Chasing Aliens - Maybe

Chasing Aliens - Maybe

Hi, dear friends and followers. Today I will share with you a little of the 50's humor story. I hope you enjoy reading the story and thank you so much for visiting my blog. 

Anybody who chases weirdoes is a candidate for the loony bin. That’s why I’m keeping my mouth shut. Wouldn’t be good for business if people knew what I know. But, before you whistle for the guys in white coats, let me tell you it started on a quiet afternoon with me cross-examining Marilyn Monroe in Playboy. Elvis was wailing “I Want You, I Need You, I Love You” on my Philco.

Then the door opened and the babe walked in. I hoped she was a client the way I hoped someday I could afford to kill cockroaches with Flit spray instead of a hammer. Right now, I’d need to borrow the hammer.

She startled me because she was so short I had to lean over the desk to see her. Eyes would’ve reached my belt buckle with my pants hanging off my hips. She was stacked, but in a comic book sort of way. A lot of excess curves drawn by a hop-head artist.

“You are man who find lost people?”

“I’m the man, Miss. Who’ve you lost?” That was the second thing. She talked funny, like one of those war brides from the Far East. Her skin didn’t look tanned like she was from Los Angeles. More like some kind of citrus fruit. Not sun-kissed. Sunkist.

I guess we were all skittish in the ‘50s. Beatniks had come in from the Mojave the week before, claiming they saw flying saucers. Politicians were shouting about Commies disguised as State Department officials. Brain-washed war vets were being shipped back from Pyongyang. All that stuff filled a normal news day.

“Man I want to find is lost,” she said. “Last night. Near … what is name? Pas-a-de-na.”
“Pasadena,” I told her. “Up the freeway a few miles. Tell me the circumstances.”

Her name was – what the hell, I couldn’t understand her, so I began calling her Almond because of the shape of her eyes. Big eyes. White as eggs. Ostrich eggs with little black olives in the middle.

Two things my agency was good for since I was dismissed from the police force over a silly misunderstanding. I could find lost people and I took good photos admissible in divorce court. The way Almond Eyes was built, I debated trying to discover a few more things, like how she stacked up to Marilyn Monroe in three-quarter size. Sex with an un-Sanforized pinup wasn’t far from my mind.

She took 20 minutes to explain she’d come to town with this guy – another unpronounceable name – and they got separated when they were in a bar drinking Champagne.

“Is funny drink,” she mused. “Like joke that tickles nose and brain at same time.”

Somebody’s brain was tickled alright. Bouncer tossed him out on the street and took her in the back room for questioning. Questioning that turned funny.

“So why’d he let you go?”

“I,” she searched for a word the way a lady might excavate her pocket book for loose change. “I disable him, then go to see my friend outside. But he disappear. We go Pas-a-de-na now? I show you where.”

Colorado Boulevard was lit with a fiery red glow from the sun dropping into the Pacific. Street lights were coming on, turning the six lanes of asphalt into a rosy landing strip for derelicts. “This the place?” I asked, pulling onto a side street near the bar

“Last time I see him he tell me he go look around. Be right back.”

Champagne will do it every time. It’s often kidnapped my brain.

We strolled up one block and down the next. I was getting tired, but kept my mind on my 25 buck fee.

“Maybe here,” Almond suggested, pointing to an alley. I tossed her idea around the way a pansy dribbles a basketball. I could use her 25 bucks, but dark alleys mean trouble.

“Okay, Miss,” I told her, making sure my .38 Police Special was loose under my jacket. “You walk behind me,”

We got about 30 yards in when the some ungodly wailing came from behind a pile of empty cartons. Sent chills up my back, me hoping it was only a cat facing down a platoon of rats. Almond Eyes began chattering in the same double talk, sounding like a Polynesian who’d overdosed on fermented pineapple juice.

“This him!” she shouted. “Here. I give you 25, um, 25 bucks.”

This was too easy, I thought. Was the mini-babe unable to hail a taxi to this place, or was she missing a gas station map that had Pasadena on it? But she pushed two sawbucks and a fiver into my hand.

“Hold on, honey. I need to know what’s going on here.” I pointed at the little guy coming at me in a garage mechanic’s suit.

“We are lost. Before. Maybe not now. Must go home now.”

“Not enough detail for me to fill out a report,” I said as threw her tiny arms around my waist. My arms went around her neck by force of habit and my mouth went down to taste those lips before they could say goodbye.

The guy, who was about an inch taller than a short stack of flapjacks, shouted when we clinched. Then, he pulled out a thing that looked like a piece of fruit.

I laughed. “Nice try with the stick-up, pal, but a banana isn’t a good defense against a .38.” That’s when he zapped me. I went cold as a Popsicle, wondering if this was when I shake hands with St. Peter at the booking desk. I could see the two midgets and heard them chattering parrot talk, but I couldn’t move a muscle.

“Goodbye, sir,” Almond Eyes said graciously. “We go now. Thank you for mouth-to-mouth greeting.”

I heard their footsteps go about five feet, and then – nothing. Silence. Even though I couldn’t turn my head, I knew they were gone.

It took me 20 minutes to thaw out, see that the alley was empty, and get back to my Plymouth. Somewhere down the street, the Platters were crooning “My Prayer.” Colorado Boulevard was as empty as a church on Monday.

I got back to the office an hour later as my former partner, O’Malley waltzed in. “Christ, you look like you shook hands with a mummy,” he said.

“You don’t want to know, O’Malley. Tell me, do you believe in little people from outer space?”

His eyes closed down like a bank teller’s window on Sunday. “You back on the sauce again?”

“Nah, I’m joking. I think my last client was just another Commie.”

Bio:  Walter Giersbach, bounces between writing genres, from mystery to humor, speculative fiction to romance. His work has appeared in print and online in over a score of publications. Two volumes of short stories, Cruising the Green of Second Avenue, are available at Barnes & Noble and other online booksellers. 

Thank you very much again, dear friends, for visiting my blog. Please share your thoughts with us, if you will. Have a great day. 

✿ڰۣ❤In Loving Light from the Fairy Lady❤ڰۣ✿

THE GIFT OF THE MAGI

THE GIFT OF THE MAGI

Hi, dear friends and followers. I have one more Christmas story to share with you. Thank you for visiting my blog and have a wonderful Christmas day.

by O. HenryOne dollar and eighty-seven cents. That was all. And sixty cents of it was in pennies. Pennies saved one and two at a time by bulldozing the grocer and the vegetable man and the butcher until one's cheeks burned with the silent imputation of parsimony that such close dealing implied. Three times Della counted it. One dollar and eighty- seven cents. And the next day would be Christmas.

There was clearly nothing to do but flop down on the shabby little couch and howl. So Della did it. Which instigates the moral reflection that life is made up of sobs, sniffles, and smiles, with sniffles predominating.

While the mistress of the home is gradually subsiding from the first stage to the second, take a look at the home. A furnished flat at $8 per week. It did not exactly beggar description, but it certainly had that word on the lookout for the mendicancy squad.

In the vestibule below was a letter-box into which no letter would go, and an electric button from which no mortal finger could coax a ring. Also appertaining thereunto was a card bearing the name "Mr. James Dillingham Young."

The "Dillingham" had been flung to the breeze during a former period of prosperity when its possessor was being paid $30 per week. Now, when the income was shrunk to $20, though, they were thinking seriously of contracting to a modest and unassuming D. But whenever Mr. James Dillingham Young came home and reached his flat above he was called "Jim" and greatly hugged by Mrs. James Dillingham Young, already introduced to you as Della. Which is all very good.

Della finished her cry and attended to her cheeks with the powder rag. She stood by the window and looked out dully at a gray cat walking a gray fence in a gray backyard. Tomorrowwould be Christmas Day, and she had only $1.87 with which to buy Jim a present. She had been saving every penny she could for months, with this result. Twenty dollars a week doesn't go far. Expenses had been greater than she had calculated. They always are. Only $1.87 to buy a present for Jim. Her Jim. Many a happy hour she had spent planning for something nice for him. Something fine and rare and sterling--something just a little bit near to being worthy of the honor of being owned by Jim.

There was a pier-glass between the windows of the room. Perhaps you have seen a pier-glass in an $8 flat. A very thin and very agile person may, by observing his reflection in a rapid sequence of longitudinal strips, obtain a fairly accurate conception of his looks. Della, being slender, had mastered the art.

Suddenly she whirled from the window and stood before the glass. her eyes were shining brilliantly, but her face had lost its color within twenty seconds. Rapidly she pulled down her hair and let it fall to its full length.

Now, there were two possessions of the James Dillingham Youngs in which they both took a mighty pride. One was Jim's gold watch that had been his father's and his grandfather's. The other was Della's hair. Had the queen of Sheba lived in the flat across the airshaft, Della would have let her hair hang out the window some day to dry just to depreciate Her Majesty's jewels and gifts. Had King Solomon been the janitor, with all his treasures piled up in the basement, Jim would have pulled out his watch every time he passed, just to see him pluck at his beard from envy.

So now Della's beautiful hair fell about her rippling and shining like a cascade of brown waters. It reached below her knee and made itself almost a garment for her. And then she did it up again nervously and quickly. Once she faltered for a minute and stood still while a tear or two splashed on the worn red carpet.

On went her old brown jacket; on went her old brown hat. With a whirl of skirts and with the brilliant sparkle still in her eyes, she fluttered out the door and down the stairs to the street.

Where she stopped the sign read: "Mne. Sofronie. Hair Goods of All Kinds." One flight up Della ran, and collected herself, panting. Madame, large, too white, chilly, hardly looked the "Sofronie."

"Will you buy my hair?" asked Della.

"I buy hair," said Madame. "Take yer hat off and let's have a sight at the looks of it."

Down rippled the brown cascade.

"Twenty dollars," said Madame, lifting the mass with a practised hand.

"Give it to me quick," said Della.

Oh, and the next two hours tripped by on rosy wings. Forget the hashed metaphor. She was ransacking the stores for Jim's present.

She found it at last. It surely had been made for Jim and no one else. There was no other like it in any of the stores, and she had turned all of them inside out. It was a platinum fob chain simple and chaste in design, properly proclaiming its value by substance alone and not by meretriciousornamentation--as all good things should do. It was even worthy of The Watch. As soon as she saw it she knew that it must be Jim's. It was like him. Quietness and value--the description applied to both. Twenty-one dollars they took from her for it, and she hurried home with the 87 cents. With that chain on his watch Jim might be properly anxious about the time in any company. Grand as the watch was, he sometimes looked at it on the sly on account of the old leather strap that he used in place of a chain.

When Della reached home her intoxication gave way a little to prudence and reason. She got out her curling irons and lighted the gas and went to work repairing the ravages made by generosity added to love. Which is always a tremendous task, dear friends--a mammoth task.

Within forty minutes her head was covered with tiny, close-lying curls that made her look wonderfully like a truant schoolboy. She looked at her reflection in the mirror long, carefully, and critically.

"If Jim doesn't kill me," she said to herself, "before he takes a second look at me, he'll say I look like a Coney Island chorus girl. But what could I do--oh! what could I do with a dollar and eighty- seven cents?"

At 7 o'clock the coffee was made and the frying-pan was on the back of the stove hot and ready to cook the chops.

Jim was never late. Della doubled the fob chain in her hand and sat on the corner of the table near the door that he always entered. Then she heard his step on the stair away down on the first flight, and she turned white for just a moment. She had a habit for saying little silent prayer about the simplest everyday things, and now she whispered: "Please God, make him think I am still pretty."

The door opened and Jim stepped in and closed it. He looked thin and very serious. Poor fellow, he was only twenty-two--and to be burdened with a family! He needed a new overcoat and he was without gloves.

Jim stopped inside the door, as immovable as a setter at the scent of quail. His eyes were fixed upon Della, and there was an expression in them that she could not read, and it terrified her. It was not anger, nor surprise, nor disapproval, nor horror, nor any of the sentiments that she had been prepared for. He simply stared at her fixedly with that peculiar expression on his face.

Della wriggled off the table and went for him.

"Jim, darling," she cried, "don't look at me that way. I had my hair cut off and sold because I couldn't have lived through Christmas without giving you a present. It'll grow out again--you won't mind, will you? I just had to do it. My hair grows awfully fast. Say `Merry Christmas!' Jim, and let's be happy. You don't know what a nice-- what a beautiful, nice gift I've got for you."

"You've cut off your hair?" asked Jim, laboriously, as if he had not arrived at that patent fact yet even after the hardest mental labor.

"Cut it off and sold it," said Della. "Don't you like me just as well, anyhow? I'm me without my hair, ain't I?"

Jim looked about the room curiously.

"You say your hair is gone?" he said, with an air almost of idiocy.

"You needn't look for it," said Della. "It's sold, I tell you--sold and gone, too. It's Christmas Eve, boy. Be good to me, for it went for you. Maybe the hairs of my head were numbered," she went on with sudden serious sweetness, "but nobody could ever count my love for you. Shall I put the chops on, Jim?"

Out of his trance Jim seemed quickly to wake. He enfolded his Della. For ten seconds let us regard with discreet scrutiny some inconsequential object in the other direction. Eight dollars a week or a million a year--what is the difference? A mathematician or a wit would give you the wrong answer. The magi brought valuable gifts, but that was not among them. This dark assertion will be illuminated later on.

Jim drew a package from his overcoat pocket and threw it upon the table.

"Don't make any mistake, Dell," he said, "about me. I don't think there's anything in the way of a haircut or a shave or a shampoo that could make me like my girl any less. But if you'll unwrap that package you may see why you had me going a while at first."

White fingers and nimble tore at the string and paper. And then an ecstatic scream of joy; and then, alas! a quick feminine change to hysterical tears and wails, necessitating the immediate employment of all the comforting powers of the lord of the flat.

For there lay The Combs--the set of combs, side and back, that Della had worshipped long in a Broadway window. Beautiful combs, pure tortoise shell, with jewelled rims--just the shade to wear in the beautiful vanished hair. They were expensive combs, she knew, and her heart had simply craved and yearned over them without the least hope of possession. And now, they were hers, but the tresses that should have adorned the coveted adornments were gone.

But she hugged them to her bosom, and at length she was able to look up with dim eyes and a smile and say: "My hair grows so fast, Jim!"

And them Della leaped up like a little singed cat and cried, "Oh, oh!"

Jim had not yet seen his beautiful present. She held it out to him eagerly upon her open palm. The dull precious metal seemed to flash with a reflection of her bright and ardent spirit.

"Isn't it a dandy, Jim? I hunted all over town to find it. You'll have to look at the time a hundred times a day now. Give me your watch. I want to see how it looks on it."

Instead of obeying, Jim tumbled down on the couch and put his hands under the back of his head and smiled.

"Dell," said he, "let's put our Christmas presents away and keep 'em a while. They're too nice to use just at present. I sold the watch to get the money to buy your combs. And now suppose you put the chops on."

The magi, as you know, were wise men--wonderfully wise men--who brought gifts to the Babe in the manger. They invented the art of giving Christmas presents. Being wise, their gifts were no doubt wise ones, possibly bearing the privilege of exchange in case of duplication. And here I have lamely related to you the uneventful chronicle of two foolish children in a flat who most unwisely sacrificed for each other the greatest treasures of their house. But in a last word to the wise of these days let it be said that of all who give gifts these two were the wisest. O all who give and receive gifts, such as they are wisest. Everywhere they are wisest. They are the magi.

Thank you very much again, dear friends, for visiting my blog. Please share your thoughts with us, if you will. Have a great day.

 

✿ڰۣ❤In Loving Light from the Fairy Lady❤ڰۣ✿

A Sincere Plea

A Sincere Plea

Hello, my dear friends! 

Before I begin I would like to wish everyone a Merry Christmas, and I pray a pleasant and happy new year 

Thank you again for visiting my blog

I seldom make an entry like this, but I have no other means of getting the knowledge that I need aside from placing my question before all of you, in the hope of your sharing answers with me. I depend upon your individual empathy and your collective experience.

I am a member of Blogger House. I publish on my blog, Myths, Fairies, and Me. I have been blogging there since 2010. I have made hundreds of blog entries on subjects as diverse as the topography of Mars, cancer-causing food preservatives and additives, the denizens of the forest, and fairies, of course, poems and quotes as well as story lines.

I am not telling this to you so I can seem to be smart in your eyes. I tell it to you so you can know that I put time and effort into my entries.

I am as careful with the quality of an entry’s content as I can be, from subject to spelling and translation from English to Spanish. I search the Internet for pictures that I deem appropriate to the subjects of my entries. I take time until I find the closest match that I can between the subject and the picture. I have become more proficient in the use of Google Translate so you can read most of my entries in Spanish in my community so you do not have the need to translate them from English before you read them. I also have acquired a level of skill, however rudimentary, in the use of Gimp, a program for the manipulation of graphic data that allows me to create memes in both Spanish and English.

All of these things I do every day and yet I cannot get anyone to leave a comment on what they have read and seen. Yes, that is my question: How can I induce those who read my entries to leave a comment about what they have read?

I am as open to criticism, especially constructive criticism, but any comment would help me to improve my blog at least to have an idea what you think about them. That is important to me. Treat my blog as you would anyone else's and make comments on it. I need to hear from you who read my entries! Without your comments, I am lost. I have no idea of how to improve the things that I offer.

I am asking you to help me by making comments about my entries. I would give you a warm welcome if you were to visit my blog. However, if you comment about what I publish by way of Blogger House, my thanks would be no less sincere and heartfelt.

Please give me some help. Please tell me what it is that I must do to have you, the reader, leave comments for me. Comment as you will, but please leave something.

Thank you for sharing your time with me.

Cindy

Thank you very much again, dear friends, for visiting my blog. Please share your thoughts with us, if you will. Have a great day.

✿ڰۣ❤In Loving Light from the Fairy Lady❤ڰۣ✿

Special

Special

 Hi, dear friends and followers. Today I have a poem of fantasy and love, for you. I hope  you enjoy them, thank you for visiting my blog

Special is the word that's used to describe

something that feels like it is one of a kind,

like a special hug, or a special look,

a smile on the lips of someone special,

or a gesture of kindness done without request.

Special people keep first in mind

the hearts and needs of others they meet.

Their kindness and love are

like the golden sunshine

on a pleasant, spring afternoon.

Those who smile as they do their magic

give us something to keep in our hearts

as they share from their bosom something special,

something for which there is no substitute

because it is a little piece of themselves.

Thank you very much again, dear friends, for visiting my blog. Please share your thoughts with us, if you will. Have a great day.

✿ڰۣ❤In Loving Light from the Fairy Lady❤ڰۣ✿

Did you know?

Did you know?

Hi, dear friends and followers. Today I Introduce to you one  more of my Christmas poems.

Thank you for visiting my blog and I hope you enjoy reading

There are places on Earth

where Christmases are rainy.

Rain falls from overcast skies

like tears of sadness freely shed

on lonely backyards and parking lots,

at busy hospitals and on prison roofs;

or as rain washing streams of scarlet

upon the fields of conflict and war.

Sometimes Christmas comes frozen and icy;

it barely moves under the pale, silver moon

as it emerges intermittently between the racing, 

dark grey clouds. 

The greyness of the moon changes the mood

as it changes the faces of people it finds

into lifeless shadows in the cold, still night.

Some Christmases are made of

sparkling white fields of snow,

with fat snowflakes falling upon your gloves.

Their perfectly dendritic shapes remain but a second!

Then looking up to the sky you might see

the lively magic of the bright moonlight

as it makes the whole world glisten

as though having been dusted by fairy dust!

Homes are decorated in crimson and green,

and with garlands of gold and silver and silver ice tinsel.

Families sit by the fireplace sharing hot drinks and stories

Or maybe singing joyous hymns and carols in candle light.

Some Christmases are sparkly,

regardless of the weather,

with the tinsel of laughter,

and the garlands of gratitude;

with children giggling in glee

as they unwrap their gifts

while mom and dad count their blessings.

I wish everyone the Merriest of Christmases

For every Christmas Day that you see.

May I leave you with this wish for the rest of the year?

Please be kind to those who are in need.

You caring might be exactly what they need.

THANK YOU AND HAVE A MERRY CHRISTMAS!

Thank you very much again, dear friends, for visiting my blog. Please share your thoughts with us, if you will. Have a great day. 

✿ڰۣ❤In Loving Light from the Fairy Lady❤ڰۣ✿

-- Christmas Fairy Wish --

-- Christmas Fairy Wish --

Hi, dear friends and followers. Today I have another poem about the little Christmas fairy for you. Thank you so very much for visiting and reading my humble blog. I wish all a wonderful Christmas holiday.

There was once a little fairy 

That danced to and fro, 

She loved the cold winter nights 

and making toe prints on the snow. 

She loved the dark night sky 

And seeing her breath turn to mist, 

The moon shining down on her golden hair 

But there was something that she missed. 

She wanted so much to be a star 

A golden glowing light, 

To sit up high on an evergreen tree 

For someone's Christmas night. 

She flitted through the sky 

Going from window and door, 

Watching all the people inside 

Decorating from ceiling to floor. 

Then she came upon one house 

And it made her stay awhile, 

And what she saw inside that house 

Eventually made her smile. 

There was no holly and tinsel, 

There were no gifts to behold, 

But there was a tiny little tree 

They just brought in from the cold. 

They decorated it with popcorn 

and a colorful paper chain, 

and handmade silver angels 

and snow from the window pane. 

But after their tree was finished 

and the children were fast asleep, 

The one thing fairy noticed 

And it made her gently weep. 

There was no golden star on top 

There wasn't one for this tree, 

And it made the fairy very sad 

And she lost all of her glee. 

And just then Santa bent over 

And saw the little fairy's tear, 

He looked into the window 

And knew what would bring her cheer. 

He picked her up and granted her wish 

And set her on top of that tree, 

And in an instant, she was glowing 

It was the perfect place to be. 

The tots came down to peek 

in the wee hours of the night, 

And thereupon that tree of green 

Was a star shining ever so bright. 

From his sleigh up in the sky 

Santa watched this joyful sight, 

Sleep well little tots, and fairy, too, 

On this wonderful Christmas night.

Thank you very much again, dear friends, for visiting my blog. Please share your thoughts with us, if you will. Have a great day. 

✿ڰۣ❤In Loving Light from the Fairy Lady❤ڰۣ✿

Catch A Flight?

Catch A Flight?

Hi, dear friends and followers. Today I would like to share anther poem with you, a romantic fantasy. Thank you for visiting and reading my blog

Come! Come with me if you dare!

Join me on a journey to the land of fantasy,

the mystical realm of the yet unseen!

We shall drift far away yet still be near.

You will hear the roar of the ocean waves

as they rush to the shores, as yet unseen.

~*~

Then you look up at the stars enchanting.

So different are they from whence you came.

Spirals within spirals, wheels within wheels,

reaching out into infinity.

You yourself are Infinity’s child.

We shall sit upon a comet,

and gaze at the abundance of creation.

If you will follow me, my love,

You shall see so much more!

The heavens are the velvet-lined coffer,

that contains your royal jewels!

We shall lie upon the cool, white sand;

On the ocean’s shore you hold me

in your loving arms, as I take you even

deeper into my fantasy land.

But only if you are willing to follow me.

Belief and follow my heart,

and close your eyes and wish.

Relax and wish upon any star you desire;

totally relax your body and mind.

Slowly allow yourself

to peacefully drift away as in sleep,

but still consciously aware,

of the environment around you...

~*~

Do you finally feel the stillness and calm

that separate your body from your overactive mind?

Soar with me into the mystical universe,

light as a feather on a summer day’s breeze,

we shall float in space among the stars.

There is not a sound to be heard,

For you will quickly discover that

in the plane of the unseen

there is nothing comparable

to the land from whence you came

We are now in our fantasy land,

a place where whatever you think already is!

So would you care to join me there again?

Be with me in my little fantasy land?

Then meet me there in our dreams tonight.

Thank you very much again, dear friends, for visiting my blog. Please share your thoughts with us, if you will. Have a great day. 

✿ڰۣ❤In Loving Light from the Fairy Lady❤ڰۣ✿