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It is a whirlwind in here

Author

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.

Christmas Eve Approaches With Suitable Anticipation On Partridge Island

As arranged,
I met the fishing boat
At my Lighthouse dock,
Within the first hour
Of sunlight,
With my cat/kitten,

Black as coal in your stocking,
With one white mitten,

Perched on my shoulder.
To which he has taken
Right well.


Aboard was Sister Darling, of

The Rarefied Church of the World (reformed).

I told the Captain,
Before even speaking to
The religion-professing Darling,
That he need not retrieve her
Upon his evening return.
And wished him
A most
Auspicious Christmas.


She carried a hamper of Christmas fare
And good cheer.
As we together walked
Up toward the Lighthouse Keeper’s
House,
My cat/kitten,
With one effortless leap,
Transported himself
From my shoulder
To hers.
He is perhaps anticipating
 Some culinary miracle
In addition to
That of Christmas Eve.

I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island / 1821 – 2024 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}
DE BA. UEL

Those Pesky Characters In The Novel – Follow Your Characters – Sometimes At A Gallop

My characters are racing me along. 
It’s not that I can’t keep up with them – I don’t keep up with them.

They finished a chapter a few minutes ago that I had assumed would go one for two or three more days (writing time). Nope, they finished tonight, and decided where they would rather be.

Bossy as all get out.
But – invariably – correct.

After All, they know what they’re doing, even if their sluggish author does not.
I’m rarely sure how I am going to get from here to there – but it sure is interesting. And thus, will be interesting to the reader.
DE

Friday 13th / Friday 13:12 The Last Of The Year

It isn’t that we had no warning.

Hell, even Paw, the cat/kitten.

Black as Death with one white mitten,

Knew it was coming.

Knew (perhaps) before the rest of us.

And fishing boats, the last couple of days,

Have left notes in the Message Box,

Down on the Lighthouse dock.

One of the notes had been relayed

From the brigantine, HMS Buzzard,

Informing of this passage into the harbour,

And the night this would be done.

So,

As Lighthouse Keeper,

I await

On the Lighthouse dock,
In my navel uniform,

Which I am sometimes

Expected to wear,

Since I represent the might

Of Majesty,

As sole subject, yet overlord,

Of the Lighthouse on Partridge Island.

Waiting for the Red Ship to pass.


I feel the still on the sea.

I understand why they have awaited

This shroud of fog.

I have,

With my vantage point atop the Lighthouse,

Seen the approaching ship,

With each of its lanterns

Glowing through red glass.

I can imagine the unfurled red sails.

So, I stand,
And I wait,

With my own red lantern,

And wish I were hunkered down

With Paw, the cat/kitten,

Who chose his hiding place

An hour ago.

I wish for Sister Darling,

Of The Rarified Church Of The World (Reformed),

To be with myself and Paw,

On this night.

And this passage.

She could offer both physical

And Spiritual comfort,

To Paw and me.

Paw likes to nestle beneath

Her wealth of long hair,

And I would like to touch it.


But she,

With both the Bishop of the Roman church,

And the Bishop of the Anglican church,

In their simple cassocks,
Unrobed of their vestments,
And also, with the Mi’kmaq Shaman,
Await on the dock, 

On shore,

In the deserted port,
To move this cursed cargo
Of human decay and death.

They will sing and chant their

Religious words of hope.

While I, when the time is right,

Will curl up in my greatcoat

Beside Paw,

And wait out the night

While these folk of Faith
Do the dirty business of God.

{I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2024 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}

Is This Just A Test?

This is a Test  

But not “the” Test.


If it were a real Test

It would need

An answer


(Or two)

[Or multiple choice]

But It isn’t.  

It is a test

That announces SOMETHING,

Or,

To warn about Something,

Or,

To warn about a WARNING OF SOMETHING.  

A Test basically to say:

*IF* this was a test,

Then get your shit together,

Bend over,

And kiss your ass good-bye.  

THAT IS ALL.

 {It is that type of test}

DE

When Does The Change Of Season, Affect Paw, The Cat/Kitten?

Paw the cat/kitten,
Black as dirt, with one white mitten,
Sought me out in the lighthouse.
He climbed the whole way

Up to the Lantern Room,
Which he usually avoids

Because the revolving light
Spooks him.
He doesn’t like the shadows.
But, there he was.
He meowed,
Which he doesn’t do

All that much.
But,
When I kept at my chores,
He came over and put his claws
Into my pant leg,
And pulled.

When he’s this insistent, I follow.
So, down through the tower,
Impatient at the door,
Outside and waiting,

To be sure that I follow,
Then he heads to the shore
Facing out to sea.
It’s a well trod path
(For a cat)
And I move swiftly (but carefully).
I find him waiting at the base
Of a five foot, stunted tree.
So I went over to look.

There was a small amount of snow,
Caught between the gnarled roots.
The remnants of some snow squall,
That obviously had passed in the night.
Knowing he had my full attention,
He stood over it
And pissed mightily,
Turning it yellow.


It’s going to be a long winter.

{I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2024 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}

Trump and Hitler Celebrate in a Bar

~ Uncle ‘Dolf.

~ Donnie, my boy.

~ Did I done good?

~ You done really good.

~ Are you proud of me?

~ How could anyone NOT be proud?

~ You taught me well.

~ The pupil surpasses the Master.

~ And you are the Master, uncle ‘Dolf.

~ I had my day, true enough.

~ And now it’s my turn.

~ What goes around, comes around.

~ We should have a drink and celebrate.

~ But neither of us drinks.

~That’s right, Uncle ‘Dolf – we are perfect.

~ Ja – look out world!

~ I’m dancing, hah hah, dancing!

The Druids Prepare / The Dead Approach

The Celts  have learned every celebration has its risks.

The Druids taught them this, and the Druids are correct. Samhain is a festival of the harvest; the end of summer; the preparation for the winter to come. Samhain is a juncture. 

As they all know, junctures lead to sundry places. There is both the leaving and the coming. A time of disquiet. A time of danger for those unprepared.

It holds the magic and the power of midnight. Midnight is a powerful time because it is the juncture of two days. Midnight of Samhain thus holds double the power. It can not be avoided. It must be met with all the power mortal man can muster. It must not be met alone.

On the Eve of Samhain, the border between Life and the OtherWorld is breached. A door swings invitingly open, but it is not inviting those who live. It is inviting  those who have died. The Dead who still miss their lives. The long Dead who still are curious.The distant Dead who get a whiff of fresh air, and have their memories stirred.

So the Dead approach.

The Dead approach. The living must prepare to meet them, just as they prepare for the vicissitudes of winter. The same threatened cold holds sway over both. The living assemble the treats and threats that will assuage the longings of the Dead.

Because the living have a healthy fear of death, they equally wish to avoid the Dead. The Dead can prove to be envious, and attempt to relieve the living of their lives. Lanterns from the earth are hollowed out of turnips. Their light will guide the dead to safer places (safer for the living). Candles will shine through carved faces. Some faces are friendly and welcoming. Some are ugly and fierce, to give aggressive Dead a pause.

There will also be treats to entice the Dead – apples and pastries and savouries and some roasted game fresh from the bonfires. There will be ale and other spirits to keep the Spirits at bay. The living will wear costumes and masks to disguise themselves from those Dead who might wish their company to be more permanent.

They will remove the masks if the Spirits are friendly.

They will dance and sing and raise a right ruckus to entertain the Dead.

The boneyard is on the outskirts of town. Revellers approach with noise and caution. A bonfire is set. The moon hangs from the trees. The gated fence stands closed and latched. The living pause and watch. And listen.

Is it the wind, or do the hinges scrape the stone?

A Ghost Story – True As True Can Be – To Lead To Halloween

A true story for All Hallows’ Eve, although it did not happen on Halloween.


And, I steal my title from the list of types of encounters with UFOs and Aliens from Space, where actual physical encounters result in injury or death. Admittedly, I experienced nothing but fright, but the touch is without question

.
  I was visiting the Bay of Fundy island of Grand Manan.

 I had booked a room in a bed and breakfast and arrived mid-evening. I went elsewhere for a meal, but did meet the owners, and noted there were a couple of others staying there. I returned around eleven, chatted to the owners and one guest, then went up to bed.

The room was top of the stairs and across a landing. Comfortably rustic with a radio. The bed was fine and I was not long getting to sleep.

  In the dead of the dark (no street lights here) I was awakened by the touch of hands on me. I was sleeping on my left side. One hand was over my groin and the other on my chest. There was also the weight of a body next to me and the pressure of an arm across my side.

I was initially surprised and confused but not frightened. Time probably stretched but it seems to me I lay like this for ten or fifteen seconds. Then, the very first coherent thought which came to me was that someone laying behind me could not have both arms over my body. There could not be two hands placed on the front of my body.

  I got out of bed very quickly and did indeed experience fear. I turned on the overhead light but saw nothing. I heard nothing. The temperature was not unusual. I was frightened and certainly uncomfortable, but I can’t say that that aura was present.

I went to the bathroom across the landing. The house was silent.

I returned to the bedroom, thinking both of leaving the light on and turning on the radio. But then I thought that that was just giving into fear, and might encourage the fear instead of ease it, so I did neither. I did not seem to take very long to get to sleep.  

The next morning I went downstairs for breakfast. I heard the owner talking to two other guests as I approached the kitchen.

Just as I entered she interrupted her conversation and turned to me. She said: “Let’s ask him. He’s the one sleeping in the haunted room.”  

I don’t know if they had been talking about ghosts or if something else had happened in the night. I relayed my experience and the owner then told the story of the house.

As with many buildings on the island it had been a farm house, with the owners also fishing. It was a century or more old and left to a daughter. When she herself got old and could not look after it, her family forced her to leave, something she fought against.

The present owners then bought the building and started taking in guests. However, whenever they attempted renovations, they were discouraged by having paint cans overturned, new wallpaper peeled from the wall, ladders moved, hammers and such hidden.

  The new owners’ daughter lived next door, and looked after the house when her parents went away (trips to Florida in the winter). She inevitably had to come over to the house and close doors, turn off lights, put furniture back in place.  

The old woman who was forced to leave had the reputation of being a mean and unpleasant person. I don’t know if she was taking a liking to me or not.

Trump And Hitler Share A Cider In Another Bar

~ Uncle Dolf – my dear, dear friend.
~ Like Uncle, like Nephew.
~ I hope I did you proud.
~ You have elevated me to the heights.
~ I followed your lead!
~ My legacy lives on.
~ For you, mein dear Fuhrer, anything.
~ I can tell you a little story.
~  “Fill my ears”.
~ My dear, dear, Goebbels.
~ Your beloved propaganda minister.

~ You just had to love that man.
~ I know! I do!

~ He once told me – and this could apply to you.
~ I would be blessed by anything.

~ After one of his blessed speeches in Berlin.
~ Can I still learn from him?
~ He said: “I could have made them all jump from the windows, if I had asked.”
~ Maybe make them swim to Puerto Rico.

~ Donnie, Donnie. Perhaps my work is done here.
~ Oh, no.  I have to win, first.

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