Hag-Seed by Margaret Atwood brings Shakespeare’s Tempest to life but Mona Awad misses the boat with All’s Well

Six years ago, I read and loved this book so much, I continue to recommend and gave it the highest tribute: buying a copy for friends. One said she never would have picked this one up after seeing how dark The Handmaid’s Tale (1983) was. I hope others enjoy this novel as much as I did.

The transposition of Shakespeare to a contemporary prison setting is something I have not seen before among the stacks and stacks of new books that come out every year. Who knew convicts could spin a tale of linguistic dexterity, using the iambic pentameter of hip-hop? None other than Margaret Atwood, that’s who, with “Hag-Seed,” a retelling of “The Tempest.”

Pub Date 11 Oct 2016 
Crown Publishing, Hogarth

Widowed, then bereft of his only child, 3-year old Miranda, Felix has been using his passion for Theater as some sort of catharsis. Felix is one of those cutting-edge, contemporary Artistic Directors who keep theater from ever getting stale or predictable, but in his grief, he’s become a little too original, or flamboyantly crazy. His extravagant plans for The Tempest are thwarted, he himself is thwarted, and his entire career is thwarted. Tricked, betrayed, and suddenly exiled, he does something so many of us have dreamed of: he suddenly disappears from society. Drops off the face of the Earth. Most people assume he’s dead.

He actually doesn’t go very far at all. With a little backwoods shack and a sketchy land-lady who asks no questions, Felix lives out the next twelve years in obscurity. Even when he gets a new gig staging theater productions in a prison, he’s able to preserve his anonymity. It helps that the great Felix was never quite as famous as he liked to think.

The cast of prisoners is funny and heartbreaking, and of course, Felix manages to instill in them his own love of Shakespeare.

I blush to confess: the Bard was never my favorite author. Back in his day, those plays must have been a hoot. Today, the tragedies weary me, and the comedies require such a stretch of imagination and new vocabulary words, I forget to laugh. This novel, however, makes me think I should try harder to see what the fuss is all about. Hundreds of years later, Shakespeare is still more worthy of high school students’ attention than any other writer? I think his plays are only as good as the actors performing them. Just reading the plays and writing essays about them seems more like torture than erudition.

The best part of this novel is seeing what 21stC prisoners do with a 15thC script. The opening pages are hilarious. I’m reminded, in a good way, of “Hamilton: An American Musical” with music, lyrics, and book by Lin-Manuel Miranda.

I love the opening scene with the boatswain narrating from a tempest-tossed ship, “Trim the sails, fight the gales,” and Voices Off lamenting, “We’re all gonna drown!” Somehow, I actually laugh out loud when the alarmist boatswain carries on until “A bucketful of water hits him in the face.”

Don’t take my word for it that this is brilliant and comical. Read the opening pages for yourself. The contemporary twists bring the old Bard to life.

The rest of the story is poignant as well as entertaining. Parallels to “The Tempest” are numerous and more fun for the reader to discover than to read about here.

As Miranda does with “Hamilton,” Atwood peers deep into something old and familiar, sees that common folk from long ago expressed the same concerns we have today, then opens the door that lets a cool new breeze blow away the dust of centuries. Using the vernacular of the streets, she reinvents Shakespeare, elevating the iambic pentameter of hip-hop to a comedy-drama.

For some readers, the story might seem to move slowly, then explode into action at the climax, with a swift and perhaps too-neat resolution, and not much real danger for our heroes. I was okay with that. The ending is satisfying. Line after line of memorable prose leads us there, and Atwood achieves more than a cultural re-imagining of Shakespeare. She weaves current affairs into an age-old tale, making the old new again, and showing us that today’s “the world is going to hell in a handbasket” concerns are not so new, after all. And that, really, is more reassuring than demoralizing. We’re all in the same boat. Think quick, keep cool, remember to laugh, and we’ll stay afloat.

THANK YOU to NetGalley and Crown Publishing for an ARC (Advance Reader Copy) of this book.

Arlind Fazliu asked Margaret Atwood at Goodreads: What would be your advice for a young writer before he starts writing? And how many hours a day do you write ?

Margaret Atwood Hello: My first advice would be: don’t listen to any advice before you start writing. Just start. If you listen to too much advice you will get overwhelmed. Once you start, you will find out what you need to know next.

Another author, perhaps inspired by Atwood’s “Hag-Seed,” published a novel about a woman directing a Shakespeare play. I was not impressed.

Mona Awad knows pain. She gets it. She really gets it. She really, really, really gets it, in excruciatingly exacting detail, page after page, totally nailing it. On the one hand, I identified with Miranda Fisk and her chronic, invisible pain. I have wished the throbbing, red network of hidden pain could be made visible, like bruises and wounds gushing with blood, so that others would believe it's real, not in our heads. And I know, all too well, this endless parade of doctors, physiatrists (not to be confused with psychiatrists), the testing, the procedures, the false hopes, the blank stares and this weird insistence that pain is mostly mental. Yes, Awad really knows her stuff and articulates it vividly. 

We all fall, one of Miranda's physiatrists reminds her. "But sometimes we want to hold on to the pain. Sometimes we have our reasons for not being able to let go."

I had just read those words at a website on Buddhism and in a chapter of Echkhart Tolle's Power of Now, the ridiculous chapter on pain. Also, I had been reading the New Age or Buddhist or Catholic mystic concept, "All is well, and all shall be well." These ideas were left in open tabs on my screen. Then came this NetGalley ARC titles "All's Well," and it's praised by Margaret Atwood, author of "The Tempest," a hilarious tale of a theater director getting prisoners to put on a Shakespeare play. So, this Simon and Schuster novel (not a self-pub!) must be good, right?

Well, the words are cleverly strung together in pretty sentences and vivid prose, but man, oh man, does the self-pitying Miranda wallow in her pain, page after page,  I identify with her and those doctors and all those well-meaning friends and loved ones who try but just don't get it. But I don't like being in Miranda's head, her pain body, her Point of View, even after her pain goes away and her body feels young and alive again.

The shift begins when Miranda, perhaps in a drunken haze, meets three men in a bar.

I know, that sounds like the start of a joke. But these men! They're like modern-day, male incarnations of the witches in Macbeth, and they're also more up close, in your face, and personal. They notice Miranda. They notice her pain. They see that she is hurting! "It's a wonder you can stand at all," one says. Who are these men, these men who see her, who know her? They see her pain. More than that, they tell her that pain can move. Yes, really. Pain can switch, easily. "From house to house, form body to body. You can pass it along, you can give it away. Piece by piece." Did I mention that they remind me of the witches in Macbeth? Oh, but they're so much better. They know what to do with trouble. You can give your pain away to someone else. "To those who might need it."

And this is when things get creepy.

We don't understand how it's possible, but it happens. With a mere touch to the wrist, Miranda transfers her pain to one of her most obnoxious acting students. She transfers some to her awful physiatrist, the annoying Mark. She even passes some of it to her beloved (but annoying, of course!) friend Grace. I will not describe how these people shut down, or how Miranda reacts to the reversal of fortune. I will only say that she doesn't strike me as a very nice person.

One weird aspect of the book is the way Miranda left her husband, who tried so hard, but she was this pathetic, sexless, damaged, pain-ridden woman. When she starts feeling miraculously good again, she's all over a guy who reminds her of ex, to the point that she keeps calling this guy the same nickname she had for her husband. It's one of many really weird things about Miranda and her hazy, spacy, feverish new outlook on life. She thinks out loud, it seems, or people read her thoughts, and her thoughts are way out there, as if she were tripping out on some new pain killer.

Seeing Miranda transfer her crippling aches and pains to others (who maybe "needed" this eye opener, this suffering) made me wonder whether Miranda really deserves such a long reprieve. Her attitude continues to be self-absorbed. The three men show up again and again, bringing more miracles, making it possible for Miranda to stage The Tempest when her mutinous students want to put on Macbeth, and all through the novel, references to the Shakespeare plays kept me reading. We keep hearing about Helen, poor martyred Helen, and the jerk who doesn't deserve her love, Bertram. We keep hearing how young Miranda, prior to her descent into pain, played Helen on stage like no other actor before or since.

A subplot involving Ellie and her bath salts kept me wondering. What's the point? Ellie believes Miranda's recovery is thanks to these bath salts which Miranda says she has been using, but for no good reason, she has not. Nope. No salts in her bath, but Miranda lies, routinely. She lies to Ellie. She tells her health care team "Yes, I feel better now," because they apparently cannot accept it when shell tells them their treatments make her pain worse. If something had come of this sad subplot, in which women lie and say they feel better when they don't just to get people to let up already, if some insight or wisdom had unfolded from it, ok, those scenes would justify the amount of space they take up in the novel. But all these long, repetitive, dragging, wearying pages of pain just go nowhere. Oh, Miranda transfers her pain to others, and fear not, these mysterious victims will not remain incapacitated with pain for the rest of their now-miserable lives. There's more "magic" coming. From whence, we will never really know.

And that's unfortunate. Readers invest a lot of time in a writer's flight of fancy, aka a novel, and authors do have some burdon of proof to offer, some way of explaining, of making the impossible seem plausible. No such attempt seems to be made here. Creepy, weird magic happens, and Miranda feels guilt for being an inadvertent practitioner of black magic. Ellie seems to be a more active and cognizant practitioner, getting the universe to comply with her wishes, but it's all hastily summarized, and not even Ellie's concoctions and bath salts can be credited with some of the bad juju or voodoo.

The climax is so weird, I won't even go there. Suffice to say, I found it all disappointing. It all strained credulity past the breaking point, past the sounds of bones literally breaking. The person who falls-- to what looks and sounds like certain death-- just gets up and walks away. Why? What is the point of this impossible plot twist?

There was no one I could like, not even the three men, who go so far as to make "All's Well" come to life again with Miranda, only to walk away disappointed. No, this is not a spoiler; Just when it seemed the three men were figments of Miranda's imagination, someone else describes them, exactly as they had looked to Miranda, so who are they and what really happened here? A more astute reader than I may be able to tell.

Awad can write beautiful prose, but she needs a judicious editor, someone to help her sort out the plot and let the reader escape into a story without all the snarls, pitfalls, and knots.
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A Worm in My Salad, please! (or “Bugs on the Menu”)  

A Worm in My Salad, please! (or “Bugs on the Menu”)  by Carol Kean was first published by Perihelion Science Fiction ezine in 2015.

NOBODY LIKES ME, EVERYBODY hates me, think I’ll go eat worms?

Good idea. You’ll feel better, and not just because “Eat bugs, save the world!” is the Next Big Thing. Chocolate-covered ants or batter-fried tarantulas may be the comfort food you need. Protein bars made of crickets could make you lean and mean (just not as quickly as Popeye’s spinach) if you need to fight off a bully.

Entomophagy (eating insects) is nothing new. Humans have consumed insects, the most abundant life form besides bacteria, for as long as humans have existed. Bugs and worms have nourished (why do I hate that word along with “moist” and “meals”?) indigenous people all over the world. European governments have started promoting entomophagy, but Americans are squeamish to the point of being irrational, prejudiced or phobic.

“It’s not easy for most Americans to see this, but insects are going to be a far bigger part of our menus in the next 25 years,” according to Josh Schonwald, author of “The Taste of Tomorrow: Dispatches from the Future of Food.”

I’m not a vegan or a PETA protester, nor do I trust the World Health Organization’s latest reports on red meat causing cancer. It just strikes me as weird that most Americans would rather eat a conscious, big-eyed furry or feathered friend–pig, cow, rabbit, pheasant, even a beady-eyed barnyard chicken–than the far less attractive or companionable bug.

Crickets are cute (unless they’re chirping in your house), and I like spiders and snakes, but never formed any emotional attachment to one. Growing up on a farm, we named all our critters and they had distinct personalities. The “Ha-Ha Rooster” chased us and terrorized us, so I didn’t mind holding his legs at the chopping block when Mom whacked off his head, but my heart ached when Johnny Boor leaped from the chute (how many pigs can do that?) in his futile attempt to escape his trip to the market. Unlike cat-eating Koreans or horse-eating Frenchmen, we have taboos against eating our feline, equine and canine friends, but none against eating the gentle bovine. One farmwife, however, told me she’d “almost rather eat a person I don’t know than eat one of our lambs.” No doubt she’d rather eat mutton, hers or anyone else’s, than a casserole full of worms.

Photo by Caleb Oquendo on Pexels.com

The average American’s consumption of meat is a historical phenomenon. While the average 17th Century European was lucky to see meat once a week, even an impoverished American consumed two hundred pounds a year–and this was long before the Revolution of 1776. Land grabs, ranches, cattle drives, stock yards, meat factories, railroads–a whole new industry, generated by America’s demand for meat–formed the U.S. economy. European settlers transformed the New World into the biggest meat-producing place on earth.

Conventional livestock is simply not a sustainable food source. Cattle produce more greenhouse gases than the entire transport sector. The amount of water to produce one pound of steak equals that consumed by a family of four for a full year. While bacon, ham, hot dogs, hamburgers and steaks have a forever place in our hearts– er, appetites–there isn’t enough of the “good” stuff to go around. Hunger is a problem here in the United States, not just in famine-plagued Ethiopia. Protein builds stronger children, workers and warriors, and it doesn’t have to come from Bessie the cow or pigs like Babe.

Again: you won’t hear me urging people to give up meat. You can see a “Cowspiracy” video (http://bit.ly/1L1JJ7u) and judge for yourself.  As a farm-raised carnivore, I tend to side with Maureen Ogle, author of “In Meat We Trust,” who tweeted October 26: “This WHO meat thing is THE Mother of All Clickbait.”

My spinster aunt who labored forty years at a meat packing plant refused to tell us what really goes into hot dogs. Americans still don’t know, or don’t want to know, if bugs or worms get cooked in with the guts and other body parts of pigs, cows, and chickens. What are we so afraid of? I’d say it’s the nitrites, nitrates and MSG, more so than the meat source, we should worry about.

“McDonald’s Uses Worm Meat Fillers But Can Legally Call It 100% Beef” is a meme perpetuated on Pinterest and all the social media, but snopes.com refutes the rumor. Why were so many scandalized by it in the first place? In 2012, meat product critics terrorized Americans with activist rebranding, calling lean, finely textured beef “pink slime.” Millions had eaten it and liked it until they knew what was in the food they chewed and swallowed. They should care about truth in labeling too.

They may be tiny, ugly, creepy or crawly, but eating more bug and worms, and less poultry, beef, pork and fish, is good for you and even better for the environment. We already use three-fourths of all agricultural land to raise livestock. The oceans are overfished. Disease (and insects!) threaten crop production. It’s all in a book released by the United Nations Food and Agriculture Organization (FAO), “Edible Insects: future prospects for food and feed security” (May 13, 2013).

“Gathering, rearing, processing and selling insects can offer important livelihood opportunities for poor individuals living in developing countries,” FAO reports. “Not only will these activities improve their diets, but they can also offer employment and generate cash income through the sale of the produce. It also doesn’t require a lot of experience or sophisticated equipment, meaning many individuals can participate in these activities including women and those living in rural or urban areas that are lacking in available land.”

No matter how stupendous the American meat industry may be, it will not meet the demands of billions of humans multiplying by 75 million people each year. Earthlings will need a new source of protein to sustain the world into the future.

Animal feed comes mostly from crops grown with pesticides and irrigation, fossil fuels and big machinery. Feed made with fishmeal could be made with insects instead, leaving more fish for humans to consume. Insects can eat animal waste or plants that people and livestock cannot.

We already eat bugs whether we realize it or not. The FDA’s Defect Levels Handbook defines the “acceptable” limit of insect infestation in foods you may be eating every day. Aphids in beer? Hops may contain 2,500 aphids per 10 grams. Canned fruit juices are allowed up to 1 maggot per 250 ml, curry powder is allowed up to 100 insect fragments (head, body, legs) per 25 grams and chopped dates are allowed up to 10 whole dead insects. The list goes on. The trick is to keep people unaware that they’re eating these things.

A better idea is to retrain our palates. Even the lowly cockroach has accomplished this. The German cockroach, Blattella Germanica, quickly outwitted their human assassins when sweet baits became popular for roach control in the mid-1980s. Roaches with an aversion to sweets survived and multiplied. (If they can do it, why don’t I acquire an aversion to chocolate? Not motivated!) The cockroach’s aversion to sweets is heritable, and only several years were needed for Blattella Germanica to adapt and boycott the baits. (Science, May 2013. DOI: 10.1126/science.1234854)

Instead of poisoning creepy cockroaches in our homes, we could try eating them instead. Reality TV shows would have us believe ya gotta be naked and afraid to try that. In fact, a brilliant scientist who happens to be one of my favorite living authors has perpetuated the idea that you’d have to be starving in a post-apocalyptic dystopia to eat a cockroach, and even then it wouldn’t taste good. Sorry, E.E. Giorgi, but I have a bone to pick with you for “The House on the Cliff” even though I gave it five stars as part the Immortality Chronicles (reviewed in September 2015 Perihelion). The citizens of Astraca “sucked ants for breakfast and chewed on hay straws for lunch because that was all we had. We had roaches, too, and my brother claimed they tasted delicious roasted on an open fire. Even as starving as we were, I don’t remember enjoying the roaches.”


Giorgi may need to be indoctrinated with Cricket Bitters, “the gateway drug to insect cuisine,” as Ana C. Day blogs. Ease your way into entomorphagy by drinking insects with your booze, then build up to eating them.

Just don’t let me think about how awesome the immortal cockroach can be. They’re among the oldest living creatures on earth. Survivors. Unkillable. How many other creatures can live for several weeks after being decapitated? What else can survive the fallout and radiation of nuclear war? If a star within ten light years of Earth turned supernova (blew up), cockroaches would be one of the few land-dwelling species preserved from extinction (David Seargent, “Does God Love Cockroaches?: And Other Idle Musings,” Tate Publishing & Enterprises, 2009).

David George Gordon was working on his 1996 book “The Compleat Cockroach” when he first realized how truly edible cockroaches are –full of protein and crunchy, as those who step on them already know.  Gordon’s “Eat-A-Bug Cookbook” includes recipes for all bugs, not just roaches. A revised and updated version includes new recipes and photos of dishes that actually make bugs look delicious.

Gordon’s advice for easing your way into Entomophacy:

— Begin with crickets, crunchy and light
— “We eat chicken eggs, and that’s kind of weird when you really think about it.”
— Tarantula legs “are full of this long white muscle, and people are always surprised by how chewy they are.”
— “I singe off the hairs, dip them in tempura batter and then deep-fry them… I’ll eat anything deep-fried!”

“80% of the world eats bugs in some form,” Gordon said in a Business Insider interview. “We’re really the weirdos because we don’t eat bugs. Western ideas about taste are pretty narrowly defined.”


Unlike the 1982 film “Victor Victoria” in which a starving singer (Julie Andrews) sneaks a cockroach from her purse and into her salad in hopes of eating for free, this might be a more likely scenario for future diners:

“Waiter! There’s a worm in my salad!”

“Just the one? I’m so sorry. How many mealworms do you wish?”

Ah, but if you’re in Saigon, worms may be the most expensive item on the menu. A family friend who ate big, fat worms in the jungles of Vietnam during the war had no idea what a costly delicacy they are.

“How I love them raw . . . with just a pinch of salt . . . and a dry white wine,” a fox mumbles under anesthesia after persuading a mouse dentist to extract a tooth in “Doctor De Soto” by William Steig. The fox was dreaming of raw mice, but that line is steal-worthy as a meme to inspire Americans to crave worms like those Vietnamese gourmets do.

World class chefs such as Jose Andres incorporate bugs into their elegant dishes. Entomophagist pioneer Monica Martinez has launched the first all-bug street food cart. New “entopreneurs” keep popping up with restaurants that include bugs on the menu and businesses that supply them.

Unfortunately a 1977 movie, “Worm Eaters,” destroyed the chance to educate and inspire people on entomophagy.  Fortunately, the movie was so reviled by film critics and the general public, hardly anyone watched it or remembers it.

The Worm Eaters (1977) - Plot Summary Poster

In the 2013 Fantasy/Thriller “Snowpiercer,” the lower classes were fed insect cakes. In many science fiction movies, the insects turn the tables and eat people. (Amazon link to the DVD:

https://www.amazon.com/Snowpiercer-Chris-Evans/dp/B00LFF3MKO?_encoding=UTF8&*Version*=1&*entries*=0 )

In 2010 edible insects “were nothing more than an academic idea in the US,” according to entomophagist Meghan Curry (Bug Vivant  http://bugvivant.com/ ).  “Today, this industry is booming, with a new startup joining the edible insect industrial complex just about every week.”

Insects are as natural to eat as fruits and vegetables. They’re a more complete form of protein than many livestock alternatives.  Insects offer almost as much fat, protein, vitamin, fiber and mineral content as fish or livestock. House crickets average 205 g/kg protein, very comparable to beef’s 256 g/kg. Insects are also rich in essential amino acids and omega-3 fatty acids. Mealworms contain as much unsaturated omega-3 and six fatty acids as fish and even more than beef and pork. Some are also surprisingly high in iron. Locusts contain up to 20 mg/100g iron while beef supplies only 6 mg/100g.

Insects have shorter life spans and can be grown quickly and farmed in large quantities in small areas. They multiply faster than rabbits and need far less feed, water and space. Insects produce a fraction of greenhouse gases such as methane and ammonia. (You-tube is full of spoofs on bovine flatulence). Insects are cold-blooded, maintaining their internal body temperature far more efficiently than warm-blooded creatures. They don’t need to convert anywhere near as much feed into edible body mass. So why do we prefer to eat our barnyard animal friends without ever even tasting a gourmet bug dish?

Thanksgiving turkey will cost more this year due to the 2015 bird flu pandemic. Chickens and turkeys were slaughtered by the millions, many of them baked alive in over-heated barns as the cleanest way to kill them. Note: insects are less likely to transmit zoonotic infections to humans than pigs (swine flu, anyone?), cattle (mad cow disease) and other warm-blooded creatures we eat. Insects might not be for everyone, but they may become a vital part of global food security.

“I love bugs. And as the first person to popularize their eating in America, I take special pride in seeing their appreciation soar,” says gastronomical globetrotter Andrew Zimmern. “Head to Mexico City and taste the myriad ways the chefs there cook up ant eggs, maguey grubs, nopales worms… then call me and tell me I’m wrong about their legitimate worthiness as basic comestibles.”


Next Millennium Farms, a company that launched in 2014, is North America’s largest supplier of edible insects for human consumption. “When we learned of the many people living in food-insecure countries and communities who were at risk in the future, “ says Darren Goldin, one of three brothers who got their start raising food for reptiles, “we felt a responsibility to do something.” Now with two farms, 60,000 square feet in total, and a 2,000 square foot processing plant, the brothers produce 8,000 pounds of raw crickets per week or 2,000 pounds of processed cricket powder. “Our products will help feed nutritious and cost effective food to the poor, malnourished, and food insecure, as well as preserve the environment and broaden the horizons of food lovers around the world,” Goldin says. (Alex Karn, “Peterborough This Week” November 2, 2015)

Innovation in agriculture http://www.mykawartha.com/community-story/5970893-innovation-in-agriculture/ via @kawarthanews

Have I myself made worms and bugs a staple of my diet? Not yet. I need to connect with suppliers, now that I’m finding out who they are. Last I’d heard, mealworms cost $20 a pound, while filet mignon is $14 a pound at Sam’s Club. Until bugs become part of the food industry the way meat did in America, with mass production lowering the cost, I’ll have to breed my own food supply. When I figure out how to start my own worm ranch and hide it from the husband and kids, I’ll start sneaking grubs and bugs into casseroles. I might find a quick way to dig up enough grub worms to fill a skillet, but only after the husband stops fertilizing and “pesticiding” a lawn full of non-native grass. A reformer’s work is never done.

French-fried worms, anyone? Try it. You’ll like it.

# # # #  Recipes and additional information below

David George Gordon’s Cricket Recipe (via Business Insider; buy the book via amazon)


Preparation of crickets for any recipe:

–  Crickets should only be purchased from reliable sources. Keep crickets as fresh as possible.

– Chill your crickets before cooking. Keep them in a plastic container or storage bag in the refrigerator at least for an hour to slow down their metabolism, inducing a state of hypothermia, to keep them from jumping or wiggling when removed from container. You can also freeze them an hour or more to definitely kill them, guaranteeing their immobility.

— Drop chilled crickets into a pot of boiling water sized to hold the quantity you’re cooking. Add a few pinches of salt. Boil for about two minutes to ensure cleanliness. Remove and let cool, then place in storage bags in the freezer or use right away for any number of recipes. All crickets should be sanitized like this prior to eating.

Dry Roasted Crickets

Served as a snack for any number of persons


25 — 50 live crickets — or however many you wish to cook/serve

Salt, or any preferred seasoning that can be shaken or sprinkled onto crickets after roasting.

Preheat oven to 200 degrees. Arrange the crickets on a cookie sheet, making sure none of them overlap. Bake at low temperature for about 60 minutes or until the crickets are completely dry or dry enough for personal taste.

At the 45-minute mark, test a cricket to see if it’s dry enough by crushing with a spoon against a hard surface or between your fingers. The crickets should crush somewhat easily. If not, place them back inside oven until crisp.

Once roasted and cooled, place a few crickets between your palms and carefully roll them breaking off legs and antennae in the process. This ensures clean and crisp crickets without legs or antennae getting in the way.

Salt them or use any seasoning you wish. They are very good and healthy to eat as a roasted snack. Eat them on the spot or place them back into the freezer for future use. 

Cricket Flour  (¼ – ½ cup of crickets to every cup of flour works well)

Break off the antennae and legs by gently rolling the cricket between your hands.

Once you collect enough crickets in a bowl proceed to crush either using a mortar and pestle or rolling pin on a hard surface.

Gather the crushed crickets — they should look like small specks (usually of dark brown color) and blend them well into the flour of your choosing. Once you’ve blended the crickets with the flour you’re set to use it in any way you wish.

Same: Add Bullet Items?

  • “We’re constantly slammed by orders. We simply can’t keep up,” said Bachhuber, a Wisconsin native who’s had a long interest in urban farming. “The speed at which people have been willing to eat bugs is crazy. It’s cool.”

    — Oakland-based Tiny Farms is trying to address supply crunch by developing more efficient ways to mass-produce crickets and other bugs. It eventually wants to create a large network of insect farms to supply food makers such as Don Bugito and Bitty Foods.

    — “The goal is basically to make it easier and cheaper to produce industrial-scale volumes of insects that can be used in food products,” said Daniel Imrie-Situnayake, a software engineer turned entopreneur. “We’re really just scraping the surface in terms of figuring out what the potential is for insects to be part of our food system.”

Source: ‘Entopreneurs’ try to convince public that insects can be deliciousTHE ASSOCIATED PRESS Wednesday, April 15, 2015, 12:34 PM

Top 5 selling edible insects:

Mixed Bugs

Chinese Armor Tail Scorpions

7 Piece Bush Tucker Banquet (20% saving)



  • Ana C. Day blogs: “The European Union is cofinancing the PROteINSECT research project that is exploring the use of insect protein in food for people or as animal fodder.”
  • Nanna Roos coordinates GREEiNSECT, a project at the University of Copenhagen in Denmark, which investigates how insects can be farmed in Kenya.
  • Grub Kitchen, in Pembrokeshire, south-west Wales, is intended to make people think about their food, even the dishes that look like they wouldn’t look out of place in the Bushtucker Trials.”
  • Scientists are investigating the potential uses of insect oil, rich in essential fatty acids oleic acid, linoleic acid and linolenic acid. Overcoming ‘the yuk factor’ may be difficult, but termite fat is already used for frying in east and west Africa, and grasshopper and soldier fly oil is said to have a pleasant fruit aroma. Cockroach oil on the other hand smells like vomit – uses would be limited to industrial lubricants or paint.

The Eat-a-Bug Cookbook, Revised: 40 Ways to Crickets, Grasshoppers, Ants, Water Bugs, Spiders, Centipedes, and Their Kin by David George Gordon


Top 50 Most Delicious Insect Recipes (Book 19) by Julie Hatfield  http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00ERCB646/ref=cm_sw_r_tw_dp_4Kcowb1TQB48A

Eating Insects. Eating insects as food. Edible insects and bugs, insect breeding, most popular insects to eat, cooking ideas, restaurants and where to buy insects all covered  by Elliott Lang 


Raising Mealworms 1-2-3: How to Breed and Raise the Easiest Feeder Insect By Life Cycle  by JM Daniels



Josh Schonwald, “The Taste of Tomorrow: Dispatches from the Future of Food”


Edible: An Adventure into the World of Eating Insects and the Last Great Hope to Save the Planet http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00E3E4XN4/ref=cm_sw_r_tw_dp_qBcowb10RQACY

The House on the Cliff in the Immortality Chronicles:



Harman Singh ‏@Entopreneur    From by-product to high quality insect protein from @insectrearing http://ow.ly/TfNhn

Harman Singh ‏@Entopreneur   Why crickets are the better choice over beef/animal ag. Watch @Cowspiracy http://bit.ly/1L1JJ7u 

@AlltechSpain: Feeding 9 billion people by 2050 will require a 19% increase of #water in #agriculture http://futurefood2050.com/water-infographic/

#Entopreneurs are changing the world Why don’t we cringe in horror at eating cute mammals and birds? #EatBugs!


It’s More Nutritious For You to Eat a #Bug Than a #Steak http://sco.lt/4ziR2P 

Entomophagy: Edible Insects and the Future of Food

Insects as a protein alternative and solution to our world’s food crisis.

Nobody likes me, everybody hates me, think I’ll go eat worms!

Big fat juicy ones,

Eensie weensy squeensy ones,

See how they wiggle and squirm!

Down goes the first one, down goes the second one,

Oh how they wiggle and squirm!

Up comes the first one, up comes the second one,

Oh how they wiggle and squirm!

I bite off the heads, and suck out the juice,

And throw the skins away!

Nobody knows how fat I grow,

On worms three times a day!



 Breeding Invertebrates for Fun and Food by Gordon Ramel

how to easily breed everything from the more usual Tarantulas, Whip Scorpions and Stick Insects, through various beetles and lepidoptera to to the Crickets and Hoverflies you need to feed them. Written by a professional biologist with more than a decades experience breeding a large diversity of invertebrates for one reason or another this book will be invaluable to any invertebrate hobbyist or secondary school science teacher … includes instructions on how to make your own nets, pooters, and cages including specialised nests for different species of ants.


Girl Eating Spider!
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Country Roads

Dirt was a fact of our childhood.

Digging in the garden, working in the field, running barefoot down dusty roads and coming back coated in off-white. Earth, Wind and Fire, too, though we have no old snapshots, no videos, that would capture our loud and windy world. My sister’s husband, city-born and raised, had never known such ever-present wind.

Dirt roads turned to mud and ruts back in the day, and even now (this is a 2019 photo I snapped), it feels like going back in time a hundred years when I drive the gravel roads to my parents.


But I have no room to speak: less than half a mile from where I live now, in the 21st Century, this dirt road floods every spring. Our dogs love it. Cars, not so much!


Kids on country roads rode the big yellow school bus…not gonna talk about that part of it, not today.


“Country Roads,”

The kind John Denver sang about, might make you think of the colorful, fanciful side of a childhood bordered by dirt roads. So, never mind the snow plow, the wash-outs after a flash flood, the things you hear about in third-world countries but don’t expect to experience in modern America. Go ahead, picture the pretty part of it all. The bunnies, the blossoms, the scent of clover hay, the fleecy white clouds in the blue, blue sky. This 1980s greeting card (sorry, I can’t find it now to locate the artist!) came from my sister:


Dirt, dust, the ping of rocks on the underside of the car, the chalky white coating on windows, vehicles, line-dried laundry, shoes, and bare feet. I barely even gave it a thought, until I graduated college and got a job in town and lived on pavement ever after. Every trip back to the farm, I’d go back covered in dust. Just part of life in the country.

My own children were born “in town” — and we farm folk would always pity such children — but on the bright side, town life meant music lessons, dance classes, clean feet, and other hallmarks of civilization. If there was dirt to be found, or sand, my kids would find it, and gravitate to it. I had the “dirtiest” children in the neighborhood, back in the day. New houses were going up all the time, and before our daughter could walk, she was crawling up dirt mountains with her big brother. No, I’m not gonna inflict on you share every dang family photo here, but this one, I cannot resist. Here is Claire in 1994:


This same daughter grew up to be a fashion design major. Inspired by her Liberian-born fiance, she used African wax prints for her senior project. These are dresses she designed and sewed, modeled by women walking down the road, a modern, paved road, not the dirt roads of yesterday.


Earth, Wind, and Fire

Growing up on a farm, the proverbial Earth, Wind, and Fire defined our daily lives, along with Rain, Snow, and all things Weather. The weather was the first thing we’d ask about: not “How are you,” on answering the phone, but ‘How’s the weather?”

These photos seem to capture the closeness to the earth that defined my childhood. Mom, burning off weeds in the garden, and Dad, burning debris after pruning trees in the grove. I’m trying to focus on one thing here, the dirt road of my childhood, but in the background of my mind I keep hearing “Fire is the devil’s only friend” from the Don McClean song Bye, Bye, Miss American Pie. Because….no, not because I cannot forget the 79-yeard-old woman who died when her brush fire blew out of control (one gust of wind! One little gust! That’s all it takes!)–ok, yes, I am haunted: what a way to go, and there but for the grace of God go I. And yet, and yet, I remain a pyromaniac.


Fire was fun as well as functional,

and dangerous, always, of course. BUT. In our politically incorrect 1970s high school, Homecoming festivities began with a parade and a bonfire, with the uniform of the opposing team being burned in effigy. My sister Julie, Class of 1975, snapped this iconic scene:

This meme–I wish I knew who to credit!–just has to be included here. Must I explain why?


Fire, Fire, Fire,

The final solution, the sanctifying way to banish weeds for a season or to reduce abandoned homes to rubble. I fear it will be the fate of this forlorn farmhouse. Sister #2 of the 5 raised her daughter in this house, a mile from our family farm, within walking distance of the grandparents. It still stands today. Empty.


I’m trying to focus on “One Childhood Memory” but my mind is on my dad, who now has dementia, whose farm is in ruins. Only four years ago, I shot this photo of my dad with his first great-grandchild doing what all kids love doing on a farm, commandeering the tractor seat:


While I’m still derailed, allow me to sneak this in: I need to believe that something of my father’s father lives on in my son, though Grandpa died half a century before Miles was even born. Ridiculous, I know. But it haunted me when Miles came home from school saying his history teacher asked the students to name their great-grandfather, and none of them could, though he kinda/sorta thought “Emil” but couldn’t come up with the other great-grandfathers (and no, I’m not gonna do the exponential 2-4-8-16 thing). Just, here is Miles, here was Emil at the same age:


Getting back on track, I will add this recent shot of my mom at age 83, in better shape than a lot of women half her age.


#### Duly note the cows! Still part of our world, or our neighbor’s, anyway.

And now, and always, I come back to this.

A certain dirt road, five miles from home.

This one.

Here, in March 1976, my sister was found dead in a ditch, that childhood phrase parents would warn teen drivers with, but that isn’t what took her down. This newspaper photo, this caption: “The dark, earthen area … where the body of Julie Ann Benning was found” – how does a mother, a father, a sister, read those words and find a home for them inside their minds, and just move on? For half a century, we have learned to “Live in the now” and not be defined by this tragedy, but Julie is a fact of life, a fact of death. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.


But DEATH is not the final word!

Does any story truly “end” with death? The story goes on. New players, new plots, or not:

“There are only two or three human stories, and they go on repeating themselves as fiercely as if they had never happened before.” ― Willa Cather, O Pioneers!

If the dirt road of my childhood is “That one childhood memory that lives with you”, I will also take heart in seeing the great-grandchildren running down this road. Yesterday, my grandchildren met their Germany cousin for the first time: Julia, namesake of the oldest of the five sisters who grew up on this farm, which still exists, with its dirt roads, in defiance of all that is modern, all that is “civilized.” Julia of Germany is on the far left (Goats belong to our neighbors, not my parents.)


I am a grandma now. Whenever I go back to my childhood home, this fact of life still amazes me. Here is my daughter, with her youngest of three, and me:


And here are her older two, legs chalky-white with dust, running down the road with their newly met cousin Julia, making new memories at the old home place where it all began:

Life is good. Life goes on.

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The Token Irishman

With St. Patrick’s Day only three weeks away, I had to revisit this story, which began as a 5-Minute Freewrite at Steemit in response to the prompt “token.” I had so much fun with it. Of course my son, part Irish, all Free Spirit and Zen wisdom, inspired this one.

The Token Irishman

“The Token Catholic”

source: a photo collage by Miles Kean

Our crew was diverse,

highly skilled, trained to face every kind of adversity except one: how did we get stuck with the token Catholic? When Kevin’s Comet struck Palestine and obliterated the Holy Land, all the surviving Jews on Earth had been relocated to their own planet in another galaxy. Muslims colonized a new world of their own in a galaxy far, far from the Jews. Catholics had been falling by the wayside for a long time as the pagans of Old Rome regained popularity, but of course, we didn’t get a token pagan. Of all the fringe minorities who’d escaped FUTU, Fundamental Unifiying Theory of the Universe, we got the Catholic.

He was young and green,

with nothing but optimism and perpetual faith that all things work out for the better because God in his infinite wisdom is at the helm. No amount of reason would dislodge the lad from his invisible god–who was as dead as the Viking-ish gods we were on a mission to dethrone.


Leif O’Leary has Viking DNA,

Leandra told me. That was why he made the cut. It didn’t matter that he frolicked like a puppy when we reached the snowy beaches of Eisregen, where low gravity allowed us to run in slow motion and rise, rise, hover, and slowly touch down again the way humans had done in dreams during REM sleep for thousands of years. Leif O’Leary spent more time on the beach bouncing dreamily than he did watching the video footage of the natives.

He should have known better. That damned optimism and self-assurance and Catholic joy. We had ignorant savages to convert to reason or get out of the way

Two teams before us had gone to meet the Eisregenites. It is no easy task to enlighten an ignorant bunch who lived like Earth’s long-ago Vikings. Violent, superstitious, rapacious, greedy, they were straight out of an Old World history book. DNA tests showed them to be kin to Iceland natives, supporting the theory that UFOs really had scouted Earth thousands of years before, collecting humans to populate new worlds. Maybe we’d find the gods of Egypt still being worshipped in some desert world lightyears away. Judaism and Islam had been almost eradicated in the Old World, but a small faction of Catholic mystics had never gone extinct. Most had colonized to their own planet, but like dormant seeds sprouting up in disturbed soil, new Catholics continued to pop up like weeds when you thought they were gone for good.

Earth was under reconstruction after being fritzed by a Coronal Mass Ejection, but space colonies like ours were trawling the galaxy for other habitable planets. Our ship, Mannschaft Rinderhund, was on its way to shake some gods loose from those distant cousins of ours on Eisregen. If they were acting like barbarians, let the token Catholic on our crew be the first to greet them.


You woudn’t see him training for battle,

Leif O’Leary. He couldn’t get his fill of bouncing around in low gravity. In the cold and snow. Leif seemed to have antifreeze in his veins, like those larvae that could survive a polar vortex. Specialized sugars, proteins, and alcohols kept the larva’s internal fluids from freezing, and Leif had acquired some version of that. Too much beer and sweetness in his blood, maybe.

We got him corralled, finally, with a lasso, literally–but he smiled all the while and winked at the ladies as we hauled him to HQ. The vid screens would show him what we were up against, trying to tame these quasi-Vikings.

The first wave of our colonists had been hacked with axes and speared when they came in peace. We’d all seen the old footage, but on-going surveillance showed the Eisregenites continuing to raid and loot and hack each other up.

“God rest their souls,” Leif O’Leary said. Later, Leandra said she’d heard him mumbling a Divine Mercy something or other. The point of it was that Catholics must pray for every soul, especially the most awful and unrepentent among us.

Oddly enough, Leif O’Leary didn’t protest at being first to go proselytize against the gods. Sure, we had uniforms make of spider silk genetically spiked with goat protein, and some high-tech radiomagnetic shielding, but Leif had to know nothing was foolproof. He would be outnumbered. And he would not likely be able to fire a pulsar to take down dozens of people at once. Well, someone had to go first. Might as well be the token Catholic. Just when the guy was kinda starting to grow on us, with his goofy, fun-loving disposition.

“I feel kinda bad for him,”

Leandra said as Leif O’Leary get into the pod, made his sign of the cross at us, and bravely whooshed off into the land of the barbarians.

I kinda felt bad too.

But not bad enough to offer to take his place.


Day 474: 5 Minute Freewrite: Wednesday – Prompt: token

Tokenism is the practice of making only a perfunctory or symbolic effort to be inclusive to members of minority groups, especially by recruiting a small number of people from underrepresented groups in order to give the appearance of racial or sexual equality within a workforce. Tokenism – Wikipedia

“I feel kinda bad for him,” Leandra said as Leif O’Leary get into a pod and bravely whooshed off to the land of the barbarians. I kinda felt bad too.

But not bad enough to offer to take his place.

End of Part One, The Token Irishman- Day 474: 5 Minute Freewrite: Wednesday – Prompt: token

Part Two, Day 475: 5 Minute Freewrite: Thursday – Prompt: rooster

The pod shot off from the space station.

We watched from the safety of the vid room as Leif O’Leary sailed over icy waters and snowy fields. The land turned greener and more hilly as scattered settlements came into view.

The pod ejected him. The black wings of his hang glider unfolded and Leif O’Leary soared above the clouds. Maybe scouting out a village, more likely just enjoying the view. Knowing Leif, he’d forget why he was even there. Let him enjoy it. He might not have much longer in the land of the living.

I couldn’t help but replay in my head his face, his voice, and my words as I sent him to his certain death.

“We have a new job for you,” I said.

“At your service, Cap’n,” he replied.

“Leif, we think you’d be best suited to approach these Eiswelders.”

“Yes!” he said far too enthusiastically. Did he know what we were suggesting? Two missions before us had been exterminated by these rude Eisweld louts.

“I’ve mastered their language,” Leif said. “I’ve crafted a hang glider as well. I had a dream of dressing all in black and drifting down from the sky like a raven. In this vision the Eiswelders think I’m a god and lay down their axes. I deliver the good news that they are no longer to kill goats, roosters, and God forbid, humans, because Jesus was the ultimate blood sacrifice and…”

My ears filled with static and I tuned him out until he got to the part where he said he was ready to go.

Leif O’Leary was either too stupid or too brave to flinch in the face of danger.

Leandra started mouthing prayers –stuff like “God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble”–stuff only a lip reader who kept sneaking glances at her would notice. She was our token librarian, the kind who pulled their hair into a tight bun and peered through thick eyeglasses in the old world, but Leandra was too cute and perky to fit that ancient stereotype.

Leif wore a body camera that gave us a view of everything he saw from the air above Eisweld. Other vid screens showed us views from hidden surveillance cameras, compliments of the brave souls who’d come here before us.

A crowd of Eiswelders formed as a dark figure in the sky started growing larger and larger. Leif drifted into view, smiling that beatific smile of his. Bows and arrows were aimed at him but the locals were holding off until they could see what sort of creature was falling from their sky.

Leif’s voice was amplified as he spoke, and subtitles showed up on our vid screens, conveniently translated for us.

“Be not afraid,” he thundered. “I come in peace.”

He also came with a bottle of red wine and a loaf of bread.

Leif launched into missionary speak–the Bood of the Lamb, the bread and wine, the end of blood sacrifices to appease the gods, yada, yada. It took about a million years, but the barbarians traded glances and started nodding.

At some point it occured to me that Leif might be toppling their gods only to replace them with his own. Leif was not just a token Irish Catholic. He was truly Catholic. It took me a while to process this: he actually believed in Transubstantiation, the miracle of the loaves and fishes, the Resurrection of the body and the life of the world to come.

And he truly did not give a shit if these people killed him. That might have been his saving grace. If Jesus was either a liar or a lunatic, so was Leif O’Leary.

The ritual sacrifice of a rooster took a new twist with Leif telling everyone God wanted this bird to be cooked and eaten, not burnt to a cinder for some sketchy gods who, let’s be honest, were not really coming through for their people. There were frowns and skeptically crossed arms. Even so, Leif presided over the head chopping. After the spurt of blood and the headless running of the rooster, he presided over the fire and the rotating of the spit. He carved the succulent roast bird and distributed it to the large crowd. I don’t know how he pulled it off, but the rooster carcass, the bread, and the wine never ran out.

I never did figure out how he smuggled that bottle of wine on board our ship.

The party lasted for three days. The pod had returned and we decided to launch it again to retrieve Leif from his revelry. Leandra begged to be the chosen one this time. Considering how she had taken up praying for Leif’s safety, I figured she wasn’t as smart as I’d thought. If she wanted to risk her neck on behalf of that addled Irishman, I wouldn’t try to talk her out of it.

The pod returned without her.

Another million years seemed to pass. We took shifts going to sleep, watching vid screens, waiting for Leif or Leandra to send us progress reports.

All we’d get was a thumbs-up emoji or smiley faces.

Then the vid screens started going fuzzy and making weird bloopy noises. The cameras started showing what could have been memes that began in the 21st Century on old Earth. Old songs like “We are the champions of the world” sometimes played, and “This town ain’t big enough for the both of us,” and “Go back.” Then we started seeeing maps and charts pointing us to other planets we should check out–while the familiar white and blue world of Eisweld had a big, old-fashioned red X through it.

I’d had enough of this nonsense. I girded my loins, so to speak, and got into the pod.

It was dead.

Next, the cameras, the audio, everything except the launch button was fritzed, and no matter what course we charted, the ship would point in only one direction: up, up, and away from Eisweld.

Was that goofy Irishman really smart enough to reprogram all our sophisticated electronics using whatever fit in his pockets? He was here for his calm and charisma, his talent for charming anything from a snake to an ax-wielding Eiswelder. Also, and this was just my own logical deduction, the token Irishman surely was here to serve as cannon fodder. In old-world military lingo, the least valued men would be sent to the front to absorb the first blasts of war.

More than ever, I wanted to kill him. Leif was right, this planet wasn’t big enough for the both of us, but the universe is a very large place.

Space colonies like ours had been trawling the galaxy for other habitable planets ever since a comet named Kevin, for the amateur astronomer who saw it coming, had hit Palestine in 2095 and obliterated the Holy Land. It was about time. Science would replace irrational beliefs and outmoded rituals. After Kevin’s Comet, most of the world’s Christians were relocated to their own planet in another galaxy. Jews colonized a new world of their own in a galaxy far, far from the new home world of the Muslims. Christianity, Judaism and Islam had been almost eradicated in the Old World, but that dodo known as Catholicism just wouldn’t go extinct. Like dormant seeds sprouting up in disturbed soil, another Catholic mystic would pop up. Science couldn’t explain it. Diversity was an accident of birth. Religion, unlike ethnicity, was a choice. Belief in nonexistent gods was not genetic.

Of all the fringe minorities who’d escaped cultural homogenization, we got the Catholic.

And he got the planet we were targeting.

He also got Leandra.



I pushed the button to nuke the place as we departed, but the little bastard had deactivated that too.

Eisweld. Who needed it? The place was too cold anyway.


Check Out The @FreeWriteHouse Prompt Of The Day By @MarianneWest

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Six Degrees of Separation, Hopeless Habits, Saints Alive

There really is a Saint Corona, and she is reputed to be the patron saint of pandemics. Thank you, Cory McNaughton of Steemit, for pointing that out to me after I posted this a year ago, when the pandemic had only just begun. This began as a freewrite in response to the prompt “Bad Habits.” As short stories go, it’s really more of a stream-of-consciousness observation of the shifting world of 2020. A Lenten reflection, if you will, in fictional form.

One year later I am amazed at how much the pandemic continues to change our ways of life. It was supposed to come and go, as pandemics do, sooner rather than later.

The Ink Well Fiction Writing Challenge #2 – Bad Habits


Six Degrees and Hopeless Habits by @carolkean

Him again. Cairin missed the days of paper, when unwanted messages could be wadded and tossed into a burn bin. Of all the plagues for bloggers, (1) nobody reads or comments on your posts, there was (2) the zealot with Bible verses who hijacked every blog post and spammed his message far and wide. Sadly, the only response some creatives got on their social media posts were these spammy religious memes that were as uncontainable as a virus.

There was no prohibiting this zealot from the comment section at Rig-It, her new networking site. Inspired by Steemit and Reddit, Cairin had co-founded Rig-it, “sister to the blockchain” as a home for creatives to publish their offerings without all the rigamarole and dictators pretending to be “community building.” The system is rigged, so they’d “rig it” their own way, right? Wrong. Not with spammers proliferating beyond control. She understood now the wrath of moderators who’d ban people for not obeying rules and guidelines.

“Him again” actually hijacked her words as a user name, @himagain, but no matter what name he used, his style was distinct and obvious. “Repent and be saved” was an easy one to ignore, but something about this struck a cord with Cairin. She didn’t have the power to delete it, but she could hit the downvote button.

Stop doing wrong things and turn back to God! The kingdom of heaven is almost here. (Matthew 3:2)

She could ban him, but he’d be back tomorrow with a new name, and @himagain had a nice ring to it. Only death could stop this Bible-beating troll and his “Good News” + video links to eternal salvation on every blessed post anyone ever posted.

She knew the Bible well enough without @WhateverNameHeUsedToday bombarding her with verses. She knew Christian and Catholic apologetics well enough to know The Bible was fiction, not God-given truth. As long as @himagain stayed home with his laptop and didn’t get in her face for real, as opposed to in cyber space, she could live and let live.

With hyperlinks to hotels and photos of Italy, Cairin hit “Send” on her post and hailed an Uber to the airport. The first annual RigFest would unite Riggers from all over the world in the heart of Rome.

Airport security was tighter than usual. The Patriot Act never died down almost 20 years after the terrorist attacks that changed the world, and now the long lines were even longer as thermometers gauged every passenger’s temperature.

“It’s just another strain of the common cold,” some were saying. “You’d think it was Spanish Flu 2.2.”

“I hear things will get much, much worse,” others said.

Cairin offered up an “Our Father” out of habit and boarded the plane. Talk of the new virus lasted all through the flight. “How racist, to call it a Chinese virus,” she overheard.

“The virus started in China,” a middle-aged white man blustered. “China silenced the whistleblower. China told people the virus wasn’t contagious and allowed people to travel in and out of the country. China did nothing to contain this virus. Call it what it is. A Chinese Virus.”

Much as she wanted to refute him, Cairin couldn’t help thinking that MERS was so called for the Middle East, and the Spanish flu had never originated in Spain. Facts and logic never got in the way of somebody else’s truth. She closed her eyes and donned headphones to tune out the fellow passengers arguing politics.

God, come to our assistance.

Some voices, no headphones could silence. This one had been internalized from infancy as her mom prayed to her invisible and useless or nonexistent God. Daily. Hourly. Out loud, or in silence. Singing hymns of glory and praise as she mopped or cooked or gardened: “When you sing, you’re praying twice.”

In the beginning, Cairin believed. Her mom was a Carmelite “lay nun,” which meant three times a day their world came to a halt for that thick little red-leather book with it color-coded ribbbons, the Liturgy of the Hours. “God, come to my assistance,” each prayer began, morning, noon, and evening. Then a Psalm. Responsorials, brain-numbing refrains, reminders of God’s steadfast love, and faith that all things work for a reason.

God didn’t come to her mom’s assistance when the “camel flu” became the latest plague of the 21st Century to strike millions. Fitting, that her demise originated in the Holy Land. Middle East respiratory syndrome-related coronavirus (MERS-CoV) was just another species of coronavirus, a betacoronavirus derived from bats, with camels somehow involved in its spread to humans.

The World Health Organization was about as much help as God, exhorting those who come in contact with camels to wash their hands frequently–and do not touch sick camels. Her mom never came near a camel, bat, or even the 49-year-old Qatari man who had gone through the famed “Six Degrees of Separation” before his sneeze reached a Midwest mom, her mom, a would-be saint, now just another statistic.

Now it was Six Feet of Separation, a new Coronavirus Protocol, over and above the logistical Six Handshakes Rule: all people are six or fewer social connections away from each other; i.e., a “friend of a friend” chain can be made to connect any two people in a maximum of six steps.

Qatari man, China woman, camel-toucher, bat eater, sneezing storm cloud of death on two legs: God paid them no notice. If any sort of God existed at all.

And still she prayed. “God, come to my assistance.”

It was a habit. A useless but mostly harmless habit. Cairin didn’t touch her mother’s breviary or read a single word of it these days, but the words were embedded like a virus in her mental circuity. God himself will set me free. Free from the hunter’s snare. But her mind was never free of this unrealized god. Cairin could see the words in her mind as clearly as she heard them.

image.png    image.png          image.png

She landed in Italy, safe and sound, found her way to the pink stucco hotel with balconies overlooking a courtyard, and proceeded to meet her fellow Riggers face to face, within touching distance.

Marcy, the homesteading hive leader, had a degree in herbology and the coolest head in the crowd. She sold customized t-shirts adorned with cats saying “Chill” or flowers and honeybees or annoying sentiments like “Live, Laugh, Love.” With snow-white hair and a face crackled like antique china, Marcy exuded more energy at age eighty than the Millennials did, those gadget-gazers and über-calm web surfers. MysticDiva, Roomerkind, MyJob, Florianopolis, TechTard, and TechGoddess became people with real names–Maya, Gary, Janelle, Roland, Elina, and more. They came from Tennessee, Venezuala, Nigeria, Israel, Korea, carrying big ideas and cyber wallets, blockchain milestones and … the Chinese flu.

The fun had barely begun when the Quarantine came. Medics in HazMat suits swarmed into the hotel and carried people out on stretchers. Armed guards blocked the exits.

Not even with MERS, in her mother’s day, had such panic-measures held anyone hostage. “This Coronavirus outbreak is worse than the SARS epidemic,” the Riggers agreed, but Cairin reminded them there was no social media back then.

“It’s no worse than the annual influenza that kills thousands every year,” Gary said he’d read, but Coronavirus settles at the bottom of the lungs and starts producing a liquid that makes breathing more and more difficult until you need a machine to survive. And Italy was running out of hospital beds, ventilators, and healthy medical personnel.

It wasn’t Marcy but Gary who started coughing. He was “only” seventy-something, but he went out on a stretcher. Coincidentally, the Bible spammer went silent when Gary did.

Had she met “Him Again” face to face and not recognized him as the spammer, the zealot only death could silence? Had she inadvertently wished death upon him? Impossible. Hardly a single human would still be alive if it were so easy to wish someone dead. Still. Catholic guilt, or scrupulosity, haunted her. She could not unsee Gary laboring for breath as he was carried away, and she prayed an act of contrition. Old habits die hard.

The Swiss Guard came next, or whatever these Italian troops were called, telling everyone they were not allowed to leave the premises until quarantine was lifted. At least two weeks from now. Airline tickets? Dog sitters back home, bills to pay, weddings to attend? No more. You’re here to stay.

Why bother to pray? It was no conscious part of her brain doing this old routine. No particle of her soul entertained hopes that prayer ever had “efficacy.” Her Carmelite mom thought it arrogant to expect to see “results” of prayer. Prayer was like breathing. It was what she did. And her last raggedy breath through crackling lungs was a tender Amen.

Week Three, the hotel guests were restless, but they could Skype their offspring and email their dog sitters and get things done online, so there was that. Marcy taught Breathing Lessons, yoga, and Positive Intentions. She had a suitcase full of herbal remedies and theories of Anti-Vaxxers who no longer sounded as crazy as Cairin once thought. Marcy entertained fellow heretics and pagans with old You-Tube videos of George Carlin explaining the immune system. “You are all Diseased!”. Sanitizing the house kills germs, and your immune system needs germs to practice on. “Polio never had a prayer” in his childhood; “we swam in raw sewage.” Marcy had no more than ten people, each no more than six feet from her, laughing uproariously. Best medicine, you know: laughter. Trading freedom for the illusion of security. How old was this video?

She wandered from one wheezing senior citizen to another, offering what consolations she could. “I’ll say a little prayer for you,” she sang, channeling Aretha. Sometimes she sang in English: “Eternal Father, Strong to Save.” For her, singing in a foreign language, if she could hear and see the words, was the best way to learn it. She’d bought a “Drive-Time Italian” CD back when drive-by shootings were the new Big Bad American Thing, joking that she was learning Drive-By Italian during her commute, but now her old jokes weren’t funny.

Edoardo, a 30-something wedding singer, caught wind of Cairin’s singing and joined her. The bride and groom he had sung for got an indefinite stay in the honeymoon suite, but several elderly wedding guests had gone out on stretchers.

Children would climb walls if not for security guards. Marcy and Cairin organized people to organize children’s games.

Music was everyone’s go-to. Blockchain, cyber wallets, “hard fork” and “hostile takeover” floated down, down, down the list of Cairin’s priorities, like autumn leaves sinking to the bottom of the pond. Entertaining the little ones, consoling the old ones, bringing smiles to the “hostages” rose to the top of her list.

Complainers started grousing a bit less, but “What good is a prayer in times like these?” and worse things were sneered at Cairin.

“God only knows” was her reply, no sarcasm intended. “We may never know what good our prayers may do, but it’s free and easy, so I pray away. And when we sing, it is said, we are praying twice.” She sounded like her mother.

“Einstein said Insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results,” Roland argued. “I don’t live in the USA, but it’s obvious your ‘hopes and prayers’ do nothing to alleviate the next mass shooting you people endure every week or so.” Roland, the most thoughtful and polite of anyone she knew on Rig-It, offered a quick smile. “No offense.”

“None taken,” Cairin assured him, though she knew those who said no offense knew that they were saying something offensive. “I have little hope of prayers being heard by a loving God who intercedes in the affairs of man, with or without angels. ‘We the hands, we the eyes, we the voice of Christ’ means that without humans DOING things, God (Jesus) apparently cannot violate the Free Will clause … but never mind. I’m a skeptic. But I pray anyway and do-do-do whatever I can.”

Ugh: did she just say doo-doo?

“What worries me,” TechGoddess joined in, “is that people put trust in an invisible being that lives in the sky and watches and judges their every move. ‘Just pray and everything will be solved.’ Praying ain’t gonna fix this. No chance. I understand that it is useful as a crutch but it has no place in avoiding contracting a virus.”

“And yet, I pray anyway,” Cairin said with a shrug.

Kick That Habit, Cairin – no god will hear you, no Kung Flu virus will flee from your prayers, your hopeful intentions either, she thought, fighting the downward spiral into despair, yet reaching and grasping for hope.

Marcy approached, smiling. “On Facebook,” she said, “a woman in my Freedom Formula Course shared this. The world is slowing down. What happens when nothing works anymore? Cities and whole nations go into a lockdown, but my friends and neighbors say “Let me know if you need anything. You are not alone.“ Parents are home with their children. And here’s a poem written by a priest.” Marcy read it from her phone:

“The lock down

Yes there is fear.

Yes there is isolation.

“Today Churches, Synagogues, Mosques and Temples

are preparing to welcome

and shelter the homeless, the sick, the weary

All over the world people are slowing down and reflecting

All over the world people are looking at their neighbours in a new way

All over the world people are waking up to a new reality

To how big we really are.

To how little control we really have.

To what really matters.

To Love.

So we pray and we remember that

Yes there is fear.

But there does not have to be hate.

Yes there is isolation.

But there does not have to be loneliness.

Yes there is panic buying.

But there does not have to be meanness.

Yes there is sickness.

But there does not have to be disease of the soul

Yes there is even death.

But there can always be a rebirth of love.

Wake to the choices you make as to how to live now.

Today, breathe.

Listen, behind the factory noises of your panic

The birds are singing again

The sky is clearing,

Spring is coming,

And we are always encompassed by Love.

Open the windows of your soul

And though you may not be able

to touch across the empty square,


Poem by Richard Hendrick, 13th March 2020

“I have idea,” Edoardo said. He called up WhatsApp on his phone. “Let us gather in the courtyard.” 

A flash mob materialized.

image.png source

There was still no end in sight for the Riggers or the hotel guests in quarantine, but there was hope, and there was music, and there was love. Cairin’s Italian grew near-fluent under Edoardo’s tutelage, talking face to face by day with people they’d never have met otherwise, or if they did, it would have been only via cyberspace, far more than six degrees of whatever kind of separation.

God, come to my assistance. The familiar words played on in her head. “Pray as though everything depends on God. Work as though everything depends on you.” – Saint Augustine

She still didn’t know if God existed, or if God had anything in common with the Supreme Deity of her Carmelite mother, but she had a litany of prayers in her mental repertoire. She had many good people easing the shock of quarantine.

And she had Edoardo.


because Kean sounds like Kane (not keen, hint, hint)

It is now almost-March 2021. Covid-19 is still here, and much of the world is still in lockdown mode. Masks are a new daily element that hadn’t been mandated when I started writing this in response to an Inkwell contest at The Hive.

When I posted this story in March 2020, I had added this:

That’s as far as I can got with this story, watching the daily news unfold and escalate day by day. “Things will get much, much worse,” I keep hearing. But the human spirit will not be diminished. Life will go on, however dark and tragic it may be for millions who suffer and die, and maybe we all meet again in some heavenly hereafter, or maybe we had a good run here while it lasted and all we can do is rejoice for whatever good we experienced during our sojourn on earth.

I leave you with a few more excerpts from my old 1976 edition of Liturgy of the Hours, which I thought of taking up again, but I’m off to paint more “Quarantine Cats” on wood slices instead.

Cheers, Best Wishes, and yes, a little prayer for each of you! I leave you with

Canticle of the Three Youths

Light and darkness bless the Lord;

Lightning and clouds, bless the Lord.

Let the earth bless the Lord;

Praise and exalt him above all forever.

Mountains and hills, bless the Lord

Everything growing from the earth, bless the Lord.

You springs, bless the Lord;

Seas and rivers, bless the Lord.

You dolphins and all water creatures, bless the Lord;

All you birds of the air, bless the Lord.

All you beasts, wild and tame, bless the Lord;

Praise and exalt him above all forever.

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Down Freedom River by Joseph Green: a narrative of nation-building and cruelly extinguishing black entrepreneurs

With #BlackLivesMatter in the news again, and nation on fire over police brutality and racial issues, this novel is suddenly more timely than ever. Free blacks ruled over their own territory in Florida, in the early 1800s. Who knows what they might have built given the chance?

“A narrative of struggle, of people escaping bondage and establishing a free community, only to have liberty cruelly extinguished.” [1]

Down Freedom River by Joseph Green

Never mind the cover art–this is more than a bodice ripper!

A plantation owner with a conscience in the pre-Civil War South sounds like pure fiction, but good people have existed in the worst of times, and this novel brings some of them to life. “Down Freedom River” by Joseph Green is the first historical fiction from a prolific writer and veteran of the Golden Age of Science Fiction. A now-retired NASA scientist, Green socialized with Asimov and Heinlein and other greats from the famed “stable” of Joseph Cambell. Green is still prolific, and his foray into historical fiction deserves to be an instant classic.

After the War of 1812, the British left behind a fort on the Apalachacola River in Florida, and it became a nation of enterprising souls who escaped the bonds of slavery. Joseph Green grew up in this region and brings it to life with strong prose and riveting characters. Most of them are fictional, but the battle that decimated Fort Negro is, sadly, a historical fact. Andrew Jackson destroyed a people, and U.S. History classes seldom mention or commemorate their incredible legacy.

In his own words, in a press release he emailed to me,

“This is a fictional treatment of an actual historical event that took place where I was born and grew up, the northwest Florida Panhandle. In the years before and after the War of 1812, over a thousand escaped slaves created a republic in what was then the Spanish territory of Florida. They occupied and farmed numerous tracts of land near or adjacent to the Apalachicola River. They took over a British-built fort that controlled ship traffic on what was then a major artery of commerce for central Georgia and the eastern part of the territory of Alabama. They reached out to slaves on plantations near the Chattahoochee and Flint Rivers, encouraging them to flee by boat to Florida and join their free community. They became an early danger to the slave-holding gentry of the lower South, who after the war applied pressure on the then Military Commander of the Southeast, Andrew Jackson, to attack them (which meant invading sovereign Spanish territory, an inconvenient fact Jackson ignored) and return the escaped slaves to their owners.

“DOWN FREEDOM RIVER incorporates the known facts in a fictional framework that provides one possible explanation of how the Republic of Freedom originated, then grew to the point where it declared its independence. The existence and tragic end of this republic made headlines at the time, but has since been largely forgotten (though a recent book by history professor Matthew J. Clavin, THE BATTLE OF NEGRO FORT, is attempting to reignite interest. I hope my fictional treatment will sell better than a historical treatise, and help accomplish that result.)”

The cover art and the excerpt you see at the Amazon site do not do justice to this story. The cast of characters is large and the storyline is packed with historical incidents and epic heroes. While most of the protagonists can be hard to like or easy to hate, a few stand out: David, the educated and emancipated slave; Annette, the free woman abducted, raped, and sold as a slave; and Louise, an abolitionist and daughter of a plantation owner. The Laudonnire family is remarkable: daughter Jacqueline is entirely lovable and vivacious; Nicholas, heir to his father’s plantation, is authentic and believable, a mixed bag of enlightened white man with a conscience, and a product of his times, a womanizing cad, a spoiled white boy educated in Paris. Younger brother Louis-Charles is pure evil. Garcon, governor of Negro Fort, is a giant of a man but another womanizer who’d rape and kill if he can get away with it. All these characters and more (Shirley!) are complex, layered, believable, authentic, and vividly brought to life.

Most of us are unaware that in the early 1800s, escaped or manumissioned (freed) slaves created their own nation in Florida, “Negro Fort,” a thousand civilians strong. Seminole and other Native tribes sometimes cooperated with them and sometimes worked as mercenaries for the British or the Americans to do battle with them. Neamathla, a leader of the Red Stick Creek (1750s-1841), is mentioned here as “a veteran warrior of great renown among the Seminoles” and chief of the closest village to the Laudonnire family plantation.

It wasn’t just unethical men like Louis-Charles who would profit from human trafficking, “smuggling slaves from Folrida, and selling throughout Georgia as native-born … the authorities look the other way because all the plantations need more adult slaves. Cotton requires them. And no one thinks twice of ignoring the importation act the abolitionists managed to get passed in 1807.”

Even those who’d never been slaves were at risk of becoming one. “Slave catchers from Georgia and the Alabama Territory were constantly raiding into Florida. Anyone living alone or as a single family was vulnerable to capture and return to slavery.” Fleeing into the swamps was their only escape, but even there, they weren’t safe. With so many easy targets for the slave catchers, David and Garcon organize with a message that resounds today: “In unity there is strength. Our people must learn to live together and defend themselves, not hide like frightened rats.”

Runaways and free blacks who settled along the Apalachicola began calling it Freedom River. “Former slaves now ran their own affairs, elected their own leaders, and negotiated trade agreements with other countries.” Well organized, profitable and productive, these people of color proved what is common knowledge today:

“…given the same opportunities, black people are equal in every way to the whites. But southerners believe we’re some sort of inferior race. They have to, or they couldn’t justify slavery.”


There was no basic difference between these people and anyone else, white, black or Indian. These freemen had thrown off the air of dumb docility which was the customary protective attitude of a slave. Here they could be themselves, and that made a noticeable difference in how they addressed others.

The purchase of a sawmill plays a shining role in this novel, and it’s clear that the author worked in one. You can see, hear, and smell the blades digging into pine logs. Great description – #LOVE it!

I plan to write a longer and more detailed review, but for now, this is my urgent recommendation that readers buy this book and tell everyone about it. It’s a heartbreaking story that needs to be heard and remembered as part of our nation’s history, and the history of a people.

DOWN FREEDOM RIVER is now available at Amazon Books, as an e-book or quality paperback (other venues to follow).

You can read more about this author at my WordPress blog:

Joseph Green is “Running Wild” after his NASA career–and still writing SciFi

I’m amazed at the variety of stories (seventy and still counting) Joseph Green has written over the years – so much richness, world building and character development….

Born during the Great Depression (1931), Joe Green grew up in a tiny town in the Deep South (fewer than 500 people, mostly rural), with first grade through twelfth in the same building, no kindergarten, and no special classes for the talented and gifted. Only in America does a farm boy become a rocket scientist and a legendary author, right? His work has been translated into German, Italian, Spanish, French, Polish and Dutch. His novel Gold the Man, also known as The Mind Behind the Eye (1971), may be his most famous. Joe is a charter member of the Science Fiction Writers of America, he’s rubbed elbows with superstars of the Golden Age, and is himself one of those legends–but the closest he’ll come to boasting is an understated I ‘spose I am a member of the SF ‘establishment.’

“I’ve been around a long time,” Joe says.

Much has changed since his childhood in the segregated South, “before the racial integration that has tremendously improved our society,” he writes in his Introduction to “The Seventh Floor.” However, “we still have a long way to go… I took in prejudice with my mother’s milk, not learning better until about age 14, when I read a book on anthropology and discovered all humans are basically equal. For many older people of that time, such deep-seated beliefs can’t be expunged, which helps explain why major societal change seems to occur by generations.” Only a few manage to shed old fallacies along the way–“though not without trauma, trouble and strife.”

Joseph Green

Joseph Green worked for 37 years in the American space program, building missile bases throughout the USA and later supporting the Apollo and Space Shuttle programs at the Kennedy Space Center. As a part-time freelancer he published five novels (Doubleday, DAW, Ace, Harlequin, Gollancz, Hayne Bucher, Urania) and about 80 short works, the latter primarily in Analog, F&SF, and original anthologies. Some stories translated into Spanish, French, Polish and Dutch. All five novels and one collection of shorts appeared in hardcover in the UK, with mass market reprints and one book club sale. All five novels were published in Germany (including one “Reader’s Digest” reprint) and one in Italy. The five novels and a short story collection were reissued by Orion as e-books in 2011.

Now he serves as chief writer for Greenhouse Scribes. His past experience includes working as a mill hand, a construction worker, and a shop supervisor for Boeing. His formal education includes a B.A. from the University of Alabama.

The Battle of the Negro Fort: The Rise and Fall of a Fugitive Slave Community by Matthew J. Clavin

The dramatic story of the United States’ destruction of a free and independent community of fugitive slaves in Spanish Florida

“A must-read for those interested in early American republic history.” (STARRED Library Journal)

In the aftermath of the War of 1812, Major General Andrew Jackson ordered a joint United States army-navy expedition into Spanish Florida to destroy a free and independent community of fugitive slaves. The result was the Battle of Negro Fort, a brutal conflict among hundreds of American troops, Indian warriors, and black rebels that culminated in the death or re-enslavement of nearly all of the fort’s inhabitants. By eliminating this refuge for fugitive slaves, the United States government closed an escape valve that African Americans had utilized for generations. At the same time, it intensified the subjugation of southern Native Americans, including the Creeks, Choctaws, and Seminoles. Still, the battle was significant for another reason as well.

During its existence, Negro Fort was a powerful symbol of black freedom that subverted the racist foundations of an expanding American slave society. Its destruction reinforced the nation’s growing commitment to slavery, while illuminating the extent to which ambivalence over the institution had disappeared since the nation’s founding. Indeed, four decades after declaring that all men were created equal, the United States destroyed a fugitive slave community in a foreign territory for the first and only time in its history, which accelerated America’s transformation into a white republic. The Battle of Negro Fort places the violent expansion of slavery where it belongs, at the center of the history of the early American republic.


Search online for more of the history, e.g.


Abandoned by fleeing British soldiers, after The War of 1812, Fort Negro served as a rendezvous point for fugitive slaves from the Southern states in the early 1800’s. Led by a man simply known as Garcia, the heavily armed fort was occupied by more than 300 Black and Native Americans.

…. July 27, 1816, The U.S. Army & Navy surrounded-then launched an assault on Fort Negro. The first attack failed. But the second attack led to an explosion of the fort’s Ammunition storage. An estimated 270 Fort Negro soldiers were killed & buried in a mass grave. Only sixty four of the inhabiting soldiers survived. On three of the sixty four escaped injury. The fort’s leader Garcia was executed, and the rest were sent back into slavery. Fort Negro [and] nearby Fort Mose stand as little known moments in the struggle against the oppressive & violent occupation of this land, by invading European forces.



[1] Down Freedom River, like Clavin’s The Battle of the Negro Fort, is what STARRED Library Journal calls a narrative of struggle, of people escaping bondage and establishing a free community, only to have liberty cruelly extinguished.

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“The truth is best told in the guise of fiction” – Carol Kean

“It’s only fiction,” my husband has told me for years, but, but, it’s never “only fiction.” The truth is all too often told in the guise of fiction. Different names, different dates and details, but same sad story happening in our world, in our own backyard, but most people shrug, turn a blind eye: “That’s the way the world is.”

The truth is best told in the guise of fiction. I’ve been saying that for years. Today I surfed the internet to make sure nobody else has said it first. You know how that goes. A writer thinks she has a fresh, new, original idea, only to hear an agent say, “Oh, we’ve been flooded with stories like this. Bring on something nobody else has done yet.”

One recent novel totally nails the concept of a sordid truth being exposed to the public, disguised as fiction, names changed to protect the innocent from the guilty. I have 5-starred this novel after reading it at least five times. And this is a grueling read. Animal torture. In graphic, explicit detail.

You can read more about this novel here:

High Kill by Diane Ryan: a Steemit author tells ugly truths in the guise of fiction – rave review by Keangaroo

And you can buy the ebook for $0.00 for a limited time – try it!
High Kill buy now

High Kill

by Diane Ryan  | Sold by: Amazon.com Services LLC


Sad to say, the author confirms real-life events inspired this novel:

Those who are oblivious to the social decay in our region may be appalled by my portrayal of modern Appalachian culture. Very few plot points in this novel are pure fabrication…. behind every twist and turn in this story is truth, none more poignant and heart-wrenching than my accounts of vicious animal abuse at the hands of county employees. A former animal control officer reviewed the scene in which Eric Blevins recalls an incident at a local shelter. She said it was so accurate based on her personal experiences that she could barely stand to read it.

Dang. I was afraid of that.

I will add more to this post later. For now, I just wanted to get that quote out there:

The truth is best told in the guise of fiction.





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Father Ed

Ed and I were fellow English-teaching majors in the early 1980s. He was tall and dark with wide shoulders, scintillating blue eyes, freckles, and a quick smile.

Father Ed

He was intense. He told me I was possessed by demons. I haven’t heard from him in a long time, but he came within inches of death in a car accident that took a fellow priest, who was driving, while Ed was praying his Rosary in the passenger seat.

Someday I will write more about Ed, but for now, I’ll say he was an iconic figure on campus with his little black English Shepherd dog named Flower, his hats and coats, his constant cigarettes, his stacks of books. Unlike today’s students, I have not one single picture of him or us from our undergraduate days.

But I have memories, vivid and lasting.


Ed Roche Courier news

July 2012 – A former Waterloo resident who now preaches in Texas remains hospitalized after a crash last week that killed a colleague.

The Rev. Edward Roche, 52, of Laredo, Texas, was traveling with the Rev. Michael Jordan, 65, to Mexico for mission work. Their vehicle collided with an overturned semi, according to Roche’s sister, Theresa Roche Cooper of Evansdale.


The crash happened July 9 on Interstate 37 near Campbellton.

Jordan was driving and was killed. He was a native of South Bend, Ind.

Roche was taken to a hospital in San Antonio, Texas.

Roche also had serious injuries to his legs, according to his sister.


Roche is a Columbus High School graduate and earned his bachelor’s degree at the University of Northern Iowa. He was ordained in Rome. When he returned to the United States, Roche began missionary work for the Roman Catholic Church in Texas through the Society of Our Lady of the Most Holy Trinity.

Cards can be sent to the Rev. Edward Roche, SOLT, P.O. Box 6464, Laredo, TX 78042.


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“Ashes and Acorns” by Carol Kean


“Ashes and Acorns” is my last-minute entry for the HardFork: Can You See The Future? contest (November 2017). The mother in the story is inspired by my mom’s cousin Lois (who loves the Grand Canyon) and by a Scotland physician and sci-fi novelist I love (to the point of fan-girling): Thank you, Libby McGugan, for permission to quote you. Your grasp of physics, your optimism, benevolence, and Zen-like insights inspire me, and your prose has completely won me over. Looking forward to seeing “The Fifth Force,” your sequel to “The Eidolon,” published soon–and can’t wait for the third book in the trilogy!

p.s. If your mom never recited Robert Service ballads to you at bedtime, let me urge you to hear Johnny Cash – Cremation of Sam McGee via @YouTube



“Ashes and Acorns” by Carol Kean


“Scatter my ashes over the Grand Canyon,” she said.

That’s illegal, Mom.

“Promise me you will honor my last wish,” she said–long before anyone dreamed she was sick.

Mom. You want me to risk jail for this? Native Americans don’t want dead white people in their sacred place. People don’t get to pee in public, and they don’t get to scatter their ashes in–

“They don’t own that land,” Mom interrupted. “Nobody owns anything. Besides, they’re being ridiculous. You know how hot it gets before flesh and bone turn to ash. No germ on the planet survives the crematorium.”

It isn’t germs they worry about, and thanks, Mom, for that visual–your dead body dancing at 1800 degrees Fahrenheit, flames reducing you to basic elements and dried bone fragments. People don’t get buried or cremated anymore if they can be recycled.

She must have guessed my true intentions: in the unlikely event of her death, I’d plant her ashes with an acorn and let her grow into a mighty oak tree. For sure, I’d skip the Canyon thing. How would she know? Dead is dead.

Early detection helped her survive the cancer she must have known, subconsciously, was killing her. Modern medical science not only cured Mom of cancer, it extended lifespans–hers, mine, and anyone deemed worthy or wealthy enough. A hundred-fifty was the new fifty. We could have gone on like this for a hundred years.

Then it started. “I miss your father,” she said. “I want to see Patricia again.”

Dad and my little sister were dead. D-e-a-d. All our modern technology still hadn’t connected us with our lost loved ones–because the dead are DEAD.

I didn’t say it, but she heard me, supposedly through our wireless implants, even though interpersonal exchanges like these were not supposed to be possible. Thought-sharing had to be enabled, on purpose.

Good mothers have always been good mind readers, Mom said. Telepathy has been possible since long before humans were modded.

Try telling that to the new regime, who required a full accounting of everyone “modded” (i.e., modified)  with life enhancing techno-gifts. In our cabin surrounded by mountain, desert and forest, wireless could be spotty, which allowed us to slip under the radar more often than not. As long as we paid our taxes. What else could we count on but death, sooner or later, and taxes?

Those less fortunate lived shorter, more private lives. Modded, unmodded. Alive, or dead. A thousand years hence, would any of it matter?

Things were going well, but Mom grew more and more restless.

Your dad came to me in a dream last night, she said.


You know that means I was visited by his spirit, she said.

No, Mom, I know only two things, and that isn’t one of them. We can’t just go around believing things simply because we want them to be true.

Growing old and dying used to be a natural thing, she said, not some catastrophe we must avert.

That, I could not dispute.

My life has gone on long enough. I want to move on, she said.

Hold your horses, Mom. You’re needed here and now.

She didn’t look a day over forty. Her skin was smooth and rosy. Her pale blonde hair was full and thick, thanks to rejuvenated DNA, not dyes and chemicals.

Are you bored, Mom? We can move. All this solitude may be getting to you. Just don’t be in such a rush to die.

“You need a wife, Keith.”


Her eyes could pierce me like a sword when she turned seriously serious on me.

“You’ll never put yourself out there and risk breaking your heart again, unless I’m gone.”

“Mom! Stop.”

That woman’s willpower could have fired up more cities than all the solar panels on Earth. Mere technology couldn’t trap her spirit in a prison of flesh. Not that I believed any part of us survived death of the body.

Staph germ, they said. The swift, resistant kind.

“Genetek will find a way to fix you,” I insisted. “You know they can, and they will.”

In no time at all, the sparkle had dimmed from her blue eyes, her hair had gone limp, and her skin was ashen, but she spoke with all her former tenacity: “They can’t recycle me if I’m infected. They’ll have to cremate.”

I thought she’d forgotten all about that dreaded long-ago promise, but fools dream.

A promise made is a debt unpaid, Robert Service had groused in the Ballad of Sam McGee, that epically long, frost-bitten poem Mom had inexplicably memorized and recited to me at bedtime in my most-tender formative years. Was she psychic, after all? Had she intentionally conditioned me to make a foolish promise, and would she really guilt-trip me into keeping it?

She would indeed. By the time a Genetek crew reached our cabin in the Kaibob Forest, south of the Canyon, my mother was beyond their skills.

With VR images of her, with voice recordings, shared memories linked in a multiverse of users, it shouldn’t have seemed like she was gone. Not the way Dad and Patricia were gone, with none of the tech to recreate them, lest we forget the indelible details. How often I found myself holding still, in hopes of sensing her spirit in the cabin, on the forest path, under the red rock or the juniper, but then the black truck came, and a man in uniform delivered the package that contained my mother.

She was gone. Beyond my reach, beyond my senses. Completely and forever, gone.

With papers signed and notarized, I dug a hole for an oak tree near the cabin. Ashes and acorns, circle of life, dance of dust. Have fun in the hereafter, Mom. If you can find one.

I’d poured a loving spoonful of my mother into the Earth when another woman’s voice came to me, clear and strong: “A promise made is a debt unpaid.”

Of course it wasn’t really her. Everyone knows that! Memories deceive. Why else would I still be obsessed with a girl I hadn’t seen since college?

Merrin was an idealistic, unmodifed idiot, protesting the ethics of Genetek, which had saved my mother–the first time, anyway. Yes, other mothers died of cancer, leaving small children behind. These things happen. Only in comic books does anyone save the world overnight.

I finished planting a bit of my mother with a little black acorn, then saved the rest of her to pay off that debt, as soon as we had a good snowfall in the forecast.

Nobody in his right mind would hike the Canyon in November, snow swirling through the air, almost blinding when the wind gusted, but that made it the perfect time to unload the burden of illegal ashes.

More than a million acres of Kaibab National Forest bordered the north and south rims of the Grand Canyon. Dad used to quiz us on the flora and fauna: pinyon pine, ponderosa pine, aspen, oak, yada, yada. Patricia and I knew white-tailed deer from mule deer. We all knew a clear blue sky was no guarantee against a lightning strike, but that’s what got them during a father-daughter hike. A bolt from out of the blue.

The weight of Mom’s ashes surrounded me, inside the lining of the most waterproof, subzero parka ever to challenge a northern Arizona snowfall. Sam McGee could have used one of these.

Her voice played in my head as if on cue:

On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail.
Talk of your cold! Through the parka’s fold it stabbed like a driven nail.

Slowly, I liberated the last of Mom’s ashes from my parka while the entire poem played in my head, from memory, not circuitry. Surveillance drones made their usual rounds, but I couldn’t imagine they’d detect microscopic particles of Mom mingled with snowflakes, drifting from the promontory I stood on, halfway up from the bottom of a five-thousand-foot-deep gorge, 277 miles long, five to fifteen miles wide. Plenty of room for the molecules of one small woman enthralled by the red rock carved so long ago by the Colorado River, long before any humans claimed the sacred place as their own.

I felt a weight lift from my shoulders–until the growl of a helicopter passed overhead.

Oh, come on. They couldn’t detect those ashes. I’d filed my itinerary. Told them I was testing out some new nano-fibers and solar heaters in this high-tech coat.

I took one last, long look at Mom’s final resting place. With a shiver, I started to sense the spell this canyon had cast on her.

You need a wife.

Mom! Jeez! You’re dead, remember?

Yet I heard her voice saying what she said every autumn–as if falling leaves didn’t already remind me of the one who got away.

Funny how wisdom might change expression over the eons, but its truth is constant.

Mom? The voice was hers, but these were not the well-worn words I remembered.

Life is living us, not the other way around, she threw in for good measure.

I blew a cloudy breath into the November air. No one can fool you as easily as you can fool yourself.

Time to head back up the long, dusty trail. Or, not dusty anymore, but slick with snowfall turning to ice. I watched for park rangers, but an hour after the helicopter, no human trespassed on the trail but me.

The parka wasn’t going to get any rave reviews from me. Halfway in my hike to the top, I shivered. And couldn’t stop stop shivering. The same glitchy rocks and trees that kept my nanotech under the radar were now depriving my coat of its techno-wonders.

Darn it, was I ever cold. My big fear had been getting caught with illegal ashes, not freezing to death on my way up Bright Angel trail. I sat for a minute, then another, thinking how easy it would be to just close my eyes and never wake up.

Get up. Get going, Keith.

Yes, Mom.

I willed myself to move. When at last the rim came into view, so did a vision in white. Good God, an angel? I slapped my legs and didn’t feel anything. Me, dead, but still seeing and walking in the same old body? No sir, not buying it.

This angel looked exactly as I remembered her, with red-gold hair and a light sprinkling of freckles, green eyes, and a smile that would melt glaciers.

Merrin. How could this be? Last time I saw her, she was heading to an ecovillage and picketing the new Life Enhancing mods. My own mother was one of the “damn modders” Merrin denounced.

“So how’s that parka working out?” Merrin asked, as if she’d seen me only a few hours ago, not years and years ago.

My lips didn’t move when I tried to answer.

“How,” I managed, finally. How did she get here. Now, of all times.

“I had a nice talk with your mother,” Merrin said.

“My mother is dead.”

“I know. I’m so sorry, Keith.” Her smile faltered. “She’s where she wants to be, though, and she wants you to be all right with that.”


Bees in a hive mind, Merrin and my mother.

We walked the deserted pathways, across a snow-white parking lot. With a flick of her gloved hand, Merrin brought a hybrid car to life. Spotlighting us in low beams, it drove itself over.

Instant heat inside. The car worked better than the coat.

“So,” I began when my face had thawed. “How does an anti-modder come to look as young as the day I last saw her storming off all those years ago?”

She winced. “O God! I am a hypocrite. There was a roadside bombing, and half the people on our bus were killed. I’d be dead, if not for a Go Fund Me and years of work with Genetek. I’m practically a cyborg.”

Was she blinking tears away? She looked sincere. I remembered Merrin for her drama, all right, but not for her acting skills. Never one to hide her emotions even if she tried.

Like my mother.

Merrin’s smile came back, slowly. We stared at each other, letting the nano-circuits of our implants do their dance, exchanging bits and bytes of information about the years that separated us.

Nothing was ever separate to begin with, Mom said. It just seems that way.

Merrin raised her eyebrows, and I knew she’d heard it too.

“Life is living us,” Merrin said.

“Not the other way around,” I added.

Her laugh sounded like sunshine and rainbows and butterflies unfurling their wings, and I seriously began to worry that my brain had short-circuited with my parka.

Mom would like that.

And I wasn’t in any position to argue with her.

# # # #

Maxfield Parrish was an American painter and illustrator active in the first half of the 20th century. He is known for his distinctive saturated hues and idealized neo-classical imagery. His career spanned fifty years and was wildly successful: his painting Daybreak is the most popular art print of the 20th century. Wikipedia

@sunravelme – Minnow Support Project- Curation for Creatives 

I was honored to be asked to help curate creative writing minnows for The Minnow Support project. Here are my choices. My first three choices are entries to @hardfork-series “Can You See the Future Contest” . They challenged their writers to create a story of what life will look like in the future.  “Ashes and Acorns” by @carolkean is a beautiful depiction of the relationship between the living and the dead, and what lives on through technology. 


I enjoyed this story so very very much. It’s absolutely beautifully written. Everything Keith is experiencing feels so real. And there are so many lovely lines. Ashes and acorns, circle of life, dance of dust. Have fun in the hereafter, Mom. If you can find one. So well done, @carolkean!

@carolkean I feel like I would still be able to know who wrote this even if your name wasn’t on the top of the page. You have a unique writing style. In a really good way.

  • How often I found myself holding still, in hopes of sensing her spirit in the cabin, on the forest path, under the red rock or the juniper, but then the black truck came, and a man in uniform delivered the package that contained my mother.

Like…damn. The entire story is riddled with pull-able quotes, but this line ^^^ really did it for me. It encapsulates the story’s dilemma and tone with one descriptive, palatable sentence.

And the shift towards the end, and that title…I could go on.

Wow @carolkean, just wow. I read the earlier draft in the editing queue at The Writers’ Block, but this…this leaves that one in the dust. So much more full. The relationship with the mother and the reason for Merrin’s appearance all work perfectly. Okay..stopping the gushing now. This is wonderful.

Your prose flows so effortlessly. I’m quite simply floored.

I’m resteeming this because it’s honestly amazing. 😀 Absolutely well done, Carol!


Congratulations! This story has been curated by The SFT. 🙂 A small SBD reward has been transferred to your wallet.   https://steemit.com/curation/@sft/the-sft-curates-12-6-17

It has been added to the Literary Reading Room at the SFT Library.


*Slowly, I liberated the last of Mom’s ashes from my parka while the entire poem played in my head, from memory, not circuitry.” More beautifully sneaky lines from your pen. I love love love your writing! MORE MORE MORE!

I enjoyed reading your earlier queued draft as it was, but I was thrilled by the final version here.

As you may already know, I love happy endings. Thanks for providing this one. 😀


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Friday night in Falls City (a fiction, for fun)

Driverless cars were the stupidest thing ever.

Marv Moran clipped the newspaper story on how the production of this idiocy was increasing, pinned it to the bulletin board, and proceeded to throw darts at it.

Marv Mor-ANN, not MOR-on, she said way more often than should be required. And Marv was short for Marvella, not Marvin, never mind how lean and muscular she looked or how short she kept her hair. The guys had nothing better to do than tease her, and she could take it. Actually they did have one better thing to do–beat her at drag racing –but that was a lost cause for most of them.

“Cool your jets, Marv,” came a familiar voice from behind. She hurled the last dart and turned to face Bat, the lanky, brown-eyed blond who drove like a bat outta hell but went back to being Kevin Miller, math nerd, every Monday. Not that she was still in school to see. High school sucked. She’d dropped out to take care of her dad and realized she wouldn’t need it anyway in her line of work.

“My jets are always red-hot,” Marv said, moving to the counter of the repair shop she’d inherited from her father. She stared at Bat, waiting for him to say what he was here for rather than be pressed into uttering some nicety like how can I help you.

“You see the Bugatti Chiron that just pulled into town?”

Marv snorted. “You walked all the way over here just to say that?”

“Thought I’d see you salivating over it with the rest of us, not holing up here in this cave.”

“I seen it.”

Bat shook his head. She knew that way he had of showing her she was full of shit even though he wasn’t going to call her on it this time. He was bursting with stuff to say, she could tell by the twinkle in his eyes. Of course she knew better than to say she seen it but he kept at her, like he could wear her down and get her to act like a lady, or a gal with bigger ambitions than running a body shop in Falls City, a grossly misnamed town of five thousand with no waterfalls for miles and miles.

His dark brown eyes sparkled even more, as if that was possible. “So whaddaya know about the guy who parked it at Bud’s dump of a hotel?”

She shrugged. “There you go, assuming it’s a guy.”

“You do know something!”

“Bat, if I told you even a fraction of what I know that you don’t, your head would explode.”

Friday night,

race night in Falls City, until highway patrol decided to flash their lights and pretend the party was over. Like the kids, the officers had little else to do on a weekend, so they never broke it up until the race was done.

Marv was always there in her dad’s old matte-black Dodge Charger, modified to more than 600 horsepower and speeds approaching 200 miles an hour. Her dad survived cancer only to die in that car when some asshole T-boned him, and the big old muscle car was said to be totaled, but Marv wasn’t buying it. Dent by dent, piece by piece, she restored the beast. The first rumblings of that thunderous exhaust when she brought the Charger back from the dead surely had Marvin Moran rolling in his coffin, trying to give her a thumbs-up.

Tonight she wasn’t driving the Charger. Tonight, she wasn’t even gonna be Marvella Moran.

“For me,” Aunt Charlene insisted. “Just this once, for me, show me how you’d look if you actually cared.”

Even her dad’s sister didn’t get it. Marv didn’t dress like she did because she didn’t care. She did whatever the hell she felt like doing, regardless of what others might think.

“So.” She held still as Aunt Charlene positioned a long blonde wig over her head. “Pretending to be something I’m not is proof that I give a shit.”

“Now, Marvella. You know that’s not what I mean.” Charlene applied false eyelashes to her niece, and handed her a push-up bra and a tight pink sweater. Marv, frowning, struggled into the quintessentially feminine stuff.

“Damn, you look good.”

“I already looked good,” Marv said.

She looked even better at the wheel of the Bugatti. Aunt Charlene handed her the keys through the window. “Jimmy will be watching with me, and it isn’t the race I’m hoping you’ll win.”

“It’s the attention of a good man like Jimmy,” Marv finished for her. “I’m not even nineteen, which is the new thirty, for awesome women like me anyway. I don’t define myself by what I wear or how many boyfriends I have.”

“Not even one!” Charlene sputtered. “I know what you’re doing, and one of these days you’ll stop trying to be your dad and just be yourself.”

“And if it takes posing as someone else to feel what it’s like to be liked, I’ll pose,” Marv scoffed.

“Hey. You want to drive my boyfriend’s car, you owe me,” Charlene said.

Marv started the car and took off with a roar of thunder. Now that felt good. That felt better than her first and last kiss.

The blacktop came to life

under the starry night sky. One perk of living in a remote corner of Nebraska was seeing the Milky Way. One crazy night in L.A. during a power blackout, worried citizens called 9-1-1 to report a mysterious smear in the sky. They’d never seen stars in the sky and didn’t know the Milky Way was anything but a candy bar. Sad. The roads were probably never empty enough for drag racing, either.

The Dodges, the Mustangs, even a few Hondas lined up for some action, and a perky cheerleader named Wendy waved a flag, getting ready to signal GO, when that Bugatti pulled up, a sexy blonde at the wheel.

Falls City hadn’t seen anything so exciting since Braniff Airways Flight 250 crashed on August 6, 1966, en route to Omaha from Kansas City, and 38 passengers and four crew members died in a farm field late on a Saturday night. Marv wasn’t there, of course, but her dad told the story so often, she started suffering that syndrome known as false memory, and it felt like she’d stood there with him picking up debris and body parts from Grandpa Moran’s field.

Crushed metal and flying body parts were always a risk anytime someone took to the road, which is why those idiotic driverless cars were moving from science fiction to reality. Maybe in cities that shit would fly, but out here, where driving was the greatest sport available, nobody would give up the steering wheel to some computer.

All heads turned toward the blonde in the tight pink sweater roaring up in the black Bugatti. Marv grinned. Her Charger was awesome, but the French-built Chiron was said to be the fastest, most powerful car in Bugatti’s history. Sophisticated, innovative, iconic, it was a masterpiece of art and form. As was she, Marvella Moran, the girl with more muscle than the average city boy.

The ride was breathtaking. She won, of course, and raced back to Bud’s motel, where all the guys followed to see who the hell had set the night on fire.

Aunt Charlene would be watching as Marv stepped out and let the guys fawn over her, or not, and ask for her name and number.

She handed each one of them Marv Moran’s Body Shop business card.

Each one but Bat, that is, who stood back, arms crossed over his chest, grinning at her.

He strode over, six feet of nerd disguised as a leather-clad bat outta hell, until Monday morning. Towering over her, Bat leaned down and almost touched her ear with his lips to say, “Marv, you damn near make my head explode.”

“Bat, you…”

For once, a smart retort failed her. She felt the near touch of his lips travel down to her toes, and all she could do was stare at him.


Her heart pounded, and he tugged off the wig, and she normally would have decked him–in fun, of course–but he was smiling at her and looking not at all like the lanky kid who scored number one in Nebraska on every math decathlon.

“Much better,” he said, ruffling her short dark hair, his fingers traveling down and tilting her chin up.

“Bat, you’re getting weird on me.”

He shut up her with the second kiss of her life, and it ranked right up there with racing a Bugatti.


(Image source: pixabay)

# # #

This story —

Day 353: 5 Minute Freewrite: Monday – Prompt: muscle

— was written in response to the prompt “muscle car” at Steemit’s @freewritehouse daily #freewrite group.

Thank you, @mariannewest and @freewritehouse,

for the daily 5 minute #freewrite. To find out what freewriting is all about, go here.



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