Wishing on a Blue Star

Copyright

Published by

Dreamspinner Press

4760 Preston Road

Suite 244-149

Frisco, TX 75034

http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/

Blog entries
Copyright © 2010 by Patric Michael

Just Being
Copyright © 2010 by
Jamie Samms

Patric Hates AIM Copyright © 2010 by
Jacqueline Lichtenberg

When Angels Fall
Copyright © 2010 by ZA Maxfield

So If You're Sand
Copyright © 2010 by C. Zampa

In the Light
Copyright © 2010 by
Lex Valentine

Technical Terms
Copyright © 2010 by Patric Michael

With This Flower
Copyright © 2010 by Karenna Colcroft

The Silver Shard Copyright © 2010 by Tame Adams

Is a Prostate Worth Finding?
Copyright © 2010 by Patric Michael

The Lost Ones
Copyright © 2010 by Victor J. Banis

Mushrooms
Copyright © 2010 by Brian Holliday

The Mentor
Copyright © 2010 by Jambrea Jo Jones

Linchpin
Copyright © 2010 by Mary Calmes

Stupid Human Sex Tricks
Copyright © 2010 by Patric Michael

Dragonfly
Copyright © 2010 by Jan Irving

A Tale of Three Curmudgeons
Copyright © 2010 by Jean Lorrah

Through the Mist
Copyright © 2010 by Chrissy Munder

Leaves
Copyright © 2010 by Moira McCain

The Better Part
Copyright © 2010 by Clare London

Holding Purpose
Copyright © 2010 by D.W. Marchwell

A Place to Belong
Copyright © 2010 by Taylor Lochland

Dreams of Terrible Brightness
Copyright © 2010 by Amy Lane

Edited by Kris Jacen

Cover Art by
Catt Ford

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press at: 4760 Preston Road, Suite 244-149, Frisco, TX 75034

http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/

ISB
N:
978-1-61581-881-5

Printed in the United States of America

First Edition

January, 2011

eBook edition
available

eBook ISBN:
978-1-61581-882-2  

Table of Contents

Blogs from Patric Michael are interwoven throughout the book to tell in his words (Patric’s editor’s note: typos and all), the journey over the year. Some of the blog entries included pictures or links
—
for those interested, you can see the original entries at Patric’s blog (http://blogs.patric.com).

Table of Contents

Just Being
by Jamie Samms

Patric Hates AIM
by Jacqueline Lichtenberg

When Angels Fall
by ZA Maxfield

So If You’re Sand, Not Rock
by C. Zampa

In the Light
by Lex Valentine

Technical Terms
by Patric Michael

With this Flower
by Karenna Colcroft

The Silver Shard
by Tame Adams

Is a Prostate Worth Finding?
by Patric Michael

The Lost Ones
by Victor J. Banis

Mushrooms
by Brian Holliday

The Mentor
by Jambrea Jo Jones

Linchpin
by Mary Calmes

Stupid Human Sex
Tricks by Patric Michael

Dragonfly
by Jan Irving

A Tale of Three Curmudgeons
by Jean Lorrah

Through the Mist
by Chrissy Munder

Leaves
by Moira McCain

The Better Part
by Clare London

Holding Purpose
by D.W. Marchwell

A Place to Belong
by Taylor Lochland

Dreams of Terrible Brightness
by Amy Lane

Editor’s Note

Kris Jacen

“
I’ve got a secret no more.
”

These words on a blog just over a year ago brought a pang of sadness to many. It seemed our friend, author Patric Michael, definitely had cancer.  A rare form with a low survivability rate.

As the months passed we’ve shared Patric’s journey, through its ups-and-downs, good periods and bad, and at the end it brought us to this collection. With all of the twists and turns that we’ve taken since that simple announcement, this bend in the road is perhaps the most deeply felt.  We who have connected so many times, and so often through the Internet (yahoo groups, author loops, blogs and shared publishers) came to the realization that he might not be with us forever and wanted to honor him in a way
he
wanted.  Not just flowers or donations to a favored charity, but in a way that would, as he put it, “Hopefully touch others as deeply as they have touched me.”  You see, if we have learned only one thing from Patric throughout our time together, it is this: what the person dealing with the situation wants is more important than all else, and not necessarily what we might
think
he wants.

So we asked him what we could do: How did he want us to remember him after he passed?

Patric shared with us an idea to collect
inspiration
.  Stories, blogs and even poetry that had some connection with him. As Patric has participated on those groups or blogs, other authors have been inspired by their interactions with him to create stories or characters of their own, so he requested that we gather those stories (or others like them) along with his blogs and a few of his “educational” postings, all in one place. His hope was that someone could somehow benefit from it.  Maybe even gather strength or inspiration of their own, whether they were going through the same thing he did, or knew someone who was.

As a result you now have this collection with stories that sparked from things like talks with Patric about photographing mushrooms or his delight from fireflies or just Patric’s heart. All of the stories are written from our hearts and thoughts, to remember Patric using something he valued highly; words and creativity.

Whether you’re with us or watching over us Patric, know you have touched all our lives. May you find your Yellow Star as we wish on our Blue Star.

December 2010

A story, as I promised.....

The origins of an email and a title

I recently told my children that when I was sixteen I was better suited to raising a child than I am now.  Bless their fuzzy little hearts, they looked at me like I was crazy.  But give them credit for humoring me, they did ask for clarification.

“At sixteen, I was already a father.” I said.  “Or rather damn near, given that I was basically a live-in baby sitter.”

“Oh, right.  You mean Jed and Jeremy,”
 
said my niece, who might just as well
be
my daughter for all the care and raising I have had of her.

“Yup.  But it was more than that,” I replied.  “I was ‘geared’ toward being a father.  I didn’t exactly have a life of my own yet, like now, where it’s all wrapped up in personal projects, and work and stuff.  I was already accustomed to giving over my needs in favor of the little ones so I didn’t have any transitions to make like new parents traditionally have.”

“But you were sixteen!”
 
Eric protested.  “You were just a kid.”

Was I?  Does age dictate personality, if one leaves aside the hormones and the necessary physiological changes?  I suppose so, to a degree, but it is a central fact of my life that at sixteen I found, felt, and followed virtually all the tenets of my personal philosophies that have held me in good stead all these many years since.

Some were abandoned, most changed according to the times, and a few I held so deeply that only a scant handful knew what oddities I thought about.  One such, which I can safely share now that I am at the end of my path, is the story of my email address.  Like so many other times, I was sixteen when I “remembered.”

I’ll call it a dream in favor of those whose beliefs run counter to mine, but it was, for all intents and purposes, a memory.

Let us suppose, for example, that like in a dream, one can be both participant and observer.  Such was the case with me, though when I looked at myself all I could see was a vaguely star shaped ball of light, blindingly white. 

Just about the time I recognized my shape as nonexistent, I realized there was another shapeless ball of light just above me.  Just as white, and just as untethered by wind, gravity, or space.  We existed in a featureless red place, with a dark red horizon, and “ground” as red as the sky.  The other took off, upward, and I followed as easily as one might chase after a floating “wishie.”
 
“He” laughed, as I did, and the sound was a cascade of blue and gold color shimmering around us both and trailing after as we chased each other across timelessness.  We found that we could dive beneath the ground more easily than a fish through water and come back up, pulling mountains after us in impossibly tall crags and spires. 

Flying over these mountains I saw that each was a face.  Sometimes old, sometimes new, and all as fluid as the sensation of sound sliding across our “skin.”
 
They would fall back into the ground, sometimes leaving afterimages as clouds, and sometimes as new things altogether.

Color had texture and weight, in that world.  Sound was tactile.  Sight was a taste, as eager on an imaginary tongue as candy to a child and we reveled in each other, separated for so long and finally, finally together again.

All these things I knew in instants, with more clarity than if they had been etched behind human eyes, and I understood everything.

Except the sudden jolt when I looked up and saw “him” launch skyward.  Fear gave me it’s shape, hateful and unpleasant, when I tried to follow and could not.  Instead I was pinned to the earth, or so I thought.  In fact, I was falling, through the featureless ground that shattered like red glass and tumbled around me into darkness.  I fell with the shards, screaming a name that had no form, his name, and begging to get back to him so high overhead.  The color of his loss was gold, as mine was blue, and I was the only thing not red and shrieking as the shards fell with me and around me until the world went black.  All of his light and mine extinguished.

Pain came next.  And incredible crushing pain that forced me into a new shape, one I could not name.  Pressure built and the the darkness lifted as the I was crushed smaller and smaller and the world went a frigid blue white.  More pain and another jerking sensation, as though I were being relocated inside myself until the moment the brightness became excruciating and I entered the world screaming and naked, born bereft of my twin.

Medicine was cruder in those days.  My mother later told me the doctors had two heartbeats for a while early on and told her to expect twins, but one set failed for whatever reason and after a while they decided maybe they were wrong.  I have since been told that its not all that uncommon for one of a set of twins to fail and be reabsorbed.  (And imagine my horror when I read Stephen King’s Dark Half, which was based on that exact premise!)