time I was attacked by the lion there, only to be saved from death by a 40’ crocodile?  Well then!  So there I was…”

When Baron Hieronymous Münchhausen died on February 22, 1797, it was the end of a teller of tall tales, but not of a liar.  The Baron in his lifetime was actually deeply hurt by the unauthorized publication of his stories, meant merely for amusement, as his name became synonymous with “Liar.”  His actual tales of heroism and intrigue today garner little attention.  It’s the lies we crave, for they tell us what we want to hear, even when we know we are being lied to.

Mark Twain remarked that a lie can travel halfway around the world while the truth is still putting on its shoes.  Fortunately, most of the better liars have been harmless, or at least harmless to most of their betters.  But in this age of rapid communication and headline news, today’s pseudo-Münchhausens have become more than harmless storytellers, they have become our elected leaders.  Lies, lies, lies, and more lies.

A Happy Easter

and a welcome to the newest to "follow" here - Claudio, thanks!

A Big Wlecome

...and thank you to lisishka for "following!"

John of Gaunt Describes England

A young boy, probably about eight years old, sat on a high stool in a black and cavernous chamber lit by only two wax candles – one in his left hand and the other nearby his father, who was watching him from a sprawled position on the ground.  In the boys other hand was a thick book.

The father checked his watch and looked up at his son, “… and begin.”

The boy proceeded to read aloud from the book:

“This royal throne of kings, this scepter'd isle…”

And the boy continued to read from Shakespeare’s Richard II, glancing up at his father every few words.

“You’re slurring, Jack, try to maintain yourself” the father interrupted.

The boy nodded and continued:

“Againsht zhe envy of lesh shappier landsz, this bleshed plot … thish…”

And his voice trailed off.  The book fell from his hand and then the candle as he slumped in half and slid down the stool until he was like a puddle on the floor.  In less than a minute, though, the boy began to blink his eyes.

The father carefully looked into the boy’s bloodshot eyes and began snapping his fingers.

“Are you here?”

“I think so… how far did I get?” the boy asked.

The father laughed and rubbed his son’s head.

“My boy, you didn’t even finish John of Gaunt’s speech!  The next time you have a question about firedamp, we’ll bring one of your Guina Pigs instead, eh?”

The self-experimental work on toxic gases in mines by John Haldane and his son John Haldane led not only to the invention of the gas mask in time for WWI, but to the placing of two canaries in every British coal-mine for seventy-five years until they were officially  replaced by reliable gas detectors on December 30, 1986.

Bem-vinda!

...and thanks to kimberl'y, the newest "follower" here!

The Most Popular Name in the World

Silhouetted by the setting sun, a small caravan could be seen watering its camels and erecting tents beneath a cluster of sad-looking palm trees nearby a Nestorian monastery.   Idols of Latha and Uzza, their clan’s gods, were stood up carefully in the middle of the encampment.

It was the first of aylūl (September) in 582, and it had been a devastatingly hot day: the stones paving the Incense Road that led through the Syrian town of Busra burned any flesh that pressed upon it.  A lone monk by the name of Bahira watched from just outside a doorway with supernatural interest, his bare feet sizzling beneath him.

A second monk passed behind him, “Another caravan… shall I invite them in?”

“Yes, for a feast!  I feel it is not just another caravan, Abouna,” he said and disappeared into the cell.

A few minutes later, he was looking deeply into the eyes of each traveler as he blessed them.  After the last man had entered, Bahira asked, “I’ve invited you all, is there no one else?”

The leader of the party answered, “I’m Abu Talib.  Only my son is absent, he’s out gathering kindling.”

“Son?” Bahira asked with noticeable disappointment, “I’m afraid the one I’m expecting has no father…”

“Well, truthfully, he is my nephew… his father died before his birth.”

Bahira insisted that the boy be called in for the feast.  He met him at the door and before saying a word, placed his hand on the boy’s back between his shoulder-blades.  His eyes widened as he felt an oval ridge beneath his fingers and he spun the boy around to face him.

“What is your name, boy?”

“Muhammad…”

“Welcome Muhammad,” the priest said, and turning, whispered to the uncle, “protect your nephew, he wears the seal of a prophet…”

And Roma Makes Three!

Welcome and thanks for "following" to Roma's Rambling.  Three new followers in 12 hours, now I have to get another post up soon!

Welcome and Thanks for Another "Follow"

... to ShefTrisha, there's something happening!

Obrigado!

...and welcome to the REAL Jéssica Barreto!  I hope to have another tale up tomorrow or Friday!

A Star is Born

Rowland was frustrated that initial reports had provided so very little detail, for he pained for the families of the missing men.

When word came at last, the news was very discouraging: “Biggest disaster in the history of American whaling!”  Forty ships had passed into the Chuchki Sea in the newly purchased Alaska Territory, when a freak weather event reversed the winds and pushed the ice pack back towards the east and crushed them in.

Louisa came in with a cup of tea and noticed the worried lines around her husband’s eyes.  “Millions of dollars in oil lost… thirty three ships trapped… only seven ships escaped…” he read out loud.  He continued running his finger down the column reading out the names of the lost.

“Oh, no…”

Louisa spoke up at his sudden silence, “What is it dear?”

Rowland noticed his wife sitting across from him for the first time.

“Emily Morgan,” he announced sadly.

Louisa took her husband’s hand.  “Your old ship...  I’m sorry my dear, but you made the right choice to quit that business.  You’ll always have your little reminder though, won’t you?”

He looked down at the back of his hand and gave a slight smile.

“Providentially though, not a single man was lost.”

Rowland arose, kissed his wife tenderly on the cheek and said goodbye for the day.  He arrived a few minutes later at the front door of the dry goods store he’d opened in New York City exactly thirteen years earlier on October 28, 1858.  As the door closed behind him, he turned over the sign in the window on which was printed, “R H Macy’s: OPEN for Business.”

Below it was a big red star, matching the faded tattoo on the back of his hand he'd gotten as a New Bedford whale-man.

Defender of the Faith

Father Rowland fumbled through the passage to the dimly lit chapel in the Palace of Whitehall.  Inside, a small group was already standing by: a single altar server, several members of the Court, and the King and his betrothed.

“Your majesty,” Father Rowland whispered and bowed.

The King simply nodded his recognition.

The priest saw that all things were prepared for the celebration of the Nuptial Mass and just before he was to begin, he turned deferentially back to the King.

“Sire,” he uttered shakily, “since it touches upon us all, I think it important that the license be read before we proceed… and, since excommunication is no slight matter and since your previous, shall we call it, invalid marriage has not yet been publicly annulled, well… I trust you have the Pontifical Brief?”

The witnesses held their breath and the bride to be glanced sideways at her fiancé as if observing the storm about to erupt from a long calm.  But the King surprised those present with a cool response.

“Father, it aches my soul that you should give such little credit to my character.  I assuredly have the Pope’s signature upon the permission to wed; it’s just that I’ve concealed it in a very secret place.  If I were seen wandering the early hours to go and retrieve it, word might spread among the conspirators that something was afoot.  This must remain a secret for now... I’ll show it to you later…”

In reality, there was no ecclesiastical permission and King Henry VIII had already given up on obtaining it.  His marriage to Anne Boleyn was enacted that day but it wasn’t until five months afterward, May 23, 1533 that his divorce from Catherine, and subsequently the divorce of England from the Church of Rome, was made public.

Valentine's Day Follower

Welcome to Desi the Blonde, thanks for joining!  Will try to get out a new tale tomorrow night!

A Thanks! and some changes...

Welcome and a big thanks to JSBTLM for "following" !

Stories usually appear here on the weekends but that's changing and I'll have to figure out how to rework my time to get at least one story published per week on a weekday! Hold fast, I'll be back on a schedule soon!

Two for One!

Welcome to Hannah and Smokin Ronnie, thanks for "following" !

The Surrealism of the Grotesque

On February 24, 1852, the mood in Moscow was one of joyful abandon. It was Maslenitsa, the last week of licentiousness before the sacrificial severity of the Great Lent began. Red-cheeked boys threw snowballs at passing sleighs. Neighbors carried trays of sweet buttery pancakes to the beggars in the alleys. Men and women laughed heartily at the ridiculous costumes of the masqueraders on their way to the countless parties around town. There was dancing and music and drink to be had in surplus.

But inside the Talyzin mansion on Nikitsky Boulevard, an emaciated and pale-faced Nikolai sat in the dark as a sign of contradiction. The deliverance of Russia, his Russia, he saw was beyond his reach. All he could do to assist now in its redemption was to cure his own filthy soul, and he’d gotten a head start. He’d barely eaten a bite since he made confession and received the Eucharist the week before. His stomach, always a problem for him throughout his life, now crowed like a rooster. He rarely slept, waking himself to recite delirious prayers of reparation.

“You are on the right path,” Father Matvey Konstantinovsky, his spiritual advisor had told him, “but it is your ideas, your imagination, your… your writing, Nikolai, that is the source of your gravest offenses. You must renounce everything you’ve ever done.”

Dead Souls was planned to be only the first book of Nikolai Gogol’s version of the Divine Comedy. Book II, his Purgatorio, the product of the last ten years of his life, he incinerated page by page in his fireplace that night.

It was not to be his only act of destruction. Nine days later, his doctors were shocked to feel his backbone through his belly as they unsuccessfully tried to save him from his “holy anorexia.”

A Convenient Indignation

In the late spring of 1915, all of Europe was gripped with fear. In Russia, the Germans had broken the lines and were advancing through Poland. In Belgium, poison gas had been deployed by the Kaiser’s forces for the first time against the French, with horribly devastating effects. And in England, they were calculating the days until they ran out of food, suffering under the third month of a complete submarine blockade of their ports. As the lamps went out across Europe, America remained rigidly neutral, at least officially, but behind the scenes the players continued to make their plays.

Two men stood in the Yellow Drawing Room of Buckingham Palace in whispered conversation. One was the British Foreign Secretary, Sir Edward Grey, and the other was an American envoy with no particular title except “Colonel” House.

“Tell me, Colonel,” Sir Edward spoke through a haze of smoke, “what will the Americans do if the Germans sink an ocean liner with American passengers aboard?”

Colonel House replied slowly, with a hint of East Texas drawl, “A flame of indignation would sweep across America…”

From a window on the East Façade overlooking the Mall, King George turned and addressed Colonel House.

“Suppose it was the Lusitania?”

“I think that would be enough to carry us into the war.”

Just four hours later, the RMS Lusitania was sunk by German submarine U-20, eleven miles from the coast of Ireland. 1,200 persons drowned; 195 of them Americans. One of the largest ships ever built, it went down in only eighteen minutes.

It took almost two more years, but America finally did enter the war on April 4, 1917. Absent in the government findings of the incident was that the “ocean liner” Lusitania was carrying over six million rounds of contraband ammunitions and explosives.

Breaking News: Stories to Resume Tomorrow!

In the meantime, another thanks goes out to Dan Pegg for "following" !

I Missed a Welcome!

Thanks to Fazmyn for "following" and sorry I missed you for a week!