Mary Aris Bio

Mary Aris Author

Sunday, 11 November 2012

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In Memorium We Honour those Whose blood was Shed - The Golden Pen

Written Sep 23, 2008 © Mary Aris, All rights reserved

They were young servicemen of twenty-two
And on their suits they wore Red Badges of Courage….
Young men and women who gave their souls for glory
In the name of freedom; in the name of victory.

They spilled their guts over Germany
And in the havoc of the Vietnam War
They risked their lives in Afghanistan and Tripoli
And Death came knocking upon their door.

Today we honour such heroic deeds of valour
Though they are long gone, they will not be forgotten
As long as our flag waves over a country of Democracy
Their names will shine in splendor–
In Memoriam we honor our valiant servicemen
In our hearts there is a white carnation and poppey.
That will never fade.
We will gaze up to the heavens
and see their faces amongst the constellations
In Memoriam we honour Our valient Vetrans.

Friday, 2 November 2012

The Legend of the Scarlet Ravine and other Tales to chill your Bones--An Excerpt

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The Golden Pen

              Between Jacksonville and Gainesville, Florida, six miles north of Keystone Heights, there lies a series of Marshes and lakes.  This area normally goes by the name Mike Roess Gold Head State Park.  It is a peaceful area inhabited by fox squirrels, white-tailed deer and many water birds.   On Saturday mornings, you can find people fishing here.  Others like to ride the ravine on canoes.  Not far from Gold Head State Park is Little Lake Johnson and if you walk a few miles from there, a beach.   There is a camping facility there with a picnic area and lakeside cabins. 
        The locals say that the area was once the home of a tribe of Seminole Indians who were trying to escape the brutal removal of the Seminoles by the US government.  Some say that the spirits of these Indians haunt the place. 
There is a legend among the neighbouring towns that said that the Government, in an attempt to wipe the Seminoles out of Florida, murdered them.  
Now, I am not certain, but the locals in the area say that on Halloween they can still hear their savage war cry near the ravine where legend says that the troops shot ninety Seminole warriors to their death. 
Some people claim that the waters of the ravine turned red from the blood of these savage warriors and the fish were poisoned.   There is a spooky mist floating along the marshes of this area, which, on a late October morning, one can mistake for ghosts.  The old folks say that the ravine is haunted; cursed by the blood of the Seminoles.
             In October, the natives will tell you that the ravine shimmers like a lighthouse and the residents of the surrounding villages tormented by the cries of the Seminole warriors that lost their lives in the scarlet ravine.    The predominant ghost, however, is that of the brave warrior, O’pawoka. General Brown, the squadron leader, shot the warrior in the chest during one of the battles of the Seminole Wars.  The residents fear him for on Halloween night he rides through Mike Roess Gold Head State Park on his horse, wielding a tomahawk, looking for the General who shot him.  It is in this remote area that our story begins.
They never recovered the body that day.  The police and State troopers scavenged the surrounding area but could not find the body.  The black and white Yamaha lay on its side at the side of the road; a trail of skid marks paved the way to where the accident happened.  The bike had caught fire upon impact and there was an explosion.
 The Florida highway patrol officers surmised that the body flew head first in a staggering speed into the murky waters of the ravine. 
Manfred Meyers was a lively lad.  His family had settled in Keystone Heights in the early 50’s. He was the son of a baker and only child.  They warned him of the dangers of motorcycles.  However, the shiny Yamahas captivated Manfred ever since he saw Evil Kenivel jump from the Grand Canyon on his trusty chrome steed.   Since then, he was fascinated with motor cycles.  He begged his father to buy him one once he graduated high school, but his father, like any ordinary father, refused. 

“Those bikes are dangerous, son!” his father warned him.  “If you want a bike, I suggest you get a mountain bike.”  His father opened the brick oven to shove a loaf of bread into the oven.   The bakery was full of customers waiting to buy their loaves of bread, cakes, and croissants.  Manfred, frustrated and upset caught hold of his father’s arm.
 “I want a motorcycle, Dad...and if you don’t get one for me, I will.”  With this statement, he marched out of the kitchen, walked past the eager customers and walked out the door.  His father, stunned and shocked, shook his head in disappointment as his customers whispered to one another in astonishment.
Manfred took a job at the local papers delivering the Keystone Height News.  He also worked part-time at the pizzeria.  Within a year, he earned enough money to buy a used Yamaha.  Pride is not the word to describe his devotion to this bike.  Every weekend Manfred rose at six A.M. to wash and polish his most prized possession.  Diligently he polished the chrome, applied saddle soap on the leather seat, and polished the handlebars until the sun shone down upon his black and white steed that he affectionately nicknamed, Black beauty.
Much to his parents’ disapproval, Manfred joined a local motorcycle club, a group of about a hundred  bikers throughout Bradford County, Florida, who met once a month and travelled throughout the State of Florida on their motorcycles, particularly to Mike Roess Gold Head State Park.  The group acquired the nickname ‘Gators on Wheels’ for the tattoo of Alligators each member bore on their forearms.   
His parents warned Manfred not to go.  On a humid Halloween morning in 1965, Manfred rose at five O’clock to get a head start.  The gang was to meet at Keystone Beach and then head towards Gold Head Branch State Park where a Halloween Party was to take place. They planned to camp there for a week after the party. 
Manfred packed his rucksack the night before.  He thought he had packed everything.  He packed his sleeping bag, his trusty Swiss Army knife and his tent.  He was certain that the girls and women of the group would bring loads of food, so he did not bother packing anything to eat.   After kissing his mother and patting his father on the shoulders, he set off on Black Beauty at eight O’clock. 
A few minutes after he set off, the phone rang.  His mother picked up the phone.  It was Max Johnson, one of her son’s friends from Gators on Wheels.  Max told Manfred’s mother that the gang cancelled the trip due to inclement weather.  Had he phoned five minutes earlier, Manfred would not have set out towards the beach.
Manfred arrived at Keystone Beach around nine O’clock.  The beach was deserted, save for a few beach bums who walked their dogs along the beach.  He waited impatiently for the group to arrive. 
“Oh, man,” exclaimed Manfred, “I forgot my cell phone!”  It was eleven O’clock when he could wait no longer.  He got on his bike.  He was angry.
He sped through the highway like a thoroughbred.  Was this a cruel Halloween joke? He wondered as he sped past signs and villages.  The wind slapped his face and combed through his hair. 

He was so angry that he did not feel it.  How dare they play a Halloween joke on me?  Well, they can go screw themselves, he murmured to himself.  Up above in the horizon, a few buzzards flew. 
The air whipped through his sides, burning his cheeks and giving him chilblains.  He was almost at Gold Head Branch State Park by now.   He was about to turn right when he thought he heard something behind him. 
It was a high pitch sound, much like a cry.  He looked in his side view mirror but all he could see was clear open highway and trees.  The cry echoed and penetrated his ears, almost perforating his eardrums.
Manfred thought he was imagining things, but when he looked in his side view mirror again, he thought he saw a white horse chasing him.  Riding on the horse’s back was an Indian brave.  The brave was brown- skinned and wore a black Mohawk.  The brave wielded a tomahawk, throwing it towards Manfred.

Manfred sped at 190 miles per hours down the highway, his pursuer on his tail.  The Tomahawk sped and caught the back of Manfred’s neck.  His body went flying off the bike, landing in the ravine.  Black Beauty skidded off the open road, catching fire before exploding.
  It was early evening when a motorist caught site of the burning bike, alerting the police.  The troopers came and extinguished the fire.  They discovered Manfred’s wallet by a nearby bush.  From his credentials, they found his address.  

 Copyright  2012 The Golden Pen  ISBN: 9781291141306

New Book: The Legend of the Scarlet Ravine and other tales to chill your Bones

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The Legend of the Scarlet Ravine and other tales to chill your bones, are four bizarre and grizzling short tales to chill your bones on an autumn evening. In The Legend of the Scarlet Ravine, two young men are killed by a mysterious rider at Mike Roess Gold Head State Park; their bodies thrown off their motorcycles into a ravine on Halloween night which legend say is haunted.
Herman Wilding, a sinful soul, meets a stranger at the Pearly Gates with a strange pink snow bunny tattoo. When Herman is denied entrance at the Gate, he is thrown down the cellar. Herman finds himself in an earthly hell where he discovers he will spend eternity at the Hell Ski Lodge, a place colder than the North Pole surrounded by billions of deranged, pink skiing snow bunnies in Snow Bunnies in Hell.
A bestselling author gets writer’s block as he is about to write the sequel to his bestselling novel, Adelle, asking his favourite Muse, Calliope, for Inspiration. His Editor holds him at gunpoint until he delivers the manuscript in The Siege of Calliope.

In The Haunted Pathway, Gordon Holding inherits an old two-storey house in Jersey City which his Uncle and father allege is haunted. When his Uncle, Horace, hears a wraith-like voice and sees a florescent light down the cellar followed by strange rapping coming from inside the walls, he discovers a secret passageway which transports him to a haunted past.
Availiable from Amazon: The Legend of the Scarlet Ravine and other Tales to Chill your Bones Smash Words: The Legend of the Scarlet Ravine and other Tales to Chill Your Bones

Thursday, 16 August 2012

Interview with Mary Aris

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I have been interviewed by Jeanette Hornby Books. To read the Interview click:

Jeanette Hornby Books: Featured Author:  Mary Aris

Friday, 4 May 2012


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   The BHS
                                                                     by The Golden Pen

An Excerpt


   Rachel Bowers walked past Gregg the Baker on her way to work.  The aroma of freshly baked croissants made her stomach growl with hunger.  Down the road, the smell of Arabica beans being brewed at Cafe Bonjour Bistro et Patisserie, made Rachel sorry she didn’t have any breakfast that morning.  She didn’t even have time to brew herself a mug of coffee.  Rachel was running late.  Temptation won her over.  Rachel walked into Gregg the Baker and bought herself two ham and cheese croissants and a mug of coffee.  The attendant filled her order and soon Rachel was on her way.

   The sun was shining brightly over a blue sky that Friday June morning over Headington.  Already the avenue was crowded with busy folks walking to work and mothers on the school run, dragging their reluctant children to school.  Shopkeepers with smiling faces greeted passersby as they opened their shops bright and early for another business day. Rows upon rows of little tables dotted London Road as pensioners and tourists sat eating their croissants, crumpets, muffins, full English breakfasts, sipping tea and coffee quietly as they watched the parade of busy people stride by and the city bussing with life.

    “Good morning, Harry.” Rachel said to the postman as she was about to cross the road.
“Morning, Rachel,” replied the Postman, “Are you off to work again?”
“Yes,” replied Rachel, “I’m late enough as it is.”  Harry tipped his hat towards Rachel.
“Have a good day, Rachel.” he bade.
“You too, Harry! Say hello to Margaret.”
And with that, she crossed London Road and walked down Old High Street towards the library.  Several cobbled stoned houses lined the street.  Rachel smiled at some of the local residents as she passed along.  Mrs Henderson, who was sweeping her driveway, paused as Rachel went past. 
“Morning, Mrs Henderson,” Rachel greeted her neighbour, “Beautiful morning, isn’t it?”
“Indeed it is, Ms Bowers.” Mrs Henderson replied. 

     Rachel fetched the skeleton key from the bottom of her Louis Vuitton handbag. She almost spilled the coffee she was holding in her right hand.  She sighed as she opened the front door of the library.  Turning on the lobby lights, Rachel walked inside and placed the cardboard drinks tray she was holding on top of the adult circulation desk and put down the brown paper bag containing her breakfast. 
Rachel had a very busy day ahead of her.  She had a meeting with Annie Anderson, one of the Senior Library Assistants at 9:30 A.M. to discuss her latest project.  She had to make a few phone calls, a staff meeting at 11 and meet her mother for lunch.
   A few people, mainly pensioners waiting to read the morning papers, mothers with overdue books, and people waiting to sign up to use the internet were queuing up outside the library.  Rachel had locked the door from inside, of course, for it was still way too early to open the Library.  Headington library didn’t open until nine A.M., and it was only quarter to nine.  Annie Anderson pushed herself amongst the crowd, walked up the stairs and opened the door with her key.  The throng of people tried to push themselves through the door, but Annie reminded them that the library would be opening at precisely nine A.M. on the dot.
“Good morning, Rachel.” Annie greeted Rachel, who was busy opening windows.

    “Good morning, Annie,” replied Rachel, “Don’t forget our meeting is at 9:30.”
“Yes, Mamme, I won’t be late.”  Annie switched on to the main computer.  The computer came alive, bussing and beeping as it logged on.  One by one, Annie turned on the six computer terminals then walked back to the circulation desk to set everything up for the day ahead.  There was a stack of books waiting for her in the book depository box.  Annie unlocked the book depository and retrieved the books. She began scanning each book when Naomi and Raj, two of the junior library assistants, waltzed in.
Naomi hadn’t finished removing her coat, when Annie barked, “Naomi, be a dear and let the crowd in, will ya?”
Naomi made a face when Annie wasn’t looking, grabbed her skeleton key and opened the front door.  The crowd of people stampeded inside, nearly crushing Naomi to death.  The pensioners all waltzed into the reference area where the local newspapers were kept.  Mrs Patel grabbed the Oxford Mail as Mrs Jenkins was about to pull it off the stick. 
“I was here first, Madame!” growled Mrs Patel.
“No, I grabbed it first!” barked Mrs Jenkins.
“Let go of it!” Mrs Patel ordered.
“Well, the nerve of you!” yelled Mrs Jenkins.
“I’m calling the Librarian to settle this!” yelled Mrs Patel.  Rachel raced over to the reference section.
“Shhhhh!  Will you ladies keep it down, Please?”
“Madame, will you kindly tell this lady to let go of my paper.” Mrs Patel said. 
“She practically yanked it out of my hands!” protested Mrs Jenkins.
“Grab hold of yourselves,’re in a library...if you ladies won’t behave like civilized adults, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” Rachel warned.
“Well............I never have been so insulted in my life!” Mrs Jenkins remarked.
“Ladies,’s just a paper.  Can’t you too share it?”asked Rachel. She was already beginning to lose her patience.
“Here....I’ll let you read it, Mrs Patel, since you are most eager to read the Want ads. I’ll look at the Times now.” said Mrs Jenkins.  She settled down at one of the tables to read her newspaper.  Mrs Patel fumed as she grabbed the oxford Mail and stormed to the other side of the reference section huffing and puffing and rolling her eyes.

     Ten people were queuing up to use the internet.  Naomi signed each one for a thirty-minute session.  When their time was up, one of the users complained when he was told that his time was up.  He said he was in the middle of downloading a very important piece of information he needed for college.  Naomi tried pleading with him, but he wouldn’t have it.  He remained stubborn and sat down at his terminal continuing his download.
“I’m afraid this user has signed up for the computer, Sir,” Naomi said, “Your session has come to an end now.”
“Bugger off, Sister!” the man said. He took another quarter out of his pocket and shoved it into the library assistant’s hand. 
“Sign me up again for another thirty minutes, Bitch!” he said as he turned around to face the monitor.  To his horror, he was timed out.
“What the......ARRGH.....I’ve just lost my download!  I’m calling the council about this!”  He swivelled out of the chair and walked out the library, swearing under his breath.

     At 9:30, Annie waltzed into Rachel’s office, pad and pen in hand.  Rachel’s office faced Bury Knowles Park South.  Her desk, a pine finished executive desk, was laden with brochures, folders, letterhead stationery, overdue notices, and an overcrowded Rolodex.  The window was open and a refreshing breeze flowed in.
“Ah, Annie—do come in!” Rachel said.  “Please take a seat. I wish to discuss a project with you.”

Annie sat down on the chair facing Rachel, her pad resting on her knee.  She clicked her pen ready to take notes. 

    “Annie, I want to talk to you about an idea I have had brewing inside my head for a long time now.” said Rachel.  “I have just spoken to Mr Johnson over at Brookes University.   We have reserved a room at Headington Hall once a month on Wednesday evenings to host the BSH.”
“The BSH—what’s the BSH?” Annie asked, scratching her head.
“The Bookworm Society of Headington—it’s a monthly woman’s book club aimed at women who are avid readers to discuss the latest fiction and chick-Lit.” Rachel explained.
“That sounds like a wonderful idea, Ms Bowers.” Annie smiled.
“Annie, I’d like you to write down the details and call the printers right away.  I’d like 500 flyers up by next Tuesday.” Rachel went on.  Annie began taking notes.  After lunch, she rang the printers and had Mr Roy Sanderson print the flyers. 

The  B.S.H.

Bookworms Society of Headington
A local book club for women by women
7PM Wednesday Evenings of each month
          Headington Hall
          Headington Road
          Barton, Oxford OX3 OBL

 Refreshments will be provided
All female residents ages 18—53 of Headington welcome
  For more information please contact
            Rachel Bowers, head librarian
            Headington Library
            North Place
            Headington OX3 9HY
            O1865 775533

       Rachel Bowers was happy with the flyer. The flyers were printed in glossy green paper in black San Serif font. The printers did a fantastic job. They even added an image of a bookworm on the right-hand corner for empathises.   Annie placed the heavy box on one of the chairs and took a seat facing Rachel.
“Does this meet with your approval, Ms Bowers?” Annie asked.  Her hair was frizzy this morning.  She washed it the night before and blow dried it, but in the morning, try as she may, her hair was a big frizzy mop.
“Yes, I like it.  Can you put the flyers in the lobby, please, Annie.” Rachel said.
“Will that be all, Ms Bowers?” Annie asked.
“Yes, that’ll be all, Annie,” said Rachel, “Thank you.”

    Annie rose and carried the box of flyers out onto the lobby, closing the door behind her.  Rachel looked up at the clock.  It was nearly noon and her stomach was growling.  She picked up the phone and phoned her mother up.  Every weekday she and her mother would meet for lunch at Cafe Bonjour et Patisserie.  Every day her mother would order her usual, a ham and cheese croissant with a big bowl of cream of tomato soup, a slice of sourdough bread, a bit of brie cheese with cream crackers and some apple compote, a pot of Earl Tea and a fruited scone.  Every day her mother sat at the same booth at the cafe, sipping her tomato soup, dunking her bread into the broth, sipping her tea and spreading raspberry jam all over her scone before daintily eating it.

Rachel was sick of the same routine.  She hated getting up in the morning, going to work, having lunch with her mother at the same boring cafe, coming home at night, cooking dinner for herself and her mother, washing the dishes, watching East Enders, reading her Daniel Steel novels while her mother read her Agatha Christies and then a bit of knitting, taking a shower, brushing her teeth, going to bed and repeating the same boring routine every single day.  She dreamed of going to sunny Spain; perhaps Majorca or the mountainous regions of Asturias.  She dreamed of meeting a dark, tall Latin lover in Majorca who tantalize her with his Spanish charm; a chef, perhaps with his own restaurant who would sweep her off her feet with his Tapas and garlicky chicken; a Spanish chef who at the end of a tasty meal seduced her with his crème caramels.

     But what good was it to dream when you just didn’t have the funds to travel?  Rachel had studied Library science at Oxford and became a librarian.  Her first job was at the college library.   There she met her first love.  He was a librarian himself who studied Library science at Oxford as well.  Henry Johnson was attracted to Rachel’s blue eyes and her charming intellect. He loved it when Rachel wore her black Ivy-league glasses and pin-up her shoulder length brown hair in a bun.  This gave her the Ali-McGraw look. They dated a couple of times but soon, early on in the relationship, Rachel began to notice little flaws in Henry.  He had an uncanny habit of being late; a habit that she detested.  Henry was also a bit of a gambler.  He would blow half his pay cheque on the horse race every other Weekend.

 One time, before they broke up, Henry asked Rachel for a £500 loan.  He said he needed the money to buy his ailing mother a wheel chair. He said that he was short of cash and he had put a £150 deposit down on the wheel chair and had it on lay-away until he could finish paying for it.  He told Rachel that he needed to make a payment soon and was short on cash; his next pay cheque wasn’t due until the 30th of the month.  Rachel was shocked when she found out that Henry was blowing it all on a couple of horses down at the horse race.  When she phoned, enraged, to demand her money back, Henry had done a runner.  The last she heard was that he boarded a plane with some chick he met at a restaurant, and travelled to Dubai. He had left her no letter of explanation, no phone call to say goodbye, nothing. He was just gone out of her life.

Rachel heard about an opening position at Headington Library for Library Director. She took the job.  The job paid a handsome £35,000.00 a year.  But she had to repay her student loan and it would take at least three years before she could clear her student loan.  With no extra income she had no choice but to remain at home, living with her mother.
At age 25, Rachel Bowers was getting on the verge of being a spinster.  She wanted her life to change.  She couldn’t live like this all her life.  She planned to save enough money to be able to get her own place; maybe go on a holiday to sunny Spain for a week.  She knew after paying off her student fees, her job as head librarian at Headington Library would allow her to save a few hundred pounds and then she could move out and start living her own life.

A Poet's Heart

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My hand glides across an empty canvass
Dripping in scarlet hues, my pen smoothly gildes
Filling the empty spaces and crevices
With words from where inspiration abides.

My heart, like a somnambulist lies
In dreams, trapped within the muse's lair
In lucid revaries, its spirit flies
Like a bird gliding through the air.

I hear the steady rhythm of my heart
Dancing to the tune of a forgotten nymph
Entranced by the beat I take part
In the dance of creativity and triumph.

I write as  inspiration takes the lead.....
My masterpiece I hope young and old will read.
 © Mary Aris, All rights reserved.

Thursday, 23 February 2012

Riot at Mike's Diner

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I created this story as part of a writing exercise.

The Exercise:

Describe a food, using all your senses. Observe it visually, of course, but also include texture, smell and taste. Describe it again, but in a way that makes it disgusting: how a big juice steak, for example, must appear to a vegetarian.

Riot at Mike’s Diner

I love a good burger! There’s something about a juicy, tender, succulent, grade- A patty stuck between a soft sesame seed bun to get your taste buds flowing. Everything about a burger is sexy. Come on, what’s not to love about burgers? I’m about to have one now. I’m sitting on a booth now at Mike’s Diner, a 50’s-style restaurant in lower Manhattan. The Jukebox is playing an old Elvis Presley song. I think it’s Love me Tender. But I’m not really an Elvis fan, so I can’t be sure of the track. There’s a soda fountain machine over at the bar. Bill, the Bartender is busy mixing ingredients for shakes. I can hear the whirring of the blender in the background. Customers are lined up at the bar, perched on chromed stools as they wait for their shakes to arrive.

Ah, there’s my burger. I can hear it sizzling on Tina’s tray. The juices from the burger are flowing down unto the plate. A thick, chocolate milkshake accompanies my order and I can almost taste the milky chocolate concoction, its creaminess leaves a milk moustache on my upper lip. Tina sets the tray on a nearby mobile cart and puts the quarter pound bacon cheese burger right in front of me.

The aroma hits my nostrils, sending me to high heaven. I can smell the smokiness of the bacon melting the cheddar cheese. The plumpness of the quarter pound burger looks quite appetizing. The special sauce smells divine and it not only drenches the burger with its tanginess, but makes my mouth water and my stomach rumble. As I am about to plunge my teeth into this divinity, I stop and turn around. I could feel the icy stare of some stranger eyeing me in contempt from across the room. He turns his nose up. I can see him grimace with disgust.

“There’s nothing that revolts me more,” he says to his wife who is devouring a piece of vegan cake, “than the offensive smell of grease and the sight of bloody slaughtered beef. It completely puts me off my vegemite sandwich. “

His wife looks up at her husband. She puts down her fork and stares at him. “Now, Art, please don’t cause a scene. I know we’re vegetarians, but we have to respect non-vegans, too.” says his wife.

“Sheila, please, I’m not causing a scene. But surely you can agree with me that the smell of that beef, dripping in blood makes you want to hurl.” Art turns his head and looks my way. “I mean.....consider the poor cow they slaughtered to satisfy that woman’s whim? What sin did that defenceless cow commit to make someone slaughter him just to satisfy a carnivorous craving?”

Sheila rolled her eyes at her husband. “Art, we must all respect our neighbour’s preferences. Just because we are vegans doesn’t mean we have to disrespect other people’s preferences. Just finish your vegemite sandwich and let’s get out of here, for God’s sakes.”

Art kept staring at me. He turned to his wife. “You know, Sheila, I think they ought to divide restaurants into two know, like they do with smoking and non-smoking sections. They ought to have a carnivorre section and a vegan section........but they should put the carnivore section in the basement.”

“Oh, can be so childish and idiotic sometimes. Now shut up and eat.” They sat in silence for a few minutes. Art kept boring his eyes at me. I couldn’t stand it any longer. I stood up and approached their table.

“Hey, Mr.......Did you lose something? You keep staring at me. It’s impolite.” I said. Art stopped eating and looked up at me. His face morphed into an undignified grimace.

“Lady, you are the one who is impolite..........YOU and your carnivorous cravings!” Art yelled.

“What?” I asked. “What are you going on about, Sir?” I put my hands on my hips. I wasn’t going to be insulted by a grumpy diner.

“You heard me, lady. Why must you chomp on a poor defenceless slaughtered cow? You people make me sick! It’s people like you that are killing our world.”

“Don’t you talk to me like that! How dare you stare at me so rudely and insult me like this! I’m calling the manager!” I yelled. The man’s wife sunk down on her side of the booth feeling ten inches tall. She looked at me as if to say, “Don’t look at me............I don’t know this man.”

Art rose from his seat. He towered over me. He must have been six feet six inches. He stared down at me. His breath smelled of rapeseed oil and brewer’s yeast. “Go ahead, lady, I’d like to speak to the manager as well. I have a great suggestion for him.”

At this time we were getting inquisitive stares from other diners. The bartender looked up from the bar. I glared at this six-foot-and-then-some stranger and called Tina over. Tina rose her head up from her seat at the bar. She was calculating someone’s bill at the time. She slowly rose and approached us. “What seems to be the problem, folks?” she asked.

“The problem is that this......this Moran......keeps staring at me and has insulted me. I want to speak to the manager about him!” I said. Tina tried to defuse the situation and asked us both to calm down.

“Sorry, toots, but this woman has revolted me with the smell of putrid grease and road kill. Now she has insulted me and my wife.” Art said.

“I haven’t said anything about your wife!” I screeched. At this point I was losing my patience. “Tina, please get the manager.......NOW!” Tina turned and headed towards the kitchen. Art hurled an arsenal of obscenities my way which startled some of the diners. That was it...the turning point...........the straw that broke the camel’s back. Reaching towards his table, I grabbed a slice of vegemite sandwich and smeared it all over Art’s face. Art tumbled back on his heels, stunned at my actions.

“Why, you carnivorous, bitch! You’ll pay for that!” Art barked. He grabbed a piece of his wife’s vegan cake and smeared it all over my face. The cake slithered down my neck and over my dress. Grabbing hold of someone’s chocolate shake, I threw it at Art, but it drenched some other diner instead. Art laughed..........a haughty, ugly cackle of a laugh which shook the Diner out of its foundation. The diner rose in anger and threw a whole burger in mid air, landing at the back of Art’s bald head.

“Who threw that disgusting piece of meat at me?” Art asked as he turned around. He picked up a piece of apple pie and threw it at the diner but it hit a woman instead. The woman threw her steak and kidney pudding at the man, missing and hitting the bartender. The bar tender grabbed a pitcher full of strawberry milkshake and threw it at the woman, landing on Art’s wife.

“Mama Mia” cried the manager of Mike’s Diner as he walked in from the kitchen with Tina. “What have they done to my Diner?” Just as he said this he was smacked on the face with a whole lemon meringue pie. “Tina, who started this fiasco?” he asked his employee. Tina scratched her head nervously.

“Marie said that that man over there was rude to her.” Tina answered her boss in a squeeky, mousy voice. Her boss wiped the meringue off his face and moustache.

“Ah, I see,” Mike said as he grabbed a Key Lime pie off the shelf from the counter. He flung it at Art. Art nearly tumbled over. “Out.....Out of my Diner, you slime ball!” Mike said. Art picked up a plate of spaghetti and threw it at Mike but it landed on top of Tina’s head. The place was all covered in food as diners flung plates of food around the joint and at each other.

Just then, the doors flung open and a couple of cops stumbled in blowing whistles and waving batons. The diners took no notice of them and continued their fray. The cops ran every which way to try to establish order but fell on top of each other as they slipped on banana peels on the greasy floor. The room stood still at the sound of a whistle followed by a booming voice coming from the entrance door. A tubby little officer walked in shouting from the top of his lungs.

“HEY! Silence, you lawless bunch of maggots!” he yelled, calling for order. From across the room someone hurled which started a wave of sick diners like a domino effect, drenching the unsuspected officer.

“Was it something, I said?” said the chief of police in a monotone. “Officers, rustle them up like cattle and take them all down to the station, please. They ought to learn not to play with their food!” One by one the officers rounded the diners up and placed them all under arrest and into a paddy wagon for causing a scene and disturbing the peace.

Sunday, 5 February 2012

Character of the Month of February

Welcome to my Author Blog! Photobucket Photobucket

Name: Anastasia Emeraud Green
Born: August 1279
Died: Summer 1298
Parents: Gunter Greene & Mercedes Mead
From the Book:  

The Curse of Anna Greene

Saturday, 7 January 2012

PhotobucketWelcome to my Author Blog!

Still working on the first draft of Love's Flaming Torch. I hope to finish the book by next Summer and publish it early next fall.

Friday, 6 January 2012