The Carousel

Hello All:

I thought I'd start the week off with a really interesting short story I had written back in 2011. It's always been one of my favorites. After all, we are getting close to the season of Halloween, and readers might like this sort of things. 

The Carousel

In a rare, once-in-a-lifetime occurrence; an employer who offers a modest salary might be fortunate enough to have a dedicated worker who goes above and beyond the call of duty. It might be a place like Funland Amusement Rides that in recent years has nearly declared every summer the last season in operation. Rides have gotten outdated and the grounds appear unkempt. Those operating the attractions, working in hospitality or maintaining the grounds are paid minimum wage and must endure the unpleasant reality of working twice, sometimes three times as hard since staffing is at a minimum. But despite what management expects, no one is willing to step up and work very hard. Would you? The people who run Funland Amusement Rides are unhappy, not very engaging with the guests and seem to be sluggish.

But then there is a special employee, Gertrude, who operates the bi-level carousel that is located in the corner of the park. Were-as most rides appear rusty and nearly falling apart; the carousel looks to be brand new and nearly glows from an illumination of its own. The reason? Not only does Gertrude operate that carousel from the time of park's opening to close, but she also comes in early to maintain the ride. An older immigrant woman who looks disheveled and hardly ever speaks; she has long strands of split-gray hairs and cracked, aged face. Her very mannerisms with quirky, odd behavior might suggest her to be a witch. In fact, many coworkers at the park maintain a strong aversion towards this woman because of this.

"That lady is weird!"

"She's creepy!"

But management doesn't care of how others feel about Gertrude. She is the model employee who exhibits a passion for her job. Why else would she come in with a collection of paint and brushes to carefully maintain the precious faces of those animals on the carousel? Gertrude personally loves each and every animal on that ride. Her art gives every horse, camel, lion and dragon a character of its own. And in recent times, she has begun to chisel and carve new expressions on their faces. Oh, how they looks so real and as-if to come to life!

Gertrude goes even further with her dedication to the ride. Recalling the old days when carousel music was hand played on an organ by the operator, Gertrude purchased and installed her own keyboard to play while the guests enjoyed going round and round on the animal of their choice. She wouldn't dare allow the shrilling voice of some electro-pop hip-hop artist to loudly blast through the speakers! Such a thing might be sacrilegious on her carousel.

Occasionally, park management might walk past the carousel on a fine Saturday afternoon. It's easy to admire the well-maintained animals that appear to nearly come to life. The ride has an illumination of its own and draws a large crowd of people who are eager to enjoy the attraction. But it's the music that slightly concerns management. If people didn't know any better, the pitch of the keyboard sounded to be deliberately off tune. Although the lively organ music matches the dance of the animals, it has an overwhelming hint of being somewhat macabre and frightening. And why do most of the children on the ride scream and cry while the animals go round and round?

The park manager approaches Gertrude who dances from side to side, swaying her long strands of gray hair along her back while playing the keyboard. Perhaps she isn't hitting the right keys. "Gertrude?" the manager calls out. "Can't you adjust the pitch or hit the sharper keys, not so many flat tones? I think the music is scaring the children."

Gertrude turns her face to present a plastered smile with her red, glassy eyes. Employees have often accused the old immigrant woman of drinking on the job. Why else would she be so weird and lively while operating the carousel all day long?

Speaking only broken English with a heavy accent, she often referred to herself in the third person. "Gertrude think the music is fine. You like, yah?" Then she cackles, nearly sounding like a witch. All the while, the children cry in terror while going round and round on that dreaded carousel. Even the parents exhibit an irrational terror of the ride.

Nothing, outside of the peculiar music, can be identified as disturbing on Gertrude's carousel. But if management would care to take a closer look, they might notice the hellish world being reflected in the carousel's center mirror. They would see the hideous animals that aggressively bite the children and parents with their large, sharp teeth. The animals stand on their hind legs and then pounce their front hoofs on the guests, nearly crushing them. The lions swipe their enormous paws across the bloody chests and backs of unfortunate riders. Camels rip the hair out of children's heads with their nasty mouths. Dragons cock their evil, serpent heads back and then force rage-full flames into the faces of people who soon find themselves to be cooked alive.

Round and round the terrifying carousel goes while Gertrude cackles and plays her morbid music. Now that’s the sort of carousel I want to ride! :-)

Fire in the Sky: the real story

Hello All:

It's video Saturday, and we share a detailed summary of the 1975 Travis Walton alien abduction. Many are familiar with the story and have seen the movie. And yet, according to Travis Walton in a radio interview, his experience was very much different from what was portrayed in the movie. 

My take: I think the spacecraft may have been preparing for launch when Travis got too close and was seriously injured by the energy required for takeoff. Realizing that a terrible accident had occurred, the people aboard brought him inside to help him heal and recover.

I'll let you decide in today's video.

The Blue Bird of Happiness

 Hello All:

At home I have a comfy chair with side table that might serve as some sort of personal religious shrine. On the table is the Bible with some religious books; my rosary, a statue of St. Joseph and a small painting of St. Michael the Archangel. 

Recently, I discovered my wife's glass sculpture of the Blue Bird of Happiness sitting on my table. She found it in one of the boxes from our move to Arizona a couple of years ago. And of course this personal shrine is the perfect place for blue bird!

That's when I remembered that I've written about this Blue Bird of Happiness throughout the years on the blog. I pull out a classic writing from over ten years ago and feature it for today's writing.

The Blue Bird of Happiness

As shown in the picture, the Bluebird of Happiness is simply a glass sculpted bluebird. Originally created in 1980 by a glass craftsman, Leo Ward; the trademarked Bluebird of Happiness is currently manufactured by Terra Studios.

The Bluebird of Happiness first appeared in literature in an early 1900s play by Maurice Maeterlinck titled, L'Oiseau Bleu. In the play, two children are instructed by a fairy to set out on a journey in search for the Bluebird of Happiness. The journey is very interesting in that they visit places such as the Land of Memory, the Palace of Night, and the Kingdom of the Future. But the journey turns out to be a failure as the two children never actually find the Blue Bird of Happiness. It isn't until they return home that they discover the bird to be in their birdcage the whole time. The moral of the story: one doesn't need to travel far to find true happiness. Oh, but the moral takes on a double whammy as the children give the bluebird to a friend who had been sick. Somehow the bluebird escapes and flies away! This event symbolizes our realization that treasures are found in the journey of life along with extending random acts of kindness; but never reaching the destination.

The bluebird has been decorated with mystical powers for many centuries. Those who carry some statue, a painting or even have a bluebird tattooed on themselves are blessed with good luck, victory and triumph. The bluebird symbolizes springtime, new beginnings, joy, and love. And now this wonderful bluebird is available in the form of a small glass sculpture.

It was my wife who originally received the Bluebird of Happiness as a gift. I wasn't fully aware of the Bluebird of Happiness until a couple years into marriage. You can carry it with you as a good luck object which rarely fails. I've taken the Bluebird of Happiness with me during job interviews. My kids have used it during big tests at school. Once I accompanied my violin-playing daughter to an orchestra audition. I stood outside the door with the Bluebird of Happiness sitting in the palm of my hand. Both of us watched through the small, glass window as my daughter executed, flawlessly, in front of the judges.  And of course I carried the bluebird down the hallway with such reverence. It remained sitting in the palm of my hand as-if it were alive. I'm sure those standing nearby found my behavior unusual.

Some people might not believe in the power of the Bluebird of Happiness. But that's just how people are nowadays. Many people no longer believe in things. People are told to be rational and avoid any beliefs in omens, signs, dreams or sacred items. And when it comes to God and religion, there seems to be a great push in society to no longer believe. We've come so far as humans, and no longer need the "invention of God" or things we do not understand to give us a sense of hope or power. Such a shame; once upon a time our universe was so vast and mysterious. We sought ways to understand and tap into the unexplainable--understand the mind of God. Now we've limited ourselves to understanding our favorite professional athletes, and worshiping their individualized winner's attitudes while denying any sort of beauty and mystery in the surrounding, exterior universe.

Halloween is roughly 6 weeks away; a time when the veil between this world and the other is at its thinnest; a time when we can truly recognize that there are realities in our world that cannot be explained through science or the rational mind. If you are a regular visitor of the blog and a fan of my writings, then surely you believe this. We need to serve as opposition to the social push of no longer believing in the mysterious and unexplained. 

Shoshone National Forest Spirit Castles

Hello All:

It's Podcast Thursday and we examine the rugged topography of the Shoshone National Forest as an architectural marvel composed of mystical fortresses and monuments built by a forgotten civilization. It's very possible that the mountains are actually sentient spirits capable of camouflaging their true, majestic forms to avoid detection by human observers. By blending physical observations with supernatural symbolism, such as celestial numerology, we redefine the natural wilderness as a sacred, hidden realm haunted by powerful ancient entities.

Listen to Shoshone National Forest Spirit Castles

Prehistoric Man is Introduced to Little Darling Snack Cakes

Hello All:

Go back to Monday of this week and we have our friend, Steve, who traveled to medieval times to offer up Little Darling snack cakes to the king in exchange for silver coins. Well, my daughter challenged me to write a sequel of Steve venturing to prehistoric times to offer up more of these snack cakes to the residents.

And just how would that work?

Well, sugar and refined carbohydrates act on the brain in ways remarkably similar to addictive substances. When consumed, hyper-palatable foods trigger a surge of dopamine in the brain's reward centers. In modern society, we are accustomed to this chemical rush, but to an early hominid whose diet consisted entirely of lean game, roots, and bitter wild berries, a sudden blast of concentrated sugar would represent an absolute sensory overload.

From an evolutionary standpoint, introducing ultra-processed food to prehistoric humans isn't just a culinary shock—it would completely alter their behavioral dynamics, social hierarchies, and symbolic culture in a single afternoon.

Oh, I also generated an image of what this Little Darling would look like on the box. You are certainly familiar with Little Debbie. Well, we can't write stories about their product. But we can create a fictional competitor. I include this image as the cover image for today's story.

Prehistoric Man is Introduced to Little Darling Snack Cakes

Steve stood on a ridge overlooking a sun-drenched valley, his fingers resting lightly on the temporal actuator strapped to his wrist. Down below, sitting around a smoldering pit of ash, was a band of early hominids. Clad in raw animal hides, they were gnawing brutally on the uncooked marrow bones of a small steppe deer, occasionally grunting or threatening to strike one another with heavy river stones over the choice cuts.

Steve smiled, feeling a thrill of mischievous curiosity. On his last temporal leap, he had terrorized a medieval court, but this experiment promised to be far more primitive. He unslung a canvas duffel bag packed with two dozen boxes of "Little Darlings" pastry treats. He had deliberately left the hexagonal-shaped Honey Cakes at home, reasoning that such geometric perfection might break their fragile, ancient minds. Instead, he brought dense chocolate squares and foil-wrapped Swiss Rolls.

He adjusted his windbreaker and walked down the dusty slope.

The moment Steve cleared the brush, the band froze. Grunts turned into low, defensive snarls. Two tall males stepped forward, brandishing thick oak clubs with jagged knot-heads. To them, Steve was a creature from another realm—tall, hairless, dressed in neon-red synthetic fabric that practically screamed danger.

Steve held up his hands, unzipped the duffel, and pulled out a chocolate square. Slowly, under the watchful, terrified eyes of the tribe, he peeled back the plastic wrapping and took a deliberate bite. He exaggerated his chewing, letting out a satisfied sign.

The tension shifted. Fear gave way to primal curiosity.

A younger female cautiously shuffled forward, her nostrils flaring as the wind carried the heavy scent of cocoa and vanillin toward her. Steve reached into the bag, unwrapped another square, and gently extended his arm. The female snatched it, sniffed it aggressively, poked the soft sponge with a dirty fingernail, and then mashed the entire cake into her mouth.

Her eyes went wide. Her entire body stiffened as the hyper-concentrated dose of high-fructose corn syrup tore through her nervous system. She let out a high-pitched shriek of pure, unadulterated pleasure.

Within seconds, the rest of the tribe swarmed forward. They abandoned their marrow bones and dove into the duffel bag, tearing through cardboard and plastic with yellowed teeth. The scene devolved into chaotic pandemonium—hominids screaming, rolling in the dirt, and smearing chocolate across their faces in a frantic feeding frenzy that looked alarmingly like the apes encountering the monolith in 2001: A Space Odyssey.

Steve pressed the button on his wrist and vanished back to the present, chuckling to himself. "Well, that was fun."

Three weeks later, Steve returned. This time, he brought a commercial van’s worth—over two hundred boxes stacked into a hand-cart.

When the temporal haze cleared, Steve found himself in the middle of a transformed landscape. The campsite was now a sprawling settlement, and the culture had undergone an abrupt, terrifying evolution.

Several tribal elders stepped out from a stone overhang. Woven around their necks were crude necklaces made from the torn cardboard faces of the "Little Darlings" mascot—her smiling, freckled portrait now serving as a holy talisman. On the flat face of a nearby sandstone cliff, the tribe had painted crude red-ochre murals depicting dark, solid squares descended from the sky.

When Steve appeared, the entire village dropped to their knees, bowing toward him as a god. But the peace was short-lived.

The arrival of two hundred more boxes immediately triggered a societal collapse. Previously, only twenty elite hunters possessed the sacred mascot medallions. Now, with hundreds of boxes pouring into the camp, nearly every member of the tribe claimed the divine right to wear the smiling girl's face.

An all-out war erupted before Steve’s eyes. Neighboring tribes rushed over the ridge, drawn by the scent of sugar. The air filled with guttural war cries as warriors tore into the Little Darlings cakes, wolfing down the sugar to fuel a manic, adrenaline-fueled strength before lunging into combat. Clubs slammed into shields; dust filled the air as factions fought over the right to hold the sacred artwork of the squares—and the newly introduced hexagon treats.

Steve leaned against a boulder, watching the chaotic battle unfold with a smirk. "Look at them," he muttered. "All for a bit of processed sugar."

His amusement ended instantly when a shadow fell over him.

A massive warrior, his face painted with chocolate residue and blood, stepped out from behind the boulder. In his hand was a heavy, stone-weighted wooden club. The warrior didn't bow; his eyes were fixed greedily on the temporal device on Steve's wrist.

He swung the club with terrifying force.

Steve ducked, but the heavy oak weapon clipped his left shoulder with a sickening crunch. Pain exploded through his upper body. He stumbled to the dirt, the actuator slipping out of his grip and tumbling into the grass.

The warrior raised the club for a killing blow. Operating purely on instinct, Steve reached out with his good arm, grabbed the base of the ancient weapon, and planted his boot firmly into the caveman's chest. With a furious shove, he sent the warrior sprawling backward into the dirt, wrenching the heavy club from his grip.

Steve lunged for his actuator, slammed his thumb onto the return switch, and pulled the ancient club tightly against his chest.

POP.

Steve collapsed onto his living room rug in a cold sweat, clutching his throbbing shoulder and breathing heavily. Next to him lay the rough-hewn, blood-stained prehistoric club.

Six months later, Steve sat on his sofa, his shoulder fully healed, sipping coffee while the morning news played in the background. Suddenly, a breaking news segment caught his attention. A world-renowned archaeologist was standing in front of an excavation site in Southern Europe, holding up a camera.

"Archaeologists today are baffled by a series of extraordinary discoveries at a Upper Paleolithic site," the reporter announced. "Excavators have uncovered dozens of fossilized cardboard fragments bearing the vibrant image of a mid-century cartoon girl—matching the modern logo of the Little Darlings snack brand."

The screen shifted to show a high-resolution photograph of a cave wall.

"Even more perplexing," the reporter continued, "are the cave paintings dating back thirty thousand years. Primitive artists drew detailed geometric squares and precise hexagons, worshipping what appears to be a sugary confectionery. Scholars are left with far more questions than answers as to how these modern artifacts ended up buried in deep prehistoric strata..."

Steve took a slow sip of his coffee, leaned back against the cushions, and smiled quietly at the TV.

Robert Monroe's Map of Human Consciousness

 Hello All:

It's Podcast Tuesday and we bring out the 'ole Robert Monroe Hemi-Sync tapes (just kidding, I don't have any). But we do have a nice podcast on the research of Robert Monroe and his Monroe Institute. Established by Robert Monroe, the institute utilizes decades of scientific research to explore the vast architecture of human consciousness and out-of-body experiences (OBEs). Central to their work is the development of Hemi-Sync technology, which uses auditory binaural beats to help individuals navigate a structured map of awareness known as Focus Levels. These levels categorize internal states ranging from "mind awake, body asleep" to transcendental realms that exist beyond physical death and linear time. By identifying specific brainwave states like delta sleep as the gateway for projection, the podcast illustrates a bridge between clinical experimentation and the spiritual journey of the total self. Consider the podcast to be a guide for overcoming physical attachments to achieve expanded awareness and understand the transition into non-physical dimensions.

Listen to Monroe's Map of Human Consciousness

Little Darlings Snack Cakes

 Hello All:

Processed sugar and modern food preservation techniques are essentially magic from a historical perspective. High-fructose corn syrup, artificial flavorings, and hermetically sealed polymer packaging were entirely unimaginable to medieval societies. In the 14th century, cane sugar was an insanely expensive luxury imported from the East, often sold by the ounce in pharmacies as a medicine for the ultra-wealthy. The idea of a perfectly soft, shelf-stable, hyper-sweet baked good that stays fresh for months would have seemed like an alchemical miracle to a medieval monarch.

It is fascinating how a simple modern convenience, something we grab from a vending machine without a second thought, holds enough culinary value to fundamentally alter the economy of an ancient kingdom.

Little Darlings Snack Cakes

Steve stood in the center of his living room, staring at the small, metallic cylinder in his palm. It looked like an oversized car key fob, complete with a tiny LCD screen and a dual-toggle switch. The device, which he had accidentally assembled while tinkering with high-frequency RF oscillation circuits, had a remarkably simple function: it opened a localized temporal rift. With a precise click, Steve could step out of the twenty-first century and into virtually any era of human history. And, crucial for a man of pragmatic caution, a quick tap on the side button instantly pulled him back to the exact second he had left.

The initial trips were purely academic, but during a late-night snack session, Steve had an epiphany. He was eating a hexagonal, chocolate-drizzled, peanut-butter-filled cake from a box of "Little Darlings" pastry treats. The sponge was impossibly soft; the creme layer was impossibly smooth. Steve realized that to a feudal peasant or a dark-age lord whose idea of a treat was dried fruit or dense, honey-sweetened barley bread, this mass-produced junk food would taste like absolute divinity.

An hour later, Steve dressed in a plain, nondescript linen tunic he had sewn himself, attached the temporal trigger to his belt loop, and slipped 20 boxes of Little Darlings Honey Hexagons into a canvas pouch. He set the coordinates for 12th-century Central Europe and pressed the switch.

The air shifted with a soft pop, replacing the smell of ozone with the damp, earthy aroma of burning peat and unwashed livestock. Steve found himself standing in a long line of peasants outside the wooden gates of a hilltop keep. The local ruler, Lord Baldwin, was holding his weekly open-air court, hearing grievances and accepting tributes.

When Steve finally reached the dais, the guards eyed his clean skin and strange posture with suspicion.

"State your business before Lord Baldwin, traveler," the captain of the guard grunted, resting a heavy hand on the pommel of his broadsword.

"I bring no grievances, sire," Steve said, bowing politely to the stern, bearded man sitting upon the carved oak throne. "I bring a culinary gift from a far-off land."

Lord Baldwin raised an eyebrow. "A gift? We have royal bakers, traveler. Our kitchens produce the finest pastries in the realm."

"With respect, my Lord, you have never tasted anything like this." Steve reached into his pouch and produced a single, foil-wrapped Little Darlings Honey Hexagon. He carefully tore open the plastic.

The royal taster stepped forward immediately, his face drawn in a mask of professional skepticism. "I must sample it first, my Lord. It could be laced with poison."

"Of course," Steve smiled. He reached into the wrapper, snapped the hexagon cleanly in half, and popped one piece into his own mouth. He chewed and swallowed smoothly. "Safe as river water."

The taster hesitantly took the remaining half. He placed it on his tongue, chewed once, and froze. His eyes went wide. His jaw worked slowly as the hyper-concentrated sugar, hydrogenated oils, and artificial vanilla hit his medieval palate with the force of a battering ram. He swallowed hard, looking almost tearful.

"My Lord..." the taster whispered, trembling. "It is... it is the food of angels."

Lord Baldwin, intrigued, demanded the second unopened package Steve had brought. The lord tore it open, bit into the soft sponge, and instantly slumped back into his throne, his eyes closing in pure, unadulterated ecstasy.

"Where did this come from?" the lord gasped, wiping a stray crumb of chocolate drizzle from his beard. "Name your price. I want a hundred of these for tomorrow's feast!"

"Keep them as a gift for now, sire," Steve replied smoothly, taking a step backward. "I must return to my land to fetch more. I shall return at a later date to see if you desire another shipment."

Before the guards could react, Steve tapped the return trigger on his belt and vanished into thin air.

Two weeks later—at least in local time—Steve returned to the keep. The entire castle was in a frenzy. The feast had been a legendary success, but the lord's supply was entirely exhausted. Lord Baldwin was practically pacing a hole into his stone floor when Steve appeared in the courtyard, pulling a small wagon with about 200 boxes of square-shaped chocolate sponge cakes and caramel-covered Star Crunches.

"You've returned!" Baldwin bellowed, marching down the stairs himself. "My royal baker tried to replicate your magic, but he produced nothing but heavy, burnt sludge! I offer you the position of High Royal Baker, a private suite in the tower, and a hundred gold crowns a year!"

"Alas, my Lord," Steve said modestly, "the secret ingredients require resources your kingdom simply does not possess. But do not fret. I have brought two hundred boxes to sustain you. And these clear, magical wrappings will preserve their fresh, soft texture for many months."

"What do you ask in exchange?" Baldwin demanded.

"No gold," Steve said. "Just pure silver coins. Standard trade currency."

The lord greedily agreed, ordering his treasurer to dump a heavy chest of old silver marks at Steve's feet. Steve gathered the silver, bid the kingdom farewell, and stepped back into the twenty-first century.

Back home, the ancient silver coins were staggering—enough to theoretically purchase a massive private estate on his own island, pay off every debt he had ever imagined, and still leave a staggering fortune in the bank. But greed has a way of tempting fate.

For his third trip, Steve decided to go all out. He rented a commercial van, drove to a local wholesale distributor, and purchased over a thousand boxes of Little Darlings treats: Swiss Cake Rolls, Cosmic Brownies, Zebra Cakes, and Hexagons. He packed them into reinforced crates, set his device, and landed directly inside the lord's great hall during an evening banquet.

"My Lord!" Steve announced, gesturing to the mountain of colorful boxes stacked behind him. "I have brought the ultimate feast. Over a thousand boxes of every sweet delicacy my realm produces."

Lord Baldwin stood up, his eyes gleefully scanning the massive pile of sugary treasure. "And your price, master baker?"

"Double the silver from our last transaction," Steve said, smiling smoothly. "And all of this is yours."

Lord Baldwin’s smile slowly faded into a cold, calculating sneer. He looked at the vast mountain of pastries, then at Steve, standing alone in the center of the room.

"Why should I pay a single coin," Baldwin said quietly, "when I can simply keep the cakes... and the baker?"

The lord snapped his fingers. "Guards! Seize him! Lock him in the highest tower until he reveals the secrets of these confections!"

Instantly, four heavily armored guards lunged forward, swords drawn.

Steve’s heart slammed into his throat. He reached wildly for his belt loop, but his sweating fingers fumbled against the smooth metallic casing of the time device. It slipped!

"Grab him!" the captain roared, closing the distance.

The device tumbled through the air. Steve threw himself toward the floor, catching the small cylinder mid-fall just as a heavy leather boot slammed down inches from his face. A guard’s gauntleted hand grabbed the shoulder of Steve's tunic, tearing the fabric.

Desperately, Steve jammed his thumb onto the side toggle switch.

POP.

The dark, torch-lit hall, the roaring lord, and the flashing steel swords vanished instantly.

Steve collapsed onto the soft carpet of his quiet, air-conditioned living room, gasping for air, his heart hammer-forged against his ribs. He lay there for a long time, listening to the gentle hum of his refrigerator.

He had left a thousand boxes of Little Darlings snack cakes in the twelfth century, and he hadn't received a single silver coin for the final delivery. But as he sat up and looked at his bank statement on his laptop—showing a multi-million dollar balance from his previous silver trades—Steve let out a shaky sigh and smiled.

He was officially retired from the medieval bakery business.