Some Words...Spoken

I wanted to try posting some audio to accompany the written word. I've reposted a short creative piece I wrote a few weeks back and added an audio message. Please let me know what you think.

Thanks to AudioBoo for the technology.




"Before she quickly brushed it aside, her single tear drop traced a trail - like a silver scalpel slicing so quickly through flesh that the very bone is revealed before blood begins to rush through the wound - such was this tear - a momentary revealing that she cared too much, that her need was too great and that her hope for recognition, salvation actually, would not come. Not tonight..."

Miasma Episode I

NOTE: This is a creative writing piece and could be one of a series that creates a fantasy character to allow for observational prose...

My name is Miasma. Actually, Miasma isn't my real name and if I tried to tell you my real name your ears would not hear it nor would your mind grasp it, so for you and the world you see, I am Miasma.

I am a watcher of people and their things for in my watching I find some degree of comfort, some measure of essence that I would otherwise lose and soon I might fade beyond the reach of this world. I cannot touch it or you anymore, so I watch. My presence is veiled to you, no more than the wisp of a cloud or the last mist of a spring morning. I can only watch. I watch the beauty and the ugliness.

Today I watch her, this child with brilliant blue eyes, dancing with light. If you would see her you would most likely be so struck by the particular shade of azure blue brimming from her eyes that you might miss the truly brilliant light that is her eagerness of being as it radiates into the world around her. Yes, I see this radiance. Some might discount her shine as youthful and untainted enthusiasm, but I know better. I have seen this before and today as I watch her trace her fingers along the cracked mortar between the smooth wall stones, I know that this youngling is a rare and delicate version among your kind. She hums a simple tune, one that rises from her inner being and as her wordless song touches the air and all around her I feel the urge to bow, I and every form of life around her would sway upon her song if she only wished it so. She doesn't, for she doesn't know how, yet...

5+ Words that Make Your Mind Work

A few years back, I developed the habit of inserting carefully chosen words into my speech in order to demand those within ear shot attend to the task of actually listening. I especially enjoy using commonly known but uncommonly used words when answering the harmless question, “How are you?” Faced with an unexpected response and a smile, people will almost always break from their non-thinking routine into a real human exchange. I like offering that to the people in my world and find that they seem to like it, too.

Here are 5 of my favorites.

1. Stellar
2. Splendid
3. Grand
4. Buoyant
5. Delightful

The added bonus – when I tell people I am stellar, I often discover I am!





A word about "Word Smith"



word (wûrd)
n.
1. A sound or a combination of sounds, or its representation in writing or printing, that symbolizes and communicates a meaning and may consist of a single morpheme or of a combination of morphemes.

smith (sm th)
n.
1. A metalworker, especially one who works metal when it is hot and malleable. Often used in combination: a silversmith; a goldsmith.
2. A blacksmith.
3. One who makes or works at something specified. Often used in combination: a locksmith; a wordsmith.

word•smith (wûrd sm th )
n.
1. A fluent and prolific writer, especially one who writes professionally.
2. An expert on words.



And finally- Turning, Spraining and Breaking Phrases

I love a well turned phrase or saying. Be it of colloquial origin or something crafted in context, clever phrases interest me.

My mother punctuates many of her statements with, “Don’t Ya Know?” It isn’t intended so much as a question as a way of emphasizing a fact as she has stated it.

My grandmother is known for coining the phrase, in a moment of Southern Bell disgust, second to none, “That just makes my ass want a cup of coffee.” I’m not sure how it means what it means, but there is no doubt what it means.

One of my former colleagues often would say he was, “Frosted Flakes Great!” That one needs little explanation.

And, although I’m not sure of the origin in my own family mythology, somewhere I picked up the proclamation that one can be “Finer than frog hair.”

Do you have any such turned, twisted or mangled phrases you can share? Feel free. Why it would be “gooder than snuff and not half as dusty,” I’m sure!

The BOOK! The BOOK! Wishful Preaching

It's official. You can buy my book, "Wishful Preaching: Things I Wish I'd Said From The Pulpit" on Amazon. The e-book sells for $2.99 with all profits going to charity.

And, if you don't have a Kindle, you can use any number of these FREE Kindle Reading Apps for your PC, Phone, iPad or iPod Touch. Why kill a tree when it's free!?

What is the book?


"A little bit preaching, a tad irreverent and a dash of hilarious - Wishful Preaching is a collection of 12 sermons that SHOULD be preached from the pulpit. After 15 years of ministry and a less than pretty exit, I've become aware that there are a few things I wish I'd said from the pulpit. 

Preaching isn't really all about what the preacher does. It is about what we do, what we hear and how that impacts our lives. Preaching is as much about hearing as it is about talking. This book is about the talking, the proclaiming of preaching. I have written in a form very similar to how I've preached with a mix of scripture, story and humor. 

This book is about hearing, too. You will be challenged to hear some things in different ways, in ways that might really challenge you, even make you steaming, righteous mad. Sound fun?"

So, buy it now and do some good!

Buy the Book, Feed a Charity

All profits from the sales of Wishful Preaching will be donated to charity. The charity recipient for 2012-2013 is Prodigals Community.  

​

So head on over to Wishful Preaching on Amazon and get the ebook now!

Authoring the Book "Wishful Preaching" - Almost Done.

After about a year... Edits are done. The cover art is done. Just hours away from hitting 'send' to the publisher.

Available SOON via Amazon.

Can I get a Hell Yeah?!

Linger On It

Where do you linger? There are those tastes that just grab us by the tongue and scream delight and indulgence. Do you linger with them, allowing the full force of their impact upon that moment?

Then there are those sounds, the songs that we love to hear – every note, rhythm, and lyric as they dance into our mind and resonate within our body. Do you linger in them, playing them over again to light on each resonance and twisted phonetics?



What about those people whose physical beauty, simply passing by grabs your core? Do you allow yourself to linger in the impression as it launches into your libido and churns ancient and primal sensations, eliminating all thought for a moment? Do you linger there?

What of laughter? When it sneaks up on you and you find your world invaded by a twist of fate or thought, a comical jolt of unexpected amusement.  Do you linger in the wake of a real gut level laugh, leaving you helpless and crying in spasms of delight?

Do you linger on the good moments of life? I think you could…

We Are Warriors - A Short Tale

The sun cast shadows upon the meadow, long tendrils entwining the branches of distant trees into a single shade.

The warrior sat upon a rock overlooking the rolling fields that lead to town and home, allowing his thoughts to cast their own shadows, collecting into one thought: "How much longer can I do this?"

With effort he lifted his weight and stood facing west. He felt the pain surge through his broken knee and the burn beneath newly forming scabs on his back. He stood and prayed aloud.

"Odin, my guard and guide. For 55 seasons I have lived. For 36 of these I have fought the Beast into submission, annually sending its weakened body and depleted spirit back into the caves to sleep and heal through the winter. I wield sword and shield in Your name and provide safety for my home, my family, my village. Each year I fail to destroy the Beast and like the certainty of each spring it returns. I am tired and wounded and this time I fear tired beyond this battle and wounded of not only body, but spirit. How long, Odin, how long can I continue?"

The warrior gave into his pain and stumbled to one knee, resting his hand on the hilt of his sword and brow upon his forearm. He could hear the music and singing beginning already, drifting across the darkening meadow in celebration of his victory. He knew better. He knew that the beast would live and in a few months they would renew their battle, and he doubted. He felt not only the pain of injuries that would heal, but the weakness in his limbs and mind that would not.

Tonight the village would sing. Tankers of ale would be hoisted in his honor. The voices of maidens would sing and young men would weave another chapter in the tale of his valor. Their Hero was invincible. The winter would be safe.

But next season would come.

A breeze lifted his thinning hair as he raised his head.

"Odin," He spoke almost a whisper, "Tonight we will celebrate. I will not worry about the aging of my bones, or the weakening of my strength. Tonight I will give you thanks for our victory, another year of safety. But, tomorrow I will not lift tankers of ale or songs. I will forget the victories of the past, and I will prepare for the battles to come. I will lift whetstone and blade, shield and arm and return back to the work of a warriors training. I will not quit. Odin, you have my word and my life."

As the last word drifted away on the breeze, a tired man stood and began walking to the village.

Sea - I Love You

I do love you for it is your simple and methodical rhythms, the rise and fall of me, a dance mated eternal, a connection to the source. You are my beginning, my mark, my destination and all that comes between is but fragile wants, washed away, mistook for something of importance, a myth of substance, now dissolved or polished and tossed away. There is no distance, no transgressing terrain, to separate us you are always...in to and out off me, returning and drawing but to sway...sway...away with me. Still, it is best to see you and feel your pace so closely, like today.

All that I am, loves the sea.

Writer's Prompt - Reminder: "Blasphemy and Unicorns"

This strange tale was prompted by "The Tenth Daughter of Memory" and is purely a creative writing piece and should only be read as a fantastic tale.

Blasphemy and Unicorns

I'm not sure what prompted the man standing in the shadows to speak to me, but he did and I remember exactly what he said as his words rattled forth.


I tell you, sometimes, stories are more complex than they seem and truth more strange than you expect.


They say it was a spear that pierced his side that dark day, but we know different, we who slide to and fro through the shadows of humanity's denials. We are the substance of fantastical tales, of angels, demons, leprechauns, sprites and of fairy twists and turns. Ours is the story of how the divine is called to watch the human journey, to document their story and on rare occasion we are needed to brush that story back on course - not a defined course, but on at least a path of momentary preservation from a perilous extinction. That day we were simply watching another pinnacle of human cruelty acted out with a hill, a cross and the delicate flesh of God - the brush was about to take place, but not by us this time, by something much larger. 


The guard held the spear in his hand and other than a passing evaluation of the particular smoothness of the spear's tip, had no idea. He was following the simple instructions of his superior, "Grab that spear and thrust it into the Jew's side. I have no intent on waiting here all night for him to die. I have places to be." He was also following the direction of God.


We all know, though it may surprise you to hear, dear mortal, that Unicorns carry the very power of life in their veins. It is said and is true that unicorn tears can heal the flesh. It is said and is true that unicorns can ride on the breath of life and travel between heaven and earth in the beat of a monarch's wing. However, what is not said, never spoken about is the resurrection power of the fallen unicorn's horn. 


When a unicorn dies, which isn't very often, the life of the divine beast bursts into its horn, spiraling upward, deep into the ivory tip where it is driven by the spinning of life's essence, infinitely packed and powerful and then bursts into the heavens to be reabsorbed by the Divine. This moment is known as Cretaten.  What only I know is that, if by some precisely timed tragic and horrendous event, the horn is cut from the unicorn before the Cretatan is complete, the divine is captured in the horn. That horn would be of infinite value, and if it ever accidentally found itself somewhere, say perhaps fashioned into the tip of a common spear, it would be an unnatural weapon that would be more likely to transform life anew than kill. Such things could never happen, we would never allow it. However, it might be allowed to happen, even be planned, if a resurrection miracle was what was needed.


But, you didn't hear it from me.

Sunday Coffee Cup - Cafe Roche

Jazz floats through the space accompanied by a pleasant din of community conversation. A chat about home repairs, banter about the most accomplished local jazz groups and the common agreement that this is the best coffee served in tow are all a part of my morning today.

I often drive the short distance from my home to Café Roche on Sunday morning. If you’ve been there you know why. There is a welcoming eclectic mix of décor and people– always. Today’s coffee cup doesn’t come from my cupboard and isn’t adorned with a clever saying or photo, but it is rich and familiar in both its simple form and steaming content.

I enjoy my stops at Café Roche. This morning is a writing day, so I’ll nestle into the back corner of the use to be white sofa and pound out an hour or so worth of creative writing. Maybe I’ll write down my thoughts about the current craze around Tebowing (oh I have some strong thoughts about God and football), or continue my work on “Things I Wish I Had Said from the Pulpit”, but whatever comes the energy here will help. It is strong, animated and stimulating – just like this Sunday Coffee Cup.

Note: If you like, find out more about Café Roche over at Sarah’s blog.

Announcing Word Wednesday

Starting this week, I'll be adding a weekly themed post, Word Wednesday, to Kim's Korner.

The post will focus on a fun word (perhaps commonly known, but seldom used), the definition and some playful writing based on the understanding or misunderstanding of that word!

I hope you will join us for Word Wednesday - starting this week!

The Road - An Incomplete Tale

Introduction

I stood in the gallery, surprised. The new “Rural Life” photo contest had caused me to leave my normally secluded life and travel to Charlotte, NC to view the collection of photography from across the state. I had been enjoying the various landscapes, pictures of freckled faced, overall clad youths and studies on an assortment of farm-life objects: plows, daisies growing in tin pots, wagon wheel sentinels on dirt drives. Then there it was - a black and white photograph of a too familiar road, that road. That road, eternally dark and damp, always leading out of town to the same house, the same now seldom remembered history. The story is all but gone as are those who where there, but I am thrown back tonight, to a time before, a time before I knew of malformed creatures and a darkness so completely void of light that it could seized your spirit in terror, a time when I was waiting beside that road...

Hear It Read - Audio Post

I wanted to try posting some audio to accompany the written word. I've reposted a short creative piece I wrote a few weeks back and added an audio message. Please let me know what you think.

Thanks to AudioBoo for the technology.




Before she quickly brushed it aside, her single tear drop traced a trail - like a silver scalpel slicing so quickly through flesh that the very bone is revealed before blood begins to rush through the wound - such was this tear - a momentary revealing that she cared too much, that her need was too great and that her hope for recognition, salvation actually, would not come. Not tonight.

The Reverberations of Poet's Pen

while reading a poem over at Nevine's, i was reminded of how deep poetry, and creative prose for that mater, reaches into my being. it is a living witness to the full gamut of my life, even though i am most driven to write when my spirit is in pain.

yes. for the scars that remain after the battered soul heals, for the ongoing hemorrhage of internal hope, for the fears arising from tortures too ghastly to be mentioned, for the pit of despair where rests stagnant laughter, mired in decay... for these pieces of the poet's being... there must be poetry. for in the words of the verse, hammered out on life's iron fist, i often find relief and sometimes, in moments of purest grace, wonderful questions.

The Transformation of Reading - Rock, Scissors, Kindle?

I recently purchased a Kindle. I'm enjoying the portability and ease of the device. I chose that reader because it is most ‘book like,’ lacking all the digital temptations of the tablets and color readers. I’ve switched off as many of the features I as can to cut down on any distractions while reading. Still, there is nothing like the feel of paper, the smell of an aged hard cover, the traces of previous readers…. Yes, we will adjust, but the loss is real for those of us who will always remember when a coffee shop was most likely attached to a room of used books.

Many of us are morning the passing of paper. Two bloggers that have said it well are:

Kent Anderson, over at “the scholarly kitchen” writes Mourning the Printed Book — The Aesthetic and Sensory Deprivation of E-books and Kristen J. Tseti of “From a little office in a little house" posts on

The looming extinction of everyday art and history.

I invite you to visit their posts and ponder this shift in the state of reading medium we are witnessing. A wake may be in order.

What Should I Read?

I recently purchased a Kindle and have seen my reading volume take a bit of an up-tick. My daughter  sent me an Amazon e-gift card for my birthday and now, I'm puzzled as to what to purchase next.

So, what should I read?

Recent reads include:

1. The Shallows, Nicolas Carr
2. The Tipping Point, Malcolm Gladwell
3. The Blood that Bonds, Christopher Buecheler
4. Full Dark, No Stars, Steven King

Please feel free to offer suggestions...

Real Men Don't - Really

In 1985, at a time when society was struggling with gender based issues and books like "Why Men Are The Way They Are" and "The Hazards of Being Male" were attempting to lead men (and women) in another direction - I wrote the following story.

“The Land of The Nams and The Nims”

Once, long ago, in a far away land there lived an odd group of people. They lived much the way we do, eating, sleeping, playing and such things, but in this land there where two types of people, the Nams and the Nims. Oddly enough, the only difference between the Nams and the Nims was a simple steel plate.

You see, when a new child was born, it was decided if that child would be a Nam or a Nim. The Nams were the rulers. They made all of the important decisions, did all of the hard work and were served by the Nims. Both the Nams and the Nims where born exactly alike, small hands, round hairless faces, big brown eyes and most importantly, with a small hole in their chest, right over there heart. It was a dangerous hole, because, as every Nam knew, if anyone touched your heart, you would surely die. Thus, those that were picked to be Nams had a steel plate fixed to their bones over their heart hole. This made it safe for them to rule, of course,”

“On one day, a young Nam named Ned was following the instruction of his teacher. ‘Remember, Ned,’ he said with a strong huffy voice, ‘Your job will be very important and you must always remember to hold your head high and work hard.’ ‘Yes, sir,’ the young Nam replied. As they walked down the hall, two young Nims passed them and quickly entered a room off the hallway, laughing as they went. “What are they doing in there,” Ned asked? “Just silly Nim stuff, cooking, cleaning… Don’t worry about,” grunted the teacher. At that moment another Nam ran up, “Master Teacher,” the young Nam excitedly announced, “there is trouble in the outer garden! A dragon I believe!” Well, before Ned knew what happened, the teacher and the messenger had left Ned there, standing alone in the hall. “Figures,” Ned thought, “I miss everything.” Ned turned to head back down the hall to the small room he kept, when Ned passed the door the young Nims had entered and heard them laughing again. Then Ned had a thought, a clever little thought. “I bet I can find out what they are doing,” Ned reasoned. Without another thought, Ned ran down the hall to the boiler room and slipped inside. Making sure no one had followed; Ned closed the door, and grabbing a chair, the young Nam climb up and into an air ventilation pipe. Ned knew the way, and soon had crawled into the pipe directly back to the Nim room and was peering down the vent at them. Teacher was right, they were cleaning, washing dishes, and stacking towels, and all the while, they would laugh and giggle with each other. Ned was a little disappointed, but figured that The Master was right. Nims were silly and less interesting than Nams. “It was good to be a Nam. It is good to rule,” Ned thought, and touched the plate over Ned's chest proudly and started to slowly crawl back down the pipe. Then Ned heard a scream come from the room below. Ned looked quickly. One of the small Nims had been hurt. It looked like a tray had fallen and hit its head, cutting the Nim's face. The small Nim knelt to the floor and cried. Then Ned saw the most peculiar thing. The older Nims moved close  and gathered around  in a circle. One by one, they reached out to the Nim and, to Ned's disbelief, touched the Nim's heart hole. Ned gasped. “They are going to kill...” Ned's mind raced, “What should I do?” But, the little Nim did not die. Instead, as each one touched the heart hole heart, the Nim began to feel better. The young Nim stopped crying, stopped bleeding and soon they were all laughing and singing again.

Ned looked down at the steel plate that separated the heart from all others, and wondered...

Her Single Tear Traced a Trail

Before she quickly brushed it aside, her single tear drop traced a trail - like a silver scalpel slicing so quickly through flesh that the very bone is revealed before blood begins to rush through the wound - such was this tear - a momentary revealing that she cared too much, that her need was too great and that her hope for recognition, salvation actually, would not come. Not tonight.

Book Excerpt

Chapter 15ish

By the time I awoke, the sun had warmed the bedroom and day was well underway. I was alone in the bed so Kelly was already up, and I stretched fully using the entire bed to flex my legs and extend my arms. I herd a rustle overhead.

"That must be Russell" I thought.

Russell was the squirrel that I had tried repeatedly to run from my attic. His name was an indicator of his modus operandi. For weeks now he had shown up, sometimes in the morning, sometimes later or throughout the day, scurried onto the roof and either worked on chewing his way through a new portion of the house, or entered the attic to romp and 'rustle' about. Kelly had named him Russell. I wasn't so forgiving and would prefer to call him a few other select names.

"Your buddy is back in the attic!," I shouted to Kelly.

Climbing out of bed, I grab my jeans and a tee shirt. I walked barefooted into the living room. Rubbing my eyes, and scratching my head, I looked for my shoes. I wasn't climbing those pull-down ladder steps and crawling in the attic with bare feet.

"Where are my boots," I asked, partly to myself and half heartedly to Kelly.

The silence finished the job of waking me. Kelly wasn't there. No coffee. No shower running. I walked back to the bedroom, scanning for any of her things. Nothing. She was gone. Walking back into the kitchen, I saw a note on the table. Picking it up, I knew. It could have begun with "Dear John."

Evan,


You were sleeping so beautifully when I left that I didn't want to wake you. Honestly, I didn't want to face you. I'm sorry for being chicken, but try as I might I've not been able to tell you to your face.


We've tried this for a while, and much of what we have is amazingly wonderful. You are a caring and considerate man. You are funny, smart and a fantastic lover. You know me, my body, my needs. God, it is all I can do not to run in there and make love to you, again, but I know that I'd not be able to do this, and it isn't fair to you anymore.


Despite your wonderful heart, you can't give me the one thing I need; your total and unwavering love. I've been waiting for you to let go of the past, your parents' death, the pain of being alone, and your lapse in success as a writerÂ… none of that matters to me. I've told you. I've been patient. I've tried. I know that we will never have what we each need, as long as we are together. The distraction is too powerful. Our passion is too pleasant, too comforting. I feel that even in that passion we have grown more and more apart. You need your space, your solitude. I know you abhor being alone, but that is your journey. I can't help loving the city, and all that it is. I need to settle in to my life there and hopefully find someone who is ready to fully give...


Shit. Forget it, I'm rambling on. You already know what this is. I just don't want to crowd you with my things.


Goodbye, Evan. I love you.


Kelly

Just like that, she was gone. I looked at the paper in my hand. I was trembling. My head began to spin, my gut twisted into a knot. Somehow, I carefully folded the note and slipped it into my back pocket.

Disconnected Communication

Recumbent desires and cumbersome guilt affords us little in the way of meaning. You shouldn't look at me that way, if you don't want my delicate demands. I can't say what ferment swells and requisitions our future from clasped hands. Nor do I dare impart a wish to want more than fanciful moments, minuscule ticks off our kindness. Your seemly essence troubles us.

Is that enough?

Hello?

Why won't you listen to me this morning?