Smokey Mountain Breakdown

And J.D. Salinger is totally reading your blog, Dude.

I was reading Smoking with John Colvin (his story, Sister Earth, is breathtaking!) on the Smokelong Anniversary issue and loved this question and his response:

You're a reclusive writer whose work I don't often see. Where do you keep yourself?

Well, I'm flattered that you chose the word "reclusive." It makes me feel like I'm hanging with Emily Dickinson and J.D. Salinger.

I started thinking about being a reclusive writer. Because I do consider myself one—in real life anyway. I live on a mountaintop. I avoid contact with people as much as possible. I mean, I’m sure Emily had to get out for milk and eggs now and again. She probably had to say hello to people. I do that too.

The one thing reclusive people have in common is fear. Some of us are born that way, our eyes blinded by the light of the world at first breath. I’m that way. Dickinson was obviously that way. I remember the scratch of Pendleton wool against my face—breathing the scent of the Chanel #5 my mother wore. I hid when introduced to new people, using her as my shield. Feeling betrayed when she pushed me forward.

“Say hello, Rosie.”

People are terrifying. They really are. They still are.

Theater taught me how to project outside of myself. It taught me of masks and how to become my own choros. So, I was able to participate in the world using those skills. We all do this to some extent, but for introverts it’s a survival technique. You either master it or become something weird people cross the street to get away from.

I’m done with that now and can sit on my mountain and be still.

The Internet allows me to connect with the world in a safe way. I can be an extrovert here because there are no sweaty palms to press, strange cheeks to kiss or—you know—actual physical closeness with people. I can let you get to know me here, because—you know—you aren’t actually looking me in the eyes, making me uncomfortable. Making me wonder if my fatness is grossing you out. Or if you noticed I’m missing some teeth.

All you see here is my mind, which is my best feature.

I wonder what Dickinson’s specific fears were. Oh, sure, we know about the death thing—who isn’t endlessly fascinated with death? What was her “glass of water”? That small human want every character needs to be believable beyond whatever epic task or conflict set before them.

Anyway, I’m thinking old Emily would probably do just fine in the Internet age. I’m pretty sure she would have been as disappointed by her EHarmony matches as I was. But I’m pretty sure she would give it a try, just for hoots as I did. Mine were hilarious. I’m pretty sure she would have been a blogger. And I think she would have let the world get to know her. She’d never have to leave her room—except for milk and eggs and a loaf of white bread.

Oh—check your stats—‘cause J. D. Salinger is totally reading your blog, Dude.

I love going through my spam folder. I just look at the titles mainly. I get a lot of Chinese and Japanese spam. Prolly from all the anime I watch. You know, I have to keep an account on a website just to keep track of it all. Who knows what they are saying to me with Kanji or Han--probably the same ridiculous things they are saying to me in English. I've noticed a trend of heckling spam. Spam that has titles like "You look really stupid," and "What a stupid face you have here!" Once one even claimed to have a picture of me naked.

I mean, you know if somebody has a picture of you naked. You just do. Do you really care if you look stupid? If I had a dime for every time I looked stupid, I'd be mostly wealthy. Evidently there are enough people worried that someone might have a photo of them stupid or naked.

I've been watching the birds recently. They are very active. Since I don't have the huge goatherd I used to have, the grass in the pasture has grown up and attracted lots of birds. There is a bluebird who sits on my hammock outside my window as I write. He sits there and cocks his head at me. I've tried to take his picture but he flies away.

Do you know about the bluebird's mating ritual? I'm plotting a short story off of it. The male, the pretty, flashy one, launches himself to the ground in front of the female and thrashes around like he's mortally wounded. He carries on like an Italian soccer player being fouled then takes off into the air. I'm not sure what response this is meant to evoke in the female. Pity? The pity of bluebirds must be a powerful thing. The Appalachian people believe bluebirds mate for life. It may be true. I don't know.

I was gifted with a remarkable image the other day about doves. They believe that doves have teats under their wings to feed their young milk. When asked if I had heard of this, I said, "No, but they are really tasty." I loves me a bit of squab and wild rice.

I'm guessing this belief stems from pigeon's milk. That's not exactly the same thing, but I can see where the myth began.

Yes, another post that is all about me--and Smokelong Quarterly. I can't believe they put my name on this with all of these amazing writers.

My aunt Libby used to say this thing when she didn't understand something. "Who shot who?"

Anyhoo--my story is Memento Mori, developed here on the blog. And they even did an interview with me!

And very special, slobberingly grateful thanks to Lee from our very own blogroll, who provided the appropriately irreverent artwork, Skull Triptych, to go with my story. In fact, Thomas White, the editor who recommended me, had her do artwork for his own amazing story, Double-Exposure. It's called Bar-fly.

Yang, the literature goat, has read the entire issue front to back and highly recommends you bookmark it and read every single story. Over and over again.

Well, except for mine, which he insists still needs more cowbell.

He's already offered to blurb it.

"Smokelong Quarterly's Fifth Anniversary issue is a triumphant orgy of flash fiction! Better than the neighbor's rose bushes! You must read them! They are a must read! Except Rosanne Griffeth's story, which obviously needs more cowbell." ~ Yang the Literature Goat

My parents were best friends. They slept in separate bedrooms and each had their own interests and activities. My mother took me to art openings, the symphony and the ballet. My father took me to boating, fishing, hunting and horsey events. My siblings were much older and I got to be my mother's daughter and my father's son. I was dreadfully spoiled by my father--that much is very true. He took great joy in making me happy.

It was easy to be overshadowed by my mother, she was like a force of nature--but he never minded and quietly went about restoring wooden boats, woodworking and fishing, his greatest passions. He was funny and loved to laugh, turning bright red and tearing when he was really tickled. He was courtly and chivalric with a deep sense of justice. He never really got it that life wasn't fair. He always thought that it should be.

I never imagined my parent's relationship to be a passionate one--other than the deep respect and affection they showed to each other. When I packed up the house after he died, I came across his love letters to my mother. They were works of art penned in my father's Victorian scrawl and I realized his was a great love and so much that I had not understood became clear.

My father never wore his undershirt to the dinner table. Not once.

He was fond of saying when he became exasperated with me--when I did not behave as he thought I should, "I just don't understand you!" In the weeks before he died, as I sat by his bedside, I think he finally did understand. He finally understood that I was just like him.

Happy Sunday. Happy Father's Day. I miss my Daddy.

Okay, so sue me. I took a break. I felt guilty about it, but I sort of needed some off-blog time.

Anyway, not much going on. Just waiting for my toe to scab over so I can sheare the sheep. Bless their hearts. They hide out in the cool shack all day and spend the evening grazing. Got to get that fleece off of them in this heat--as soon as I can stand to wear my boots.

Today's installment of Porn and Donuts had salty language and adult situations. Just a warning. These sorts of people use salty language and engage in adult situations. So don't read if it offends, M'kay?


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

Back in the room, he sat on the unmade bed and turned on the bedside lamp. When he opened the letter, the odor of White Shoulders escaped, making his eyes water. It smelled like home.

He sneezed a few times before reading: Dear Lucius, I’m so sorry to bother you at work, but it’s been a long time since I heard from you. I’m afraid I have some bad news and the family needs you. Your Granddaddy Otis has passed away. We aren’t sure what to do as he didn’t have no life insurance. I told your sisters we may have to bring you back to help take care of the arrangements since you are the onliest one in the family that could afford to help with the burial and the monument costs. Please call as soon as you get this letter. I’m sorry to have to pull you away from your busy life as a record producer, but we need you here to help pay for Papaw’s funeral. Eight thousand dollars should do it.

His mother scrawled her name, dotting her “i”s with little hearts.

Lucius felt ill. He had lied to his family for years, telling them he was working on the “next big thing” in country music. His family back in Jolo, Kentucky did not questioned why he never sent any money to them, visited in his Mercedes or invited them to stay at his spacious country mansion.

He stared at the letter until Kellie came back. She strolled into the room with bedroom eyes, her pupils dilated. She had crushed one of the oxycontins and snorted it on the way home.

“Good news!” She had an odd combination of dopiness and jitters that comes from snorting enough semi-synthetic opioid in a few seconds to last an entire day. “I got enough cash and oxys to last us a week! And I went ahead and paid Rupert the rent, so he’s happy.”

She crawled on the bed and sat with her legs wrapped around him, spooning into his back with her breasts. When she got no reaction, she rubbed the crotch of his jeans and nuzzled his ear.

“So who shot your dog, honey?”

“I’m in a heap of trouble, Kellie.” Lucius handed the letter over to her.

She took it and lay back on the pillows to read.

“So, your Mommy thinks you have eight thousand dollars to give her.”

“Yep. She thinks I drive a Mercedes and have a big house too.”

“Oh, crap.” Kellie seemed to straighten up and tense when she looked at the return address.

“Oh, crap is about the gist of it.” Lucius hung his head. “Where am I gonna get eight thousand dollars to pay for Granddaddy’s funeral? My momma’s gonna be crushed if she finds out I’ve been lying to her all these years. But what could I tell them? That I clean up poop at a Wild West Dinner Theater? And I cain’t even hold onto that job? Oh, Sweet Jesus, what am I gonna do?”

“Oh, crap.”

Lucius looked up and scraped his fingers across his scalp. “Yeah, you said that already.” He said, turning to look at her.

“No--what I mean is--well, if I’m reading this right--Lucius--” Kellie folded the letter and put it back in the envelope. Her hands shook slightly as she met his eyes.

Lucius stood up and faced her. He stamped on the stained carpet. “What? What, for God’s sake?”

Her dilated pupils made her look sexy, Lucius thought. He was briefly distracted by their moist glassiness.

“No, uh--Lucius, finding eight thousand dollars, a Mercedes and turning you into a record producer isn’t the worst of our troubles.”

Lucius stood there looking at her.

Kellie sucked her bottom lip. “Lucius, we’re first cousins.”

Lucius collapsed into the chair next to the window. He put his head in his hands and groaned.

“Jesus. I’ve lied to my Momma and I’m fucking my cousin. I’m going to hell. I’m just going to hell.”

Kellie produced a bottle of oxys and handed it to him.

“Here. Crush up one of these. It’ll make you feel better.”

The rolling thunder has begun, just as it did last summer--the summer when springs dried up and hay became scarce and horses were set free in stranger's yards. We have gotten a bit of rain, but it's so hot that the moisture rises off the dirt like tarmac. It was so warm this past winter, my lawn tractor's battery didn't die. That's the first time that's happened. But I'm looking forward to blackberries. At least we didn't have the double whammy of a killing freeze while all was in bloom.

I was researching through literary journals the other day. That's part of what I do--try to find journals who publish things sort of like what I write--or who seem open to the sort of stuff I write. Or if not--do I have an atypical piece they might like. I do have a few of those. I can write very arty clever literary things--but mostly get so carried away by things like two-headed calves I can't focus on being too clever.

And I think this is the considerate thing to do. Fiction editors have to go through a gang of crap. I've read the horror stories on their blogs. And you know I'm sort of a stickler for civility so I cringe when I hear a writer has been less than polite. So, I try not to send them stuff they wouldn't use in a million years. Sometimes I get this right--sometimes I fail miserably. But I do make the effort.

So, the other day, I'm going through a few online journals because I'm looking for places for a few SNOWs (stories no one wants) that have gotten excellent reviews but can't seem to find homes. One of them hit the top three on Zoetrope this month. They are not shabby stories.

I start going through the archives. Story one is a penis story. Oh, well, I think--don't have any of those--so I continue to browse and I'll be damned if every single story I pulled up randomly on this one journal didn't feature penises engaged in all sorts of penile activities. This is a literary journal, mind you--and I'm left to conclude that the fiction editor has some sort of monumental johnson fetish. It's not like there was a note in the guidelines that said, "Send your best penis stories," or "All penises, all the time."

It's not that I'm a prude or anything--I just don't have any good wanger tales to tell at this time that don't involve goats and urinary calculi. And I did spend an awful lot of time reading his sausage party stories--so I did rather feel entitled to get something out of it.

And you all know I'm a HUGE Python and Cook & Moore fan. So I wrote this. Enjoy.

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

Mrs. Snodderly's Letter to the Editor

Dear Fiction Editor,

Whilst perusing journals, I came across your website and read with interest your guidelines and recent entries of the story type.

I find myself fascinated by your distaste for the term “flash fiction”, and the irony of that aversion combined with your publication’s focus upon stories dealing with lady parts and dangly bits. You must admit, there is something flashy about a ripping good dangly bits yarn, particularly coupled with liberal descriptions of lady parts.

While I have nothing against such tales dealing with bits and parts, my own work focuses more on moist cicadas emerging succulent from slitted shells, trout sliming across palms to plunge into dark wet spaces, spears of asparagus thrusting from loam, the swell of ripe squashes, farmer’s hands greased black fondling tractor pistons and the rumps of slaughter cattle dancing through chutes. I think we can both agree there is nothing of bits or parts involved here.

As I said, I am not in the least disturbed by collections of stories dealing exclusively with dangly bits or lady parts, indeed, I sometimes browse the internet looking for just such stories, though I’ve rarely found them presented in such a literary fashion as in your journal.

I will refrain from submitting at this time, since my current work is at odds with your journal. But I think I may have something for you in the future, perhaps with both trout and lady parts.

Cordially yours,

Mrs. Wilma P. Snodderly

Literary Journal....

Better Yet...Subscribe

I'm in it.

Or...




Yang, The Karma Goat will visit you...

And pee on all of your shoes...


This is the MARK of Yang...

In case you didn't believe me...



Trust me...It's easier to buy a copy of Keyhole.
Goat pee is hard to get out of shoes.






Oh...and you are so not off the hook yet. I got another piece accepted today.

The roads up the mountain wind precipitously around hairpin turns and are often one lane. You do get accustomed to driving them. I am known for driving very carefully. I figure, why take chances--peril blinks up at me like a tiny toothed demon from the first step to my bedroom. That's were my big toenail met its end, so why tempt fate? I stay on my side of the road and wait on the layby for oncoming jalopies to pass even if I, by rules of etiquette have the right of way.

Everyone waves when they pass. That is an unspoken rule of the road. It is neighborly to wave in some form or another to the oncoming vehicle. They don't do this as you go further north. Some people do a full five-fingered flash of the hand. Others lift a single finger from the steering wheel and that's enough. I favor the single finger, because I'm nervous about disengaging the wheel to wave. Unless it's someone I know well and then I may wave like a fool.

But if I'm navigating a particularly treacherous stretch of road--I will sometimes not wave. Sometimes I'll try to wave, but realize I waved too late and the person couldn't have possibly seen my friendly polite gesture. I worry briefly after this happens.

Friend Scott used to put more meaning into the waving ritual than I think it deserves.

"So-and-so didn't wave at me, the bastard. They hate me," he'd say, flopping into my big chair, furrowed brow and nostrils flared in outrage.

"You don't know that," I'd say, attempting reason, "They may have been--you know--paying attention to the road."

"They didn't wave to me two days ago, either."

I'm a bit flabbergasted that Friend Scott actually keeps track of who waves and when. I imagine him having a little log book with everyone's name and when and where they neglected to wave. He takes it home and adds it up.

He even accuses me of giving him pissed off looks and not waving once.

"You had your face all screwed up and glared at me."

"Where was this?"

"Right out in front of my driveway. Off the bridge."

Okay, the bridge in front of Scott's ex-driveway is barely eight feet across. The potholes in it go clear through and you can see the creek below. It makes a 90 degree turn on the approach and a 90 degree turn leaving it. Essentially, you have to make a U-turn to cross this bridge. It has mangled, barely there guardrails--scarred by the folly of those who took their eyes off this bridge while crossing it.

"Oh, I wasn't mad at YOU that day," I say, cleverly pretending I recall the exact moment he's talking about. Like I remember.

Not that people can't be hostile on the roads here. I went through a period last year when people tried to run me off the road due to the slander campaign launched against me. Now there's just one little beat-up compact truck that tries to do this. They usually have a gang of scantily clad children and adults in the truck bed and shoot birds and obscene gestures at me. I find this pretty hilarious since I haven't a clue who they are and all their misplaced road rage is going for naught. Did I perhaps forget to wave at them?

There are instances where I passive-aggressively withhold "the wave". Some people drive on both sides of the road, cutting the edge off the curves by crossing the center line. Scott used to be really bad about this. If someone is on my side of the road coming toward me--no wave for you. I'll curse softly to myself, "Idiots," or perhaps something more colorful if it is a close miss. Honestly, I think it's a bit much to ask me to be polite when they do this. Don't you?

I arrived late to homecoming at Pastor Jimmy's because I got the time mixed up. It was the biggest crowd I'd seen in forever. I was sorry I got there late though because the preaching is always amazing at homecoming. Pastor John Brown was there and several other preachers so I'm sorry to have missed it. While Jimmy's will always be my favorite because he is so musical with his preaching, I do enjoy hearing the other styles.

I did get there in time to witness a healing. They laid hands on a lady who had been having severe pain in her right side.

I got to see Don Dudenbostel and all the other photographers I've met. There were the usual complement of university students and a pair of independent filmmakers from NYC. I very much enjoyed meeting the couple from Sweetwater who have Jimmy's art in their gallery. They seem like very nice folks and the display they set up for him is gorgeous. I hope Jimmy will attend an opening of his work at their gallery. He could be a sensation in the outsider art world.

The food, as usual, was plentiful and delicious. I ate way too much and indulged in some chocolate cake with ice cream. There was this amazing pulled roast that I think was venison that was particularly good. Several meatloaf type dishes, hams, deviled eggs and green beans. Good honest food--you can't get food like that at a restaurant--even those places that profess to cook home-style food.

The only thing was the dreadful heat. I felt quite lightheaded from it so they prayed over me before I went home. I need a healing--or some sort of divine intervention--since I keep hurting myself. I've never been this accident prone before. Last night, I stubbed my big toe and the entire nail came off. It won't stop bleeding, but not nearly as painful as the arm thing. I just got my arm out of the sling and now I can't wear closed toe shoes. I think the laying on of hands must have helped. It's the first time I've experienced that and it's very comforting.

Happy Sunday!

I almost forgot today's installment!

I got caught up writing a story I've had percolating in the back of my mind for some time. I did it for The Flash Factory over on Zoetrope. It's a good place to work out first drafts and they give me a weekly prompt that sometimes pulls these stories I keep tucked away in hidden folds of gray matter forward. Anyway, one reviewer already picked up that the story was begging to be longer and I'll probably expand it. Maybe even beyond flash format, but the limit was 750 words.

Anyway, the story I got caught up in today was tailor-made for Anne Johnson. It's about an Appalachian kid who comes home from Tibet to die and has his best friend take him to the summit of Clingman's Dome for a sky burial. Yes, Anne--it's a thinly veiled buzzard worship story. Anne has like a buzzard costume she dresses up in. Crazy about them she is.

Lest you think it unbelievable that a Cocke county native might be in Tibet--we do have world class mountain climbers from here who've been there. Read about them in the paper--Appalachian folk get around. We got opera singers too. So there.

I almost subbed a story to a London group that does readings but the thought of London actors trying to wrap their mouths around this dialect gave me the shudders. The only person there I know who could handle it would be Buffy Holt, and damn--she should be reading her own work. I'm actually quite pleased I've gotten the jump on subbing to journals before Buffy--umm--cause--she's going to wipe the floor with me when she starts subbing. She's my favorite Appalachian writer out in the blogosphere.

Well, let's check in with Lucius and Kelly, shall we?



They stayed at the Happy Mount Hotel, a seedy strip motel, where Lucius kept a room. The neon sign had burnt out in spots so at night it flashed, “Happy Mo--Ho--”.

The cache of sixty hydrocodones did not last long. Kellie held the bottle of hydros to the light and gave it a shake. It was time to get back to “work”. She made a few calls and prepared to take off for the hills in the beat up Fiesta to pay a few visits to some old folks. Lucius kissed her before she left, pulling her to him.

“Baby, you knows I love you!”

“You be good, while mamma’s gone.” She grabbed his crotch and left him standing there, twitching.

Lucius watched some TV in the room. Damn, he loved AFHV. He liked to watch the bits where guys got hit in the nads. Damn, he thought, they just never saw it coming.

With his mood restored and the promise of his girl coming back with some drugs and money, he wandered over to the manager’s office. He had not checked his mail in a few days.

Rupert Mims reclined behind the shabby counter topped with cracked green linoleum. He had dozed off to the buzzing whine of the NASCAR race on his small television set. NASCAR memorabilia decorated the walls with a special place of pride given to a large portrait of Dale Earnhardt with Jesus. Jesus towered in the background with his arms out, embracing the grandstand and track of the Indianapolis Motor Speedway. Dale stood in his racing regalia in front of Number 3. The caption read, “God’s Own Driver, The Father, The Son and The Intimidator”.

Lucius banged on the counter. Rupert gave a snore like a chainsaw failing to start and blinked up at Lucius through eyes buried in the fat of his cheeks. He tugged his shirt down to cover his wide expanse of furry belly and rocked his chair up from a reclining position.

“What’chu want, Lucius? You got some money for me I hope?”

“Not yet, but I’ll have it in a few hours. It’s on the way!”

Rupert gave a snort. “Well, it better be. I can’t keep giving you extra time; it’s not fair to the other tenants who do pay on time. I got a few working girls who’d be glad to have that room of yours.”

“Don’t worry, Rup! Look, have I got any mail?”

Rupert shuffled under the counter for a moment and came up with a bunch of junk mail and one letter.

“Here you go. L. Mantooth Productions…is that you?”

Lucius frowned and accepted the letter. “Yeah, that’s me.”

He looked at the return address. “Yep, it’s from my Momma.”

“Well, good,” Rupert said, “It’s nice to see your old momma writes you now and again. Just make sure you have that rent money in here by tonight.”

Lucius nodded and left the office. He felt a bit of dread as he always did when his mother contacted him.

I was given this amazing leaf lettuce today along with some stunning onions from a local home garden. I just finished eating a salad made with both.

This sort of lettuce is most often prepared lightly wilted in a bit of bacon fat here--but I've never become accustomed to the idea of cooking lettuce. I've done some nice wilted spinach salads but lettuce--not so much.

I love when the fresh produce starts coming in. We are enjoying the Florida cantaloupes already. I had one that rivaled South Carolina cantaloupes(if you've had these, you know what I mean) I purchased at the Morristown Farmer's Market this past Monday.

I also purchased one of the best pink Brandywine tomatoes I've ever had there. A few chayotes and some amazing Peaches & Cream corn. I got a hugeous red papaya--and I confess to eating the entire thing when I got home.

When I was growing up in Bluffton, SC, a local family kept a large open air fruit stand on 278. There were amazing roadside fruit and vegetable stands in that area then and my mother was well acquainted with them all. When I was a teenager, my friend, Elizabeth, and I would cruise by there and get bags of fresh cherries. Elizabeth was the most beautiful girl of all the summer girls--blond and busty, she made traffic stop from the time she was eleven. Precocious she was. I never could get the hang of tying that stem in a knot with my tongue. Oh--I could do it--I just looked like a dog with a peanut butter cracker stuck to the roof of its mouth.

I'd love to hear about any special produce that impressed you this season. How is your garden coming along? What did you plant?

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

Unrelated--I'm a big fan of watching my spam folder. Got this funny one in today.

Increase ur VALU

Bacheelor, MasteerMBA, and Doctoraate diplomas available in the field of your choice that's right, you can even become a Doctor and receive all the benefits that comes with it!

Our Diplomas/Certificates are recognised in most countries

Maybe that's what I need. Get me one of them there Doctoraate degrees. Then folks will recognise me.

I've written about the "inbreeding" taboo before, but thought I'd go over it--one more time--since Dick Cheney slandered our West Virginia cousins this past Monday at the National Press Club.

Sorry I've skipped a few days. I'm okay. I went to Morristown yesterday--splurging on some gasoline. I thought to go to the First Monday Market but got there as everyone was packing up, so it was a bit of a wasted trip. Maybe it will be overcast next first Monday and I can get some good photos. I spent too much money and am afraid to look at my bank account. I never go shopping.

I spent Sunday killing mice. I found where they were camping out and it looks like they slipped in the back door. I'd put Havoc in places where the dogs couldn't get to it and the mother mouse evidently carried it into the closet. I found and entire mouse family--mostly dead. Grisly, really. I found them because one came out in the hallway. I don't see as well as I used to and thought it a dust bunny--or perhaps some dog hair that escaped the vacuum. It was a bitty mouse. Just sitting there. I grabbed my boot.

So--I am now triumphantly mouse free and happy I found them before they trashed the oriental rug they had decided to shack up in. So--all day Sunday was spent in a killing spree and cleaning up the evidence from said killing spree.

I've been very busy with the writing thing. Idgie at the Dew published Frog Giggers. I think I always had her in mind for that piece. I've got Smokelong coming up on the 15th and Keyhole coming up this month. So you can add both of those pubs to your reading list. I'm excited about both, but Keyhole is so cool because people will have to pay money to read me. That's almost as good as getting paid to write.

I've got 31 pending responses out. People seem to really like my work. But you guys already knew that. Though every once in a while I'll get a weird rejection letter. I think the accessibility of what I write and that I do think about entertainment may be confusing to some literary editors. But you know what--it don't gots to be painful to read to be well-written. The deep stuff is there if folks care to look for it--otherwise--it's just a good read. That's my story and I'm stickin' to it.

I was really wanting to work on flash, but a news story threw me into short story mode. I'd had this story brewing about a hidden clan of blue people in Appalachia, and then Brazil(stupidly in my opinion) released those pictures of the previously uncontacted tribes in the Amazon Basin. So, my Hidden Holler blue people story started coming out and I had to grab ahold of the laptop and hold on. I'm not sure it's literary, but it's really fun.

Anyway, I'm concerned about the release of those photos. They showed the tribesmen shooting arrows at the airplane taking the pictures. What must they think? At any rate, I'm sure somewhere there are spiritually greedy missionaries drooling to go "help" the poor souls. Brazil says it wants to protect these four tribes that are threatened by bringing the attention of the world to their plight.

Is the Brazilian government on crack?

If they honestly wanted to help these people they would have set up preserves and kept them secret. Because now some determined idiot is going to want to go there, give them smallpox and religion.

Wild humans should be kept wild, I say.

Sorry. Would you care for some Porn and Donuts? You've come here and I haven't offered you a thing. What must you think.

Kellie was officially unemployed, as was Lucius. She quit her job at a whitewater rafting company after a guide was arrested for selling hydros to an undercover TBI agent. Kellie saw it as a business decision, but she gave up her free housing when she quit. Her real talents lay elsewhere.

Kellie found Tenncare patients with pain medication scripts, and then she connected them with dealers. She took a cut from the top of the sale, sometimes in drugs and sometimes in cash. She thought of herself as a sort of social service worker, since these people needed the money to get by. She certainly needed the money, and she wanted the drugs.

They fired Lucius a few months ago from Miss Lucy’s Wild West Rodeo Show and Dinner Theater. It was a sweet gig while it lasted. The show featured a chicken dinner served without cutlery. For twenty-five bucks a head, you ate your broasted chicken with your bare hands while costumed rodeo riders galloped around the arena chasing cattle, pigs and goats in front of you. It was an elegant evening filled with food and livestock.

Lucius had a bottle of oxycontins in his western shirt pocket that night. His job included hitching the horses to the wagon that carried students from Pee Wee’s Modeling and Beauty School. He checked the traces and handed the reins to the driver each night before the wagon entered the arena.

His bottle of oxycontins fell out and rolled under the little girls’ seats before he could leap clear of the wagon. Lucius dived to retrieve them. That was how he ended up in a fast moving horse-drawn wagon with a chubby twelve-year old beauty queen perched, crotch first, on his face.

Seven hundred fifty guests witnessed the incident that earned Lucius his pink slip. There was a scandal.

Sorry, no food today. You know, guys--I'm not eating much but raw fish and udon soup these days. I've become addicted to bonita flakes--anyway, I promise the very first food porny thing I come across, I will do another FPF. I did have lunch this past week at one of those new Japanese buffets that are starting to pop up here in the Southeast. Yeah--I know, you've had them everywhere where else for years now. Anyway--it looks like it's going the way of the Chinese buffet restaurant--perverting a basically healthy cuisine to cater to American tastes. I took my library book--Isabel Allende's Daughter of Fortune--and took my time sampling things and drinking tea. Why is their jello so delicious and ours so awful? I must learn how to make that coconut jello.

I had a wonderful photo op today, ruined by putting my camera in a safe place. This very handsome black snake was in the yard, so I tried to move it along so the dogs wouldn' t get it. I have had meeces and any critter that eats them is a friend of mine. So, dogs caught on and harassed snake up on the porch where it climbed a hanging plant. Anyway, it was gone by the time I found the camera--so you'll have to do with this photo of me with scary parrots.

There is an interesting black snake tale that I've heard. These big black snakes are said by some to develop white spots and give off poisonous fumes. A snake miasma--if you will. It will make you very sick they say. I grabbed this guy by the tail and tried to pull him away--with all the appropriate squeaky girl noises--and he did have a weirdly unpleasant smell--unlike the regular snake smell. If you've kept snakes you know about that musty sweet smell.

This piece was reworked into a flash and has been accepted for publication with artwork by Writer's Eye Magazine. In keeping with the SMB's policy, rough drafts or source material leading directly to published work are removed from the blog. You will be given a link where you may access the story when it is published.

You know, when I was a make-up artist I used to like to take pictures of people like me with our dreadful injuries. Research. Anyway--that's the lower part of the bleed--it goes all the way up to my shoulder. I'll be glad when it's finally well enough for me to fix the lawnmower and mow my grass. My yard looks like a hay field and the goat can't keep up with it.

Anyway, I was back at UT today to see the eye surgeon. No, the sight's not coming back, but at least the swelling in the retina is going down. This visit was much better than the last trip.

Been very busy getting ready for the stuff being published next month. Catching up on submissions, collecting rejections--same old stuff.

So, Saturday I go pick up spaghetti dinners to share with my friend. Her son bought us tickets. It's okay--the standard sort of spaghetti dinner one expects from a charity event. It's not vermicelli, it's those big ropes of pasta. The decision is made for me to go earlier than later.

"It's sort of hard to mess spaghetti up."

"I've seen it done."

But it's nice to share a meal and it was good. Particularly since I went early.

There, down the cliff in the road are the guineas. This is where they disappeared to. The locusts started up right around the time they disappeared. Locusts are what we call cicadas here. I think the guineas went in search of them--imagining in their tiny brains buffets of fat juicy cicadas emerging from their shells like oysters.

What they found was potato beetles and larvae. They'd been in the neighbor's garden gorging themselves. I despaired of seeing them again. I felt certain they'd just keep on chattering their way to Del Rio--aimlessly wandering and every once in a while wondering where they left their car keys.

"If you have to shoot them, that's fine. Just bring me a carcass. There is a dish I want to try."

"They've got blue meat, you know?"

"Really? I knew it was dark. Blue? Really? Gotta see that."

Sunday, I wake up and they are perched on the roof of the house like turkey buzzards. I wanted to give them some feed to reward them for miraculously figuring out they belonged here. But Max and Shadow harassed the two who were not on the roof and the entire lot flew up to the safety of the chicken shack. They've been up there eating bugs. I really need them here in the yard eating ticks. But the dogs just don't know what's good for them.

It seems to have been the potatoes that did it. I'm not a huge potato eater. I like one now and again, but I got a bag of them to make some curry with and had the leftovers stored in a cabinet. It takes me a while to eat that many potatoes.

Anyway, I saw evidence of a mouse in my kitchen--hanging out around the potatoes. I don't know why it wants potatoes, but that seems to be what it is going for. But it's too late, the mouse is here and this is war.

So, I take three hours to do a cleanup yesterday that would normally take 30 minutes. What I really need to do is take everything out of the cabinets and figure out where the little bugger got in--but it takes two functional arms to do that.

I've set traps and put Havoc under the house and in places the dogs can't get to. But it really likes potatoes. Not sure if it's going to go for the Havoc. Getting rid of the potatoes today. At least it hasn't figured out how to get to the upper food storage shelves.

Here's a new installment of Porn and Donuts. Enjoy.

He met her a month ago at the dentist’s office. Their eyes met across the cracked linoleum of the waiting room under a sofa-sized portrait of a hunting scene. She smiled, revealing a sexy space between her front teeth and the dark place on the edge of her smile.

“I’m Kellie, Do I know you?”

“No, but you sure should.”

A cheerless technician called Lucius’ name and he went to pay in blood and pain for what he had come for.

The dental profession referred to Dr. Jeffers’ favorite tools as extraction forceps. Everyone else called them pliers. His second favorite tool rocked teeth loose in their sockets before the extraction forceps came into play. They called that a wedge. His clinic specialized in extracting teeth in an assembly line operation. He did not ask questions. He pulled teeth. For fifty dollars, he extracted one tooth and charged twenty-five dollars for each additional tooth. He gave his patients a script for thirty #10 hydrocodones and the antibiotic of their choice when they left.

Lucius came for the hydrocodone. He sat down in the dental chair, upholstered in cracked vinyl. The rusty metal fittings of the equipment and spit-flecked chrome creaked as he settled. Dr. Jeffers strode in, applying the Novocain injections with such speed that Lucius did not have time to flinch.

The dentist ripped off his gloves and delivered his parting shot before marching off to his next victim.

“Meth mouth.”

“E’s ‘ot!” Lucius protested as his face went numb and he lost the ability to blink his right eye.

Lucius had bad teeth, but they were bad from chewing assorted narcotics like they were Flintstones vitamins. This, combined with a steady diet of Mountain Dew, Pink Snowball cakes and Milky Way Bars rotted his teeth prematurely. The tooth pulled today had nothing wrong with it. He had run out of bad teeth to pull.

He looked across the hall into the next room. The girl, Kellie, was there and he could see her legs from the thighs down, resting on the dental chair. She kicked and twisted, tensing in evident pain. Her heels thumped against the footrest rhythmically.

“Aaargh--Aaar--Aaargh!”

Lucius became aroused and moved his coat to cover his lap. He tried to lick his lips but his tongue had gone numb. Her feet stopped drumming and Jeffers rushed out of the room, snapping off a pair of gloves.

Jeffers pried open Lucius’ mouth and retreated in a matter of moments with a tooth. The taste of iron and salt hit the back of his throat and gauze padding slammed into the socket. Jeffers was gone from the room by the time Lucius sat up.

Kellie stood in the doorway with a handful of bloody gauze pressed to her mouth. She flushed and her eyes glinted a bit too bright. They made their way up to the checkout desk together, with their frozen faces and bloody gauze wads.

They collected the hydro scripts and went to the pharmacy, glancing shyly at each other.

No food today. Sorry. My repertoire of one-armed dishes is very limited. The only thing working on my left arm is my fingers and only by propping the arm up am I able to type.

But I've turned the corner for now. Some of the swelling has gone down and I have a whopping 6 inches of ROM in my elbow--no function yet so I can't move it without help, but it is at least slightly movable.

I'm sorry to have been so whiny this week, but it's been really bad. Really bad. I've not at all lived up to the expectations of my hero, The Black Knight.

It's just a flesh wound...

BLACK KNIGHT:

I move for no man.

ARTHUR:

So be it!

ARTHUR and BLACK KNIGHT:

Aaah!, hiyaah!, etc.

[ARTHUR chops the BLACK KNIGHT's left arm off]

ARTHUR:

Now stand aside, worthy adversary.

BLACK KNIGHT:

'Tis but a scratch.

ARTHUR:

A scratch? Your arm's off!

BLACK KNIGHT:

No, it isn't.

ARTHUR:

Well, what's that, then?

BLACK KNIGHT:

I've had worse.

Thank you all for the comments and sweet thoughts you've sent my way. I appreciate it and when I'm feeling better I'll try to go around visiting everyone. For those of you who were wondering what this thing was about--without showing you my gall bladder scar--the short version is: I have lupus complicated by a rare clotting disorder. I can bleed and clot at the same time. My arm is bleeding internally and it hurts like a sumabitch. The issue is with my doctors who disagree on how much suffering they would like me to endure before referring me to a specialist specifically for this issue.

I hobbled up to the guinea enclosure and left the door open for them. I can't risk another fall and am limiting my outdoor activities for the time being. So--I can't haul their water and feed to them. They marched past the house this morning--waking all and sundry at the crack of dawn and then went down the mountain. Not sure if they were here long enough to bond. Hopefully they'll be back to roost this evening after filling up on ticks in the woods. Or they may just stay down there, slaves to their tiny tiny brains, wondering where they came from and how they got there.

The sling on my arm is navy blue and I worry briefly about the fact that my dress is black because, you know, you never wear navy and black together. I get up at six to make it to my appointment with Dr. Cooper at 9:45, knowing it will take me an hour to get that dress past my arm and the sling back on. I leave on my sixty-mile drive at 8:00.

I cannot take anything for the blinding pain because I must drive. I draw from a stable of mostly useless techniques learned over three years of therapy in pain control and hope I can maintain the level of concentration needed for them.

I arrive 45 minutes late for my appointment because they have shut down I-40 through Knoxville. I know this but am not worried because they supposedly put signs up. I couldn't find any signs. I get terribly lost.

The office staff at Dr. Cooper's office decides a punitive approach is called for to deal with this overweight woman who had the temerity to show up late in her badly clashing dress and arm sling.

Mind you, by this point, because of being lost my ability to ignore the pain in my arm is greatly diminished.

I apologize and explain that the signs and billboards were not there at Strawberry Plains.

"Yes, they were."

"No they weren't--or at least they weren't where I could see them."

I know this because I slowed down there to scan the billboards looking for the directions.

"Well, you just didn't see them. They were there," she snips nastily at me.

They talk among themselves behind the glass before threatening me with rescheduling. I can tell that they are indignant in the way office workers can be with the stupid people they have to deal with every day. I am that stupid person. Their stupid person of the day.

They tell me to sit down.

At this point my composure breaks as the last shred of control over my pain evaporates. I am too fragile and hurt to deal with their punishment. I grab a box of tissue and begin to do the thing I fear most. Weeping in public. I'm terribly embarrassed by it but I can't help it and I can't stop it. The pain in the arm is now completely out of control.

But they have not had their fill of punishing me yet. They call me over and tell me the doctor will see me but it will be the last appointment of the morning. I am fine with this. They refuse to give me any sort of time frame--at this point I'm wondering about how much worse the arm will get.

I go back to my chair and my crying. I still can't stop it even though I try pressing my thumb and forefinger hard into my forehead--so hard it leaves marks. I am unable to cause a pain equal to or greater to the pain in my arm. I would need a knife to do that.

An elderly woman comes up to me with a box of tissue. The waiting room is full of elderly people because Dr. Cooper is an internist.

"I know you already have some tissue..." she starts, having exhausted all other excuses to approach me, "but you seem to be having a hard time."

She is sweet and generous and lovely and I cannot possibly regain my composure when someone is reaching out to me. You see, all I really want to do is stop hurting and crying.

But now I feel I must console this lady because she is upset for me.

She's done something quite brave since, for all she knows, I may not be an overweight woman in a black dress and mismatched arm sling having a bad day--I could be a dangerously unbalanced overweight woman in a black dress and mismatched arm sling about to have a psychotic break.

I try to explain that I'm late and my arm is so painful I can't concentrate--it makes no sense at all what I blurt out to her. So I thank her for her concern and there we are--me, sitting and crying and her standing there looking concerned but not knowing what to do. We are at an impasse.

At this point the office staff becomes concerned that I'm upsetting the old people. They hurriedly hand me a piece of paper and send me back. I tell them it's okay and I'm sorry for crying. I don't want to take anyone's place. I get it. Really I do. I was 45 minutes late and I deserve to be punished.

It was a short visit. They didn't want to see me again. I'm sure it's going to be a dreadful black mark on my record. They write up these things called patient encounter forms. I'm sure this one will be entertaining reading.

And it's all my fault for being late, lost, in pain, unable to stop crying and wearing a black dress with a navy blue arm sling.

I tried to sleep, but couldn't last night. My arm was on fire and my state of mind not good. So, I called 911 and asked that an ambulance come and get me.

The pain was the worst I had ever felt. I am on very intimate terms with pain. It was worse than pancreatitis, worse than appendicitis--worse than having my chest split open. I began to fear that I would lose the use of that arm, my left one.

They gave me a shot of dilaudid and it took a long time to work. For a moment, I thought I would be left with that burning, but finally I stopped yelping and crying and rested there in the cubicle of the ER. This morning they did an ultrasound. No clots, but big pockets of blood just sitting there under my skin.

Betsy came and picked me up. Went to the pharmacy and got medicine more efficacious than the last. I'm home now and about to lay down. I'm tired.

More doctors tomorrow.

I will be taking it very easy on the blogging this week, folks.

I took a very bad fall on Sunday morning and messed my arm up really badly. They aren't actually sure it's not broken. Spent all day yesterday at the ER. The pain is actually very severe. Like seriously considering my exit strategy severe. The meds they gave me at the ER aren’t doing much to control it and other than making me aware that I’m blogging under the influence—well, I’m needing to spend a great deal of time using behavior modification techniques—which are sort of sucky for this level of pain anyway.

I go to UT on Wednesday and hope I can hold out till then. The ER guys in Newport were really great, but I got to tell you--these east Tennessee doctors have asked me to put up with more agony than my MUSC or Emory teams ever did. This is not a good place to have intractable pain. I've been begging these guys for years now to get me into a pain management program so that when this moment came, I wouldn't have to dust off the effing exit strategy. I've got more stuff to do, damnit.

Anyway, I can only write in the 45 minutes or so that the drugs pull the levels down from 9 to 7.

If anyone wants to guest blog this week for me—I’d be eternally—or at least for a good while—in your debt.

I think the guineas were the last straw for the tiny Jack Russell terrier.

He lives on the verge of the property and up to this past week or so has stayed on his own turf. But he ventured down onto the property a few days ago, prompting the cockers to run willy-nilly to chase him back. My guys never leave here, but they are finding it harder since Monsieur JR insists upon taunting them from his high-up there place.

I call him Monsieur JR because he reminds me very much of the taunting French guard in Scene 8 of Monty Python's The Holy Grail. Shadow and Max don't quite know what to make of him. Their exchanges go something like this:

JACK RUSSELL:

You don't frighten us, English pig-dogs! Go and boil your bottom, sons of a silly person. I blow my nose at you, so-called Arthur King, you and all your silly English k-nnnnniggets. Thpppppt! Thppt! Thppt!

MAX:

What a strange person.

SHADOW:

Now look here, my good man--

JACK RUSSELL:

I don't wanna talk to you no more, you empty headed animal food trough wiper! I fart in your general direction! Your mother was a hamster and your father smelt of elderberries!

MAX:

Is there someone else up there we could talk to?

JACK RUSSELL:

No. Now, go away, or I shall taunt you a second time-a!

[sniff]

I just hope he doesn't have a cow up there to catapult, because I'm not really up for building a wooden rabbit right now.

Ni!

I've decided to serialize Porn and Donuts here on the blog. It's not finished yet and I sort of need some reason to pick it back up. It's very long and unlikely to be published because of its novella length. And--if anyone wants to publish it--I'll only be doing it in installments here. And it still needs work. It's at 7500 words and still going at this point. I've got a feeling it's too long for most places to consider. Maybe in an anthology down the road. It will be here every Saturday. You will have to look for it on Saturdays, because it will be tucked at the end of a journal posting like this one so to fool the sploggers. It's an oddball sort of romantic comedy so it fits well in the space I wanted to do love stories. I'll be getting to those during the week quite soon--flashes.





The traffic zinged by like skeeters on crack. Lucius felt pavement, all grit and tar under him and rubbed his cheek against his pillow. The remaining teeth in his mouth felt like they wore little sweaters and when he smacked his tongue on the roof of his mouth, it stuck to the dryness. The sunlight burned through Lucius’ eyelashes and he blinked to clear the sand sticking them together. It took a few tries and he reached a dirty finger up to dig in the corners of his eyes. He sat up on the verge of the interstate at an exit ramp. His crotch itched, so he scratched it.

Lying on the ground beside him was his pillow, The Lola Delight Inflatable Pleasure Doll with five convenient orifices. He still did not understand why there were five. Three seemed plenty to him. Lola regarded Lucius with her surprised gaze and gaping oval mouth. Lucius thought he detected recrimination in her eyes, so he punched her in the belly. Her eyes bugged out at him.

“Shut up, bitch.”

He grabbed Lola around her middle and struggled to his feet. Walking up the exit ramp towards the Citgo, scuffing his feet along in the gravel, he knew what he needed. A Big Gulp and two Mrs. Freshley’s Pink Snowball cakes would ease the sweating and shaking. He offered his middle finger in salute to the hooting truckers who stared down at him and his doll. Soon he would be in a plastic booth with Kellie and all would be right in his world again.

Yang is getting much more active and annoying. I swear last night it was like having the Ballet Trocadera on the back porch. He does seem to enjoy running at full tilt then launching himself on or off the porch.

Guineas are evidently feeling at home enough to make a great deal of noise now and again. Each time they sound off, Max takes a turn around the yard.

I finished Murakami's Kafka on the Shore this morning. I'm so in love with this writer's work. I think it's the first time in a very long time I've actually wanted to own all a writer's books. For now, I'm getting them through interlibrary loan, but I'm thinking of making space on my bookshelf for him. Dashed it into the library and asked for The Wind-up Bird Chronicles.

I'm busy today. I'm now getting ready to write the conclusion of the changeling short story I've been writing. Dreamed up a way to end it. Finally got the title. It's Sugar Baby. This is the story prompted by the story fragment of the woman who gated her baby up in a cave and fed it a piece of candy a day till it died. But, I'm sort of putting a magical realism spin on it. It's an evil baby story. The mom's no great prize, but I loves me some evil babies.

Anyway, I gots nothin'. Bunch of stuff getting ready to come out in print soon.

So, I use part of my "stimulus" payment to buy a new vacuum cleaner. I've been vacuum cleanerless for many months since my trusty old upright gave up the ghost. Me and the broom have been tight ever since. S'okay since I have hardwood floors.

I choose the Eureka 4D bagless idiot wonder. I confess to being swayed by the cherry red color and powerful looking design. It's the second time I've given bagless technology a go. And once again I am underwhelmed. Right out of the box, it refuses to work in the upright position. It works fine from the attachments but given that it is an upright vacuum cleaner, one would expect the uprighted primary feature to be the one that works best. Anyway, it manages to smear dirt around and picks nothing up. It also weighs a ton.

My experience with bagless vacuum technology has become rather like the classic comedy sketch One Leg Too Few in which Dudley Moore and Peter Cook act out a casting call in which a one-legged man shows up to audition for the role of Tarzan.

Cook: Mr Spiggott - you are, I believe, auditioning for the part of Tarzan.

Moore: Right.

Cook: Now Mr Spiggott, I couldn't help noticing - almost at once - that you are a one-legged person.

Moore: You noticed that?

Cook: I noticed that, Mr Spiggott. When you have been in the business as long as I have, you come to notice these little things almost instinctively.

So, I call the Eureka people and the conversation goes something like this:

Rosie: Mr. Eureka - I bought a Eureka upright and it won't work in the upright position.

Mr. Eureka: Right.

Rosie: Now Mr. Eureka, I couldn't help noticing - almost at once - that an upright vacuum cleaner should most likely work in the upright position, but this does not.

Mr. Eureka: You noticed that?

Rosie: I noticed that, Mr. Eureka. When you have been sucking as long as I have, you come to notice when something doesn't suck almost instinctively.

We go around like this for a while. My argument is that it cannot possibly have a blockage unless one was placed there in the factory especially for me. His argument is that I have flushed tampons down it or some such nonsense and all I have to do is take a phillips head screwdriver and remove whatever was magically crammed up there the moment it was unboxed. Never mind that the screws are some weird star shape a phillips head won't fit in or that the refer to page 17 in the troubleshooting guide directs me to a Spanish language page.

Fortunately, Walmart has agreed to take back the offending vacuum cleaner so I don't have to take the thing to Morristown for service.

Anyway, I'm completely against bagless vacuums at this point. I'm not sure what Dyson is smoking that they think they can charge 400 bucks for one of these things. I'm convinced even the high end of these would be inferior to a vacuum with it's bag properly where it should be.

That's my story and I'm stickin' to it.

She liked dogwood flowers and sunning herself until her skin was hot. You could smell the baby oil and iodine rising in the summer heat as she turned ever so slightly orange and freckled. She liked to fish and sat with her eyes closed holding onto her rod as if she could charm a fish to biting. My father patiently untangled the endless snarls she created in those Penn reels.

She laughed and accepted his rod to continue fishing, saying, "Gordian knot, again."

It was his way of tenderness though he sputtered and cursed about wasting tackle on her.

Then she would close her eyes again with that half smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. She lived on the verge of laughter.

She made pineapple and mayonnaise sandwiches on Sunbeam bread that became cold and mushy in the cooler. They were like sandwich pudding by the time we broke them out over the cobia hole in Port Royal Sound, but nothing was better in that blazing sun with the sharks circling our eels. She would hand me a Fresca before popping the top of her Schlitz Malt Liquor--so cold it had turned to beer Slushie.

Her humor and wit is what I remember best of her. Even at the end, with the cancer and the pain and the dying, she looked across the road from our house where a house trailer had been put and said, "See? I told you I would die if they put a trailer on our street. Now look at me!"

The main thing my mother left me was by myself.

He passed ownership of the Golden Dynasty Buffet Discount Card to me before driving off in his white pick-up truck.

"Just four more dinners and you get one free," he said.

That was sort of a tradition with us. Scott called the Chinese the "Newport Country Club". The first time I went there was with Scott. I'm not sure how many of the red stamps on the back were from our shared meals, but I'm guessing most of them were from the two of us. I'd go in by myself once in a very great while if I had something to read, but honestly, it's not as fun eating alone as it is with a friend.

We hugged hard and he teared up. I have a delayed response to grief so I didn't feel that hungry hurt in the pit of my stomach until after the truck disappeared. But that is how I've always been. I nurse my wounds in the dark and silence.

We spent yesterday in town. We both got haircuts at Rubles. Scott ran into politico, Charlotte Leibrock who had heard about what happened. She told Scott she was sorry and that losing him was a loss to Cocke County. We went by the bank so I could give him the money all of you donated to him.

Scott wanted me to tell you all how much he appreciated your kind thoughts, wishes and donations.

"Yeah, my peeps is the bestest," I told him. He agreed. If you'd like to email him directly, his email is Biggen9257@aol.com. I'm not sure when he's going to find a computer to use, but he'll be able to check it eventually, I'm sure.

I'm going to miss him an awful lot. There is a quiet here now I wasn't aware of before.

I’ll sing and I’ll dance,
My laugh shall be gay;
I’ll cease this wild weeping –
Drive sorrow away,
Tho’ my heart is now breaking,
He never shall know
That his name made me tremble
And my pale cheeks to glow.

I’ll think of him never –
I’ll be wildly gay,
I’ll charm ev’ry heart,
And the crowd I will sway,
I’ll live yet to see him,
Regret the dark hour
When he won, then neglected,
The frail wildwood flower.

He told me he loved me,
And promis’d to love,
Trough ill and misfortune,
All others above,
Another has won him;
Ah, misery to tell;
He left me in silence –
no word of farewell.

He taught me to love him,
He call’d me his flower
That blossom’d for him
All the brighter each hour;
But I woke from my dreaming,
My idol was clay;
My visions of love
Have all faded away.

I've been doing some research connected with a graphics gig and thought I'd share this song with you. It's the original version from 1860. It's purty.

Poor Scott. I tell you what, the banjo music just won't stop playing for him.

Anyway, he crashed here last night so we could orchestrate him getting out of Tennessee altogether. I think he got a lot accomplished today. He should be back in South Carolina by this weekend--with an apartment--and a job. I suggested he put in for an emergency transfer, explaining the situation, and they found one for him in a few hours. Flowers Bakeries ROCKS!!! It's part-time, and he'll have to build back up to benefit status again, but it's at his same rate of pay.

I really believe this is for the best for him and it makes me feel good that he leaves here in better shape than if he had stayed. The itty-bitty, tiny little petty stupid people who did this to him will never have it so good. Life only gets worse for such people. I just really hate to see them give the Appalachian folk such a bad name--they perpetrate every negative stereotype of this place by their very existence. They are a shame and an embarrassment.

I just wish they would think before showing their asses. It makes it very hard for writers like me to write positively about them. The world can't help but think them backward and ignorant. How about lets try to show the world what is so wonderful about Appalachian folks for a change? Because there is quite a lot that is beautiful.

Anyway, had a sleepless night due to the guineas. They weren't the problem--Max was. Also, Max loves Scott and really wanted to sleep in the downstairs bedroom with him. But the snoring scared him. He barked all night. So this morning, guineas went up the hill to their own little guinea condo.

I installed the new security system today. Guineas. Betsy gave me six.

If you aren't familiar with these birds, they are sort of prehistoric looking. They are from Africa. They are known for a number of things. They lay lovely spotted eggs that make great French toast. They have loud raucous cries that can be heard over long distances--they make these when anything in the slightest bit new appears in their vicinity. They will clear your entire farm of ticks. If you have pheasant in a restaurant, you are most likely eating one of these--they are all dark meat. Their young are called "keets". Unlike many domestic fowl, they do fly.

The other thing they are known for is their monumental stupidity.

These guys will be caged up here for six weeks since it takes that long for them to register a place as "home".

Max is so wildly happy about them that he's had to be tied up. He is already imagining lots of fun games to play with them.

Bebe Goat and I went to Betsy's for his "tutoring" with her burdizzo. She disbudded him for me too. He's pretty pissed but at this age he won't remember anything by tomorrow. Like most Nubians, he's pretty whiny so it's taking him a bit to get over it.

He now has a name. It is "Yang", for the perfectly formed Yang symbol on his forehead--his only white marking.

At some point in the wee hours of the morning, the sitemeter rolled over to 50,000. Most of those hits have happened in the past 18 months. So, even if TTLB demoted me from a marsupial to a reptile, the state of the blog is good! And TTLB has never been able to get it right on my site anyway.

There is this family cemetery near where I live. For some reason, they've parked their junk car collection around it. Not sure what that's about. Perhaps a memorial. I took a shine to this VW mini-bus.

Outsiders come here and are horrified by the sheer volume of dead cars. A collection of rusting old gentlemen will stretch for acres in some places. I like them in summer when the kudzu covers them and they peek out like senile children all headlights a-kilter and crazed windshields begging for rocks.

As far as I can tell, they are a form of wealth. Look at us, they say, wonder at the sight of our rusting heaps of autos! The Masai have their cattle. We gots dead cars. Lots of them.

Today I received a Chinese curse in my fortune cookie. I didn't eat it in hopes of it not coming true. I don't want my life to be any more thrilling than it has been. Scott almost got into a fist fight in the middle of the Chinese. Not his fault, the guy just wouldn't leave him alone and seemed determined to start something. Luckily, a sheriff's dept. employee was there to keep the idiot off of him.

On the way home, I saw a whorehouse they had painted then turned into a church. The placard on the outside said, "Jesus redeemed us from the scourge of the law." Am I the only one who sees the irony in that?

Happy Sunday.

It has been a busy week this week. I’m facing a weekend of tired.

Yesterday I had three stories accepted by Keyhole Magazine for their issue # 3. They requested I also send a handwritten story in for their handwritten issue. Not sure if they will like that—despite my parochial school education, my handwriting is somewhere between Victorian cursive and doctor scrawl. I am a good doodler. Anyway, I’m very pleased to be accepted by a Tennessee publication. Go over and have a look at them—I think you will like what you see. There are some awesome writers in Issue # 2.

Earlier this week, one of my Southern spec fiction pieces went live on Static Movement. You might remember Carolina Special from last October's scary story cycle. It's a trip with a character based on my grandfather from Spartanburg, SC to Knoxville, TN in 1919. Along the way we encounter some of the ghostly denizens that populate the Southern Appalachians. If you haven't read it recently, the version up on Static is the final, polished version. I find myself in quite good company there, as well.

Scott came by yesterday and I printed off all of the comments from the blog. He asked me to hold the donations for him in my paypal account until he got into his new place. He has a lead on a farmhouse near his job. He’s just overwhelmed by the support, not only from all you guys, but many people here in the community have rallied behind him. This has done much to restore my faith in this community. There ARE angels here fighting the Three-Toe.

I’m hoping for him to do a guest post here on the blog. He wants to also do a letter to the editor at the Newport Plain Talk thanking all of those who have come forward to help him.

Yes, it is still a very dangerous place to live—it’s legendary for that—but the people who really count are good kindhearted folk. I worry a bit that my loyalty towards my friend might once again see me assuming the mantle of the Salman Rushdie of Grassy Fork(not for my elegant, complicated, sometimes enigmatic prose, mind you—but for the hillbilly fatwas laid on my head over the past year). But not speaking out against this terrible injustice and crime would not only be cowardly, but completely unlike me.

The investigation is in the hands of the FBI’s Federal Hate Crime Unit by my understanding. The local authorities do not seem to wish to be involved. That’s all I really know. I’m more interested in getting Scott the support he needs following this atrocity.

Bebe Goatie is doing fine. He’s starting to try out his jumping shoes.

Deep Frying 101

I have a confession to make. Until last week, I have never deep-fried anything. That’s right, Southerner to the core and have never used a deep fryer. It’s embarrassing.

Last week I purchased an inexpensive deep fryer because I wanted to try out my tempura skills. I now get it. Deep-frying is addictive. I’ve been picking up food items and thinking, gee, I wonder what would happen if I deep-fried this? I suspect this is how deep-fried Mars Bars came into being. The dogs are beside themselves with approval since I can’t actually eat this stuff beyond a bite or two.

It may not be surprising to other Southerners, since we use pan frying more often than not. I suspect many of us learned this working in fast food restaurants in high school. I was fired from Pizza Hut and never got to work at McDonalds. Food service was not my forte.

So, my deep-frying experiment has been something of a revelation and I thought I’d share what I learned—just in case there are some of you out there like me, who have been interested, but haven’t attempted this.

The best coating I found was self-rising flour mixed with ice water. I actually put crushed ice in the batter to keep it icy cold.

Tips

1. The oil needs to heat up very hot. Do not cover the fryer with a lid.

2. Dredge your food items with flour before dipping them in the icy cold coating.

3. Have lots of paper towel to drain.

I still don’t have the draining bit down. I’d like my tempura to be even lighter, but even so—they did turn out rather nicely.

...that it's way past time for some...