September Topic

Language has been around for awhile now. I can't be bothered to check, but I know it's at least since the 1920s because that's when the last book I read was written. Anyway, such is the case and as can be expected, words come and go like the standards of the written word.

The job this month is to do your part in saving the words that are on their way out. Head to Save the Words and pick one out that calls to you in one way or another. Take this word, extract inspiration from it, and write something around it - narrative, memoir, haiku, sordid tale, whatever. You might use the word for a title, theme, adjective, it doesn't matter, so long as you use it in some capacity. Just be sure to let us know what word you chose and what it means.

Scrapheapula



(I had invented a character back in my late teens that was an amalgam of Italian
Son of Hercules movies, and a more futuristic hero.
His name; Scrapheapula)

From the land of caustic ethereal mist, regions of clamor, and ceaseless pounding, emerged a noble son of the rising mountains of refuse. Scrapheapula.
Raised as a humble plastic herder in the peasant village of Loki-sad,
life proved difficult as a youthful boy. His parents, who lived in a discarded coal cart,
wished great things for their lithe and bright eyed son. So poor was his family that his
mother wove his first clothing from strands of cobwebs and nasal mucus.
His father, a janitor inside nuclear reactor cores, would arrive home late
and warm the dank, cold coal car with his residual glow.
We called him Neutron Furnace. NF for short.
NF earned .05 rubles per month, and therefore frugal, would also put food on the table in the
form of dregs he had scraped from inside the aging reactor rods and spent casings.

Scrapheapula grew as steadily as a ground zero perennial at Hiroshima. His endurance seemed inexhaustible, and he was certain he would soon be ready to go out into the world and
earn a dying. The mountains in the distance groaned, creaked and belched in ferment and
fevers of oxidation. The valley was adrift in music. His mother, a former Olympic
gymnast, had at one time won the gold medal in 3 events. It was later that the IOC
stripped her medals away citing she had not had the required levels of noxious, toxic hydrocarbons in her blood. We called her Ruined. It was certainly her favorite
adjective.

Scrapheapula realized the weight of growing up amid harsh conditions. It was forced upon
him continuously. He was nudged out of the coal cart at 18 months due to room limitations.
He slept underneath the cart with venomous spiders, rats, and pools of blind tadpoles.
Pygmy albino baboons would frequently attack at night at the mouth of the cave where
the rusting coal cart stood. They were after human toe jam and would press furiously
in large numbers until they had acquired their quota. It was in these nightly battles
in preserving his own dignity, that Scrapheapula stood as a warrior to be respected.

One day Scrapheapula left his home. He posted a note on the lid of the coal cart.
It read,

"Dear Ruined and NF,

I am leaving. I am glad you are my parents.
I will always remember you. And, if I make good in
my life, I will send compensation to you.
I know life has been harder than a dura-steel bulkhead for
you, and me as well. I have a couple knives, a spear, and a few
plastic bottles full of algae spongiform gack.
So, don't worry about me.

your eternal son,
Scrapheapula"

Scrapheapula walked out of the valley and did not stop.
He followed the moon, which he had always called, Bowl of Stupid since
he was able to mouth the native language.
He hiked for hours under Bowl of Stupid light, sipping the
blue-black gunk that had been trapped inside liter bottles for eons.
Also, he had secreted away a small cloth bag that nobody knew of outside
a couple pygmy baboons whom he domesticated. It was a delicacy known in
few quarters. A quantity of munchy android eyeball retinas.

He slept for a time under a crashed ore processing ship, at least a section of one.
It was one of the ancient Bowl of Stupid mining operatives that was blasted
down by rival ore companies. At first light he searched ship compartments for
valuables. He found a few broken android heads long devoid of retina.

As Scrapheapula exited the fragmented hulk he saw that the perimeter was filled, shoulder to
hoof by a freakish mutant band of loathsome drooling, snarling, rasping, ugly,
blood-flecked, gut-greased, cadre of teeth gnashing, breathing insecticide.

For a child who's lullabies were torturous collisions of metallic hulls cracking open in the troposphere, the sight of these morbid creatures brought forth a warming glow. Scrapheapula gestured
hypnotically at their dark eye socket holes hoping to reach some intact quadrant of
their worm eaten brains. Ineffective responses were indicated by increased quantity of
mouth froth, lip smacking, and head ooze. It was time to construct a new plan prior to
complete frontal assault.

His father NF, had bestowed upon his genetic upbringing, a significant element by the
regular consumption of reactor dregs, Scrapheapula pulsed a brief, blinding, blue spark that emitted from his navel and showered his adversaries. His belly was ripe with a supra-cosmic lethal dose of Chernikov radiation.

He respectfully proceeded past puddling mounds of hissing flesh. Cell walls obliterated by a thick blanket of neutrons. A putrid stream of waste wove through
the perforated gray dust where the deceased miscreants lay.

Onward to destinies unknown. A man someday to be renown, a giant among the
simian minions. An uncommon hero in an amok epoch in time.
Scrapheapula the bold.

Marc

Plantation Tales

Disclaimer: While my grandfather did spend time working in the cotton fields, he did not tell me this story. It is a work of pure imagination on my part. I would not want flutterby fancy to be confused with true African American folk lore.

When I was a child I often visited my Grandparents in Little Rock Arkansas. Some of my fondest memories are of the times spent perched on Grandpas' lap in front of the fireplace, listening to him spin a tall tale. He would puff on his pipe and with his thick Dutch accent begin to thrill me with stories of wonder. One day he spoke of Grandma Moses and how she gave comfort to the overworked slaves of the cotton plantations. To this day I can't look at a fluffy cloud or a scarlet sunset without thinking of her.

The legend speaks of the cotton plantations and the colored slaves who were forced to pick the crop which was the white gold of the South. Backs bent under the blazing sun, slaves would work from sun up till sun down pulling the fluffy cotton bolls from the plants. They sweated and toiled without complaint lest they fall into the disfavor of the plantation owner. By mid day they often found comfort in uniting in song giving a kind of rhythmic cadence to their labor. While singing, many swear that an old black woman would appear among the workers and begin to pull the bolls. No one knew her age, or where she came from. None ever saw her leave the fields at the end of the day, but they always saw evidence of her having been there. They simply called her Granny Moses.

As the day wore on and the sun grew hotter, many slaves slowed or even faltered in their work, but not Granny. The more she worked and sang, the faster she picked. As legend has it, her cotton bolls did not go into the heavy sack she wore slung over her bent shoulders. Instead she threw the cotton high up into the air where it began to form puffy white clouds to shade the weary workers toiling beside her. The heat of the day was eased by her magical creation of these clouds. She kept the fields shaded until the hot sun began to set in the eastern sky.

Those who have picked cotton know that the oily bolls keep the pickers hands constantly soft and unable to create callouses which might protect them from the piercing bract which cups the precious boll on the plant. By the end of each day hands often became raw and bloody. Grandma Moses was not immune to this problem, and as she picked and threw the cotton into the air, her hands often began to bleed into the bolls. By days end the eastern horizon blazed with scarlet born from the sacred blood of her hands. As the sun set, she would disappear as swiftly as she had appeared. No one ever saw her leave, but every time they saw a scarlet sunset, they knew that Granny had been there working among them, shading them from the brutal sun.

Fordly VonBeaglesford

Fordly VonBeaglesford was a remarkable smell hound. Ever since he was a pup, when he and his pal Zeke strolled through town, people would stop and take notice. Many were compelled to holler at Zeke as they walked by, "That's a good lookin' smell hound you got there," and some would inquire, "What's that? Some sorta smell hound?" When Zeke would tell them Fordly was, indeed, a smell hound, all they could say was "Shoot! That's a good lookin' smell hound you got there."

It wasn't only his looks that made Fordly VonBeaglesford such a noteworthy smell hound; it was what the folks couldn't see that set him apart from all the others. Fordly VonBeaglesford was gifted with the most powerful nose this side of the Mississippi. Sure enough, Fordly's smelling prowess was unmatched by any other smell hound, or any other animal for that manner. Why, he once ground-scented one of Zeke's lost socks from 10 miles away!

Yep, Fordly VonBeaglesford sure did go on a number of crazy adventures with that nose of his leading the way. The trademark baying of Fordly VonBeaglesford was not uncommon to hear across the plain when he treed a fox or found a rabbit hole. The hound sure loved to follow his nose. He and Zeke was a match made in heaven as they both had a passion for discovery and a strong penchant for romping through the woods.

Why, I recall the time when Fordly VonBeaglesford and Zeke were gone for a couple weeks only to return with a sack full of money. Seems, Fordly got a whiff of a dollar bill Zeke used at the general store. When they left the store, Fordly went off tracking down all the lost bills scattered throughout every town here to Greenville! Not a bad pay off for Zeke who used some of the money to build a fancy new dog house for the old smell hound.

Tracking down money didn't last long for Fordly VonBeaglesford, not that Zeke didn't try to keep it going, of course. Fordly VonBeaglesford liked to discover new scents, so he really didn't like to track the same thing for too long. Which meant he didn't make too good of a hunting dog either. He'd be tracking a fox when he'd get a whiff of something new and track that instead, just to find out what is was. Drove Zeke crazy, that behavior did.

Now, did I mention Fordly VonBeaglesford's biggest weakness was his stomach? The smell hound loved to eat almost as much as he loved to smell; and he would eat just about everything his nose led him to. One thing he never got tired of was tracking down a nice big apple tree, full of ripe luscious apples. The smell hound couldn't resist a nice juicy apple, and the townsfolk had to hurry to harvest the ripe apples before Fordly could eat'em all up. You see, he made a deal with the local crows; if they knocked the apples down from the tree for him, he would lead them to carrion if they ever needed his help.

It's said that Fordly VonBeaglesford, with the help of the crows, decimated the apple trees in much of the Midwest. Rumor has it, even Johnny Appleseed had a hard time planting enough apple trees to keep up with Fordly VonBeaglesford's ravaging appetite. Folks in the Midwest went years without apples while Fordly VonBeaglesford was at the height of his reign of apple eating terror. This was before them supermarkets came 'round, you see. Even Zeke couldn't get him to focus on something else for his nose to follow.

Then it happened. Zeke went out one morning to take Fordly VonBeaglesford for their morning stroll and he was nowhere to be found. Some say he got greedy and tried to cross the Ohio River in search of more apples and the current took him all the way down to Louisiana where he developed a taste for okra, fried o'course. Others say the townsfolk, tired of his apple eating ways, sent him off on a steamboat down to Georgia where he fell in love with the peaches. All I know is, no one ever saw Fordly VonBeaglesford again, and the apple trees were soon full for all to enjoy once again.

The next fall was unlike any other here in these parts. Folks were so happy to have their apples back! You could walk through town and see an apple pie on every window sill. Fordly VonBeaglesford may have eaten all our apples for a few years, but he also made us realize what a gift the apples truly are and how lucky we are to have them. Over the years, the fall became a celebration of apples and apple pie became a signature dish of the region.

Sadly, good old Zeke was never the same without his trusty old smell hound by his side. He didn't go out much after Fordly VonBeaglesford disappeared. Some folks said they would see him milling around the old apple orchards during the fall calling for the hound. Towards the end of his days, he would always leave an apple on his doorstep in hopes that Fordly VonBeaglesford would someday return; though he never did.

It wasn't long before stories were being told about Fordly VonBeaglesford throughout the Midwest. Nowadays, not many are around who remember what life was like without apples. Still, the legend of Fordly VonBeaglesford has continued to grow over the years, and there hasn't been another smell hound like him since; and apple pie has never tasted so good.

A Curious Acquaintance

As I was drifting off to sleep, somewhere in between scattered lightness and keen perception, I heard my mother say to my father:
"James, why that'd be like trying to find a needle in a haystack!"
I was in my straw stuffed trundle bed. The fire was popping below and the gray floorboards creaked when my mother got up from her darning to get something.
"Needle in a haystack...." I repeated as I melded with sleep.

I felt in the night something cold and metallic next to me. It felt like a fishing rod at first. Then, more like a fencing sword. I found this odd, but was so lazy that I put my arms around it and fell right back into a most comfortable sleep.

In the morning, my father called me to rise. I pulled the covers away from myself and put my feet on the floorboards where lay a very large needle, as long as my bed. I could have put my arm through the eye of this needle and its point was so large it seemed to be rounded.
"What are you doing on the floor?" I wondered.
The needle stood upright, curiously, eye towards the floor, and made me know that I was to help him come to the aid of frustrated people who used the discouraging phrase, "Like trying to find a needle in a haystack."

I took on my new duty at once without really having time to reflect on it. We honed in on people searching in vain for things and were transported to these situations like magnets, traveling outside the laws of space and time.

The first mission involved a young farmer who lost his wedding band in his field of beets. He was scouring the soil for hours, worried the crows would spot the golden glimmer before he did.
"This is like trying to find a needle in a haystack!" he said, defeated.
We appeared. We stood before him and he stared at us. The needle said, "You could find me in a haystack!" In agreeing, the farmer acquired a reaffirmed vigor to find his ring and with a little game of 'hot and cold' with the needle, his ring was found.
In his glee, he forgot all about our meeting and we disappeared.

Over the years I joined the needle on countless missions that were always varied and unique. I don't really know the part I played during these experiences, all I know is that I agreed to show up.

When I became an adult, my desire to participate in these adventures waned. The needle felt this also and threw himself on the floor of another sleeping boy or girl I am sure.

August Topic - Tall Tales

The topic for the month of August may prove to be difficult. I invite everyone to explore what may have been some of the first writing you ever experienced. I am speaking of "Tall Tales". Make up your own folk hero and build a legend around this character. The legends of Paul Bunyan and John Henry are great examples of this style of writing. Good luck and have fun.