Books, Fables, Fiction, Ghosts, Humor, Short Stories, short-short, Uncategorized, Urban Legends, Young Adult

50 Famous Fables and Folktales, Collected from Around the World – Tom Baker

A book your children and entire family will love! From a THREE STAR REVIEW:

“f you love fables and such (like I do), you’ll love this book. The stories are well written and enjoyable to read. The morals of the story are especially well done–sometimes there are multiple conclusions written with a sense of humor. I received the book for free from the publisher in exchange for an honest review.”
–Diane, Amazon Reviewer.

famousfables

Enjoy a collection of classical stories, culled from the greatest storytellers of all time, offering up tales of animals and other enchanted creatures to delight readers young and old. As fables, each story demonstrates a moral lesson or a piece of advice for readers―some of whom may be struggling with related problems, difficulties, and stumbling blocks addressed by the lessons in each tale. Whether it’s a rousing tale of stone soup, a tortoise and eagle, country and city mice, or foxes, hens, and farmers, readers of all ages will be entertained by the fresh story approach of Aesop, Robert Dodsley, Phaedrus, and others, some retold from tales of cultures as diverse as those of Native Alaska, Africa, Arabia, the Far East, and more.
BUY IT! READ IT WITH YOUR CHILDREN! I SWEAR YOU’LL LOVE IT!

PURCHASE “50 Famous Fables” FROM AMAZON!
http://amzn.to/2rzEjJP

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Books, Hardboiled, Noise, Poims, Uncategorized

Sayings of Redbeard – Ragnar Redbeard

The infernal wisdom and heroic verse of the mysterious “Ragnar Redbeard” is preserved here, in this tiny, forgotten tome from another day, another age. The fierce, brutal logic of the author of “Might is Right” is presented herein, along with his epic songs and exhortations to Thor, Odin, and old, battle-hardened, bloodthirsty gods from the long ago. Whether you worship Odin or simply revere the brutal, cynical logic of the strange wordsmith who advocated a “World of warring atoms,” you will not fail to delight in this small book, available again in print for the first time in many, many long and silent decades. From an original, crumbling edition of 1890.

ragbeard

PURCHASE AT LULU:
http://www.lulu.com/shop/ragnar-redbeard/the-sayings-of-redbeard/hardcover/product-23229312.html

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Uncategorized

The Stamp

Edited at last.

Passages

The woman had lost her son to the Army only a year before. Now, she had some horrible news: apparently he had gone missing from his platoon, and was believed to have been captured. It was all she could do to keep from tailspinning into a deep, deep depression. The only thing that kept her going was the knowledge that maybe, MAYBE, she would hear some news soon.

She spent every day on pins and needles, looking in her mailbox, wondering if the Dept. of the Army would have any news about her poor, poor son.

Finally, she awoke one day with a sinking premonition. The sun was shining and the birds were singing outside. It was very bright in the home, the sun shining against the white walls, and the morning seemingly frozen in a moment of perfection. Still, she couldn’t shake that creeping, half-dreamlike feeling that SOMETHING terrible…

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Art, Fiction, short-short, Uncategorized, Young Adult

The Chartreuse

I have a Weimar-era chartreuse hanging from my wall.

She has short, curly, presumably blonde hair, a horseshoe-shaped bottom lip, with no top lip to interfere, and a pert nose. She has large, striking eyes, but the eyebrows could not be said to arch overmuch. They are thin, possibly penciled-on.

The bottom lip sags, exposing perhaps a bit much of the lower row of teeth, which are perfect and white and top pristine pink gums. The ears are not exposed; the face itself has the quality of the pan or shovel-faced feature, going down to a pert chin with a sort of sharp edge to it, nonetheless. It could not be described as a thin face, nor are the cheekbones overly high.

The eyes are large electric diamonds, radiant with energy and sudden flashes of enthusiasm. This is accentuated by the set of the mouth, the heart-shaped thin upper bow that would all but disappear if not for the ruby red lipstick so carefully applied. Inevitably, she will pop a long, thin, cigarette in a wooden filter into the corner of that mouth, with one lace-gloved hand, and intone that “Ze cabaret iz dreadfull zis evening, ja, mien liebchen? Dahlink, let us to ze biergarten prozeed!”

Her costume is obviously spangles and silk, fishnet stockings and miles of velvet; spiked leather heels and a short crop as accessory. Her loose blonde curls could be topped by a bowler or stevedore; but, most likely, it is a top hat. Her costume has a little bow tie. (She must certainly, at one edge of her mouth, have a painted beauty mark,)

Her thighs are thick and thunderous, legs long and muscled, arms too heavy; her body milk white and powerful, exuberant; a Valkyrie hailing atop a winged horse, fording a fjord, flying over the frozen, icy earth, wreathed in the glory of the rising sun.

I want her badly to live; can even hear the first few words of her heavily-accented broken English. But she exists only as a few printed brush strokes on a little canvas square, resting atop a thumbtack pegged into a dismal wall.

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Alpha Waves, automatism, Dreams and Nightmares, Holographic Universe, Krishna, Mystic, New Age, Rants, short-short, Spiritism, Uncategorized

Consciousness: 3-3-2017

Consciousness is the laser pointer, or to use an old metaphor, the needle playing the groove of the vinyl record of what you experience as “waking life.” All is just a frequency field, emanations or vibrations of lighter and denser frequencies, and this is decoded by the conscious mind as the YOU. If you can transcend or escape this prison, find enlightenment, then you return to the ALL. But God experiences Himself as YOU, and you experience God as everything and everyone else. How could it be otherwise? Every physical sensation is simply an electrical impulse decoded by the central nervous system–all just illusions. More dreams, more “vibrations.” None of it, ultimately, any more real or permanent than a dream, a soap bubble, snowflake or flickering flame.

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Uncategorized

Dreams vs. Visions

I don’t have dreams. I have visions. That may be a polite way to say I have hallucinations, but be that as it may, the difference is: dreams are conjured from the dross of waking life, the selfish wants and desires inculcated by social norms and conventions, television and electronic media. Dreams are ideals, visualized and turned into fantasies of wealth, power, romance and control. Visions, on the other hand, are thrust upon you from parts unknown. Perhaps the subconscious mind. They offer nothing but befuddlement, are often opaque and inscrutable, and promise no ultimate reward for the visionary. Often times, I bring them up from literal, waking sleep. Other times, they just hit me, as if they are waking dreams. And then, they have to be concretized, turned into some sort of reality, whether they make rational, logical sense or not, or are even any good, as far as conventional standards or norms. And you can draw these images, or write about them, or bring them into the material world in some tangible way; matter of fact, mostly feel compelled to do so. Dreamers live in the world, and are OF the world; they want what the world wants for them, or whatever they perceive that to be, as a sure and safe route to bourgeois “happiness.” Visionaries and hallucinators realize, in some way that everything is impermanent, transitory, and all of life is like a flickering flame; everything ENDS, even your wants and desires. So they listen to an internal voice, another voice, one whose communication is often distorted, fragmented and illogical. But the only REAL, permanent true and lasting voice, finally, in the entire chorus. “In truth, who knows God, becomes God.”–The Upanisads.

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Books, Dreams and Nightmares, Experimental, Fiction, Poims, Short Stories, short-short, surreal, Uncategorized, Weird

One Night in a Dutch Hostel

WE must have been stranded in Amsterdam, at the world’s oldest, ugliest youth hostel. The girl that was with me had red hair and freckles, pale skin. (Note: It is my studied observation that, at least in my dreams, I am always somehow fucking death.)

Outside the window, crossing the pavement, a swarthy man in tight shorts, with a bulging, flabby gut is walking around like the proverbial caged animal of yore, apparently the sap rising in his veins or whatever passes for virility in this day and age.

“The sonofabitch has a higher testosterone count than I,” say I, turning to the girl, whom I instruct must not only froog in the upstairs window, but must thrust her head out and let fall her long tresses Rapunzel-like, so that the potential customer milling about below might crawl up them toward paradise, heaven, Nirvana.

“It’s not working,” say I. “Fish won’t bite.”

“Maybe he’s scared it’s some sort of sting operation,” she say, licking dry, greedy lips in the waning light of an amber sunset glow. Funny I think, the walls in here collect red from the light.

Red, red, everything is red. Hair, freckles; her body, though, is translucent white.

I crawl on top of her. It is late and maybe there is some requisite appreciation of the role I am playing as the impromptu pimp/provider. She covers my mouth with her own before wiggling, jelly-like, out from under my bulk. “I can’t fuck you,” she say. “Sorry.”

I think that this is a completely understandable position for her to take. My repressed sexual drive, however, seems to have made manifest in the turbulence of the barometric drop; as night falls, vast storm clouds seem to roil and brew across the curiously desolate face of Alternate Amsterdam.

(Isn’t this the way it is in gothic hokum stories of mad families living atop reeking, stinking tarns, stories wherein the desolation and madness of the incestuous line is made manifest in the heaving, wild weather, the environment that spills out of the pages and into the desolate soul of the reader, as he [alternately she] envision a living Sheol?)

At some point in the night, I prowl the musty, too-close claustrophobic halls, beating the walls with a club as if looking for hollow spaces. I suppose I was dress-rehearsing a murder, but, as fantastic as it sounds, vast, shimmering clouds of what I could only take to be some sort of globular, mist-like lightning began to shine through the windows, seeping uncannily through the cracks in the plaster. prerecorded and clearly artificial feminine telephone operators are being loudspeakered from some distant park, sounding as if they are trying to coax a 747 out onto the runway.

The Redhead is sitting Siva amidst a glowering crowd of scruffy but undeniably blonde young men. The central figure, a young man not unknown to me, looks upward as I enter, his face a soft pillow of stupid, bovine expectancy. I suppose I could have cleaved his face in twain; or, at the very least, crushed his skull like an egg with the powerful force of my wooden cudgel.

Instead, I compose this poem.

“Lying in bed, I turn over stare blankly as shadows roll across the wall. You bitter red pill that you are, hard to swallow in one exquisite mouthful.

“‘I suppose,’ you say, ‘I taste hot and rank.’
“I dunno, but, for one moment, an entire world lived and died on the tip of my tongue, rolling one bead of sweat down to die…”

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