Excerpt from Possum Playing Poker Chapter Three

            "I can't believe you arrested those two!"  We sat on my front porch.  Rush slobbered scraps from a pan at Josh's feet.

            "You were magnificent!"  Josh wrinkled his forehead as he drained his tea.

            "They didn't even look at me when I apologized."

            "Ricocheting that bench off the guard rail was brilliant!'

            "They'll have to get their daughter Cecilia to run their tiende de comestibles now."

            "They don’t have a Mexican grocery store."

            "And she's pregnant."

            "How would you know she's pregnant?"

            "If they're not Mexican, what are they then?"

            We had finally converged into the same conversation.  Josh answered me, "They are known assassins.   Mercenaries.  It's quite a star in my crown."

            "Where'd the gun come from?"  I stopped rocking.

            "Right here."  Josh patted the small of his back.

            "You've had a gun on all this time!  And you haven't shot yourself?"

            "I do not shoot myself."  His voice deepened in anger.

            "Guns go off around me.  It's just a fact."  I stood and put my hands on my hips.  "Ask anyone.  Go down to the Bow and Bullet and ask anyone how Mark got his nickname!"

            Josh templed his fingertips and pressed them to his lips.  "All right, what is his nickname?"

            "Stub."

            Josh pressed his fingertips into his eyelids and sighed deeply.

            The phone rang.

            "I need to answer that."  Josh stood up.

            "I'll answer my own phone."  I pushed him gently back into the rocker and stepped across Rush.

            "Hello?"

            "Miss Olson, this is Special Agent MacGregor from the Bureau.  I'd like to thank you for your cooperation today.  My men and I were quite impressed."

            "Thank you, I mean, you're welcome?"

            "You're lucky to be alive, young lady."

            "Oh."

            "May I speak with Agent Dylan, please."  It was not a question.

            Josh stood at my side.  "Yes, he's here.  It's Special Agent MacGregor." I handed him the phone. 

            "Dylan, sir."  He paused, listening, and then remarked, “No sir, my blackberry doesn’t seem to work in this location.” Another pause. “Yes, sir, I realize its range is world-wide.”

            I started to walk away.  He reached out and caught hold of the fabric of my sleeve.  He slowly pulled me back to his side.   “Perhaps it has more to do with proximity than location.  As in, proximity to a black hole phenomenon.”

I stuck my tongue out and tried to walk away again.  He shook his head and mouthed ‘Stay’ at me as he 'Yes-sir'-ed and 'Understandable sir'-ed.

            Dylan cleared his voice, "Would you explain the situation to Miss Olson?"

            A pause.

            "No, no problems.  She's --” he looked deeply into my eyes.  "Formidable."

            Another pause.

            "Thank you, sir."

            He hung up.  He let go of my sleeve and took a deep breath.  "I'll be right back."

            He returned carrying a flight bag.  "I'll just bunk down on the couch."

            "What?"

            "It makes into a bed.  My sister has one just like it."

            "Agent Josh Dylan, you can not move in with me."  I gave him teacher-look number seven, reserved for the most defiant second graders, right before I send them to the office.

            "Yes, ma'am, I can."

            "You have no right --"

            "By the authority of Governor Douglas himself, I am to move in with you, spend every waking moment with you, and guard every breath you take."

            "Pug?"

            Josh blinked.

            "Frank Douglas told you to move in with me?"

            Josh nodded, "Yes, ma'am, the Governor of Florida."

            "I'll kill him."  I jerked the phone off the cradle and punched in eleven numbers.

            Josh unfolded the couch and got sheets from my linen closet.  "I'd like to advise you, all phone calls are being monitored."

            "Pug!"  I shouted into the mouthpiece.  "Who do you think you are?"

            The man on the other end of the phone tried to soothe me, but I was livid.

            "I'm never speaking to you again.  Not ever.  Not ever ever!"  I slammed the phone down in frustration and stood fuming.

            "You call the Governor 'Pug'?"  Josh's voice was humorlessly calm.  He leaned nonchalantly against the door frame.

            “His name is Francis Ignacio Douglas.  In college, he used to eat like a pig. Ignacio became Pignacio, and then Pugnacious, and then just Pug."

            "You went to college with the Governor?"

            "He wasn't governor then, just a kid, like me."

            "How about some coffee?"

            "What do you mean my phone is being monitored?  You mean tapped?"  I followed him into the kitchen.

            "All incoming calls will be monitored for your own safety."

            "What are they going to do, say 'Boo' and scare me to death?"

            "A laser beam can be directed through any optic fiber.  Just dial your phone number, and when you answer, press the trigger.  I'd like to suggest you route all calls through your answering machine."

            "It doesn't work."

            "Get it fixed."

            "I tried to.  Tony of Sylvester's Videos and Electronics said he didn't know the thingy-whatsit could melt.  He called to discuss it with his cousin in Milwaukee, but his cousin thought Tony was pulling his leg and hasn't spoken to him in a month."

            Josh sighed.

 

Excerpt from

Possum Playing Poker

© Evelyn Rainey

Available for publication.

Excerpt from Comes the Warrior Chapter Four

At dawn Thursday, she started a pot of coffee and gazed absently out into the backyard.  The yard was deep and - other than a large oak tree near the house – was clear of trees for about one half of an acre.  Deep green grass covered the ground.  A huge picnic table and trestle benches which could have sat two dozen people bordered the left side of the yard.  There was a brick and cement barbecue pit.  She guessed the fenced field beyond was probably cattle pasture.  Woods, beginning with the oaks and maples surrounded the right edge and a pecan grove stood sentry at the bottom of the yard.  It was too beautiful to stay inside.  She retrieved her well-worn broomstick from her room and went quietly out the kitchen door.

 

Gwen stood in the center of the yard and drew a deep cleansing breath.  She hadn't done the Morning Meadow ceremony in over six months.  Morning Meadow was a ritual that taught spiritual lessons and physical skills.  Everyone who served the light learned it.  Children begin the practice as soon as they are old enough to hold a wooden dowel.  Morning Meadow was a beginning.  The basic steps for all the complicated steps to come.  With mastery, the lessons learned in Morning Meadow were sufficient to protect yourself in simple battle. 

Simple battle, she snorted at her thoughts.  She thought she was done with battles.  The Light had other plans for her.  She cleared her mind and held the stick horizontally to the ground at shoulder height: Dawn.

She sank to her knees, keeping the staff steady: Awareness.

She lowered the stick to the ground, pressing her forehead to the cool dewy grass: Awe.  She held that position while her muscles stretched and her joints popped.  Curling upwards from the small of her back she stretched the staff as far as she could reach: Surrender.

She returned to the Dawn position and drew in another breath.

She dropped the rod end, allowing the tip to dip level to her waist and repeated it with the left end.  She did this six times.  Then the rod dipped to her hip on the right and the left six times.  She dropped the staff to her knees on the sides and eventually allowed the staff to touch the grass.  The Spider's Web wasn't complete until she'd walked the staff ends back up to Dawn position again.  Her wrists ached from disuse.

She transitioned to Frog in the Pond, alternately swinging the staff outward from chest to side with the right hand snapping the free end into her left hand and then arching the staff with her left hand out to the side and back to snap into her right palm.  She repeated Frog in the Pond a dozen times.

She brought her hands together in the center of the rod and stretched it up as far she could lift it and then bent at her waist touching her knuckles to the ground:  Rainbow.  Holding the staff parallel to the ground and keeping her feet flat, she began to twist it around to the back of her ankles to the left and then to the right.  Rising slightly, she twirled it around behind her left calf and then her right.  A little farther up with each pendulum she worked the staff up to her waist and then all the way inch by inch until she stopped twisting her torso and began twirling the staff.  It had taken her two weeks to learn how to perform the Journey without falling over with dizziness.  Smiling with joy, she repositioned her hands and returned to Dawn.

She began the exercises again.  Dawn, Awareness, Awe, Surrender, Dawn.  She added steps to Morning Meadow working her way across the yard.  A box step for Spider’s Web, grapevine steps for Frog in Pond, but nothing for Journey because balance was the key to that exercise.

As she arched to the ground with the Rainbow she followed through with a somersault.  She arched and rolled across the yard.  Then she turned around and worked her way back to the center of the yard in box steps.  Sweat was pouring down her arms, torso and legs and her mouth was fuzzy with thirst.  Dawn.  Awareness.  Awe. Surrender.  Dawn.

She laughed and lowered the staff.  She smelled coffee and turned at the sound of pastor's voice, "That was beautiful, Gwen.  Thanks for brewing the coffee.  Didn't know what you wanted in it so I brought the works."

He stood behind her carrying a tray laden with a steaming pot, mugs, a jug of milk and a sugar bowl.

Still breathing hard, she smiled and followed him to the picnic table.

"It is so beautiful here," she sighed over the mug she had to hold in both hands due to her aching wrists.

"You're beautiful here," he replied.

"Atticus, please don't.  You don't know me."

"I agree.  I don't know you yet.  But I do know beauty when I see it.  And you are beautiful."

She put down her mug and frowned.

"Do you do that exercise every morning?" 

"I stopped for a while but I plan to get back into the habit of the Morning Meadow.  That's its name.  It's a spiritual ceremony as well as a physical rendition.  Every individual step has a name too, but they are all things from a meadow."

"Tomorrow morning, will you let me try it with you?"

She nodded.  "It's not as easy as it looks.  Don't get discouraged."

He snorted, "That didn't look easy at all!"

"What are your plans for today?"

"It's Thursday.  I work on my sermons for Sunday and Wednesday, prepare the agenda for the Elders’ meeting, and go fishing in the afternoon."

"Is there anything I can do to help you?"

"Are you any good at cooking?"

"With the right ingredients," she replied softly.  "There's only so much I can do with peanut butter."

Excerpt from

Comes the Warrior

© Evelyn Rainey

Available for publication.

APPLE-STUFFED ACORN SQUASH

2 acorn squash

Salt to taste

3 tart apples

1 cup broken cashew nuts

¼ cup melted butter/margarine

½ cup maple syrup

Cut squash in half lengthwise; scoop out seeds and stringy portion. Place cut sides down on rack in skillet and add 1 inch of boiling water. Add salt; cover and steam about 20 minutes. Remove to shallow baking dish. Peel, core and dice apples; add nuts, butter and syrup. Fill squash with mixture. Brush surface with additional melted butter. Add ½ inch hot water to pan; cover with foil. Bake in 400 degree oven about 30 minutes. Yield: 4 servings.

(Mrs. G. B. Powell, Birmingham, AL © Southern Living 1968)

Gluten-free and Vegetarian/Vegan Recipes

To meet my needs of being “gluten-free”, there are no ingredients that have wheat in them. Since one out of one-hundred people now have problems with the way the United States processes their foods, there are plenty of brands which are marked GF Gluten-free. However, read all the way around the label and determine if there might be traces of wheat or if the product was processed in a plant or on machinery that also handles wheat. (These statements are usually NOT found near the list of ingredients.) If this is the case and you are gluten-sensitive or have a wheat-toxicity, don’t use it!

I also deleted recipes which called for hidden gluten – like shrimp, frozen mangoes and parsnips.

Vegetarian foods allow the use of milk, honey, eggs, and other non-kill animal products; vegans do not. I have endeavored to post only recipes with vegan-appropriate ingredients. If I really liked something, though, that was vegetarian rather than vegan, I will note it.

Whenever possible, use non-GMO products (non-genetically modified).  If you think gmo’s are ok for you, you haven’t read any science fiction books, let alone Charles Darwin.

These recipes are not an attempt to substitute wheat or animal ingredients with something else. These recipes are “naturally” or originally gluten-free and vegetarian/vegan.

Excerpt from Laughing Humans Chapter Three

Clothing

 

            Uri's report began with a deep sigh:

 

            Day fourteen.

            We've noticed a rudimentary sign language, mostly facial expressions, sometimes enhanced by hand and arm motions.

            Hunter Rogue has gone into the tunnels every day for a week.  She comes back with various items she's taken from the rooms along the ventilation system.  Whatever she brings back, she takes immediately to Big Feet.  She keeps nothing back for herself.

            Most items are accepted by Big Feet -- tasted, and shared.

            Some items have been refused by the leader:  body powder, a jumpsuit, and -- God knows where Hunter found it -- a flashlight.

            Hunter takes the refused items back into the tunnel.  They've been detected by the ship's scanners.  Hunter leaves them in a pile three meters in from the colonists' air vent.

            Hunter has allowed herself to be seen by the ship's crew.  They have been briefed on responsible reactions to our little marauder.  We don't believe she presents a danger, but Dr. Arton continues to cite incidences of aggression by captured or cornered females in the past.

            The troop -- strike that.  The colonists show approval of Hunter's return by the slapping/clapping sounds. 

            Our nightly, subliminal linguistic lessons have yet to prove fruitful.  The Laughing Humans of Bicanthra III still only laugh.

            End report.

 

            Good smell!  Flowers, mating smell.  Good smell.

            Hunter watched from an air vent as a naked female sprayed perfume across her breasts, down her thighs, and behind her knees.

            Hunter sniffs.  Good smell.  White Female sat on the edge of the 'bed'.  Hunter knows many words now. Bed is for resting.

            White Female slowly steps into other skin called 'clothing'.  Hunter see many females put on clothing.  It still confused her. 

            White Female picks up small branch and rubs hair with it.  She looks at herself in big dead-eye.  Other White Female (same-but-dead) looks back.  White Female is not frightened by same-but-dead female.  She rubs her cheeks and smiles.

            Hunter crawled into the room as soon as White Female left.  Hunter finds the clear stone with smell inside.  She shakes it, presses it, squeezes it.  No smell.

            Hunter angry.  Throws down clear stone on floor.  It breaks and smell comes to her.

            On hands and knees, she puts her nose into the perfume.  It makes her sneeze.

            She touches, tastes, spits out the liquid.  Then she rubs the perfume all over her breasts, down her stomach to her thighs, and behind her knees.

            Hunter stands and faces same-but-dead-Hunter in 'mirror'.  It still frightens her a little.  The skin underneath the smears of perfume gleams a speckled white.  She smiles in mirror.

            The small branch smells nice.  Hunter rubs her hair with it, but her locks get tangled in the bristles and Hunter finally leaves it hanging from her hair.

            She looks 'stupid'.  Stupid was new word  god tells her last dark.

            Hunter goes to cave wall, presses stone, and smiles at her accomplishment as the closet door slides open.  Many colors!  Grass color is good.  Hunter pulls out the green suit and grabs two more as an after thought.         

            Hunter must not look stupid.  First New wears clothes and looks not stupid.

            First New can teach Hunter.

            Hunter can teach Bigfeet.

 

            Hunter peeks out of tunnel into her troop's cave.  Everyone claps and laughs.

            First New is there.  She is 'humming'.  God is there.  He is trying to teach Notoes to wave.  They all watch Hunter as she climbs out of tunnel.

            Her perfume strikes the troop.  They clap and laugh.  They rub her breasts and smell her knees.

            Darkarm likes smell.  Hunter watches Darkarm when Bigfeet isn't looking.

            Hunter plops the three outfits in front of Bigfeet, hoping she'll refuse them again.

            Hunter held her breath as Bigfeet touches the bright grass and sky clothes.  Hunter knows Bigfeet likes clothes, but they frighten her, too.  They are like dead things.

            Bigfeet curls her lip and turns away.

            Quickly, Hunter picks up the green and the blue outfits and runs to First New.  She thrusts them at her, scared that Bigfeet might stop her.

            First New is startled.  She looks up questioningly at Hunter.

            Hunter sits.  Putting her feet into the leggings, she taps First New's legs and then her own.

            The troop quiets as they watch.

            Hunter pulled the outfit over her legs and tapped First New's legs again, this time rubbing the closing seam.

            A growl rippled through the expectant hush.

            Hunter glared at First New, hoping she'd stand up.  If she challenged Bigfeet, Hunter could learn so many things.  But First New was afraid.  Her nostrils flared.  She looked from Bigfeet to Hunter and back again.

            Hunter crawled across the floor, displaying her full submission to Bigfeet.  She held the blue suit in her hand.  When she reached Bigfeet, she kept her eyes to the ground and pushed the suit into Bigfeet's lap.  She then crawled backwards to First New, keeping her face down. 

            Hunter took a keep breath.  She was dead, but she was still afraid.  Bigfeet did not refuse the outfit.  Bigfeet was fingering the material.  She watched Hunter closely. 

            Hunter stood, her back to Bigfeet.  First New stood, too.

            Hunter slapped her left breast, then paused.  Clamping her lips tightly, Hunter slapped her breasts again, then hit the back of her hand against First New's small breast.

Excerpt from

Laughing Humans

© Evelyn Rainey

Available for publication.

Excerpt from Troughton Company Chapter Four

            “Birmingham’s gone, sir.” Major Crumbley never sugar-coated anything. Glynn admired that in her, but she’d never make colonel if she didn’t learn to soften her blows.

            “Last intel we had said mechmons and city-eaters pretty much ignored Alabama.”

            “It wasn’t mechmons. Birmingham burnt to the ground, three weeks back.”

            “Survivors?”

            “Scattered across the countryside, foraging as best they can.”

            “Atlanta is still rife with cholera, right?” Glynn was counting on taking 20 from Augusta through Atlanta and on to Birmingham. The civies could travel the three hundred miles safely without having to deal with the mountains.

            “Yes, sir.”

            “Crap almighty!” With Birmingham burnt to the ground, he’d lost shelter for the winter. Two thousand civilians plus six hundred soldiers, starving, freezing come winter. Glynn poured over his maps for alternatives. “If we take 78 north to Athens and follow 129 northwest into Gainesville and then 53 west to 75, we could take 75 north through Dalton and into Chattanooga. That’s what? Two hundred sixty miles? Divided by twenty miles a day marching, plus two days’ rest for every three marched.”

            The major rolled her shoulders, “There’s a Wal-Mart about ten miles out.  I sent Yarborough and his team to take anything not tied down.”

            “Have him give the requisitions officer – Dilts -  a copy of the script,” Colonel popped his neck and pulled out his maps. “Original –“

            “I know the fruiting routine. Original gets posted on the door.”

            “Excuse me?” Glynn sat back and stared at Crumbley. “Insolence will not be tolerated in the 74^th, Major.”

            “My apologies, sir.” She saluted and left.

            “Colonel,” his valet Private Matthews set a tray of stew in front of him. “The major had a brother and his family who lived in Birmingham.”

            Glynn glanced up in remorse. He nodded and pushed the stew away. “I hear Rodrigues’ team just picked up five orphans. Take the stew to them.”

            “Begging your pardon, sir, but the orphans are fine. Eat the damn stew.” Matthews picked up a load of laundry and headed out of the tent. Glynn had the maps open, the stew forgotten.

            “Eat it before it gets cold, ‘cause God knows what it will taste like then.”

            Glynn shook his head but picked up the bowl. No spoons, he sipped the greasy broth and used his fingers to pick up what few chunks of vegetables and meat there were.  He tried not to think about the taste – something between dishwater and barbeque, with some chunks soft and squishy while others were so hard they like to break his teeth. But he ate it.

            What he needed were self-sufficient groups, instead of these dependent, helpless whiny civies. What he needed were people like the Troughtons. “Shit, I forgot about Mickey.” Glynn shouted to his corporal outside the tent. “Johnson! Find a way to get word to Sgt. Michelson. Tell him to forget the rendezvous at Brimingham. Tell him,” he perused the map. “Tell him we’ll meet up at Nashville and head toward St. Louis for the winter.  And tell him we need the Troughtons. No holds barred.”

            “I’ll send Yolanski and Edwards in the morning.”

            ‘No. Tonight. Mickey’s got one more week with the Troughtons and rumor has it they’re traveling toward Montana. So,” Glynn used a pencil and ruler on the map. “Tell Yolanski to head south along 75 with due haste.”

            “Yes, sir.

            That night, as his stomach churned on the greasy sorry-excuse-for–stew, his mind raced along map lines and boundaries: mechmon territory, chewed up landscapes, bombed and burning cities, and open terrain. Highways invited mechmons, but there was no way to transport that many people through woods and mountain passes without losing too many to death and injury. Highways were easier to travel, strenuous paths demanded more calories to burn which meant more food and supplies like boots, socks and medicines.

            Glynn rolled over on the thin cot and grunted. He couldn’t sleep; hadn’t slept, had to sleep. He had to move his people as far away from the east coast as possible before it was too late. He sat up and bowed his head. “God, don’t let them nuke the world. OK? Just – help us find a way without that. Amen.”

            He lay back down and didn’t sleep.

 

            “Hell, Mickey, if I’d known you’d go domestic on us, I would have brought you an apron.” Yolanski’s words were tempered by a huge grin. The three members of the 74^th hugged each other.

            Edwards clung to him and whispered, “I have some laundry you could wash.”

            Mickey stepped back quickly, jostling the tub of hot water.

            “We need to speak to Troughton, ASAP, Sergeant.” Yolanski gently put his arm on Edward’s elbow.

            She looked at him and shrugged, “Nothing ventured.”

            “I’ve been telling you for months, Edwards, Yolanski would be happy to wash behind your ears.”

”Who says he hasn’t been?”

            Yolanski blinked and his mouth popped open.

            “See that man over there?” Mickey pointed. “He’s Preacher. Don’t play poker with him, cause you can’t bluff worth a shit.”

”Welcome to Troughtonville, Mr. Yolanski, Miss Edwards.” Jerry walked to the three, flanked as always by Chrissy and Hunter.

            “Sir,” Yolanski saluted. “We need to talk. Is there someplace private?
            “No.”

            Yolanski blinked again.

            “Smartboard, ring the bell for an all-call.” To the Seventy-fourthers, he explained, “Anyone not on duty will come to the fire. We’ll hear what you have to say together.”

            Andrews brought up two bowls of gumbo and handed them to the soldiers. Edwards took hers with a gruff grunt; Yolanski smiled gratefully at Andrews. Their fingers brushed under the bowl and both men blushed.  

The Troughtons assembled quickly.

            “The floor is yours, Mr. Yolanski,” Chrissy held out her hand.

            “Colonel Glynn sends his regards and asks that you rendezvous with the 74^th at Nashville.”

            “I thought the 74^th was going to winter at Birmingham. You can’t get to Birmingham from Nashville, can you?” Sally asked.

            “Birmingham burned to the ground about a month ago,” Edwards stated.

Excerpt from

Troughton Company

© Evelyn Rainey

Available for publication.

CURRIED SQUASH AND ONION

¼ cup dried currants

¼ cup dry sherry

3 Tbsp butter/margarine

2 cups sliced sweet Spanish onions

4 cups sliced yellow squash, unpeeled

Salt and white pepper to taste

2 Tsp cornstarch

2 tsp curry powder

1 Tbsp lemon juice

1 Tbsp strained honey/sugar (brown)

Marinate currants in sherry for 30 minutes.  Cook onions, squash, salt and pepper in ½ cup water until just tender. Add butter. Drain liquid into pint measuring cup up to 1 and ¼ cups liquid. Pour into top of double boiler, stir in cornstarch and curry powder. Simmer over low heat for 10 minutes. Add lemon juice and honey; stir well. Add onion and squash. Stir in currants and sherry. Keep hot.

(Eva G. Key, Mount Pleasant, SC © Southern Living 1968)

Gluten-free and Vegetarian/Vegan Recipes

To meet my needs of being “gluten-free”, there are no ingredients that have wheat in them. Since one out of one-hundred people now have problems with the way the United States processes their foods, there are plenty of brands which are marked GF Gluten-free. However, read all the way around the label and determine if there might be traces of wheat or if the product was processed in a plant or on machinery that also handles wheat. (These statements are usually NOT found near the list of ingredients.) If this is the case and you are gluten-sensitive or have a wheat-toxicity, don’t use it!

I also deleted recipes which called for hidden gluten – like shrimp, frozen mangoes and parsnips.

Vegetarian foods allow the use of milk, honey, eggs, and other non-kill animal products; vegans do not. I have endeavored to post only recipes with vegan-appropriate ingredients. If I really liked something, though, that was vegetarian rather than vegan, I will note it.

 

Whenever possible, use non-GMO products (non-genetically modified).  If you think gmo’s are ok for you, you haven’t read any science fiction books, let alone Charles Darwin.

These recipes are not an attempt to substitute wheat or animal ingredients with something else. These recipes are “naturally” or originally gluten-free and vegetarian/vegan.