The following is an excerpt from my next book Cemetery Polka And Other Stories From The Dark Side. For more information please see my section on this website or sign up to my Facebook Page.

I live in Greenfield, Massachusetts. I observe. I get annoyed. And I write. And that, in very few words, is my excuse for writing Cemetery Polka And Other Stories From The Dark Side. Just as a hint, the picture to the left (in your mind, remove the title and the author) was taken at the “Poets’ Seat” in Greenfield, Massachusetts.

This next story We Live To Love Another Day was inspired by a local columnist who, after knowing his sister for almost thirty years, learned that she was gay, and it was the invitation to her wedding with her longtime girlfriend that gave it away.

I understand, these things happen, but he, the hardcore Republican who joked about Lesbians in one of his articles, had the guts to write about it in another column, adding what he had learned (probably through the FOX News channel, his main source of all information) about the “hardship” of being gay these days. Well, I have met a number of gay people in my life, and they all appeared to be happy. In my personal opinion, a hardship comes only with a family’s lack of tolerance.

And, finally, here is the unedited version of:

We Live To Love Another Day

An Excerpt from “Cemetery Polka And Other Stories From The Dark Side” by Wilfried F. Voss

I want freedom for the full expression of my personality.
- Mahatma Gandhi

Where do I begin to tell the story… Oh God! Now I sound like Eric Segal and his “Love Story.” Well, it is a love story… sort of… Anyways…

It was just a few months ago that my Frederick and I went to the local department store to buy him some new sneakers. I mean, it was time. You know, he wears the same pair every single day, and I try to tell him to wear some other pairs. He has enough, believe me. But he doesn’t listen, oh no. Well, unless we go to church, you know. Then I put my foot down. Otherwise, he looks at me with his absolutely gorgeous blue eyes, and says, “Pleeeeease!” and I just can’t deny him any wish. Anyways…

So, we went to the local department store, Frederick hopping in front of me, yelling, “I am Thomas, the steam engine. I am a very useful engine!”

He looked so cute in his khaki shorts and the yellow polo shirt with the writing “Duck, Duck, Moose” on it. You get it? Duck, Duck, Moose. Not Duck, Duck, Goose. We got that one in New Hampshire. Anyways…

“Psst!” I told him. “Keep it down a little bit, honey.”

But he just went on, when he noticed the two women behind the cosmetics counter, you know the type of woman, those stuffy wallflowers with their 1950s-inspired hairstyle and almost colorless clothes from the same period, those women that young men with an otherwise promising future were forced to marry as part of a business agreement between the parents. Absolutely boring attire, you know, unless you use them for Halloween. Now, there is an idea… Anyways…

So Frederick turned to them and yelled, “I need a lot of water, you know. To make steam!”

“It all goes down into my belly,” he explained, pointing to his stomach area. The two ladies looked somewhat consternated. Maybe they never had children, I thought. I mean, he does have an outgoing personality, and that’s not everybody’s cup of tea… Anyways…

“You wanna see?” Frederick asked them, and, to my dismay, he pulled up his shirt all the way and showed them his bare belly.

“Frederick!” I yelled at him. “Pull your shirt down! Such a behavior is not acceptable, young man!”

“Okay,” he pouted, pulled down the shirt, and went on a bit more quietly.

The two ladies, however, watched us with disapproving, darkening faces, and the elder one of them picked up the phone. To cut things short, soon thereafter, we were approached by the store manager who asked us in a firm but polite tone to, please, leave the premises. He didn’t offer any explanation, but I tell you, I was in tears all day about this unbelievable lack of tolerance. I know, my Frederick can be somewhat overbearing, but that was too much. Anyways…

Frederick was very sweet, though, and he was so cute when he tried to console me. I went through his wonderful blond hair with my hand and dried my tears.

“I love you, honey,” I told him, and I blew my nose. Then the sweetest thing happened. He gave me a big bear hug, and said, “I love you, too. I love you to the moon and back!”

You know, it’s this kind of love that makes me think that I can’t stand the thought of ever being apart from my little boy. But in my heart I knew, I had to do something about his outgoing behavior before we got into more trouble. That night, literally, I cried myself to sleep.

I can tell you right here and now, things are fine with us now, and, while the solution was so obvious and simple, I am still in shock and beside myself, I mean, like full of joy. Anyways…

I had talked to some friends from out-of-town, and they recommended consulting a professional, somebody specialized in behavioral problems. At first, I was troubled by the thought, but the incident at the department store was only one in a long line of similar, unpleasant experiences with the local population. My friends recommended, though, not going to local doctor. Apparently, the only solution these guys have is prescribing drugs, rather than actual treatment, to control the problem. You know, it’s a well known, but accepted problem with businesses and services around here. They all want to make a quick buck, but when it comes to put in some serious work, they butt out. Anyways…

“Go to somebody in Boston,” a friend recommended. “The big city guys are much more open-minded.”

And that we did. Dr. Webster was very friendly, and he insisted talking to Frederick alone before offering a diagnosis. I felt a little uneasy, because, really, I hardly ever leave my little Frederick alone with somebody we don’t know, but the doctor assured me, it was all right. Frederick was okay with it, too, and that helped to ease the pain of separation. I had told him that we were going to Sesame Street to see Mr. Noodles, because Mr. Noodles always knows what to do. Okay, it might take him a few tries, but in the end he gets it right. So, Dr. Webster was not surprised when I introduced him as Mr. Noodles to Frederick, and then the two of them disappeared into the doctor’s examination room. Frederick was so cute. He had his Elmo tucked under his arm, because you need Elmo when you visit Mr. Noodles, and he threw me a kiss before the door closed.

I couldn’t help it and started crying again, but the very nice nurse at the reception was very understanding, and she handed me a box of tissues. Anyways…

About thirty minutes later – It felt like an eternity to me – they both came out of the room, and the doctor said he wanted to talk to me next. I knew Frederick would be fine in the reception area, because they had a large train table in one corner for the kids to play with, and Frederick loves trains. Anyways…

“Well, Mr. Johnson,” the doctor started, “before I discuss Frederick’s condition and a possible treatment with you, why don’t you tell me your story from the beginning.”

“From the beginning?” I asked sheepishly, and the doctor nodded.

“Well,” I said, “Frederick and I are partners for almost forty years now. Oh, my God! Is it already forty years? I mean, time goes by so fast. Anyways…”

I sighed.

“You see, Frederick and I first met in San Francisco. I was a student at the University of Southern California, and he was a German exchange student. I mean, it was literally love at first sight.”

Well, I gave him my whole life story, how I had to move back to Grand Fenwick…

“Grand Fenwick?” the doctor asked. “Where exactly is that?”

“Grand Fenwick, Massachusetts,” I explained, but he still looked confused. But then I remembered that we were in Boston, and Bostonians are unable to comprehend the concept of a Central or, God forbid, a Western Massachusetts.

“That’s west of I-495,” I explained. He still looked confused, but he nodded and encouraged me to go on with my story. So, I continued telling him about taking over the landscaping business from my father, and how I introduced Frederick as my partner – business partner that is. Neither my parents nor my sisters and brothers ever suspected anything but a professional relationship between the two of us. They were all delighted, and all this time they assumed we were just exceptionally close friends, who lived together, traveled together, and enjoyed working together. Anyways…

“And how did your life develop in Grand Fenway?” Dr. Webster asked.

“Fenwick,” I corrected him. “Grand Fenwick.”

The doctor didn’t seem to care and encouraged me to go on.

“Well,” I said, “living in a closet all these years takes a toll on you. We’ve had our problems, you know, but we were able to work it out.”

“However,” I sighed, “people in Grand Fenwick tend to be… let me put that very diplomatically… somewhat narrow-minded. The idea of gays among them doesn’t sit well with them. We had to be very cautious.”

“But your family, neighbors, friends… they never suspected anything?”

I shook my head.

“Not a clue, doctor.”

The doctor nodded.

“Mr. Johnson,” he said, “talking to Frederick was a pleasant experience. He is very intelligent and knowledgeable.”

You may imagine how pleased I was to hear that.

“What’s wrong with him, doctor?” I asked, and he shook his head.

“To be honest,” he continued, “I am not quite sure, but I do have a suggestion…”

“No drugs, doctor. Please!”

He looked at me, somewhat irritated.

“Only an incompetent fool prescribes drugs in such a case. No, my solution is much simpler than that.”

“Frederick hasn’t shown any signs of violence since he started to change his behavioral pattern, right?” he asked.

I shook my head, no.

“Then, in my professional opinion, there is no need to institutionalize him,” Dr.Webster said.

Institutionalize my Frederick, I thought. I can’t live without my Frederick!

The doctor noticed my face filled with shock, and he took my hand and looked at me with a comforting smile.

“If life in Grand Fenway is not treating you well,” he said, “why don’t you just move back to San Francisco? The way I see it, you are in or at least close to retirement age. Make yourself and, after all, Frederick a great life rather than living in a cave with these Neanderthals.”

What a wonderful idea, I thought, and I couldn’t help it but start crying again. Anyways…

As they say, the rest is history. Frederick and I found a very nice apartment near Polk Street in San Francisco, and we are having a blast every single day. Yesterday, we went to the bank for a deposit. Frederick calls it the “lollipop bank,” because, as you may have already guessed, they pass out lollipops to kids. That also means, we can’t use the drive through, but that’s all right with me. We don’t have a car, anyways. I mean, we live in San Francisco. Anyways…

“Do you want a purple one or a green one?” the very nice woman behind the counter asked, after Frederick, in his most polite behavior, requested a lollipop.

“I’d like the yellow one,” he told her with a smile from ear to ear.

“Yes, you can have the yellow one,” she responded, “but I found that most kids don’t like lemon. How about, I give you a purple, a green, and a yellow one? Then you can decide what you like best and let me know the next time you come by.”

“Can I?” Frederick looked at me, and I nodded, yes. Frederick was so excited, and I realized with joy that life was good. Anyways…

I need a tissue.

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THE BLEEDING HILLS
A Novel by Wilfried F. Voss

I have fought a good fight,
I have finished my course,
I have kept the faith.
- 2 Timothy iv. 7

The Irish War is officially a part of history, but not for Finnean Whelan, an IRA veteran of almost 40 years. British Intelligence has produced evidence that he is the mastermind behind a conspiracy to assassinate the First Minister of Northern Ireland. For Whelan this is not only a mission of revenge, but marks the beginning of a journey into the past and the return to the one true love: Ireland. [More...]

The Bleeding Hills is available at Amazon.Com, Amazon.co.uk, Barnes & Nobel, and any other good bookstore.

The following is an excerpt from my next book Cemetery Polka And Other Stories From The Dark Side. For more information please see my section on this website or sign up to my Facebook Page.

I live in Greenfield, Massachusetts. I observe. I get annoyed. And I write. And that, in very few words, is my excuse for writing Cemetery Polka and other stories from the dark side.

Warm Beer and Cold Women is yet another title I borrowed from Tom Waits. I don’t know his song, thus I don’t know the lyrics. However, the title inspired me to write yet another short story. It wasn’t difficult to write; it probably took me an hour for the first draft. I spent years at Packard’s in Northampton before I got married and moved north to Greenfield, a move I am starting to regret, but that is another story that shall be told another time.

Just as a hint, the picture above (in your mind, remove the title and the author) was taken at the “Poets’ Seat” in Greenfield, Massachusetts.

And, finally, here is the unedited version of:

Warm Beer And Cold Women

An Excerpt from “Cemetery Polka And Other Stories From The Dark Side” by Wilfried F. Voss

Resentment is like drinking poison and waiting for the other person to die.
- Carrie Fisher

Like a boa constrictor suffocating her victim, Nora slung her bony arms around my neck, and looked me deep in the eyes. With her dark brown, glassy eyes half closed, she talked to me with her raspy voice.

“It never ends, doesn’t it?”

Baby, when was the last time you washed your hair? I thought, while struggling not to spill my beer.  I am sorry, but I will never get used to dreadlocks, and I really can’t stand the odor of dry shampoo mixed with the smell of cheap gin and beer.

“What does never end?” I asked, and as soon as the words left my mouth, I knew it was a mistake not having answered with a plain “Yes.”

Nora looked confused, and it took her a few moments to think about the answer.
“Life,” she finally murmured.

“Well, actually…”

My attempt to successfully maintain this highly sophisticated conversation was futile. In an eye’s blink she was gone.

Don’t always act so rational, I advised myself. Just go with the flow. Play the game.

On the other hand, as long as I frequented this joint that called itself a neighborhood bar, it was never my intention to pick up women. I am happily married, but tonight my wife insisted that I leave the house. It was her turn to host her quilting group, and one of her friends, Thelma, was not only afraid of cats and dogs, but also of yours truly.

In my life, I have never won a blue ribbon for my social skills. Don’t get me wrong, according to my wife, I can be very charming when I choose to be, but it takes a person with a brain – like my wife, for instance – to tickle my curiosity. I am not good when it comes to maintain small talk, and to some people – Thelma, for instance – I come over as intimidating.

I also strongly believe that this level of unsocial behavior has kept me healthy, if not alive in this hostile environment. Let’s just say that there had never been the necessity of visiting a doctor after a night of sleeping with somebody whose name and face I couldn’t remember. We’re talking here about the time before I got married. These days my protection is the wedding band on my left hand. Well, to face the truth, even that is not necessarily an effective tramp repelling device.

I was not in a good mood that night. First, my beer – a good Irish Harp – was flat, because I was the only person to drink it, and they kept the keg until it was empty. I was also angry with my wife, because I was not in the mood for a trip to the dark side, but she had insisted that I go and have some quality time for myself.

“I’ll have a cheeseburger with French fries,” I heard a voice behind me. I turned around to see Jimmy, one of the regular barflies, addressing the new bartender, a young girl in her early twenties.

“How’s it goin’,” he grumbled at me.

“Just fine, thank you.”

“Extra Ketchup, too!” he yelled after the bartender. “And I’ll have another beer!”

Then he turned back to me.

“Nice ass,” he pointed to the girl behind the bar. “I’m working on her.”

Yeah, right, I thought. You’re what … like sixty-five, and you dare dreaming of having sex with a beautiful twenty-year-old? Get real, and act your age!

“So, what you’re up to?” I asked him. I mean, besides dreaming of having sex.

“Just came from my Weight-Watchers meeting,” he grinned, while rubbing his enormous gut. “I already lost fifteen pounds.”

Where? At the ear lopes?

“Wow! That’s great!”

He nodded and grinned, looking satisfied with himself and the world. Tammy, the head waitress, walked by with a full tray of beer and food, and both, Jimmy and I, admired the firm body underneath those spandex pants as she walked upstairs toward the second floor where the pool tables were.

“Had her,” Jimmy commented as soon as Tammy was out of sight. Out of the blue, Nora reappeared and floated to the other end of the bar to talk to her friend Heidi.

“Had her, too.”

Shut up, Jimmy!

I leaned back and tried to ignore him.

“It’s just a shame what that bastard, you know her ex, did to her. You know, he cheated on her.”

Didn’t I just tell you to shut up? And where’s your wife tonight?

“Yeah, that’s too bad,” I said. “She’s a nice person.”

At least I assume she once was nice before she started years of sex – nothing wrong with that, provided she was at legal age – drugs, and rock ‘n roll – nothing wrong with that, either.

Nora’s ex had come into some major money – nobody knows quite how – and, deciding it was time for a crisper model, got himself a model. Literally, a model. And young. Very young. And they say, money can’t buy you love.

Needless to say, Nora took him to the cleaners, bought herself a Porsche, a Harley Davidson, and a million dollar villa. In addition, she started to drink and sniff and smoke all kinds of substances that I am personally not familiar with. As they say, money can’t buy you love.

“How about them…” Jimmy continued, but stopped as soon as Tammy came down the stairs with a tray full of empty glasses. We both admired the view as she walked over to the other end of the bar to place orders.

“…Celtics? You think, they’re gonna make it to the postseason?”

“Don’t know. I’m not really a hockey fan.”

Jimmy laughed. “You are quite a joker! And you say it like you mean it, ha, ha!”

He slapped me hard on the shoulder, causing my beer to spill, but he missed to catch up on that. Instead, he watched in anticipation as the bartender finally approached with his beer and food, and then, with a full glass and a plate in both hands, he looked for a spot at the bar, fortunately a number of seats away from me, giving me the space and the occasion for some meditation.

It had escaped my attention that Tammy was yet again on a trip to upstairs, but I finally noticed that she had stopped halfway up, looking at me. I played the game, checked out her ass, and she, satisfied, continued climbing up the stairs.

I leaned over to the young girl next to me.

“Excuse me,” I said, pointing to the napkin dispenser next to her. “Can I…”

“Don’t talk to me, you old fart,” the very attractive and young lady with multiple piercings in ears, eyebrows, and lips, hissed at me.

“…have some napkins, please?”

She looked at me, consternated, and, while I admired her multi-colored hair and the multitude of tattoos, she reluctantly handed me a napkin.

“Thank you,” I said as she turned away. To this day, I don’t understand how people her age can afford the numerous piercings and tattoos, while working minimum wage jobs. But then, it is none of my business how they spent their hard-earned money. At least I assume it was hard earned.

“Can I bring you another beer?”

I looked at the bartender who started wiping the mess in front of me with a kitchen towel.

“Yes, please,” I answered. “Thank you for cleaning up.”

She smiled at me, and for a second I had the chance to admire her beautiful face, the freckles that came with it, and the light blue eyes.

“By the way,” I said. “What is your name? Sorry, but I’d prefer to address bartenders with a real name instead of just ‘Miss.’”

“Lisa,” she smiled back. “And I’m a Lesbian.”

“Is that a problem?” I asked.

“No. Not as far as I’m involved.”

“Good,” I said. “Lisa, would you please bring me another beer and the check, please?”

The last beer took another half hour, and I spend my time alone with social studies, before I left the premises. Jimmy continued hitting on Lisa. Tammy, whose shift had just ended, was making out with Nora. Not a bad choice, considering the current choice of testosterone-filled subjects. The world according to the drinking class appeared to be intact, and nobody noticed the stranger who had just left.

I made it home only moments after the quilting group had left. The first thing on my agenda, after my wife refused to kiss me, was a long shower and a thorough brushing of my teeth. When I came back, my wife was already in bed where I joined her.

I knew she was sleeping, but I couldn’t help saying, “Honey, next time your quilting ladies come, I would like to stay home.”

“Don’t you dare,” mumbled my wife, and I, vastly disappointed, turned off the light.

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THE BLEEDING HILLS
A Novel by Wilfried F. Voss

I have fought a good fight,
I have finished my course,
I have kept the faith.
- 2 Timothy iv. 7

The Irish War is officially a part of history, but not for Finnean Whelan, an IRA veteran of almost 40 years. British Intelligence has produced evidence that he is the mastermind behind a conspiracy to assassinate the First Minister of Northern Ireland. For Whelan this is not only a mission of revenge, but marks the beginning of a journey into the past and the return to the one true love: Ireland. [More...]

The Bleeding Hills is available at Amazon.Com, Amazon.co.uk, Barnes & Nobel, and any other good bookstore.

There was this little girl sitting by herself in the park. Everyone passed by her and never stopped to see why she looked so sad. Dressed in a worn pink dress, barefoot and dirty, the girl just sat and watched the people go by.

She never tried to speak. She never said a word. Many people passed, but no one would stop.

The next day I decided to go back to the park, in curiosity, to see if the little girl would still be there. Yes, there she was, right in the very spot as she was yesterday and still with that sad look in her eyes. Today I was to make my own move and walk over to the little girl. For as we all know, a park full of strange people is not a place for young children to play alone.

As I got closer, I could see that the back of the little girl’s dress was obscenely shaped. I figured that was the reason the people just passed by and made no effort to help. Deformities are a lowblow to our society, and so God help you if you make a step toward assisting someone who is different.

As I got closer the little girl lowered her eyes slightly to avoid my intent stare.

As I approached her, I could see the obscene shape of her back more clearly, grotesquely shaped in a humped over form.

I smiled to let her know it was alright. I sat down beside her and opened with a simple “Hello.” The girl acted shocked, and, after a long stare into my eyes, stammered a “Hi.” I smiled, and she shyly smiled back. We talked till darkness fell and the park was completely empty.

Then, finally, I asked the girl why she was so sad. The little girl looked at me and with a sad face answered, “Because I am different“.

“That you are!“ I responded immediately, and I smiled, but the little girl acted even sadder.

She said, “I know.”

“Little girl,” I said, “you remind me of an angel, sweet and innocent.”

She looked at me and smiled. Slowly she got to her feet and asked, “Really?“

“Yes, you are like a little Guardian Angel, sent to watch over all those people walking by.”

She shook her head, yes, and she smiled. With that she spread her wings and, with a twinkle in her eyes, she said, “I am. I am your Guardian Angel.”

I was speechless, sure I was seeing things.

She said, “For once you thought of someone other than yourself. My job here is done.”

With that she turned, but I got to my feet and called out to her. “Wait. So why did no one stop to help an angel?“

She looked back at me, still with a smile.

“You were the only one who could see me.”

And then she was gone.

And with that my life was changed dramatically. So, when you think you’re all you have, remember, your angel is always watching over you.

Pass this to everyone that means anything at all to you, make sure you send it back to the person that sent it to you, to let them know you’re glad they care about you. Like the story says, we all need someone. Everyone of your friends is an Angel in their own way.

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Queen of Misfortune

A Lady Jane Grey Novel by Peter Carroll

A Love Story of Almost Shakespearean Dimension!

Queen Of Misfortune is the fictional story of Lady Jane Grey as told by her beloved tutor, John Aylmer. At the time of her execution a stranger is recorded to have assisted her when, blind folded, she lost her way upon the scaffold. Was it the same ‘stranger’ who was also recorded to have visited her when she was imprisoned in the Tower? Little is known of this unfortunate girl who was beheaded for treason in the 16^th Century. She was only 16. She is omitted from the list of monarchs but was actually queen for nine days. Author Peter Carroll, in his novel, follows John Aylmer’s close relationship with Jane as her tutor and later, as she grows up, her lover. [More...]

Available at Amazon.Com, Amazon.co.uk, Barnes & Noble, and any other good bookstore.

It was a cold Christmas Eve, and you’d expect people to be done with their Christmas shopping, but Siobhan’s little shop saw an endless stream of visitors, and she had to keep her eyes on the door.

The little doll was the last of an order for a good customer who had been buying her crafts for many years. All of his children had her dolls and toys, and now she was making them for his grandchildren. She had dropped off most of his order yesterday and just had this one to finish. She’d bring it to church tonight and give it to Mr. Cash.

She was hoping to finish up soon and then drop off some gifts to her nephews. Thinking of her nephews made Siobhan’s thoughts wander. Her greatest desire in life was to have kids on her own, and it had been difficult for her and Will to deal with infertility. Perhaps, she thought, they could adopt, but that would be expensive. She sighed and remembered how grateful she was to have her nephews. Between them visiting and the neighborhood children coming into the shop, she had abundant company and it helped ease the pain. After Christmas maybe she’d feel strong enough to look into adoption.

But now it was time to finish the gifts. This last one was the most adorable one yet. He had beautiful blond hair and large blue eyes along with a strikingly angelic face. He was indeed a masterpiece.

All her customers commented repeatedly that her dolls appeared so lifelike and beautiful, they made everyone smile, and this one was no exception.  “You really are beautiful,” she whispered at him, pressing him close to her chest.

The last strand of hair was finally in place. As she gently inserted the needle to tie a knot, he lurched in her hand, and she heard a high-pitched voice, “Please, don’t prick me with that needle again!  It hurts!”

Siobhan’s first instinct told her, she had been working too hard. It was late and the shop was quiet now. She looked at the doll in her lap as he spoke to her again, “Please, don’t prick me with your needle – that hurts!”

Siobhan looked at the little man and, although she felt foolish, she asked, “Excuse me, did you say something?”  “Yes!” he replied. “Please, don’t stick me again.”  “Oh I won’t,” Siobhan assured him.  “Uhm, where did you come from, little angel?  I’m sure you weren’t alive when I started you.”

“No, I came alive in response to your wish. You do want a child, don’t you?” the little creature asked.

“Well yes,” said Siobhan.  “But we can’t have children.”  “Well,” said the little man, “It is Christmas and your faith and goodness are being rewarded.  God is looking down on you with favor and, like the Christ child, He wanted to bring me into your life as your son. This will be our first Christmas together and we can all give thanks.”

At that moment, Will entered the shop and heard the little voice.  “Whom are you talking to, Siobhan?” he asked. Then he saw the little man on Siobhan’s lap. “What on earth–?”

Siobhan looked at Will, sheepishly. “Well, I’m not sure how to explain this.  He asked me to stop pricking him with the needle. I’m still not sure what is happening…”

The little man looked up at Siobhan and Will, and he smiled an angelic and beatific smile, without guile.

“It’s really quite simple,” he explained. “You wished and wished, and God smiled down on you and sent me. You wanted a child, and He decided that you should have one. Me.”

He looked around, and then he continued, “I am so glad to finally be part of a family.  I’ve always wanted to have a Mama and a Papa and I sure hope you will keep me.”

“Of course we’ll keep you, won’t we Will? We’ve always wanted to be parents and you are indeed a dream come true.”

Will, still struck with disbelieve, mumbled it was Christmas, after all. After the holidays they would sort it all out.

It was late and Siobhan and Will set out for church with Patrick, as he told them he was called. They rushed to the church and, once inside, were greeted by the ushers.

“Hello, Siobhan and Will,” said Mr. Cash. “And a special welcome to little Mr. Patrick here. It is always a pleasure to see you and your parents.”

Siobhan felt embarrassed. “I am sorry, Mr. Cash,” she said to him, “But I was unable to finish your order today, and…”

Mr. Cash looked perplexed. “But, Siobhan, you delivered everything. There was nothing missing.”

Siobhan stood there without a word, her thoughts swirling in her head, and then everything made sense.

Mr. Cash guided them to their seats. “You all have a very Merry Christmas!”

And a Merry Christmas it was…

A married couple sits at the table for breakfast. The man of the house checks his boiled egg and, after a long thought, starts the conversation.

HE: Berta!

SHE: Yes…!

HE: The egg is overcooked!

SHE: (silent)

HE: The egg is overcooked!

SHE: I heard you…

HE: How long did you boil the egg…?

SHE: Eggs are actually not good for you.

HE: I mean, how long did you boil the egg…?

SHE: You always want it boiled for four and a half minutes.

HE: I know that…

SHE: Then why do you ask?

HE: Because it’s impossible that this egg has been boiled for only four and a half minutes!

SHE: I boil your egg every morning for four and a half minutes.

HE: Then why is it sometimes undercooked and sometimes overcooked?

SHE: I don’t know. I am not a chicken.

HE: Really? But how do you know when the egg is just right?

SHE: I take it out after four and a half minutes!

HE: Do you use an egg timer?

SHE: Feelings. A woman uses her feelings.

HE: Feelings? What kind of feelings?

SHE: I can feel when an egg is just right.

HE: But it is overcooked… Maybe there is something wrong with your feelings.

SHE: Something wrong with my feelings? I spent all day in the kitchen, I do the laundry, keep your things in order, clean the house, manage the children, and now you tell me there is something wrong with my feelings?

HE: Okay, okay, but if you boil an egg according to your feelings, it boils only coincidently  for four and a half minutes.

SHE: Why do you care if it boils coincidently for four and a half minutes? The most important thing is, it boils four and a half minutes.

HE: I’d just like my egg boiled to perfection and not coincidently! I don’t care how long it boils.

SHE: Whoa! You don’t care? You don’t care that I work so hard for four and a half minutes in the kitchen?

HE: That’s not what I meant…

SHE: It is important to boil the egg for four and a half minutes…

HE: That’s what I said!

SHE: But you just said you didn’t care!

HE: I’d just like a perfectly boiled egg…

SHE: My God! Men are so primitive!

HE: (mumbling to himself) I will kill her… Tomorrow I will kill her…

Andy had finished his shower, shaved, and put on some good cologne. His hair was still damp when he went down the stairs toward the pub. It was already decently filled, and a session was in progress at the table in the far corner.

He noticed two fiddles, a guitar, an accordion, an Uilleann pipe, and a bodhrán. They had just finished “The Bell Harbour,” and, without a noticeable break, continued with “The Ivy Leaf.”

Also sitting with them was his father with a full glass of beer in his hand. When he saw his son, he gestured at him to take a chair beside him. He nodded to the musicians, and both Ryan McCarthy and his son Andrew patiently waited for the song to end.

It was a rare occasion that the publican would join a session, and as soon as they had finished the last song, the players held on to their instruments and looked at Ryan in anticipation. Even beyond Cahersiveen and the county of Kerry, he was famous for his clear and strong voice. Whatever his performance would be that night, the musicians were prepared to follow his lead.

Ryan McCarthy waited a few moments until he was sure he had the undivided attention of the expecting crowd in front of him.

“Tonight,” he finally said, “I will take the opportunity, and sing a song in remembrance of all those who fought for the freedom of this proud nation, and, most certainly, there is no song better suited than ‘The Boys of Barr Na Sráide.’ ”

A murmur of excitement filled the room, and the musicians laid down their instruments. This next song would be performed a capella.

Ryan’s eyes scanned through the room. “I see, we have a good number of tourists from America here tonight, and, so you can enjoy the song to its full extent, I will explain a few things.”

He took a sip from his beer and continued.

“The song I am about to sing is based on a poem by Sigerson Clifford, who was born here in Cahersiveen, and it tells the story of the boys of Barr Na Sráide – Top Street – who hunted for the wren.

“You see, on the 26th day of December, we celebrate the first Christian martyr, Saint Stephen. However, the tradition of St. Stephen’s Day long predates Christian rituals. It is also known as Lá an Dreoilín, the day of the wren.

“Birds like the wren have a long tradition in Irish mythology. Druids used their flight patterns as auguries. Mysteriously, the wren also had a reputation for treachery, and it is blamed for betraying St. Stephen.

“This explains why the wren was hunted on St. Stephen’s Day and nailed to a pole. There it would serve to head what we call the Mummers Parade. People dress in strange clothing. They wear masks or straw suits and march accompanied by musicians. In some areas of Ireland, they call them the Mummers, and in others they call them the Wrenboys.”

He glanced around the room, making certain he still had everybody’s attention.

“Be assured, these days the wren survives. It is only used in rhymes and the name of the day.”

He paused briefly to take another sip.

“Through the lyrics of the song,” he continued, “Sigerson Clifford not only captures the essence of our town, Cahersiveen, as it climbs the mountains and looks upon the sea.

“He also remembers his boyhood friends, when they were children, and when they grew up to fight for the freedom of our country, to fight the Black and Tans, and up to the civil war.

“As all of us know, the Irish problem went on beyond the civil war, and it ended just a few years ago, but that does not mean that this song lost its meaning.”

He pointed into the room. “I know in America you observe Memorial Day to remember your freedom fighters, your soldiers, and it is a good tradition to remember those who died for the freedom of others.”

A confirming murmur filled the room.

“It may not be a popular view,” he said after silence was restored again, “and some of you will not agree with what I have to say, but tonight I take the liberty to salute all of our freedom fighters, including those of the Irish Republican Army, who fought a good fight, who finished their course, and who have kept the faith.

“Despite their negative image in the world, the folks who fought with the Irish Republican Army were mostly ordinary people. They were no different in their ways than those people assembled by George Washington as he went to fight the British Empire.

“They were not fanatics and not terrorists, only honest people with all their shortcomings who continued to fight for the freedom of our countrymen in the Northern provinces of this island, our Ireland.

“Without their efforts, our Catholic brothers and sisters would not be able to enjoy the freedom they have today.”

He lifted his glass toward his audience that listened to him with fascination.

“So, I am left to sing their deeds and to praise them while I can, those boys of Barr na Sráide, who hunted for the wren.”

The room was still, not a word was spoken, and all eyes were on the man sitting in his chair as he put his glass to the floor. They watched as he closed his eyes, as he summoned his thoughts, and straightened his posture. Then, with a strong and clear voice, he began singing, and he sang of the boys of Barr na Sráide, who hunted for the wren.

The boys of Barr na Sráide
by Sigorson Clifford

O the town it climbs the mountain and looks upon the sea
And sleeping time or waking time ’tis there I long to be
To walk again that kindly street, the place I grew a man
With the boys of Barr na Sráide who hunted for the wren

With cudgels stout we roamed about to hunt for the dreoilín.
We searched for birds in every furze from Letter to Dooneen
We sang for joy beneath the sky; life held no print or plan
And we boys in Barr na Sráide went hunting for the wren

And when the hills were bleeding and the rifles were aflame
To the rebel homes of Kerry those Saxon strangers came
But the men who dared the Auxies and who fought the Black and Tans
Were the boys in Barr na Sráide who hunted for the wren

So here’s a toast to them tonight, those lads who laughed with me
By the groves of Carhan River or the slopes of Beenatee
John Dawley and Batt Andy and the Sheehans Con and Dan
And the boys of Barr na Sráide who hunted for the wren

But now they toil on foreign soil where they have gone their way
Deep in the heart of London town or over in Broadway
And I am left to sing their deeds and to praise them while I can
Those boys of Barr na Sráide who hunted for the wren

And when the wheel of life runs down and when peace comes over me
O lay me down in that old town between the hills and sea
I’ll take my sleep in those green fields the place my life began
Where the boys of Barr na Sráide went hunting for the wren

———————————–

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The band had left the small stage in a hurry, not waiting for the applause to subside, tiptoeing through the jungle of cables, microphones, speakers, and instruments, rushing over to the bar at the far end of the pub, yearning for a beer during their well-deserved break. Then, unexpectedly, all remaining lights went out, leaving the room in utter darkness for a fleeting moment until a single beam of light emerged from the ceiling, focusing on the young man they had left behind. He sat in an antique, wooden chair in the center of the stage with his eyes closed and his head down as if meditating. His arms covered his instrument, the Uilleann pipe.

His long, brown hair was neatly parted and bound into a ponytail. The bright Red Sox T-shirt, a tribute to a local passion, was in piercing contrast to his otherwise plain clothing, the dark brown corduroy trousers and black shoes. The small set of bellows was wrapped between his waist and right arm. The three drones – tenor, baritone, and bass – lay across his right thigh. The presence of another set of three regulators, as any expert would notice, revealed the musician’s impressive talent.

Oblivious of his surroundings, the young man did not move, did not attempt to play or even respond to the presence of his audience. After a few calls from several tables, addressed to those in the audience still engaged in whispers and giggles, the room grew quiet and, slowly, the young man came to life, opened his eyes, straightened his posture, and used his right elbow to begin moving the bellows, pumping air into the pipe bag.

Finn had read about the young musician’s exceptional talent and, sitting in a dark corner alone with his drink, unnoticed by most of the patrons, had been waiting expectantly in anticipation of a performance that involved his favorite musical instrument with its sweet tone and the wide range of notes.

The first song was simple and light, yet enchanting, over the constant background of the drones accompanying the tune of the chanter, as is characteristic of the national bagpipe of Ireland.

Finn relaxed, closed his eyes, and let his mind wander, preparing himself for a journey back into time, to a place he had not seen in nearly three decades. Shortly thereafter he saw himself, a boy of fourteen, sitting on the top of a grassy knoll on a bright and warm Sunday morning, the wind swirling his hair, looking down on the Whelan farm in the far distance, so far away that all the sheep appeared like little white dots on a large, colorful painting. The dark blue ocean was quiet, and from where he was sitting, he could even see the beautiful beaches of Inch.

Sunday was his only day off from farm work, and he would spend his time reading, sitting on a rock, or lying in the grass until the daylight faded. Being aware that he might spend hours without food, Mother Whelan would not let him leave without a basket full of homemade brown bread, butter, and milk.

As on every Sunday morning he had been to church, and after Mass, he would spend an hour or two in the priest’s library, where he was offered tea while reading newspapers with passionate intensity, keenly absorbing every little detail. At times the study was supplemented by lessons on Irish history or the current status of the Irish Republic in cases where the young man lacked the background information on the topic about which he was reading.

When he had finished his readings, he had a choice of one book from the library’s extensive selection, which was to be returned the following Sunday. These were usually works by Jonathan Swift, James Joyce, Oscar Wilde, William Butler Yeats, or, on occasion, even English literature such as Winston Churchill’s “The River War.”

“You need to know the enemy’s thinking,” Father Connelly, a stern Republican, assured him on more than one occasion. “The enemy’s greatest mistake is their view – based on downright ignorance, I might say – that the Republican movement is nonexistent.”

Father Connelly was famous for his colorful Sunday night speeches at the local pub where an exclusive group of local farmers, Brendan Whelan being one of them, gathered in the back room to discuss the Irish situation, especially that of Northern Ireland.

The general sense of the discussions was that the violence in Northern Ireland was committed against Republicans, and not, as it should be, by Republicans.

“The Republican movement has no real policies,” Father Connelly once announced during one of his speeches. “We are talking a great deal about fighting for the freedom of Ireland, but we do not succeed. What will it take, what disaster must happen? How many lives will it take before we officially prove our position?”

Finn was only an innocent bystander in those discussions, torn between listening to the heated arguments and the Sunday night sessions at the pub in front. He remembered one night where the party went to a nearby barn, where they inspected a new shipment of Thompson submachine guns, stored in their wooden boxes, oiled and ready for use.

It was the first time in his young life that he had seen such weapons, and at the time he was unable to grasp their use. Ironically, only a few years later he would be an expert with any weaponry, including the legendary AK-47, and there would be no doubt about his understanding of their use and the reasons behind it.

His thoughts were quickly drawn in a different direction as the music turned to another piece in a faster tempo as the musician’s fingers went flying rapidly over the chanter, producing an occasional staccato by working the chanter’s bottom hole with his knee. He was now accompanied by another band member sitting on a white plastic chair to his left, a glass of Guinness positioned on the floor in front of him, lifting the music with his bodhrán, the traditional Irish drum, and creating surprisingly intricate rhythms.

Finn let his mind flow wherever it wanted to take him and after only a few seconds he was a young man of seventeen entering Durty McCarthy’s, a pub near the town of Cahersiveen in the county of Kerry, only a few miles away from the house where his mother had lived. It was late afternoon on a Friday. The pub was packed and filled with smoke, and a session was about to start.

Durty McCarthy’s provided him with reasonable accommodations after a long day’s journey from home. He had learned of his true heritage only a few days before, and he needed to reflect as well as learn more. The events of the preceding days had profoundly changed his life, and little did he know that it was only the beginning. Before that day his life held no print or plan, but that was about to change.

He distinctly remembered the first time he noticed the publican’s daughter Shauna staring at him. She was a beautiful girl with brown hair and green eyes, dressed in a kitchen apron, wearing rubber gloves and rubber boots. Even then, just like it had so many years earlier, his heart raced. The love he felt for Shauna began right then and it had never died.

He remembered her face as a mixture of surprise and immense joy when he asked her to marry him and follow him to live in the Northern provinces, where he would use his skills to fight for the Irish cause. Only a few months later they were married in the large garden behind the McCarthy’s house in the same niche that was now the place of her grave.

Suddenly the musicians turned to a piece of greater complexity and darkness, emphasized by an enigmatic beating of the bodhrán, requiring the highest level of skill and concentration. The young man playing the Uilleann pipe had closed his eyes. His body moved in the rhythm of the music, and his wrists frantically worked the drones and regulators.

Finn began to have visions of bloody bodies leaving bloody traces on the ground as they were drawn away from the view of the shooters, screaming all around him, left and right, from the injured as well as those who tried to help them. He saw people carrying the dead body of a young boy, a priest walking in front of them, waving a white, bloodstained handkerchief at the soldiers with the red berets who, without mercy, kept shooting at them.

Finn squinted his eyes and struggled to fight off the negative images. This was neither the time nor the place for such dark memories. His attempt was defeated by similar images full of screaming and yelling and the deafening sound of continuous shooting. He saw Shauna’s bloody body on the floor. He could not handle the expression of disbelief on her beautiful face while he was struck with shock, trying to find a way to get her out of harm’s way. Still, after all these years, he could clearly feel the intense pain of leaving her and being dragged away from her unconscious body.

He was surprised by the energy it took to fight off the images and force his mind to turn to more pleasant memories.

He finally found himself amid a cold autumn thunderstorm, rolling thunder and lightning in the distance, riding on the pony he had taken from his foster father’s stable in the early morning. There was no money to afford a saddle or reins. He would merely rely on his physical strength and skill. He knew Brendan Whelan would be angry with him, but he also knew the man’s great heart. He would understand and forgive him.

Horse and rider went striding down the hill, eventually reaching the beaches of Inch, where he steered the horse into the shallow waters. He kicked his bare feet into the horse’s flanks and together they went flying over the water. He felt the freezing rain hitting his face and his clothes turning soaking wet, but he didn’t care. He enjoyed the flight through the darkness, the lightning, and the noise.

He clung closer to the horse’s neck, desperately holding on to the mane with both hands.

“C’mon, laddy,” he yelled into the pony’s ear. “You can go faster than that!”

He could feel the animal’s body stretch under him, lengthening the strides.

“Yee-haw!” he screeched, stretching out his left arm with a closed fist high into the dark skies. His exaltation grew with every stride.

He had hoped to make it to the other side of the bay, but suddenly he felt his body slip, and his heart started racing. Trying to slow the horse, he adjusted his body into an upright position, and while he tried to use both hands to pull on the mane, he was caught in a massive gust. His upper body pushed off the horse, his feet high in the air, both arms stretched wide, he tumbled through the air, and after a less than perfect somersault, landed flat on his back, slumping into the cold and salty water.

There he lay for a few moments, stunned, trying to comprehend what had just happened, and then he burst out into thunderous, unrestrained laughter. He stood up slowly, stiff, pushing one arm into his back, water mixed with sand running from his hair and clothes, and then he limped toward the horse patiently waiting in the distance.

The music ended with the sole voice of the bass drone, gently and gradually subsiding into silence, followed by a thunder of applause. Finn slowly opened his eyes, a smile of satisfaction grew on his face, and in his mind he thanked the young man for bringing back memories of the one true love, Ireland.

He knew he would be back soon. There had been rumors, whispers, and signals that he could not ignore. He did not know when, but it would be soon. He did not know how, but he was willing to comply and finish his course.

———————————–

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I live in Greenfield, Massachusetts. I observe. I get annoyed. And I write. And that, in very few words, is my excuse for writing Cemetery Polka and other stories from the dark side. Just as a hint, the picture to the left (in your mind, remove the title and the author) was taken at the “Poets’ Seat” in Greenfield, Massachusetts.

The idea for Cemetery Polka came after I wrote an article on the importance of a good title for an article or even a book. Cemetery Polka is actually a song by Tom Waits, and I used the title as an inspiration to write a short story.

And, finally, here is the unedited version of:

Cemetery Polka

An Excerpt from “Cemetery Polka And Other Stories From The Dark Side” by Wilfried F. Voss

The 18 feet long 1972 Winnebago Brave motor home came to a screeching hold at the traffic light on Flatbush Avenue. Pawel Jarecki set the directional light for a right turn into Kings Highway and, while waiting for the light to turn green, he nervously checked the engine’s cooling water temperature gauge. He had spent the entire weekend to get the engine fit for today’s trip, but had been unable to stop the leak in the radiator. Replacing the radiator was simply out of the question. That would eat up more than half of his monthly social security check.

A man’s gotta eat, he thought, wiping off the sweat from his forehead.

Instead he relied on a battery of twenty gallon-sized plastic milk containers neatly stored in the back of the Winnebago, all thoroughly cleaned and filled with a mixture of engine coolant and water. He had hoped for some colder weather, but it seemed that nature was not on his side. After all, it was November 1^st, All-Saints Day, which should be a guarantee for uncomfortable temperatures mixed with rain, but the sun had been shining all day, and it felt like springtime.

An angry driver behind him honked the horn, pulling him out of his thoughts. Pawel noticed the green light and slowly, much to the distress of the cars behind him, made the right turn.

He waved into the rear view mirror. “I am freaking seventy-eight years old,” he murmured to himself. “You guys just gotta suck it up.”

It was another two miles to their meeting point, the bus stop adjacent to the Casa Kielbasa. Everybody in town, especially those of Polish descent, knew “the Casa” as they called it. Good Polish food and excellent service. Lousy beer, though. Pawel didn’t care for American light beer in bottles.

Much to the relief of a growing number of drivers, he pulled the Winnebago over to the right into the bus stop where a large group of people seemed to be waiting for the next pick up. He stopped and looked around until he saw his old friend Josef Dabrowski waving, picking up his duffel bag and making his way toward the motor home.

“Hey there, Pawel,” Josef called out to him as he opened the passenger side door. He threw the duffel bag onto the bench in the kitchen area and then, very carefully, laid his leather clarinet case next to it.

“Where are Klaudia and Jakub?” Pawel asked him, concerned that something unforeseen might have happened.

“Oh, they’re at the grocery store down the road to get some sandwiches and soda.”

Pawel grunted. He didn’t like any unannounced changes.

We’re doing this for six years now, he thought angrily. We’re doing this every freaking All-Saints Day, and, by God, they had enough time to think about food and drinks.

But he didn’t say anything. Instead he pulled into the road, cutting off a white BMW. He looked into the rear view mirror to check for an extended middle finger, and he grinned. Sure enough, there it was.

Another mile down the road he pulled into the large parking lot of the local supermarket. They looked for their friends, Klaudia Malinowska and Jakub Chmielik, but couldn’t make them out and they decided to wait.

Pawel popped the motor hood and stepped out of the Winnebago, carrying a gallon of coolant water under his arm. He used some old boxer shorts, stained with oil and grease, to cover the radiator cap, and slowly started to turn it, careful not to get burned by the hot steam emerging from the top of the radiator.

“Do we have a problem?” he heard a voice behind him, and when he turned around he saw Klaudia watching him.

“No,” he told her. “She’s just getting old, just like us. And she needs some special care, just like us. And she needs a lot to drink…”

“Just like us,” Klaudia finished his sentence, laughing.

She held up a couple of plastic bags. “I got us some coolant, too,” she grinned. “Mainly coke and sprite.”

She winked, “And there’s some special for later in the night.”

“We’re all set then,” Pawel said, pouring the coolant into the radiator. He put the lid back on and used the rag to clean off the water he had spilled on the radiator and the rest of the engine. Then he followed Klaudia and Jakub, who were still busy storing their luggage and their instruments, an accordion and a saxophone.

“All aboard,” he yelled and looked in the mirror to check his passengers, who took their seats at the small kitchen table, ready to play some cards.

Pawel finally relaxed. They were on their way now. He had his ham and cheese sandwich and a cold soda. Who could ask for more?

They had another twenty miles to go, and it took another two refills of coolant before they arrived at Saint Stanislaus Cemetery. The sun had already begun to set. They left the Winnebago in the front parking lot and carried only their instruments and some plastic bags containing a few essentials for tonight’s event. Driving into the cemetery didn’t make sense. They would spend the night in the Winnebago, and they would not take any chances by driving home during dark, not to mention the inevitable consumption of good Polish vodka.

“Where exactly is Szymon’s grave?” Pawel asked, confused. Szymon Babka had died just a few months after their last visit, and on the day of the funeral Pawel had been in the hospital after a mild heart attack.

“You should know,” Klaudia looked at him disapprovingly. “He’s buried with his wife.”

Pawel felt foolish. Of course, he had seen Szymon’s wife’s grave every year during the past six years. Actually, seven years, he thought.

They all had met, just by chance, on All-Saints Day seven years ago. They all had tucked their small red lanterns in front of the gravestones, and lit a tea light inside, all this to honor their dead spouses. Over a cup of coffee in the nearby family restaurant they had agreed to meet again each year. Everything fell into place that afternoon. Szymon pitched the idea, and Pawel offered to use his Winnebago, and, as they say, the rest is history.

Ironically, it was also Szymon, just months before his demise, who came up with the idea of playing polka music.

“I don’t know about you guys,” he explained the idea, “but when I become one of the permanent residents here, I wouldn’t want to look at the long faces every time you come by.”

He grinned, “What do they say? Don’t mourn a death. Celebrate a life. I, for my part, would like some good polka music during my funeral.”

In the end he didn’t get his wish fulfilled. A funeral is for the living, and most of them were appalled by the thought of happy music during a funeral.

With Szymon now dead, this year was different than the previous ones. The old friends proceeded to his grave first, planted the lantern, lit the light, and said a prayer. Then they all went their own ways to visit their respective spouses, place the lantern, light the tea light, talk to the spouse, say a prayer, and wipe their eyes.

They assembled again, one by one emerging from the dark, at the small gazebo surrounded by the lawn in the center of the cemetery. Pawel had brought his camping gas lantern, which he put on the floor in the center of the gazebo. Not a word was spoken, and Klaudia produced the bottle of vodka and passed out shot glasses to everybody. Then she filled the glasses one by one, and when finished, they all saluted and gulped down the liquor.

Pawel set down on the bench, watching the others unpacking their instruments, Josef his clarinet, Jakub his saxophone, and Klaudia strapped on her accordion. Pawel had never had the chance to learn an instrument, but that didn’t bother him in the least. After all, he could sing, maybe not good, but definitely loud, and that was just good enough.

———————————–

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THE BLEEDING HILLS
A Novel by Wilfried F. Voss

I have fought a good fight,
I have finished my course,
I have kept the faith.
- 2 Timothy iv. 7

The Irish War is officially a part of history, but not for Finnean Whelan, an IRA veteran of almost 40 years. British Intelligence has produced evidence that he is the mastermind behind a conspiracy to assassinate the First Minister of Northern Ireland. For Whelan this is not only a mission of revenge, but marks the beginning of a journey into the past and the return to the one true love: Ireland. [More...]

The Bleeding Hills is available at Amazon.Com, Amazon.co.uk, Barnes & Nobel, and any other good bookstore.