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Charon
Posted on: Sep 23 09, 20:23


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From: Lee's Summit, MO, USA
Member No.: 5


I return to my old haunts and this is my first read.

Disturbing, very much so that I had to read up on how to comment under the new rules Cleo has stamped on the place.

You have chosen an unusual topic however, I enjoyed the style - presenting one side and then flipping the reader - so to speak - to the other side of the equation. Therefore, to say I enjoyed the story - no way, did I enjoy the trip - stout stomach was required, did you make me think - absolutely, was it a success - most definitely.

Well done writer.
  Forum: Short Stories & Chapters for Critique ->... · Post Preview: #117659 · Replies: 8 · Views: 11,046

Charon
Posted on: Nov 7 05, 20:39


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Hi ya Fran,

Course work is slowly nearing completion.  Thanks for asking.  

I am down to barely over 20 weeks to go.  Started with 64, so the numbers are looking good.  

I am averaging three papers and one fifteen minute presentation per week.  So far straight A's, top of the class.  Class is down to six students from the eleven that started.

We may be giving our class project presentation to a security seminar in September of next year.  A committee is reviewing our work that we have completed so far, to determine if it is worthy.  Over 20,000 people attend the seminar.  Our subject for the class project is the reconstruction and redesign of the Department of Homeland Security.

I really miss having the time to chat and do creative work on Mosaic, however that should change soon.  Thanks for thinking of me, I look forward to getting back in the swing of writing for fun.

I have had several stories published in my home town newspaper so far this year, so that has been fun.

Take care and will see ya soon out here.

Charon,

aka Butch




  Forum: Weekly Challenges -> Acropolis · Post Preview: #59139 · Replies: 16 · Views: 4,752

Charon
Posted on: Nov 6 05, 07:52


Egyptian
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Group: Gold Member
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Joined: 1-August 03
From: Lee's Summit, MO, USA
Member No.: 5


Tom turkey is a nervous bird
when Thanksgiving comes around;
He knows that people measure him
by the size and by the pound.

He skulks and hides the day away;
all approaches are rebuffed.
The tastiest tidbits are ignored -
he has no wish to end up stuffed.

He wonders why the ostrich
isn't our festive pick;
after all, he's very large
and you get a bigger drumstick...

Or how about a veggie banquet
nut roast instead of meat;
served with all the usual trimmings,
tasty and goes down a treat.

Potato and a salad bar
would be all right with me;
the sweets go over biggest,
it's not the meat, you see.

Take pity on this turkey
and free me from this haunt;
lay out a larger table,
it's desserts the family wants.

Why not have a juicy roasted
chick or lamb this year?
Or serve a honeyed ham instead...
the fam will love the change and cheer!  

Why pick on ostrich, chick or lamb,
Tom Turkey's got a problem here,
don't make of pig a honeyed ham,
we really should re-think this, dear !

Let's give Tom Turkey a reprieve
and go off to dance instead:
then we'll not need to grieve
nor chop off nervous heads !

We can make a tasty meal
of anything, it seems;
Let Tom Turkey off the hook
to enjoy his gobbler dreams.  

Let's prepare a tasty dressing,
add roasting ears and yams;
banana pudding, yummy pies,
homemade bread and jams.  

We can make a tasty meal
of anything, it seems;
Let Tom Turkey off the hook
to enjoy his gobbler dreams.  

Let's prepare a tasty dressing,
add roasting ears and yams;
banana pudding, yummy pies,
homemade bread and jams.  

But Tom Turkey's fate is sealed,
it seems: his heart will soon cease beating;
who cares that he is innocent
when he makes such tasty eating.

“I should be the nation’s bird,” he cried,
“Ben Franklin would agree.”
“Eat the eagle or the hawk,
They’re not as colorful as me.”




  Forum: Weekly Challenges -> Acropolis · Post Preview: #59009 · Replies: 16 · Views: 4,752

Charon
Posted on: Sep 10 05, 15:03


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From: Lee's Summit, MO, USA
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I liked your poem.  Don't have any crits, except words to the wise.  I too have posted religious offerings - both poem and short stories.  Unfortunately or fortunately they do tend to generate lots of discussion.  

I completely understand the reference of the Kingdom of God and the fishing nets.  For are we not fishers of men.  Now that term can be taken several different ways as well.  

For example, my icon used to be a little demon, who I have changed to be the cute little fellow that I now use.  My little demon offended some people, they could not understand my humor.  So to avoid controversy and the focus being on my icon versus my works, I changed the icon.

James and I have had some very enjoyable and excellent discussions in the past.  I never take offense but rather value his opinion, I feel he challenges me to be better at what I do, and therefore better prepared.  

Your poem was well done, I have a terrible time with meter, working on it, just not there.  As a word to the wise - when I post some of my dark scary stuff, I know that it will offend some people - as well.  So I get less readers, and less crits.  

I roll with the punches, one thing poetry and writing in general has taught me - fellow writers always have opinions.  Most of them marvelous thought provoking concepts, but rarely are they meant to be brutal and insensitive.  I was amazed how I would get tens of crits on what I thought was my weakest work, and not a comment on my best.  Either Larry or Norm told me the bad thing about writers is that we let our writer get in the way sometimes.

Thanks for sharing, and stay dry.

Charon
  Forum: ARCHIVES -> Poetry for Crit Prior to 2011 · Post Preview: #53951 · Replies: 57 · Views: 9,262

Charon
Posted on: Aug 18 05, 20:56


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From: Lee's Summit, MO, USA
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QUOTE (Nina @ Aug. 17 2005, 02:11)
Hi Butch

I hadn't seen this story before.  It was a delight to read.  You are indeed a word painter and you have painted a vivid picture of that first kiss and the build up to it.  it captures a special time forever in print.

The girl must have been chuffed to receive such a lovely story about her, a bit of her history to treasure and pass on to her grandchildren.

Much enjoyed

Nina

Thanks Nina, for reading and taking the time to comment.  Glad you enjoyed my little trip down memory lane.  Ah to be 13 again, body wise, but not mind wise.

Butch
aka Charon
  Forum: Short Stories & Chapters for Critique ->... · Post Preview: #51047 · Replies: 14 · Views: 6,961

Charon
Posted on: Aug 16 05, 21:28


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From: Lee's Summit, MO, USA
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August 2005 - An update on this story.  

The young lady this story is about now has her own copy - via a chapbook.  

I have been writing short stories for my hometown newspaper, and have received very nice letters from fans.  One was particularly nice so I responded with a thank you.  

After corresponding back and forth, the fan and I realized we knew the same people.  The lady is a bit older than me, about 10 years.  As we discussed old friends, she remarked that she knew the older sister of the girl in this story.  I was furnished the older sisters address and I sent a copy to the older sister.  

The older sister, of course, did not remember me, however she gave the chapbook to the young lady as a surprise gift.  The young lady's remark, "I had no idea that I meant that much to him."

Silly girls - anyways.  What do we guys have to do, write a story about you?

Charon
  Forum: Short Stories & Chapters for Critique ->... · Post Preview: #50931 · Replies: 14 · Views: 6,961

Charon
Posted on: Aug 14 05, 21:25


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From: Lee's Summit, MO, USA
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This was devastating news.  We have lost a great friend, humorist, and loving older brother.  The world was a better place because of Larry, and so  am I.  

I have been fortunate to know Larry all the way back to the wonderful days of Poem Kingdom, when he and I discovered we had much in common.  Both ex-Sailors during a turbulent time of our country's history.  We both loved God, family and country.  Both devout Republicans and dedicated Hillary bashers, we enjoyed sending each other teasers and funny jokes about politics and life.

Above all, we adored our friends we made at PK and now at MM.

I could always count on my daily emails from Lar to pick me up when I had a rough day.  He seemed to love life, and shared his love with everyone.  I lost another dear friend last year and wrote a tribute to him. Please bear with me now as I rededicate this to another lost friend, it is simply called Friends:

Fresh as a breeze when it drifts in the spring,
Rare as incense and the scent it will bring,
Intense as the sun, but warm in its cling,
Everlasting as a song that a child will sing,
Never far from thought, just give it a ring,
Dazzling in beauty no pain from its sting,
Simple and free, my friend is my wing.


I shall remember his humor forever.

Butch
aka Charon




  Forum: Member Announcements -> Basilica · Post Preview: #50815 · Replies: 54 · Views: 11,469

Charon
Posted on: Aug 9 05, 19:45


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Very nice.  I have a willow recently planted in my backyard with two rose bushes beneath - what a coincidence, eh?

Beside her thrives a blushing rose,
soft color warms her face,
while dewdrops glist'ning through sunlight
form sprays of dainty lace.

I wish I had written the above lines.  For roses do seem to blush especially so early in their life and in the morning.  

So much like life as you say in your response.  

deep sorrow whispers soft her name

Was the only line I had trouble with, I had to go back and reread it a couple of times to completely understand was it the willow or sorrow softly wispering her name?

Well done, I enjoyed.

Charon
  Forum: ARCHIVES -> Poetry for Crit Prior to 2011 · Post Preview: #50395 · Replies: 38 · Views: 10,243

Charon
Posted on: Aug 9 05, 19:39


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From: Lee's Summit, MO, USA
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Happy birthday to you.
Happy birthday to you.
Happy birthday dear MM.
Happy birthday to you.

Please apply appropriate music and voice desired for full effect.

Charon.
  Forum: Nero's News · Post Preview: #50394 · Replies: 10 · Views: 4,057

Charon
Posted on: Aug 9 05, 19:36


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Hi guys, been a while, still plowing through my Masters.  I have been writing 2 to 3 papers a week for class, along with presentations, so it eats up a bit of my time.  Occasionally I get a respite and jot something down.  This is something I am going to use as a prologue to a story I am contemplating.  Just wanted to see what you think.  I've been reading some of your stuff; just don't have much time to crit, yet.  Hope to do some catching up big time soon.

Charon



Black Train
By
Emerson Butch Sollars

My ear lies pressed against the rails listening for the distant rumbling of an oncoming train.  Before my eyes, the rails disappear into a single point in the distance, twin lines seemingly drawn by a young person’s hand.  Somewhat straight, the rails have imperfections every so often, a slight bend here and there - in and out - as if the hand trembled as it drew upon the landscape’s canvas.  Trees line the pathway - mighty oaks, maples and elms, sprinkled in amongst the countless cottonwoods.

Crickets call one another in a rhythmic chant each seeking a companion to share the moist oppressive heat.  A slight breeze waltzes through the natural tunnel before me, caressing and sliding along the branches of the trees.  Playfully, the breeze touches my face and hair, lifting a small flop of hair, dropping the blond tresses across my eyes, tickling my nose, before continuing its joyous adventure onward towards the opposite direction, away from my gaze.  

As if it could pull my head, my gaze follows the breeze as it dances towards the distant town, which sits beside the tracks.  Dashing into the train station, the gentle wind becomes a bit more rowdy, as it throws a piece of discarded newspaper into the sky, before it disappears within the alleyways of the hazy town.

Faintly I hear the sound of a whistle in the distance, calling from the direction with which the breeze entered the scene.  Once more I place my ear to the tracks and listen, a slight tremble can be felt in the tracks.  My eyes focus on the crossties before me, rotted chunks of wood, worn in many places from weathers cruel hand, pieces torn and thrown about without a care.  Alone, I arise to my knees; faintly smoke appears over the tops of the trees on my far left, as the train rounds the bend and begins it approach along the pathway which leads towards me.

A glance back at the town, I see the signal light at the station turn from red to green.  No one wishes to travel today, no cargo to be loaded.  I stand in the middle of the tracks as the train bears down upon me.  I now can hear the sound of the steam being released.  The hideous and chest pounding chug of the massive pistons - back and forth, back and forth - a continuous endless cycle.  Black smoke belches from the great stack bellowing upwards then slammed back along the tail of the creature.  Slowly the rails beside me begin to shake, as if frightened of the massive beast.  Small stones quiver in anticipation of the mighty weight as the train continues its approach.  Small animals suddenly dart from the holes and burrows they have created in the crossties, terrified of the approaching massive monster.  

Yet I stand, a barrier to its existence, fixed upon its solitary eye, as it gleams in the blackening sky.  I fear not, for it does not exist.  I know it cannot be.

The engine screams at me in anger, a terrifying banshee cry of rage.  Closer it comes, its number blazoned on its cowcatcher in brilliant red and gold – 666 – the mark of the beast.  Ten feet, five feet, one foot, it smashes into me and passes on.  Turning, I watch it fade into the distance.  The Black Train has come once more…


Posted as an unpublished work by Emerson H. Butch Sollars




  Forum: Short Stories & Chapters for Critique ->... · Post Preview: #50393 · Replies: 4 · Views: 4,430

Charon
Posted on: Jan 22 05, 13:54


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Alan,

How's it going, thanks for stopping and commenting.  

I end-stopped because at first I wrote it with every other line being dark then light, then dark then light.  As if you were on the ferry moving back and forth across the River Styx.  Then I decided to group them all together and did not alter the end-stops.

Your thoughts?

Charon  :ghostface:
  Forum: ARCHIVES -> Poetry for Crit Prior to 2011 · Post Preview: #28176 · Replies: 10 · Views: 2,802

Charon
Posted on: Jan 22 05, 13:52


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Thanks Nina for dropping by and especially for writing.  

Charon required a token before he would permit the shade to pass on to Hades.  If the shade did not have a token, the shade would drift forever in that in between space.  In the olden days, even as recent as the 19th century, corpses were buried with coins on their eyes, so they could pay Charon his dues.  In ancient times, the coin (obolus) was placed under the tongue.

He was the child of Erebus (Darkness) and Nyx (Night), and had two syblings - Aether (bright upper atmosphere) and Memera (Day).  His grandfather was Choas (Time).  Although some of the ancients identify Eros (Cupid) as his sybling as well.

The word carrion comes from his name, and is how the name is pronounced.  Today most people know his and his shape as the grim reaper.  If ever you see the movie - Clash of the Titans - they probably had the best Charon - ever.  Some of the ancient writers picture him as a skeleton, others, a decayed form of human.  But in most he has the nose of a vulture, pointed ears, and wings. (Sound familiar)  In almost all cases he is large, even larger than the heroes of Greek and Roman days.

If you arrived still alive and rang his bell, he would strike you dead with his ever present hammer.  Thus many stories of how the Greek heroes and such wrestled with him, in order for them to cross the river Styx.

Probably more than you wanted to know.  But it might help explain further.

Charon  :ghostface:
  Forum: ARCHIVES -> Poetry for Crit Prior to 2011 · Post Preview: #28175 · Replies: 10 · Views: 2,802

Charon
Posted on: Jan 21 05, 23:30


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I wrote this some time back when Cleo had challenged us to write a poem about our pseudonym.  For some reason I never posted it, or if I did, I don't see it anywhere, therefore I do so now.  For the fun of it.

Charon - I am the bridge

Light
Radiant beams blight my robe red with fire.
Agony kindles my soul.
Promises of tomorrow and what may be.
Free to desire enchantment.
Winged flight of glory.
Fingers reach for life.
Seek me not.
Board my craft for expectations.
A coin.
I must return.

Dark
Despondent shades anoint my oar black with ice.
Misery subdues my soul.
Shades of what were and can never be.
Trapped to dwell in horror.
Drifting seeping of foulness.
Claws release the ruin.
Leave me be.
Depart my vessel for obscurity.
A token.
I must return.


Posted as an unpublished work.
Emerson Sollars - September 2004

For those of you unaware as to who Charon is, he is known as the ferryman.  The fellow who receives the coins left on the eyes of the dead so many eons ago.  Many a hero had to wrestle with Charon to return from the island of shades.  I've always wondered if he had any form of heart.

Charon ghostface.gif
  Forum: ARCHIVES -> Poetry for Crit Prior to 2011 · Post Preview: #28140 · Replies: 10 · Views: 2,802

Charon
Posted on: Jan 21 05, 23:19


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Alas poor Eros, I knew him well.

Ah but was the little cherub looking in a mirror?  Could he be so vain?

Eros, thy darts sting beyond measure, be gone, leave me be.

Excellent, love the theme, the idea, the concept.

Teach that little minx right, I say.  He has always been a thorn in my side.

See ya on the other side.

Charon ghostface.gif
  Forum: ARCHIVES -> Poetry for Crit Prior to 2011 · Post Preview: #28139 · Replies: 8 · Views: 2,586

Charon
Posted on: Jan 21 05, 23:13


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From: Lee's Summit, MO, USA
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Aggiel,

Reminds me of my drive home and my walks, when I put my earphones from my mp3 player in my ear, and I listen to Loreena McKinnett or Enya or Clannad, and am drifting over the meadows and prairies of western Nebraska and Kansas.  The winds blowing the prairie grass making them look like waves on the ocean, the greens and golds, sliding down the hills.  Bright meadow larks and red-winged blackbirds darting about catching gadflies, May flies, and an errant dragonfly.

So peaceful, and then the guy behind me honks wondering why in the world I am driving twenty miles an hour in a 75 mph zone.

Lovely, simply lovely.

Charon ghostface.gif
  Forum: ARCHIVES -> Poetry for Crit Prior to 2011 · Post Preview: #28138 · Replies: 38 · Views: 9,315

Charon
Posted on: Jan 17 05, 20:22


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From: Lee's Summit, MO, USA
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Cathy,

Excellent.

Good crits so far, I too loved the opening.  Especially considering I am an old old old romantic.

It flowed very nicely all the way through.  However (hate that word almost as bad as - but)  I was distracted by your omitted letters in words.  I think they would have been fine with the letters in them.  Such as the e'er.

Call me silly, tell me to be quiet.  I do like it, so good luck.  

Regarding gimbaled, When I first read it, before all the discussion, I placed in my head a slight tinkling sound such as delicate chimes and the morning being lacy and delicate.

However, upon researching, I now read it with mixed senses.  I'm not sure what I am supposed to see.  When I think of a ships compass it was usually surrounded in strong brass and heavy wood, to prevent damage.  So now I relook at your poem and I see strength and harmony transitioning into soft and delicacy.  

Did I succeed?

Butch
aka Charon ghostface.gif
  Forum: ARCHIVES -> Poetry for Crit Prior to 2011 · Post Preview: #27789 · Replies: 14 · Views: 2,962

Charon
Posted on: Jan 13 05, 22:14


Egyptian
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From: Lee's Summit, MO, USA
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Cailean

Thanks so much for stoping by and criting.  You offer some excellent advice.  I will have to rewrite just a bit and add some of your suggestions.

Unfortunately I have gone back to school to get my Masters and have had my first class, which I discovered I must have two papers and a 15 minute presentation by next class.  

Also unfortunately, it has been 20 some odd years since I last went to school, so the startup is going to be exciting.

Again, thanks for the crit, and when I get some time, I will attack with joy.

Butch
aka Charon ghostface.gif
  Forum: Short Stories & Chapters for Critique ->... · Post Preview: #26391 · Replies: 6 · Views: 4,665

Charon
Posted on: Jan 12 05, 23:44


Egyptian
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Group: Gold Member
Posts: 431
Joined: 1-August 03
From: Lee's Summit, MO, USA
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As we grow older images from our past are destroyed, vanquished as too old, non productive, or dangerous.  In my hometown of St. Joseph, Missouri there once was a magnificent old building simply called The Auditorium.  I put ink to paper to play a tribute to that hulk from my past, where many wonderful events occurred in and around.  Please come and take a trip back to the early 60's when this was the center of entertainment in my hometown.  The building is no longer in existance.



The Auditorium


For years it stood majestically perched high upon the hill on 4th street, between Faraon and Robidoux.  To a small child’s wits, this was a place of such magnitude that only a House of God could equal it in grandeur.  Towering over the landscape it was dwarfed only by the Buchanan County Court House, which regaled in its location, just a scant block away.

I had been in this observatory only three times before I was to become bonded to it.  The first time was for a circus, the second for a Harlem Globetrotters game, and the third was when I participated in a musical.  The circus and basketball game diverted my attention from the domineering size of the edifice, because my whole focus was on the events before me.  The events wrestled one on one with the building, each bettering the other in some shape or form; neither would have been the same without the other.  However, the musical attempted to prepare me for what soon to become a house of entertainment while I traveled through my high school years.

The musical brought together the eighth grade classes from all over St. Joseph.  We sang the songs of Rogers and Hammerstein’s “Oklahoma.”  Sitting on the floor of the gym, small for my age, I was contracted in size even further by the sheer magnitude of the event.  Our parents surrounded us in seats mounting to the very heights of heaven or maybe just the sky.  Because not one, or two, but three balconies were stacked high upon one another, soaring above us.  It seemed the Gods themselves were on high watching our performance that night.  For all we could see, in the faint light, were their faces beaming down at us – one and all.

We sang, beautifully and rapturously, as one.  Our voices soaring and enriching, absorbed into every brick, piece of wood, and shred of fabric of that impermeable structure.  No sledgehammer, wrecker’s ball, or bulldozer could have shaken a single piece of that structure.  Not that night.

That fall I, and the majority of my fellow eighth graders entered high school.  Most of us entered the northern confines of Lafayette, home of the Shamrocks, bastion of the Fighting Irish.  Pennants of green, gray, and white flew in, around and over our hearts, minds and souls.  We discovered a new way of life, a religion - Irish pride – true and true.  We bonded, connected, linked and became attached to complete strangers.  Strangers, that in our later years, we would reflect back upon as dear friends, and possibly a few would even be considered heroes.

We attended our first Jamboree, our first sock hop, and our first homecoming, each a first time special event, a hatching.  The nest we rested in contained many eggs, incubating slowly and surely, each waiting for the right time to burst open and lay before us a treasure beyond belief.  Some would be within our grasp, while others would always be just beyond reach, forever tantalizing, tempting us with promises of glory.  Lurking in our near future was such a gem, a challenge, especially for those of us who considered ourselves - Irish.

When the first Christmas Vacation came upon us, yes that is what it was called back then, we discovered we were given ten days of liberty from school.  Some of us would be disappointed, at first, for school to us was freedom, and opportunity.  There would be some, even today, who would have wanted us tested for a sanity check.

Right after the holiday, the big event happened.  When that old auditorium became alive once more.  Alive with life, color and sound.  It became a temple, a house of prayer, a den of worship.  Eight different high schools would walk into that abattoir and become prey to the butchery and debauchery known as the Christian Brothers Christmas Basketball Tournament.

For the next four years of my life, this event would be the highlight of the Christmas season.  A time when eight high schools gathered into one huge monolith and became a yelling, screaming, joyful mob.  Oh, there were tears, however, they were long in coming, and short in duration.

The smell of popcorn would waft throughout the place, every nook and cranny: cotton candy, hot dogs, the smell of mustard and ketchup.  Perfume (Charley and Chanel) and cologne (Old Spice, English Leather and Hi-Karate) would mix with the odors of food, creating a sweetness we would never encounter again.

The noise would ebb and swell depending on the situation.  Teams would arrive, while others would go home.  The youth of my community milling about: screaming and calling out names common at the time, Janet, Tommy, Marilyn and Bobby.  The squeaking of the shoes (Converse all-stars) on the court reverberates off the concrete box seats.  Flashing colors moving back and forth, players rushing from one end to the other. The sound of the ball bouncing off the floor or rattling off the rim, and the scream of the whistle as one player or another slides by trying to save the ball from the dreaded out of bounds line, just adds to the confusion.  Finally the horn, a horrid blast signaling another period has ended.  Either a chance at redemption, or the final acclaim indicating victory and defeat.

The floor sticky with spilt pop.  Programs lying about, caressing the floor, wadded into balls of crumpled mass pitched into corners by disappointed fans, transforming the floor into art deco created by a mad painter who was a conglomeration of Andy Warhol and Picasso. The colors, reds, blues, blacks, yellows, golds, greens and whites dazzle the eye.  

Cheerleaders in their breathtaking outfits, sweaters declaring not only their schools symbols but also their names – Linda, Mary, Nancy, and Connie.  Bows and ribbons dangling from their hair, skirts flaring from hips and legs soon pictured and captured in the dreams of many a young lad.  Tennis shoes, dyed to match the colors of the uniform, delicately encasing the bright white Bobbie socks.  Smiles glittering white, surrounded by well-coiffured hair, lacquered in place by several copious sprayings of Aqua Net or Breck hair spray.  Why some of those mammoth creations never caught fire I’ll never know.

These bundles of joy would arrive on the scene unlike invaders of old.  Exploding with energy and life, vanquishing the despair and loneliness of even the most disenchanted soul.  In their eyes their team was the best, their boys could achieve anything, climb any pinnacle.

Letter jackets worn by the massive football players burst with color.  Terrifying warriors strikingly blazoned with metal ornaments, emblems of their conquests.  Arriving as part of an entourage, escorting the young fair maidens.  When compared to the beauty of the ladies, these warriors were apelike in appearance.

Each year we, the Irish faithful, arrived at this den of swindlers, this charlatan, this painted lady which dazzled us with her beauty and promises of victory and grandeur.  Each year, it became a mortuary, filled with the ashes of our crushed hopes and dreams.  We came to seek counsel at this ministry, this presbytery, only to be cast out from the Garden of Eden.  We were never permitted to gaze upon the tree of knowledge, the holy grail of high school basketball.  Each year some destroyer would prevent us from grasping the scepter of greatness, the first year it was North Kansas City Vikings, my sophomore year it was Christian Brothers Golden Eagles, junior year Maryville Spoofhounds, and my senior year the Kearney Bulldogs.  

The building is now gone, called a firetrap by some.  The third balcony had become dangerous; it could collapse at any time.  The ramps were in need of repair.  The stage floor, where many of the bands of Dick Clark’s fantastic tours preformed, was considered dangerous.  Vanquished while I was away at war, torn down by mysterious forces.  This Parthenon will always remain firmly entrenched in my mind.  The years I ventured there, the ladies I escorted – Becky, Diann, and Sherese - will remain frozen in time.  Forever entrapped as if in a snow globe, to be shaken every once in a while, to bring a smile upon my face and reward me with pleasant memories.

Posted as an unpublished work.

Emerson Butch Sollars January 2005
  Forum: Short Stories & Chapters for Critique ->... · Post Preview: #26352 · Replies: 6 · Views: 4,665

Charon
Posted on: Jan 10 05, 20:14


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Ah, I like the conversation regarding King and his works.  I have every book, first edition that King ever produced.  However, one problem I have with this great writer, is that he writes wonderful novels, and then rushes to a finish.  His endings are horrid.

Does anyone else agree?  

Tommyknockers is a perfect example, what is that ending all about.  

I would guess the best example of telling would be a fairy tale, yes?

Very little development occurs, hardly any descriptions - can anyone tell me what the town looks like in Cinderella or even the castle?

Bang you are in the story and bang you are out.

Charon
  Forum: Prose Education -> Noble Narratives · Post Preview: #26198 · Replies: 52 · Views: 40,430

Charon
Posted on: Jan 9 05, 12:51


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She walked slowly to the door, half-opened, with light flickering beyond...

Intriguing sentence, I on the other hand might have written it as such (for what it is worth)

“Why am I here?” The question silently roamed within her delicate head as she crept forewards.  Reaching for the handle of the partially opened door, a slight breeze whisks through the opening, caressing her hand, causing the hair on the back of her head to ask the same.  The flickering light just beyond initiated the shadows to change shapes, a quick hand to her mouth stifled a scream when her eyes perceived one of shades slither across the crusted floor and touch her sliding foot.  

What I have tried to do here is a couple of things:

Pull the reader along with the heroine.  

The question prompts the reader to answer for her.

Using the word delicate I have permitted the reader to play a bit with the woman, her size, looks, etc.  I haven't told them a thing, but yet they have begun to perceive what she looks like.

Using the crusted floor, I now have given the reader an opportunity to paint the room, the building, etc.  I don't have to mention cobwebs or dirt and dust, they will fill it in.

Preventing the scream and the hair standing up on the back of her head, have set the mood, I hope - scary.

Did I do good?  



Charon
  Forum: Prose Education -> Noble Narratives · Post Preview: #26098 · Replies: 52 · Views: 40,430

Charon
Posted on: Jan 8 05, 09:19


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What great conversation.

I have looked back upon my favorite writers and have discovered they offer a variety, each his or her own approach.  I despised the opening of M.M.Kaye's Passage to India, but loved the book.  She bogged me down with so much detail, that I couldn't wait for dialogue to begin to give life to the story.

Stephen Donaldson has the same tendency.  

If you have ever read the collobaration of Donaldson and King called the Talisman, compare the two authors and how they use dialogue.  How each author paints the scene and draws you into the story.

I also had a terrible time trying to read James Joyce's Ulysses.  The first chapter seemed so bogged down in detail I could never get past it.  Finally I forced myself, after owning the book for several years, and loved the book.

I have been told I paint pictures with my words, I don't provide a lot of detail, I let the reader fill in the blanks.  To me, dialogue seems to do that, a lot. Funny that I should hate dialogue.

Giving human qualities to nature reminds of the a movie called "The Owl and the Pussycat."  In that movie, Barbara Streisand is somewhat a lady of leisure.  George Segal plays a writer.  In the movie there is a lengthy debate about a sentence - "the sun spit morning."  Very humorous dialgoue regarding this phrase and what it was attempting to do.  Thirty years later I still remember that line and the imagery.  Bad line, I don't know, but I remember it.

Butch
  Forum: Prose Education -> Noble Narratives · Post Preview: #25996 · Replies: 52 · Views: 40,430

Charon
Posted on: Jan 7 05, 20:45


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This is very interesting.  I for one abhor dialogue, because I have such a difficult time creating it, without it seeming forced.  Unlike a Harlequin novel.  I really like the posts above, very intriguing.  

I also try to stay towards one person short stories, then I don't have to worry about dialogue.

Butch
  Forum: Prose Education -> Noble Narratives · Post Preview: #25977 · Replies: 52 · Views: 40,430

Charon
Posted on: Jan 3 05, 07:53


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RonPrice,

I agree with Cailean and Jox, with one exception.  I do read the forewords in all books, as it usually helps set the stage on what the writer was thinking when he wrote his piece.  Some, as James has indicated, have been extremely dry, terribly dry, almost to the point I didn't want to read the book.  

I figured the numbers were some form of subscript, although I had trouble matching them up.

I also agree with Cailean, start where ever you desire, it is your story.  Why follow the rules, your idea might become the new rules.

I like your last line, with one exception - is it is huge assumption to state that your book will force readers to think about their lives.  I would suggest you hook the reader by using the word desire or similar term.

Otherwise interesting, and intriguing.

Charon ghostface.gif
  Forum: Short Stories & Chapters for Critique ->... · Post Preview: #25728 · Replies: 9 · Views: 3,540

Charon
Posted on: Jan 2 05, 19:50


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Awesome, vivid painting.

I think I understand your last lines, and see how they fit.  Although I'll voice to see if I do - Like Christ is the lamb sacrificed so that others, in this case a small child, shall live?

If not, then maybe I missed as well.

I do have to admit one flaw, I found the native words distracting at first.  However, upon reading the definitions, and then going back over, I understand.

I love nature, beast and man tales, especially the conflicts.

Otherwise, outstanding, thank you for sharing.

Charon ghostface.gif
  Forum: ARCHIVES -> Poetry for Crit Prior to 2011 · Post Preview: #27604 · Replies: 19 · Views: 3,523

Charon
Posted on: Jan 2 05, 17:52


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I reworded the above.
  Forum: Discussions -> Alexandria's Library · Post Preview: #25705 · Replies: 6 · Views: 14,887

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