Fiction: A Killing on a Bridge (3) A historical fiction

Saint Sebastian River Bridge
[Click image to call up
all published instalments]

By Roger Owens

April 1922, continued

They both knew the time to catch a hog was dawn or dusk. Hogs were predictable; they laid up in the palmetto heads during the day, after going to water around dawn. Then they went back to water at dusk, before spending the night rooting for food. Pretty soon they’d be up and about, and Guy and Red had already scouted a palmetto break where a herd of hogs had worn tracks down to a creek that fed into Blue Cypress Lake called Mudfish Slough. The spot was south of the lake and west of the clearing, and still a good ways from the Middleton place.

All Over the Place: Reparations

By Michael H. Brownstein

The Israelites did as Moses instructed and asked the Egyptians for articles of silver and gold and for clothing. The Lord had made the Egyptians favorably disposed toward the people, and they gave them what they asked for; so they plundered the Egyptians.


And so the people of no skin
let the people of dark skin go free,
the war ended, a time to rebuild,
to make right: and the leaders
crossed out the lines
three-fifths men and made them
five-fifths human like all mankind.

Acting Citizen: Some Challenges of Acting Guys and Dolls

By James Knudsen

Last month’s column ended with a cliff-hanger of sorts – would the show go on? To recap, a production of “Guys and Dolls,” which I am working on, was originally scheduled to open on January 13, 2022, but due to the ongoing pandemic, and positive cases among the cast, opening was postponed until January 22. Have things gone on without incident?

Fiction: A Killing on a Bridge (2) A historical fiction

Saint Sebastian River Bridge
[Click image to call up
all published instalments]

By Roger Owens

April 1922, continued

When he finally recognized the Zeuch’s grove road through the battering rain, it was such a relief he stopped to draw a breath. He thought about that family’s name for a minute as he rested. They claimed it was pronounced “Zigh,” like “sigh,” and War’s daddy went by “Z.” Most folks just called them the “Zooks.”
    The puttering of the old engine was barely audible above the hammering drops as he sat there idling. From here it was only about twelve miles to the railroad, and it looked like he’d make it before dawn. He’d been worried he wouldn’t, and it would only take one thievin’ eye to spot his cache and rob them blind before they could sell their timber.

From “The Scratching Post”: A change of perspective

By Ken Marks

[Opening from the original on The Scratching Post, February 23, 2022, published here by permission of the author.]




It looks like my father was right about UFOs. Back in the Fifties, the decade of my adolescence, a spike in UFO sightings made him a believer. “I think visitors from another planet are having a look at us,” he said with enthusiasm. Not dread or concern—enthusiasm.
    As it happened, the school I attended was introducing me to science, the hardest of hard-nosed disciplines. I said, “Dad, that’s just not possible.”
    My certainty startled him. “What? You doubt there’s other intelligent life in the universe?”
    “No, just the opposite. The universe is so vast that it’s mathematically impossible for us to be alone.” He seemed relieved that I wasn’t an ignoramus.
    “Good. And it also stands to reason that some of the sentient beings out there are below our level of development and some are beyond it. In fact, some must have technologies that far exceed ours.” I agreed, of course.
    “So, their visits are possible,” he said with satisfaction.
    Now I had him. “Dad, it doesn’t matter how advanced they are….”
[Read the whole thing on The Scratching Post.]

Copyright © 2022 by Ken Marks Ken Marks was a contributing editor with Paul Clark & Tom Lowe when “Moristotle” became “Moristotle & Co.” A brilliant photographer, witty conversationalist, and elegant writer, Ken contributed photographs, essays, and commentaries from mid-2008 through 2012. Late in 2013, Ken birthed the blog The Scratching Post. He also posts albums of his photos on Flickr.

The PocketRock Heart Project: Epilogue—Where Do We Go from Here? (Part 8)

By Maik Strosahl

I am not delusional. I know a PocketRock will not lead to world peace, cure Covid, or prove once and for all the existence of a creator. But, in my experience, I know it can touch hearts.
    I am just beginning on this new journey, a venture of reconnection, perhaps a path of redemption.
    Already the response has returned so many blessings. In-person visits, phone calls, and text conversations—I even received a beautiful hand-written card from my 4^th-grade teacher, the one I credit with first encouraging me to write.

Fiction: A Killing on a Bridge (1) A historical fiction

Saint Sebastian River Bridge
[Click image to call up
all published instalments]

By Roger Owens

[Editor’s Note; “A Killing on a Bridge” is Roger Owens’ third novel, after “Dancing at the Driftwood Hotel” and “Drinking Kubulis at the Dead Cat Café,” which he self-published. While he’s seeking a commercial publisher for “A Killing on a Bridge,” we will be serializing it here, in instalments of approximately 2,000 words each. The novel has almost 180,000 words, so we expect to post about 90 instalments, at the rate of around two a week. So stick around. And please leave comments as we proceed, to tell us how we’re doing. Thank you much!]

Prologue

All Red Dedge wants is to run his farm, poach a little timber from the swamps, and marry Lola Bostick. But when his brother Guy tangles with the notorious Ashley Gang by running moonshine in their territory and is severely injured, his plans hit a roadblock. The Ashley Gang stands between him and his goals, but he has blood in his eye and he is not the kind of man to back down. He vows to see every one of them dead, or die trying. Their final confrontation comes on November 1, 1924, on the Saint Sebastian River Bridge.

Moods winging (a poem)

By Moristotle

I walked around, I was bouncing.

Birds sang from leafless trees,

old in wisdom, stately, pronouncing.

Snatches of poems wafted in the breeze.

I walked, my legs were barely moving.

Birds cried together, beseechingly,

in trees haggard, drooping, reproving.

Moans banging in my ears troubling me.

Copyright © 2022 by Moristotle

All Over the Place: February

By Michael H. Brownstein

Snow fell on white rose petals,
the way too early blossoms of mulberry,
and spun webs upon gardens of lilies.
The sky opened itself to summer,
earth crunched open with warmth,

the roses opened their mouths to the sun,

one mulberry began to ripen among miscolored Ieaves,

and three lilies spread their wings.

A Couple of Maroons: Bubble in the Paint

Photo by Craig McCollum
Text by Maik Strosahl

A few weeks ago, Craig posted this photo showing an alert on his phone. I was more intrigued by the image in the background. It looked like something got into some wet paint. Never shy to ask questions, I shot off a message inquiring to see the full pic and find out any details he might have on the subject.
    “Reflection of my Subi in a mud puddle,” came the reply.

Goines On: Order in the house!

Click image for more vignettes

Goines needed order. He demanded order. He imposed it. The knives and forks and spoons –each in its size classification – taken from the Bosch washer and returned to their slots in their appointed drawers (one including those they’d had since opening their wedding gifts, the other for the latest set of heavier knives, forks, and spoons from Costco within the past decade), carefully behind those to be used next, each fork or spoon or knife to be used in an approximating perfect rotation.

PocketRock Heart Project: Christmas 2021 (Part 7)

By Maik Strosahl

Christmas as a holiday does not mean much to me. I was exposed to its pagan roots while very young and figured out that if we really are supposed to celebrate Jesus’ birthday, it would be somewhere around October 1, not coinciding with the worship of the sun as it gained strength after the winter solstice (also my sister Mari’s birthday).
    But what I do love about holidays such as Christmas is having a day off where we can gather and love on one another.

Goines On: Dictates

Click image for more vignettes

Goines was about to exit the side garage door for his Sunday walk, but a familiar feeling cautioned him he’d better do something first. He went back into the house, explaining to his wife, “Prudence dictates that I pee before I flee.”
    The “poetry” of his announcement inspired him to dictate some lines to his phone as he rounded the neighborhood:

Prudence dictates I pee before I spree.

Virtue bids me pray before I stray.
Commerce tells me pay before I cart away.

Correspondence: Ups & downs, Ins & outs

“Mother Nature,” a 
painting by Britnie Walston

Edited by Moristotle

[Items of correspondence are not attributed; they remain anonymous. They have been chosen for their inherent interest as journalism, story, or provocative opinion, which may or may not be shared by the editor or other members of the staff of Moristotle & Co.]

I got up this morning and went to turn the heat up and my thermostat was blank. Checked the fuse and it was good, so we’ll need a new thermostat. The upside is, this happened today, when the temperature will hit the 70s today, and not tomorrow, when it will be in the 20s.

All Over the Place: Ice

By Michael H. Brownstein

Too cold to walk outside, I walk
snow broken windows
thick white ice
the purple flesh of palisade and stone.
In the distance,
the waterfall lets go of its breath
until it too cannot move.

Only the great evergreens by the foothills swim.

Christopher Dean’s Bulgarian Designs

Entrepreneur
Christopher Dean
wearing a silk twill tie
of his own design

Follow your dreams
and Be YOUR Version!

By Christopher-Joseph 

       Ravnopolski-Dean

It is a pleasure that Moristotle invited me here to share the mission of B. Version with the diverse and open-minded audience of Moristotle and Co.! Let us go on this journey together!

In Memoriam: Victor L. Midyett

Missionary kid, 

storyteller, 
man of all trades

By Moristotle

Our beloved columnist Vic Midyett passed away this morning. He had recently been conversing with me and a couple of others about some differences between dogs and cats. His last email, on Wednesday, said:

Y’all know the difference between dogs and cats, right?
    The dog says, “You house me, you feed me, you love me: you must be God.”
    The cat says, “You house me, you feed me, you love me: I must be God.”

So typically to the point!
    I was told the news of Vic’s death in a reply to that email thread by his widow, fellow columnist Shirley Deane/Midyett.

PocketRock Heart Project: So, What’s the Big Idea? (Part 6)

By Maik Strosahl

While driving home from Colorado, thinking about what I wanted to do for Katie, I also was thinking about all the people who have had an impact on me. Many of them I have lost contact with due to new jobs, moving across the country, and, well, the changes I made along the way.
    Wouldn’t it be nice to bridge the distance that has grown with time? Wouldn’t it be nice if instead of being further distanced by the state of world affairs, we could buck the trend and reach through time to share some good will? Those we may have wronged somehow, even those who currently are inspiring our steps, can we let them know how important they are to our daily lives?

From the Alwinac: More Cello Verses: Sonnets and Songs

[Click on image to
go directly to
the Alwinac’s home page]

[The Alwinac blog is part of the schroeder170 project, honoring the life and musical career of cellist Alwin Schroeder (1855-1928) and exploring the history of cello playing in the US.]


As on most days, today I was answering the ever-present question of “who WAS that cellist?” when my query results led me off in another direction. I had started off looking for details on the career of Mario Blodeck, a Prague-trained cellist who tried to popularize the viola da gamba in the US during the 1890s. He had played in the Vienna opera, alongside David Popper’s younger brother Wilhelm, and at about the time that Blodeck was perfecting his gamba performances with the help of an anachronistic endpin and cello bow, Baltimore-born cellist (and later Musical Courier president) Louis Blumenberg was in Austria, browsing through a Vienna music store when Wilhelm Popper walked in and recognized him as the boy who lent him a cello when Wilhelm was performing in Baltimore back in the 1870s. (Wilhelm’s cello had been damaged in a “railroad incident.”)

Francis Saltus Saltus (1849-1889)

    This got me thinking about Blumenberg (on a different day it would have got me thinking again about Wilhelm Popper), which led me to a sonnet by Francis Saltus Saltus (1849-1889), who I learned is like a “minor Poe” in terms of style and quality. Dated December 11, 1884, the sonnet is titled “To Louis Blumenberg, Violoncellist,” and appears in the 1890 collection Shadows and Ideals.

The soul that lingers in the silent strings

        Rises in rhythmic magic by thy hand,
        A tuneful vassal e’ver at thy command,
A soul invisible that weeps or sings….

_______________
Read on….

Copyright © 2022 by Geoffrey Dean

All Over the Place: A Sunshiny Day

From My Teaching Book

By Michael H. Brownstein

The sky is blue, no clouds in sight—the perfect way to begin a sunshiny day.
    My class began to work on graphic novels. Five weeks more of school, it’s time for a break.
    When two boys start to think to fight—and my students never fight (at least not in my room)—I did the only thing possible. (You can only ask for them to sit down and separate three times. If they can’t listen, well....)

All Over the Place: To Lori’s Husband, Enrique

May he forever remain strong

By Michael H. Brownstein

Lori’s memorial service was held last Sunday.


He told me she was his rock.
I already knew that.
He told me how beautiful she was.
This, too, I knew.
He told me he missed her.

I told him she was the house he dreamed
and he was its foundation.
I told him she was the stately oak
and he was its roots.

From the Alwinac: 19th Century Cellists in the US: Frederick Bergner

[Click on image to
go directly to
the Alwinac’s home page]

[The Alwinac blog is part of the schroeder170 project, honoring the life and musical career of cellist Alwin Schroeder (1855-1928) and exploring the history of cello playing in the US.]


Listen to my performance of Bergner’s Reverie. Best known as the first cellist of the New Philharmonic Society for 47 seasons, Frederick (Frederic, Fred) Bergner was born in Donaueschingen, near Baden in the Black Forest region of Germany, on January 31, 1827.

He studied with C. L. Böhm and Johann Kalliwoda (Jan Kalivoda). Bergner joined the New York Philharmonic as first cellist in the fall of 1850, taking over from the orchestra’s founding first cellist (and occasional conductor), Alfred Boucher. After his 70th birthday in 1897, Bergner stepped down from the principal position, playing in the section for another four seasons (usually fourth or fifth chair) before his final retirement. From the 1860s he also served on the orchestra’s board of directors, with responsibilities that included deciding what works would be performed and negotiating with guest soloists.
    The earliest documented Bergner solo performances in the US were on miscellaneous concerts with various individual vocal and instrumental soloists. His early US solos included fantasies by Kummer and Servais, and he may have played similar works of his own composition. His first solo performances on Philharmonic concerts appear to have been in 1860, when he played Kummer’s Grande Fantaisie Russe in New York, and Servais’ Souvenir de Spa in Brooklyn. Of Bergner’s Souvenir de Spa performance, a reviewer commented, “the power this gentleman wields over a somewhat unwieldy instrument is wonderful, and was very much relished by the audience.”
_______________
Read on….

Copyright © 2022 by Geoffrey Dean

Goines On: Muse coaching

Click image for more vignettes

A friend of Goines announced that he was planning to retire after becoming fully eligible for a pension where he was now working, but he was flummoxed about what he’d do next. Did Goines have any ideas?
    Goines should have some ideas, because he knew what his friend’s job was, he knew that the friend volunteered to sit with people in hospice, and he knew that he was an accomplished story-teller and reader at book clubs. Goines told the friend he’d think about it.

The PocketRock Heart Project: Ch-ch-ch-changes (Part 5)

By Maik Strosahl

Twenty-three years into the marriage I knew was over after two, it was time to make some changes.
    In August, I was t‑boned by a girl who ran a red light while taking a selfie. The car was totaled, but I was not bleeding, just some back issues that would require attention from a chiropractor. But there was a moment after spinning around and thinking this could be the end that brought clarity. I couldn’t keep living this lie.
    Katie also was dealing with change. She left her parents home in November, also leaving the church. I was not aware of the circumstances, but I knew her change of address was not really by choice.

Revelations of talk

And what
they suggest

By William A. Johnson

[Editor’s Note: Originally published as “Tuesday Voice: Revelations of talk,” on August 4, 2015. Published again as encouragement for anyone looking to stop worrying so much, like the fictional character Goines at times lately.]

Long ago I realized that talking is more revealing than writing. We don’t edit our talk as much as we do our writing. We let things emerge that we could hide if we were writing. Psychotherapists of course gain insights into a person from these revealing disclosures. Someone says that “he would like to have done something,” and the use of the future perfect tense is a tip-off that he is highly unlikely to actually do it.