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Diaspora, 3 February 2012

Colonel Guion S. Bluford, Jr., USAF Astronaut (Ret)

 

It's up to US to share stories about ourselves other than as athletes and entertainers. I have no problems paying money to watch them, but the scientists, engineers and speculative fiction writers are what "makes the world go around," and our kids need to see themselves in these needed roles.

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Diaspora, 2 February 2012

James R. Andrade, PhD is fascinated by people. He doesn't just watch them, he methodically studies them to understand why they do what they do and, especially, why they eat what they eat. As senior director of research for Kraft Foods North America, Dr. Andrade helps develop the next generation of food products that nurture us, satisfy us, and even entertain us.

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DOSSOUYE II IS IN THE HOUSE!

I am proud to announce that "Dossouye: The Dancers of Mulukau" is now available at http://www.lulu.com. The novel is the sequel to "Dossouye." It's another superlative effort by Sword & Soul Media publisher  Brother Uraeus. And the cover art by Mshindo Kuumba is breathtaking. I'd say that even if this were not my novel. Dossouye is back, and she's as tough as ever. She and her war-bull, Gbo, are in a new environment, facing dangers different from the ones she has already overcome. The odds are steep ... but never count out a woman and her war-bull. I hope you enjoy this new installment of Dossouye's adventures.

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To My Old Master

From Letters of Note - Letters Salvaged from History


In August of 1865, a Colonel P.H. Anderson of Big Spring, Tennessee, wrote to his former slave, Jourdan Anderson, and requested that he come back to work on his farm. Jourdan — who, since being emancipated, had moved to Ohio, found paid work, and was now supporting his family — responded spectacularly by way of the letter seen below (a letter which, according tonewspapers at the time, he dictated).

Rather than quote the numerous highlights in this letter, I'll simply leave you to enjoy it. Do make sure you read to the end.

(Source: The Freedmen's Book; Image: A group of escaped slaves in Virginia in 1862, courtesy of the Library of Congress.)

Dayton, Ohio, 

August 7, 1865

To My Old Master, Colonel P.H. Anderson, Big Spring, Tennessee

Sir: I got your letter, and was glad to find that you had not forgotten Jourdon, and that you wanted me to come back and live with you again, promising to do better for me than anybody else can. I have often felt uneasy about you. I thought the Yankees would have hung you long before this, for harboring Rebs they found at your house. I suppose they never heard about your going to Colonel Martin's to kill the Union soldier that was left by his company in their stable. Although you shot at me twice before I left you, I did not want to hear of your being hurt, and am glad you are still living. It would do me good to go back to the dear old home again, and see Miss Mary and Miss Martha and Allen, Esther, Green, and Lee. Give my love to them all, and tell them I hope we will meet in the better world, if not in this. I would have gone back to see you all when I was working in the Nashville Hospital, but one of the neighbors told me that Henry intended to shoot me if he ever got a chance.

I want to know particularly what the good chance is you propose to give me. I am doing tolerably well here. I get twenty-five dollars a month, with victuals and clothing; have a comfortable home for Mandy,—the folks call her Mrs. Anderson,—and the children—Milly, Jane, and Grundy—go to school and are learning well. The teacher says Grundy has a head for a preacher. They go to Sunday school, and Mandy and me attend church regularly. We are kindly treated. Sometimes we overhear others saying, "Them colored people were slaves" down in Tennessee. The children feel hurt when they hear such remarks; but I tell them it was no disgrace in Tennessee to belong to Colonel Anderson. Many darkeys would have been proud, as I used to be, to call you master. Now if you will write and say what wages you will give me, I will be better able to decide whether it would be to my advantage to move back again.

As to my freedom, which you say I can have, there is nothing to be gained on that score, as I got my free papers in 1864 from the Provost-Marshal-General of the Department of Nashville. Mandy says she would be afraid to go back without some proof that you were disposed to treat us justly and kindly; and we have concluded to test your sincerity by asking you to send us our wages for the time we served you. This will make us forget and forgive old scores, and rely on your justice and friendship in the future. I served you faithfully for thirty-two years, and Mandy twenty years. At twenty-five dollars a month for me, and two dollars a week for Mandy, our earnings would amount to eleven thousand six hundred and eighty dollars. Add to this the interest for the time our wages have been kept back, and deduct what you paid for our clothing, and three doctor's visits to me, and pulling a tooth for Mandy, and the balance will show what we are in justice entitled to. Please send the money by Adams's Express, in care of V. Winters, Esq., Dayton, Ohio. If you fail to pay us for faithful labors in the past, we can have little faith in your promises in the future. We trust the good Maker has opened your eyes to the wrongs which you and your fathers have done to me and my fathers, in making us toil for you for generations without recompense. Here I draw my wages every Saturday night; but in Tennessee there was never any pay-day for the negroes any more than for the horses and cows. Surely there will be a day of reckoning for those who defraud the laborer of his hire.

In answering this letter, please state if there would be any safety for my Milly and Jane, who are now grown up, and both good-looking girls. You know how it was with poor Matilda and Catherine. I would rather stay here and starve—and die, if it come to that—than have my girls brought to shame by the violence and wickedness of their young masters. You will also please state if there has been any schools opened for the colored children in your neighborhood. The great desire of my life now is to give my children an education, and have them form virtuous habits.

Say howdy to George Carter, and thank him for taking the pistol from you when you were shooting at me.

From your old servant,

Jourdon Anderson.
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Here’s one way to become a better writer. Listen to the advice of writers who earn their daily bread with their pens. During the past week, lists of writing commandments by Henry Miller, Elmore Leonard (above) and William Safire have buzzed around Twitter. (Find our Twitter stream here.) So we decided to collect them and add tips from a few other veterans — namely, George Orwell, Margaret Atwood, and Neil Gaiman.

Here we go:

Henry Miller (from Henry Miller on Writing)

1. Work on one thing at a time until finished.
2. Start no more new books, add no more new material to “Black Spring.”
3. Don’t be nervous. Work calmly, joyously, recklessly on whatever is in hand.
4. Work according to the program and not according to mood. Stop at the appointed time!
5. When you can’t create you can work.
6. Cement a little every day, rather than add new fertilizers.
7. Keep human! See people; go places, drink if you feel like it.
8. Don’t be a draught-horse! Work with pleasure only.
9. Discard the Program when you feel like it–but go back to it the next day. Concentrate. Narrow down. Exclude.
10. Forget the books you want to write. Think only of the book you are writing.
11. Write first and always. Painting, music, friends, cinema, all these come afterwards.

George Orwell (From Why I Write)

1. Never use a metaphor, simile, or other figure of speech which you are used to seeing in print.
2. Never use a long word where a short one will do.
3. If it is possible to cut a word out, always cut it out.
4. Never use the passive where you can use the active.
5. Never use a foreign phrase, a scientific word, or a jargon word if you can think of an everyday English equivalent.
6. Break any of these rules sooner than say anything outright barbarous.

Margaret Atwood (originally appeared in The Guardian)

1. Take a pencil to write with on aeroplanes. Pens leak. But if the pencil breaks, you can’t sharpen it on the plane, because you can’t take knives with you. Therefore: take two pencils.
2. If both pencils break, you can do a rough sharpening job with a nail file of the metal or glass type.
3. Take something to write on. Paper is good. In a pinch, pieces of wood or your arm will do.
4. If you’re using a computer, always safeguard new text with a ­memory stick.
5. Do back exercises. Pain is distracting.
6. Hold the reader’s attention. (This is likely to work better if you can hold your own.) But you don’t know who the reader is, so it’s like shooting fish with a slingshot in the dark. What ­fascinates A will bore the pants off B.
7. You most likely need a thesaurus, a rudimentary grammar book, and a grip on reality. This latter means: there’s no free lunch. Writing is work. It’s also gambling. You don’t get a pension plan. Other people can help you a bit, but ­essentially you’re on your own. ­Nobody is making you do this: you chose it, so don’t whine.
8. You can never read your own book with the innocent anticipation that comes with that first delicious page of a new book, because you wrote the thing. You’ve been backstage. You’ve seen how the rabbits were smuggled into the hat. Therefore ask a reading friend or two to look at it before you give it to anyone in the publishing business. This friend should not be someone with whom you have a ­romantic relationship, unless you want to break up.
9. Don’t sit down in the middle of the woods. If you’re lost in the plot or blocked, retrace your steps to where you went wrong. Then take the other road. And/or change the person. Change the tense. Change the opening page.
10. Prayer might work. Or reading ­something else. Or a constant visual­isation of the holy grail that is the finished, published version of your resplendent book.

Neil Gaiman (read his free short stories here)

1. Write.
2. Put one word after another. Find the right word, put it down.
3. Finish what you’re writing. Whatever you have to do to finish it, finish it.
4. Put it aside. Read it pretending you’ve never read it before. Show it to friends whose opinion you respect and who like the kind of thing that this is.
5. Remember: when people tell you something’s wrong or doesn’t work for them, they are almost always right. When they tell you exactly what they think is wrong and how to fix it, they are almost always wrong.
6. Fix it. Remember that, sooner or later, before it ever reaches perfection, you will have to let it go and move on and start to write the next thing. Perfection is like chasing the horizon. Keep moving.
7. Laugh at your own jokes.
8. The main rule of writing is that if you do it with enough assurance and confidence, you’re allowed to do whatever you like. (That may be a rule for life as well as for writing. But it’s definitely true for writing.) So write your story as it needs to be written. Write it ­honestly, and tell it as best you can. I’m not sure that there are any other rules. Not ones that matter.

William Safire (the author of the New York Times Magazine column “On Language”)

1. Remember to never split an infinitive.
2. The passive voice should never be used.
3. Do not put statements in the negative form.
4. Verbs have to agree with their subjects.
5. Proofread carefully to see if you words out.
6. If you reread your work, you can find on rereading a great deal of repetition can be reduced by rereading and editing.
7. A writer must not shift your point of view.
8. And don’t start a sentence with a conjunction. (Remember, too, a preposition is a terrible word to end a sentence with.)
9. Don’t overuse exclamation marks!!
10. Place pronouns as close as possible, especially in long sentences, as of 10 or more words, to their antecedents.
11. Writing carefully, dangling participles must be avoided.
12. If any word is improper at the end of a sentence, a linking verb is.
13. Take the bull by the hand and avoid mixing metaphors.
14. Avoid trendy locutions that sound flaky.
15. Everyone should be careful to use a singular pronoun with singular nouns in their writing.
16. Always pick on the correct idiom.
17. The adverb always follows the verb.
18. Last but not least, avoid cliches like the plague; seek viable alternatives.

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Hey, falcons don't hibernate!

Yeah, well, let's just say I took an extended sabbatical. Still catching up. Still walking around and breathing, so it's not hopeless yet. ;) PES will show up with its own website sometime this year (I hope), when I have other things done and out the door. Wish me luck.

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Repost and Commentary...

Newsone - African American Scientists

Below is a repost for the month of February and related embed...I will follow up each day with posts appropriate for the month and respect to history and contributions of minorities in science and engineering. Though the link pertains to medical students and the bias African American researchers encounter with grants, two quotes are instructive:
 

Newsone: “While the results of the current study are disheartening, this study will likely have positive impacts on future PhDs and MD/PhDs,” he says.

“Some members of the scientific community are aware of the issues associated with racial and ethnic diversity, [but] others are likely completely unaware of the intrinsic biases in the system,” Beck adds. “Improvement is impossible without quantifiable outcomes.”

Toliver says the first step is for the NIH to ethnically diversify its review committees to increase the chances of fairness.”

TheGrio: In exchange, we have to work on our end and start pushing our students who are interested in science for even higher goals. It is not enough to earn the bachelor's or the master's or even the doctorate. They need mentors to help mold them into stellar scientists, while preparing them for the biases they may face.

 

Physics4thecool: Einstein, Darwin and the 21st Century

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On the first day of 'black history month'...

You might want to consider First Cause: A Novel About Human Possibility.

 

The main protagonist, Adam Grey, is Caribbean-American, and ne of the central themes in the book is that human advancement would inviove the species' gradual browning and the eradication of its imaginary boundaries.

 

Moreover, it's a compelling, page-turning read, and hopefully will provide food for thought on other topics of interest to the human condition.

 

For your Kindle device, you can pick it up on Amazon here: http://www.amazon.com/First-Cause-Possibility-Terranaut-ebook/dp/B004XQV7ZE/ref=pd_rhf_gw_p_t_1

 

And for different formats, you can get it on Smashwords here: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/118368

 

Everything we know is until we find out otherwise...check out First Cause today, and spread the word!

PW

 

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Rise in Excellence with Renpet

“The words you choose effect your space and the one you are speaking to. Immortality is truly a household word." - DjaDja - Weben Em Ehker - Rise In Excellence. 

Chapter Awakening from Renpet The Sci-Fi Novel www.renpetscifi.com -
'Once in the center of the chamber, I eased my body into the Ma'at posture. As I spread my arms a finely knit web of energy draped down from the underside of my arms. I see that my diligent practice of this posture has served me well. The counsel formed a circle around me with their hands outstretched in the Ka pose. They began chanting the words of power, getting lower and lower in tone as they continued. Their voices fluctuated all about my body, entering my cells and filling them with sweet words of Hekau. .'
Chapter Awakening from Renpet The Sci-Fi Novel www.renpetscifi.com

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The State of Black Sci-Fi 2012: Why is it Important to Show Race, Culture, Minority Politics or Ethnicity in Sci-Fi?

To me showing race is science fiction is as important and the story itself. I will sum it up in this quote. “Black Science Fiction is of the utmost importance. Our children as well as other races need to see black people in a positive light. Everyone is mis-educated when all anyone

gets to see is negative images of black people. It’s not accurate and just not right, period. The children alive today will be the ones running the planet when we are old. We owe it to ourselves and them to lead and help develop them. We can’t do that by continuing to let misrepresentations dominate the media we feed them.

I would like to add that today’s science fiction is tomorrow’s science fact.
All races need to be part of the development of those facts.

Jarvis Sheffield, M.Ed. – is owner & operator of TheDigitalBrothers.com, BlackScienceFictionSociety.com & BlackCommunityEntertainment.com.

Visit him:
http://www.blacksciencefictionsociety.com/profiles/blog/list?user=2stjwb1h216fd
http://blacksciencefiction.wordpress.com/


Check out the other members of this Online Black History Month Event: 

L. M. Davis, Author–began her love affair with fantasy in the second grade.  Her first novel,Interlopers: A Shifters Novel, was released in 2010, and the follow-up Posers:  A Shifters Novel will be released this spring.  For more information visit her blog http://shiftersseries.wordpress.com/ or her website www.shiftersnovelseries.com. 

Milton Davis, Author – Milton Davis is owner/publisher of MVmedia, LLC . As an author he specializes in science fiction and fantasy and is the author of Meji Book One, Meji Book Two and Changa’s Safari. Visit him: www.mvmediaatl.comand http://www.mvmediaatl.com/Wagadu/

Margaret Fieland, Author– lives  and writes in the suburbs west of Boston, MA with her partner and five dogs. She is one of the Poetic Muselings. Their poetry anthology, Lifelines http://tinyurl.com/LifelinesPoetry/is available from Amazon.com  Her book, “Relocated,” will be available from MuseItUp Publishing in July, 2012. The Angry Little Boy,” will be published by 4RV publishing in early 2013.  You may visit her website,http://www.margaretfieland.com. 

Valjeanne Jeffers, Author – is an editor and the author of the SF/fantasy novels: Immortal, Immortal II: The Time of Legend and Immortal III: Stealer of Souls. Her fourth and fifth novels: Immortal IV: Collision of Worlds and The Switch: Clockwork will be released this spring. Visit her at:http://valjeanne.wordpress.com andhttp://qandvaffordableediting.blogspot.com/

Alicia McCalla, Author- writes for both young adults and adults with her brand of multicultural science fiction, urban fantasy, and futurism. Her debut novel,Breaking Free will be available February 1, 2012.  The Breaking Free theme song created by Asante McCalla is available for immediate download on itunes and Amazon. Visit her at: http://www.aliciamccalla.com

Carole McDonnell, Author–She writes Christian, speculative fiction, and multicultural stories. Her first novel is Wind Follower. Her short fiction has appeared in many anthologies and have been collected in an ebook, Spirit Fruit: Collected Speculative Fiction. Visit Carole: http://carolemcdonnell.blogspot.com/ orhttp://writersofcolorblogtour.blogspot.com/

Rasheedah Phillips,Author–is the creator of The AfroFuturist Affair in Philly. She plans to debut her first spec/sci-fic novel Recurrence Plot in Spring 2012. You may catch her ruminating from time to time on her blog, AstroMythoLosophy.com.

Nicole Sconiers, Author-is also a screenwriter living in the sunny jungle of L.A. She holds an MFA in creative writing from Antioch University Los Angeles, and she recently published Escape from Beckyville: Tales of Race, Hair and Rage.  Visit her:http://nicolesconiers.com/index.html

Jarvis Sheffield, M.Ed. is owner & operator of TheDigitalBrothers.com, BlackScienceFictionSociety.com & BlackCommunityEntertainment.com. Visit him:http://www.blacksciencefictionsociety.com/profiles/blog/list?user=2stjwb1h216fd


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Heliophysics and Apocalypse...

I am not debating Revelation: this post primarily is to fight ignorance, especially this being "2012" of thriller movie fame.

Honestly, when I say that ancient people had as much fear of the winter solstice as they did a lunar eclipse, when I say that maybe the Mayan people, for whatever reason, stopped making calendars, I get the "how do YOUknow?" as if I'm not "supposed" to. I then tell them to solve the followng problem, then get back with me:

 

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Evil Walks. Part 3.

Berlin. April 12,1945. Waffen S.S. Colonel Hans Gruber sat against the wall in the dank cellar and cowered in a near fetal position as the thunderous sounds of the Russian artillery shells exploded up above. The impact from the blasts caused a shower of debris to rain down on him. His black cap and uniform had a heavy coating of white dust that was falling from the ceiling. With the sound of each explosion the 40 year old, blond haired, blue eyed officer wondered when the next one would go off on top of his head and wipe out his life.Looking across the cellar floor, littered with fallen bricks and shards of lumber, was a small kerosene lantern that provided a flickering light for the room. Sitting on a small wooden stool at the opposite side of the cellar was a most unusual person that Hans came to see. A mysterious male figure dressed in dark attire. His black pants were tucked into his black knee high boots. He wore a matching black shirt and necktie under his black hooded cape. He was sitting with his arms crossed against his chest. Between the shadows in the cellar and the hood Hans could not see the features of this man’s face. All he knew about this man was what he heard through rumors and stories that he picked up in various beer halls and curio shops throughout Germany. Now after following several leads Hans had found this mysterious figure that he was hoping would be able to help him survive the fall of Nazi Germany. This person was known as the Sandman.Another loud boom went off over Hans’ head, causing his already trembling body to jump. Another shower of dust and debris dropped down on his head. He looked over to the Sandman, who was sitting calm and quiet. As if studying Hans. “You seem to be quite composed under the circumstances,” Hans said to him.“The way I see it why get upset because of what’s going on upstairs,” replied the Sandman. “I’m just relaxing here while enjoying the show.”Hans was confused. “Show? What show are you talking about?”“You,” the Sandman replied.“Me?”“Sure. I mean, just look at you. Four years ago you Nazis were at the top of the food chain in Europe. And now today here you are hiding in a cellar, just barely able to control your own bowel movements when you hear a shell exploding.”Hans was insulted by the Sandman’s observation. “Are you implying that a soldier of the Reich is a coward in the face of the enemy?” he snarled.“Sorry. My mistake. You’re obviously hiding here to lure the Russians into a false sense of security. When are you gonna spring your trap? Is that the same trap that you guys sprung at Stalingrad, France, North Africa?”Hans was now humbled by the Sandman’s question. Facing the truth, he had only one answer to give. “I’m not here to fight. I’m here because I understand that you can help me escape.”“Escape? Ah. Another rat jumping ship.”Hans was insulted again. But ignored the remark. “I heard through certain circles that you have special talents to help people get what they want. I followed several leads around Berlin in order to find you here in this tavern.”The sound and impact of two exploding shells from up above were heard and felt. The entire cellar shook. Hans’ body jumped. He trembled as he continued, “I was skeptical about what I heard you can do. But I decided to come see for myself.”“Yeah,” The Sandman replied. “When we first met upstairs I noticed that look on your face.”“What look?”“The, he’s a fake, look. I’ve seen it before.”“You claim to grant any wish in exchange for a dream. That sounds highly far fetched.”Another boom from a shell went off. More dust and debris rained down onto Hans’ head.“I trade dreams and nightmares for wishes,” the Sandman corrected.“Dreams. Nightmares. What’s the difference?” Hans asked.“If you go to sleep and see yourself walking across a field with several bunnys hopping around, that’s a dream. Now if you should see those bunnys pull out machine guns and start shooting at you, then that’s a nightmare. Are you following me?”“Sounds like fanciful nonsense from a carnival fortune teller,” Hans charged.The Sandman’s hooded head returned a nod. “I can understand your skepticism. But then again, here you are. Sitting in a dark cellar while artillery shells are going off over your head. You should be out fighting with your troops.”“Fighting? It’s hopeless!” Hans shouted. “The Russians have us outnumbered twenty to one. They have us completely cut off and encircled by massive armies of troops and tanks. I’ve seen men next to me get cut down. I’ve watched hordes of Russian troops run up to men and slice them to ribbons with their bayonets. You don’t know what it’s like up there.”“I should have read the brochures before I came here. So you’re not one of those airheads that are still confident that victory is just around the corner? You’re going to re-group and throw the inferior enemy back. The enemy forces will collapse any time. Yadda, yadda, yadda.”“Yadda. yadda, yadda?”“So you want out?” asked the Sandman.Another shell exploded from above. Hans nodded his head as rapidly as his heart was beating. “Yes, yes. I want you to get me out of here. Out of Berlin. Out of Germany. Out of this war altogether.”“I can do that,” replied the Sandman. “But you know how I work. What can you give me as payment?”This charlatan wants a dream? Hans thought. I’ve got one for him. “I keep having this same damn dream every time I sleep. Night after night. It just won’t go away. It’s so damn vivid. When I close my eyes and nod off it grips me and takes over my mind in seconds. It’s the most-”“Can you spare me the critic’s review and get on with it?” the Sandman grumbled.“Alright,” said Hans. “In this dream I see the faces of these wretches. Wretches dressed in grey rags from head to foot. Men, women, children. They’re all looking at me from behind a barbed wire fence. There’s hundreds of them. All staring at me with their huge dark eyes. I want to run. But for some reason I’m compelled to go closer to the fence. And when I get close to the fence I shout at them to go back where they came from. To get out of my sight. Then they all reach for me. Dozens of these skeletal hands reaching through the barbed wire to grab me and pull me in. I can hear myself screaming as I’m being pressed against the barbed wired. They’re pulling me in. The barb wire rips at my clothes. Tears the skin away from my face. Then I find myself being buried under a mob of these wretched creatures as their filthy hands all reach for me. After that I wake up screaming. I always wake up screaming.”“I’m glad I don’t have you as a room mate,” the Sandman told Hans. “A pretty decent nightmare. And it sounds like it stems from some sort of guilt complex.”“Guilt complex?”“You were commandant of the camp in Strasselborg. You were charged with processing and eliminating hundreds of these wretches, as you call them, when they came in. Taking their valuables. Money, clothes, jewels, gold teeth. Then separating the ones who will live, at least for a while, from the ones who would be marched off right to the gas chambers. And let’s not forget the medical experiments that you ordered. Quite a few of your test subjects didn’t survive. Yeah. You’ve been quite a busy man at Strasselborg. Maybe that’s why the Russians are so eager to get their hands on you. They’re got a fresh length of rope and a noose with your name on it.”“And that is why I’ve got to get out of here,” Hans bellowed against the sound of another explosion from above.“I want to get as far away from this damn war as possible.”“I can get you out. But you know that even after the war they’re still gonna come for you,” the Sandman told Hans.For a moment Hans said nothing. He knew that the Sandman was speaking the truth. Between all of the Allied forces now caving in on Germany he knew that no matter how far he ran he would eventually be caught. And for his extensive war crimes his execution would be inevitable. But he still had to try and find some means of escape. A means where even all the allied forces combined could not break through. Then the magical solution came to Hans. “You can grant me any wish in exchange for my dream? Fine. I want to go back in time.”“Excuse me? What?”“You heard me. If you have the power, like you say, then I want to go back in time. Past this war. Far past. Where no one can find me. That is, unless you can’t do it.”The Sandman leaned forward, placing his gloved hands on his knees. “Oh, it’s doable. A bit complicated. But doable. I’ll have to tweak a few things here. Tweak a few things there.”“Tweak?”“But first let me give you my opinion. This is a really stupid idea.”More explosions were going off from above. A large beam of lumber fell down from the ceiling. Hans felt as though the entire ceiling were about to finally cave in on top of his head. Another explosion went off. Then another. And another. Fearful of his life Hans buried his face into his hands and waited to die either by being crushed under the rubble of this building or blown apart by the next Russian shell. He cursed himself for following the fanciful idea of coming here and talking to a carnival charlatan who claims to be able to grant wishes. I’ve trapped myself here! I was so damn stupid! Hans scolded himself. I did the Russian’s work for them. I’ve trapped myself! I’m trapped!Then the sounds of the explosions faded in his ears. Hans looked up. To his astonishment he was no longer sitting on the floor of the dark cellar. He was now sitting in the middle of a dirt field in broad daylight. He was amazed as he turned and looked about at his new surroundings. He was surrounded by several small round huts with thatch roofs. In front of one hut he saw several men and women sitting around a large fire as they watched an animal that Hans could not identify being cooked on a pit over the flames. Dressed in their ragged, dark dresses the women stood and pointed at Hans while having wide eyed and gaping mouthed expressions of fear on their faces. The men, dressed in their dark tunics and their pants tucked into crude animal hide boots, also stood and backed away in fear. Hans noticed that other men and women near the huts around him also began to stare and point at him. Suddenly a pointing woman shouted out in a high pitched voice, “Witch! Witch!”“He’s a witch!” a man holding a pitchfork shouted as he pointed at Hans.“He’s a demon!” cried another pointing man. “He just appeared out of nowhere! He just boiled up from hell!”“Witch! Witch! Witch!” screamed another woman.Hans stood up and looked about at these primitive people and their crude dwellings. He could not yet believe what had just happened. One minute he was trapped in a cellar. The next minute he was here. Where ever here was. Then he recalled his deal that he made with the Sandman. He wanted to escape the war by going back into time. Could it be? he wondered. Am I really here in the past?More frantic people began to shout out the word, Witch, while pointing at Hans. Hans looked about and noticed that the mob was growing. Two burly men dressed in dark baggy pants tucked into their black boots, shiny breast plate armor, and chain mail hoods pushed themselves through the crowd. Both men were carrying swords strapped to their sides. For a moment they stopped to examine Hans. Then they both drew their swords from their sheaths and advanced.“Get back,” Hans warned. In own time Hans was used to being obeyed by villagers. But now in this time the situation was different. Hans had no power and authority over these people. No armed troops to back him up. He was alone in their time and at their mercy.The two armed men pointed their swords at Hans’ throat while men behind him pounced on him and grabbed his arms.“Let me go! Get your hands off me!” Hans demanded. “I am an officer of the Third Reich! You will release me at once!”The men did not comply. They continued to hold him fast while the other villagers continued to fill the air with their shouts of, Witch, and Demon. Hans tried to struggle, but he was their helpless prisoner. One of the armored men raised his sword and brought it’s hilt smashing down between Hans’ eyes. A painful impact jolted through Hans’ face and he soon lost consciousness.Hans awoke later in a dungeon cell that was twice as dank as the cellar that he was cowering in. He was stripped naked with his legs chained to the wall. But he would not be here for long. Two more burly men dressed in the armor and chain mail hoods entered the cell and unchained him so that they can drag him off to a frantic courtroom where he was commanded by the magistrate to confess his crimes as a servant of Satan. Not mentioning Hitler’s name, Hans insisted that he was no servant of the devil. His defiance did not sit well with the magistrate, who ordered Hans to be dragged off for extensive questioning for the good of his soul. Hans soon learned that extensive questioning in a witch trial meant being subjected to the most painful and gruesome tortures that a Human being could endure.Hans was put through a session with the thumb screws, a red hot iron pressed against his face, and several hours having his arms and legs stretched on the rack. After a few hours of extensive questioning Hans was eager to confess his crimes of being a servant of Satan. Again, without uttering the name of Hitler to his tormentors. Hans was hoping that his confession would put an end to his suffering and send him back to his cell. He was unaware that making his confession only served to put his worst fate into motion.Hans was dragged to the center of the village and tied to a thick wooden pole while a cheering mob of villagers watched on. Hans knew that he was in serious trouble when he watched several men pile bundles of sticks around him.Hans found the strength to panic. His horrific fate was obvious. “You can’t do this to me! I’m no witch! I’m no witch! You’ve got to listen to me!”The men continued to pile the bundles of sticks around Hans until they were up to his waist. A man in armor poured oil from a wooden bucket onto the sticks. Then another man tossed down the torch that he was carrying. The oil ignited with a faint whoosh. Then there was the sharp crackle of burning wood, soon drowned out by the mob chanting, “Burn the witch! Burn the witch!”Hans began to scream as the heat around him began to increase. Smoke from the burning wood filled his lungs. As he cried out for his life he looked at the crowd and saw a familiar figure. A man dressed in black. His black hooded cape hiding the features of his face. The Sandman. The only person that could possibly help Hans out of this fate.“Help me! Please help me!” Hans cried out in desperation.Hans’ view of the Sandman was soon obscured by the flames and they grew higher to consume him.
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