tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19363109721771009992024-02-22T12:41:15.347-08:00Distant ShoresCyrus Keithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18157654104793220210noreply@blogger.comBlogger145125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1936310972177100999.post-65655876832375587132021-08-07T08:34:00.003-07:002021-08-07T08:40:03.532-07:00FREEDOM!"Freedom is just another word for nothing left to lose."<div><br /></div><div>That's what Janis said, anyway. Right?</div><div><br /></div><div>In all the political uproar over the last couple of decades, the one thing I don't hear about is how we actually define "Freedom." What does it mean to be free? What does it have to do with Liberty?</div><div><br /></div><div>I have my own definition for Freedom. And it's very close to the one for Liberty. Freedom is having the choice to do the right thing for you. Abortion advocates cry aloud the mantra "right to choose!" at every opportunity, only on top of the right to choose some even say it's their right to make someone else pay for their choice. But I digress. Let's stay on topic, Cy.</div><div><br /></div><div>The last year and a half has been very illustrative of what I really mean by "right to choose." Across the country, and even across the globe, people were bombarded with mandates and bans, all meant "for our own good." Mask wearing. Social distancing. Closing business after business, grinding whole economies to screeching halts. All in the name of "what's best for you."</div><div><br /></div><div>Removal of choice.</div><div><br /></div><div>Mandates and bans are the opposite of Freedom. The opposite of Liberty. Because they represent the removal of choice. Comply. Do "A" or face consequences. Do NOT do "B" or face consequences. And everyone who asked why was shamed, ostracized, canceled, smothered and silenced by the Mob.</div><div><br /></div><div>Only one problem. That's not what our country is. Mandates and bans are for tyrants and dictators. The United States is a nation of free citizens. FREE citizens. Not subjects. Our constitution, the foundation that defines us, has as its primary focus, security of the blessings of liberty to ourselves and our posterity. It's right there. Read it.</div><div><br /></div><div>What that means is that we should be free to make our own choices about masks and social distancing. And just because I don't sign onto your flavor of the month on mask policy, doesn't mean I want to come up to you and cough in your face. It also doesn't mean that mask policies in and of themselves are bad. It just means we have the right under our constitution, our basic law, to be part of the solution and not just compliant sheep. we are free citizens, and able to make our own decisions about our health, thank you very much.</div><div><br /></div><div>Freedom is a big thing in this country. a BIG thing. People died to give us the freedom to choose. Not just a couple, or a hundred, or even a thousand. Hundreds of thousands of people fought with their very lives to make sure we had a place where a person could choose how they wanted to provide for themselves, where they could decide on their own which God they wanted to worship, or even IF they wanted to worship.</div><div><br /></div><div>Now we have people in office who want to tax us on how many miles we drive in our cars. We have mandates. We have bans. We have tyranny.</div><div><br /></div><div>It's not about what's the right thing to do. It's about giving us the facts so we can decide for ourselves what the right thing to do is. Because what's right for you isn't necessarily right for me, and vice versa. It's about forcing compliance, one for all. Seat belts are a fantastic idea. But not everyone wants to wear seat belts. Face masks are a great idea. But not everyone can wear them. Everyone is allowed to have an opinion. But just because it's your opinion, doesn't mean it has to be a law for everyone else.</div><div><br /></div><div>Freedom is the sacred right to choose, each free citizen, whatever choice is right for them in their own heart.</div><div><br /></div><div>Don't throw it away.</div>Cyrus Keithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18157654104793220210noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1936310972177100999.post-90402494318045163342020-05-23T17:26:00.001-07:002020-05-23T17:26:02.431-07:00The RepairmanI want to address an issue this post that has hit very close to my heart. It touches myself, several of my friends, and some family as well.<br />
<br />
This is about mental illness.<br />
<br />
It hits us in a variety of guises, from depression to paranoia, to PTSD, to DID, to full-blown schizophrenia.<br />
<br />
The reason that I write this today, is inspired by a particular incident relating to a close friend of mine. They were actually told by a family member that if they were a stronger person, they would not be suffering the situation that was diagnosed. In this case, it was a combination of PTSD and Dissociative Identity Disorder.<br />
<br />
Read this again: "This only happened because you aren't a strong enough person to handle it." IT, being the multiple traumas that spawned my friend's illnesses.<br />
<br />
So this is to my friend, but also to anyone who suffers in their mind:<br />
<br />
It isn't your fault. And you ARE strong enough, or you wouldn't be here today. We'll use this illustration. Look at this picture:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgakjUwRlGNvMq8UqfA2zzgjpK4fEIo8f1kEizaHyA_e9H5Dtv9jkKEIE10FaMO3DxNzZtSjn0q_clNlXnyUnJKRCi8vVjEPHSGtewqlrMPoBhX68fohqCwEGG6eFBAxr6WBhY1ROoJ_hs/s1600/2020-05-15+09.55.43.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgakjUwRlGNvMq8UqfA2zzgjpK4fEIo8f1kEizaHyA_e9H5Dtv9jkKEIE10FaMO3DxNzZtSjn0q_clNlXnyUnJKRCi8vVjEPHSGtewqlrMPoBhX68fohqCwEGG6eFBAxr6WBhY1ROoJ_hs/s320/2020-05-15+09.55.43.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
The wires are frayed, pinched. Contacts are worn, malformed. The bundle is loose. The mounting tray for the equipment is broken.<br />
<br />
Is it the wire's fault that someone came along and cut the ties that bound the bundle together? Is it the contacts' fault that oxides built up, that wires were pinched and chafed? The materials used for the installation were all MIL-spec. For those who are not aviation buffs, it means the materials used were all top-notch.<br />
<br />
You ARE strong enough. What you are made of, is good. Life happened, and everyone has their limits. And for someone else to second-guess how strong you are, only shows their own lack of understanding about what happened.<br />
<br />
The fact is, you need help putting things back together, repairing the damaged spots.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZwRx-oFMDvDgmk-Za7733pTns8i2T6hpmNWUEdIJvhRm-8PiaP9g7b1ReMjUqCFjBmnZ6UDOdxDkormKv6m5I_RpjLnTa_xfHH7MB49pzsyE7vM76ejo-dAok9YzScgF0WqltIxfEgAc/s1600/2020-05-15+14.07.03.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZwRx-oFMDvDgmk-Za7733pTns8i2T6hpmNWUEdIJvhRm-8PiaP9g7b1ReMjUqCFjBmnZ6UDOdxDkormKv6m5I_RpjLnTa_xfHH7MB49pzsyE7vM76ejo-dAok9YzScgF0WqltIxfEgAc/s320/2020-05-15+14.07.03.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
The final product isn't perfect, but it isn't about reinventing the wheel. The whole system doesn't need to be removed and rewired, to make it functional. Replace the broken tray. Clip out the damaged portions of wire. Extend wires with splices where they are needed. Attach a new wire bundle mount and re-route the side bundle. Clip off the damaged connector contacts and use the right tools to put new contacts in place.<br />
<br />
Use the right tools. Use the therapist. Receive the prayer. Let the Master Healer restore and heal the broken places.<br />
<br />
Using outside help doesn't mean you're weak. It means you're smart enough to ask for help.<br />
<br />
Give yourself a break. And be your own awesome self. Just get better.<br />
<br />Cyrus Keithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18157654104793220210noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1936310972177100999.post-57791299739989285112020-05-19T18:35:00.000-07:002020-05-19T18:35:00.629-07:00NADIA Picture Tour: Next stop, Las Vegas!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRZVsWPzdsyRkYN2Fo67rhtmrpKNGm9YS0_3c2uSJXwQOdDa3la9WWTC8IkaKmBS2-0k71JMJUqLYNc7aVZv8OUeVmW3npbKVTOiYGiHJCzRIfMQaQxpSV3lxKzMxXKk4hcMto2KQpa_Q/s1600/20200305_075616.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRZVsWPzdsyRkYN2Fo67rhtmrpKNGm9YS0_3c2uSJXwQOdDa3la9WWTC8IkaKmBS2-0k71JMJUqLYNc7aVZv8OUeVmW3npbKVTOiYGiHJCzRIfMQaQxpSV3lxKzMxXKk4hcMto2KQpa_Q/s320/20200305_075616.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Marco was crouching on the concrete outside the loading dock when Jenna approached the<br />
rear of the Sands Hotel five minutes later. He was engaged in an impromptu dice game, and<br />
judging from the pile of bills in front of him, he was doing well today. He looked up when she<br />
called his name, and a distrustful scowl replaced the grin he’d worn a moment previously.<br />
He stood and sauntered to Jenna. She found herself looking at him eye-to-stomach. She<br />
stood her ground and looked up, meeting his gaze evenly, and held out the card-key. He took it<br />
from her and stuck it in his back pocket. “You could use a bath. You smell like a dumpster.”<br />
Without waiting for a reply, he turned on his heel and strutted toward the loading dock’s door.<br />
<br />
“T-Bear, you watch my money, ‘ight?” he said to one of his compatriots, a skinny kid with a<br />
shaved head.<br />
<br />
Jenna followed him inside, through the service area, and up twelve flights of stairs. After<br />
they exited the stairwell, he led the way down the hall, finally stopping in front of a door on the<br />
left side. He opened the door with the card-key and held it for her. As she walked past, he said,<br />
“Pick up and dial 8787. Order whatever you need. Tab’s taken care of.” He left, taking the cardkey<br />
with him.<br />
<br />
When she saw herself in a mirror, she was appalled. Need a bath? Marco, you were being a<br />
positive gentleman. Her hair looked like an explosion in a wig factory. Her clothes hung in<br />
rumpled, filthy rags on her small frame, and her face sported a couple of bruises from the day<br />
before.<br />
<br />
She picked up the bedside phone and ordered two changes of clothing and a steak dinner.<br />
She tried to call Anna at the hospital, but learned that she hadn’t been seen or heard from since<br />
the ‘bomb scare’ the day before last. There was no answer on Anna’s cell, either. This can’t be<br />
good. She couldn’t call upline, not from here. But she hoped they’d have some answers for her<br />
when she did call them.<br />
<br />
Lunch came while she soaked in the tub. She finished her bath, toweled off, and ate. That<br />
was when she noticed how tired she was. The bed was soft, the covers warm, and in less than a<br />
minute, Jenna was in the arms of Morpheus.<br />
<br />
_______________________________________________________________________________<br />
<br />
Got a confession to make: I was not actually in Vegas. My kids were there, for a convention of one of their favorite TV shows. It was pretty cool to hear about. They got to meet the stars, and came back with some awesome souvenirs and even more awesome memories.<br />
<br />
I called my son after they landed and checked into the Rio. I specifically had this scene in mind when I asked him to take shots. He did a fantastic job, as will be seen in further installments.<br />
<br />
This is actually the loading dock of the Rio, as you can see in the shot. Granted, this is a short, short scene. And maybe it comes across as inconsequential in the grand scheme of the NADIA Project. But strangely enough, this is one of my favorite moments from <i>Unalive</i>. Maybe because the entire sequence leading up to this, and the scenes immediately afterward, were pivotal moments in Jenna's story.<br />
<br />
Stay tuned for more updates from Las Vegas!Cyrus Keithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18157654104793220210noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1936310972177100999.post-64664297092190850612018-06-15T17:25:00.001-07:002018-06-15T17:25:13.853-07:00Are You Reading That AGAIN???It amazes me that so many people look at a book I'm reading (The one with the tattered pages, the cover half worn off, the spine hanging together by sheer willpower and the few driblets of glue that oozed between the pages at the bookbinder's) and say words to the effect of, "Man, are you reading that one again? You read it once already."<br />
<br />
Well, of course I've read it already. I know what happens I know each and every character like they are my family. I know their foibles, their strengths, I know every cliffhanger and every twist of the story. And yes, I remember how it ends.<br />
<br />
So why read it again and again?<br />
<br />
Let me ask this: Do you have a favorite song, a favorite album? I wore the grooves right off the first live album by Rush ("<i>All the World's a Stage</i>," in case you're wondering). Because I enjoyed the way each song was assembled, how the notes and chords rang in my ears, how the words made me <i>think</i> about the message in the song (See kids, back then, songs actually had a message).<br />
<br />
What about movies? I know people who gladly sat through many consecutive showings of the latest slasher flick or the new sci-fi epic. I assume it's all about how they feel when the hero triumphs, or the way the villain jumps out from behind the couch with that big fantastic butcher knife.<br />
<br />
That's the way I feel when I read a book. Even though I've pored over it a dozen times before, I still get those same feelings again when Mycroft falls silent. When Jon kisses Nadia. When Black Beauty comes back home.<br />
<br />
So why are books different than music? Different than movies? If you can watch the same DVD over and over, you can read the same book over and over. And while you're at it, buy a few more. Dozen, that is.<br />
<br />
Just read. Again.Cyrus Keithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18157654104793220210noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1936310972177100999.post-48248752362401668442018-05-22T19:21:00.001-07:002018-05-22T19:21:25.314-07:00Reading: Who needs it?Why read Books? Why read any damn thing?<br />
<br />
Why in the world, when I can just get all my information from FakeBook, movies, TV and every blog/website that agrees with my worldview? I mean, I don't need anything more, right? So why do I need to actually take the time, sit down, and open those moldy old pages just to read dated work from dead guys who don't know anything about today or how things REALLY work?<br />
<br />
*Rolls up sleeves* Allow me to elucidate.<br />
<br />
<b>1.)</b> Multiple studies show that people who read are less likely to suffer from Alzheimer's and dementia. Want proof? Do a Google search of "Reading and dementia." Reading is exercise for your brain. Work it, it becomes stronger.<br /><br /><b>B.)</b> You might actually get smarter. Robert A. Heinlein was America's Father of Science Fiction. He was also an astronomer and mathematician. In nearly every book he wrote, there's something to learn. Example, in <i>Have Spacesuit, Will Travel, </i>we get a cool lesson about the solar system from the inside out plus some nuggets about the relative orbits of the Nine (yes, nine) discovered planets.<br />
<div>
</div>
<br />
<br />
Now, <b>The Big One</b> (Wait a minute, we covered Number One above. Okay. Let's just call it <b>The Last Point</b>):<br />
<br />
Point of view. The movie can't put you inside the mind of any one of the characters like a book can. You see what the character is doing, but you don't know the motive. You don't see how their brains work. You can't <i>understand why</i>. And understanding can take work. And understanding can open you up to different viewpoints than your own.<br />
<br />
I just saw a Kimmel feature where he sent a guy out into the street to ask people at random if they could even <i>name</i> a book. Of course, he cherry-picked the answers to fit his point as well as entertain his audience. I'm sure the number of respondents who could not only name a book, but have actually read one in the last year were more than he wants to make out. At least I hope so.<br />
<br />
Social Media wants to highlight how stupid people can be. Look at the memes spreading like wildfire that get shoved up our noses like cayenne pepper juice. They portray each person's enemy of choice as unintelligent, an idiot, a fool. Not just national figures, but everyday kids and young people. Now granted, some folks can be pretty ignorant, like the folks who "love the smell of person X's colon" rather than their cologne. Or the congressman who thinks Guam is going to overturn. Or anyone who says that rape is okay. Hoho, let's laugh at the fool. Grrr, let's be outraged at the idiot. Jerk that knee, let's see you dance.<br />
<br />
It takes a cool head to stop and think. It takes focus to see through the bull muffins to the full story, the one that the OP or the press fail to double-check or balance. It's why we get sucked into the propaganda the gets sprayed at us.<br />
<br />
Not every reader balances or double-checks. I get it. But I think that being a reader increases one's chance of catching words and phrases that are intended to trap or influence us into thinking a certain way, of signing onto something that is patently false. Does that still leave room for disagreement? Of course. We all have opinions, and we don't all have to agree with each other.<br />
<br />
But reading at least makes us more informed. Isn't it worth the extra effort?Cyrus Keithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18157654104793220210noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1936310972177100999.post-2002517205785461282016-05-24T18:58:00.002-07:002016-05-24T18:58:44.542-07:00Revisiting The Pinnacle, Part 2Greetings, fellow castaways on the Third Rock Out.<br />
<br />
This week, I want to look at the first prong of the Pinnacle's attack: The political focus.<br />
<br />
To recap quickly, The Pinnacle operates in three areas to achieve their goal of world domination: the political, the economic, and the social.<br />
<br />
Politically, the first step is to insert their moles into the leadership structures of every major power on the planet. These moles are recruited from societies like Skull and Bones, the Masons, and top fraternities and sororities in campuses across the world. There is a specific focus on a single chapter of a single group, but the bottom line is that all they need are a few professors who proselytize from the lectern in subjects like Gender Studies, Political Science, and Philosophy. These are the best classes by which to probe deepest into young minds, to twist their thinking into a mindset of a global worldview (Remember the "It takes a village to raise a child" speech?).<br />
<br />
The aim at this point is to convince these future leaders that there IS NO GREAT NATION, no great culture, no great system that includes any kind of individuality. One does this by minimizing any accomplishments of any nation or political structure that espouses personal liberty. Because the way to exercise power is to make all the sheep docile and servile. No troublemakers who think any individual can rise to greatness (Remember the "you didn't build that" speech?)<br />
<br />
Additionally, the mindset must be instilled that borders and nations are a passe idea. The current crisis of illegal aliens is a prime example. Notice the resistance to a national language of the United States? The rephrasing of "Undocumented immigrants" vs "Illegal aliens," in spite of the fact that many people are in this country against our laws? It's a conditioning that will eventually lead to the erasure of national borders, the push to a globalist society.<br />
<br />
Jimmy DeBartolo's problem is not that a bunch of ex-hippies are gathering once a month to sing "Imagine" at an altar to John Lennon. His problem is that the ones pushing the globalist movement are not being honest and up front about their aims and motives. They are hiding behind lies and smokescreens, dictating policy that keeps countries economically dependent on each other for essential commodities like fuel and food, that negates enforcement of national borders, that forces subservience to the World Court and the UN over local or national laws.<br />
<br />
The press plays into this as well, by propagandizing events to force more and more power upwards, into the hands of the federal government. They play up stories that criminalize local police forces and appeal to the "Higher virtue" of federal agencies like the FBI and the US Marshals. This makes it easier to throw deadly force into trouble spots, because the police and officials have no vested interest in the localities they will be sent to suppress.<br />
<br />
More and more programs at the federal level gives those few moles the power of the purse as well, with the threat of pulling funding for programs like Welfare and School funding, if those local agencies and schools don't toe the line and teach/operate the way the feds want them to. Force more people to toe the line, use a willing press to back up your aims and provide support for your plans without giving away your end game, you can control an entire country without the citizens even being aware that you are dragging them kicking and screaming into a world of your own design.<br />
<br />
Indeed, The Pinnacle have moles as high as the office of the Vice President, Congress, and the Senate in the United States.<br />
<br />
And yes, though my fictional bad guys are named The Pinnacle, it seems as though there is a Globalist Movement that even now is seeking to remove individual liberties and force us all into the same, mediocre mold of sameness. There are no illegal aliens in anyone's borders, because we are now all World Citizens, expected to toe the line and sign on to this new paradigm of a unified, docile, "civilized" world. And anyone who doesn't sign on is "unenlightened," "racists," "ignorant."<br />
<br />
Next week, we'll look at the Social attack.Cyrus Keithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18157654104793220210noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1936310972177100999.post-32734848904573016122016-05-17T18:55:00.001-07:002016-05-17T18:55:28.553-07:00Revisiting The Pinnacle: Part One<span style="font-family: "calibri";">This is a revised repost of the original published some years ago, but being as we're seeing so many of the changes outlined in the original, I felt it appropriate to revisit the theme, with some added details and clarifications.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Feel free to comment. My rules as always apply: You may disagree all you want, but keep it civil and respectful in my house. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">So what would it look like if the Pinnacle were real? How
would they operate?</span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">First, for beginners, The Pinnacle is the name I gave the antagonists in my novel series, <i>The NADIA Project.</i> Their aim is simple, although clichéd: World domination. How they
differ from the Bond villains or Dr. Evil and his screaming hordes is this: The
Pinnacle could do it, and no one would ever know. Their goal is not to rule
openly, but as the power behind the throne. Thus, the true leadership stays
invisible. On the surface, all looks as though nothing has changed. Their
motto, after all, is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Praestat facere rex
ac esse rex.</i> “It is better to make a king than to be a king.”</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Think of it this way: In the United States as in other
countries, we have elections, and if we don’t like a certain official, we vote
them out of office. It’s that simple. Other nations have dictatorships or
monarchies of some nature. Rebellion, coup or assassination is usually what
changes leadership in these areas. At any rate, it’s common for a country’s
leader to lose his position, if not his life at the hands of a dissatisfied
populace.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">But what if a group could remain anonymous, behind the
scenes as it were, and load elections with their own candidates? They could do this, and we would never know. So either
way, the shadow group is guaranteed their real goal, which is power. We’ll
discuss this more in-depth in later installments. But the point is, it can be
done. What if it already is being done? Would we know the warning signs?</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">One would have to understand the plan would take years and
perhaps decades to fulfill. The founders would realize that they may never live
to see the final realization of their dream. But how many movements today have
the same far-sighted vision? Certainly, many activist groups have been in operation for decades, and are just beginning to see their visions come to pass. Some of them have pure motives, whether we agree with their methods or not. Take Greenpeace, PETA, or other socially-focused groups. Others have less than altruistic aims: The Communist Party, al Qaeda, or Hamas come to mind. Their goals are plain, brutal, and simple. Take power, and kill anyone who gets in their way.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">The point here is that the process takes a long time to execute, whether it's a social, economic, or political goal. It takes patience. The patience of a python.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Look at the whole constrictor order of snakes. They can dangle from a tree limb in wait,
for days if need be, for their prey to wander within striking range. Then they drop onto their target and wrap it in coils of steel-hard, stubborn muscle. They take their time. Wrapping their
coils about the victim is only the first step. They don’t simply crush the life
from their prey by brute force. No, they wait until the victim exhales, and
then with each breath they tighten, ever so slightly. This prevents the victim
from being able to inhale. Slowly, they suffocate, and the snake has all the
time it needs to consume its meal.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">The Pinnacle has been working behind the scenes, hiding in
the brush, waiting for the moment to strike. It has been inserting converts
into the areas of business, entertainment, news media, shipping, technology, and
the oil industry. Once they have leadership of these industries, the strangulation
begins.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Other teams will infiltrate social movements and political
parties. Thus, the attack will be a three-pronged assault aimed at dulling the
public’s senses to what’s really happening: Economic, social, and political.</span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">We’ll discuss these areas beginning next week. Feel free to
comment as we go along.</span>Cyrus Keithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18157654104793220210noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1936310972177100999.post-64759436345664252016-04-23T13:16:00.000-07:002016-04-23T13:16:09.084-07:00NADIA Picture Tour, Next Stop!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVlUkuc7pBZUvYrvccNArrq9rDr-vQzgixkp7aoZkZPTBDrLuJ0GSErBs9U63dqsLy4Ba0tC3olCNUl3dkrt6wTEyRGaCLLi7sSgtSBh_KX9i8XSX0v34hYRoh1rUoNNk1BwjAzL2vHl4/s1600/IMG_20160416_124448389.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVlUkuc7pBZUvYrvccNArrq9rDr-vQzgixkp7aoZkZPTBDrLuJ0GSErBs9U63dqsLy4Ba0tC3olCNUl3dkrt6wTEyRGaCLLi7sSgtSBh_KX9i8XSX0v34hYRoh1rUoNNk1BwjAzL2vHl4/s640/IMG_20160416_124448389.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">By the time they reached D'Antini's,
Nadia knew she was in the company of a friend. She and Jon made small
talk while they waited for the maitre d' to find them a table in the
middle of the sumptuous dining room, and she almost forgot about having
to explain herself to her station staff.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">The appetizers were amazing, if
unidentifiable. Nadia asked what was in them and Jon just smiled and
held up a hand. "You really don't want to know."</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Nadia almost spit out the latest
mouthful, but thought twice about it as she looked around. This was too
nice a place to be so rude. Her eyes widened in mirth as she tried to
laugh around it and almost choked trying to get it down. She grabbed her
water glass and took a drink, waving a hand at her face.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">"You jerk," she laughed softly, when
her mouth became free. "All right, seriously now, do you take every
woman who faints in your arms to a place this fancy?"</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">"No," he answered, "just those who
remind me of a dear friend." The smile faded from his face and he became
pensive for several seconds. Then he placed a couple more appetizers on
her salad plate. "Here," he said, suddenly brightening, "have some
more…brown, crusty…things."</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">She chuckled again, pushing the plate
away. "No, thanks. A moment on the lips…." She let the rest of the
cliché fade away while she rearranged her napkin in her lap, trying to
buy some time before she had to plow ahead. "So why am I here with you?
Because you're concerned for me or because I remind you of someone
else?"</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">"That is an entirely unfair question,
Miss Velasquez. I was wondering that very thing myself. Maybe a little
bit of both. Is that okay?"</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">"How did you know my last name?" she
asked. It was not as if she were a necessarily private person, it was
mainly that she hoped he would not recognize her from television. She
was already AWOL. She may as well put in her resignation as soon as she
got back to 'Frisco.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">"I heard you lie to 'Steve,' whoever
that is. When you talked about an interview with a president, I pegged
you right off the bat. I've been to the West Coast on business a few
times."</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">"That's where you saw me before. Well, that answers that, then."</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">"No, it doesn't." Jon looked at Nadia
again, the piercing gaze locked on her face. "There's something else,
and I can't explain it yet. Just less than four years ago I lost my best
friend and her family…."</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">"Oh, I must look like her, then—"</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">He cut her off. "How's Phillip?"</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Nadia's hand stopped halfway to her
water glass. She felt paralyzed. The blood drained from her face,
leaving it ice cold. The memory reconnected like a switch in her mind.
The question trickled weakly from her lips, her voice quavering. "Who's
Phillip?"</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Jon's voice took on a steely edge. He
wasn't becoming hostile, just insistent, but insistent in a way that
made her feel like she was being peeled away, layer by layer under a
microscope. "You know full well who Phillip is."</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">The trembling in her hand increased to
a violent shaking. She remembered someone telling her, "It took
twenty-three surgeries just to reconstruct your face." Her breath came
in gasps; her voice weakened. <i>Phillip. Phillip was</i>— She found herself
unable to get up, incapable of walking away, too terrified to run, like a
bird in the gaze of a snake. "What are you talking about?"</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">"Why did you skip out on your flight,
Nadia? Why did you come to the Staley's at 42nd and Lexington? Why at
that particular time?"</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">The questions gushed from Jon's mouth,
one right after another, and Nadia had no chance to answer any
individual one. He became more agitated as he went, until Nadia thought
he would reach over the table and strangle her right there in public.
"Why did you order a double-decaf-mochaccino latté with a cinnamon
stick? Why did you know my nickname and then faint as soon as you
recognized me? Why are we sitting here right now, while the chef in the
kitchen prepares Steak Hélène rare? Before the appetizers came, why were
you doodling Betty Boop figures on your napkin and playing with your
left ear?" Twenty-three surgeries. "Nobody has called me 'Jake' since I
was ten, except for her and my mom. And you absolutely hate Merlot,
don't you?"</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Nadia's hand never made it to the
water glass. She couldn't think. A sound roared in her head, like ten
thousand voices screaming in terror. An icy spear of fear shot through
her chest. Hot tears rolled down her face, and her chest heaved as she
gasped for breath.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> She hoped with everything inside her
that no one else was watching these two terrified people having this
horrible, strange confrontation. Her vision started to close in again,
but she fought it off. As it was, she nearly fell out of her chair. Her
voice was strange and weak. "Do…do you know who I am?"</span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">* * * *</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">I'm finishing out a school on the East Coast, which afforded an awesome opportunity for a weekend day trip to New York City. So, just when I thought our picture tour of the NADIA Project was done, we're off and running again. So thanks to all my readers and fellow castaways for putting up with yet one more stop. I think I know better now to actually call an end to the tour, because you never know what might come around the corner.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">So this week, we're looking at the restaurant scene from <i>Becoming NADIA, </i>my EPIC-Award-winning first novel.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">After covering about fifty blocks on foot in downtown Manhattan, it was time for lunch. And what do we have in Downtown that's more plentiful than anything else? Restaurants. And even better, this place happened to be within about four blocks of the Chrysler Building. This is La Villa Italia, and I will definitely be coming back here as often as I can. The calamari is a plateful of awesome, and tghe sauce they serve with it tastes like they have an Italian Grandma back in the kitchen who starts making this stuff like, the previous day.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">It was a Saturday just before the lunch rush when we walked in. The owner had a wonderfully thick accent, but was the essence of hospitality. Showed us to out table, brought drinks, and that was when I found out something about real Italian restaurants: You are NOT in a hurry if you're eating there.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Count on a leisurely, comfortable wait while your waiter fills your drinks and offers the best fare on the menu, with vivid details about the preparation process. In the background, two men in the kitchen are arguing in Italian. Or are they just sharing banter? It's hard to tell. All I can tell you for sure is it was so much fun to hear. I half expected to see one of them marching through the dining room waving a freshly-killed chicken.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">I got up once to use the men's room, which was downstairs. Basements in Manhattan are pretty deep, I'm going to tell you. The steps went down about a story and a half, and then the hall took a right turn, past several doors marked "private." One of them opened, and a man came through, roughly a side of beef with a shave. He didn't smile, and I didn't try to start a conversation.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">I was almost disappointed that we never saw a fat, well-dressed man with a napkin stuffed in his shirt front seat in the corner, watching the door with arrogant expectation.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">But who's to say he didn't come in right after we left? </span></div>
Cyrus Keithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18157654104793220210noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1936310972177100999.post-49780564250038382492016-04-16T19:03:00.001-07:002020-05-17T05:01:52.400-07:00NADIA Photo Tour, Continued!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjluTL4n9rJGQos_rgAslpveHr-YK5cHHmWYnQKvTVVbERqMafPeCi6fwgJy2IK7j1hmivGqY5lwPiXl5FyxS7NkvFQrMj7mBukbgDUYdnFV7QSuR-brQMmVREmRagzlYiSjQLjwCVFFyk/s1600/IMG_20160416_100900978.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjluTL4n9rJGQos_rgAslpveHr-YK5cHHmWYnQKvTVVbERqMafPeCi6fwgJy2IK7j1hmivGqY5lwPiXl5FyxS7NkvFQrMj7mBukbgDUYdnFV7QSuR-brQMmVREmRagzlYiSjQLjwCVFFyk/s320/IMG_20160416_100900978.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Back in the concourse, Nadia checked her watch one more time. <i>Good, they had to have taken off by now. </i>She opened the stall door (appropriate term, she thought wryly) and came back out of the women's restroom, turning down the concourse in the opposite direction her cameraman had gone a few minutes before.<br />
<br />
Her heart slammed in her chest like a thousand midget carpenters. She was throwing a wrench into her career for this. But there wasn't going to be another chance to find out, on her own, without being spoon-fed bits of information from someone else. No, this was something she had to do on her own, right now, if she was going to find out the truth.<br />
<br />
In another five minutes, she was in the loading zone. A taxicab stopped in front of her, and, before she knew it, Nadia was in the back seat, heading toward the Chrysler Building as the plane with her cameraman took off for London. She would probably lose her job for ducking out like this, but she couldn't think of another way to find out for sure if she had indeed seen this place before. Maybe she could catch up to some more of her ever-elusive memory.<br />
<br />
<i>Oh, well. Maybe if I play my cards right, I won't get into too much trouble. </i>It would be worth it, just to touch something that was hers alone, something she wouldn't have to share.<br />
<br />
Nadia looked out the cab's windows at the skyline spread out before her as they crossed the Queensboro Bridge. There arose in her consciousness a disturbing kind of tingle, like another part of her was awakening from some deep and hidden slumber.<br />
<br />
She wasn't sure exactly when she began suspecting Petr and the others were holding information from her. But now she was positive they knew something they weren't telling her, and that made her more determined to find out exactly what it was. If they wouldn't tell her, then she'd just find out on her own.<br />
<br />
Right now.<br />
<br />
The taxi ride was over before Nadia knew it. She did not remember paying the cabbie and getting out, or how long she stood on the curb staring up at the hulking profile of the Chrysler Building. Her mind buzzed and her knees shook as she walked down East 42nd Street until she saw Staley's.<br />
<br />
She stepped through the door and waited in line until the counter attendant took her order. She ordered automatically, what she had always ordered, but somehow her voice seemed not to be her own. “Double-decaf-mochaccino latté with a cinnamon stick, please.”<br />
<br />
As she turned away from the counter with her cup, a strange pressure mounted in her head. <i>This place is important somehow. But how, exactly? </i>She was so distracted and lightheaded she bumped unsteadily into the man behind her. “Sorry, Jake,” she started offhandedly, but then the man's face came into view.<i> Jon?</i> He had shaved his beard, but those eyes…<i> Jon!</i> A rush of recognition crashed into her mind and, as she started to fall toward the floor and her vision closed in, she heard him ask, “Do I know you…?”<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * * *</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
The story behind the photo:</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I actually didn't count on being sent to the East Coast for work any time soon. But I got assigned to a school in New Jersey for an advanced avionics suite in Falcon 900EX EASy. And hey, guess what's right next to New Jersey?</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
So my instructor and I took the Imperial Ferry from the Jersey Side to Manhattan this morning, and I got to visit a couple sites from<i> Becoming NADIA. </i>I'm blessed to be able to continue my Blog Tour of The NADIA Project with a couple shots of the Chrysler Building.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
So I made up the name Staley's, based of course on Starbuck's. And as Old Bill said, "They's a Staley's 'round the corner from ever' damn where in New York." </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
We walked around, visited the Chrysler Building, the Empire State Building, Central Park, Grand Central Station, and about a dozen or so places in Mid-Town Manhattan, just to say we'd been there.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
And I got these shots. I have one more place to relate. We'll catch up with that next week.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Till then, keep it real, folks. Be You. </div>
Cyrus Keithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18157654104793220210noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1936310972177100999.post-46478964426520043902016-04-02T11:22:00.001-07:002016-04-02T11:22:10.679-07:00Society. Remember that?I don't think anyone would disagree with me when I say that, if anything, America has become a fractured society.<br />
<br />
Certainly, social media plays a big role in that. People can just hide behind the relative anonymity of their computers and lob meme grenades at random, with relative immunity from the consequences of their actions. It's a playground for trolls and half-educated people to spread semi-truths and misinterpretations, hand-picked to fit whatever agenda the poster desires.<br />
<br />
Now, I'm not saying it's wrong to have an agenda. We all want to associate with people who share our beliefs and our visions. We also have a free speech amendment in our Constitution that pretty much guarantees everyone in the US can say what they want, when they want. Right? Free Speech, they call it. And God knows how Americans love their rights. And it's fine for everyone else to have rights, too.<br />
<br />
As long as they agree with your agenda.<br />
<br />
Just ask anyone on Facebook. Anyone who dares to disagree with you, is automatically a hater, an idiot, a fool, blind, WRONG! Therefore, you, a citizen (in most cases) of a free society, with the right to free speech, have the right, nay, the responsibility, to heap derision upon them in the form of a meme. And because you share it on YOUR page, it means nobody has the right to address you about it. Right?<br />
<br />
I think we're getting confused on the balance of rights vs responsibility when it comes to maintaining a society.<br />
<br />
Humans operate on multiple levels of responsibility. The first level is the responsibility to themselves, the Individual. You interact with yourself, in your own little closet, in your bedroom, in your apartment, your house (if you live alone). You can tell yourself anything you want, do whatever you want, you're accountable to one person: YOU. Okay, some of you will add God. And yes, you are accountable to God, if you believe you are. I hold myself accountable to my God. But that's a part of being accountable to myself, for my own future.<br />
<br />
Next up, we have the family unit. We can discuss specific family structure another time, and in fact, Alvin Toffler wrote about that in his book Future Shock, which was a disturbingly accurate prediction of the changes the world began to take on back in the '70's. It might be a worthwhile read, even today.<br />
<br />
Anyway, back to the family. You as an individual, have a responsibility to your family, inculcated from birth. The ones who raised you, held you accountable to standards of behavior that included getting along with your siblings and obeying the senior members of the family. I don't have to go into great detail about what happened to me when I talked back to my mama, do I? I can tell you, after that first time, it didn't happen very often.<br />
<br />
After the Individual, after the Family Unit, we are all accountable to our Neighborhoods. It's a plain and simple fact, I've seen it over and over again growing up on the wrong side of the tracks: If you make trouble in your own neighborhood, your neighborhood will take care of its own. A thief doesn't rob houses on his own street. Not unless he has a gang of cronies that will protect him from the torch and pitchfork mob that would otherwise yank him out into the street and deliver swift justice.<br />
<br />
The other levels of responsibility, of accountability, belong to our companies, our town (usually represented by our high school), our state, our nation. All these levels of responsibility are there to help s to get along with each other. That defines our Society, or Community. That which receives our loyalty and our trust, defines acceptable conduct.<br />
<br />
Society says, "Hey, it's a world out here with all kinds. Let's put our big boy/big girl pants on and get along. Here are the rules of getting along..." And like that, we have a community. We understand who we are. We understand where we are in our community, and what's expected of us. Then, you know what happens? We have people getting along, saying please and thank you, tipping your wait staff, obeying laws and ordinances. And if they can't get along, they either move out, or we move them into places like prison (for those who harm others).<br />
<br />
But Social Media, that's another story, isn't it? Stomp around on your own little hilltop, shake your fist and scream "Get offa my lawn!" at the passersby as you heap insults and call fire down from heaven on all those heathens and sinners. You don't have to be civil on social media. In fact, if you do something stupid and post it on social media, you get to be famous. So do something stupid, post it on your page, and no one will be able to hold you accountable for it. It's on your page, after all. It's not like anyone's going to see you grinding an American flag into the dirt, or pouring scorn on anyone's faith system, or lack-of-faith system.<br />
<br />
That animosity, that horrid vitriol, spills out into our day to day lives, and look what's happening as a result. I'm sure Facebook isn't he only culprit. We have Social Experimenters in Washington, DC who are doing their best to reinvent the Social Wheel, to force us into their mold of what Society should look like. And instead of building community, they are tearing us apart. But Facebook isn't helping. Where else can a picture get relabeled to make Jesus into a likeness of Adolf Hitler, and go viral fifteen minutes after the original troll posts it?<br />
<br />
Someone on my friends list recently posted a meme that was a wry, semi-humorous, back-handed slap at a group of people. Oh, goodness, that never happens, does it? The bottom line was, it showed not just a profound lack of knowledge of the matter, but a profound willingness to not even try to understand the other group. And I chimed in with a statement that basically called into question the hostile nature of the meme.<br />
<br />
Now, I will say, the "friend" in question wasn't someone I'm close to, more like a casual acquaintance. All the same, being in the group at which the meme was directed, I was hoping to inspire a conversation about the concept in question. Immediately upon which, this person and about five of their friends decided I was meat in the shark tank, and lit into me about what business I had, responding to something they posted on THEIR page, and how dare I suggest they were wrong?<br />
<br />
Hey, Little Mary Sunshine, Let me rain on your parade a little: What you post on your page becomes part of a COMMUNITY. It's part of how you show yourself to the public eye. And not everyone in this wide world sides with you in your narrow-minded view of the group upon whom you were heaping your insults.<br />
<br />
I have stood guard for your right to say what you will. But that doesn't mean I have to abide by blatant stupidity. It doesn't mean I have to stand by and let you pour derision on anyone, for any reason, without calling you to account for what you say. Words mean things. And from the abundance of the heart, the mouth speaks. We all have a responsibility to use our freedom of speech in a way that builds community, rather than tearing it down.<br />
<br />
It's time we became a society again.<br />
<br />
Realize, first and foremost, that what you put up on your page, is words from your mouth. You say whatever you post. Whatever you share. That's YOU, Bubba. So don't be surprised if someone questions you, or takes you to account for it. You didn't paste it on your closet wall. Real people out here see that filth, that hatred, that venom, that ignorant slime, coming out of your mouth, the same mouth that kisses your baby daughter good night.<br />
<br />
It's time we became a community again.<br />
<br />
It's time we started living by the two things our parents tried to instill in us from birth: One, to treat others as you would have them treat you, and B, If you can't say something good about someone, then shut your pie hole.<br />
<br />
I'm done being told I'm less intelligent because I post positive pictures and memes. I'm done being told that, as a person of faith, I should sit down, shut up, and take whatever insults are aimed at me. I'm sick of being told I'm the bad guy because I believe a person should be empowered to make their own way without being overwatched and dictated to by our own government, the one who said 240 years ago that they would stay out of our way and let us be free people. And I'm supremely tired of being told that, as a veteran, I have no more responsibility to defend our flag and the republic it represents from all enemies, foreign and domestic (that means ALL enemies, inside and outside the borders of the United States).<br />
<br />
It's time we started to bring our country, our world, back together, back from this social brink we find ourselves looking over. Because I fear for a future where freedom and liberty are taken so much for granted, that they are easily taken away for the sake of security.<br />
<br />
But that's another discussion.<br />
<br />
It's time we all put on our big girl/big boy pants, and actually worked on getting along.Cyrus Keithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18157654104793220210noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1936310972177100999.post-16551662915625882852016-03-13T18:49:00.003-07:002016-03-13T18:49:25.182-07:00NADIA Picture Tour, Last Stop!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5Z2meJ3Nxd9LckPhC5lPuHaVRmRx5x7qwQNq6L81IaDjR38Rui_09M3DiRME2Iq8p2COaWb_Ort9RRaXgn9HgjRvg_twObp_1gkkbpcmsghIZtzekKKv8HXaGYHcmeJjmqkhNwdiLgXY/s1600/Final+Stop.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5Z2meJ3Nxd9LckPhC5lPuHaVRmRx5x7qwQNq6L81IaDjR38Rui_09M3DiRME2Iq8p2COaWb_Ort9RRaXgn9HgjRvg_twObp_1gkkbpcmsghIZtzekKKv8HXaGYHcmeJjmqkhNwdiLgXY/s640/Final+Stop.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
Ten minutes later, Carlos pulled onto the shoulder of an unpaved road. After he and Tab got out, he locked the car and drew a small GPS unit from a cargo pocket in his BDUs. “Hang on—” He took a few steps to orient the unit, then turned and strode across the dusty road, boots grinding in the dry gravel. “This way. Just a short walk, now.”<br />
<br />
Tab muttered, “At least we’re not wearing Class As,” before following.<br />
<br />
They walked along a deer path through hardwoods and poison ivy when Carlos heard the same voice he’d spoken with on the radio.<br />
<br />
“That’s far enough, Sergeant.”<br />
<br />
Carlos turned to see a mound of dirt move and rise into the figure of a man wearing a ghillie suit of rough, earth-colored rags. “Check’em out, Jenna.”<br />
<br />
“Right,” a female behind Carlos answered.<br />
<br />
As Carlos spun around, a compact young woman stepped out of the trees in camo BDUs.<i> What the hell, she wasn’t there a second ago</i>—<br />
<br />
Jenna seemed to read his mind. “That’s okay,” she said with a smirk, “I’m a sneaky little wench when I want to be.” She hummed a random little tune as she waved a wand that looked like it was made from a curling iron in the air around his body. A steady static hiss came from a small speaker. She finished with Carlos and waved it around Tab. “Okay, no bugs, and they came alone.”<br />
<br />
“Sergeant Villanueva,” said Jon, “I’ll come right to the point. I want you to leave us alone. Don’t contact us anymore, and shut down your investigation of NADIA.”<br />
<br />
Carlos looked them up and down for a minute. They didn’t carry any long weapons, but that didn’t rule out pistols. And the way they were just standing, it didn’t look like they were in too much of a hurry to use them. But something about this Jenna woman nagged at him. Maybe it was just the casual, self-confident smirk she wore. But she was someone he did not want to make mad. All the same, he felt safe enough to respond honestly to the request to desist. “Can’t do that, Agent Daniels. I’m under orders to get to the bottom of NADIA. You’ve been sheltering a known felon and using him to illegally obtain information—”<br />
<br />
Jon said, “Are you a cop?”<br />
<br />
“Huh?” Carlos’ jaw hung open, caught open in mid-sentence.<br />
<br />
I asked if you’re a cop. It’s a simple question.” Jon removed his hood and stepped closer, looking like a comical cross between Sasquatch and a homeless man with the rags hanging loose from his suit. “A yes or a no will do.”<br />
<br />
“No.”<br />
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“Then shut down your investigation. It’s a matter for the Justice Department, not the Army.”<br />
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Tab said, “What’s NADIA?”<br />
<br />
Jenna stepped up, nose to nose with her. “Who’s asking?”<br />
<br />
“The United States Army, on whom you’ve been eavesdropping,” said Carlos.<br />
<br />
Jon said, “You could have closed the hole in your firewall.”<br />
<br />
“I peeked back through. It led me to you.”<br />
<br />
“It’s also going to lead to you getting a bullet in your head, if you dig any further.”<br />
<br />
Carlos felt the hair on his neck stand up. “Is that a threat?”<br />
<br />
Jon shook his head. “Not from me, Sergeant. But the enemy has moles everywhere. For all you know, the one who gave you the orders to find me, may have done so only so they could take us all out.”<br />
<br />
“Don’t you think you’re being just a little paranoid?”<br />
<br />
“Do yourself a favor, Villanueva—start checking your superiors for connections to the Global Unification Alliance.”<br />
<br />
Jenna whispered in Carlos’ ear, “Chapter Seventeen. Look for it.”<br />
<br />Jon’s brow wrinkled. “I’m sorry, what?”<br />
<br />
Jenna stepped back. “Just keeping your ass out of the meat grinder, Jon. Let these guys handle that one.”<br />
<br />
“Are we going to have to have a talk when we get back?”<br />
<br />
“No, dear.” She gave Jon a sly grin as a flush rose in his face.<br />
<br />
Carlos interjected, “So this…group will lead us to NADIA?”<br />
<br />
“No, Carlos,” said Jon. “It will lead you away from NADIA.”<br />
<br />
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* * * *</div>
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Now for the story behind the picture behind the story:<br />
<br />
First off, I know this is a paved road, and the excerpt specified an unpaved road. But it was too pretty back where I was, to pass up.<br />
<br />
I was looking for where I had plotted Irving's cabin to be, and cruising the back roads toward the Mighty Shenandoah. I think this was Locke's Mill Road, not far from the highway. But it looks so remote, it was perfect for the shot. So I took this one, specifically for this scene.<br />
<br />
And that, my friends, brings us to the close of our photo tour of the NADIA project. It's my hope that you could put faces and places to names, and that my series becomes a little more vivid for you.<br />
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Next week, we'll go back to our usual, somewhat controlled, chaos. Till then, happy reading!Cyrus Keithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18157654104793220210noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1936310972177100999.post-72922730926709911912016-02-27T16:57:00.004-08:002016-02-27T16:57:55.859-08:00Get Off My Lawn!!!It's Official. I'm <i>that</i> old man.<br />
<br />
I wasn't sure I'd crossed the line into <i>"that </i>old man" territory until today, when I went shopping with the missus.<br />
<br />
A young family was in the store. When I say "young," I mean younger than me. She was a single mom with two kids, one being a teenage daughter and the other a pre-teen boy. I'd put their ages at about thirteen and ten, respectively.<br />
<br />
The girl was cutting up, and when I say "cutting up," I mean she was being a royal pain in the ass, grabbing things off the shelves and shoving them at her brother, making noise, and being generally disruptive. Every minute or so, I'd hear her mother say brilliant words of wisdom, such as, "Elizabeth Renee, you put that down!" or "Elizabeth Renee, you stop that!" But it seems Elizabeth Renee was having nothing to do with obeying her mother. She was having too much fun bullying her brother and making noise in the store.<br />
<br />
It didn't take me long to get annoyed. For one thing, I hate shopping with the passion of a thousand flaming suns. I dislike being around crowds in general, and crammed in with a crowd in a closed space like a small store, I get a little claustrophobic. For another thing, where I come from, when my middle name came out of my mother's mouth, it meant I had about four seconds to settle my hash, or suffer the wrath of Almighty God in the form of a warm bottom. But what pushed me over the top was the fact that this girl had grabbed a rubber ball from a store shelf (one which she apparently had no intention of buying) and was in the process of pummeling her little brother with it in her clenched fist.<br />
<br />
I'm sorry, folks, that Strike Three. As I passed them in the aisle, I told the girl, "Young lady, in my house, that behavior would have you turned over my knee, I don't care how old you are." I pointed to the woman and said, "That lady is your mother. You respect her!"<br />
<br />
The store went quiet. Too quiet. That kind of quiet that means something significant has just happened. Either the Children of Israel were going to feast on manna tonight, or the floor was going to open up and spew forth zombies any second. The girl dropped her ball and stared at me, jaw dropped open like Wile E. Coyote had just seen the Roadrunner in full afterburner. The boy stooped dead in his tracks. The mother was a mirror to the daughter.<br />
<br />
Now, to be honest, I was expecting some kind of positive response. Maybe a murmured"Thank you," or at least a silent look of relieved gratitude But instead, the mother, after a moment of shocked silence, launched into me about how her daughter was only kidding, and why didn't I just go somewhere else and mind my own business?<br />
<br />
I said nothing further, to my credit. I clamped my face shut and continued my search for sandwich-sized ziplock bags. Whatever would get us the hell out of there sooner. I didn't tell the woman she was raising disrespectful little bullies who had no concept of how to behave in public, and if she behaved like white trash that's all she'd ever be. I let her go to the store manager and complain all she wanted.<br />
<br />
Let her. I don't care anymore.<br />
<br />
Then it occurred to me that old men tend to be that way. We've lived by others' rules for our entire lives, been told when to sit down, when to stand up, where to go, what to do, what to eat when and where to eat it. We're told we're the problem the world is having, because we have to watch the rights and freedoms our fathers and grandfathers fought and shed blood for, stripped away one by one. We hurt everywhere, from treating our bodies as tools, as weapons, as playthings in our youth.<br />
<br />
We know we're running out of time, and the youth of this generation grow up with less and less respect for the wisdom we've learned the hard way. We see a world turning more crazy by the minute. The leaders who used to make decisions in concert, have turned themselves into a new brand of nobility to turn our representative republic into an oligarchy ruled by the intellectual elite who have done nothing with their hands, never earned an honest dollar in their lives, and pass laws for blue collar citizens they would never dream of enforcing upon themselves.<br />
<br />
So that little freedom we still have, we guard with jealous, reckless abandon. Our home is still our castle. That little green postage stamp we call a lawn is sacrosanct, a symbol of our fading liberty.<br />
But we remember our halcyon days, of climbing unclimbable walls, of running faster, of working harder, of fighting with our very lives for the peace that you all enjoy.<br />
So us old men, we get carried away sometimes. You can laugh at us as the grumpy old codgers we are. You can dismiss our advice on the better, smarter we we've learned to do that. You can roll your eyes in impatience as we make our painful way down the aisle toward the checkout line in front of you.<br />
<br />
But what we do have is still ours. And that, young 'uns, is where the line is drawn.<br />
<br />
Get off my lawn!<br />
<br />
It doesn't mean I dislike your company. It doesn't even mean I don't want you on my grass. It just means I've had enough, and whether you disrespect your mamma in the grocery store, or you carelessly blunder across my new-mown grass with your dirt bike, you're being given the equivalent of your middle name.<br />
<br />
Which means you have abut four seconds.Cyrus Keithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18157654104793220210noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1936310972177100999.post-2532671042953593802016-01-16T15:02:00.001-08:002016-01-16T15:02:13.648-08:00NADIA Picture Tour, Stop 7<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhGychTwWvy8zIZA23OYcH7gO5Qo6syRDrIG24P1fN0EWA0r1NSAh8d6SrV281b7vnaRhvr1CHxT0LgYVWSKC1NzX31ijMGcqdn8OgOQuJwEC95SQj2M8-o0WgHbJ_55JWcTO5rTJ4x6U/s1600/2015-11-09+16.41.10.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhGychTwWvy8zIZA23OYcH7gO5Qo6syRDrIG24P1fN0EWA0r1NSAh8d6SrV281b7vnaRhvr1CHxT0LgYVWSKC1NzX31ijMGcqdn8OgOQuJwEC95SQj2M8-o0WgHbJ_55JWcTO5rTJ4x6U/s640/2015-11-09+16.41.10.jpg" width="360" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Easing over the top edge, Jenna took in everything at a glance. On the far side of the roof, set<br />up behind the façade, a lone SWAT sniper held a rifle trained on the shop across the street. Three<br />more cops had spread out on the rooftops of the neighboring buildings: two on the left, one on<br />the right. She crouched, frozen, until she was sure no one noticed her. Then she stole up behind<br />the cop, using the rooftop’s air conditioner unit for concealment. As she got closer, she could<br />hear the radio’s chatter. They were discussing a shot heard from inside the building across the<br />street. The chatter hid any noise she may have made.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br />When she came within range, Jenna struck, thirty feet of anaconda in a five-foot package.<br />Wrapping her arms around the cop’s neck in a sleeper hold, she constricted his throat, cutting off<br />any cry for help. The struggle was brief, and in seconds, he was unconscious. She grinned as she<br />fought back the urge to plant a lipstick kiss on his forehead. <i>Men are so easy</i>.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br />She pulled out the cellphone and called up the number in the memory, hit the dial key, and<br />put the phone to her ear. “Okay, I’m in position.” She hung up and picked up the rifle, examining<br />it closely: Winchester, Model 700 action on a military sniper stock. Weaver 12X scope, set for<br />range and elevation… She eyeballed the distance again, checked the breeze, and corrected the<br />scope. She took the cop’s hat and set it on her head. <i>Hello, boys, here I am. Just another one of<br />the guys</i>. She made sure the phone was set to vibrate, settled the stock into her shoulder, and<br />waited for the call.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">* * * *</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">This week's entry is another from <i>Unalive</i>, Book 2 in my multi-award-winning thriller series <i>The NADIA Project</i>. And once again, we're here in beautiful downtown Front Royal, Virginia, on a rainy afternoon in November.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">To say that Front Royal is "up in the hills" is probably a relative term, as I'm not sure how someone from the area would define "in the hills." But the little town does sit at a higher elevation in an area that's pretty hilly by midwestern standards. So yeah, we're in the hills.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">This shot was taken down Main Street, facing west. I was still manic from just being there, and had totally lost track of where I had parked, but sundown was approaching fast, so I figured I'd find it later.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">I figure we have one or two more stops on the tour coming, folks. So till next week, I'll sign off. Feel free to share the link to this page. I'd rather not stay the best-kept secret in the publishing industry. ;-)</span></div>
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Cyrus Keithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18157654104793220210noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1936310972177100999.post-65481087538770914112016-01-09T16:07:00.000-08:002016-01-09T16:07:16.904-08:00NADIA Picture Tour, Stop 6<div data-contents="true">
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<span data-offset-key="dl3ep-0-0"><span data-text="true">Jimmy stood in the middle of Kearny Street and watched the first police car screech around the turn out of a corner of his eye. He stared at the man behind Donna, the man who held a pistol to his friend’s head. A grim smile crossed his face in the light of the street lamp. <i>If I get a chance, you’ll never know what it you.</i>”Here I am, punk.”</span></span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="7te71-0-0"><span data-text="true">“You got a lot of mouth for an old man.” The pistol was steady.</span></span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="4f165-0-0"><span data-text="true"><i>The kid’s pretty cool. </i>“What do you want?”</span></span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="9ej0g-0-0"><span data-text="true">“I want the NADIA, and a car. I know you’re in this mix somewhere. Get ‘em, I leave, the women live.”</span></span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="4nh2d-0-0"><span data-text="true">The police car pulled up sideways across the street. Another one blocked the other end. They shared the duty of splattering the area with red and blue lights. Four officers approached up the lane, pistols ready in two-handed grips. Two covered Donna and the man behind her, while the other two approached Jimmy. One of these was a stocky white-haired man with a captain’s bars on his shoulders. When he spoke, his voice was calm and even. “I’m Officer Grimes, Front Royal Police. Show your hands, get ‘em in the air.”</span></span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="135aa-0-0"><span data-text="true">Jimmy raised his hands slowly, palms out. But he remained standing, facing the shadow hunched down behind Donna. The grin never left Jimmy’s face. If he could unnerve this crud, it would give him an edge. And Jimmy needed every edge he could get. He kept grinning in Donna’s direction as he spoke to the police officer. “Officer Grimes, my name is James DeBartolo, and I’m a US marshal. My badge is in my pocket, and my weapon is on the sidewalk behind me.”</span></span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="56ttn-0-0"><span data-text="true">“Get on your knees, Mr. DeBartolo. Right where you’re at.” Jimmy sank down, one leg at a time. The grin turned into a grimace as the pavement bit into his knees. “Make it quick, Grimes, the ground’s pretty hard, here, and I ain’t got as much paddin’ as I used to.”</span></span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="9ikje-0-0"><span data-text="true">Two more police cars showed up at each end of the street, and the uniformed officers advanced, bolstered in their courage by their numbers. Spotlights trained on Jimmy, and on the storefront, illuminating the whole front office area. Grimes and his deputy stopped twenty feet away, in a position where they could watch both sides of the street. He stood, hips square and feet apart. “Suppose you show me that badge now, Mr. DeBartolo?”</span></span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="5jebf-0-0"><span data-text="true">“Okay, I’m gonna reach into my jacket pocket.” Jimmy drew out his wallet and flipped it open, revealing his marshal’s badge. “Badge six-four-five-eight. Call the DC office, ask for—”</span></span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="7paui-0-0"><span data-text="true">“We’ll check it out on our own, thanks.” Grimes spoke into the microphone on his shoulder. An agonizing minute later, Jimmy’s knees felt like they’d been applied to a bench grinder. Grimes spoke to him again. “All right, Mr. DeBartolo, you can stand up.” He turned to his junior partner. “Matt, cover the store front, make sure that boy don’t move. Tell Kenny and Dwayne to cover the back door, and get State to send down a hostage team.”</span></span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="7huk1-0-0"><span data-text="true">Jimmy struggled to his feet and hobbled over to stand in front of Grimes. “Officer Grimes, I know this is your town and all, but I’m afraid I gotta pull rank on you here.”</span></span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="5qfsc-0-0"><span data-text="true">Grimes’ eyebrows rose in surprise. “Pull rank? I’d think you’d rather be kickin’ back with a beer or two and tellin’ war stories to the grandkids.”</span></span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="2l1hv-0-0"><span data-text="true">“You seen some combat, have you, Grimes?”</span></span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="720kh-0-0"><span data-text="true">“Three tours in the ‘Nam, 82nd Airborne.”</span></span></div>
<div class="_45m_ _2vxa" data-block="true" data-offset-key="16dft-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="16dft-0-0"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
<div class="_45m_ _2vxa" data-block="true" data-offset-key="786bs-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="786bs-0-0"><span data-text="true">“Then you know what I mean when I say this is classified. It has to stay that way.”</span></span></div>
<div class="_45m_ _2vxa" data-block="true" data-offset-key="rca6-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="rca6-0-0"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
<div class="_45m_ _2vxa" data-block="true" data-offset-key="555kf-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="555kf-0-0"><span data-text="true">“What are you saying?”</span></span></div>
<div class="_45m_ _2vxa" data-block="true" data-offset-key="fp6nl-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="fp6nl-0-0"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
<div class="_45m_ _2vxa" data-block="true" data-offset-key="2p36b-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="2p36b-0-0"><span data-text="true">“I gotta do this negotiatin’. No one else can hear what’s up, especially newspaper and TV folks. That includes you. Understand?” Jimmy looked at the empty window frame, at Donna, still standing, the pistol pointing at her wounded head. She looked as if she might fall over from fear and fatigue any second.</span></span></div>
<div class="_45m_ _2vxa" data-block="true" data-offset-key="ahaci-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="ahaci-0-0"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
<div class="_45m_ _2vxa" data-block="true" data-offset-key="3s6bc-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="3s6bc-0-0"><span data-text="true">The man behind her shouted, “We were talking, old man. You know what I want.”</span></span></div>
<div class="_45m_ _2vxa" data-block="true" data-offset-key="dkro2-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="dkro2-0-0"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
<div class="_45m_ _2vxa" data-block="true" data-offset-key="f4dcp-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="f4dcp-0-0"><span data-text="true">Jimmy yelled back over his shoulder, “Lemme clear things up out here first, and I’ll be right with you.”</span></span></div>
<div class="_45m_ _2vxa" data-block="true" data-offset-key="7u0jt-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="7u0jt-0-0"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
<div class="_45m_ _2vxa" data-block="true" data-offset-key="9tvmb-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="9tvmb-0-0"><span data-text="true">“We’ll be waiting, then.” He began to drag Donna back into the rear office area.</span></span></div>
<div class="_45m_ _2vxa" data-block="true" data-offset-key="e3lu8-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="e3lu8-0-0"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
<div class="_45m_ _2vxa" data-block="true" data-offset-key="1gc0f-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="1gc0f-0-0"><span data-text="true">Jimmy held a hand up. “No, wait! I need to make sure we can get you what you’re askin’ for. Stay right there, and we can talk.”</span></span></div>
<div class="_45m_ _2vxa" data-block="true" data-offset-key="9emj4-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="9emj4-0-0"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
<div class="_45m_ _2vxa" data-block="true" data-offset-key="2e9t2-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="2e9t2-0-0"><span data-text="true">“You didn’t say the magic word, geezer. Later.” Donna disappeared back around the corner and into the conference room, towed by her bulky shadow.</span></span></div>
<div class="_45m_ _2vxa" data-block="true" data-offset-key="eomlm-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="eomlm-0-0"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
<div class="_45m_ _2vxa" data-block="true" data-offset-key="eomlm-0-0" style="text-align: center;">
<span data-offset-key="eomlm-0-0">* * * *</span></div>
<div class="_45m_ _2vxa" data-block="true" data-offset-key="eomlm-0-0" style="text-align: center;">
<span data-offset-key="eomlm-0-0"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
<div class="_45m_ _2vxa" data-block="true" data-offset-key="eomlm-0-0" style="text-align: center;">
<span data-offset-key="eomlm-0-0">The Story Behind The Picture</span></div>
<div class="_45m_ _2vxa" data-block="true" data-offset-key="eomlm-0-0" style="text-align: center;">
<span data-offset-key="eomlm-0-0"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
<div class="_45m_ _2vxa" data-block="true" data-offset-key="eomlm-0-0" style="text-align: left;">
<span data-offset-key="eomlm-0-0">Stop 6 brings us back to the Downtown area of Front Royal, Virginia.</span></div>
<div class="_45m_ _2vxa" data-block="true" data-offset-key="eomlm-0-0" style="text-align: left;">
<span data-offset-key="eomlm-0-0"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
<div class="_45m_ _2vxa" data-block="true" data-offset-key="eomlm-0-0" style="text-align: left;">
<span data-offset-key="eomlm-0-0">I arrived in town just after 5:00 PM on a November night. Light was fading fast when I found a parking space, and I had just enough presence of mind to note two landmarks: The laundromat just across the street from where I parked, and the sign for Jackon Sreet. Good enough, right? I mean, it was just a small town, after all. Not like I could get turned around.</span></div>
<div class="_45m_ _2vxa" data-block="true" data-offset-key="eomlm-0-0" style="text-align: left;">
<span data-offset-key="eomlm-0-0"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
<div class="_45m_ _2vxa" data-block="true" data-offset-key="eomlm-0-0" style="text-align: left;">
<span data-offset-key="eomlm-0-0">I grabbed my phone, put my hood up against the rain, and took off at a run, snapping every shot that looked cool, and I can ell you, Front Royal is a very cool little town. The folks who live there obviously take pride in where they live, as you can see by how clean the streets are, how well kept-up the businesses, and how friendly the citizens are.</span></div>
<div class="_45m_ _2vxa" data-block="true" data-offset-key="eomlm-0-0" style="text-align: left;">
<span data-offset-key="eomlm-0-0"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
<div class="_45m_ _2vxa" data-block="true" data-offset-key="eomlm-0-0" style="text-align: left;">
<span data-offset-key="eomlm-0-0">Nobody seemed to mind the out-of-town lunatic dashing up and down streets taking pictures (I almost took a shot of the bank, but then I thought better of it. I didn't need an extended stay in town for suspicion, if ya know what ah mean). I think I even muttered, "Oh, my God, this is where it happened!" more than once as I snapped shot after shot until well after dark, when I found a nice cafe to grab some dinner.</span></div>
<div class="_45m_ _2vxa" data-block="true" data-offset-key="eomlm-0-0" style="text-align: left;">
<span data-offset-key="eomlm-0-0"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
<div class="_45m_ _2vxa" data-block="true" data-offset-key="eomlm-0-0" style="text-align: left;">
<span data-offset-key="eomlm-0-0">I figured I'd go back and move the car closer, so I wouldn't have so far to walk. There was only one problem.</span></div>
<div class="_45m_ _2vxa" data-block="true" data-offset-key="eomlm-0-0" style="text-align: left;">
<span data-offset-key="eomlm-0-0"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
<div class="_45m_ _2vxa" data-block="true" data-offset-key="eomlm-0-0" style="text-align: left;">
<span data-offset-key="eomlm-0-0">I now had no idea where exactly I'd parked. I had a general idea (You know, "laundromat" and "Jackson Street"), but how exactly to get there was the issue. On top of that, everyone with half a brain was NOT out walking in the rain after dark, so asking for directions wasn't as easy as, say, parking the car.</span></div>
<div class="_45m_ _2vxa" data-block="true" data-offset-key="eomlm-0-0" style="text-align: left;">
<span data-offset-key="eomlm-0-0"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
<div class="_45m_ _2vxa" data-block="true" data-offset-key="eomlm-0-0" style="text-align: left;">
<span data-offset-key="eomlm-0-0">It took another half hour of wandering aimlessly up and down every street I came across until I found Jackson Street, and then I thought I was on the wrong end of town, so I turned the wrong way, and had to double back after I came to the edge of town and found nothing I recognized.</span></div>
<div class="_45m_ _2vxa" data-block="true" data-offset-key="eomlm-0-0" style="text-align: left;">
<span data-offset-key="eomlm-0-0"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
<div class="_45m_ _2vxa" data-block="true" data-offset-key="eomlm-0-0" style="text-align: left;">
<span data-offset-key="eomlm-0-0">It was after I came all the way back up Jackson Street when I finally found the rental car (while clicking the remote control door lock every few steps and watching for the flash of the lights).</span></div>
<div class="_45m_ _2vxa" data-block="true" data-offset-key="eomlm-0-0" style="text-align: left;">
<span data-offset-key="eomlm-0-0"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
<div class="_45m_ _2vxa" data-block="true" data-offset-key="eomlm-0-0" style="text-align: left;">
<span data-offset-key="eomlm-0-0">Half a block from the cafe I'd spotted.</span></div>
<div class="_45m_ _2vxa" data-block="true" data-offset-key="eomlm-0-0" style="text-align: left;">
<span data-offset-key="eomlm-0-0"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
<div class="_45m_ _2vxa" data-block="true" data-offset-key="eomlm-0-0" style="text-align: left;">
<span data-offset-key="eomlm-0-0">Didn't have to waste the gas after all.</span></div>
<div class="_45m_ _2vxa" data-block="true" data-offset-key="eomlm-0-0" style="text-align: left;">
<span data-offset-key="eomlm-0-0"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
<div class="_45m_ _2vxa" data-block="true" data-offset-key="eomlm-0-0" style="text-align: left;">
<span data-offset-key="eomlm-0-0">Next week, we'll have some more fun. Meantime, read. Review. Repeat.</span></div>
<div class="_45m_ _2vxa" data-block="true" data-offset-key="eomlm-0-0" style="text-align: left;">
<span data-offset-key="eomlm-0-0"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
<div class="_45m_ _2vxa" data-block="true" data-offset-key="eomlm-0-0" style="text-align: left;">
<span data-offset-key="eomlm-0-0">God bless you, guys.</span></div>
</div>
Cyrus Keithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18157654104793220210noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1936310972177100999.post-14859812207919752462015-12-30T17:50:00.001-08:002015-12-31T21:17:53.207-08:00NADIA Picture Tour, Stop 5<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYRrdyL63ShNAuJm4m-zH2BkrXfnZ1IICgUUHQPRfL7kJ4qKJiLhijsbb7N5q_CxLeKE7IYrvz7Voh2nUo-7bIEJZ-YYoLeK0uZKg42nx5eBt2RJMLj9c5zRg0w684GUmdXVJTuwSZPF8/s1600/2015-11-10+16.17.21.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYRrdyL63ShNAuJm4m-zH2BkrXfnZ1IICgUUHQPRfL7kJ4qKJiLhijsbb7N5q_CxLeKE7IYrvz7Voh2nUo-7bIEJZ-YYoLeK0uZKg42nx5eBt2RJMLj9c5zRg0w684GUmdXVJTuwSZPF8/s640/2015-11-10+16.17.21.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Carlos Villanueva stood at the edge of the parking lot and looked over Manassas Battlefield Park. Lifting the binoculars to his eyes, he examined the field below one more time. Joel Perry sat in jeans and a T-shirt in the grass at the edge of the meadow, looking at the ground and not moving a muscle. Not another soul in sight. “I don’t like it, Tab. He’s all alone, no one else to meet us. Daniels said he’d be out here, too.”<br />
<br />
Sergeant Tabitha Grubka sat in the passenger’s seat of Carlos’ coupe, tightening the laces on a combat boot. “Joel’s probably being watched from the tree line. I bet Agent Daniels simply doesn’t trust us. After what they’ve been through, I’d be pretty careful, too.” Finally satisfied with the fit of her boot, she climbed out and closed the door. “Not that I’m complaining, but I’m way out of my element here. I’m a bit-chaser, not a rifleman.”<br />
<br />
Carlos turned around long enough to give her a good-natured smirk. “That’s why the rest of the team have weapons, and we don’t.” He glanced at his watch. “Well, five minutes past H-Hour. I assume Joel’s waited enough. Let’s go.”<br />
<br />
They strode out of the parking lot, past the visitor’s center, and down the hill, Tabitha occasionally rearranging portions of her battle uniform. Carlos glanced over his shoulder. He could barely see Erick at the top of the hill, watching the western side of the park. Dave Gunderson would be watching the other side. Not that Carlos felt any safer.<i> No weapons, no radios, he said. If I’m wrong, what’ll they tell Tab’s parents when they send her home in a coffin?</i> His stomach did a couple extra flip-flops for good measure as he stole a glance at Tab. Besides squirming in her bulky uniform, her face looked as pale as his felt. Her eyes darted constantly, looking for some undefined threat from the trees.<br />
<br />
When they drew within a few meters, Joel raised one hand over his head. With the other, he held out a radio.<br />
<br />
When Carlos took it, a short squawk came from the speaker, followed by a familiar voice, one he’d only heard on the phone the day before. “Sergeant Villanueva, this is Agent Daniels.”<br />
<br />
<i>Okay, we play it this way.</i> Carlos keyed the handheld. “Go ahead. This is Villanueva.”<br />
<br />
“Tell Corporal Perry he can stand up, and thank him for his cooperation. You can go now.”<br />
<br />
Carlos scanned the tree line at the edge of the field again. The late afternoon light made it impossible to pick out any details among the greenery. “I thought we were going to meet today, Jon.”<br />
<br />
“Maybe another time.”<br />
<br />
Carlos cursed under his breath. He wanted answers, not more questions. “What’s NADIA?”<br />
<br />
“Something you don’t talk about on a radio.”<br />
<br />
“Jon, you can tell me what I need to know, or I can keep digging until I find everything out, including where you’re hiding Bunny Kalinsky. He’s facing quite a suite of federal charges, you know. What’s it going to be?”<br />
<br />
He unkeyed the radio and motioned to Joel to go back to the lot. Not taking his eyes from the trees, he whispered, “Meet Dave up there. I have a recorder in my car. Start talking. Everything you remember.”<br />
<br />
Daniels’ voice crackled from the handheld again. “There’s a cannon fifty meters to your left, over toward the stone bridge. Look in the muzzle. Out.”<br />
<br />
Carlos’ heart jumped. “No, wait a minute! Daniels, where are you?” Silence was his only answer.<br />
<br />
Tab pointed. “There’s the cannon.”<br />
<br />
<br />
“Hang on,” said Carlos. “I’ll go check it out. If it’s a trap, get back to the car. Round up the others, and zero in on Daniels and his crew. Comb the damned woods till you find them.”<br />
<br />
“What then?”<br />
<br />
Handing her the radio, he said, “Make ’em spill their guts.”<br />
<br />
He approached the cannon slowly, looking for wires or hidden antennas and mumbling to himself. His hands shook; he stilled them by force of will. “This is ridiculous, they’re on our side.”<br />
<br />
His inner voice answered. <i>Oh, are they? What makes you so certain they’re friendlies, Jéfé?</i><br />
<br />
He carried on the conversation with himself all the way to the cannon. “Because if they were working for the bad guys, they’d have popped me and Tab for even asking about NADIA.”<br />
<br />
<i>Or they would have put one of their antimatter bombs in this cannon, ready to take out the whole park, right? Reach in—I dare you.</i><br />
<br />
“Shut up, Carlos, they’re the good guys like us.”<br />
<br />
<i>How do you know?</i><br />
<br />
He was at the cannon. “’Cause I’m going to find out right now.” Shining a penlight down the muzzle, he saw a tangle of litter and several pop cans. “I hope there aren’t any spiders in there.” He took a deep breath and began to withdraw the trash one item at a time.<br />
<br />
He unwadded the fourth candy wrapper to find a series of numbers scrawled in marker on the inside. After tossing the rest of the trash in the nearest can, he returned to Tab. “GPS coordinates.”<br />
<br />
She hugged herself and shivered in spite of the heat. “Let’s just get out of here, Carlos. I get a bad feeling—”<br />
<br />
--from Critical Mass <br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * * *</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Good day, fellow Castaways! Congratulations again, Lisa Reece, our winner of the Irving's Cabin contest!</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
This week, Once again, you've seen the picture behind the story, and now, you get the story behind the picture! Yay, hoo-rah, and other colorful interjections of a celebratory nature.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
As indicated in the scene above, this shot was taken at the Manassas Battlefield Park at Manassas, Virginia.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
The entire week I was in Virginia, the weather was cool and rainy. It never actually stopped, though sometimes it let up to a light mist. It lent a kind of haunting sadness to the place where, in July of 1861, nearly 5,000 men died in the first land battle of the American Civil war.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I arrived at the Visitor's Center and climbed out into the rain and wind. I made a mad dash to get inside the center just before the rain really cut loose, and browsed around inside for a while until the weather let up.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
As soon as the clouds relented, I ran outside and pranced around like a total and complete fool. I don't think the staff quite understood why I was so excited about being there. Sure there was history all around me, and I was drinking that up like a sponge. But I also had to get the best shot I could before the rains busted loose again.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I ran up and down the line of cannons behind the Visitor's Center, taking shots here and there. I took the one I posted above, with the water droplets dangling from the bottom of the barrel, and the colors struck me. In the background, you can see a farmhouse that was rebuilt, as the original was blasted to matchsticks by artillery.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I didn't get a chance to wander the whole park. The battlefield plain is pretty big, after all. But it inspired in me a sense of loss, as well as commanding a quiet reverie for the significance of the drama that unfolded so long ago.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I intend to go back to see it all. I would encourage everyone to see it.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Next week, we'll post Stop 6. Till then, stay frosty.</div>
Cyrus Keithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18157654104793220210noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1936310972177100999.post-75203543124994720212015-12-21T14:42:00.000-08:002015-12-21T14:42:51.259-08:00NADIA Picture Tour, Stop 4. The Picture Behind the Story<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBR06zKj8EgaMYRvVxZZE5isnuDose9U3eOzRvBlruklpFBXPv53AsFcyzitHxx30kVvlz7_Uiirgw__KAmYBE0_HwnRqhRs1ByuO7eZwyIltNN3qjggujb-UroNdiMUNZ-qeq-a_dNdU/s1600/Cabin+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="393" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBR06zKj8EgaMYRvVxZZE5isnuDose9U3eOzRvBlruklpFBXPv53AsFcyzitHxx30kVvlz7_Uiirgw__KAmYBE0_HwnRqhRs1ByuO7eZwyIltNN3qjggujb-UroNdiMUNZ-qeq-a_dNdU/s640/Cabin+2.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
A narrow footpath wound through the trees, shaded and cool in the late summer heat. A rabbit said hello by way of scurrying through the underbrush to parts unknown. A squirrel overhead chirred its irritation at an invading starling. Jon breathed in the woods all the way to the far end of the path where it emerged in front of Irving’s cabin.<br />
<br />
Jimmy DeBartolo sat on the porch in a creaking rocker, whittling. In his gnarled fingers, the body of a bird was taking shape. Jon paused to admire the work, noting how steady Jimmy’s hands were, despite the outward ravages of age that had taken so many of Jimmy’s generation already. The devil knows he’s going to have a fight on his hands when he comes for Jimmy, so he’s just putting it off until the old coot’s softened a bit. Like that’s ever going to happen. Next to the old man, against the wooden siding under the shelter of the porch, leaned a worn but sturdy Garand combat rifle. He looked up as Jon approached, and his wrinkled face split into a huge, toothy grin. “Hey, Jon.”<br />
<br />
“Morning, Jim. Another quiet day.” Jimmy’s flint-hard eyes scanned the woods as he answered, “Thank the good Lord for that.”<br />
<br />
“How’s Papa today?” Jimmy grinned wider.<br />
<br />
“’Bout ready to kill Beth, I think.”<br />
<br />
“I think I’ll say hi before I head downstairs.”<br />
<br />
“Okay, if you really want to. I’m gonna take a walk around.” The old man rose and picked up the rifle before stepping past Jon and onto the packed earth in front of the porch. He shifted it to an easy grip in his gnarled hands and slunk off through the woods with an easy, well-practiced stride. Seconds after he reached the tree line, he disappeared as if he were only a ghost in John’s imagination. The only evidence of his presence was the half-formed wooden sculpture on the seat of the rocking chair.<br />
<br />
<i>Damn, I’m glad he’s one of ours. I’d hate to be on that old man’s bad side.</i> Jon stepped through the screen door and into Irving Ratzinger’s living room. Irving’s easy chair, threadbare and sunken, hunched in its corner, empty. The comfortable clutter that defined the man’s life was neatly arranged around it, the photo of his beloved Hilda within easy reach. Hilda’s prize smallmouth bass leered from the wall above the old TV in the opposite corner. Irving’s collection of dog-eared paperback westerns loitered on their shelves, separated from his how-to books and his Foxfire Series. Everything here made this cabin a home in every sense of the word.<br />
<br />
Everything except one. The smell of Irving’s latest culinary masterpiece was noticeably absent in the air. Even though it had been three months since the heart attack, Jon’s nostrils remembered the scent of Irving’s apple strudel, among other delicious creations from “Papa’s” kitchen. How many glazed rolls had he washed down with German roast coffee around that table over the years? Not nearly enough, came the answer from Jon’s stomach.<br />
<br />
A woman’s voice came from down the hall, frustration tempered by a good humor. “Lay back down, you old fart, and let me get your meds in.”<br />
<br />
Jon chuckled, imagining the struggle taking place as he made his way to Irving’s room. When he opened the door, Papa was struggling to get out of bed. Beth Nelson was trying to wrestle him back down. She looked over her shoulder at the creak of the door hinges, a tuft of curly brown hair dangling in her eyes. In spite of the effort she was exerting against the old man in the bed, she smiled.<br />
<br />
“Can you help me out here? I have to give him his shot.”<br />
<br />
Irving grabbed her wrists and sat up again. His German accent was thicker when he was this tired. “I said I was all right, young lady, and I want to get up.”<br />
<br />
Beth twisted her arms free and pressed on Papa’s chest again. He began to sweat with exertion. She was just plump enough to give her a weight advantage, especially with Irving’s weakened condition, and the strain began to show.<br />
<br />
When Jon decided enough was enough, he stepped in and touched Beth’s shoulder. She let go of Irving and stood. “Papa,” he said, “you know the shot makes you sleepy. So take it and get some more rest. Beth can handle lunch when you wake up.”<br />
<br />
The old man lay back, pouting. “The way she cooks? I’d rather eat my left shoe!”<br />
<br />
Beth’s eyes popped; her mouth gaped. She snapped back in mock indignation. “I’ll have you know, sir, my meals are perfectly well-balanced examples of excellent nutrition—”<br />
<br />
“That taste like old tires!” Despite the rough tone of Irving’s voice, the twinkle in his eye told Jon he was just being difficult for the sake of mischief.<br />
<br />
Jon said, “We can’t all be gourmet chefs, Papa. You’ve had a rough time the last couple of months. It’s not going to kill you to let someone else take care of you for a while. Besides, Beth’s been a nurse for…” He shrugged, looking at her. “At least a month. When was it you took that correspondence course again?”<br />
<br />
Beth threw a half-hearted punch at Jon’s midsection, easily dodged with a laugh. “Thanks a bunch, you jerk. I’ll have you know I got my RN from Stanford ten years ago.” She turned back to Irving. “Please, Papa, I have to give you this shot. Donna says a couple more weeks and you should be as good as new. Or at least as good as before your heart attack.”<br />
<br />
Irving paused while he mulled it over. “Can I have it in my chair?”<br />
<br />
“If Jon can move your monitor into the living room, I don’t see why not.” She gave Jon a coy smile and blinked her eyes.<br />
<br />
“Gee, how can I say no to that,” said Jon with a grin and a wink to Irving. “Let’s go, then.”<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * * *</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br />
Okay, this one has a double-sided story. First, mine, and next, our contest winner's.<br />
<br />
As you all know, recently I was in Virginia for a company road trip, and found some awesome settings to punctuate the most critical scenes of my award-winning series <i>The NADIA Project.</i> Unfortunately, I could not locate the perfect shot for Papa Irving's cabin, and so I posted a contest. I have to say, the final voting was close. It came down to the difference of one vote (Tell me your vote doesn't count!). And we have our winner, Lisa Reese of Nort udda Border, eh? Congratulations, Lisa!<br />
<br />
Okay, so as you've seen, this week's post is a couple days late. I had to get hold of Lisa and get the story behind the photo from her. Now, granted, the shot isn't from Virginia. She covers it in her story. But if Hollywood can relocate a house for their own purposes, so can I. My apologies to Virginia. I'm sure there is a cabin somewhere in that wonderful state that would fit the bill. I just didn't have time to find it, which works out well for Lisa. So without further ado, here's Lisa's story behind the picture behind the story:<br />
<br />
"Every year my family and I go camping with friends in Jasper Alberta. We
love combining three things while we’re there: hiking, geocaching and
photography. The day I took this picture was no exception.<br />
<br />
Lac Beauvert
is known for being beautiful to photograph, and there are some very
iconic shots that can be taken of the mountains in behind the Jasper
Park Golf Course, and my husband had just given me a brand new camera
that I wanted to try out. But instead of just taking the iconic shots we
followed a walking trail along the lakes edge to the left. After you
get well past the main parking and tourist areas you can see this little
cabin across the lake, just poking through the trees.<br />
<br />
I don’t normally
photograph buildings but I really liked this one, and it’s seemingly
secluded location—I say seemingly because it is one of several cabins
you can rent through the Fairmont Jasper Park Lodge—despite that, it
struck me as the sort of place I’d want to live if I could, so I took
one photo. I remember I could only take one, and had to hope it would
turn out as my family hadn’t noticed that I'd stopped and were well out
of sight. This would have been fine if there wasn't a bear in the area,
so we had to stick together.<br />
<br />
Thankfully the photo turned out, and I
loved that picture so when I heard about the contest for Irving's Cabin, I
couldn’t think of a more welcoming little cabin than that one, nestled
in the trees in Jasper."</div>
Cyrus Keithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18157654104793220210noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1936310972177100999.post-34060294820913824642015-12-12T15:11:00.001-08:002015-12-12T15:16:41.116-08:00And The Winner Is...To Be Announced!Greetings, fellow Castaways!<br />
<br />
The entries have been received, and the time has come to select a winner for our Irving's Cabin contest!<br />
<br />
I know who took the pictures, but only two of you know. Because I've weeded the entries down to the top two, and guess what: YOU, dear readers and fans, get to pick the entry who will win one signed print book from my already published selection!<br />
<br />
Irving Ratzinger is the character we are finding a home for. He's already got a house, but I need to know which one you all see him in. He's a survivor in the truest sense, a God-loving Jew, a gourmet-trained chef, and a combat veteran, now settled down and living in the woods of the Shenandoah River Valley. His abode in the little clearing whispers comfort and peace to all who enter, and the aromas from his kitchen promise no guest will ever walk away hungry.<br />
<br />
What I NEED all of you to do, is vote by COMMENT!!! That's right, send me a comment right here on THIS blog! Comments will not be published, so no one will know who voted for what cabin best represents "Papa" Irving's lifestyle of quiet comfort and peaceful living.<br />
<br />
Now, I'm going to do something that looks odd, but I have a reason: First, a picture to conceal the first picture when I post it on Facebook and whatnot:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjozoidEZiS5KHk18OV6xKU00Woj7CrrpKW1hySQSmspvFqUw0YPJITJZkHFwUn4_bdv597Ly12mjwHy5DoDBxNfS8VLfUFBuwHo7s-wzyWYfJof-vpJ2GgIqRYXlkjQ9ZsxuodMqwl_w/s1600/11666146_502351836589654_2003896283969476479_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjozoidEZiS5KHk18OV6xKU00Woj7CrrpKW1hySQSmspvFqUw0YPJITJZkHFwUn4_bdv597Ly12mjwHy5DoDBxNfS8VLfUFBuwHo7s-wzyWYfJof-vpJ2GgIqRYXlkjQ9ZsxuodMqwl_w/s320/11666146_502351836589654_2003896283969476479_n.jpg" width="180" /></a></div>
And to business!<br /><br />
<br />
First up, we have Cabin 2, because that's what I wanted to do:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDVyUOStQA8LCijcMmaNi18Ceoxtr3ybM_S1MKyEuVbxBGuRut_8IWVP5Hwwl3AciKBYH7_fV5iMdmDMbEO5TuDf4smix7r8KuaPE95V_y4f0g7lN1JlxLMgyNMlktxv3B6cVmI7LQ4M0/s1600/Cabin+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="393" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDVyUOStQA8LCijcMmaNi18Ceoxtr3ybM_S1MKyEuVbxBGuRut_8IWVP5Hwwl3AciKBYH7_fV5iMdmDMbEO5TuDf4smix7r8KuaPE95V_y4f0g7lN1JlxLMgyNMlktxv3B6cVmI7LQ4M0/s640/Cabin+2.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
Once again, I know which person entered this shot, but you don't. Now, look at Entry Number 1:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfvx_Srzcj-T78I8woiDnzKcJwsQBkDU-il4pF30KLnimJfIV7n5UeSFs8mc3fz1aRHcNo8DLpzI5O8wDpGNpu4ULSHL0kfTYZH-0YszvbzAfjT_FdG0UqS_vkSQmnyvBTB_AiC93BRq0/s1600/Cabin+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfvx_Srzcj-T78I8woiDnzKcJwsQBkDU-il4pF30KLnimJfIV7n5UeSFs8mc3fz1aRHcNo8DLpzI5O8wDpGNpu4ULSHL0kfTYZH-0YszvbzAfjT_FdG0UqS_vkSQmnyvBTB_AiC93BRq0/s640/Cabin+1.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
Both beautiful shots. Thanks to all who entered. The only way we're going to have a winner is if you vote, right here, by sending me your comment on which is the cabin that fits Papa best. The winner will be notified by me and announced on Facebook, and the next stop on the NADIA picture tour will feature that picture, plus an excerpt featuring Papa's Cabin.<br />
<br />
Let's go, folks. And...VOTE!!!Cyrus Keithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18157654104793220210noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1936310972177100999.post-87615926431020207092015-12-05T16:28:00.002-08:002015-12-05T16:28:41.580-08:00NADIA Picture Tour, Stop 3<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYRm-Wf5_4VDukPKv2FL4-pJFvz00KjB9hTF67JKQpTZiE4nLvnRV-V5zRDAd6LNPF0ZkEc3W7Hcfj90tzMfHrYavEz7q4ibNGXuQH8T7U3NZj4BRISOvmNwSh35Cmu-YpBF6LQndxqJw/s1600/2015-11-09+16.48.03.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYRm-Wf5_4VDukPKv2FL4-pJFvz00KjB9hTF67JKQpTZiE4nLvnRV-V5zRDAd6LNPF0ZkEc3W7Hcfj90tzMfHrYavEz7q4ibNGXuQH8T7U3NZj4BRISOvmNwSh35Cmu-YpBF6LQndxqJw/s320/2015-11-09+16.48.03.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
"Jimmy listened on his Bluetooth while he crouched behind a car across
the street, holding the combat shotgun steady on the reflective glass of
the office front window. He knew exactly where to aim, to make sure he
was sighted in on Jenny’s phone. He assumed from his visit that the
women were held in the conference room. From where he was set up, they <span class="text_exposed_show">should
be out of the way. As soon as he knew who picked up, he was going to
send another message. He’d keep talking until the phone was answered.
“Come on, punk. It’s time we had a chat.”</span><br />
<br />
<div class="text_exposed_show">
The line clicked, and a man’s voice came back through his earpiece. “You need to watch your mouth, old man—”<br />
<br />
Jimmy squeezed the trigger and held it. Three rounds of 12-gauge
buckshot splintered the window and Jenny’s desk. Bruce’s chest collapsed
as a fist of lead pellets punched him like a truck, and he fell in a
bloodied heap against the back wall of the office. Jimmy kept the
shotgun level as the view through the storefront opened up. With the
glass gone, he could see into the office area, covering the entire front of the office.<br />
<br />
Another figure moved, diving behind the remains of Jenny’s desk, and a
head popped up, looking for him. But where Jimmy was set up, he still
maintained the element of surprise. He popped off the last two rounds in
the shotgun and grabbed his AK-47 as the head dropped back behind
Jenny’s desk. He wasn’t sure if he hit the man, but he could fix that
easily enough. He sent three rounds of .30-caliber, copper-jacketed
lead through the wood of the desk, saw someone jump, and heard a man’s
agonized scream.<br />
<br />
The smell of cordite in Jimmy’s nostrils, and
the sight of the rifle’s barrel in his vision, brought back memories of
other times and places he’d wanted to forget so badly, but they never
let him go. Thirty years in the Army, including two wars and countless
covert operations across the globe, would never let him forget. He could
still see the blood, hear the cries of wounded and dying men. In
his dreams, he still walked fields and paddies strewn with bloated
corpses, mutilated and rancid in the tropical heat, or frozen solid and
snow-covered. He’d taken part in that butchery, had trained others how
to kill, had lain in wait for blood so long and so often, that it had
made him in its own image. He was no longer the plumber’s kid from
Oklahoma, no more<br /> the retired insurance agent from Platteville,
Oregon. Plain and simple, Jimmy DeBartolo was a warrior, and destined
for a warrior’s fate.<br />
<br />
---Unalive<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * * *</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Hello, it's me...</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
What you're looking at this week is a photo I took in downtown Front Royal, Virginia. I saw this awesome little storefront and <i>knew</i> it had to be the offices of Genetek!</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Front Royal is a very "Alive" little town nestled in the Shenandoah River Valley, and in the foothills of the Appalachians. In fact, I drove under a pedestrian walkway not far from this site that was labeled as part of the Appalachia Trail.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Now, back to Front Royal: It was everything I hoped it would be, and they have some awesome food there, I can tell you. Make sure you stop at the Mill Cafe and have a bite to eat, because it's rock awesome.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I was really excited to come into this town and find it was everything I wrote and then some. The setting couldn't have been more perfect if I'd visited there myself before writing the NADIA Project.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
A steady drizzle tried to dampen my spirits and totally failed as I ran up and down the streets, finding corners for this scene, and stores for that scene, and before the sun went down I was totally lost, had no idea where my rental car was, and I'm pretty sure some folks probably thought I was bonkers for even being there. Okay, more than sure. Some folks I met and shared my story with, actually told me "You're bonkers for writing this town into a story like that."</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
But you know what? It was perfect for the location, it was perfect in the reality of the scenes and settings. It was perfect in its history (some major battles took place in the Civil War around that area, and some buildings in that town look like they could have been there then), and it was perrfect even with the weather being just a mite waterlogged.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
And this is only the beginning. I have some more awesome shots to share from Front Royal.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
BUT HERE IS A REMINDER: I have an active contest going on. I need the best picture of Irving Ratzinger's cabin. The finalists will be picked by yours truly based on truth to theme, composition, and appeal, and you all are going to vote for the best one, to receive a signed print copy of the winner's choice from my books (see the "my books" tab at the top of the page to peruse your choices). I still need a couple more entries to make it a good contest.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
So send your submissions to me at cyrus DOT keith AT yahoo DOT com or to my page at Facebook in a private message, and put CABIN CONTEST in the subject line. You don't have to be the photographer, but I don't want any copyright conflicts. Help me find Papa Irving's Cabin, and YOU could win!</div>
</div>
Cyrus Keithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18157654104793220210noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1936310972177100999.post-50603193775844744522015-11-28T14:55:00.001-08:002015-11-28T14:55:31.790-08:00NADIA Picture Tour, Stop 2<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAcsPGyNL1YSXZQ_VwhbFilYQB6fZpTzK-iYkBSlterDvVC9i0UrC_BPTirPVVca1gp4hewxaIPAy-G3cM1On0b1kCh2Dfe242dNagV2pC4-KYWXtudjW-hMBL0toqXpwANap3gL03AAw/s1600/2015-11-10+14.02.32.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAcsPGyNL1YSXZQ_VwhbFilYQB6fZpTzK-iYkBSlterDvVC9i0UrC_BPTirPVVca1gp4hewxaIPAy-G3cM1On0b1kCh2Dfe242dNagV2pC4-KYWXtudjW-hMBL0toqXpwANap3gL03AAw/s640/2015-11-10+14.02.32.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
The early morning sun had not yet cleared the ridge behind the cabin, but light was<br />beginning to shine down into the valley, gently waking the Shenandoah River. The water<br />sighed as it flowed over deadfalls and rocks along the shore, and an occasional ripple<br />betrayed the fish beneath the surface.<br />
<br />Nadia sat on the edge of the wooden dock watching the sun come up. Her toes came just<br />short of reaching the murky river. She could see the light growing brighter with each passing<br />minute, and watched the mist float above the water, like a curtain waiting to be drawn,<br />caressing her lightly as it passed with the river. Birds struck up their songs in the trees,<br />awakening the morning. Behind her, a faint rustle in the undergrowth told her that a rabbit or<br />some other small animal was beginning its busy day. She sat and thought of nothing. Or, at<br />least, she tried to think of nothing.<br />
<br />In reality her mind raced, trying to understand what was going on around her. She felt<br />caught up in something malevolent, something that threatened not only her, but anyone<br />around her. She had no sooner met Jon Daniels than the two were running for their very<br />lives. To find that her mind was not her own was a confirmation that something was<br />seriously wrong with her. Finding out that she wasn't even human was a shock she wasn't<br />sure she could handle.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * * *</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
You've seen the picture behind the story. Now read the story behind the picture.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
In this chapter of Becoming NADIA, our intrepid Miss Velasquez sits on a small pier overlooking the Shenandoah and ponders her predicament.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
To find this pier, I had to combine some luck with a little local knowledge. I was in Front Royal, enjoying a trout and a delicious Old Mill Ale at the Mill Cafe (okay, it's free promo. If you're in Front Royal, eat there. You will NOT regret it). At the next table, a couple was eating across from a young man in his med-thirties or so, who was waiting for his fiancee to join them. A minute or so after I received my meal, who should come up the stairs to the tavern portion but a young lady who could be no other than the aforementioned fiancee, accompanied by the cutest little seven-year-old girl, who just so happened to be best friends with the lady. Now, does this kind of relationship ring a bell for anyone?</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
So, anyway, I overheard the child talking about how she loved reading. I couldn't resist joining the conversation, and it turns out Abby is a voracious reader and a brilliant little lady of superior intelligence. Not only that, her birthday was a scarce month away. By now, she's eight. Happy Birthday, Abby!</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
So okay, I couldn't resist. I hauled out a copy of Becoming NADIA and signed it for Abby, and then presented it to her as an early birthday gift. You'd have thought I was some kind of rock star. Thank you for making my evening, Abby. So then the subject of course went to the reasons I was in Front Royal, Virginia, all the way from Michigan. And Jim (the young man affianced to the lady Abby came in with) gave me some ideas of places to look for suitable shots overlooking the mighty Shenandoah River.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Following his directions, I found quite a few great places for photos, more to come later. But this one stood out. The other piers were already pulled in for the season, but this one just kind of called to me as I wandered along a small road on the north bank of the Shenando'. It's a beautiful river, and a gorgeous part of our great country. Oh, and somewhere on Facebook (I think) is a picture of me an Miss Abby with her birthday present. And I hope she enjoys it immensely.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Happy Birthday again, young lady. May your future be ever brighter.</div>
Cyrus Keithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18157654104793220210noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1936310972177100999.post-52838117056707083762015-11-14T16:58:00.001-08:002015-11-14T17:11:12.477-08:00NADIA Picture Tour: Stop 1 (The picture of the story, and the story of the picture)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ4gzaYOS7q_wAVsdJJOiLeBrmDD6N5hCLC56aTbq3FC0nSY7SSo99TJx4CU2k5kTASGd4Xt6Wf0fe-eZ1T8Olch-W9ApkECN0j3Sx6kNwLpIepPBK9nI4ZLMqXvULBezmeLkVy_ssWEk/s1600/2015-11-09+09.08.34.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ4gzaYOS7q_wAVsdJJOiLeBrmDD6N5hCLC56aTbq3FC0nSY7SSo99TJx4CU2k5kTASGd4Xt6Wf0fe-eZ1T8Olch-W9ApkECN0j3Sx6kNwLpIepPBK9nI4ZLMqXvULBezmeLkVy_ssWEk/s320/2015-11-09+09.08.34.jpg" width="180" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>Hearing</i>: “Nadia? Nadia, I need you to open your eyes for me, please.” The gentle male<br />
voice sounded alien to her ears, as if from a great distance. <i>Who's Nadia?</i><br />
<br />
<i>Comprehension</i>: She understood someone was talking to someone named...Nadia.<br />
<br />
<i>Sensation:</i> A gentle touch registered on her arm as the voice spoke again. “Nadia? Open<br />
your eyes, dear.”<br />
<br />
<i>Identity:</i> She was Nadia. There was something in her mind, a nagging feeling that it<br />
wasn't right, couldn't be right. But the man insisted. “Open your eyes, Nadia.”<br />
<br />
<i>Awareness.</i><br />
<br />
Nadia complied, though with some effort. The lids were stiff, unresponsive at first. She<br />
had to think about moving them, and finally she forced them open. After a few more<br />
experimental blinks, a small but intense white light pierced into her eyes...<br />
<br />
---Becoming NADIA, Chapter One<br />
<br />
Ah, welcome, fellow castaways on the third rock from the sun, adrift through the darkness of space. Starting this week, I'm going to take you on a journey through my Thriller series <i>The NADIA Project. </i>We'll go in roughly chronological order, but only loosely. The idea is to show you, up close and personal, the locations of certain scenes in my series.<br />
<br />
The idea came to me when I was offered a chance to see the area firsthand as part of my day job, and I am pleased to say I found all the locations I needed, to give you, my readers and fans, an awesome visual of the story arc.<br />
<br />
Now, mainly, the pictures are all centered around the Washington, DC area, because that's where most of the stories take place. Of course, the stories actually spread out all over the world, from Oregon to Nevada to Tahiti and the Czech Republic.<br />
<br />
So these posts are going to comprise two parts: The picture of the story, and the story of the picture.<br />
<br />
This first "picture of the story" is Dr. Petr Hamund, bringing his creation to life in her first moments as the light shines in.<br />
<br />
The "story of the picture" is simple: It was an accident.<br />
<br />
I was taking pictures of data tags on equipment I was in the process of testing for certification, and my thumb accidentally slid across the little button on the screen of my phone that flips the camera from forward-facing to rear-facing, and then snapped its own little picture.<br />
<br />
I was going to delete it, but then I noticed the awesome pattern of the glare spots, and it jumped out at me that I was unwittingly one of my own characters.<br />
<br />
So enjoy.<br />
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Next up, we take another trip.Cyrus Keithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18157654104793220210noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1936310972177100999.post-75721208056644970712015-10-24T20:03:00.002-07:002015-10-25T03:48:44.471-07:00How to have a successful Signing EventGreetings, Fellow Castaways!<br />
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I can only apologize for having been absent this past couple of months. Life stuff jumps up and gets in the way, and to tell the truth, my old enemy Depression crept in too, for a while. But these are truly no excuses. I once again apologize for being absent, and ask for your forgiveness.<br />
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I have been blessed and honored to be received at several events recently for signing events, enough for me to have a grasp on what makes a successful event. This is for my writer buds, and also for any bookworm who walks into a Barnes & Noble and sees the author table right by the front door to the store with the hopeful face seated behind it.<br />
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I do claim some authority on the subject, having seen with my own eyes as well as discussing techniques and results with store managers.<br />
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<b>So, for readers, here it is:</b> Writing is mind-wringing, hard work, and that author at the table is really putting themselves out there for their craft. So please do us a solid. Approach that table and at least look at the product. That does a <i>whole lot</i> of good for the self-image of person behind the table, and you may find your next brain-treasure! And that's the simple, one-step reader's method of a successful book signing.<br />
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<b>Now, you writers, listen up:</b><br />
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<b>1.) Show up.</b> You're coming to work. Dress like it. Business casual works well. Look like you're educated and professional. Bring promotional material as well. There are exceptions, I'll grant you. If you're at a Farmer's Market or Flea Market, jeans would be okay. But they need to have no holes, and you should be in a button-down shirt or golf shirt in any case. I have signs from Vista Print, yard-sale sized, with my book covers on them, and a collapsible easel from Staples. Cost for a sign and easel, less than fifty dollars. The store might provide you with a table and the books, but you need something to draw attention to yourself besides that little dinky table-top sign the store provides. Bring business cards, bookmarks, and any other swag you want to give away. More on give-aways later.<br />
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<b>2.) Sink into your persona.</b> Look, I know most writers are an introverted, shy lot. It comes with the territory of the way our brains work. Almost every single writer I know or have ever met, struggles with social situations. So we need to have barriers in place to be able to interact with the public at large, and at a signing event, baby, you are at large and in charge. So you have a couple of "safeties" to use, to provide a degree of separation between you and .....(gasp) people (gasp) ..... First is your Author persona. Whether you use a pen name or your own name, your "Author" persona is the face you want your fans to see. The Author is out-going, friendly, and engaged. If this is not you normally, then you get to pretend you're someone else for a while. Make your Author self a character. You did it for people who don't even exist. Just extend the same thing to someone who does, at least to the public eye. Use that character. BE that character. You can do it.<br />
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<b>3.) Use your other barrier. </b>The other barrier is the table. You're on one side, your fans are on the other side. Don't make that silly snorting sound and tell me you don't have fans. YOU. HAVE. FANS. People are reading your book, and if they aren't yet, they will be. If you do everything I'm laying out here, you will have made at least one fan before the end of your event. I promise you this. But you need to act like everyone in the store id your fan, whether they know it yet or not. But that table is there to keep you safe, too. It's a symbolic barrier, but it helps to keep you from panicking and running out, if you're of that sort of mind. It gives you room to be the Author, just like a stage gives an actor room to be the Character. It's your stage. Use it like one.<br />
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<b>4.) Speaking of give-aways, don't give books. </b>Might as well get that out of the way. You're there to sell books, not give them away. Post a give-away, and people won't buy your book, but they'll sure as all get out sign up for your give-away. Because people like stuff that's free, and they'll pick free over something they have to pay for, every single time.If you're going to have a contest, make sure it isn't for the book you're currently promoting. Give away your swag bags. Give away bookmarks. Give away little stones with your name on them. Give away your car, for crying out loud. But don't give away your book.<br />
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<b>5.) You're at work. Be at work.</b> I've spoken with store managers who say most of their guest authors sit at the table writing, or texting, or Facebooking, or reading. If you do that stuff at your day job, you get fired. Do that at a signing event, and your fans "fire" you by not even approaching the table. Remember what you're there for. Writing is a business, and you need to treat it that way. By all means, have fun. But don't lose track of where you are, and what you're doing. You are there to sell books. You are there as a merchant, as a vendor, as a representative of your art, your craft. You didn't pour all that blood, sweat and tears into your book to let it languish on the shelves and servers of your vendors. You have an awesome gift to give the world, and here is where you have a chance to let the world know how they can come and live in your world for a little while. So, back straight, hands on the table, head up, eyes forward (except unless advancing on to the next step). You're there. BE there.<br />
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<b>6.) Engage your fans.</b> This is the next step after "Be at work." People are going to be walking around, browsing other shelves, other tables, doing "customer stuff." Be ready to talk to them. This is the hard part for me. But it's easy once I've assumed my Persona, parked at the table, and set myself for work. The first time is the hardest. Believe it or not, it's good to have some words ready. Have some different things to say, depending on the situation.<br />
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Watch people as they pass by. LOOK at them. When they look back, say hello and ask how they're doing. Probably one in four of them will come to the table and ask about your book. Greet EVERYONE who walks by within normal bookstore-voice range. Make sure they know you're there. Most folks aren't even aware of anything around them until they're well past your table. Saying hello is being polite.Asking about their well-being invites a response. In any case, and most importantly, invite a response.<br />
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When folks pick up a book at the next table, tell them, "I have your next read right here." Make sure you smile when you say that. Yes, it sounds pushy. But they are looking for a read, and you have one right there. Might as well call a Diamond a Diamond, right?<br />
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<b>7.) Be ready for conversation.</b> Luckily enough, folks that want to talk, will want to talk about your writing. And that, my friend, is what you're always ready to talk about. You were excited enough to write the book. Be excited about people getting excited about reading it.<br />
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I say, "Be ready," because you're going to get them all. The ones who end up buying, the ones who don't buy but you wish them well anyway, the ones who just want to talk with an author, and the ones who you really don't want to talk to. You know the type. The faux intellectuals who throw ten-thousand dollar words around for the express purpose of impressing you with their vocabulary. Just smile and nod, let them get it off their chest, and eventually they'll move on.<br />
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<b>8.) Have fun with it.</b> I know this is Point 8, but it should be noted that this is your Number One Priority. Seriously. If people see you having fun with the event, they will want to have fun with you. Smile a bunch, be energetic, and have fun. Did I mention "Have Fun?" Make it fun, and they will come. And don't worry about numbers. Don't stress about how many you sell, or don't sell. I have it on good authority that most local authors sell six to ten copies at a two-hour signing. I usually do ten to fifteen sales per event.<br />
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<b>9.)Check in with the manager before you leave. </b>Build a relationship with the manager and staff, and you won't go wrong. They'll be glad to have you back.<br />
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<b>10.) Send the store manager a thank-you email. </b>This is just common courtesy. Within one week after your event, send that email, and mean it. Tell them what an awesome time you had, and leave room for a future return.<br />
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There you have it, folks. There are a lot of folks who spout "the rules" and such, and not all of them know a hoot of what they're talking. But I'm telling you, if you follow these ten steps, you'll not only have a great time at your signing, you'll make sales as well as fans, and fans are a writer's best friends.<br />
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And we could all use some more friends, right?Cyrus Keithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18157654104793220210noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1936310972177100999.post-37919775639028556062015-07-21T18:52:00.001-07:002015-07-21T18:52:32.486-07:00Heroes! Part 2Greetings, fellow castaways.<br />
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This week, let's look at more heroes, examining the Hero Type.<br />
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I've said before that heroes are no more than ordinary people, placed in extraordinary circumstances, that simply decide that those circumstances are not going to be the end of them.<br />
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But I've come to know that defining "Hero" is a whole lot more complicated than that. I've seen heroes who are born to the role. When I see a two-year-old place himself between his sister and danger, there's more to that "hero" thing than ordinary people. I don't know of too many toddlers who would face down who he sees as a giant wielding a knife against his sister, even if I was only showing her that a knife means "owie," and to stay away from owies.<br />
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We see heroes in our warriors, who wouldn't normally do what we're asking them to do, in that they volunteer to be subjected to unimaginable fear and violence, to place themselves between evil and the innocent.<br />
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We see them in police and firefighters, who go to work every day with no guarantee they'll make it home for supper that night.<br />
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But heroes aren't always those action stars of our world. We also see heroes in those who take stands politically or socially. Little old ladies who sit on buses. People who challenge the norms of our very society, who make us rethink our own paradigms. Teachers who inspire greatness in their students. My high school physiology teacher remains to this day one of my greatest heroes, because he not only made complex systems simple to understand, but he excited us all with the minute workings of the human body. My junior high school speech teacher was 4-foot-6, but she drove us to tackle ogres and giants of stage fright and performance fears.<br />
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I write about heroes who charge through flames, fight the bad guys, storm the mountain fortress, rescue the princess, and even heroes who cook fabulous dinners, research the answer, pull cures for diseases out of their hats, and lead investigations. But these are only a small portion of the true heroes of our world.<br />
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I believe, now that I think of it, that a better definition of "hero" is "One who inspires greatness in others, through thought or through deed." That opens up a whole lot of room for heroes.<br />
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Who's yours?Cyrus Keithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18157654104793220210noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1936310972177100999.post-84699554733764471592015-06-24T19:03:00.000-07:002015-06-24T19:05:03.333-07:00Heroes! Part 1Greetings, fellow Castaways.<br />
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First off, if you haven't signed up to follow the blog, feel free to join up! I'll try not to bore you too much.<br />
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This week, the concept for discussion is one that comes up once in a while when a reader asks me about my series, and that is the question of what makes a hero. It's a good question, because, after all, every good story has a hero, and they come in all shapes and sizes, from J.R.R. Tolkien's Hobbits to Jonathan Swift's Gulliver, to Robert A. Heinlein's Friday, to the Brave Little Toaster and the Beaudelaire Orphans.<br />
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So let's look at how we define the term, with a few examples, and why we see them as heroes, from the strictly obvious point of view of the kid who should have paid more attention in English Class. If anyone of you have any Creative Writing background in College or what have you, feel free to jump into the discussion (plenty of room for comments at the end).<br />
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The first and most obvious Hero Type is the Warrior.<br />
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Here we have a classic example. St. George, our knight in shining armor, rides in to rescue the virgin from the horrible, fire-breathing dragon. Today, our warriors are still seen as heroes, and rightly so.</div>
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These photo shows another take on the warrior image of heroism. Though no less heroes than the previous example, these men's faces show the horrible cost incurred on the title. They were Marines on Iwo Jima, one of the bloodiest and hard-fought battles of World War II. But even among this type, there are several sub-types of Hero, from those who signed up willingly, to the draftee just trying to stay alive long enough to get back home. But the significance of the title of Hero is not diminished by circumstances.<br />
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I've said once that Heroes are not born as extraordinary people; rather they are ordinary people thrown into extraordinary circumstances, just doing what needs to be done. And I could still say that, to an extent, that holds true.<br />
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I was fifteen years old, a member of my local Sheriff's cadet post. The court pulled some strings to get me in, even though I was technically too young. It seems the judge thought I just needed something to keep me busy, something more constructive than the "hobbies" that had me standing in front of him. So take it from me, I was no hero at fifteen. But my story continues:<br />
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Part of my involvement was a 40-hour First Aid course that was the most thorough training I'd ever seen, and that included my instructor training in Battlefield Aid in the Air Force (I was my squadron's instructor for three years, but that's a different story).<br />
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I was at a family party with my father and brother, standing in the back yard of one of Dad's friends, when a crash and scream came from the house. Out the back door came the young son of the host, running and screaming, holding one arm out in front of him. That arm was a shredded wreck of flesh streaming blood across his lawn (he'd put it through a plate glass window, with predictable results). That first aid training kicked in automatically, and I grabbed him. I was terrified when I saw the damage to his arm, but the part of me that knew what to do overrode the fear. I dragged him back into the house, grabbed a wet dish rag, and clamped it onto the worst of the gashes. Then I raised his arm and with my other hand, I found the artery feeding his arm, pressing it against his bone to shut off the blood flow to the arm.<br />
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I saw Mike again several years later, and he showed me the scars. They were worse than I ever imagined. But he thanked me for saving his life. At the time, I swear, that was not on my mind. I was just doing what needed to be done.<br />
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That kind of instinct defines the warrior type. They are essentially people of action. And I call it an instinct, even though training is a critical part of the response as well. My younger son is a hero, and I can see it in the way he runs to the crisis.<br />
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He was eight years old when the local Homecoming Festival closed at the end of the weekend (they still have the festival, by the way. It wasn't closing, like <i>for good</i>), the owner of the local alligator sanctuary was packing his inventory away for the trip back to the shop. Among the "little friends" Dave had brought with him was a five-foot American Alligator, who was a huge hit with the kids. No, he didn't take anyone's arm off, in fact he was quite docile the whole weekend. Until closing time, when Dave and his assistant tried to stuff that 'gator into a military-style duffle bag for transport.<br />
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That 'gator swung his tail around on Dave's assistant's bare back with a <i>smack! </i>that I swear was heard around the world. The welt rose immediately, like he'd just taken a flogging from a foot-wide bullwhip. My boy, that eight-year-old wonder, ran ten steps to that table before I could stop him, and Dave barely had time to get one hand loose and wave him off with a panicked "NO!!!"<br />
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Shannon just can't help it. Someone screams, and he runs to the trouble. I hope he never joins the military, because he's going to find his way to the hottest part of whatever trouble is going on, and that would make a nervous dad. Yes, he's first aid trained. I can feel good with that. But he has a hero's instinct, even from the first days he could walk.<br />
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The Warrior heroes in my series are Jon Daniels and Jenna Paine. I count Jenna, because even though she's <i>technically </i>not a "good guy," she still counts a s hero of the Warrior Type, in that she's a person of radical action, from instinct and training. <br />
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I think I'm going to continue this discussion in future posts, because to be honest, we're getting into other territory that will take more space than just a quick blog read.<br />
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But the Warrior Hero Type is the One Who Comes To The Rescue. Whee-ha.<br />
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Talk to you next week when we take on the next type. I may even have a term for him/her.Cyrus Keithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18157654104793220210noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1936310972177100999.post-28650381188567111612015-06-09T19:37:00.000-07:002015-06-09T19:37:50.932-07:00Jenna LivesGreetings and welcome, to all who have seen and wonder what those words mean. Consider yourselves at home, and welcome. Drag up a comfy chair while I explain. And for those already familiar with Jenna and her exploits, this is (almost) a spoiler.<br />
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Jenna Lives.<br />
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It's a good thing for Jenna, and a bad thing for anyone who's ever been on her bad side. And to let you in on a secret: She's not done yet.<br />
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When we first met her, Jenna was a promising young physical therapist, companion and rehab aide to Nadia Velasquez. So what went wrong? I mean, besides being embroiled in a deadly secret that could mean the death of millions of people. Well, oh-so-awesome readers, the answers are in my first, EPIC-Award-winning novel,<i> Becoming NADIA </i>(Click on the picture to see more):<br />
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<a href="https://museituppublishing.com/bookstore/index.php/museitup/mainstream/becoming-nadia-detail" target="_blank"><img alt="Becoming NADIA" border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJa9Nmollgl6YBcENY2L_YZH9RwQ-WIGVO_XDjc1VNA9Wtnfdt7nagX41SHl7Tmd_Ua-uUiIaUtETg9nSMp_7YXeomTT9DeJ31h-hCBuy-zc5kMaKuQh9JdRo4zwYfvty3Ratr_Ps5lUs/s320/becomingnadia_333X500.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
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"Whoa there," you say. "What do you mean, Jenna's one of the bad guys? She's such a nice person, so sweet and kind, and"<br />
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...oh, forget it. She damn near killed Jon, and at the end of this one, she totally destroys---<br />
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*wags finger* Ah, ah, ah. You almost made me tell. <br />
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Okay, she's one of the bad guys. But she's really not a bad person. Or is she? In my second novel, <i>Unalive</i>, Jenna comes head to head with the agenda behind her bosses' stated goals, and learns a secret about herself as well that could mean the difference between life or death. In the process, she manages to <i>not</i> destroy Las Vegas or half the Eastern Seaboard as she puts two and two together in a way doesn't quite add up to five.<br />
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<a href="https://museituppublishing.com/bookstore/index.php/museitup/mainstream/unalive-detail" target="_blank"><img alt="Unalive" border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY3cYEmu3UDoKmURPvpOUJyHK2LrpPgPgk5pDenEaT8_t3TtKSArkGt58zqb6UpTy-9Lwczyr7i66z-CvRH1BJkcPQU9WPeNLLq8VFmc791DowzZ90ZIQIge9KL9msU2LXbKwZjqvYTGA/s320/unalive_333X500.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
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"Okay," you ask, "so she's really <i>not</i> one of the bad guys?" <br />
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Well, no, not really.<br />
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"Then she's a good guy?"<br />
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Well, no, not really. As a matter of fact, by now, you're either going to love Jenna or hate her. And we're just getting started. I mean, if you were betrayed like she was, you'd be royally pissed, right? And where vengeance is concerned, "good" and "bad" are off the table. the only thing that matters is simple, final and bloody retribution. This time, all the stops are pulled, no measure is spared, and Jenna is willing to give everything including her own life to make sure The Pinnacle never again pose a threat to her or anyone under her protection. She just might, at that.<br />
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<a href="https://museituppublishing.com/bookstore/index.php/museitup/mainstream/critical-mass-detail" target="_blank"><img alt="Critical Mass" border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikX_l9nCTBmuBJ0YjSo1drK7fYL22rqY0_MDvdpPVV7qXaJy3p1lWZE9RhF-_nuY68rcPbLIm0iFV2d4e15HwF8sxfeJruT5CyUKDWFBRBxqUhx63H58ucZlxEQ-ZfDmgNhZOy39yIUCw/s320/criticalmas_333X500.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
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"So," you ask, "How does one get started in the awesome, ass-kicking, super-agent business, anyway?"<br />
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Sherman, set the Way-Back Machine about twenty years before the events in <i>Becoming NADIA</i>. Let's check in on Jenna when she was just a little...girl? Okay, let's call a spade a spade. To some, she's a girl. To others, she's nothing more than Project 14-257. What's the price for a life? What's the price for peace? When it's measured in blood, is there still room to turn around and walk out? Not according to some. Check out this one, folks:<br />
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<a href="https://museituppublishing.com/bookstore/index.php/museitup/mainstream/lies-and-paine-detail" target="_blank"><img alt="Lies and Paine" border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji1zkk6RoNpJNbABNWSoaFY0yCK3qCIRdqJYj3MaHSPGxz5YkWqd3RPufPRaJVMg98VhSkx8zSTxr6x23GmXTp6vK-EFjyioxQY9vfhQ2xAw3geiLNXUUv7_sbvQpDzmzAy5Uq6CyeUAw/s320/liesandpaine_333X500.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
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So now you've been introduced. It's my hope that Jenna becomes as real to you as she's become to me, that she finds a place in your heart and mind, and that truly:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJsa13JYsaZIhnAqigm6VmijP5dz8rKSKr_EXvdiugENWeCxUVozR6lYrcl-wGbCAn7GMeewUQgIJsZJSCgDBgiN0vbOeGtJ2T4qawtgwTu0tRw91ol56oyPnPOHoX4p7moZwq7MKyGaE/s1600/Jenna+Lives+Sticker.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJsa13JYsaZIhnAqigm6VmijP5dz8rKSKr_EXvdiugENWeCxUVozR6lYrcl-wGbCAn7GMeewUQgIJsZJSCgDBgiN0vbOeGtJ2T4qawtgwTu0tRw91ol56oyPnPOHoX4p7moZwq7MKyGaE/s320/Jenna+Lives+Sticker.jpg" width="319" /></a></div>
Want a sticker of your own? Email me at cyrus dot keith at yahoo dot com and ask. We'll get one to you. If you feel like buying my books, I certainly won't stand in your way. My work is available at Barnes and Noble, Amazon, and a good dozen or so other retailers.<br />
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Thank you for stopping by. I look forward to hearing from you.<br />
<br />Cyrus Keithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18157654104793220210noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1936310972177100999.post-59123378979861963252015-06-06T11:33:00.000-07:002015-06-06T11:33:45.648-07:00D-Day: A Rememberance.Good morning, fellow Castaways.<br />
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I promise I won't do this too often, but it is something that needs to be said today. Today is the 71st anniversary of the D-Day Invasions, and to me is a day of introspection and remembrance because of the significance in so many ways of the operation.<br />
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It was the largest amphibious invasion in history. More than 5,000 ships landed 156,000 soldiers on the beaches, beginning at 6:30AM. 24,000 men were inserted just after midnight, dropped by parachute or landed using assault gliders. So as I write this, the echoes of one of the largest struggles of man against man still ring through endless time. Of that number, 4,414 were confirmed dead by the end of the day, with more than three time that missing or wounded. German casualties were over 1,000 killed, and over 3,000 civilians lost their lives as well.<br />
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It was the beginning of the end of the Third Reich , the initiation of the liberation of Europe from Adolf Hitler's Nazi regime. The landings took place in June of 1944. By the end of August of 1944, France was once again a free republic. Germany fell by May of 1945. The United States, Britain, Canada, and Free France joined together to make it all happen beginning on that very day 71 years ago.<br />
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In no way should we glorify war. The beaches were a meat grinder of cataclysmic proportions as men fought
and died by the thousand. Forget the "good guys, bad guys" thinking.
Just leave it behind. On one side, we have the Allied forces and their
desire to remove Hitler from Europe. On the other side, we have German
men and boys who were defending a threat to their homeland. It was a
perfect picture of Hell itself, and no man or woman should have to go through it
again, ever.<br />
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But as long as evil exists in this world, we will have men and women who will stand up with their very last breath and say, "No, you will not conquer. No, you will not enslave. No, you will not oppress." We as free people must remain ready to stand between evil and the innocent, to protect with our lives the liberties given us by our Creator, and ensured by good and strong leaders.<br />
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We have to remember the horrible cost paid by those who came before, as an example for us to follow: not to die, but to fight with our very lives for freedom.<br />
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You wonder why I look with such disdain at our Big Brother culture, why I value personal liberty so highly? I look no further than my own father in law, who went ashore at the Anzio Beachhead in Italy, in the Third Wave.<br />
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The liberty they fought and shed blood for was the level little understood by many people today, who see nothing wrong with laying down their freedom for security. Folks wonder why we crotchety old farts shy away from "the new order" of things. Today is a prime example why.<br />
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God Bless the USA.Cyrus Keithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18157654104793220210noreply@blogger.com2