Quip's Corner - Breath of the Dead

Breath of the dead, yellow and muddled, choking and seizing with lifeless spasms
Chaos and terror, suffocating pressure of screams stifled to the minds echoed chasm
Light extinguished, impending pain on unabated paths, flames of fear ignited
Abandonment complete, sorrow drawn to mute the prayers of innocence repeated
With limbs leadened, desperate escape retreats to forgotten caverns of dread
Drowning in a haunted elixir, loneliness consumes the senses with the breath of the dead

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Nursing?

Here is a great Nursing video that I found.

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Beginnings – Battered and Beaten: Eggs on the Run

Jake Rudder, Private Detective. It wasn’t catchy, rather boring really, but it worked for the space allotted over the mail slots and that was all I needed. My office was on the third floor, which was also the top floor, of the oldest office building know to man. It claims to have been built in 1893, a rose in the hat of the upper west side of Springdale. I can only imagine what types of businesses occupied office number 308 before I arrived four years ago. Someday, I’ll pull up the burnt orange shag carpet, which sweeps through the entire three room office like an ocean of overripe fruit, and count the inevitable chalk outlines which must cover the old hardwood floors beneath.

They called the building The Chamberlain, after Mayor Alfred Patrick Chamberlain who pushed for, funded and oversaw its construction. “Bringing in commerce and industry – A healthy city’s life blood!”, was his reelection cry, a vision which had begun and ended right here on 1243 Brightenburg Avenue. He was never reelected.

Three square stories of mud colored brick with large windows and narrow ledges, perfect for the depressed who wanted a place from which to jump. Problem was, I doubt that they could kill themselves from only three stories up. To date, I have never heard of any legitimate attempts, but in this town anything is possible.

I advertise in the classified of two small local papers. Nothing fancy, just “Detective work – cheap, quiet, gets results 555-8808.” It works okay. Enough to pay the rent, feed myself and occasionally put something away towards the tropical island that I intend to buy. Something off Bora Bora maybe, who knows, I’m not really that picky.

My clientele is a funny mixture of kids with active imaginations, strange little men who think that some government agency is following them and lonely old gray haired ladies who want me to find relatives, friends or even the occasional extra pair of glasses. I take all kinds, an equal opportunity snoop, of sorts.

I spend most afternoons behind an old three legged plywood desk, originally painted beige. The desk apparently came with the office. I found it turned on its top, in the tiny back storage room, the day that I rented the place.

I usually flip on the old black and white which sits on a sagging metal shelf bolted into the corner between two walls of the front reception area. My desk sits out there as well because I can’t get it through the second door into the one nice office in this place. So I sit out front, perched in a squeaky high backed, second hand, olive green vinyl office chair which, if forced, leans back just enough to allow my scuffed four year old wingtips to clear the top of the desk.

I then loosen the tie about three or four inches, stretch back with half open eyes under the brim of my dirty yet loved ball cap, pulled low over an ever widening forehead and watch baseball while eating fig newtons and slurping down a concoction of Diet Pepsi and lime juice.

Today, I stuck my fingers through the slats of the window blinds and watched the dark grey clouds roll and build along the horizon like balled up dirty sweat socks. The storm was growing over the mountains. The news predicted rain and lots of it, turning to snow by late afternoon. The weatherman spoke in over dramatics about a low pressure front pushing across the state. Blah Ba Blah Blah Blah, I had lost interest after “We will receive rain.”

This meant that I would have to go down and move my rust red VW Bug, illegally parked, out front in a faded yellow disabled parking stall. But really, it was always the only one available, what should I do? I wouldn’t have to move it at all except for the fact that the car had become a perpetual convertible. The top had slowly rotted away in large chunks until, two summers earlier, I had to remove it completely. Now I am constantly running to move it out of the weather or throwing a tarp over it like a redneck’s lawn ornament.

I let the blinds fall back into place and turned back to the baseball game on television. It had been a slow day and a slow game. Brewers versus the Royals, not a season deciding game by any means. I am a Kansas City Royals Fan. I state that unequivocally. I have been one since I was ten years old. My little league team carried the same name and I’m nothing if not loyal. They are currently 48 games out of first place, a fairly familiar position in the standings. But I still watch the games and wear the hat, my contribution to fandom.

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Beginnings - Stiff Winds

The night was black and tasted of rain. The wind whipped, in fierce whining gusts, along the muddy banks of the Torras river, tossing the rushing currents of water into a frenzy of swirling white-caps which crashed against the treeline, washing away the wet earth, undercutting roots, eroding the bank’s fragile barriers.

The bare light bulbs hanging from frayed and twisted single strand wire, strung loosely across the aging cinderblock bridge flickered on and off in a peculiar arrhythmic frequency, as if an unattended child were playing with the switch. Dimming suddenly, they paused, emitting a sickly yellow glow, before disappearing entirely, throwing the bridge into complete darkness.

The willow and birch trees lining the river’s edge fought valiantly against the squall, swinging their branches wildly, bending and weaving like punch drunk heavy weights. They cut and slashed at the torrent’s oppressive hands, battling to maintain the ranks.

A tall slumping figure huddled, with his back against the wind, in amongst the trees, approximately fifteen feet from the water’s edge. He was dressed for wet weather, wearing calf high gray rubber wadding boots and black plastic slicker pants with matching hooded jacket, which shrouded his head and the two weeks growth on his face.

Nervous fingers fumbled with the yellow BIC lighter and the package of unfiltered Camel cigarettes. Securing a single cigarette from the foil container, the dark form pressed the package back into a pants pocket, steadied himself against rogue gusts of wind and then bent forward slightly. Cupping his hands up into the hood, he protected the solitary flame as it began to lick at the white paper wrapper.

Taking a slow drag on the Camel, he straightened and adjusted his stance to ease the strain of stiffness in his legs. It wouldn’t be long now. The darkness and the ever increasing growl from the storm would provide affective cover. He pushed the jacket sleeve up and off his wrist, checking the time.

The trees began to glow as the headlights from a late model sedan pierced and illuminated the darkness, slowly guiding the car around a sloping bend along the gravel road which dropped gradually toward the dilapidated bridge and the dark figure’s position.

He flipped the cigarette towards the river, slowly dropped to a crouch and slid a hand into the jacket. The touch of the cold steel of the pistol sent a shutter down his spine. They had insisted that he use a gun, this gun.

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Back to work

Had a great time with Dad, Richard and the boys watching baseball. Go Royals!!
Glad to be home to be with my 3 girls.
Need a vacation to recover from the vacation and prepare myself to return to work.
Glad for a little snow and cool breezes after the 90's in AZ. I like Utah weather.
Back to work on my "to do" list around the house.
Glad to have Suz back in Utah, can't wait to see her!
Back to the diet and the stationary bike. Do leather belts shrink with use?
I want a pizza.

Chau

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Quip's Corner - what is black and white and red all over

Mary Margaret was a devoted nun
By day she served and prayed
But nightfall rang the party bell
She was out to have some fun!

Drinking till ten and dancing till three
All the boys knew her as Jill
She awoke with a phone call at eleven fifteen
They’d found her habit in a tree

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Quip's Corner - married the first for love

She married the first for love
The boy that made her smile
She married the next for money
The boy that had the style

The third came quite by accident
The fourth and fifth were too
The sixth was in a drunken haze
A mumbled and slurred “I do”

She swore off men from that time forth
No need to add again
She could live a happy contented life
Without another man

She could certainly cut the grass alone
And reach to change a light
By her bed, she had a bat
For the creaks and bumps of night

Silence soon became the seventh
And solitude, the eighth it crept
A subtle ninth in Loneliness
Alone, each night, she slept

The first came by for old time’s sake
He missed her laugh and touch
He visited, they laughed and talked
The feelings came in a rush

As he stood, she said “don’t go”
She pressed a kiss and then,
She asked him softly, while in his arms,
“Can we make it an even ten?”

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I need help.

I am diligently doing my "Search, Ponder and Pray" on the subject of going back to school in the subject of Nursing. Right now, I am knee deep in the searching and pondering phase with a little praying thrown in for seasoning.

This will show me if anyone actually reads this blog or if I am spouting into space.

I am wondering about pros and cons for going back to school and for trying to become and work as a nurse. I already know that the primary con would be how I am going to look in the little white skirt. So don't include that one.

Thanks, ahead of time, for your input.

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Beginnings - The Price of Murder

The Price of Murder
Mathew Steeson Jr maintained a tiny clock shop on Turpine Boulevard in the center of Hidden Cove’s historic shopping district. The shop was unimpressive, one might even say forgettable. It sat, pressed between a chain convenience store and a seafood restaurant, called “Seaweed Pete,” the front of which had been constructed to look like the gang plank of an 1800's pirate sailing ship.

The clock shop was nothing more then a narrow room running lengthwise into the bowels of the building. The two side walls of the shop were adorned with clocks of every imaginable shape and size. At the far end of the room and running nearly the length of the rear wall sat a nondescript white Formica counter top resting on a smudged glass display case. Inside the display case sat additional glass shelves with more clocks scattered indiscriminately.

A small point of sale machine sat on one corner of the counter. A solitary wooden door painted white stood directly behind. The door led to a storage closet and a small bathroom which accommodated a chipped porcelain pedestal sink and toilet.

The front window was clouded a pale mud color from a weathered coating of sun reflective film. The frail wooden door held the same sun treatment which obscured a thin plastic sign displaying the store’s oddly random hours of operation.

Yes, Mathew Steeson, Jr. was rarely at the clock shop. If he were to be honest with the random window shopper who found him behind the counter, he would have admitted that he knew very little about clocks, cared even less. He had convinced the stocky yet diminutive landlord to agree to a ten year lease on the property by promptly producing a neat stack of crisp 100’s and placing them, ever so deliberately, under the landlord’s nose. The man greedily rifled through the bills like playing cards and agreed on the spot to the terms prompted by Mr. Steeson. He hadn’t been seen near the clock shop since.

The only constant visitor to the shop was the mailman. He had never actually met Mr. Steeson. He had never found the shop open when arriving with the mail. He couldn’t even say if the mail was ever received. He simply followed the same routine any time mail came for the small shop. He would step to the door and feed the letters one by one through a narrow slot marked mail well below the window. He would occasionally peer through the window for lights or movement or to see where the letters had fallen.

Over the years, the mailman couldn’t help but notice the widely varied post marks on the letters, all simply addressed to “the clock shop”. The letters seemed to come from all over the world. The letters were all uniformly thin but varied in size and color. None carried a return address visible on the face. None gave any hints to the secrets inside. And it was a good thing that the mailman maintained a fairly strong case of indifference. For if he were able to read one of these seemingly plain everyday letters, the letters that he delivered diligently, he would have learned significantly more about the absent Mr. Steeson and he would have discovered one more very curious piece of information…. The price of murder!

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Beginnings - Tropical Concoction

The ocean breezes were light and cool. They passed over the top of the rippled surf, picking up moisture off the water and raced to the shore before losing themselves among the palm leaves. Thomas dozed in the warmth of the day, the breezes tickling his toes, blowing softly through the open mesh of the hammock. He rocked slowly. His weight caused the two young palms, to which the hammock was attached, to strain and bend inward toward themselves.

Tiger Island was a mere speck in the vastness of the southern Pacific ocean. It measured approximately 1.3 miles from northern to southern tip and about half as wide. Towering cliffs rose from the crashing surf surrounding the island on all sides. The shear face of the rock wall which guarded the island was weathered and cragged but solid except for a single small naturally eroded archway along the waterline approaching the southwestern corner. The arch way rose in the center to twelve feet from the ocean surface and extended approximately twenty feet across.
Through the arch way, the perforation led inward like a cave into the rock face, drawing thirty feet into the cliff until opening, like a dream, into a tranquil protected lagoon of pale blue.

Thomas extended an arm lazily toward the water and dropped the banana peel, which fell with a soft thud onto a growing pile in the sand. As if in response to the discarded peel, the thin black twoway radio tucked under his thigh, began squawking like a nervous cockatoo. He pulled it to his lips and pressed the respond button, silencing the noise.
“Yah….”
“Are you in the tower, 21?”
Thomas sputtered into the box as he struggled to sit up, “Yes sir.. I mean, almost sir..well, I mean, I am on my way back sir. I had to get the binoculars sir, from the landing pad.
You are not at your post, 21?
Trying to expel himself from the hammock, his foot caught in the mesh, flipping the hammock upside down, throwing Thomas headfirst into the sand. He rolled over slowly onto an elbow, brushing sand from off his head and face. Still clutching the radio, he yelled, “I will be right there sir. I am practically to the top now sir…..Sir?”
“Yes, 21. I can hear your excuses. We will be arriving in ten minutes. Deactivate the security system and prepare for our arrival!”
“Yes Sir!”, Thomas jumped to his feet and sprinted up the beach, glancing towards the towering peak above the tree line. He would never make it back to the tower in time.

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