There Be Dragons

As one who enjoys Science Fiction and Fantasy, I have encountered many dragons in my reading.  Sometimes they are described as being friendly, but most are more like Smaug, the dragon in The Hobbit by J.R.R. Tolkien.  They are greedy, deceitful and extremely dangerous.

I think that describe some people as well -- many of whom become elected officials.

There is another type of dragon that sometimes finds its way into books.  It is the dragonfly.  I am especially reminded of the Ornithopters used on Arrakis (Dune) in the movie adaptation of the book Dune, written by Frank Herbert.   The propulsion system makes them appear like dragonflies with beating wings -- a little like a helicopter but with the rotors replaced by beating wings.  I can't imagine the difficulties of maintaining such a system -- especially in an extreme desert environment such as Arrakis.

I think dragonflies are among the most interesting of insects.  Although they are predatory, they don't bite or sting humans and their aerial maneuvers are impressive.  Read the Wikipedia entry here.  It is long but worth the effort.

In Old England they were considered evil, hence the name Dragonfly.  The word dragon is associated with the devil and fly as well, flying insect.  They are featured in many native American cultures such as the Navajo who linked them with pure water.  Recently, utilizing drone-like technology, flying optical transmitters have mimicked dragonflies.

Below is a photo of a Common Whitetail Dragonfly (Plathemis lydia), also known as a Long-tailed Skimmer which landed on our front porch for a rest yesterday evening.  Most of them I see have a solid white tail.

What Do You See?

This image was taken in far western New Mexico just off of U.S. Highway 60 back in 2010.  I noticed what looked to be a cave off to the south and stopped to get a photograph only to discover that it wasn't a cave, but an arch.  When I looked at the image this morning, I saw something completely different.  I saw R2D2.

I'm not sure what he is dragging along behind him, but that's definitely R2D2 on the left.  For the two of you out there who might not know, R2D2 is a robot from the Star Wars series.  He speaks in high-pitched beeps and whistles and is in charge of navigation on Luke's fighter -- along with many other duties such as carrying stolen Death Star plans and crucial maps of the Universe.  He has even been known to produce other items out of a hidden compartment, such as Luke's light-saber, at critical moments.

I am definitely a Star Wars fan, but my wife is a fanatic.  I suspect she can quote the script of every character in every one of the movies -- not only quote them, but her timing on them is impeccable.  I may know the gist of what is coming, but she speaks the words as they are spoken in the scene as it plays out in front of you.

There are many who do not care for Science Fiction, but it is my favorite genre of fiction.  It is where we can delve into societal issues in an imaginative world of the future.  Sometimes the creative vision of the author plays out and at other times it doesn't -- I'm thinking Jules Verne.  Science Fiction has been around for a long time.

What are your favorite Science Fiction books?  Your comments would be appreciated.  My favorite is probably "Stranger in a Strange Land" by Robert A. Heinlein.  I wouldn't recommend it for everyone, but it is one that will definitely get you to thinking.  I look forward to your lists!

Do You Ever Ask "What If?"

It is sometimes necessary to stop and ask "What if?"  By that I mean that we should occasionally consider present circumstances and through reasoning, project what the future consequences might be.  The following fictional piece is a result of that thought process:

The knock on the door was loud and unexpected.  I had been sitting at my computer for the last hour searching the Dark Web for recipes on how to prepare a beef brisket I had come into possession of through a black market friend of mine.  In spite of all efforts to the contrary, an underground economy in animal proteins still survived.

It was too late to silence my illegal generator but, after quickly closing my Browser window, I went to the door to see who would interrupt my peaceful Sunday afternoon.  It was an officer from Homeland serving me with notice that I was being removed to one of the reservations that had been established in southern Texas.  The notice was not totally unexpected since I was an unrepentant “rural” who refused to move to the megalopolis and was not an employee of the government.  I had ten minutes to gather anything I wished to take with me on the trip; there was no appeal.  While I gathered my things the officers dismantled my satellite receiver and confiscated my computer.

Ever since control of the country had fallen into the hands of the “Democracy for All” party, what few remaining liberties we had fell quickly to the tyranny of the state.  The proliferation of laws “protecting” the rights of "the people" had eliminated almost all freedom to do as one chose and replaced it with the all-encompassing control of those in power.

Virtually all food was now imported from other countries or manufactured in the large syn-food factories springing up across the country and what had previously been farms and ranches now were being turned into vast parks to serve as a playground for the rich and famous.  Those of us who once had fed the world suddenly found ourselves unemployed and unwanted wards of the state.  Formerly thriving communities were now mostly vacant except for the remaining holdouts like me who would stay until forced out.

It was futile to resist since the officer serving the warrant was backed by almost thirty police in full riot gear.  Other troops were scattered up and down the street doing the same to my few remaining neighbors, so I politely invited them inside while I began gathering my things.  I had known this day was coming since all utilities and other services had been cut off in recent weeks in an effort to “encourage” holdouts to cooperate.

I had no idea what conditions were like on the reservations since communication with them had been strictly controlled after they were established earlier this year. There was no indication in the summons about what to expect.  I grabbed several boxes of energy bars and a few changes of clothing.  The rest of my pack was filled with items I thought might be useful for trade.

Because of my cooperation, the officers were vigilant, but reasonably easy to get along with.  The one in charge watched my packing and offered affirmative comments as I made my selections.  He wasn’t like many of the power-hungry troops that were employed by the state, but was just a guy doing his job.

The helicopter trip to the temporary departure detention facility was short.  There was little air traffic, or ground traffic for that matter, since the only people authorized to travel were either government employees, wealthy political donors or, celebrities.  The waiting area was filled with small family groups with wailing children and a few old timers like me who had resigned looks on their faces.  Most of the younger resisters were either dead or, in hiding.  The few present in the facility were handcuffed and under guard.  It would do to watch them upon arrival since most had nothing with them and would be desperate for supplies when they got to our destination.

It all began with a coup in Washington.  Legal processes had failed to accomplish the ends of those who wished to overthrow the elected leaders and retain their stranglehold on power.  With the collapse of their efforts, the militarized agencies of government which had been secretly stockpiling weapons for years, were deployed at the behest of the “deep state.”  It was in their interest to maintain the status quo, so they were a willing army.  There had been only a few pockets of open resistance and those were quickly overcome.  Besides, most firearms had been confiscated in the first round of raids by federal forces.

It had been six weeks since the orders for mandatory removal to temporary housing in the cities had been broadcast.  It would take months for the federal forces to complete the process.  There were rumors that many in the military were opposed to the new powers and planning something, but news was being tightly controlled and the stories couldn’t be verified….

A Ghost Deer

Tiny rivulets of sweat trickled down the sides of my face and I could feel the same inside my shirt as I stood motionless, waiting, watching.  A massive white tailed deer buck had been visiting the meadow for weeks, but he was shy.  I was determined to take his photograph because no one would believe me when I described him.

I had a clear view of the area where he often came to graze as he watched over his small harem of does and nearly mature fawns.  Although his charges would eat the kernels of corn spread by the automated feeder, he was never tempted.  His tiny band was photographed frequently by the game camera stationed near the mechanical device that spread the temptation, but he always stayed just out of range as if he knew the location of the small, rectangular camouflaged box strapped to a nearby tree.

The long lens of my camera was preset on a focal point far out in the meadow where I expected the forest giant to appear.  I had seen him there from atop the hill, but at almost a half mile distance, I could zoom in with binoculars for a look, but my camera gear was inadequate for the task, or never at hand when needed.  The only way to obtain proof was a closer shot.

The sounds of life surrounding me indicated that my disruption of the natural order had been accepted and as long as I remained still, my presence would be unremarked by the fearful wild creatures that shuffled through the fallen detritus or, flitted from tree to tree and weed to weed.  I had become part of the woods.  Even the dragonfly, which had been darting constantly, found a branch on which to sit and rest, only yards from my face.

My shirt was soaked.  My muscles ached.  My mind was falling into the stupor of near sleep as the drowsy afternoon wore on.  I knew that vigilance was required, but the adrenaline had seeped from my pores and no longer provided the needed edge of hyper-awareness.  The constant drone of insects was lulling me to daydreams which obscured my sight with images generated internally.  Movement was necessary or, I would soon be asleep.

I flexed my muscles as I stood, watching.  Tensing and relaxing failed to relieve the discomfort so I began to slowly twist my body to stretch the aching tissue.  In doing so, I became slightly off balance and took a single step to prevent my falling.  When I did so, out of the corner of my eye I saw the buck bounding away to escape into the dense foliage near a point at the end of the meadow.

It is no wonder he is the king of the woods.  My tiny movement almost 200 yards away was enough to send him racing to cover.  He remained a ghost, not captured by the camera lens.  

(This piece is purely fictional, but contains many elements of reality.  It was inspired by the simple image of the dragonfly and memories of the many deer which visited our meadow.)

Good Help is Hard to Find

A worn out old pickup turned off the highway and crossed the cattle guard into what looked to be a promising spread.  The dust boiled up behind the rusty stock trailer bouncing along behind him on the ranch road as he headed inland toward what looked to be the Headquarters.

As his tires crunched the gravel and he rolled to a stop, the owner stepped out on the porch and waited as the slightly bent door of the old Chevrolet squeaked and popped as it was opened by the lanky visitor who hollered a "Howdy" as he slammed the door and headed toward the house.  It seems he badly needed work and had his horse and tack but, needed room and board and a little something to tuck away for the future.

The rancher eyed him hopefully because help was hard to find and this old cowboy appeared to wear the positive signs of knowing his stuff, but there was always a catch so, he asked the question, "What kind of work are you looking for?"

The grizzled old puncher said, "I been horseback my whole life.  I know cows better than I knew any of my three wives.  Why, I've worked ranches all across the west and can give you plenty of references."

The rancher rubbed his chin and said, "I've got plenty of work and I can supply the room and board and a pretty good wage, but the work will be hard and the days long.  We're spread out over 40 miles and I'm short handed.  You can start in the morning.  The bunkhouse is behind the barn and if you'll get your gear stowed we'll have supper here at the house around six.  You'll find hay in the barn and you can put your horse in the corral out back."

With a grin and a hand shake the old cowboy felt his luck was finally changing.  He pulled his rig around back, unloaded Old Red and hauled his entire life's accumulation of property into the bunkhouse.

Supper was beef and beans with a side of corn bread and the pleasant company of the rancher's wife.  Conversation mostly consisted of the old cowboy sharing tales of his travels around the country and the spreads he had worked.

The next morning, long before daylight, breakfast of pancakes and eggs with bacon and hot coffee greeted the old cowboy who anxiously awaited the day's instructions which the rancher had carefully withheld the night before.  As they walked outside the owner asked, "Do you have a good set of gloves?"

"Yep, I keep a pair of nice, soft calfskin gloves.  I find they're the best for handling a rope or, a hot iron."

The rancher said, "You may want something a little tougher today.  I've got several pair I can supply you.  Here's the keys to that old pickup you saw parked in front of the barn.  If you'll hook it up to that trailer load of cedar posts and meet me back here in about 30 minutes you can follow me up to the north place where I've got about 3 miles of fence that needs built."

The cowboy's face fell as he turned and headed to the barn.  He looked in the back of the old truck and saw the rolls of "devil's rope" stacked there and said a few choice words to himself before pitching the keys in the seat of the old truck.  He then headed to the bunkhouse, grabbed his gear, then loaded Old Red in the rusty trailer.

The rancher heard churning gravel as he came back out to the sight of the worn out old pickup headed back toward the highway, dust boiling.  He shook his head and laughed to himself.  "If that old cowboy knew we were just going to deliver that pickup and trailer to the fencing crew he would have stuck around.  I guess he didn't need work that badly after all."

A Little Science Fiction

I love to read science fiction/fantasy.  Through the years I have tried my hand at writing some.  Below is an excerpt from a fanciful piece I started once upon a time....yes, in a galaxy far, far away.

Beidercats don’t bite.  In reality, they aren’t cats at all.  Why they call them cats is a mystery to me but, that is definitely a Beidercat looking me in the eye.  Do you suppose they actually spit venom from their eyes like some people say?  I hope not.  If they do, this isn’t going to end pretty.

This planet was certainly full of surprises.  First, it was the landing.  Those gravity shifts are tricky.  Skipping a landing craft like a smooth pebble on a pond was definitely a new experience for me.  Both of my shoulders ache from jolting against the harness.  Once is expected but, seven times?  I think that must be a record.

The jammed door was no surprise, but, the static should have been discharged through the grounding mechanism.  Fortunately, rubber steps kept me from being fried.  I could have used those boots though.  If I could just find something to replace the melted soles I might make use of them yet.  Oh, well.  At least it was the serpent and not me that fried.  I was lucky the steps landed on him when I opened the door otherwise, I would have taken the full charge.  I think I’ll file a complaint with the Galactic Rocket Company.  Redundancy should be required – even on economy models!

I headed directly for the nearest settlement.  At least that’s what I thought.  The powers that be at Colonial Birthright, Inc. swore there was one about three degrees north of my landing site.  They’re the ones that hired me.  They should know.  I should have reached it about thirty minutes ago.  My Triangulator picked up their ping almost immediately upon landing.  My course has held true and my suit display immediately laid in the proper course.  The problem is, as I walk forward, it recedes.  There is no way a colony can move.  After all, it is supposed to contain at least forty colonists.  It has to be a glitch in my nav system that isn't responding properly to the shifting grav field.

But, enough of the past.  I need to focus on the now.  What do I do with a Biedercat staring at me?  Shooting them is out of the question.  They phase shift.  I could fire a dozen times with my Enerjet 40 and it would just be wasting juice.  They only partially exist in this reality.  That’s why they don’t bite.  They feed on energy.  That is what the so-called venom is supposed to be – a jet of pure energy.  So, I froze.  I just didn’t move.  I tried my best not to shiver with the fear coursing through me.  I know that animals sense fear.  I wondered if that applied to an animal that was partially phase-shifted into another dimension….

Slowly, he lowered his head.  It had to be the position he would take in order to shoot the venom.  I was on the verge of panic.  Suddenly I felt heat.  It was becoming unbearably hot in a very short time.  A vibration seemed to surround me.  Then, a rush of….something….I don’t know what….passed me and the Biedercat was blurred by what looked like heat waves shimmering in the desert.  It was another predator.  It had to be a Velocishifter; the only known enemy of the Biedercat.  It could shift dimensions too.  Suddenly, a brilliant flash of light and I was alone again.  A smell like burned metal filled the air and I sighed with relief.  When in hunting mode, the Velocishifter sees only the rifts in the fabric of this reality.  I was fortunate that it was hunting.  Otherwise, it may have noticed me....

A Sound in the Woods

[Following is something that I wrote several years ago.  We had a different place out in the country than the one we do now.  It is a piece of fiction, but it was inspired by the time of year, the surroundings, etc.  I have been looking back at quite a few of the pieces that I have started and set aside through the years and this one caught my eye because I spent yesterday trimming trees and piling brush.  It seems I was doing the same thing at about the same time of year several years ago that inspired this.]

Soft footsteps, carefully avoiding the fallen twigs, cannot prevent the quiet crunching of the leaves on the forest floor.  Camera in one hand, 30-30 Winchester in the other, the stalker quietly made his way along the barbed wire fence, vigilantly turning his eyes in every direction, watching for he knew not what.  Stopping periodically, he listened.  The sounds of the crows faded into the distance as they flew off, alerted by his presence.  Still, other sounds came from around him as the life of the wooded creek bottom resumed a sense of normality.  Slowly, Kit was becoming one with his surroundings.

There was no purpose in his woodland saunter.  It was merely a walk among the trees to see what he could see; hear what he could hear; photograph what might draw his interest.  The rifle just seemed to be needed.  Some might call it intuition.  Others might call it habit.  It was a comfort.

White Oak bottom is what they called this place.  It was one of the wildest remaining areas of Northeast Texas.  It was known to shelter the occasional cougar or black bear and sometimes a Red Wolf.  It was no wonder the cattle were so jumpy.  After all, humans, just like other predators, had eyes in the front of their heads; it was the prey that had eyes on the sides.  It only took a brief glimpse of Kit for the cows to go running to their young calves in the middle of the meadow to join the ever-present “nurse maids” that stayed with them at all times.  Never were the young animals left alone by their mothers.

The sound that had drawn Kit to the woods had quieted.  It really wasn’t the purpose for the walk – merely the excuse.  After all, clearing brush from the fence line was tiring.  A walk seemed just the thing to rest the weary body and to clear the mind.  Clearing brush allowed for too much thought.  It was physically tiring but it rarely slowed the mind.  The sound of the crows had done that – the crows and that other sound – the one he couldn’t quite identify.

Standing quietly on the south side of the creek, listening to the birds and the sound of the falling leaves, Kit thought he could make out a slow shuffling somewhere to the North, on the other side.  The wind was behind him and that wasn’t good.  It would blow his scent to whatever was there.  Nevertheless he stood, listening. 

Somewhere a Flicker was pecking at one of the dead or diseased trees trying to dig out a late season insect.  A flurry of tiny wings marked the passing of several sparrows.  They flitted from branch to branch, never sitting still long enough to focus the camera on them before they were on to another perch.  The tannin-stained water of the creek was littered with fallen leaves from the various species of oak and other hardwoods.  The mirrored surface was broken only by the occasional leaf-fall that landed with a light “smack” which broke the reflection of the trees overhead.  Looking up, Kit saw a Black Vulture circling high above against the pale blue sky.  He was alone which meant he was merely riding currents, seeking the scent of the next meal.

Then he heard it.  There was a slight mewing sound somewhere across the creek where the woods were thickest.  It wouldn’t be easy getting over there without making the trek around by the bridge.  Still, there were fallen trees that would make a natural bridge in a few places and Kit knew exactly where they were.  He headed toward the largest one which lay from bank-to-bank about ten feet above the stream.  It was a place where crossing could be made without the need to climb the steep bank....

A Snippet from "Making of an Outlaw"

Some days it is hard to come up with something about which to write.  Today is one of those days, so I have provided a small snippet of something I started on awhile back.

It was a soggy day.  Sometimes a light shower and at others a downpour, it had rained for three days straight.  It wasn’t cold so much as just the persistent, soaking wetness that sent shivers through Jake at intervals as he plodded through the puddles; three interminable days.

In a way, the rain was a blessing.  It erased tracks and kept the timid indoors.  High creeks had been a problem.  The detours, though, had probably helped to throw any followers off the trail. 

The plodding rhythm of hooves lulled Jake into a complacency that allowed vivid memories of the previous few days to come boiling up in his mind…. 

Fort Smith had been quite a place.  It was crawling with both Yankee and Rebel sympathizers as well as men from both sides of the recent conflict who only months before had been fighting each other.  Tension was high and shots often rang out when tempers reigned unchecked.  That was part of what had set Jake to traveling south.

Having grown up in Missouri, a border state, Jake was familiar with local sentiment that publicly followed whatever troops were in the neighborhood.  Mostly, people just wanted to be left alone.  The hill people, his people, chose where they lived because they craved a place where they were free to carve a life for themselves.

The Ozark hills were home to Jake.  He grew up on the mountain overlooking Swamp Hollow and Sellers Creek....

Entering Into the Imaginary

The imagination is a wonderful thing.  It creates possibilities and dreams from experiences and knowledge.  It takes us to places we have been or to where we want to go.  It can take the daily reality and fill it with excitement.

Imagination is important to a writer.  Even when writing about real-world experiences it is necessary to allow the imagination to fill in the gaps of our mental pictures.  It can make the ordinary into something extraordinary.

I have written very little creative fiction in years.  Most of what is in this blog is based on something that occurred or, in the ordinary, everyday fabric of living.  Perhaps I will inject a little fiction into this over the coming months.  I will attempt to make note when I do so.  I certainly wouldn't want someone confusing some grand adventure with my ordinary life.....

Stay tuned.

Chris

Didjereedoo

I was recently digging through the dusty archives of things written, not-written, ideas, etc. which have accumulated over the years. In it, I found the story below which I composed in April, 1990. The events are based in truth and occurred in the 70's and 80's.

Didjer

She sure looked scared all huddled up in the back corner of the kennel. It was hard to believe that someone would have such a beautiful animal put to sleep. she wasn't hurt all that bad, but the vet bill was going to be higher than her owner was willing to pay.

Ninety dollars to remove her eye and sew it shut -- but, what good could a one-eyed cowdog be anyway? Wounded in the line of duty by a young horse that didn't know better than to kick at the darting ball of fur nipping at that old cow's nose. A lot of good years left, even with one eye -- but not worth ninety dollars.

I had been working for Doc almost a year and was beginning to make a fair hand at patchin' up the critters that found their way into the clinic. Doc was determined to make a vet out of me, so he let me do a lot of things an assistant normally wouldn't have had opportunity to try.

I told Doc that I thought I could sew up her eye if he'd let me. Sew it up and take her home and not tell anyone that she didn't make it to her great reward on schedule.

She didn't want to be handled. I guess instinct said that this place was not going to be kind to her. Like a wounded badger, she crouched in the corner with her teeth bared and her good eye toward me. Sometimes you have to get a little rough to be kind.

The operation went well, with only a smidgen of guidance from Doc's experienced hand. During the week of recovery, every spare minute was spent in making her acquaintance -- and she became a friend.

Finally, the time to go home arrived and Didjereedoo was well on her way to recovery. A few more weeks of fresh air, green grass and a lot of attention and she was well in body and spirit. It soon became difficult to tell that she was only one-eyed. Her adjustment to the handicap was nearly perfect.

Over the years she was a joy to my family and to me. She never was any good at chasing cattle again. She was too cautious of flying feet. For companionship though, she couldn't be beat.

During years of college and then a new marriage, she and I were often apart. She did just fine living with my parents, but I knew that someday she would move in with my new family -- and so she did.

When we moved to our little country place near town, I knew that Didjer had found the place she had been waiting for. It was her fifth different home since I had rescued her, but the gray frost on her muzzle indicated this would probably be her last.

Still lively after surviving years of puppies, snake-bite, occasional sickness and many a highway pizza, Didjer decided she was still young enough to chase cars. I guess it was the influence of the younger dogs that we had kept to give her company. She was an expert at crouching in the ditch and approaching at just the right speed and angle to make an off-side intercept at almost any time of day or night. I didn't like her ways, but she was beyond convincing that car-chasing wasn't a sport for old dogs. I was concerned that the results would be fatal.

Her end was sudden, and I guess appropriate. It was a pickup that got her -- the sad part is, I was driving. She approached on her blind side and I guess she stumbled. I knew when I felt the bump that her time was gone. Not even a whimper. I stopped and ran back, but she never moved.

It's been about two years now since I buried her under the big old elm tree out back. She was a good friend. Her pup that we had kept got to chasing the neighbor's cattle and found her end very shortly afterwards. I haven't owned a dog since. I guess I know that another dog could never replace my one-eyed cowdog, Didjer.

Note: I have since owned a number of dogs.