New Year's Eve

Well, it's that time of year again.

The end of it.

Can't believe 2005 is over. I remember thinking that it couldn't possibly be 1994! ...I also remember thinking Bill Clinton couldn't possibly be president.... ::laughs::

Kelly will be 20 years old tomorrow. We are going to have a great time tonight--celebrating her birthday, and Marcy's too! In fact, I need to go get ready for the party, so I don't have much time to spend posting some cliche post regarding the new year.

But--really now--it *has* to be said...

What will 2006 bring?

Well, for me, the long-awaited move to Clear Creek. But that's all I really know for certain. Birthdays, feast days, lent...those are all guaranteed. But what else? ::shrugs:: I don't know.

A lot happened in 2005. It's been a very...interesting...year. I hope next year is up to meeting to the Interesting Quota expected of it. ...I hope it's a little more interesting and amusing than this year was, though. This year was great, but sometimes on the boring side, and I *don't* like being bored.

Speaking of which, I really have to go get ready now.

Happy New Year, everyone! Have a safe time if you're going to be out tonight...but lots of fun while being safe. ;)

Girls' Nite at April's

It was Girl's Nite at April's house again last night. It was a lot of fun. This time Mandy and Crystal came, too. So, we had: Crystal, Mandy, Ashley, Melissa, April, Marcy, Mary, Blair, Mary, Laura (but she left early) and me.

Okay, did y'all catch that?

Crystal.
Mandy.
Ashley.
April.

Four of the five of my relatives who are expecting.

And then we had Blair--the mother of twins.

Yeah--I figured something out last night... Who needs games when there are so many expectant mothers in one room???

Of course, Marcy, Mary, Mary, Melissa and I were left out of most of the conversation. Somehow other stories just can't compare to a new mother's story. But we enjoyed it (well...most of it, anyway). ;) Oh my gosh. It was so funny! I know I said this after the last Girls' Nite, but I really felt like we had all turned into our MOMS. I *know* I've seen home-videos of them having the exact same conversations!

::laughs:: These conversations went on and on, and never stopped making everyone laugh. We started at the kitchen table, which is where most good conversations are had, and then we all moved to the living-room, where we stayed for hours. It was getting late, about 11:30, I think, and we were still laughing (and watching Mandy. We were hoping her contractions would get serious enough to take the party up to the hospital...but it never happened), when the one sure thing to break up Girls' Nite, no matter how much fun it is, came walking through the door.

A man.

April's husband.

Of course we all love Robby, but he's still a guy, and guys just don't work at a Girls' Nite.

He went to go get cleaned up from work, so we talked a little longer, and laughed a little more, and hoped he couldn't hear what we were saying. But then he came out, and half of the party decided it was time to go. I was one of the girls that left, so I have no idea how long the others stayed.

::shakes head:: I am so glad I'm such good friends with the females in my family. I feel sorry for the people who have cousins and sisters, but aren't *friends* with them. My sisters and cousins are the coolest people.

April, thanks for such a great time! Let me know when the next Nite is!

Oh. My. Gosh.

:::puts hand over eyes and laughs at the irony of it all:::

Been there, done that, got the t-shirt.

:::continues laughing, and is sorry y'all don't know why:::

Now just who would have ever thought that such a saying would be so darn *perfect*???

I'm sorry, y'all. If I could explain it, I totally would.

But ya know...I just can't.

:::looks in the appropriate direction and laughs again:::

Confrontation is a horrible thing. I hate it. I really do. And other people do too. But God is good and takes care of His wayward little children, and He brings good out of the wish-I-could've-avoided-it-ness of it all.

Plus He gives them t-shirts.

I'm going to bed. It too late to be writing nonsensical posts.

Pax.

;)

Aaaaw! It's So Exciting!

Five out of the...um...23...grandchilren are married. And by this time next year, all FIVE will be bringing a new little baby to Mana and Papaw's house for Christmas! (Assuming all the grandchildren make it home for Christmas!) YAAAAY!

We already knew that Heather, Ashley and Mandy were expecting (Mandy is due any day!), but we just found out a couple of weeks ago that my sister-in-law, Crystal, and my cousin April are also expecting babies next year! YAAAAAAAAAAY!

Congratulations, Crystal and April!

We realized this past Christmas day out at my grandparents' house that there will be *14* great-grandchildren next year! ...Okay. My grandparents so are not old enough to have that many great-grandchildren! And seven of those great-grandchilren will be my aunt and uncle's *grand*children. Okay--they *definitely* aren't old enough to have that many grandkids! They are only...what?...45? Yeah! I think they are 45!

Wooooow.

Okay, well, anyway, I couldn't remember if I ever blogged that April and Crystal were expecting. So now I've done it. And I'm finished. And have things to do.

Bye!

The London Murders: Unexpected revelations

"With your superior abilities, and his keen mind, I have no doubt you will be able to make great headway in this case." Detective Tracer gazed at Dr. Welch, no emotion apparent on her face. Dr. Welch cleared his throat, and with a barely perceptible movement of his hand, he tugged at his collar. It always disconcerted him when she looked at him this way.
"I believe we have already made a good start," she said, continuing to look at him. Dr. Welch briefly wondered how she could do it--stay focused on his eyes when there was so much activity going on all around them.

They had arrived at the crime scene some time before. Detectives Kevson and Niles had gone immediately to the bodies, but Jace and Rosie had been looking for something else. Jace walked directly over to Chief of Police Joe Mason, who had gone ahead to the crime scene. Rosie watched him, already knowing what he was asking after--whether this was due to her psychic ability, or simply because she had once known him so well, she wasn't sure. She just knew what he was looking for. She watched as Chief Mason pointed, gestured, and pointed some more. Jace stood and listened attentively. He shook his head and obviously asked the chief to repeat his answer. Rosie realized she was staring, and so started for the wall which was few feet from the bodies which bore the signature mark of the murderer.

"JACK THE RIPPERGER" was scrawled across the wall in the victims' own blood. Detective Tracer stood and analyzed the wall for quite some time. So long, in fact, that her turned back began to draw the attention of the police officers who were running around trying to find something to do. But her still frame gave no need for speculation to her fellow detectives. They knew she would speak to them when she had it all settled. Until then it was best to leave her alone.

An hour elapsed. Rosie's back was stilled turned on the activity at the crime scene--but it had begun to quiet down. Detective Buntley had finished gathering the information he required, and for the last fifteen minutes, he'd stood watching Rosie from a few yards away. She hadn't moved for thirty minutes. Buntley wasn't as used to this type of behavior as Kevson and Niles were, and he was beginning to worry about her.
"She's fine." Jace glanced at Niles, who had suddenly appeared out of nowhere.
"What?"
"She's fine. She does this all of the time." Niles looked back to Rosie just in time to see her sway and then catch herself. "Uuh...."

As Niles was trying to find a thought to articulate, Jace was quickly striding toward Rosie. When he reached her, he placed his hand on her shoulder. Kevson's warning cry of, "Don't do it!" came a split second too late. At the touch of his hand, Rosie jumped and let out a startled cry. Something fell from her hand to the ground, but Jace saw only the tear falling from her eye. She knew he saw it, and she quickly brushed it away. She immediately looked down at the ground. Jace thought she was trying to break his gaze, but when he followed her gaze, he saw the object she'd dropped. He leaned down to pick it up, but his hand froze just before he reached it.
It was a rosary.
Rosie saw his hesitation, and quickly reached to pick it up herself. Her hand brushed his as she lifted it, and her touch seemed to bring him back. They both straightened themselves at the same time.
Jace could think of nothing to say. Thoughts flashed through his head like paintings on display. What an odd time for that cup of coffee to enter his thoughts....
"I'm fine," Rosie said, breaking the tension.
"What was it?" Jace and Rosie turned at the sound of Dr. Welch's voice. Rosie's own voice shook as she began to answer, but she quickly continued with an even tone. "The murderer was under some sort of influence when this message was written."
"Drugs?" Jace asked.
"Alcohol?" Kevson and Niles chorused, coming up behind Dr. Welch. Rosie shook her head in response to both questions. "No--no, I don't think so. In all of my studies in graphoanalysis I've never seen anything like this. Except for perhaps once...." Involuntarily she looked at Jace, but then quickly looked away. She didn't want to remind him of that night. She turned to study the wall again. "I first noticed it after Clarissa's murder, and with each new murder it has become progressively more apparent."
"What is it?" Rosie didn't know which of the men had asked the question. They were all intent on studying the writing on the wall. She took a deep breath.
"She was terrified."

There was complete silence from the men. It took them a moment to absorb her statement. Niles finally spoke up. "You said 'she'." Rose closed her eyes and turned away from the wall. Another tear slipped down her cheek. She silently pushed her way through the men, leaving them to contemplate was she hadn't said.

"Detective Tracer," Deputy Chief Hudson approached Rosie. "I think there is something you should see." He motioned for her to step over to where the bodies had been laying. "We were moving the bodies, and when we lifted the second one..." He stopped and cleared his throat, obviously disturbed by the memory of the process. "We...ah...found a note."
"Let me read it." Rosie held her hand out to him. He placed a pair of gloves in her hand instead. "Put these on." Rosie fought the sickening feeling threatening to envelope her stomach. She didn't have to ask. She put the gloves on, then accepted the blood-covered piece of paper. Hudson waited as she read it. Her face registered shock and then disgust in quick succession. "It's..." She took a quick breath. "What is it?" Jace came up behind her. She immediately handed the paper to him and quickly walked away.
"It appears to be a step-by-step directions on how to..." Hudson stopped and cleared his throat again. "Ah...properly dissect the victims."

Dr. Welch had been observing Rosie since Hudson had stopped her, and when she walked away, he followed. As he walked by Buntley and Hudson, he heard what the note contained.
"Tracer." He stopped Rosie just as she reached the coach. She waited for him to come to her, but didn't turn to look at him. She was still afraid she was going to be sick. "What could you tell from it?" She continued to gaze out at the city lights. It will be light in a couple of hours, she thought to herself. "It was written in a masculine hand."
"What?"
"A man. It was written by a man."
"That wasn't what I meant."
Silence.
"The writing on the wall...it's feminine?"
"Yes."
"And the writing on the paper...it's masculine?"
"Yes."
"What are you thinking?"
"I don't know. It would seem...I don't know."
"I think you do have an idea." A new voice entered the conversation. It was Detective Buntley.
"Please, share it with the doctor." Rosie did nothing more to acknowledge his presence.
"If the writing on the wall was indeed a woman's"--Rosie rolled her eyes at this--"and if, as Miss Tracer says, she was 'terrified' as she wrote it, perhaps she was forced to do it. Perhaps by the man who wrote the...directions. Perhaps it is the victims themselves who are forced to write it before they are killed." The voicing of Jace's theory sent a chill through both Dr. Welch and Rosie. Jace turned and walked away, having been called back by one of the chiefs.

"I am afraid I will not be able to do this, Michael." Rosie only used Dr. Welch's first name when they were alone, and even then only when the situation warranted it.
"A WOMAN?!" Chief Mason's shocked reaction could be heard across the lot. Dr. Welch cast a glance his way, but turned directly back to Rosie. She had not moved. She was taking no notice of the commotion caused by this new piece of information. Dr. Welch returned to the matter at hand. "Come now, Tracer. You've worked cases similar to this before. I know you never really get used to it, but you are the best we have. You need...."
"Not with him," Rosie cut him off. "Not for years." She looked directly into her old professor's eyes. "Perhaps Detective Buntley and I would work best apart."
"No." Dr. Welch was adamant. "You work together brilliantly. He was brought here specifically to work with you."
"Yes," Rosie said, irritation barely present in her voice. "And if we were in a different setting, I would have a thing or two to say about your not consulting me in that wee matter." Dr. Welch continued on as if he hadn't heard her, "I have yet to meet two men more suitable as partners."
Rosie closed her eyes in frustration. Even he often forgot.
"I want to bring in Callie Anne."
"What? Rosie. She's been living a normal life for years."
"Even so, she still has a sharp mind. ...And I need her help."
"Fine. Call her tomorrow," Dr. Welch had more to say, but Rosie had no more responses for a moment.
She knew he was right about Jace, and she didn't want to discuss it anymore.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

It was almost six o'clock in the morning before the work was finished at the crime scene. The detectives were all exhausted by the time the coach pulled up in front of the S4 offices. Rosie had taken every precaution to keep from being seated next to Jace. But, unknown to her, all of her strategies would have been in vain had Jace not also been trying to avoid her.

In her office once again, Rosie found a fresh pot of coffee. She poured herself a cup, and moved to look out the window. She lifted the mug to take a sip.
"You shouldn't drink that." She took the sip, then turned to look at Jace.
"You need sleep." He tried to ignore the defiance in her eyes. Rosie turned back to her desk. "I won't be able to sleep, anyway." Her tone was quiet, and she didn't look at him again. Not that it mattered. He probably wasn't looking at her anyway.
"It's been a long time."
"I'm aware of that, Jace." It was the first time she had used his name. Strange how it brought back so much.
"If we work together on this case, we stand a much better chance of solving it." He was silent for a moment. "I think you know that."
"I am aware of it."
"I'm going to get some sleep at my hotel. You should too." Rosie raised an eyebrow. "At your own place." Jace rolled his eyes, and Rosie bit her lip to keep from smiling. "We'll need to get together to discuss the case later tonight." With that Jace left the office.

Rosie stared at the closed door, remembering seeing him walk through it hours earlier. She suddenly remembered the coffee stain on her skirt. A sudden desire to pour an entire pot of tea on Kevson's head possessed her, but then was quickly gone as she remembered the last time she had seen Jace. It had been three years before in Paris. In front of Notre Dame cathedral. The cathedral seemed to have a particular beauty that night. Entrancing.
Rosie shuddered at the rememberance. The night had started out so beautifully, but it had a horrible ending. He'd left her there that night, with a promise of never returning sounding in her ears. She could still hear it. She covered her ears in an attempt to block it out, then placed her head on the desk--intending only to finish the Rosary she began at the crime scene, but hours later she was still sleeping there.

Good News

I am happy to report that no young women were murdered after leaving Midnight Mass this past Christmas morning.

Just in case y'all were worried about Jack the Ripperger striking here in Oklahoma.

MERRY CHRISTMAS!!

I hope everybody has a wonderful, wonderful day!

And I hope nobody is so bored that they actually have to read this on Christmas Day! Tomorrow works just fine!

I am on my way out to my grandparents' house for the day, and I wanted to get on the check my email, and decided to say 'Merry Christmas' to all of my readers!

Justin. I will deal with you later. Merry Christmas, Justin and Father!

Blog Tone

I feel like the entire tone of my blog has changed over the past couple of weeks. Ever since 'Restless Native' starting posting.

Well, guess what, Restless--It's *still* my blog!

So there.

Okay...um...well...I don't have anything to post, really, but I just wanted to state that this is indeed my blog. ...Because Dan tried to claim otherwise. And it's not true.

Oh!!! Thank you, Andrea!!!!!!!!!

Andrea gave me 'Dear Frankie' for Christmas, and I am very excited it!!! 'Dear Frankie' stars Gerard Butler (from 'The Phantom of the Opera') and Emily Mortimer (from 'The Kid'). The best thing about the movie is that Gerard Butler uses his *real* accent.

Yes.

You guessed it.

He's Scottish.

Yaaaaaaaaay!

Ang, you are the best!

The London Murders: Howdy's Flashback

“Eliza! Verga! Get down here!” Howdy Redder was losing his patience- and his voice.
The two German exchange students had been sent to London to further their studies in English, and also (supposedly) to help the Redder family with their business of watch-making. However, neither of those goals seemed to have been achieved in the 6 months they had been there.

“Vee are bizzie, Fatther!” Came a shouted reply from upstairs, and then some giggles.
Howdy Redder hated it when they laughed like that. “Tee hee! Tee hee!” It always got on his nerves.

““I mean it this time! So help me! I’ll… I’ll….!” Mr. Redder didn’t know what he’d do.
Probably nothing, except get redder in the face and raise his blood pressure. Those girls were absolutely impossible! If they weren’t at school supposedly learning English, they were flirting with the boys at school. And if they weren’t flirting with boys, they were talking about them. If they weren’t talking about them, they were either asleep or had their mouths full. And sometimes, even that didn’t stop them. They were impossible!

“Eliza and Verga, you will both come down here this minute and speak to your father! I do NOT want to have to come up there!”
Howdy Redder’s wife, Justina Redder, was no laughing matter. She was tall and lean, mighty lean. She was also rather pompous, and possessed quite the ego. She liked to let people know it, too. If she wasn’t lecturing the girls on their lack of virtues or work ethic, she was lecturing Howdy on his. Her one droopy eyelid, normally half-closed, sprang open when her temper flared.

Their marriage was farimly normal, if also a bit comical. Howdy was short and skinny, and his eyesight had never been very good, which necessitated the use of extremely thick glasses. Over the years he had developed a bit of a pot-belly, and quite recently his hearing had started to decline as well. Whether that was because of the incessant, blabbering chatter of the German exchange girls, or an unconscious physiological defensive reflex, was not clear.
Some would have described him as a silly little man, but that would have been before they knew his profession- Watchmaker.

Yes, for all their drawbacks, many and varied though they were, Howdy Redder and his wife Justina were famous all over England, and indeed the world, for their watches.
German clockmakers had nothing over this couple when it came to making things tick! They could wind circles around the competition, and indeed had, in the last World Clock and Watch Makers Jamboree, held in Munich, Germany. That’s where they had met Eliza and Verga, the daughters of a German clockmaker by the name of Mikhail Nollenkopf. (Little did he know, but a great-great grandson of his would have quite a romantic and tragic affair in WWII…. but that was years down the road.)

The London couple had won first place – again – and many Germans had come forward to pay them their respects, and also to get a closer look at their watches. Mikhail was one of them, and shook hands enthusiastically with Mr. Redder.
“Amazing, amazing!” Mikhail said over and over. “Vee haff never seen anything like ziss in zee Fazzerland! I vill look forward to seeing your verk in zee next yearz Jamboree!”
Howdy and Justina thanked him very much, but mentioned that this would most likely be their last Jamboree, since they were thinking of retiring from the business.
“Ach! Mein Leiben! Mein shiesserkopf poopie!” Mikhail had said “You are zee best in zee biziness! You cannot retire! Your work must continue… I cannot allow zis!”

He took off in a frenzy, and soon returned with two bratty looking girls. They were beautiful and ravishing in their skimpy Lederhosen, and Mikhail was practically beating the young German boys off with a stick.
“Here!” Mikhail said “Zees are my two beautiful and talented young daughters, Eliza and Verga. Zey haff helped me for many yearz in clock-making! Zey vill help you vith your biziness! Zey haff been vanting to learn English for qvite sum time now!!” Mikhail’s own English was getting worse as he spoke, and a sort of wild, frenetic look had come into his eyes. He looked like a caged animal that had just seen a chance at freedom.

Howdy and Justina, suddenly hopeful at the thought of gaining some help, were all too ready to listen. For indeed, they had never had any children, and though the idea of adoption had come up, Howdy had never been certain that Justina would not have beaten a child or two to death if it had not been her own. She had quite the temper, and a strong right hook to match. “Why, yes! We would love some help!” Justina said quickly. Though Howdy looked doubtful, she would not be deterred from this sudden prospect of good fortune. It was like a sign from God…

“Now, zey know some English, but zey haff been…” Mikhail suddenly stopped and glared at his two daughters. “Vell, zey vere doing well in their studies until zey reached zee age of sixteen! Suddenly, other subjects in school became much more interesting! Zey need to be beaten!”
“Ha!” Laughed Howdy. “You don’t have to worry about that in my house! Hahaha… *ahem* "
He coughed and looked away under Justina’s intense glare.
“Vell zen, I vill get everything here taken care of, and you may expect zem to be arriving shortly!” With that, Mikhail Nollenkopf and his daughters, more sullen looking then ever, departed.

*********

That had been almost a year ago, and Eliza and Verga arrived several months afterwards. They had proven helpful at first, it was true, but their productivity kept slipping and slipping until finally, Justina and Howdy were at the end of their rope. It seemed that things just couldn’t get any worse!

“Eliza! Verga! Right this MINUTE!!” Justina’s voice was getting shrill. That was a bad sign.
The German girls came downstairs, all pouty and huffy.
Howdy’s wife glared at them.
“Now, you two girls are going to help Mr. Redder with the new gear reduction assembly he is working on! This promises to be a revolution in the watch-making industry, and you might just learn a thing or two about it to take back to your father in Germany! Wouldn’t that be nice of you? It would indeed, and that’s probably why you won’t do it! The trouble with young people today is that they have no appreciation for hard work and sacrifice! What do you think I do all day? Yes, it is all about sacrifice and being miserable! If you are happy in this life, then you are doing something wrong! I got into the watch making business because I hated it! Why do you think I married Mr. Redder?
Justina was on a roll. It was going to be awhile, so Howdy went down into his workshop.

A few hours later, Eliza and Verga showed up. They weren’t really in any mood to help, so they didn’t. This was the usual order of business recently! Howdy wondered just how much longer they could continue like this… he wanted to send them back, but Justina would have none of it.

“No matter how bad it gets, they have to live out their end of the bargain! Furthermore, it is our responsibility to send them back to Germany better than when they came, or not at all!” This was Justina’s take on the situation, and that was that! Unfortunately, it also turned out to be a self-fulfilling prophecy. How guilty the both of them would soon feel...!

Poor Howdy! Since he was Anglican, his prayers really didn’t do that much good, and his suffering was all but wasted. He desperately needed a solution to his problem, but little did he know just how soon he would get it… and how terrible it would be!

Oh, the horror of it all!

Eat a Bug, Tracy

Title says it all.

**** NEWS FLASH **** RECENT UPDATE ***** NEWS FLASH *****

Okay, for the record, let's just go ahead and think about this for awhile. Hmm. Why would I post a message for Tracy to "eat a bug"?

Maybe, perhaps just maybe, it was meant as an INSIDE JOKE on the 'administrative' part of her blog.

As in, say, perhaps I saved it as a 'draft' in the 'administrative' section of her Blog, never intending it for public publication, yet knowing that she would (as Blog Administrator) observe the title, understand the error of her ways in modifying a PREVIOUS 'draft' of mine, and hence repent of her ways.

*gasp*

Yes, folks, I know! She ABUSED her powers as Blog Administrator (hereafter referred to as 'BA') and MODIFIED my 'drafts'! (hereafter referred to as 'drafts')

You know, this behavior, while extremely amusing, was not appreciated - or even appropriate - for a BA. How unprofessional.

But that's not all folks... oh no, not all, AT all. It gets... worse...

Let's go ahead and consider that maybe, just maybe, Tracy stepped beyond all bounds of fairness and completely, utterly, SACRELIGIOUSLY, abused her powers as all-powerful BA, by going so far as to actually POST, for the *entire* Blog population to see, what she *knew* was a *personal* message to her, therefore (and thereby) subjecting ME to unfair criticism, slander, and calumny... ALL over of a message that was *never* intended to be posted and yet *was* posted, without my knowledge, consent, or prior approval.

THEREFORE, THEREBY, FURTHERMORE AND FORASMUCH, I hereby STAND MY GROUND IN THIS POSTING AND REFUSE to tender any apology, WHATSOEVER!

Yes, I am COMPLETELY UNREPENTANT, I am NOT SORRY, and I would DO IT AGAIN IN A HEARTBEAT.

In fact, I hereby RESTATE the message, in MY OWN WORDS, with ALL PRIOR KNOWELEDGE, FULL CONSENT OF THE WILL, and complete cognizance of the TRUE HORROR of this action:

EAT

A

BUG

TRACY!!!


EAT IT!! EAAAAAT A BUUUUUUUUUGGGGG!!
*GRRRR! GNASH! CHOMPAROO! GNARL GARGLE BURBLE GNASH!*

Delay in 'The London Murders Series'

With this being the week before Christmas, and the next chapter in our murder mystery being so...complicated...I cannot guarantee that I will have it up any time soon. In fact, there's a very good chance it won't be up until next week sometime.

So--sorry.

David--I'm glad you finally commented on my blog. But I will thank you to keep your disparaging comments about my writing to yourself. Now...if you want to say something *nice*, you should. 'Cause I deserve it.

And, John, I'm just ignoring you. Start being positive and I'll start responding to your comments. ::sticks tongue out::

Women More Prone to Demonic Possession

So says the Remnant Website! I'm serious! Check it out:

http://www.remnantnewspaper.com/news.htm

It's after the Mel Gibson post. Here's an excerpt:

"According to a certified Filipino exorcist, women are prone to demonic possession because they are generally more 'psychic and intuitive' than men."


Uh Oh, Ladies and Gentlemen! This could spell trouble for Rosie Tracer! I hope our little murder mystery doesn't morph into a Demon-Thriller! Who KNOWS what will happen next... MUHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

Kevin's Letter to the Remnant Magazine

Hello everyone! You know what's funny? Kevin's letter to the remnant! Do you know what else is funny? He didn't even write it! You know what's FUNNIEST? IT'S ALREADY IN THE MAIL!!! BWAHAHAHAHAHAHA! What a CHUMP! What a NAIF!
Kev if you get sponsored I want a cut.

KEVIN NOLAN WRITES TO THE REMNANT MAGAZINE FOR A SPONSORSHIP ON THE 2006 PILGRIMAGE...

Hello to everyone at the Remnant Magazine! Give yourselves a hand, I mean it.
My name is Kevin Nolan. I am 18 years of age and a young upstart. I am also a very devout Traditional Catholic, but I am in desperate need of something to jump-start my spiritual life. That’s why I am writing to you for a sponsorship! I know that I have a lot to learn about my religion, and I feel like I need to go on this pilgrimage. I also feel that because I am so young and impressionable, I would benefit the most from it. Don’t let the mould of my character be irreparably damaged because some drug dealer got to me first!

I come from a family of 15, which is reason enough for me to want to get away for awhile. Another reason is that I have never been outside of the country, and before I am exposed to the utter moral decay that is modern Europe, I would like the chance to experience France and Ireland unstained in all their original Catholic beauty. I am certain that any normal, un-Catholic experience with the other side of the Atlantic would leave me cynical and bitter towards the rest of the world, and most likely lead to either a spiraling depression or an addiction to 1940 foreign films. Perhaps both.

Now, before you label me a complete flake, I would just like to say that I have developed a deep devotion to the Latin Mass, even at my tender age. I have only been attending for just over a year, but it has truly become home to me. In fact, I cannot fathom the idea of NOT knowing the traditional mass! I realize now what I have missed all these years I did not attend, and the sorrow nearly tears my heart in two. But then I realize there is a remedy- I must go on this pilgrimage! To deny me this opportunity is to invite my certain death! Could you let this happen to me? NO! I beg of you! Don’t be the cause of my death! How could you live with yourself?

*ahem*

It would also be impossible for me to fund this trip in any other way. My family, friends, and parish are all economical midgets. My own humble job, while a spiritual gold-mine, produces little in the ways of marketable currency. However, I believe that I am the next Donald Trump, and before I become a multi-billionaire, I think that a long, hard pilgrimage would certainly give me the spiritual foundation I need to responsibly handle my future exorbitant wealth. In fact, I’ll bet it would no doubt make the difference between a rewarding, virtuous, and charitable life, and a decadent and dissolute one, filled with vice and perfidy. Furthermore, I would be most inclined to properly… reward… those friends and benefactors who provided financial aid when I needed most…

Lastly, I would be committing a sin of omission if I did not state that there were other, more selfish reasons, for my wanting to go on this pilgrimage. Namely, that I love the country of Ireland. I love the idea of drinking beer at the age of 18, and I absolutely LOVE the idea of meeting some hot, young Irish babe with a sexy brogue! Think about it! Well, okay don’t think TOO much about it, but what I’m getting at is, um, okay I don’t know what I’m getting at. Man, I am REALLY in need of some spiritual aid here! I mean, I have all this potential, all this spiritual energy, and I just need the proper guidance! I NEED to have the opportunity to walk the path of the righteous man!
I MUST GO ON THIS PILGRIMAGE.

Dearly beloved, I thank you for the time you have taken to read this letter. I know that many have asked you for sponsorship, in fact I know many of them personally. I implore you to ignore those beggardly wastrels! They might be more deserving than I am, they might be more spiritually inclined than I am, but I can guarantee you they aren’t as funny as I am! EH?! Admit it, I’ve got them beat hands down in that department! I’m a dadgum comedian is what I am! And this is me sober! Just imagine me in Ireland!

Soo…. if you, or anyone in that office, plans on going along on this pilgrimage, then you should ask yourself just one question: who would you rather have go along with you? Some boring retard? Or…. Me?

That’s what I thought. I’ll start packing.
Ciao.

PS – I would appreciate it if you passed this letter around and got a 1-10 scale rating. I’m thinking somewhere around a 10.



Kevin, I can't believe you! If you even get a response, I'll be surprised. If I worked at the remnant and got this letter, I would be shocked! In fact, I would be ROFL! I would be ROFL LMAO!

Life Saving Blankets--With Mary's Help

I went out to the Nolans' house last night. Andrea had rented another Indian movie, and we were getting together to watch it. I was running a little late because Mary wanted to ride with me. It was getting confusing trying to figure out where I would meet up with Mary, so she said she would just drive out there herself. I almost agreed, but then I decided that was silly. There was no reason to take two cars out.

We finally got out there, and watched the weirdest Indian movie ever. Actually--no, there are probably weirder movies. But this one was just...terrible. It was called 'Asoka', and it was sad, and it was really, really long, and don't ever watch it 'cause it's weird.

After the movie some of us went outside and talked about how weird it was, and some of us stayed inside and talked about how weird it was. Then everybody went outside to talk about how weird it was, and how much more we liked 'Lagaan', and then we all went back inside--and talked about other things.

I was tired and wanted to leave, but I didn't want to make Mary leave. Oh, but then I decided I wasn't that nice of a sister, and told to her come on because I wanted to go. She of course took about two minutes longer than I did to say 'goodbye', so I was standing by the door telling her come on.

We had finally left, and had gone about 1/4 of a mile when we remembered we'd forgotten some quilts back at the Nolans' that we were supposed to give to my sister Kelly. I didn't want to go back, because I was tired, and it would just take more time, but Mary said, "Oh, just go get them...Just back up the whole way." Well, Mary's goofy, and for some reason I listen to her, so I backed up almost all of the way back to the house.

Pretty soon Mary was back in the car with lots of blankets, which she stuffed in the back, and we were once again driving down the road.

About two miles down the road I saw a truck on the side of the road. I slowed down as I passed it because I thought it was Marcy's truck. That was when I saw two people standing in front of it, whom I thought were Marcy and Anthony, but I realized the truck--although the same make and model as Marcy's--was green instead of black. But I also realized that the truck had been wrecked. I stopped the car and backed up. That was when I realized it was Abby, a girl I've known for years, who is also a good friend of Ginny's.

I jumped out of my car and ran over to her, asking what had happened. She just kept saying, "We're just fine, Tracy. We're just fine, Tracy." She said it over and over again, which worried me because I knew it was a sign of shock. I was hugging her, and I saw the guy she was with was leaning over the hood of his car. "Who is this?" I asked. "Oh," she said. "This is Matt. (Don't hold me to that 'cause I think it may have been Mike.)" I was *shocked* because this kid of about 16 years old--standing next to his dad's totalled truck--straightens up, turns and looks at me, sticks out his hand and says, "Hi. I'm Matt (Mike?). It's nice to meet you."

I laughed. I couldn't help it. "I'm Tracy," I said. "It's nice to meet you, too. Are you okay??"
He said he was fine, and Abby was behind me still saying the same thing to Mary. I turned back to her and made sure she could move everything. She was fine! So was he! No even any apparent cuts or bruises. I couldn't believe it.

I asked Abby what had happened. They were driving down the gravel road, and they had washboarded. Then the truck flipped. Then they got out of the car. Abby said it all happened about ten minutes before we got there, and that she had called her parents. A few minutes later her parents pulled up. Her mom got out of the car, and I heard her whisper "Jesus!" It broke my heart because I knew she was remembering getting the phone call a few years ago telling her that her son, Abby's older brother, had been killed in a car accident. After making sure that everyone was okay, Mary and I got back in the car and pulled away.

It was very quiet my car at first. Then I said, "Wow. If we had left just a few minutes before...."
Then Mary said, "If we hadn't gone back to get the blankets...."

Yeah. And if Mary hadn't been with me, I *wouldn't* have gone back to get the blankets. Not only could I have been involved as well, but Abby and Matt--who were amazingly intact--may have been hurt after all.

My grandmother has always told me to carry a blanket in my car during the winter. "You never know when your car might break down....Having a blanket could save your life."

The London Murders: Nolder Uncovers the Evidence

After Nolder dropped Jace off at the LondonTowne Inn, he stopped outside for a smoke and a quick drink.
"Nothin' wrong with a quick spot o' whiskey now, is there?" Davis Nolder thought to himself.
As he stood there in the alley, next to his trusty mare Little Charity, his mind went back all those years to his beloved wife, Lanney.
She had been the most beautiful of Scottish lasses, she had. Eyes of pure blue, and hair as golden as the sunset. It was rare indeed, to find a pure Scot with blue eyes and blonde hair, and he couldn't deny that was part of the reason he loved her so much.
"Fell in love at first sight, I sure did" Davis muttered to himself in the darkness. "There'll never be another like her. Dammit all, I can't belive I lost her...."

Suddenly, Little Charity whinneyed at the sudden arrival of a Police Officer.
"Right-O, there! Who be you, my good man?" The officer asked of Nolder.
"Bloody Mary, it's me, Davis Nolder! What are you doin' here, Rabbie?"
"Davis! You no-good sot! Where's the Yank?"
"Yank?! You mean Mr. Buntley, you do! Don't ye be calling him no Yank, you bloody Limey! He's the best in all America, and I'll blacken your eye you don't give him the proper respect!"
Well now, Davis! I can see you've been hittn' the bottle. " Officer Robert Vernon was quite accustomed to Davis' outbursts.
"Listen Davis, I need you to get the Yank right away, and bring him to the Station! There's been another murder!"
"Another Murder?!!" Davis was aghast. "I thought it was just a scare! You know, a bloody rumor!"
"That's what we thought at first! You know ever since that bloody Ripperger got famous, EVERY murder has been reported as his doing! We thought this one was too, at first, until..." Robert suddenly stopped short.
"Until what, man? Come on, out with it! Don't keep a fellow officer waitin'!"
Robert drew back.
"Now listen, Davis! You ain't no officer! You know you got stripped of your badge a year ago after..." He stopped, the situation suddenly awkward. Davis slouched his shoulders.
Davis apologized. "I'm sorry mate, I didn't mean..."
"No no, you're right, Rabbie. I'm wrong. I ain't no... OFFICER... anymore."
"Well listen, mate." Robert skipped over it. "It was right GRISLY, it was! When they found 'em, there wasn't a single limb left attached to the body, not a single one! Arms, legs...." He gulped "even the 'ead, mate! They was all off!"
"Bloody 'ell, Rabbie! who would do such a thing?!"
"That's just it!! We knew it 'ad to be him, mate! We knew! Ain't no one in the 'ole damm country that kills like that. It's that bloody B*^@#*, Jack the Ripperger!"
Robert punched his fist into his hand.
"Well 'ell mate, who were they? Girls, Catholic, like the last?" Davis drew closer.
Robert put his head in his hands. "They were." Davis gasped. Robert continued.
"Their names were Marcille and Kelsie, runners from France! They were on an exchange program. Apparantly, running in France made them hot- TOO hot! They thought that coming to a cooler climate might help 'em out. They sweated profusely in France!"
"By the Knights who say Ni!" said Davis.
"Big the Knights indeed!" said Robbie "And now, they'll never return. Never to return to France, never to laugh "Tee hee, tee hee" again! Poor girls!"
Davis took a long pull from his bottle. Robbie, wiping his eyes, took one as well. Little Charity neighed, sullen at being left out of the conversation. Davis placated her with a few swigs. Charity hiccuped, and then whinneyed.
"Well mate, go ahead and wake up the Yank... er, Mr... Buntely."
"Aye mate, aye!" Said Davis. "I'll wake him up straight away! To the Station, you say?"
"Right-O, mate! Dr. Welch and the Chiefs will be waitin'!"
And with those words, Officer Robert Vernon vanished into the night.

Davis Nolder went upstairs.

Dancing the Night Away

The London Murders: The Plot Thickens

And then Jace woke up. What a horrible nightmare! But it was no nightmare- there was still the incessant banging on the door, and Davis Nolder’s irritating voice.
“Sir! Sir! Mr. Jace Buntley, Sir! You’ve got to get up! There’s been another murder! We’ve got to get to the central office, right away!”
Jace groaned and shifted in the bed. He checked his watch – 12:05 AM, Tuesday morning. Six hours since he arrived in London; one since he went to bed.
“Mr. Buntley sir? Are you there!?”
“All right, shut up already! Give me five minutes.”
“Yes sir! I’ll be waitin’ outside with the coach!”
Jace heard Nolder’s footsteps grow faint. He groaned again, louder, and stretched to his feet. Still slightly buzzing from the London whiskey, he was glad he hadn’t had enough to get drunk. Only 1 quart this time. He dressed quickly and threw on his trenchcoat. He didn’t need to strap on his shoulder-holstered Beretta.
He hadn’t taken it off.

Davis met him at the street, fairly hopping with excitement. Jace observed the 6’4”, rail-thin coachmen with slight amusement, and wondered where he got his energy. Davis hustled him into the coach.
“Right this way, sir! Right this way! You wouldn’t believe it, you just wouldn’t! Not again, not so soon after the last one! Bloody mess, from what I heard! Not one limb left connected! Bloody, bloody mess it was!”
Jace kept silent as Davis rambled on, shutting the coach door and climbing to the driver’s seat. As the reigns snapped and they began moving, Jace could still hear Davis muttering to himself.
“Right shame it was, too. Beautiful girls from what I ‘eard. Beautiful. Runners they were, visiting from France. Never return back, they sure won’t. Never return. Right shame.”
Jace nodded silently to himself in the coach. He had suspected this from the beginning, and Nolder’s last statement only confirmed it. He knew exactly where the killer would strike next, and he knew when. But he didn’t know why…

Dr. Welch met him in the coach outside London’s downtown police station, and climbed aboard along with two Police Officers.
“Pardon the circumstances surrounding our introduction, Mr Buntley! It is a great honor to meet you! I only wish it were under more pleasant arrangements.” The director of Great Britain’s most prestigious investigative school grasped hands firmly with Jace, and the detective helped him aboard. The two Officers followed suit.
“Mr. Buntley, this is Chief of Police Joe Mason, and Deputy Chief Anthony Hudson. They will accompany us to the crime scene.”
“So we’re going straight there.” Jace stated. That was fine with him. The sooner they got cracking on this case, the better.
“Not quite.” Said Dr. Welch “We will actually be stopping by Scotland Yard’s south London branch first.”
Officers Mace and Tony sat silently in their seats.
Jace didn’t move.


*****************

As Jace followed Dr. Welch down the hallway of Scotland Yard’s South London branch, he tried to keep his pulse from rising.
He did not succeed.
His heart pounded in his chest, and he could feel the blood coursing through his veins. He was angry that he felt this way; angry that he could not control his emotions. He wanted to be angry that he was about to see her again… but he wasn’t.
Sudden voices brought Jace out of his reflections. Unconsciously, he had slowed in the hallway. Dr. Welch was already inside the S4 office.
“Wake that man up!” Jace heard Dr. Welch order.
This was soon followed by several terrific shouts, and the sharp cry of a woman.

That voice.

That voice sent a galvanized shock through Jace Buntley’s entire body. That voice sent at once a thousand memories flooding back into his head, and a thousand emotions through his veins. Jace Buntley, American Detective, top crime detective in the entire State of New York, was afraid. His hands shook and his mouth went dry. He didn’t want to take another step.

He walked through the door.

Kevson’s cry and subsequent flailing appendages startled Niles and knocked him off balance. Niles bumped into Rosie who spilled her coffee onto her lap. Rosie cried aloud and dropped her coffee mug on the floor with a clatter. Jace walked casually through the door and observed the scene.

“Mr. Buntley, this is Rosie Tracer, our top detective at Scotland Yard.” Dr. Welch never missed a beat when it came to formalities. He was also quite adept at ignoring even the most embarrassing of social mishaps.
“Rosie, this is Mr. Jace Buntley, American detective and top crime investigator in New York City.”
Rosie couldn’t speak. She managed to barely nod her head.
“We’ve met before, Doctor.” Jace said abruptly.
“But of course you have!” replied Dr. Welch. “Of course you have. Although I do not believe you have made the acquaintance of Detectives Kevson and Niles…?”
Dr. Welch cast his gaze in the direction of the recovering detectives, and folded his hands. He glared at them with a look implied absolute buffoonery. Kevson and Niles shifted uncomfortably, looking for all the world like two school boys caught playing hooky. There was certainly nothing at the moment to suggest that besides Rosie, they were the best two detectives in Scotland Yard.
“Uhhhhh, hello Mr. Buntley. I’m Detective Kevson.” He reached forward and shook hands firmly with the American. Niles followed suit. “Detective Niles, at your service!”
Jace didn’t reply but instead walked straight up to a map of London pinned against the wall. The locations of the murders were noted in ink. “Get a world map.” Was all he said.
The detectives in the room looked at each other. Rosie looked down with a crooked smile. Jace had never been one for formalities.
Jace turned around to face Kevson and Niles. He carefully avoided looking towards Rosie.
“If you want to solve this case, get me a world map”
Kevson looked over at Detective Tracer, who stared him down before he could even ask the question.
“I’ll be right back!” he said, and disappeared out the door. Dr. Welch looked quizzically in Jace’s direction.
“Mr. Buntley, I hope this will not take long. Indeed, we shall review the facts of the previous murders, but there is a fresh crime scene requiring our attention! Chiefs Mason and Hudson are already on their way, and their officers have no doubt prepared the scene for our arrival…”
“I assure you, Doctor, that this will not take long, and that it will, indeed, prove to be very relevant to the facts we shall undoubtedly discover at the crime scene. I thank you in advance for your cooperation, and for that of your team. It is my pleasure to work with the finest detectives in England.” He nodded in the direction of Dr. Welch, and returned to studying the map.
Dr. Welch harrumphed and clasped his hands behind his back. His mouth curved in a very faint, very satisfied smile.
Rosie bit her lip and closed her eyes. Jace had just bought himself the entire night, if he wanted it. Her face and hands grew flushed. She both hated and loved it when Jace did this.

Kevson strode back into the room moments later, a world map loosely rolled in his hands. “How did you find that so fast?” Niles asked.
“I’m psychic.”
Rosie bit her lip again. This was a bad night for her lips.
“Spread it out on the table” Jace ordered.
Once done so, he circled the countries of the murder victims.
“What do you see?” He asked.
Kevson spoke up. “I see a perfectly good world map with four circles on it.”
Niles jabbed him in the ribs, saving Rosie the trouble.
“I see a pattern.” Niles said.
“Of what.” Jace.
“Foreigners!” Said Kevson. “He’s a xenophobe. He’s a misguided freak trying to do England a favor.”
“No.” Said Rosie. “It’s a clock.” She was irritated she hadn’t noticed this sooner.
Jace looked at her for the first time since they had been introduced by Dr. Welch. No one else noticed, but she knew he was pleased.
“Yes” he said “A clock.”
“What the heck?” Kevson.
“Bloody hell!” Dr. Welch.
“Bugger me! I get it!” Niles.
Jace went into action.
“Germany is One O’clock. It’s the start, the beginning. The killer strikes at one. Switzerland is Three O’Clock. Italy Five. France is now Seven.
Dr. Welch interrupted. “How did you know the next victims were from France?!”
Jace didn’t bother to look up. He also didn’t bother to reveal his source of information.
“Word travels fast in London.”
“Wait” said Kevson “Why are they all odd numbers?”
“Because” said Rosie, but before she could finish, Niles interrupted.
“Well I’m pissed if Ireland isn’t number nine!”
“And guess who’s after that?” Jace.
“Iceland, at 11 O’clock?” Niles.
“No” Rosie spoke again, and her blood went cold.
Jace looked at her again, and nodded his head.
“Scotland, at 12.” Rosie finished.
“Son-of-a-gyspie mongrel!” Kevson was losing his patience “What’s up with all the bloody O’clocks?! One o’clock, three o’clock, how can you tell!?”
Jace looked at Dr. Welch. “We’ve spent enough time here already.” He said.
Dr. Welch nodded his head in agreement. “Indeed, we have spent enough time here, Mr. Buntley. But it was indeed time well spent! In just a few short hours, you have proven your worth and then some.” He paused briefly “As expected, of course! We shall now proceed to the crime scene.” He looked directly at Kevson. “Detective Tracer can explain fully there.”
They rose from the table and headed out the door.

Somehow, Jace and Rosie ended up next to each other. They stared rigidly ahead, though the entirety of their attention was focused on their peripheral vision. Both minds whirled, as much from the suddenness of their reunion as with the new details of the case. Despite Jace’s insight, so many questions were left unanswered… why were the girls all Catholic? Why did the killer target only females? Rosie shuddered at the thought that yet more murders would occur before this case could be solved.
The clock pattern. It made perfect sense. She would explain it all to Kevson at the crime scene, in details so thorough even a buffoon could understand. But also, she wondered what they would find at the crime scene… what gruesome details she would have to describe… what sickening information she would surely be able to reveal about the killer himself…

Meanwhile, Jace was wondering why he was always such a jerk when it came to Rosie.

Mistletoe

Does anybody know where the tradition of kissing someone simply because they stood under mistletoe comes from?

Hi

I'm just waiting for a new post.

From the *other* "CONTRIBUTOR".

But genius requires time.

He says he's still working on it.

Shouldn't be too long now.

Just thought I'd let you all know it's coming up soon.

Kind of like a commercial for a TV show, reminding you that the "next new episode" is coming up.

Only this is different because those things always know exactly when the show will run, and I...well. I'm only the administrator of this blog. Like *I* should know when something will be posted here?

::smiles::

I guess you'll just have to keep checking back.

Be Nice To Tracy Day

Under pain of excommunication, I have been ordered to post this particular post.

And I don't really have a problem with it at all. Nope, not a bit.

Wednesday, December 14, 2005 is hereby declared "Be Nice To Tracy Day".

In other words:

Nobody is allowed to be mean to me on my own blog!!!!!

Wow, John! This was such a great idea you had!

The London Murders: Rosie waits

Rosie Tracer wiped at the steam on the window and gazed out into the night. There was something about this night...something that was reminding her of him. But she never let herself remember. It had been too long ago, and since that terrible night had taken his Faith from him, she knew it would take a miracle for him to see what was necessary for them to be together.
Her breath soon fogged the glass again, taking away the view of the London city lights, and with them the memories best forgotten.
She returned to sipping her lukewarm coffee. Having come from Scotland, she was more partial to coffee than she was the weak tea the English always served. At least that was what she told herself. Subconciously, it was because the drink reminded her of him.

"It's going to be another long night, isn't it?" Rosie turned to look at the two detectives sitting at the conference table in her office at Scotland Yard. "Yes, Kevson," she answered without emotion. "It will be long."
The two detectives--Kevson and Niles--glanced at each other, then turned back to the papers spread on the table and continued rifling through them--searching for clues amid thoroughly exhausted reports. But Rosie turned back to the window with a roll of her eyes. Kevson's sense of humour popped up at the strangest times. She heard him take a breath, and she knew the next thing to come out of his mouth would be directed to her.
"Is there a fresh pot of tea down the hall?"
She considered giving her usual short answer of "Quit using my psychic abilities for your own benefit", but her nerves were on edge tonight, and she was tired of his persistent questions. "Yes," she told him. Without another word, Kevson stood and walked out the door, his teacup in hand.

After the door shut behind him, Niles' quiet voice said, "That wasn't very nice." Rosie turned to look at him, but couldn't see his eyes through the hair which was covering them. "Niles," she said pointedly. He pushed the hair from his face. "You know there's no tea down the hall," he said.
Rosie sighed. "No, I don't know if there's a fresh pot of tea down the hall. And neither do I know if we will be here all night. I don't know if we'll find any clues in those over used reports, and I don't know if 'Jack the Ripperger' will strike again tonight, tomorrow, next week, or ever!" Emotion began to creep into her voice. She was stuck, and she knew it. She didn't know which direction to go. "If only he were here," she thought without meaning to. When it came to crime-solving, he was the best to be found. Years ago and now. She heard about his work in America from time to time.
But she was asking for trouble thinking this way. She stopped herself and glanced out the window. "And I have absolutely no idea why it is that I have this distinctly uneasy feeling."
"Well, young women are out there being killed by a sadistic and maniacal murderer. So...yes...that might be it."
"No. I know that feeling well. It's not that. It's something else." She turned to him, hoping he could explain it. He was the best undercover detective Scotland Yard had to offer. Surely he could think of something. "It's something more," she said under her breath. "Like I'm waiting for something...."
But whatever Niles would've answered was forgotten when Kevson walked back through the door--a teacup in one hand, a teapot in the other, and a satisfied smile on his face. "Tracer," he said, "I think we should keep you around for awhile." A disbelieving smile flashed across Rosie's face.
"It was a coincidence, man," Niles stated.
"Suuuure," Kevson winked at Niles, then sat down to get back to work, the teapot near his hand.
Rosie shook her head. Kevson would not believe her claim that that true psychics had only a few and random insights to that which normal men did not see. She tried to explain it by saying it was like having hypersensitive intuition--that she could sometimes experience others' emotions, or see another's memory running through her head as if her own. But this explanation went over his head, and indeed over the heads of many and most people to whom she found the need to explain her ability.

"Come on, men, let's get back to work." Rosie was so used to being seen as one of the guys that she didn't notice Niles' comment. She simply returned to the table, and the three of them began running through the facts.

"So far five women have been killed, beginning with Eliza and Verga from Germany. Both sixteen years of age." This said by Rosie.
"Then there was Clarissa, who was from Switzerland. She was eighteen." This given by Kevson.
"And Marianne and Alicia. Both eighteen. And both from Italy." This said by Niles.
"All of these women have been Catholic. Odd, isn't it?" Rosie was quite intrigued by this case.
"Wait," said Kevson. "They were both from Italy? Did they know each other?"
"We don't know," Niles answered, slightly irritated that he couldn't keep up.
"We don't know?" Kevson was startled. "How could you not know?" He directed his question to Rosie, though Niles had been the one to answer him.
"Not now, Kevson. Please."
"No," said Niles. "We don't know. We're working on it."
"Why is it that all of these women come from countries which don't have English as their official language?" Rosie was suddenly struck with this fact.
"That's right," agreed Niles. "None of these women have been English. Why?"
"Well, if you don't know," Kevson was continuing along the same vein. He was not going to be deterred. "Then I suppose you're slipping." Niles and Tracer tried to ignore him, and continued going down the list, but Kevson soon caught Rosie's attention again.
"That must be why they're bringing him in." Not seeing that Rosie had frozen in place, he flipped his tie over his face and leaned back in his chair, intent upon taking a nap.

She tried to overcome the fear that had suddenly jumped into her throat. She wanted to ask. But she couldn't. Her pride wouldn't let her. Instead, she sat in the chair and stared, unseeing, at the paper in her hand. Then it seemed to her that she heard footsteps in the hall. Louder and louder, they came closer and closer. Niles continued speaking, oblivious to all external sounds, so lost was he in thought. Kevson was even more oblivious, so lost was he in sleep. Were they deaf that they did not hear? Rosie's breath seemed to suddenly leave her body, and her heart seemed to suddenly no longer exist.

The door opened. In the eternity that it took for the door to reveal who was standing at the entrance, Rosie swore she would never again be caught off-guard like this. But her fears were unfounded. In the doorway stood Dr. Welch, the head of S4. "There's been another murder," he said without greeting. His eyes swept the room. "Wake that man up," he ordered Niles, nodding his head toward Kevson. Niles stood and leaned over to Kevson, pulling his tie from his eyes. "Noooo!" Kevson screamed, still asleep. His scream startled both Niles and Tracer. Niles let out a yell of his own, and Tracer knocked her coffee over and onto her lap.

This was the scene Jace Buntley walked in on that night at Scotland Yard HQ.

The London Murders: Jace arrives

The night was cold and black. Just like his coffee. American detective Jace Buntley stood at the pier of London’s East Quay, watching as his ship sailed off into the darkness. The distant ringing of buoys sounded in his ears, and the moonlight pierced eerily through thickening clouds. It seemed bizarre, as if this was all just part of a dream; part of a bad murder mystery. Yet it was real, as real as the pain heavy in his heart.
Jace sighed and looked down into his coffee mug. Cold and black, like the night. Like his soul. Like… he was startled as a sharp voice broke the stillness.
"eigh there, fellow! Are you Mister Buntley, the American?"
"Yes, I am indeed. And whom, may I ask, are you?"
"Name’s Davis, Davis Nolder! Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Buntley! I’d say just about the whole South Side of London’s been awaitin’ your arrival! Pardon the Police Chief, he’d a been ‘ere himself, but Bangers an’ Mash! if there wasn’t another murder scare tonight! He’s clear on the other side of the city! I’m to take you to your ‘otel room, sir. Coach’s waitin’ sir."
"Well then, let’s go ahead. Pleased to meet you, Mr Nolder."
Jace shook the Londoner’s hand as they both moved off the pier. As the detective entered the interior of the coach, he reflected on the turn of events that had brought him across the Atlantic and back into the country to which he’d sworn he never would return.
It had been almost 8 months ago in March when the news first reached New York about the brutal murders in London. The systematic murders of young, eligible, beautiful Catholic girls on their way home from midnight masses. The first murders had been a shock, as much from the grisly manner of death as of the sickening message left by the killer.
Their names had been Eliza and Verga, German transfer students on a 9-month hiatus to London. The Police report had named them feisty youngsters, but 16 years old, and sassy. Their deaths had come as a shock, but also as semi-relief for their foster family in London. The father, Howdy Redder, had already gone deaf since their arrival. Though they were beautiful and full of life, they were also full of impertinence, and all too ready to share it. But nothing warranted the gruesome fate they encountered one fateful evening.
When the police found their bodies, or more accurately, what was left of their bodies, there was not a single recognizable feature to be found. In fact, it was just too horrible to recount without causing scandal, so Jace Buntley skipped to the next memory.
The message from the killer had been drawn on a nearby wall in the victims’ own blood, and merely said: "JACK THE RIPPERGER". This sickening note was the only clue Scotland Yard possessed. For indeed, Scotland Yard had been called in to handle this case. It wasn’t so much that the Londoner’s couldn’t handle it, as it was that every single member on the Police Force just happened to be Anglican. Jace Buntley didn’t care. He had been Catholic, once, but that was before….
Suddenly, a sharp jolt jolted him out of his reminiscence. The coach had driven over a rut in the cobblestone street.
"Sorry sir, didn’t see that one!" Came the muffled voice of Davis Nolder from the driver’s seat. “Next time I’ll take a shorter swig from the bottle!” It was just as well. Jace didn’t want to torture himself with the memories of a former life in London, a life with a beautiful young girl by the name of Rosie Tracer.
Rosie had been an intern with Scotland Yard then, on her senior year in the Scottish School of Spies and Sleuths, or S4 for short. S4 was known for graduating the most gifted and talented English detectives in the nation, and Rosie had been at the top of her class. It wasn’t until much later that her secret was discovered: she was psychic.
Yes, it was this ability that had placed her in the most secret division of Scotland Yard, and gave her exclusive rights to the most secret of secrets. There were secrets everywhere, and yet, she had insisted upon sharing them with only one man, a man for whom there were no secrets…
Jace Buntley lit up a faggot and breathed deep. He blew the smoke out of the coach window and wondered just where fate would take him next… after his hotel room, of course. And after the bar. And then after the loo, shower, loo again, and bedroom floor. After fate had taken him to all those places, THEN he wondered where next. Also, he wondered what Rosie might be doing at this very minute, what she might be thinking…

Posting, Posting...

testing, testing...

just seeing if something is working

don't mind me

Tracy Curtains

They are. They totally are.

Just "Tracy Curtains."

I knew as soon as I saw them that I had to get them!

They are off-white, sheer, and they have embroidered "Victorian roses" all over them. They are sooooooo pretty! And the curtain rods match my white day-bed.

My bedroom actually looks like a bedroom now!

It was great--Bryan asked me what kind of shelves I wanted in my closet. I told him, then I went shopping for the day. When I got home, I looked in my closet, and my shelves had materialized! They were *exactly* what I had asked for! I couldn't believe *my* little brother had done such an *outstanding* job! Anything I said I wanted, I got. It was fantastic.

Thanks, Bryan! My room looks GREAT!

"I Don't Leave the Creek."

My room is *finally* ready to have at least some things put in it, so my brother Bryan and I tried to set my bed up about an hour ago. But noooo. It didn't happen. Why? Because some thing that I don't know the name of is missing. One little piece is keeping my bed from being put together.

Of course I accused Therese of eating it, but she pointed her little finger at me and said, "No, I didn't. No, I didn't." So I guess she didn't eaten the strange metal object.

Beth is eating Cheetos, and I want some, and she's not asking if I want any. Excuse me while I gripe at her. ::griping at Beth::

I have cobwebs on my jeans. Eeeeew. That's what you get when you move bed-frames from a garage. Gross.

'Lagaan--Once Upon A Time In India" is playing on the TV in the other room. The girls and I were watching the 'Mitvva Dance' and trying to learn it. We just realized there's a step none of us has been doing....hm. Trying to re-learn it is funny. We keep tripping over ourselves! :D

Okay, I have to go get ready to go shopping. Woo hoo. My dad also wants Beth and I to go by Lowe's and pick out curtains for our bedrooms. hmmmmmmmm--what color should I get...?

Clear Creek Again

Beth and I are going Christmas shopping tomorrow. That oughta be interesting. I don't know any of the good places up there. I hope Beth has some ideas.

There's a microwave in the back of my car. I need to go get it out. ::sigh:: I wish I had a guy here to go get it for me. It's too heavy for me.

And a lamp. There's a lamp out there too.

I guess I should go do those things so I can leave for Clear Creek.

Okay. Bye.

Definitely a Little Princess

Aaaw. Isn't she sweet, too? This is Michelle, everyone. She is my God-daughter. This photo was taken last year at Christmas time, but she still looks the same. She's a cutie!

Hi Michelle!!!! I'll see you tomorrow!

Now I need to find a picture of Becky....

Hello Everybody

I just got bored with there not being a new post.

That's all.

Today is the Feast of the Immaculate Conception.

I love the Catholic Church. We celebrate cool things. ::giggles:: Of course, Lent is a trial, but oh well. Easter more than makes up for it.

That'll Wake You Up

What is it about my car that causes people to turn into Hit-and-Run drivers?

I don't understand.

I had just left Mass this morning, and had turned down a certain street, innocently on my way home for half an hour before I had to be off to work, when I saw an ugly truck--the kind I call pretty-boy trucks because they have no purpose other than looky ridiculously expensive.

I had just thought, "Why do people *buy* those things??" when I suddenly realized that pretty-boy truck was pulling out of a neighborhood, and had every intention of hitting me.

Okay, once again, I don't necessarily *love* my car, but I absolutely did not want that stupid truck to eat it!

So I slammed on my brakes and my horn. Or I slammed down on my horn and my brakes. I have no idea which came first.

Well, that didn't work too well because he hit me anyway. (I'm assuming it was a male driver. I'm not really certain because the windows were so darn tinted...just like a pretty-boy truck.)

Then I believed I screamed, because I realized that dumb truck was going to hit me afterall.

And he did. The very end of me. In the exact same place the first hit-and-run driver hit me.

My poor little car.

Oh, yes, so I pulled over, and sat there for a second. The truck pulled back into the neighborhood. Sat there for a minute, then left. Yes. Just left. Drove away.

I was shocked. And I wasn't.

Oh well.

You can't really tell unless you know what my car looked like *before* it was hit.

::sigh::

At least neither of us got hurt.

And I'm not dead.

I'm happy about that.

Moving to Clear Creek

I have decided that I am moving to Clear Creek mid to late January.

I hadn't told my parents that yet, but I guess I just did.

That will be interesting. Odd, really. I've been living with my aunt for a year and four months now, and with my grandparents for a month before that, so I'm sure moving *back* with my parents will take some adjusting.

It will be hard to leave OKC. I have so many family members and friends here.

Kelly and Mary are here--two of my sisters-19 and 18 years old.
My cousins are all here. Especially April and Marcy. I'm always seeing them!
My aunt Nancy, of course.
My grandparents.
And who could forget the Nolans? I'm at either Dan, Andrea and Shelley's house, or at their parents, two, three or four times a week.
This is going to be hard.

But I think it's worth it.

In Clear Creek I've got:

Dad.
Mom.
Beth.
Bryan.
John.
Becky.
Hunter.
Michelle.
Therese.

Nine reasons. All very good.

Then a few and a couple monks. That's always a plus.

And a few good Catholic families. All diverse and complete with their own extremely interesting stories.

And, on at of all of that, my family has 100 acres of land up there. Gorgeous, beautiful, hike-able land. Smack in the middle of Cherokee Indian country.

It will be good.

Writing

::drums fingers impatiently:: You would *think* that writing a short story would not be that challenging.

Well.

It is.

Why? Can somebody tell me that? Why? Why has it been two years since I've written anything of worth? Because I certainly don't know. I have a theory or two, but theories are not reasons, and they do not alleviate frustration.

God mystifies me. Be quiet. I know He's supposed to. But I feel like stating it. I am completely stumped.

Some day I'm going to be able to write again. I just have to keep trying. I'm not going to give up. I want to write. I. want. to. write. And I'm too stubborn to give up. Way, way too stubborn. Therefore, it will happen.

There's a reason for it. God has a reason for it. I don't even have to know what it is. Now, or ever. I just know it's there.

Jesu ufam tobie.

Incredibly, I have seen good come from my writer's block. Isn't that odd? I wouldn't have expected it. But it has. And it's...cool. That's why I don't usually stress about not writing. But I am tonight...sometimes it just catches up to me.

Dear God, do with me what Thou wilt.

I'm here.

And I will be here.

Waiting.

helloooo?

::sigh::

Baby Girl

This is the most adorable little sister in the whole world.

Therese Dominique.

This picture was taken about...oh...seven months ago, I think.

Aaaaw. Isn't she sweet?

I was actually looking for a photo of Beth, but I couldn't find one. Then I ran across this picture, so I decided to post it.

Oh. By the way (*John*), Therese is doing just fine now. We aren't really sure what was wrong with her, but she's over it now, and back to her normal, sassy self.

She's so cuuuuuuuute.

"Tracy's Insanity" Indeed.

Once upon a time, in a land called Far Away...

There was a little boy who liked to wear a certain color.

Gold.

Any shade of gold.

The boy loved gold.

But his mother was a strange woman. She didn't like to see her son walking around dressed only in gold, so she would often make him break the monotony by dressing him in black, and green, and red, and blue, and...well--the list goes on.

Mother liked many colors. Boy liked one.

Gold.

Mother often wondered where Boy's fascination with gold came from, but she never quite figured it out. The closest she ever came was when she thought back to the time that Boy fell into a vat of molten gold at the local Gold Purifiying Factory.

The problem was she simply thought of it. She drew no conclusions. She never quite put two and two together (some people are totally incapable of this), and therefore never realized that Boy had been dipped in Special Gold. Magic Gold. Mystically Altered Gold.

The Gold added particular brain-cells needed to ponder certain mysteries of life, and to love gold to the fullest extent. But Mother was never to know this, for she did not have the brain-cells needed to possess this knowledge.

As Boy grew to adulthood physically, so did he grow mentally. He came to understand that Simple Folk did not, and could not, understand his fascination for Gold, and so he no longer needed Mother to cause him to dress in other colors. He understood that being dressed only in Gold caused much attention to be drawn to him--some of it pleasing, but most of it undesirable.
All was well with Boy until he was fully grown. He did all that was required of a loving son, and then he set out on his own once he become a man. Mother was sad to see him go, but he had never fooled her. She knew his love for Gold had never dissipated, and she knew he must go in search of it. And search he did. For years Boy searched. He found much Gold, but he was never quite satisfied with what he found. Somehow--he always wanted more. Not quantity--oh no, Boy wasn't greedy--but quality. "Golder," he would think. "Brighter," he would say. And the search would continue.

Soon, Boy began to only glance at the Gold, and noting that it was not as gold and as bright as he would like, he would continue on without stopping to inspect. Then came the day that he did not even glance. He only continued walking. Searching for that one piece of Gold.


Then he ran into Tracy and told her that she was on the computer way too late, and that she needed to get some sleep before she made herself sick.

So goodnight everybody!

This Is Fun

I like posting pictures!

I wish I could find more....

Ah well.

This is Marcy and Laura, just after Laura's wedding last Saturday.

Marcy was the Maid of Honor.

Aaaaw.

I Said I Would, So...

Okay, John.

I'm posting this photo for you.

From left to right:

Kevin, Dan, John (my sister's boyfriend--haha, Mary!), my sister Mary, *Marcy*, me, Lauren, and Caitlin. And Solomon is in the front.

Marcy--you can't be mad at me for posting this picture! I told you I was going to post one...and at least it has a lot of people in it. ;)

God Is Very Good

I went rock climbing this evening, and I am very happy because my knee handled it very well. It complained a couple of times as I was beginning a climb, but it stayed located. I was worried about it trying to dislocate like it did three weeks ago, but it decided it had had enough of that kind of pain, and stayed right where it was supposed to stay.

Jared was not working tonight, which was fine with me...unless you ask Jake. If you ask Jake, I was horribly dissapointed, and the only reason I'm going back next week is in the hope of finding Jared working. But if you ask Andrea, she'd say I had forgotten about Jared until we pulled into the parking lot of the climbing center.

Andrea is very smart. :)

I performed my good deed (and act of charity!) for the day after we went rock climbing. Andrea and I took ice cream to a dying man. Honestly. He was dying of boredom. He also ate too much ice cream. I hope he isn't regretting it now, because he also ate mine! But if he has a stomach ache, then he half-way deserves it because he gave me coffee in a mug that shouted "ARMY". He's getting his loyalties mixed up.

Hey, y'all have heard of abs of steel, right? Well...ANDREA has CALVES of steel!!! Seriously! She walked through a metal-detector tonight, and it kept buzzing at her. The nice guard man had to wand her. Well, at first we thought it was the pins in her cute curly hair which were causing the thing to go off, but the wand said it was her calves.

*How weird is that?????*

After all of that, I went to my brother's house to tell him goodbye. He is leaving for England tomorrow, and I won't see him until Christmas.

Only a brother like Marc could make simply standing in a garage a very pleasant experience.

So, Marc, here's to many nights of standing in a garage talking about things from cigarettes and attention, to light bulbs and hour-glasses. I love you, and I'll be praying for you. I'm proud of you.

Time passes and hurts fade. Love guides it all. Thank You, God.

Pax. :)