Grieving Today. . .and Tomorrow

Last night I sold a good friend. Today I am grieving.

My husband is no longer able to ride. His horse has been in the field, unused, for two years– the period of time during which Hubby has had both knees replaced and his heart rebuilt.  The companion to his horse is Sugar Baby, an ancient but healthy mare that was my riding horse until last year, when she tore a muscle in a field accident.

During the course of Sugar Baby’s recovery, I bought a Racking Horse named Jake to ride. Jake is gaited and riding him is easier on my battle-worn body — I have a history of multiple falls from horseback, so my body is beat-up and sore.

But Sugar Baby will always be the best horse I ever had the privilege to ride. She and I were so well matched that she seemed to read my mind. She always did what was asked of her and always took care of me, her rider. On mornings, she would  stand in her spot at the fence and stare toward the front door of the house. The minute she saw movement, she would neigh, asking for breakfast. When I worked around the barn, Sugar usually supervised, nickering softly when I talked to her.

In these erratic times, we are like many other households in the United States. We have our own economic downturn going on in our personal finances. At the end of October, a reckoning of accounts demanded austerity. Logic dictated that two horses that were going unused must go.

Maintaining a horse is expensive. Beyond the cost of food and shelter, there are farrier, vet and grooming expenses. Not to mention winter blankets and the like.

So the mares were sold.

I don’t have the attachment to my husband’s horse Missy that I do to Sugar Baby. Even in advanced age, she is beautiful in my eyes. And she caught the eye of someone else. I find peace that she has a home. But I am grieving that she’s gone.

 

 

 

Justice: Part 3, The Finale

Justice: Part 3

by Fay Moore (c) 2012

“Good god, man,” says the Chief. A pause, then, “Call me later with the rest of the findings.”

The Chief of Police is silent. Six pairs of eyes focus on him, trained to read the faces of men to reveal what is in the heart.  At the moment, the face of the Chief is tabula rasa. Under the circumstances, the eyes stay riveted to the chief’s face, mining data from each subtle nostril flare, each bat of an eyelid, each pupil dilation.

Standing, the Chief hands off the cell phone to an assistant, straightens his uniform coat, then locks eyes with his audience.

“There’s been a fire at the GS Global Investments building. All the senior executive offices burned. Once the blaze was controlled, firemen made a cursory search through the suite, to be sure all flames were extinguished. In the executive bathroom, they found a pair of severed hands on a plate, covered in blood, under a glass dome. The coroner said the hands appear to have been removed from a cadaver. You know, one of the pickled bodies used for training in medical schools. Thank God for that. I was afraid the hands belonged to another investment banker.”

One of the detectives in the room chuckled. “Blood on your hands.”

“What?” asked the Chief.

“Blood on your hands. The perpetrator is sending a message. The investment banking community has blood on their hands.”

“If you count the kills in Asia, Europe and here, we have eleven dead bankers in forty-eight hours. I’d say you’re right that whoever is behind these hits is sending a message, a very lethal message.”

“Did they find anything else?”

“Yes. Under the glass plate holding the hands, there was a copy of an article from a San Francisco newspaper, written by a Bill, Phil, or Will somebody and called “Unrepentant and Unreformed Bankers.”

Another voice responds, “I saw that article on the Internet. It has gone viral on the free video channels. That crowd sees our perpetrator–or perpetrators–as a kind of Robin Hood. You know, delivering justice where the regulators and courts won’t.”

The Chief growls in reply, “Let me remind you that we deliver justice, not some vigilante. You can’t have people taking the law into their own hands. Remember that! Now show me the article. You said it’s on-line?”

The detective uses the Chief’s computer to find it. The search returns several references to the article, as it has been printed not only in the San Francisco newspaper, but also in the Huffington Post and on various Internet web sites.

The Chief scans the article as the detectives peer over his shoulder.

“Money laundering. Price Fixing. Bid rigging. Securities fraud. Talking about the mob? No, unfortunately. Wall Street,” a detective reads aloud. There’s a laugh around the room. “Old Phil Angelides knows how to start an article off with a bang. You know, Chief, he’s got a point.”

A glare from the Chief silences the speaker. “We have crimes to solve. Now get to work.”

It takes weeks of coordinating investigative efforts with global law enforcement and intelligence organizations to turn up bumpkus. The police entities can’t identify who is behind the mayhem. The killings have stopped: the spree is short-lived and focused. Nowhere is there sympathy for the victims.

Over and over, excerpts from the Angelides article appear on television. In coffee shops, barbershops, taxicabs and airports, the buzz is the same: the banks and their leaders have faced no real political, economic or legal consequences for their wrongdoing. The banks are cozy with the regulators and with legislators. Wall Street is solipsism, a world of utter madness that, till now, others could not affect.

——-

Somewhere in Hong Kong, an octogenarian is on his deathbed. He is thinking about the Year of the Dragon; it is a year of bravery, of passion, a time to eliminate negative chi from the past. He considers his life. He has been favored in business and industry. His personal fortune exceeds the total economy of many individual countries. Before he dies, he wishes to leave a gift to his children and grandchildren. He believes he has done it. He believes he has made their world better.

How does he know?

He is watching the news. The broadcaster describes a global reordering of the financial world. In the aftermath of the multiple murders, fear seizes those who ran the old order, and they flee to hide in their hidden bunkers. Systems that have been in place for decades are being disassembled. The central banking system breaks up into small localized units. Fiat currencies are replaced with asset-backed money. Sovereign debts are forgiven. Taxpayers are off the hook. Governments cut size and balance budgets. International banking criminals are arrested and prosecuted vigorously.

Optimism and hope are in the air. Economies will be rebuilt. He can die in peace.

Humorous Quote for 8-10-2012

“You banks pretend to be solvent; we consumers pretend to have money.”

–from RealistNews.net

Response to Song Prompt “The Good Life”

I picked the song prompt “The Good Life” by Three Days Grace a couple of weeks ago and scheduled the post for the future. Afterward, I heard about a man who was traveling through Cumberland, Maryland, on whose true tale this short story is based. The person who told me about him is the cook character in the piece.

It is amazing how well this story fits the sentiment of the prompt song.  It was serendipitous I was told about this story just as the prompt song posted.

Enjoy!

The Good Life

by Fay Moore © 2012

The stranger sidled up to the lunch counter and took a seat.

The cook, who also served as waiter at the rescue mission, didn’t recognize the man as having been there before. No matter. More and more, the faces were new, coming in for a meal or two before disappearing, not to be seen again. Yet something about this man piqued the cook’s curiosity.

“Would you like a bowl of soup?” the cook asked.

“Yes. Thank you,” said the stranger.

He dropped his knapsack on the floor beside the counter stool, took a seat, then swiveled around to survey the room. A half-dozen wizened-faced men peppered the room, sitting at tables in dark corners. Like fly specks on an otherwise clean kitchen counter top, they were an uncomfortable reminder that something unlikable was present in this city.

“I don’t think I’ve seen you here before,” remarked the cook.

“No. I’m only here for a day or two.”

“Where are you staying?”

“At the hobo camp by the railroad yard.” The man showed no embarrassment or shame.

Hobo. Until recently, it was an archaic word that conjured the depression era men who traveled with a bindle, riding in box cars, looking for the next place that promised a chance at a job.

Hobo. Here at the mission, modern hobos arrived daily, attracted to the hobo camp near the railroad hub, where trains converged  for a re-shuffling of the cars into new configurations based on each car’s destination. Men traveling from southern or eastern cities came here to catch a western- or northern-bound train. And vice versa, depending on the season or the work available. Some were disheveled from countless days between using a bath or laundry facility.

The cook noticed this stranger was clean and cleanly dressed.

Hobo. A lifestyle of survival and of necessity exacerbated by bad economic times. Unlike bums, hobos traveled looking for work. A job yielded a good life. Modern hobos might or might not be penniless. The common characteristic hobos shared was using the railroads to travel – for free.

“Are you riding the train?” the cook asked.

“Hope to. I’m heading for Canada.”

“Why Canada?”

“For vacation,” came the reply.

“You’re kidding me,” the cook gasped.

“No. I guess I should explain. I used to be a hobo, always traveling from place to place by rail, trying to find work. Finally, I was lucky and landed a good job. Someone took me under his wing to guide me. I went to law school. Now I am a lawyer. But every year, I take a vacation and ride the rails. For old time’s sake, I guess.”

The cook looked incredulous.

“It’s true. I have a hand written book given to me by an old man a long time ago that outlines every rail line, every yard, where the junctions are to change course, which yards to avoid because the bulls are mean sons of bitches. That kind of stuff. He collected it all by writing it down. Before he died, he gave it to me.”

“Have you ever been thrown off a train by a bull?” The cook was wide-eyed.

“Yes. It’s worse in the deep south. I got roughed up down there and taken to jail. But I paid my fine, and I went on my way.”

The cook shook his head. The man finished his soup and slapped a twenty dollar bill on the counter.

“The lunch is free,” said the cook. “The boss says to feed whoever walks through the door.”

“I know. This is a donation. It’s what I do now that I can. When I eat, I pay for myself,” he said, panning his arm across the room, “and for my friends. Thanks for being here to feed us. There was a time that without soup kitchens like this one, I would not have had a meal for days while I hunted work. It’s my way to give back.”

The stranger picked up his backpack, shouldered it, and walked out through the same door he entered earlier, without looking back. In his head, he thought about the cook. He thought each of them had found a little of the good life.

Using Bullet Points

Sometimes new authors question the circumstances under which a writer uses bullet points. I have borrowed an example from Zerohedge.com, a global financial news website, where the author successfully uses bullet points. It may be helpful as a template for the new writer.

Frontrunning: July 24

Submitted by Tyler Durden on 07/24/2012 – 07:23 Anglo Irish Bank of New York Barclays Borrowing Costs China Conference Board Eurozone Federal Reserve Federal Reserve Bank Federal Reserve Bank of New York France Germany Great Depression Greece Housing Market Insider Trading Italy Japan Netherlands Private Equity Prop Trading ratings Reuters Yen

• Greece now in “Great Depression”, PM says (Reuters)
• Geithner “Washington must act to avoid damaging economy” (Reuters)
• Moody’s warns eurozone core (FT)
• Germany Pushes Back After Moody’s Lowers Rating Outlook (Bloomberg)
• Austria’s Fekter says Greek euro exit not discussed (Reuters)
• In Greek crisis, lessons in a shrimp farm’s travails (Reuters)
• Fed’s Raskin: No government backstop for banks that do prop trading (Reuters)
• Campbell Chases Millennials With Lentils Madras Curry (Bloomberg)

JPMorgan, Goldman Sachs and the Limerick

One can find creative writing in the oddest places. This morning, I am sharing with you samples of the limerick. I found these examples on www.zerohedge.com, a financial news website. The author is identified only as The Limerick King. To help the reader, the “whale” is JPMorgan  and the “squid” is Goldman Sachs. The Captain refers to Jamie Dimon of JPMorgan.

As the world-wide economy slows

The risk inside banks no one knows

They fill us with lies

Then to our surprise

The Captain shouts out “Thar She Blows”

The Limerick King

A battle of squid versus whale
Which one of these giants will fail?
The loser is moot
It’s taxpayer loot
That’s taken to finance the bail

The Limerick King

The Limerick is a folksy style of poetry that has often been used for political or social commentary. Although the target of these two limericks is investment banks, the overall content is in keeping with the historic use of the form.

Wikipedia offers the following description about the form:

A limerick is a kind of a witty, humorous, or nonsense poem,^[1] especially one in five-line anapestic or amphibrachic meter with a strict rhyme scheme (AABBA), which is sometimes obscene with humorous intent. The form can be found in England as of the early years of the 18th century.^[2] It was popularized by Edward Lear in the 19th century,^[3] although he did not use the term.

The following limerick is of unknown origin:

The limerick packs laughs anatomical

In space that is quite economical.

But the good ones I’ve seen

So seldom are clean

And the clean ones so seldom are comical.^[

 

P.S. The comments section of the original zerohedge.com post is eye-opening to ADULTS (as in Rated R) who have an interest in Wall Street fodder.

http://www.zerohedge.com/contributed/2012-07-12/squids-and-whales