Giant Human Bones!

La mort du fossoyeur
(Death of the gravedigger)
by Carlos Schwabe

In the year 5607 (1847), the Arabs, on digging near this grave, found a deep vault full of gigantic human bones, which excited the astonishment of every one at the great stature of the persons, the remains of whom they were. The Pacha forbade farther digging, and the cave was again closed up.
http://www.jewish-history.com/palestine/walls.html

I love finding things like this while I'm researching for a novel. This one I used in The Flute of Sorrow, which will be out soon.

Of course, when we read these notes from the past, we go "oh my gawd, GIANT HUMAN BONES! Those must be the bones of .. [insert favorite giant humanoid here] !

We humans do this kind of thing almost  automatically.

Fact is, that these were probably not human bones at all, but some large animal. -- and what, exactly, qualifies as "Giant" ?

After I came across this obscure listing, I did a search for Giant Human Bones on Google, and was very surprised at how many are just lying around waiting for someone to find them. A bit of further reading showed that 99% of these discoveries were hoaxs -- someones attempt to make some money.

The listing on Jewish-History.com doesn't seem to be of the same caliber. The people who discovered the bones, buried them as soon as they could, and apparently, while reporting the discovery didn't let anyone else know where they were.  As a possible hoax, this rubs me wrong for two reasons. First, there is no hook in the story for receiving money. Second, telling people a story like this, and not telling them where the bones might be found, leads to people laughing at you, and if they are polite, calling you everything except a liar. You don't even get free beers for a story like this one. But it didn't seem to bother anyone in that group who came across the bones.

In the Flute of Sorrow, I use the bones as the remains of the Azrael, the Archangel of Death. I chose Azreal over all the other possible Angels of Death, because Azrael is the name used by most Arabs, and it was an Arab group who discovered these bones.

My personal favorite Angel of Death is Suriel, -- "Like Metatron, Suriel is a prince of presence and like Raphael, an angel of healing. He is also a benevolent angel of death, (one of a few). Suriel was sent to retrieve the soul of Moses. It is said that Moses received all his knowledge from Suriel, (although Zazagel is credited also with giving Moses his knowledge). In Cabala he is one of the seven angels that rule the earth."

The great thing about being a fiction writer, is no one expects to believe your story.

Outlines vs. MindMapping

I was asked yesterday if I outlined my stories, and no, I really don't. However I do use the mind-mapping tools extensively.

(Within Me the Other bleeds -- map using FreeMind format)

On my laptop I use Freemind, as well as Mindjet MindManager Pro. On my iPad I am currently using MindMeister, because it was the best one I have found so far.

When I say “best” however, this is a very subjective recommendation.There are some mind-mapping programs out there which are very well made, and easy to use, but I don't like them. Can't really tell you why, but it has something to do with noticing them... I want to focus on my projects and ideas, not the mind-mapping program.

Thought about happiness

I find it increasingly interesting, that at this point in our history our power, technology and ability makes the Greek pantheon look like babes by comparison, and yet our knowledge of happiness is no more than the understanding acquired by Aristotle.

Nocturne

-- From Sleeping with Nefarious Intent

As your nocturnal neighbor,
I slide next to you in Winter,
whispering across your breath,
the South Wind's wildest words.
When dawn warms the
window glass, and
marmalade flame transverse
the ceiling, I carefully
caress your lips with
thinly sliced strawberry,
and mango until you smell
the fresh roast brewing
in the kitchen and are ready to brace
against the cold tile floor
and shower steam.
As you are now,
stretched in graceful
recline, I see illusion,
projected on the silk
of your skin by
my mind; a rendering
in my image.
I stare to
burn my eyes,
to go blind,
so I can see your-self,
not my after-image.
My what-you-ought-to-be's
are tangled in your hair,
my wishes constrict your hips
bruising what is you.
It is difficult
to see with eyes
unclouded by wish
and ought-to's.
Hard to recognize illusion;
to realize that while I smell
your perfume, and feel the
heart beat of your thigh
What I feel, is not
what I see.
Precious enough are the moments,
that you are you;
precious enough to
sear my eyes,
so to experience each hair
and lash through the
boiling steam, and notice that
Winter has turned to Spring.

A Cardiac Episode

There is a hollow carved in me,
an area created by hepatic knurling.
A space which serves as a hospice
for my Care, and Hope.
A place where these two
are given warm towels
light but tasty food, and
236 channels of cable TV
for entertainment while they
wait and bleed. I can
hear the rasp of their
labored breath; the choking
hemoptysis; the lesion wails
they cry into their pillows when
they believe no one else is
around. My heart is
heavy from the ichnite
filling the spaces
they have fallen from;
I drift in hemal circles.


-- from Sleeping with Nefarious Intent

Lunacy

from Sleeping with Nefarious Intent

With the eddy motion
of autumnal fog -- hushed
as last breath around
the shanks of men -- the
Moon strolls to her apex;
planets are  her path stones.
Her lunette breasts sheathed
in the fabric of lithium clouds,
keened sheer by the West wind,
distract even far flown storm.
Her youth is vibrant;
Kev blue eyes, promethium
skin. Her passage silent;
latria songs marquertied in the
mercerized gown across her thighs.
The radiant goddess of the manes,
and mercurial denizens; who shift
through islands of amber light
and shadows bloated with night;
the hiemal ecosystem of the
streets below.
Those whose lives are ruled by tides,
respect her budding aspect, aware
that these maturing eyes remember
the snarled hours of her crone,
and the ensanguine gown
sometimes worn on nights she
is in bloom; hungry.

Even in her darkest age -- her petals flint,
her brilliance burned -- she entices
latent swells to rise and churn.
Men and women of the tides and sea
have heard the whales sing to
her noir-waters above, twining
the celestial to earth with
bind-song harmonies of worship
and love.
Those of lupine nature are more repine,
knowing all of her aspects are heady and
sublime. The call and howl from deep
wood and vale, for the West wind to
bring her full cloak and hood, to cover
her lunar light and its silver urn, before
the world is warped by the
effusion vapors of quicksilver burn.