Update

Good evening all! I'm posting from my phone right now because the internet powers that be are strongly neglecting my computer. I will be posting part 4 of The Craft Brew Caper tomorrow from the WiFi safety zone of a cafe so do not fret! More of Rodger's tale will soon be on the way!
Until tomorrow,
S. Faxon

"You Are The Pan"

Tonight's post was supposed to be the next chapter in Rodger's Craft Brew Caper, but a higher calling has been made. 

For those of you who do not yet know, I regret to say that the world has lost a brilliant actor, comedian and human being. Mr. Robin Williams passed away today.

The beloved man has made the world laugh with his incredible wit and humor. He warmed our hearts in roles like Andrew Martin in Bicentennial Man, Patch Adams, and the Genie. He brought hope and comfort to countless through his charity work, raising funds and awareness for a wide variety of causes. Whether it was laughing with him while suffering from hot flashes on his first day as a woman in Mrs. Doubtfire or bending over in stitches from his stand up, he could always brighten even the darkest of days. 

In honor of this great man, I would like to share what role of his stands out most to me and how influential he has been and will continue to be for me. 

Ever since I was a young child, my favorite movie is Hook, with Dustin Hoffman as the "scary ol'" Captain James Hook, the elegant Maggie Smith as Wendy, and Robin Williams as Peter. The story is about the same three Sir Barrie characters we know and love years after Peter left Neverland. He has children, a wife, a career, but most importantly, he has grown up, a fate he swore against as the proud youth leader of the lost boys. And though his memories of mermaids, Indians and pirates were stolen by the tides of time, Hook is not about to let their quarrel die. 

If you haven't seen this movie, do. It is the greatest demonstration of how important it is for one to find their inner child and to live and to love purely and wholly. Robin Williams' portrayal of a man bound by professional expectation, turned back into a little boy who only wants to have fun, has left some of the most impressionable lessons in my life.

We become so consumed by work and material nonsense that the finer things in life, like the laughter of our loved ones and the beauty of the world around us disappear. The transition of Peter's perspective in Hook is portrayed so beautifully by Robin Williams. You truly believe in this man's metamorphosis and it infects your soul. I often think of the scene that I have included here, it's power and it's message of finding one's spirit and setting it free: 

Thank you so much Mr. Williams for your unbelievable contribution of laughter to us all. Thank you for the words and portrayal of a character that has helped to carry me through the more weighty of times.

God bless you Mr. Williams. May you find peace and may it be as grand and as wonderful as Neverland. You are and always will be the Pan. 

Your humble author,

S. Faxon

Craft Brew Caper III

Sorry for the delay folks. I enjoyed a particularly busy weekend, but please know that at least part of my absence from posting was due to critical research for this story as seen in the below photos of Stone and Golden Road. Stories like this need hands on experience...

So pour yourself a glass of your favorite brew (responsibly) and get ready to read part three of Rodger's adventure!

~*~*~

Breaking into the well guarded casks of the next brewery was bound to cause problems for Rodger. The second brewery that was involved in his caper was deservedly infamous and thus so as well guarded as any bank or treasury. Cracking into this golden egg greatly troubled Rodger, but it had to be done. For the sake of this man's dying soul, this plot had to be seen through.

The approach to hit this target would have to be very different from the strike on Sir Hops A Lot. There would be no inside connections, no knowing when and where the security would patrol and certainly no golden knowledge of where the specific barrel he needed would lie. There was so little time remaining. It was sheer luck that the brewery at which he was employed closed early the day before the crown ball - that way the employees would be well rested and rearing for their big day to come. The enormity of the morrow was nothing Rodger needed help remembering. Try as he had since his diagnosis to solve this final puzzle, nothing yet had his clever mind produced. However, with a few precious hours remaining before the point of plot abortion arouse, a spark of a plan came to life. Configuring the how-to came to Rodger as he was slowly tapping the end of a fountain pen to his temple, realizing too late only after the pen's tip bled down the side of his face which side he was using to poke at his mind.

"That's it!" he exclaimed in a whisper. "They'll never suspect..." Ripping out his pocket watch, Rodger checked the time. It was half past two in the afternoon, surely the brewery's tasting room would still be open. There were only four nights remaining before the crown ball. He would have to act quickly.

"Come along, Francis," Rodger said to his round bellied pug while popping up from his well used, personal secretary desk. "We've some tasters to bribe with brew."

~*~*~

As Rodger floated on his merry cloud of contentment at the Crown Ball that credit night, he chuckled to recall the conversations he had with the fellows he employed in liquid, posted almost directly in front of the multi-annual Golden Hop winners, Hornblower brewery.

Finding men and women who wanted to be paid to drink the finest beer on the island was not difficult. Convincing them that he was not a nutter was.

"Well, why cant you go in and fetch it?" A particularly questioning candidate asked of Rodger on his final bout of beer running. It had been a terribly difficult trial securing this draft, as had certainly been expected. Collecting enough growlers to fill a barrel via a train of strangers without getting caught was almost as nerve wracking as his ordeal of stealing from his employer. When Rodger first approached any of his six thus far successful candidates of several failures, the first question he asked was for the time. Then, once established, he would hiss and say he was late to an engagement at his fiances father's home and that he had nothing to bring to their table. Those who returned to him any sort of sympathy were then asked by him, "Could I ask an enormous favor of you?"

"Sorry, mate, running late m' self,"
"I'm sorry, I don't know you,"
And, "ha, if only," were among some of the less colorful responses he received, but an eventual five people prior to this pokey sir were willing to have a listen to Rodger's well rehearsed fib; "Could I ask you to run inside and grab me a growler while I grab some flowers for my future mother in law? I'll give you the money for it now and enough to cover your next three rounds when you return. Please, it will really help me."

Once the correct style of beer to fill the hollow bellied growlers was established, Rodger with Francis happily at his side, would scoot off toward a flower shop, but the bouquet of false pretense was already cleverly hidden nearby. The dupped yet helpful folks would go into the brewery never expecting that Rodger had been awaiting them nearby with the array of colorful wildflowers that he had selected and bound from an obliging field earlier in the day. In the hiding spot behind a grocery market, Rodger had his squeaky wheeled trolley loaded with a crate, which once held salmon, but was now nearly full of growlers. The precious cargo were individually wrapped in canvas satchels to keep them from jingling against one another. In the back of his mind Rodger was hoping that the canvas bags would not absorb the terrible residual fishy smell that remained in the crate.

However, the residual smell of salmon was soon to be the least of Rodger's worries. The inquisitive fellow that Rodger conned last was very talkative, too much so. And he had not been the only open gabber.

Inside the brewery, at the long and well polished tasting bar, the pourers had been commenting on how suddenly popular one particular draft had become. The beer style was unique and did appeal to particular tongues, but having rushes on the select draft of the month was not out of the ordinary. What did become questionable was when two different patrons arriving with over an hour between them entered with strikingly similar stories about assisting a stranger in need.

The likeness of the stories perked the attention of the pourers, but it was this comment which drew their attention full and center: "Bloke just offered me three rounds if I did this one simple favor for him. Not a bad deal on my part at all, I'd say." The words were innocuous enough alone, but paired with a story earlier from another different patron who boasted that her next three rounds tonight were to come from a sweet, nervous gentleman, was enough to have the guards brought in.

"Excuse me, sir, ma'am," a large shouldered security guard approached the two patrons, catching the inquisitive man right before he was able to leave the tasting bar. The woman had returned to this brewery to make good on her gifted allowance. The tall guard brought the pair together at the far side of the tasting room from the many other sipping guests so not to cause a scene. "Sorry to disturb the pair of you, but we just want to confirm something - do you two know each other?" The middle aged woman and the inquisitive man looked at one another. The man was clearly cellar rat who worked hard all day keeping the breweries clean, and she was a relatively well kept woman. In other words, their circles on the island were not likely to have previously crossed.

"No," the pair answered in unison.

"Why?" The inquisitive man asked.

Staring hard at the pair of them, the intimidating security guard asked, "Well, unless I'm mistaken, you two seemed to have made a similar acquaintance."

~*~*~

This scheme of Rodgers did not come without tremendous risks. The overarching scheme could land him in prison, but pilfering six 32 ounce growlers individually would make it appear as if he was preparing to resell on the black market, which was as punishable as assault. These thoughts had weighed heavily in the back of his mind over the last few hours as he performed this con, but the idea of repercussions dropped in his gut like an anchor when the one of his earlier recruits and the inquisitive man emerged from the welcoming wooden doors of Hornblower with the most unwelcoming looking security guard.

Rodger felt the air in his lungs turn into led, and the blood in his veins turn to ice. This was it. The end. Rodger did not know whether to run or to stand to fight with one hell of a lie.

"Sir," the security guard's booming voice called to Rodger from ten feet away. Rodger felt himself shrink about six inches. "I'm going to need you to come with me." The bouquet of wild flowers in Rodger's hands capsized from his limp wrist.

"That'll be all you two." The tone in the guard's voice told the accidental snitches that it was time for them to go and fast. As the pair scurried off like mice, Rodger thought of being a boy in school and being called into the headmaster's office alone. It was not much fun then and Rodger had a grim feeling that it would be extraordinarily less so now.

"Right this way," the guard waited for Rodger to come to his side before leading him and Francis away from the tasting room and toward the back of the brewing building. Although Francis happily and obliviously trotted beside him, Rodger had a sudden and overwhelming rush of dread and loneliness. No one knew he was here. No one would know if he was lost or missing. The possibilities of what could happen to him were dark and endless.

As the three of them entered a cold, dim cobblestone alley that led to a tall black door, Rodger felt the color in his face go drawn. It was the moment in which he realized that he just truly might die and much sooner than expected.

~*~*~

Alright folks - you know the drill. Tune in next week for the exciting conclusion of The Craft Brew Caper!

Until then,
Your humble author,
S. Faxon

Craft Brew Caper II

Bit late to the gate tonight, but here it is, part two of The Craft Brew Caper! To catch up and read part 1, please visit last week's post: Short Story Time! 

Craft Brew Caper Part II

The forced laughter and chatter of the guests attending the Crown Ball was highly entertaining to the great beer thief. The owners of the breweries came together annually to showcase their latest drafts. Some of the brews showcased were seasonal and some would be limited edition, but all were considered to be of extreme high quality. Only the top ten breweries of Headbrough could have their casks showcased. It was the desire of all black boots to cellar rats alike to have their brewery win the all coveted Golden Hop award. It was the envy of all brewery owners and for the last six years, the medallion had hung around the neck of Hornblower owner, Jack Pilot. It was rumored that Pilot was running a spicy brew this year to spite the taste of his cousin and long time rival Tony Alessi, owner of Sir Hops A Lot, the very brewery that our Rodger represented financially.

To Rodger, it was simply grand to watch folks greet each other pleasantly or with haughty competitive remarks followed with curled lips. These people were so stuck on their own beer that they rarely tried the flavors of competitive brewers for pleasure. It was all about the game of outdoing one another and winning that prized medallion. The competitive blindness was a major contribution for Rodger to come to his decision to plot the craft brew caper.

As Rodger accepted a stein of a wheat beer (from a rival brewery) off a silver tray, he reflected on how he closed the other day...

It wasn't uncommon for Rodger to bring his pug Francis to his office in the back corner of the brewery. Francis had been Rodger's constant shadow and companion for four years. It was sometimes difficult for people to recognize Rodger without the round eyed pooch. The breweries were dog friendly, but some of the meaner of the black booted beer breewers would poke fun at Rodger's dog. Rodger would pat Francis on the head and assure him that he was a perfectly normal dog. Wilhemena never said anything about Rodger's dog...she really didn't say much at all. She was a quiet, diligent worker that didn't much associate with the other black boots. Rodger adored her all the more for that.

At the close of work Wednesday, Rodger prepared his final report for the Millstone Craft. Every accountant for every brewery had to submit their reports to both their own staff and to Millstone in order to keep scandal at bay. It was an effective system, mostly. But for his plot, Rodger decided to twist numbers just a tad to cover his tracks.

Rodger’s daily routine included being among the last people to leave the brewery. He preferred the quiet in the late evenings, when the rest of the team would move on to the pubs and the cool, comforting silence of the brew house would settle in. It was during these evening hours when Rodger would finish his reports with ease and his thoughts would drift. Normally his thoughts would stray to the beautiful Wilhemena, but for the last few weeks his distractions had been distracted. 

The news that he received from his doctor, “Sorry, you’re dying,” had sung like a chorus of demons stuck on repeat in his mind. It wasn’t until the night, that magical night three weeks ago when dreams of the great caper fluttered through his thoughts, planting the seed that he had been nourishing ever since.

This Wednesday night marked that phase two of his operation was about to begin. The page-less notes that he had taken in his mind over the last two weeks had led him to the storehouse in his own brewery for phase one. The plan seemed easy enough: get the desired barrel, switch it with the phony, then sneak it home to the neighbor’s underground brewery without being noticed or caught. Any aspect of this plan made the palms of Rodger’s hands sweat, but this was not the time for rationale or logic to rise up - this was the time for breaking rules.

Rodger waved goodbye to one of the few black boots that gave him any sort of courtesy attention and the great doors entering the main hall of the brewery were closed. The majority of the oil lanterns that burned in the majority of the brew-house were dimmed leaving behind a faint orange glow in the hall over which Rodger looked. The shiny bodied mash tuns with their individual coal heated ovens that usually funneled heat within were cleaned and ready for tomorrow’s next batch of malt. On the other side of the aisle that ran down the two-hundred foot long hall were the lauter tuns, which were probably still warm to the touch after a full day of making wort. At the far end of the hall was the packaging room. After the ingredients were turned into their particular styles of beer, they were poured into oak barrels and rolled into the final phase in the production process, the storage room. Those barrels were highly monitored and kept at a constant cool temperature, regulated by the island’s aquifer that was redirected to run through pipes surrounding the storage room to act as a room cooler. From that cooled room, barrels would be rolled out onto the back of trolleys and wagons where they would be distributed to different pub owners and merchants throughout the island. Some would stay domestic, but a good portion would be shipped overseas. Sir Hops A Lot truly did produce some of the finest ales and pale ales around, and it was for this reason that Rodger chose this one to be struck.

Exhaling deeply, Rodger looked down to where Francis lay curled up beside his feet. “Are you ready, Francis?”

Francis turned his round yellow eyes up to his papa and proceeded to pant and gargle-breathe in that special way that pugs do.

Patting Francis on the top of his rounded head, Rodger stood up and calmly proceeded to finish his nightly routine by placing his thick, leather bound notebook in his satchel. Once his belongings were secure, he picked up his building keys and held them close in his hands that were shaking. “This is it,” he said more to himself than to Francis.

The pair of them set off down the long aisle bound for the storage room. Little Francis’ body waddled with excitement as he trooped with his papa on this mission. Francis had never been this way before. He liked how the floor, wet from being hosed down, made his feet feel cool - it was usually far too warm in this hall for Francis’ tastes.

The security guards would not check the inside of the hall until precisely 7:30pm. Checking his pocket watch for the hundredth time, Rodger saw that he had plenty of time. It was only a quarter after. On the countless evenings before when he would greet the security guards as they were entering, it was always at 7:30pm, but they would start at the storage room and work their way forward. The window would only be open for a brief amount of time.

Using the bronze key on the ring he carried, Rodger allowed Francis and himself into the marvelously refreshing storage room. Having access to this room was a part of Rodger’s duties as a finance manager - keeping track of the processed inventory was a matter of grand importance. Rodger was trusted with ensuring that a specific number of barrels were kept in the storage room at all times, in case of any sort of unanticipated accident, sort of like the type he was about to unfold.

“Alright Francis, sit. Stay,” Rodger said to his dog, keeping the pooch at the entrance of the storage room. The idea was to keep Francis at the door, hoping that he would bark if anyone started to come this way unbeknownst to Rodger. Francis was very happy to have his feet in the room that was particularly cool, but sitting on the cold tile floor was too much for his tush and he wanted to stay at his papa’s side anyway. No sooner had Rodger taken but three steps away from the door that Francis was immediately at his side again.

“No, Francis, come,” Rodger quietly commanded, picking Francis up by the sides of his somewhat bulbous belly, and placing him gently back in the doorway. “Stay,” Rodger again commanded, but before he could complete a full step back, Francis already began to follow him. “No, Francis,” Rodger again picked up the dog and turned him to face the hall. Yet again, the determined dog turned 180 degrees to face his papa. Rodger tried this same technique of picking up and turning around his dog twice more before completely giving up on his hope to have his dear companion dog be a guard. If Francis preferred to be at his side, there was no point in wasting time.

With Francis in step with his stride, Rodger proceeded with his plan. There were only a few minutes left before the guards would enter the hall and he would have to hide and likely forsake his plan for tonight. Due to his frequency in this room, Rodger knew exactly where to strike. In the third row of high stacked barrels, Rodger found the desired target: the smokey, malty ales. With very few hops in their production process, these ales were among the best in the world. It was an ancient recipe that the black boots had taken years to reproduce and it was done masterfully. This was not the brew that was intended to be showcased by Sir Hops A Lot in the upcoming competition, for that one was under tight lock and key, but this beer had won the competition eight years ago when it first premiered. Of all the beers that Rodger had ever tried in his life, this was by far his favorite. He hoped that what he had planned would only help to highlight the mastery of this beer further.

Staring at the rack of barrels that were about half the size of those shipped internationally and were used at local pubs, Rodger locked onto the intended barrel. Reaching up onto the racks, Rodger took hold of the intended barrel that was at his eye-level and attempted to pull. Much to his distress the barrel was so heavy that he could not move it! He tried shaking it and twisting it side to side, but the weight of the barrel was seemingly too much. 

Rodger’s heart rate doubled as he quickly tried to decide what to do. In his moment of panic, he briefly imagined spending the rest of whatever time he had left locked behind bars for this cockamamie scheme when suddenly his eyes fell upon metal latches on the side of the rack next to the one at which he stood. The latches seemed to lock the barrels in place by sitting inside the head ring. The device seemed so small and so innocuous that Rodger was suddenly horribly embarrassed for missing so simple a detail. Letting his head drop from his lapse in thought, Rodger reached around to the bottom lip of the barrel and with a quick flick of this thumbs, the locks unlatched and the barrel slid out gracefully into his arms. Rodger nearly kicked himself from forgetting something so minor, but with a thirty-five pound barrel of precious merchandise, now was not the time.

Rodger carried the barrel to the back door, which he had forgotten to unlock before and with Francis at his feet this was turning out to be far more of a circus than he had anticipated. “Francis, back up, back up boy,” Rodger quietly commanded. He knew that his time was running short and that the would have no more room for mishaps, the least of which he wanted was a squished dog. With the barrel blocking his view, Rodger swished out his foot to steer Francis back, which did end up pushing the pooch to a safer distance.

Placing the barrel to stand on the ground, Rodger again fiddled with his keys to find the correct mate to the lock. Even though the room was cooled, sweat dripped down Rodger’s forehead from stress and nerves. As he found the proper key and inserted it into the lock, it killed Rodger to not know what time it was, but even stopping to check his pocket-watch would only further push him back.

The door opened into the darkly lit street beside the loading dock of the brewery. Rodger hopped down from the raised peer and dashed across the thin street to a large garbage bin where the waste that could not be recycled was thrown. The bin was full and the flies surrounding it terribly annoying, but directly behind the bin were three of the most important items in this phase. Rodger grabbed the two wheeled trolley that he had borrowed from his neighbor and began to quickly roll it toward the peer. His head spun around as fast as an owl’s, trying to keep a sharp eye out for any unexpected visitors. One of the wheels on his trolley squeaked horribly, only adding to his nerves. Tied the singing vessel was a smashed barrel and a glass growler filled with stale beer.

Francis had not wanted to leave the cool room, so he remained on the ledge where he could feel the refreshing air of the room and keep an eye on his papa, while not having his sensitive nose offended by the waste. With great interest, Francis watched his papa jump back up onto the loading dock with the mess of wood and silver rings in his arms. The man ran into the cold room and arranged the broken barrel on the floor to make it look as if it had fallen from the rack that he had just altered. Returning to the trolley with the pug ever watching, Rodger practically lay flat atop the dock to reach the remaining growler. It would add the final effect for the caper to continue successfully. Passing the pug, Rodger opened the growler and poured the stale pale ale over the broken barrel’s insides to make it look wet, allowing much of the beer to run down the drain that was in the center of the tiled room. The sticky splatter and river that would remain would add a nice touch to this staged accident.

With extreme haste, Rodger grabbed the enormous barrel and carefully rolled it toward his trolley. Francis watched his papa with a confused and intrigued tilt of his head as the man stooped over much like a pooch and delicately rolled the heavy object off the dock and onto the trolley. The awkward position placed a heavy strain on Rodger’s back, but there was no time for pain. The internal time clock within the man knew that it was 7:30pm and that the security guard was probably moments away.

Running back to the door, Rodger pulled shut the exit and locked it with fumbling hands. Springing to the edge of the docks, Rodger hopped down, took hold of the trolley’s handles and began to quickly walk away. The squeaks of the cart however, screamed to him that he was not yet finished.

Leaving the trolley in the middle of the alley, Rodger raced back to the docks and loudly whispered. “Come here, Francis!”

Francis did not want to leave the ledge and he was upset that the door with the pleasant air was closed, but it was dinner time and his stomach was rumbling. With a delighted pug smile, Francis happily waddled over to his papa and the pair of them made a quick exit with the squealing trolley and its precious cargo.

Not two minutes later, the security guard entered the storage room to see a broken barrel and an awfully big, wet mess.

Shaking his head, the security guard said to himself with a sigh, “What a bloody waste.”

Only three stages remained to Rodger’s plot and the next one involved breaking into a completely different brewery.

~*~*~

Tune in next week to see what happens in Rodger's phase three! If you like what you read and want to keep this author writing, please drop by the PayPal button up top and give what you can! Thanks for reading!

Your humble author,

S. Faxon

Short Story Time!

Good afternoon all!

We've come to the end of my IndieGoGo fundraising campaign! Together, we raised over $1600! But if you'd still like to support this author on her journey through writing and peacebuilding, please feel free to use the PayPal button on the top left corner of this blog page. Before we jump into this post, allow me to THANK YOU all for your incredible support, both financially and emotionally. This upcoming adventure of mine is going to be incredible beyond imagining and I would NOT be able to do it without you.

Now, as a reward for your encouragement, I've crafted up something new. It's going to be a short story chronicle (not sure how long yet). So readers, allow me to introduce to you my latest character Rodger in his story The Craft Brew Caper.

The Craft Brew Caper

Though his life had always been rather dull, Rodger was not about to close out his days with the same ol’ routine. He refused to go down as an old shoe, predictable as the sun’s rise, or even as a plain accountant. No. He wanted to die with the reputation he was determined to be his own – a master brew thief.

 Access would be the easy part; Rodger had worked at Millstone Craft for over ten years as the finance manager. Like most people in the small island county of Headbrough his life had been consumed by the golden brews and heavy stouts. Most civilized nations around the world served the brews that were crafted one-hundred percent from Headbrough. It was the beer capital of the world and most of its inhabitants were proud of their art and heritage. Most folks in this island either worked for one stage of the production or another. Whether they grew hops, built casks, barrels, blew the glass for the bottles or even if they were merely accountants to the breweries, (like our poor dear Rodger) one way or another, beer was an active part of their lives.

The divisions of society in Headbrough were slightly different than those in most places, as one’s financial situation did not completely determine where one stood in society. The brewery owners were the pinnacle of the triangle, slightly below them were the brew masters, then the farmers, for without them their craft would be impossible, and then came merchants, the international delivery sailors, the cellar rats, the beggars and then the final category – the administration. It is in this sad final category where we find our Rodger. It was commonly believed that any fool could add or subtract and keep track of inventory (though indeed this was a misguided paradigm). Though the people of Headbrough were proud and helped each other in a neighborly fashion, there was a faction of people who were truly regarded above the rest – the brew masters. The black booted chemists that knew exactly what it takes to make the most delectable beer were considered first class and were granted every amenity imaginable.

The brew masters were particularly cruel to Rodger. He was an easy target because he never stood up for himself, but he hated being snubbed, under-thanked and ignored, especially (and ironically) because the girl of his dreams happened to be a brew master. From his dimly lit office in the corner of the brewery he would occasionally see her, Wilhelmina, wearing her loosely fitted uniform and knee high black boots. Bits of her auburn hair would be slipping out of the long braid she wore and there was always that charming, beautiful smile on her fair freckled face, a smile he could only imagine that one day he would cause. But never as an accountant. He knew as much as anyone on this island about beer, but the brewery owner, Clive Livermoor did not accept his C.R.A.F.T. scores. Only those who scored over 28 out of a possible 30 on their Craft, Resource, & Applied Fermentation Test were eligible to begin the application process of being a brew master at Livermoor’s Brewery, Sir Hops A lot. Rodger scored a measly 21 and after being laughed at for asking to take a re-test, he settled for the position offered – head accountant and there he has remained.

But no more. He would show it to Mr. Livermoor that he was as clever and as crafty as any brew master and his plans would come to fruition tonight, during the twenty-fourth annual Crown Craft Masquerade Ball.

For a party held in the large basement of a brewery, it was a tad stuffy and reserved. A chamber orchestra strung out the tunes of highbrow events. The attendees were dressed in elaborate elegant petticoats and trousers. While golden tasting brews bubbled and swiveled in the bell shaped glasses or tall mugs of the guests, none seemed to be having too extraordinary a good time. That is, except for Rodger, but his giggling delight was not caused by the consumption of the brew, rather the distribution. His own distribution which began early that morning…

Knocks on the door in the early hours of morning were never particularly welcoming to Kyle, especially when he was in the middle of preparing for his day at work. Half awake, Kyle dragged his bare feet to the door of his flat. While buttoning up his brown waistcoat, he drowsily called through the door, “Who is it?”

“It’s Rodger,” the early morning visitor whispered through the wood – he did not want the neighbors on the landing above to know that he was here.

Shaking his head, Kyle unlatched the door to stare critically at his lifelong friend. “Why in the name of good beer are you here so early?”

Rodger did not wait for an invitation to come inside. He scooted past his friend to stand in the light. Kyle’s apartment was a one bedroom studio with little by means of comfort, but it was in a nicer neighborhood than Rodger’s. Kyle was also in administration, but he worked in the international trade sector, so his pay and level of respect in society was higher.

“I’ve brought you something,” Rodger admitted once Kyle closed the door. He held out to Kyle a canvas satchel, which clearly contained a small growler.

Rubbing his hands through his thick, black hair Kyle approached the bag and took it as if it was nothing special. “What is this? Don’t tell me you’re trying to brew out of your neighbor’s basement again?”

“No, no. You know I gave up that hope ages ago,” Rodger assured, although it certainly provided no comfort to himself. However, a coy and excited smile came across his face, “Have a taste of that beer and try to tell me it’s not the best you’ve ever tasted in your life.”

The prospect of drinking great beer was highly appealing to Kyle, but the early hour and the oddness of Rodger’s behavior was more pressing. “What’s going on, man? Is everything alright? I mean, why are you brining me beer at five in the morning?”

Waving his hand, Rodger dismissed the inquiry and said, “Just taste that.”

Kyle continued to stare at Rodger for a moment more before accepting that there would be no discussion at this point. Sighing heavily, Kyle walked to his round wooden table where a line of three ounce taster glasses lie as his center piece. Taking the growler from the bag, Kyle poured a glass and held it up to the brass gas light feature hanging from his ceiling. “Looks like ale. Is this the one from Top Hat I told you I liked a lot?”

“Just taste it, don’t ask questions,” Rodger was burning with the anticipation of what Kyle would think.

Sighing again, Kyle took a sniff. Almost instantly, his eyes lit up. It had a rich, inviting smoky smell. Deciding that it was safe to drink, Kyle took a sip. The light bodied, yet full flavored ale had a delightful spiciness with a remarkably refreshing twist at the end. He allowed his mind a moment to process what passed over his tongue. Pouring himself a second glass and feeling much more awake, Kyle asked, “Wh-at is this? This really is the best beer I’ve ever had. Is this Livermoor’s new brew? I thought he hated spice.”

Nodding, Rodger pushed his round spectacles higher up on the bridge of his handsome nose as he said, “Yes, he does hate spice. Some of that is his ale. But that’s all I can say. I’m sorry, but I have to go.” Sending his friend a quick smile, Rodger concluded with, “Enjoy the rest!”

“No, c’mon man,” Kyle leapt before Rodger to stop him from going out of the door. “Where did you get this? Better yet, where can I get more?”

Rodger really wanted to tell his best friend all about his plot, but for now, things had to stay on the low. It was imperative that no one had the full picture of the puzzle just yet. Imperative for his plan and quite possibly for his life. Considering what he could tell his friend so as not to keep him in the dark, Rodger crafted a few things to say. As quietly as possible, Rodger said, “This isn’t any one man’s beer. The efforts that have gone in to making this brew has been extensive. You’re coming to the ball tonight, yes?”

Kyle nodded and continued to sip his second short glass. (No one at work would notice if his cheeks were a little pink – it was cold out after all.)

“Excellent.” Having Kyle there would only make the final stage in his efforts that more gratifying. “Then you’ll likely find out tonight. But I have to go – I’ve still much more to be done.” Rodger suddenly looked like a man enlightened as he began to lean once more for the door.

Kyle caught Rodger by grabbing the crook of his elbow. “What’re you up to, Rodg? Really? You don’t seem like yourself.”

There were a great many details in Rodger’s life, which had changed, but he was not able to talk about them at this time. All that currently mattered was for his plan to be seen through before it was too late. The man was dying, after all. If everything ended up going according to plan, people would be raising their glasses to him for countless kegs to come. 

~*~*~

Come back next week to see the next phase in Rodger's plan!

Until then, 

Your humble author, 

S. Faxon

Baby Sloths

Having a rough Monday? Watch the following video and your day will instantly improve...guaranteed.

But of course baby sloths squeak and eat flowers! (As I write this, I can't stop watching the ridiculously cute video!) 

When I sat down to write this blog I didn't have much of anything planned. Normally I would consider telling you about my adventures, sharing with you my written works, or beg you for money to get my peace-building self abroad. Now, I've had an awful amount of adventures in the past week, I'm overwhelmed with how many written pieces I could share, so I am going to ask you to help my fundraising campaign, if you haven't donated a frappacino's worth yet, why not? (I honestly will not judge you if you haven't and I understand if you can't.)

But if you'd like to donate, please feel free to go to my website by clicking on the Indie-Go-Go banner on the left side of the screen. If you're more comfortable donating to my cause directly, please feel free to click on the PayPal button just above the Indie-Go-Go. There's only a few days left to this campaign so spread the word or donate what you can to this writer-peace-builder! I really cannot make it to Turkey without your help.

On that note, I would like to extend an ENORMOUS thank you to my dear friend Carrie for giving an incredible donation! The beautiful support that you have always given me has been the wind to my sails! Thank you Carrie!

Until next week (when the campaign will be at an end),
Your humble author,
S. Faxon

PayPal Upgrade and College Tips

Happy Monday to you all! I would like to first extend an ENORMOUS thank you to my lifelong and very dear friend Carrie for her extremely generous contribution toward my campaign!

As you may have noticed, my blog page has experienced a bit of an upgrade. On top of the left column there is now and forever will be a donation button linking directly to PayPal.

As many of you know I am preparing to travel to Turkey on my first ever peace-building mission abroad. It takes quite a lot of pocket change and budgeting to prepare for a trip like this, which is why I am in great need of YOUR help. Dear readers, you are of course in no way obligated to donate, but if you can please do. If you can't, please share the link of my blog with others so that this writer's dream of helping to make the world a better place can be achieved.

Speaking of being a writer, I was fortunate enough to have published my first commissioned article! (Reaching loads of milestones this year!) I submitted my article to a website called TakeLessons - they are a tutoring site that links students to teachers of a variety of subjects. My article was accepted, published, and now your "humble" writer is sharing it with you! (Little demonstrations of pride now and then never hurt anyone.)

"Top Tips for Becoming A New Fish in a College Pond"
By S. Faxon
http://takelessons.com/blog/adjusting-to-college

It’s that special time of year when high school seniors are stepping into their last summer before college. While move-in day and orientations are still a little ways off, it’s important to start thinking about adjusting to college life sooner than later.

There are a thousand and one things a college freshmen will have to worry about – dorm life, stadium-style seating in classrooms, schedules, parking, and the dreaded but mostly inevitable “freshman 15.”

Of course, every student’s experience will vary from school to school, but looking back on the experiences of my friends and my own trials and triumphs, I decided to put together a brief list of helpful, handy tips:

1. Be polite to your roommates. Even if they seem to be possessed. If they are doing something you don’t like, such as watching ‘80s TV shows in the middle of the night, politely ask them to turn it down or to turn it off. You’ll be surprised how much smoother relations will go if you ask for things politely.
2. Get to know your professors. Even if you are one student out of 300 in a classroom (yes, this does happen). Make the effort to see them during their office hours or to meet with the Graduate Assistant. Not only does it prove that you are serious about your studies, it makes a personal connection with your professor, who may be able to open doors for you that you never knew were closed.
3. Try to find the list of your textbooks on your course pages online prior to the first class meeting. You will want plenty of time between ordering textbooks and your classes starting, as professors will not wait for you to get the books. Usually your professors will post which textbooks they want along with their syllabus well in advance of the semester or quarter starting. I don’t recommend printing the syllabus, which is the course outline, just yet as they are subject to change (as a former professor myself, I can attest to that).
4. Use websites like Half.com, Amazon.com or eBay to find your textbooks. Professors will likely ask for the latest and greatest editions, but let’s be honest – you’re a poor college kid and books are expensive. Ask your professor if earlier editions are acceptable and save yourself a lot of money. Look into options for renting your books, which is also significantly cheaper. And especially don’t forget the LIBRARY!
5. When contacting your professors, be as professional in your emails as possible. There is nothing more annoying to a professor than receiving an email from a student asking why their grade is so low, when the email is written like a text between friends. Professors are not your friends. They demand and deserve respect, particularly when you are inquiring about a grade. If they ask for a certain subject line in an email, use it, otherwise your communication will be lost to the great netherworld of the internet.

Hopefully these five tips will help you as you’re adjusting to college and catching your bearings in the wonderful new pond that you or your college-bound child are about to enter. College is a wonderful experience and countless adventures await you both academically and socially. There are numerous ways to broaden your mind at college, but it is only possible with good effort and a little common sense.

Remember, if you like what you read, pass it along in a Tweet! You can find me on Twitter @ReadingEscape. If you really like what you read and want to help keep this writer writing, please express your appreciation either via a comment or with a donation. Either will be greatly appreciated!!!

Before I say adieu for now, here's yet another plea directly from me asking for your support:

Until next time!

Your humble author, 

S. Faxon