The Square Peg - @#*^+%$!

@#*^+%$!
Copyright S. Bradley Stoner

I'm working on a book. Several, in fact. I like putting words together in a meaningful form. I like creating images. I even like mixing my metaphors sometimes just to keep editors on their toes. A friend of mine told me that I would have to alter my approach if I REALLY wanted to get published in today's markets.

"Brad," she confided in me, "if you really want to make it, you have to go with the mass markets. Romances are the really hot item."

I thought about that. Maybe that was the way to go. I rushed out to my super market and bought one of them. It had a beautiful, scantily clad woman in the embrace of an extremely handsome, well-muscled man on the cover. The title was steamy and catchy. "In Heat In Paradise." This, I thought, ought to be a real page turner. Even the authoress's name was a turn on. I had serious doubts that it was real, however. After all who would name their darling daughter 'Lacy Geestring?'

I drooled with anticipation all the way home. I closed the door behind me and raced for my favorite chair, and opened the book. It took me exactly seventeen minutes, fourteen and three-tenths seconds to read it. I was disappointed. I called my friend . My friend was amazed to learn of my ability to speed read. It was nothing. If you simply discard all the pulsing, throbbing, heaving, passionate sweating and glistening, the oh yeses, darlings, sweethearts, my loves, the oh, oh, ohs, and the articles 'a' and 'the,' the entire book was only twenty four pages of plot and locale. The "fleshing out of the characters" was simply that... young, lithe, firm bodies with heaving breasts, firm buttocks, soft curves for the girls and rock hard abs, bulging biceps, chiseled features for the guys. I like young, firm, lithe bodies, but there was just too much of a good thing in that romance book.

"It just isn't for me," I told my friend. "I don't do throbbing, heaving, passionate young bodies with sustained fervor, my love."

My friend contemplated a moment. "I suggest you try for a fast-paced blockbuster then," she said. "Too bad you're not a cop or a priest, though."

I went out and got a fast-paced blockbuster. I've got to tell you, I've never seen so many @#*^+%$! words strung together in so many @#*^+%$! combinations in my life. It's enough to give you a @#*^+%$! headache if you read them all. Some are pretty @#*^+%$! inventive though, I'll have to admit.

The blockbuster took me forty five minutes, fifty four and nine-tenths seconds to finish. At least there was a plot and some characterization. But, boiled down, I'd have to say it fell more in line with a padded short story or novella than what I'd consider a serious literary effort. I called my friend back and told her about the blockbuster.

"You'll never be a great success," she said almost sadly. "You just don't seem to understand what the public wants. The eat this kind of thing up... they crave it. It's addictive."

"It's boring," I said. "It's tripe, and, pretty much, it's garbage."

There was a long pause at the other end of the line. My friend let out a prolonged sigh of resignation. "You'll have to adjust your attitude. These things are earthy. They're direct. People understand them." It was my turn to pause. I thought I did it rather well. It forced her to speak before I replied. "Well?! What are you going to do?!"

"I'm going to continue to write literature. If nobody wants to read it and nobody wants to publish it in today's market, well.... they can just stick it up their asterisk!"

The Square Peg - Environ-mental

Environ-mental
Copyright S. Bradley Stoner

I've never been a joiner. Recently, however, I've been considering membership in one of the local environmental groups. The preservation of the environment is a noble cause. It's a worthy endeavor. And, because these groups are fun loving and non confrontational, I won't have to worry about spending time in the hoosegow.

The Universal Preservation Coalition, for instance, has most recently been involved in studying the Three-banded Mud Toad. This is not to be confused with the Southwestern Two-Banded Mud Toad, which in no way is a threatened species. The Three-banded Mud Toads are tiny creatures, barely macroscopic, that inhabit hard packed dirt parking lots. These tiny creatures appear only after a long, wet spell, and are most often observed after a tequila sunrise. Because of the diminutive nature of the toads, members of the UPC have often complained of headaches and a visual problem that makes them see lines and bars.

When I expressed concern over such side effects, the president of UPC, Heddy Hurtz, said, "Nothing comes easily. We environmentalists are often called upon to sacrifice for those species less able. It's a small thing to ask for the preservation of an endangered species."

I contemplated this for a moment. It made sense. "No pain, no gain?" I asked.

"You got it," Heddy replied.

The Hope for Unidentified Creatures in the Kingdom of Earthly Domains is more diverse than UPC. The members of this organization are less discriminating, more universal in their approach. These carefree people go in search of species heretofore undiscovered, and then set up funds to ensure their survival. I'm not clear from the literature whether that means the critters' or the members' survival.

HUCKED made two discoveries on a recent picnic. An almost unheard of back-to-back double. Iliff Dangeroos, a man of impeccable dress, if not reputation, had the privilege of naming them, since he was the first to notice them. Iliff had been standing there in his safari jacket, bush shorts, and klettershule, brushing the dust off his crushable felt hat when he saw the first and smelled the second.

"Arachnida woofii and Pseudomarsupialis nardii," Dangeroos said proudly. The former he described as a moderate to large sized, furry bodied, brown spider. It seemed quite ordinary, eight legs and all, except that it had an unsettling and unexpected vocalization. "Whenever I approached the bugger," Iliff said, "and bent over to pick it up, it erupted. Sounded like a small angry dog, it did." That's where the common name comes from... Barking Alpine Spider.

The second, P. nardii, has subsequently been seen and described. It is a true mammal, but has a pouch much like a kangaroo, hence the designation Pseudomarsupialis. It seems this hairy, rather ugly animal, the Shagnasty Bushnard, has been found to place its young in the pouch immediately after birth. The kit attaches itself to a single teat and there remains, totally undisturbed, for an entire year. This strange behavior seems to account for the malodorous scent, and the fact that nardii is usually smelled and rarely seen.

One last fact. A. woofii and P. nardii seem to have a symbiotic relationship, woofii is always heard immediately before nardii is smelled. Most reported observations have been at chili cook-offs and bean and weenie picnics where there is plenty of beer. Nobody knows why.

After hearing the exciting exploits of both groups, I was hard pressed to make a decision as to the one I would join. Careful consideration led me to try to negotiate a merger. It has finally succeeded. I'm really excited. I'm about to become an UPCHUCKED member!

The Square Peg - Huh?

Huh?
Copyright S. Bradley Stoner.

I was pleased when I found out my nephew was interested in science. I got my degree in biology. I think science is very important. Look at all the things science has done for us. Without it, where would modern society be? I was, therefore, extremely pleased when he asked me to come help him with his project.

When I got to my brother's house, the boy took me to his father's basement workshop. I don't know what I expected, but whatever it was, it wasn't what I found. In the middle of the room stood this enormous thing. It looked like a cross between a Saturn V rocket and a '58 Chevy.

"What is it?" I asked.

"A transformer," he replied.

I thought of Edison. I thought of toy trains. "Neat," I said, but I think it's a bit large. You could regulate a power station with this baby."

The boy looked at me blankly. "Huh?" he said.

I became suspicious. I wasn't sure we were on the same wavelength. Maybe "transformer" had a new meaning in today's high-tech world. "Maybe you'd better explain," I suggested.

He grinned. "What's it look like?" he asked.

"Like a spaceship with Henry Ford overtones," I responded.

He grinned again and said, "Watch this!"

He pushed a button on the small panel in the front. Something like a head appeared from within the nose cone. It had red eyes that blinked. It had a mouth that looked like a Rolls Royce grill. It had a whip antenna and a little hoop that kept rotating every time the eyes blinked. He pushed another button. The tail fins unfolded and pushed the entire structure toward the ceiling.

I was astounded. It looked just like some of the robots you read about in futuristic science fiction stories. I was impressed. "Wow! What a neat toy," I said. "There wasn't anything like this around when I was a kid."

He looked hurt. Then he looked indignant. Then he looked angry. I never knew a little kid could be so loud, "TOY?!" he roared. "TOY?!"

The robots head swiveled and blinked at me. Its little hoop was spinning furiously. It started to raise a mechanical arm. "Calm down, Vortex," my nephew said. The arm dropped. The hoop slowed. The taillight eyes quit flashing.

When I quit shaking, I squeaked, "Vortex?"

My nephew's face grew serious. He had my attention. I listened closely. I had to. When my nephew gets excited or serious, his speech becomes holophrastic. "Vortex-is-a-VOX-controlled-mini-mainframe-artificial -intelligence-inertially-guided-thermofustion-powered-antichild-abuse-device," he said in a single breath without pausing between words.

I stared at him, trying to decipher this high-tech gobbledegook. "Huh?" I said.

He looked at me sadly and shook his head. "Don't you watch Saturday cartoons?" he asked.

I shook my head. "What's it do?" I asked.

"It follows me around and beats up guys who pick on me."

The Square Peg - Fertilizer

Fertilizer
Copyright S. Bradley Stoner

It started out innocently enough. One little green thing in a little white plastic pot from the grocery store. I put it on the kitchen window sill. It looked lonely. I got it a friend. And then another, and another. You know how it goes.

I watered them. They drooped. I put them in the sun. They turned brown. I played music for them. They shriveled. I wrung my hands. I bought books. I even read them. Nothing.

Then, feeling depressed one Sunday morning, I turned on "Face the Nation." That didn't do anything for my depression, but the effect on the plants was amazing. They started to turn green again. They stood up straight, even the ones that weren't supposed to. When "It's Your Business" came on, one or two of them grew a little.

I experimented. I tried soaps. The Wandering Jew wandered away from the set. I tried game shows. The palm folded its fronds. Discouraged, I was about to turn off the TV when "NEWSBREAK" came on. It was stupefying. The plants opened up and strained toward the tube. I knew then that I had them. No longer would I have to hide in shame from all my green-thumbed friends.

I put the plants on a rotating schedule of news broadcasts. They grew full and beautiful. I watched my kitchen turn green. I was glad. I no longer had to look at dirty dishes. I had to part the ivy just to find the kitchen sink. My plants especially like Ted Koppel. The spider plant sends out shooters whenever he speaks.

The other night a friend stopped by late in the evening for a chat. He marveled at my plants. I detected envy in his voice as he sought my secret. "You must have discovered the perfect fertilizer," he said.

I just smiled and said, "You'll have to excuse me... 'Nightline' is coming on."

The Square Peg - Lordy, Lordy

Lordy, Lordy
Copyright S. Bradley Stoner

I was sitting on my tractor. My supercharged, Johnny Impala, zebra striped, super mowing machine with the rear bagger. I was humming right along, planing my lawn to near putting green perfection. I was intent on the sparse sprigs of buffalo grass immediately ahead... blissfully ignorant of all else. My Johnny I. leaned heavily. A thunderous voice scared me out of my wits. "HAVE YEW HEARD-uh THE KNOCKIN-uh!" My Johnny swerved to the left, dug three elongated divots, trimmed the hedge, made a loop through the flower garden, and smacked into the yellow pine.

When I came to, I saw Harold sprawled near the petunia bed, with a confused look on his face. I looked at my Johnny. The crash had knocked the supercharger off my Biggs and Hooter engine. The transwobbler was tangled up in the fasthappy. And one of the hyperwhacker blades was embedded a full six inches in the pine. That Johnny had cost me three features, eighteen fillers, two short stories, and a financial report. I was ready to give Harold a graphic demonstration of vigilante justice.

Harold, however, had recovered by this time. And, my eyes had started to clear up. There was something different about Harold. He peered from behind heavy, horn-rimmed glasses. He wore a dark suit with a religious emblem on the lapel. I didn't know Harold owned a dark suit, far less a religious emblem. "All right, Harold," I said, "what's going on?"

Harold approached somberly. "Ah am sorry, brother Brad," declared. "Trooly sorry. Ah did-uh not realize that mah message-uh would-uh so distrub-uh yew."

The crash must have done something to Harold. "Where'd you get that southern accent?" I asked.

It must have done in his ears too. He didn't answer me. " Ah merely wee-ished-uh to bring-uh yew the news!" he continued. "HAVE-uh YEW HEARD-uh THE NEWS-uh?!" It must have hurt his breathing. what with all the "-uhs" at the ends of his words. "Ah HAVE-uh FOUND-uh MAH MISSION-uh! THE PATH-uh IS CLEAH-uh!

I couldn't believe I was witnessing this. I couldn't believe Harold could believe I was witnessing whatever it was I was witnessing. I shook my head. Maybe I wasn't conscious yet. "Ah have the WORD-uh raht here in mah HAND-uh!" He was really getting into it now.

"Oh Lordy," I said with a groan.

"Then YEW have HEARD-uh!" he exclaimed triumphantly. Ah HEARD-uh His knockin', and-uh Ah answered the call-uh. All YEW have to do-uh is OPEN THE DOOR-uh and YEW will see the LIGHT-uh! Ah heard-uh about FUND-uh-RAISERS... Ah heard-uh about EIGHT HUNDRED NUMBERS-uh... Ah heard-uh about LOVE-uh gifts... Ah heard-uh about video cassettes-uh with INSPIRATIONAL messages-uh... AH HEARD-uh ABOUT DONATIONS-uh!"

Harold paused to rearrange his glasses often. I realized why. Harold has twenty-twenty vision. I had a headache. Harold's acquired accent and booming voice weren't helping it.

"Ah tell yew, AH FOUND-uh IT!"

I looked at him angrily. "Maybe you ought to give it back to whomever lost it," I said.

He looked at me serenely and piously. "Ah understand-uh," he said sweetly, "and Ah forgive yew. This is about forgiveness... and love. Ah heard-uh the knockin' and Ah answered. DO YEW KNOW-uh WHAT THAT-uh KNOCKIN' WAS?"

I scanned the books, the box of inspirational cards, the video cassette tapes, and donation forms he had produced miraculously from within the many and deep pockets of his coat. "Opportunity?" I asked.

Shadows Fall - A Tag Blog - Part 03

This ‘Tag Blog’ is my continuation of Jeremy Crow’s first part of Shadows Fall. http://creativitywhacko.blogspot.com/2015/06/shadows-fall-tag-blog-part-01.html and Richard Stevens second part of Shadows Fall http://www.richvens.co.uk/blogs---what-do-you-think/shadows-fall-a-tag-blog-part-02 . When you have finished reading this part and feel you would like to write the fourth part, you will find the instructions at the end.

Rebecca padded quietly down the second floor hallway of the apartment building on Eisenbahnstraße in the Kreuzberg district, Berlin. This was the third apartment she had rented in the district in a little over two years. Her “business” required that she never stay in one location more than 9 months... and even that was a stretch. Her ears were alert for any tell-tale noise that she might have been followed, and although she had noticed no tails on the way home, one could never be absolutely certain. As she retrieved her keys from the small purse, her fingers traced the checkering on the Walther PPK automatic. It was a small .32 caliber weapon, but it was deadly in the hands of an expert. Rebecca was an expert.

As quietly as possible, Rebecca slid the key into the lock and turned it slowly, undoing the deadbolt, then inserted it into the door lock with equal care. She had been careful to apply an ample amount of graphite to the old pin hinges so the ancient hardwood door would open without the tell-tale squeak so common to the other apartments. Her entry into the apartment went unnoticed by her neighbors. She removed the oversize sunglasses and head scarf, tossing them on the hall tree bench, before removing the Walther from her purse and securing it in the drawer of the adjacent small bureau. She crossed the living room silently, almost like a shadow, and rapped twice on the door to the study.

“Komm rein,” a tired voice intoned.

“Guten abend, Herr Doktor, wie geht?”

“Mir geht es gut, danke... let us speak English, Becca, shall we?” The Doctor’s English was impeccable. It should be. He had studied at Cambridge for four years before the war and he was related to the Royal family.

“Very well, Doctor. I was unable to find what those two grave robbers were after. I did find out that they made it back to London. I had hoped we would have halved their number, but the bolt went wide and only caused a wound. The younger brother will recover.”

“A missed opportunity. Ah well, there will be other chances, but we must not let our guard down.”

Rebecca nodded. “Has the machine been repaired?”

“We are working on it, but parts are becoming hard to get. Too many questions when we go to outside sources to have them made, so we shall have to fabricate them in our shop in Dusseldorf. That will take time. Have you heard from Hans since returning from Crete?”

“No. It has me worried. He mentioned that a Shadow Hunter from Tel Aviv may be on his trail. He wants to make sure he has lost him before reporting in.”

“Better he should dispatch him... but quietly. We don’t want to bring more down on us.”

“It will have to wait. I have no way of contacting him. He has gone completely under for now.”

“Things are getting complicated, hey? Not like the old days. So many enemies now... so many seeking... Shadow Hunters, MI6, CIA, and who knows what others.”

“The machine must be fixed... and soon! Until then you remain in peril.”

“Inconsequential,” the old Doctor replied. “While they think they want me, what they really want is the machine. It must be protected at all costs. You must see to that.”

“But I don’t even know where it is at this moment,” Rebecca protested.

“You will... soon enough. Now, I must return to my papers. Will you be so kind as to fix me a cup of tea?”

Rebecca shrugged and left the study to make tea. “We’ll talk later,” she murmured.

Herr Doctor picked up the title page of the document he was working on. “Geschichte der Fallschirmjäger” (The History of the Paratroops). It was a labor of love... rife with the memories of great deeds and fallen comrades. It was to these brave souls he dedicated the book. On the second page were inscribed the Ten Commandments of the German Paratroops.

1.      You are the chosen ones of the German Army. You shall seek combat and train yourselves to endure any manner of test. To you, battle shall be the fulfillment.

2.      Cultivate true comradeship, for by the aid of your comrades you will conquer or die.

3.      Beware of talking. Be not corruptible. Men act while women chatter. Chatter may bring you to the grave.

4.      Be calm and prudent, strong and resolute. Valour and enthusiasm of an offensive spirit will cause you to prevail in the attack.

5.      The most precious thing in the presence of the foe is ammunition. He who shoots uselessly, merely to comfort himself, is a man of straw who merits not the title of Fallschirmjäger.

6.      Never surrender; to you death or victory must be a point of honour.

7.      You can triumph only if your weapons are good. See to it that you submit yourself to this law - first thy weapon, then thyself.

8.      You must grasp the full purpose of every enterprise, so that if your leader is killed you can fulfill it.

9.      Against an open foe, fight with chivalry, but to a guerrilla, extend no quarter.

10.  Keep your eyes wide open. Tune yourself to the utmost pitch. Be nimble as a greyhound, tough as leather, hard as Krupp steel. You shall be the German warrior incarnate.

von Schumann had changed since those bloody days to be sure. He was older... much older, but looked nearer to his fifties than a man of 98. He was still fit and could outwalk those a third his age. Other men his age thought it remarkable... even found it hard to believe. von Schumann did not. It was the machine at work. But unless the machine could be repaired, and soon, all that would be undone. He made a mental note to check with Heinrich in the morning. Surely the part had been completed by now. More than a week had passed since he had provided the design for the part. Perhaps it was the difficulty in obtaining enough Vanadium - Gallium (V₃Ga) for the superconductor. If so, von Schumann would use his contacts to make sure it got to the shop.

He sighed and returned to the writing. Rebecca brought the tea, left it, and slipped out of the room. She knew the rules. Never disturb Herr Doktor when he was writing. That he did not even acknowledge the tea did not surprise her at all.

Over 2,000 km away, Yossi ben Avrim wiped the sweat from his brow in the sweltering Ankara hotel. He was angry. Angry with the German, but more angry with himself. He had trailed the Kraut from Crete to Turkey, only to lose him on the busy backstreets of the market. He should have brought another Shadow Hunter with him, but they were stretched so thin and Yossi was sure of himself. Too sure, it turned out. He hadn’t thought it possible for the German to give him the slip. But here he was, sweating like a pig in a broken down hotel with no clue as to where his quarry had gone.

Yossi thought back over the events of the past two days. He had trailed the German to that God forsaken cemetery in Crete. The two Brits had literally screwed up his operation, making it impossible for his to approach the German from the blind side. Then he had seen the weapon, silent and deadly. He watched from a distance as the bolt left the crossbow, heard the thud as it found its mark, heard the muffled curse of the victim, and then the quiet, but fast padding of feet as the Kraut left his hiding spot. He’d almost lost him there, but as fortune would have it, he picked him up as he was boarding the boat to Turkey. He saw the man touch the woman’s cheek and kiss her gently before he left the dock. Yossi had bought passage on the boat and made it on board right before it sailed. He kept his distance... hid in the shadows... and avoided being spotted by his quarry. There was no chance to eliminate him on the boat. It was too crowded and the German made sure he was always in the company of several others.  He had stayed well back on the road from Bodrum to Ankara, where the German had returned his rental car and disappeared into the maze of backstreets. “Damn it,” Yossi spit for the hundredth time.

Hans smiled to himself as he slipped aboard the small private plane.  It was only moments before he gunned the already warmed engines and rolled down the runway and was winging his way to Berlin. “Shadow Hunters,” he scoffed and then laughed. “Chase shadows and you catch the wind.” ...to be continued.

Anyone who thinks they have what it takes to carry this story through the next part, simply comment below. First person to comment that they would like to continue the story, has ONE WEEK to post the next part to their own blog.

Place this message at the end of your completed blog entry, and wait for someone to accept the challenge of taking this story on as you did. Once the next post is in place on your blog page, post another comment below, with link, to let me know and I will re-post my part with that link to your next part of the story. If someone has already offered to take the story from here, please feel free to leave a comment saying you would like to play too, and should we run out of volunteers we can go back and beg you to take over where the chain ends. Thank you and we shall be interested to see where you take it.

The Square Peg - Computerese (Bear in mind, this was written in the early 80s, so youngsters may have to use Google)

Computerese
Copyright S. Bradley Stoner

I just found out I was living in the stone age. I still use a typewriter. I write. I type. Apparently I'm out of it. Up to date authors process words. They use "word processors." Computers. They connect their computers with their editors' computers and ZAP the piece there. No fuss. No yucky envelope glue or stamp glue on your tongue. No messy ribbon ink or carbon on your finger tips. No more crumpled sheets of paper because you made a mistake.

Emily was gone on vacation. I had total silence. I could concentrate. I decided to take the plunge. I rented a computer to try it out. It's a good thing Emily took two weeks. I spent the first week learning an entirely new language. Computerese. It was fascinating. Ordinary words took on whole new meanings. Ordinary objects took on whole new descriptions. There were lots of acronyms and abbreviations. If you use a computer, ordinary English no longer suffices. Computerese is better than Esperanto. You can awe people with Computerese. Esperanto gets you weird looks.

By the start of the second week I was getting into it. I could sit in front of the VDT (video display terminal) or CRT (cathode ray tube) as it is sometimes called (to me it had always been a TV screen). I could turn it on. I could give it commands via the KEYBOARD. It would obey. Promptly. I could write on it. CURSOR, the little space marker on the VDT always told me where I was. I never mis-spaced. I didn't have to worry about the lines being uneven. I now possessed AUTOMATIC JUSTIFICATION. If I made a mistake, I could BACKSPACE it out of existence or use the DELETE KEY. I didn't have to worry about my spelling. I had SPELLSTAR. Zap in the code and it found the misspellings and flagged them. Another code and it fixed them. I guess I went a little crazy. I had POWER!

I didn't notice it. My friends did. They asked me what was wrong. I didn't even recognize the problem they thought I had. I just smiled smugly... secure in the knowledge that I knew something they didn't. Knowledge is power. I wasn't aware that it could be abused. I didn't know I was about to be hoisted on my own petard.

I talked in terms of MODES now. I no longer had moods. I solved HANDSHAKE problems with PARALLEL and RS-232. BASIC was no longer "fundamental," it was an ASSEMBLY LANGUAGE with new and exotic words only other HACKERS could understand. I learned how to CREATE A DOCUMENT FILE. Create a NON-DOCUMENT FILE. I learned how to SAVE them. I learned how to rearrange them using  K BLOCK. I learned how to destroy them... the absolute power of DELETE A FILE. It was a trip. It was like being God. I could create, destroy, and rearrange at will without leaving my throne. I was omniscient, omnipotent. The VDT was my window on my world. The KEYBOARD my thunder and lightning. I WAS GOD! I was bonkers, and I didn't know it.

Emily had been back two days. I had told her that I'd call her when she got back. God doesn't call anybody. You call God. (In other words, I forgot). She called me. The phone rang. Twelve times. It takes a while to go from God mode to phone mode. I answered. "What are you doing?" she asked impatiently.

I smiled smugly to myself. I tried to conceal my excitement. I tried to sound casual. "Oh, nothing much. Just sitting here playing with my Wang." Emily slammed the phone so hard my ear still hurts. She hasn't talked to me for days. She won't answer her phone. She sent back the flowers.

Oh, God! Why didn't I get an APPLE??!