Poisonous Pea Soup

You all know how fond I am of New York. I don't think I've ever written about my obsession with London. I adore big, sprawling cities that make little sense to outsiders. (Tokyo shares similar charms.) While I appreciate the formal beauty of towns such as Paris, I prefer chaos. I want to be surprised, shocked, or titillated every time I take a turn. London delivers. It's a big, beautiful mess. I wouldn't want to live there, but it's a city I'll never get tired of visiting.

And, of course, London's long history puts New York's four hundred years to shame. I could write a thousand posts on the strange events that have taken place in London, the bizarre figures who have called it home, and the fabulous fictional characters the city has produced over the last thousand years. (This blog is named Bank St. Irregular for a reason.)

But today, I'll focus on pea soup fogs. Like most Americans of my generation (and possibly yours), I always romanticized the fogs that once descended on London. They called to mind natty trench coats and Sherlock Holmes tales. (Not to mention Jack the Ripper.) Of course the London fogs were anything but romantic. "Pea-soupers" were a direct product of pollution. That picturesque fog was poison, and every time it rolled into town thousands of people perished.

The pea-souper of December, 1952 may have killed more than twelve thousand people. (To put that into perspective, it's almost four times the number of people who died here in New York on 9/11.) Fortunately, those deaths led to legislation that eventually cleared the skies over London.

Check out the wonderful Nickle in the Machine blog for more pictures of the 1952 killer fog. I love it when another blog does my work for me (and does a much better job than I would have done).

The Night Climbers of Cambridge

Last week, three fire engines were dispatched to Cambridge University in Britain. The firemen had been called by university officials and asked to perform a rather unusual task. A student hoaxster had placed red Santa's hats on the spires of two tall buildings, and the humorless university officials wanted the hats removed. (Read a news report here.)

That's not the interesting part. The question is: How did the hats get up there in the first place? As you can see from the photos above, the hoaxster didn't choose the most accessible rooftops.

That's why some are suggesting that the hoaxster must have made use of a book known as The Night Climbers of Cambridge. Written by the mysterious "Whipplesnaith" and published in 1937, the tome offers a guide to exploring the roofs of the city's ancient buildings. It even offers handy tips on how to get around chimneys, pillars, and gargoyles.

I love the idea of students slinking through the night, hopping from rooftop to rooftop with their trusty guide tucked into their back pockets. On the awesome meter, The Night Climbers ranks right up there with Glimpses of Gotham and the Perforating Mexicans. (Below: One of the many amazing photographs from the book.)




Want even more awesome? (I can barely take it!) You can read the entire book here.

The Color That Keeps the Ghosts Away

I love knowing the crazy origins of everyday things. Take, for example, the blue shown above. You see this and similar "watery" hues throughout the Southern US. "Haint Blues," as they're called, are used to paint ceilings, shutters, and sometimes even entire buildings. They're lovely, of course, but they serve a surprising purpose.

Here's the story, via the wonderful blog Curious Expeditions . . .

Known as the Gullah or Geechee people, the original Haint Blue creators were descendants of African slaves who worked on rice plantations in South Carolina and Georgia. . . . They are well-known for preserving their African heritage more than any other African American community. They kept alive the traditions, stories, and beliefs of their ancestors, including a fear of haints.

Haints, or haunts, are spirits trapped between the world of the living and the world of the dead. These are not your quiet, floaty, sorrowful ghosts, they are the kind you don’t want to mess with, and the kind you certainly don’t want invading into your humble abode looking for revenge. Luckily, the Gullah people remembered an important footnote to the haint legend. These angry spirits have a kryptonite; they cannot cross water. The safest place would be in an underwater bubble, or perhaps to surround your house with a moat. But the Gullah people had a much more elegant solution. They would dig a pit in the ground, fill it with lime, milk, and whatever pigments they could find, stir it all together, and paint the mixture around every opening into their homes. The haints, confused by these watery pigments, are tricked into thinking they can’t enter.

Awesome! Read more here.

Fake Houses Are Everywhere

(Above: Can you spot the fake house?)

I can't believe I've never posted on this subject. It's one that's fascinated me for quite some time.

The fact is, if you live in a major metropolitan area, there's a good chance that at least one of the houses you regularly pass on the street isn't quite . . . real.

Take, for example, 23/24 Leinster Gardens in London (shown above). It looks like a house. It has columns and balconies and plants growing in the boxes out front. But the whole thing's just for show. The house that once stood on the site was torn down in the 19th century to make way for a subway line. To keep the neighbors happy, a facade was built to hide the gaping hole and open train tracks that replaced the lovely dwelling.




But unless you took a very close look, you'd probably never know the difference! (Want to know more? Check out the whole story and more pictures here.)

But enough with London. Recently, I was thrilled to learn that there's a brownstone in Brooklyn that hides a secret entrance to/exit from the New York subway system. And only the NYPD knows where it is! According to the Associated Press . . .

The NYPD allowed the AP to visit the hidden exit — fronted by the phony house in a quiet residential neighborhood — on the condition that its origins and location not be disclosed. The department also barred photos.

Located in the tunnel just east of the river, the exit leads to a grimy lit set of metal stairs that ascend past utility boxes and ventilation shafts into a bleak, windowless room with a door. Anyone opening the door would find themselves on a stoop — part of the facade replicating a town house.

The passageway once was secured from the outside only by a giant bolt in the middle of the door that was opened with a tire iron. It's now rigged with silent alarms and motion detectors that would alert police to an intruder.

Awesome. I believe it is my duty as a citizen of Brooklyn to discover the location of this house and use the entrance to begin my subterranean life of crime. (Kidding!) If any of you find it first, send me a picture! I promise I won't tell a soul.

(Oh, and I know for a fact that it's not the only dummy house in NYC. So even if you spend your days in one of the four other boroughs, you should still keep an eye out!)

Pretty Deadly

(Above: Don't get any closer.)

I have a strange relationship with plants. I adore them, but they seem to die in my presence. (Although I do have a Chia Pet that's doing quite well at the moment.) I've always wondered if there might be something about me that's toxic to plants.

If so, I share that trait with the daffodil, which may be my favorite flower. They're springing up all over Brooklyn right now. (Brooklyn in the spring is unbelievably beautiful.) They seem so sweet and innocent--but each and every one of them is a potential serial killer. Put a daffodil (or any member of the Narcissus genus) into a vase with other flowers, and the daffodil will release a poisonous sap that will kill the other flowers. Pretty nasty, right?

According to Wikipedia, "daffodil itch" is the bane of many florists. The toxic sap causes "dryness, fissures, scaling, and erythema in the hands, often accompanied by subungual hyperkeratosis (thickening of the skin beneath the nails)." I have no idea what some of that means, but ewww.

The leaves and bulbs of daffodils contain a poison called lycorine, which can cause all sorts of foul symptoms. (I'd give you the list, but it's rather disgusting.) Yeah, but who would eat a daffodil, you ask? Well like any successful serial killer, it knows how to lure its victims. Because daffodil bulbs resemble onions, they have a tendency to end up in soups and stews. As you might suspect, schoolchildren are the daffodil's favorite prey.

Do You Hear Voices?

(Art by Joanna Hellgren. Based on the Henry James novella, The Turn of the Screw. If you haven't read it, do.)

Here's the most interesting fact I've come across in a while. According to a new study, "nearly 1 in 10 seven- to eight-year-olds hears voices that aren't really there."

You can read more here. The article is careful to point out that most kids who hear voices don't find them troubling. And the vast majority will never develop any mental illness.

But why would we assume something might be wrong with the kids? What if the voices they're hearing are real? And if they are real--what are they?

Searching for Monstrous Swine in Hampstead's Sewers

(Above: On the hunt for sewer pigs?)

We all know that New York's sewers are home to alligators. (Oh, you didn't know that? Well then scroll down a few posts.) But back in the 1850s, the sewers of Hampstead (then north of London, now part of the city) were said to house ferocious feral pigs.

According to Henry Mayhew's book, London Labour and the London Poor (which is, believe it or not, one of the most fascinating books ever written) . . .

There is a strange tale in existence among the sewer-workers, of a race of wild hogs inhabiting the sewers in the neighborhood of Hampstead. The story runs, that a sow in young, by some accident got down the sewer through an opening, and, wandering away from the spot, littered and reared her offspring in the drain, feeding on the offal and garbage washed into it continuously. Here, it is alleged, the breed multiplied exceedingly, and have become almost as ferocious as they are numerous.

Mayhew didn't believe the stories, but plenty of people did. You can read more about the origins of the tales here!

And if you're looking for a little light reading that will leave you nice and nauseous, I recommend this article on London's early sewers.

Water Hazard

I once knew a guy who had a rather unusual way of making a few extra bucks. He and a friend would sneak onto golf courses under cover of night and collect the golf balls that had been lost in the water hazards. They made quite a bit of money selling the balls they recovered. And while their activities weren't strictly legal, I always thought they deserved every penny. After all, no one else was going to do it. Why? My acquaintance lived in southern Louisiana, and the water hazards he frequented were all filled with alligators.

I used to think it would be great fun to play golf on an alligator-filled course. But now I have a new goal. I want to visit the Carbrook Golf Club in Brisbane, Australia. It may be the only golf course in the world where the water hazards are infested with . . . SHARKS. Seems a nearby river flooded several years ago, and six large bull sharks made their way into a lake in the middle of the course. They're all still there. And they're breeding.

Bull sharks have been known to nibble a human now and then. (You can't really hold it against them.) And golfers are known to be particularly delicious. So if any of you are up for the challenge, I bet that lake is filled with a fortune in golf balls.

More here.

This One's For All the New Yorkers Out There

(Photo from New York Daily Photo.)

If you live in New York, you know there's nothing more magical than a rooftop house. They're incredibly hard to spot. Some can only be seen from certain angles. Others can only be spotted if you're flying over the city in a helicopter. So when you happen see one, it's a very special occasion.

Last summer, I was taking some kids on tour of Greenwich Village, when I happened to spot something unexpected. A building on MacDougal Street had been torn down, revealing a temporary glimpse of an unusual rooftop structure that had been hidden from view for almost one hundred years. (See above.) I later learned that the little house was known as Alchemist's Corner--a name given to it by one of it's previous tenants, the famous actor John Barrymore. (Read more here.)

A gallery of other rooftop houses can be seen here. One of the featured buildings was the inspiration for Kiki Strike's rooftop digs!

Every Girl Needs a . . . Ghillie Suit

Observing wildlife? Hunting Bigfoot? Spying on the neighbors? Looking for something to wear to your wicked stepsister's wedding? Then you need your own ghillie suit!

(From Wikipedia: A ghillie suit is a type of camouflage clothing designed to resemble heavy foliage. Even more interesting, a "Ghillie Dhu"--which means "dark servant" in Gaelic--is a type of woodland faerie that's said to be kind to children. Thought you should know.)

Fortunately, this site offers handy tips for making your own ghillie. Pretty awesome!

Fresh Stone Age Meat

I try to avoid the world of advertising on this blog. But I doubt any of you are in the market for a European refrigeration system, so I figured I'd go ahead and share a clever ad with you.

The Bosch company wanted to show just how long its cooling technology kept food fresh, so they decided to "sell" Stone Age meat. They wrapped up "dinosaur legs" and "saber-tooth fillets," and placed them in the meat aisles of supermarkets for people to discover. (Though I doubt dinosaurs were around in the Stone Age, but we won't get too nit-picky here.)

I think it would be rather fun to find something like that while browsing the ground chuck. I wonder if anyone tried to buy it.

I Hope I Look This Good When I'm Seven Hundred Years Old

I wish I lived in a part of the world where well preserved 700-year-old mummies are lying beneath the streets, just waiting to be discovered.

The tomb of the lady shown above was found in the Chinese city of Taizhou. Experts say the woman's dress dates from the Ming Dynasty, which means she lived sometime between 1368 and 1644. Judging by her jewelry and the possessions discovered inside the tomb, she was also a woman of means. (Love that ring.)

No one knows much about the secret methods that were used to produce Chinese mummies. But it's pretty clear that they were nothing like those employed in Egypt. Many of the best preserved Chinese mummies have been found submerged in a rather nasty-looking liquid.

More here.

Two New Underground Cities to Report

(Awesome picture from agentsofurbanism.com.)

It seems that some states are luckier than others when it comes to secret underground cities. I recently discovered that Kansas has not one but TWO!

The first can be found under the sleepy town of Leavenworth. The article I read doesn't offer much information, but from what I gather, a stretch of underground storefronts can be accessed through the basement of a tile company. Though the tunnels are clearly old, no one can agree on why they were built--or who might have built them. Some say they were created to hide fugitive slaves, others think they were used to run liquor during prohibition. In either case, I wish I could find some better pictures!

The second underground city is beneath Ellinwood, Kansas. Actually, it's more of an underground village, since it now consists of two long tunnels and three rooms built sometime in the 1850s. (Apparently it was once much bigger.) You can find an interesting guide with pictures here.

So our list of American Shadow Cities grows! Here are the ones I've discovered so far . . .

Portland
Seattle
Pendelton, OR
Fresno
Chicago
Leavenworth, KS
Ellinwood, KS
Tacoma, WA
New York (of course!)

Am I missing any? (Of course the list of international Shadow Cities is much longer. I just found out that Beijing has one, too! More on that later.)

The Child Vampire Hunters of Scotland

I've been writing this blog for four years now, and I've come across some pretty weird stuff. But this is one of the strangest stories I've ever heard.

In 1954, a rumor was making its way through the primary schools of Glasgow, Scotland. A seven-foot vampire with iron teeth had made a graveyard just south of the city his home. And he'd already dined on two little boys.

Rumors about vampires are pretty common in primary schools. (At least in MY experience.) But the kids of Glasgow took such things very seriously. On the night of September 23, 1954, four hundred of them armed themselves with steak knives and sharpened sticks and went to the cemetery in search of the vampire.

They found the police instead. (Forget vampires, the scariest thing most adults can imagine is a mob of knife-wielding fourth graders.) The authorities tried to convince the children that the vampire couldn't possibly be real. But the kids knew better. Night after night, they returned to the graveyard as soon as the sun had set, intent on protecting their city from a blood-sucking fiend.

The incident led to a crackdown on American horror comic books. But a new documentary suggests that the rumors had a much different source. (Pay close attention, Japanese parents!)

Check out the whole story at the BBC.

You Need to Know: How to Escape from Zip Ties

Okay, this is awesome. Truly amazing.

Your odds of being nabbed by a bad guy (of whatever variety) are pretty slim. However, if you find yourself in the middle of a kidnapping/hostage situation/mafia war, there's a pretty good chance that you'll end up bound with zip ties. They're easier, cheaper, and lighter than rope or duct tape. And most bad guys assume the ties make escape impossible. They're wrong.

The genius who stars in the videos below looks like a pretty big dude. So if (like me) you're a smaller, less muscular member of our species, I recommend practicing the techniques a bit. (Once the first video ends, be sure to click on the others offered.)

Yes, It's Krampus Time

I think I know what cards I'm sending out this holiday season.

More here.

Wendy Houses

(Above: This one is mine. Go pick yours.)

I'm not sure if I ever stumbled across the term "Wendy House" before today. Apparently, they're playhouses that call to mind the tiny house that Peter Pan built for Wendy when she was injured in Neverland.

From now on, I think I shall refer to structures like the one shown above as Wendy Houses. "Playhouse" sounds so silly. And there's nothing silly about a good Wendy House. The best are slightly sinister.

Messy Nessy Chic has a fabulous photo gallery of 20 examples of the species. (Including the one built for Queen Elizabeth herself.)

For all of you who think this post is a little frilly, just imagine all the trouble one might cause with a tiny, secret house of one's own.

Lake Monsters of America

More here. I love Atlas Obscura.

The Most Miraculous Thing

Okay, this is weird. Inspired by the last post, I've been searching for the ad that made me want to go into advertising in the first place. I cannot find it. Anywhere.

As I recall, it was a British or European television ad for Lego. It would have been shot in the mid to late 90s. Yeah, I know that doesn't sound particularly promising. But I swear, the ad was absolutely magical.

A little boy of seven or eight is playing on the floor of his bedroom. His mom calls up to him, and he quickly pushes the thing he's been working on under the bed. He looks out the window. Two government agents in black suits are at his front door.

The agents appear in his bedroom. We see the little boy's mom nod to him, as if to say "go ahead." The little boy, looking bashful, pulls his creation out from under the bed. The government agents are awestruck. We, the viewers, are never allowed to see what the boy has made.

The next bit is a montage. The boy shaking hands with world leaders. The boy on the cover of magazines. The boy being honored with a ticker tape parade in New York. He's obviously created something magnificent. Something that's changed the world. But what is it? All we know is that it was made out of Lego.

I remember seeing the ad in about 1996. It's possible it was what's known as a "spec ad"--an ad that's made by an agency without the backing of the brand (in this case, Lego). But from what I recall, it would have been far too expensive for a spec ad. (Spec ads rarely involve ticker tape parades.)

If you can find it, I will give you a reward. No money (I don't have any), but a book of your choosing (as long as it's one of mine).

 UPDATE: Can I just say--you guys are amazing. Thank you so much, Luisa for finding this for me! I think there may have been a British version as well. I seem to recall a different mom. But this is the ad. No doubt about it.

This May Be My Favorite Ad of All Time

And I've worked in advertising for a million years. Watch it while you can. The Beastie Boys have taken legal action against the company for parodying one of their old songs. (Come on, guys!)

I am not at all surprised to hear that this wasn't created by an ad agency. More on that later--in a different context. 

My Favorite Russian Survivalist

Just "discovered" Crazy Russian Hacker. (Looks like a few other people have too.) Oh man I love this guy.

Urban Wraiths

One of the best things about New York City is its subway art. Believe it or not, the works officially commissioned by the city are every bit as exciting as the "underground" stuff. (Scroll down a few posts for that.) In fact, imagining my NYC tax dollars going to fund subway art helps me get through April 15th every year.

I haven't seen all of it. Few people have the time for that kind of tour. But recently, I came across a photo of a work that I may make an effort to see in person. It's called Flatbush Floogies (see above) and it's the creation of a New York artist named Muriel Castanis.

I despise the word "Floogies" (the horror!), but I love a good wraith, so I did a quick search for more of Castanis's work. I was not disappointed. Her ghostly statues can be found in cities around the country--and they're always in interesting spots.

For instance, twelve of Castanis's wraiths atop a building at 580 California Street in San Francisco stand watch over city's financial district.

And one particularly creepy lady directs traffic on a busy highway in Portland.

Art like this makes me wish I were super wealthy. I'd love to put a few wraiths out in front of my Brooklyn brownstone--and record the reactions of passersby.  

The Man in the Woods

Every day for the last decade, a man wearing a camouflage uniform and gas mask has walked the same path through a forest in western Switzerland.

The man, who is known in the area as "Le Loyon," speaks to no one. Sometimes he carries flowers. Only a single photo (above) has ever been taken of him.

So what's the deal? Is he a ghost, a hermit or a hoax? After TEN YEARS, apparently no one knows. Aren't there any Irregulars in Switzerland who might be able to solve this mystery? (Or perhaps they have--but chose to keep the secret to themselves.)

More here.

My Biggest Hero . . .

 . . . is Sir David Attenborough. And tomorrow night, I will be able to see him in person for the very first time. I literally couldn't be more excited.

Turning Roaches into Robots

Hey, did you guys hear the news? We (and by we, I mean humans) have just taken a giant step toward the robot apocalypse future. Now you can turn a regular old cockroach into a cyborg creature that has no choice but to do your bidding. (Or at the very least, turn left or right if you tell it to.)

Yay, technology! Right???? Actually, I'm not really sure how I feel about this one.

Why? Well step one requires that you procure a cockroach--something my fellow New Yorkers and I try our best to avoid. Step two is performing "brief surgery" on the roach in order to attach electrodes to its antenna. And step three is forcing another living being to follow orders you send via neural stimulation. (Do you think the same technology would work on siblings?)

Not my thing. Is it yours?

Check out the project's kickstarter page. (Which comes complete with a response to some of the criticism that's been leveled against the Roboroach.)

New York's Underground Art Gallery

Pretty awesome. I hope the rats down there know how lucky they are.

Am I Crazy to Think This is Awesome?

Creepy clowns have been "terrorizing" Britain lately. (And by terrorizing, I mean walking around in clown costumes at night or standing on street corners waving at passersby.)

The locals have their knickers in a twist, but I personally think these guys (they're almost certainly guys) deserve medals. My life is more interesting for just having READ about them. I can't even imagine how fabulous it would be to spot one in person.

Good work, gentlemen. Carry on.

More here.
And here.
And here.

The Lake That Turns Creatures to Stone

Lake Natron in Tanzania is so salty that it can calcify creatures that crash into it. Photographer Nick Brandt discovered the flamingo shown above as well as bats, eagles and entire flocks of flinches that had all been turned to stone by the Natron's alkaline waters.

More here, along with other creepy-beautiful photos from this deadly African lake.

Remember When I Said I Had Some More Big News?

How Do You Say IRREGULAR In Elvish?

Ever have one of those days when you manage to get EVERYTHING done? I'm experiencing one right now. I wish I knew what made days like this different from the rest. Seriously--I'm trying to remember what I ate this morning.

Anyway, here's a cool video about conlangs, or constructed languages. It focuses on artlangs (languages invented for books or films) such as Elvish (The Lord of the Rings trilogy), Klingon (Star Trek) and Dothraki (the Game of Thrones series).

It would be pretty amazing to have your own language (as long as a few other people spoke it). But a bespoke language also sounds like a lot of work to construct. Fortunately for authors, the Internet is there to help. Thanks to fans, languages like Dothraki that began with just a few thousand words are now complex enough to be spoken.

That means if there's no word for IRREGULAR in Elvish, you might get to be the person who makes one up.

You Have Awesome Teachers, Kid

From Reddit Via Messy Nessy Chic.

I Haven't Seen Anything This Amazing in Ages

One of the miniature libraries created by artist Marc Giai-Miniet (and photographed by Michel Dubois). See more libraries here. Absolutely remarkable. I would give an limb for the honor of hanging one of these on my wall.

At the Corner of Danger and Keep Your Eyes Peeled

Misery Corner
Dead Man's Corner
Eternity
Upside Down Christ
Corner of the Little Birds
Corner of the Lonely Soul

These are all intersections in the Venezuelan capital of Caracas, where the streets have no names (as far as most people are concerned), the buildings have names instead of numbers, and the landmarks are all known by colorful monikers.

More here.

The Real Life Darkness Dwellers

I like to think of my books as collages. They're composed of little scraps of information that I've collected over the years. In my brain, nothing weird ever goes to goes to waste.

If you've read Kiki #3 (or glanced at its title), you know that the book features a secret organization called the Darkness Dwellers whose mission is to explore and protect the (very real) catacombs underneath the city of Paris. I based the group on a real-life organization known as Les UX. (I've written about them several times on this blog.)

However, there's a relatively new group in Paris know as We Are the Oracle who could have provided inspiration for the Darkness Dwellers.

These ladies and gentlemen are known for throwing parties in "impossible locations." (Love it.) Think abandoned subway stations (sound familiar?), forgotten mansions, and the dark recesses beneath famous bridges.

More (including some great photos) here at the fabulous Messy Nessy Chic.

How About a Nice Cold Glass of Blood Worms?

This little item was in the news a while back. But it's still as disgusting as the day it came out. Seems blood worms have invaded the water supply in Colcord, Oklahoma. (Okay, technically they're the larvae of the midge fly, if that makes you feel any better.)  And they're almost impossible to kill.

As the town water commissioner noted, "You can take the worms out of the filter system and put them in a straight cup of bleach and leave them in there for about four hours, and they still won't die."

If any of you have friends or family in Colcord, I'd love a little update on the situation. News reports suggest that the townsfolk are living on bottled water. But here's my question: When your water supply is infested with blood worms, what's better--showers or baths?

Crawling Out From Under My Rock

Where have I been? Here. There. The grocery store. Ha. I'm saving my adventures for this fall. (Yes, I have a few planned. Yes, I will write all about them when the time comes.)

Unfortunately, this summer has been work, work, and more work. I'm actually quite proud of the all things I've accomplished in the past three months. Three big projects are nearing completion. Stories have been told. Butts have been kicked. Lessons have been learned. Blog posts have not been written. Sorry about that.

I stayed away from the blog world this summer for a few very good reasons. First, the amount of spam I receive has gotten quite overwhelming. (It seems I win the lottery on a daily basis.) For this reason, please don't include a URL when you comment on a post. I see URLs and my brain automatically thinks "spam." If you want to send me a link, it's best to send it to kikistrike@gmail.com

Second, I stayed away from the blog because I was angry. Really, really murderously angry about what happened to my last book, How to Lead a Life of Crime. I know this has nothing to do with you guys. But I felt it was best if I resisted the urge to vent here. Bank St. Irregular is supposed to be fun and wacky and weird. Not potentially homicidal.

(One big piece of good news. How to Lead a Life of Crime may end up being more than a book. Keep your fingers crossed!)

Third, I had way too much work. And writing a blog takes a lot of energy. I still have a lot to do, but I'll try to pop in every once in a while. I've got a few things I'd like to share. Hopefully, a few of you are still around to hear about them!

Back to you soon.

Kirsten

Breakfast on Mars

Holy moly, I didn't post about this! You should check out this fabulous book of essays (yes, essays). Yours truly contributed a piece arguing for the existence of Bigfoot. (Come on--what else would I write about? And yes, I do honestly believe.)

Here's the description from Amazon. Look at that list of authors!

Breakfast on Mars and 37 Other Delectable Essays will inspire students to think differently about the much feared assignment in elementary and middle schools around the country: essay writing. 

Rebecca Stern’s fifth grade students were bored to death with essay writing, and the one thing Rebecca needed to inspire them—great examples appropriate for kids—was nowhere to be found. Inspired by a challenge, Rebecca joined forces with her friend, social entrepreneur Brad Wolfe, and the two came up with a terrific proposal—to gather together a collection of unconventional essays by some of the best writers around. They have compiled and edited a collection of imaginative, rule-breaking, and untraditional essays that is sure to change the way you think about the essay.

Contributors include: Ransom Riggs, Kirsten Miller, Scott Westerfeld, Alan Gratz, Steve Almond, Jennifer Lou, Chris Higgins, Rita Williams-Garcia, Elizabeth Winthrop, Chris Epting, Sloane Crosley, April Sinclair, Maile Meloy, Daisy Whitney, Khalid Birdsong, Sarah Prineas, Ned Vizzini, Alane Ferguson, Lise Clavel, Mary-Ann Ochota, Steve Brezenoff, Casey Scieszka, Steven Weinberg, Michael Hearst, Clay McLeod Chapman, Gigi Amateau, Laurel Snyder, Wendy Mass, Marie Rutkoski, Sarah Darer Littman, Nick Abadzis, Michael David Lukas, Léna Roy, Craig Kielburger, Joshua Mohr, Cecil Castellucci, Joe Craig, Ellen Sussman

This Skeleton is Real and It Is . . . HUMAN

Wow. The skeleton shown above was discovered ten years ago in the Atacama Desert. DNA tests have revealed that the skeleton (which is six inches in length) belonged to a human girl who was between SIX AND EIGHT YEARS OLD when she died.

More information and pictures here. (And yes, I checked to make sure that the date on the article wasn't April 1.)

The Cicadas Are Coming!

In the past two years, New York has seen two hurricanes, a tornado, a crippling blizzard and an earthquake. This May, we'll be preparing for an insect invasion.

More here.

Whatever shall we do with them?

The Secret Language of Underground New York

I'm not sure if this post will interest most of you. I happen to find the subject quite fascinating. Walking through the streets of New York, I often see strange messages and mysterious symbols scrawled on the city's sidewalks and walls. 

This is a language spoken by the men and women of our nation's utility companies. Those who are able to read it can see under the ground--and perhaps even into the future. (For instance, the markings in the photo above indicate where a new street tree is about to be planted.)

The language is color-coded, making it easy to know which utilities are at work. (It will also give you a sense of where you might be able to find a sewer line in an emergency.) 

Fortunately, it seems that no one knows who's behind the GOLD sidewalk markings that are sometimes spotted near the city's oldest buildings. 

More at the Smithsonian. (Have a look around while you're there. It's a wonderful site.)

Giant Head Found Floating in the Hudson River!!!!

(Photo by Matt Lavin/Marist College)

There is a great story behind this, I'd bet. If not, I may just have to make one up.

More at Gothamist.

Big News Part One!

Read all about it here!

Baby Beluga Cam

Keep looking!

Behold the World's Smallest Book!

(Photo by Joshua Bright for The New York Times)

It's called The Chameleon and no one seems to know what it's about. Any guesses?

The New York Times has an interesting article about a gentleman with one of the largest collections of miniature books. Even better? The library is housed in a "rooftop cottage" that sits on top of a Manhattan apartment building. I think this fellow and I need to be friends.

And since we're on the subject of me (ha), I'm still waiting for permission to share my very big news. Shouldn't be long now!

In the meantime, here's a link to a spotlight on yours truly on the Penguin Teen blog. (It's a bit old. I should have posted it earlier, but I've been crazy busy!)

I'm Feeling Nostalgic

I have lots of big news. Unfortunately, it will all have to wait. But I was just trawling a few of my old files, and I found a story I penned a few years back, and I'd like to share it with you. I wrote it for another blog around the time that The Eternal Ones was released. I was asked to imagine the heroine of that book (Haven Moore) as a character in a famous tale of my choosing. I chose One Thousand and One Nights. Enjoy . . .

                  One morning, the Sultan woke feeling old and asked for his eldest son to be brought to his chambers. The time had come for the young man to take a bride. His son agreed, and a search began in the usual places. Scarcely a week had passed before the daughter of a rich and valued ally stood before the two men with her proud father at her side. In keeping with tradition, the girl’s face remained veiled. But the dark doe eyes sweeping the floor were said to belong to a young woman of exceptional beauty.

                  The Sultan’s son rose from his seat. He circled the girl—examining her from every possible angle. “No,” he finally said, shaking his head in frustration. “I must see her face.”

                  The young woman’s father looked to the Sultan for help. Such requests were unheard of. A girl’s beauty was the present she gave to her husband. But the Sultan was eager to see his son wed. Once the room had been emptied of onlookers, the girl’s veil removed. She was far lovelier than any treasure in the Sultan’s own harem.

                  “That is not my wife,” his son announced sadly, leaving his father bewildered and the girl in tears.

                  The Sultan had never been known for his kindness. But his son’s mother had been his very first wife. And he had loved her enough to make her a promise while she lay on her deathbed.

                  “Our son was born with a hole in his heart,” she had told him. “Give him time to find the girl who can fill it.”

                  The boy had always been a dreamer, with moods that shifted faster than the desert sands. The Sultan watched him grow, and he knew the boy’s mother had been right. Their son seemed to be missing some part of himself. Unless he found it, he would never be fit to rule. 

                  So the Sultan allowed his son to continue his search for a bride, until every young woman in the land had been seen and sent home in tears. At last, the Sultan’s patience reached its end, and he began to rage day and night. His son bore the abuse, but he wouldn’t surrender. He wandered the Sultan’s vast palace like a man tormented by invisible djinn.

                  One afternoon, he was sitting by the fountain outside his mother’s old rooms when he heard the sound of a girl laughing.

                  “Who’s there?” he demanded.

                  A peasant girl emerged from behind a column. Her robes were faded and her veil was threadbare, and yet she seemed to be laughing at him.

                  “What do you find so amusing?” he demanded.

                  “They say you’re looking for a wife,” the girl said.

                  “And that’s something to laugh about?”

                  “Yes, because you’re not going to find her unless you stop looking.” By the time the last word reached his ears, the girl had already disappeared.

                  That evening, when the Sultan began to rage, the son finally fought back.

                  “You say I’ve seen every girl in the land. But today I spoke with one living here in our palace who has yet to be brought before me. Why should I stop searching when my wife might be waiting within these very walls?”

                  So the Sultan sent his men to scour the palace, and before dinner had found its way to their table, the girl was hauled before the ruler and his son. She was named Tasnim—or haven in her mother’s strange tongue. Her father worked at the palace as a humble servant, but such facts meant nothing to the Sultan’s son.

                  “Show me your face,” he demanded.

                  “No,” was her answer. “You’ve seen the most beautiful woman in the world. If their faces didn’t please you, what hope does mine have?”

                  “Remove your veil, girl, or I’ll have your head,” the Sultan told her.

                  “No,” Tasnim stubbornly replied.

                  “Then prepare to meet your fate at dawn.” The Sultan clicked his fingers, and the girl was whisked away to his dungeons.

                  That night, the Sultan’s son couldn’t sleep. He thought only of the laughing girl—the one girl in the land who’d refused to be seen. At last, he left his bed and paid a visit her to her cell, where she greeted him as if she’d known he was coming. He pleaded with her to show him her face, but once again, Tasnim refused.

                  “If you’re searching for someone you’ve known in your dreams, you won’t see her beneath my veil,” the girl told him. “But if you close your eyes, I think we might be able to find her.”

                  The cell was dark, and Tasnim’s voice felt like an old, familiar song. The Sultan’s son shut his eyes and listened as the sound of his beating heart began to blend with the rhythm of her words. 

                  “Once, there was a man and his wife who lived in a cold land, not far from the sea  . . .”

                  The young man who’d known nothing but desert heat suddenly detected a chill in the air. He’d never seen the ocean, but he could hear its waves crashing against a distant coast. He found a fire blazing in a poor man’s house, and a woman sleeping in a fur-covered bed. He crawled in beside her, and for first time in his life, the Sultan’s son felt at peace. 

                  Tasnim’s story ended as the sun was rising. When the palace executioner came to collect her, the Sultan’s son sent him away.

                  “How many tales like that do you know?” he asked the prisoner.

                  “Tonight was just the beginning,” the girl said.

                  “Then you’ll have another day to show me your face,” he announced. “Take her to my mother’s quarters,” he told the guards as he passed. “And make sure she is treated well.”

                  The next night, they traveled to a mountain realm where white wild flowers lined a path that led to his lover’s door. On the third night Tasmin took him to a strange kingdom where other men carved their gods’ faces into the walls—while he secretly worshipped a goddess with dark skin and dancing eyes.

                 

                  One Thousand and One Nights they spent together. Every night, the girl told a different tale, and her  life was spared each morning at dawn. Until the day the Sultan’s son opened his eyes and found Tasnim in tears.

                  “You’ve heard all my stories,” she said, sounding spent and defeated. “If there are more, I can’t remember them.”

                  “Then lets start all over,” he told her. “Tell me again about our life by the sea.”

                  The next day they were married. And the following night, Tasmin showed him her face. The Sultan’s son recognized nothing about it, but he’d known its owner in a thousand and two lifetimes. She was the only girl he ever wanted to find.

The Perfect Setting for a Sequel to How to Lead a Life of Crime

I came across this article in the New York Times yesterday. Seems the ritziest neighborhoods in some cities have become veritable ghost towns. (The article focuses on London's Belgravia district, but it's true of parts of Manhattan as well.) Why? Wealthy out-of-towers (Russians, Saudis, Justin Bieber--JK) are buying up all the best addresses--and occupying them only a few weeks a year.

Okay, now stop and imagine the scene. Streets lined with mansions, their windows all dark. A couple of cars driving through, but no one on the sidewalks. Precious art hanging where few ever see it. Jewels in that rarely feel the warmth of human skin. A young man in a well-cut coat appears out of nowhere. He looks as if he might live in the neighborhood. Until he hops a fence, climbs a wall, and pulls himself up onto a second floor balcony--all in a matter of seconds.

Love it.

On a related note, what do you do if you're a London billionaire and you need a little extra living space? You start digging.