 |
 | ||||||||||
|
Issue 7--November, 1999 ONE WRITER'S ALCHEMY
QUAGMYRE
INDIAN
LEGENDS
Searching for just that right
design for your web site splash page?
ONE WRITER'S
ALCHEMY What is that magical ingredient that allows some women to emerge from a traumatic experience stronger than ever, while others remain stuck? This is the subject to be explored in an anthology, Women Forged in Fire, due for publication early next year. My co-publisher and I are looking for nonfiction stories of women who have climbed out of chaos and despair and found ways to live courageous, joyful lives. My own history is such a story. When my husband of 19 years, a specialist in Internal Medicine, left me and my three daughters for a pharmaceutical representative, I entered a period of darkness. My identity as a Junior League/Medical Auxiliary wife and cupcake/soccer mom left with him. I grappled with rage, a sense of failure, terror about finances, and anguish for my bewildered daughters. I was a debilitated victim. Except for intermittent flashes of fury, I felt like pulling the covers over my head and never coming out. One day, months before my divorce was final, my daughters excitedly showed me the girlfriend's new car (purchased with community property funds, no doubt). I was driving a broken-down, seven-year-old van and was selling stock I had inherited from my mother and grandparents to pay bills. I bought a 16-pound sledge hammer and although I never used it on her car, I broke up all the steel-reinforced concrete curbs that had grown too tight around the trees in the front yard. Next, armed with only a bow saw, an ax and some heavy-duty clippers, I attacked a 35-year-old, 50-foot-high pecan tree that was dropping honeydew on my driveway and van. Something had to give. At this level of frustration, I was bound for serious trouble. Some of my friends made very unwelcome observations, like: How much longer are you going to allow him to control your life? You're not a victim; you're a volunteer. Your girls need to see you do something productive. Problems are never solved at the same level of consciousness that created them; you have to move to a higher level. On reflection, the most helpful friends were those who could visualize something larger for me than I could see for myself. They refused to get mired down in my pity party. A few managed an artful combination of validating and challenging, angering and encouraging me. I shut out the ones who offered trite platitudes. But only I could decide to change courses. For me, writing was pivotal to that change. As I poured my emotions onto the page, anguish and triumph, hopes and dreams, I gained insight. I experienced breakdowns and breakthroughs. My most healing writing project was a satire about mythical characters who lived in a barren wasteland. Through them, I allegorized myself, my husband, his new girlfriend, my family of origin, my in-laws, my children, my therapist. This gave me some distance and perspective. Later, when I shared the story with my soon-to-be ex-husband, we were able to laugh together and to cry. Writing laid my soul bare, but I also found resolution in the process. I was able to rethink situations, break up some old thinking patterns and even begin to find humor in my situation. As my perspective shifted, it allowed space to create a new definition of work, home, and family. Concerning work, logic seemed to dictate a return to Pharmacy. But the tough and resourceful West Texas ranch girl inside me whispered that I could do something more exciting, more challenging. I burned that bridge, writing the State Board and forgoing my license. I formed White Knuckle Enterprises, Inc., and purchased one company, then another, doubling gross sales of each in about a year and a half. But I noticed that despite the long hours and hard work, I was making more money in the stock market. I sold both companies, then began a career as an Angel Investor, financing start-up ventures. Now, not only does it appear I'm going to make a fortune at this, it also fascinates and challenges me. I recently flew to Minnesota to ask for $19 million to take one of my start-up companies from rotation (first working prototype) to full production. I also redesigned my concept of what home and family looked like. I purchased a house with four master suites; and my best friend, a minister, moved in with my daughters and me. She is like a grandmother to them and she and I travel, eat meals together and laugh a lot. We have a dog, two cats, and herds of migratory teenagers who come and go by the carload. Financially secure, I now have time to read, garden, travel and spend time with friends; but my greatest challenge is to make a contribution to others through writing and public speaking. I want to convey the message that all of us can pull out of the pit of pain if we focus our energy on what we love passionately, rather than on what has been done to us. My fondest hope is that
contributors to this collection of stories will be empowered by writing
about their journey through darkness and that their discovery of
triumphant, productive, and joyful lives will encourage others to take
heart. To Contact the Publishers
Publishers Danielle Delhomme and Evelyn Maley are the creative forces behind Women Forged in Fire. Both are committed to encouraging women to do positive things with their problems through learning to define themselves by what they can do and not by what has been done to them. Women, they say, can be energized and motivated by challenge, but first they must learn to reach out and explore new possibilities. If you have an inspiring story to tell, the publishers encourage you to share it with them. Word length may vary, approximately 1500 words. Payment: Up to $75 for stories of professional quality. Send your manuscript to: Women Forged in Fire; P.O. Box 329; Abilene, TX 79604-0329.
Coming in November from 23 House, THE DWARF AND THE DEMON TONGUE This illustrated CD-ROM book is about a dwarf who finds his family in financial difficulty and is forced to accept employment from a group of demon-worshipping delving elfs. While in Gallows he meets a beautiful gnome who he discovers practices the thieving arts. Although his dwarven honor abhors her profession, he is unable to resist her seductive charms. Willum Proud and a friend, Digger Shatterblow, discover that the delfs' nefarious plans go far beyond stealing their village's gold. With the help of Ginger, the lovely gnome, and Ticklehump, the gnomish bartender, they set out to expose the delfs' plan to release their demon-god who would rule the world.
We Want to Know! What interests you in the writing arena? Poetry, novel
writing, short story secrets? What would you like to read about in The
Emporium Gazette? Tell us and we will do our best to bring you helpful
information and entertainment in the coming months. Do you have questions
for our editors? Just drop us an email at:
by Mitchel Whitington The bridge was old, as old as time. Built of stone and
mortar by some unknown craftsman of a lost race, it would probably stand
for centuries to come. It was warmed by the bright sunlight of the day,
filtering through the trees of the surrounding forest. The bird song
filled the air, and the only creature in sight was a brown rabbit that
scampered quickly across, unafraid. Under the bridge it was cooler, the
shade giving some refuge from the heat. It was damp; plants grew that had
never known the sun, and in the moist earth, at one end, something moved.
* * * * *
He opened one eye carefully, momentarily blinded by the
in-pouring of dirt and debris. Blinking rapidly, he shook his head to free
it.
Nope.
No problems yet.
"Hoooooo..." he grumbled, once again able to see. He
shook his head again to clear the cobwebs, and raised it just a little.
"Oh my, my, my. At last," he said aloud.
He was buried in the foliage of ages, much of which was
decaying nicely into the earth. That, and the perpetual collection of
garbage, trash from the upperworld that crept under the bridge to hide. He
tensed his left arm, focusing his bodily powers there, and thrust it above
the crust. Then again with his right arm, and finally sat up.
"Ohhhhhhhh." His hand went directly to his forehead,
pressing hard to deflect the pain. "What th' - where am I"?
The troll, Quagmyre, was ugly, even as trolls go. His
nose was easily his largest feature. At a glance, one might think it
almost half as big has his face, when actually it was only a third. His
eyes were set deep into this head, framed by many folds of puffy, freckled
fat. The eyebrows lunged away from his face at unnatural angles, two
masses of thick black and gray hair. Both ears sat at opposing
perpendicular angles to his head. They were large, too large in fact. His
long, gray beard hung down to his waist. It had changed little, but was
now matted with mud and leaves.
But then, he had never been known for his looks. Slowly,
painfully, he tried to stand. His stumpy body had apparently been
completely buried, and for quite some time. Although managing to stand, he
had great trouble gaining complete control of his legs. They wobbled, and
he flailed his arms looking for a hold, but found none.
He hit the ground hard. Deciding not to press his luck,
he adjusted himself to a seated position from which to regain his
composure.
Quagmyre could not recall just how he had gotten in this
particular condition, but he was not overly concerned. Many a morning had
been spent in this manner - travelers often paid his toll in spirits, and
he was always one to enjoy a nip or two. But last night - what had
happened? As he tried to think back, he remembered pieces: the icy wind,
although it was warm now; the ghostly fog which perpetually blanketed the
forest, despite the bright sunlight of the moment; and finally, finally he
remembered.
"Ahhhhh, the witch," he pondered. Indeed. It was all
trickling back into his memory.
Once again he ventured to stand. This time, his legs
supported him. "There!" he cried out triumphantly. Looking down, he saw
that his clothes were covered in mold, decay and dirt. He brushed them off
as best he could and took a quick inventory. The wolf skin boots were
still wearable, though the laces that had once secured them were rotted.
His pants had also weathered well, although they were now a dull gray
instead of their original forest green. The fabric of his shirt hung in
tatters, exposing the hairy bulges of his gnarled upper torso. No matter.
He'd get a new one soon enough, perhaps take it as a toll from the
traveling pouch of some wandering forest being. Now if only the pouch was
intact.
"Aaaagggghh! Me pouch! It's gone!" Quagmyre frantically
searched for the one accessory a troll could not live without - his
treasure pouch. For in such a pouch a troll kept all his worldly
possessions: goods taken from unwilling victims, bits of food on which to
sustain himself, and wealth collected from travelers who crossed his
bridge. Quagmyre's particular pouch was a prize in itself. It was a
beautiful bag made from the belly-fur of a unicorn buck. He would never
have killed such a beast, since it was incredibly bad luck, but when it
had been offered for passage by an old Elf, he eagerly took it. Quag's
eyes had gleamed when he first saw it on the frail shoulder. He demanded
it to let the Elf pass, and there was actually little choice. Quagmyre's
bridge was the only method of crossing the violent rivulet for miles.
But as he looked, the troll noticed that the water was
quieter now, really more of a gentle stream. It could now be forded with
only a small effort by some of the taller travelers. With the way things
looked now, Quagmyre would have to find a new bridge to command. For the
moment, though, he'd simply have to trade on the inconvenience of wading
through the murky water.
Quag had lived a simple troll's life. Those of his kind
always lived beneath the bridges and crossings of the forest, leaping
topside whenever a creature passed. Being the stout fellows that they
were, whoever wanted to cross had to pay their tariff.
Quagmyre was a realist. While he preferred the coinage of
precious metals, he knew that few possessed such treasure. He was
therefore always content to accept a bit of food, a flask of ale, or some
item of wardrobe that caught his eye. And most obliged - albeit
grudgingly. For the only alternative was to attempt to force their way
past, which usually proved disastrous for the traveler. That, or to turn
and retrace their journey to find a new path across whatever gorge the
bridge traversed, all the while hoping that the troll didn't try to take
what he wanted by force.
Not to say that he didn't have his bad days, mind you.
There was the time when Quagmyre heard the steps above him on the bridge
and quickly jumped to the top, only to find himself face to face with a
huge cyclopean warrior. He had never seen such a beast and knew nothing of
its nature or disposition. The Cyclops had made short work of him, picking
the troll up with one hand and casually tossing him into the water. As
Quagmyre had clung to a boulder, fighting the treacherous rapids, he
watched the beast as it lumbered across the bridge. The monster paid no
more attention to the troll than he would a fly swatted away from his
face.
From that, he took a lesson. He had grown cautious. Never
timid, for a troll was known for his ferocity and strength. But also for
never being beaten. If word was to get out that he was a weak target,
easily passable, he would constantly be challenged. So Quagmyre used a
more frightful tact: meaner, rougher, more fearsome, and from that point
on he always looked before mounting the bridge.
Thereafter, he met with years of success, robbing from
the Gnomes, Elves, Humans and Fairies of his magical world as they each
sought passage over his bridge. Until that day - yes, it was all clear
now. The day that he had challenged the Witch Princess.
Many of the inhabitants of the countryside knew the art
of magic. All Fairies did, some Gnomes, and even a few of the Humans, but
it was usually a passive, gentle magic of good. Relatively few know the
powerful sorcery used in cursing and combat. Those that did were usually
very old, since it took years of study to achieve a Sorcerer's ability. So
on that fateful day, after a quick glance, he climbed onto the bridge to
face the passerby without fear or caution.
In front of him was a lovely Human girl: young,
beautiful, her blond hair flowing over her shoulders and dancing with the
wind about her slender body. A beauty, this one was, and she was visibly
startled by the Troll's sudden appearance.
"Well, Lass," Quagmyre had taunted, "out for a stroll on
such a dark Winter's day?"
"Begone, Troll!" Her face was set with defiance, her
surprise and shock passing. "Stand out of my way, insect."
"Oh, Dearie, don't ya know yer a-crossin' Quagmyre's
bridge?" He smiled lecherously, approaching and gently running his stubby
fingers through a lock of golden hair.
"Away, I say!" she snapped, catching him off guard with a
shove that threw him back a step. "Leave me be, Troll. I want no trouble
from you."
"Tsk, tsk," he said mockingly, shaking his head. "Poor
girl. Take comfort, now. Crossin' a Troll's way'll assure yer safety -
providin' ya pay th' toll!" He reached for the large pouch slung over her
shoulder. "Now just give old Quag a look in the bag, and we'll find a
suitable fee."
Angrily she snatched the pouch from his grasp and
retreated a step. "I don't aim to be fooling with you this day, beast.
You'll be better served to leave me alone."
"Oh my," he feigned panic, widening his yellow eyes and
clutching his hands to his chest. "Such a fearsome one we have today! It'd
be a shame t'find yerself suddenly swimming down river there." He stepped
forward and gave her a fierce look. "Now cut the foolery, for I'm growing
impatient."
She set her jaw sternly. "Troll, you don't want to go
angering the daughter of the Sorceress Sanja. She's taught me well, so
don't force me to use my mother's magic!"
"Th' wretched hag!" he cackled. "I heard'a her. Th'
withered old woman couldn't bear a grudge, much less a wee one!" Quagmyre
laughed loud and long at the girl's attempted threats. "Sanja's daught'r,
indeed! Ha!"
His last memory was looking up at the girl as she
clutched an unnoticed amulet that hung around her neck, lost in her
flowing mane. She spoke a phrase meaningless to Quagmyre, and slowly
raised her hand to point at him.
"Whew! 'Course that's what happ'd. The witch put a curse
on poor old Quag." He sighed, annoyed that he had once again been bested,
but also relieved that the damage had not been permanent. Thankfully, this
time by magic, not by force. So she was indeed Sonja's daughter. The girl
must have thrown a sleep-spell on him. Quagmyre shook his head. "Terrible
times fer a Troll. Terrible times indeed."
As he stomped around under the bridge, he noticed subtle
differences about the area. More importantly, though, he kept an eye open
for his treasure pouch. It was nowhere to be seen. Odd, though - why would
she have taken it? A witch of her power would find little use with the
meager possessions of a troll. No matter. He had to shake the
after-effects of her curse and get on with business.
How long had he been out? The season had changed, and
things looked somehow different. Yes, different, but in what exact manner
he could not decide. He stopped and listened. A bird flew over, and the
water insects played, but he did not hear the familiar song of the morning
fairies. "Hmmmm," he pondered aloud. No fairy-song was quite unusual for
this time of day.
A low rumbling in the distance interrupted his thoughts.
Quagmyre raised a solitary finger into the air. Ahhh, a morning traveler.
And from the sound of it, one traveling with a heavily laden cart. Easy
pickings for Quagmyre. If he'd been out for long, folks would have begun
to think that he'd abandoned the bridge, that they could pass freely.
Coming and going as they pleased, they'd been.
"Curse th' witch! What has she done t'me?" he said in
anger. Well, he'd show them all. He'd make his tolls heavier, and just for
good measure give one or two a good thrashing. Starting with this poor
wretch.
Something thundered over the bridge above him. Yes, he'd
give this traveler a fright or two. So, pulling up his trousers and
screwing his face into its most grotesque pose, Quagmyre leapt up,
grabbing the edge-rock with one hand and swinging himself upward and over,
preparing with fury to face his prey.
The driver was lost. His map didn't even show the road
that he was on. Running behind his schedule, he had cut through the back
roads of the forest hoping to make up lost time. This road was old, and
obviously not built for vehicles the size of his delivery truck. He
steered over the bridge with one hand and opened his thermos with the
other, his eyes desperately searching for some familiar landmark on the
map.
The delivery truck jolted with a heavy thump causing the
map to fall and the coffee to spill over his pants leg.
"Bloody highway crew!" he cursed, "can't keep up a decent
road." Looking into the thermos, he sighed. "Have to refill this one at
the next stop."
The year 2000 is only a few weeks away, and the stories are getting more frightening! For a sane look at the Y2K issue, read "Debunking the Y2K Terrors and Tales." This timely ebook is available on Amazon.com or direct from the publisher at 23house.com.
Do you like the backgrounds used for this month's Emporium Gazette? You can download them free for your personal website at the Emporium Art Gallery. This webset was designed by Cool Well Trading Company and is called: Blue November.
INDIAN LEGENDS The young boy of six stood looking at the item before him, wondering why such a thing would be here on the trail. "An Indian relic," his grandfather's soft voice said. "Why's it here, Grandpa?" "Legends. Myths. Campfire stories. I've heard the one about this here thing, though." "Tell me." The two sat on a nearby log and looked at the relic before the old man spoke. * * * * * A long time ago, an Indian maiden, Leaping Deer, a member of the now lost tribe of Hiwaes, gave birth to a very beautiful baby boy. Upon seeing the child she named him Smiling Pebble because his face was shiny like the bottom of a clear river bed and he had a happy smile. Smiling Pebble was a good child and always tried to make his mother proud of him, but Leaping Deer was concerned. For some reason, Smiling Pebble would trip and fall down. She hoped that he would grow out of it, but many moons passed and Smiling Pebble continued to trip himself. It was tradition on a child's sixth birthday to give up the baby name and be given a new name. The tribe elders gathered in the main lodge and sent a messenger to Leaping Deer's teepee. He called for Smiling Pebble to attend the ceremony. Smiling Pebble eagerly joined the messenger and they proceeded to where the elder's waited. When Smiling Pebble was motioned to enter, he tripped and fell into the lodge in front of the elders. The gathered mages nodded and mumbled among themselves while Smiling Pebble stood to face them. The medicine man moved toward Smiling Pebble. He paced a circle around the young boy, appraising him. You are no longer Smiling Pebble," the medicine man said, placing his hands the lad's shoulders. "Now you will be known as Tumbling Stone." "Tumbling Stone," the boy echoed the medicine man's words. "Like a stone, you tumbled into the lodge," another elder said. "Come, we will introduce you to the tribe." Tumbling Stone who once was called Smiling Pebble followed the elders from the lodge.
Moons passed and Leaping Deer watched Tumbling Stone grow into a handsome young man. She knew that soon the elders would once again call her son for a naming. Tumbling Stone ran beside the pony, grabbed its mane and lifted himself onto its back, only to slide off the other side and fall to the ground. Leaping Deer's heart filled with tears realizing that her son was extremely clumsy and that the whole tribe knew it. They were always bringing her son back when he had fallen, bruising himself and needed some motherly attention. Finally, the moon that Tumbling Stone had hoped for arrived and he was summoned to the lodge by the elders. He walked proudly and quickly with the messenger for tonight he would be given his manhood name. He pulled back the bearskin that covered the entrance and stepped in, catching his mocassin on a loose leather tong. Tumbling Stone again fell into the lodge. On hands and knees he looked up at the elders. The medicine man stood, then moved to help Tumbling Stone stand up. "I give you this name," the medicine man said speaking Tumbling Stone's new name. The elders inside the lodge nodded approval. Tumbling Stone turned from the gathered group of old men and left the lodge. He raced into the woods, leaving his people. When Leaping Deer heard that her son had left the tribe she immediately went in search of him. When she didn't return in a few days, the whole tribe searched for their lost members, hunting the mountains and hillsides. For each member went in a different direction searching for Tumbling Stone and his mother, Leaping Deer. They were never to be seen again. * * * * * "Okay, Grandpa," the young boy said. "But what was Tumbling Stone's new name?" "Falling Rocks," the elder said. "You've seen the sign that says 'Watch For Falling Rocks'? They were put up by the Hiwaes when they were searching for their lost brother." "But what is this?" the lad asked pointing at the relic. He smiled. "This is the other sign they put up looking for Leaping Deer."
COMING SOON! Custom designs for your website, dynamic html scripts, tips for building your own WEB OF WONDERS
You think "it can't happen here."
Wanna bet? What would happen to the United States if everyone attending
the Annual State of the Union Address died in a selective missile attack
on the Capitol Building. Chaos? No, worse. A very special kind of "order."
Find out what kind by reading CAPITOL CHILL, by James Gardiner go to:
http://www.buybooksontheweb.com/description.asp?ISBN=0-7414-0226-2 or call
toll free: 877-BUY-BOOK. You'll never watch the State of the Union Address
in the same way again. Ron Jones--Talent Editor--Fiction/West Coast
This issue of the Emporium Gazette designed by Cool Well Trading Company . Special thanks goes to Lorewriter for the inspiring paint chip! If you would like to subscribe to The Emporium Gazette and receive it via email, please visit the Lapis Room where you can sign up. Also, please feel free to drop us an email, should you prefer that method. We would like to thank all of our friends--subscribers and contributors alike--for making this e-zine. possible. No part of The Emporium Gazette may
be reproduced without written permission from the authors. © 1999, The IDEA FACTORY
|
|||||||||||
 |
 |
