Signing in the Waldenbooks by Parnell Hall

Ed Calkins Poses a Question (Along with My Reply)

Dear MOMI (Mistress of My Immortality)

On a personal note, I'd like to ask you a question about your charactor "Kimberly" from the first book.

I do realize that the reader is responsible for putting the text into one's own imagination, but I would like to know who you thought she was, why she acted the way she did, and what she might have meant spelling out the word "broke" on the Wee Gee board.

Naturally, I did give my interperation of her with my play, but that was in jest. If you perfer to remain silent, I will understand nor will I share anything you tell me if you wish me not to do so.

Besides myself, of course, Kimberly is my favorite minor charactor.


Yours ruthlessly,

Ed Calkins, the Steward of Tara



Dear Steward:

You will either have to wait for the release of the companion short story or time travel to the future to read it now.

Your choice.

Denise M. Baran-Unland
Freelance Features Writer

P.S.: If you choose to insult my decision with a limerick, I, too, fully understand.



 

"The Gift," by Tom Hernandez

The Gift by Tom Hernandez

 

Suddenly a voice

broke the stillness

a gentle breeze, whispering:

 

“My children,

I wanted you to see eternal beauty

So I gave you Michelangelo’s dreams

 

I wanted you to feel purest peace

So I gave you children innocently slumbering

 

I wanted you to hear endless music

So I gave you the night, singing three-part harmony

 

I wanted you to learn faith and hope

So I gave you tomorrow

 

I wanted you to share forgiveness

So I gave you grace

 

I wanted you to believe in miracles

So I gave you spring’s first blush

 

I wanted you to understand the depths of total love

So I gave you the nails that held my son to a tree

 

But above all else, my dear children,

I wanted you to see Me, know Me

Love Me.

 

So I gave you each other.”

 

The Gift, is part of Tom Hernandez’s recently released poetry collection Abundance: A Collection. He is also the author of a book of essays, Chocolate Cows and Purple Cheese.

 

Oct. 21 Reception for Matt Coundiff, "Bryony" Cookbook Illustrator

From 6 to 8 p.m. Oct. 21, visit with Matt Coundiff, illustrator of the interior images for BryonySeries' offical cookbook, Memories in the Kitchen, Bites and Nibbles from "Bryony."

Matt and I will be signing copies of the cookbook. We will also be serving refreshments and selling copies of Bryony, as well as candles from the BryonySeries soy candle line, designed by Valerie's Heavenly Scents.

The event will be held at A Thin Line Tattoo (where Matt works as a tattoo artist), 12337 S. Route 59, Suite 131, Plainfield, Illinois.

Starting next Thursday, to help promote cookbook awareness (all proceeds benefit Big Brothers Big Sisters of Will and Grundy Counties), we will be posting question and answer interviews with some of the cookbook's recipe contributers and featuring one of their recipes on the BryonySeries'  Sue's Diner web page.

To order Memories in the Kitchen, Bites and Nibbles from "Bryony," visit http://www.bryonyseries.com/Dalton_s_Dry_Goods.html

 

James Onohan's Performance at Arts Festival

New Reads for New Readers

 

Originally posted on FrillyShirt upon the 4th of July, 2012

According to my Patented Numbers Ticker, FrillyShirt has a number of new readers – a circumstance I attribute to the capabilities of modern up-to-date-style social media. If I am to manage this influx, or ‘glut’ (from the 13th-century word ‘gluten’, as popularised by medieval fad diets,) I must be a perfect Bonaparte, determining the structures of civil society with a clear and definitive Code, or, at the very least, a short and obscure constitution granting me supreme executive power. Er, what was I talking about again?

Oh, yes, new readers. To begin with basic introductions, I am Sir Frederick Chook (or Sir Frederick Tanah-Chook, to use my married pen-name rather than my bachelor pen-name.) FrillyShirt updates weekly or bi-weekly, depending on my ideas-to-free-time ratio. A typical update will be auteur-ish, autocratic (auteurcratic) nonsense of my own choosing, but I do accept reader submissions at my email address below, both of complete work and of questions that I might answer in my irregular advice column, Teacup in a Storm!

Teacup in a Storm is where I offer what little wisdom I have to aid FrillyShirt fans in maintaining composure and civility against the capricious winds and battering rain of this absurd pantomime we call life. For instance, you might ask “Is it good manners to open a door for a lady?” (Answer: Opening doors for others is typically good manners, even when, like ladies, they are capable of ferocious strength.) Or “Does this tie go with this shirt?” (Answer: Yes, but lose the tie-bar.) Or “Who is the best detective who is also a pony?” (Answer: There is much to be said for the greats, such as Sherlock Horse, Miss Mareple, and Lord Peter Whinny, but I think it’s worth pointing out that Twilight Sparkle and Pinkie Pie have solved every single case they’ve ever faced, and there’s not many that could say that!)

One final note, for established readers and arrivistes alike who enjoy the overanalysis of cultural works: FrillyShirt now has a TV Tropespage where you can sort my Ham And Cheese from my Narm, and identify all the nationalistic slurs encoded into the liner notes of the Three Swell Chaps’ last EP. Oh, those Three Swell Chaps. They’re a pack of cards.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Sir Frederick Chook is a foppish, transcendentalistic historian who lives variously by his wits, hand to mouth, la vie bohème, and in Melbourne with his wife, Lady Tanah Merah.

When not reading Milton and eating Stilton, he writes, ponders, models, delves into dusty archives, and gads about town. He has dabbled in student radio and in national politics, and is presently studying the ways of the shirt-sleeved archivist. He is a longhair, aspiring to one day be a greybeard. He has, once or twice, been described as “as mad as a bicycle.”

FrillyShirt is a compilation of articles, essays, reviews, photographs, artworks, question-and-answers, promotions, travelogues, diatribes, spirit journeys, cartoons, ululations and celebrations by Sir Frederick, his friends and contributing readers. Irregularly regular features include Teacup in a Storm, an etiquette column, and How to be Lovely, advanced speculations on the aesthetics of the self.

Other topics that pop up include fun things in and around Melbourne, art, nature, history, politics and schnauzers. Sir Frederick’s favorite color is all of them. Enjoy his writing? Drop him a telegram at fredchook@frillyshirt.org.

Expect a Bigger Gift

As I’ve previously mentioned, my family and I are moving through some challenging situations.

Last week, I received a wonderful blessing from a godly woman who is already doing something wonderful for me. Within the hour, another with a hidden agenda overshadowed that blessing with sneakiness and deception.

What really upset me was not the latter, but its effect. Meaning, the underhanded deed set the tone for my evening, not the generous one. In frustration I texted a friend with a history of ready answesrs for just about every situation.

I wrote: First, I’m hand-fed manna from the Holy Spirit, and then the vultures pick my carcass. All within thirty minutes.

The swift response: Just means the gift wasn’t big enough. Expect a bigger blessing.

For years, my pastor, Fr. Boris Zabrodsky, has consistently preached two things: Walk in praise and Ask for the whole loaf. God, as a loving Father, is poised to dump wonderful things in our lives (“Give, and it will be given to you. A good measure, pressed down, shaken together and running over, will be poured into your lap.” Luke 6:38), but we never receive them because we don’t ask for them. We are content to satisfy ourself with crumbs from the king’s table instead of the entire banquetting loaf, with which the Lord of heaven and earth longs to bestow on us.

Somewhere along our journey through life, perhaps because we often see God as a type of Santa Claus who MUST give us what we think we want because, we reason, we’ve been more nice than naughty, and then grow discouraged when He doesn’t bend to our whims. So, we quit asking.

BUT, God wishes us to ask, not in a sense of entitlement, but with complete trust and joyful anticipation. If evil appeared to speak the last word in our lives, that only means more goodness is coming because God always utters the last word.

“Death is swallowed up in victory. O Death, where is your victory? O Death, where is your sting?”  1 Corinthians 15: 54-57

Indeed, the blessings keep coming. So, I keep sending up my requests, plugging along at my daily duties, and remaining open to receive more blessings.

Last Friday, I spent some time on the phone with a good friend and colleague who just received some bad news. I heard him struggling to take the higher faith road by counting his blessings.

This morning as I wrote this blog, I paused to send him this text: Praise God for the abundant life He has waiting for you on the other side of this challenge. For death is never the final answer, look forward to the resurrection.

Amen?

All I Need Is A Miracle - Mike & The Mechanics (HQ Audio)

Dear MOMI: (Mistress of My Immortality)

 

Not the least of my worries between emails has been my desire to rack up more wives than King Solomon.

I've been doing the math and at this rate, I'm going to have to lower my standards. I fear that too many women are responding to my proposal as did Melissa, by politely changing the subject, thus exposing you, Denise, to the allegations of “setting a bad example.”

Of course nobody realizes, (not even you) that time will compel you to write the book The Great Women of are Times: The Wives of Ed Calkins. Just a heads up, Solomon had six hundred.

If you're going to finish this book yourself, you might consider getting started or suffer the fate of Chaucer who failed to finished the number of tales promised by the plot he wrote.

By the way, Chaucer didn't sell as many copies as you did his first year, and he charged more!

I might suggest that for Visage’s promotion that you include a marriage proposal form in the books atlas. Let it state thus:

I, Ed Calkins, Steward of Tara, will promise to marry any woman who acquires this form by purchasing a legal copy of Visage, paying the full price herself.

My fear is that such women might expect me to pick up the tab as might befit a proper suitor.

I'll write more as soon as I get word from my meteorologist as to weather (pun intended) the desert land I'm trying to buy is going to be lake front, or under the lake. (A touchy question).

 

Ruthlessly yours,

Ed Calkins. the Steward of Tara

 

P.S. Don't forget the role of beer in history! You can research it yourself if you don't know, or you can wait until I get exasperated enough to rant about it in one of these new fangled email things.

 

A Boat Beneath a Sunny Sky by Lewis Carroll (1872)

 

A boat  beneath a sunny sky,
Lingering onward dreamily
In an evening of July --

Children three that nestle near,
Eager eye and willing ear,
Pleased a simple tale to hear --

Long has paled that sunny sky:
Echoes fade and memories die:
Autumn frosts have slain July.

Still she haunts me, phantomwise,
Alice moving under skies
Never seen by waking eyes.

Children yet, the tale to hear,
Eager eye and willing ear,
Lovingly shall nestle near.

In a Wonderland they lie,
Dreaming as the days go by,
Dreaming as the summers die:

Ever drifting down the stream --
Lingering in the golden dream --
Life, what is it but a dream?



For those that would like a glimpse of my feature stories that the Herald News published this week, check out these links:


09/30/12: A rally against violence

Read about Linda King, the death of her daughter Lisa due to domestic violence and how Linda is fighting back.

http://heraldnews.suntimes.com/lifestyles/15371079-423/a-rally-against-violence.html


09/30/12: Innovative after-school program to launch at center

Years ago, Amy Sanchez was only nine years old in 1989 when she was lying on a couch in herhome when she got caught when a stray bullet came through the house and tore into her brain above her right ear. Now as president of the Collin's Street Neighborhood Council, Sanchez's latest project is an after-school program for high school students at risk for becoming caught up in gang activity.

http://heraldnews.suntimes.com/lifestyles/15370993-423/innovative-after-school-program-to-launch-at-joliet-center.html


10/01/12: Russell sparked growth of Christian Youth Center

For over fifty years, The Christian Youth Center in Joliet, Illinois, has provided a wealth of opportunities for youth to come know Christ, such as mentoring programs, sports teams, day camps, youth groups, and after-school programs. Read about the faith, determination, and dedication of the man that made it happen.

http://heraldnews.suntimes.com/lifestyles/15433814-423/russell-sparked-growth-of-christian-youth-center.html


10/02/12: One beekeeper is all abuzz about his hobby

Carl Wagner only wanted to "borrow" a hive. Learn why he now has thousands of bees, the type of honey he sells, and some of the knowledge he's gained from the experience.

http://heraldnews.suntimes.com/lifestyles/15438305-423/one-beekeeper-is-all-abuzz-about-his-hobby.html


10/04/12: Arts council offers training in martial arts

When Bob Schmitt's son began karate classes, Schmitt decided he wanted a martial arts program, too, but one that offered more interior discipline. What Schmitt found has changed his entire life, from the inside out.

http://heraldnews.suntimes.com/lifestyles/15287526-423/arts-council-offers-training-in-japanese-martial-arts.html

LEGO® Monster Fighters "Mood Video"

Bryony Official Music Video

Guest Post: "A Catalogue of Chrononauts," by Sir Frederick Chook

A Catalogue of Chrononauts, by Sir Frederick Chook

Originally penned upon the 20th of September, 2012 and featured on Frilly Shirt The collected Works of Frederick Chook, a Gentleman (www.frillyshirt.org)

I have theorised before, here and elsewhere, about the possibilities of time travel. Time is a slippery fish indeed, and its very definition is difficult to pin down… assuming one pins down a fish. Perhaps we ought to hook it. Or perhaps, rather than a fish, time is a fearsome moth… but, fish or moth, we can be certain (possibly) that time is a perceived sequence of events, light meeting retina, cause meting effect, thermodynamics rolling relentlessly on like so much cosmic brie down the hill of entropy. Perhaps time travel is no more than a curiously persistent folie à deux shaped by internalised social conceptions of reality, like religious crazes, or the prevalence of Dickenskin*. Perhaps it’s an allergic reaction to the varnish used in police-boxes. Whatever its origins, there are, shall we say, more than a couple of societies dedicated to the exploration of past and future, and they differ considerably in their means, motives and marmalades of choice.

The League of Temporal Voyagers, of course, favours travel for non-interventionist observation purposes, typically utilising small groups of scholars. To this end, they have been at the forefront of development of grandfather-proof technology, which allows a one-way transfer of knowledge but leaves the historical record unchanged. The engines to facilitate these jaunts have a high power draw, but early experiments succeeded in sending a drawing-room back a number of decades, and the League was recently able to send a moving tram-car to the turn of the century with minimal disruption to the schedule.

The Chronological Ramblers Uniting Millennial Paradox Engineers & Temporal Specialists – originally the Time-Men’s Society of Ramblers – began as a Communist-affiliated labour union for time-machine operators, working in the notoriously capital-friendly time-machining industry. Following a general strike, the occupation of the Mesozoic Era by armed workers, and a series of First World Wars, most time-factories were nationalised and heavily regulated – all at once a victory and a death sentence for the militant wing of the Ramblers Continuing amalgamations softened its edge, and its calendar is now largely dedicated to hosting leisure hikes and picnics in the eighteenth century.

Ordo Tempi Pangolinis is an esoteric society, largely comprising past, present, and predicted future members of the Hermetic Order of the Gilded Pangolin. Shrouded in mysticism, arcane ritual, and a number of deliberately misleading pamphlets, the Order’s true purpose is the practice of cliomancy and retroprophecy – the divination of coming events through the observation of past time travellers. Cautious to a fault, the Order rather suffers from a non-existent central leadership and its headquartering in the entirely fictional Ninth Circle of the Labyrinth of the Society for Farcical Research.

The Council of Yesterday are the most active and perhaps the most sinister of the major time powers. Born of the machinations of the continental Great Game, it now serves as an extension of every spy operation with the wherewithal to clothe and equip an epoch-agent. Members are typically armed and always dangerous, and employ a number of tricks to expose fellow travellers while remaining inconspicuous to natives – for instance, whistling to imitate a phone’s ring, or the opening of a future popular song, and observing the reactions of the crowd.

I don’t tell you these things to alarm you, but simply that you will be aware of the risks, and able to distinguish a sinister future-assassin from a harmless Rip van Winkle or an Urashima Tarō in need of a hug. Be not afraid but vigilant, and remember that the past is another country – you can’t get there without a valid passport or if you’ve recently been in contact with livestock. One sound piece of advice for the historical layperson is that any past figure you can recognise has already had their allotted time in controlled circumstances, and shouldn’t be tootling about the present day – or, as they say in China, if you see the Buddha, kill him, because he’s probably a dastardly impostor!

* Dickenskin: Those suffering under the perception that they are secretly a character from the works of Charles Dickens; usually Mr Guppy, but sometimes Mr F’s Aunt. There is no known cure for Dickenskinism, but leaving two Mrs F’s Aunts in a room together is recommended by doctors as “a galloping good wheeze.”

 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Sir Frederick Chook is a foppish, transcendentalistic historian who lives variously by his wits, hand to mouth, la vie bohème, and in Melbourne with his wife, Lady Tanah Merah.

When not reading Milton and eating Stilton, he writes, ponders, models, delves into dusty archives, and gads about town. He has dabbled in student radio and in national politics, and is presently studying the ways of the shirt-sleeved archivist. He is a longhair, aspiring to one day be a greybeard. He has, once or twice, been described as “as mad as a bicycle.”

FrillyShirt is a compilation of articles, essays, reviews, photographs, artworks, question-and-answers, promotions, travelogues, diatribes, spirit journeys, cartoons, ululations and celebrations by Sir Frederick, his friends and contributing readers. Irregularly regular features include Teacup in a Storm, an etiquette column, and How to be Lovely, advanced speculations on the aesthetics of the self.

Other topics that pop up include fun things in and around Melbourne, art, nature, history, politics and schnauzers. Sir Frederick’s favorite color is all of them. Enjoy his writing? Drop him a telegram at fredchook@frillyshirt.org.

 

 

"I Know You Already Have a Book Cover, But...." (A Chance to Win a Copy of "Visage").

No, this is not the official book cover for Visage.

Yes, this is my official promotional piece for the second book in the BryonySeries, which has a December 1 release date.

So what’s going on?

I received a very cool surprise gift last week. So while Matt Coundiff, the illustrator for Memories in the Kitchen: Bites and Nibbles from “Bryony,” is still hard at work on the cover and interior art for Visage, I’m seizing the opportunity to show off this gift off a bit.

Besides, the timing of that gift brightened up a challenging week. Here’s what happened.

Last Monday night, while carrying an armful of books down the ladder for family Bible study (We tend to go overboard), I paused a couple rungs from the bottom to chat with Rebekah, who was folding laundry.

As I took a step, my foot, (which I had foolishly clad in non-skid slipper socks, hardly the appropriate attire for ascending and descending metal ladders with my hands full), slipped backward and down I tumbled. I dropped the books but not quickly enough to keep from hitting my hard head on the bottom rung.

I didn’t feel too badly that night, but oh was I stiff and bruised the next morning! Did I mention it was also my second concussion in six weeks? That one was the result of a freak piano accident. Read about it Here.

Work was slow going that day (I also succumbed to a ninety minute nap, which didn’t help my cause), and I fell somewhat behind, (despite skipping the walk), but I got through it and happily crawled into bed.

The next day I was still hurting, but now scrambling and feeling a bit caged since I again passed on my walk. Late that morning, a good friend, Christopher Gleason, texted and asked when, after one o’clock, might I be free. (I can hear the background chuckles of all you know me well. Free? I am never free). I texted back that I wasn’t available due to work and then homework with the kids. Next he asked if he might drop something off at the house, and I agreed.

When Christopher texted to announce his imminent arrival, Rebekah and I were in the last few pages of Jane Eyre. Christopher asked me to come outside just as Mr. Rochester jealously finished drilling Jane about her relationship with St. John Rivers.

Rebekah glanced at her remaining stack of homework and groaned both at the work and more the fact that I was disrupting a really pivotal point in the story.

“I’ll just be a minute,” I promised.

I quickly crossed the front yard and approached the driver’s side, asking, “What’s up?”

“Get in,” Christopher said.

I glanced back at the house and mentally heard Rebekah’s indignant objections.

“Um....” I began.

“Just get in.”

I hurried around to the passenger’s side, shut the door, and reached into my back pocket for my phone to text Rebekah that’d I’d be right back.

We didn’t move. Instead, Christopher reached behind the seat, brought forth a large silver and white gift bag, and set it on my lap. Stunned speechless (an amazing feat in itself), I moved aside the tissue paper and beheld an 8x10 colored pencil, framed rendition of Visage.

“I know you already have a book cover, but....”

I felt awestruck and warmed to the core. Sure, I’ve enjoyed the thrill of seeing my work come to life in the form of art, music, and even candles, but those have been artist/business collaborations. Except for my family, this is the first time anyone ever proactively created a Bryony themed piece and presented it to me as a gift.

As I studied the picture’s detail, I admired the time Christopher, unbidden, had devoted to it. Furthermore, he had framed it in cherry wood, the signature wood of Bryony’s bedroom furniture and music box. I momentarily forgot about Rebekah and her homework.

To date, I have several Bryony events and two writer workshops scheduled in October and November and several more needing finalizing. Christopher’s picture will accompany each one.

I invite you to stop by and leave a positive comment about the art along with your name and contact information. One random commenter will receive a signed copy of Visage.

For event details, become a fan of Bryony on Facebook www.facebook.com/BryonySeries and visit the BryonySeries "Fetes and Feasts" page: www.bryonyseries.com/Fetes_and_Feasts.html

 

 

Maurice Ravel - Prelude à la Nuit

Alert! The Irish Vampire Association is Meddling with "Bryony" Sales!

Deareset MOMI (Mistress of My Immortality):

Forgive the silence between this email and the last but in my frantic conversations with the IVA (Irish Vampires Association), the lake front property grab of greedy investors that have realized the climate change to occur in the Sahara region (five hundred years from now and counting; buy while it’s cheap) and the lack of attention historians have given to the role of beer, I've forgotten the invention of email.

The IVA is quickly becoming a organization of worry warts and is now concerned that too many copies of Bryony are being sold too quickly. My assertion that Denise doesn't hold that opinion has done little to quell the fear.

Consider their perspective. How many copies of The Iliad sold in its first year? Since no form of Greek writing existed, we know for a fact the answer is "zero." But a mere six hundred years later, the tale made the Roman “best seller” list,” and no aristocrat was caught dead without a translated copy.

The IVA has seen this happen to numerous books and has true reservations of how many copies of Bryony will be available one million years form now. (Remember, I did predict the book would be worth six mil two thousand years from now.)

Now Denise, much could be done on your part if you raised the price by a thousand percent or simply promise not to print any more copies two hundred years after your death. The later option could be done in the form of a will.

 

Ruthlessly yours,

Ed Calkins, Steward of Tara

 

 

 

 

 

"The Highwayman" by Alfred Noyes

The Highwayman by Alfred Noyes (First published in the August 1906 issue of Blackwood's Magazine, Edinburgh, Scotland.


PART ONE

I

The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding—
Riding—riding—
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.

II

He'd a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,
A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin;
They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh!
And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,
His pistol butts a-twinkle,
His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.

III

Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,
And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred;
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

IV

And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
Where Tim the ostler listened; his face was white and peaked;
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
But he loved the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's red-lipped daughter,
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say—

V

'One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a prize to-night,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;
Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way.'

VI

He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair i' the casement! His face burnt like a brand
As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;
And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,
(Oh, sweet, black waves in the moonlight!)
Then he tugged at his rein in the moonliglt, and galloped away to the West.



PART TWO

I

He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon;
And out o' the tawny sunset, before the rise o' the moon,
When the road was a gypsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor,
A red-coat troop came marching—
Marching—marching—
King George's men came matching, up to the old inn-door.

II

They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead,
But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed;
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!
There was death at every window;
And hell at one dark window;
For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.

III

They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest;
They had bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!
'Now, keep good watch!' and they kissed her.
She heard the dead man say—
Look for me by moonlight;
Watch for me by moonlight;
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!

IV

She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years,
Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,
Cold, on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!

V

The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest!
Up, she stood up to attention, with the barrel beneath her breast,
She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;
For the road lay bare in the moonlight;
Blank and bare in the moonlight;
And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her love's refrain .

VI

Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing clear;
Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding,
Riding, riding!
The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still!

VII

Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night!
Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!
Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight,
Her musket shattered the moonlight,
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him—with her death.

VIII

He turned; he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood
Bowed, with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood!
Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew grey to hear
How Bess, the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.

IX

Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!
Blood-red were his spurs i' the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat,
When they shot him down on the highway,
Down like a dog on the highway,
And he lay in his blood on the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat.

X

And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
A highwayman comes riding—
Riding—riding—
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.

XI

Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard;
He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred;
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.      

WIDPSC 2010 After Dinner Vampire Speech - Champion

Bryony - Official Book Trailer

Extra Post: "Schedule Changes and Pets."

In Bryony, Melissa's Brian oversees the care of two pets. One is a small brown and white rescue dog; the other is a blue-eyed white cat with a strange neck tilt.

Although both animals appear to adjust well to the Marchellis household, many pets exhibit negative behaviors when their normal routine becomes distrupted.

Since no one's household operates exactly the same way day after day, this story I wrote for the Herald News in Joliet, Illinois offers suggestions for keeping Fido happy, secure, and well-behaved when home situations fluctuate.

http://heraldnews.suntimes.com/lifestyles/15289749-423/changes-in-schedule-can-upset-your-pets.html

The Return of Sir Frederick Chook

Several years ago, while researching certain elements for Bryony, I stumbled upon a delightful blog called Frilly Shirt: The Collected Works of Sir Frederick Chook, a Gentleman (www.frillyshirt.org).

According to his site, Sir Frederick Chook is a foppish, transcendentalistic historian who lives variously by his wits, hand to mouth, la vie bohème, and in Melbourne with his wife, Lady Tanah Merah.

When not reading Milton and eating Stilton, he writes, ponders, models, delves into dusty archives, and gads about town. He has dabbled in student radio and in national politics, and is presently studying the ways of the shirt-sleeved archivist. He is a longhair, aspiring to one day be a greybeard. He has, once or twice, been described as “as mad as a bicycle.”

FrillyShirt is a compilation of articles, essays, reviews, photographs, artworks, question-and-answers, promotions, travelogues, diatribes, spirit journeys, cartoons, ululations and celebrations by Sir Frederick, his friends and contributing readers. Irregularly regular features include Teacup in a Storm, an etiquette column, and How to be Lovely, advanced speculations on the aesthetics of the self.

Other topics that pop up include fun things in and around Melbourne, art, nature, history, politics and schnauzers. Sir Frederick’s favorite color is all of them.

Two years ago, in a bold, impetuous moment, I fired off a telegram to Sir Chook and inquired his availability for an interview regarding dandyism, foppery, and all fun things clothes. He consented, and I published the resulting conversation here:

 

Dandy or Fop: Here

 

Dandyism, Fashion, and Art: Here

 

The Lure of the nineteenth Century: Here

Living the Foppish Life: Here

 

Since then, Sir Chook allowed me to reprint two posts that complemented Bryony:

 

So you've Traveled Back in Time: Here

 

Po'Boy and the Arcane Practices of History: Here

 

He also wrote an original, absolutely hilarious piece exclusively for BryonySeries. Read  Of Diets Most Diabolical Here

Since various tasks keep the gracious Sir busy at the present time for additional commentaries especially for Bryony, he’s granted me permission to dip into the FrillyShirt archives and republish such works as might interest present day Bryony fans. Look for them on Tuesdays.

 

 

 

Extra Post: "A Great Lady"

One of the regular features I write for the Heald News in Joliet, Illinois, is a column called An Extraordinary Life.

Since 2001, I've enjoyed the opportunity to immortalize the inspiring and interesting lives of local people who recently passed.

The story that ran today showcased a woman of marvelous artistic talent, a woman who used that talent in remarkable ways in her community after she raised ten children.

Read the full story here:

http://heraldnews.suntimes.com/lifestyles/15288468-423/eugenia-bank-remembered-as-a-great-lady.html

So What Happened to the Great Makeup Experiment?

It’s, uh, on hold.

Turned out the Midwest drought wrecked havoc on allergic people (like me). Despite daily high doses of antihistamines to combat chronic hives, my eyes, nose, and throat rebelliously behaved as if I’d played purist and shunned all medication.

So I’m waiting for frost to kill every living green thing and for the itching, swelling, and congestion to depart. No point in slathering myself with new products when my skin labors under the throes of histamine overload.

Of course, by the time seasonal allergies settle down, I figure a slew of winter viruses will wage war on my system, yet again delaying a trip into cosmetic investigation and the playing with an endless array of colorful facial paints, brushes, sponges...the birthright of women everywhere since the garden.

Soooo glad I’m not allergic to keyboards, mice, and monitors.

 

Mozart Piano Sonata in C, K. 545 (1/2); 1st movement; Eschenbach

Ed Calkins Plans His Christmas List

Dearest MOMI (Mistress of My immortality)

I fear I will need at least thirty-five copies of the next book and ten copies of the first for this Christmas. If there is a way that I can buy these copies directly from the author, I would like to do that as it will add to their collectiblity.

Of course, I am counting on my Christmas tips from the newspaper route to fund this investment. Interesting, most of the copies I gave were read promtly, but not completely. Many jumped to the page with my picture, read that first, then put the book down for a few months.

Only now are most people finished, all wondering how the next book might link with the first and still contain Ed Calkins since John Simons might no longer be a vampire. (Of all those who read the first book, they would like to have the second.)

For my part, it would be a spoiler, don't tell me. Let me read the whole book when I buy it.

Yours ruthlessly,

Ed Calkins, Steward of Tara