Mandelo at Work

Nope, I never forget. Life is, shall we say, full to bursting right now.

And what better day to post a contest than my first paid holiday in five years?

Let me explain what's going on. Or I could sum up:

Once a month I will post an orphaned first line here on LJ. All my LJ posts are mirrored on Goodreads, so you can find the line there as well. In comments--either here or on Goodreads--write the first paragraph of a story or the first stanza of a poem using that line. Easy peasy.

Anyone can enter. Anyone at all, friend, foe or interested stranger, newbie or professional.

You have one (1) week to come up with your entry. I will announce the winner and repost his or her winning entry.

There is more at stake here than covering yourself in glory on my blog. Oh yes, there is an actual prize involved. The winner each month will receive one of the portable fantasy map pendants I make.

Kinda like this one. Not this exact one, but you get the idea. I'll surprise you.


And the first line for this month is:

At midnight on her ninth birthday, Alison Marie was crowned Queen of the Nightlands.

Now go forth and write. I'm always delighted to see what people come up with.

Detailed rules behind the cut for those who missed them. ( Read more... )

Have fun!

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Originally published at An Experimental Life. You can comment here or there.

It's Memorial Day, and I'm just a sentimental old soldier--I may have ETSed, but part of me will always be a soldier--saluting my comrades in arms who have fallen in battle. I'm not going to pretend they were all perfect--some of them were utter and total bastards in many ways--But all of them, unless they disgraced the uniform, deserve our respect, whether we agree with the wars they were sent to fight or not.

I'm about as liberal as they come, and I think that especially the wars we've been fighting lately stink, but today is not about celebrating war, or the military-industrial complex. It's about honoring real people who bled real blood, suffered real pain, and died all-too-real deaths, leaving behind devastated families and friends, in wars not of their choosing, because you sent them to do so.

"Me?" you might ask, "How did I send anyone to war?" Well, not directly, but by proxy. Still confused? Let me explain a little bit.

Soldiers don't get to choose the conflicts in which we fight and die. Even our Generals don't get to choose. In the United States, the military is civilian-controlled at the highest levels, and we have no choice but to trust in you, the civilian, to be well-informed, to elect leaders who will choose war only reluctantly, and who will make every effort to ensure that we are, as much as possible, on the moral high ground in any conflict we enter.

Sometimes that is not the case. Sometimes there is no moral high ground to be had, and sometimes we are in the wrong. Sometimes we are sent into conflicts that have little bearing on your freedoms, but even so, that we stand ready to fight and bleed and die at your bidding serves as a deterrent to any who might be tempted to transgress against you.

Consider this: Even when it is not directly being challenged, your right to act on your opinion is guaranteed with the blood of soldiers. But soldiers do not get to share in that luxury with you. Yes, we can vote, but while on active duty, we cannot protest or demonstrate about such matters--and for good reason. We sign away many of our rights for the duration of our service, and the right to certain types of speech is just one of them.

So you are our voice. If you do not like the way we, your weapons, your servants, are being used, we count on you to demonstrate either for or against wars depending on an informed opinion, in order to influence those you've put in office. If you believe in a war, raise your voice. If you are against a war, likewise. Be loud. Be heard. Make yourself impossible to ignore.

And when a soldier--or an airman, or a Marine, or a sailor, or any other member of the armed forces--dies in the line of duty, remember that they died for you, performing the task that you, collectively, sent them to do. Many didn't even agree with the reasons they were being sent, didn't believe it was a just war, but they went because you, collectively told them to go put themselves in harms way, to fight and kill and bleed and die in your name.

And those dead deserve your respect.

I don't ask for solemnity, or even a moment of silence, for those who died in the line of duty, just rememberance. Just respect.

Me, I'll go about my business as usual today, writing and laughing and maybe having a couple of beers or a shot or two of something, because that's what most of them would be doing with me if they were here, and it's what most of them would want.

Although I also served in the 1st ID in the 121st Signal Batallion, the tour of duty that still brings tears to my eyes, and the one I will always remember most fondly as one of the greatest experiences of my life, was my tour of duty as part of the 3rd Infantry Division ("Rock of the Marne!" "Nous Resterons Là"--"We Shall Remain"), specifically in the 123rd Signal Batallion ("The Voice of the Rock!" "Prima Vox Audiat"--"The First Voice Heard").

And I'll leave off with an admittedly cheesy passage from our admittedly cheesy division anthem:

“I’m just a dog face soldier

With a rifle on my shoulder

And I eat raw meat for breakfast every day

So feed me ammunition

Keep me in the Third Division

Your dog face soldier’s A-Okay”

Hoo-ah! (And I forgive in advance you Marines who mispronounce it as "Ooh-Rah!")

 

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