Saturday, December 19, 2015

The Black Knight

Ian W. Cooper

The waggon lurched and bounced. The air inside was hot and sticky, with midges and flies and the smell of manure prominent. They were changing households, for her father was an important man. 

Roland of Barris must be seen in his demesnes in order to be respected, in order not to be cheated by his stewards and baillies. With properties scattered over three counties, this meant moving periodically. His worship and his dignity demanded it.

Beatrice pulled back the curtains, her maid’s face white and frightened.

The thuds of hooves were all around.

Their driver reined in the animals.

Someone was shouting peremptory commands, but she couldn’t quite make it out.

“Who are you, sir?” It was William, the waggon-master.

Her attendants, sounding scared, were all talking at once.

There were men on horseback, but that was all that she could see. They quickly moved out of her sight.

There was the twang of a bowstring, and there was a groan from up front.

Heart pounding, she reached for the curtain, her maid grabbing her arm to try and stop her.

One would think she had learned something about her mistress by now, but apparently not.


Young Thomas lay on the ground, his sword halfway out of the scabbard. His hands scrabbled at the shaft in his chest, and his eyes were locked on hers—

He was clearly dying, feet kicking at the soft moss and turf.

“Mistress…mistress…I have always loved you—”

“Who are you people?”

The forest went very quiet.

Her face was red and stern.

“That’s none of your concern, my lady.” Bowing from his saddle, a bearded ruffian in hauberk and greaves brandished his bow, strung but with no arrow nocked. “Round them up.”

His riders kicked their heels and her train, maids and lads, were screaming and running through the woods.

The man before her slowly toppled out of the saddle, mouth in an ‘O’, a clothyard bolt and a spreading red stain the only clue to what was going on…the outlaws were all shouting at once.

There was plenty of screaming, and Beatrice ran forward to pull Thomas’ blade.

There was going to be hell to pay for this.

Their lives and their chastity would not come cheap.


So, anyways, ladies and gentlemen, that's all we've got so far. We'll work on it. I've got a few days and this one is supposed to be a short story for self-publication.

> ian

Thursday, September 17, 2015

I Don't Believe In Luck.

Laguna Beach, CA, WPPilot, (Wiki.)

Ian Cooper

I don’t believe in luck. It is true that your life can change in a moment. Sometimes it’s for the better, and sometimes it’s for the worse.

Back in the autumn of 1984, I was sports editor of a small weekly paper in southern Ontario.

Every year at the same time, they had their Harvest Festival, where they blocked off the main street, with carnival rides, attractions and food vendors. I was working that weekend, and the editor, a guy called Mark, gave me a schedule of events and some words of advice. Then he told me that Ted, our publisher, had a bit of a treat for me. His son-in-law, who shall remain nameless, had flown up for the weekend with the in-laws. The guy was going to take me up for some aerial shots of downtown.

He told me to take lots of pictures.

I ended up in Nixon, Ontario. They had a little grass airstrip running up the middle of a cornfield. We took the passenger door off the fellow’s Cessna 172 Skyhawk. It was his suggestion, and what the hell did I know?

I was in the right-side seat.

We took off, climbed out to 1,200 or so feet and I was shooting like mad. Farmhouses, fields, tobacco kilns, everything was amazing from up there. I had a five-hundred millimetre lens on the camera and we flew over the town. I changed film once or twice, shooting a good three rolls of film. I shot pictures of Main Street and everything I could see, practically, because I hadn’t been up in a plane since I was about twelve years old.

At some point the pilot suggested that I could stick my foot out onto the wing strut, bracing myself in the slipstream. I was shooting with ASA 400 film, and it wouldn’t have made that much difference. The pictures I got were well-focused going by the (eventual) results. Neither one of us was an expert.

When I stuck my right foot out the door, the hundred and ten mile per hour slipstream took my leg. It took me completely by surprise, and I had both hands on the camera. The wind spun me around in the seat so I was hanging halfway out of the plane. The worst thing was the loud, metallic clang sound of something hitting the side of the fuselage. Looking down, to my horror, I saw that the lap belt had come undone—and the wind had taken it out and smacked it against the side of the fuselage. I was back in the seat in a flash. Grabbing the belt, I pulled it back in, snapped it into place and looked into the rather shocked face of the pilot.

On the Cessna, the lap and shoulder belts were separate. Not like a car, where it’s one piece and one receptacle to click in. On the Cessna, there are two receptacles. My shoulder belt stayed on, probably the only thing that saved me. For whatever reason the lap belt hadn’t been properly snapped in. I remember looking down from an altitude of six hundred or seven hundred feet. We were flying above a swamp, with dead trees sticking up like big black knitting needles. I might not have died instantly, hitting that swamp, although I’m sure I would have made a pretty big splash before quietly drowning in the muck and the mire.

It’s a good thing that shoulder belt was properly secured.


In the same town, only a couple of weeks later, I was living in a motel. One day, I got off work, and in my usual fashion, headed straight for the bar and grille, where I would have a few beers and eventually, take a table, order a hot beef sandwich or whatever.

The owner had a bit of news for me.

“Some girl called here.”

I perked right up.

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah, and I thought I’d better give you a bit of a heads-up. I didn’t know who it was, so I said, hey, is this Alice? And she says, no, this is Jane…”



Jane calls from down home and the owner says, “Is this Alice?”

Yes, I was in trouble, ladies and gentlemen.

I lost two relationships that day. It was all over soon enough, and I ended up quitting that job and moving on.

Looking back, they were both very nice ladies. I liked them a lot. They were good people and they were both hurt and disappointed. And I did that. It was all me. There was no one else to blame, not really. This is what happens when you’re greedy, and shallow, and selfish and stupid. It didn't take too long to understand what was a pretty hard lesson...

I might have ended up marrying either one of them, and who knows, it might have worked out.

You think about that sort of thing years later, when you’re alone, you’re down and out and no one cares any longer what happens to you…

There is no doubt that in both situations, I was ultimately responsible for what happened—or what almost happened to me, or what didn’t happen to me.

This is one good reason why I don’t believe in luck.


Monday, September 14, 2015

Me and Buzz Housefly.

"A housefly in Chennai," Aravind Sivaway, (Wiki.)

Ian Cooper

Yay. Buzz (my pet housefly) has returned. He was probably just sulking, ah, due to the fact that I've tried to kill him ten or twelve times today.

I tried to get him a few times yesterday too, but he keeps coming back, looking for more. I thought I'd killed him a few times there, but maybe I was being too gentle. All that goop, ladies and gentlemen. Right?

I didn't want to get any of him on me...

Flies are okay. They're good people.

They're a bit like a dog in that sort of unconditional love that flies have.

You can even frolic with them, although I have to admit the poor little guy’s a bit of a punching-bag when I’m feeling insecure.

I'm sorry, ladies and gentlemen. It's just that Buzz and I have become a bit withdrawn, perhaps even isolated over the years.

Every so often we feel the need to talk.

...let's hope me and Buzz get out of here for a little while tomorrow. Nice thing about a housefly, you can carry 'em in a matchbox.

...sounds to me like someone's got another idea. (Buzz.)

I just received an email where someone asked, "If I bought one of your books, would you sleep with me?"

I said, "Sure, and why not, it sure beats having sex with you."

“That’s funny, Ian. Are you working right now?”

“Ah, yes, Buzz, I am.”

“Okay. Well. I’ll try not to bother you too much.”

Buzz came and sat in my lap first thing this morning. They're eminently trainable. I kind of worry about the little guy sometimes. All that second-hand smoke.

I knew Buzz was a keeper when he flew inverted two inches above the keyboard, then pulled up into a series of Cuban-8s, hammerheads and rolling circles.

I think he likes me.

Buzz and I are going to the park to play catch later, but first some lunch. Houseflies don’t eat much; (they don’t drink much either), but a single grain of sugar keeps him going all day long. As for myself, I don’t know, maybe back-bacon sandwiches or something.

I leave the balcony screen door open so he can go out and have a shit and stuff like that. 

They’re not too hard to look after, that’s for sure.

It’s okay for you guys, you got wives and husbands, children and grandchildren.

All I got is this lousy housefly.

Anyways, we’re (Buzz is around the house somewhere) going to have a beer and try and figure out what to make for lunch.