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“Five-Minute Escape” short-short story: The Contest”

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May 7, 2013

 

Mini adventures. Mini Sci-Fi. Mini History. Mini Fantasy. Mini-escapes. That’s what you can expect from the “Five-Minute Escape” short-short story!

TIME: Before. PLACE: Far Away

EVENT: “THE CONTEST”

Copyright Terofil Gizelbach 2013

“Prepare to be terminated, TX17!”

The cyborg Zarg advanced slowly, looking for an opening. TX17 waited, the ‘bot’s body crouching, menacing, poised for a swing.

Zarg struck first, landing a glancing jab on TX17’s shoulder. Shrugging off the blow, the ‘bot laughed. “I would have expected better of you Zarg. You’ve grown weak since our last encounter. Perhaps you rely too much on the other?”

“Just limbering up,” said Zarg. “I will not be defeated this time, TX17. The fate of my people is in my fists. I must win: they have told me so.”

TX17 laughed again. “Your people? They care nothing for you, Zarg! You are expendable. You exist only for this contest. After I break you, your people will abandon you, fool! You are nothing to them. Nothing!”

Zarg snarled, feeling the pain, the truth of TX17’s words. Mindlessly, he waded forward, opening himself to attack in his rage. TX17 swung, clipping Zarg in the chest. Zarg grunted, feeling the shock in his composites. In a haze, he fired back a counter jab blindly. Missed. Retreated. Was hammered as he back-peddled.

“You grow careless, Zarg,” TX17 said, his voice menacing in its calm. “You let your anger direct you. In the end—now—it will defeat you.”

TX17 slid forward, smiling. A fist powered forward, connected, crashed. Stunned, Zarg wobbled. His right arm dangled uselessly. In desperation, he jabbed again. Missed again. Felt a punishing blow slam his forehead.

“Goodbye, Zarg,” he heard TX17 say. Then Zarg swung. He struck with all the strength remaining to him. He struck, his fear, his rage giving him extra strength. He struck for the controller who had already abandoned him, convinced of his defeat.

And connected.

With a joy that was almost religious in its fervor, Zarg watched as TX17’s red head popped up from his body.

He hoped the controller would be happy.

 

********

 

“Hey! What a gyp! How did you do that? You didn’t even have your hands on the joysticks!”

Bobby Espiranto stared down at the “Battlin’ ‘Bot’s” toy boxing ring and frowned. “I didn’t do anything, Johnny,” he said. “It must have popped a spring or something and clocked your ‘Bot by accident. Anyway, I won. I knocked your Bot’s block off.”

“Yeah, you cheated you mean,” said Johnny Franzen. “You taking your hands off the joysticks was just a way to make me drop my guard! I know a gyp when I see one!”

“Honest, I didn’t, Johnny-Boy. The crummy thing must be busted.”

“Well…all right. But don’t take your hands off next time till after I knock your block off, OK?”

“Deal,” said Bobby. “Say…you don’t suppose maybe it did it somehow? I mean, maybe it didn’t wanna lose, or something.”

Johnny laughed. “It’s a toy, dummy! Next you’ll be tellin’ me they have feelings. C’mon, dopey, lets go outside and play with something else.”

“Yeah, OK,” said Bobby. “Let’s go. Who needs this junky thing anyhow?”

 

THE END

For a really “Boss” clip showing the “Rock ‘Em Sock ‘Em Robot” toy in action, please visit the following site: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xV7cx4cQOuU

 

ABOUT THIS BLOG…

Each “Five-Minute Escape“ short-short story in this blog series will be kept under 1500 words; most will clock in at about 500. The “Five-Minute Escape” short-short story will allow you to log on, take a fast trip, and get back quick to what you should have been doing in the first place…though hopefully the experience will stay with you long after you have moved on to something else. Subscribe to the blog and take a weekly…”Five-Minute Escape!”

The “Five-Minute Escape” short-short story is copyrighted Terofil Gizelbach, 2013

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“Five-Minute Escape” short-short story: “The Stampede”

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May 3, 2013

Mini adventures. Mini Sci-Fi. Mini History. Mini Fantasy. Mini-escapes. That’s what you can expect from the “Five-Minute Escape” short-short story!

TIME: April 17, 1869. PLACE: Midway to Abilene, Texas, riding the Chisholm Trail.

EVENT: “THE STAMPEDE!”

Copyright Terofil Gizelbach, 2013

 

Cutter never knew what spooked ‘em.

He only knew that a minute earlier the ground had exploded into a rumble, and that the dust had swirled up in night clouds cut with fleeting moonlit glimpses of galloping longhorns with lolling tongues and wide frightened eyes. There was no turning this herd: they came in a wall. A yell would be swallowed in the pounding of hooves like a yippee in a thunderstorm. A gunshot would only spook them to gallop faster. They would have to stretch themselves out.

Cutter bent to the saddle and was swept alongside, praying that his mount, Angel, had eyes better than his own, and that the palomino would be surefooted. Watch fer gopher holes, he urged her mentally, taking hold of the saddle horn. Don’t you step in no dang crack, Girl.

The chuck wagon loomed ahead, and Cutter saw Cookie diving for the safety of a buckboard. The stampede rushed past, stamping down bedrolls and saddles. Cooking utensils, pots, and dinners were pounded into ruination. Cutter cursed, and wove Angel through the debris. He heard the crack of a pistol ahead, saw the shadowy figure of another rider. Save yer dern ammo, Cutter thought. Aint nothin’ stoppin’ this skedaddle but a case of the tireds.

The stampede rumbled on, irresistible, surging. The rider was lost in veils of dust. Cutter heard no more shots.

The cattle swung right, angling between two thickets of mesquite. Angel stumbled, and Cutter jumped from the saddle as the horse went down. He hit on one knee, felt a jabbing pain. Angel righted herself and was off, reins flopping wildly behind.

Cutter staggered up and began to run for the mesquites, feeling the rumble from the cows through his boot heels. A longhorn brushed past, catching his shirt with a horn, then was swallowed by the stampede. Cutter ran in a hobble, cursing the stabbing pain in his knee. He saw an arm of the herd wheel in his direction, and redoubled his efforts. He could smell them, in a musk of hot, sweaty, frightened, and dusty.

Heedless of thorns, Cutter threw himself at the nearest mesquite. It was a small squatty thing, and Cutter prayed that it would shield him. He clambered up, the branches razoring his cheek. He could sense them coming—not by the sound, which was deafening—but by the trembling of the mesquite as he climbed.

The herd thundered past, parting, sweeping by in a mad rush that ended at the edge of a ravine some three miles distant.

The dust began to settle.

Cutter stared after the herd for a long moment, savoring the breath in his lungs. Then he went about the business of extricating himself from the thorns and branches of the mesquite, and cursing the ruination of his favorite shirt.

“You lookin’ fer fruit, Cutter?” drawled a voice from behind. “I might be plum wrong, but that don’t look like no dang apple tree to me.”

Cutter flushed. He’d hoped to recover his mount before being discovered. Wiping the blood and dirt from his face, he said: “Nah. Thought I’d have a climb here and have a look see. Never seen a stampede from a tree afore. Was mite interestin’. You oughta try her sometime, Spencer.”

The rider cracked a grin across a grizzled jaw and offered up a calloused hand. “I reckon sometime I will, Cutter. I just reckon I will.”

 

The End

 

(For more information about the Chisholm Trail, please try this excellent link:  http://www.kancoll.org/khq/1936/36_1_rossel.htm

ABOUT THIS BLOG…

Each “Five-Minute Escape“ short-short story in this blog series will be kept under 1500 words; most will clock in at about 500. The “Five-Minute Escape” short-short story will allow you to log on, take a fast trip, and get back quick to what you should have been doing in the first place…though hopefully the experience will stay with you long after you have moved on to something else. Subscribe to the blog and take a weekly…”Five-Minute Escape!”

The “Five-Minute Escape” short-short story is copyrighted Terofil Gizelbach, 2013

 

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“Five-Minute Escape” short-short story: The Dream”

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May 1, 2013

Mini adventures. Mini Sci-Fi. Mini History. Mini Fantasy. Mini-escapes. That’s what you can expect from the “Five-Minute Escape” short-short story!

TIME: November 21, 1944. PLACE: Onboard a night train bound for San Diego.

EVENT: “THE DREAM”

Copyright Terofil Gizelbach, 2013

 

The scent of her perfume woke him.

The train rocked gently. Track clacked away into the night. The window vibrated against his cheek. He was aware of her, like a dream, before he opened his eyes.

She stood five feet from him, in the aisle, her face lovely in profile, in the light that flashed intermittently from the windows. Her brown hair curled over her shoulders, golden with highlights. She wore an expensive evening dress, a mystery in coach. He could feel her sadness.

He watched her sleepily, through half lashes, inexplicably loving her, even though five minutes before he had not known of her existence.

She turned and sat three seats up, clenching a magazine, which she twisted in nervous hands. She stared out the window, into the darkness, the softness of her cheek beckoning. In the loneliness of the deserted car she filled his heart.

Who was she? What was she doing here? He closed his eyes, imagining her, imagining being with her. Wishing that there was no war, no Marines. Wishing that his leave was beginning, not ending, and that he wasn’t due on base in the morning…

A station clanged past. He awoke with a start.

She was gone.

He went to her seat. Found her discarded magazine. Took it, held it gently. Sat in her seat, missing her. Wishing that he had talked to her. Comforted her. Known her.

For a long time, he stared out her window into the dark, holding the magazine. He could still smell her perfume on the pages.

 

THE END

**********************

READ ANOTHER LIKE THIS: http://www.gizelbook.com/five-minute-escape-the-surrender/

(For more information about troop movement on trains during World War II, please check out this excellent link: http://www.cwrr.com/Lounge/Stories/troops/troops.html)

 

ABOUT THIS BLOG…

Each “Five-Minute Escape“ short-short story in this blog series will be kept under 1500 words; most will clock in at about 500. The “Five-Minute Escape” short-short story will allow you to log on, take a fast trip, and get back quick to what you should have been doing in the first place…though hopefully the experience will stay with you long after you have moved on to something else. Subscribe to the blog and take a weekly…”Five-Minute Escape!”

The “Five-Minute Escape” short-short story is copyrighted Terofil Gizelbach, 2013

 

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“Five-Minute Escape” short-short story: Hack-Job

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April 27, 2013

Mini adventures. Mini Sci-Fi. Mini History. Mini Fantasy. Mini-escapes. That’s what you can expect from the “Five-Minute Escape” short-short story!

TIME: Stardate 2348. PLACE: Star Sector Poluria onboard the Star Freighter “Tiberias”

EVENT: “HACK-JOB”

Kill a rogue E-5 Unit before it takes out the ten crewman trapped on the Hangar deck…Great. Ask me something easy, Security Officer Cash thought as he checked the load in his autogun. Twenty rounds, nitro-tipped. Enough to cut through anything but a ship’s hull. Enough to knock down an E-5. Even a hack-job that had killed two crewmen. If he could catch it napping…

Like all “aware” machinery, the E-5 Loader was docile normally. But somebody had altered this one’s programming. No brainer, probably a competing corporate council. Shut down the interplanetary transports and you shut down the corporation.

Cash shuffled forward, sweat trickling into his eyes. He ran a sleeve across his forehead. Soldiering was not really in his line. He was a security officer—but of the online kind, protecting the ship’s computers. He listened for the E5 as he moved, heard the deck plates thrumming ominously with vibrations from the ion propulsion unit in the engineering deck below. He rounded a corner, autogun poised, checking the corridor outside the hangar first with his intel-cam. Blue halls, exposed aluminum flooring…a body, sprawled across the deck. Victim number three. Cash nudged the man with his boot, checking for signs of life.

“Crewman down by airlock 2B. Talk to me, Bridge, I need intel–”

“Roger, the E5’s in Hangar bay 2-B, turning your direction,” his earpiece crackled back urgently. “Twenty meters and closing–”

So close. He stared pensively at the sign for hangar bay 2B. Paused his finger above its air lock release button. E-5’s weren’t conventionally armed; it had killed using its loading grippers. But if it’s waiting on the other side…

Cash triggered the hatch release button and darted into the hangar. He had a brief glimpse of towering shuttles, piles of machinery, shadows. The door clanged behind. Cash spun involuntarily at the noise, knowing even as he did so that it was a mistake. He felt himself being lifted; was hurled four meters to the deck, losing his autogun.

Cash rolled, grunting in pain as his arm flopped unnaturally beneath him. The  autogun—There! A meter, maybe less. The E-5—

Attacking. Treads spinning, it bore down upon him. Grippers extended. 450 man-killing kilograms of steel, reaching­–

Cash lunged for his weapon, moaning. The E-5’s gripper snapped down on his injured arm. With his left hand he clawed up the autogun, braced it against the deck.

“Trigger, pull, autofire—”

“Now! Now!” Explosions ripped through the hangar. Metal chunks flew from the E-5 in mini starbursts. The machine lurched, its vis-sensors blinking, its “brain” housing disintegrating into fragments. Cash grunted; shrapnel tore his shoulder. “He forced the autogun back on target, two rounds tipping the unit. Trigger, trigger, trigger, die, dammit, die! He fired, gritting his teeth, feeding more shots into the thing’s steel underbelly…until, after a second or two, the weapon clicked to empty and flames consumed the Loader.

I got it…got it…

He regarded the loader, remembering how to breathe. A lone vis-sensor stared back from the wreckage, wreathed in smoke. Firelight played off Cash’s fatigues and illuminated the shuttles looming overhead.

“I don’t understand,” said Cash over the crackle of the flames. “Why hack an E-5, one lousy E-5? Why not just hack the entire ship? It doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t m—”

He stiffened as, almost in answer, the vibrations from the ion propulsion unit in the engineering deck below ceased. Behind him, the airlock doors slid open. A generator hummed to life. With agonizing slowness, the hangar doors opened. He turned, watching the black slit between widening, yawning…

A diversion. The E-5 was nothing but a diversion to keep me busy.

Cash stared into deep space as air rushed from the ship. He whispered “No…” when the endless night poured in upon him.

The stars beyond were very cold.

THE END

**********

READ ANOTHER ONE LIKE THIS: http://www.gizelbook.com/five-minute-escape-short-adventure-story-vengeance/

(For more information about industrial robots, please check out this excellent link: http://www.learnaboutrobots.com/industrial.htm)

ABOUT THIS BLOG…

Each “Five-Minute Escape“ short-short story in this blog series will be kept under 1500 words; most will clock in at about 500. The “Five-Minute Escape” short-short story will allow you to log on, take a fast trip, and get back quick to what you should have been doing in the first place…though hopefully the experience will stay with you long after you have moved on to something else. Subscribe to the blog and take a weekly…”Five-Minute Escape!”

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“Five-Minute Escape” short-short story: The Surrender

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March 19, 2013

Mini adventures. Mini Sci-Fi. Mini History. Mini Fantasy. Mini-escapes. That’s what you can expect from the “Five-Minute Escape” short-short story!

 

 TIME: SEPTEMBER 2, 1945. PLACE: THE SOUTH PACIFIC.

EVENT: THE SURRENDER.

 

THE great four-engined bomber, Sally Jo, droned in darkness towards its island base on Tinian. It’s bombardier, a thin, square-faced man, crouched at his post in the Plexiglas nose of the bomber and stared out at the formation. The silhouettes of over four hundred and fifty planes, B-29s all. 4500 men boring through the night in silver, blunt-nosed bullets.

The Pacific rolled in silence below, an indigo sheet cut by phosphorescent wave ribbons. A haze of clouds obscured the moon in grey wisps. The miles ticked by at three-hundred mph, unnoticed save by the plane’s navigator and the hands on the clock. Stillness hung in the pressurized cabin with the burn of stale coffee, for the men in the Sally Jo were tired. They had been flying formation for over fourteen hours. And they would fly for maybe two hours more, on this, the longest and last mission of the war…

“I’ve never seen so many ships,” the bombardier remarked, almost to himself. “Battleships, heavy and light cruisers, destroyers, carriers, cargo ships, transports, landing barges—maybe the whole damn navy crammed into Tokyo Bay. I felt…small, just being a part of it.”

“Don’t forget the hospital ships. They were large enough,” said the copilot bitterly, picturing the thousands of downed airmen and prisoners, beaten, diseased, and broken, awaiting transport back to the states. Victims—and yet at least they were alive. The copilot’s brother had had bled to death on Saipan.

The pilot shifted in his seat. “I remember the Missouri, with our sailors in dress whites lined up on deck,” he said, sipping cold coffee. “I saw the flag as we flew over. Our flag, flying over the surrender. God, what a beautiful thing that was: “Old Glory”…in Tokyo Bay.” He added almost in a whisper. The pilot had a child back home he had never seen.

“So now we go home,” said the copilot, frowning, thinking of his parents and the son that would never return.

“Home,” echoed the pilot, smiling.

““Maybe it will be different now,” said the bombardier after a time, staring at the bombsight, and wondering how many had died in fire below.

“Maybe,” said the copilot doubtfully.

“It’d better be,” said the pilot, remembering the bomb, the blackened ruins of Hiroshima, Nagasaki and a hundred other cities. “Next time won’t be so easy.”

“This time wasn’t so easy,” said the copilot.

The pilot sighed. “No. No, it wasn’t at that. It was damned hard. But it’s over.”

The bombardier shook his head. “No…no, it isn’t. Not yet,” he said, and working the guns began to fire into Pacific, the hammering of the turrets above and below vibrating the plane. He fired, not in short controlled bursts, but in one long lone steady stream, eating up the cartridges, emptying the magazines. And ahead–and behind–one by one, in the other planes other guns began to fire too, their ammo belts whirring and draining in sustained bursts. .50 caliber fire streamed into the night, arced, and was extinguished in the ocean. Until, at last, gun after gun blinked to silence, and the night fell again to the droning of radial engines.

“For peace,” said the Bombardier, still working the bombsight in his mind.

Peace,” said the pilot, imagining his child in his arms, and fearing for the future.

“Peace,” said the copilot, praying to a grave on Saipan…and, because the pilot was wrong, for his parents…

And the crew of the Sally Jo.

For whom the war would never entirely end.

 

The End

*****************

READ ANOTHER ONE LIKE THIS: http://www.gizelbook.com/five-minute-escape-short-adventure-story-81st-kill/

(For more information on the B-29 bomber and the men who flew them, please check out this excellent link: http://b-29.org/)

ABOUT THIS BLOG…

Each “Five-Minute Escape“ short-short story in this blog series will be kept under 1500 words; most will clock in at about 500. The “Five-Minute Escape” short-short story will allow you to log on, take a fast trip, and get back quick to what you should have been doing in the first place…though hopefully the experience will stay with you long after you have moved on to something else. Subscribe to the blog and take a weekly…”Five-Minute Escape!”

 

 

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My Five-Minute Short-Short Story Adventure Blog

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March 18, 2013

(Please note: This is an older posting. For actual short-short adventure stories please click the following link: http://www.gizelbook.com/category/blog/.)

 

OK, it’s time to shake things up! Frankly, I’m not much of a traditional blogger. What I am is a writer of fiction, for both kids and adults. So why shouldn’t I do what I’m best at doing?

The future of this blog will be the short-short story–with an emphasis on escape. No, not of the Alcatraz or Sing-Sing variety, but rather an escape of the mind. In this new type of blog, I will attempt to take you from a faraway planet back to Earth again. I will transport you from a wooly mastadon hunt to thousands of years in the future and then back again to the twenty-first century. Mini adventures. Mini Sci-Fi. Mini History. Mini Fantasy. Mini-escape. That’s what you can expect.

Each short-short story will be kept under 1500 words; most will clock in at about 500. Each will allow you to log on, take a fast trip, and get back quick to what you should have been doing in the first place…though hopefully the experience will stay with you long after you have moved on to something else.

Please let me know if you like my short-short story concept. Also, I’d like to get a feel for what type short-short story you are intersted in seeing. And, as always, thank you for your time!

Terry Gizelbach

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2/07/13, somewhere in Austin, Texas… “Ice Coolers.”

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February 12, 2013

I miss ice coolers.

You might not remember them, but back in the day, they were a staple of all mom and pop gas ‘n grocery stores. Y’know, those ramshackle wooden shacks on the side of the road with eatables and drinkables on the inside and a few rusty gas pumps on the outside ala “Green Acres.” They were almost always covered in bullet-pocked tin signs and smelled a little musty–and you could count on a jar or two of pig’s feet and pickled eggs next to the ancient crank cash register on the counter. But the real prize, the thing that pulled you out of your ‘65 Dodge, or your ’58 Chevy wagon, was right by the front, just a swing of a screen door away…

The ice cooler.

Nowadays you walk into a brightly-lit, antiseptic convenience store and select a soft drink from a glass case–all neatly stacked, all properly displayed, label side facing out. But back then…

…Back then you’d stick your hand into a six-foot tin-lined cooler swimming with ice and…rummage. There you’d  find “Ski,” and “Wise Up Lemon Lime” with the winking owl logo; “Frosties” root beer; and, of course, “Nehi,” “Mission,” and “Bubble Up.” Then there were other brands that you might never see again; mysterious concoctions with evocative names like “Royal Palm,” and “O-So” and “Heart Club.” In tastes, exotic tastes…not just orange and cola and grape…but bubblegum, cherry, black cherry, blueberry–and ginger beer too. And the sounds, that unmistakable musical clink of bottles bobbing, rolling, and slushing like miniature buoys in an arctic sea…

It was magical.

And somehow the sodas just tasted better too…with the beads of water that you dried with your shirt. And the chill that hovered just above freezing.

And they were made with real sugar. No High Fructose Corn Syrup allowed.

Sometimes, oh yes, sometimes low-tech is better. That from a science fiction writer.

But maybe not quite so hygienic…

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1/28/13, somewhere in Austin, Texas… “Beach Trip.”

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January 29, 2013

You’ve probably gathered from my children’s paintings and poems that I love the ocean. Some of my earliest memories, in fact, are of trips to the beach…

For example, I recall running over to pop a “pretty purple bubble” at the age of two, which, unfortunately—for both the “bubble” and myself—turned out to be a Portuguese Man-O-War. Now for those of you unfamiliar with this particular brand of jellyfish, its sting is roughly the equivalent of battery acid being poured upon a raw nerve…so needless to say I was hurting. And, as this was the TexasGulfCoast in the mid-sixties, the accepted method of dealing with a jellyfish sting was to: (a)  “gut it up”; and (b) “put pee on it.” Fortunately, Mom—being the progressive type—doused my leg with vinegar instead, while Dad drove us to the doc. Beyond being glad that no one had to pour pee on my wounds, I don’t recollect much else about that trip…but I sure remember that jellyfish.

Fortunately, most of my childhood memories of the beach are of a gentler nature. Seeing anemones every bit as beautiful as flowers blossoming in the tide pools and clinging to the jetties. Feeding the gulls that seemed to flock in quicker than you could get the bread out of your hand. The sunsets, and the shells, and the folks out surfing (yes, Texas has surf…sometimes). Bonfires like red stars dotting the high-tide mark in the dusk. The hazes that seemed to come in the heat of the day and softened the distances like a sandy-hued fog banks. The crunch of a ’67 Mustang, or a ‘63 Plymouth, or some indeterminate station wagon rolling slowly across the sand…

In retrospect, it was an idyllic time, and each new day was filled with promise and wonder. And I hope my beach book recaptures a little of the marvel I felt—and still feel—every time I catch my first whiff of the ocean through an open car window.

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1/18/13, somewhere in Austin, Texas… “Art is Art.”

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January 26, 2013

Being my field of interest, I’ve read many a commentary discussing the “arts.” Most expound to a degree upon the singularity of the medium. For example, to write proper poetry or construct a novel, or churn out a short story, one must have the “soul” of a poet or a novelist, or a short story writer. A composer of music must have the proper “ear.” A painter must be able to see with his “mind’s eye.” And so on and so on.

But, be it a painting, a sculpture, a novel or a short story, the process of creation is remarkably similar; much more so than most—especially those in the profession—would have you believe. The “soul”/ “ear”/ “mind’s eye” is really nothing more than a desire to create—a yearning to fill what was previously a void with words, or pictures, or sound. And from this yearning comes the quest for the idea that will spawn the art—a product that often bears only a superficial resemblance to its inspiration.

In all mediums, the process of creation is often a series of recreations. A composer, for example, might begin with a simple tune that he then grows into a symphony, often losing the original theme along the way, or retaining it only in vestigial forms. The painter might begin a sketch that bears little resemblance to the finished painting. A writer may allow the characters to push the narrative away from the original plot. A rhyme may morph into a haiku under the poet’s pen. But always the drive to fill that artistic void continues.

And so the process of recreation continues until at some point the artist feels the piece is actualized; that it has reached its finalized form. This does not necessarily imply complete satisfaction with the product. Most artists will tell you they are pleased with their work…and they usually are—to a degree. Artists in general chase perfection, and because perfection in the real world is rarely obtainable, they are rarely completely happy.

Universal truths which apply to all of the arts, no matter the medium—be it children’s literature, a painting of moon monsters on mercury, or a poem about Aunt Brenda’s cat.

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1/18/13, somewhere in Austin, Texas… “Sicktime with Amelia Peabody.”

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January 18, 2013

I have the fortune to be sick this week.

Don’t get me wrong—it’s not that I like being sick. Far from it. I mean, low grade fever, nose red and dripping, snorkling, gagging, looking like something the cat not only drug in but chewed and then regurgitated…why there really isn’t much to recommend it, is there?

But I got to read. And read. And read…

And the author I chose to read was Barbara Mertz, a.k.a Elizabeth Peters, of the Amelia Peabody mysteries fame. And for a while, as I read, I was transported back to a younger age—a time in my teens when I would devour Doyle,  Twain, Bradbury, and Haggard, and Howard, and I would feel the wonder as a glow in my mind that would shine long after I stopped turning the pages. I even found myself reading uncritically—something I seldom do anymore as a professional. That, nowadays, is a very rare thing. And it was nice to be reminded again of the golden age of fiction (a period I define as  stretching between about 1870 and 1965) and how truly wonderful words can be.

So thank you Ms. Mertz wherever you are. Your words took (and are taking) the edge off of being sick.

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