Arizona Bluegunfighter Another Town

Writen by Dennis Siluk

Arizona Blue-Gunfighter
In: Another Town

[--Five]

[Cheyenne - 1878]

The Man called Arizona-Blue

He was known as Arizona Blue because Arizona was where he came from and he had the deepest blue eyes any one had ever seen. In a gun fight he never blinked them once. It was amazing folks would say after watching him have a show-down with another gunfighter. It was as watching a bullfight; that is to say, Arizona being the picador and the matador: the wind would circle his feet, his hand would fly off, and the sun might even be in his way, but he never blinked, nor smiled, nor moved his hands once situated, unless to draw. That is what his opponents feared the most. No bluff.

He was a tall man, medium build, had broad shoulders and a wild look to his tan; a muscular face with a bronze reddish-brown penny look.

He had big hands like John L. Sullivan, who he had met once in a barroom fight in Boston. He had just become Heavyweight Bare Knuckle Champion a year earlier. Blue liked following the news when he could; and he liked Sullivan because he claimed he could lick any man in the house, and he did. Although Sullivan was about 2 ½ inches taller then blue, Arizona could put up a good fight himself he felt with John L., but his forte was guns, not knuckles, he'd tell himself. And in a similar manner, like Sullivan, he claimed he could out draw anyone, anywhere; and he did. Therefore, he always felt they had something in common.

Arizona wore a buckskin coat and was clean shaven, but had thick long busy sideburns, the same as his hair, and thick eyebrows; He had deep-pitted eyes, high cheekbones, and a thick-looking jaw; he was mean, handsome and boisterous; a deadly combination in any town.

His horse, Dan, a solid creature with a long mane, was all a cowboy could ask for. He was brownish in color with legs like a deer and a heart that could outlast the best of any Indian horse. What Blue didn't want was to ride into a feud between sheep and cattle ranchers, and homesteaders; and he knew each town had its demons.

—With such men came the tired look. As he sat on his horse, allowing himself to catch his breath before he entered the small Wyoming town in front of him; thus, he thought of the lonely journey he had coming up from Pueblo along the Continental Divide that stretched from Colorado to Canada. The Marianne Bow Mountains, he captured sight of and the long dusty cactus along the way. He was nasty dirty:

"Another Town," he whispered to himself, as if waiting for old Dan to comment (his horse).

His eyes then made a half circle [18--degree circle]. He had seen his share of these dusty little towns in Montana, Arizona territories, and Wyoming; Deadwood in the Dakota's; the old trail town of Cody; and of course Tombstone, to mention a few. This one he hadn't been to, called Cheyenne. He knew it was a cattle area although. He had met some time ago, a woman called 'Cattle Kate' while in Cody. She was quite plane he thought, but had her charms, and Blue knew she'd have her day because she was always ending up with a few extra mavericks, but could never prove she was the rustler. Thoughts just circled his mind as he scanned the territory and town around him.

It was back in the l860s, the Homestead Act which allowed men to buy land as cheap as a $1.25 an acre; it made many a man rich. And still was making men rich. The thought of lots of jobs around this area, crossed Blue's mind as he looked up towards the hot summer sun, its blinding beams. He wiped the sweat off his brow. Moved a bit within on his saddle trying to catch a glimpse of a supply store—what the sign read on the building; his horse was wet with sweat, and thirsty. He looked down to the horse's profile, and smiled. He didn't smile much, but to old Dan he made it a point to do it often.

"Ok, old Dan," said Blue, "let's sees what the town has to offer!" And he kicked his horse lightly, and down the hill he rode, toward Main Street. He arched his back, his plaid shirt opened to catch the breeze as he rode down; he pulled a little tighter on the reins, to control his horse a ting; put a flat affect on his face, so no one could read him.

Notes by Rosa Peñaloza: Writings by Dennis Siluk/2001; unpublished; number five of the series of five episodes. Three episodes published in the book, "Everyday's an Adventure"2002. This one was taken out of mothballs, and rewritten; it was supposed to have been the first of the series, four years ago, and not fully completed. The author is still looking for number two, which also has not been previously published and would compliment this one I expect. 7/2005 Revised. As with most of Mr. Siluk's stories, he was in Cheyenne, in l969, and that is a story of its own. What I remember him telling me was: "I was on my way back with a friend from California to Minnesota, we stopped and picked up a few other friends in some desert town and John was drunk all the time. When we got to Cheyenne, he was walking down main street urinating on the side walk, by a grocery store, it was noon or so, and I had to grab him so the police would not put us all in jail for being stupid kids, I was 20-years old, and was traveling around the country; he just happened to go with me this time." There is more to the story but that was the funny part I thought.

Dennis Siluk is the author of 30-books, and is finishing up two at the moment; he lives in Minnesota and Peru. His books can be seen on most web sites that sell books his site is http://dennissiluk.tripod.com

The Story Of Smokey Bear

Writen by Ken Kosakowkisjzkij

Smokey Bear the icon was born in the mind of Rudy Wendelin, who was an artist for the U.S. Forest Service. In 1944 the Forest Service authorized his poster of Smokey Bear as the symbol for fire prevention.

The real life Smokey Bear was discovered in 1950 in the Capitan mountains in New Mexico. Firefighters were battling a powerful human caused wildfire when they came upon a bear cub which had climbed a tree to escape the flames. When firefighters finally were able to rescue the bear cub, he had been badly burned. The firefighters nursed him back to health, named him Smokey Bear, and the living symbol of Smokey Bear was born.

Smokey Bear was eventually flown to the National Zoo in Washington D.C. where his legend and popularity grew around the world. Smokey Bear became an international superstar and the popularity of the Forest Service's ad campaign grew and grew. Smokey Bear became so popular that congress passed a law governing the commercialization of the name and image of Smokey Bear. Smokey Bear also received his own zip code because of the huge amounts of fan mail he received from fans across the globe.

Smokey Bear is the only individual animal to be honored by the U.S. Postal Service with a stamp. In 1984 the USPS released a stamp created by the original artist Rudy Wendelin, depicting Smokey Bear clinging to a burnt tree with the Smokey Bear emblem in the background.

The Smokey Bear campaign is the longest running public ad campaign in U.S. History. Smokey's forest fire prevention message remained unchanged for 50 years until the Ad Council updated his message to address the growing number of forest fires around the U.S.

Get more information on Smokey Bear and Forest Fire Prevention at http://www.smokeysignal.com

Popular Modern Japanese Writer Haruki Murakami

Writen by Michael Russell

The most popular modern Japanese writer throughout the entire world is likely Haruki Murakami. His works have been translated into 38 different languages and are often described as being very accessible to readers while still having a profoundness in them that isn't as simple to see.

Haruki Murakami was born in 1949 in Kyoto. His mother and father both taught Japanese literature and he spent most of his childhood in Kobe. As a child, Murakami was more influenced by Western culture than by the literature his parents taught. He was always interested in Western music and grew up reading Dostoyevsky, Balzac and Vonnegut instead of classic Japanese literature. Critics believe that the reason Murakami is separated from the rest of Japanese writers is because of this Western influence seen in his style, which is more freeform than most Japanese writers' styles. His novels tend to have musical themes in them as well. For example, his novel "Norwegian Wood" is named after a song from "Rubber Soul" by the Beatles.

Murakami met his wife, Yoko, at Waseda University in Tokyo where he had studied drama. He first started working in a record store, which is where one of his characters worked in one of his novels. After graduating, he opened up his own jazz bar in Tokyo called "Peter Cat". This bar lasted 8 years, from 1974 to 1982. Later on in life Murakami also worked at Tufts University, where he taught literature.

Murakami wrote his first novel in 1979, 30 years after he was born. While watching a baseball game on television, he suddenly became inspired to write a novel: "Hear the Wind Sing". Although it was translated into English, it has not been released outside of Japan because Murakami thinks that the novel is too fragmented and not up to quality. However, just after writing it he sent it into a contest and won first prize for it. Since this first novel, Murakami has had his own unique style and humor. He also likes to play around with nostalgia, which is seen in many of his works.

"Hear the Wind Sing" later turned out to be the first book of three, in a trilogy that included the same characters. "Pinball, 1973" was written due to the success of his first novel, which was then followed by "A Wild Sheep Chase". Although "A Wild Sheep Chase" has made it onto American shores, "Pinball, 1973" has suffered from the same fate as "Hear the Wind Sing". Murakami continued writing and then released "Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World" in 1985. It wasn't until 1987, however, that he became truly popular when he gained national praise for "Norwegian Wood".

Murakami continues writing and all of his books are considered to be very good by critics from all around the world. Murakami has also translated some of his favorite Western novels into Japanese, including "Catcher in the Rye". Recently his short story "Tony Takitani" was also turned into a film directed by Jun Ichikawa. His next novel, "After Dark", which has already been released in Japan, is planned to be released in English in 2007.

Michael Russell Your Independent guide to Japan

When We Was Kids In Chicago Part 3

Writen by Luksi Humma

I have been thinking about those times back in the 70's in Chicago. We were all out of service, the war was over, and we were coming home in droves. Many guys found out that they had lost their girlfriends, and wives, to the romeo's who stayed behind, while we served in the military.

I remember how some people reacted to what they had seen and done. Some of it was good and other actions were not so good. It was all the matter of melding back into society. I use that word loosely, because Chicago society, as I knew it was tough and sometimes dangerous.

When I was seventeen I left home for a life of adventure on my own. I moved into a horse stable on Chicago's far south side. The name was, Sky High Stables on 172nd and Central Ave. In the bunkhouse, we lived with drunks who would make us drive to the liquor store, then threaten us and take our money so they could buy liquor. It didn't seem that far out of line back then. One might say it was the price of living that adventure.

Every morning we would roll open those huge barn doors, and the smell of horse urine coming from all those poor equines, would almost knock us out. We shovelled and cleaned all those stalls, so the horses could have some kind of good life. That was just one of the two sides of the barn. Fifty horses on the stand stall, and livery side, and about thirty on the high dollar side with box stalls.

Funny thing about that, they all kicked hard and bit viciously, when they were hungry in the morning, and we thought nothing of it. Cleaning all those stalls was an all out assault on the senses and in some case, dangerous to our health. I guess when your a kid, nothing really gets to you that much. At least, not a kid from Chicago.

We threw hay bales during the summer. If you had any fat on you at all, there was none after that excersize. We were fairly strong, now that I look back at it. I remember too, all the big black limosines, rolling down the long road that lead into Sky High. Oh yes, mobsters, coming to see Kenny. The owner, as we all knew was involved with the mob. He would get regular visits and we all knew to keep our distance from the trailer, that he and his wife lived in, just outside the barn, during those meetings.

We would find a good spot, far away from the action, we didn't even want those tough guys to see us looking at them. We knew that it was the best thing for our health. We just loved the horses, and living with the mob was an everyday thing for us. We all knew gangsters and we all stayed far away from those black clothed drivers, who would lean against the limos, and cross their hands in front of them while waiting for the bosses.

Horses were our lives back then, and we belonged to a click of kids who knew about horses. We had broken even the toughest brutes by sheer terror of getting busted up. We had no finesse or horse sense, everything was brute force and compliance. That is all we knew back then.

As time drew me into its vortex, I started looking for other things in my life, outside the horse arena was a world of interest to me. Most of it was coming from the veteran's who were coming home, and were having a hard time. My Father, his Father, all my uncles were all veterans of the wars and service. There was never a day in my life when I doubted the thought of anything, other than enlisting in the service.

Lets see, I remember the old timers saying, "ya ain't a man till ya fought in Japan". Sheesh how was I gonna follow that up?

All the days of my life, my eyes had beheld these powerful men, all my relatives, wearing khakis, and navy blues, these were the real tough guys in my life. I say those words with real fond memories of these men, who had done things that were not intimated to those, who were not destined to serve. That too was a club of sorts, The Mens Club, and not the one in Houston, Texas.

I want to tell you more of these stories but first, I must think about, how I shall describe these men, and how they dealt with their burdens. Their wives and families had their own crosses to bear while they were gone, and they were strong, and brave. The tears they cried, left indellible wet spots in my mind and wonderous thoughts of those men's peril, while they faced the ultimate test.

We will talk more later, please come back and read my tales of bravery. All these people deserve to have their stories told because most are no longer here. I will tell those stories as I remember them. With fondness and respect for all. Till next time, these are my thoughts and memories of Chicago.

Life was becoming more serious as the war in Vietnam wore on. We were just doing what we were trained to do.

Profanity The Fcc Must Just Love It

Writen by John T Jones, Ph.D.

When the Founding Fathers preserved our right to free speech they were thinking of the oppression that many Americans had suffered under tyranny that prevented them from expressing political views, opinions on science, or anything that defamed local, national or church leaders. It had nothing to do with profanity. That was expressly forbidden by law in most all communities. If you said damn you could end up in the stocks.

The FCC controls radio and television broadcasting in the United States. You would think that they would want everything to be clean and of good report. Instead our weak-butt government has condoned the bleep to protect our tender ears from profanity. They condone the blur to make sure we do not see male and female private parts and women's breast.

The blur still works.

The bleep does not.

Have you noticed that the time-delay on the the bleep on some channels has changed so that you can still hear the filth? How clever of television and television channels to make the the bleep worthless. That is if the the bleep ever had any value. In my opinion it's disruptive and stupid.

Why didn't the FCC just say NO PROFANITY! NO SEXUALLY EXPLICIT JOKES!

Would that have been too complicated?

As for the blur why didn't they say NO MORE EXPLICIT SEX SCENES!

Nudity in itself is harmless. A Zulu chief supposedly said that clothing led to promiscuity, not nudity. I guess he was referring to peek-a-boo-type clothing. Our double-standard on nudity would apply this statement only to women being in the buff.

But the chief had a point. Seeing your opposite-sex friends grow up in the nude would make being nude "ho-hum," wouldn't it?

You need a hot climate for nudity to work. In our northern climbs we would just get use to nudity in the summer when everybody would put their cloths back on. We wouldn't get use to nudity again until the next summer.

I don't know about you, but when Jay Leno and other stand-up comics decide to dwell in the gutter, I switch channels. When Chappelle's Show goes into the gutter to stereotype black people, I turn it off.

Don't ask me why Chappelle does that to his own race.

I'll say this for him. He does not use profanity just for the sake of using it. It's not in every skit.

The Daily Show is infantile when it comes to profanity and gutter English.

You would think that an intelligent person like Jon Daily would grow up.

Profanity is not funny.

Anything that is that common lost its humor ages ago.

Top comedians seldom use profanity or gutter language although some have a double standard. They use profanity and its friends on the rode but not on public media. Bad language will never get you to the big time in my opinion. But as long as profanity is offensive, guys like Daily will use it.

It stirs up the emotions.

It stirs me to change channels.

Leno's writers are brainless twits who will succeed in removing him from the historical company of Bob Hope, Jack Benny, and Johnny Carson.

I think we need a law slapped on cable companies. They could only charge for and broadcast channels acceptable to the buyer of their services. That way, you can cut out the Comedy Channel and other profanity and sexually-explicit channels and not pay for them either. I've heard that this is in the works.

You could also cut out all of those shopping channels, channels that seem like nothing but an endless line of commercials, and any channel that mainly broadcast stuff outside your genre.

Wait!

I've got it!

Sell your television sets and do something useful with your time.

I learned that in Arizona.

A number of families there have no television sets at all. We have some families like that in Idaho. They want their kids to read and play softball instead.

How clever!

The End

Television, FCC, profanity, nudity, cable, Founding Fathers, Zulu, Comedy, Bob Hope, Johnny Carson, Leno, Chappelle.

John T. Jones, Ph.D. (tjbooks@hotmail.com, a retired VP of R&D for Lenox China, is author of detective & western novels, nonfiction (business, scientific, engineering, humor), poetry, etc. Former editor of Ceramic Industry Magazine. He is Executive Representative of IWS sellers of Tyler Hicks wealth-success books and kits. He also sells TopFlight flagpoles. He calls himself "Taylor Jones, the hack writer." More info: http://www.tjbooks.com Business web site: http://www.aaaflagpoles.com

Different Styles And Forms To Abstract Art

Writen by James Hunt

Abstract art is known as art that is not an accurate representation of a form or object. What this means is that you will not see a definite shape or figure in the art, you will have to look at it closely and interpret what you see. The art itself is differed in many ways including color and form. The artist sees something in the painting and artwork.

There are many different styles and forms to abstract art. There are three forms of abstract art that stand out and have become famous over the years. These forms have been made famous certain artists. These forms include, Cubism, Neoplasticism, and Abstract Expressionism.

Cubism is the more modern movement in the world of abstract art. The artwork is created by using an analytical approach to the object and painting the basic geometric solid of the subject. Artist that followed this form of abstract art expressed themselves by showing different views of an object that have been put together in a way that you can not actually see real life. This period was started in Paris in 1908 and it was said that it reached its peak in 1914. Cubism continued until the 1920's. Abstract art painters of this time include such people as Fernand Leger and Francis Picabia.

The next period in the world of abstract art is Neoplasticism. This period was marked by the belief that art should not be the reproduction of real objects. It should instead be the expression of the absolutes of life. According these artists the only absolutes in this world were vertical and horizontal lines and the primary colors. The artist of this period was Theo van Doesburg.

Abstract Expressionism is a style of painting in which the painter shows his personality through pure and simply spontaneity. This has been said to more of a study of color and brush stroke. One of the most popular artists that used abstract expressionism was Jackson Pollack. He was called an action painter in the world of abstract art. He would drip and pour his paint to create his work.

James Hunt has spent 15 years as a professional writer and researcher covering stories that cover a whole spectrum of interest. Read more at http://www.best-in-abstract-art.info.

A Night Of Light Van Goghs The Starry Night 1889

Writen by Elizabeth Harding

"…A kind of painting giving greater consolation." In Vincent van Gogh's own words we find a succinct and simple description of "The Starry Night," probably his most famous work.

Philosophers, art historians, musicologists and mystics have been known to choose van Gogh's "Starry Night" as an example of artwork that depicts on canvas the music of the spheres. This painting, as very few others, has a universal impact on the audience that might be compared to the effect Handle's"Messiah" has, an effect that creates the immediate need to rise up in accord, physically, mentally, emotionally and spiritually.

Why this particular piece of work is so powerful remains a source of speculation. Vincent's own churning state of mind and spirit, displayed so clearly and fitfully for any viewer to witness, is probably as good an explanation as any. During his life, he was branded as insane, and indeed, he voluntarily went into an asylum to try to find some peace toward the end. His was a spirit so open and vulnerable, and a mind so beleaguered, that he likely could not have hid his own internal chaos from his viewers even if he tried.

What strikes us immediately is the juxtaposition of light and dark. In fact, it seems there is more brightness in this nightscape than darkness. The characteristic van Gogh swirls of pigment are blatant and appealing, imbuing the canvas with movement and energy. Repeated curving patterns swing from the landscape into the sky and back again, tying the picture together with the force of this artist's brush and will.

As to the style and composition of this famous piece, the techniques, while Vincent's own, are superficially unpolished. The artist himself uses the word "exaggerations" to describe the hills; "warped," he calls them, "as in old woodcuts." The undeniable impression of unity that the painting imparts, however, belies its apparent simplicity.

The textured hills lead the eye into the small town on the bottom right quadrant, and thence to the dominating cypress, giving the foreground in a bold dark green, and on into a sky filled with fireworks of stars, moons and the sun itself. Swirls fitted into more swirls in the sky give way to round bowls of color that are the heaven's lights, greater and grander in van Gogh's vision of things than reality. A tiny steepled church in the bottom center echoes the cypress and confirms an upward reach of the earthly into the sky and beyond.

Vincent painted "The Starry Night" outside the asylum at Saint-Rémy, just one month after entering the institution. It was complete in just three days, one of 150 powerful canvases he produced during that year in the hospital. His time there was a concentrated effort to find light in darkness, not only in his soul, but on canvas. "The Starry Night" reflects all of his churning spirit in a frozen moment of perfect beauty, imparting joy to the viewer, though the artist was in chaos.

Van Gogh sought to express his spirit, and express it he did, in formidable works that speak to humanity in a clear voice on a gut level, such as "The Potato Eaters," "Vincent's Room," and his "Self-Portrait with Bandaged Ear." His works that do not include figures or faces, such as "The Starry Night," "Sunflowers" or "Night Café," speak to us just as clearly as his beloved portraits do. Their impact remains a legacy from a unique spirit that lives on in pure form, through his paintings.

Visit the Life of Van Gogh website for more information on Van Gogh paintings, or to get out own Biography of Vincent Van Gogh.

The Lottery Of Instant Fame

Writen by Anne Clarke

In the acting industry, this phrase is worth more than a $20 million-dollar, big-budget film contract. Almost every actor will run into one type or another of there such acting scams. Con and scam artists, as unfortunate as it may be, have great luck working the entertainment industry. There is no law against taking money that is willingly given, and the promise of stardom is quite an incentive. Taking advantage of your aspirations if you do not no better is your villain's specialty. The acting scams we are about to discuss will come to you from all directions. Even if you go to a photographer with a good reputation, a highly recommended talent agent, or a seemingly sincere advisor—you may find he or she trying to lure you in; trying to sell something you do not need. It is very comparable to any large business, the beauty counters at the shopping mall, the clothing stores that say "oh that 120.00 dress looks great on you!" perhaps the mechanic who tells you your car needs more fixing than it actually does, or the doctor that suggests unnecessary surgery or starts you on a medicine you do not really need. Any business can and will make quite a large amount of their profit doing just this.

Suckers Wanted:

So here's the scenario: You see an ad in the paper, the ad seems like it is coming from an agency of good reputation. The ad says they have initiated and boosted the careers of many famous people, or that they have booked an unbelievable amount of jobs for their clients.

Now, the ad claims that they are suddenly looking for brand new talent and new faces for show business—people just like you—how wonderful! And when they claim that you do not require any acting experience whatsoever. This is your clue. You can be almost positive that such an ad is an acting scam. They will claim that all you have to do, no matter who you are or how good you are, is go to their office for an interview and you will have a good chance of becoming a big star. Then they may recommend you to a photographer or talent instructor etc with whom they are affiliated.

Dead giveaways:

First, reputable agencies do not usually put ads in the newspaper or in magazines. These companies have so many headshots and resumes from experienced actors that they have no reason to look elsewhere.

Second, when such a so-called "agency" claims to have launched the careers of famous people, usually it is not true, not the way you think. They may only have had some brief affiliation with that celebrity, but celebrities change agencies all the time the acting scam is that their abilities had something to do with this actors success. Not necessarily, not even probably. Often there was actually no affiliation at all the "agency" could just be making the whole thing up—and who would check up on those sorts of things? Would you? The purpose is to get you to envision yourself as a star, just long enough for them to take your cash.

Third, most actors need some acting experience before looking for representation. There are few exceptions. Therefore it is highly unusual for an agency to call inexperienced actors in for consultation. Real agencies need actors who can nail their auditions and get booked for parts—not need excessive direction and deliver monologues that reflect inexperience.

Fourth, a legitimate agency gets paid only after an actor is booked. So if they want money upfront, it is likely to turn out that you have been cheated.

Anne Clarke writes numerous articles for websites on gardening, parenting, fashion, acting and home décor. Her background includes teaching and gardening. For more of her articles on acting and film or theatre visit acting scams.

Summer Bulletin Board Ways To Have Fun This Summer

Writen by Greg Gagliardi

The declaration that summer is here still holds true today, for summer has not yet left, which is more than can be said about that lazy relative who is still on your couch (seriously, check it now). Many people have begun to have some fun this summer, either by vacationing away, vacationing at home, or by watching every television marathon that doesn't actually include people running real marathons (that'd be too ironic). Still, there are likely some who are in need of suggestions. Well, here I am to save the day, with a list of activities sure to stop your summer blues:

- In most areas, the summer implies that there will be some heat. And what better way to use that heat than to have ice races with friends! Simply go outside with a friend and at least two ice cubes of the same size. Then place your ice cubes on the ground or a flat surface and watch whose melts first. Yes, ice is exciting. Who would have thought that "fun" could be spelled with three letters?

- Nothing says summer like a talking Slip 'n' Slide. So why not... Oh never mind, if it talks, then it can tell you the rest...

- It's time to take the cover off of the grill, grab a bag of marshmallows and create your own Peeps. Yours will look nothing like the Easter variety at first, but you have a couple of months to work on it, assuming the fun doesn't overwhelm you...

- You don't need a swimming pool to swim. Simply put on your swimming clothes and wait outside on the street for an open invitation. Wearing scuba gear and goggles will increase the odds of this occurring, or -- at the very least -- will make you a greater target for water balloons, which is pretty much the same as swimming anyway...

- Do birds really need those baths set out for them? If the answer to this question is "no" -- and I am not really sure of this one -- then simply kick them out and take their spots. If anyone questions this activity, tell him/her it's a hockey game and you're playing left wing. If a hockey player asks you, tell him/her your game is for the birds, which is basically accurate, even though you kicked them out earlier...

- Lemonade stands are a hassle to create. So why not take over someone else's stand and negotiate that you will take a certain percentage of the profit, simply because you made the declaration to do so. To make this more fun, put your name on the sign and give all of your friends a free cup. If you are above the age of 30, quit your day job in order to run this business more successfully. Make sure your old high school classmates see your success. Send them e-cards if possible...

But I digress.

Greg Gagliardi is a teacher and writer. His stream-of-consciousness weekly humor column, "Progressive Revelations," has been ongoing since 1998. (http://www.ProgressiveRevelations.com)

Get Paid What Youre Worth As An Artist

Writen by Greg Katz

What does it take to make a living as an artist? We have a couple of alternatives; we can create hundreds of works of art and sell our work just for the sake of selling. We often find we're exhausted and financially in the hole. "I Love Lucy" had an episode where she was making salad dressing. She said she was losing three cents a jar but she would make it up in volume. Do you want to always be behind the eight ball or are you willing to position yourself to get paid what your worth?

How do we attach value to our work? We can break it down in simple numerical terms; how much did our materials cost, factor in some rent if your working in a studio, some utilities wherever your working, and your time. If you decided what you'd like to make per hour you'll need to keep track of how long the work takes to create. When you crunch the numbers you'll come up with a value that might work for you but there are other ways.

It's important that we do some market research. What are other artists in the same medium/genre charging for their work? The internet has made it easy to search artist's personal galleries and often they will price their work online. This research will give you a starting point.

One of the advantages of belonging to artist professional organizations is that they will often conduct surveys of their members and there is usually a category connected to annual income and specifics about average price for work. Once you have a ballpark figure you can use other factors to come up with your pricing structure. Consider how long you've been creating art. Take into account the recognition you've received through shows, juried competitions and media coverage. One factor that you need to consider is how fast your pieces are selling, if they fly off the walls it's time to raise your prices. I know that sounds counterintuitive but there is a method to the madness.

Over the past few years I have become more particular about where I exhibit my work. I've become selective when exhibiting because I only want to exhibit in shows where the other artists are willing to price their work in a fashion that honors the blood, sweat and tears it took to create the piece. Exhibiting in that atmosphere immediately raises the bar for me professionally and raises my self-confidence. I'm always looking to play in a bigger pond. If we want to get better, then we need to play with people who are ahead of us on the journey.

Learn from those who have struggled with the issues of maintaining sustainable businesses. Ask questions when you go to shows. Enroll in workshops designed to assist artists in creating thriving businesses. Use the trial and error method, and evaluate the outcome after each show/performance. Be conscious of your desire to survive and thrive as an artist and price your work accordingly.

Greg Katz is a national juried artist and the founder of the Artist Success Studio; an online community devoted to transforming "Successful Artist" from oxymoron to declarative fact. Greg can be reached at 720-851-6736 or his website, http://www.gregkatz.com

Pacific Northwest Native Canadian Art Raven

Writen by Clint Leung

The most important symbol to many Pacific Northwest Native Canadian people is the Raven bird who is considered the Creator's assistant. It is said that the Raven could transform himself into anything. He was responsible for supplying the rivers and seas with fish as well as putting the sun into the sky. This is why the Raven is sometimes referred to as the 'Bringer of Light'. Interestingly enough, the Raven's antics were thought to be motivated by greed. It was also said that he loved to tease and trick which gave him the reputation of being the trickster. Despite his selfishness, the Raven is also a cultural hero since his mischievous actions always helped the world.

According to one Pacific Northwest Native Canadian legend, an old chief hid the sun away in a box. The Raven transformed into a pine needle which dropped into the drinking water which the chief's daughter drank. She became pregnant and a son was born. One day, the chief finally gave into the Raven's (now disguised as his grandson) whining and allowed him to play with the sun in the box. Once the box was outside, the Raven broke it and transformed back to his original bird form. He then took the sun into his beak and flew up to the sky putting the sun back in its right place.

According to the Pacific Northwest Native Canadian people, gifts featuring the prestigious Raven symbol are appropriate for someone respected or considered a hero.

Clint Leung is owner of Free Spirit Gallery http://www.FreeSpiritGallery.ca , an online gallery specializing in Inuit Eskimo and Northwest Native American art including carvings, sculpture and prints. Free Spirit Gallery has numerous information resource articles with photos of authentic Inuit and Native Indian art as well as free eCards.

Some Of The Many Different Ways Art Is Expressed

Writen by Gregg Hall

Art is defined in the Merriam Webster's Collegiate Dictionary Tenth Addition as skill acquired by experience, study or observation. In other words art can be described as seen through the eyes of the beholder. Many forms of art have appeared over the years and newer more abstract art of modern days is often described as contemporary art.

Art over the centuries has taken on many forms. From Leonardo DaVinci to Jim Morrison, art can be determined by the desire of others to enjoy a particular form. People have been collecting famous works of art for a long time. Today many new artists skilled from personal experience have been sharing their view of beauty throughout the world.

With society changing everyday the evolution of art has become a source of particular negative views. More and more contumacy artist are making their works available to the public and as the world changes so does the view of art.

Today's generation of adults have experienced much political and social change, making a great amount of expressive ideas to take the form as art. Although different people can view different things while looking at art, many people have changed the form of the canvas. For example, tattooing has become increasingly popular in the twenty first century. People have discovered they can express themselves by way of a permanent tattoo on their skin. When you see someone with tattoos all over their skin you may begin to form an opinion of an undesirable person.

However, if you should sit down with a person who has many tattoos on their body you may hear a beautiful story of struggle, heartache, love or even accomplishment. People have begun to put the feelings and life views out as an artful expression in the form of a tattoo.

Another form of contemporary art is the canvas paintings and photographic expressions of an abstract nature. With so many different opinions on what is and what is not art, the artists of today are not afraid to show more impressions of the unrest over the last century. The art is more real and sometimes more graphic. Due to the graphic and sometimes explicit paintings and sculptures in recent years people struggle to find a freedom through art. Art museums and exhibits are often censored for the public. Private viewings have become the norm for explicit expressions of art.

Thanks to the variety of impressions of the world around us we can view artistic expressions in raw forms. The social and political struggles in life prove to be a place for observation of the human race that deems different styles and expressions of contemporary art. Never before in history has there been more variety of expressive art shown in contemporary art.

Gregg Hall is an author living in Navarre Florida. Find more about this as well as framed art and posters at http://www.framedartandposters.com

The Most Popular Broadway Shows

Writen by Seth Miller

When you are in New York and decide to watch some of the most popular and most acclaimed Broadway shows, be prepared to put in the effort to obtain those hard-to-get, and sometimes elusive, tickets. In some cases, you may have to fight for them. Some sure ways to get these tickets is to reserve them way in advance or to buy tickets for afternoon shows so that you can be assured of a seat in the theater. If you would like to take on the challenge of getting these Broadway tickets, here are a few tips that can help you in your search.

Some tips

If you are feeling lucky, you can go directly to the theater box offices of the theaters of the show. If you're really lucky, you might just end up with the ticket that you want. Another way to get tickets is to buy them online because the companies who sell these tickets often have a lot of tickets that you can purchase. When these options fail, do not fret and go running to your neighborhood scalper. There is still hope. Another way you can score these tickets is to befriend your hotel concierge because he knows his way around getting a Broadway ticket. Lastly, calling theaters for standby tickets can be a good idea since you never know when you might just get lucky.

Getting tickets for a very popular Broadway play can be very challenging. To be assured of seats, most people buy their tickets in advance either through the Internet or through brokers. However, for some people who may not have had the chance to buy their tickets in advance, there are still some ways to score some tickets. All they need to know is when and where to look and from whom to ask help to get that elusive ticket.

Broadway Shows provides detailed information on Broadway Shows, Tickets to Broadway Shows, Off Broadway Shows, Discount Broadway Shows and more. Broadway Shows is affiliated with Half Price Broadway Tickets.

Chicago

Writen by Colin Ingram

I grew up in Chicago during the years of World War II. Lots of things were scarce then, and food was rationed. But in the midst of these scarcities, our family was well off because my father had a wholesale food business and we were able to get just about everything edible (Including the greatest of rarities during WWIIbubble gum!). Everyone liked my dad; he had friends everywhere, and he knew how to treat them. I got a good glimpse of that one day, as well as how the city of Chicago worked.

I was riding in my dad's truck, helping to deliver some wheels of hard-to-get Wisconsin cheddar cheese to posh restaurants. Have you ever seen a "wheel" of cheese? Ours was about the size and shape of a truck tire, and weighed 50-80 lbs. We were delivering them to a posh restaurant in the downtown section of Chicago known as "The Loop." Even in the '40s, the Loop was a very crowded area, and it was almost impossible to find a parking place. At that time, all of the downtown traffic police rode horses, and they spent most of their time handing out parking tickets to the many illegally parked cars and trucks.

We double-parked our truck in front of a restaurant and, before making the delivery, my dad took a big knife, cut a wedge out of one of the cheese wheels, and wrapped it up (in paperthere was no plastic then). That single wedge was about a foot and one half long, and, by itself, weighed almost 20 lbs. My dad told me it was for one of the cops (that's what they called themselves–never "policemen" or "peace officers") who was having a hard time making ends meet. This particular cop, an Irishman like most of the Chicago cops, had a big family to feed, and 20 lbs, of Wisconsin cheddar, a tightly rationed item, was a treasure.

A moment later I heard the sharp clip-clop of hooves on pavement, and a burly, middle-aged cop came up to our truck and leaned over into the cab. He called out, "Hi, Carl, hawaya? That your sonny boy with you?" I waved to the cop and, after the mutual inquiries about families were over, my dad said, "Mike, I'm overloaded with too much stuff this week, and it's only going to waste. Could you help me by taking it off my hands?" and he handed over that big wedge of cheese. You should have seen that cop's eyes light up when he saw it. He grinned, and stuck the cheese into his saddlebag, two-thirds of it sticking out like a bright orange tower. After thanking my dad, the cop asked, "Delivering today, Carl?" My dad told him yes, and the cop said, "Just double-park here and I'll watch things for you." I helped my dad carry in two cheese wheels to the restaurant, and when we came back outside, there was the cop, seated on his tall, brown horse, holding up a line of traffic until my dad could move our truck out of the way.

That was Chicago in those days. It wasn't exactly bribery or payoff; I sensed the cop would have helped my dad even without the gift of cheese. It was a way of greasing the wheels of commerce, and of ordinary folks looking after each other whenever they could. No, Chicago wasn't perfect by any means. But it worked.

How Tucson Jack Developed His Respect For The Guacamole Man

Writen by Thad Guy

I like to think that Jack was the person who would result if someone tried to actually average everyone together. Jack was generally nice, given the opportunity. He was mostly honest. He was of modest intelligence, yet diligent enough that his intelligence didn't actually matter. His hair was always a little messy, but never really out of control.

Jack was born in the sun washed city of Tucson Arizona. Though he had tried living in other climates he found that he preferred the weather in Tucson. A big puffy winter jacket was never really Jack's thing. He had this strange fear that he might not be able to get out of it. In the winters, rather than deal with snow Jack enjoyed hiking around Tucson and the reliable crunch of pebbles under his shoes.

Though Jack disliked the cold he also didn't appreciate it much when the weather went over 90 degrees. In the summer Jack stayed inside most of the time. He would dread leaving the air-conditioned interior for that short walk to his hot car. Over the years the land around Tucson had been scrubbed by the wind and sanitized by the sun. Its simple yet chaotic order could be found in Jack himself.

Jack was never really much of a drinker and his wild streak was limited to one time when he was dared to run around the block naked. Yet, if I had to guess I would say that he would have been quite the party animal if his friends had encouraged that in him. As things worked out Jack preferred the movies to parties.

When Jack was twenty-five he met a girl that he really liked to be around. Neither of them actually wanted to get married. There was something strange in the possessive relationship marriage implied. But, they both felt like it was the way things were supposed to go. The only real reason they got married was because they had been together for a while.

* * *

For their honeymoon Jack and his new bride when to Hawaii. Neither of them had ever been to Hawaii, or especially liked the beach. But, others went to Hawaii on their honeymoons and who really cared enough to fight a trend like that?

On their first day in Hawaii Jack went out to the grocery store to stock up for their weeklong stay in the islands. On the road from the grocery store back to the hotel there was a gigantic avocado tree. Its branches spread out to the size of a two bedroom one and a half bath house. Standing on the side of the road Jack decided that he wanted one of the football-sized fruits to eat later that day. They were so plump and looked perfect for use in a fresh dip that could be eaten on the balcony of their room while they watched the sun set into the ocean. But, the massive branches of the tree were not quite able to stretch all the way to the side of the road.

The base of the tree was down a rather steep hill. With flickers of sexual fantasies flashing through his head, Jack started down the hill to get an avocado. As he progressed down the hill the avocados only receded further overhead. Jack tired to climb the tree but this proved itself to be more difficult than what his childhood memory had lead him to believe. The tree trunk was slippery from the Hawaiian moisture and jumping to try to grab one of the slick branches seemed like a bad idea on the steep rocky ground.

Jack was sweating a sizeable amount after a few jumps and was getting frustrated with his attempts to rightfully retrieve his avocado. Being fed up with the difficulty of this rather simple quest Jack found a large stick and preceded to swat at the tree. For the most part he missed the tree branches entirely. However, on his fourth swing Jack hit a rather small branch straight on, which sent a shock wave through his entire skeleton. Three avocados promptly fell and landed a little downhill of where Jack was. Only partially moving by free will Jack chased after two of the avocados that had rolled from the landing places. After about ten feet of losing ground to the avocados he gave up the chase and started back to the road.

The tropical Hawaiian climate on this particular hill at this particular time of day was amazingly similar to the climate of a hot tub. It was really nice if all that you wanted to do was sit there. However, doing much more, such as putting your head under water and doing laps, was quite uncomfortable. Jack started to trudge back up the hill towards the single avocado that had not rolled off. With each step Jack understood more and more clearly that the avocado was not worth this entire escapade. Jack was drenched in sweat by the time he made it back to the avocado he had knocked off the tree. It had been damaged in the fall; however, it was big enough that there was still plenty of unspoiled avocado on it. After another five vertical feet Jack had developed a hidden disdain for the ten-pound avocado yet he refused to leave it behind and return with nothing.

When Jack successfully made it back to the road, he had developed a wheezing gasp, a deep desire for water, an irrational fear of fruit flies, and, partially due to the sturdiness of the avocado in his arm, an honest respect for those who make guacamole at the tables of certain upscale restaurants.

According to staff at the hotel where Jack was staying this sort of thing happens all the time, but usually with quite a few more fruit flies.

Thad Guy is a writer from Northern New Mexico. If you like this story, tell others about it. Feel free to check out Thad's Blog: http://thadguy.blogspot.com/

The Ghoulish Vaults

Writen by Dennis Siluk

Is this a nightmare? Shapes bend, with the wind
Gates lie still: lurk around corners
And foul beings, smell, dead, they lay unseen.

Here, sounds of doom—fill nameless rooms,
Where mysterious manuscripts—:
Dare, to tell the dead—what lies ahead.

There amid many, strange things I found:
Raving of madmen—curses and clowns—
Black books, stones, legends and frowns.

Along side its path, crawls, only shadows—
In ominous shapes: not to be determined,
In these solitude vaults, down, way down….

Haunted by monstrous nightmares
One lives by these monolith unbridled spirits
Drossy, dreamy, I say forever, screaming!...

Dlsiluk, 5/16/04 [revised: 9/102005] #821

Note by Rosa: Dennis Siluk wrote a book recently, or a year ago or so, called "The Macabre Poems," it was his 27th book [now he has 31, which his new book coming out, "Peruvian Poems," next month]; and his 4th book in poetry. And his deepest book in this genre. Matter-of-fact, he followed the path of such poets—in creating this book—such poets as: Clark A. Smith, Lovecraft, Robert Howard, and of course his favored, George Sterling; in doing so he centered on the more deeper assortment of adjectives for description, as he calls it; and made a statement on the book, and in public when the book came out, saying: "If you want to know who you're dealing with, you got to take a muster-seed of faith with you to the pits of hell; playing it safe will not get you home." Poetry, as Dennis says: can be many things to many people, and denying the invisible world is not the way to truth and reality. Thus, this is a poem that never made it into his book.

You can see Mr. Siluk's books at his site: http://dennissiluk.tripod.com

Magic For Beginners

Writen by Lee Dobbins

Magic has been much a part of childhood. Remember how you used to be amazed of David Copperfield's magic on TV or even on a local magic show in a carnival or a children's party. No matter how old you get, magic will continue to amaze you. It is an unknown mystery that people are completely drawn to.

But if you are thinking of starting a career in magic, the best way is to start early. In case your not, its never to late to start but will take you a little harder. You can make your first step by buying your first magic trick box and learn the basic magic tricks from cards, coins to threads and other a little complicated magic tricks. Though this may sound so elementary for you, this is still the best introduction to magic you can find. The box, however, will not tell you how to act in front of an audience. You have to make your own efforts and initiatives. A good way to learn this is by watching magic shows and observe how the masters do their tricks in front of an audience.

If you have been doing your homework, then you will observe that the masters do the top 3 things while performing magic in front of an audience:

1. Do a nice patter - this means that you should put your act well by pulling some appropriate dialogue to perform your magic trick. Learn some jokes, ask your audience some questions and use a lot of hand movements. This will make them distracted but focused on you instead of finding out how you did the magic. A magic show can turn into a theatrical event if you want it to become one. This is not as easy as you think and you will not get by just a few practices and watching the masters do it.

You need a lot of effort, discipline and ability on your part and of course countless practice. To guide you in this trick you should remember and follow religiously two things: a) maintain eye contact with your spectator. Be sure that you have your spectators' attention only to you and listening to whatever you say; b) it pays if you have a sense of humor because it makes your audience feel relaxed and conditions them only to be caught off guard of what you have to perform.

2. The after effect - after wowing your audience with your act, let them continue their amazement with your trick, let them continuously react to your next tricks. Do not make them lose their attention to you and most importantly, do not say anything. If they asked you how you did that just remain quiet. Never pull the plug and give away your act or else all the mystery will fade away.

3. Be confident - Never perform in an audience if you know that you are not yet ready. Nervousness can easily give your trick away. A lot of practice breeds confidence. You need to convince your audience that not only your trick is magical but you as well.

If you master all these techniques, it will be much easier for you to win your audience - kids or adults. You can even go from up close magic to platform magic and stage magic like what Copperfield does but of course that requires a lot of experience and expertise plus a lot of help from cameras.

The key to being a master magician is to learn how to perform magic in an instant using a lot of borrowed objects. Magic is just a quarter of your trick but how you do your trick is the most important. Your presentation in front of an audience is the key not some spectacular, complicated magic. More help is on your way if you know where to find it Check out some magic shops nearby your area. Make a list of the tricks you wanted to learn and bring them to the shop. Ask the owner to perform some on your list, teach you how and try it in front of him. Practice them in front of mirror as soon as you go home. You will be amazed at how fast you can do all these tricks.

If you think you are ready for an audience, organize and host a party and perform your magic for free. If your confident enough, there is a lot of possibility that some will ask you to perform in an event or another party, be ready to market yourself and hand out business cards.

Now, that is how you get started in the field of magic.

Lee Dobbins writes for http://magic.biz-review.com where you can learn more about magic.

Perhaps Its Love Chapter 11 And 12 Bustling And Remote

Writen by Dennis Siluk

11 Bustling

"Tommy seems really nice, I like him; I think you found a good mate," said Tasma with a little flatness to it to Jill.

"Well, I suppose, I mean, everyone likes him, he's not like Johnny, I mean, wild like Johnny and me, but maybe I need that," she said unenthusiastically.

Tasma simply avoided the subject, it was, or could surely end up, too deep for her understanding. From what she remembered of Jill, it would be an ongoing open-ended conversation and end up with Johnny somehow dominating the scene.

After breakfast was over and everything put away, they both went to Jill's bedroom, she had to waitress at the bar in an hour or so, and then before dusk, Tommy would take over as the waiter.

[The Bedroom] Tasma noticed Jill's bedroom was quite spacious, at least, twice the size of hers. She had a number of paintings, sketches and photographs of nudes on the walls, possibly a dozen or so; even one of Elvis, a photo a record, it looked signed, the Doors, Beatles and Janis Joplin all photos. Tasma's eyes opened up wide as an owl checking out corner to corner of the room, wall to wall. She even noticed holes in the wall used for incense: it seemed she must have burnt some, for there was still a strong smell in her room.

Then over the bed was kind of a bookcase, there was somewhere around twenty books on it—all on psychology, behavior modification, counseling and psychotherapies. They were obviously Tommy's, she concluded.

As Jill changed into something more favorable for waitressing she noticed on the side of the bed on a stand was a picture of Tommy. And next to that were a number of magazines on hunting, shooting and sailing.

"You can borrow any one of my magazines if you wish Tasma," Jill commented.

She had also noticed in the living room a number of volumes on Patrick O'Brien, another kind of Jack London I suppose, she may have concluded. Possibly they belonged to her father, or who knows, maybe her; she noticed one book called "The Pat Hobby Stories," her father had that one in Minnesota, the last book to her understanding of F. Scott Fitzgerald, just published last year [l966] she thought. Some 75.cent paperback Tarzan books were lying about. Jill could see Tasma pacing and looking about through her mirror, "The Tarzan stuff belongs to Tommy, not sure why he likes him, he is far from the macho Tarzan himself."

Tasma was not going to touch that remark, it was too precarious, and she could see from the side of her eye Jill curiously waiting (should she stick up for him or not). But she had learned from her family arguments: she did not need to respond to every rhetorical question someone brought up to her, or what she felt was rhetorical. It didn't surprise her that Jill didn't have any classical books, like Hemingway, or older Fitzgerald books, or books by Faulkner, or Jack London, writers she liked, and writers her father liked—as they say, 'like to like,' when it comes to father and daughter in writing, she'd always say that. And I suppose no matter what, we pick up traits from our parents. She was in essence looking for a romance novel, but couldn't find one describable to her liking; she noticed one she had not seen before though, the novel itself, nor had she heard of the author, The Promise of Love, but paid little attention to it, it was a paperback and the book on the back showed something of a hospital, and she didn't care for hospitals in particular, but the front was appealing, it showed two people hugging (Mary Renault). There was another book that caught her eye "Granite & Rainbow," by Virginia Woolf; the author was recognizable but not the book. So she had her female writers as well, she figured.

—Jill was now ready, and without reluctance, Tasma opened the door to the hallway, and bustled out.

"Listen up," said Jill, "If you need to talk about why you're running away: feel free to do so, if not, well, that's also fine with me. Sometimes it helps to get it out, or so I've heard by everyone it seems, and I suppose sometimes it doesn't."

"No big reason, other than I had to go, or so it seemed at the time, kind of like Elvis' song goes: It's Now or Never."

"Hmmm," came from Jill's voice—"Bustling out or breaking out, or running away, it's all the same to me; never thought you'd do such a thing though. Should I call your mother and let her know you are safe?" She then lit a cigarette.

"You're not pregnant, are you?"

Tasma with an eyebrow almost touching the top of her forehead (with a chuckle) said, "Of course not Jill—gosh no!"

Jill seemed a bit dumfounded thinking there was more to this than meets the eye; for she herself was the only child also, as her parents had had her late in life, for they were now in their early sixities. Tasma was from a middle class family, a well educated family. They didn't drink or smoke, and went to church on Sundays, but they didn't agree on much either, and Tasma was normally the one in-between. They were in a way, like the bulk of married couples I suppose, but there wasn't much freedom in her eyes; something she envied Jill for, and evermore with Tommy. Whereas, Johnny was kicked out of his house at seventeen, his parents would had done it earlier but waited until he graduated from High School, and it was probably the only reason he stayed so long at home, so as to not get kicked out. She tried to think of a reason she ran, but there was no reason other than she ran to run, to get away, and wasn't sure how far she'd go, but here she was. Seattle had come to her mind a half dozen times, but so did a few other places. And then out of the blue, it was planned and she left. There was no real mystery to it other than her subconscious had put the puzzle together while she was sleeping, and her living it out while she was awake was now; as often times the mind works.

—Jill played with her cigarette smoke, blowing smoke-rings as she grabbed the umbrella. For that moment she didn't feel brave, as brave as she had felt; as Jill stood thinking on what next to say and Tasma feeling there was nothing for her to say. Then suddenly out of nowhere, tears broke out, erupted in the corners of Tasma's eyes; out from the long silence that prevailed between Jill and Tasma.

"You can't please anyone, ever, ever, ever. No one, everyone wants you to take their side against the other. Always in the middle; always pretending to be what they want to see from you. But you Jill, you are you; you don't have to please anyone. (A pause came; she took the moment to put herself back together, and continued with what she was about to say.) Yes, if you want you can call mom and dad, but I'm not going home. I thought you were on my side for once." She hesitated, looked down, and said in a pitiful manner, "Maybe I'll have to go home then." She had no other recourse should it come down to that, except walk the streets and that was not any life or a respectable option for her.

Jill's cigarette almost burnt her fingers, had she not felt the heat in time. She quickly put it out, staring into Tasma's rainbow greenish eyes, eyes as deep and green as Seattle's Port.

"Listen up," said Jill with a motherly tone, but the tears started to come back nonetheless; she was in another world—disassociating with Jill's voice, and almost in a catatonic state. Jill grabbed her, shook her like a bag of popcorn, by the shoulders, she had a strong grip—digging deep into her shoulder blades; she then caught her eyes as she opened them up wide.

Said Jill in a forkful manner, "I didn't mean to put you into shock I'm really sorry, what can I do for you; I'm here for yaw—really. You can stay as long as you want. But you got to find something to keep you busy, a job, school, you know, something or you'll go buggy. What can you do?"

"I don't know" snuffled Tasma.

"Well, take some time and think about it."

"Sure… (a pause, Jill looking at Tasma), I really mean it, I will think about it as you say," the house thereafter seemed to turn a silent gray for Tasma.

"You all really got enough problems," said Tasma, as if she knew something which Jill knew she didn't know: Jill looked at Tasma, and marked it as just loose talk coming out to Tasma.

"We'll have fun, you and I, us two girls, girls talking about boys," a chuckle then came out of Jill's mouth, and Tasma produced a smile.

As Tasma sat back into the sofa chair, soundlessly, Jill mentioned in passing, as she turned on the TV "St. Paul, Minnesota, should be getting their lovely autumn leaves soon (a statement-question) I suppose you miss that."

"Oh yes, it is beautiful in Minnesota during autumn, it's the best time of the year there. It was always the best time for me (long pause)— Autumn that is." Then out of the window a lawnmower was heard, they both could see their neighbor Wes cutting the grass.

12 Remote

Tasma had fallen to sleep in the sofa chair upon Jill's arrival— whereupon she woke her up, it was 7:00 PM, "Would you care to talk?" asked Jill.

"Oh," she answered, a bit groggy, rubbing her eyes, noticing it was now dusk, as she peered out the window.

"Tommy's at work now, I wanted to see how you were doing?"

"Doing, oh, oh I'm doing quite fine cousin Jill," it was meant in jest, for a smile appeared between both of them. She added, "How did it all happen between you and Tommy?"

"Well," she started to say and paused while sitting down on the arm of the chair, "We kind of met at the bar, he was working on his degree in psychology, and, well, we went out between his working and going to school; and I liked how he kissed. Oh he's a little coy at times, but can be frisky; not like you, you can be spunky (Tasma like the comment she made of her, and smiled)."

Tasma commented: "Wild would be the word for you," funny she thought, spunky was a good word, it never occurred to her and it fit just fine for her ego. "But Tommy looks so tame, gentle, and courteous," she said out loud.

Jill continued, "To be frank, Johnny was a better kisser I suppose, that is, better than Tommy; I mean if I were to compare them two. Funny Johnny never called me these past years; we got along so well when I visited you." Tasma took that as a rhetorical question and said nothing, plus she was lost for words in such matters.

"Anyhow, Tommy has been living here a while, a long while now I suppose; a good two years now that I think about it. Mother and Dad didn't' say much about him moving in and here he's been, and he's been good company. I thought of Johnny often, but he just never wrote me back, nor called me. And after Tommy stayed here awhile, well, I invited him into my bedroom, and so he's stayed there ever since. Maybe I replaced him with Johnny, I hope not, I don't' think so. Let's leave this between us girls; you know it is girl talk, right?"

"Right," said Tasma with a sharp edge, and double r, with a slur to the 'R,' part of the word.

"Good girl Tasma; you're my favorite cousin [long pause], you really are you know. (Tasma just smile, again not knowing what to say) I think I was thirteen years old when I met him," said Jill.

"Met who," asked Tasma, kind of drifting off.

"Johnny of course, who else?"

"Oh yes, yes, that's right, I'm still waking up."

—"Did you forget something? I had an impression you deleted something." Jill had lost focus for a moment also, Wes next door was walking his dog, he was barking, creating a little distraction.

"We had sex a few times, Tommy and I, but I thought it not to be such a great idea after a while, we seemed too much like brother and sister, and after all we are really opposites. But recently we started back up again; it was, or never has been I expect, as fulfilling as it was with Johnny; perhaps because Johnny was my first lover."

The evening twilight brought dimly-lit shadows to her countenance. (Tasma was never sure if she was a person who could be loved, least of all, worth loving. On the other hand, Jill figured: who could fall in love with Tasma in the first place, she was safe with Tommy or anybody for that matter; in that she was so unromantic. Such a pity she murmured silently to herself.)

"I'm so happy you told me for some reason I'm more at ease. It's good you look at all sides of a relationship. I never had one so I don't know."

"Yes," said Jill, "Tommy is always preparing for life, while Johnny takes life as it comes, they are both polar opposites, are they not (a rhetorical question I would gather)."

"Oh Johnny can become a jerk at times," said Tasma.

"Yes, Johnny and I had a short summer fling, when you fixed us up, and he was rough, but no more than I, I suppose."

In St. Paul, Minnesota Mr. and Mrs. Stanley (Tasma's parents), in their bedroom (on Albemarle Street), both with their mouths slightly opened, books on their laps, covers, covering them up to their waist, laying back against the bed board, a draped light over the head of the bed, ungracefully about to turn off the lights to go to sleep. Outside the window you could see the weather was freezing up, drifting snow from one yard to another, creating little mounds along fences. Somehow Mrs. Stanley (Tasma's mother) turned her eyes to the side where Tasma's picture was on a small table by the bed-stand, where an alarm clock was also; she knew where Tasma was, Jill had notified her, and understood some of the 'why's' of Tasma's issue. As her husband turned off the lights her mind held stone-still, a reflection of the picture, her mind heavy with calmness now, tranquility was present. As she lay back down, she could see her husband's face, it did not move, lest it should not disturb his wondering thoughts, nor did she say a word. It was simple to remain still; knowing Tasma was well now she could go to sleep, not like before, not knowing anything.

She had learned in life there were different kinds of contentment, this was one of them. There she lay falling to sleep observing the night thin away as her eyelids shut. Thank God for little favors she hummed to herself.

Jill had left for work and Tasma sat back in the sofa chair, she was getting used to it, seemed like her little haven in the house when not in her room. She noticed a book by an author Colleen Grant, the title being: "Bustling." Hence, she grabbed it and read it for about an hour. Then thinking: Tommy will be home soon, carefully enough she emerged with a comb from her purse, as if it was urgent, or just nervousness. She flung her hair back to give a more youthful exposed face to her pose, and continued in brushing it out with a rat-tailed brush and comb. If one had planned for her to create a pose, it would have been this, as she leaned forward, looking at the long and wide mirror on the back of the door from her chair, and from her own angle, looking into a smaller mirror in her freehand, put herself quickly together.

—There was a banging at the door, Tasma had fallen to sleep, and Tommy was simply making noise coming in, a bit awkward. He saw Tasma in the chair, said: "Don't mind me," his face looked surprised. "Studying can be frustrating," he added.

Tasma had woken-up partially, but didn't really understand if he was talking to her or someone else, so she slowly opened her eyes, bending forward a little, eyebrows up a little, "Me, are you talking to me?" she asked.

He now took notice, she had been sleeping (and with a perfectly head of hair combed), not just resting. "Sorry about my noisy entrance, I got to get ready to replace Jill at the bar, the Due-Drop-Inn; got little more than an hour."

"I hope whosoever book this is they don't mind if I read it?"

"It's mine, I don't mind," said Tommy with a joyful smile. There were two more similar books on the cabinet where Tasma found this one by the same writer.

"I wrote it, I also wrote the two on the shelf over there (pointing)."

Tasma opened her eyes wider, "You're kidding," she said as she woke up more and leaned forward. "But the author's name is a girl?" she added.

"Yes indeed it is, and do you think if I put my name on the book, girls would buy it?"

"I, I don't know, but I suppose they'd think twice."

"Yes, of course, that's exactly what they'd do," Tommy trying to be polite. "Do you like it?" asked Tommy.

"Well, it's about a girl from San Francisco, a youthful one who falls in love with a man who seems to be a lot older than she, she's also quite busy, it's a fast paced book, and from what I see at this moment, there is a gender gap, I'll have to read more to see if they can work out their differences."

"Good girl, you summed it up pretty easy."

"Well, I guess I'm a pretty simple girl, and that is how I see it."

"Do you hope they can mend their differences, and put it together?"

"I know you're majoring in psychology, so I'm not sure what the twist will be. But something tells me life for them will not be easy no matter how it ends."

"And do you think life should be easy for them?" Tasma looked deep into his eyes, and wasn't sure what to say, he had deep blue eyes.

"Should it be…? (she repeated his words)—that's a tricky question. I think the shape of words on paper will never tell the whole story one way or the other, I mean, it should be to me straightforward,—uncomplicated; if their relationship is so hard, and difficult, then maybe it shouldn't be. I mean, life seems to be hard enough, that if it's hard in the beginning, how can one expect a happy ending." Tommy smiled.

"That's some good insight. It's like love and God, they are words which can produce many questions and I have produced my own concerning these issues also—both words are choices I do believe."

"I've only read some forty pages," she commented.

"Women don't quite think the same way men do, I had to ask a lot of women at the bar how they see things," said Tommy.

"And did they surprise you with their comments?"

"I seem to have understood about one third of what they said, or should I say, told me, but I used as much insight as I could from them to perfect my story, feeling it has to come from their point of view, not mine (being a male); that is: how they think and feel, which is important."

See Dennis' web site: http://dennissiluk.tripod.com Dennis' new book, "Poetic Images out of Peru," should be out in another week so you can be checking your local bookstore, or http://www.bn.com

The Seventh Born Son Transylvania Part I Of Ii

Writen by Dennis Siluk

Instead of an introduction, which this story really does not need, let me just update the reader to the far past of this tragedy, which leads up to the present [2002], that is my present, when I went to Wales and met this man prior to his death. Yes, I do say, his death. Before he died though I got to explained to him his twisted past, and he got to explain to me his twisted present.

As I explained, I told him he was the residue of a demonic genetic pools, that took place around 11,500 BC when the Watchers, the Angelic Renegades God sent to watch over the earth, but whom took it upon themselves to commit the unpardonable sin, in angelic form, by cohabitating with human females; thus, producing a gene pool we have not been able to rid ourselves of to this very writing, a pool that produced several different species of living creatures, mostly called demons, hybrids. This gene pool as I explained to Vlad infected him, being the 7th son of a family in Romania. In that area of the world, it has infected many in the past in a like manner. But this is the story of just one it infected, my friend Vlad. Again, the story of Vlad Bran, otherwise know as Vlad Hoof starts back in 1969.

He had a small tail at the end of his spine, and a hoof for a foot, when he was born. He was to be what no one wanted to be--'draco', meaning dragon. But to his family he would be nothing less than a freak of nature, a vampire by folklore.

His family names him Vlad Hoof, although their name was Bran. He was born in the region called Transylvania, in Romania, in a city called Bransav.

At an early age Vlad read and heard Bran Stoker's Vampire stories, although to be quite honest, the book was never seen or translated to Vlad's home country language until 1990. That is when he became even angrier with his ugly looking body. Yet he covered his tail with pants, and no one was the wiser, for he neither dated female nor male. And his hoof foot, he put on an oversize shoe, and walked with a cane to maintain balance.

He was 21-year old when he first read the book Dracula, and its myth. He seemed to fit the nature of this creature, that is, everything but the blood craving, which the creature liked of his victims. He laughed at it. But he understood everyone's fears. Was he the vampire Mr. Stoker's book said he should be, proclaimed him to be? No, he wasn't though a little odd maybe, but not the vampire. To Vlad Bran this was very unfair. Matter-of-fact, if he was alive, he'd have liked to kill him, slowly, very slowly for defaming his life. For making the world think he was a freak. Kill went through his mind like water down a dam.

Vlad was a silent kind of lad, that is, he kept to himself. Like to drink when he could. Some say a good Welsh trait or Celtic at best. But silence is not what was going on inside of him. He wanted to break out, not hide. He had something to say, to scream. As I suppose, like anyone with a long line of ongoing pain, he wanted the pain to stop, or at least, revenge for this misfortune. "Why me," he said standing in the middle of the street by his house. But he didn't ever get an answer, and today would be no different. But today would be different, in a new kind of way. He had in his hand a small suite case, and $2,000 in his pocket. His father had given it to him when he was 15-year old. Told him to take it when he decided to leave home, and never come back. And today was the day. And he knew where he was going. To the train station to get a train at dock #4, 13:50 PM for Cardiff, Wales, where he would become a manager of a hotel restaurant. He was already given the job. How long they'd let him work there was another question after they met him. But it was a beginning. And so at 13:10 PM, Vlad sat at the station waiting for the train.

Cardiff, Wales

Upon his arrival in Cardiff, he established himself at an apartment overlooking the new Millennium Stratum along the city river [Taff], and not too far from the Cardiff brewery. And within the following first few days, he secured his job down at one of the local well known hotels by Cardiff Castle.

After working there a few days he discovered to his amazement, the employees and employer did not make fun of him publicly because of his leg, but rather gave him sympathy. And in addition, he soon found out he was well liked by his peers as well as his subordinates. But none-the-less, it didn't heal the long scars he had within his belly, and throughout his blood running veins.

As several months passed, he established himself as a serious manager in the food department, the headwaiter, with several under him. And would attend weekly meetings concerning improvements, in which he gave good advice; never showing his discontent for the world outside his mind, his damaged soul. It was justice he yearned for. When he walked by city hall, he spit at it. When he walked by the National Museum he stopped and would always wondered if there were any misunderstood freaks of nature like him in there. He liked walking the riverfront and watching the alcoholics get drunk sitting by the benches, overlooking the Millennium Stadium. He felt if anyone knew what he was thinking—which was killing--, and if they were half sober, they would realize he could and would carry it out. And just what he was thinking was revenge. Yes, revenge on the world. Anyone would do. But he was not a vampire like people thought him as. He was just misunderstood. He didn't need blood to cure him, only blood to wipe the dirt they threw on him away. And so, as spring came, he drew up his plan.

The Secret Plan

From this day one, he made a pledge to himself; he would carry out his revenge plan. He called it his "Blood Plan." Saying to the passers by who could not see nor hear him as he was looking out of his apartment window, "Who will it be –you? Oooor you, orrr maybe you," pointing his finger at them.

His first victim was selected while visiting a local café and coffeehouse. One he had never visited before. He had found the staff to be very friendly, and so he sat towards the back unnoticed, smiled lightly when looked at, and drank his coffee, and ate his doughnut.

He overheard two women talking, both around 30-year old, it was 7:26 PM. They talked about cheating on their husbands who were kind of computer troubleshooters on the road, and presently on a train going to London to fix some problems for their company. One of the women was tall, about six-feet, the other about five-foot, four inches. Vlad, figured he could handle either one, but the five-footer would be easier, plus she was the one bragging about how her ass could attract any man's eyes, once she caught them, that is. And then, it was simply a matter of when and where. The taller one blushed and told her how about them two getting it on. The smaller one didn't go for that, she preferred men to women; nor was she bisexual.

It was about 8:17 PM when the taller one got up and left, Vlad just glanced from the side of his eye; -- another ten minutes went by, the small one now got up catching Vlad's eyes. And yes, showed that ass. He smiled, and so did she, teasing him; she picked up her purse and went out to her car. Vlad followed behind. She didn't turn around, and therefore she didn't see Vlad's leg being pulled along like a dead log on the river, his eyes getting bigger and bigger as he pulled his leg, his mouth slurping with spit, and his upper lip wanting to swear at the bitch before him. Wanting to tell her how cruel she was, unfair to her husband. But he would show her. It was only fair. And he had the guts: --the number one asset in this situation.

He walked behind her as she went for her keys, turning around, hearing that dragging noise of his leg, and as she made a 45-degree turn of her neck, Vlad pulled out his 16-inch knife strapped to his leg, and with one sweep in the cool-wind, decapitated her, --her body still standing, her head now under the car, and her blood spurting all about. Then like a tower crashing, her body fell onto the asphalt street. Vlad jumped back, wiped his knife off as if it was just paid for, and attached it back to his leg, and started to walk home.

As he walked along the riverfront, there was that drunk again, the blond, and mumbling to himself.

He stopped by him, looked, then the drunk said, "What the f*ck you want mister?" Vlad started back walking, said nothing out loud, then when he was a distance he shouted, "Number one, number one, I like the blood. I got number one."

Number Two

Two weeks had passed by since the murder, and Vlad simply would pick up the paper after work, read it while walking down Castle Street, and marvel at how easy it was to murder, once you had a halfway decent plan. It didn't take a lot of money, just guts. And he felt better. He felt relief; justice had taken its course. It was his justice, but who cares, it was fair. That is, fair to him. She had everything he had nothing. No one ever laughed at her, he told himself. He even looked at the possibility of what the papers said that she did the murderer no harm. But so what he thought. It wasn't done because she was innocent anyway. It was done because he was harmed. That was his justification. Not innocence. If that was the case no one was truly innocent. He just happened to find a person who could trigger his plan.

'I want a clergy for number two,' he told himself as he stood silently at work, staring out the big window onto the street, then having thought that after work he walked home slowly, but a different course. It was 6:30 PM. He thought as he walked home how he liked this city, and its architecture, culture, history. But all the facts and figures in the world he told himself would not stop this second killing. He couldn't get even with God, but he could with one of his believers. And it was God's fault he was like this, he thought. He could have made him different at birth he told himself. Maybe make him the 6th son, not the 7th. Why him? Why not one of the families down the street? Why couldn't one of them be born with a tail at least? God was nothing but an unfair big shot he told himself: --one that nobody could hurt, but if hurting was possible, it must be through his clergy, he told himself.

He mumbled to himself:

"I hate those Jews, God's chosen. No I hate them Christians, they think they are the only ones that will go to heaven. No I hate them Muslims, those terrorist freaks."

As he continued to walk he was trying to program himself to murder whatever clergy he found first, for he hated them all equally.

And there he stood, Cardiff Central Station. There he approached a preacher, saying, "Sir I have a serious problem, it has to do with knowing who the slayer is of that woman who was in the paper a few weeks back. I need your advice."

The preacher looked into his eyes, then at his ticket, and then around. "How about a police officer, son." He told Vlad. "Possibly, but I still need your advice," replied Vlad. Then Vlad asked if they could talk somewhere quite, so no one would hear, possible over by the loading area not far from them. And they proceeded to walk. They both could be seen by the public but there also was a shadow blocking half their view, but the preacher felt safe. He could see the police officer over by platform #4, and this man who walked with a bad leg was surely not harmful, at least not in the open. Vlad asked if they could pray together. And the preacher said 'sure,' with hopeful eyes.

As the preacher shut his eyes lowering his head downward, he started to pray; then Vlad pulled out of his pocket a wooden spike, and carefully aimed it, and forcefully drove it through the preacher's backbone like lightening hitting a tree, the preacher fell to his knees. As he was about to scream with pain, Vlad shoved his glove in his mouth. The police man now was looking at them both, but did nothing, as Vlad got on his knees as to pretend he was going to pray. Then with a push, the preacher fell over, falling to the dark unused tracks where the cargo sat. Vlad knew he had missed all the preacher's vital nerves, for it was planned that way, he wanted the preacher to suffer for forth-eight hours. As the preacher tried to get up from his position, Vlad tied his hands behind his back, and his legs together. Then jumping back up onto the platform, into the light, the police officer was gone. No one really noticed, he assured himself; then one last glance at the preacher, and Vlad was off to his apartment, mumbling out loud, "Number three, now I got to get number three."

Number Three

When Vlad got home that evening he told himself the third victim would be a tourist. They got lots of money to throw away. Plus they used to come to Transylvania looking for Dracula, when it was simply a myth. They wanted blood. Dracula was nothing but a Romanian ruler of the 15th Century who ruled by force. Matter-of-fact, he was well liked by many. And this Stoker's guy comes along and distorts everything, and gives him a bad name. And the tourists come looking for Stoker's vampire, not the true Dracula; how misled can people be he told himself. But he would iron this myth out, once and for all he told himself. If they wanted to see a real Vampire in action, he was the action man.

Vlad waited for another month to pass before he implemented his new plan, then after work on the 32nd day after the previous murder, after work 6:35 PM, he went up to the hotel room #304. He knew the lady had been there only two days and that she knew no one in particular. She was just vacationing from America, and came to Cardiff from London, bored with the city she had been to several times before. She was in her early 40's, a divorced woman.

As he knocked at her door, she asked "…who is there!"

"The Captain of the waiters," Vlad replied, adding, "You left your scarf in the dinning room."

Vlad had stolen it while she was in the bathroom for this very occasion. As she opened up the door, she took the scarf from Vlad, putting a smile on her face with a big "thank you." Then like a wolf in sheep's clothing, he hit her in the left side of her jaw, knocking her out. Finding she was dressed, he took out a small bottle of whisky, poured it down her throat, as she spit some up and out, and swallowed the rest of the pint. By the time she was fully awake, she was fully drunk, commenting, "You can rape me, get it over with."

"My dear, let's go to the river walk, and there I want to rape you, and there get it over with, and I shall set you free." She nodded her head, not wanting to cause any problems, knowing she was a small woman of about five-feet, and if this was all he wanted her for, life was more important.

And so he took her down the back steps, and out the back door. Walking, and threatening he could kill her with the knife he had in his pocket, which he did have, if she tried to scream or run at any moment. And so they walked several blocks until they came to a fence. He told her to be quiet, insofar as, not to wake up anyone and so they snuck in, behind a building. He told her a second time not to make a sound. Her life depended on it –as to not wake up the owner. And there on the ground, he pulled his pants down, and her dress up, and jumped between her legs. That is what she expected, and it would be his first time having sex. As she felt him entering her, she put her hand behind him, feeling his tail accidentally, and started to pull on it. He stopped quickly. "And so you have discovered my tail, bitch." She looked shocked, and then out of nowhere started screaming. Vlad jumped up ran out to the gate climbing over it then stood quietly looking through the fence as her shadow stood up. And behind her three dogs were walking slowly. She turned hearing the dog's nostrils breathing in oxygen, and the sound of the dogs' growl coming out of their mouth's, --the next scene was the dogs were on top of her like vampires, chewing her flesh.

The papers read the next day, "Woman mulled by dogs, while being raped."

Number Four

It was not over yet. Vlad wanted 7-dead, for his seven deadly sins, and for his curse of being the seventh son. And his next victim was an old man, in his 70's. He lived in his apartment building. He bragged, and was envious of everyone. Made lies up about everyone, told them about their sins, but never about his. He would be the one to sacrifice him for mankind, the pure one; the one who did it all. What more did he need to live for? Just taking up air and space, and life was no more to him than a drop of water in an almost full pale of water.

And so it was two weeks after the last murder, when Vlad went to the old man's room, knocked on the door, with a pizza in his hand offering it to him, saying "Sir, I know you have a hard time getting out, and so I thought I'd offer you a pizza out of friendship."

Smiling, the old man took it. Looked Vlad in the eyes, and shut the door. Vlad went then to his apartment waited two hours and went back to the old man's apartment. Knocked on the door, and he didn't answer, as Vlad expected for he put sleeping chemicals all over the pizza. Vlad quickly took out a master key of sorts, he had made out of a nail by carving the end of it to a funny looking 't'-shape of sorts, and open the door; put the old man's arm around his shoulder and walked him slowly but caring him mostly down to the Cardiff Castle [the Keep]: several blocks away. There he opened the gate again with that key he had made months ago, and snuck through its grounds to the Keep the castle part on top of a small hill. He had to walk up about 30-steps, and then to the left of him was an old well, with water still in it. He took the iron platform off it, and threw the old man in it. As he hit the bottom, he awoke screaming, but no one could hear.

It was two weeks later before anyone had discovered him dead.

See Dennis' web site: http://dennissiluk.tripod.com

Easy Does It Smallscale Tricks To Dazzle Your Audience

Writen by Chris Lloyd

How to Get Started If You're a Beginner

Whether you've been practicing magic for two days, two years, or twenty, the only effective magic trick is one that actually "fools" your audience. This ability to create a good illusion depends in huge part on one thing: rehearsing!

Let's face it-no matter how great a trick is or how useful a magic prop is, you won't surprise or delight anyone unless it's performed smoothly and confidently. What if you drop your deck of cards or accidentally mishandle a coin? The illusion will be destroyed, and you'll have lost your audience's trust.

When you're just starting out it's understandable that you'll have to practice in front of an audience several times before you get it just right. No one expects you to be perfect right away. But you also can't expect to fool anyone unless you put in the time to practice your skills and work with your props (if you are using any).

The tricks in this chapter were chosen because they are simple, effective, fun to perform, and appealing to just about any audience. You can delight a crowd of schoolchildren with them, or you can test them out on adults. But before you do, practice, practice, practice to get it right!

For now, let's cut straight to the chase and talk more specifically about these simple yet stunning tricks. Then, at the end of this chapter I'll give you some highly effective strategies and techniques I used when I was just starting out!

Sleight of Hand

What exactly is sleight (pronounced "slite") of hand? This term refers to a broad category of magic tricks that relies on your skills and techniques as well as the facility of your fingers and hands. In other words, these are tricks that depend on your skill and dexterity to fool the audience, much more so than on props or gimmicks. It's your fingers that do the work, not a manufacturer's product.

Another way of saying all this is that a sleight of hand is a trick that is performed so well and so deftly that the audience can't tell precisely how it was done!

There's a great word for this that every magician should know: "legerdemain." This word comes to us from the old French phrase "leger de main," in which "leger" translates as light, and "de main" means "of hand." So if you perform with a light touch, that's the ideal form of legerdemain.

This deftness applies to most magic tricks, though, not just sleight of hand! In fact, most of tricks we're going to discuss involve sleight of hand, from shuffling cards to palming coins. Even levitation, which we'll discuss in Chapter 4, involves sleight of hand-although that's more like "sleight of foot!"

Just keep in mind that accomplishing many of the following tricks successfully involves not just a working knowledge of the techniques but also the ability to carry them out easily and without a lot of obvious effort. Another good reason to get in as much practice as you can!

Chris Lloyd is the author of 'Discover The Magic Trick Secrets You're Not Supposed To Know'. To find out more please visit http://www.DiscoverMagicTricks.com