Below are the 20 most recent journal entries recorded in moragpippin's LiveJournal:

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Friday, October 24th, 2008
6:26 am	My 20th Wedding Anniversary Tattoo is Finally Finished! Please go to http://moragmckendrickpippin.blogspot.com/ for photos. (Comment on this)
Thursday, July 10th, 2008
6:35 pm	The Princelings Turn 4! For photos go to http://moragmckendrickpippin.blogspot.com/ (Comment on this)
Thursday, May 8th, 2008
7:45 pm	Mother's Day For photo of my mom go to http://moragmckendrickpippin.blogspot.com/ Thirteen Quotes in Honor of Mother's Day 1) A man's work is from sun to sun, but a mother's work is never done. ~Author Unknown 2) Who fed me from her gentle breast And hushed me in her arms to rest, And on my cheek sweet kisses prest? My Mother. ~Anne Taylor 3) There is only one pretty child in the world, and every mother has it. ~Chinese Proverb 4) The real religion of the world comes from women much more than from men--from mothers most of all, who carry the key of our souls in their bosoms. ~Oliver Wendell Holmes 5) God could not be everywhere and therefore he made mothers. ~Jewish Proverb 6) When you are a mother, you are never really alone in your thoughts. A mother always has to think twice, once for herself and once for her child. ~Sophia Loren 7) The moment a child is born, the mother is also born. She never existed before. The woman existed, but the mother, never. A mother is something absolutely new. ~Rajneesh 8) All mothers are working mothers. ~Author Unknown 9) Hundreds of dewdrops to greet the dawn, Hundreds of bees in the purple clover, Hundreds of butterflies on the lawn, But only one mother the wide world over. ~George Cooper 10) It would seem that something which means poverty, disorder and violence every single day should be avoided entirely, but the desire to beget children is a natural urge. ~Phyllis Diller 11) Women's Liberation is just a lot of foolishness. It's the men who are discriminated against. They can't bear children. And no one's likely to do anything about that. ~Golda Meir 12) Mother--that was the bank where we deposited all our hurts and worries. ~T. DeWitt Talmage 13) All women become like their mothers. That is their tragedy. No man does. That's his. ~Oscar Wilde (Comment on this)
Monday, April 21st, 2008
7:49 am	I Was an Extra on LOST! Monday, April 14, 2008 LOST! For photo go to http://moragmckendrickpippin.blogspot.com/ I'm going to be an extra on LOST the movie! How fabulous! Can hardly believe it. 5am call tomorrow morning! (1 Comment |Comment on this)
Friday, March 21st, 2008
1:46 pm	THE FREELOADER For photos please go to http://moragmckendrickpippin.blogspot.com/ Part Five THE FREELOADER "Sweet, darling babies. Who are the most precious bundles of love? Why these sweet little honey-babies are! These are the dearest pets ever!" Mephistopheles Cat and Nutmeg Cat luxuriated in the radiance that was Mama's loving voice as she made up the huge king-size bed. Mama could always be depended upon to recognize a Cat's true worth. The great orangey, white fluff ball that was Mephistopheles lounged on the window seat which overlooked the garden and deck. His sister, the lithe tabby, Nutmeg, had laid claim to a corner of the comforter still on the floor. "Aren't these the best fur babies a Mama could have?!" Mama continued to coo as she tugged the comforter up - or tried to. "Nut-Nut sweetie, may I have the cover please?" Mama gently lifted her kitty from the bedding and finished her morning chore. Lifting her gaze, Mama noticed Mephistopheles’ nose pressed to the glass, body rigid, and the fur along his back erect. His sister joined him, making growling noises in her throat. Curious, Mama wandered over to the window. "Why look at this! And whose beautiful Himalayan kitty are you?" Mama was quite surprised to see a long haired, seal point Siamese reposing on her deck regarding her through lazy cobalt eyes. "Oh the poor wee thing! His ribs are showing. This skinny kitty must be starving. We must feed him at once babies. My sweet darlings wouldn't mind sharing their food would they?" "Meeoow," objected King Cat. "Mama that is a Freeloader! He's been begging from the neighbors for weeks. Papa even chased him from inside the garage the other day. He's been getting along just fine, so please don't encourage him. Besides, he's bound to be flea ridden, mite infested, and mangy." "Meeoow," chimed in Nutmeg Cat. "Of course I mind sharing my sustenance Mama! He's perfectly capable of catching a mouse or - or, a skunk or something. I will not share my tuna or chicken hearts with anybody." "Don't bet on it! Remember I'm King Cat and I will eat anything I choose." Mephistopheles looked his sister straight in the eye and swished his tail. "I seem to recall you in Mama and Papa's bad graces the other evening when you climbed up the kitchen counter to attack the box of Pounce," Nutmeg reminded him slyly. "The point is I ate a good many of them - as many as I chose as a matter of fact," he retorted rather proudly. "You weren't very quick for a Cat, Bumble Butt! You were caught before you could clear the scene and disdainfully deny it!" Nutmeg's green eyes sparkled as she crowed with pleasure. This was a sore spot indeed, but before Mephistopheles could reply, a howl from outside captured his attention. The Freeloader was emboldened by Mama's sweet voice and was now pacing and wailing in anticipation of some attention, which could mean a nibble or two. "Of course my love kittens will share their food with you, you poor ravenous darling." Mama marched away to fulfill her mission. Nutmeg Cat followed closely on Mama's heels. She must guide Mama's hands to the least important meals such as turkey or kitty stew. In fact the more of those given away the better. They were really much too bourgeois for a Princess's taste. Unfortunately, Mama had not been made to see this just yet. Mama quickly prepared a water bowl and a dish of turkey with giblets. Nutmeg successful in her undertaking, unbent enough to feel just a tiny bit of sympathy for a homeless Cat and followed her Mama to the screened glass door. The Freeloader was standing on his hind legs pawing the screen. "Oh you thoughtful sweetheart, you aren't even using your claws." "That's because he doesn't have any," remarked Mephistopheles Cat dryly as he nudged Mama's leg. She paid no heed however, as she stepped out to the deck to set her offerings down for the delectation of the Freeloader. He promptly buried his head in the food dish. "You need lots more don't you, you poor neglected kitty?" Mama continued to watch the hungry, scruffy creature gulp his meal. "What's this?" Papa squeezed through the door to the deck so as not to let his Cats out. "No, no, and no," he shook his head as he comprehended the situation. "We have enough Cats! Two fur bags are annoying enough. We will not acquire a third! Take it to the Pound." Even Mephistopheles and Nutmeg cringed and flattened their bodies on the floor at the mention of this nightmarish, bloodcurdling, chilling word. It was the Unmentionable Place. A destination so horrifying it did not bear thought. Only the most unlucky or cursed found their destiny here. "I most certainly will not. I'm just feeding the poor famished beast. How could you refuse such a wretched creature - just look at him." Mama turned around only to find the Freeloader had abandoned his meal to cower behind her. "You've frightened him," she said in outraged tones. "Besides you love Mepher and Nut-Nut to distraction -- you can't fool me or them!" Papa rubbed his face wearily knowing he was defeated. "He can't come in the house until he has seen the Vet. Lord only knows what he's got: Feline Leukemia, Feline Aides, fleas, or multiple infections for all we know." Papa sighed and shook his head. He noticed the stray was now placidly eating from his dish. Smart Cat indeed. "He must have been someone's cherished pet at one time. It seems he's a purebred Himalayan sans claws." Mama remarked. "That's something I suppose," Papa said as he entered the house. Once inside he thoughtfully inquired, "Have you asked these Snippets how they feel about welcoming an interloper into their midst?" Mama peered through the screen. "Well, precious purr boxes? You two enjoy such a warm, cozy home, all the food you can eat, and all the love and attention you can tolerate. How about extending some of this bounty to a poor, unfortunate Cat with no home?" "Meow," expostulated Mephistopheles Cat indignantly. "Over my fur-less body! That is a Freeloader and I will not have him in my home! You can't have forgotten I am King! He will not even breathe on my cat box! In short, he is not welcome in my domain!" Mephistopheles Cat could not remember having been so agitated. "Meow! Meeoow!" Nutmeg Cat paced to and fro before the screen protesting resentfully. "I shall not share my delicacies with this bedraggled, un-groomed, grubby vagrant. He is a derelict who belongs under the bush in which he has been living! I will not have my tranquillity and solitude intruded upon!" The Princess intensely disliked any sort of excitement and this tumultuous hubbub was almost too much for her dainty fortitude. "Why their enthusiasm is obvious," cried Mama in delight. "They would love company! You little loves, how generous of you to open your home to a helpless and homeless Cat!" "I believe you are misinterpreting the Snippets' reaction. They are quite perturbed and no wonder - they have been our only and very spoiled beasts for all their five years. They are rejecting him," said Papa intuitively. But Mama did not hear him and bent down to touch her new kitty. "What shall we name you Honey-Bunny?" The Freeloader melted under his new Mama's caress. No one had treated him with this beneficence since his former People had lost him. She was quite perceptive, too. She was aware that he was an exquisite, rare purebred seal point Himalayan who's only calling was to be spoiled and cosseted. Yes, he had chosen wisely: he would be quite happy with these People. "He has been such a brave Cat to survive in the Wild with no claws. And weren't the Siamese considered royalty? We'll call him Pendragon after a courageous and triumphant king," declared Mama. "Dragon breath," murmured the real King sulkily as he trotted off in search of a sufficiently forbidden activity to properly show his dissent. Perchance a plump roll of toilet paper shredded and trailed about the house. No, much too tame. This required something really special. Ahh - hah! Just the thing! The very essence of himself strategically deposited in significant locations! Mmm, where first? Perhaps a kitchen chair...or a high heeled shoe...... (Comment on this)
Friday, March 14th, 2008
11:01 pm	SPOILED BEASTS For photos please go to http://moragmckendrickpippin.blogspot.com Part Five SPOILED BEASTS "Just look at the lazy louts!" Papa exclaimed in disgust as he entered the bedroom. He peeled off his jacket and aimed it at a nearby chair. "How adorable they are." Mama smiled as she came to a halt at the end of the bed. She crinkled the paper bag she carried just a bit. No response. Nutmeg Cat had curled her lithe form into a ball atop her Papa's pillow. Mephistopheles Cat stretched, smearing his long orangey, white hair on his Papa's jeans, which had been thrown carelessly at the foot of the bed. Pendragon Cat alone acknowledged his Peoples' presence. Situated at the opposite end of the bed from his Nemesis, Nutmeg, he blinked sleepily and extended a welcoming paw. "Ha! All these spoiled beasts do is eat, sleep, and sh-" "Meeow!" Nutmeg loudly interrupted her Papa as she abandoned her pillow and dashed toward Mama. Her sensitive nose had been the first to discover the contents of the paper sack. She nosed it violently, crying "Catnip! Catnip! Oh please give it to me now Mama!" Mephistopheles, now excited by the glorious scent was demanding his share and pushing his sister out of the way. Pendragon wandered over for whiff but failed to find what the fuss was about. The palm size pillows Mama drew out smelled no more interesting than grass. Now grass was not to be neglected,by any means. It harbored all the Cat news one could possibly desire. Occasionally, one was even driven to eating it. But it certainly didn't merit all the agitation that these silly mongrels were exhibiting. He watched as Mephistopheles Cat roughly buried his nose in his prize, fell over on his side still clutching it, then let loose of it only to lie on top of it, staring off into space with decidedly glassy eyes. Nutmeg pounced on her cushion, rubbing her face in it and drooling all over it. She hooked her claws in and rolled until she fell right off the bed to the floor. The ridiculous creature didn't even seem to notice, for she lay on the Persian rug with her mouth wide open and head swaying to and fro. "MEEOOWW! MEEOOWW!" Pendragon Cat howled his pleasure at this ludicrous scene. "Ha! Ha! Breeding will tell! What absurd Mongrels -" Pendragon's diatribe was cut short by salmon and tuna treats thrust under his nose. Now this was an event worthy of animation! Pendragon Cat inhaled his delights with aplomb. As he was licking his whiskers in gratification he was annoyed by a bit of fluff toying with his ears. He raised his cobalt gaze to find his tormentor was a colorful bouquet of bright feathers attached to a stick held by Papa. The skirmish was on! He batted, he rolled, he feinted, he wrestled, he bullied, and finally just to show who was really in charge, took it between his teeth, shook it ferociously, spit it out and strutted from the room in triumph. An especially magnificent exit considering he was also leaving in his wake two Cats of dubious lineage and wit, unconscious and drooling all over themselves. Sometime later Mephistopheles awoke from his splendorous stupor. He unsteadily gained his feet to go forth and find his People. He was needing the security of a lap. Ahh, perfect. He found Mama and Papa at the table enjoying an evening snack. He landed heavily on Mama. "Mepher! Get down at once!" Papa was rather choosy in his dining companions: He demanded table manners and in his opinion, Cats had none. Mephistopheles continued to stare at Mama adoringly, if a bit blearily. He touched his cold, wet nose to hers. "Pay no attention to Papa, Sweetie-Pie. In fact you have my permission to bite him when you are feeling a bit more energetic." Mama glanced up at Papa. "Leave him be, he's just experiencing a catnip hangover." "You're just encouraging him to beg at the table." Papa gathered his used place setting to dispose of in the kitchen. "He needs no encouragement." Mama fed King Cat a morsel of roast chicken from her plate. "Do you, darling bunny cat?" It was indeed a measure of Mephistopheles Cat's sedate state that he took no offense to this indignity. He savored his treat and snuggled himself deeper in Mama's lap to continue his nap. He was quite oblivious to the fact that Mama was now done and ready to move into the living room with Papa. Mama lovingly gathered her kitty and took him to his papa for deposit before cleaning the remnants of their light meal. Slowly rising through layers of slumber, Nutmeg blinked her eyes. It was time to let Mama and Papa know how much she truly appreciated the special treat in which she had just indulged. Perhaps they might bring it home more often! Pendragon Cat was too much of a simpleton to be aware of what he was missing! She could almost feel sorry for his inability to capture the euphoria, the rapture, the bliss that was catnip! It did leave one a bit fatigued, however. Her wobbly gait took her to the kitchen where Mama was giving bedtime treats. Goodness, she had been in dreamland a good long while! "You shouldn't give them so many, it can't be good for them." Papa had turned off the TV and was straightening the coffee table. "But the sweet babies love them! Of course they should have lots," replied Mama giving out crab Pounces by the handful. "That's all darlings, they're all gone now." "You don't say that when I'm eating ice cream," Papa said sulkily. "Well you're not a precious little fur rascal are you?" Mama turned out the lights and followed Papa to the bedroom. "Meeow," replied Papa hopefully. "Then you won't mind sharing their kitty boxes instead of using the toilet before retiring. And dinner will be so much easier. All I will have to do is open a can of kitty stew for you," quipped Mama as she donned her nightgown. "Very funny." Papa made himself comfortable in bed, adjusting blankets and plumping pillows. "Come to bed." "The cats are waiting for their nightcap," Mama said over her shoulder as she headed toward the master bathroom. Mephistopheles and Nutmeg were waiting faithfully in the bathtub for their post treat sip of water. After all, why would one drink from a bowl when Mama poured fresh from the faucet? King Cat drank greedily from the running stream of water while his sister licked drops from the side of the tub. Mmm, delicious! Mama didn't turn off the water until Mephistopheles Cat leaped to the floor. He knew he must dry himself before he took up his kingly position at the end of the bed. Nutmeg Cat stayed to lap up every last drop. Perhaps she would even spend the night here. When the Siamese Tyrant came hunting, thinking to trounce her she would laugh at his efforts to find her from the safety of a secret hide-out. At last Mama slipped between the sheets. "I trust the little good-for-nothings have been taken care of because you have more important things to do," whispered Papa as he purposefully drew Mama to him. "MEEOOWW! MEEOOWW! Mama you can't have forgotten Me?!" "Oh dear, I've forgotten lay a bit of fresh litter for the Dragon. He does insist upon it at bedtime you know," Mama sighed as she climbed down from the bed. "Otherwise he'll ask for it all night." "So ignore him." Papa flung himself back on his pillow in exasperation. "Just who is more important here anyway -- those opportunistic fur weasels or me, your hardworking, loving husband?" "Well," Mama replied reasonably on her way to the cat boxes. "Those 'opportunistic fur weasels' vie to be the first to warm my icy feet and actually enjoy my morning breath kisses!" "Hmph, they're welcome to them," Papa grumbled. Mephistopheles Cat felt this complaint against the Queen required reprimand. He did this by vaulting on the bed and selecting a spot where Mama could be snuggled and Papa ignored. "I suppose you want the bed divided into thirds too, you flea bag," commented Papa before he huffily turned his back. It was really just as well Papa understood his position, reflected Mephistopheles Cat as he sprawled, taking at least as much room as Papa mentioned. After all, there could hardly be two Kings in this domain! (Comment on this)
Monday, March 10th, 2008
6:04 pm	THE HOMECOMING For photos please go to http://moragmckendrickpippin.blogspot.com/ Part Three THE HOMECOMING Mephistopheles Cat raised his orangey white head from his paws to gaze intently at the entry door. He had a direct view from his perch at the top of the recliner. The ball of luxurious tabby fur that was his sister Nutmeg chirped at him from her nest in the seat of the recliner as they exchanged knowing glances. Both confidently resumed their morning naps. It had been a gloomy two days indeed for the Cats despite the bright sunshine filling the apartment. Their People had been absent and were sorely missed. Pendragon Cat was licking the last of his morning munch from his whiskers when he caught a whiff of kitty intuition. "MEEOOWW! MEEOOWW! Mama and Papa are coming home today! I just know it! I'm so excited! Just think of all the hugs and kisses I'll get and all the attention! How wonderful after the depressing company you two provide." He flung a superior look in the general direction of the recliner. "Do please spare us the hairballs you work up when you are so impassioned," drawled Mephistopheles. "We do not wish to be blamed for them." Pendragon Cat fluffed his fur and swished his tail. "Enthusiasm is a distinguished feature bestowed upon my exalted lineage." He held his nose high in the air. "Not a quality one would expect a victim of mixed breed such as yourself to understand." Nutmeg Cat lifted her innocent green eyes and entered the fray. "It is rather thought to be a trait of inbreeding as well." Inbreeding? It could not possibly be true. Could it? Of course not. Such tragedies did not happen to the Noble Siamese! "Impossible and not worthy of comment!" Pendragon declared, trotting off to his morning constitutional. "Oh dear, I'm afraid we are in for a tantrum," Nutmeg groaned. "MEEOOWW! MEEOOWW!" Pendragon Cat burst from the cat box room kicking up his hind paws with every other step. "That was the most disgusting experience of my entire life." He shuddered delicately and settled himself before the door to await his People. Excitement mounted as the Arrival grew closer. The Cats carefully groomed themselves to look their finest. Faces were cleaned, claws trimmed, and tails smoothed. Pendragon stirred first, and being a volatile Cat he just could not help expelling a perfectly formed hairball in celebration of his People's Return. Quite proud of himself, he pranced about the foyer as Mama and Papa entered. "What have you been up to you scoundrels?" Papa's voice boomed in welcome. He promptly grabbed Mephistopheles Cat from his roost to rub his belly vigorously. Papa then placed his favorite kitty around his neck. "I'll be wearing my Mephers!" The King Cat sighed deeply. One must humor Papa -- especially after a long absence. Still, it wasn't quite as bad as the indignity of being called a 'bird'. He had a feeling it was coming soon, too. "What darling little love birds we have," cooed Mama. "We missed you sweeties." She eyed Mephistopheles Cat's precarious position. "Watch out for little Mephers, I don't think he's very comfortable up there." "Little? He's a big, fat beast! And he loves it. Don't you, you purring fur weasel?" Papa did not notice the lack of response and continued to stroke the King Kitty's soft fur. Mama bent to caress her Dragon Cat. He stretched as she played her fingers down his back. "Yuk! Pendragon! Not another hair ball!" He watched as Mama set about cleaning up his offering. What was all the fuss about? That superlative specimen was in honor of the Homecoming! It showed how truly upset he became when Abandoned! Nutmeg raced ahead of Mama and Papa as they hauled their big black monsters into the bedroom to unpack. Having an aversion to Flurries of Activity, she scurried under the bed. After all, one could be tripped over or trod upon. Besides the presence of a Princess was not bequeathed without sufficient begging. However, one could always be bribed with a treat. Pendragon resented the commotion. Where was the adulation he so deserved? This was not to be endured! To show his irritation he prowled to and fro under as many feet as he could manage -- all the while wailing unceasingly. "MEEOOWW! MEEOOWW! Mama and Papa finish this nonsense at once!" Mephistopheles simply disregarded any busyness he encountered. He purred as he twined around ankles, placed paws on knees, and rubbed his face in welcoming hands. Kings were never ignored. Mama realized this and finally picked him up for sweet snuggles. Her neck made a cozy place to bury his head while he purred ecstatically. "Pendragon you silly cat, do be quiet," Mama shifted the warm furry bulk in her arms. "Papa has escaped to the living room, so go visit him." "Inflict himself you mean." Papa unfolded his newspaper and opened it. "Come here you little treat bandit." Pendragon Cat instantly forgot the poise demanded of pure seal point Himalayans and ran to the most coveted perch in the house. He leaped on his Papa's lap and rolled over on his back to gaze adoringly into his Papa's eyes. He lay dreamily making starfish feet while he enjoyed his long awaited tummy rub. Meanwhile Mephistopheles closely monitored Mama as she attended the cat box room. After all, Royal Advice could be needed at any time. He didn't admit for one moment that he didn't want Mama out of his sight lest she disappear again for days. He followed on her heels to his favorite room where she gathered old kitty dishes to clean and prepare a new Cat Meal. Pendragon abandoned Papa as his nose caught the scent of tuna. The savory smell even enticed Nutmeg Cat out of hiding. The Favorite was being served! Mephistopheles left his dish after only a few bites. Mama had joined Papa on the couch. Their attention was captured by the perplexing box of light and movement. It occurred to him they would be better employed petting and playing with Cats than worshipping that silly thing every night. They really must get their priorities straight, he mused as he snuggled into his Papa's lap and hooked a possessive paw in the shirt offered. He drifted off to the first contented sleep in days. Homecoming was almost as good being King. Nutmeg soon followed her brother choosing to gift herself to Mama. She reflected on the strange smells from far away places emanating from her People, and was determined to seek out the treasures they had brought home -- tomorrow. Homecoming, a tuna supper, and a lovely lap were all the treasures she required at the moment. After licking the last tidbit from his bowl, Pendragon was nonplussed to find both laps occupied. He glanced longingly at the nearly full dishes next to his -- his time in the Wilds was not soon forgotten. He turned his back on the precious food to climb high on the back of the couch. "After all," he reasoned, as he nestled between Mama's and Papa's heads, tickling their ears with his whiskers. "Nothing was better than Homecoming." Except perhaps a good loud howl! (Comment on this)
Thursday, March 6th, 2008
4:13 pm	THE ABANDONMENT For photo please go to http://moragmckendrickpippin.blogspot.com/ Part Two THE ABANDONMENT The great, grotesque monster lay on the bed, its hideous underbelly slit open. The yawning aperture seemed to sneer at Mephistopheles Cat as he froze in his tracks in the bedroom doorway. His degagee attitude was quickly replaced by terror as he realized what this obscene ogre portended. Then Mama bustled out of the closet with several items of clothing slung over one arm. He watched with dread as she carefully folded the garments and placed them inside the beastly creature. Who would watch over his subjects when they left his kingdom, the King Kitty wondered? Despair washed over him as he speculated how many days and nights he would be without warm laps, comforting cuddles, and sweet voices telling him he was a handsome, darling boy. Then of course, there were the practicalities of being deserted: stale food and a polluted kitty box. The water however, wasn't bad at all -- a few days actually gave it a bit of character. Perhaps he could persuade Mama and Papa to stay home -- if not they would take part of him with them! With these lovely thoughts in mind he bravely bounded straight into the jaws of the Creature, his landing cushioned by a pile of neatly arranged garments. He nosed and kneaded these before raising imploring pale blue eyes to Mama. "Mepher! Now your fur is everywhere!" Mama began brushing frantically at the orangey, white fluff now decorating her apparel. Nutmeg Cat, grooming her sleek tabby coat in the midst of a treasured sunbeam before the living room glass door, stopped short at Mama's distressed voice. She valued a serene environ-ment, but it usually paid to find the reason for anxiety before hiding. Horrors! They were being abandoned! Something must be done. Immediately. Drastic measures must be taken. She must keep Mama too busy to pack! Leaping on the bed and chirping in her most charming voice, she gave Mama insistent head-buts. "Mama you must see what an enchanting little dear I am. How can you leave me?" Apparently, Mama wasn't as enamored as she should have been. Nutmeg was crushed when she was gently shooed. She retreated to a forbidden pillow to closely observe the un-folding drama. "Aren't you ready yet? Hurry! What's keeping you?" Papa inquired as he entered the room. "You know how I hate leaving the kitties. The sweet babies are helping me pack." Mama glanced affectionately at Nutmeg and stroked an ear belonging to Mephistopheles. "Sweet babies nothing," Papa said cheerfully. "They're nothing but furry little bags of sh-." "Don't you dare say such things in front of the darlings," interrupted Mama in an affronted voice. "I don't know how you get away with treating them so carelessly. They adore you.While I must work so hard for their affection: feeding, watering, and littering the little fur rascals." At this Mephistopheles Cat placed a proprietary paw on Mama's hand. "And we love you for it Mama," he purred. "Nobody could take such excellent care of us as you do." "Cute little pussy cats always love me," said Papa suggestfully as he leered at Mama. His gaze dropped to the suitcase. "Listen to the motor on that tank. Certainly matches his size." Normally Mephistopheles worshipped his Papa, but this irreverence was too much at such a distressing time. He treated his Papa to an indignant glare before whisking himself from the room. He headed to his favorite dining room chair to wait out the Departure. It was time for the Show of Indifference. Pendragon was nearly knocked off his paws by Mephistopheles Cat's sudden flight. He comprehended at once what was occurring as he peered into the room. He immediately wailed his terror at being left alone. (One couldn't possibly count two cheeky mongrels as company). "No, no please don't leave me Mama and Papa. MEEOOWW, MEEOOWW." Why, who would give him treats at bedtime? Who would provide a warm, cozy lap? Who would scratch his chin and tell him what a gorgeous, but annoying Cat he was? He knew of course, that he wasn't really annoying. Pure seal point Himalayan Cats couldn't possibly be anything but a model of the Perfect Pet. It was just something silly Mama and Papa told him. They were always saying silly things. It was just one of those idiosyncrasies one tolerated from one's People. "MEEOOWW. MEEOOWW." Uncomfortable with the charged scene before her, Nutmeg Cat bounded down from her pillow to sharpen her claws on the prized Persian rug. "Naughty, naughty, naughty cat Nutmeg." Mama made an unsuccessful grab for Nutmeg as she dived under the bed. Pendragon was incensed that a mere Tabby Cat should steel his thunder in the middle of one of his magnificent wails. He hissed in warning. Nutmeg peeked from her hiding place to growl right back at him. "You can't intimidate me you ridiculous creature -- you have no claws!" Pendragon swished his tail and raised his chin. "And I survived quite nicely, too," he bragged. "I lived in the Wilds for months after my former People lost me. It's really not surprising considering my superior pedigreed intelligence." He preened himself before giving forth a triumphant yowl. "Wilds?!" The only hunting you did was choosing from which neighbor's bowl of milk to drink before Mama and Papa brought you home. And your People did not 'lose' you -- they escaped from you!" "Why, what a jealous--!" "Out cats! We're leaving now so get out from under foot." Papa led the way to the outer door, practically dragging Mama with him. She managed a farewell before being hauled over the threshold: "I'll miss you sweeties. We'll be back soon." Hearing the lock click into place a melancholy Mephistopheles Cat developed a sudden urge to demonstrate his Dominance. He did so by sauntering casually over to the round scratching pad and covering it with his not inconsiderable bulk. He then proceeded to groom himself as if he hadn't a care in the world. It didn't do to wear one's emotions on one's paw -- after all, he was King. Princess or not, poor little Nutmeg Cat experienced such anxiety she could only creep behind the couch to hide. Once there, she made herself as tiny as she could manage. And the Pendragon Cat. Ahh, the Pendragon Cat. Why, he indulged in his favorite pastime, of course: he howled and howled and howled. The Abandonment had begun. (Comment on this)
Sunday, March 2nd, 2008
5:28 pm	THE HOWLING (For photos of these kitties please go to http://moragmckendrickpippin.blogspot.com/) 4 am “Mama, my cat box is filthy!” Pendragon’s howl pierced the night’s silence. Someone,” he flicked his cobalt eyes over his shoulder resentfully. The twenty pound Mephistopheles Cat was serenely grooming his long orangey, white fur. “Someone,” he repeated “has fouled it!” “Do wake up please! It reeks and is much too messy for a delicate pure Siamese such as my-self.” “Bloody sod! Shut up!” “But Mama-----” The missile hit Pendragon square in the ribs. Pendragon uttered a gasp of pure delight, the kitty box momentarily forgotten as he ecstatically buried his nose in the pungent sock. Papa’s were the best, if one didn’t count his shoes, but those delicacies were particularly difficult to indulge in. They rivaled the best tuna supper! It was so easy to forget oneself enough to chew them a bit....well, perhaps more than just a bit. Now both Mama and Papa kept him well away from those tempting morsels. Which made the socks all the more succulent. Pendragon howled his pleasure. And howled again. “MEEEOOWW MEEOOWW! MEEOOWW!” “Good God, is he at again? SHUT UP PENDRAGON!” Papa growled from the bed. “Go to sleep you silly cat, it’s the middle of night. You won’t be getting anything until the alarm rings in a few hours,” Mama murmured from the bed. Pendragon yowled again. “Mama I cannot be expected to use the box after that oaf--” “Watch it you nat-furred little pipsqueek,” Mephistopheles purred dangerously, “ you are privileged to use my facilities, be they putrid or pristine. Remember I am King in this house-hold. Nutmeg Cat is Princess, Papa is Prince, and of course Mama is undisputed Queen. You Pendragon Cat are a flea. Supremely unimportant in this hierarchy. Now be quiet -- your caterwauling make Mama and Papa cranky and this ruins my royal muse.” “Nat-furred---!! What defamation! What libel! Why, I am a pure seal point Himalayan! I am in possession of the most beautiful, smooth coat that a mongrel such as yourself could only envy!” Mephistopheles Cat was actually quite proud of his Red Point/Maine Coon heritage, but thought it beneath him respond in any way besides turning his regal back. “After all,” he thought as climbed up the back of the recliner, “I am King.” And from this high spot Pendragon looked quite insignificant --- and in trouble judging from Papa’s angry visage as bore down on the Dragon Cat. No sooner had the howl left Pendragon’s throat that he was lifted high in the air. “WHOA! I’m not a football, Papa! I’m an exquisite, sensitive purebred!” Pendragon found himself ignored and ignobly deposited in the cat box room. “No! No! Not here! Don’t leave me here. MEEOOWW! MEEOOWW! The stench is too much for my delicate nose! MEEOOWW! MEEOOWW!” “Howl all you want we won’t be able to hear you in there.” Papa was already on his way back to bed. “Maybe we can still salvage some sleep,” he murmured as he crawled between the sheets. Nutmeg Cat, oblivious to any existing tensions awoke refreshed from her nap feeling affectionate. Her green eyes glowing, the sleek, silver mackerel tabby leaped on the bed hoping to snag a snuggle. Papa gave the most delicious tummy rubs and Mama could always be counted upon to stroke the ears just so. Now... who to gift with a cold wet nose first? “Hmph! What the--! Nutmeg! Settle yourself my girl, it not time to get up. Go back to sleep. Now.” Mama reburied herself in the pillows. Nutmeg found herself shooed gently away. She couldn’t possibly go back to her nap when so much love was bubbling inside her begging to be let out. Perhaps a soft kneed on Papa’s chest would ease her loving feelings toward her Family. He smelled so good and was just as warm as her favorite nest by the dining room heater. The dining room was only better because food was served there. The aroma and anticipation of a possible treat was a momentous evening event. The excitement of the possible bestowal of a succulent tidbit didn’t make being pushed away quite as hurtful. Uh-oh Papa didn’t appreciate Nutmeg Cat’s avowal of undying love. She was pushed away again. How provoking, indeed! To show her irritation she prowled the bed, avoiding kicking legs before jumping off and strutting off to a corner where she could watch her People until they awoke. Mephistopheles Cat, bored with his perch bounded down from the recliner and headed toward the bedroom to remind Mama and Papa that while it was all well and good to have silenced Pendragon Cat, one mustn’t leave a door closed in his domain. One never knew when King Cat might fancy a toddle through its portals. No, a closed door wouldn’t do at all. After vaulting up the bed he let his displeasure be known with a series of soft meows, head buts, and nose nudges. These were fail safe methods of receiving the most loving of reponces: soft strokes, sweet voices, comforting cuddles. However, in this case the fail safes failed! “No Mepher! We are trying to sleep. Settle yourself. Go away!” Papa turned his back. Mama fortunately was not so immune to his technique. “Damn, he’s got use his litter box.” At last Mama was up and doing Mephistopheles Cat’s bidding. It was good to be King! As soon as the cat box room door was released Pendragon wailed his thanks. “Oh Lord,” Mama mumbled as she returned to the bedroom, “Gold fish wouldn’t keep us awake all night.” At that Papa sat up, announcing in dire tones, “Do you hear that Cats! Your Mother wishes to replace you all with goldfish!” Absolute silence reigned as the Cats crept to the dining room. “You don’t really-” Pendragon stopped abruptly to clear his throat. A croaky voice wouldn’t at all do coming from one with such an unsullied pedigree as himself. He started again, more confidently this time. “ Mama wouldn’t truly replace us with - with Goldfish?” He just couldn’t help it, he let loose a bellow of fear and uncertainty, “MEEEEOOOWW!” “Hush you dimwit!” Nutmeg Cat circled the requisite three times before nesting herself almost against the heater at the opposite end from Pendragon Cat. “She may replace you with a fish because you’re so noisy. She would never get rid of the Mephistopheles Cat or myself. Sometimes we’re not in the Mood for Them, this is just one of those times--” At this Pendragon Cat, still nervous interjected, “Oh but, I’m always in the Mood for Mama and Papa! Always!!” “Your brain must be as scruffy as your fur, Pendragon Cat,” Mephistopheles Cat replied scornfully. “Mama and Papa would never substitute us for fish. Even you, I’m pained to say. After all, we are the Center of their world.” With that Mephistopheles Cat lowered his head to resume grooming that part of himself which he had always secretly suspected Papa was a bit jealous of his ability to accomplish. Perhaps that was why Papa had taken him in to have parts of it removed. Oh, well, sacrifices were sometimes required. But it was good to be King. (Comment on this)
Wednesday, January 9th, 2008
11:05 pm	Thursday 13 Thirteen Modern Everyday Conveniences Not Available Until the Latter 20th Century 1) Electric Can Opener 2) Electric Ice Crusher 3) Push Button TV Remote Control 4) Remote Vehicle Starter 5) Automatic Garage Door Opener 6) Infra Red Burgler Alarm 7) Home Garbage Compacter 8) Sink Garbage Disposal 9) Battery Operated Personal Fan 10) Lazer Pointers 11) Robotic Vacuume Cleaner 12) Digital Electronic Equipment 13) Microwave Ovens (Comment on this)
Thursday, December 13th, 2007
8:28 am	Thursday 13 Thirteen Things I love about the Holiday Season: 1) Christmas is my birthday so I get a cake all to myself with lots of butter cream frosting! 2) The wonderful holiday spirit 3) Christmas carols 4) Christmas movies 5) Attending holiday parties 6) Shopping the merchandise that comes in only for the holidays 7) Staying in touch with family and friends 8) Sending and receiving cards 9) Indulging in candies rarely eaten outside of the holiday season 10) Choosing special gifts for special people 11) Decorating the house 12) Remembering Christmas past 13) Spending time with loved ones What are your favorite things about this time of year? (1 Comment |Comment on this)
Sunday, September 16th, 2007
11:02 pm	A Great Review by Debra Hern Perfidia - Elspeth McKendrick Perfidia Elspeth McKendrick Dorchester Romantic Suspense/Historical Romance In 1937, Sophie de Havilland left England for Germany once she discovered the shocking truth about her fiancé, vowing never to return. For the past two years, she’s lived in Berlin with her Aunt Augusta, widow of a German Baron. Sophie admires the way the German government has pulled Germany out of the complete chaos that followed World War I. According to Herr Hitler, SS officers have a duty to procreate both in and out of marriage with young Aryan woman, the better to increase the Aryan race. When war is declared in September of 1939, Sophie, like many others, assumes that Germany will win quickly and that their lives will remain mostly undisturbed. In the days leading up the declaration of open war, Aunt Augusta asks Sophie to help her leave the country. Augusta wants Sophie to come with her, but Sophie refuses. An incredibly clumsy attempt at blackmail puts Sophie in the hands of an intimidating SS officer, Karl von Richten. Karl agrees to help smuggle Augusta out of Germany, but demands payment. Sophie must move into his home, live with him, and pose as his mistress. Such arrangements carry no stigma after Hitler’s edict, but Sophie is wary. Only when Karl promises that she will be a mistress in appearance only does she agree. Karl tells Sophie in no uncertain terms to stay out of his business, but Sophie becomes curious. Her curiosity could get them both killed. I admit that, at the outset, I wanted to shake Sophie for her incredibly naïve and myopic view of the Nazi regime. Then I realized that, as a member of the aristocracy, and as someone who enjoyed the good favor of high-ranking officials, Sophie would be mostly sheltered from the horrible realities. It’s amazing that the author manages to take this rather selfish woman and turn her into a heroine with a spine and a brain; in short, a character who is likeable. But that’s what happens here. Sometime around the midpoint of the story, I realized that I was rooting for Sophie. The story takes place between September and November of 1939, the very early days of what would become World War II. Set in Berlin, the reader gets a rare inside glimpse of the enemy camp during this time. Even characters who are dedicated to the Nazi ideals do not come off as caricatures. They’re real people, caught up in events that are too overwhelming to comprehend. It’s obvious that quite a lot of research went into this novel, and each chapter begins with a date and the historical highlights. It’s fascinating to juxtapose what we know now to the actions and beliefs of the characters who are “living” through the events. The romance is lovely, but it’s really the historical context that makes this one a real standout. Rating: 8 September 2007 ISBN# 978-0-505-52739-4 posted by Deborah Hern (Comment on this)
Sunday, September 9th, 2007
11:18 am	One More Time - I Couldn't Resist Allow me to introduce you to something fresh, yet filled with nostalgia, suspense and romance. A tempting story served with a twist...something that will keep you turning those pages. By Cerri Ellis PERFIDIA by Elspeth McKendrick Sophie de Havilland fled London and her past, vowing never to return. In Germany she sought solace, with her aunt, and couldn’t help but admire how the Third Reich had reclaimed a country so near ruin. But soon the veneer crumbled. Beneath the frenetic nightlife of 1939 Berlin, the swirling parties with the dashing SS in their night-black uniforms and their beautiful dames, she saw cancer growing. Stories of an impossible nature—terrible stories, terrible crimes—she began to believe. These Nazis were Germany’s demon lover: handsome, fearsome, faithless, murderous. Her aunt had been right to seek escape. But, was it possible? One man offered hope: a handsome half-American. But while his spicy scent and strong arms seduced her with safety, the lightning on his collar and his searing blue eyes reminded her that sometimes the handsomest faces hid perfidious intent. McKendrick writes with a fluid style she uses to pull you into her world. Perfidia is no exception. The story is a long, dangerous curve of hidden passions; of innocence smashed under the heels of broken illusion. The romance balances on a blade's edge as suspicions fly. The author stretches her powerful voice, flush with emotion, and enables the reader to immerse themselves safely within a frightening time in our history. The narrowed focus set against this backdrop delineates the fine character studies of her hero and heroine. Sophie's thoughts, feelings and words made it seem as though I were reading the journal of a very personal experience. Living history as opposed to a stagnant tale rehashed once more for the masses. Brilliant, Ms. McKendrick. I may have to eat my words. Please pass the ketchup. Leisure/Lovespell • Paperback • September 2007 • ISBN-10: 0505527391, ISBN-13: 978-0505527394 • 321 pages (Comment on this)
Thursday, September 6th, 2007
10:01 pm	5 Cup Review From Coffee Time Romance! PERFIDIA Morag McKendrick Pippin ISBN# 0505527391 September 2007 Leisure Books/Dorchester Publishing Co. 200 Madison Ave., New York, NY 10016 Paperback $6.99 320 Pages Historical Romantic Suspense Rating: 5 cups Sophia de Havilland is a young woman who fled her native England when she walked in on her betrothed having sex with another man. She lives with her aunt in Berlin, Germany. Hitler rules Germany with an iron hand and Sophia is one of his favored Aryan misses. However all is not as it seems, and when Sophia is introduced to a handsome half American SS officer, it is not long before she begins to see the light in more ways than one with his help. Her emotions regarding him are mixed, but the attraction is definitely there. Karl Von Richten is playing a dangerous game. Embroiled deeply in SS politics and one of Hitler’s right hand men, he also helps “undesirables” escape Germany to a better life. He truly cares for Sophie almost from the beginning and tries in subtle ways to show her that Hitler and his plans for Germany are bad. In the process he falls for her hard, but feels he cannot truly have her, at least not in any permanent sense. When Sophie’s aunt wants to escape Germany and return to England, Sophie goes to Karl for help. Karl arranges for Sophie’s aunt to get away, but in return he asks Sophie to pose as his mistress. Worried that he will want more from her than she is willing to give, at first she is unsure. However, when he assures her she will not be expected to be intimate with him, and that it will help to protect her from the SS figuring out the truth about her aunt, she goes along with it. Karl slowly but surely educates Sophie on what the Third Reich is really doing and it is only a short time before Sophie is helping him. But Karl has a greedy half-brother who wants his home, his lands and his title and who will stop at nothing to get them, even if it means turning his own brother in. Will Sophie and Karl be able to defeat this evil man? Perfidia is an action packed book that gives a very detailed look at the Third Reich, and all the atrocities and corruption that the regime engendered. The reader is easily able to follow Sophie’s progress from supporter of Hitler to rebel and spy as the clues are laid out one by one. The author does a splendid job of showing that not all German officers agreed with Hitler. Karl is mesmerizing as the SS officer who wants his country back and who will do anything to see that goal accomplished. Historically accurate down to the last detail, this book gives a bird’s eye view into a world that unless you were actually there would be hard to understand, and yet Ms. Pippin pulls it off beautifully. I highly recommend this book both for its romance and history. Regina Reviewer for Coffee Time Romance Reviewer for Karen Find Out About New Books (1 Comment |Comment on this)
Wednesday, September 5th, 2007
12:16 pm	5 Star Review From Cata Romance! PERFIDIA by Elspeth McKendrick Reviews Love Spell Genre: historical ISBN: 0505527391 Page Count: 320 Price: $6.99 Reviewer: Donna Zapf Sensuality Rating: Sizzling Star Rating: 5 Stars Author's Website: http://www.moragmckendrickpippin.com/mainpage.html Elspeth McKendrick, a new pen name for a favorite author, creatively weaves the atrocities of WWII Germany with a timeless romance forged by a love that is tested beyond human endurance. Sophie de Havilland left England for good when she discovered her fiancé in a compromising position with another man. She arrived in Germany to live with her widowed aunt just as the Third Reich came into power. Sophie openly admired the social changes that appeared to revitalize Germany. But even as she enjoyed the pleasures of the aristocracy, the real evil that was the German Nazis and especially the Gestapo was reveled to her. Her aunt begs Sophie to find some way to leave Germany and it just so happens that a German SS officer is willing to help, if Sophie remains with him as his pretend lover. Sturmbannfhrer Barron Karl von Richten is not what he seems. Sophie is mesmerized by his piercing blue eyes and his handsome face but what does he really want of her. Karl assures Sophie that he will not touch her physically and only wants a ruse to keep other women away. All officers are expected to “breed” well and often, thus women are always being pushed on them. Sophie and her friends tread a perilous existence keeping in favor with the elite of the party but what of Karl, is he capable of perfidy? He has too many secrets and they are beginning to involve Sophie. PERFIDIA, a nail-biting, edge of your seat, romantic thriller that had me steadily turning pages and blocking out the world while I raced to the conclusion, is the debut novel of talented Elspeth McKendrick. Captivating characters and a creative storyline that just would not let me go make PERFIDIA a riveting read. Personally, stories that intertwine history with fictionalized author creations are my favorite. The author must investigate, invent and immerse her readers in order to make the story come to life and Ms. McKendrick does that to perfection. The progressively budding romance between Karl and Sophie melted my heart and had me weeping as they suffered together for what they believed, trusting each other and ultimately willing to die for each other. Elspeth McKendrick has won a loyal fan with PERFIDIA, a most fascinating book. Release date September 2007 (Comment on this)
Thursday, August 30th, 2007
2:13 pm	PERFIDIA LAUNCH PARTY This from the Unusual Historicals Blog http://unusualhistoricals.blogspot.com In lieu of regular posts this week, we're hosting a party for one of our contributors. Morag McKendrick Pippen, w/a Elspeth McKendrick, releases her novel Perfidia today! What follows is more about the book, a Q&A with Morag, and the chance to win free books... Morag's previous two books were published by Dorchester's Leisure imprint: Blood Moon Over Bengal and Blood Moon Over Britain, a HOLT Medallion winner. Perfidia, as part of the Love Spell line, is available now from all good booksellers. Here's the Amazon link. PERFIDIA "To you, my heart cries out 'Perfidia,' for I find you, the love of my life, in someone else's arms..." Sophie de Havilland fled London and her past, vowing never to return. In Germany she sought solace, with her aunt, and couldn't help but admire how the Third Reich had reclaimed a country so near ruin. But soon the veneer crumbled. Beneath the frenetic nightlife of 1939 Berlin, the swirling parties with the dashing SS in their night-black uniforms and their beautiful dames, she saw cancer growing. Stories of an impossible nature—terrible stories, terrible crimes—she began to believe. These Nazis were Germany's demon lover: handsome, fearsome, faithless, murderous. Her aunt had been right to seek escape. But, was it possible? One man offered hope: a handsome half-American. But while his spicy scent and strong arms seduced her with safety, the lightning on his collar and his searing blue eyes reminded her that sometimes the handsomest faces hid perfidious intent. Question & Answers with Morag What makes Perfidia different from the two other historicals you've written? Probably more violence (from the Gestapo), no sugar coating and a more serious theme. What was the response from your editor or agent when you proposed this novel? He (my editor) said I surprised him and he's rarely surprised. Also, that it was a powerful story. How did you talk them past any concerns? He said my readers would probably overlook the violence because they'd be too addicted to the story to mind very much. What is the most challenging part about writing 20th century historicals? What I would find challenging is writing a contemporary, paranormal, or erotica. Early 20th century seems to come naturally to me. What about this book in particular? It was difficult not to be depressed writing this everyday. I don't think it's depressing to read, but I had a lot of research to to which was pretty horrific. What advice would you give to anyone trying to write or sell 20th century historicals? Visit antique and collectibles stores. One can learn a lot about how people lived. Go to museums with early 20th century antiquities. Watch old movies. Read books in the time period. Acquire old magazines at garage sales and antique shows/stores. Talk to people who lived in those times. Write the best story you can. What is your favorite genre or period to read? Early 20th century or contemporary and romantic suspense. Favorite book from the past year? HIDING FROM THE LIGHT by Barbara Erskine Five books from your TBR pile? VANISH by Karen Robards DAUGHTERS OF FIRE by Barbara Erskine THE MEPHISTO CLUB by Tess Gerritsen RICOCHET by Sandra Brown WHITE HOT by Sandra Brown Give us a tidbit of history that surprised you when researching Perfidia. That many Germans escaped Germany by going on workers holidays to occupied Denmark then taking the ferry to Sweden. Tell us what part of Perfidia is your favorite: the scene or element that, when you read it, leaves you feeling most satisfied? I can't tell you -- it would give away an important plot point! What's up next for you? A contemporary supernatural thriller set in Scotland (on my agent's advice). Thanks, Morag! And good luck with this new release. For those of you living in paradise, Morag is in the midst of planning book signings in Hawaii, where she lives. More information will be posted on her website. WIN A COPY! For every fifteen comments we receive to this post, we're giving away a signed copy of PERFIDIA. Just tell us how you heard about Unusual Historicals OR your thoughts about a romance set in 1939 Berlin. Comments close at midnight on September 4th, at which time I'll draw up to FIVE random winners and announce their names the next day. Unusual Historicals authors are ineligible to win, but we can make comments! Go! Spread the word! (Comment on this)
Saturday, August 18th, 2007
4:56 am	1981 and 2005 1981 & 2005 - two interesting years. 1981 1. Prince Charles got married. 2. Liverpool became soccer Champions of Europe. 3. Australia lost the Ashes. 4. Pope Died. 2005 1. Prince Charles got married. 2. Liverpool became soccer Champions of Europe. 3. Australia lost the Ashes. 4. Pope Died. Lesson Learned: The next time Charles gets married... Someone warn the Pope! (1 Comment |Comment on this)
Tuesday, June 26th, 2007
5:24 pm	BLOOD MOON OVER BENGAL CHAPTER ONE Calcutta, State of Bengal 1932 “They just bloody dropped dead!” The young major's voice trembled in anger as he faced his commanding officer. Electric punkas whirred sluggishly overhead, barely stirring the stifling air in the spacious office and doing nothing to dry the sweat pouring off his body. The Colonel leaned back comfortably in his cushioned chair, lighting his pipe. "Yes, well, they were Indians weren't they, Major? It's not like they were British officers." "They were men! Sir! They were not disposable because they were not British. Sir!" Colonel Mainwarring lifted his grey eyebrows, raking the soldier before him with a contemptuous glance. "The entire regiment is aware of your singular opinion on that subject, Major Covington-Singh. However, it doesn't change the fact that the British Indian Army - especially the soldiers of the 1st Rangpur Foot - must at all times be at the ready. We do not mollycoddle our men because it happens to be rather warm." "Sir, I appreciate we are not here to enjoy the niceties of a tea party, but it was 120 degrees when those men died from heat exhaustion. More than one day is needed to recover from such a march before departing on manoeuvres again." The Colonel leaned forward to deposit his pipe in an ashtray and reach for a legal size envelope from a corner of his massive desk. "Nonsense. Any soldier worth his salt will do whatever is required of him. In a few short weeks the summer will end and the monsoons will start. Outbreaks of cholera and malaria will soon follow. Much more efficient to get done what we can now. You can start by studying this lot," he said, handing the Major the thick brown envelope. "Another murder while you were on manoeuvres. Nasty business, and normally not our concern to muck about in civilian matters, but several," he gave Major Covington-Singh a sharp look, "highly placed Indians have caused a palava with the Commissioner and now he's dumped it in our laps. Or more precisely, yours, since you are Security Officer, Major." "Another Brahmin woman, I see, sir. That makes two now." Major Covington-Singh frowned, flipping through the pages. "If we don't count the prostitutes in the Bustees." "You are aware, Major, anything that may happen in the Bustees is pure conjecture. It is no man's land. No bloody use imposing law and order in that hellish warren. No, we need only worry about the Brahmins. Find the wog responsible and arrest him. Can't think why the Civils cocked it up. Likely too busy chatting up these passive resistance berks." "And if it isn't an Indian, Colonel?" the Major asked, his voice tight. "Are you implying an Englishman may be culpable, Major? Don't be ridiculous! Of course it's a bloody Indian. It's a simple situation, Major. Take care of it." He reached for his pipe and tobacco pouch. "Dismissed." Nigel Covington-Singh saluted and performed a smart about face before departing the office. He paused a moment, shading his eyes from the unrelenting glare of the Indian sun. He'd accomplished absolutely nothing bearding the Colonel in the den he so rarely left, in an attempt to stall manoeuvres until the mercury fell below the 120 degree mark. No wonder the old man remained in ignorance of how 'warm' it truly was. Nigel wiped his forehead with a handkerchief and headed for the Officers' Mess. A pint of English lager was what he needed. The lounge was dark after the brightness outside, and with several fans operating, blessedly cool. A native server dressed in a white dhoti and tunic with matching turban approached when Nigel took a seat at the bar. The server bowed, his face impassive. "Sahib, your pleasure, please?" Nigel answered him and turned, hearing the stool next to him scraping the floor. A man of medium height, brown hair, and captain's epaulettes sat down and nodded to the bartender. "I say, old chap, bloody hot out! Do pour me a large gin and tonic, there's a good man." Turning to Nigel, he announced, "Just posted here two days ago. Don't know if I'll ever get used to this heat. Doesn't get like this in Ireland – or in America. Spent three years there. Do you know those ridiculous Yanks have outlawed liquor! Can't go to one's club for a quiet smoke and a civilised drink. One is required to patronise an illegal 'speakeasy'. Rowdy places they are, too. And if the proper palms haven't been greased the bobbies break in and haul everyone off to the nick!" He paused to drink deeply from his sweaty glass. "I say, haven't introduced m'self yet. Harry Woodford at your service, Major –?" "Nigel Covington-Singh," supplied Nigel. "Heard you just lost five men on manoeuvres. Bad luck, old man!" He reached in his pocket for his Woodbines and politely offered one to the Major. After lighting both cigarettes, the Captain looked Nigel in the eye and remarked, "Damned lucky it wasn't any more in this heat." Not wishing to discuss the sore subject, Nigel simply replied, "Quite." Taking a sip of his beer, he enquired, "What took you to America?" "My fortune, of course. I am, unfortunately, one of those sorry creatures, a second son. Always handy to have a spare tucked away, until of course, the heir grows up healthy and produces an heir of his own. Makes one quite superfluous. M'father, the Earl of Tillinghurst, you know, sent me off to America to make my start." He gazed at the dregs in his glass forlornly before continuing. "Only trouble was I arrived a mere three months before the Crash. Lost everything, of course. Men were blowing their heads off right and centre, doncha know. Tried to make the most of it, but in the end I had to ask m'father for help. He arranged a commission, and here I am ready to cut a swath through the jungle." Nigel smiled and ordered another round of drinks. "Instead of picking your way through the headless bodies and getting jostled about in one of your speakeasies, you'll be contending with mosquitoes the size of finches, cholera, malaria, snakes the length of this bar, and once the monsoons start, unending rain with mud every place you now see dust." He crushed out his cigarette and took possession of his new lager. "The heat is at its worst now summer is almost over." The Captain shook his head. "Funny thing for summer to end in June." He pushed his empty glass out of the way and stirred his new one before sipping it. "I say, one can't help hearing things, and even in the short time I've been here I've heard a few about you. Isn't your father a bigwig up north somewhere?" "You could say that, yes. He's the Maharaja of Kashmir." Capt. Woodford's eyes grew large and he opened his mouth to speak, but his words were lost by the low droning of an engine overhead. Very close overhead. It sputtered, coughed, quit and started again in a high pitched wine. In accord, both men rushed to the doorway to witness an old Bristol Fighter more fall on the dusty parade ground several hundred yards distant, than actually land. Black smoke issued from the engine as the old flyer came to a halt. Three machine guns mountings from the Great War era swung loosely and something from the tail fell heavily into the dirt. Already the fire lorry was on the way, sirens blaring. Men poured from the surrounding regimental offices. Approaching the growing pandemonium Nigel could see what he had thought were bombs under the wings, was in actuality luggage firmly lashed to them instead. He watched two slender figures emerge from the cockpits and onto the wings. An officer stepped forward to assist them down. Once they were safely on the ground they reached to pull off their aviation caps, and held their audience spellbound. One revealed golden finger-waved tresses and the other, short red curls. (Comment on this)
Saturday, June 16th, 2007
4:56 pm	BLOOD MOON OVER BRITAIN CHAPTER ONE London December 1942 Some return from the fields of glory . . . Scottish traditional song “You don't want to go in there, guv. Bloody mess, it is.” Alistair Fielding snapped shut his Special Branch identification holder and returned it to the breast pocket of his tweed blazer. The rank odour of stale blood brought back the memories with a merciless clarity. “Aye, well, Sergeant, we all must do things we find distasteful nowadays,” he said and entered the bathroom. It was large, probably a redesigned dressing room, and bare. A cold radiator hugged the far wall and beside it, a deep-bowled pedestal sink, with an age spotted mirror hanging above it. A claw foot tub occupied the centre of the room. Fielding felt his jaw clench and forced himself to keep his eyes open. Enduring four days of butchery and slaughter on the beach at Dunkirk could not inure him to human suffering. At least it didn't look as if this poor sod suffered long. The tub was full to the rim with blood and water. A foot dangled over the end and an arm hung over the side. A vertical gash ran from the wrist to nearly the elbow, and although it no longer dripped, the evidence on the floor clearly attested that it had for some time. Fielding skirted the pool of congealed blood and stepped to the head of the bath tub. The dead man's glassy eyes stared sightlessly at the wall opposite and his nose rested on the surface of the water. His skin was pallid, waxen. Rigour had come and gone. He'd been dead at least two days. Maybe more as the flat was ruddy cold. “It's a suicide, guv, plain as the nose on your face.” The middle-aged sergeant still stood in the doorway, a dubious look etching his plump features. “Don't see the need for Special Branch to muck about with some poor tosser cockin' up his own toes.” Fielding shot him a warning look. “It's not your concern why I'm here, Sargeant. Let it suffice that I am.” He tugged the victim's head backward by the hair and thumbed the eyelids fully open, examining the pupils. The motion set the water in the bath tub gently lapping at the sides, revealing the well healed stump of what remained of the man's right leg. Shutting his own eyes and steeling himself, Fielding bent close to sniff the mouth of the corpse. He stepped back hastily, fished for the handkerchief in his pocket, and took a deep breath through it. “Who found the body and when?” “His cousin, about an hour ago. A Miss Winterborne. She's in the sitting room now. A bit shaky, she is.” “Did she touch anything? Did you, Sargeant ~?” “Cummings, Sir. Shouldn't think she'd want to, and I certainly didn't.” Probably hadn't even entered the room, Fielding thought as he bent, peering under the tub. He picked up the carving knife by the handle using his handkerchief. It was black and crusted with dried blood. “Find a bag to secure this.” The sargeant made a choking sound and fled. He returned a moment later with a canvass shopping sack, hesitating at the threshold. Fielding dropped the knife into the sack and closed the loo door behind him. “No one enters that room, is that clear, Sargeant? Now show me the cousin.” Cummings led him down the dark corridor and opened the door to the sitting room. Painted a cheery yellow in a bygone era, now it appeared drab and colourless in the lengthening shadows of the late afternoon. A layer of dust clung to the utility furniture and no ornaments adorned the room save for a few old hunt scenes hanging on the wall. The fireplace was empty and cold. At first he didn't see her, and then he wondered how he could have ever missed her. She sat straight and motionless in a ladder back chair, staring out the window at the rain. The one spot of colour in the musty room, then she turned the full power of her stunning beauty toward him. Hair, a vivid auburn, waved back from the translucent skin of her forehead in tall Victory rolls, high Nordic cheek bones, a sharply defined chin, delicate brows, and lips that looked as if they were still red and swollen from kissing her lover. “Miss Winterborne, I'm Inspector Alistair Fielding, Scotland Yard.” Something murky in her dark blue eyes flickered, but was instantly gone. “I realise you've had a difficult day. I'll do my damnedest not to prolong it, but I have a question or two.” She placed the plain white cup and saucer she'd been cradling in her lap on the window sill with a clatter, and turned her serene gaze on him. Miss Winterborne was either frightened or hiding something. He wondered which it was. * * * Cicely turned toward the Metropolitan Police Inspector with the gravelly Scottish voice. This Scotsman had missed his calling. He could have made a fortune as a matinee idol or even a professional rugby player for that matter. He stood several inches over six feet and weighed 15 stone at least. His features were chiselled, proud, and aristocratic. Black hair quarrelled with his effort to ruthlessly slick it down. A slight cleft marked his chin. He stared at her with fathomless dark brown eyes. A poet's eyes. But a soldier's bearing. He frowned slightly and reached into his smartly tailored wool trouser pocket for his cigarettes. Her perusal complete, she replied with a twist of her lips. “'Difficult', Inspector Fielding, is discovering a ladder in one's last pair of pre-war silk stockings. 'Difficult' is queuing for hours at the butcher's and then being turned away empty handed. 'Difficult' is a rather an anaemic word to describe my day. Harrowing is far more appropriate, Inspector.” Standing, Cicely turned her back to him and gazed out the rain lashed window. The bitter November wind blew in through cracks in the casement and she shivered. Charcoal clouds massed on the horizon threatening a thunder and lightening storm. Her hands gripped tightly at her waist. She nearly jumped when Fielding spoke. “Cigarette?” he offered. She hadn't heard him approach and now he towered over her, so closely she could smell his sandalwood cologne, feel his body heat, and see the individual whiskers of his late afternoon beard. After she pulled a cigarette from the extended box, he clicked open a silver lighter. His eyes drew hers like a magnate over the flame. As soon as the tobacco caught, she stepped to the fireplace and stared into the empty grate, exhaling a cloud of smoke. “When did you last see your cousin, Miss Winterborne?” Fielding remained by the window. “Five days ago – Friday. Graham and I took the train down from Buckinghamshire together. We work – in different departments, of course – in a supply directory in Bucks.” Cicely flicked ash from her cigarette into the grate and swung around to face him. “We decide who receives what. Usually, although not always, we stay at the Directory during the week and come down to London at the weekends. He hasn't shown up for work this week, nor answered his phone, so I arranged for a bit of leave to check on him.” His gaze rested on her speculatively. “You and Graham were close? Maybe you are aware of his reason for taking his own life?” Cicely threw her unfinished cigarette into the fireplace. “Just what is this bosh about, Inspector? My cousin committed suicide. What is Scotland Yard doing mucking about with some poor sod who split open his wrists? Have you nothing better to do? Able bodied men are desperately needed; you might sign up for service!” Fielding shot her a gimlet look and snapped, “Aye lass, you see there's this wee bit of annoying shrapnel lodged in my knee, left over from an exploding bomb on the beach at Dunkirk. HMG sent me back to my former profession and sees I generate enough bumf to justify my existence.” He switched on a lamp and sat on the shabby plaid chesterfield, stretching out his left leg. “So why don't you do your patriotic duty and keep me busy tonight.” She froze at the words she and every other young woman heard from the soldiers. Especially the oversexed, overpaid, and over here Americans at the Women's Voluntary Services dances, in the Underground, and at the shops. But Fielding wasn't even looking at her - he was rubbing his left knee. She lifted her chin, gave her hair a quick pat and said, “My apologies, Inspector.” Taking a deep breath, she said, “You-you saw his - what remained of Graham's leg?” At his nod, she continued. “He lost it at Dunkirk. They discovered him on that bloody beach beneath a pile of dead bodies, Inspector Fielding. It was no longer an evacuation when they found him, but a recovery. For four days he lay in his own blood and that of his fellow soldiers. His entire company perished – except for him. For two and half years he's found it . . . 'difficult'”, she threw Fielding's word back at him, “to live with.” Making her way to the opposite end of the room, Cicely opened Graham's drinks cabinet, extracted a nearly empty bottle of Hennessy VSOP and poured herself two fingers. The bottle hovered over a second glass. “Inspector?” He shook his head and she shrugged, taking a long sip. Fire slicked down to her stomach and expanded in her veins like lava, giving her courage. A fool's courage. She took another sip. “No, we weren't particularly 'close', Mr. Fielding. Graham didn't let anyone close to him. Always a bit of a loner, he was. No siblings and his parents emigrated to Canada before the war. None of them shared a particular fondness for pen and paper. Besides my parents in Cornwall, he's the only family left to me.” She shrugged again. “He needed to feel useful after Dunkirk, so I arranged a job at my place of employment.” And if she hadn't, Cicely thought bitterly, he might still be alive. She drained her glass. The door to the sitting room burst open bringing in a draft of chilly air and a tall, thin brunette in an Air Raid Precaution uniform. She strode straight to Cicely and engulfed her in an embrace. “Cicely! You poor thing! How frightfully dreadful! I came as soon as I received your telephone call.” Monty's sympathy nearly threatened Cicely's hard won composure, but she hugged her back, then broke free, blinking her eyes against gathering tears. “And you are?” Fielding's voice cut across the room like a lancet. He rose from the chesterfield. Monty started and whirled round. Lifting a hand to her hair, she eyed him boldly. Monty loved men. Especially tall, dark, handsome men in uniform. Cicely didn't think the lack of the latter really mattered in this case. Cicely set her empty glass on the drinks cabinet. “This is Monetary Smith, my flatmate, Inspector. This is Inspector Fielding of Scotland Yard, Monty.” Monty extended her hand and approached Fielding with a sparkle in her eye. “So pleased to meet you, Inspector. . .” Her step faltered and her hand fell to her side when Fielding merely regarded her with a flat stare. She frowned and retraced her steps. “Why is Scotland Yard responding to a suicide?” “Apparently we are to answer his questions, dear, not the other way. Well, Inspector,” Cicely said, a cheeky tone to her voice now the liquor was taking effect, “you must be feeling quite useful now there's two of us to keep you busy. What may we do for you?” Monty's brows lifted in askance and Fielding frowned darkly. Cicely knew she was out of line and didn't care. She wanted out of Graham's flat. She needed someplace safe to gather her thoughts, to think what to do. But where was safe? “You may go now, Miss Winterbourne,” Fielding said slowly. “Our conversation can wait a day or two.” “An excellent idea.” Monty took Cicely by the arm and threw Fielding an annoyed glare over her shoulder. “Come on, old girl, we have just enough time before my shift for a nice cup of tea.” Outside on the pavement, Cicely gathered the collar of her wool coat around her neck against an icy east wind. Thunder boomed in the distance. Nearly everybody looked apprehensively at the sky and scuttled for shelter. Except for two men across the street. Cicely spotted one, directly adjacent, dressed as a labourer, leaning against the wall of a newsagent's, leisurely smoking a fag. Catching her eye, he glanced quickly away. The other chap, sporting a mac and a trilby, half a block behind, scrutinised a toy store window. Monty started to run. “Come on, old girl, the Underground's just around the corner,” she called. “If we hurry, we shan't be soaked.” They boarded the train at King's Cross, and ten minutes later disembarked at Russell Square, making their way south toward the British Museum. Normally in the late afternoon, light would be glowing between the enormous pillars and students, scholars, and tourists pouring in and out. But it was wartime, a repository had been bombed two years before, and the massive building stood empty, the Empire's treasures evacuated. With blackout in effect the pillars were shrouded in shadow and surrounded by sand bags. Few people came and went now. The blackout made a winter night even longer. Only the dimmest possible illumination was allowed at dark. Otherwise cities and towns made easy targets to German bombers and enabled clear navigation for enemy pilots. Across the street, the Museum Pub made up for the museum's lack of custom. Although it too, was piled high with sand bags and it's windows painted black, the sounds of singing and tinkling glasses leaked out, following them two doors down where they entered an arched doorway. Just as they ducked in and mounted the wide concrete steps to their flat thunder boomed, exploding like a Jerry bombing raid. The sky opened in torrents of rain. The second floor landing was narrow with a flat at either end and a blacked out window in the centre. Cicely slotted a key into the lock of the right flat. Inside it was dark and draughty, and after hanging their coats, the girls went straight to the kitchen. “Brr, the Aga needs turning up.” Cicely rubbed her upper arms and headed for the bright yellow stove. Monty pulled a ladder back chair back from their small dining table. “Sit. You've had a frightful shock. I'll feed you bikkies and tea before my shift and you can fill me in on the details – that is if you are up to it, old girl.” She filled the kettle from the tap and set in on the burner. “That Inspector chap was a nice bit of alright.” She shot Cicely a speculative look. “He didn't seem interested in me, worse luck, but I glimpsed a touch of curiosity about you.” Cicely rolled her eyes and settled herself in the chair. “Really Monty! Don't your RAF chaps keep you busy?” Monetary shrugged. “At this point I could likely teach the green ones to fly a Spitfire or a Hurricane - and I haven't seen the cockpit of either one. I've decided to try Americans for a change of pace. Besides, they're such fun to listen to – 'Hey Princess, aren't you just a livin' doll'. And the chocolate!” She winked. “They couldn't possibly eat all those Hershey bars by themselves.” She reached into the cupboard for the tea tin, measured out two tiny pinches, then turned around, leaning on the counter and folding her arms across her chest. “Now then, why did Graham do such an awful thing? Who did he think would find him if not you?” Cicely propped her elbows on the table, resting her face in her hands. She kept seeing Graham as she had found him: naked, pale, and so still, in a bathtub full of blood. She wanted to block out the sight and the smell, but was afraid it would never go away, never leave her in peace. She must move past the shock. And discover just what Graham had known. Taking a deep breath, Cicely said, “He must have reached his breaking point. I wasn't due back from Bletchley until the weekend - for three more days. Likely it occurred to him his cleaning lady might find ~” she started as the kettle screamed. “Ballocks.” Monty turned to pour the boiling water into the teapot. “He may not have nurtured any closeness between you, but he knew bloody well if he didn't turn up for work for several days, you'd come down to London to see why.” She brought the tea and a plate of vanilla biscuits to the table. Pausing, she looked carefully at Cicely. “Might it have anything to do with . . . with your work? I'm aware ~” She swallowed and started over. “Mums the word, of course, but I know you don't ruddy well work in a supply distribution centre at Bletchley.” Cicely froze, then lowered her tea cup. She searched her dearest friend's face. “Why would you not think I distribute supplies?” She gave a small laugh. “Goodness, you don't imagine I'm into the cloak and dagger stuff?” Monty stared at her. “Really, Monty! It's all these spy propaganda posters. My job is quite innocent, I assure you. And dull. I'm a file clerk.” That much was true, at least. But it wasn't dull and it wasn't innocent. Monty continued to regard her with a speculative gleam over the rim of her teacup. “I'm no boffin, but I know when I hear a load of double Dutch. I realise you can't blow the gaff. We'll say no more about it.” She swallowed the last of her tea and stood. “If any hypothetical situations arise and you need to talk, you have a sympathetic – and discreet listener. Now I'm off for my shift, keeping an eye out for the Hun in the sky,” she said, lifting her hand in a playful salute. When the door slammed behind Monty, Cicely rose from her chair, flipped off the light switch, and made her way in the gloom to the window. Very carefully she lifted the tight fitting black out blind and peered outside. Heavy clouds and pelting rain contributed to an early darkness. The street lights were dimmed and the few vehicles out burning petrol wore shields over their lamps, allowing a mere pinprick of illumination. Monty ran across the road, her neck hunched into her collar and her mac flying out behind her from the force of the wind. She dashed right by a man leaning against the iron spike fence surrounding the museum. He wore a trench coat and a trilby pulled low over is face. Cicely's gaze darted in every direction. Not many ventured out in the blackout. The few who did, hurried to find shelter, or had already found it in shop doorways. She glanced back at the man in the trench coat. He'd pushed his trilby to the back of his head and was staring up at her. Rain poured down his face, but he didn't blink. Cicely felt those eyes burn through her like red-hot daggers. Finally, he righted his hat and strode away, enveloped in blackness and a torrent of rain. She jumped when the loud banging on her door started. (Comment on this)
Thursday, June 14th, 2007
9:34 am	Who Are You? Check yourself out and see what kind of a person you really are......when you reach the website, click on the "one" photo that really inspires you...then wait for the next page and continue doing the same until the end and following the instructions: http://dna.imagini.net:80/friends/ (1 Comment |Comment on this)