Gonna have to write three chapters

This weekend will have to become a writing marathan, or I'm going to lose my writing flow. Oh well. Time, oh good, good, time, where did you go?

That's the story of my life, and a song, out there somewhere (that's a song too)

TIME

Some people run, some people crawl
Some people don't even move at all
Some roads lead forward, some roads lead back
Some roads are bathed in light and some wrapped in black

Some people never get and some never give
Some people never die and some never live
Some folks treat me mean, some treat me kind
Most folks just go their way and don't pay me any mind

Time, oh, good, good time
Where did you go?
Time, oh, good, good time
Where did you go?

Sometimes I'm satisfied, sometimes I'm not
Sometimes my face is cold and sometimes it's hot
At sunset I laugh, at sunrise I cry
At midnight I'm in-between and I'm wondering why

Time, oh, good, good time
Where did you go?
Time, oh, good, good time
Where did you go?

Midnight I'm trying to figure out how to do my job, the rest of the time is more like sunrise than sunset.

A little behind

Which isn't what I got, but is what I am.

The job, the job, the job, the job.

Today I missed an important meeting with my boss, flat out missed it. Of course the reason I missed it was because I was working on a project for his boss. But, no excuses. I wonder what goes though a boss's mind when one of his employees doesn't show up. Since I'm a boss, too, at least to my employees, I should know. But, somehow I don't. Whatever that macho, huhhhhh, show up or die, well, I just don't have it.

Not that I'm Pattie push over either, but I try not to inflict pain on people who fail if I know they are trying.

Just wish I could try a little less hard and do more.

Meanwhile, back at the blog, I'm a chapter behind. So, catch up time tomorrow. Idol doesn't come on until nine, so I have a whole hour between the time I crawl home and get ready to watch it.

And these people who can stay up until two, well somebody's got to watch whatever is on then, cause it ain't me.

Go Carrie, Constantine, Bo, Anthony, Nadia, and Jess. May you be the top six. Go home, Scott.

Chapter 7

Those eyes.

How could they do that, just change all of creation in a single instant? They removed everything else from reference and became the know all, be all, end all of existence. Those eyes. Nothing else would be the same…ever. Those eyes portrayed a love never before encountered. And then, so suddenly that he gasped, they were gone.

He knew she had left, as the noise interrupting them rang of a major crisis of importance. She had thrown the blanket over him, and although not cold, it did provide some comfort as he lay naked and alone in the semidarkness. She had not been too hasty, and left him some water and the now familiar ladle. He spilled most of it on himself on the first try, and getting a refill of water from the bucket next to him was torture, but the second attempt he was more successful.

She had held up five fingers and pointed at the ladle, tipping it to her face, and then held up five fingers again. He understood. No more than one ladle of water every five minutes. He counted five minutes, to three hundred slowly, and finished off a third ladle full, with no spills this time. Any more water and soon he would have to pee, which didn’t look like something he wanted to attempt laying on the storage room floor.

Then he noticed the bowl. It was on his other side, empty, and he would have missed it had it not reflected some light on the wall he faced. She had left him a bowl, obviously, for the same purpose over which he had worried. He felt grateful. She was more than those eyes, and fiery hair, but thoughtful in ways no one had considered in his recent memory.

The solution triggered his need, and he pulled himself up enough to accomplish what was required, almost passing out from the pain. As he felt relieved, the other necessities of life started their notifications. His feet and hand would not function and sent sharp needles of pain when he tried to move them, his kidney clamored for him to roll over, his head throbbed, and even his teeth ached. At least he still had teeth, a miracle since he had not brushed them with anything except his fingernails for almost two years.

He studied his clothing, left in a pile beyond the bucket. His shirt was ruined, the act of removing it caused irreparable damage. His pants had brown streaks on the seat, reminding him he had not seen toilet paper very often and of the revolution his insides had been going through recently. His boots reflected the miles he had trudged, sometimes tied behind a vehicle or animal. Always tied, always walking. Always tired. Always a captive.

Being free of bonds reminded him that his wrists also ached, and were still raw from the last binding, now sitting on the other side of the clothes pile. He wondered if ever a day would come again when nothing hurt.

He could see better now, and studied the shelves about six feet away. The first word he caught was C O F F E E. Coffee. The Arabic letters were strange, as the coffee word was written in some kind of script. Coffee. When was the last time he had a cup, with cream and two sugars? When was the last time he had anything other than water? He could no longer remember the instances. Time and torture had blocked life before the event. He tried to remember.

He had been a dentist in the Romanian army, a conscript for two years, and settled nicely at the military complex in Constanţa, his hometown. He had a full life of satisfying work, a favorite spot at the Cazino, and a favorite card dealer, showing the proper cleavage when she reached for his wages, a view of the sea from his mother’s guest room, and a steady stream of friends and girls and fun.

Suddenly, news came from Bucuresti, where his father had moved after the divorce. His father had done something, or said something, or thought something, and now was in prison. And he was suddenly decommissioned, given boots and a rifle, and shipped off to the Congo as a UN peacekeeper.

He had not wanted to go drinking that night, and none of them had seen the mob of angry black men forming outside as they flirted with some local girls in a bar. He hadn’t flirted, but no matter.

When the shooting started and two black men were down, he, unarmed, was overwhelmed, and carried off to a corner, while his armed “friends” were beaten to death in front of him. After that, it was a nightmare of travel, beatings, and a single conversation, the only Romanian he had heard in two years.

“Your country thinks you deserted. See? You are worthless.” A letter of condemnation was thrust into his face, the response to a ransom note. He still had it in the front pocket of the now defunct trousers. The only reminder of his life before had turned out to be a rejection from the country he loved, his homeland, with a death notice as the farewell speech.

They had never even tried to find him. The sins of the father…he closed his eyes and wept, alone and naked on a pallet in the darkness, somewhere in Africa.

My kid is getting old

Today is my older son's 33rd birthday. When I was 33, we celebrated his tenth birthday, probably at some place like Chuck E Cheeze. And went to work the next day. In contrast, he is on spring break. No, he isn't a student anymore, he is a PhD college chemistry professor. However, the key word is college. When the students go on spring break (Florida for instance) the professors also go on spring break. Hmmm. Kind of gets to keep the kid part going, for life. I know he works his tail off trying to cram stuff into mush minds. But, still, he gets spring break. Like I'm missing some component of fun and will all my adult life. Oh, I had a spring break. The last one I had I spent digging ditches for my father. Not exactly the same as going to Florida. Interesting that he is spending his birthday and spring break climbing the mountain above the town I dug ditches in 36 years ago. Life goes on.

Chapter 6

They placed the broken man on a pallet in the storage room. Novas wanted to put him on the Father’s bed, but the others balked. In the end, they decided on the storage room, as it was the coolest location in the mission and close to the kitchen. As someone was often in the kitchen, they could watch him from there with the least effort.

“The clothes have to come off,” Novas declared.

“Nyeayea can do it.”

Nyeayea was the only other male in the mission, their assigned local for what could be joking called a liaison. Like the broken man, Nyeayea faced death every time he left, as his tribe was from the north and he was not accepted in the refugee-laden town. Nyeayea was also a bigger coward than the Father was, and as usual when trouble happened, he was nowhere to be found.

“We must wait for Father MacClenny.” One of the sisters waved in the direction of the departed Father. No one did anything in the small mission without everyone else knowing almost immediately. Novas hoped he would have the courage to reach the hospital and bring back what she had bidden him.

“I’ll do it.” She dared the rest to either say no or volunteer to assist. Instead, they all left. “Well, at least bring me something to put on him…anything. Make it wool; in addition to staying warm, he needs air to reach him.”

She debated what to do first, and settled for his boots, or what was left of them. They looked like military issue, but were open in front and very beat up. One lace broke as she tried to untie them. She realized the broken man had not removed them for a very long time, which meant he had not bathed. The smell confirmed her theory, as his feet had almost as great a stench as the rest of him.

As with the shoes, the shirt came apart as she tried to unbutton it. In the end, she just ripped it off his arms and shoulders. It was so threadbare; she had no hope of it ever being worn again. She wondered about people in the movies ripping the clothes off each other. Only their circumstance was usually different. She had never ripped clothes off another for that reason, or any other before.

A robe sailing though the air interrupted her. No one was in sight; they had actually thrown it around the corner without looking.

“Get me some water; I’m going to bathe him. Yes, that means you will have to bring it in here. I’ll leave his pants on.”

The water came in a bucket carried by two of her fellow nuns. They had their eyes closed, and almost spilled it when they bumped the door. They set it down and beat a hasty retreat. Novas almost laughed at their clumsy effort not to be corrupted by the sight of a half-naked man. Some cloths followed in the same manner as the robe came.

“See on evil, hear no evil, and speak no evil.” In their case, think no evil. Novas almost broke all four rules as she studied the man. Although shrunken and emaciated, his bone structure hinted at would have been described as a hunk. Maybe he could be one again. Not that she would ever care. He was nothing.

She undid his belt and zipper, and rolled him on his back, trying to give him a little dignity as she started on his pants. The sight of his back stopped her cold. He had been beaten so many times, the scars just ran into each other. Some were so old, they were white; some so new they barely had lost their scabs. All had recreated his back into a mass of ridges and valleys, where skin and flesh had been torn and not healed correctly. How could she ever cure this man? If he were half as broken mentally as he was physically, he would never be a dentist again, or anything else. How could people do this? She caught herself starting to cry.

She rolled him back over, hearing a groan from the pain she must be causing him. Suddenly, it dawned on her that he was conscious, and probably could figure out what she was doing. As if to answer, he started pulling on the seam of his pants with his one good hand. She shuddered. What if his front had been treated as badly as his back? She threw a cloth over him to cover him and allow some modesty. And to prolong the sight. Either torn or whole, it was something she had never seen in person, what a man looked like.

The pants removed, he returned to being immobile, and she began washing him. She planned to clean his head to his waist first, his legs next, and worry about the middle last. He didn’t flinch, even when she cleaned out some open wounds in his hair and on his feet.

She was trying to decide what to do next, when a cry echoed through the mission. Someone started yelling from around the corner

“Sister Mary Sarah, come quick. Outside in the town, the Father. He has been shot. They think he is dead. Please sister, we must go and see.”

Novas caught the man looking at her; his eyes met hers, and she froze.

Blogging on Sunday

Didn't get to post yesterday. So broke my tradition.

Today is my mom and father-in-law's first wedding anniversary. They now have 111 total years of marriage, when added together, but only one to each other.

Chapter 5

Father MacClenny stared at the bundle of money thrown by the local warlord for the care of the badly beaten and broken man, now removed by Sister Mary Sarah.

“Get him better in three weeks.” Tehpoe had demanded

How was he going to do that? He believed the Sister, despite her penchant for the negative. Her abilities were as beneficial as her attitude was not.

He mouthed a silent prayer for the man, his first, and for the 10,000th time, for the wayward Sister. And he envied her strength. He found that his feet were finally able to move again, and he thanked God for the return of that simple ability, shuffling toward the mission front door, still open and letting the heat in.

“Why, God, am I here?” he asked, looking up at the entrance, as if he could see God floating above in the cloudless sky. “What did I do to deserve this placement, this building, this life, and what did I ever do to deserve that woman? And why, if you wanted her to torture me daily with her tongue, why did you have to make her so incredibly beautiful?” He dropped his vision of her and focused his thoughts on the man.

The good Father above knew the answers. The one most appropriate for this occasion seemed to be the parable of the sparrow. If God kept track of the birds of the field, he certainly would keep track of the poor man now resting somewhere inside his mission. The man, probably once a great physical specimen, was now shriveled up to the size of a sparrow. Three weeks. A miracle would be if he even lived three weeks. He prayed for that too, but chocked on the words “speedy recovery.” Any recovery at this point. Then the Father chided himself for his lack of faith. “What God has joined together, let not man put asunder.” Why did he suddenly think of that?

He stuffed the money in a desk drawer in his tiny office. Stupid to have a desk, where nothing was written and visitors were so seldom, he could see the dust forming on the unused chairs facing it. His chair wasn’t dusty, as he sat in it daily, trying to figure out what he was doing and what, if anything, he should do differently. For the most part, nothing came to mind.

With a sigh, Father MacClenny pulled a couple of the US dollars out of the bundle and stuffed them in a pocket inside his robe. He left his office and the mission, heading out toward the hospital, a good half hour walk through the terror of a town, rivaling any he had seen in old movies from the US. Western towns with no law. Here, the law was more feared then anything else, including feared by him.

As always, whatever the locals were doing, it all came to a halt as he approached, and stayed a halt until well after he was past. Although the region was considered Christian, abet the mix of western religion and local pagan customs clouded the concept. Plus, the Christian influence had not been Catholic, but Methodist, protestant, their presence now long gone since the revolution started. The Catholic presence should have been long gone too. The casualties were piling up, including some from the church. Again, he wondered, why was he here? What great plan was unfolding that would make a difference though him?

His thoughts were broken by a manifestation suddenly in front of him. He tried to focus on the large black man blocking his way, but the shotgun pointed at his middle confused him momentarily. Where was he going and why?

“What you doing, preacher man? You outside your god house mixing with us heathen? Dangerous out here.”

He remembered. “Tehpoe sent me.” It wasn’t exactly the truth, but if the beaten man was ever to perform dentistry on his son, this trip was required.

The word caused the man to pause, but not lower his weapon.

“Tehpoe dudtent care what no preacher man doing. He got better things to care.”

“There is a man at the mission who is sick. He needs medication.”

“Medication?” The man broke out a smile, showing some teeth missing. “Dat drugs, man? You looking for drugs? I got something here…”

The man’s face suddenly froze white, as he lowered the shotgun and watched his own chest, where a sudden blotch of bright red was growing rapidly. Father MacClenny vaguely heard the report of a rifle, not a shotgun, or a revolver, and watched the man slump, first to his knees, then face down. He tried to focus on what was happening, for certain some yelling was taking place, but it all seemed to be going further and further away, spinning off into the darkness.

Very carefully, as not to disturb the folds of his robe or reveal the money, Father MacClenny joined the man in the dust. His last conscious feeling was of his face bouncing off his hands as he collided with the ground, and his last conscious thought was of how hard it was to keep his robes clean.

Sniffs

My second favorite American Idol girl singer bought the bullet last night. Although Lindsey didn't have the best voice, she did have the best looking nose. Not that I'm a nose guy, but hers really was quite well done.

Noticed the bottom three were all women. Jessica I thought was the worst singer, but she lived to sing badly another day. So did Mchalia. Still, my favorite girl singer, Carrie, the little country/western crooner, who knows what she is about, wasn't in danger.

Guys are doing OK. Anthony and Constitine are my favorites, with the school teacher and Bo close.

Suvivor didn't seem fair, with the winning team eating in front of the losing team. Seems like the challenges are getting nastier, maybe to keep the following. Rooting for Stephanie, the toughest girl. Thought Angie leaving was a raw deal, even if she is wierd and pierced overly.

So, two sniffs in one day.

Communication

Even in this story, with a simplistic easy to minipulate plot, I have to figure out how they can communicate, and who can, if for no other reason, than to further complicate things. If Novas and the dying man can communicate, not enough torture. However, if the good Father and the dying man can communicate, and Novas cannot, some good plot point problems. So, what can a Father and a Romanian use for communication?

Well, my only solution seems to be Latin. It is a dead language, not spoken anywhere except in Catholic services, growing more remote, and by those studying medical terms or other doctorite type stuff. Plus, Latin is the basis for Romanian. So, the good Father could speak Latin, and therefore, learn Romanian, or the dead Romanian could learn or remember Latin. This also gives Novas the opportunity to join in, both from being a Catholic and a Dr. But, not as quickly, or the plot thins.

History of the Romanian language:

The place of Romanian within the Romance language family
The Romanian territory was inhabited in ancient times by the Dacians, an Indo-European people. They were defeated by the Roman Empire in 106 and part of Dacia (Oltenia, Banat and Ardeal) became a Roman province. For the next 165 years, there is evidence of considerable Roman colonization in the area, the region being in close communication with the rest of the Roman empire. Vulgar Latin became the language of the administration and commerce.
Under the pressure of the Free Dacians and of the Goths, the Roman administration and legions were withdrawn from Dacia between 271-275. Whether the Romanians are the descendents of these people that abandoned the area and settled south of Danube or of the people that remained in Dacia is a matter of debate. For further discussion, see Origin of Romanians.
Due to its geographical isolation, Romanian was probably the first language that split and until the modern age was not influenced by other Romance languages, so the grammar is roughly similar to that of Latin, keeping declensions and the neuter gender, unlike any other Romance language.

All the dialects of Romanian are believed to have been unified in a common language until sometime between the 7th and the 10th century, before the Slavonic languages interfered with Romanian. Aromanian has very few Slavonic words. Also, the variations in the Daco-Romanian dialect (spoken throughout Romania and Moldova) are very small, which is quite remarkable, since until the Modern Era there was almost no connection between Romanians in various regions. The use of this uniform Daco-Romanian dialect extends well beyond the borders of the Romanian state: a Romanian-speaker from Moldova speaks the same language as a Romanian-speaker from Serbian Banat.

It is also noteworthy that Romanian was the only Romance language that was not under the cultural influence of the Catholic Church, instead being influenced by the Orthodox Church, Slavonic, Greek and Turkish cultures.

So, Romanian and Latin are similar so it isn't too much of a stretch. Or, I scrap the whole language thing and let them suffer without communication by speech.

Research

Decided to find some Romanian words. So, keyed in Romanian words.

If I stick to these sentences, I can stay authenic and not have to do any more research. So, will see how many of these words I can wrap into my story

Common words and phrases
English "Romanian"

Romanian (person) "Român"
hello "Salut" or "Salutare"
what's your name? "cum te cheamă?"
how are you? "ce faci?"
good-bye "La revedere"
bye "Pa"
please "Vă rog"
sorry "Îmi pare rău"
thank you "Mulţumesc"
yes "Da"
no "Nu"
I don't understand "Nu înţeleg"
Where's the bathroom? "Unde e toaleta?"
Do you speak English? "Vorbiţi engleza?"

Also, needed some nice African names. So I keyed in African names:

Kru Names
Kru Girls
Arway, Donyen - (Beautiful)
Teenesee- time does not pass
Jayplo/Japlo-- Girl name in Liberian Kru means beautiful girl.Nyonontee - Meaning: You cannot ask a woman her ways before you marry her.
Sorntee, Bloh, Wloh, Nyonweh, Tarloh
Kru Names - Boys
Nyennoh - (First born)
Borforh - you must wait
Monon-Konmlan (or Konmlan for short)-- Boy name In Liberian Kru. Means I'm the one with the luck/blessing.
Soe-Tehpoe (or Tehpoe for short)- boy name In Liberian kru. Means I'm not to be blamed / I'm not responsible for what happened.
Pennon, Togba, Teh, Jlakon, Forkay, Nimene, Boryee, Yenseloh, Odeleia, Gbwe

Mano Names
The Mano people are found in Northeastern Liberia and Guinea. Religion: Traditional religion, Christian.
Mano Boys Names
Gonlekpei - Man under the hut
Luogon - Boy born after the death of a sibling
Nyahn - 2nd born
Nyeayea - The eyes can see if it last long
Nenwon - For the sake of a child
Paye - 3rd born
Saye - 1st born
Wonbin - Vanity
Yeanue - life has come.
Zokaya - Heart should be patient

Decided on Tephoe for the bad guy and Nyeayea for the servant. Just noticed I misspelled Tephoe. Oh well, stories are written to be fixed.

Chapter 4

Novas carefully tilted the almost dead man’s head up and asked? “Water?” Even in her haste, she had managed to grab the ladle from the water bucket and spill most of it. Although it gathered some dust sitting on the ground, she didn’t think the dying man would notice. He didn’t.

He did choke a bit, so she tried to lift his head a little higher, watching him grimace at the effort. Although much taller than she was, he felt very light, as if all of his bones were filled with air. He finished the ladle and said, “Mulţumesc.” Thank you, she decided.

It was useless to think he would be able to stand, so she waved at the other sisters, all hanging back by the mission entrance, some still inside the door. “Please, come help me get him out of the sun. He cannot walk.”

“You are not to touch him,” Father MacClenny pronounced, as if some great insight. “You heard Tehpoe’s direction. He is not to be touched by any nun.”

“Father, we heard the same conversation. He is not to touch any nun or he dies. He is not to leave the compound or he dies. He is not to argue, voice displeasure, interrupt conversation, or he dies. He is at the bottom of the order, even less important than I am.”

She stood and glared at him, motioning for the others, although none had moved. “However, you know what Tehpoe meant by touching nuns, and it had nothing to do with caring for the dying. Besides, no direction was given to me. I can touch him. And so can the rest.”

She paused, turned to the others, and yelled, “Get over here!” They suddenly found their feet and all six came, some even in a trot.

“What are you planning to do with him?” the Father asked.

“Get him out of the sun, for starters. Look at his left hand, both his feet, they are broken. Even I can tell that. They need to be reset.”

“And you are going to do this?”

“Unless you want to. But I don’t remember you mentioning medical school.”

“You are a dentist. He needs to go to the hospital.”

Novas ignored him and directed the women on how to lift the dying man. The six of them carefully, gently, and easily picked him up, as if they were a pallet, locked hands under his body, and started for the mission doorway.

Watching them go, Novas gave the unmoved Father a last shot. “He leaves, he dies. So the hospital is probably not a good idea. I went to medical school; I can set bones. You got any better ideas?”

“If he stays here, you are responsible for him.”

“Fine, Father. I’m responsible. Maybe if he lives, he can help me do what Tehpoe wants, but he has to live first.

“Tehpoe said three weeks.”

“He has a broken hand. He isn’t going to revive, cure all of his ills, repair his bones, and be a dentist in three weeks. Maybe not even in three years.”

“What ills?” the Father asked.

“He has dysentery, among other things.”

“And you know this without examining him?”

“And so would you. You don’t have to be a doctor to smell dysentery.”

“His right hand was fine. Untouched. Tehpoe said so.” Father MacClenny was as unmovable in conversation as he was physically, not even attempting any assistance of the dying man.

“You ever try being a dentist with one hand?”

Novas spun and started away.

“He is your responsibility and you have three weeks to prepare him for Tehpoe’s son. Three weeks.”

“You can help, Father,” she shot over her shoulder.

“How?”

She turned and faced him. “You can walk to the hospital and get a doctor. Maybe one will come if they aren’t all buried in bodies. If not, you can pick up some Ipecacuanha and Arsenicum; they should have gallons of each, and some linseed tea. We are about out of all three anyway. And at least three splints, two for feet and one for hands. Unless you want me to go.”

She had him on the last sentence. None of the nuns was allowed in town.

“I can send Nyeayea.”

“And he is going to know what Ipecacuanha and Arsenicum are and get it right, if he even survives the trip? You remember the last time you sent him somewhere. Father, they won’t touch you. Have a little backbone.”

“And what did I just do with Tehpoe?”

“I think you said, ‘Good morning, sir’ and ‘Go away, please.’ Pretty tough on the last sentence, I do admit.” She caught his responding glare. “I know. Hail, Mary; Hail, Mary; Hail Mary.”

She turned and left him, noticing that he finally did something. He picked up the money.

Chapter 3

He was alive.

The fall awoke him, or rather the landing did. No pain, but it was coming. He wondered how many more broken bones he now had, and how far he had fallen. He tried a breath and thanked the unknown for not having a cold.

First order of business, work a gap in the duct tape covering his mouth. He found the weakest spot and jammed his tongue repeatedly against it until he had an opening. Now, when they pinched his nose, he could still breathe. It meant acting as if he couldn’t breathe, but he had become quite adept. His tongue hurt, so he began to have more hope about the fall. He could still feel pain, and didn’t feel any…well, new pain.

Next, check for ability to move. His hands were tied behind him. His feet were tied together and somehow connected to his hands. Not good. No way to escape or even move. He tested the bindings. No hope of untying them.

Last, try to figure out where he was. He cracked open the eye closest to the ground and immediately noticed the tire. Not good. If he rotated his butt just when the tire started to move, he might be able to get his body in between it and its partner tire on the other side, and avoid being run over. Or, he might not.

Voices. Male. Unknown language, but all of them were. Wait...English…American? No. Very melodic. British English, maybe. He had been to Britain once, but never to America, the land of the free, and home of the fat and lazy.

The answer came in a language tone familiar to him. It was English too, but far more tortured. He heard the word, “Dentist.” Him? He knew the word. He was a dentist, or was one before the…He stopped himself. No time for reflection.

One voice was at his feet, talking away from him. The other voice from above him, he recognized as the leader of his captors, the latest ones anyway. He was amazed the voice at his feet was not subjecting itself to the voice of the leader. Another sale? He had been sold three times now, the most recent only a few weeks ago. Or was it a few months ago now? He didn’t know.

Thunk!

Something landed next to his face. He tried opening his lower eye again. Money. US dollars in a bundle. It was a sale. But the money came from above, from the pickup bed, which he could just make out at the peripheral end of his vision. He and the money had come from the same place. Not the usual method of a sale.

The negotiations were not over. His former captor, despite handing over him and the money, was hurling directions at the recipient, who was silent. Then the recipient spoke.

“Please leave, now.”

He didn’t know what the words meant, but they were both gentle and firm. Despite the yelling and directions, the recipient didn’t back down, or subject himself. Equals?

The tires started to move. He readied himself, not wanting to give away any indication about being awake, but not wanting to be run over either. However, the tires moved away and he watched them disappear from his vision into a fog. He realized his vision was limited to about 100 meters. Things were present beyond his vision; he simply couldn’t see them. He knew no fog existed in the part of the world he was in. Fog only existed during his one week in London.

He wondered if the rest of his vision would come back. For that matter, he wondered if he could ever breathe normally again, if the broken bones in various places of his body would heal, if the cuts, infections, bruises, dysentery, and so on, would ever again be replaced with normal health. He wondered…

His wondering was disrupted. Someone tugged at the tape, carefully working it free. Not yanking it as was usual. He could breathe easily again. Next, his bindings were coming off. Impossible, but true. First, his hands, then his feet, the knots worked until the bindings were loose, then removed altogether. He was free!

Someone turned him from his side onto his back. Gentle hands, not exerting any more pressure than necessary. A woman’s hands. He was certain.

Now on his back, he opened his eyes and tried to focus on whoever was touching him so carefully.
All of the teachings of his youth came crashing down upon him. All of the “No, God, no Jesus, no church, all a hoax” teachings were lost in a single second. No wonder the pain was so subdued. He was dead. He almost uttered an oath, but caught himself. Not a good time to do that.

He gazed up at her; she was just like the carvings on the mantles and table centerpieces from back home. Dressed in an all white flowing robe with even her head covered. She had fiery red hair peeking out from under the cover. And the softest looking, creamy white skin, not possible for any living person to have in the desert environment. And the greenest eyes he had ever seen, well beyond any he could imagine. With a bright light framing her face, she was a vision and he knew he was dead.

His first encounter ever, he was looking up at the face of an angel.

Italy - the food country

I'm listening to an audio book, The Broker, which mostly takes place in Italy. As Gresham does his detail, this book focuses on the language and the food. He makes even the mondane life in Italy sound like so much more fun than any other, just from the effort they put into eating.

One of my favorite movies, Romance of course, is Only You, where the Italian scenery and the discussion of the dinners almost steal the show from the cute couple. If only they could pronounce the food.

In Under the Tuscan Sun, cooking is one of the things Diane Lane conquers in her villa, and harvesting olives appears to be her other source of income.

The Tour of Italy at the Olive Garden is probably my favorite "canned" menu item. So, I'm easy.

I would love to go to Italy and taste the food, if only they didn't all smoke.

Nice People

As I ponder some of the staff who I inherited from the former manager, now happily lounging in Cancum, I remember an article I read years ago. It was about hiring a specialist trying to revive a company's sagging customer service. The specialist didn't recommend more training, better ads, improved accomodations, or any of the frills that customer orientated companies try to use to lure in each other's customers. Instead, he recommended simply taking the employees to lunch at a quality sit down resturant. The waiter was a part of the process of determining which employees to keep, the role being slow and clumsy.

Those employees who identifed with or showed sympathy to the struggling waiter, the specialist recommended keeping. Those employees who were short with the waiter, the specialist recommended either reassigning or firing. The final analysis was simple. Rather than the expensive props being wasted by bad customer service, the company should focus on hiring nice people. A good way to determine nice people was to observe how they treated a waiter struggling with the orders.

Seemed like a simple idea, but one I wish one or more of the poeple who held my position before me had tried. As I review applications for a new opening, I wish they would identify the applicant as being nice or otherwise. One can always learn systems, or programs, or accounting. Can one learn to be nice? I wonder.

KaBoom

Our beloved? mountain blew up again today. Nothing like in 1980, when we lived in Longview and stepped out after church to see Mt. St. Helens shove a plume 60,000 feet straight up right in front of us. That day people died, car filters clogged, trees fell like dominos, the river flooded the valley with ash and trees. One of our friends had to dig down to the top of his home to salvage what little he could inside up through the roof. Those days we wondered if anything would be left, including our town.

Now it makes the news, but it isn't the same. We are used to the mountain puffing, even the 36,000 feet it managed today. Choppers hovered right over the magma and took photos. Nobody got hurt, no cars died, no trees fell, no rivers flooded. Ah nature, tame again.

So, this time we were lucky.

Chapter 2

The days seemed endless, melting one into another, the heat growing more oppressive. By evening, the effort to sanitize the windowless hut between each patient was becoming way too much to handle. She found herself cutting corners, not wiping everything down, not replacing the coverings if she knew no one hat touched them, not caring...

When she first arrived, Novas spent Sundays - the small amount of free time allowed her between chores, meals, and morning and evening mass – wandering through the neighborhood outside of the mission.

The entrance fronted a small town, now beyond bursting with refugees, and faced the hospital about a half mile away, as improbably named as was her dentist office. Novas did not ever attempt to leave through the front gate alone. Too many kidnappings and missing persons.
However, she found a small back gate, nestled in the 12 foot wall, and from the outside hidden behind one of the actual groups of tall living trees still providing a small amount of afternoon shade to the mission.

The gate provided freedom and a touch of clandestine operations as she snuck through it when everyone else was in Sunday afternoon prayer. The well-spaced dwellings were populated with locals, who were not caught up in the terror and profit from those pouring in from across the border.

But now the Sunday excursions turned into the Sunday afternoon naps, as fatigue forced Novas to conserve her strength, and to attempt to slip away from her life, drifting in and out of a hot, hazy stupor, interrupted only by the dinner bell.

Until she was caught.

“Sister Mary Sarah!”

Who else would be outside her door?

“Yes, Father.”

“May I enter?”

At least he asked. Novas napped fully dressed and only had to open the door and step aside to let her tormentor into her tiny room.

“Why are you not in prayer?”

“Sunday afternoon is our only free time. Prayer is optional. You have said so.”

“And so it was when you were sneaking out. At least then you were getting proper exercise and seeing God’s creation.”

If dried up vegetation and dead and dying animals were God’s creation, so she was seeing it. The spring rains had long since been forgotten.

“I’m worn out, Father. I need rest.”

“You have worn out more than yourself here, with your laziness and impertinence. Do you remember why you were sent here?”

“I was sent here to shut me up. And to allow a molesting Father more freedom than I have.”

“It was never substantiated that he was molesting you, only that you attacked him and stabbed him with a pencil.”

“A pencil I was writing with on my bed in my room.”

“That was never substantiated.”

“Substantiated that I stabbed him in his testicle with a pencil, but not that I only used the pencil in my room and that he was on top of me.”

“He lost his testicle.”

“He is a priest. He is celebrate. What does he need a testicle for?”

“And you were naked.”

“I was naked on my bed in my room. Are you ever naked?”

“Enough, any more disrespect and I will…”

“You will what? Send me somewhere worse? And where would that be?”

“You could be excommunicated for your insolence against God. You were warned of that.”

They were almost nose-to-nose. Novas realized just how short the Father stood, as his nose was barely above hers.

“So what?”

“You will die and spend eternity in hell.”

“I would consider hell an upgrade to my current life situation.”

“Sister Mary Sarah, you will kneel and recite ‘Hail Mary’ 200 times for speaking such.”

Novas spun away, snapped out, “Hail Mary 200 times,” and flung herself on the bed. She could feel the sobs coming and held her breath, hoping the Father would leave before she lost it. Instead, she heard a sound very much out of place for Sunday, the sound of a caravan of vehicles approaching the mission.

Both forgetting themselves, they shared the view of the courtyard below out of the small circular window, providing the only light to the room. A battered pickup appeared, followed by four equally battered cars. The pickup spun around and backed just inside the mission entrance. Two men jumped out, let down the tailgate, and dropped something to the ground. A body.

Chapter 1

Novas was exhausted. Not just from the heat, the work, and the life threatening conditions around her, but from the lifelong battle with herself. Was it possible to love God and hate oneself? She knew tons of Bible verses that consistently spoke on that subject. "Love your neighbor as yourself" came to mind. To love one's neighbor, one had to love oneself first. It wasn't a weighted concept, love neighbor first or more or any such thing. It was consistent, direct, uncompromising. Everything in life was consistent, direct, and uncompromising in the African mission she worked in. It was exhausting just thinking about it.

Her day started as always. Get up at 4:30. Pray for an hour. Eat the morning gruel at 6:00. Meet the long line of ragged and starving refugees at 7:00. Men first, women second, children, maybe. Wouldn't even be women if most of the men weren't too proud to have a white female touch their faces. And worse, look inside their mouths. And even more worse, if possible, tell them anything. As she rested her hands in soon-to-be-cold dishwater, she thought about her first "customer" of the day.

"He doesn't want you to touch him outside of his mouth."

The interpreter probably edited out the "If you touch me, I'll slit your throat" part. She didn't trust the interpreter any more than she did the gaunt, balding man, looking fifty, probably thirty if even, sitting in her dentist chair and glaring up at her.

"If I can't touch him, how can I look at his teeth, if he even has any?" she snapped back.

More conversation. Then, "That's your problem."

Well, at least he had teeth, although one less after she yanked it. Didn't have to use any antiseptic; the men would withstand a tooth pulled without even jerking away in pain. How could they do that? She knew the answer. Even what little she could see of him, arms, face, neck, he was covered with scars. Someone had tried to slit his throat, probably more than once. Seemed to be one of the favorite forms of recreation among those male in this part of the world.

She gave him the obligatory toothbrush and a tube of Crest, the traveling size. Not that he would ever use it. She tried to show him how to clean his teeth, but failed as usual. Sucking on the brush, he grabbed the Crest and departed without comment, blood still trailing out of the corner of his mouth.

“Sister Mary Sarah!”

The only thing Novas hated more than herself was her name. And, perhaps the Father Superior addressing her. Not that he would ever know she called him that in her mind. She almost giggled, despite herself, exhaustion and hate notwithstanding.

“Yes, Father MacClenny?”

“The dishes…now.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize…I’m exhausted.”

Can’t you tell, you old fart?

“Sister Mary Sarah, you were almost sleeping in the sink. Where is your sense of responsibility? Being a doctor doesn’t absolve you from your chores. Everyone shares equally.”

Yeah, everyone…everyone, but you.

Sarah dried her cold hands and plopped into a nearby kitchen chair. “Please, Father. Just allow me a few minutes. I need to gather myself back together. This day has been so very hard to get through.”

“And what is harder, viewing teeth or washing the dishes? Each task is the same under the Lord’s eyes.”

“Father, the dishes aren’t dying while you wash them.”

Just deserts

OK, I can't spell. Deserter. Better? He was drafted, and when his father was arrested, his career as a dentist switched to one of a grunt. Since he didn't want to kill people, he deserted, sort of. As it happened in Africa, he was captured by a warlord and given to the mission as an option, the other being strung up. If he leaves the mission, he dies. If he touches the nuns, he dies. She, on the other hand, was molested as a child and does not want anything to do with anyone male. Perfect setting for a romance.

So, who has a draft?
Since the mid-1990s, though, Belgium, France, Hungary, the Netherlands, Portugal and Spain have ended the draft. The Czech Republic, Italy, Latvia, Romania, the Slovak Republic and Slovenia plan to phase it out within the next several years. Romania looks good.

So, what is Romania doing?
Romania's Parliament declared in 2001 that Romanian participation in peacekeeping, humanitarian, and counterterrorism operations was a major goal of Romanian security and defense policy. Romania's active participation in multilateral operations began long before 2001. Following the end of the Cold War, its first overseas deployment was in 1991 when a field hospital gave support to Operation Desert Storm.

Romania also participates in NATO peacekeeping operations in Bosnia and Kosovo, as well as the Organization for Security and Corporation in Europe (OSCE) observer mission in Macedonia. It has deployed peacekeeping troops and observers to the UN peacekeeping operation in Ethiopia and Eritrea (UNMEE) and the UN Observation Mission in the Congo (MOUNC). All told, Romania currently has approximately 800 personnel deployed worldwide in peacekeeping and humanitarian operations.

Aha, he gets stuck with some nice troops in Congo and he splits, just to end up in a Liberian warlord's prison. Cool.

Location, Location, Location

The story is about a girl, Novas, and her life as a Catholic Nun. The first part is an introduction to where she currently is, in a refugee camp in Africa. Like in a mission or something.

To continue my effort at writing the story, I needed a place for the teeth to take place. So, I snooped in handy, dandy, Google and in ten seconds had a very nice Catholic Mission in Africa. I didn't know whether or not such a concept of a mission even still occured. Of course I won't use the name and will populate with nuns and a father, but it is a start. Especially the medical attention part.

Buduburam Liberian Refugee Camp (Outside Accra)-SMA lay missionaries from the French, Dutch and American Provinces serve at the refugee camp. Currently they provide medical care, crafts projects, projects for women, occupational therapy for children and adults with disabilities, projects for deaf children, and more. They minister to and assist the Liberian refugees in obtaining necessary medical attention.

So, I have a setting. Next, find an Eastern European country with ties to Africa and a draft. This is a romance, so what would be better than a romance between a nun and an Eastern European diserter.

Tuesday

Monday is go back to work day, for those lucky enough not to work weekends too. What is Tuesday? It's never a holiday, unless Christmas or Veterans Days cycles there. It is too far gone from the weekend to still be basking in the after glow, like what can almost work for Monday. It's way too far from the next weekend to be looking forward to anything. Can't even think of good subjects on Tuesday. Maybe I should go shopping on Tuesday, and save that much time from the weekends. It is just a day to get past. So, I guess I have almost succeeded, as in a couple of hours it will go away, until next week. And, if I'm lucky, my brain will return by tomorrow.