The time of year when the weird kids get their mojo uniforms out of the closet, brush off their coffee pots, invest in large quantities of espresso, chocolate, and severely high-octane Mountain Dew (well, if you’re in the South, that is), and start trying to accomplish a nearly impossible feat: writing a 50,000 word novel in one month. Even worse, a 50,000 word novel that makes sense.

That’s right. It’s NaNoWriMo time.

Last year, disaster struck me down when my ever-faithful USB drive completely tanked and wiped out a major portion of my writing. Severely ticked off and highly jaded, I hate to admit that I put the story on the back burner and haven’t so much as looked at it since. Now that November has rolled around again, it looks like I’m going to have to give it another go. It’s a great story, and I think it would do really well in the publishing world, but I swear I’m spending more time fixating on how to prevent it from being lost than actually writing.

But hey, it’s only the 2nd. Well, technically the 3rd. The swing of things will swoop my way soon. Right?

Like any overly curious, too-nosy-for-my-own-good writer, I decided to go on a hunt to find out just how widespread Twitter has become; is it just for celebrities who jones for thousands or millions of fans to “follow” them online, or is it just as well-loved by us regular Joes and Josephinas who get a kick out of the short-short-short story thought factory?

In my Google spree, I stumbled across a blog that pointed me in the direction of The Guardian, which printed an April Fool’s article claiming that all news stories must be limited to 140 characters, and elaborated on how Twitter would have affected major historical news points. Here are the highlights:

A mammoth project is also under way to rewrite the whole of the newspaper’s archive, stretching back to 1821, in the form of tweets. Major stories already completed include:

“1832 Reform Act gives voting rights to one in five adult males yay!!!”;

“OMG Hitler invades Poland, allies declare war see tinyurl.com/b5x6e for more”;

and  “JFK assassin8d @ Dallas, def. heard second gunshot from grassy knoll WTF?”

---

From the archive

Highlights from the Guardian’s Twitterised news archive

1927
OMG first successful transatlantic air flight wow, pretty cool! Boring day
otherwise *sigh*

1940
W Churchill giving speech NOW – “we shall fight on the beaches … we shall never surrender” check YouTube later for the rest

1961
Listening 2 new band “The Beatles”

1989
Berlin Wall falls! Majority view of Twitterers = it’s a historic moment! What do you think??? Have your say

1997
RT@mohammedalfayed: FYI NeilHamilton, Harrods boss offering £££ 4 questions in House of Commons! Check it out

Now we’re going to have to come up with new ones…add yours in the comments section! Oh, and see the full Guardian article here: Guardian Gets Twitterized

_________________________________________

The deafening roar of USAF Thunderbirds casting intricate jet trails across a cornflower sky, Lee Greenwood wearing his trademark Stars and Stripes jacket, belting out “God Bless the USA” to a crowd of hundreds, the scent of grilled hamburgers and hotdogs mixed with the pungent aroma of jet fuel and hot concrete, and me riding my dad’s uniformed shoulders while holding my mom’s hand, my beaming seven-year old face cracking at the red-white-and-blue painted corners – this was my most memorable Fourth of July.

Each year on Little Rock Air Force Base in Jacksonville, Arkansas, every man, woman and child grabbed their sunscreen, donned the then-fashionable fanny pack, and headed to the massively huge air field to enjoy the greatest of Air Force traditions: the air show. We knew what to expect. Parents would smile indulgently and chat with each other as the children sat in cockpits and explored, awe-struck, the cavernous interior of a C-130 aircraft, affectionately known as “Hercules planes.”

Patriotic entertainment was always provided, ranging from local talent to international personalities and you could not walk a step without having USA pennants, streamers, balloons, and toys pressed into your hands.

The best parts, however, remained the same each year: flight maneuvers and fireworks. The Navy-based Blue Angels were regular attendees of the LRAFB show, and their death-defying, pulse-accelerating exhibition of precision and flamboyancy never failed to stir intense excitement in even the most stoic of audience members.

The real stars of the day, though, were our own Thunderbirds. Planes with red-and-black pointed noses and wasp-like bodies, they appear too small to win a race against your grandfather’s Ford. Yet there they are, ripping sonic booms over your head as they create formation after formation in the sky, sending hearts leaping into throats as they zoom toward each other on a head-on collision course, then snapping a quarter-roll onto their sides and missing certain death by mere feet – these were our boys, our pride and joy. These were the grown-up toys that reminded us why our home was so important.

As a critical base of air mobility in the US Air Force, LRAFB was always inundated with troops, vehicles, and thousands of planes. It is the sole C-130 training base for the Department of Defense, and flight personnel from all branches of the US military as well as 28 allied nations arrive constantly to be trained by the best. Even as children, my friends and I all knew the importance of where we lived and revered the constant roar of aircraft overhead. Even in 1987, before the Gulf War, we knew that what our moms and dads did made a huge difference in the lives of everyone in the world. Our pride shone through our faces every time we respected a flag, and the Fourth of July air show teemed with the jubilance and fierce adulation of every single person on the air base.

Every year, our toast to the day would end with hour-long fireworks spectacular. Flaming rockets scorched the sky, dazzling flags waved next to the stars; pinwheels of light blinded our young eyes until all we could see were the remaining shapes in the smoke. Not quite visible, just memories in the night’s heavens. July 4, 1987, will forever stand in my mind as my most memorable, most excited, most cherished Independence Day, for its smoke memories still linger in my mind.

Originally posted here.

published @ Helium.com

You have to admit, the Southern-style is much more entertaining.

My grandmother was a fount of quirky sayings (or “Mamaw-isms” as I call them), that she inherited from her parents. If a baby was crying in obvious teething agony, she would coo, “Just cuttin’ through like a hen grindin’ plates, aren’t they?” I eventually learned that this alluded to her childhood chore of tossing broken dishware to the chickens, who would use the shattered ceramic to sharpen their beaks.

In times of real anger, an offender would be threatened with having their own heads “shoved where the sun don’t shine,” or to be “knocked back to last Tuesday and smacked again on Wednesday.” Even now, I catch myself growling those gems when particularly frustrated with someone.

There is one tradition that typically abounds in all Southern families: gossip. We like to sit outside, preferably on the front porch, and chatter about the goings-on of family members, neighbors and various other people in our lives. Just as some people use the phrase “With all due respect,” as being a Get Out of Jail Free card if used before saying something scathing, my family has their own little catchphrase: “Now, I’d rather step on my own tongue than to say something bad about anyone, but…”

And it works. So long as you preface a snarky comment with a declaration that involves trotting over your own tongue, no one will consider anything you say the slightest bit awry. It’s great, you really should give it a try.

There are dozens of other -isms that have passed through my family and made it into our common vernacular. Some friends, though Southern themselves, have given me the funniest looks when I’ve declared myself to be feeling “plumb tuckered” at the end of a long day, or when I describe the weather as being “a little nippy.” There are others, however, that they have heard – and used – themselves. For example, a trashy woman typically looks as if “she’s been rode hard and put up wet,” while a tacky man is “one of those tires-on-the-front-yard kinda guys.”

So whether we’re on the front-porch swangin’ or iced-tea idlin’, my Southern family can entertain you without even trying. And you can bet your ever-lovin’ tushes on that.

Startled out of her daydreams, Clarissa glanced up and met the pale green eyes of the man standing in front of her. He was smiling, and his face was a map of laugh lines and freckles.

She smiled and answered, “No, I haven’t. How did you know that?”

With a grin, the man glanced at the “Beauty of Ireland” guidebook resting on the table in front of her, where it had fallen open somewhere in the middle, forgotten as she had slipped into reverie.

“Oh!” Clarissa blushed just a bit. “I guess it’s pretty obvious. Just like, I bet you HAVE been to Ireland before!”

Laughing, the man said, “Now why would you be thinking that?” He scrubbed his hand across the top of his dark auburn hair, the fair white of his skin slashing through the unruly mop. “If I tell you my name is Patrick O’Malley, would it give me away even more?”

Clarissa chuckled. “I would have been disappointed if it was Joe or Steve. Hi, Patrick O’Malley. I’m Clarissa James.”

They shook hands, and Patrick flopped down in the seat opposite her. He motioned to the waitress, and asked for a cup of coffee. After the waitress, whose nametag read “Shelly,” placed his cup and saucer in front of him, she topped off Clarissa’s dark brew.

“So what brings you to Ireland, Clarissa James?”

“You’ll laugh if I tell you,” she hedged.

He said nothing, just raised a slightly bushy eyebrow, took a cautious sip of his steaming coffee, and waited.

“I want to see dead people.”

Startled, Patrick sloshed his coffee over his bottom lip, yelping a bit at the sting of scalding liquid, and then started laughing.

“You’ve watched too many Bruce Willis movies, love! Are you planning on visiting cemeteries, then?” he asked with a grin that told her he thought she was joking.

“No, actually,” Clarissa stated, “I’m going to see Lisheen.”

Tilting his head, he said, “Lisheen? You won’t find many dead people at that castle, no matter what your guidebooks tell you. You’d do better to rent some movies and stay in your boarding room.”

Clarissa leaned forward, pointed at the bulging backpack lying on the ground beside her chair, and said, “Not the castle. The Ruins.”

Looking startled, Patrick asked her, “What do you know about the Ruins? You can’t very well drive up to them for a daytrip and come home. Why would you want to go there?”

“Because I want to see them. I want to visit the Rath. I want to experience the ghost stories.”

Patrick shook his head, his face still so white his freckles were almost glowing. “You can’t be serious. You’re American. You know nothing of the Ruins. Just because they’re old and decrepit doesn’t mean they’re haunted, you know.”

Waving her hand dismissively, Clarissa said, “You know as well as I do that the Lisheen Ruins are infamous for spiritual activity. I’m not stupid. William Fibbs still walks those Ruins. He collected mummies, for God’s sake. The Rath is nothing but ground covering a sprawling network of tunnels, where all manner of wicked things happened. There is SOMETHING out there, and I want to see it.”

Studying her face, Patrick asked, “And who would you be taking with you?” Seeing the shake of her head, he exclaimed, “You can’t be thinking to go alone! That’s insane!”

“Insane? Why, just a few moments ago, you were telling me there’s nothing there. So why would it not be okay for me to go alone?”

Patrick cursed under his breath, wondering why on earth he’d chosen to sit next to this lovely girl. His decency wouldn’t allow him to walk away and let her endanger herself, but dammit! He did NOT want to go to Lisheen!

“Maybe you’d best think about hiring a guide,” he suggested.

With a shrug, Clarissa said, “I tried. None of them would go. Apparently, there are more of us who think something’s going on out there than there. Why? Do you know anyone who would be willing?” The last was tossed out as something of a challenge, and Patrick recognized it as such.

“Yes, well. Well. You’re in luck. Not only am I a terrific tour guide, I also know a few things about Lisheen. I’ll take you.”

“You? What do you know about Lisheen? You don’t even think anything’s out there!”

He glared. “Damned if I don’t. My grandfather’s last name is Fibbs.”

Clarissa stared at him, mentally connecting that name to the ancestral owner of Lisheen. The man who built the castle, who let it burn, who had filled his basement with mummies and cremation urns, and who practiced unholy rituals in the clearing of the Rath. The keeper of the Fae.

Patrick took her silence for assent.

“I’ll pick you up here. Tomorrow. 5:30am.” Standing, he strode out of the coffee shop, and didn’t look back.

* * *

Clarissa watched the horizon lighten into a bright pink as the sun gently stretched its way into the cornflower sky. She glanced sideways at the man driving the battered truck. She still couldn’t believe she was trekking off into the wilderness with a man she’d just met the day before. A man who seemed genuinely piqued at the idea of taking her on this little adventure.

She’d never admit it, but she was really glad he had insisted upon escorting her. Fear was not an emotion she was accustomed to feeling, but she couldn’t help the niggling feelings of anxiety that the idea of setting off alone had set off in her mind. She would have gone alone, but she was relieved she wasn’t going to have to.

Patrick, lost in his own thoughts, turned the truck down a tree-lined road that was barely large enough for one vehicle. He hoped they wouldn’t come across anyone needing to go the other direction, for the road was a tight enough squeeze already.

He’d seen Clarissa shooting him furtive glances from the corners of her eyes, but didn’t see a point in mentioning it. He knew she was nervous. Hell, HE was nervous, and he’d been there before. Something about these woods made even the bravest of souls tremble in their woolies. Something made them cast looks over their shoulders, expecting to see someone watching them. There never was, though. Just that feeling.

The sun had passed into the other side of the sky when Patrick stopped the truck. Clarissa, who had dozed off, awoke with a start, and looked around. She gasped.

“What time is it?”

“Four o’clock.”

“Four o’clock in the morning? Did you get lost?” she was shocked.

“Not in the morning, lass. It is four o’clock in the afternoon,” Patrick replied.

Her confusion was understandable. Not a ray of sunshine penetrated the dense woods. She glanced into the darkness between the trees, and listened to the buzzing symphony of bugs and frogs from within the greenery. She looked at Patrick with a question in her eyes.

Understanding the unspoken inquiry, he hopped out of the truck, pulling both of their backpacks out of the back. “Yep. We walk.”

They began trudging through the forest, occasionally tripping over the undergrowth, and trying to read their compasses in the ever-darkening gloom. Patrick pulled out a pith helmet -  one of those goofy-looking ones with a flashlight on the top. She started to make a joking remark, but then realized that the light was strong enough to illuminate even the darkest shadows around them. She pulled out her own extra-strong flashlight, and the glow comforted her. Patrick, who was several yards in front of her, suddenly came to a halt.

They had reached the edge of the woods. In front of them stood a stone structure, covered in ivy and moss, its walls crumbled and scorched. In the distance, she could hear the faint mooing of cattle.

Lisheen.

Once a great castle with impenetrable walls, it now stood like a punch-drunk sentinel, leaned and buckled, with not an ounce of warmth to its façade.

Clarissa shivered.

Silently, they walked toward the ruins, and she reached out a hand. Patrick snatched it back and said, “You can’t just reach out and take here. You can’t disrespect those who still reside here. Even if you can’t see them, they can see you.”

Startled by the vehemence in his tone, she stammered, ‘Then . . . then . . . what do I do?”

“You wait.”

So they waited. Stood stock-still in front of that massive piece of history, barely daring to breathe, much less move. Just when Clarissa thought she couldn’t stand it any longer, a fierce breeze blew through the ruins, lifting the hair from her neck and stroking the sides of her face.

Patrick smiled.

“Now, you may explore.”

Walking through the ruins, Clarissa saw the hole in the ground that led to the basements, where William Fibbs had housed his treasured mummies. With a quick glance at Patrick, she lowered herself through the opening, and immediately felt . . . watched. She wandered the earthen room, touching the cool walls and envisioning what it must have once looked like. Shuddering, she climbed back out of the basement, and saw Patrick several yards away, unpacking their supplies. She hurried over to help him. Together, they pitched their tent, made a fire-bed out of rough stones found lying around, and built a fire. They were both starving, so they wasted no time in heating hot dogs and tins of soup over the flames.

The hours passed, until 3 o’clock of the morning was nigh upon them. Clarissa glanced at her watch, and Patrick saw the look of disappointment that crossed her features.

“You can’t blame yourself if you don’t see something in the one night you’re here. Perhaps this just isn’t your turn.”

She shrugged, then said, “Tell me more about this place. I know the history of Lisheen, but I don’t know much about the Rath, or William’s relationship with what you all call the Fae.”

Settling back against his sleeping bag, Patrick began, “Well, as you know, Great-grandfather Fibbs collected mummies. He thought that if he could figure out how the Egyptians could preserve human bodies, he may be able to figure out how to manipulate that technique, and use it to preserve life. In other words, he wanted to discover a way to cheat death. He used the mummies. Opened their bodies, defiled their eternal rest. He had always had an interest in the Occult, and as his fervor for his experimentations grew, he trod deeper and deeper into mysticism. He began venturing into the Rath, and attempting to communicate with the Fae. You Americans call them ‘Elementals,’ and think of them like your Tinkerbelle fairies. Not these. Irish Fae are real. They live in certain forests, underground and in the trees, and they are not always nice. Ugly little beasties, just a few feet tall, nothing remarkable about their appearance. What is remarkable about them is that they are immortal. They have existed since Ireland was created, and will exist long after we are all destroyed.

Great-granddad knew this. He wanted to find out the secret to their immortality, and to pervert and twist it to serve his own selfish needs. So he began summoning the Fae through elaborate rituals. Now, the Fae don’t care for this. They don’t like people invading their forests, and they certainly do not like being wrenched from their lives because of human rituals. In his arrogance, Fibbs believed that they would respect his magical abilities, and praise him as a god, giving him any information and powers he desired.

Unfortunately, the Fae did not think so highly of him. One night, as he sat against a tree in the middle of the Rath, he saw the Fae appear before him, circling him on all sides, He struggled to rise, but he couldn’t move his limbs. They closed in on him, like hunters stalking their prey, and attacked. Fibbs passed out from the agony, and when he awoke, he was back in his castle. Three days later, his castle burned, with him inside.”

Clarissa blinked in the sudden silence. “How do you know all of this?”

Patrick answered, “In the three days between the attack and his death, Great-granddad filled seventeen diaries with full accounts of what had happened to him. He talked in great detail about the ferocity of the Fae as they tortured him. He said, ‘Their sharp little teeth and glowing orange eyes haunt me still, as they looked when I felt them pulling my soul out of my skin, leaving me with a stabbing cold within my body. I can’t get warm. I can’t get warm.’ His diaries were discovered as the castle’s remains were cleared away. Remarkably, they weren’t even singed.”

The breeze picked up again. Patrick waited until it had died down, and said, “Why don’t we just try to get some sleep? We’ll head out at first light.”

With that, he slid into his sleeping bag, closed his eyes, and immediately began to snore.

Clarissa, on the other hand, was wide-awake. She glanced around their campsite, but her eyes could not penetrate the darkness beyond the firelight’s edge. Glancing at Patrick, she grabbed her flashlight and started to walk off into the night.

* * *

As she walked, Clarissa again had that feeling that she was being very closely observed. Never in her life had she felt like such an unwanted guest as she did now. Realizing that she had gone several steps without tripping over roots and dodging wet, drooping vines dangling from tree branches, Clarissa stopped and swung the bean of her flashlight in an arcing circle around her. Only a few trees dotted the area, and a heavy mist blanketed the ground. The buzzing cacophony of insects suddenly ceased.

The Rath.

She walked, slowly, to one of the trees standing guard in the heavy night. Glancing around nervously, she lowered herself to the ground, and leaned back against the trunk. Minutes passed. Perhaps only seconds. Then, on the edges of the clearing, she saw movement. Rubbing her eyes, she looked again. Darting figures danced around the edges of the Rath, seeming to multiply and divide, until what seemed like thousands of them had gathered around her, just out of her depth of vision. Clarissa started to rise, her heart in her throat, and discovered that she could not move. Her legs felt frozen to the damp ground beneath her, her back was fused to the rough bark of the tree trunk behind her. Her eyes darted frantically as her heart-beat banged against her ribcage.

The blurry figures started moving closer; she could hear the crisp grass crunching beneath uncountable feet. She saw specks of light, as though there were tiny torches being held aloft. She tried to scream, but her throat was paralyzed. The torches came closer.

Not torches.

Eyes.

Thousands and thousands of glowing, orange eyes.

The Fae.

They descended upon her, and Clarissa prayed to God to let her pass out before they reached her. God wasn’t listening.

The tree behind her seemed to grip her shoulders, tangle in her hair. She knew . . . oh, she knew that this was the tree beneath which William Fibbs was tortured by these very beings. Tears sluiced down her cheeks as the creatures stopped, a mere foot from her. Even at this short distance, she still could not make out their bodies. Just those eyes. As they closed the extra few inches, she saw something else: the glint of tiny, pointed teeth.

Clarissa felt her skin grow cold, felt those sharp teeth plunging into her flesh, pulling, shredding, ripping. She felt blood course down her legs, her arms, her scalp, felt the scraping of nails and teeth against her very bones. She tried to close her eyes, but found they, too, were unmovable. She couldn’t look away from those bright, orange eyes. The teeth she could no longer make out well, because they were now coated with her blood. She screamed inside her head, praying to the heavens to end this torture, stop this agony, kill her, anything.

She felt a bitter cold fill her body, and then . . . she felt no more.

* * *

“Clarissa?”

The voice was fuzzy, distorted, coming from a great distance.

“Clarissa. Open your eyes, lass.”

With tremendous effort and a coarse groan, she lifted her eyelids. And saw a pair of faded green eyes, surrounded by tiny laugh lines, gazing at her from just a few inches away.

Patrick.

“Where am I?” she asked.

“You’re in your boarding room, lass. When you didn’t show up at the coffee shop the other day, I came over to make sure you were faring well. Change your mind about Lisheen? We can still go, though I know you have to check out tonight.”

Baffled, Clarissa stared into his eyes, and then looked around. Her room. Her things. Her backpack, full with her equipment. All there. But . . . Check out tonight?

“What day is this?:

Frowning, he tilted his head and looked at her with confusion. “It’s Thusday, Clarissa. Guess you had a bit too much at the pub, eh?”

“Patrick, what are you playing at? You know we went. You know you took me. You took me there on Monday! You know what happened!” she started sobbing, remembering the ripping and shredding of those razor-like teeth, the glow of those orange eyes. “What are you trying to pull?”

Patrick placed his hand on her forehead and pursed his lips. “No fever. So you must be dreaming, not hallucinating.”

“You took me to Lisheen! Three nights ago!” she shouted.

He stood abruptly. “I think it’s time for you to go back home, Clarissa. You aren’t well.” His eyes were guarded, intent. He stalked out of the room without another word.

Clarissa gazed blankly at the empty doorway, wondering if she really had been dreaming. She really was back in her room. How could she have gotten here if she’d already gone to Lisheen and been killed by those creatures?

A dream. Just a dream.

She shook her head at herself, for not being able to tell the difference between a dream and reality. She her hair swayed with the motion, a blade of wilted grass fell to the bed quilt. She reached out to pick it up, and saw the hundreds of tiny red gashes on her arm.

Thursday?

”. . . Three days later, his castle burned, with him inside.”

Gazing down at her battered arm, Clarissa smelled smoke . . .