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I put a short story up on Amazon’s Kindle Store.  Solar Sails and Plaster Llamas

As far as I can tell the store is only for Kindle users.  I’m trying to find a more general place to upload the story, but if anyone happens to have a Kindle out there you can pick it up for $1.50.

Cheers!

The footmen were the first to advance. They carried the white flag of their liege across the barren plain. They were met in the middle of the field by a brigade of the enemies dark-clad legions. They eyed each other warrily while the rest of the army moved in position.

A handful of knights, the bravest horsemen called from their homes, left their position at the back of the line and advanced to within a range of their friendly footmen who were being surrounded by more legions of black clad soldiers.

Unwilling to relinquish the field, the white king ordered his personal men at arms, to hold the line. His closest advisor, a nobleman of brave heart and great repute, took the field by the storm. He advanced quickly, unmolested by the dark legions. He eyed the enemy king, who fearing the Duke’s great spirit, ordered his knights to his side.

Seeing great advantage, the hoary king of the white flag, advanced his own knights beyong the center of the field. The enemy king, a notorious coward, pulled his Queen’s own men to defend his position.

As of yet no bloodshed had been spilt. It was all maneuvering and posturing. The true battle had yet to begin. This ended in an instant. The glorious footmen, bearers of the flag, engaged a dark legion, flanking them easily and taking the advantage.

The enemy responded immediately. He sent his Queen’s guards to shore up the line. The footmen responded valiantly. They matched the Queen’s men sword to sword, but they fell under the onslaunt. The Duke, his own flank now removed, was put in peril.

As an old and heroic man, the Duke knew his duty. Facing certain death he proceeded forward, well beyond where the line could protect him. He engaged the King’s knights, annihilating them to a man. As a bold, a triumphant hero his pointed his sword at the dark king and threatened him to his face.

It was a glorious moment, but it was his last. The Dark Queen’s brother, an able general of the crusades, furfilled his kingly obligations and smote the Duke. It was a terrible loss, but a glorious end for the grand commander.

The White King survayed the field. His center was in disarray. He order more footman to advance to cover his knights, stranded beyond his line. The Dark King sought to interfere with the preparation and moved his Queen’s men forward, but they were chased off by a division of crusader swordsmen.

Determined to be a menice, the Queen ordered his men to take the center of the field. Her pennat waved threateningly over the field. The White King wisely brought his siege engines into position, should it be necessary to remove her from the field by force. A second unit of knights, was moved onto the field as well, to threaten the Queen. Finally she was moved to retreat, but not before slaying another band of valiant footmen.

With a great yell the majority of the army clashed. There was smoke and fire. Arrows were traded and darkened the sky. Footmen on both sides died in their boots, still clutching their swords. The Dark King’s Bishop, a notorious butcher was forced to cover his king.

In an instant the Knights responded. Furious at the death of the Duke, they crossed the field and slew the queen. Unsatiated they captured the Dark Tower, a old fortification built in the days of Barbarians to hold the flank. It was a terrible loss for the Dark King and his men feared their demise. The Queen’s men killed the Bishop Butcher, a unit of footmen crossed the field, blood was spilt across the field.

When the smoke cleared the knights, the valiant knights who first carried forward, were dead. Slain of a pusillanimous unit of archers.

The Knights were avanged by the mighty siege engines. They threw their stones forward. Crushing the enemy archers and a units of knights as well. The Dark King’s army was in nearly complete disarray. His footmen abandoned him. His Knights and Noblemen were slain in quick order. His remaining loyal soldiers, crossed the field in a futile attempt to break through, but they were repeased. The might of the White Banner overcompassed the field. The Dark Knight, with a final brave gesture, sent his siege engines to bombard the oncoming footmen. They were destroyed and the King surrounded.

He stood amongst the corpses of his army, the dead horses, the broken engines, the crumbled walls. His own Queen lay on the field, dead. An honorless and cowardly man the Dark King refused to die with bravery. He called off the last stand, waved off any thought of resistance. He offered his sword and was captured, bound to live his life a testament to dishonor and weakness.

Back in this article I mentioned the Hudson River Reader call for submissions.

My submission below:

Miracle on the Hudson

For weeks I wracked my brains over what to write. Hudson River, memoirs of the Hudson River, recollections, musings. What could I possibly write that would truly capture the scope of the people, the towns, and the river itself?

I certainly have some things to say. I grew up in Goshen, well within the Valley and close enough to go boating or hiking during muggy, mosquito-filled summers. More recently, I have worked as a deckhand, on a boat called ‘Pride of the Hudson’ no less. I’ve gone up and down its length a hundred times, pointing out landmarks well-known and less-so, tossing rope in storms that turned West Point into a foggy nothing, buying fruit from dockside vendors between shifts.

Really though, these are splashes of color. They capture a few moments in time and place. The smell of the Newburgh docks, industrial, oily, fishy, the quaint peacefulness of Cold Spring in August; these are snapshots. They cannot possibly do justice to the Hudson.

And then there was ‘the Miracle on the Hudson’. In a week that will have scrolled by on CNN so many times it will be subliminally linked with images of Anderson Cooper. Right now though, a day after that tragedy, it is fresh and poignant and meaningful.

In New York, like nowhere else, we are used to the bittersweet taste of life. We are well acquainted to all the tragedies of life, petty and profound. A man gets mugged, but a support network develops in the form of a neighborhood watch. A school is vandalized, but people come together to erase, repair and then improve. On that most momentous of days thousands of people died, but the world saw heroism in its truest. We have seen it all and expect to see even more.

The Hudson has seen it all too and it has become a cynical river. With good comes bad, with bad comes good. If there’s a net-gain, it’s only at the expense of time and sweat and blood. Rivers are always fickle, they expect tribute. But maybe that is going to change. Maybe it already has.

Chesley B. “Sully” Sullenberger III, pilot of Flight 1549, landed a crippled 747 carrying 155 passengers into the Hudson. It could have ended in candlelight vigils and days of rescue divers pulling bodies from the depths of the Hudson, but it didn’t. Emergency workers responded immediately. No one died. Injuries were minor. The Captain’s a hero.

It’s the fairy tale ending, but it’s not at all a fairy tale. Just real life, tragic and heroic. It’s as fine a testament to what this river has seen and what this river represents as any of the thousands of similar stories that happen every day but never make the news. It is my fondest memory of the Hudson and my highest expectation of what the future will hold. It is the Hudson River in all of its glory.

~Robert D. Drake

[[Editor's Note: This was written by my friend, Krystin Barnett. Thanks for the submission!]]

Standing on the back of a boat in eighty degree heat, I was shaking. We were in the Caribbean on a “very special” family vacation, as my mom called it, and my dad and I were about to go parasailing. I wasn’t afraid of heights, and I’d probably done much more dangerous, and much more stupid, things before. Sure, hanging in the air five hundred feet above the ocean, being pulled along like a kite attached to a speed-boat driven by a rum-punch drinking, gold-toothed native didn’t thrill me. But it did look cool, your feet lifting off the earth, a parachute around your shoulders, and the sea beneath your toes.

My excitement rather quickly gave way to nerve-fueled adrenaline as our harnesses were strapped on; the driver’s gold tooth caught the sunlight as he shouted instructions, none of which I heard. And then the boat was no longer there, and the wind was tugging – hard — at our backs, taunting our parachutes to come play. Higher. Higher.

It seemed my stomach had abandoned me and stayed behind on the boat, the wimp. I looked over at my dad, who was grinning – or was his face simply stretched by the relentlessly strong wind? And inexplicably, I began to laugh; why feel afraid when exhilaration is available too? I laughed harder; I’m a bird! I’m a plane! I’m Superwoman!

That turquoise gem of a sea sat lazily below our bare feet; the island looked paler from this view, almost a mirror image of the clouds dotting the sky above. The driver signaled us by pointing with both hands over his head: “Higher?”

My dad and I both gave him the thumbs-up. The rope was let go to its full length, and up we flew. All too soon, the driver began to reel us in. But as we drew closer to the back of the slow-moving speedboat, I realized that this was the best part: forget the birds and planes (and even Superwoman), I’m James Bond!

That feeling lasted approximately twenty-four hours. The following night, my parents were mugged on the same beach that speedboat had picked us up from. My dad was shot through the hand. (The result of punching one of the muggers in the face). After a nerve-wracking trip to the island’s two-room hospital, where a gynecologist removed the bullet, my dad was determined O.K. He’d have to see a non-gynecologist doctor in the States, so we flew to New York the next morning. My older brother, who is in the NYPD, met us at the hospital, and promptly chewed our dad out for once again landing himself in the hospital. He also questioned my dad’s sanity.

“Dad, trust me, always just give them your damn wallet. Is this worth it?”

Scott’s partner, who stood beside him in the tiny room, snorted.

“Yeah, Scott, like you don’t give ‘em what’s coming to them down in Brooklyn.”

“I have a badge. And a vest.”

I nodded along with my mom and younger brother, but I kind of understood my dad, who was now proudly declaring, “They didn’t get my wallet!”

I watched as he argued with Scott, waving his bandaged hand around. I began to picture two thugs approaching my parents on that dark beach, only now I was with them, instead of babysitting my younger brother back in the room. As the images continued to form in my mind, I thought, why shouldn’t we fight back? Sure, my dad is an example of the prime reason why not, but maybe if the playing field had been leveled a little, the outcome would have been different.

Right before I turned twenty-one, I began graduate school in New Haven, Connecticut. It was a new apartment, a new city, a new chapter. My parents were healthy and safe in Florida, and I was loving my uber-academic environment. Still, almost inevitably, something was missing, or out of place somewhere. I spoke to my mom about it, whose first question was,

“Are you happy?”

“Sure, yeah, I mean I like it here, Mom. My apartment, my school –”

“Okay, but do you feel safe there?”

I had to think about my answer. I didn’t want her to worry more than she was already, but in truth I didn’t feel safe. Not anymore.

When I was a little girl, I thought, as many children do, that my parents were invincible. That our little corner of the world was impermeable. Seven years ago, I was a fourteen year old high-school student in Goshen, New York, and September 11th happened. Pandora’s box shattered my sheltered sense of reality.

A few years later, when asked what he thought about the overwhelming percentage of Americans who oppose the Iraq War, Dick Cheney answered, “So what?”

This effectively diminished any remaining positive thoughts I had towards the current state of affairs. And to top it all off, I managed to waste a good few months with a now ex-boyfriend who, let’s say, didn’t mind showing he was stronger than I was.

So no, Mom, I don’t really feel all that safe and secure anymore. In fact, I feel like a walking six o’clock news story waiting to happen. And I hate it. I’m studying to become a journalist, so that one day maybe I can travel and explore and write about what I see. But for now, I should be able to walk home from my parking garage at night. I didn’t tell my mom all of this, of course, but my prolonged hesitation told her enough.

“Listen, sweetie, I was just talking with Donna, and she told me about this kind of Israeli self-defense class that her son is taking. It’s called Krav Maga, and it’s supposed to be pretty intense. I think its what the Israeli troops learn in training? Anyway, her son loves it. Why don’t we look into it? It’d be really good for you to try, you know, even just to learn some basics. You’re all alone up there…”

She paused for a breath.

“You’ve already looked into it, haven’t you, Mom.”

“Well there’s a class right near where you live! And it’s difficult to find these Krav Maga places, you know. Look, I’ll give you the number of the instructor, just see what he has to say, and just try it if it sounds good. Maybe you actually won’t hate it.”

Predictably, I was skeptical at first, and it took three phone calls with the Krav Maga instructor for me to convince myself to go to the studio.

And predictably, my mom was right: it was intense. I was one of two women in the large class, which included some men who looked like they could probably fare just fine without martial arts. But when I met the instructor, I knew instantly he was one of those people you simply cannot dislike. And the class turned out to be, well, one of the best things I’ve ever tried. It’s a bit like Fight Club, but with grappling gloves and a little less blood. After a few weeks, I became part of the camaraderie between my classmates, and I felt like Ed Norton after he lives with Tyler Durden for a while. I felt great: harder, stronger, and much less afraid walking home alone at night. I invested in a heavy bag, worked out hard on my own, and it showed in class. My punches and combinations were more accurate, my roundhouse kicks stronger and less shy.

We also worked with plastic guns and knives in class; the gun exercises tended to bring about flashbacks. After a while, though, all I saw was my partner’s gun and my hands, and soon I was able to take the weapon away from my “attacker,” and then demand his wallet.

I still do Krav Maga in that same class, and I feel like a new person every time. I’m not flying above the ocean like Superwoman, but when I hit that heavy bag, or my partner, it’s like my feet are landing on the back of that boat all over again. I wonder if MI6 is hiring…

I’m currently cloistered in my apartment watching my car get buried in that white powder better known as back-breaking labor. As usual, I want to write an article, but don’t know what to talk about. It’s been a slow week. I’ve already tapped the usual sources of inspiration, the news, a handful of books I check daily, the word of the day. All pretty mundane.

Horoscope is interesting though. I wonder if I can find a story there…I could do with a day of brainstorming. Horoscope Brainstorming…?

I’m a Pieces:
“Being blunt can be liberating — give yourself a break and just speak the truth.

Someone offers you a great deal, which might be complicated by a debt they or someone else owes you. Try not to think about it too much — if it feels right, go for it and if not, then say no.”

James, stares out the window watching the snow pile up on his car. A recent feud with his neighbors/landlord means there won’t be any snowplow coming today. That’s what you get for complaining about midnight sessions of rock-band being played a wall away. So much for being blunt.
The phone rings. James picks it up lazily. He’s tired and not expecting anyone. It’s David, a coworker.

“How’s the weather at your place?”
“Snowy. A few inches.”
“Weather channel says it’s going to continue tomorrow.”
“I know. I might be late for work.”
“How about you don’t come in at all.”
“Work from home?”
“Not quite. Check your email.”

The man hangs up abruptly. James shakes his head and logs into his computer. “I wonder if I got fired. David said if I screwed up one more time…”
James pulls up his email. He was BBC’d on a message from management.

“Senior Managers: Due to cost-cutting and efficiency measures we are asking all employers to do an immediate review on all employees. One member of each department is slated for occupational minimization before the end of the quarter. We expect reviews to be turned in by Thursday.”

A moment later his email beeps. There’s a message from his coworker.

“James: read the message from senior management. I sent to all the other technicians. I’ll make you a deal: you stay at home this week. Just stay home. You’ll get fired, but I’ll pay you 50% of my salary. I’ll get to keep the health care that I need for my kids. My wife’s work-at-home business will cover the rest of my bills. You won’t have work so you can do freelance or whatever to make the rest of your bills. Think about it!”

James closes the laptop and goes to make coffee. As James sips from his cracked mug he looks outside. It’s nearly a whiteout and his car looks like a burial mound soon to be dissolved into the land.
“I don’t want to go in tomorrow and I don’t really like work. Something is weird though. Why would David be worried about getting fired?”

Just a short story idea. A bit of practice. I would need to flesh everything out a lot more, make real paragraphs. It’s winter and it’s cold, but I the weather needs to be really bad for this to make sense. Maybe it’s not the storm. The wind took out a bridge so the commute is now an hour longer. This car is really just a rental from a friend. His commuter car has a broken axle on a highway somewhere, a remnant of the last time he tried getting to work in the snow.
David shouldn’t just be a coworker. He should have a title, something senior. Maybe David is the department head. The whole conflict should be a bit larger anyway. It can’t just be “not driving to work/getting fired/healthcare”. There should be someone else at work. There’s a new person angling for the boss position. A recent hire from a good school, well liked by senior management. “On the fast-track for sure.” Maybe James is part of the car-pool that picks the new guy up because he doesn’t have a driver’s license. David is trying to sabotage him as well?

Just a few thoughts to get myself warmed up today. I, for one, wouldn’t mind not having to shovel for 50% of the salary. Ha!

I’ve been at work all day, wanted to write an article, instead wrote a short poem in about 5 minutes between tasks.

A dozen people,
A hundred ads,
A thousand hours,
A million dollars,
I build ads. I build ads.

Printers for the paper,
Voices for the radio,
Faces for the tele,
Artists, designers,
I build ads. I build ads.

Computers and cars,
Red-headed stars,
a little toy gun,
prizes to be won,
I build ads. I build ads.

The latest hit movie
has more posters
than there are books
in all the ever-world
I build ads. I build ads.

Demagogues and toothpaste
Big trucks and plastic waste
Small phones in new tones
gray pills for old bones.
I build ads. I build ads.

If half so much time
went to goals twice as lofty
we wouldn’t need ads
But instead I build ads. I build ads.

About a month ago, just before Thanksgiving, I decided to ‘Liveblog’ work. Enjoy! (Names are changed/redacted)

9:40AM
Trying to make the box that closes a popup discontinue saving when nothing is selected. It’s tedious business and I was working on it most of Friday as well. I’ll be having a P~~~~ meeting in a hour or so I think. TR is going to be late, says his kid is sick.

Last Night I ordered The Secrets by Michael A Stackpole. $160 is a bit steep for 100 6 page pdfs and a 50 page guide to writing, but part of that goes to Katrina victims, so I guess that makes up for it somewhat? I’ve already started reading them. The 21 Days to Novel is exciting.

9:54AM
Just did an update to the M~~~~ homepage. This usually involves cutting and pasting the links and text JG sends me into the text property of the homepage node. Does that make sense? Not bloody likely.

10:46AM
Got the Box figured out. Set the original value to equal the default value if a new value has not been chosen. Success! Now I’m onto researching Bulk Upload Response messages for A~~~~.

Also spent 20 minutes talking to MS and CB about Fallout 3. This is a daily routine. KM emailed me, she thinks winter break is going to be weird since she won’t see me every day. It’s true. Also, pretty sure that’s proof we have not become the dreaded ‘married couple’.

10:53AM
Few small changes to my dev work from before, blah! Km wants me to get an MBA. I’m not
completely opposed. I’d rather…

11:14AM
Lunch soon. As I was saying, I’m not sure about an MBA. English or Comparative lit sounds more enthralling. Slowly being potentially somewhat convinced. I remain undecided and officially opposed.

It’s also likely involve moving to NYC, that never-ending hellhole of unfortunancy.
It’d likely be a group of us and as unpleasant as I’d potentially find that, from an artistic sense it does seems rather quaint. I picture a rag tag group of students struggling in the city, myself dutifully archiving everything for later use. I’ve let Hemingway and Miller lie to me about impoverished city life…

Money is the problem, really. It’s too expensive for me to take on at current, regardless of interest.

Work time. More soon!

11:29AM
My javascript code doesn’t work in IE. Ugh! Cross browser crap! ugh!

11:39AM
So close to lunch. Mmm food. Exercise hasn’t gotten as well as I’d hoped. I need to renew my inspiration and lose 5 pounds. Didn’t hike on Sunday..most unfortunate.

11:41AM
As I was briefly mentioning before, I intend to put my novel idea through the 21 Days to Novel steps (part of the Michael A Stackpole stuff I purchased). It should hopefully be superfluous; Most of the steps seem to revolve around clarifying the world, characters, and plot. I should have that pretty well figured out, that was point of all my editing, but we’re going to make double sure and get some practice for the next time I go through the process. It’s rather inspiring being back on my novel. I still haven’t actually sat down and written, but prep work is getting done. I’m also going to go through my outline and make sure I have plot hooks/buttons, at the end of each one. Short scenes, plot hooks, a decent plot. I’ll get the technical details down pat and hope I’ve got enough talent to carry the style.

12:16PM
Noon! Still trying to figure out the IE6 issue, also the A~~~~ server may be having issues. Previews are slow. Why???

I should submit Delirium somewhere, just to put it in the running. Not sure where. It’s a task for tomorrow.

Psyched for The Secrets. Can’t wait to read them tonight, but I also think I might finish up Fallout 3. Good times! I’m going to be freaked out after Thanksgiving since I’ll have all my Henry Miller books. I stress myself, but..Henry Miller, excellent. Such style and elan!

Back to work!

12:24PM
Lunch! Peruvian Goulash with Cherry Pie. Most acceptable!

12:52PM
Lunch adjourned. Back to work! Blah! Only 4 hours to go…

12:55PM
Make change, refresh, test. make change, refresh, test. over and over. Music to Red Alert 3 is entertaining…the bombastic russian theme is great.

1:04PM
Remix of Hell March, classic! I grew up destroying to the world to Hell March! Frank Klepacki…good times.

1:30PM
Pulled up some activity logging on a store for JG. A~~~~ always a source of stupid projects. Easy but pointless.

1:45PM
Not sure my code is even the cause of this problem. Everything of mine is commented out and I still have issues. Most curious. I told JG to test on his computer.

AD still bothers me. She doesn’t come to mind often, but she does seem to update facebook frequently now. Is there a way to turn those updates off.? I’d really rather not get the doom-in-the-stomach feeling every time I check to see who poked me. I have considered messaging her, but nothing to be said really. It’d end up either dismal or rude. I miss the acquintanceship, but I distrust it’s existance outside of my perception and I don’t think she’d appreciate being found. And besides, these last few weeks have been…well…very happy and pleasant, some of the best I’ve ever had.

2:12PM
Solved. RR had some code in the action that was having issues. Oh well. SP got
back to me on the big A~~~~ issue…basically he doesn’t know either. Hmm. I’ll try changing
the post to a get, but that’s about all I can do. A~~~~ is going to be hounding my ass soon,
I’m sure.

2:31PM
Responded to SP. I have a few changes that might work to maybe make. EG commented on my stealthy divergence from P~~~~ tasks. Huzzah!

3:05PM
Doing missing asset tests. Also decided that my new year’s facebook status will be
the lyrics to Auld Lang Syne. Such a sad song. I’ve got plenty of old acquintances who
should probably be forgot.

3:15Pm
I spend a great deal of time telling myself that I want nothing to do with her. See above. I suppose I miss talking to her a bit more than I allow. A fruitless line of questioning.

I’d be very curious to know what she has said/written about me over the months. Probably little.

3:26PM
Possible solution to moving aOrderPath. Kind of janky. Testing. Hour and a half left. “Live Blogging’ is kind of fun.

3:56PM
Still testing. Hour left. KM wants me to go to Long Island for New Years. Urge to read/play Fallout going critical. Secondary Motivation supports enabled. Currently within normal operating specifications.

4:01PM
Dozen or so actions to modify. Baah. Disinterest quotient nearing level threshold.
‘End of Day’ routine nearing activation. Digg already pulled up…

4:03PM
Did I mention that I won in Fantasy Football. I’m 8-4 with 2 games left. I’m very likely,
though not locked, to make the playoffs. I could lose both and still get in. Another win
should lock me for the spot and I face the lowest record next week. I’m not looking forward
to the playoffs though, I suspect annihilation. Really wishing I had LT and Anquan Boldin right now. Doing better this year than last for sure though and I took 2nd in Baseball…

4:13PM
Red Hot Chili Peppers…songs msotly sound the same to me. Very distinctive singing. Too bad it’s not for me. Step and a half from the same adventurous sang-froid I associate with The Doors.

4:27PM
Jumpin Jack Flash! 33 minutes to go. I might use this Work Blog as a Servusamanu entry.
It’s a writing exercise, right?

4:40PM
20 Minutes left. So dark outside too. Unfortunate! Got a few last things to do. See y’all another day. Adieu!

Another Word of the Day Story: Bivouac

noun:
1. An encampment for the night, usually under little or no shelter.

intransitive verb:
1. To encamp for the night, usually under little or no shelter.

Van Morrison is crooning another round of “Moondance”. It’s been playing on repeat for hours. The damn CD player is broke. What can you expect from a second-rate beater purchased from a chop shop in Tucson. It was damn lucky the car has even made it this far.
I’m turning out of the parking lot. Another day of work done, some freelance ‘jack-of-all-tradesing’ that has kept the car full of gas, my landlord off my ass, and enough change to buy Saltines and tequila. Bad habits both of them.
I’m not much used to the forest. Taller than builders, but none of the glass. Don’t really care for it. I always speed until I get to the lights of the town. During the day it’s small and not worth caring about, barely more than a gas station and a Home Depot, but at night it almost looks like Phoenix. No Carl’s Jr., though. It’s a damn shame, but I guess it doesn’t matter. That shit’s too expensive anyway.
Highway is always crowded. I’m not a fan. Can’t speed, can’t lag about, can’t even flash my brights when the signs are too small to read. It’s better past Newburgh. Not that many people go past that. It’s usually just me and a few 18-wheelers with Quebec plates. What the hell are the Canucks transporting all the time, anyway?
My exit. Last one before a long drive north. I’ll head that way one of these days. Me and my car will bivouac in Quebec for a bit, pretend we got the Oregon trail backwards. Probably wait till summer first. Car already grumbles about the cold. Landlord thinks he’s got me in a lease too. Whatever.
Not sure where I’d go after that. Keep going farther, one bridge at a time. We’ll see how that goes. Right now I’m just gonna enjoy the last few city lights. Might as well. Never know when you might not make it outta the forest.

A few of my writing notes on the town of New Paltz, New York.

Two hours north of New York City hides a village with cosmopolitan aspirations as great as the Gotham city itself. On the map New Paltz is noteworthy only as the closest exit to Poughkeepsie on the Thruway and the home of a McDonalds on the drive north to Albany. Despite its outward obscurity, it’s single crowded main street could be called the home of humanity. A college town, academic and optimistic. A hippie enclave, anachronistic, spiritual, lethargic. A farmtown, simple, peaceful, quiet, dull. An art community, pretentious, educated, cultured. A single street, as old as America and then some, is home to all the world and a population barely over 12,000. We don’t even have a Subway.

What a small, rainy little town. A few intersections and you’ve run yourself right out the gate. Corralled between a bridge, a school, and a highway, a handful of small-town bars, tourist-trap new age stories, and a dozen pizza places carve out a living, mostly at the largesse of the resident college population. Summertime restores the recession and colonial charm, at least until the weekend when the town again overflows with gawkers and tourists looking for the charm their own towns sold to Walmart decades ago.

I nearly ran drove into a cluster of wobbly pedestrians at the crossroad of 32 and 299. Friday and Saturday night bring out the town. These students wander about lackadaisical, tired, often inenbriated, and with a bad habit of crossing against the walk-signs. It doesn’t help that my destination is the same parking lot shared by the local frat houses and that Friday night always features a beer pong tournament in my spot. Hrmph.

From the lookout at the top of Minniwaska and the Mohonk range you can see Hudson Valley as a patchwork of farms and forest. A quick jaunt down the roller-coaster inspired Highway 44/55 leads to a well-regarded German restaurant. A left turn from there connects to Highway 299 which, after a charming vignette of pumpkin patches, apple orchards, and corn fields, becomes the main street of New Paltz, a small college town featuring the charm of a vibrant artist community and the convenience of Thruway 87 (North to Albany, South to Newburgh, Harriman, and New York City).
Water Street Market, a cosmopolite collection of shops featuring jewelry, clothing, a cheese shop, and a quaint upstairs restaurant can be found immediately upon entering New Paltz. Beyond that the shops on either side of the town center are especially entertaining. Especially noteworthy are The Gilded Otter, a restaurant that brews its own beer, The Bistro, a highly regarded stop for breakfast and lunch, P&Gs, a local sports bar loved by college students and locals alike, and, much farther down the road, Rocco’s Pizza which is a national treasure.

The snow becomes sludge at the end of the sidewalk. The wind blows down from the mountains with little care that my jacket has holes, my gloves are covered in frost, and my boots are sitting in the trash four miles back. What a wretched state of affairs this little Podunk hick-town is. It’s only saving grace is a pizza place every 50 feet and a few good bars.

Any visit to New Paltz requires at least a casual tour of the Campus. SUNY New Paltz, a liberal arts college of approximately 6,000 undergraduate and 2,000 graduate students. Voted hottest small state school by 2008 Kaplan/Newsweek, it well-regarded especially for students pursuing careers in teaching and education. Also noteworthy is the Samuel Dorsky Museum of Art which hosts a vibrant collection of photography and world art.

Word of the Day is a little writing exercise I occasionally task myself with. I log into dictionary.com, go to the word of the day, and then write something using or about that word. Sometimes it’s a poem, sometimes a short story, sometimes just a little vignette. It’s been a useful exercise and tends to be a lot of fun. I wrote this particular article long before it got onto Wordpress, but the word of the day for this post is:

Limn: –verb (used with object)

1. to represent in drawing or painting.
2. to portray in words; describe.
3. Obsolete. to illuminate (manuscripts).

An interesting word.

The student sat beside the man-made pond and watched the geese sail aimlessly around the green algae that covered the surface. A stack of well-worn books sat precariously beside him, threatening with each gelid breeze to crumble onto the ground and crush the frosted grass. The student ignored them with frigid indifference.
He cautiously grabbed a drawing pad from the top and conjured a pencil out of his curly hair. His fingers limned the ducks and their irreverence, crafting beaks from parchment and sketching ruffled feathers with the side of the pencil. He moved onto the algae.
Flickers of crystal began to strike the page, leaving moist stains and faded charcoal. The student looked up. His cheek fizzled and he was retreat from the blizzard. Slowly and with a heavy sigh, the student closed his tablet, bowed to the ducks, and walked to class.

Hopefully this will be the first of many examples. Enjoy!