David Ciferri's Blog
September 10, 2015
My Final Blog Post
This is my final blog post. Many thanks to those who have read my posts and (hopefully) enjoyed them. I wish you all the very best.
September 4, 2015
August 28, 2015
True Teaching
"You cannot teach a man anything; you can only help him to find it within himself." ~ Galileo
August 22, 2015
August 15, 2015
Excerpt from "Here By Mistake: The Secret of the Niche"
[Fourteen-year-old Brandon, from upstate New York in 2005, has been stranded in 1965. He returns with Sarah and Stephen to 2005 and finds an eighteen-year-old friend from 1965 much changed.]
“Ow,” Brandon cried. He tumbled head over heels, flipped over Stephen, and landed on his back.
“B? Okay?” Stephen asked, himself rubbing his tailbone.
Brandon sat up slowly and nodded. “You?”
“As soon as I find my glasses. My backpack flew off after all.”
“Here it is.” It was Sarah’s voice. She poked her head out of the green folds of a comforter she had landed on. “It hit me in the face,” she snapped, handing it over.
Stephen unzipped the side pocket and took out his glasses. The taped stem had come off. He put them on anyway.
“They sit straighter on your face than before,” Brandon said, rotating his shoulders. “Can everyone stand?”
They got stiffly to their feet. Brandon raised his head and saw the niche—shining as always and leaning against the stone wall. He went up to it and knocked on the recess. It was solid. He turned around. Row upon row of stacked crates stretched before him. The smell he recalled from his aunt’s basement filled his nostrils. A smile spread across his face.
“Everything’s the same. We made it. We’re back!”
“We’re back,” Sarah agreed. “But it’s not the same.” She waved her hand across piles of comforters, blankets, and pillows on the floor. “These weren’t here.”
“That’s right,” Stephen said, flipping the quilted corner of a sleeping bag with his foot. “Where’d they come from?”
A hearty laugh, familiar yet deeper than they had become accustomed to, cut through the stale air. A broad figure stepped out from behind the first row of stacks. His salt-and-pepper hair and two days of white beard caught the light. His gray eyes were smiling. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he said. “I’ve been waiting forty years for this.” He spread his arms and grinned. “Welcome back, y’all.”
Brandon took an amazed step back, then ran and threw his arms around him.
Quint laughed again. He held his friend tightly. “Welcome home, B,” he said.
“Ow,” Brandon cried. He tumbled head over heels, flipped over Stephen, and landed on his back.
“B? Okay?” Stephen asked, himself rubbing his tailbone.
Brandon sat up slowly and nodded. “You?”
“As soon as I find my glasses. My backpack flew off after all.”
“Here it is.” It was Sarah’s voice. She poked her head out of the green folds of a comforter she had landed on. “It hit me in the face,” she snapped, handing it over.
Stephen unzipped the side pocket and took out his glasses. The taped stem had come off. He put them on anyway.
“They sit straighter on your face than before,” Brandon said, rotating his shoulders. “Can everyone stand?”
They got stiffly to their feet. Brandon raised his head and saw the niche—shining as always and leaning against the stone wall. He went up to it and knocked on the recess. It was solid. He turned around. Row upon row of stacked crates stretched before him. The smell he recalled from his aunt’s basement filled his nostrils. A smile spread across his face.
“Everything’s the same. We made it. We’re back!”
“We’re back,” Sarah agreed. “But it’s not the same.” She waved her hand across piles of comforters, blankets, and pillows on the floor. “These weren’t here.”
“That’s right,” Stephen said, flipping the quilted corner of a sleeping bag with his foot. “Where’d they come from?”
A hearty laugh, familiar yet deeper than they had become accustomed to, cut through the stale air. A broad figure stepped out from behind the first row of stacks. His salt-and-pepper hair and two days of white beard caught the light. His gray eyes were smiling. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he said. “I’ve been waiting forty years for this.” He spread his arms and grinned. “Welcome back, y’all.”
Brandon took an amazed step back, then ran and threw his arms around him.
Quint laughed again. He held his friend tightly. “Welcome home, B,” he said.
August 8, 2015
Excerpt from "Here By Mistake: The Secret of the Niche"
[Fourteen-year-old Brandon, from upstate New York in 2005 (now stranded in 1965), saves a life, and changes history in the process.]
At the corral the attendant had just seated a small girl on the pony and fixed her feet in the stirrups. He gave her the reins and tugged on the bridle to begin the ride. Suddenly the pony rammed forward, knocking the attendant into the fence. His legs buckled and he hit the ground. The pony squealed and reared, and several parents rushed into the corral. One man seized the bridle but slipped on the mud and lost his grip. Two women grabbed for the reins but missed, and the pony bolted out of the gate. It ran up the flagstone path past the wooden platform and charged into the field.
The girl screamed and let go of the reins. Bounced hard, she flew off the saddle but didn’t fall free. Her right foot stuck in the stirrup, and the pony dragged her at a gallop as she shrieked and screamed.
Onlookers shouted helplessly. One man on the platform yelled, “STOP” and stupidly threw an apple at the animal; it missed by ten yards. Roused by the noise, Brandon jumped up and saw the pony heading for the red flags. He hopped the trench and sprinted for the crossing point. Reaching it not quite in time, he leaned and made a flying leap—and caught a piece of the saddle.
The pony charged on, dragging Brandon and the girl. Twenty yards past the flags it slowed and finally it stopped. Brandon found his footing and grabbed for the bridle, but missed. The pony squealed and reared, and came down almost on top of him. Brandon seized the reins, but the pony bucked and yanked him off his feet. He hit the ground on his back as a hoof pounded down next to his face. Scrambling back up, he blocked the pony, shifting and angling for an opening. Finding one at last, he leaped up and caught the bridle with both hands, giving it all his weight. The pony let out a piercing squeal, but its head came down. The rearing and the running were done.
At the corral the attendant had just seated a small girl on the pony and fixed her feet in the stirrups. He gave her the reins and tugged on the bridle to begin the ride. Suddenly the pony rammed forward, knocking the attendant into the fence. His legs buckled and he hit the ground. The pony squealed and reared, and several parents rushed into the corral. One man seized the bridle but slipped on the mud and lost his grip. Two women grabbed for the reins but missed, and the pony bolted out of the gate. It ran up the flagstone path past the wooden platform and charged into the field.
The girl screamed and let go of the reins. Bounced hard, she flew off the saddle but didn’t fall free. Her right foot stuck in the stirrup, and the pony dragged her at a gallop as she shrieked and screamed.
Onlookers shouted helplessly. One man on the platform yelled, “STOP” and stupidly threw an apple at the animal; it missed by ten yards. Roused by the noise, Brandon jumped up and saw the pony heading for the red flags. He hopped the trench and sprinted for the crossing point. Reaching it not quite in time, he leaned and made a flying leap—and caught a piece of the saddle.
The pony charged on, dragging Brandon and the girl. Twenty yards past the flags it slowed and finally it stopped. Brandon found his footing and grabbed for the bridle, but missed. The pony squealed and reared, and came down almost on top of him. Brandon seized the reins, but the pony bucked and yanked him off his feet. He hit the ground on his back as a hoof pounded down next to his face. Scrambling back up, he blocked the pony, shifting and angling for an opening. Finding one at last, he leaped up and caught the bridle with both hands, giving it all his weight. The pony let out a piercing squeal, but its head came down. The rearing and the running were done.
August 1, 2015
Excerpt from "Here By Mistake: The Secret of the Niche"
[Fourteen-year-old Brandon, from upstate New York in 2005 (now stranded in New Orleans in 1965), finds out what happens when something he has brought from 2005 encounters itself in 1965.]
Quint reached into his pocket and brought out a ring of keys. “Faye gave me these the other day, t’keep ’til I drive her north. These’ll get us in the house in Rollin’s. I’m expectin’ the day we arrive t’get y’all through the niche and start headin’ back. That’s what we need t’be thinkin’ about.” He set the keys on the table.
The round brass tag stamped BIRMINGHAM caught Brandon’s eye. “Wait a sec,” he said. “Those are the keys I took from your house . . . I’ve got those keys in my pocket.”
“What?” Quint asked.
Brandon brought out his keys. He held the tag on his ring next to the one on Quint’s. “Look,” he exclaimed. “My tag’s not shiny, but that same little piece is broken off under the M.”
“He’s right,” Stephen gasped. “They’re the same keys.”
“Impossible,” Quint huffed.
Suddenly Brandon yanked his hand back. His keys hit the table. “Ow,” he cried. “They burned me.”
Sarah took his hand and turned it over. Then she looked back at the table and let out a shriek.
A pencil-thin line of smoke was rising from Brandon’s keys. Before anyone could say a word, another line of smoke appeared, and just as quickly still another did. An acrid smell began filling the kitchen. Brandon waved the smoke out of his face and glimpsed the marbled pattern of the tabletop through his keys. “They’re disappearing,” he cried.
Everyone watched as the keys grew fainter and fainter. In a few seconds they were gone. All that remained were a scorched spot on the table and the awful smell in the air. Sarah rushed to open the window.
Quint stammered, “They . . . th-they . . . ”
“So that’s what happens,” Stephen said. “It makes sense.”
“What does?” Sarah asked, wiping her eyes.
Stephen tapped the scorched spot lightly with his finger. “There’s only one set of those keys. We had two because we came through time. One set had to go, and that’s what just happened. The keys from 1965 are still here, and they’ll age into the set B had.” He fell silent. And then he trembled.
“What?” Brandon asked.
Stephen gripped the table to steady himself. “I was just thinking about us. What if we go back to 2005 and come face-to-face with . . . ourselves. What’ll happen?”
“You mean, the same thing that happened just now?” Sarah cried.
“I don’t know,” Stephen said ominously. “And I don’t know what to do about it before we jump through the niche.”
Quint reached into his pocket and brought out a ring of keys. “Faye gave me these the other day, t’keep ’til I drive her north. These’ll get us in the house in Rollin’s. I’m expectin’ the day we arrive t’get y’all through the niche and start headin’ back. That’s what we need t’be thinkin’ about.” He set the keys on the table.
The round brass tag stamped BIRMINGHAM caught Brandon’s eye. “Wait a sec,” he said. “Those are the keys I took from your house . . . I’ve got those keys in my pocket.”
“What?” Quint asked.
Brandon brought out his keys. He held the tag on his ring next to the one on Quint’s. “Look,” he exclaimed. “My tag’s not shiny, but that same little piece is broken off under the M.”
“He’s right,” Stephen gasped. “They’re the same keys.”
“Impossible,” Quint huffed.
Suddenly Brandon yanked his hand back. His keys hit the table. “Ow,” he cried. “They burned me.”
Sarah took his hand and turned it over. Then she looked back at the table and let out a shriek.
A pencil-thin line of smoke was rising from Brandon’s keys. Before anyone could say a word, another line of smoke appeared, and just as quickly still another did. An acrid smell began filling the kitchen. Brandon waved the smoke out of his face and glimpsed the marbled pattern of the tabletop through his keys. “They’re disappearing,” he cried.
Everyone watched as the keys grew fainter and fainter. In a few seconds they were gone. All that remained were a scorched spot on the table and the awful smell in the air. Sarah rushed to open the window.
Quint stammered, “They . . . th-they . . . ”
“So that’s what happens,” Stephen said. “It makes sense.”
“What does?” Sarah asked, wiping her eyes.
Stephen tapped the scorched spot lightly with his finger. “There’s only one set of those keys. We had two because we came through time. One set had to go, and that’s what just happened. The keys from 1965 are still here, and they’ll age into the set B had.” He fell silent. And then he trembled.
“What?” Brandon asked.
Stephen gripped the table to steady himself. “I was just thinking about us. What if we go back to 2005 and come face-to-face with . . . ourselves. What’ll happen?”
“You mean, the same thing that happened just now?” Sarah cried.
“I don’t know,” Stephen said ominously. “And I don’t know what to do about it before we jump through the niche.”
July 25, 2015
Excerpt from "Here By Mistake: The Secret of the Niche"
[Fourteen-year-old Brandon, from upstate New York in 2005 (now stranded in New Orleans in 1965), reacts to going on a "swamp tour".]
Brandon took notice of the boat, which creaked and moaned every time a passenger stood up or moved across a bench. The wood looked almost rotten, and the canvas canopy was just as mossy as the wood. Suddenly Brandon realized that he loved it—the whole mossy, rotten mess of it. Like the smell of rot, it fit the place. In 2005 the boat would probably be fiberglass and the canopy nylon. Or there wouldn’t be a boat and the swamp tour would be done by watching video on the Internet. Like the channel knob and its “thumps”, the boat was physically happening—and Brandon was happening with it. And that was not all. For the first time since going through the niche, Brandon found himself liking the whole idea of being in 1965—indeed, the whole idea of time travel. Surprised, and a little scared, he wondered what had changed in him. He was quickly diverted by the wonders of the swamp.
Brandon took notice of the boat, which creaked and moaned every time a passenger stood up or moved across a bench. The wood looked almost rotten, and the canvas canopy was just as mossy as the wood. Suddenly Brandon realized that he loved it—the whole mossy, rotten mess of it. Like the smell of rot, it fit the place. In 2005 the boat would probably be fiberglass and the canopy nylon. Or there wouldn’t be a boat and the swamp tour would be done by watching video on the Internet. Like the channel knob and its “thumps”, the boat was physically happening—and Brandon was happening with it. And that was not all. For the first time since going through the niche, Brandon found himself liking the whole idea of being in 1965—indeed, the whole idea of time travel. Surprised, and a little scared, he wondered what had changed in him. He was quickly diverted by the wonders of the swamp.
July 18, 2015
New Eyes
"The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes but in having new eyes." ~ Proust
July 11, 2015
The Speed of Time
"The swiftness of time is infinite, as is still more evident when we look back on the past." ~ Seneca
