Poetry Corner
"Harbor"
January 31, 2005

The sun rises majestically
Over mirrored waters
Sparkling across harbor
Sails standing tall

Sun rising ever onward
A gentle breeze fluttering
Sails unfurling proudly
Welcoming the warmth

Spreading across harbor
Making music of life
And noon is sudden
Upon us with hot sun

Creatures caught in
Heated updrafts call
Freely and look down
On harbor of splendor

And too soon
The sun sinks
From the zenith
And we catch

Our breath in surprise
The day over so quickly
The orange and reds
Of the impending sunset

Calm settles again
On harbor anticipating
The majestic light
Of a rising moon

© 2005 L. E. Shaffer

Hockey Puck
The NHL is a no go, and the entire hockey season will most likely be lost. How many fans will put up with this? The NFL Super Bowl in Jacksonville will feature the Philadelphia Eagles and the New England Patriots. Go Eagles! Tiger Woods won the Buick Open. Go Tiger! The Miami Heat have won their last three games. Go Shaq! Serena Williams won the Australian Open. Go Serena! The Florida Marlins improved their baseball team with the arrival of Carlos Delgado. Now the Marlins are favored to win the World Series. Let us see if that happens!

Guest Articles
Stuff not written by us. As always everything is copyright of the author.

My Unhusband And The Tennis Shoes

Tennis shoes had been a bone of contention between myself and my unhusband throughout our marriage. (I call him my “unhusband” because ex-husband does not describe how completely I have removed him from my life.) We both had good-paying jobs, but we tended to live beyond our means, with my unhusband being the main instigator of such living. Granted, we were young and unaware of the pitfalls of credit…at first. Granted, as well, that for the first half of our marriage we were drunk and/or high much of the time. The booze and drugs did nothing to improve our monetary situation, of course. But tennis shoes were always something my unhusband and I never quite agreed on.

Junior, as my father later came to call him, always had to have expensive tennis shoes. If they cost less than $100 there weren’t good enough. $100 for a pair of tennis shoes still seems like a lot of money to me. In the early 1980’s it was, in my opinion, far too much, especially considering the fact that Junior wore them out so quickly. He played a lot of tennis, and basketball too. I was lucky if the darn tennis shoes lasted four months.

As the years passed, I got more and more irked about his insatiable desire for expensive new tennis shoes, and he became more and more insistent he get them. It was not just the expense that irked me. Junior was always a slob, and acquired a habit of putting his sweaty, dirty tennis shoes on the kitchen table when he came home from a game. True, we didn’t eat at the kitchen table very often. It was used more as a kitchen island, a place to put groceries as we, or rather, I, brought them in, a place to put letters that had to be mailed—that sort of thing. Still, it was my strong opinion that a kitchen table was not the proper place for tennis shoes, sweaty or not.

I had married Junior for a very bad reason. My parents were putting pressure on me to live a normal life and act like an adult. I had been a “free-spirit” (they called it a screw-up) since I was a teenager. I was twenty-three. It was high time I got a steady job, got married, had kids and a house with a white picket fence and all that crap. Pickings for a husband in the town in which I found myself, the town in which I still live (although he does not) were, at that time in my life, horrifically slim. In a town where most people marry by age 18, if not sooner, the men still on the market were all losers. The only single men near my age had either gotten divorced early, or had never married. Junior simply seemed less of a loser than the others. At least he wasn’t a country bumpkin with a nasty filthy beard down to his waist. He actually spoke proper English (although $25 words were always over his head), and never asked me to a Marshall Tucker Band concert, as one hick did. Junior actually liked real music—rock and roll!

It was my best friend, and the circle of friends I met through her, who got Junior and I together. Everyone was attached—if not married at least dating. They couldn’t stand the fact that there were two unattached people of the appropriate sexes with whom they were acquainted. Appropriate, that is, for dating each other in that time and that place among that group of people. They came up with a brilliant scheme. They told me that Junior thought I was cute and wanted to meet me. They told him the same thing. Over and over, for more than a week. Then finally, they arranged a meeting.

I had not met him previously because I worked 1st shift and he worked 2nd, and I lived with my parents under a fairly strict curfew. Why I lived with my parents and had a curfew at the ripe old age of 23 is another sordid story for another time.

My best friend Tammy, and the wife (at the time) of one of Junior’s friends dragged me up to the friend’s apartment one night. Junior and I chatted for a bit, then he walked me to my car. He charmed me by actually asking if he could kiss me! No boy or man had ever done that—asked that is. They just kissed, like it or not, if I let them get that close. We had a few things in common, more than just the love of rock music. We both partied, both loved movies and, after all, we had the same friends. I needed a boyfriend to turn into a husband. He needed a mother, and I had already become an expert in mothering boyfriends. I actually loved him at first. The marriage completed the circle of our friends…for as long as the marriages lasted. None of them did.

Almost exactly halfway through our marriage I decided that I had had enough of partying. I was sick of the hangovers. I stopped drinking and drugging completely, and with no problem. To my extreme dismay, Junior did not. Indeed, he seemed to get worse, and the marriage became a nightmare. I think, in retrospect, that I simply was seeing him as he really was for the first time. I tried to get him to stop, not that that ever works. I was to find that it just makes the alcoholic/addict sneaky. They are masterful liars and manipulators and, in my experience, these behaviors don’t end when they become “clean and sober.” They may lessen in time, if the alcoholic is truly honest with themselves and works hard on changing, but few do. AA meetings replace parties, coffee and sweets replace booze. Their friends are still addicts—they are just addicts who don’t use.

Junior finally got “clean and sober” a few months after his mother died. He went on a four-month bender. It was so unbearable I was about a week away from leaving him when he came home at 4 AM one morning, drunk as a skunk, and announced he needed help and was going to check into Bridgeway, a local, popular treatment facility. Although I had to be up in two hours to get to work, I jumped out of bed and helped him pack. I thought this was my salvation, the saving of our marriage and the end of the nightmare. I couldn’t have been more wrong.

After the obligatory thirty days at Bridgeway, Junior came home and announced that he wasn’t going back to his job. He had been drinking and drugging at work. Everyone he knew at work was still drinking and drugging. AA tells us (drunks and their significant others alike) that going back into a situation where the drug of choice (every drug was Junior’s choice) was constantly at hand was a sure way to relapse. I agreed, good little AA wife that I was, that quitting his job was necessary. I thought he would get another job soon. He never did.

I was working ten to twelve hour days, working on weekends, trying to make ends meet. Having one income instead of two made things difficult, but Junior never seemed to realize it. He seemed to think he could spend as much money he wanted to on anything he wanted, just as he did when both of us were working. He bought CDs constantly, and we always seemed to be feeding “our” new AA and NA friends. The house, in fact, was full of these new friends. Every day when I would come home from work the house would be full of “recovering” alcoholics watching TV, playing video games and generally being loud and obnoxious. It wasn’t much better than when Junior was drinking, just different. I so wanted to come home and rest, have some peace and quiet, but that was not going to happen.

At the time I had one pair of work shoes. I needed good shoes, as I was on my feet most of the time. They were falling apart, and new ones cost about $45. I was desperately trying to make them last a few weeks longer. I didn’t have the money to buy another pair. It was summertime and Junior, in addition to playing a lot of video games, watching a lot of TV, and going to a lot of meetings, played a lot of tennis. A whole lot of tennis. He played every day. One day when I came home in my wretched work shoes, hot and tired and not at all wanting to be subjected to the din of the “shiny happy people” in my living room, Junior announced that he needed new tennis shoes. He had been playing so much tennis that his shoes were wearing out!

We argued. I was the one who needed new shoes, not him, I told him. I was deeply resentful of his carefree “recovering” lifestyle. I thought he would have gotten a job by this time—it had been a few months. He couldn’t get a job, though, because he had to work on “recovering.” Part of that “work” was playing tennis—he had to have new shoes! “Tennis helps keeps me sober!” he whined. “Don’t you want me to stay sober?” Of course I did. The marriage sucked, life sucked, my job sucked, but at least Junior wasn’t drinking and driving, or coming home a 4 AM and cranking up the stereo. This was thought with the same logic of women who say: “at least he doesn’t hit me” or “at least he doesn’t cheat on me.” In other words, things could be worse. Not much, but they could.

So I did the only thing I felt at the time I could do: I let him buy the tennis shoes, and wore my work shoes until they were falling off my feet. I don’t know, I have never known, if I am angrier at him or at myself. In my defense, I thought I was doing the right thing, keeping him sober to save our marriage. I now know that only he could keep himself sober, and only if he wanted to. But I was still naive about alcoholics. I actually thought he would make it! He would be the one in a hundred, or a thousand, who stayed sober and got his life, our life, back together. Plus I had a lifetime of experience at being manipulated by alcoholics, having grown up with Mommy.

Although Junior never got a real job, things settled into a reasonably livable situation. I was even happy. I even liked Junior again, and enjoyed our “recovering” friends. The meetings and the socializing made my horrible job bearable, for a time. That might have been the end of the story, if it weren’t for a rule I had learned while growing up: you don’t tell your family members everything. You save up the juicy tidbits and use them at the most opportune times. Mommy had played that game my entire life.

Junior started drinking again, two-and-a-half years after leaving Bridgeway. It wasn’t obvious at first—he was being sneaky about it—but I knew things were going downhill. We went to my sister’s house for Christmas. She lives at the beach. It was bitter cold, I was bored to death, and Junior kept making himself absent for several hours at a time. During one of these absences I told my sister about the tennis shoe incident. Pammy was ready to kill Junior. I wouldn’t have minded at all. In fact, I thought it was a fine idea, but I didn’t want her to go to jail for it. So Junior remained unharmed, and the marriage plodded on for another three years, and another recovery center vacation for Junior.

I had a nervous breakdown and got on disability. Junior still didn’t get a real job. He mowed lawns, bringing home perhaps $300 a month. He ate more than that! He smelled like stale beer all the time, although he swore he wasn’t drinking. He went camping for days at a time. I finally caught him red-handed and kicked him out. My father immediately changed the locks on the doors. It was late fall, and getting cold. Junior tried staying with his brother, but his brother wouldn’t put up with the drinking either, and kicked him out too. My whiny unhusband phoned and said he had no place to stay, and it was getting too cold to camp. He promised he would stay sober if I would let him stay at the house until he got enough money to get a place. Fool that I was, I let him stay on the couch. He stayed sober two days. I gave him two choices: get out or go into a recovery center again. He chose the latter.

I had no intention of letting him come back, but I let him believe he would have a place to stay when he got out until he was actually in rehab. Then I filed for a separation. When I told him he checked himself out of rehab, found a place to stay and—gasp—got a job! Amazing what a man can do when he finally realizes he no longer has a wife to support him!

As soon as he had a place of his own, he bought a recliner and a big screen TV—on credit, of course. He’d been working less than a month, and was still drinking. He came over a few times over the next few months to collect his stuff. The last time he drove up in a brand new bright red Toyota 4-wheel drive extra-cab pick-up truck with all the bells and whistles. After showing off his new truck, he showed off his new tennis shoe. He was inordinately proud of them. They cost him $25.

© 2005 K. Young

Group Novel
As an experiment for fun, we are writing a group novel at the world famous and so very special Area 52B forum.

• Each segment is listed in this bulleted list.
• June 2004 magazine edition
• July 2004 magazine edition
• August 2004 magazine edition
• September 2004 magazine edition
• October 2004 magazine edition
• November 2004 magazine edition
• December 2004 magazine edition
• January 2005 magazine edition
• The entire group novel is available in MS Word format. The newest segment is as follows:

Zeena found herself humming as she swept the living area floor early the next morning. She could not remember what she had done, but instead she saw the music in her mind and absent-mindedly hummed the song. No musical notes as she had seen written in her music class at the academy but none-the-less, the notes were there . . .written for only her mind to see.

Zeena could close her eyes and as each note was sounded a pulse, as if by some magical force, throbbed within her mind Strange she thought, for this “music” had no lyrics and she found it impossible to write the sounds on a scribe board for there was no notation that she knew of that could represent them.

“I must ask Zybai of this strange property of the songs,” Zeena sighed. Zeena worked at her chores until Mu’a was high in the sky. Mostly fiddling around as all young girls did but also taking herself seriously, she cleaned up the family living quarters so that they would pass the inspection of her “at times” stern father.

It was near the midday meal when Zybai and her mother wandered into the house. Zeena took both of her hands and folded them in front of her, a customary Anaraian greeting, and said, “Father is not with you for the most important meal of the day?”

“Your father has matters which he must tend to with the Council today,” her mother replied.

“Oh zeems”, sighed Zeena as she sulkily walked away.* She dreamed about those 14 dark stars once again and those eerily strange harmonics. “I must try and find Star Hopper if I can”, Zeena thought to herself. Zeena sighed when she remembered Zingeer (Star Hopper was a nickname she had secretly given him). She had told nobody else about him and had almost forgotten about him until late last night as she stood outside with Zybai listening to the stars speak to themselves.

One by one the three meandered near the warm kitchen and sat near the hearth for the midday their meal. Fresh fruit from their own grove, blat* made from vegetables grown in their own small garden, and lots and lots of hot chee*.

Zeena remembered the night before when she had confided to Zybai about her feelings towards Zingeer and the conversation that followed, both verbal and mental:

Cautiously at first and then jabbering away Zeena said, “Zybai do you remember Zingeer son of Zeegan”, Zeena queried?

----------“Hmm,” Zybai responded, “Zeegan the merchant?”

----------“No,” Zeena snapped, “Zeegan the Administrator of Agriculture silly”.

----------“Ah yes, that Zeegan. I have heard good things about that man,” Zybai replied. “What about his son”?

An explosion of descriptions spewed forth out of Zeena’s mind that not only amused Zybai but stunned him as well. The semi-shocked look on Zybai’s face only hid his amusement.

“Why are you thinking those terrible things about me Zeena,” Zybai quietly asked his sister?

“What are you two up to,” asked their mother?

“Uh. Uh . . .,” they both stammered. “Zybai keeps staring at me,” cried Zeena.

“That is because she keeps looking at me,” claimed Zybai.

Both Zeena and Zybai were thinking of a better reply to their mother’s question when Krilat hastily knocked on the door while entering.

“Good afternoon everybody . . .I hate to interrupt your festivities but I have an important message for Zybai”, Krilat announced.

“Speak man,” Zybai ordered.

“Well . .. hmm . . .your family is present,” Krilat whispered.

“Speak,” Zybai ordered once again.

“Hurumph . . .,” Krilat cleared his throat, “ Well . . .you know that Munsoothe* is soon upon us, but it seems that this time it is bringing heavier rains than usual and the Council must meet for we must make emergency plans quickly, lest our early crops of grain are ruined.

“Oh where is father when I need his council,” thought Zybai?

----------------------------

*zeems – Anaraian “slang” for Zeiming, which is self-explanatory, lol.

*blat – a local vegetable stew (most Anaraian’s are vegetarians)

*chee – a hot beverage brewed from the bark of the cheench tree.

*cheench – a tree native to the coastal regions of Anaraia and that grows in the mid latitudes.

* Munsoothe - the 2nd rainy season.

-----------------------------

I'd never thought much about rain one way or another. It simply is. It nourishes our bodies as it nourishes the land. Oh, I'd heard some of the older people complaining about being chilly, and the girls always seemed to get upset about how rain ruined the bejeweled, filmy robes they favored during the dry seasons. But, like most young males, I've never minded being wet...although, like most young males, I tend to sleep at my parents' house during the rainy seasons.

The bower that forms our roof is always freshly woven before the rains start, and the house is warm and dry. The bower over our bachelors' grove is patchy at best, and most of us are too lazy to work on it. We claim we are too busy with our scholarly pursuits to do the reweaving, but we're fooling no one. Everyone knows why our moss beds are miniature lakes when it rains. But that is expected of us bachelors. Indeed, the few males who re-weave the branches above their beds are looked down upon by our group, and their families shake their heads and sigh. Males with such a mind-set generally end up as craftsmen or laborers, with no hope of higher positions in life.

So it is with some surprise that I find myself considering the rain as something which could endanger our people. For all our lofty pursuits, we are dependent on the land and the food it provides. I am not surprised at all, however, that Krilat was sent with this news, rather than Father telling me himself. They mean to test me. I haven't done any "real" Kla'abai work as yet. I'm not at all sure if I can.

I look at Zeena and again we lock minds. Out of the corner of my eye I see a look of comprehension come over Mother's face.

"The rain sings, too. Not like the stars, but..." I begin.

"So do the crops, Zingeer said. He knows a great deal about crops!" I can feel Zeena's excitement at having a reason to seek Zingeer out.

The exchange lasts mere seconds. I don't think Krilat even noticed it. I look him full in the eye. "Tell the Council I will give the problem my full attention and will let them know when I have a solution," I say with quiet gravity and confidence I don't yet feel.

Krilat bows, more to Mother than to me, and mutters his thanks before hastily exiting. He had left his own lunch to deliver this message and was anxious to return to it. Although I have gained some respect from Krilat, I can't help but wonder with amusement how much it must have galled him to be so polite to me.

Zeena and I smile together and return to our meal, trying not to notice Mother's calculating stare.

Zeena and Zybai sat on the dry moss under the Beda hedge and listened to the light pattering of the rain. It was an early rain for the season: there were still several turns left before the end of Braetnasab. That in itself was a certain indication that this Munsoothe would bring far heavier rains than usual, according to Periot. Though young, Periot's word on this matter went unquestioned. His family had for generations tended their lush, exceptionally productive fields and orchards. Despite Periot's vocation as a physician, he had clearly inherited his family's "blue-midarm." The medicinal plants and herbs he grew on his own portion of his family's enormous farm were renowned planet-wide for their vitality.

"We could still ask Periot what he knows of the songs of the crops," Zybai said to Zeena, only half-teasing. Their inquiries about Zingeer's whereabouts had as yet yielded nothing. Zingeer's position as Under-minister of Agriculture kept him on the move, traveling from village to village, and no one they had spoken to so far seemed to know quite where he was.

Zeena smacked her brother's arm and stuck her nose in the air. After a suitable silence, she informed her snickering sibling that she was scheduled to have lunch with Biddy Floreth on the morrow. Zybai's eyes widened. Biddy Floreth, older than dirt, richer than Vashu, and slyer than a **kleepin, traveled in only the best circles. For a woman Zeena's age to gain audience with the ancient gossip was almost unheard-of. But Biddy! "I thought we were going to be discreet about finding Zingeer!"

"I've thought about that a lot. Up until know, you've been nothing but a spoiled bratty kid who goes flying around among the stars. It's time the people see you as the The Kla'abai...their Kla'abai, and someone they can trust. We need to act properly and respectfully toward the people. And everyone respects Biddy's opinion of people. Tomorrow I will behave decorously with her and treat her with great respect. If I do well we--you--will have her stamp of approval...and some amount of respect from the people. Think, Zybai, you will need the council, and therefore the good will, of many people in your work here on Anaraia as well as in your quest among the stars."

That made an uncomfortable amount of sense. "But how did you ever get an audience with Biddy?"

Zeena laughed lightly: "I told her **nesatallat it concerned official business of the Kla'abai." Zeena told him. "The girl rushed back from her lady's chambers so fast it was all I could do not to laugh, and so clearly pleased! You know old Biddy is always on the lookout for new gossip, and to be the first to hear something about the Kla'abai's business is something she couldn't pass up."

"I imagine not," Zybai laughed as well. Biddy knew everything about everyone, and could hardly stand not being to first to spread some new bit of gossip. "But how will you explain wanting to find Zingeer?"

"I will tell her that the stars sang to you that Zingeer holds a key to the problem of the rains." She smiled at Zybai's raised eye ridge. "It isn't so far from the truth!"

"Never quite thought of you as a star!" Yet it was surely a part of my destiny to find Zeena as a partner in my journey. If she thinks this Zingeer can help us solve this problem, it must be so. I only hope she is thinking with her first heart, not her second!

Zeena had begun to sing a wordless counterpoint to the pattering of the rain. Zybai listened carefully for a moment, comparing the notes to the song of the rain. No, there was a difference here. He sung the notes he heard and after a moment Zeena mimicked him. Their song blended with that of the rain, meshing and intertwining with it until the two songs became one. Zeena committed the notes to memory as they sang.

As **Garn rose to its apex Zeena stopped singing. Zybai fell silent, watching his sister. "Smell the earth," she gestured vaguely. "Do you hear it?"

Zybai closed his eyes. The smell of the earth gratefully soaking in the sweet moisture filled the air. There was an undertone to the smell, almost too low to hear, soft as a sigh. This was the song of earth glad of the rain it received. But how could it be sung...or did it need to be?


Biddy Floreth listened intently as Zeena explained the Kla'abai's role in the problem of the predicted heavy rains, her tiny dark eyes glittering. When Zeena mentioned the need to find a young man named Zingeer Biddy nodded wisely. "Young Zybai is not the first Kla'abai to require the council of others. And you say the stars sang the need of this particular man's council to Zybai?" A serene smile crossed her wrinkled face. This was, too, was expected of a Kla'abai, Biddy assured Zeena. She should know. She had known the last Kla'abai personally. She's the only person in the world old enough to remember him! Zeena thought as she arranged her face into the proper expression of awe and respect.

"I will enquire of this young man...discreetly, of course."

Zeena hid her amusement behind her cup of chee. Biddy didn't have a discreet bone in her body, but was wise enough to say just enough to get the information she desired. Tomorrow morning she would send Nisi with word of Zingeer's whereabouts, she assured Zeena. And by tomorrow afternoon the whole village and then some will know that the Kla'abai has taken on his duties to his people and is preparing a work for their good. No doubt the old woman would hold back as many details as possible, parceling them out in bits and pieces as she saw fit.

"You are a good sister, to do this for your brother. You must come lunch with me again." Biddy dismissed her with a wave of her elegant jewel-encrusted sleeve. Zeena bowed as befitted her age and left in a happy daze. The lunch had gone better than she had ever hoped!

Zingeer was traveling between the villages of Gnarth and Leeboo and would be at Leeboo around mid-day on the morrow, according to the note Nisi brought. "Well, come, we can float over the road between the villages and find him now," I say. "We'll be talking to him in no time!"

"We don't want to scare the wits out of Zingeer! Not everyone goes floating around the planet like a **pitchu. Besides, we agreed this must be done properly." Zeena walked to the contact stone. "I am contacting the Head-council of Leeboo and..." A young woman's face appeared on the milky surface. "If it please you, Sera," Zeena said respectfully, "I am Zeena nab Ziha, and am calling on the Kla'abai's official business. I am told you are expecting Under-minister Zingeer mid-day tomorrow."

"Yes, indeed, Sera Zeena." The young woman said with excitement. "The Kla’abai has business with the Under-minister?" It was obvious she already knew the answer. Biddy's "influence" had already spread.

"He dawdles a bit, you know," the woman went on, "in the fields around the village, but he will be here around mid-day. Shall I have someone go after him and tell him the Kla'abai needs to contact him?"

"No, please, Sera, the Kla'abai respects that the Under-minister has work to do. If it pleases the Head-council, the Kla'abai and I will arrive in the village commons in mid-afternoon and await the Under-minister's convenience. Perhaps someone could meet us and show us around your village? The Kla'abai has never seen it..."

"Of course!" The young woman was clearly delighted.

It was the Head-council himself, trying to hide his excitement in a pose of importance, who met Zybai and Zeena the next afternoon. His eyes lit with pleasure as he regarded his two visitors. Dressed in the modest robes Zeena had insisted upon, they stood with their heads inclined and their arms folded respectfully in front of them. Zybai made a deep obeisance. "High-council Noral, it is a great honor to meet you. It is a greater honor still that you have chosen to meet us yourself. I had not presumed to take you away from your busy schedule."

The man could hardly contain his delight, to Zybai's quiet amusement. "Not at all, not at all! I could hardly send an underling to meet you, Ser Kla'abai!"

A little respect goes a long way, eh? Zeena observed smugly.

"Zingeer has been informed of your imminent arrival. He is in the east fields at the moment, he says he can meet with you before **matins…you wished to see the village first?"

"Indeed, yes, Your Honor," Zybai said with more fervor than he felt. "It looks lovely so far…"

"Well, we are proud of our little village…" Noral conducted them around the village, telling them in detail about each shop and home and bragging about the fine **shira and **penions that grazed on the well-tended lawns. A gaggle of excited and curious children followed them, making their progress into a small parade. Zybai shook a great many hands and heard a great many names he knew he would never be able to remember.

At length Noral conducted his visitors to a cool bower, had chee and sweet cakes brought, and apologetically excused himself: he was needed at the council. To tell them everything. Zeena chuckled.

Zybai raised an eye ridge to the children still whispering outside and gazed thoughtfully at the comely nesatallat who served them. He smiled at his sister over his cup. It's good to be Kla'abai!

Zeena rolled her eyes.

---------------------------------------

**kleepin-a small, swift predator known for its clever hunting skills. The expression "slyer than a kleepin" is analogous to the Earth expression "as sly as a fox."

**nesatallat-lady's maid, or handmaiden.

**Garn-the second moon

**pitchu-a bird-like creature known for soaring on the updrafts, like a hawk.

**matins-the evening meal

**shira-an animal raised for its milk and fur

**penions-a goose-like animal raised for its eggs
 

© 2005 L. E. Shaffer, Kim Young, Linda Hall

Steelwerks

This Canadian company has a new website at http://www.steelwerks.ca, which features high-quality, unique jewelry. The old standby, super duper website at http://www.steelwerksextreme.com has improved to feature paying online. New products are featured as well. They do a lot of special order work as well. If you can imagine it, Steelwerks can make it. They interact with customers like they've known them as close, personal friends all their lives. Customer support is always an email away. This extraordinary company loves to get telephone calls too. The graphic is from the Steelwerks Extreme side. The extreme side is for adults only. Just remember that different strokes for different folks holds true and enjoy.

Chris runs an outstanding organization and takes a personal interest in each customer. You can tell that he is having loads of fun, when he talks to you or trades email. Here is just a sample, when I finally got him to do a write-up for my favorite side of his business: http://www.steelwerksextreme.com is back! That's right folks, the boys over at Steelwerks Extreme have revamped their site and are back to the grind, anticipating new orders from all your extreme boys [oh and we don't forget the ladies!] I like his enthusiasm and dedication to his product. Go, Chris!

© 2005 Steelwerks

Twins of the Dark Star
Book One Tears from Ao and three poetry collections, Pages of Life, Visions of Life, and Moments of Life are available electronically at http://RunesofAo.com/aobp/. The Runes of Ao project, Book Two The Mountains of Ao novel currently in final edit, Book Three Twins of the Dark Star novel in early stages, and The Book of Kalian Mysticism poetry collection are works in progress. Also a collaboration with K. Young on a novella called Dragon Embers is now published on the fan site known as Runes of Ao.com.

The Dull Stuff
All opinions expressed do not necessarily reflect those of this magazine, company, or its advertisers. Inputs, email, suggestions, and letters to this journal are subject to approval by Ebony and Abby. Submittals may be edited for content and length and become the creative property for the one-time nonexclusive publication of:

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Publication date: January 28, 2005
Author: L. E. Shaffer
Company: Shaffer Novels/Poetry Company &
Shaffer Internet Publishing Company
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