Galatea In Brass Revisited

So I finally worked out how to do this without pictures! 

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Galatea In Brass

I've finally got some original fiction here for you.


Enjoy!

 

Just a Guy

“Osama Bin Laden’s dead.”

To be honest, I was expecting something like “Good morning” or “The kettle’s just boiled.”  Instead, my wife greeted me with “Osama Bin Laden’s dead.”

They found him and they killed him.  I sat down with my wife and we did the tour of 24 hour news channels.  Of course, everyone was covering it and had been for hours, but it all came back to this seven word soundbyte.  They found him and they killed him. 

I saw reports from New York, of celebrants cheering in the streets at Ground Zero.  All things considered, I suppose it was fairly restrained, somewhere between a touchdown dance and “Ding Dong the Witch Is Dead.”

Cheering a death, even this one, doesn’t sit right with me, but I get it.  This is the man we hold ultimately responsible for the attacks on September 11^th.  This is the mastermind who took 3000 lives and turned the world upside down, the man who set the events of the past decade in motion. 

I get it, but I can’t share it.  I keep thinking to myself, “He’s just a guy.”

In our minds, we made him into some sort of super villain, a Blofeld for the new millennium.  It’s easy to imagine him in his secret mountain hideaway, directing the fall of the Western World from the shadows, with a legion of loyal agents ready to act on his orders at a moment’s notice. 

Instead, we find a man living in isolation and relative comfort hiding under his hunters’ collective nose, a man whose contribution to the struggle had become largely symbolic.  To his followers, he was an inspiration.  His continued existence, a confirmation that the enemy can be defied.  For those enemies, he had become a ghost, a boogieman. 

The death of Osama Bin Laden will not slow the operations of terrorist groups like Al Qaeda.  In fact, as a martyr, he may very well continue to serve as a powerful symbolic leader.  The recent events in the Middle East are likely to do more to harm Al Qaeda, revealing peaceful uprisings and popular revolts as more effective instruments of change. 

His death does nothing to slow the actions of terrorist organizations, and yet the order was given.  Had to be given.  Osama Bin Laden has enormous symbolic power in America as well.  He was the Big Bad Wolf, the monster lurking in the dark.  The dragon had to be slain.

Given the choice, I would have preferred to see him captured.  I would have seen him stand trial and convicted and punished, not out of devotion to the rule of law, but to reveal him as Just a Guy. 

Not a Monster.  Not a Giant.  Just a man.  One who committed unjustifiable acts and was made to pay for them. 

That didn’t happen.  Instead, they found him and they killed him. 

I won’t mourn his passing.  I won’t celebrate either.  For me, this is a somber and solemn moment, to reflect on the death of some guy I never met, and what that means for those of us who are still here.

Words To Live By

Should

I was hoping to have something new for you by now.  This isn't exactly new, but the reading is, so that counts, right?


Right?


Ah well, old, new or something somewhere between, I hope you enjoy.

This Is a Test

It's no secret that I'm a fan of audio fiction and radio drama.  I've decided I'd like to make the shift from spectator (auditator?) to participant, and so I've taken my first timid steps in that direction.  After I work my way through the basics of sound editing, I hope to have a story for you, but in the meantime, I've been playing with this short demo:

When the Going Gets Tough, the Tough Get Someone Else

Hmm?  Sorry, have you been waiting long?

Yeah, I haven't done a whole lot of blogging lately.  The holidays are partly to blame, along with my resolution to spend more time writing for profit (no offence). 

So here I am, six weeks into the new year without a single post, and none coming up in the near future.

So I did what any good blogger does.  I subcontracted.

Lucky for me, Rebecca Hosier, my ever so charming and talented niece (steady, fellas - I may not be Daddy, but I do overprotective just fine, thanks) has agreed to help out by sharing a piece of her own.  If you're expecting an overexcited teenage dose of celebrity gossip and LoL Cats, guess again. 

Enjoy

The Israeli and Palestinian Conflict

by Rebecca Hosier

If you watch the news at all you have probably heard that something is going on over in Israel. You may not know specifics, but you vaguely remember hearing that something bad is happening. There has been fighting over Israel, former Palestine, for decades. It seems the media only covers half the story. Let’s take a look at the rest of it. Let us have a peek the injustices happening on the other side of the wall.

One thing you may not have heard much about is the separation wall. The separation wall is an eight meter high wall that stretches for 403 miles, weaving in and out of Palestinian territory. The U.N. created a green line that the wall was supposed to follow. It would fairly split the country in half.

The wall is only 20% on the green line. This said wall is supposed to protect the Israeli people; sadly it does much more than that. The wall divides family property, separates brother from brother and farmer from field. Also if your house is within fifty feet of the wall you are in risk of having it demolished. If your house is still standing you are then at risk of being shot at from the soldiers stationed on the wall. Tell me how this is protection.

In the states we take water for granted. We take long showers, we leave the faucet on while brushing our teeth and doing the dishes. But what does it matter? We won’t run out of water.

That is not the case in Palestine. Most of the water sources are on the Israeli side of the wall, so the Palestinians must buy the water. Each house has big barrels on the roof for water storage. The family will get only enough water to fill the number of barrels in which they own. If this isn’t bad enough there is no schedule for when the water is delivered. So when the water runs out it is possible the family will have to go days without water for showers, dishes or laundry, things we do daily without thinking about.

Medical care is something else we as Americans take for granted. If we aren’t feeling well then we just call up the doctor’s office and set up an appointment. It is that easy.

In one refugee camp, Ida camp, there is one doctor. He is there for six days a week for six hours a day and that is all. He has eleven thousand possible people to care for. If you were in need of emergency care and had to go to a hospital you would need to go to Israel.

To do that you’d need to go through checkpoints. Checkpoints are places between Israel and Palestine. They are manned by soldiers that check for the correct papers before they let you pass. Checkpoints are also for protection, to make sure nothing or no one “suspicious” goes into Israel.

Without the right papers you have no hope of passing through. Even with the right papers it is possible access will be denied. If the soldiers manning that checkpoint are having a bad day they are allowed to take it out on you by not letting you through.

Because of this dozens of babies are born at checkpoints every year. There are villages that because of checkpoints emergency response time has gone from ten minutes to one hundred and ten minutes. In some places at night it is impossible to have any emergency response because the checkpoints close.

Now you have heard some of the injustices happening, injustices that have become part of the Palestinian’s daily lives. Should any human being be forced to live this way? Organizations, such as World Council of Churches and Amnesty International, help the many people who are living under oppression. What can you do to help people all over the world who are mistreated and oppressed? 

No It's Not New, But It's New To Here

We're creeping up on the holiday season, which means I get to recycle old material.  Here's a bit I did a couple years back.  Still holds up and I'm still in the same place.  

Enjoy!

Happy. . . Thursday?

We’re deep into November now.  There’s a bite in the wind and daylight has become scarce.  The bowl in the kitchen with all the Halloween sweets is out of chocolate and jellies, down to the chalky bits that no one wants. 

November is a slightly homesick time for me.  A few years back, I moved from Pennsylvania to Ireland.  By now, Ireland is Home, but November is always a time to think of Back Home.  This used to be a time for high school football with the marching band soundtrack, of hard frost and dead leaves crunching underfoot, a time for complaining about Christmas displays up too early, just like they were last year.  And of course, it’s time for Thanksgiving. 

It’s hard to describe to outsiders just why Thanksgiving is such a big deal.  There’s no presents, no costumes, no fireworks.  It’s just dinner with the extended family, sort of a Christmas dress rehearsal.  But it does matter.  It’s one of our biggest holidays, and from the outside, it can be hard to see why.  We’ll eat some turkey, cart out our family dysfunction for the annual outburst, and fall asleep watching Home Alone on TV.  True enough, but it still doesn’t scratch the surface of what the day’s all about.

Every year, my wife suggests that we do Thanksgiving here, and every year I say thanks but no. Thanksgiving is not a holiday that travels well.  For me, the day is about community, one of the few things my country does together. 

Most days, America doesn’t feel like a single place.  California doesn’t have much in common with New York, and less with Kentucky.  We’re a nation of subcultures, divided by ethnicity, religion, geography, politics, and personal taste, but Thanksgiving belongs to all of us, and it looks the same in Portland as it does in Boston.

When folks here ask about Thanksgiving, they try to compare it to Christmas, but that comparison just doesn’t hold up.  Dinner menus aside, Thanksgiving is not Christmas.  Yuletide traditions stateside vary from one state to the next, one town to the next, even one family to the next.  When my Irish December doesn’t match up with my own ghosts of Christmas-past, I can adapt without feeling out of place.  I’d face the same compromises anywhere, even in my own home town.  In this house, we’ve managed to keep traditions from both sides of the Atlantic, even adding a few that are all our own. 

That doesn’t work with Thanksgiving.  There are no local traditions to integrate.  Thanksgiving is exclusively American, and trying to do it on this side of the Atlantic can only remind of a community that doesn’t exist here.    Friends and family may wish me “Happy Thanksgiving,” but they aren’t marking the day themselves.  They’re off to work, just like me. 

My wife asked me again this year, reminding me that our son’s old enough to learn about his American roots.  I though about it, but I still said no.  For my family to experience Thanksgiving, we will have to visit America.  All that I can offer here is turkey dinner on a Thursday.

Suport Your Local Praisehound

I have a new flash fiction piece out on WeirdYear:

Seven Satin Nights: Forward by Henry Gaudet

Check it out.  Odds are, there's someone odd in your life that would appreciate weird short stories, so spread the word.   

Sunday In the Kitchen

thump thump grunt 

Bang

badword mutter mumble badword grumble strain

pop 

Phew!

crunch thump thump turn squeak strain turn turn

slip bang ow 

LOUDbadword 

Badword badword SLAM badword ow

sigh

thump thump ow thump clatter 

Wait 

wait 

yes!

Done.

kettle bubble pop pour stir sit 

ah

creak 

CRASH thump bumpbump heavybump 

tink

tink

tink

Sob 

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I really, really hate DIY.