Coming up soon, I’ll have an actual publication to offer you. That’s right — I’ve finally bitten the bullet and am putting out a book.
Hard cover, and soft cover — Catastrophe Jones: A Collection of Forgotten Dreams will be available through Lulu press, Amazon, and most likely even the Apple store and Kindle.
100+ pages of ‘did I really do that’?
Yes.
Yes I really did.
A couple of months ago, there were tornados, near here. They did not reach Chez Jones, nor were any family nearby affected in any horrible way, but the region was shellshocked, because tornados don’t normally show up in this area, in that fashion. A few days ago, there was an earthquake in Virginia, which was felt all the way down to Georgia, and all the way up into Canada. Here at Casa de Jones, I felt it, while sitting in my chair — I looked up, and the cats and dog were staring at me in abject horror, clutching the couch. I couldn’t fathom why my chair felt like a Massage-O-Matic for a full minute; I assumed a huge truck was coming down the exit ramp, so I turned to look… but that wasn’t the case. I txted the other Mrs. Jones, who felt it in her office, as did her officemates… and thusly, ‘Earthquake’ was the assumption, however odd.
And now, a hurricane. Irene of 2011 has torn up the eastern seaboard, causing thus far tens of thousands of dollars in damages. She’s on her way here, and thus far, the only thing of note is the bridge to our little neighborhood is semi-flooded over, and our basement is taking on little streams of water between the cinderblock.
My father is terrified for us, to the point of offering to pay for our gas and hotel if only we’ll hurry up and leave the area. Much as I love my father, I can’t get worked up about this. Irene just doesn’t seem like it’ll be a big deal.
I hope I’m right about this one…
She liked to look up at the stars–
twinkle, twinkle, little
–mother had said they were the eyes of the ones who had gone before. She liked to look at the grass–
green grows, green grows the
–mother said that it grew from the bodies of the ones who had gone before. She would think of mother when she was chewing palm fibers to make rope–
hangman, hangman, slack your
–or when she was helping to grind flour for biscuits. Now that she was going to become a mother of her own, it felt nice to think of her mother, and all that she had done for her, all that she had given. The coming children would be loved, well provided-for. She and her husband were going to be blessed with a number of children, so the midwife said. It was in the stars, and everyone trusted them, for sure.
Before the halls of man had fallen, there was an Empire that lived under a single sun and two moons, its people numerous, civilized, and well-bred. Its reign was vast, holding the lands from the endless mountains of the east to the salt shores of the west with an unutterably iron fist. (There were, of course, a few exceptions. There always are, when dealing with rulings of lands on such scales.)
The Emperor and his Empress, ruled over their lands and surrounding seas with a mixture of both compassion and cruelty, breaking new grounds with their knowledge of both man’s heart and mind. Those who were faithful to the Empire were rewarded, while those who were treacherous were punished, as is often the case in such matters. What made it particularly extraordinary was the effectiveness of their theory regarding the state of humanity as a whole. That it was brilliant was undeniable — that it must be destroyed was unavoidable, if only to make way for those who should, eventually, rule both the land, and the heavens.
The dawn clawed its way over the horizon, red and bloody fingers reaching up and to the sky, tearing open the dull grey rags that clothed the blue, and a pitiful rain bled out onto the scorched earth below. The drops that fell were as scattered as the clouds that birthed them, offering no succor to the parched ground; puffs of dust kicked up were caught and swirled in a directionless wind, tossed about and laid back down like a careless confetti. On a cliff that overlooked the dismal scene, weathered brows drew together in a concerned frown, gnarled fingers stroked a long, wiry beard, and watery blue eyes turned from the view and fell upon a tiny form swaddled at his feet.
“Come, S’aadi,” the old man whispered. His voice was the wind, tugging at the feathers of a strange bird that perched within the limbs of a dead tree nearby. “we are only just begun.”
* * *
With a start, Dhalen sat up, and nearly knocked himself cold again upon the low beam that ran the length of the stables. With a groan, he lay himself back down as memories of the night before came back to mock him. A soft murmur, and a warm body curled a bit closer to him; a long, lithe leg draped itself over his own. Jetta–the wench he’d been trying to bed for more than a month–that must be her? For the life of him, he could not recall having tried to land another last night. He shifted to get a better look at her in the dim light, and the masses of her honey-brown curls fell away long enough for him to–Wait. Honey brown? He sat up further with a start, and winced as his head came in contact with the beam once more, waking up the young form beside him. With a groan, he tilted the face toward him, and saw the blank sleep-smile of Haile, the inkeeper’s daughter. When he had finally come to accept that no amount of staring would change her features to those of the comely Jetta, he began to dress himself with rapidity, trying desperately not to wake the young girl. It was to no avail; she awakened as he fastened his trews and reached for his boots. Her hand touched his, her fingers light and questioning–he pulled back with a start, nearly throwing himself from the loft.
“What!?” he yelped, looking back to her with wide, confused eyes.
There was a very sad smile on her face as she murmured, “You weren’t going to say good bye.”
Instant shame coloured his cheeks as he heard the hurt, evident in her voice. He couldn’t bring himself to look at her as he jerked his boots on, and continued his preparations to leave. She said nothing, but the silence was more than enough for Dhalen, who knew it better than any that it wasn’t her fault she wasn’t Jetta.
