“In a Pig’s Ear” – Steemit Freewrite

“I’m heading out for some pig’s ears,” he said.

“In a pig’s ear, you are,” she muttered.

Sure, he was going to the store for pig’s ears. He drove to the Farm and Fleet with the flimsiest of excuses, the flimsiest being that Rocko loved going there. “Leashed dogs are welcome to join their owners in both the store and the auto service area,” the signs proclaimed.

He was going there to flirt with that little blonde at Register Six.

A brain surgeon and his mutt, Bismark’s dynamic duo. The money he pumped into the local economy was what made him so popular, but he was too full of himself to see that.


Never trust a city boy who drives a big pickup–all country people knew that–but even as a college student, Layne Davis owned a 1981 Harley and an Omaha Orange 1969 Plymouth Road Runner and a sailboat he raced back where he’d come from, so he wasn’t a poser and he was no ordinary city boy. He loved the throaty roar and the adrenalin rush of a powerful engine as much as she did, the big difference being he could afford not just the wheels but the gas, while she scrimped and saved for every hour at the track or on the road in cars she restored herself.

She had been an 18-year-old LPN the first time he saw her, Sara Savage, kicking ass at a demolition derby. She had duly shunned him for being a city boy with a big Ford-150 on oversized wheels, but the more emphatically she told that city boy to get lost, the more he pursued her.


For ten years.

“I could have any girl I want,” he’d kept telling her, and it was true. All those college girls flocking around him were majoring in Pre-Wed.

“Go pick one of ’em, then, and leave me alone,” she’d say.

But he was boyishly cute, pesky as a stray dog, book-smart and common-sense stupid. He vowed he would never marry unless it was to Sara Savage, the “little piston,” the only gal who’d ever captured his heart.

“Unequally yoked.” Dad had waxed Biblical and ordered her to steer clear of Layne, and she did, until Dad died of a stroke, Mom rented out the farmhouse and moved to town, and Sarah finally said yes to Layne the brain surgeon.

She gave up stock-car racing and demolition derby and set a good example for the kids. With every new gray hair she grew wiser, while he just got younger at heart and stupider. His energy and enthusiasm, his sense of adventure, were undiminished. He couldn’t see the effect of gravity on his face or his male pattern baldness, a big shiny spot on the back of his head that made him easy to identify in a crowd. In the mirror and in his mind he was forever twenty. Call it Arrested Development, Peter Pan syndrome, or just plain immaturity; just don’t call it cute. His charm had worn thinner than his bank account. Layne would have had her sell the farm to pay his debts but her dad apparently saw that one coming and added an iron-clad clause in his will that the land was never to be sold.

When the kids grew up and left home, she wanted to move back to North Dakota. With or without him. Layne did her the favor of taking a big new job in Bismark, becoming the head honcho of St. Alexius, “serving residents of central and western North Dakota, northern South Dakota and eastern Montana since 1885.” Of course those gambling debts she found out about later had nothing to do with him taking the new job, nor his getting fired from that gambler’s anonymous committee Allen Hospital had put him in charge of.

In a pig’s ear, he took that job in Bismark just for her.

Like fighter pilots, doctors were a breed apart, guys who lived hard and dangerous and on the edge. By now he should have had a mid-life crisis and dumped her for a trophy bride, but Layne apparently liked fast engines better than fast women. He squandered a hundred-grand on a Mazda Miata and called it her Christmas present, but she called him an idiot and showed him the bank statements.

Brain surgeon. A million dollars a year, but taxes ate up half of it, and he managed to go into debt with all his toys and vacations and buying the kids whatever they wanted. Spoiled ’em all, and made her out to be the kill-joy who’d deny them unlimited credit-card access.

Sarah had the rescue dogs and the farmhouse and her father’s land, his father’s and grandfather’s before him. Some foolish young woman could have Layne–and all his debt too. Their debt. At least her dad had seen to it she wouldn’t lose everything to the man who stole her heart.

She watched him peel off in a cloud of dust

with Rocko riding shot-gun, head hanging out the window, nose quivering at all the awesome smells he was heading to. Instead of taking the Silverado, he drove off in her dad’s old black 1959 Dodge pickup. She shook her fist at him as he peeled out–he had plenty of his own toys to drive–but old engines did need some good road miles to keep them running well, so there was that.

Somewhere down the road, with the kids safely raised to adulthood and sent from the nest, that awful sound of sirens

within earshot of home had finally stopped putting the fear of God in her soul. She never broke the habit of offering up a prayer for whoever was in need of those sirens, but after so many years she’d forgotten that one of these days, it could be a loved one of her own.

Rocko. Oh Rocko.

The Dodge was fixable, but Rocko was not. A cattle-dog mix, the best little mutt she’d ever taken in, the one dog she’d loved most, and God knows she loved all the strays and rescues like children.

Layne didn’t suffer. Not more than a few seconds, they said.

A bag of pig’s ears had flown out the window along with Rocko. Some idiot news reporter photographed that “telling detail,” with lame-ass quotes from the blonde at Register Six. “Layne was a regular,” brimming with life; who could have imagined that it would all end a few minutes after she rang up the bag of pig’s ears for that man and his cute little dog. Some 30-year-old guy had been texting when he rear-ended the Dodge. There went a brilliant brain surgeon and a good dog. “Gone! In the wink of an eye!” she said, feeding the media with the nauseating cliches they sought.

The texter got ten years for unintentional manslaughter but it didn’t matter. “Serving time” behind bars would never bring back that sixty-year-old boy and his dog. She still caught a glimpse of at times, a smiling sixty-year-old boy, and Rocko would flash around a corner in his wake, and she’d blink, only to find nothing but tears in her eyes.

“You wouldn’t miss him so bad if you’d get out more and try meeting people,” their daughters kept telling her.

In a pig’s ear, she wouldn’t.


Day 478: 5 Minute Freewrite: Sunday – Prompt: pig’s ear

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


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Meet Me In the Limelight – a Steemit freewrite

Meet Me In the Limelight by Carol Kean

Day 461: 5 Minute Freewrite: Thursday – Prompt: in the limelight


Meet me in the Limelight,

he said, and there was a lot of background noise, so I when I asked where the hell that was and what the hell he meant by it, it sounded like he said the castle, and I knew Harley was stoned out of his gourd. Musicians.

Sure he was cute. That long, unruly hair and little-boy mischief in his eyes and the slender build all those underfed rock stars had. And young jazz musicians like Harley, all sinewy arms and long, strong fingers from plucking that bass.

Q: What do you call a musician without a girlfriend?

A: Homeless.

It was an old joke but a good one.

Sure, meet him in the limelight, give him another chance. He’d stopped squatting a long time ago and had a nice carriage house with five other musicians now, but that wasn’t the point.

The cordless phone was still in my hand. I walked it back to the kitchen and caught myself gently putting it back like I was putting a child to bed. And that’s all Harley McSweeney was. A boy who’d never grow up.

The little black dress would be just right for my date. The staple of every smart woman’s wardrobe. How to accessorize tonight? A cold, wet wind from Lake Michigan and a drizzle of rain out my brownstone window decided me. Heels, yes, but not sandals. Silver, gold, faux pearls? Jared was an architect, into the Old World look. I settled on Grandma’s rhinestone necklace and earrings and her wool cape with the mink collar. The PETA activists would have me stoned, but the minks were already dead, and so was Grandma, and the cape still looked regal.

Jared was already there, waiting at the cafe,

and I got there a minute before seven. So punctual! So much better than Harley’s chronic lateness. His wardrobe was spotless and new but never as awesome as Harley’s.

Harley. He could wear any out-of -find from a consignment shop and it would look amazing on him. Tall, with high cheekbones, and that underfed musician slenderness, he could have made his fortune as a fashion model. In high school people would ask him where he got that incredible paisley shirt or those white leather shoes and those mind-blowing tight purple pants. Grandpa’s Closet, he’d say. Where’s that? Ha. When Harley’s distinguished grandpa died, Harley was the only grandson who fit all those nice clothes. At school, others tried to copy his look but nobody else could pull it off like Harley did.

Everyone said we were the couple most likely to marry from St. Francis High, Harley with his elegant musician look, me with the vintage film star look, thanks to my grandma. Harley got a degree in music; I got a degree in marketing along with art, and I had a real job at an art gallery. Which is where I met Jared.

Jared had money to buy his own dinner. And mine. He insisted on paying everything, even the tip.

On our way out we passed a skinny guy playing a sax under the canopy, out of the drizzle of Chicago in almost-October. I stopped and tugged Jared’s sleeve even though he hated jazz. And buskers. Anyone blocking his path on the sidewalks hoping for coins and dollar bills in their instrument cases had best stay out of Jared’s way.

I tossed a dollar into the man’s sax case. He’d just finished something I didn’t recognize, probably an original composition, because Harley had dragged me to so many jazz gigs, I knew the “Fake Book” meant The Real Book and I knew all the jazz standards in it, to the point I could recognize them even during some of the wilder improvs. Harley once had a very well known trumpeter play Happy Birthday for me when I turned sixteen and I didn’t even recognize it as Happy Birthday. That’s how improvisational these guys get, and the more seasoned they are, the more liberties they take.

“Thank you,” the sax player said.

Jared stared ostentatiously at his ostentatious watch.

“You’re really talented,” I said, squaring my shoulders as Jared took his turn tugging my sleeve. Er, cape. “I’ll bet you know of a young jazz bassist named Harley. He’s jammed all over Chicago with some of the last of the old gang who played with Miles Davis and all them.”

The man tipped his head back and laughed, his teeth straight and white, his dark skin glistening with that mist. “Oh, do I know Harley. He’s going places. Fact, he scored a gig at the new Limelight.”

Miles at 25, photo by his mother

Jared yanked, and I gave him the snake-eye. “Hold on. Did you just say the Limelight?”

“Yes Ma’am. Night club that started in Florida, with spin-offs in London and Atlanta and New York. Now us!”

“It’s in the old Chicago Historical Society building,” Jared said. “Looks like a castle. On the corner of Dearborn and Ontario.”

“Ooh, I’d love to see!”

Jared went stiff. He knew about Harley. Hell, everyone knew about Harley. Most of the CDs I played were songs Harley burned at home after recording himself on some multi-track system he bought from the estate sale of a dead musician.

Meet me in the limelight, Harley had said with his usual calm, but I’d heard the sweet, hopeful note of cajoling in his voice and those undertones of vulnerable little boy, and I wasn’t falling for that again.

So I had told myself a thousand times before.

“I have tickets to the game,” Jared reminded me. The pissy look on his face and the way tried to dress but fell short and the way he showed off his watch and his ability to pick up the tab–suddenly I couldn’t fathom another minute with him.

Not when Harley was a cab ride away in a castle in the limelight.

“Jared, go on ahead without me. You can scalp my ticket on the sidewalk.” On impulse, I fished a five from my vintage clutch purse and tucked it into the sax player’s shirt pocket. “Thank you for the tip,” I said.

A cab slowed down for a red light. The rain-wet streets glistened and a chorus of tires made that awesome sound you only hear in cities. The sax player took up a familiar melody, “September In The Rain.”

“Hannah!” Jared shouted as I hailed the cab, got in and shut the door. He slapped the window. “Hannah. Seriously?”

“Seriously, thanks for dinner, Jared!”

“Where to?” the cab driver said with an easy smile and all the time in the world.

“The Limelight.”


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

Hi carolkean,

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But Never Jam Today – a Steemit Freewrite

“But Never Jam Today” – Day 473: 5 Minute Freewrite: Tuesday – Prompt: jam tomorrow


“Let’s jam tomorrow,”

he texted me. I would have pretended not to get the message but we both had iPhones and he’d see that I saw that he wrote. Damn.

“The Music Lab is right off the Brown Line, so I don’t have to lug my gear across town to peel the paint off the walls,” he texted.

I could see him now. Probably while lilting down Michigan Avenue with a song on his headset, dreamily taking in the scene and hearing new beats in his head and thinking up new lyrics after seeing a girl on a bicycle in the rain.

Oh, Lionel.

What were the chances I’d drag my ass to Lincoln Avenue tomorrow and find him there, on time, or at all?

He was so easy to love and so hard to endure. I met Lionel in middle school, that tender age when we are so insecure and concerned about appearances. Being self-conscious, though, would have required some level of thought that Lionel didn’t aspire to. His mental energy went to music and not much else, until, girls.

Oh Lionel. It was the biggest band concert of the year, with all parents and siblings in attendance. The band was about to begin. Except, no drummer. The principal got on the loudspeaker. “Lionel Davis.” Yeah, that was his real name, a tip o’ the hat to his dad’s favorite musicians. “Lionel Davis, the band is about to play.”

Tense silence punctuated by Mr. Blackman’s repeated Lionel. Earth to Lionel which went for what felt like three minutes. Suddenly from the top of the bleachers a tall, skinny silhouette stood up and stepped lightly down the steep, crowded risers, then sauntered casually to the drums, sat on the throne and picked up his sticks. The evil eye from Mrs. Haydn bounced like oil off a hot Teflon skillet as Lionel started playing on cue. He was flawless. He was not the least bit embarrassed or apologetic; he just went to those drums as if he hadn’t been chatting up the girls, oblivious to the obvious. What kind of parents manage to send out into the world a kid so imperturbable, so talented, and so maddening?

Lionel had the calm of the Buddha and it wasn’t from smoking weed. He was born laid-back, like his dad, but his dad was a scientist with a nine-to-five, Monday-to-Friday gig at the same laboratory for his entire working career, designing acoustical stuff. Lionel’s mom on the other hand was a scatter-brained poet-fiddler-artist who proved that opposites attract.

Any musical instrument he touched, Lionel could play. Guitar, bass, violin, jazz flute, any wooden instrument, any silver or gold or brass, would respond to the touch of Lionel’s lips, Lionel’s fingers.

A hundred million times, people would get homicidally angry with Lionel, yet the minute anyone blew up at him, he would calmly look black, blink, and shrug with that little smile that stopped anger dead in its tracks.

He had to be a ghost,

we figured, the way he’d drift from place to place, with that silent glide he had, that hint of a smile, like the Cheshire cat who left his grin behind on the tree branch. Call me Alice. Ok, call me Alicia, my real name, but hanging out with Lionel was often like living in Lewis Carroll’s Wonderland.

Some time after college, ghosting became a verb, and if it was in the dictionary, Lionel’s picture would be next to it. If you think Lionel ever ghosted someone and said “Sorry,” you don’t know Lionel. I asked my therapist about it back in my “Life Without Lionel Isn’t Living” phase. She said it only makes the injured party feel more aggravated or trespassed against when the trespasser says “Sorry,” but I honestly couldn’t believe Lionel even registered the fact that he’d trespassed against someone and owed that person an explanation or an apology. His mind was probably so caught up in his latest composition, there was no room in his brilliant brain for such trivialities as people who relied on clocks and calendars to go places in life.

It wasn’t just me,

Alicia, the girl who’d crushed on Lionel since Day One of middle school. Everyone was an equal-opportunity victim of Lionel’s head-in-a-cloud ways. If the prime minister of England scheduled a meeting with Lionel, it’d take security guards to follow him and make sure he would really show up. If Miles Davis or Lionel Richie had ever booked a jam session with Lionel, chances are, our guy actually would have shown up, but not on time. How he survived in a city the size of Chicago was a mystery more puzzling than crop circles and the pyramids of Egypt.

No one ever seemed to know where he was,

and he was never where he was supposed to be. Phone messages? His inbox was always full.

And then you’d get a call from him after midnight telling you it wasn’t too late to catch him jamming at the Green Mill with a rising star like Matt Ulery, or some old guy who used to be a studio musician for Nat King Cole and who played on all these famous albums everyone in the world hears without ever knowing who did the instrumentals.

My phone went off. One of Lionel’s tunes, of course. I picked up. “Hey.”

“A-liiiiii-cia.” That lilt in his voice was as distinctive as the lilt in his walk. He always sounded pleasantly surprised.

The shock of hearing Lionel in real time was like seeing a freight train bear down on your stalled car on the railroad tracks and your life flashes before your eyes. I steeled my nerves.

“Look Lionel,” I said, “it’s after midnight and I have an actual day job to get to tomorrow, and I’m not packing my sax to get on the Brownline and wait for you to show up at The Music Lab only to get ghosted again. Sorry.”

“I’d love to see you,” he said calmly. “I’ll be there at six. It’d be great to jam with you again.”

Ghosting him yourself had no effect on him whatsoever. I’m not the only one who’s tried. He could face down a tornado without flinching. How did he even know I’d moved to Chicago? I gave up social media long before those Russian hackers allegedly dug in.

Fact was, tomorrow would be Friday, and I had nothing better in my social calendar.

I programmed The Music Label into my phone calendar.

Lionel. Oh, Lionel.

Like Charlie Brown and Lucy’s football, I would never learn.


Jam tomorrow

Jam tomorrow or jam to-morrow (older spelling) is an expression for a never-fulfilled promise. It originates from Lewis Carroll’s 1871 book Through the Looking Glass and What Alice Found There, in which the White Queen offers Alice ‘jam to-morrow’…

‘The rule is, jam to-morrow and jam yesterday – but never jam to-day.’

*Story location inspired by Cameron‘s review of The Music Lab

Why People Ghost — and How to Get Over It by By Adam Popescu inspired “Lionel”

Day 473: 5 Minute Freewrite: Tuesday – Prompt: jam tomorrow

Prompt: jam tomorrow
Set your timer for 5 minutes
Start writing
Use the hashtag #freewrite and #freewritepoetry if it turns out to be poetry
Publish your piece (include a link to this post if you wish)

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The Token Irishman – a Steemit Freewrite

Miles Collage

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


“The Token Irishman” by Carol Kean  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 Irishman?

He was young and green, with nothing but optimism and perpetual faith that all things work out for the better. Our ship, Mannschaft Rinderhund, was on its way to shake some gods loose from the surprisingly human inhabitants of planet Eisweld. What did Leif O’Leary know of ignorant savages who had to get enlightened or get out of our way? He was no warrior, but the Eiswelders were. Barbarians! They lived like Earth’s long-ago Vikings and worshipped the same nonexistent gods with human sacrifices. Violent, superstitious, rapacious, greedy, they had killed the first two teams who’d landed on Eisweld.

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. Maybe the last of the Neanderthals had been spirited away by UFOs to a planet of their own, stocked with a Noah’s Ark of mastodons and giant sloths.

Leif O’Leary had Viking DNA, Leandra told me. Some long-ago Irish woman must have met a Norseman on his way to Iceland and passed off his progeny as a local’s. The Hun gene had been found in Germans; stranger things had happened.

Irish or Viking, and more than a little bit Catholic, Leif O’Leary was on our team. He frolicked like a puppy when we reached the snowy beaches of Eisweld, where low gravity allowed us to sprint in slow motion–rise, hover, and slowly touch down again the way humans had done in during dream-sleep for thousands of years.

It was too cold for us to really enjoy the novelty of low gravity, but Leif O’Leary 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. He partied like an Irish Catholic but got his work done every day in a fraction of the time it took everyone else no matter what the task, and wherever we put the guy, he carried with him that damned optimism and self-assurance and the sheer joy of a zealot who’d found Jesus.

We all wanted to kill him.

Leif O’Leary spent more time on the snowy beach bouncing dreamily than he did watching live footage of the natives, transmitted to us from drones disguised as falcons. When they weren’t making a blood sacrifice of goats or the occasional white rooster, they would go on raiding parties. In Old English, “viking” was a verb. Dudes like Leif might say let’s go viking this weekend and they’d go “vike,” or so I remembered hearing it. Linguistics was never my strong point.

While we watched in secret from afar as these bloody-thirsty Eiswelders looted and hacked each other to bits, Leif bounced on snowy beaches. He talked in his sleep, too. Antique prayers: “Holy God, Holy Mighty One, Holy Immortal One. For the sake of his sorrowful passion, have mercy on us, and on the whole world.” On all the worlds. The point of it was that Catholics must pray for every soul, even–or especially–the most awful and unrepentant among us.

He prayed in his sleep, he worked like a demon, then played on the beach. We got him corralled, finally, but he smiled all the while and winked at the ladies as we hauled him to HQ.

“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 ethusiastically. Did he know what we were suggesting? Two missions before us had been exterminated by these rude Eisweld louts.

“I’ve mastered their language,” he said. “I’ve built a hang glider. I have 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. Sure, we had uniforms make of spider silk genetically spiked with goat protein, and some high-tech electromagnetic shielding, but Leif had to know nothing was foolproof. He would be outnumbered. And he was too gentle and compassionate to fire a pulsar to take down dozens of people at once.

Someone had to go first. Might as well be the token Catholic.

“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.


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

The pod shot off from the space station. *

Miles on subway

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.

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.

Not a bottle actually but one of those plastic bags with a built-in pour spout, the kind that come in boxed wine. 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 occurred 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 these 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 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 seeing 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 homeworld 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.



selfie by Miles Kean  “it’s just my reflection in the subway window at night”

Comments from the Steemit site:

Wonderful tale and I do hope you continue the story. Leif O’Leary reminds me of the tale of St. Brendan who is said to have traveled to America in the 6th Century. Was St. Brendan an inspiration for O’Leary?

carolkean   Oooh – I’d never even heard of St. Brendan, but I’m about to go google more!

I’m not sure where Leif O’Leary came from – maybe stories of Loki, the trickster? Originally I intended him to escape a near-crucifixion via the “extraordinary phenomenon” of bi-location (see: Padre Pio) but as I was writing, the trope of “dumb like a fox” took over, and Leif pulled a fast one on Cap’n. Thank you for reading and commenting!


interesting freewrite, esp the subject religion?


carolkean   In 1974 Robert Silverberg tackled religion in The Dybbuk of Mazel Tov IV, one of the funniest sci-fi stories I ever read, in which Jews have colonized their own planet… you can read it online via Galaxy’s Edge.



This post was shared in the Curation Collective Discord community for curators, and upvoted and resteemed by the @c-squared community account after manual review.

Hi carolkean,

This post has been upvoted by the Curie community curation project and associated vote trail as exceptional content (human curated and reviewed). Have a great day 🙂
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“What prompted me to say it?” 5-Minute Freewrite

For the past year I’ve been freewriting short-short stories via Steemit’s #freewritehouse, and it’s so much fun to see all the various and unexpected characters who spring to mind when you set the timer for 5 minutes and start writing with no pre-planning and no idea what’s gonna happen next or who’s gonna show up. The 5-Minute Freewrite is the brainchild of @mariannewest, whose resume is so long, I won’t post it here.

“Prompt” is today’s prompt!

I don’t know what prompted me to say it

but after years and years of hearing Sarge complain about his wife, I said maybe you ought to do something already, rather than vent about her to me every day.

She wasn’t a bad-looking woman. No sir. Highlighted hair, manicured nails, Botoxed face, pouty lip-filler lips, and a personal trainer who kept her looking half her husband’s age. Sarge wasn’t bad-looking either, but men get more of a free pass. Shaved head. Gray beard stubble. Knife-edge cheekbones, and those cold, pale, Aryan blue eyes. Sure, he could lose a few pounds, but it was “all muscle,” he said, and a lot of bad-asses have gone down under those Popeye forearms. He limps like an old man and lurches when he runs thanks to a thug with a sawed-off shotgun, but there isn’t a young man on the force who out-fight Sarge.

Big Brother to countless kids from the wrong side of the tracks, he’s always been a gentle giant. When he’s not chasing down drug dealers, he’s taking their kids bowling or out on nature hikes.

The wife turned out to be an anomaly. High school sweetheart. Moving to the big city was a promotion for him and some kind of inspiration for her. She laughed every time the waiters mistook them for Dad and daughter. I never liked her, but I never knew her as the small-town girl he loved since junior Prom.

The 9-1-1 call from their granddaughter who found her took the city by surprise, to say the least. School got out early due to another bogus bomb threat, and Grandma’s house is this girl’s usual go-to, but her bombshell grandma wasn’t usually dead in the water. Literally, the bubbles were still like foam mountain peaks, and the smell of Green Tea with Rejuvenating Ginger lingered in the air, and that blonde babe had her hands on a Bluetooth thing with a Mindfulness tape playing mindful nature sounds to keep her looking calm and youthful. A nearly empty crystal wineglass, the crazy-expensive kind, stood on the mosaic tile rim surrounding the whirlpool.

“Was it something I said”

is a common phrase, but the consequences of saying some lame cliche can be pretty uncommon.

Then again, in our line of work, a lot of cold cases stay cold because there’s just no evidence to prove foul play.

And nobody, I mean NOBODY, would imagine Sarge could stage a scene like his wife’s final act.

The insurance policy wasn’t anywhere near enough to cover her credit card bills. He didn’t kill her for any windfall, that’s for sure. About all he’d accomplish was plugging the steady drain from his bank account.

If he did it.

I’m the only one in Carson City PD who might conceivably raise the question of whether that electrocution in the bathtub was really only an accident.

Does he have an alibi? We were at the bagel shop that day, but can I honestly say I can account for every minute of his afternoon?

He didn’t complain to anyone but me because I’m the quiet one, the man who listens without judgment, who tosses out an occasional one-liner to break the tension.

What prompted me to say “Do something already” in that mafia mobster voice–it had been weeks since I watched “Goodfellas” on Netflix.

Sarge is a stoic, so it was especially moving to see him blinking back tears at the funeral home visitation, but ya gotta wonder.

“Maybe you ought to do something already…”

Maybe I’ll never shoot off my big mouth again.

Anyway, she was home alone and it was an accident, and I have more than enough drug dealers, missing persons, and cold cases already without opening up a whole new can of worms.

That’s my story. Ain’t no one gonna prompt me to do anything about it already.

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Lady Graves – NaNoWriMo 2018 – my 50,000-words-in-one-month novel

I did it – I took the challenge; I wrote a whole novel in one month. Toward the end my word count was low and the November 30 deadline was looming, so I wrote some swift, shabby, poorly thought-out exposition. I’ve still not begun the huge remodeling effort, the gutting and rebuilding of those final chapters, the streamlining and purging of deadwood from earlier scenes.

A quick synopsis:

LADY GRAVES and the Road to Lindenstein by Carol Kean

Buried treasure doesn’t usually bring to mind a young woman left for dead in a shallow grave, but when Herr Doktor Niklaus Stangler follows his barking dog in the night, he digs up more than a Fräulein who is barely even alive. He finds her dressed as a maid but when she gradually revives, she asserts she is a lady, and her name is–well, she can’t think of it–nor can she imagine who might want her dead. In a stone cottage hidden in Bavaria, she recovers under Stangler’s care, but her mind is slower to heal than her body. She yearns to remember her identity and regain her life–until she starts remembering. When the truth is too painful to face the mind is able to repress what we know, but she learns enough to send her on the road to Lindenstein, where her future with a prince was apparently usurped by an imposter.

In her new life as Lady Graves she has nothing–no money, no title–but her resources include a one-eyed dog named Emil, an exiled baroness charged with paganism and sorcery, and an impassioned Enlightenment-era doctor who escaped prison after being falsely arrested as a Bonapartist, and who dreams of starting over in the New World, the land of his dreams, America.

The story is a stand-alone at 50,000 words. It could be expanded with more descriptions and back story about Napoleon’s impact on Europe, especially the lands that eventually united in 1871 as The German Empire. The French Revolution, the Napoleonic Code, the ideals of the Enlightenment play a role in this story, but the focus is on Lady Graves recovering her identity and seeking the truth about her would-be assassin.



The one-eyed dog had earned his keep, but that infernal barking had to stop. It wasn’t like Emil to get riled up this way after retiring for the night with his master. Whatever was out there, Niklaus Stangler had no more concern for it than he did for Emil’s most hated foe, the squirrel in the oak tree. “Halt den Mund, Emil!” Stangler shouted, pulling a pillow over his head.

Boing! Boing! Emil leaped straight up, swatting the door latch. That crazy, crafty, stubborn little villain got the door open himself.

“I am no longer shocked that someone tried to kill you,” he added as his little dog catapulted into the cold, dark midnight air. Stangler hurried into his pants, boots and cloak. The moon was full and bright and probably the source of Emil’s Angst.

On a moonlit path through the trees, Stangler broke into a run along Emil’s well-worn course to the stream. He followed Emil’s yipping, past the usual rabbit warren, past the old oak with the squirrel, and on, until a gyrating tail gave him away like a white flag waving. Dirt and leaves went flying from his paws.

“Enough, Emil. Genug!”

Emil, so quick to learn new commands, obeyed only when it suited him. He pawed the earth until something pale and fleshy came to light. Stangler bent down.

This was no animal.

Not since his first day as a battlefield medic, sawing off arms and legs of young men who’d been perfectly healthy minutes before, had Herr Doktor Niklaus Stangler felt so queasy.

He pushed away branches that had been heaped over a human body. There wasn’t much for Emil to dig. A grave this shallow suggested someone in a big hurry to move on.

He grasped two ankles and stepped back, pulling, dragging. Emil sniffed around and started barking at the trail that led to the road.

“Ah, Emil. If you could talk, I’d have you go down that path and find out who did this.”

He laid out the body. A maid or a serving wench, bodice unlaced and skirts hiked up. He wished for someone he could send in search of the murderous gravediggers, but exiles like him had no neighbors.

On her arms, dark liquid beads formed along fresh scratches.

Dead people didn’t bleed.

He checked for a pulse. It was very, very slow, barely detectable. It would be easy to mistake her for dead. If not for Emil, she would have been completely dead before anyone ventured far enough from the road to find her.

The dog looked up at him with an eager expectation of attention and praise.

“Well done, Emil.” He couldn’t share the tail-wagging joy, knowing how little life remained in this cold, cold body. “Ach, Emil! This one may be harder to resurrect than you were.”

The dog listened, one ear cocked, his one eye full of concern. Surely, animals had souls.

Stangler scooped the dirty young wench into his arms, enfolded her in his cloak, and hiked back to the cottage.

She was so cold. Desperate to warm her, he allowed the dog to snuggle under a blanket with his find on Herr Doktor’s own bed. He assembled tools and implements, hot water and clean linens, then tended to her wounds. Her bleeding scalp indicated she had been dragged by her hair, which was tangled with dirt and leaves. A gash in the back of her head required sutures. Her pulse was stronger now, but she was far from conscious.

Like a mother hovering over her sick child, Emil watched over the wretched girl. Not long ago it had been the dog as his patient. Stangler wondered how he could saw off a soldier’s limbs but wince at having to snip off the eyeball that dangled from a dog’s head, clean the empty socket and sew it shut, and keep the dog from waking and biting off the hands that healed him. Perhaps he would have been wiser to let mother nature take her course, but it was the physician’s nature to intervene, to fix, to heal.

He plied the needle and thread, then dabbed a tincture of walnut leaves on her open wounds. His busy hands were well accustomed to this work, allowing him to examine his conscience and lament his plight. Why couldn’t he have left a mostly dead wench to complete her task of dying? If not for Emil, she’d be no concern of his. There was no telling what she might have done. He might be harboring a thief–or worse. Women, too, were capable of murder.

More likely, this woman was an innocent victim. Clearly, someone had tried to kill her. He would go off in search of her assailant but she might die in his absence. If Emil could talk, he’d send him on the trail of the assassin. That dog loved to run off and come home barking incoherently of his finds.

He saved a dog who saved a girl, but who was saving him? To warm her, he’d have to strip off all her garments and his own as well and lie with her, skin to skin, until her body temperature rose to a safe level. It was a dirty job but someone had to do it. Under the blankets, naked, holding her close. A terrible job. He almost smiled.

Soon he could hear her breathing and he shifted back far enough to start checking his patient for deeper injuries. Preferably before she awoke. Pray God she would not come to and find a stranger groping between her legs!

The cottage walls danced with shadows from the fireplace, and Stangler wished for a healthy dose of bright sunlight to illuminate his job. If the girl came to now, she’d think him a mad man and scream for help but there was none at hand, nought but a dog and a stranger.

She had not been raped. One consolation.

In fact, he could be sure this was no wench from a brothel. Nothing had penetrated her and broken her maidenhood.

At some point he must have drifted to sleep. The sun rose as always no matter what happened in the night, filling his cottage with light, but Stangler felt himself still in the dark. He took up his journal and noted the latest events, the nature of the maiden’s injuries, the medical interventions he ministered. Her face was swollen beyond recognition, cheekbones level with her nose, a countenance more leonine than human.

Keeping his new patient warm and hydrated would occupy him for hours. He had to implement a feeding tube to get something warm and nourishing inside her. Ancient Egyptians used reeds to give rectal feedings of chicken broth, wine, and eggs, but this was 1821, and physicians knew how to fashion a flexible, hollow tube of leather to deliver blended food to the stomach. Liquids first for this half-dead woman. Through the nose, down the throat, to the stomach. Stangler concocted a mix of warm chamomile tea for its antiseptic, anti-inflammatory action, and cream, which reminded him–he must get out and milk the goat, if Nana hadn’t leaped the fence again. Emil had been preoccupied all night with his new charge. He let the little watchdog out to do his morning duty, sniff about, then return to the girl while Stangler milked the goat.

Sometimes the girl moaned but didn’t awaken. Better for her to sleep through the pain. Stangler added capsicum and more chamomile to the feeding tube and got her to swallow without choking.

He detangled her hair, rinsed it with vinegar followed by water infused with lavender. The girl would live, he decided, but not without his vigilance.

Time was wasting. He had work to do, gathering more roots and herbs from the woods, drying and storing, labeling and collecting. Fritz Lanza, the local boy, should pay Herr Doktor a visit soon to earn some chore money. Why had he told the boy not to come every day? If only he would come now, and the cleaning lady too, but once a week was all he’d asked of her. Now he’d squander more time hand-washing and mending the girl’s garments himself. Then again, he wouldn’t touch the stained and tattered dress or apron. Leaving them as is might make it easier to identify her.

Her thick, rippling hair finally dried, and Stangler admired the rare shade of dark blond with hints of red. How fitting that the leonine distortions of her battered face should be framed by a lion’s mane. He took up his sketchbook and tried to capture the image of a lioness-woman, unconscious in his bed. Then he started to tear out the page, lest anyone else come upon the image and think ill of him–but no, it was part of his medical work, and he would duly record what he observed.

Stangler checked the laceration on her head. The stitches looked clean. Gently, he brought her long, thick mass of hair to one side and separated it into thirds. So much more hair than Maria, God rest her soul. Plaiting the tresses of his English patient brought back memories and the sting of tears in his eyes, but he kept moving, kept looking forward. He fed Emil, fed himself, fed the fire, then sank into the wooden rocking chair facing the bed with a book in hand. True loneliness was hardly possible when he had so many companions on a shelf, always there at the touch of his fingers, opening up to him, allowing him into the minds of others, and never casting judgment on him. No disapproving stares, no head shaking, no mobs rioting for his head. There were men in this world who espoused the same ideas he held. They communed with him from the safety of books.

The mantel clock ticked the afternoon away .

Up! Up! Bark! Bark! Emil summoned him from a dreamless sleep, springing up and down like no other dog Stangler had seen. The dying flames were the only source of illumination now; daylight had fled.

A voice, soft and weak, murmured in English: “My head is on fire.”

Stangler bolted to his patient’s side. One eye opened and focused not on him but on Emil, who immediately sprang up and down again with unstoppable  joy.

“Am I in hell?” she whispered. “What is that?”

Stangler laughed. “That little demon is your guardian angel, mein Schatz. His name is Emil.”

She gripped the blanket and held it like a shield. Did she know German? “My treasure” might translate into an unwelcome endearment.

A buried treasure, indeed, this Fräulein he had dug up in the woods.

“What has happened to me, and why am I here?”

Her voice was rather imperious, for a maid or serving wench. And accusing. As if he had brought here to this sorry state–he who had lost a good night’s sleep and used no ordinary skill to keep her from her grave!

Stangler tried to look past the sickly greens, grays, and blues of the bruised face of the stranger and into her heart.

“Fräulein,” he said, gentling his voice, “I would love to know the answer to those questions. I have been looking forward to your waking and telling me.”

Her head rose slightly from the pillow; her lips parted, she began a reply, only to sink back as if exhausted by the prospect of making a proper introduction. At this point, propriety was as far away as the brute who’d failed to kill her. Stangler had undressed her, bathed her, and inspected her wounds, with no such nicety as having been employed by her to secure his services.


But she had fallen under once more.



Her head was on fire and she didn’t know where she was or how she’d come to be here. A one-eyed dog stared at her, his head cocked, as if trying to choose the most courteous way to inform her that her life was ruined and she’d only herself to blame. Not that she believed that, but everyone else did.

To her sudden chagrin, she couldn’t recall who “everyone else” might be.

“Who are you,” she asked the dog, “and why am I here?”

He wagged his tail, then leaped from the bed and bounced up and down like a coiled spring. What a strange animal! She’d never seen a dog quite like this one, but she heard the name Emil in her mind.

She sat up, slowly, her throat raw, her scalp burning–and only one eye! She and the dog!

Gingerly, she touched the swollen, bruised flesh that sealed her right eye. Ouch. Very well, her eyeball was still there, hidden inside her head.

“What is this place?” she asked, though the man was nowhere to be seen. The dog yipped an agreeable reply.

“I have been abducted,” she whispered, coming slowly to her senses. “I must escape!”

Someone had dressed in her a clean linen shift, one she’d never worn before–that much she knew. Her one eye made a swift surveillance of the tidy stone cottage with a window on each wall. Steep, narrow stairs led to an upper level. The air was sweet with a yeasty aroma of bread rising, of drying sage, rosemary, lavender, and more herbs than she could discern in one sniff, and milk curdling over a warm stove. She caught a whiff of dog as well, but like horses in a stable full of hay and even the occasional skunk, the odor of dog had never offended her. This, she knew. How she came to be here, she had no clue.

She swung around and planted her feet on the floor, tried to stand, and fell back to the straw mattress and feather tick. Then she noticed a bedpan and shuddered to think of the indignity of a man assisting her to a chamber pot, much less dealing with–oh, the indignity! Surely the man had a maid she hadn’t seen yet.

Fräulein. She had been hearing that a lot.

Slowly, she rose to her feet and managed the chamber pot, then found the pitcher and basin for hand washing, then fell back to her sick bed. Her sick bed! She wasn’t ill–she was injured, grievously injured, and her only guardian was a one-eyed dog.

Apparently she had dozed off again, because her eye opened and there he was, the man with green eyes and dark lashes.

Her captor.

With a gasp, she shot up, just as he was bending closer, and their foreheads collided.

“Ach du Liebe!” he cried, rubbing his head, then clasping hers and investigating the damage. She flinched away from his touch. “Keine Panik,” he said. “You have good reason to be jumpy, but I can assure you, my mission is to do no harm. I a healer.”

Emil’s tail thumped the floor as if to vouch for him.

“Good Sir,” she said slowly, “if I am to trust you, then you must tell me who you are.”

He hesitated. “You may call me Klaus.”

“I would not presume to be so familiar, Mr. Klaus.”

“You are no ordinary maiden,” he said with a smile. “Perhaps you attend to a baroness–or duchess–in England, I should guess, by your fine speech.”

“Maiden. Maid. What do you take me for, and why do you hold me in such low esteem?”

“Why do you bite the hand that feeds you?” he returned. “And why do you not favor me with your name, young lady?”

“My name is–”

He cocked an eyebrow at her, the same way his dog did. She gripped her long braid and brought it closer to her eye, as if her hair might reveal her name.

“This is not how I braid my hair at night.” That was it–the one revelation that came to her while examining her hair. “This looks lovely, though. Like a herringbone. You must show me how it’s done.”

He laughed, and she remembered that he had been impertinent and presumptuous with her.

“My name,” she said, with every expectation that it would roll right off her tongue, “is…”

Tears sprang to her eyes, or one eye, at least; hot, salty tears ran down her throat which was already raw, and she couldn’t even let out a scream. Just a hiccup. She stared at the stranger sitting at the edge of the bed she’d so mysteriously found herself in.

“What have you drugged me with?” she cried out. “I cannot recall my own name!”

The dog moved closer, standing on two legs to lick the tears from her face, his front paws on the edge of the mattress. She managed a brave smile for the endearing little character but not for the man with the mild German accent.

“Emil found you, Fräulein, badly beaten and buried in a shallow grave,” said the man. “I’ve seen head injuries far worse than yours, and your amnesia is only temporary, I am sure, but very grave. If you’ll pardon that word.” He flashed her a penitent smile. “We found you dressed as a maid. I did not imagine a fine lady would wear her maid’s garments, but you tell me you are no maid. Very well. Until you can tell me your name and title, I shall call you Lady Graves.”


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“Unheard Melodies” – my story won a little contest!

“Unheard Melodies” for Fiction Comp, #1 Week 1 by @carolkean 

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard are sweeter –

–“Ode on a Grecian Urn,” John Keats, 1819

This is my entry for the “Fiction Comp – All writers are welcome – #1 Week 1” fiction writing competition hosted by @kyrios.
Writing Prompt:
Having seen the fall and rise of empires…
the death of his loved ones… an immortal tries
his best to not mingle with society by holing
himself up in a cave far away from any civilization.
During one stormy night…
his home becomes the shelter for a stranger
who is the spitting image of his grandson.

Unheard Melodies

Alone in his mountain hideaway, the immortal heaved a godly sigh. The women he had loved! The demi-gods he had sired. Gone, all gone.

On a Grecian urn in a warm, dry part of the cave, fair maidens “forever panting, and forever young” danced under leafy boughs. Frozen in marble–ah! It seemed only yesterday he’d cavorted with them, not thousands of years.

Nor did it seem more than a century since John Keats gazed at those “marble men and maidens overwrought” in a British museum. Immortalized. Silly word. A graven image was no substitute for maidens who panted no more. All his statues, books, paintings, and music were also no surrogate for flesh and blood companions. They did remind him, though, why he had to distance himself from the mortals.

Thunder crashed, making the cave walls vibrate, but Weltschmerz didn’t worry about electronics or storms. He didn’t need human technology. With a swipe of a finger he called up songs from a life he’d led long, long ago.

photo credit: Margit Wallner, pixabay)

Humans. So good at burning cities and libraries, spilling blood, and shutting out the voices of the gods. Then again, the gods had done their share of mischief.

But they’d done so much that was good, and beautiful, and true. Music, math, literature, science, history, art, and more, all existed in “the Cloud.” The nine Muses kept track of things that mortals kept forgetting, destroying, or failing to create in the first place. Euterpe had been saving music from ages past and ages yet to come. It took humans thousands of years of ignoring messages from the gods before they finally learned to capture sound on invisible radio waves. Soon, someone would wake from a dream, take silicon from sand, and build computer circuits. Knowledge would be backed up in an invisible realm so far known only to the gods.


That was what they called him now, the gods, who’d scattered. Did he really hear that name in his hidden cave? The immortal swiped a finger over a tablet, silencing a damsel with a dulcimer in Xanadu. He listened.

Howling wind, that’s all he’d heard.


No mortal knew him by this new name, Welt (world) plus schmerz (pain). As if the world weariness of the gods were more his fault than anyone else’s.

Oh for one more night of nectar and ambrosia on Olympus, with all nine Muses at his table! He especially missed Euterpe, though he continued to see evidence of her across the ages. Mozart channeled her magic in his music, allowing mortals to hear the sublime sounds the gods had enjoyed long before. Euterpe also visited Coleridge in 1797, but the opium-addled poet awoke from a dream unable to remember the ending of “Kubla Khan.”

Weltschmerz remembered. If only the powers of the gods included calling up a panting maiden with a mere swipe of the finger.

“Weltschmerz! I know you’re in there. I’m coming in now, like it or not.”

How odd. Nobody else knew the path through the Black Forest to his mountain home. Weltschmerz blitzed to the cave entrance, a mere slit in the rocks, as a man squeezed through. How dare he?

The man straightened, coming eye to eye with Weltschmerz. They both blinked, leaned closer, and stared. Weltschmerz recognized the high cheekbones and chiseled jawline of his grandson, who’d been dead for–well, he’d lost track of time.

“Gott in Himmel,” the familiar stranger whispered. “You look exactly like the man in my dream.”

Weltschmerz caught a whiff of dog and sheep in the stranger’s wet wool jacket, warm blood, cold wet hair, and the stench of a battlefield.

“Well.” He remembered the hospitality of the ancients, Homer’s exulted Greeks and Germany’s less-celebrated Nibelungs. No greater shame was there than to neglect a visitor. Time to lavish this one with a warm bath, dry clothing, and a feast. “First things first.”

Weltschmerz whisked his visitor to the hot springs deeper inside the cave, saving questions for later. He was an immortal, after all. Biding his time wasn’t an inborn talent. He’d learned it with many a sob of remorse.

His human visitor finally took a place at table, gazing around in wonder, yet accepting the incredible with the assurance of a demi-god. Weltschmerz engaged only in small talk–more wine?–until they could retire to chairs by the hearth.

“A man who pays attention to dreams,” Weltschmerz began. “Silas, you are an anomaly.”

“Indeed.” Silas cast a furtive gaze at all the antiquities. “The dream did not, however, give me a sense that you are a Nazi. I wondered where they–where all the artwork was being hidden.”

“Relax. It was World War One that drove me into this cave, and the Nazis who kept me from venturing out again. The antiquities you see are my own personal collection, and most were new when I acquired them.”

“That’s a scary thought.”

“You have no idea.”

Silas stared into the fire. “I faced a firing squad today,” he said, “and I’m not entirely sure I’m still a real, live human. If my executioners had seen me get up from a shallow grave and walk away, their surprise would be no greater than my own.”

“Not bad, for a demi-god.” The old one steepled his hands. “Your crime?”

Judenliebe. I tried to save as many Jews as I could–until I got caught. I can’t save the world, but there is a way I could go back and save more people than I did. A way to do more good than harm.” He looked intently at his host. “If you’ll help me.”

“We can only do so much.” Weltschmerz felt the weight of the world on his shoulders. As usual. “Sometimes, we think we’re doing the right thing, only to find out later we are the ones who caused the strife we’re fighting so hard to stop.”

“You can help me. I couldn’t have dreamed you exist, much less have found you, if this were not so.”

“Ah, you Germans.” Weltschmerz sighed. “Just when I make good on my vow to stop meddling in mortal affairs, I see Nazi soldiers build nesting boxes and feeders for birds at the front. The Third Reich has a Department for Bird Protection. They protect the flora and fauna, yet they exterminate Jews. What would you have me do?”

“I was executed for treason, yet I didn’t die. I had a dream, and here we are. You can tell me why.”

“No. I’m done. If I had answers, would I be hiding out in a cave?”

Silas folded his arms, unmoved.

“Don’t give me that look, young man. My days as a god among mortals is over. Moses should have been the last straw, telling his so-called Chosen People to throw us away. Then that badass Paul came along. The minute he’d turn his back on his converts, they’d worship their own gods again.” Weltschmerz tapped his chest. “What am I, a wooden idol to smash and burn? To add insult to injury, Paul wrote long letters, full of chastisements, along with promises of an afterlife in some resurrected body, and do these epistles go up in flame like the lore of the Aztecs, or drown like the library of Alexandria? No. Two thousand years later, millions of people call his nastygrams the gospel truth.”

The god heaved a profound sigh. “Still. Whatever thoughts I had about Moses, I wouldn’t even dream of harming the people. Exile is bad enough. Genocide? Where is their God now?”

“The God of the Jews did not send angels to stay the hands of the executioners,” Silas said. ‘There’s a Spiel about free will going on there. But I’m not satisfied to watch innocents die and hope there’s a better life for them beyond this world. I want to do something here and now.”

Weltschmerz laughed, shaking his head pityingly. “Been there, done that, as people will be saying in the future. Just don’t complain to me when your efforts to undo any harm you’ve done lead to worse harm.”

“I want a time machine,” Silas said.

“So, go invent one. You Germans are good at that stuff. In fact, the Nazis already started work on one.”

“You can travel without machines. Help me.”

“I don’t care if you’re my grandson, or his Doppelganger, or a demi-god, or a lunatic. No.”

Silas rose to his feet, slammed a fist to his chest as Kubla Khan himself might have, and recited Coleridge:

I would build that dome in air,
That sunny dome! those caves of ice!
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
His flashing eyes, his floating hair

Weltschmerz laughed, without pity, this time.

The Muse had spoken. How could he refuse her?


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Los Alamos Photographer, Author And Scientist Elena Giorgi Brings Images To Los Alamos Reporter

Elena is proof that some of us are descended from the gods!

Los Alamos Reporter

IMG_9101.jpgLos Alamos Reporter followers are being treated to the photos of Elena E. Giorgi. Photo by Maire O’Neill/losalamosreporter.com


Elena E. Giorgi is a scientist, award-winning author and IPA-awarded photographer. She likes to say she spends her days analyzing genetic data, her evenings chasing sunsets and her nights pretending she’s somebody else.

Born in Scotland where her Italian parents lived while her father was working on his PhD at the University of Edinburgh, Giorgi was raised in Tuscany and graduated from the University of Pisa having majored in Theoretical Mathematics. She has  Masters of Science Degrees in Theoretical Mathematics and Biostatistics and a PhD in Applied Mathematics. She is currently working as a Computational Biologist at the Los Alamos National Laboratory.

“Math is pure and beautiful,” Giorgi said. “It’s like a Michelangelo painting—perfect all around. You can’t be wrong when you follow the steps dictated by logic.”

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Even Steven: a short story that evolved from a 5-minute-freewrite exercise

Thanks, @mariannewest, for the daily 5minute freewrite!
Today’s prompt: Day 348 : 5 Minute Freewrite: Wednesday – Prompt: vinyl.


Steve was done with Stephanie.

Her big baby-blue eyes and blonde curls, her pouty lips, her heaving bosom would not get her off the hook this time.

He almost left her over the leather recliner. It was his. No other chair in the world held him so comfortably. If it was as ugly all that, she could have bought some fancy “throw” thingie with useless tassled pillows to camouflage it. But oh, no, she had to have it hauled off when he wasn’t home. He’d been pretty damn nice about the redecorating, dazed and amazed that this beautiful blonde was moving in and about to marry him. The furniture dated back to his parents’ marriage 50 years earlier, but that didn’t mean it was worn out. All that clean, modern, shiny-new shit at Ikea was what she loved.

He didn’t put up much of a fight when she moved into the house his parents left him and made it “theirs,” by which she meant “hers.” He was in love. She was smart and witty, with a degree in architecture, as soon as she passed all the math classes. He’d taken over his dad’s construction business. Everyone said it was a match made in heaven.

The kind of houses he built were simple, not because he wasn’t smart enough to complicate them with gratuitous gables and peaks, but because he liked things sensible and easy to maintain. It wasn’t because he was lazy or indifferent that he hadn’t redecorated his childhood home. Everything was fine.

Until she moved in.

The Howard Miller chair, he thought, had settled matters once and for all. This was no knock off; this was the iconic and original chair, in excellent condition, worth thousands of dollars, but she would have hauled it off to the Salvation Army. That was where she sneaked off to with the leather recliner, but he retrieved it. The upstairs bedrooms were slated for purging after the wedding, which is why he hadn’t settled a date yet. She didn’t have a ring yet because she refused the half-carat diamond he’d chosen, and he wasn’t ready to siphon several thousand dollars from his savings for a danged rock.

His Budweiser beer stein collection was non-negotiable. She’d made fun of them in her cute, lilting way, but it stopped being cute after so many repetitions. Those steins were going nowhere, and she knew it.

If she had to take it upon herself to remove them, she could have boxed them up and stored them in the attic crawl space above his workbench in the garage, but she wouldn’t risk spiders or dust, probably not even for a Free Shopping Spree at Ikea.

What was it with clowns and spiders, anyway? It was a thing now. Something in the drinking water, maybe, made too many 1990s guys phobic about spiders. Maybe Stephanie planned to marry him just for his fearless, manly way of carrying spiders outside while she screamed like an idiot at the sight of them.

He’d kill a mouse for her, he’d rehome spiders and snakes, but his Budweisers stein were iconic, one for every year since he was born, because his mom went into labor in the middle of Oktoberfest. Back then, women smoked and drank all nine months and tossed babies into the back seats of cars without “safety restraints,” and boys played with cap guns that struck actual gunpowder and set off real smoke, and words like “toxic masculinity” didn’t exist yet. Steve was born in the cusp of 1950s manhood and 1990s gender-neutral-hood.

If Stephanie wanted a less masculine man, the wedding was off.


“Where are they?”

Steve asked her in his quietest, scariest voice, that authoritative bass his dad had used on Steve, Polly and Holly, the twins who caused their mother to get her tubes tied on the delivery table.

Stephanie just smirked. “Where is what?”

“If you sold them,” he said, “I will track them down, and I will get them back.”

Her denim cut-offs and mid-riff shirt distracted him momentarily from his wrath. She was stretching up to the ceiling, taping the wall where his steins used to be, getting ready to paint. Granted, a wall could use painting after so many years.

“Aww, you’re so cute when you’re mad, Stevey.” Flipping her blonde curls over her shoulder, she gave him that look of innocence he now recognized as a red flag waving. Cats had perfected the look, but he saw now that he had been had. She was innately evil and irresistibly cute but he was over “cute,” and he was over her.

“You have 30 days to move out,” Steve said.

She stepped down from the ladder and faced him. “Seriously? It’s me or those ugly, outdated Budweiser steins?”

Cat. Think of her as a cat. Not as a gorgeous little blonde who caught his heart and ran with it.

“It’s not so much about the things,” Steve said. “It’s about your lack of respect for my things. I like your minimalist style, but I’m thinking it may be incompatible with little things that matter to me, and your disregard is a big thing.”

“You can’t kick me out!”

“I said you got 30 days.” He marched up to pack some things, tuning out whatever words she was hurling at him, then stalked out the door and into the late September sunshine. The day was crisp and clear, unlike the brain fog Stephanie had afflicted him with.

Steve squinted at the old Airstream Flying Cloud 28 that Steph would have hauled away by now except she got the bright idea to strip the carpet and turn his mom and dad’s motorhome into a party shack out back. Sample floor tiles and cabinet colors were spread out awaiting a final decision, but he had a moment of clarity and pulled his key ring out of his pocket. The old Airstream fired right up, and he headed off to the salvage yard where he remembered a glimpse of blue and white vinyl tiles in a clearance bin. She’d seen them too and laughed and steered him to the custom-order books. Well hell, whose Airstream was it, anyway, and what if he felt like driving it with no regard for who might see him in the ghastly metal house on wheels?

    First, he stopped at the Salvation Army and inquired about his Budweiser stein collection. He’d guessed right. She hadn’t even tried to sell them, thank God for small miracles, and they were vintage collectibles.
The boxes were still unpacked in the receiving area and he managed to retrieve them without having to threaten violence because Quartez knew the routine, knew what to expect before Steve even charged the door.

“You gotta put that woman in her place, man,” he advised Steve. “Let her know who da man of the house.”

Steve sighed. “Quartez, the 1950s is calling. Apparently you landed in the 1990s by mistake and they want you back.”

“Ha ha. Suit yourself man. But, uh, before you go, I hate to tell ya, she dropped off some of your polyester ties and I don’t mind saying they look better on me than they would on you.”

“Shit!” Steve lunged for the cart piled high with shirts and polyester leisure suits. “She didn’t!”

“She does have a kind and compassionate and charitable side, unlike you.” Quartez lifted his chin, affecting the same hurt look that Steph was so good at, and he had rich brown puppy eyes with long, dark lashes to make ya feel his pain. His faux pain. Gawd.

The man broke out laughing, unable to keep up the act.

“Whatever you took,” Steve said, “just keep it. But I’m taking back the rest.”

“Now ya talkin,'” Quartez crowed.

With all 33 steins

safe beside him in the passenger seat, Steve moved on with his mission. He bought the vinyl floor tiles and made up his mind to install them here and now, in the parking lot. He would do this thing, now, without her input or protestations.

The diamond pattern required extra cutting, but he always had a utility knife at hand, and if that wasn’t sufficient for the job, the salvage store had everything he needed to do whatever the hell he wanted to with his motorhome. His. Not hers, not theirs, but his.

While he worked, his mind replayed scene after scene where she had done some outrageous thing, and he had protested, and she had soothed the savage beast with her feminine wiles. The little cat. Calling him the savage beast, when he was a just a guy, a regular guy, the kind who turned heads–and not just in small-town taverns where the pickings were slim. She met him at a misleading time in his life, dressed up as a groomsman in the wedding of his buddy Mike to her cousin Emily, and she caught the bouquet, and they danced at the reception at an upscale brewery and drank craft beer and fell under a spell of wedding euphoria.

His friends were in awe of her and so was he.

It happened gradually, the way she’d get him to cancel outings with his friends so he could take her where she wanted to go. Parade of Homes, ok, but art galleries full of expensive so-called “art” and snotty artists, no, he’d rather shovel manure at a hog farm.

He cut and peeled and stuck down tiles.

When did the kettle come to a boil–when did it occur to him he missed his old gang and their antics–and why was he in position to be missing them at all?

The floor turned resplendent with the blue and white pattern you saw at Oktoberfests everywhere. Party shack? You bet, Steph, but not the kind you have in mind. This one would take him to weekends of Dirndls, Lederhosen, green alpine hats with feathers, beer steins, sausages and sauerkraut, oompa-band tubas and accordions, beer chants, big Bavarian pretzels, and bosoms.

Stephanie might look like the St. Pauli girl but he’d always been a Bud man.


Beer and sausage sounded good

after installing a floor. Hell, it sounded good any time of day, any season. Steve dumped the vinyl scraps in the nearest bin in the parking lot, maneuvered the Airstream onto the street, and headed to the Tallcorn Tavern where his buddies no longer expected to see him. And that strong, sturdy little brunette at the bar who, according to Mike’s now-wife, wanted to do more than flirt with him. But she said that after he’d take up with Stephanie, and that was the last time he set foot in the Tallcorn. Until now.

He parked the mammoth right across from the open door of the tavern and unpacked two of his steins, one for his own beer, one just in case. Ya never know: a Budweiser kind of woman might be there at this very hour. She didn’t have to be a blonde bombshell with book smarts and a razor-sharp wit. But she would have to like him, as is. He wasn’t going to be anyone’s home improvement project again.

Through the door came laughter and warm light spilling onto the brick sidewalks. The old booths were still covered in red vinyl that was new when his parents were young. The brunette was at the bar. What was her name? Amanda. Mandy. She caught sight of him and broke into a shameless grin and called out his name, and everyone turned to look at the dusty construction worker at the door.

Who said you can’t go home again?

Where did the Oktoberfest blue and white diamond pattern originate?

The diamond pattern in heraldry is called a lozenge and dates back to Otto II of Bavaria.

“Budweiser girls” promote beer for Anheuser-Busch. The first Budweiser girl was in 1883. (Wikipedia)

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“Rape: A Love Story” by Joyce Carol Oates


Rape: A Love Story is one of the most brutal, disturbing, sick, memorable, and riveting stories ever to come forth from the lurid imagination of Joyce Carol Oates.

 Reading is the sole means by which we slip, involuntarily, often helplessly, into another’s skin, another’s voice, another’s soul. ― Joyce Carol Oates

I love it!

God have mercy on me, I love it. Me, the squeamish one who flinches at horror and violence and avoids the thriller genre and police procedurals because I believe in rehabilitation versus retribution.

Except when dealing with unrepentant narcissists,

people so evil, they will never change, and the only solution is to rid the world of their criminal presence. That is a very dangerous thing to say, to think even in the privacy of my own head, but thank God for writers like Joyce Carol Oates (JCO), who dares to give voice to the dark thoughts we try not to acknowledge (much less act on!).

Keangarooview: 5 stars!

Teenage rapists, drunk on the Fourth of July, violate a woman

in the most brutal and dehumanizing way and leave her for dead. Oops, she doesn’t die. And her 12-year-old daughter heard it all, hidden behind canoes in a boathouse. No danger of facing the consequences, though: rich daddies can hire lawyers and keep their boys out of jail.

Oh, and the locals will help, gossiping and speculating. Teena McGuire shouldn’t have dressed that way, shouldn’t have walked home on a night of revelry through a dimly lit park, shouldn’t have had her daughter with her, shouldn’t have been at a bar, shouldn’t, shouldn’t, shouldn’t–so, “She had it coming” seems to be the consensus of a community.

There is one force nobody has reckoned with in this town: John Dromoor. He’s the first cop on the scene after Bethie McGuire’s mother is gang-raped. A hero, in more ways than one. This is where the paradoxical title comes into play. “A love story” might connotate romance of the falling-in-love sort, but Romance has a long history of other connotations and themes.

Dromoor is brilliantly wrought, born in JCO’s feverish imagination, informed by JCO’s familiarity with Dostoevsky, Kafka, Thoreau, Lewis Caroll, and the classics. He’s a Gulf War veteran. He’s damaged. ‘One bright, hallucinatory morning in the desert, he saw his soul curl up and die like an inchworm in the hot sand.’


Dromoor is dangerous in a quiet, calm, controlled way,

a latent Rambo (see David Morrell’s original version of that vigilante). For all his disillusionment, weariness, and cynicism, however, Dromoor still has a heart. He cares about Teena, not in the platitude-mumbling way of most people who care, but in a real and visceral way. Love is a verb, and it can be a very active one. It can be the most violent of verbs, and the most platonic. Much of this novella focuses on a 12-year-old girl’s hero-worship of the one man who could show how much he cared, which matters all the more when everyone else was willing to blame the victim and let crimes slide.

The prose is riveting, with that hallmark breathless rush that distinguishes the voice of JCO from all others. The story is gripping, brutal, heartbreaking, horrifying, yet gratifying. You might hate yourself for loving Dromoor so much. It’s easy to see why 12-year-old Bethie is enamored of him, the one man in her life who does more than just care. He acts. Words of love and consolation come easy, but acting on them is a stretch beyond what most people will do. Dromoor’s handwritten not to Teena, Any hour of the day or night. D, is also handwritten in the book, and that one sentence is so high impact, I had to re-read it several times.

That’s the thing about JCO.

I used to copy whole passages, in long-hand, into a notebook, whenever I came across vivid, riveting, memorable prose. Now I have a Kindle, and it’s not the same thing, highlighting the text.

The locals, their gossip, their judgments, the devotion of families, the lengths that parents will go to, in order to bail out their offspring – there is so, so much stuff here, a book club could talk all night long. Lines like this:

Nate crowed. “See? You assholes? What I told you. I’d of been there, you needed to finish the job and dump ’em both. Tied down with rocks. Save your old man having to sell his boat.”

No sympathy for the killers, nor the parents going into debt trying to keep their boys out of prison. Not from JCO. She tackles misogyny head-on, ruthlessly, cutting the criminals no slack.

I’m looking forward to the 2017 movie version, Vengeance: A Love Story, available on Netflix and other venues.

Changing the title from Rape to Vengeance has its merits, but casting Nicholas Cage as Dromoor just shows Hollywood’s total lack of fidelity to authors and their intent. Dromoor is young, more like Robert Patrick[*] in Terminator 2. Any young and unknown actor with a cool, hard Clint Eastwood vibe would have been better than Cage, who runs hot. Smoldering is great, in other roles, but not this one.

Vengeance: A Love Story is a 2017 American thriller film directed by Johnny Martin and written by John Mankiewicz. It is based on the 2003 novel Rape: A Love Story by Joyce Carol Oates. The film stars Nicolas Cage, Don Johnson, Anna Hutchison, Talitha Bateman and Deborah Kara Unger. The film was released on September 15, 2017, by FilmRise. (From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia)


After their slick lawyer gets them off for a violent assault, four criminals find themselves the target of a cop with his own brand of justice.(Netflix)

I kinda-sorta hate myself for being such a fan of a story that is so dark, so full of retribution. But my sister was raped and murdered in 1975, and her killer(s) never faced arrest, much less the scandal of a trial, much less imprisonment, and I confess that if I were a war veteran, a soldier, a Dromoor, and if I knew (knew! beyond a doubt!) who got away with my sister’s murder, I would quietly set about plotting the demise of the kind of men who rape, kill, and dispose of bodies like roadside trash.

But that is a novel in itself, and so I will just say that JCO nails it – man’s inhumanity to man – yet it is a hallmark of JCO to deliver a ray of hope and something positive emerging from the darkest stories.

I’ve bought three extra copies of this novella to give to friends. That is higher praise than 5 Stars.

I’m afraid to endorse it at the Iowa Cold Cases site, lest it inspire those who’ve lost a loved one to administer vigilante justice, Dromoor style. It could be a thing, you know.  When our local police don’t rein in the bad guys, when the community fails to light a fire under their taxpayer-hired LE to locate the killer among them, when nobody else cares about a life that was stolen, violently, horribly, then desperation is one possible response. Jody Ewing nailed it in an email to me:

It’s a remarkable thing to behold. Hard to describe, really… You see how every single family starts out “knowing for certain” the killer or killers will be caught, and then watch their transition as they move through all these other stages of grief, except it’s a different kind of grief and a different set of stages because there is always THE UNKNOWN and the death was usually SO UNEXPECTED. You’ve heard it said thousands of times, but it’s true: No parent ever expects to have to bury a child.

A journalist with degrees in Social Science and Criminal Justice, a Private Investigator license, and years of studying cold cases, Jody Ewing understands the progression of a case that goes cold:

…. being transported back to that date when the crime actually happened, and then taking note of every development or dead end lead and reading through months and months of interviews the press did with the family, right up until the day the case goes cold, and then noticing the distinct change in how the family addresses the press once it’s gone cold.

Anxiety, nightmares and a nervous breakdown, there’s only so many traumas a person can withstand until they take to the streets and start screaming. – Blue Jasmine (2013)

[*] Billy Idol Almost Played the T-1000 in ‘Terminator 2,’ Robert Patrick Says via @thr

“My agent sold me to the T2 casting director (Mali Finn) as a cross between David Bowie and James Dean,” Patrick said, laughing, “So, I was trying to create an intense presence while I was sitting with Mali. I had this intense stare, which she liked.”


That intense stare – YES!

That is Dromoor. And Clint Eastwood. And my husband. He got it from his father (below, right). Speaking of #COOL, that’s my grandpa on the left. (Yes, my husband has been told he resembles Robert Patrick.)

Biased? Me?

I know what I like!

And I love, love, love Joyce Carol Oates.

“It makes me angry sometimes, it’s a visceral thing–how you come to despise your own words in your ears not because they aren’t genuine, but because they are; because you’ve said them so many times, your ‘principles,’ your ‘ideals’–and so damned little in the world has changed because of them.” ― Joyce Carol Oates, Black Water

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