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Place your ad here for only $15.00! Reach thousands of writers and visitors! CLICK HERE
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 English major; York University, artist and computer network analyst, writer and throw in the kitchen sink. On myspace.com/artidan, editred.com/danae, artidan101.deviantart.com, facebook and fanbox under Artidan or Danart...
I also play drums and guitar, and make pottery.
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MY ACCOMPLISHMENTS:
- Published short stories in the Mirror Mag., Toronto. Featured writer for Yeoman Mag, University newspaper.
- Won some awards for short fiction...poems published all that
- Got on Dean's Honorable mention list for all those essays they had to give me A+'s for...grin..
- Played in a few bands, some tunes were created, ears opped, then opted for something else...
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MY NEWS:
working on book...
almost half done...
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MY FAVORITE LINKS:
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MY RESIDENCE INFO:
City: Burnaby
State/Country: British Columbia, Canada
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BOOKS PUBLISHED:
 Dana Fitzgerald
danaefitzgerald@shaw.ca
*quickly scribbled and dying for major surgery...***
The Wheels of Fortunatus
The castle’s iron-clad door clanked and groaned with contempt and disdain as it's current occupant tried to exit with panache. Framed by the stone pillars of an grotesque portporte-cochere, the castle's entrance spanned a stake-studded, marshy moat, a reminder that entrance needed a personal invitation. The almost fossilized timbers easily thwarted unwanted attention. Sir Richard Moncton strutted across, his new leather boots echoing with authority from his purposeful stride. This was inspection day; the day he checked the Manor’s management, the following day before he left for Cornwall to deliver his reports and collect his yearly stipend of 3 thousand gold sovereigns. His stride always prompted snide comments behind his back. His erect
Sir Richard Muncton hefted his stout front door open, blinked at the sun’s strong rays and inhaled the scented fresh summer air. The Manor was well ventilated, but countless fires and cooking odours clung to the tapestries, prompting Muncton to enjoy a stroll through his newly obtained land. Wearing a tightly tailored doublet with a ruffled collar, he began his promenade. Enjoying the sun and the knowledge he was now master of Cardiff Manor, he strutted more than walked, gloating over his position. With acres of fertile fields, enough serfs to till the land, and a dense forest for hunting, the Manor had everything to earn income. By giving the farm workers barely enough to eat, there was a tidy profit each year. Marching down the cement entranceway, his hard features squinting in the sunshine, he marveled at how quickly fortune changed. Fate put him in the right spot at the right time, for he was just another serf, toiling for a hard master in fields similar to his own. Muncton was pleased, as tomorrow was the day he had been waiting for; his yearly remittance of 3,000 gold sovereigns was due, the finest coin of the realm. During his stroll, paying close attention to detail, his eagle eye spotted a transgression. Calling his foreman over, he instructed him to discipline a hungry serf for eating a carrot while harvesting his crop, callously giving instructions for the serf, Warren Penrose, a former friend, to receive twenty lashes for thievery. He couldn’t tolerate his workers eating a morsel no matter how hungry they were; it would cut into his profits.
Muncton’s life changed three years ago. He came across the aftermath of a vicious highway robbery, and managed to rescue the wounded man he found in the carriage. After uncoupling the horses, he used one to carry the wounded man and rode straight for London. The King’s own Physician, Dr. Theodore De Mayerne saved the lad, who was actually Lord Salisbury’s son, Charles, a high-ranking member of the peerage. The Lord was overwhelmed with joy, telling Muncton that all the lands and riches he owned were nothing compared to his son’s life. In appreciation, he gave Muncton Cardiff Manor, a fief with one thousand acres, plus a yearly allowance of 3,000 gold sovereigns. Some might have remembered their humble origins, but Cardiff’s new Knight was a greedy parvenu, looking on his new fortune as a chance to become rich and enter a higher class of society.
Dawn broke overcast threatening rain. He quickly dressed and went downstairs to meet his carriage and driver, who had been told to be ready at first light. He glanced at the dreary sky, grumbled a good morning to the driver and slammed the carriage door. The carriage rumbled away, leaving Cardiff behind, and Muncton settled down to read a book. To move in rich company, one had to be cultured and educated; still struggling to read, he worked hard to learn the social graces. Refinement and sophistication were a necessity for his aspirations.
They arrived at Cornwall, and Sir Muncton quickly conducted his anticipated business. The sky was black and ominous, so they began their return trip to try and beat the rain. After a mad dash across the countryside, they just entered the hilly woods of Cardiff Manor when the clouds opened and unleashed a downpour. Winding their way through the narrow forest lane, Muncton yelled for the driver to hurry. Puddles and slippery slopes were forming, but the driver ran the team all out, as per his master’s wishes. Soon they approached a steep incline with a sharp turn at the bottom. The driver tried braking against the carriage’s wild momentum, but the cab’s speed pushed it out of control when they came to the turn at the bottom. He tried to make the turn, but the carriage hit a rock and flipped over. The driver was instantly crushed and Sir Muncton was trapped in the shattered cab, a sharp piece of wood piercing his ribs. Stunned and in pain, he plaintively called for help. Despite his injuries, he still clutched his precious gold to his side. An hour later, someone appeared. Soaked to the skin, Muncton could barely recognize Warren Penrose, the serf he earlier had flogged for eating a carrot. “Well now,” drawled Penrose, looking over the scene, “we seem to be in a bit of a situation, old friend. Eyeing the box of gold under Muncton’s arm, Warren clucked, “Terrible accident.” Reaching in to take the box, he mused, “With this and that hoard stashed in your room, I’ll have enough to make me a ‘Gentleman’. Looks like I found Fortunatus’s purse”. He leaned into the cab and whispered in Muncton’s ear. “Fate’s strange: here one day and gone the next,” he whispered, before thrusting the thick splinter all the way into Muncton’s heart, killing him instantly”.
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 A day at the beach...or
A completely over-the-top collection of unnecessary description, endless metaphors and ridiculously stentorian sentences...also awaiting surgery...
any really good stuff would never be displayed here, free and open to theft and plagarism - voila, an impecunious, penniless provider...yet the ideas are here, and they are mine. A lazy writer is an unpaid writer...
Brilliant sunshine scorched the sandy beach with continuous rays. The tang of the ocean's salty smell and ephemeral mist floated on the wind, as if the very essence of the ocean joined the air's moist and impalpable form. Large waves boomed as they crashed onto a long, curving rock promontory, their tremendous power now transformed into a cloud of floating droplets and wispy sprays. Slowly reforming their density and weight, the receding breakers reclaimed the falling vapororous tendrils of haze as it retreated back into the sea, ready to regroup for another attack. Playful Sand Pipers hopped about, searching the moist sand for their preferred dinner of periwinkles, mussels, and other beach tidbits.
Here and there, scavenging sea gulls flocked about, feasting on the vulnerable crabs and starfish exposed by the morning tide. Small rock pools teemed with myriad sea creatures; although trapped, they were content to wait for the familiar returning tide and freedom. As always, life here revolved around the vast bounty of a sea alive with thousands of different marine species; they all counted on their clean and pristine environment, just as mammals depend on clean air.
It was a beautiful, but ephemeral vista; the seascape changed with the time of day, subject to seasonsal storms and erratic weather. Sleepy sunlight in the morning progressed to furnace-like rays at noon, slowly waning as the sun dropped in the sky, as the descending curtain of twilight changed the vista with moonlight or the veil of night. Certain features retained their form. The shoreline was as it always had been: fine white sand framed by sculptured rock, slowly altered by the ravages of wind and wave - a living canvass etched by the mercurial moods of Mother Nature.
Far out to sea, several miles from the island's atoll, a tremendous explosion went unnoticed by the seashore’s busy creatures. A passing pod of killer whales were startled by the noise, and instinctively turned away from the sharp sounds of screeching metal, resuming their leisurely pursuit of food.
It came bit by bit. At first, only small black streaks were washed ashore by the pounding surf. Soon, the relentless waves were spreading jet-black blankets over the once pure white sand. Tidal pools that once contained life now became cesspools of death. The noxious ooze soon turned the beach into a black carpet that stretched as far as the eye could see. A tar covered gull struggled to free itself from the sticky mire, but could only wiggle it’s clotted wings and offer a mournful cry from it’s oil encrusted beak.
Across the country, bright sunshine gleamed off a polished mahogany conference desk, surrounded by an assemblage of luxurious soft leather chairs. The well-appointed fixtures and rich atmosphere projected money, class, and power. A group of sharply groomed and immaculately dressed gentlemen stood by an elaborately carved mini-bar; collectively, they all seemed to exude wealth, and display the fruits of capitalism at it’s very finest.
Several indistinguishable gray-suited executives occupied some of the chairs: everyone was listening intently to the tall, distinguished man standing at the head of the table.
“Gentlemen,” he continued, “as you can see from these preliminary production forecasts, our refinery quotas are unaffected by the recent events in the gulf. The increased tanker shipments from our storage facilities in the north have provided more than enough for the domestic market. Moreover, the old tanker upgrade program we initiated passed current safety standards, and will effectively lower our delivery-loss ratio. I’m sure I don’t have to stress the increased profitability this affords our stockholders. We’ve already launched new transportation networks that will soon double our existing bulk tanker fleet. Before long, we will effectively control all major seaborne oil distribution throughout the world. I’m proud to say our stock will split, and each of us will benefit from the lucrative dividends.”
The room erupted in a hearty round of applause; the smiling gentlemen stood and enthusiastically praised each other. Individuals were acknowledged and complimented on jobs well done. After the exchange of congratulatory backslaps and proffered handshakes, the room settled down and everyone returned to work. Gross profit margins and increased shipments were discussed.
Through an open window, the haunting cry of a passing gull caused a few to glance up at the disturbance. A well-dressed executive, his oily black hair immaculately coiffed, walked over and shut the window: the noisy birds were a nuisance they could do without.
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