OK, not really. For some this is a day to honor one’s Irish ancestry and heritage, and to eat corned beef and cabbage and potatoes, drink good beer (Guinness, Harp, et al), listen to Irish music, and honor the efforts of an early Christian missionary who is associated with Ireland although he is a Briton. If you are a politician in Boston or New York City, you’d better be seen at an Irish event, or your absence Will Be Noted.
So there I was, peering over Old NFO’s elbow, trying to read the accession number on the little tag hanging off the 1878 Smith and Wesson .44 Russian, so I could record it along with the fountain of information pouring forth, but the floodgate had opened, hands were moving and it was all I could do to write down numbers, names, and details. Peter Grant was looking at another revolver, inspecting some modifications, and I couldn’t remember if I’d written that one down yet or not. Five more revolvers lay on the counter in front of us, swords and spears and a few maces hung from brackets on the wall, and Dorothy Grant had wisely tucked herself into the corner with a book, well clear of overflows of enthusiasm. The curator alternated between making note of what had been looked at and asking questions. I had unleashed a monster: knowledgable experts with nearly unlimited examples to inspect, poke, and teach from. What hath Alma wrought?!? Continue reading
No matter the genre, or if it is non-fiction, authors need to triple check the final proof of their manuscript before it is published. Why? Well . . .
The crystal ball beside her desk began wiggling on its stand. Morgana reached over absentmindedly, patted the top to stop the vibration and waited for the incoming text. It was from Dolores.
“Hey, thanks for the thunderstorm you’re throwing my way! Better than fire or dust!”
Morgana frowned, rotated in her seat and typed on the magic-only keyboard, “Thppppth. That was supposed to stay up here. Mutter, mutter no more bargain bin eye of newt.” It really had been commanded to stay locally, but Waldo had muffed the winds aloft forecast.
“…and the voice in the back of my head says ‘lines you’d see in chat with an evil overlord’s friends… Um, was that eye of newt or Aya’s snoot?”
“Eye of newt. Gotta use water creatures to get water elementals.” Didn’t Dolores remember that? Oh wait, no, Morgana remembered, Dolores specialized in automata and mechanical charms, not the traditional elemental spells.
“Ah! No wonder the hellbender is going extinct; people keep mistaking it for a non-water creature!
“You got it. There was a terrible typo in ‘Summoners’ Monthly’ a few years ago, and…”
“Was it a typo, or a conspiracy of editors? Must we keep the blue pencil of evil back in the vault? Don’t they know not to mess with eldritch artifacts?”
“I’d let my subscription lapse by then so I don’t know. I heard that they started outsourcing their editors and that never ends well. Especially with spell casting. You’d have thought the disaster at Necromancy Digest would have been enough of a warning!” Continue reading
So there I was, trotting away, and since I can now handle a 15 degree incline at three miles an hour without reaching my target heart rate, I said to my self, “Self, I wonder what it takes now to max out?”
Smart people hear that little inner voice and strangle it before anything bad can happen. I’m not that smart. Continue reading
The daffodils are trying to bloom. The tulips are leafing out. The Bradford pear buds are swelling. The roses are leafing out and sending up new shoots. Spring is bustin’ out all over.
STOP IT!!! Winter is not over!!!!! Continue reading
Senior Boy: ” . . . and then he tried to put it in reverse! Took us twenty minutes to dig him out of the sand.”
Senior Boy 2: “He tried to back out? That’s so racist.”
Mr. Long-Slavic-Last-Name to Fr. Romanus: “Splash.”
Fr. Romanus: ‘Splash?”
Mr. L-S-L-N: “The sound of a shark jumping.”
Fr. Romanus: “Ah, Indeed. Indeed.”
[Racist now means inane, stupid, foolish, apparently.]
If I were to win the Powerball, and the laws of physics and engineering were abrogated, I could build the perfect-for-Alma house. It would have lots of windows, plenty of space for books, an enormous kitchen, and be small enough to clean easily. And be at least partly underground and tornado proof. As I said, if the laws of engineering were abrogated . . . Continue reading