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X Tales and Other Stories

X Tales and Other Stories

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X Tales and Other Stories

Longitud:
112 página
1 hora
Editorial:
Publicado:
Jun 19, 2016
ISBN:
9780914215349
Formato:
Libro

Descripción

X Tales, like sox in a drawer, no two alike, new from old legends, superstitions, yarns, secular to preserve our freedom.

A dozen tales and other stories:
Where do you go in winter, ho-ho-ho, JOHNNY CROW.
No proof yet exobiology exists, we cannot but believe in life among the STAR GARDENS.
Strings of colored lights twinkling at year's end are decoration, hope and other
illumination, CHRISTMAS LIGHTS.
Our celebrations pale compared to memory, CHRISTMASES OF YORE.
Not cold enough in Los Angeles to freeze a popsicle, we get many splendored treats from RAINBOW MAN.
The day three kings meandered to the manger is, for those of us not ready for the party in
December, THE PROCRASTINATOR’S CHRISTMAS.
He wanted a nice holiday, but had his own TOMMY'S CHRISTMAS.
Paxx llaxxx el diaxxx is THE BELL.
Better to shoulder the weight and travel with good grace through THE LONGEST NIGHT.
We would linger in this world we love so well, AYE.
A blue bird sings regardless, the SCRUB JAY.
The company of a good book and the GIFT OF THE LIBRARY.
You are free to FOLLOW THE DRINKING GOURD.

For the English-speaking from Anguilla to Wales, Australia, New Zealand and the
Christmas Islanders, for solstice revelers in Guam, Guantanamo, Governor's Island and Manhattan, Brits, Scots, Irish and Americans and surely on Antarctica's Scott Base, McMurdo where the winter night is longest need a tale for the turning of the season. These are for you.

Editorial:
Publicado:
Jun 19, 2016
ISBN:
9780914215349
Formato:
Libro

Sobre el autor

Thank you Conde Nast, and Vanity Fair, for hours of entertainment – I am impelled to interview myself in the manner of your “My Stuff” page: Favorite art: My own. I don't put up other work in my home, can't find an affordable Vuillard, but can afford Mexican tin Xmas ornaments from Olvera Street, and hang packages of new batteries, printer ink cartridges where I can find them. Sheets: Don't count on sharing my 500 count red or blue Pima or Egyptian cotton white sheets keep me up nights as they reflect light and I am a morning person, though I may no be happy in the morning. The thousand count fancy sheets seem to be white only, or a pissy sort of yellow. Luggage: One black canvas carry-on. You won't catch me schlepping a suitcase or begging a busy faccino in Naples to drag my stuff around. Pet: Always, and as many as possible, including visiting sparrows, squirrels, crows. Allowed in the house, the tomcat Yinyang, he leaves after breakfast, the Trachemys scripta elegans Bodicaea. Favorite Flower: Fragrant yellow flowering tillandsias from the Argentine jungle. Cattleya, Copa de Oro, the tiny white blooms that become loquats, a member of the rose family. Drink: Chateau-Neuf-du-Pape, Ace pear hard cider. Dessert: Berries and frozen yogurt. Any oogie sweet stuff like dulce de leche. How about this: Dulce de Batata a la Vainilla. Snack: Bread. Coffee table book: My coffee table groans under the weight of a few dozen paperbacks, back issues of Archaeology, American Cinematographer, Funny Times, New Yorker, Los Angeles Times. TV shows: Canceled ones like “Firefly,” “Wonderfalls,” Star Treks TNG and Voyager, “Person of Interest,” “Doc Martin” the Italian cop thriller shot in “Catania,” “Night and Fog” Finnish and Swedish detective shows on the MHZ network. Jeans: Meh. Cargoes are more useful. Underwear: Geez. Who Wants to Know? Cotton from China, or engineered like the Eiffel Tower from Bullock's of Pasadena now Macy's lingerie department. Watch: Seiko. Went to the moon, because Bulova's tuning fork mechanism couldn't function in zero gravity or something. T-shirt: No, don't like the short sleeves, unless it's hemp or silk. And why wear advertisements on your chest. Pay me if you want me to be your billboard/sandwich man/sign twirler. Day bag: A photographer's vest, pockets, backpack. Looks like going fishing. Accessories: Reflective ribbon to not get run over by a car when I walk my dog and buttons shaped like leaves. One of those paper pith helmet design hats, there's lots of sunshine in Los Angeles, high UV. Designers: Anyone whose clothes don't have strings hanging off buttons that drop away to be lost forever, scratchy labels at the back of the neck. Boutique: Garment District stalls, El Mercadito booths. Shopping Mecca: 99-cent store, as Ellen Degeneres said, there are interesting gifts there.. Boots: Never in Los Angeles. Galoshes in NYC or waders. Shoes & Sneakers: NB, love to see people wearing fluorescent color shoes, but white tennies look like they are wearing calabashes on their feet. Huaraches are likely the most comfortable leather shoes. Bag: Shopping, Trader Joe's canvas. Once upon a time there were useful string bags used for produce in France and Italy. Easy to carry when empty, just a wad of knotted monofilament. Inspirations: Pizza sauce in pasta. Beats marinara. What inspires: Helpful not to wait till the spirit moves. The mind has inertia. Looking around at animals, plants, the sky and its clouds, streets, other people's hobbies, clever gizmos like the Mouli cheese grater. Extravagances: Toys for the animals. Lots of clothes, like the Flaubert bourgeois who only wash huge piles of them once a year. Favorite place: Your place, my place, anyplace. Los Angeles, New York, Paris, Pasadena. Favorite charity: Myself, po' mouth. I consider the Lotto a charity founded to support education and then filched awry by politicoes, a better idea is throwing change in schoolyards. If I were to win a Lotto, I would set up a foundation to provide a ukulele and four lessons from Flea's Silverlake Conservatory of Music to the Los Angeles police, Sheriff's deputies, and firefighters, to ensure that when they are hurt on the job, they will have a hobby other than working out at the gym. Favorite movie: Other than “Casablanca” and “African Queen,” almost anything with Nic Cage, John Malkovich, Meryl Streep, Ben Stiller, Isabelle Huppert, Gerard Depardieu, actors who choose their roles, the Queen's Dames like Dench and Mirren. Hotel: The Pennsylvania, NYC. Favorite color: Rainbow. Fashion idol: Tesla Model S, Bertin bikes. Website: Science Daily, AFP, the Sun, Antarctica's news. Song in head: Let me sing it to you so it stays in yours. Na na na Naaaah. Got a million of them. Beauty products: Glycerine, cuticle buffer, washcloth. But this is now, and has changed in the last few days. It may change tomorrow. If it doesn't, you'll know I'm dead. Hope you enjoy my tales, stories, other work. Look me up on the web. There is only one Aida Pavletich. More stories to come. ###


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X Tales and Other Stories - Aida Pavletich

X TALES AND OTHER STORIES

Aida Pavletich

Published by De Nada Press Los Angeles at Smashwords

Copyright 2016 Aida Pavletich

All rights reserved.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold

or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person,

please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did

not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your

favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard

work of this author.

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

Where do you go in winter, ho-ho-ho, JOHNNY CROW.

No proof to date exobiology exists, but believe in life among the STAR GARDENS.

Strings of colored lights twinkling at year's end are illumination, CHRISTMAS LIGHTS.

Our celebrations pale compared to CHRISTMASES OF YORE.

Not cold enough in Los Angeles to freeze a Popsicle, many splendored treats from RAINBOW MAN.

The day three kings meandered to the manger for the rest of us not ready for the party in December is THE PROCRASTINATOR’S CHRISTMAS.

He wanted a nice holiday, but got his own TOMMY'S CHRISTMAS.

Paxx llaxxx el diaxxx is THE BELL.

Better to shoulder the weight and travel with good grace through THE LONGEST NIGHT.

We would linger in this world we love so well, AYE.

A blue bird sings regardless, the SCRUB JAY.

The company of a good book and the GIFT OF THE LIBRARY.

You have freedom, FOLLOW THE DRINKING GOURD.

TWAIN.

AEOLIAN HARP.

REMEMBERED.

SNOW WHITE AT 50.

ENDNOTE.

PROLOGUE

These are X Tales for the solstice, Monday June 20, UTC 22:34 2016. Minus eight hours for Los Angeles where some of them are set and a half year away from chilly weather north of the equator. On that day in the southern hemisphere, winter comes to the Falkland Islands, New Zealand, Fiji, Tasmania, Australia and the South Pole stations in Antarctica where English also speaks, and tales are meant to be told, even though holidays stay put, and south of the equator we are tasked with creating our own X-days. For the English-speaking from Anguilla to Wales, Australia, New Zealand, the Christmas Islands, Guam, Guantanamo, Governor's Island and Manhattan, Irish, Americans and surely others on Antarctica's Scott Base, McMurdo where the winter night is longest, here are tales for you.

X Tales, like sox in a drawer, no two alike, some rattle like toys when read out loud. A dozen and a few other stories not so for solstices, a whit darker. Though they draw from legends, stories, superstitions, yarns, X Tales are secular to preserve our freedom.

XXX

Where do you go in the winter, ho-ho-ho,

JOHNNY CROW

I am a crow and creature of the city lacking better place to go. High and low I fly the clouds and madding crowds go by. I may look sly to you but my familiars think I'm pretty. When the browning leaves have stopped their fall I fly above your balcony and clack my darkling beak. I call you out, so shoo me shoo me, nothing to do me. The lilting song that looks and sounds to you like I'm regurgitating, my crownies find the tune ingratiating. Here I sit atop a lamppost as the winter winds begin to blow the year is old your fingers feel the cold just like my feet though you are cozy and turn up the heat. A day now comes to show goodwill towards me and let me tell you why a bit of charity would be so sweet. You owe it to the crow who does you favors you don’t know.

Give me something you can spare, and let me quote you an old air from Brits who knew me well:

Some say he is black, but I say he’s bonny. Fairest of the fair is my handsome winsome Johnny. I have a rainbow sheen on flash obsidian wings and matching beak and feet. If you be mindful of forgotten lore, I was misquoted on that bust of Pallas or Maria Callas saying evermore or did you snore or throw the apple core, the Poe was in his cups and thence my reputation as sententious bore. O contraire!

A walnut cracked in two, not much I ask of you from the lamp post here on high you hear my rasping bragging cry my shiny feathers flashing gold and blue I search the good hearts among you I know them by their kindness, I see them by their hats, friends of my enemies the cats. Perhaps a peanut you may have for me who's waiting up above, among yourselves you call it love or doubt it, either way you make a fuss about it. What was the story I was telling you, of Solstice wintertime the shortest day, the longest night, the night is black like me, a night of mystery you see, though interesting things may hap by night don’t you agree?

On December twenty-two unbeknownst to you I have a job to do, far out of sight of you. On that darky night I join my shadowy companions on a fly by night reunion. Where do we go by night so dark we are invisible as all crows are black by night. I know you’d like to know and as a favor I will tell you that we gather on the edge of the horizon where awhile the murky air is melding into twilight. There December’s empty branches snag the sun, and with crows feet as when you smile we clutch the golden coin and pull with all our might. Heave crow! Heave crow! Ho ho ho and away we go! Until the sun flies free and soars the skies again. The date: December 22. You may not know so busy going getting coming as are you in winter, till you see the days grow longer on December 25, and then you comprehend and celebrate, without a nod to us, tho we’re the crows who lifted your persimmon sun up to the winter elephantic gray of sky. So give a bit of wassail cheer for us, philanthopus. Come show goodwill toward we the least them, the fowl and beast of them. We bring you back the sun, I say it’s true and since you cannot see by night how can you say it’s nought!

Winter Solstice 2006

XXX

No proof to date exobiology exists, but we cannot but believe in life among the

STAR GARDENS

On the lip of Cabeus in the year 2035 the hydroponic facility lights were dimmed below the buttressed arches built like the cathedral at Beauvais, and the cupola based on the Vatican dome. Its hexagonal walls were rimed with frost. Exohorticulture station commander Ana Burbank paced along the trays of cinders. The lunar gardens were vast, yet decidedly sterile. Privately, the Delhi botanist Rabi called the place Chernobyl. The Russian Yuri said it was Bhopal. An hour earlier they sat with cups of cold kafu in the galley after the devastating news arrived. Considering the failure of the mission, the crew was called home. Word came through Houston to shut down the Feoktisov Station. Ana would land at Star City outside Moscow for debriefing. Earth rose on the horizon in its late December phase, approaching the farthest point in the 23° 26' axial tilt of its yearly journey around the sun. Earthrise showed midwinter at her home as snows dusted the North and the southern hemisphere rotated lushly green below.

How easy it seemed when Cady Coleman grew her seeds, stalk and roots heading in the same direction, aboard the Columbia on STS 93. In the moon's one-sixth earth gravity, surely the thale cress, Arabidopsis thaliana, developed for space experiments and modified with a pacific jellyfish gene to show stress as bioluminescence, would grow. With its five week life cycle the mustard plant would be their first moon-grown relish. Yet the thread like stem glowed briefly and died. She inspected the final yards of damp vermiculite and viewed her last failed experiment. Her lentil sprouts raised one cotyledon, then shriveled. Lentils, the ancient reliable staple taken by Pharaohs to the underworld, would not grow here. She unlocked and opened her visor. No need for headgear, there was nothing to contaminate

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