Vol. 3, Curses of Lord James St. John

Indiana Jones, not Lord James St. John
I just like this photo.  Lord J.st.J. would look like this, in my mind.

Skateboarding down an ice coated handrail, David catapulted forward, striking dull grey iced concrete with an audible crunch.  Before passing out, David whispered, Well, I screwed that up ….

Eyes opened slowly in blinding room…Am I dead? Is this heaven?  His mother’s face loomed over him, “David!  David!”... Then he knew he wasn’t dead or in heaven. Oh, God…take me now.

Inwardly, David praised power of morphine as from Mom’s distorted mouth poured a string of profanities, which merged into a long string, one that wound around her head, again and again.  Then his mother began spewing multi-colored volleys of sawdust. You don’t see stuff like that very often.

Compound fracture, left leg, fibula, cast to mid-thigh. Life sucks.

For David, life did really suck.  A big question coiled around his house and engulfed it:  What to do with David during the day?  He sat in his rented wheelchair as adults argued over his head. Hey…Hey!  Talk to ME!  What do I want?

David found that his father's food encrusted recliner and a nurse were the solutions, an RN named Gloria.  He glared at her. Don’t try to fool me.  Your mascara is running, nails bitten to quick, smile with too-white teeth…you are one miserable creature.  

Stacks of books lay in his reach, each one he tossed aside with disdain.  Then, there it was:  Curses of Lord James St. John, vol. 3.

Reluctantly David snatched it up, skipping to Chapter Two, page 36.

        …cursing loudly in a shadowy silent graveyard….hand bones revealed themselves in ancient tumbled mausoleums ahead…seen so many wretched rotting moldering headstones stinking of …finally discovered a stained parchment.....decaying flesh...blood splattered stones...

pinterest

Well, now, we’re getting somewhere.  Was ready to chuck you in trash…

Nurse Gloria appeared with pills and a trip to the toilet.  "Now, Davey, I’ll be standing nearby... If you need help…" Then he was rescued, left alone to read. Your job must be purgatory, reeking of vomit and diarrhea…

            A thick unrelenting fog rolled…..   Why is there always fog?  Why?

David hung his head. Of course, you idiot.  Every author uses fog.  It’s a cheap imagery that requires little effort to immediately conjure up a recognizable atmosphere.  Jeez.

            …carefully Lord James St. John retrieved a crumbling map from a leather bag--an expensive leather bag, that matched his boots of fine leather, laced with…   tracing over a faded symbol ....Not possible!...from the ancient tribe of Kau….decipher ancient script, too ...difficult...dang...should have...

What?  What fresh hell is this?  A stinkin’ fashion review? David questioned himself.  Did I really read that? Did the he ask his girlfriend write that while he ate a sandwich? Editor?? You missed a spot.

His hands began shaking as he pondered the author’s motivation, RN Gloria arrived.  “Well, Davey.  Shall we have some lunch and fluids?  We must stay hydrated…” Eat then pit stop.  “Shall we take a break now…”

She reached for Vol. 3 as David enfolded it with a snarl. Go do your nails or text, anything.  Get away from me you....

Source    …leaping across a deep chasm…Hell!  That wasn't there yester....staring into red depths of hell while a…..grasping a vine overhead…poisonous stickers cutting int…squeezed fragrant nectar fro…Near and yet so far…dangerous and yet...just barely in his reach...

 I need this. 

 I. Need. This.

Later that night David slept soundly, a normal sleep with James St. John and his cursed life on his chest.  Page 261…261…26…  I. Need. This.

Previous adventures of Lord James St. John are at these sites:

Adventures of Lord James St. John,  vol. 1; Survival of Lord James St. John  vol. 2; 
and,  Mysteries of Lord James St. John

The adventure above contains Wednesday Words. Delores, a word master, began Wednesday Words as a way for writers to take a break from writer's block, and try a new genre, write poems, prose, short story, flash fiction, etc.  

The words for the month of February can be found at Elephant's Child .  If you'd like to grab these words and run with them, you may post your writing in E.C.'s comment section, OR write that you will post your own Wednesday Words at your site.  We want to find you!

WedWords: Survival of Lord James St. John

Another hot day in Kansas City began by 9 a.m., and David sighed.  Why the hell did we move here?  Why?

He found himself on the library steps, going up into the brisk cool of books and tables.  David headed back to where he had tossed “The Adventures of Lord James St. John” onto the floor.  The book, of course, had been shelved by some zealous librarian.  Even so, he caught the sapphire blue spine among lined up soldiers of insipid adventure fiction books.

Sitting in a dark corner on a battered leather chair, David experienced a revived sense of anticipation.

“…the ground rumbled beneath him... as he raced ahead of the cave-in, only to sense burning vitriolic acid mist surrounding him, engulfing him.  The air morphed into a freezing mixture, combined with rotten egg scent of  liquid sulfuric acid…

Oh, come on!  Sulfuric acid AND gaseous nitrous oxide?  Together? Ancient tribes would have no knowledge…Idiot writer…Do your research, why dontcha?

“Misfortune loomed as the fumes waved over him.  Coughing through a torn shirt sleeve, when he had an epiphany. Holding his breath, he crouched and crept along the craggy cave floor, breathing through the rock and dirt.  Stay low, stay low…out of the mist…

 A light gleamed ahead.  … hallucination?... St. John tumbled and rolled into the bright day light.  He snatched grass and twigs to pull him the rest of the way until he could escape the fumes. Lord James revived just enough to see his worst enemy towering over him.  Not him, Lord James St. John groaned.

David smirked. Well then…this was unpredictable.

A tall man glared down at him.  “…had to take another gamble, didn’t you?...A man who finds  misfortune, unworthy to bear the colors of the St. John banner…”

James lost consciousness blessedly, but when he came to, the man was still there, still haranguing at his son.  “…you impertinent worthless…."

Can’t he just shut up…just shut up…

First you deny the privilege of serving Queen and Country…A PACIFIST….”

David groaned inwardly. His dad.  Just silly plot twist.  Come on, really?

Lord James William Arthur St. John, puffed out his medal covered chest. “Why, in my day…”

Lord James St. John gazed through a haze at the self-proclaimed hero of martial glory.  Before passing out with a fading smile, he whispered, “You peacock you…”

David laughed (a rare thing).  Flipped a few pages ahead, Lord James St. John was on another adventure.

Why not?  He took the book to the check-out desk.

Every Wednesday, Randomosity posts 6 to 12 words to be used by any blogger who wish to enjoy a break from the serious stuff.  Use these words to write fiction, prose, poetry, flash fiction, etc.  Either post it on your own site and link it back to Randomosity or  make your addition to her blog site comment section.
 The are this week's words.  Hope you enjoyed how they were used.

Also, many thanks to Delores at Under the Porch Light who started this writing stir up, and to Elephant's Child who took up the slack when Delores' computer went all wonky. And also to River who took up the baton to pass on.

Go on, with it!  Fling yourself out into the unknown!

St. Patrick, not as you think of him

What St. Patrick Can Teach Us

Saint Patrick's Day: At (King) David’s Pub and Winery

(Scene opens in Heaven, at the Pub.  Seamus and Patrick are sitting at the bar.  Patrick is asleep, with his head on the bar counter.)

Seamus (St. James):  Say, Paddy, now.  Wake up, you idjit. 

Padraig (St. Patrick)/Paddy:  Ah, Seamus.  Can ye not leave a good saint to a daecent sleep?

Seamus:  It’s yer people there, Paddy.  They’re at it again.  (Leaning over his pint, looking down on the velvet green)

Paddy:  Oh, Mother of God, is it that day already?

Maire (St. Mary):  Paddy, was it ye who called?  Oh.  (She looks down on Dublin.)  So.  Yer Irishmen are at the celebratin’ yer Holy Day.  The day ye up and died down there.

Paddy:  (Looking down) So it ‘tis, Maire.  And would ye look—Chicago has dumped green into ta rivers again!  As if that meant a ting, Lord help us.

The Lord God: (enters with angels singing and clouds billowing)  Was it ye, Paddy, that called m’name?  (Seamus and Paddy vacate their pub stools immediately.)    David, here, be a good man, and pour me a glass of cider.

King David:  Aye, My Lord.  The best Yer Hands ever made, here Ye go.  Have at it. (David pushes the glass over to God, who has settled down on a stool.)

The Lord God:  So, Paddy, what’s troublin’ ye, up here in heaven?

Paddy:  Oh, it’s the Irish people agin.  They’re after celebratin’ my holy day with all sorts of carryin’ ons.  And it bein’ Lent, ‘tis a sad ting ta behold.

The Lord God:  (quaffing a satisfying amount of apple cider) Well, ye know, Paddy,  People ha’ forgotten jest what I did for them, sendin’ ye to Ireland.  They were a terrible mean group, worshippin’ trees and such, ‘fore ye taught ‘em about the Trinity.

  

Seamus:  Yer right, My Lord.  An’ Paddy drove out them there serpents, and done all them miracles.  Ye did right good work, there.  (Seamus pats Paddy on the shoulder, who nods and perks up a bit.  Maire sits down next to The Lord God.)

The Lord God:    ‘Tis my desire that ye shake the Irish up a wee bit.  Paddy, ye go down to yer holy wells—there’s one down near Clonmel I’m partial to.  Stir the waters up a bit when there’s a group there.  And, Maire, go to some of yer holy grottoes, and send some tears down the cheeks of yer image.  That’ll make the Irish think a bit.  I bet ye’ll see more pious Irish at Mass come Good Friday.

Seamus:  I’ll go along with ‘em, My Lord, jest to keep ‘em company.  (The three saints exit.)

The Lord God:  (watches the saints depart, and laughs softly) Ah, there go some fine saints.  Glad I made ‘em.  (He leaves the pub in a cloud of glory, with angels singing.  David gathers up the glassware, and hums “When the saints go marching in…”  Scene ends.)

If I have offended any, please forgive me.  I lived in Ireland, and have a different perspective. This is a re-post from March, 2011.

"Th" is not pronounced as written.