Elizabeth loves airports, especially if she is seeing someone off that she knows.  She will watch as her friend goes through the security post at the top of the long ramp here at McGhee/Tyson Airport.  Then she will watch intently through a convenient window as the plane carrying her friend flies out of sight.

This trip is no different.  Elizabeth walks with Debbie slowly up the ramp, fussing yet again at how she should use the wheelchair service offered by the airports.  However, Debbie is nervous enough and doesn’t want to add the pressure of appearing totally helpless to the world.

Elizabeth reassures her friend just before she enters the security area that this is a simple trip to share an informal reunion with some high school friends.  She should just go and enjoy some down time with a handful of friends she reconnected with through Facebook.

Memories of high school wash over Debbie as she waves good-bye to Elizabeth.  They continue to bombard her as she boards the plane and finds her seat.  She isn’t sure if she would have actually called these four women friends when they were all in high school, but more like classmates and people she knew.

Perhaps Vicky was more than that.  After all, Debbie’s family did move next-door to Vicky’s family in junior high.  For as long as Debbie could remember, Vicky was one who spoke her mind and didn’t care about doing so.  She was usually right when she spoke out so things would usually go her way.  Living next door to her, Debbie came to admire this trait and even envied Vicky for her boldness.

In contrast to Vicky, Barb was a lot like Debbie in some ways.  Mostly in that she seemed shy and thoughtful.  However, there was a certain strength about Barb that Debbie didn’t think she possessed within herself.  This brought high admiration for Barb and the ability for Debbie to keep going forward.

In three years of high school Debbie never really got to know Julie.  Seeing Julie as pretty and having lots of friends, Debbie felt that she was too average and timid, and therefore beneath Julie’s recognition.

Geri is the fifth person who will be part of this little reunion.  In high school she had always been a bit of an enigma to Debbie.  Not that she deemed Geri two-faced or anything.  It was that not knowing her as well, Debbie just couldn’t get a good read on her.   What Debbie did know of Geri was that she was more of a free spirit than she was and she could only dream of being more like Geri.

Since reconnecting to these women on the social media site, Debbie has come to know them a little better as the estimable women they have become instead of the awkward teenagers they all used to be.

The flight from Knoxville to Charlotte, NC is one hour.  This is a relatively short trip, but a lifetime in Debbie’s mind.  Once on the ground she focuses on making her connecting flight and the two-hour leg to Baltimore’s BWI airport.  Debbie is determined to leave the past where it belongs and concentrate, instead, on the present.

Julie greets Debbie enthusiastically at BWI’s baggage claim and after many hugs and mingled tears, Julie’s gentleman friend enters to retrieve Debbie’s suitcase and escort the ladies to his waiting car.  “Debbie, this is Chris.  Chris, Debbie.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Sir.  I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Likewise.”  Chris is more intent on exiting the hectic airport than meeting and greeting.  His response is clipped, but not in a rude manner.  It is more in the style of a man who would rather remain on the outside of “girl talk”. 

The thirty minute drive to Julie’s house has the air in the car sounding more like a couple of schoolgirls chirping and giggling instead of two grown women catching up on old times.  Once at the house, Chris departs leaving the women to their own devices.  It would just be the two of them in the house for the weekend as Julie’s boys were otherwise engaged in other activities.  The first thing on the agenda is for Debbie to rest if she is to attend the evening events.

Following naps, showers and much primping, Julie and Debbie approach a corner table at Squire’s Restaurant where Vicky, Geri and Barb are already chattering away.  As the five women greet each other, the other patrons begin watching as if trying to figure out what all the commotion is.

Appetizers, salads, entrées and desserts are well accompanied by carafes of wine and pitchers of beer.  As the food disappears the beverages flow into the conversation reviving bygone days, which had long since dissolved into youth’s blurry memory.

Plans are already laid for more activities through the rest of the weekend providing Debbie’s health will allow.  However, no one desires the evening to end and along with it the feeling of past joys reentered.  “Let’s all go back to my house.  I have some wine and we can continue this in the basement undisturbed.”

“Thanks, Vick, but I really need to get home to my Woobie.”  Barb’s voice is both disappointed and excited.  She wants to remain with the group and yet be at home with her daughter.

“Do you have a place I can lay down a bit?”

“Sure, Deb.  You lay on the couch and we’ll sit around on the floor.  Oh, and don’t worry. I’ll set a fan to blow the cigarette smoke away.   Everyone ready?”

Settling into Vicky’s basement brings back even more bittersweet memories for Debbie than driving through the neighborhood.  Shoving the memories to the back of her mind, Debbie concentrates on keeping up with the clamoring conversation unfolding around her.  After all she did make a conscious decision to leave the past in the past and this was a part of her past that she refuses to revisit.

After lying for a bit, Debbie sits up and accepts a glass of what Vicky calls Cold Duck from Geri.  Vicky is sitting in front of a fan rubbing ice on her neck in an attempt to assuage the current peri-menopausal hot flash.  Vicky’s hot flash wans into a tidal wave of alcohol-induced heat that would rival the tropical heat of the equator felt by all members of the quartet.

“I’m outa smokes.  Whatcha say we go out for some air and cigarettes?

“Isn’t it getting late?”

“Learn how to read a clock, Geri.  It’s far from late.  Bars are still open.”  Vicky is already set to leave, the others follow suit proceeding slowly, giving Debbie time to balance.

Vicky skillfully pulls her car into the parking lot at Harvey’s.  Julie automatically begins singing and continues singing as the foursome make their way inside and find a table.

Rounds of drinks are ordered and consumed just as quickly.  The only thing that flows freer than the booze is the conversation and as the heat rises, inhibitions lower.  Julie finds herself in her natural position at Harvey’s, holding a karaoke microphone.  Her music selections become sultry and seductive while Geri dances directing her motions toward Julie.  Vicky keeps her phone out with the video camera going and all Debbie can do is laugh hysterically and hold on for dear life.

After rousing more than curiosity at Harvey’s the foursome exit and find themselves at The Seahorse.  Debbie orders herself a beer and slowly makes her way to the ladies room.  Upon her return she finds her three companions imbibing in a strange drink directly from the pitcher using straws.  Pointing toward a straw in front of Debbie, Vicky warns; “Hurry up before it’s all gone.”

“What is it?”  Debbie’s southern drawl is a bit slurred from the alcohol already consumed and the lack of sleep.

“Good”, Julie snips between sips.

“A trashcan.”

“There’s one over there, Geri.  I can try bringing it over to you if you need to hurl and can’t make it to the ladies room.”

The three women laugh as Julie explains, “The drink is called a trashcan.  There’s a lot of liquor in it.  And… some fruit…. I think.  It’s served in a pitcher.  Everyone drinks it like this.  You’ll love it.”

After several long sips from the pitcher, Debbie digs into her pocket and using her cane and anything else she can hold onto, she staggers to the jukebox and makes a selection.  Arriving back at the table, she fluffs her now tousled red curls, unbuttons her top button and avers to those at her table (which is as loud as she can); “I am more than this wretched disease which has engulfed my body.  I .. AM … A … WOMAN!!!”

As if on cue, the music Debbie chose begins to play and Julie, once again starts singing; “I am woman hear me roar…”

Geri gets to her feet and commences to dance with Julie as Debbie unfastens yet another button revealing more cleavage than she has ever displayed in public and allows her hair to go where it may.  Vicky seductively moves behind Debbie getting everything on her cell phone and takes Geri’s hand with her free hand linking all four women in a kind of dance that causes other patrons and staff to engage in similar free-spirited, fun-loving activities.

Enveloped in their own world and completely oblivious to anything around them, the women finish their drinks being told admirers in the crowd have paid their tab and they determine it is time to move on.  Voices grow angry and loud behind them as furniture splinters and bodies fall to the ground causing the earth to shake even more under Debbie’s feet.  Geri takes Vicky’s keys as Vicky and Julie help Debbie to the car and the four women pull off, as the sounds of police sirens grow louder.

“What happened?”  Vicky asks looking back and seeing the police and an ambulance pull up at The Seahorse.

Geri, who is driving, replies; “I don’t know, but it looks bad.  Clearly we can’t go back and going home isn’t an option.”  Silence fills the air in the same manner an inferno fills the atmosphere around it.  Debbie lays her spinning head back against the seat.  “It’s okay, I know a guy.”

Waking up is difficult this morning.  At first, the blur that is believed to have been last night seems more of a disturbing dream than reality.  Debbie slowly sits up and looks around needing to find her glasses and cane.  This is not Julie’s house.  The décor is tropical.  With a reeling, pounding head she staggers around in search of direction and sees Julie and Vicky sitting, well slumping, at a patio table outside the glass doors.  Geri comes up behind her swaying and smelling of vomit and they realize this is not a dream.

Outside on the patio the staggering pair joins the slumping pair at the table and all collapse wondering where they are and how they got here.  As they ponder in whispers fighting the urge to regurgitate whatever they nonsensically ingested last night ear-piercing rings begin shrieking from Julie’s cell phone causing the four women to jump out of their skins with their heads shattering.

Julie slaps her phone and picks it up putting it to her ear.  “What?  I don’t know where we are.  What?  Huh?  Hello?  Barb?”  Julie looks at her phone with confusion and then drops it to the table.  The others look at her through squinting eyes.   “That was Barb.  She said something about everyone looking for us, including the police.  Seems someone was killed in that bar we went to.  Phone died, too.”

Folding her arms on the table, Julie drops her head back down with a mournful groan as the bewildered women try to make sense of things.  Debbie slowly lifts her head and looks at Vicky; “What in the world was in that duck sauce you gave us?”

“Mmmm, uh …. Um ….You mean,” Vicky coughs to clear her dry throat.  “You mean the Cold Duck?  It was just wine.  Where are my cigarettes?”

“Isn’t that what got us into this mess in the first place?  You needing cigarettes?”  Geri gets up to go back into the bathroom.  Upon her return, Geri sits back down with a bottle of water and had been doing her own pondering.  “How is it I’m the only one puking my guts up this morning?”

“Juls and I were up before y’all doing the same thing.  Can’t be anything left.”

“With the Meniere’s I have learned to suppress.  Bad habit, but when I’m vertigo, I can’t clean it up.  Speaking of which, I think I’m hallucinating.  There’s a man on our patio.”

“You’re not hallucinating, Deb.  I’m here and I have coffee.”

“I hope it’s good coffee and how do I know you?  You don’t look familiar.”

“Good?  I just hope the coffee is real.  And strong.”  Julie sits up searching for a cup.

Geri takes a cup; “This is my husband’s cousin, Dante.  What are you doing here?”

“Do you know where we are?  Better question, do you know where my damn cigarettes are?”

“Well, first off, we are in Freeport, Bahamas.  This is a friends place.  He’s not here so I thought you could hole up here till things cool off.  I’m here because you called me last night and asked me to meet you at the boat.  I showed up and the four of you were there asking me to get you as far away as possible.  The coffee is real, but if we are going to be here a while we’ll need to go into town and lay in supplies.  As for your cigarettes Vicky, you threw them overboard last night and swore you’d never touch another one after the trouble they caused last night.”

“What the hell happened last night that would make me throw my smokes away?”  Vicky’s bewildered voice brings to focus that everything is too real and something must have happened last night. 

The women just look at each other in wonder while Dante allows a creepy smile to cross his face.  “So, Ger…of all the people I know, you are not the one I expected to have to hie out of the country.  What really happened?  Ya kill someone?”

Dante’s voice resonated like a tolling bell deep inside a multifaceted cavern fading into the ebon haze.

The suitcase weighs heavy in Debbie’s hand as she struggles to lift it to check it through.  She glances behind her to see if her friend Elizabeth, who had brought her to the airport, had found a parking space and entered the terminal.  Not seeing her, Debbie turns back toward the smiling thirty-something lady behind the counter and wonders if it was too late to just go back home and forget the trip.

May 7, 2012

It seems to me that the further down the road we go in time, the lazier we become, especially in the United States.  It has been a while since I have been to a foreign country, but thanks to the wonderful world wide web, I have many friends and acquaintances around the world.  Through them I see other views and customs.

In the past few years in Second Life, I have seen people’s names diminishing rapidly.  At one time people seemed to address another person by the first three letters of their first name.  Now, they just address them by their first initial.

My nom de plume is DL Bach.  I am also known by other names.  My real first name is Debbie.  Sam is a nickname given to me by others I worked with because there were three women named Debbie in our group of ten.  In Second Life I am Parker.  A friend in Paris did a play on my pen name and calls me DeeEl.  I like this.

Debbie is a shortened version of my real name Deborah.  If you really don’t like me and want me out of your life, just call me Deborah.  I will be gone faster than you can repeat it.

There is one person I know in Second Life who has given to call me JJ.  Now, my last name in Second Life begins with J, but for the life of me I cannot understand why this person calls me JJ even though I have corrected them several times.  I generally use a person’s full first name in Second Life to address them, unless they ask me specifically not to.

There are times when nicknames (usually shortened versions of a given name) are used to be endearing.  For instance, my Second Life name is Parker and most people call me Parky.  This isn’t much shorter, but it is fun and playful.  Then there are the nicknames that have nothing to do with a person’s name at all, such as my nickname of Sam or when people call a loved one Boo or Woobie, etc.

A while back (when I used to work), I was screening a movie or something and two men were discussing nicknames.  One was Russian and the other American.  The American asked the Russian if names didn’t work the same way in Russia being that you shorten them when speaking to or about a loved one.  The Russian replied that occasionally it does work that way, but usually the nicknames are longer for someone you love.  His rationale was that when you are saying the name of someone you love, you never want it to end.  This is where I am.

In real life when I am introduced to someone, the manner of introduction will usually dictate how I address the person.  Until I am invited otherwise, I will usually address them as Mr./Ms. So-and-so.  I hold to the old way of respecting people.  I do not infer intimacy, I wait to be invited in.  When I worked in the prison, my first day of training, I met the head of the prison and when he introduced himself and we were chatting he asked me to call him by his first name.  My manager, later, tried to write me up for insubordination for calling the director by his first name.  The director chastised the manager instead.

When you are invited to the inner intimacy of speaking on first name basis, it is a trust that has been earned, not invaded.  This is a matter of respect.  So if you think so little of me and the speaking of my name repulses you so much that you reduce me to a mere letter of the alphabet, then I must reconsider the intimacy I have allowed you to share.

It is seen all too well the bullying in schools.  When it happens in homes it is labeled abuse and the law will step in IF the victims dare to speak up.  In the work place it bears a more subtle hand.  Then you have governments who go into other countries and strong arm the opposing government and bully them into submission.  Governments also bully their citizens with brash laws meant to fortify the leaders and leave the general population in ruin.

In January, I wrote a poem called Bullied.  I took from my own life as well as things I see around me and on the news to write this piece.  I must say it was a difficult piece to write and felt a great relief when it was finished.  

This type of behavior in any form and at any level is appalling and immoral.  But, there is something that is just as bad, if not worse.  Even though it is so prominent, and known, bullying remains a boil festering within the world.  Not just because there are those who will always think they deserve to do harm in some form to other people.  It is also allowed to continue because the cowards looking on do nothing.

As a child I would wear bruises and whelps from beatings and others would see these, but remain silent.  In school, when kids would bully me, there would be those who would just stand there and watch, doing nothing.  Years ago a man I knew in junior high and high school crossed my path at a baseball game.  We sat and chatted for a bit while watching the field.  He looked at me and with sadness in his eyes he said he remembered how some of the other boys would say and do mean things to me.  I remembered he was one of them standing there.  He continued to aver that it always bothered him how they did that.  He said good-bye and returned to his seat.  If it bothered him so much, why didn’t he say anything to anyone who could have helped me?

Perhaps this person didn’t or felt he couldn’t do anything due to his age at the time of the incidents.  However, there are those in workplaces who will stand around the water-cooler listening to co-workers as they say ugly and hateful things about another co-worker.  At the most they may go to a quiet place and secretly phone that person and warn them someone is saying things about them.  You call that person a friend and yet you stand there and allow other people to defame the same one you call friend.  This is not what I call a friend.

Passing cutesy things on Facebook and Twitter may be fun, but what are you really doing to put an end to the bullying in the world?  What are you doing to put an end to the bullying in your own town or neighborhood?

The next time you are in a group where someone you know and perhaps call friend is being besmirched and you are tempted to do nothing, imagine you are watching a small child being brutally beaten.  What would you do?  Would you just go over and tell that child they are being abused?  IF you are a friend, then speak up and say you will NOT stand around and allow small-minded people to speak that way about someone that you endear.   Be a human being and display that you are indeed a friend in the truest sense of the word.

It is the people who stand by that allow bullying and abuse to continue to rule the world.

When I was growing up, I was taught to treat people with respect, especially my elders.  When addressing an elder it was always Mr./Mrs. So-and-so.  When responding to them it was “Yes, Sir/Ma’am” or “No, Sir/Ma’am”.  This is how it was and I never questioned it.  Besides, if I had questioned it, I probably would not have lived to see adulthood. I thought thing were this way with everyone.  Apparently I was misinformed.

After I grew up, I remembered my lessons and used them when engaging in conversation with my elders as well as those my age and younger.  Addressing people in this manner is just showing respect and has nothing to do with age, at least not for me anymore.  One thing I learned was that not all parents taught their children the same kind of respect.  The first time a child called me by my first name, I cringed.  Even if my last name (which is really long) is not known, they could still use Miss with my first name.  However, this was not the case and the parents didn’t seem the least bit phased.

From children that I nannied and/or sat for to the adolescents that I counseled, I found the same thing.  It felt as if the minors were trying to place themselves on the same level as adults.  I find this to be equivalent to parents who believe they should be their child’s best friend instead of their parent.  I may not be able to be a parent, but in my nearly thirteen years as an adolescent counselor working mainly in juvenile justice, I saw the fruits of this process.

In 2007, after dealing with my illness for three years, I found an on-line virtual world that gave me back a lot of what I lost from the illness.  This wonderland is called Second Life ® .  My training carried over into this world and I address people in a respectful manner.  I am continuously ‘chastised’  for referring to people as Sir or Ma’am.  Usually the males protest vehemently.  I still cannot understand why people would feel older by being treated with respect.

Another issue I encountered in Second Life ®  was that the majority of the people who used the same kind of respect I display for others are doing so because they are involved in BDSM or prostitution.  It seems that submissives are told to use Mr./Ms. and Sir/Ma’am when addressing people even if they are asked not to by the person being addressed.  I was told early on that others were believing I was involved in these groups because I was respectful.

What has the world come to when you cannot treat others with respect just because they are human beings?  Yes, I still cringe when not treated with respect, especially by children.  However, I learned to not care what others think in Second Life ®  and still continue to address people with respect.  In real life (and other places on-line) I continue to do the same.  I will address people with Mr./Mrs and their last name unless introduced only with the first name or until that person invites me to address them in a more informal manner.

Respect should never be out of fashion.  We should always show we have respect for others, even if it is just because they are a human being.

About a year or two before my grandmother passed away, my aunt began hosting the annual fun-fest.  I say this with tongue-in-cheek as things began changing when my grandmother got sick and could no longer host the family events.  Bitterness set in and that brought lots of bickering.  Since I was a young teen, I was not privy to most of the issues at hand.  One constant was those who presumed they did most of the work were angry that others were partaking without even offering to lend a hand.  Funny, as a child I recall it was Grandmaw who did most of the work, but I do not remember her ever complaining as she enjoyed the time with her family.

I came to dread the holidays and spending time with the family, especially after my grandmother passed.  It seemed the holidays were the appropriate time to bash each other and hurl the worst insults that could be found.  I thought holidays were supposed to bring families together and, especially Thanksgiving Day, finding all the reasons to be thankful.  I must have had a grave misconception in this area.

The happiest Thanksgiving I recall following my grandmothers death was the year my long-time friend Denise invited me to spend it with her and her family.  I was probably about 19 at the time and expected to feel very claustrophobic as she comes from a rather large family.  At the most, growing up, we had about two dozen coming and going from my grandparents home.  With Denise’s parents, siblings, their spouses and children alone they had over two dozen.  Then you sprinkle in an odd uncle and aunt or two.  That is a lot of people.

Denise knew how miserable I was contemplating another Thanksgiving dinner with my family and being the main source of abusive entertainment for everyone.  Therefore, she suggested with an insistent tone that I come to her parents house and spend the day with them.  I knew her family quite well and admired them for their closeness and love for each other so I graciously accepted the invitation.

I walked up the block to the Fulton abode and almost before I could knock on the door I was greeted heartily by a couple of the children.  Everyone else filtered in and made me feel welcome.  One thing I really enjoyed was they treated me, not like a guest, but as they treated each other, like family.  There was no difference with any other time I had been to their home, except ALL of them were there at one time.

Dinner was very animated with all the lively conversation.  It was filled with respect for each other and very comfortable as if they had been acting this way all their lives.  I knew they had, because this is how they behaved any other time of year when I would have the honor of being within the warmth of this home.  Mr. Arness (my name for Denise’s dad due to a photo of him resembling James Arness the actor) reminded me a lot of my grandfather, except he was more vocal than my grandfather.

After the feasting came the festing.  Christmas music was put on and everyone just had fun with each other.  I was sitting there watching the whirlwind of excitement and entertainment going on around me and comparing it to my own family.  Denise came over and grabbed my hands and pulled me to my feet to begin dancing to the upbeat holiday music swelling the air with the lingering aromas of turkey and pie.

As tears fill my eyes remembering times long since committed to the archival parts of my brain, I ponder my more recent Thanksgivings.  I have not had a full thanksgiving dinner since 2005, the last time since being sick that I was still able to cook it.  As this dragon makes life more and more difficult for me, I spend most of my time resting and doing little things.  I also try to use it to get some writing done as I know I will not be receiving IMs or anything from anyone since the majority of my US friends (who all live in my computer) will be with their families and loved ones.

For this Thanksgiving, provide your kin with reasons to be thankful, not regret.  I bid all y’all a wonderful time with your loved ones giving thanks for each other and letting them know you are grateful for them being in your life.

The Damsel Fights Back

The Damsel And The Dragon

On the heels of the Queen’s death and the conjoinment of Prince CuChulainn, Princess Emer and Duchess Ryanne, who were now ruling over of the kingdom, came an influx of new faces migrating to the Islands that are called Lost and blending into the fabric of the kingdom deeply enriching the Flanagan Clan.  One of these fresh faces belonged to a comely damsel.  She walked into Flanagan’s Pub one cold winter evening to attend a festive gathering and to satisfy her curiosity about the Clan and other people in the kingdom.

Putting on a name tag that simply read “Parker” she returned greetings with all the confidence and stability of a newborn kitten.  Parker was careful not to make eye contact with any one, but remained on the sidelines watching in wonder and awe.  The crowd was dense and she knew no one in the room.  Slowly she meandered around the perimeter of the amazing ornately plain room.  She studied with care the textures and moldings that would make this ballroom come alive even if no one was present.

Stepping through a side door the damsel had her breath taken away.  She was in the original part of the pub and found herself reaching out and touching the smallest details with tender fingertips.  Studying the richness of every crease and crevice, Parker lost all track of time.  She allowed the music wafting in from the outer ballroom to lull her further into a mesmerizing trance that propelled her into the speculation of the history of the fine craftsmanship enveloping her.  While her fingers ran along the ivory keys of the piano she did not realize her solitude had ended.

As she caressed the handiwork all around her, Parker was unaware of eyes studying her.  She jumped at the greeting bestowed from behind.  Turning toward the door, Parker was face-to-face with Prince CuChulainn and returned his greeting apologizing if she had entered a room not open to the public.  The prince assured her that all rooms were opened for exploration.  He went on to apologize for interrupting her reverie but explained that he was not given to crowds and much preferred smaller gatherings.

The pair chatted for a while then the prince went into a detailed history of the pub.  Lovingly he explained how the queen had desired such a place for the Clan and all those in the kingdom to come together.  Parker drank in every historical notation accounting the construction and dedication of the pub, its ballrooms and gardens.  She did not want to miss one iota.  The more the prince talked the deeper the damsel drifted into the manifestations that are the Flanagan Clan.  In the same reality the deeper the prince took Parker’s thoughts into his recitations, the further she went from the nightmare in her own world.

One cold winter night in the warmth of a cozy pub, a friendship was formed between two unlikely souls.  Parker and the prince would spend hours together talking and sharing their thoughts and their joys.  Enthusiastically the pair explored various parts of the kingdom and enjoyed the richness and beauty therein.  But, always close in the damsel’s conscience was the battle looming that she fought every day.  Wanting to enjoy every blissful moment, the damsel knew she could not reveal to anyone in the kingdom (least of all the prince) that a dragon had come to claim her and threw her into a vicious battle that she fought alone in her own world.

Years before, without warning, Galar entered the damsel’s life.  At first she did not think the dragon powerful and venomous.  Time proved her wrong.  However, knowing his strength would not have given Parker any foothold to banish him from her life for good.  In the beginning Parker did not know what she was fighting and knew even less about how to fight dragons.  Instead of fighting, the fair damsel gave up and ran away looking to find replacements for all that Galar had stolen from her.  In her apparent flight from reality, Parker found herself continually on the Islands that are called Lost and enjoying the companionship of a prince.

Day after day the sweet damsel entered what she called her fairytale life.  It was there that she could be herself again, be whole.  In her fairytale life she could run and dance and even spread her arms to fly.  There, Parker could control her own life and not be concerned with Galar looming behind rocks or lurking in caves waiting for a chance to spring, talons extended and deliver more crippling blows to her already fragile body.

In the fairytale land of the Islands that are called Lost, Galar dared not enter, but the moment Parker would step out of the fantasy, away from the beauty of the land and the companionship of her princely friend, Galar was waiting.  His hot breath steaming through flared nostrils would cause her head to spin.  Galar is a sneaky dragon and does not fight fair.  He has a way of leaving his prey alone and just watching, waiting for just the moment that the intended victim would feel confident that he was finally gone and would plague them no more.  Then at just the perfect moment Galar would extend his talons and use the full force of his mighty arm to knock the victim off their feet and leave the poor soul laying there writhing in pain.

One day, in the early spring of friendships blossom, a messenger arrived while Parker and CuChulainn were exploring gardens on the far side of the kingdom.  Parker watched helplessly as news delivered to the prince that a knight, who was closer to him than a brother, had been murdered by a dragon.  It was speculated that this dragon was of the same nest as the one which claimed the queen and another knight who was a boyhood friend of the prince.  In his grief the prince ran off for the palace leaving the damsel to stand shivering with worry.

Parker return to her home and watched the day the prince rode off on his steed to hunt down the dragon which dared to enter the kingdom and take the life of one so loyal as Sir Jeff.  Parker waved as CuChulainn rode by, but still buried in his grief the prince did not see his friend.  In her heart of hearts, Parker knew she would never again spend time with the one who had given her many hours of relief from Galar.  Demurely patting away the tears rolling down her cheeks with her lace handkerchief, she slowly turned and walked back into her home.  Her reality.  Her own personal battleground.

Deep concern for the prince allowed Galar another entrance into Parker’s world.  She was already weakened from previous battles with her fierce enemy.  Now, her heart broken, Galar wasted no time hurling his fiery darts in just the right places to send Parker crumbling to the ground.  There was no one there to catch Parker as she fell and no one to help her fight this dragon she did not understand.  Now, she no longer had any one to help her escape his relentless torment even for the briefest of time.

One brisk autumn day, lying in a sea of her own tears, Parker found herself curled up like a kitten shivering in pain and fear.  Slowly, she pulled herself up.  For the moment Galar did not appear to be around.  Tattered and scarred, the once fair damsel knew in fractured clarity that she needed to fight back.  After bathing, Parker put on fresh clothes and went in search of a friend.  Stepping back into her fairytale world she reacquainted herself with others she had enjoyed the company of in time long since reverted to memory.  Spending time in her fairytale land with acquaintances she felt comfort that she hadn’t felt since her time with the prince.  Once again, Parker had found an escape for brief interludes from Galar’s ferocious attacks.

Slowly, the damsel regained the resilience she knew before Galar entered her life and wreaked havoc.  As she felt surer of her footing she also found herself trusting.  She began to share information of her battles with those who had taken her in as family and friend.  Neither the Flanagan Clan nor the royals had fully accepted her, save the prince alone.  She was a commoner and not a clansman therefore, they could never have fully accepted her.  However, in a quaint little village known as the Bee Hive Township, there were those who offered hands to hold and arms to lean on whenever Parker was weary from her battles’ rage.

Seven souls welcomed Parker into their world and in return she began to trust their strength and learned to use it during the ensuing skirmishes with Galar.  Even the times that Galar would have the upper hand, Parker knew she was not alone.  There were seven angels who were each in their own way, there to catch her or to help her tend her wounds.  Over time, in the fortitude of a few, Parker found herself winning the battles more and more.  Galar turned his attention from the damsel with the help of a gentle wizard who truly knew how to fend him off.

Parker would return to the Islands that are called Lost from time to time and continued to be concerned for the prince.  However, CuChulainn faced his own dragon and the sweet damsel held vigil against hers.  The season’s changed as they always do, but Parker could now stand in both her fairytale world and her real world with trust in her heart with the weapons of friendship and love to wield whenever Galar came to prey.  Deep within the damsel knew this dragon would never go away.  But then again, neither will friendships found so true.

June 19, 2009

© DL Bach

The Damsel Is Victorious

**DISCLAIMER – The characters in this story are people in Second Life.  I am not, in any way, attempting to mock or do harm to any deities.  The people chose their own names and I just wrote my story.

Recently I sent an e-mail to a bunch of friends which included links to apps for things like tracking your finances to finding a clean restroom near your location.  I received a reply back from one of those friends saying her phone was dumb but it would be worth getting a smartphone just for the restroom app.  She was joking, but it caused me to think about these so-called smartphones and the applications that are available.

As a writer, I am always looking for things that can be beneficial to me and my writer friends.  You know how it is, the latest high-tech gadgets that can help us fill the blank page with our wit and wisdom.  My two favorites are my electronic thesaurus and digital voice recorder (DVR).  However, I want to look at smartphone apps here.  And guess what?  There are apps for that.  I have plugged in various words and phrases to iTunes Store, Blackberry App World and Smartphone.net.  I will include links for some of the apps I mention at the end.  Since I do not have a smartphone nor an iPod Touch, I cannot comment on the accuracy or functionality of any of these apps.  Some of them are free while others seem to be a bit much considering price comparisons between the three sites.

When I searched the Blackberry App World for “writer” and “writing” I found mostly eBooks.  Very few tools to help writers.  They do have the standard thesaurus’ and dictionaries to help find just the right words.  I did find one eBook for getting started as a freelance writer.  For that, if you are able to read a book on your Blackberry, I suggest you try it out.  Smartphone.net and iTunes seemed to have an abundance of apps for using your own handwriting in e-mails.  This appears to be a tool to allow you to use a stylus to write your e-mail.  If you are like me this is NOT a good idea.  It is far more difficult to write on a smartphone or even a laptop (my laptop has a built in function for writing into documents like that) than on a piece of paper; and if you already have bad handwriting, it will be much worse.  However, it can be fun.

Each of the three sites did have a few apps for digital voice recording.  I use my DVR when I am driving or where I can’t readily get to pen and paper (even in bed) to record the thoughts I have and then return to them later.  You can download these voice files onto your computer and transcribe after.  This could be a handy tool for journalists and writers who interview people for various assignments and books.  Instead of carrying your DVR and your phone and juggling (I sometimes forget which pocket each is in in my briefcase) you can have only one instrument to manage

In both iTunes and Smartphone.net I also found apps for helping you write other languages.  While some were your standard English translation dictionaries, but others were apps to actually help you learn to write other languages such as Hebrew and Chinese.  There were also journal apps to help you keep a diary or journal for your personal thoughts and ideas.  Some of the most intriguing apps I found for writers were on iTunes.  On my laptop (aka: DL’s Brain) I have a program called Write It Now Novel Writing software.  I love this program as it helps you organize your thoughts, characters and storyline.  The apps My Writing Nook , Writing Help,  and Writing Toolkit from iTunes seem to be similar to this.

I also found apps to help people write poetry, music and articles.  You can even get an app to help with persistent writer’s block.  Now we have no excuses as writer’s anymore for not being able to practice our skills where ever we are.  Unless you neglect to recharge your phone of course.  But I am the only one in the world who does that.  Find the app or apps that fit you and download them today.  Half the fun will be playing with the new toys and getting to know them and understand them.  Then you can let them help you produce magnificent works of art.

Final disclaimer, no apps were used nor were any smartphones harmed in the writing of this post.  And since there are no apps for showing affection, remember to hug someone and tell them how much you care about them.

Smartphone.net – Writing ~ http://www.smartphone.net/en/usd/search.html?order=18&qry=writing&=Search+now&cat=0&advs_language=8&rating_start=-1

Blackberry App World – http://appworld.blackberry.com/webstore/

iPhone – http://www.apple.com/iphone/apps-for-iphone/

My Writing Nook – http://ax.itunes.apple.com/us/app/my-writing-nook/id332503036?mt=8#ls=1

Writing Toolkit – http://ax.itunes.apple.com/us/app/writing-toolkit/id345490233?mt=8#ls=1

Writing Help – http://ax.itunes.apple.com/us/app/writing-help/id329400915?mt=8#ls=1

Basics Of Song Writing – http://ax.itunes.apple.com/us/app/iguides-basics-song-writing/id346212463?mt=8#ls=1

Writer’s Block Buster – http://ax.itunes.apple.com/us/app/writers-block-buster/id329389227?mt=8#ls=1

Professional Woman: Writing Assistant – http://ax.itunes.apple.com/us/app/professional-woman-writing/id329411570?mt=8#ls=1

Music Composer – http://ax.itunes.apple.com/us/app/music-composer/id302221931?mt=8#ls=1

Article Writing – http://ax.itunes.apple.com/us/app/article-writing/id328018783?mt=8#ls=1

Let’s Write Poetry – http://ax.itunes.apple.com/us/app/lets-write-poetry/id324539422?mt=8#ls=1

I Need A Muse – http://ax.itunes.apple.com/us/app/i-need-a-muse/id360166218?mt=8#ls=1

Short Story Writing – http://ax.itunes.apple.com/us/app/short-story-writing-a-practical/id367761127?mt=8#ls=1

Love Writing – http://ax.itunes.apple.com/us/app/love-writing/id362088247?mt=8#ls=1

Oxford American Thesaurus – http://ax.itunes.apple.com/us/app/oxford-american-thesaurus/id348773557?mt=8#ls=1

Winston Churchill once said, “Those who fail to learn from history are doomed to repeat it.”  I have always liked this quote until I read an update but cannot recall who said it.  This has become my favorite quote; “Those who fail to learn history are doomed to repeat it.  Those who fail to learn history properly are just doomed.”  I will not get started on all the ways that we as American citizens have distorted history to suit our own desires.  That is not what this is about.  Here we will remember.

After the Civil War ended, Reunification Day was celebrated.  It was near this time that the country first enacted a day to remember and pay honor to all the Union soldiers who gave their lives in the war between the states.  At first this day was called Decoration Day having the first national observance May 30, 1868 and the graves of the fallen soldiers were decorated.  Later this was extended to include all US military personnel who died during WWI.  With each war the United States entered, the fallen during the war were to be included in the remembrance of Memorial Day (a term first used in 1882).

Years ago I wrote a song about how we gained our independence.  It was the blood, sweat and tears of so many who lived and died before us.  These are the ones we pay homage to on Memorial Day.  Had it not been for the brave men and women who put on a uniform and went to battle and died, we would not know this life we have today.  I say uniform, but it is a broad term, because during the Revolutionary war, most of the colonial soldiers just wore their every day clothes.

So often today people confuse Memorial Day with Veteran’s Day.  Veteran’s Day does not afford us the summery day off from work.  In fact, most companies do not observe it as a holiday at all.  No matter the observance,  it is still an official federal holiday set aside to honor ALL US veterans of ALL wars.  Those living and those gone on.  This weekend, we pay special tribute to those who have given their lives on the battlefield to make sure we have the freedoms we now take for granted.  In short, they all died just so we can eat grilled hamburgers.

I have been wanting to write a special poem for Memorial Day and to include not only US soldiers who have given their lives to defend this country, but I wanted to pay homage to the fallen in all countries who have bravely and proudly entered battle to defend their homeland.  After watching the PBS special National Memorial Day Concert I knew the direction I wanted to take.  I wanted to pull up the fight songs of each of the branches of the US military.  I stopped after reading the lyrics to the first song I pulled up – The Marine Corps Hymn.  The last stanza really struck me.  The last four lines in particular; “If the Army and the Navy, Ever look on Heaven’s scenes; They will find the streets are guarded, By United States Marines.”  I knew I had my poem for today.  I remembered watching yesterday as they showed scenes of the military burial sites around the world where fallen US soldiers lay in rest.  From all of this I wrote the following:

Gone On To Eternal Duty

Lost in a dream
of days gone by
Searching for answers
through heart’s eye

Up and down
neatly groomed rows
trimmed with flags
sprinkled with bows

The names and dates
all a blur to me
looking out across
a flag waving sea

Stepping sure, crossing
barriers of space and time
no more markers or flags
but, soldiers in line

Wearing uniforms
both new and old
they died for others
as history’s told

They entered battles
as men full grown
they fought hard, reaping
what others have sown

I study the faces
reason to find
they are all the same
it boggles my mind

Walking up one
then down two
in a distance I spy
an ocean of blue

Turning to see
the picture full
my heart is pricked
there’s a tug and a pull

From every nation
they stand as one
their tour long past
but yet just begun

These soldiers gone before
stand on land and on sea
they guard the world around
they guard you, they guard me.

May 31, 2010
© DL Bach

My poll on WDC was only open to members and I desired a more global allowance of participants.  It seems that writer’s have interesting thoughts concerning love.  The way I pose my question and the selection of options caused many to pause before replying.  On the surface the question seems quite simple.  Then you view the options and begin to question what you really think.  I can not recall exactly why I designed this poll, except that I wanted to write an article.  What my prompt was I do not know.  As I ponder this I am sure that I was brought to this poll due to my own thoughts about love.  I actually put my response in the options – “A word in the dictionary”.

The first nine years of my life all I knew of love was that it had to hurt.  If someone said “I love you” then they wanted to hurt you, physically and/or emotionally.  Then I found religion and thought I was heading in the right direction when it came to love.  Yes, there were still those in my life that would continue to hurt me, but I thought I had found a different kind of love.  Then I got sick with a chronic illness that has no known cause/no known cure and all of that seemed to vanish.

I love teddy bears.  I love to write.  I love to read.  I love, love, love mangoes.  I love music.  It has been more years than I can count since I have said “I love you” to anyone.  In Second Life, I do occasionally say “I love my SLamily”, but it is usually said a bit facetiously when the crew are acting all silly and goofy.  I have noticed that most folks use that line very rapidly.  In the beginning of romantic relationships it can be a bit explosive.  But those who know each other a long time or are related in any manner say it all the time.  They end telephone and IM conversations with it and even sign cards, letters and e-mails with it.  Sometimes I think it is out of habit or expectation.  It isn’t that I have no feelings for the person I am speaking with.  I just don’t like using such powerful words on a whim for one.  I also have such negative memories for those who have used those words with me and I do not want to use something for someone I care about with ugliness attached to it.

So, take the poll and give it some real consideration when you answer, “What is love?”  Then look at how it applies to you and your life in respect to those you care about.