Taylor, 25, is an art student at Westchester Community College. Between going to college and creating beautiful art she brightens the lives of the patrons and her coworkers at MacArthur’s Pub room in Pleasantville, NY where she slings drinks with that great Taylor smile and easygoing personality.
Taylor has lived in Lewisboro all of her life and plans to stay in the area in the short term.
“I’ve known Taylor for years,” Katz, IMPERATOR’s author said of Wagner. I always liked her vibe, but I didn’t know how talented she is till she posted some of her work on Facebook.
So, when I needed someone to help develop IMPERATOR in a visual medium I thought of Taylor. She will be the “Director of Visual Arts” for the IMPERATOR team. She is a great addition to the team, especially in terms marketing to IMPERATOR’s Potential young adult readers. I feel if you read it you’ll be hooked as I was with the epic story of the collapse of the 4 centuries old Roman Republic resulting in Permanent one man rule for the next 1,400 years of Roman History. Taylor can help get passed the “textbook” attitude most young adults have about the period and help portray the power, passion and adventure inherent in the story. Let’s face it many people do buy a book based on its cover.” Katz says.

Taylor is working on artwork for IMPERATOR Gear like tee shirts and travel cups, Event Posters and Fliers. What’s next on the list for Taylor? Taylor will design the cover for Katz’s New Novella “The Wolf Legion; Rome’s Vampire Wars” a Roman, Vampire/Werewolf, love/hate story.

For More of Taylor’s Artwork go to Twagz Gallery at The IMPERATOR website

By Ronnie Massey, author of Crimson Dawn.

For almost two hundred years Irulan has lived in the mortal realm. But what drove her to leave the FaeLands and everything she knew behind, for life among humans? Delve into the past of faerie princess Irulan Nightingale, with this short prequel to Ronnie Massey’s debut novel, Crimson Dawn.

Born into a life of duty and responsibility, Irulan would trade it all in a instant. For the princess, royalty isn’t an honor, it’s a burden that’s keeping her away from the one thing she holds closest to her heart…her soul-mate.

Hers is a love that must remain hidden, because although the mighty Tuatha De Danaan are the highest the Light Court has to offer; even they have their prejudices, and mixing with the Dark Court’s is forbidden. Irulan knows her relationship with Carrie, a refugee from the Dark Court, Fomori, is dangerous for them both. But in all the Land’s, Carrie is the one person that she can trust with anything and Irulan refuses to let her go.

Find out what happens when Irulan’s carefully guarded relationship is revealed in, Never Again: An Irulan Short.

Crimson Dawn – Darklife Saga Book I. will be published soon by Copperhill Media Corporation. Please sign up for the FrogenYozurt.Com Newsletter to receive updated information.

For more information on Ronnie Massey and her work, please see her section on this website.

Moksha of Arabia

Ravi Wells is a newbie writer, blogger and off-grid living, eco-minded father of one home-steading in the dry rural high desert of New Mexico. He and his small community share on a wide variety of subjects at DaiaSolGaia – Discoveries for a Full Life, and they welcome your participation.

“We’re both going to die tonight,” I said calmly to Sandhya, half-believing my own exaggeration.  She turned, trying to maintain control of her constantly-unruly mount, a young camel named Shiva that dwarfed her small stature.  We both watched in silence as all our cooking and dining utensils, slung low in a mesh-net off the back of the camel cart ahead, lazily sloshed back and forth through the runny sludge.

The poor, ramshackle settlement in the Rajistan countryside we were passing through had one main path, residents wandering along and across it towards scattered houses tucked back amongst scruffy, anemic-looking trees.  Along the rutty path ran the “business” field – maybe 50 yards long and 20 yards wide, veined with dozens of gray-brown rivulets, cocktails of used cooking and clothes water wandering and gaining debris as they meandered though the melting lumps of human and animal excrement. Several dogs lapped at varied unrecognizable mounds scattered along what was, in fact, the little enclave’s only and outdoor toilet.

Sandhya and I attempted in vain to maneuver our camels from dry patch to dry patch, missing at every 3rd or 4th step, sending a sloppy splash of murky liquid over the camel’s legs and belly and sometimes reaching so far up as to sprinkle our appalled faces. The 2 week camping trip across Rajistan with 3 camels, a camel cart and driver, and a little boy, was becoming a trial-by-ordeal.

Raju, the camel driver Narput’s 12 year old nephew (who looked 8 from poor nutrition and probably parasites), washed our pots and dishes that evening under our vigilant step-by-step guidance while I tried to explain germ theory to Narput.

“You see,” I said, searching for words that I thought his broken English would accommodate, “if we eat food prepared the same way as you prepare your food, we’ll die. Your bodies can deal with your local germs, but our bodies cannot.”

Waves of vague comprehension stirred in his friendly brown eyes. He had seen just how sick western tourists get back in his village of Pushka.

Sandhya had gone off, leaving Narput and I to our questionable science lesson. I turned to view in horror as the young Raju was busily drying all our freshly-disinfected dishes with his beloved “everything” scarf.  The grimy, barely still recognizable plaid of the little wool scarf was blithely swishing our dishes dry, leaving streaks of every imaginable residue of India over their surfaces. The scarf had been with him for the last 2 years, Raju proudly donning it constantly in his out-of-place climate, a treasured gift from a visiting western tourist. He used it for everything, drying himself or the camels, wiping up whatever needed wiping up and then wrapping it back in it’s never-washed position tightly around his neck.

“NO!” I screeched, being already 3 weeks past any faint understanding of, or iota of patience with this incomprehensible land I was wandered through. Raju’s stopped with a start, looking at me with the same warm eyes as his uncle, but taken aback as if caught stealing.  With sign language and charades-like enactments, I calmed the innocent Raju and re-started the guided washing and rinsing process yet again.

I’m a middle-class American white boy whose only 3rd world experience before India was the seeing the flat transmissions of flickering television images that impress little, numbed as we are to the white noise of everyday exposure to real-life drama without context.  Not even a brief trip to and disquieting overnight stay in a rotting garage in the bare-stripped hills of Tijuana’s border-town slums had prepared me for the extremes of sights, sounds and smells (oh the smells…) of India.

The rivulets met the sloggy, slow flow of the shallow central ditch that etched its way through this poor and dirty Muslim town. I was to later learn that such towns find no solace in a Hindu countryside and are uniformly filled with poverty and dejection.

We threaded our way though Rajistan, village after village, viewing and being viewed.  I’m 6’1″ and wear my very blond hair long and in a pony tail.  At every encounter, from every native we met, I was first watched with unabashed shock until Sandhya would come into view on her camel.  The attention would then turn to her. Back and forth, we were followed in every circumstance, never being able to converse with the locals but only to stare back.  Sign language did nothing. Further charades did nothing.  We found sudden comradery with animals in a zoo – watched without comment or expression. It was weird.

Sitting late at night by the fire with Narput, we slowly extracted some answers from him.  First of all, our little “expedition” was truly unusual for him as well – a commission he undertook, paid by the man who sold us the trip under, what turned out to be, intentionally deceptive false pretenses.  $440 was a bundle of money in 1994 to a small town India charlatan, and our friendly Narput was probably paid the tiniest fraction of that to drag these 2 ridiculous westerners camping for 2 weeks across Rajistan to the edge of India, to the far-flung town of Jaisilmer.

We were traveling, Narput explained, though countryside in Rajistan where westerners seldom ever set foot.  Conceivably, many of the younger people we met along the way had never seen a tall, blond American in person and more radically, a petite German girl riding a camel snapping pictures at every turn.  It was quite a spectacle for the natives as women simply do not ride camels in Rajistan.

The promise extracted from our trip salesman, (as worthless as the easily-assumed predictions of crafty psychic), was for a trip of Lawrence-of-Arabia sand dunes, comfy if modest desert tents and edible fare.  The reality was a ragged pup tent with all support missing but one rickety pole, and the most meager food cooked only when we could find dry steer dung. We often passed an unoccupied countryside house and sent Raju scurrying back to steal firewood. The Rajistan countryside is picked astonishingly clean of virtually all firewood with the only remaining vegetation being scrubby, low-slung thorn trees with 2″ thorns happily munched upon by steely-mouthed camels.

The landscape rolled on with monotony. Flat, dusty land passing with occasional gatherings of thatched-roof farmhouses surrounded by vibrant fields of yellow flowering linseed – the only visually pleasing relief on the bumpy, endless dirt roads.

We did finally, and only once, come upon a sand dune, and for one gratifying moment (relative to our silly expectations), we were fulfilled. It was huge – probably a mile from side to side and 20 stories high.  I was so elated I instantly dug my heels into my camel Rama and roared up the steep sand, reveling in my technicolor-inspired galloping charge.  I must admit, even now, it was exhilarating.

Sandhya caught me at great distance waving, having reached the highest ground of the dune, exhausted along with the camel and as overwhelmed as I had then ever been in this life.

Looking back 15 years to my travels in India and it’s lingering impressions and stories, I realized only afterward that this trip was seminal, an abrupt end to the unknowingly cramped way I had viewed the world and the beginning of a higher, more human global perspective. My life has been increasingly richer with the memories – even the exceptionally uncomfortable ones, as I now begin to see even further, glimpsing existence in the bigger perspective of all that is.

About the Author

Ravi Wells has led an eclectic life after a rather “normal” post-WWII middle-class American upbringing (probably in reaction to said normality). Having lived across the US, in Germany and Costa Rica, he has traveled extensively at ground level, backpacking in Europe, India, Thailand, Morocco, and Brazil. He has been a handyman/builder, an inventor, a public relations spokesman, a computer graphics designer, a restaurateur, a decorative potter and an organic grower, the last being his current discipline along with his partner Sunna and their 3 year old Lola.

Website/Blog URL – http://daiasolgaia.wordpress.com/

As it turned out, I already had a short that was perfect for a mini-prequel.  And so, Never Again: An Irulan Short, was released on Amazon on January the 11th.  Now that it’s available, how do I let people know?  Well getting it reviewed was the obvious first step and so I began googling book blogs and ran across the Bibray Bookslut blog.  After emailing one Ms. Sally Sapphire to inquire about her review policies, I sent her a copy.

Now, I’m a worrier by nature.  I’m not sure if it’s because I’m the oldest of six kids, or the mother of two daughters, or what; but I sent it out and just waited for my short to get ripped apart.  Guess what guys, it didn’t get ripped apart!  As a matter of fact, the review was glowing.  When I finished reading it, I jumped up and started dancing around the room screaming.

Here is just a small bit of what the review said, “Never Again is a deliciously crafted little tale that works well as both a self-contained short, and as a prequel tease to Ronnie’s upcoming novel, Crimson Dawn:  Darklife Saga(coming this April). Full of passion and intrigue, it subtly plays with our expectations, and quite successfully manages to inject some originality into the urban fantasy genre.”

To read the entire review, please use this link. http://bibrary.blogspot.com/2011/01/review-never-again-irulan-short-by.html#comments

Never Again: An Irulan Short

To read about Never Again: An Irulan Short, Crimson Dawn, and my other work, please visit my website.  http://ronniemassey.weebly.com/

After you’ve read it, be sure to skip on over to Amazon and get your own copy; and FYI, you don’t need a Kindle to download Kindle content.  If you’ve got an Android smartphone, and iphone or ipad, or even a PC, you can download a Kindle app that will let you read any content that is available for the Kindle.

http://www.amazon.com/Never-Again-Irulan-Short-ebook/dp/B004ISLRA2/ref=pd_rhf_p_t_1

Copyright 2010

Rome 87 bc

Lucius Cornelius Sulla was the first Roman general to lead an army against his home land and make war on his countrymen for possession of the city of Rome. And he had taken Rome. He made his intentions clear to the Senate. He was now undisputed master of Rome, by force of arms.

Sulla’s political rival, Gaius Marius, the third founder of Rome and six times consul, was declared enemy of the state, along with those associates named by Sulla, numbering about twelve. Their property was confiscated and Sulla offered a reward for the killing of these patriots and leading men of Rome.

It was a cold, grey, damp day in Rome as I stood in the Forum next to the Senate steps, clad in my sagum (soldier’s cloak) with the hood pulled over my head. The sickening smell of burning bodies hung in the funk that blanketed the city on that still morning. I stood staring up at a decapitated head, on public display, over the well of the Comitia (public meeting place). It was the head of Sulpicius Rufus, a duly elected Tribune of the Plebs, the magistrate created to protect the rights of the common folk, an inviolable person by law and tradition. The lifeless eyes and slack jaw were a testament to the horror that was taking place in my beloved city. Putrefaction had set in.

Waking me from my miasma induced trance, I was shoved aside by a procession of lictors (ceremonial bodyguards), wearing their crimson tunics and wide black belts. They were preceding a new citizen, dressed in a new toga, new shoes and a crisp new freedman’s red cap, proudly following his escort up the Senate steps. The man had a satisfied look on his face as he looked at the head of his former master, suspended above the Rostra, (speaker’s platform) at the end of a long lance. The master he had betrayed to Sulla’s unconstitutional regime in exchange for his freedom and a generous reward. He stopped at the top of the steps, his shoulders rising as he drew a deep breath, as the great bronze doors of the Curia Hostilia (Senate House) opened to admit the new citizen and his party. It was obvious he was to receive further honors by resolution of the Senate.

I stood with my fellow citizens as we mourned the death of Sulpicius. We mourned the death of liberty. But most of all we mourned the death of the Republic.

The great bronze doors of the Curia opened again to allow the former slave to exit and the new citizen had quite a different look on his face as he was escorted by lictors down the steps. There was no color in his formerly rosy complexion and his smug smile was replaced by desolation, as the man walked before his master’s lifeless gaze. The party made their way up the clivus (hill) Capitolinus and disappeared within the walls of the citadel.

Sulla emerged from the Curia and stood at the top of the portico steps, followed by a majority of the senators, more intent on appeasing Sulla, than standing in the cold to watch the spectacle to come. As the senators drew their togas tight to keep out the cold, as the new citizen emerged from the walls of the Capitol above the Forum in the place known as the Tarpeian Rock. The new citizen stood, with spears at his back, looking down at the jagged rocks far below. He was given ample time to die with dignity by voluntarily jumping to his death. Instead without warning he was unceremoniously booted from the precipice.

For betraying his master, the slave became a freedman and citizen of Rome. For betraying his master the freedman received a citizen’s execution.

Unmoved by the scene the senators turned to go back into the Curia.

Bestseller Archer assembles 15 more of the clever stories for which he is known. They are split between tales of trickery, as with “Stuck on You,” where an eager young man is played by a diamond thief, and decidedly sentimental stories, such as “Members Only,” about a man who wants nothing more than to join a private country club. Archer marks with an asterisk stories that are based on true incidents (10 in this collection), and whether it is the weight of credibility these stories’ genesis lends or if the author works better with some starting material, the entirely imagined stories are also the weakest. “Politically Correct” never gets out of the shallows in its attempt to be provocative, and “Better the Devil You Know,” with its evil executive making a deal with the devil (aka Mr. De Ath), is silly even for this author, who usually writes with a winningly light touch. Still, Archer’s writing exudes a certain charm and is mostly satisfying. His trademark twists–sometimes a surprise to the reader, sometimes not–and genial tone will endear these mostly cozy stories to his many fans.  - Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.

Reviews

“Jeffrey Archer plays a subtle cat-and-mouse game with the reader in twelve original short stories that end, more often than not, with our collective whiskers twitching in surprise.”
—The New York Times

“Outstanding… white-knuckle suspense and witty denouements. Enjoyable, suspense-filled rival to Roald Dahl.”
—Daily Express (London)

“Stylish, witty, and constantly entertaining . . . Jeffrey Archer has a natural aptitude for short stories.”
—The Times (London)

“Archer hits the bull’s-eye with an exemplary collection of short stories.”
—Daily Mail (London)

“The economy and precision of Archer’s prose never fails to delight. The criminal doesn’t always get away with his crime and justice doesn’t always prevail, but the reader wins with each and every story.”
—Publishers Weekly

For more information log on to http://www.amazon.com/Thereby-Hangs-Short-Story-ebook/dp/B003ZDNZYC/

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.