It is a whirlwind in here


Dale Estey

I owe my life to Hitler, though I never met the man. My father was paid to stop Hitler, so there is no conflict of interest. I was given a thunk on the back o' the head by God when I was fifteen, and within a week began to write. I haven't stopped. My first novel was accepted 'over the transom'. My first editor/author luncheon in New York included a naked man with roller skates at the next table. For the sake of research I have lain on Kafka's grave, but I did not weep. I wish upon my own gravestone the phrase "Thank God He Didn't Die A Virgin". There is truth in every truth - so watch out. My published novels include the popular fantasy A Lost Tale and the thriller The Bonner Deception. I also have two editions of humorous and spiritual short stories, The Elephant Talks to God, which are appreciated by both young and old. My manuscripts range from stories about unicorns and druids in the 'Passing Through Trilogy' to the 9/11 destruction of New York. I have filled in the missing diaries of Franz Kafka; recounted the first person dementia of a serial killer; explored the outrageous lifestyle of the famous; and listened in while an elephant and God converse. I currently switch my attention between the saga of a family of onion farmers, from Fourth century Italy to the present day, and a contemporary NATO thriller. I live in Canada and make Nova Scotia my home. I prefer to travel by train, but embrace the computer age with passion. I am always on the hunt for unique onion recipes.

‘Tis An Ill Wind Indeed That Would Stop Beauty On Partridge Island

The bell rang from my Lighthouse dock,
And down I went
To find Sister Darling of
The Rarefied Church of the World (reformed),
Having been delivered by
An outgoing fishing boat.

She had a basket over her arm
From which wafted aromas that
Promised a delightful evening repast.
She removed a packet from the basket,
Handed the basket to me,
Scooped up Paw
My cat/kitten,
Black as Blood Pudding
With one white mitten,
And headed away with him.

They went toward the Lighthouse,
While I took the provisions to my kitchen.
Then I caught them up.

Sister Darling was kneeling on the lee side
Of the Lighthouse tower,
Away from the assault of ocean wind.
She was digging in the earth
Helped by Paw, his front paws
In a flurry.

Her package contained flower seeds,
And she obviously had the Hope of God
In her repertoire.

God is good to me
When Sister Darling is around,
So I knelt beside Paw.

Dig  Dig  Dig

{I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2023 / A lot of stuff have I seen/A lot of stuff to report}

Kafka Takes The Train In His Dreams

In Kafka In The Castle, I fill in the ‘missing’ diary entries from Kafka’s real diary. He either did not fill in these days himself, or he destroyed them. There are some estimates that Kafka destroyed 70% – 80% of everything he wrote.

04 April 1917

             Dreamed I was to take a train journey. I tried to find my travel papers, but all the drawers were jammed shut. The cupboard doors refused to open. My wallet was stuffed with money   – colourful bills worth thousands of marks – yet no passport, no police clearance. I could find no proof of who I was, and no permission to cross borders. I feared I was going to be late, so I put on an overcoat, grabbed a small bag off the bed, and hurried from the room.

     The door led directly to the station platform, and I was quickly caught in lines of people. A man in uniform  harshly requested to see our tickets, but when I explained I had been unable to find any of my documents, he pointed to my case. Inside were passports and papers from every country in Europe. I handed him one, but over my name was a photo of hog. Another had a picture of a donkey. A third showed sheep. Rodents, insects, and finally an ape, all appearing over my name and signature. “You are Doktor Kafka?” he demanded. “Yes,” I answered. I was terrified – what face did I have now? “You are the veterinarian,” he said, finally satisfied. “Down to the end of the train.” He pointed the way, and I hurried along.

     I walked and walked, but the train just became longer. Box cars and cattle cars were filled with the most terrible animal clamour, and reeking of filth. And I wondered, as I searched in vain for the end of this endless train, where would my destination finally be?

20 September 1917

               Dreamed a mixture. I walked – a desolate figure trudging the vast Steppes. Yet I rode wildly – a madman with my forehead pressed against the compartment window. And I saw myself as the train raced by, outlined by the yellow light of the coach; and then a slender body turning to stare at the racing train. We both hollered, but noise and distance obscured our voice. The vast Steppes turned into a castle, but the castle was displayed in the photos of a magazine, which I held on my lap in the flickering light of the compartment, as the train became engulfed  by the large buildings on either side of the tracks. In the magazine there was a railway at the base of the castle, and as I looked out the window the stone walls filled the frame, each giant block wedged securely to the others, their facing protruding and rough. It was as if the train had entered a tunnel, except there was still light from the distant sky.

     I turned a page, and had to squint to see the pictures. Along the whole bottom of the magazine pages, a train obscured part of the castle wall, almost becoming a part of the stones. Black and white, light and shade, blending into a sepia which smudged all the details. Was there a figure in the window?

Does The Visitor To Partridge Island Want to Play?


My cat/kitten,

Black as night, with

One white mitten,

Has grabbed my pant leg,

And urges me to go with him.

Does he think I’m his father,

Or some sort of brother?

But off we go.

He leads me to the waterside

And there, splashing and frollicking

Like all get out,

Is a baby seal.

I like seals,

They are always smiling.

Paw looks at me


What the heck,

I toss him in.

First, I find out

Paw can really swim,

And, second,

The baby seal is a tease.

A gentle tease.

He butts Paw with his snout.

Dives in front of him,

And comes up behind.

Tickles him

(I swear)

With his whiskers.

I let them go at it,

Until I see Paw is

Getting tired,

So I scoop him out.

The baby seal looks at me,

And gives a bark,

So I bend over

And I scritch his head,

And away he scoots.

I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2023 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}


Kafka Meets A Gypsy And Coin Is Exchanged

In Kafka In The Castle, I fill in the ‘missing’ diary entries from Kafka’s real diary. He either did not fill in these days himself, or he destroyed them. There are some estimates that Kafka destroyed 70% – 80% of everything he wrote. 


08 June 1917

A Gypsy confronted me today, and I was in the mood for a bit of sport. Her age was difficult to tell – certainly a decade older than me. In her swirl of shawls and dangling jewellery, heavy make-up on her face, she could almost have been in disguise. She peered at me with an intense sigh, attempting – I am sure – to penetrate my own disguise.

“You are a Jew,” she said.

“And you a Gypsy,” I replied.

She seemed pleased with my response, for her professional smile became real.

“You state the obvious,” she said. “As becomes a Doktor of Laws,”

I replied. “But to your eyes, do you not state the obvious?”

“Are you going to banter with a poor old Gypsy woman, instead of barter? That would make you suspiciously like one of us.” She said this with a growl in her throat.

“The Gypsy and the Jew,” I said, feeling the challenge which I so miss. “Perhaps an opera – but I think it’s been done to death.”

“They will try to do us all unto death,” she said harshly, and turned away.

I had the fear she was going to leave me without another word, but what she did was to spit fulsomely onto the street.

“They can’t kill us all,” I said, but I knew she heard the doubt in my voice.

She slowly faced me again.

“So. Even a Doktor of Laws can have hope. That is refreshing – but foolish.” She took my hand and felt my palm roughly with her thumb, although all the while her eyes never left my face. “You are going to travel.”

“Travel is a vague word. One can go on many types of voyage.”

“And reach many destinations,” she added, still holding my hand. “If you take away my vagueness, you take away my trade.”

“Then let me pay you for your services right now.”

This transaction would make her loose my hand, which is what I wanted most of all. She had frightened me, for her eyes and face were full of truth. I know the truth. I know it when it presents itself, stark and unobscured. I search out truth endlessly, yet still can flee at its approach. As in her eyes. But she gripped me more fiercely, and pulled my hand up.

“The coin, Herr Doktor.” Her voice was now soft. “The coin can wait.”

She at last lowered her eyes and looked closely at my palm. She rubbed the lines and whorls of my skin. She touched her finger to her lips, and spread the moisture along my hand.

“Your lifeline, Herr Doktor,” she took a quick look in my eyes, “of Laws. You deceive with the youth upon your face. Is that not so?”

“If your eyes stop at the mask, then no, the years have not etched themselves deeply.”

“Not on your face, Herr Doktor of Laws.” Her grip was intense. “But on your palm…” She hissed. “You will soon embark upon that final voyage.”

She released my hand, rubbed her fingers across her sleeve.

“But you will not go in haste. There will be many stops along the way.”

Suddenly her face was full of the most beautiful smile, and her laughter was genuine.

“I see you do not complain of vagueness now.” She held out her hand. “The coin, Herr Doktor of Laws. This time I have truly earned it.”

I dug deeply into my pocket, and feared that I may have overpaid her. But, perhaps, that is not possible.

Sister Darling Brings Religious Fervor On Walpurgis Night

One chore I have

As Lighthouse Keeper

On Partridge Island,

Is to count the ships

As they come

And as they go.

They signal me with their bells,

And some, with their new-fangled horns.

It was one of those blasts

That took me down to the dock.

And, indeed,

A ship was leaving for sea.

But first,

(Much to my surprise)

It let off

Sister Darling of

The Rarefied Church Of The World (reformed)

” It’s Saint Walpurga’s Eve”, said she.

“What?” asked I.

“Don’t be an oaf.”

She hit me on the shoulder.

“Grab the cat.”

She heads along the shore.

I scoop up

Paw, my cat/kitten,

Black as the Furies

With one white mitten.

And away we follow.

Sister Darling scoots along the

Narrow path beside the water.

And comes to a stop,

Looking far out to sea.

“Start praying!”

Which I do, for after a

Bout of fervent prayer,

Sister Darling wants fervent relief.

She speaks and sputters about

Ghosts, and opening veils, and

Blessed Saint Walpurga, opening

Doors to God.

Blessed Be! say I

Paw and me, we exchange

A certain glance

Knowing we both

Will feast tonight.

I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2023 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}


Tucker Carlson and Don Lemon Walk Into A Bar The Next Day

~ So, Tuck – do they miss you?

~ Not one snivelling son-of-a-bitch.

~ No golden handshake?

~ They didn’t even talk to me.

~ What a way to start the week.

~ How about you, Don?

~ Nobody waved good-bye.

~ So, no golden handshake, neither?

~ I’d be repulsed by their touch.

~ They worshipped us.

~  That’s funny, Tuck.

~ But still true.

~ What is Truth?

~ Who the Tuck cares?

~ Do you remember what Dr. Goebbels said?

~ Hitler’s main man?

~ Yes. Minister of Propaganda.

~  Ah, good times. Remind me, Don.

~ He pointed around the Sports Palace.

~ Ah, those huge Berlin speeches.

~ And he said . . .

~ Yes?

~ “I could make them jump from the windows”.

~ Good Times.

~ Excellent Times.


Two Crows Look Out To Sea

Paw, my cat/kitten,

Black as the feathers of night,

With one white mitten,

Is starting, at times,

To put me in my place.

He’s a smart little bugger,

So I let him.

We were walking the perimeter

Of Partridge Island,

Which we do

Once or twice

A week,

When he jumped between my feet,

And damned near tripped me.

Which means

‘Stop, you oaf.’

So I did.

On a scraggly branch,

Of one of the scraggly trees,

Two crows were looking out to sea.


Moving their heads,

Bob to the left

Bob to the right

Exchanging crow croaks,

Ruffling head feathers,

Throats held up in unison.

Seeing what they see,

Telling each other,

Moving, at times,

In tandem,

Along the scraggly branch,

Upon the scraggly tree.


I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2023 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}


Jesus Has Doubts On Good Friday

Unicorns are mentioned in The Bible nine times:

Job 39:9 “Will the unicorn be willing to serve thee, or abide by thy crib?”

Job 39:10 “Canst thou bind the unicorn with his band in the furrow? or will he harrow the valleys after thee?”

Psalm 22:21 “But my horn shalt thou exalt like the horn of an unicorn: I shall be anointed with fresh oil.”

Psalm 92:10 “But my horn shalt thou exalt like the horn of an unicorn: I shall be anointed with fresh oil.”

Deuteronomy 33:17 “His glory is like the firstling of his bullock, and his horns are like the horns of unicorns: with them he shall push the people together to the ends of the earth: and they are the ten thousands of Ephraim, and they are the thousands of Manasseh.”

Numbers 23:22 “God brought them out of Egypt; he hath as it were the strength of an unicorn.”

Numbers 24:8 “God brought him forth out of Egypt; he hath as it were the strength of an unicorn: he shall eat up the nations his enemies, and shall break their bones, and pierce them through with his arrows.”

Isaiah 34:7 “And the unicorns shall come down with them, and the bullocks with the bulls; and their land shall be soaked with blood, and their dust made fat with fatness.”

Psalm 29:6 “He maketh them also to skip like a calf; Lebanon and Sirion like a young unicorn.”

In my novel, A Lost Gospel, Jesus (Yeshua) has human doubts about being executed. On the eve of his Crucifixion, he escapes into the trees from those sent to arrest him. There he meets Glarus and two unicorns, who had been present at his birth. Symmetry. She shows him that the night is this night.

“We won’t be going further.” Glarus reigned in her horse, and slipped from its back. “There are voices.”

     “Is it Yeshua?” Ogma was quickly on the ground.

     “He is at hand.” Glarus walked toward the unicorns. “They await me.” She touched Bettine and Sirona. “They take me.”

     “They frighten me.” Sirona stepped back.

     “Your task is done.” Glarus walked past the women. “Stay here with the others.”

     “What of you?” Cowin reached out his hand, although she was not close enough to touch.

     “The unicorns lead me to Yeshua.”

     “Is this for you alone, Glarus of the Mountains?” Ogma took a step toward her.

     “It must be my voice he hears.”

     “We’ll remain here.” Belenus put a hand on Ogma’s shoulder. “Do what is necessary, my sister.”

     Glarus joined with the unicorns. They walked through the grove, toward the voices which rose and fell on the night breeze.      The animals were in front, a pallid moonlight reflecting from their white backs. Glarus paused to listen, and the unicorns stopped instantly, their ears twitching, and their gaze fixed before them. The voices were confused, and yelling at cross-purposes, creating a jumble of noise in the distance.

     Glarus touched the haunch of each animal, solid and silent in the dark. She could hear someone moving through the olive grove, much closer than the clamouring voices in the distance. She was surprised, because the person approaching was not making the sounds of someone concerned with pursuers. She had assumed there would be haste, but now realized there was only uncertainty.

     Glarus lifted her hands, for the unicorns had become hot to touch. She breathed deeply, and loosened her cloak, closing her eyes as the warmth penetrated. Stillness filled the olive grove, and when she again opened her eyes, the unicorns were gone.

     She followed them, her feet seeming to make no noise on the earth. The branches touched her cloak, and the moon revealed the secrets of the night.

     Ahead of her, between two thick trees, a man stood before the unicorns. He had his hands outstretched, and brushed his fingers across their manes. They stepped forward, and rested their heads against his legs. They had closed their eyes. The man looked up from them, and gazed into Glarus’ face.

     “This is the time.” Glarus spoke softly.

     “I know your voice.”

     “You may give yourself.” Glarus stepped closer.

     “My father takes this cup from me tonight?”‘  


     “They won’t kill me in this place?” Yeshua glanced around the olive grove.

     “I have but followed the unicorns.” Glarus touched them. “They have led me here to take away your doubt.”

     “We’ve met before.”

     “A baby in a stable.” Glarus smiled at him. “You have become more than memory.”

     “Do you still have spice upon your cloak?” Yeshua turned from her. “Behold. These men and their hatred approach.” He put a hand on each of the ivory shafts. “You must be gone.” Yeshua stepped aside. “Call them.” He smiled. “They are yours again.”


     The unicorns pawed at the ground near Yeshua, then went toward Glarus.

     “More than memory.” She looked at him closely. “And more than just a man.”

     Glarus put a hand on each unicorn’s back, and together they returned the way they had come.


All I Want Is $100,000 Up Front – Is That Asking Too Much?

What are they going to do when I get into the finer details?

So – this happened.

I answered the phone yesterday. There was a five second delay which (really) lets you know you are in a queue. Suspicion created.

A garbled voice ( I honestly couldn’t tell if I was experiencing an accent different from mine, or if they were in a large room with lots of speakers – I suspect both at the same time) inquired about my book, using the correct title. Gotta admit, that did catch my attention.

Was I the author?


Did I want to sell a lot of books?


They could do it!

Then, what I assume was a company name, was mentioned. I never did hear the name distinctly enough to know what it was, though mentioned four or five times. It was never clear what its function would be.

But – you know – they mentioned the title -correctly- a number of times.  And, in all truth, I figure I should be making more money.

So, I asked questions. Not very deep questions, but I should know something.

They seemed to know next-to-nothing about the publishing world. They did concentrate on “promotion”, which would, I readily admit, help.

World-wide promotion. Somehow.

So, knowing that they had a stellar product to sell, I just went to the end result. I would consider their proposals for the up-front price of $100,000. A nice round figure. Easy to remember. I could picture the cheque.

This seemed to confuse them.

A few more entreaties were made. An additional publishing term or two. Alas, it was still all garbled. I pointed out that I could still not fully understand them.

I noted they made no counter-offer (not that it would have done any good). $100,000 SVP.

So, I was told to wait until I could speak with a supervisor.

The supervisor did not seem to have an individual office. Same garble and/or background noise.

How could he help?

$!00.000 please. I was tempted to add (and I’m all yours). But I did not (though surely it was implied).

The call ended.

Since there seemed to be no knowledge of traditional publishing (which is how my book is published) I assume this con is directed to Indie authors. Beware, y’alls.


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