(6:50 am Nov 08, 2005)
The self editing temporal black hole just sucked up eight minutes, make that nine minutes of Bruno's life. He hated when that happened. It felt like someone cut out the bridge and a chorus just when things were beginning to groove.
Please pay attention. These temporal black hole which we mention and in no way related to the strange tricks which time has a habit of playing in the vicinity of Bruno. No, they are a different bag of tricks all together and they are wont to plague even the most mundane among us. I am sure that if you begin to pay attention and keep a sharp eye peeled, you will begin to see that they occur in your life as well.
OK, back to Corgi. Your first thought may take you into canine realms. Good thought, but mistaken in this instance. Bruno was feeling a little nostalgic this morning and was thinking back to his childhood days and his model cars. Bruno's father's mother was from Scotland and Bruno and a Scottish cousin had sent each other toys via parcel post. Bruno might send hot wheels and gi joes, and often would receive one of his favourite childhood toys. Corgi cars.
They almost made him feel guilty. I mean hot wheels were great fun to play with, especially with the dual, side by side, looping track. They just could not compare to the Corgi cars though.
Life brings so many joys. It brings so many disappointments too. Bruno felt a small one as, prompted by his nostalgia, he went to http://www.corgi.com and got the dog site you were thinking of and not the car site he was hoping for. He felt and even larger disappointment after googling for corgi cars and finding their site. Well, actually, finding the site was a small joy snuggled between a small disappointment and a larger disappointment.
He found their site, but he could not find the cars he remembered from childhood. Unless he was missing something on the site, their car selection seemed much reduced from his younger days.
(7:26 am Nov 08, 2005)
Well, for get that, it is wasting too much time.
Bruno got back to trying to write. His thoughts wondered. Melody, Melody, their second night together had been better than the first. He would not have believed it possible yesterday morning, but last night hadmade a believer out of him.
Write, write, write. Stop daydreaming. He could not afford to be a daydreaming believer. And he could not afford to be a dayreadming writer either. Or, more precisely, a daydreaming non-writer. Well, not if he wanted to win NaNoWriMo this year. Quantity, Written, verbal quantity. He would just have to forgo his aspirations to any semblance of quality and just start churning out the words. Throw grammar to the winds and sacrifice plot on the altar of volume.
The four soldiers were slumped, bleary eyed, over a large, wine stained oak table in the cellar. Seated on wine casks. Some wine stains still drying. Some hundreds of years old. Stale bread and johnny cake stood in a basket in the centre, crumbs strewn here and there to the would be delight of marauding ants. I say would be because there were no ants actually here. Security in these underground cellars was tight. Tight like if you had severely overheated a goatskin and crushed the drum it was attached to. Tight like dat. Nothing got in or out without being cleared and approved.
Bruddah Bing and Bruddah Boom had been in the outer part of the cellars before for some of Big Sal's wine and cheese parties. But they never even suspected what was really down here behind the secret wall.
Sun, sand and sea. The proverbial foundations of Bahamian tourism. The modern day foundation of the Bahamian economy.
Bing doubted that the walls of these cellars had ever seen a single ray of sunshine. And these cellars had not been built to further the tourist industry.
No, the islands had had other foundations to its economy in times gone by. Drug running had stood beside tourism and banking for a while in the not too distant past. Rum running had served for a while. Gun running before that. Wrecking had done its part at various times. But before all of these was piracy.
These cellars had been built to further the piratical pillar that once underpinned the economy of the archipelago.
Built by an unnamed pirate. Unnamed, but not nameless I assure you. Built to securely house his ill gotten gains. Built with the labour of captured seamen who never lived to spread the knowledge of their existence.
Filled with loot from countless captured ships. Gold, silver, jewels and priceless works of art. Now, those TV shows who price things for people who have been rummaging through their grandmothers things in their attics, would probably pick a price for these works of art, but I still maintain that they were priceless. Were... and still are.
Da Bruddas Bing an Boom were still unable to refrain from casting sideways glances at some of the wealth visible from where they sat.
(7:57 am Nov 08, 2005)
On the table was something that Uncle Albert maintained was more valuable than all the pirate treasure down here in the cellars. He had let on that there were miles and miles of tunnels down here on multiple levels. Apparently all filled with treasures as yet untold by the soldiers in all the years since they had discovered the secret entrance.
It was a large book. Filled with the histories of the soldiers, stretching back into the dim, largely forgotten past.
Bruno was finally getting into the swing of things and was feeling better about his output. Numerically, that is. The quality was still troubling, but he pushed his worries aside.
(8:03 am Nov 08, 2005)
His fingers flew. His thoughts raced. Words came streaming into existence in a glorious synaptical dance. A dance to a back beat. Rock and Roll baby! May as well sacrifice the syntax while we are at it.
Tea. That delightful beverage. Hot. with sugar and cream or lemon. Cold. With sugar and lemon, lime if you so desire.
Tea. Green and Black. Breakfast tea, there's the ticket.
Bruno was briefly called away from his writing in order to put the kettle on the boil.
Back before the notebook, the words still flowing smoothly into abiword's waiting arms.
(8:19 am Nov 08, 2005)
(6:33 pm Nov 08, 2005)
Here is the story of Big Bill Gruff as told to the judge when he was brought up on charges of murder in the death of one Mr. Lee.
"This Mr. Lee is a hard case from long time. He is always givin erryone grief, ya Honour.
Any time anyone try to pass over his turf, he would tear into dem somethin fierce. I mean, he would eat dem fa lunch, ya honour.
Now, he done try to mess wit me an ma two bruddah before time when we was trying to pass on da public road which is our right. Now, ma two bruddah was afraid of his sorry self, ya Honour, but dey slick him. Now, when he try mess wit me, I head butt him in da creek an da current carry him out ta sea. Erryone in da neighbourhood tink das da las we ga see a him.
Las night, I home in my bed when I get da word dat he come back and disguise hisself an get ma lil bruddah hook up in a game a dice. Now Judge, ma lil bruddah, he gat da gamblin sickness. He gat it bad. But da word is dat las night, his luck run hot and he clean out dis Mr. Lee fella. So Lee gone home an get he gun an come back an kill ma lil bruddah dead.
Now Judge, when I hear dis, it yuck up my vexation. I buss out ma bead and trow on some clothes and I gone after he hip.
I find him down by Potter's Cay tryin ta hop on one mail boat to skip outta town. He still gat he forty-four and when did he glimpse me, he try shoot me dead too. But I duck out da way an I rush him. I head butt he hip hard and he fall overboard.
Now, he splashin aroun talkin bout he can't swim an help save him an da like, cryin an wailin.
I figure I ga let him splash fa a while to trow some fear inta him before I ga pull him out and butt him again before I give him ta da police. I een kill him ya Honour. Nex ting I know, he get yuck under, he come up once screamin an he get yuck down again an blood is erry here. He get yuck down one more time an een come up. Das da las we see a him an we figure he gone fa good dis time. Den da police find he body all cut up, floatin by da docks on Potter's Cay in da morning.
Das what happen ya Honour Poor Lil Bill Gruff. I ga miss dat boy."
Just then the Judge struck his gavel, "Case Dismissed."
Then the most amazing thing happened. The judge started to shake and he made an unprecedented statement, "Did you say Lil Bill Gruff, he was your brother? I am not supposed to say things like this from the bench, but I am only sorry that I was not there to hear Lee scream myself. Son I'm sorry for your loss, I knew your grandfather well. Your mother and father are gone now too. Do you have anyone left?"
"It's just me and Mid Bill Gruff left now your Honour. All da res a da family is done pass on. Tank you Judge fa ya kind words and fa dismissin ma case."
And that is the real story of the three Billy Goats Gruff.
Nuttin. Sometin. Whatevah.
Some get nuttin. Some come from nuttin. Some good fa nuttin. Some een know nuttin. Some do nuttin all day. Some say dey up ta nuttin. (Generaly dey up ta no good. At least that's what the old folks say.)
(7:00 pm Nov 08, 2005)
Bruno had managed to get out a nice amount of words during the day and had just finished showering. He splashed on some No Debate and dressed in preparation for going out with Melody again tonight.
It had been a long day down in the cellars. A lot of arguing, some shouting, some angry words. Looks of amazement, attempts at denial.
"Boys, it's all right here in the old soldier tales. Time before times there was a caveman and a soldier who befriended one another. The became more than friends. Bing and Boom, you know how you two are. How you often don't have to talk but just are hooked into each other's thoughts? It was kind of like that, only deeper and stronger."
"I still don't believe that something like that can happen," sputtered Boom. No soldier could be as close with a human as I am with Bing.
"The legends say they were, and the prophecies say that a day will come when the caveman will somehow come back to the present and meet up with the descendants of his soldier Miami Vice. They tell of the rise of the alliance to the detriment of regular humans and of us regular soldiers alike. I am afraid we are the ones alive to face this threat. It is to our time that the caveman has returned!" Uncle Albert slumped in his seat and fell asleep with his face in a puddle of drying wine.
Big Sal had remained quite during most of the last two hours while the two younger soldiers had expressed most of his thoughts and disagreements and argued most of his points with Uncle Albert. Now he let out a long slow breath and looked slowly at the ceiling and focused his attention for a moment on a small speck of silver paint before rolling his head on his neck to release some tension.
"Boys, you don't want to believe it, and I don't want to believe it, but I am afraid we all know he is right."
Bing started to object but Sal silenced him with a wave of his big biter. "Boys, as head of the soldiers, I knew some of these prophesies, but a lot of the details of what we heard today was new to me too. We have a lot to get used to and a lot of planning to do. We are not going to take this sitting down. We are going to fight and fight hard. We are not gonna quit. We can change history. We can change the future that was written in the past."
(7:47 pm Nov 08, 2005)