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The Gardener's Wife

Once there was a gardener who made a vow to his wife that he would rip up all the wild honeysuckle to make picturesque paths under the grand maples, apples, oaks, and pines. He vowed to clear the garden beds of dandelions, thorny thistle, and rag weed, and replace them with roses, lilies, and irises in every color and variety. The gardener’s wife joined him at the beginning since she enjoyed beautiful things and being outside with her husband in the fresh air. The garden was coming along well and the couple enjoyed their work. They both sat and drank coffee on their mornings of leisure and discussed their plans for the garden. Sometimes they agreed and sometimes their plans diverged, but they were always proud of their work when they looked back on the gardens as the sun set for the evening. The gardener’s wife surprised the gardener one evening with three abandoned kittens. The gardener admired his wife’s good nature and made room for the kittens to live in the garden shed. The kittens adorned the couple’s gardens like living statues. Now when the gardener and his wife drank their coffee in the morning they enjoyed the company of the kittens who would sometimes play so wildly they would tumble into a garden bed sending leaves and blossoms flying. The couple would shout and shoo the kittens out of the gardens, but neither one of them could be truly upset. They were only kittens after all. Sometimes after the couple had finished their coffee the gardener would begin weeding and transplanting. He expected to see his wife in the garden bed next to him pulling up weeds but she was often where he had left her, still lying in the grass, playing with the cats. The gardener was happy to see his wife so contented and her happiness gave him extra energy as he worked in the sunshine. The gardener’s wife would still join him from time to time to lend a hand or give advice about the shape of one of the gardens or the plants she felt would make the most harmonious pairings. The gardener could sometimes see the wisdom in his wife’s advice, but more often than not he was disposed to design and cultivate the gardens according to his own plans. After a hard day of tending to his plants the gardener liked to step back to appreciate his work. However, as he became more serious about his gardens, the gardener would often toil past sunset into the darkness so that he could barely see the objects of his admiration. One late night the gardener found his wife fast asleep. The gardener looked on his wife’s sweet face as she slept and he was happy since he knew she would be proud of his work and tell him how much she loved what he had done when they looked out over the land in the morning. Morning came and the gardener’s wife asked the gardener if he might like to accompany her on a walk with the cats as they sipped their coffee. She had already walked straight past the main garden as she looked back at the gardener, awaiting his response. “You go on ahead”, said the gardener, and she and her three cats followed her down the lane as the gardener looked out at his land. He was upset that his wife hadn’t paid his new and improved gardens any attention. The gardener looked on the trees and the flowers now and saw work that needed to be done and potential gardens on the horizon that might accommodate his ever growing stock of plants. First though, thought the gardener, “I must organize the tools in the garden shed so that my work can be done more efficiently.” When the gardener entered the shed he saw that his wife had made an enormous bed for the cats and had relegated his tools to hard to reach corners. The gardener had hitherto been tolerant of his wife’s new interests and had not pressed her about her withdrawal from the pastime that had previously brought them both so much joy. As the gardener began to sort through the tools his wife had so carelessly tossed aside, he began to dispose of the cats’ things. The gardener made a fire near the shed and one by one he threw the cats’ things: toys, bedding, food and water dishes all smoldered in the coals. With each thing the gardener threw away he was reminded of a time the cats had chewed or dug up one of his flowers. When the gardener was all done organizing the shed he dragged a fifty pound bag of wildflower seed in front of the cat door. In his haste to organize the shed perfectly, the gardener inadvertently spilled a five gallon tank of gasoline. The gardener was so intent upon his task that he didn’t notice the gasoline fumes wafting through the air. Soon though his delirium overcame the gardener as he lay down upon the freshly swept floor of his perfectly organized shed. As the gardener’s wife returned from her walk she smelled the gasoline and opened the shed door. She tried to drag the gardener from the shed but he was far too heavy. Just then an ember, maybe a piece of burnt cotton from the cats’ bedding, floated ever so slowly, making a circuitous course from the fire to the floor of the shed where it met with an ample pool of gasoline. The gardener’s wife hurled herself from the doorway of the shed as flames engulfed her husband. He woke just in time to remember some of the joys of his life. He recalled his walks with his wife in the wild woods where they collected moss rocks and listened to the stream rush over the yellow marsh grasses. He thought of the lazy mornings when they would lie in bed and the gardener would regale his wife with absurd stories and bad jokes. He thought of a time before he was a gardener and before she was his wife and of the night he was so bold to ask for a kiss from the prettiest girl he had ever seen. Then the gardener was no more. In all of his last reveries the gardener never once recalled a single flower. In her husband’s absence the gardener’s wife continued to maintain the gardens in her own way. She replaced most of the flowers with ornamental trees. Each day she would choose a different tree to sit under with her cats. This way the weeds never grew up. She used the boards that remained from the burnt shed to build a raised bed where she planted a handful of her husband’s favorite flowers. Each night the gardener’s wife happily and leisurely watered and weeded the raised bed before she said goodnight to her husband and to the glowing hills as the sun set. The gardener’s wife never rebuilt the shed, but she found plenty of space in her house for her three cats plus a dozen or so more which she named after the lilies and irises she had to sacrifice to the wilderness as the weeds slowly overtook them. One day many years later while out for a walk in the fields with her cats the gardener’s wife pushed back some tall grasses to reveal a clearing. With her eyes full of tears the gardener’s wife stooped down to admire a perfect garden in the wild. All of the flowers she thought she had lost; the same flowers for which her cats were named, were all there in full bloom. There were irises which were supposed to bloom in the spring, and lilies which were supposed to bloom in summer, all blooming together at once. The gardener’s wife was so happy that she lay down in the dirt and let the sunlight and sweet smell of flowers consume her. With her eyes half opened she saw her cats batting around a perfectly formed iris bud. The gardener’s wife smiled, felt the warmth of the sun, closed her eyes, and slept for hours with her cats in the comfort of the wild garden. She only woke late in the evening when it began to rain, and even then she lay for a while, leaving her eyes wide open and trying not to blink as the heavy drops fell.

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Fish haven't any Feelings

My wife walks down the hall and asks me to put my hand in her pocket. I comply. She's asking what the day has given -- more specifically "If [I] know what [I] have been given?" For all the fresh air, unlimited clothes drying on the line, and the beauty of a sand yard. Ummm... I try to tell her that I am grateful. "I even collected the spiders (with a vacuum using your lingerie,) See?" She wants to see the jar where I put the spiders. It's a Vlassic jar that once housed salt, garlic, "natural spices" and pickles. "That's good. That's very fine work, Lester." I left little air holes. She takes me to the bathroom and adds bubbles. A rubber ducky comes out and we squeeze it together. For a minute, our hands clasp and we squeeze the yellow duck into a small and deformed version of himself. The yellow rubber ducky continues to smile and wifey goes for a fresh towel. I scrub behind the ears like a big boy. I'm not afraid to get my hair wet and lean back to where the water comes over. Then I'm in a Fallujah bunker, again. We are all supposed to pretend that we are corpses, back down in our own pits, waiting for the ear horn. There are no hills in parts of the desert. We had to improvise but the targets were late. No one blares the ear horn. The volley of shots goes back and forth and then the enemy combatant takes fire moments after he has released the safety pin in his grenade. Everything goes boom!  "Does Lester need to make a boom boom?" I get it. Can't quite control the things my mouth says and how my body moves. I'm in a head aquarium and just tapping on glass. It's a shock value for the body. Like the muscles and speech simply will go away. Just go away. Margarett has those hollow eyes, the ones that saw God in the night and can't explain the meeting on the hill. Or else she's sleepless. The Army pays better for bereavement and lost limbs. They can't quite put a number on Shell Shock. Her head is thicker than mine. I feel like floating. There is no romance left when I try to pitch forward. A Registered Nurse for this situation is not on the menu. My dad said he would drive up from Arizona and do the duty. If I could feel it, I would want to die. How does coffee still smell in the morn? Does it pry through the places that get hard in the night? Does it warm the gullet or scald the smile? I can't remember. Margarett is on double strength. For fun, we drive over to the Veteran Affairs hospital at least twice a week. Since the national discussion of free health care and Hilary, I'm told that the Army doctors have gotten better. Don't know. No point of comparison for me. I got my Shell Shock late in life, 24. I think it's been five years but everyone has the same amount of candles after the cake starts looking like a battlefield. Those twisty yellow, red and white swirled candles? They look like dead guys that don't know they're dead. Half the people in combat who get shot actually stand for a few breaths of air. Some forget they were just candles and try to flicker. The body is robust. The body is infinitely capable. Margaret passes me the remote but I am literally too stupid to realize if I want Sesame Street or the Wall Street Journal. Thoughts come later after the feelings. The mind needs time to adjust. The arms and legs do what they want to do. Sometimes I look like a happy seal just flapping. Viktor Frankl once got random people on his therapist's couch and asked: "Why don't you kill yourself?" He didn't hand them a gun or a knife He wasn't asking them if they were failures. Instead, he cut through the years of self-pity and asked 'What do you need to do in this life?' Wake. I need to get out of this encasement, the fog, the "L" word. "la.t.." lad-n... latency? Yes. That is the correct word because someone said it aloud. Some time ago. I will remember my muscles I will complete all the stretches I will suck up any complications I will take care of her. My Margaret. I will * Baby like? Baby-ism. That "I" word is long. ( infantilism. ) That's me, a second round as a three years old. If Margaret could get the good times again, I know she would see the beauty in our arrangement. She always wanted kids. I'd take her dancing. She'd put her hand in my hand, instead of my hand in her pocket. We'd hit that prom-styled dance floor and just ignore everyone else. She'd look up into my eyes. She'd look up. To my eyes. * It's really not Margaret's fault that she is a single mother wife. Like a good soldier she waited 4 years. In fact, she still waits. The men have to come to the door because Registered nurses do not babysit at $6 an hour. I think she's found a steady. He sells Oldsmobile and wants nothing to do with war. I like that he brings over Flowers, even if they are from a convenience store. My wife adjusts the volume to the television to be very loud. Loud is very good in this situation. Though it's only so pleasant to hear the familiar creak of the box springs.. someone is getting life. I am just so grateful when sleep comes. Even if there is a howling, tensive, anger — I know that Margaret will stop *whatever* she's doing. Because that's what a single mother wife has to do. She rocks me to sleep and still waits 20 minutes to make sure it takes. She smells like a girl again. Her pleasant cooing is happy, alas. Do fish know that the ocean is so large? Do fish have any feelings before they get swallowed.

857ls7

The Old Man

Listen. I’m going to tell you a story. There once was an old man who lived by himself in a dark forest. He hated water in large quantities and so lived in a place where the only water came from shallow pans scattered around his property. Every morning he walked to the poplar tree and carried the blue tin bowl inside. After making a weak rust colored tea, he would splash the remaining water over his head and sprinkle a little bit over his armpits. At night, he walked to the spruce tree and carried the yellow plastic bowl inside. For food, he ate tinned green beans and instant mashed potatoes. For entertainment, he had a portable hand-cranked radio that when the skies were clear received two stations very clearly and one station muffled by static. He wasn’t stupid, this old man, he was willing to suffer a little but not too much to humor his madness. There’s a lesson in there for you. A boy came upon the shack. He knocked on the door and the door didn’t open. The old man was listening to the radio and his eyes were closed, he might have been sleeping. On the table was a half-eaten bowl of white mush. The radio was playing Spanish jazz. Old man! The boy shouted. The old man opened his eyes and then closed it again. Old man! The boy shouted and for good measure kicked the door. The door opened, the old man stood shirtless in the doorway. Put some clothes on, the boy said. He came in and turned off the radio. While the old man was digging through a pile of rags in the corner, the boy took out a long oblong shape wrapped in brown butcher paper from the plastic bag he was carrying. The old man put on a dirty white shirt and tried to use his hands to smooth out the wrinkles. Here, eat this, the boy said. I just ate, the old man said. Eat this, the boy said. So the old man did. He unwrapped a hunk of meat from the butcher paper. Sprinkling some oil on a cast iron pan, he fried the entire thing and ate it without salt or bread. The boy sat by him turning the now useless buttons on the radio. They didn’t talk, the only sound was from fork hitting plate, knife sawing through flesh, ill fitting dentures chewing on tough gristle. Clean up, the boy said after the old man was done. So the old man went outside and buried the butcher paper under the spruce tree, the fork and knife under the poplar. When he came back the boy was already gone. The old man should have been relieved but he wasn’t. The next day a man knocked on the door which promptly opened to reveal the old man standing in the doorway in a yellowed shirt and frayed black pants. There was a strong smell of onions and must. All people who live alone have to be vigilant against this odor but the old man had ceased to notice it for a long time now, or perhaps he had ceased to care. It is hard to tell the difference with him sometimes. Hello sir, may I come in? The man asked. The two of them sat down at the kitchen table, the man sitting where the boy sat yesterday. How are you doing sir? The man asked. Well enough, the man said. I heard that he came to see you yesterday. He did come yesterday, but only for a short while. Did he bring anything with him? Nothing but some meat. It was good meat. What did he bring it in? If you were listening, you would remember that the old man wasn’t stupid, he wasn’t going to tell this man anything important. I don’t remember, he said, some bag, it’s not here now, he must have taken it back with him. The man nodded, he seemed to have been expecting this answer because he smiled. How do you get water out here? The man asked. The old man explained his system. The man asked more questions: why did the old man hate large bodies of water so much, where had he come from, what was his youth like? The old man talked and talked and talked until his tongue numbed and his words came out slurred and syncopated. I would love to see your property, the man said. The old man wasn’t stupid, he wasn’t going to show this man anything important. It’s nothing, he said, nothing but trees. What kind of trees? The old man described the beauty and variety of the temperate rainforest where poplars, spruces and birches came together to live in harmony in a damp and misty atmosphere. There’s no place like this in the world, he said, I fell in love with the sound of my own movements. I love trees, the man said. I used to climb apple trees when I was younger. The old man said he used to climb trees as well, and broke a few bones doing so. They compared broken bones. The old man got up and showed the man a long scar on his side. They talked for a long time. When it got dark, the man shook the old man’s hand and left. The old man should have been relieved but he wasn’t. The next morning, expecting a visitor, he used water from the blue tin bowl to wash his shirts and pants. While they laid damp and drying on a chair, he sat naked and shivering at the kitchen table. Someone knocked on the door. Open up, I know you’re in there! He sipped his rust colored tea and waited. The knocking continued for a couple of minutes and then it stopped. The old man touched the sleeve of his shirt, still damp, a couple more hours to go. The knocking started up again. The old man turned his head, as if listening to a far away noise.

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Harry and Draco

Draco Malfoy grew up as an only child at Malfoy Manor, the magnificent mansion in Wiltshire which had been in his family’s possession for many centuries. From the time when he could talk, it was made clear to him that he was triply special: firstly as a wizard, secondly as a pure-blood, and thirdly as a member of the Malfoy family. Draco was raised in an atmosphere of regret that the Dark Lord had not succeeded in taking command of the wizarding community, although he was prudently reminded that such sentiments ought not to be expressed outside the small circle of the family and their close friends ‘or Daddy might get into trouble. In childhood, Draco associated mainly with the pure-blood children of his father’s ex-Death Eater cronies and therefore arrived at Hogwarts with a small gang of friends already made, including Theodore Nott and Vincent Crabbe. Like every other child of Harry Potter’s age, Draco heard stories of the Boy Who Lived through his youth. Many different theories had been in circulation for years as to how Harry survived what should have been a lethal attack, and one of the most persistent was that Harry himself was a great Dark wizard. The fact that he had been removed from the wizarding community seemed (to wishful thinkers) to support this view, and Draco’s father, wily Lucius Malfoy, was one of those who subscribed most eagerly to the theory. It was comforting to think that he, Lucius, might be in for a second chance of world domination, should this Potter boy prove to be another, and greater, pure-blood champion. It was, therefore, in the knowledge that he was doing nothing of which his father would disapprove, and in the hope that he might be able to relay some interesting news home, that Draco Malfoy offered Harry Potter his hand when he realized who he was on the Hogwarts Express. Harry’s refusal of Draco’s friendly overtures, and the fact that he had already formed an allegiance to Ron Weasley, whose family is anathema to the Malfoys, turns Malfoy against him at once. Draco realized, correctly, that the wild hopes of the ex-Death Eaters – that Harry Potter was another, and better, Voldemort – are completely unfounded, and their mutual enmity is assured from that point. Much of Draco’s behavior at school was modeled on the most impressive person he knew – his father – and he faithfully copied Lucius’s cold and contemptuous manner to everyone outside his inner circle. Having recruited a second henchman (Crabbe being already in position pre-Hogwarts) on the train to school, the less physically imposing Malfoy used Crabbe and Goyle as a combination of henchman and bodyguard throughout his six years of school life. Draco’s feelings for Harry were always based, in a great part, on envy. Though he never sought fame, Harry was unquestionably the most talked-about and admired person at school, and this naturally jarred with a boy who had been brought up to believe that he occupied an almost royal position within the wizarding community. What was more, Harry was most talented at flying, the one skill at which Malfoy had been confident he would outshine all the other first-years? The fact that the Potions master, Snape, had a soft spot for Malfoy, and despised Harry, was only slight compensation. Draco resorted to many different dirty tactics in his perpetual quest to get under Harry’s skin, or discredit him in the eyes of others including, but not limited to, telling lies about him to the press, manufacturing insulting badges to wear about him, attempting to curse him from behind, and dressing up as one of the Dementors (to which Harry had shown himself particularly vulnerable). However, Malfoy had his own moments of humiliation at Harry’s hands, notably on the Quidditch pitch, and never forgot the shame of being turned into a bouncing ferret by a Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher. While many people thought that Harry Potter, who had witnessed the Dark Lord’s rebirth, was a liar or a fantasist, Draco Malfoy was one of the few who knew that Harry was telling the truth. His own father had felt his Dark Mark burn and had flown to rejoin the Dark Lord, witnessing Harry and Voldemort’s graveyard duel. The discussions of these events at Malfoy Manor gave rise to conflicting sensations in Draco Malfoy. On the one hand, he was thrilled by the secret knowledge that Voldemort had returned and that what his father had always described as the family’s glory days were back once more. On the other, the whispered discussions about the way that Harry had, again, evaded the Dark Lord’s attempts to kill him, caused Draco further twinges of anger and envy. Much as the Death Eaters disliked Harry as an obstacle and as a symbol, he was discussed seriously as an adversary, whereas Draco was still relegated to the status of a schoolboy by Death Eaters who met at his parents’ house. Though they were on opposing sides of the gathering battle, Draco felt envious of Harry’s status. He cheered himself up by imagining Voldemort’s triumph, seeing his family honored under a new regime, and he himself feted at Hogwarts as the important and impressive son of Voldemort’s second-in-command. School life took an upturn in Draco’s fifth year. Although forbidden to discuss at Hogwarts what he had heard at home, Draco took pleasure in petty triumphs: he was a Prefect (and Harry was not) and Dolores Umbridge, the new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, seemed to loathe Harry quite as much as he did. He became a member of Dolores Umbridge’s Inquisitorial Squad and made it his business to try and discover what Harry and a gang of disparate students were up to, as they formed and trained, in secret, as the forbidden organization, Dumbledore’s Army. However, at the very moment of triumph, when Draco had cornered Harry and his comrades, and when it seemed that Harry must be expelled by Umbridge, Harry slipped through his fingers. Worse still, Harry managed to thwart Lucius Malfoy’s attempt to kill him, and Draco’s father was captured and sent to Azkaban. Draco’s world now fell apart. From having been, as he and his father had believed, on the cusp of authority and prestige such as they had never known before, his father was taken from the family home and imprisoned, far away, in the fearsome wizard prison guarded by Dementors. Lucius had been Draco’s role model and hero since birth. Now he and his mother were pariahs among the Death Eaters; Lucius was a failure and discredited in the eyes of the furious Lord Voldemort. Draco’s existence had been cloistered and protected until this point; he had been a privileged boy with little to trouble him, assured of his status in the world and with his head full of petty concerns. Now, with his father gone and his mother distraught and afraid, he had to assume a man’s responsibilities. Worse was to come. Voldemort, seeking to punish Lucius Malfoy still further for the botched capture of Harry, demanded that Draco perform a task so difficult that he would almost certainly fail – and pay with his life. Draco was to murder Albus Dumbledore – how Voldemort did not trouble to say. Draco was to be left to his own initiative and Narcissa guessed, correctly, that her son was being set up to fail by a wizard who was devoid of pity and could not tolerate failure. Furious at the world that seemed suddenly to have turned on his father, Draco accepted full membership of the Death Eaters and agreed to perform the murder Voldemort ordered. At this early stage, full of the desire for revenge and to return his father to Voldemort’s favor, Draco barely comprehended what he was being asked to do. All he knew was that Dumbledore represented everything his imprisoned father disliked; Draco managed, quite easily, to convince himself that he, too, thought the world would be a better place without the Hogwarts Headmaster, around whom opposition to Voldemort had always rallied. In thrall to the idea of himself as a real Death Eater, Draco set off for Hogwarts with a burning sense of purpose. Gradually, however, as he found that his task was much more difficult than he had anticipated, and after he had come close to accidentally killing two other people instead of Dumbledore, Draco’s nerve began to fail. With the threat of harm to his family and himself hanging over him, he began to crumble under the pressure. The ideas that Draco had about himself, and his place in the world, were disintegrating. All his life, he had idolized a father who advocated violence and was not afraid to use it himself, and now that his son discovered in himself a distaste for murder, he felt it to be a shameful failing. Even so, he could not free himself from his conditioning: he repeatedly refused the assistance of Severus Snape, because he was afraid that Snape would attempt to steal his ‘glory’. Harry Potter  is a series of seven fantasy novels written by British author J. K. Rowling. The novels chronicle the lives of a young wizard, Harry Potter, and his friends Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley, all of whom are students at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. The main story arc concerns Harry's struggle against Lord Voldemort, a dark wizard who intends to become immortal, overthrow the wizard governing body known as the Ministry of Magic and subjugate all wizards and Muggles (non-magical people). Since the release of the first novel, Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone , on 26 June 1997, the books have found immense popularity, positive reviews, and commercial success worldwide. They have attracted a wide adult audience as well as younger readers and are often considered cornerstones of modern young adult literature. [2]  As of February 2018, the books have sold more than 500 million copies worldwide, making them the best-selling book series in history, and have been translated into eighty languages. [3]  The last four books consecutively set records as the fastest-selling books in history, with the final instalment selling roughly eleven million copies in the United States within twenty-four hours of its release. The series was originally published in English by two major publishers, Bloomsbury in the United Kingdom and Scholastic Press in the United States. A play, Harry Potter and the Cursed Child , based on a story co-written by Rowling, premiered in London on 30 July 2016 at the Palace Theatre, and its script was published by Little, Brown. The original seven books were adapted into an eight-part namesake film series by Warner Bros. Pictures, which is the third highest-grossing film series of all time as of February 2020. In 2016, the total value of the Harry Potter  franchise was estimated at $25 billion, [4]  making Harry Potter  one of the highest-grossing media franchises of all time.

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Always and Never

Sensitive: sexualized language, and cursing. Three years ago today, it was a Mother’s Day Sunday. There is an anniversary picture on my cell phone of my infant daughter sitting in my ex- husband's lap. The memory holds a story of spouses, out to dinner, with two beautiful children. In the picture, her Father looks blankly beyond the camera, with no affect in his face; the musicians must have been in that direction because my infant daughter is also gazing in the same direction (and there is a rational voice inside me that knows certainly they are not BOTH avoiding my gaze). The memory holds that he had a double jack-and-coke; the picture shows it was half gone before we were seated. The memory holds the same absence of enthusiasm for the rest of the meal.  I can recall making an intention to verbalize gratitude and enthusiasm to engage my family and incite joy in the children, “Oh my goodness look at all these cakes! Sweetheart would you like a cake with Mommy?” Two months later, it was a Tuesday morning, before leaving for work, on a bright orange morning of summer, when I threatened him with an exasperated “You’ll wake up alone one day if you’re not careful!” When he replied “Good!” I decided aloud “Today’s the day!” Since then, I have thought a lot about being alone. At the time it had felt like such a worthy curse to consequence him with, after all the things I had felt I had coped with doing alone in our love together. After I left him, I often felt panicked that “NOW... no one would know the real me!” A faulty assumption that a. he ever “knew" me in the way I had romanticized and b. that somehow the internal world I romanticized my whole life could somehow be understood by any willing party living outside of it. I despise the exclusionary elitism of the phrase “you have to be good at being alone before you can be with someone else.” I have been good at being alone my whole life; as a child, as a married partner, and now as a free mother in the world. I tended to siblings and smoked cigarettes alone as a teenager, then listened to music, did my nails, and painted in oils and wrote in black leather-bound journals, alone. I occupied myself with house cleaning, making dinner, tending to babies, working out with punk music and pink legging sets, going to bed reading books and drinking tea as a loving wife, alone. As a free Mother I shopped, went to movies, tended to plants, ate ramen, and watched Sci- fi alone very well. I cry, steam, sing, dance, scream and cum alone in the light of day or the dark; my solitary resume is complete. Despite these skill sets my heart does desire sharing these things, in the morning and at night, with someone curious enough to learn my romantic internal world. Even all the spiritual teachers I would listen to would deny the necessity to train oneself around the truth of their hearts, as vines around a scaffold. Then a shift started several months ago, where I could embrace answering my own desires intentionally. It was then I realized I had been doing this for several years, simply out of necessity rather than the choice. Making the intentional choice to attend to my alone-ness was, yes, novel, I will admit that here. In doing so I discovered many voices to be heard inside me; yes, the famed “little me” (the one living in all of us -I dare you an evening alone with a nostalgic food and movie pairing), a hero animal (mine a large oil-breathing and red eyed dragon, now often sleeping), a wise minded (handsome, tall, dark werewolf of the screen) figure of Jesus to guide me, and finally my pensive perished Great –Aunt watching me peacefully from her seat inside the wooden box of silver flatware she gave me after my son was born. Weeks went by and I kept this audience company as I navigated my new life, feeling supported by my own personal universe and kept by closest friends. NEVER TRULY ALONE, I felt, always holding this group of voices inside me, their drinks spilling as I breathed and fretted about outside their waiting room in my chest. Several weeks went by peacefully in this fashion, petting the dragon’s head and watching the child color pictures and practice meditation, her tiny hands folding obedient at our heart. Jesus’ hand resting on my heart and my Great –Aunt watching down on me (which is strange to visualize from inside me) with tranquil approval. Those several weeks passed and finally, I was not anxious about my daily life of living “alone” as I laughed in the out-and-about with my family of voices inside me. I was engaged and attentive to my daily and fluctuating needs, so much so that soon, all the voices dissipated. Naturally it is objective to report that also, I think I performed much better overall in my few external relationships as well (she says thoughtfully scratching her chin and looking up above her shoulder). At first, when I noticed the quiet, I had assumed that since I had grown attentive to my needs, the childish personification of my moral compass, my immature defense mechanisms, all of that had dissipated away into a more mature and whole conceptualization of my being. I was so pleased with my newfound maturity. Suddenly, on a Sunday afternoon, after picking up the groceries and just before piling up the laundry, I became awash with cold, white dread. The truth is that I will always be alone. This voice has not allowed me rest, no matter what reframe or wise Aunty I compel to soothe my fear. I have quietly pondered this truth for 24 hours. I realized that when I was married, or now that I am a free mother, when I am surrounded by people or here in the dark, I am alone with my experience. No one will understand my experience of magical animals and strong Jesus except through my voice and the magic I give them. All the people I see as “connected” on coffee dates or in dancing poses are still just two people sharing their alone; they have actively tailored their form for the purpose of façade that there is an elevated state beyond the truth I have frightfully realized. My maturity and I waited for the understanding of this sad knowledge to grow into something else. Neither handsome Jesus nor little me came forward with any answers, and the red –eyed dragon remained asleep. I continued behaving the way I always do, except, with the knowledge that I would not be fighting against the truth today. I knew, I would always be alone, but secondly, and more importantly, there was liberation at the bottom of this terrifying well, dammit and I would stay present in this fated disillusionment until I came out the other side. I did my day’s work under this cloudy consciousness and sought out no one. I heard a line while I was folding laundry (if you are folding and putting away all your laundry in the same day there is something wrong with even you, my friend; leave this reading knowing that even you have still room to elevate to a freedom in which your unicorn of empty hampers is a myth... liberate yourself from the toil of laundry!) that stated something to the effect of suggesting that, if I am trying to fill the never – ending hole, I am probably missing something in the that moment of vital importance to that hole. I put the tee shirt down and look up at the reflection of myself across my bedroom; I hear my daughter listening to cartoons in the living room. I go out to join her on the couch; she looks over at me and rests her head into my chest crawling under my free arm, the same fluid movement she has done for the past 3 years whenever we are together in front of a television. We sit this way for twenty-four minutes; I pat her belly and squeeze the soles of her feet gently. I quietly tell her “It’s time to brush teeth for bed, baby.” She responds with a squeal and a cry “Come here” I whisper, empathic sadness in my upturned mouth for her desperate tears. I hold and rock her as I tell her “It’s alright- we will watch it again tomorrow.” I rock her in the fashion I did when she was newborn, on my lap now, her heart against mine, and I hum the same song “twinkle twinkle little star”. My memory holds so much time that first year, alone with her, us together, in the middle of the night, humming that song from a muscle memory in exhaustion rocking in our recliner chair. I tell her tonight “I used to sing you this song when you were a baby.” I do not tell her, that I chose that song, because when I tried to sing to her “You are my sunshine,” I would cry, every time, until choking on my very breath, at the flippant lyrics suggesting I could ever lose her now that I had her in my arms. I tell her, “Do you remember that I live in your heart?” “Yes Mommy.” “Do you remember that you live in my heart?” “Yes Mommy.” A rehearsed magical thought I first taught to her older brother, eight years earlier, still also a part of his foundations of cognitions about our relationship. She lowers her gaze and rests her tearful cheek against my tee shirt, her runny nose rubbed dry in a long swipe on the black cotton. I do not tell her tonight that it was our solitary moments in wee witching hours in that leather recliner that grew the red- eyed dragon from my rib sinews and my boiling flesh, that would eventually carry us to our new life, where she and I could cry, scream, and sing all alone in the night, the strong hand of Jesus and all the universe to support us, Amen. I am always and never, truly alone.  

7ifnx8

Oak Tree

Once an insignificant acorn, the large oak tree grew its fragile roots deep into the fertile soil. A passing deer was chased away by a far away noise as the sapling enjoyed the fresh meadow air. On that spot the growing tree sprouted into the sky year by year. Its adolescent branches extended out becoming a home for all species of native birds and squirrels. Its trunk swelled to the official width of 48.9 inches around its dark trunk. A tree that would change a small frontier town forever. The citizens of Love-an-Oak prized having the tree on the outskirts of town in their undeveloped meadow. This tree was their town’s treasure. So much that the founders named their town in its honor. A traveling real estate agent had once discussed building a much needed school in the spot of the tree. The townsfolk railroaded her out of town with all but pitchforks and torches. It was then that the town charter officially recognized the tree’s community value. First,the Grand Tree Calendar was established. The calendar laid out special events for people to honor the tree. A Tyler of the Tree was officially established. This person was charged with the general protection of the tree and surrounding land. A Doctor of the Tree was put into office to make sure that their friend was always in the best of health. The town created a rule that established that no visitor would go to the tree without at least 2 townsfolk present. The charter promoted an incentive for creating paintings of a flattering kind. The paintings were encouraged to be added to the Tree For Life Museum. Every Arbor Day, locals would gather around the tree out of public respect. The town's tree doctor would evaluate the tree as part of the ceremony in the morning of their celebration. A private, thorough inspection would take place 72 hours before the holiday event. The doctor would give the 74 foot giant an examination, always indicating no significant issues. The people in the town would cheer at the report of the tree's pristine health. The tree doctor would be treated to the honors of a king for the rest of the day. On this commemorative day, a special event would take place. The Tyler of the Tree would walk around the tree in the morning with a ceremonial, flintlock rifle. Every half an hour another person would eagerly join the procession. The process would continue for 7 hours and 4 minutes with supporters at a table offering food and water to the volunteers. Those walked more than six hours received a commemorative medal. Many families had rows of medals with fond memories attached to them. The tree was a celebrated event in any manner the townsfolk could find a way to pay homage to their source of pride. When summer began the transition into fall, local children would gather with the town Mayor on the last Saturday of summer to see if anyone could find the first changed leaf. The children who managed to find the correct leaves would win a basket of candy. Young lovers were known to meet at the tree to solidify their relationships. The tree became an integral part of many engagement stories throughout the town. The lives of those engaged would be connected in marriage under its branches. The newlyweds would be told that when they were ready to make a family, that their consummation in the same place on a moonless night would guarantee their good fortune with a pregnancy. For that reason, the tree was left alone on moonless nights so as to give any wanting couple their privacy. A large green flag would be temporarily planted near the tree to let others know that the space was temporarily occupied. Some couples chose to birth their children in that same spot, making a full circle of their family. The babies were known as “tree babies.” If the couple dated, married, consummated and birthed under the tree, they and their new family would have the honor of being called Ones of the Oak or “Oakies” for short. The family would receive a plaque on Arbor Day and would be added to the sacred Book of the Tree. Young children had stories read to them on blankets under the tree. School aged children would be brought to the branch canopy on warm days to learn about the wonders of nature. Older children were warned under penalty of consequences from desecrating the tree's integrity in any manner. A child stuck a knife into the trunk on an obscene dare. The Tyler of the Tree found the knife. She rallied the townsfolk like a swarm of bees investigating an intruder in the hive. The boy had forgotten his monogrammed knife sheath on a nearby rock, immediately implicating him. The child and family became local pariahs, eventually being forced to leave the town. A cemetery was constructed overlooking the tree not long after the founding of the town. Those on their deathbeds were comforted that they would soon rest in a place close to their beloved oak. It was common that the family of the deceased would gather at the foot of the tree after the funeral. When family came to visit the grave site, they, too, would find peace knowing the tree was in eyesight. Some families chose to pour the ashes of the deceased outside the perimeter of the branches. Townsfolk were asked to keep from the tree for three days out of respect. Eventually a flourishing, botanical garden was created in sight of their beloved. It was said behind closed doors that the tree would glow once a year. One needed to stand just beyond the poinsettias and look at the trunk on the last sunset of Spring. This became known as the “Poinsettia Prophecy.” People reported feeling a renewed sense of motivation after being witness to the event. Many of the those from the town celebrated the tree’s impact on their personal lives with a tattoo. Townspeople were proud to show off their ink to one another after their completion. Every three years, those who adorned their bodies would gather at the tree’s base for a group picture. The photos would be placed along the Wall of Memories in the local museum. The once tiny acorn had become a great oak tree. This allowed a town to rally around something simple and elegant for their communal happiness. The relationship was the purest of symbiotic interactions. A reason for the town to establish its own roots deep into the ground.

ee70z1

Polar Bear's First Sunrise

All the little polar bear cub wanted to do was see the Sun. He was born during the polar night, when night could last for weeks or even months. He had never been able to see the sun, so his mother told him stories of the enormous, bright ball in the sky that made the whole world bright. The mother bear would wrap herself around her cub, and as she prepared him for bed, she would lull him to sleep with her wondrous tales. “When it rises, it makes the snow twinkle like the stars, and makes our fur shine beautifully” she explained. “And when it gets tired, it sinks beneath the horizon to paint the sky with brilliant colors of every kind.” “Mama, I want to see it! When will it happen? Why hasn’t it happened yet? Is the sun okay?” the cub asked, filled with awe. “Patience little one. Once a year the Sun sleeps, so that it can continue to shine for us when it returns. Like you, it needs to rest. Little naps at night help, much like little naps help you throughout the day. However, just like we sleep longer when we need our full strength, so does the sun. You, little one, happened to be born while the Sun is taking its long rest, but I know it will smile when it finally rises.” “Mama, I can’t wait to see the Sun,” the cub yawned as he closed his eyes. The next day the cub woke up before his mother, sat at the opening of their den, and waited for the Sun to rise. He sat in anticipation, but nothing happened. After a while, he heard his mother get up. “It's not time yet, little one,” she explained as she approached him. “The Sun is still resting. Come, I can hear your stomach growling, let's go find some food.” The rest of the morning, the young cub followed his mother to the sea ice. To keep himself entertained on the hike, he would jump and try to catch snowflakes on his tongue. When he was bored of that, he walked in his mother’s footprints, imagining himself as a great hunter looking for his next target. Occasionally, the little cub’s mind would wander towards thinking about the Sun, and when he might get a chance to see it. He imagined watching it wake up and rise into the dark sky, bringing light all around it. Before he knew it, the cub had fallen behind his mother and had to run to catch up with her. “Mama, what does the sky look like when the Sun is awake?” He asked when he caught up. She brought him to the edge of the sea ice and said, “It looks like the color of the ocean, but lighter. Like looking at the water through a thin layer of ice.” “That sounds beautiful!” the young cub garbled, smushing his face against the ice, trying to see. His mother laughed and beckoned for him to watch her, so he could learn to hunt. The rest of the day was spent hunting and teaching the cub to hunt. The polar bear showed her cub how to track food and how to break the ice with their front paws. They practiced swimming in the cold waters, and the little cub would dive beneath the gentle waves every so often. Finally, after a full day, the duo headed back to the den. The young cub was so tired that his mother had to carry him on her back part of the way. Once they arrived back at their shelter, both mother and son were quick to curl up and fall asleep. Hours later, the young cub woke up, and tip-toed to the opening of their cave to see if he could sneak up on the Sun while it rose. He sat, and waited, and squinted his eyes to try and see any sort of color on the horizon. He continued to wait, with hope a bright flicker in his chest, but nothing happened. Suddenly, the wind began to pick up, and the little bear thought he could see something white on the horizon. He held his breath in excitement as a big, wet snowflake landed on his nose. His heart sank as he realized it was a snow flurry crossing the frozen plane. His head bowed in disappointment, he felt his mother come up behind him and nuzzle him. “Don’t lose hope, little one. The Sun will rise, it just needs a little more rest.” she soothed. The mother bear nuzzled him once more, and told him to stay in the den while she hunted in the storm. As he watched her walk out into the gray storm, he felt a small flicker of hope. “I am going to see the Sun,” the cub whispered. He was determined to see the ball of light from the stories. The little bear wanted to see everything his mother told him about in her tales. He wanted to see the sky and the colors the Sun painted in it when it rose and set. He wanted to see the snow in the brightness of day, and giant clouds floating in the sky. He wanted it to stop being dark and dreary outside. “I WANT TO SEE THE SUN!” he cried into the wind and snow, both his mind and heart set on his goal. Days passed, and turned into weeks as the polar night continued. Every morning the little polar bear cub would get up before his mother, sit at the mouth of the den, and wait for the Sun. Every afternoon was filled with more lessons on swimming and hunting, as his mother prepared the cub for the future. The days dragged on with not a single ray of light in sight, but the young cub kept to his routine. One morning, after a long day of hunting the day before, the cub slept longer than he meant to. He blinked his eyes open with a slow yawn, and then jolted awake thinking he may have missed the Sun. He sprinted to the opening of the cave, only to be greeted by the grayness that had surrounded him for months. The little polar bear sat down hard on the ground and pouted. When he looked back outside, the cub saw that the normally bleak sky had turned into a deep royal blue. He watched as it went from cobalt to turquoise tinged with a soft blush of pink and red. His mouth fell open, gazing as a halo of the brightest gold erupted surrounded by brilliant oranges and yellows, and so many other colors he couldn’t even name. Giant gossamer clouds drifted lazy across the sky. He gazed in wonder around him as the snow twinkled and danced in the soft wind. The little bear closed his eyes, and for the first time felt the rays of the Sun warm his now glowing fur. It was like the Sun was thanking him for being patient, and welcoming him to this wondrous new world. The polar bear cub gazed at the sky as the Sun said hello.

vuf7wi

Was it?

It's 11: 30. I am laying on the floor, looking at the line of ants marching 2 feet away from me. They look messy yet organized. stopping every second to hug the ant coming from the other side, passing information about their enemy. I've always been scared of them. Not like I scream and run away when I see them. but they always creep me. still,seeing hundreds of them in a line, minding their own business is better than seeing a single ant, wandering, on the floor, on your clothes, your food, your skin. I flinch at the thought. It’s like they are marching to attack someone, very disciplined, and suddenly one of them looks at you and decides to take you down first. What The Hell. I'm too sleepy for this. Rubbing my eyes, I change my side. I always sleep early but today I am feeling extra sleepy. Maybe it's the pain killer medicine I took earlier. My eyelids feel burdened as if something is pushing them down. yet I am awake. It happens sometimes. when I start to contemplate my life choices. Like the choice of identifying myself as a writer. I hardly write and when I do, it feels like the hardest thing in the world. I don't think that should happen. I started to call myself a writer way before I started to write and I don’t know why, everyone agreed. They didn't ask me to show my work..to prove I was a writer. They just took my words for it. As if you become whatever you say. Only when I actually started to write I realized that maybe it takes more than just ‘thoughts’... Is that a sheep? I look outside the window trying to see properly while my eyes fight hard to shut. No, just a cloth. I am too sleepy for this . I open my eyes wide to resist. I always think of giving up writing. Maybe if I learn, practice and try to get better at it I will actually get better at it. But that's not how it works. you have got to have some talent. How do you tell if you have talent? I don’t think everyone has it.  I try to remember all the people without any talent. I know in the end I will end up choosing the easiest option, as always. I just need to know which one of them is the easiest option. It's not as clear as the choice I made ten years ago. I still remember my mothers trembling voice. after crying for an hour, she bathed me, which I didn't understand. I still don't. I wasn't dirty. not at that time. "Don't tell anyone. we can't let anyone know. Do you understand?" rubbing me dry with a towel, rather harshly, she was asking me. I just nodded. confused. "we can't just cut people off from our lives. don't tell anyone. Everyone will think you are a bad girl. say it. say you won't tell anyone." she was now dressing me in a long frock. I hated that frock. "say it." she yelled at me. "I won't tell anyone." I said it. After that, I met him at every function, wedding, family gathering. I talked to him respectfully because he was an elder. pretending to have forgotten everything growing up. Sometimes, I would just mention unnecessarily how I don’t remember much of my childhood. That I feel like chunks of my memories have disappeared. I don’t even know if that happens but I see relief in my mother's eyes when I say that. It was the easiest choice.  I grab my mobile to look at the time. It's past midnight. 36 degrees outside. it's hot. I look at the ceiling fan. The blades are chasing each other so lazily I can see all of them. This fan sucks. The cold floor does help a little until the next morning when the strained back ruins your whole day. Once the cooler gets repaired I'll sleep on the bed again. I miss it. I rub my eyes again. Did I break my lashes? I try to feel them with my fingers. They are still there. Thank God. I should sleep. I look at my mother sleeping beside me on the floor. her chest is going up and down. I start counting. 1.......................................2.................................3........................................4.................................... she breaths too slowly. It's boring.  She doesn't let me sleep alone. Once I opened the lock and got out of the house, 3 in the morning, sleepwalking. I was 12. She started to double lock the door after that. started to sleep with me. Sometimes she would tie my leg to the bed. I don't always sleepwalk. mostly it happens when I'm sick. I get up in the middle of the night, looking all sober, talking all good, trying to leave the house to find my mother because she is waiting for me. None of us knows why it's stuck in my mind that I need to find my mother. I do talk in my sleep every day. Usually, I see lots of insects, on my body, on the walls, on the ceiling. I don't remember it the next morning unless my mother shouts at me for ruining her sleep and doing weird stuff, and what neighbours would think if they hear me shouting.  I hate to bother her but she still does not agree to let me sleep alone. I sometimes think of going to a counsellor. but that would mean opening a box full of ants that I have locked long ago, pretending to have forgotten about it. The easier option is to leave it as it is. to continue to bother my mother in her sleep and feel guilty for doing something that is so out of my hand. The easiest option would be sleeping alone. 1................................2...................3.......................4...................................5......................................6 I start counting again. My eyes are sticking together, like two opposite sides of a magnet. wow. That's a good analogy............is it? Do the opposite sides or the same sides of the magnet attract? I am sure the opposites attract. I force my eyes open. I should write it down. I can write a story about magnets. but I know nothing about them. How are they made? Or are they natural? Like gold, silver, iron, magnet. I am too sleepy for this . I stop resisting. my eyes shut themselves tight, making it hard for me to open them again. I should just sleep. I let go of the chain of thoughts. I made the easiest choice.. again….something stuck. or was it?........

0ydb7f

Sweet Immersion

The first hour of my shift is the best. I love the stillness, the dimmed lights glowing above the the shelves of books. I tie my hair back, pull out my cart to begin work, cleaning the library. I don't mind my job, it's a job and it pays the bills, I work hard. Stretching before pulling the vacuum, I am starting with the aisles, humming gospel while I work to distract myself. An hour has passed, one more before I get my break, I will have my tea in the lounge with the security guard, Jamail. Now there's a reason to work here. His beautiful dark eyes intense with longing, his strong muscular arms wanting to hold me. We are lovers. We met immediately took a liking to each other when I started work here. This little library with its old structured building charm, and slowly we became more than friends. "Hi sweets, so far so good? Nothing going on for me, the usual. I put in for my vacation week coming up next month." He announced, as I sat down with my mug of tea. I opened a pack of crackers. I eyed him narrowly, he hadnt mentioned anything to me before this. "Oh, I didnt know you were going to be off for a week?" I queried, I didnt want to sound like he owed me anything, but I was disappointed, my voice cracked a little. "I have to take it or I don't get paid, company policies." He took a deep swig of his coffee. Black with sugar. I tap my tea mug, not sure what to say next without sounding pissed. Then it was time to get back to work. I start dusting the shelves, spraying the rag with cleaner spray stuff, lemon scented. 'So, he's going to be off a week, hmphh, he could have mentioned it to me or asked me to be with him.' My mind racing now with anxiety. Ok, calm down, it's his life, if he doesnt want to be with you that's his choice. I finish dusting the aisles and then it's time for supper. Again we are alone. The library quiet with the sounds of nothing permeating through void. I sullenly go back to the lunch room to have dinner. He came in behind me, so handsome in his uniform, and he plants a kiss on my lips. I smiled, but we still had unfinished things to discuss. "What are you going to do when your off"? My voice rises to a sarcastic tone. He looks at me with raised eyebrows, surprised at my question. "You're not thinking anything are you?" "Like what do you want me to think? You never mentioned you were going to be off for a week and you have not asked me to join you. It's your business anyway." I replied, the tension building between us, he looked nervous now, shifting in his seat at the table. "It just came up, I havent even filled out the forms yet, but would you be able to join me on a week holiday?" He asked. "Well, I would hope your not asking me because you think I am upset or anything?" I wouldnt add more to save face. I didnt want to act insecure, but I was. I don't have to spill out the story here, we know where it will end. "Of course not, you know I adore you, we have been seeing each other for 3 months, I would love it if you joined me, we could relax and do things together like go to the movies, or have a picnic. Would you enjoy a picnic?" He rubbed his chin, elbows on the table, as he leaned towards me as if he wanted to crawl onto the surface to kiss me. My heart melted at the thought, how could I say no. "I will have to ask my supervisor. I am not sure if I have leave left." I told him in all honesty. And then we had to get back to work to finish the night, in the empty halls, while he sat at the front to guard the doorway. ********* I remembered the first night we had gone out together . He had taken me to a pizza place, so cozy with candles on the red and white checkered tablecloths. My heart was melting as we ate. We got to know each other. We two peas in a pod, like honey bees to flowers, it was meant to be. He was Jamaican/American, half white. I was Puerto Rican, my family having immigrated here 20 years before, for a better life. There was no money for college, I wasnt really interested in a degree, I chose to work first for awhile and save up. Jamail was taking correspondence courses and working as a security guard, he wanted to join the police force here, he wanted to make the world a better place he'd always said. He had a harder life on the island than I did, but then maybe that is what made us so bonded, we both grew up poor, and on tropical islands. ***** "You are so beautiful, I want you to be my woman." He announced, after we walked to Central Park, sitting down at a bench under a glowing park lamp. People were strolling, walking their dogs, it was a beautiful star filled night. "I really really like you too." I toyed with his strong fingers, cuddled next to him comfortably in his broad shoulders. And so, as time went on we got closer, and when we had time off at the same time we were inseparable. Hopefully this conflict of being able to take time off together would be okay and we would have a wonderful week together. I was already happy thinking about it. I still had to talk to the boss. Two weeks later "Yes Joanie, how can I help you?" Leanna had her nose in paperwork, she was staying late that night to finish up her backlog. I had actually arrived early to be able to ask her about the vacation time, I was nervous. She wasn't one of my favorite people at the library to deal with. "I was wondering, would it be possible to have a week off next month? I am not sure if I have vacation time." I just got right to the point, my voice nervous. "Oh, um, I will have to check with personell, I can let you know, if you dont have paid time do u want it anyway, and we need a replacement for the week." She said, flipping papers under her long manicured red nails. Nails to scratch your eyes out, I worried. "I would hope to have a paid week off, but if not I would settle for a week without pay." I replied. "Your dating that security guard are you not?" Leanne chewed out. "Um is that asking personal like or is it not allowed?" I asked back. I wondered what she was implying. "As long as it doesnt interfere with his work or yours, I dont see an issue." Leanne smiled at me. I breathed in relief. "You're a good worker Maria. I would hate to lose you." And with that, she got up and got ready to go home, the night would be ours, mine and Jemail's. I watched Leanne leave, as she grabbed her briefcase, her presence still around even when she wasnt, she was one of those women that left an aura like a cat left a scent. I would get that holiday, I thought, and I went to begin my night shift at the library....

ea1wqe

Gerda and the Snow Queen

That? That's the castle of the Snow Queen. And what’s that look for? Ah! You must know one of THOSE tales. Never believe a tale, young man. If only my throat weren't so dry, the stories I could tell...Mm…My thanks, traveler! This story begins here, with Kay, the clockmaker's son, and Gerda, the weaver's daughter. They grew up together; born next door to one another, walked to school together as children, and learned their trades side-by-side as youths. Gerda’s journey weaver’s project was a cloak of the softest green wool for Kay: carded, spun, and woven with love in every strand and stitch. Kay made her a present in return: a shiny clockwork flower, no bigger than Gerda's hand, which opened to the sun every morning and closed as twilight fell at night. For his mother, there was a clockwork teapot that poured itself, and for his father a cunning little gadget that would polish the man's spectacles. Gerda knew that Kay was never happier than when he was inventing new and better clockwork marvels, and she knew that her clockwork flower was a true token of Kay's love. Gerda was sitting in a corner, silently watching Kay work, when the shushing of sleigh runners stopped in front of the clock shop door and the woman came in. She was very different from Gerda and the other women in the village. The woman was tall where Gerda was small, willowy where Gerda was plump, and pale as moonlight where Gerda was rosy-cheeked. She walked straight to the front of the shop and stood before the counter and waited while Kay stayed bent over his jeweler's glass, tweezing a cog just so into place, bending a wire around in this way, and soldering with the tiniest dab of heat. After several long, silent minutes, he raised his head. “Thank you for waiting,” Kay said, “What can I do for you?” The woman's voice was soft and lilting. “On my mountain the cold is fierce, and the clocks run slow. My clockwork servants creak and groan and will soon stop if I cannot find a way to protect them from the elements. I have heard of your genius with clockwork even in the palace. Can you help me?” “She calls it ‘her’ mountain?” Gerda thought, “Oh, no! This must be the Snow Queen!” Gerda had heard the stories, perhaps the same stories that you have heard, traveler, and she knew in her heart that the woman had come to take away her Kay, her love. Kay, however, was oblivious to Gerda's fear and worry. “I do not know how to protect the metal gears and cogs from the cold,” he said, “But I will think on it. Give me three days, and I will, perhaps, have a course of action when you return. However, I think I ought to see your clockwork servants and experiment to find a solution.” “Very well,” said the Snow Queen, “I will return in three days. Then, if you would like, I will take you to the palace, but it will be a journey of several days.” “I will have my tools and supplies ready, in the case that I must go.” “In three days, then,” the Snow Queen said as she left the shop. Before the doorbell had stilled, Gerda burst out, “Kay, you must not go!” “Hmm...?” Kay did not even seem to be listening. Gerda put her hand on his arm. “Do you know who that is? The mountain, the palace...she must be the Snow Queen. Her magical ice will blind your eyes to the people of the village. She will freeze your heart in your chest! You will become ensorcelled by her until you grow cold and unfeeling, and care only about the Snow Queen and your work. You will wither and die!” Gerda was panting at the end of her impassioned plea. “Do not worry so, Gerda. She is just a person. Yes, she is rich and lives in a palace, but she has a problem that needs a solution, just like anyone else. And what a fascinating problem! How to keep the gears from becoming brittle in the cold...” Kay turned away from Gerda and pulled a book from his shelf. “Listen to me, Kay! Please!” Gerda's eyes filled with tears, “She will take you away to her palace and never let you go. I cannot bear to lose you, Kay, I love you!” Kay turned back to Gerda and was quiet for a moment. Gerda held her breath. She knew that this what she had dreamed of: when Kay would see her love shining in her eyes and take her in his arms at last. She just knew this moment would come! Yes, well, 17-year-old girls know a lot of things. When you're my age, traveler, you’ll understand just how little you really know. Kay put his hands gently over hers, but his eyes slid away. “I love you, too, Gerda.” he said softly, “But not that way. You are my dearest friend—for all our lives—but I don't feel like...that...about you. I hope we can keep being good friends...” “Oh, no!” said Gerda, “She has already taken your heart!” “No! I do not feel that way about her, either. I do not feel that way about anyone. Honestly, I do not think that I can. I am happy to spend time with my family, and you, and the others in the village, but I have never been comfortable with thoughts of romance, or kisses, or...well, anything of that sort.” “I will save you.” Tears streamed down her cheeks as Gerda grabbed Kay's shoulders and pulled him down to her. “I will not let her freeze your heart!” Gerda pressed her lips to Kay's, imagining her love flowing into him and melting the shard of ice that had taken over his heart. She had imagined this moment so many times, her first kiss with her beloved, but it did not seem quite...right. Kay's lips were dry and cool, and his eyes bulged open. His hands were on her arms, but they seemed to be pushing her away, not pulling her close. She let go and stumbled back a step. Kay put the back of his hand against his lips and shook his head. “Gerda, I am sorry; the fault is not with you, but I cannot be with you the way that you want...” Gerda was mortified, and her tears fell harder and faster. She turned and ran out the door, across the street, and into her house. She threw herself across her bed and soaked her pillow with her tears for hours before she finally fell asleep. After all that crying, she must've been as parched as a desert when she woke up, eh? I know just how she felt...Oh, another ale? How kind! For the next three days, Gerda watched the clock shop from her window. Kay arrived early and didn’t leave until late. He turned the sign on the door to “closed” and did not let anyone in. Then, finally, the afternoon of the third day, Gerda heard the jingle of bells and saw four reindeer pull a glittering white sleigh to a stop in front of the shop. The Snow Queen pulled aside the white fur across her knees and stepped out into the street. Kay opened the door before the woman even had a chance to knock and motioned her inside. Gerda waited for the Snow Queen to leave—hoped for the Snow Queen to leave—for so long that she must have fallen asleep because it was dark when she was woken by the sound of bells. She lifted her head just in time to see the sleigh and its two passengers leave. “Wait, two passengers?” Gerda thought as she ran down the stairs and out into the night. On the front door of the clock shop, there was a sign: Closed. Out of town for three weeks. Gerda knew right away what she must do. She gathered up her warmest clothing and assembled a pack with bread, cheese, and sausages. If the trip was several days by sleigh, she knew she would be traveling for more than a week, perhaps a little less if the magical white bear found her sooner. Ah! I see you've heard the story with the bear, traveler. Well, there aren't any bears in this story, no matter what you and Gerda think you know. Gerda set out that very night. Resolutely, she took her first steps onto the mountain. The road was wide, but the firs were thick and tall, and no sun reached the packed snow where Gerda walked. For days she trudged ever upward, stopping only to wrap herself in her damp cloak and close her eyes when it became too dark to see where she was going. At first, she imagined her reunion with her love and practiced what she would do and say to win him. As the days passed, Gerda began looking for the magical white bear that she knew would come to carry her to confront the Snow Queen. Her feet ached, and then grew numb in the cold and wet, and she daydreamed about riding with her toes buried in the warm fur of the bear. As she climbed, the trees grew farther and farther apart and finally ended altogether, and the wind grew fiercer and more biting. It took everything she had for Gerda to continue. She forgot to look for the bear, she forgot her speech to the Snow Queen, she forgot to eat. At the last, she even forgot Kay. She simply trudged forward, head down, eyes on the road in front of her, one foot and then the other. She cried, and the tears froze to her face. She wanted more than anything to sit and sleep. She might have done just that, and then the story would have ended here, but the Snow Queen's gamekeeper was riding down the mountain just in time to catch sight as Gerda finally collapsed in the middle of the road. When she woke, Gerda found herself nestled in warm fur. Her limbs burned as the feeling returned, and she gasped. “Oh, it looks like the poor dear is awake!” an echoing voice called, and then there was a buzz and a clank and a whirr, and a shiny copper clockwork woman trundled over to Gerda and peered into her face with bright, mirrored eyes. “How are we feeling?” “Is this the palace? Is Kay here? Where is he? Where is the Snow Queen?” Gerda struggled to sit up. “Now, dear,” said the clockwork maid, “If you mean M'Lady, she is at supper just across the hall, and she does have a guest, but...” “I must find Kay! I must save him!” Gerda pushed her way out of the chair where she had been sitting and almost knocked the clockwork maid down as she stumbled to the door. She could hear silverware clinking on china and feel the warmth of a fire as she pushed open the heavy door, but all she could see was Kay, drinking from a golden goblet and smiling up at the Snow Queen. “She cannot have you!” Gerda shouted as she flung herself at Kay. She knocked him out of his chair and onto a plush carpet behind the table. She wrapped her arms around him, buried her face in his neck, and waited for the trials that she knew would soon begin. Yes, traveler, the trials. I see that face! It looks like you know the same stories that Gerda knew. The room was silent for ten long heartbeats. “Gerda?” Kay asked from below her on the floor. “Is that you? What are you doing here? What are you doing?!?” Gerda heard a soft, low laugh from the table. “I think she is waiting for him to turn into a snake.” That voice was the Snow Queen, “Or perhaps a pillar of fire? I have heard those stories, too.” “Gerda,” Kay whispered in her ear. “I think you have the wrong idea. Please let me up, so I can explain...and introduce you to my new friend.” Gerda rolled off of Kay and tucked her knees under her on the floor, but she did not look up. “Is this your friend that you told me about, Kay? She looks famished. Let the introductions wait until the two of you have eaten, and perhaps talked. I will wait for you to join me in the library for dessert.” The Snow Queen held out her hand to Gerda. “You, dear girl, must decide for yourself who you will trust: your stories or your friend.” At a loss for anything else to do, Gerda let herself be lifted to her feet and guided to a chair. But she could not seem to raise her eyes, even when she heard the Snow Queen leaving and knew that she was alone at the table with Kay. “Gerda...” Kay began. “I have just made a fool of myself and embarrassed you. There is no enchanted ice, is there? You are not being held captive, your heart is not freezing, and you are not slowly wasting away and dying. You simply do not love me.” “Gerda...” He started again. “Gerda, I do love you, but not for the reasons that you want me to. I love you because you are kind and generous and intelligent and hard working. I love you because you pushed me into the lake when we were children and helped me study Latin when we were at school. I love you because you are my friend, and that is more important and more necessary to me than anything. Please do not leave me because I cannot be what you want me to be.” “Can you not?” Gerda took a roll from the table and started to shred it in her fingers but had to stop. The bread was pale cream, light and fluffy, and still warm from the oven. It was nothing like the heavy, dark bread that she had brought from the village. “When she looks at you and says that you can solve all of her problems, that she needs you and depends on you, does your heart not beat faster then? In the dark of night, do you not think of her pale skin and long white hair lying next to you in your bed?” “Oh, Gerda. No, I do not.” The tremble in Kay’s voice made Gerda look up. “I have never thought about anyone in that way. I have never longed for someone or daydreamed about kisses in the dark. I do not think that I ever will; that desire is simply not in me. I am never as fully alive as I am when I am immersed in creativity, when the idea of a new invention sweeps me away. The touch of my muse is more glorious than the touch of any human love.” Gerda breathed shallowly so that her sobs would not break free. “I cannot love you in the way that you need me to, Gerda, but I hope you will let me continue to love you in my own way, as my closest, dearest friend. Please do not push me away over something that I cannot control and cannot change. Can you love me anyway, broken as I am?” Gerda looked into Kay's face and saw her own tears mirrored in his eyes. “I have hurt him,” she thought. “I have been impulsive and thoughtless...and so selfish, and I have hurt him.” “Oh, Kay, I am so, so very sorry. We are the very best of friends, now and forever. You are not broken, you are my Kay, my friend, and you always will be. Forgive me for pressing you, and following you, and...” Gerda's eyes widened and her face grew red, “What have I done? I have come here and...and in front of the Snow Queen! At her home! Oh, Kay, what must she think of me? I'm so sorry, I've embarrassed you, and now I know she will throw us out of her palace into the dark forest where we will be at the mercy of the beasts! Or, worse, she will lock us away in her dungeon, I just know it...” “Gerda!” Kay was laughing as he interrupted her panicked tirade. “Gerda, you are doing it again. Take a deep breath and let us go actually speak to your 'Snow Queen' before you can think of anything else that you 'just know.' Her name is Elfrida, and I think that she will like you...Or at least be amused.” So Gerda followed her Kay into the library, met the Snow Queen (who was, indeed, amused), and then returned to the village where they lived happily—well, happily enough. Nor the story you were expecting, eh, traveler? There's no spells, or magic bears, or pillars of fire, just a silly girl too caught up in what she knows to see what is. Now? Kay's retired but still living above the clock shop; he never married or had children, but passed the business on to a cousin who had the knack. See that giant wagon being pulled up the mountain on the thick cable? That's his newest invention, and it means Elfrida can visit the village even now that her bones aren't what they used to be. And Gerda? Gerda still has tea with Kay once a week, but she married the innkeeper's son. They had five children and twenty-two grandchildren, and now they take care of her, so she has nothing better to do with her time than sit in sun outside the inn cozening drinks from passing strangers in exchange for a story. Another? Why, thank you, traveler, I don't mind if I do.

ij72ud

The Woman At The Mountain Top

Deeply hidden in the mountains, away from the rest of the world there once was a place unlike any other. On the surface, it looked like any old landscape. A mountain made green by the foliage of trees, a river running through a paradise-like valley, and a village at the foot of it it all. This was the kind of place that you might see on the hastily scribbled postcards that your backpacking friends send you to remind you that the world is bigger than you could ever imagine. A place like so many if it weren’t for one unique inhabitant who lived all by herself at the top of the mountain. She was believed to be the spirit of the mountain itself. Her life consisted of an endless meditation, a deep one that would allow all the elements of nature to speak to her. The wind that stroked the grass, the flowers that whispered tales of what happened underneath the earth, and the insects buzzing about the worlds they got to know better than any human ever could. All these things together would shape inside her mind into a pearl of deep wisdom that she would then sent down the stream so the villagers in the valley along with their crops and trees could hear it. The people waited all day, every day for her words to come down the stream, and whatever would arrive at their village, it always filled their hearts with peace and serenity. The nature around them flourished under the beautiful, kind words that the wise woman on the top of the mountain would send down to them. Those pearls of wisdom were sources of life for the hearts, minds, and souls of the people, as well as the trees, plants, grass, and flowers. This didn’t sit well with some of the inhabitants of the village, though. There are always the people who want more than peace of mind and harmony, and so it was with the mayor of the village and his friends. Where most people saw beautiful trees, he saw the potential to build majestic palaces and statues in his honor, for him there were no beautiful flowers but just petals he could decorate his palaces with, and the animals? Well, they were there to be put in cages to celebrate his glory. His big frustration was that he knew he would never get any of the people to build all those things for him. “Why would they bother to build things for me when they can just walk around with peace in their hearts all the time,’’ he complained to one of his friends. “Well, it seems they are happy to listen to whatever the wise woman from up the mountain tells them. Perhaps you should convince her to tell them the things you want them to do.’’ Now, we have all seen enough movies to know that convincing doesn’t mean having a friendly conversation over a few beers when it comes to power-hungry leaders. The old, wise woman refused many times but after they had burned down her house, destroyed her flower beds, and threatened to kill her cats and goats, the wise old woman had no choice but to send their messages down the stream. And so it happened that from that day on messages like: “Build a castle. Build a statue. Worship your mayor, he knows what’s best for you,’’ were found on the bank of the river. And the villagers? Well, they did what they were told. They had no reason to distrust the voice coming down the stream since it had always brought them nothing but peace of mind and overall good feelings. After a while, something terrible started to happen though. The stream turned brown. Brown of the ugliest shade imaginable. You know, the type you get when you eat the wrong kind of food… Yes, that kind of brown! The brown water no longer brought the words that whispered gently to the roots of the trees and flowers, it no longer encouraged the grass to grow in their brightest green, nor did it cover the sunlight in a layer that felt soothing on the villagers their skins. In fact, it killed all those things entirely until they all became withered, leafless, and colorless. And so it happened that one day there was nothing left alive for the wind to dance through. The people who were now without comforting words or beautiful nature were quick to rebel against the mayor and his friends. As one mob they showed up at the huge castle they had build for him. They burned the statues that they had carved for him from the beautiful trees that once grew in abundance and they released all the animals that got wild in their cages, hoping that they would run inside and devour the mayor and his friends. And the mayor? Well, as many villains do he pretended to be innocent. “It was not my fault, it was the woman from the mountain top who has sent down the bad news. She was the one who told you to do what was done. She must be upset with you, she probably thinks that you don’t deserve the beauty of nature or the serenity of soul.’’ The thing with people who always got their beauty, gentle thoughts, and kind words from higher up, is that they have never learned to make their own thought pearls. That’s why they instantly believed whatever they were told by the mayor, and so they all climbed up the mountain. They begged the old woman to send them kind words again that could bring peace to their hearts, they begged her for the whispers that would make the trees grow and the river flow, but nothing happened. The problem was that the old woman simply couldn’t. During her meditation, she had always relied on the whispers of the insects, the breeze of the wind through the leaves, and the scent of the flowers to bring her, her thoughts. Now that they had died along with everything else there was nothing left to give her what she had been giving to all the others. One day, as she was trying again to catch a thought that would enlighten her, she shook her head. She had been trying so long, so fruitlessly that deep down she knew that her head, nor her heart or soul would offer the answer. With a deep sigh, she looked down at her hands and knew that the only option left would have to come from them. She stood up and went to work. She planted many seeds to grow new trees and flowers, she walked great distances to get water for them and she worked the dry dirt every day to make it fertile again. The people who were still on their knees, begging her to bring back what they had lost, saw this and looked at it with amazement in their eyes. Instead of listening to their pleads, she wordlessly walked around to do all the necessary work. Reluctantly they started to do the same. After all, perhaps she was showing them what they could do to make her less angry at them. Tree by tree, flower by flower, and field by field they made the things grow back that they had lost. It took them a while, that’s true, but eventually, the inner peace returned into their hearts.

ls7agv

SOME LOVE STORIES LIVE FOR EVER

A girl looked at a boy during prizes distribution cermony. The boy was awarded Best Student of The year. the girl was surprised and She came and congratulated him.Boy was of sixteen andd the girl was 24. AFTER a week new session of college started.in the mean while a girl enter the class and started lecture.this was the girl who met a boy at prizes distribution cermony .The girl name was saira and the boy was sitting infront of him. the boy name was sanan. now sanan was a student and saira was a teacher. the student was very hardworking boy and the girl was awesome teacher.Soon student decleared miss saira his favorite teacher.HE admire everyone about saira atitude and hard working skills.. now the time came when saira called sanan and asked him whether he has a girl freind ? Sanan replied no . sanan understood the teacher loved me soon they start freindship. this was the time when the teacher student relationship was changed to freinds relation . in college both loved each other and gave gifts to each other . A good relationshipp was going on between this couple . tehy always loved and pray for each other success . all students understood about this couple and now sanan was called saira sanan in class. after college time they talked each other through mobile phones and both slept late at night. SANAN also continued his hardwork in studies and got success one after another.saira infront of teacher staff admire about his syudent and often she said student should be like sanan sanan was completely fall in love with her miss. after one year saira sister got job in the same college . she hated sanan sanan did not know why sana hate me. THE REASON OF HATENESS WAS THE GIFTS GIVEN BY SANAN TO SAIRA sana saw all those gifts on which sanan name was mentioned. soon sana burned the fire between sanan and saira . saira without clearification about the story told by sana she begun and hate sanan sanan again and again asked her to clear her points but she did not belive soon again they became happy from each other but now no lift was given by saira to sanan sanan was very upset that why she did not talk to me with a polite manner . saira was engaged with his cousin for marry .when sanan came to know about her engagement he cried and said why my dear you are going for away fom me and then said luck matters after that sanan lift college to forget his love but still he said some love stories live forever after one year she married to her cousin but she still had love with sanan and became ill. when sanan came to know about her marriage and then about her illness he prayed to ALLAH GET WILL SOON SAIRA both were spending their lives in the love with eac other therefor some love stories live forever after six year sanan became a doctor he was well professional doctor she always thought about saira and he thought where would be saira and how she would be living because in the six years time they did not talk nor seen each other saira after six years became the mother of 3 children and one of her son name was sanan. she always thought about sanan and said to herself if sanan were my husband if sanan were my lover if i marry with sanan and refused to my cousin for marry saira life was full of difficult circumstances as she became the depression patient sanan was also spending a tough life and all times saira remained in his thoughts he always said to himself if saira was my wife i would proved husband and wife relationship where saira was living by chance sanan job was shifted there. when sanan was going to hospital she saw a girl and some doubts came to his mind the girl was looking like saira. but he did not belive he thought that it was a dream a next day saira saw sanan and she completly understood that he was sanan she went to home. sanan and saira homes were oposite to each other .sanan saw saira from belcony and now understood that it was his first love. they both once again met each other and appointed a day for trip saira husband did not know about saira activities saira was always unhappy at home .she and her husband did not live a good life. soon saira and sanan went for trip . there they both discuss about the past but sanan was very angry with saira . sanan asked saira why she love me? if you were not ready for marriage then why you love me? saira replied that she still love with him.and i married with my cousin by fixing the engagement by my mother.i repent on my marry upto now i have three son but living in hell they did dinner and came back to home. now there love was continued and they met each other everyday and told past stories to each other a day was come when saira husband understood about sanan and his activities he made a plan he said to saira that today he would go to his freind party saira called sanan and said to him that today we would go for a dinner to resturant and there saira husband reported to police they bought were caught at resturant and sanan went to jail after court trial it was decided that sanan destroy five live saira and her husaband and her three sons so sanan would live the rest of life in jail. sanan did not object on court case and accepted the court decision now he is living in jail and said to himself some love stories live forever there saira also thought about sanan love and said to her self some love stories live for ever a journy started in light ended with darkness

bqycka

The Merchant's Husband

1117 words Rated PG; violence, blood, unsettling imagery Prompt: Write a cautionary fable about someone who always lies. Gather ‘round, those old and young. Come closer, and ye will be met with worlds of mystery. Sit at the stream, drink the sweet nectar within, and be reborn as is the phoenix from the ashes of the fire of the night. Stay at my shoes, and ye will be compelled to go forward with nothing but the stick of virtues and the sly hand. Our story begins when the moon shone above the world, moving downwards, perhaps contemplating crashing into the earth. The village was old. So old that Elder Mcallen could become one with the cracks on the buildings built near the river. The water had begun to chew on the land and spit it out as punishment for the farmers who did not wear belts on their waists. The folks would stop on their way through a town, not unlike that of the river, and use their forearms to reach the stall that was worth the suffering. There were two who never had to do this because they were already tending to the stand. It was the merchant and her husband. Their product was one thing of intrigue: a plant. This plant had a top that was reaching for the sun. The bottom looked like a child’s toy that spun with magic. It was so good that the merchant and her husband would only sell to those who wanted legumes with this fantastical plant. The merchant and her husband would jingle as they walked because of it. Every 6th sunrise, the two of them would take a mare and a carriage, and go to harvest their mystical plant. They would be gone until the moon cast shadows in the water lilies for the second time. The merchant and her husband always returned with burlap sacks about to burst, ready for the coming days. The folks wanted to find the magical clouds where these plants fell from. They tried to follow the merchant and her husband into the trees that lapped at the North end of the village. They tried to be mice, to not be spotted. They tried to be snakes, wiggling among mud and root. They tried to be squirrels, pulling themselves up on branches and scurrying. Alas, to no avail. A fog covered the merchant. A mist covered the husband. Their tracks were taken with the wind. Not a soul could find the fabled spot. Those who searched would return with noses, ears, and eyes dripping red. Their hands would have disappeared. Their irises were soulless black husks that might have been portals to the underworld. Those who returned screamed in agony The nights were never peaceful. For whom the screaming was for was never clear. This was, at least, was rare. Most did not return at all, but were lost to the everlasting wood, which most likely only ended when the merchant saw fit. There were rumours that she who could not share a secret was a witch. She might need to be burned to leave the village to its tasks. The issue was that the harvest she and her husband provided was too important to the town, so she was left to do as she pleased.  The merchant’s long hair was covered by a dirt coloured cloth that never moved. Her skirts were always stained by grass. Her face had not been washed in moons, yet she carried elegance. The villagers would cry out to her. How did she find the wonderful roots that could feed an angel? She would never let a word slip past her tongue. It was of no consequence the people who would plead, the length of their groveling, or how often they would fall to their knees and mumble into her filthy boots. The merchant had never opened her mouth to anyone who was not her husband. Even the husband was not one for canards. His small hands would be wiped quietly on an apron that was no longer white so he could touch his products. He would only speak of prices, which would always be wrong. Not one thing he said was ever the truth. The village was always frustrated by this pair. They had come here once upon a dawn and would leave twice the whisper of the night if the time ever arrived. Most would only interact for the food to give their family, and no more. A blessing from above must not be asked questions. Other whisperers did not agree. They would clench their teeth and breathe small rumors that had no base in any facts. When the sun left no shadow, a person in a ragged shawl and nothing more approached the stand. The husband and the merchant were speaking silently. The only indication of conversation was the small movement of broken lips. When the person came close, the pair turned toward them slowly. “What will you be needing?” The merchant’s husband demanded. The person, the stranger, did not offer a response. They instead focused on the husband. They traveled down his light yellow hair to his blue shirt. They lingered on a pendant, which might have been glowing with green sparks. The chain it was attached to swung off of the husband’s neck. “What will you be needing?” The voice was louder. The stranger smiled. “The plant you carry so close to your heart.” The husband reached out the skilled hand he always used and picked up the special roots which made lips smack and eyes open. He picked a half dozen and laid them down on the smooth counter. The stranger shook their head. The shawl spun wildly. Their irises sparkled with knowledge. For the merchant’s husband was always one to lie. “You have lied to me.” The stranger purred. “I am asking for the plant that you carry close to your heart.” The merchant’s lips dipped downwards. She glanced at her husband. He returned the special roots to their basket. He next wrapped his fingers around an ear of corn. He lifted it and offered it to this peculiar customer. The corn was beautiful. The bland day could not reach the smooth bumps on the vegetable. It shone like the butter in the stall to the right of the merchant and her husband. It was very clean, and you might see a reflection on the yellow surface. The stranger was still not satisfied. They waggled their fingers in disapproval, and a grin showed yellow teeth. The stranger had come prepared for this trick. “You have once again hidden the truth from me. What is closest to your heart, dear man?” The merchant rose from her seat. She cupped her tanned hand and leaned down to advise her husband. He listened quietly and nodded. They exchanged a glance like crystals. The merchant fell back on her stool once more. Puffs of dirt rose from her skirts. The husband knitted his eyebrows and was now ready. “I have not an idea what you speak of.” The stranger threw back their oval head and laughed into the sky. “You have lied three times, my dear. Once more, a-” The folks who were in the area gasped and stumbled backward. The stranger was now lying on the ground, with a forehead of violet. The merchant’s husband shook out the hand which had been in a fist. Blood fell from his knuckles and dripped on the corn he had placed on the wooden counter. He did not bother to wipe it. It was of no value from this point forward. It would be cooked in a stew once the day fell. The merchant stood once more and embraced her husband. The perfect start to a day of profits. Moral: never pretend you can defeat the merchant and her husband.

6canco

A Single mistake

A SINGLE MISTAKE  -Chanda Jha Once upon a time there was a man, aged about 26 years, around 6 feet tall and thin with long black hair and beard, also had a sharp eyes, signed on a register and came out from police station. As soon as he reached in a society, he heard some sound against him like “why do he come here?,” “he has already harm the respect of our society now he might harm us and our family”, “we should talk to the secretary to take him out from the society”. Ignoring such voices he moved to his door and opened it. He found his rented flat looks same as he left with, but the room and hall are little dusty. He cleaned the room and hall and went to take bath. Then he cooked food and ate. Then he went to his bed to sleep. But he was unable to sleep because of his unfortunate past and he started thinking about his past. He was living with parents in his flat happily. He had his best friend Harish, Shreyash and Harish were childhood friend and classmates. Both were very smart and intelligent. But Harish was a toper of his school where as Shreyash was an average student. Shreyash wanted to be toper of his class. He tried his best and studied hard, even his good luck was not with him and he failed. Harish always tried to motivate him for his hard work. When they were appearing for their board exam, due to his much hard study he got first rank in board examination. He was very happy for his success. After getting result he went to his home and decided to go out for dinner with his parents and his best friend at night to celebrate same moment. He invited his best friend Harish to join. But Harish refused his invitation saying that as he had also scored second rank in the school, his parents were also celebrating in the same night. Thus, they both decided to celebrate with each other on very next day. Shreyash went with his parents in a restaurant, where they ordered different types of food. In the middle of their dinner Shreyash got a call by Harish and came to know that Harish met with a car accident and now he is admitted to the city hospital. Shreyash became nervous and without completing his dinner move alone to visit Harish. He was in very much hurry; he drove his car very fast. Suddenly, a lady came in front of his car and she died and Shreyash arrested by police on same moment. The court gave judgement against Shreyash and he was punished for ten years imprisonment. As his father loved him so much, he wasn’t able to recover from such incident and after two months of his arrest he died. Somehow, he came to know about this sad news. His mother was unable to tolerate the filthy languages of her neighbours against her innocent son and left the society without informing anyone. Due to his good behaviour he was realised within eight years. Suddenly he falls asleep in midnight. On very next day of being realised, in the morning he got up at 7:00 am. He knew that his neighbours were looking him as criminal just because he had come from jail. Even he got up cut his hair and beard, took bath and came down in the ground of his society, where he found a 3 to 4 years child was crying, he took up the child and brought a chocolate from nearest shop, at that time only the mother of the child came there and take the child back from Shreyash and threw the chocolate on dustbin. Child again started crying and said his mother “You are bad mother, you throw my chocolate and uncle is good man”. Even his mother got inside with her child. Then Shreyash moved for Harish home, where he saw that Harish had become a respected doctor, got married a beautiful lady and had a cute six month little boy. Harish saw Shreyash and became very happy to see him. They both hug each other. Harish said that he missed him very much in last eight years. Then Shreyash asked Harish to find out her mother. They both from that time only started to found his mother but failed. One day when Shreyash was cleaning his hall room, he found a letter, in which her mother wrote the situations that she had faced and also an address was written there in the letter where his mother was staying. Then he went to meet his mother and took her at their flat. Day by day they were recovering from the past events and due to their nice behaviour their neighbouring relations were became good. But, as Shreyash was recorded as criminal, he was not eligible to join government job as well to be a trustable person for the society. Then Harish offered Shreyash to run his family livelihood, but he refused to take his help and he started searching for job. One day he was going in search of job. Suddenly a car passed through him. The break of that car was failed and a girl was inside the car. Then the car impinged with a tree and stopped. The lady, who was inside the car, became faint. He took the lady in to hospital and saved her life. Then he returned to his home without getting job. ON the very next day that lady came at his room with her father, who was a successful businessman of the city. He offered Shreyash job and thanked him for saving his daughter’s life. Thus Shreyash and Shretha came in contact and started met with each other. Day by day the friendship changed into love relationship and one day Shretha asked Shreyash for date, where Shreyash proposed Shretha for marriage. They both got married happily with the permission of their parents. After two years, they had a little baby girl. Thus, Shreyash won on his bad luck and grabbed the various opportunities and with his hard work and patience he changed his luck as well as recovered from his bad situations.

845o1j

Friend

 Noah liked sitting by the window and look at the outside world. He spent a lot of time watching the children play in the parc. He had no friends, and he never went to school. Not even for a single day.  It could have made him ill. Sicker than he already was, because Noah was born with a serious condition, that required a lot of care. And so, he spent a lot of time in his room; sometimes playing, reading books or drawing.  But most time he looked at the people in the parc, wondering what it would be like to be able to go out there himself. Miss Rose came 4 days per week. She was his teacher and thought him everything other children learned in school. They couldn´t really go on trips and such; so, Noah and Miss Rose would invent a trip every week and pretend that they would go off for the day. Once they took the Staten Island ferry and watched the harbour and looked at lady liberty. Miss Rose had told him everything there is to know about her. Noah had never really been on a boat though. Another time they took a really fast elevator in the empire state Building. Miss Rose pretended she had a fear of hights and started acting silly. That was a fun lesson; but Noah didn´t really know what it felt like to take an elevator. Sometimes his dad would swing him in the air and catch- that made him laugh because he felt tickles all over his stomach. Sometimes he would play hide and seek in the house with his mom, and she would let him jump up and down on her bed for a short while, because jumping on a bed can be very dangerous for children. He loved it when his grandmother came to visit, she would always have beautiful picture books and they would re-enact the stories together. One time for Halloween grandma had dressed up as a sea captain, and together they had made a sailboat in the living room, by putting two armchairs together and pretended all afternoon that they were out on the high seas having to face many dangers. That was fun, but Noah wasn´t allowed candy, nor trick or treaters at the doors. Noah loved sunny days because there would be a lot of kids in the parc. There was also a playground with cartwheels, slides and swings and other fun things. When it rained the children wouldn´t come to the park. Then he would just watch the raindrops on his window and follow them imagining a race and guessing which one would be at the bottom first. Sometimes, at night when he couldn´t sleep he would crawl out of his bed and go look if the moon was out and he would imagine talking to the moon. Indeed, on these nights where he couldn´t sleep the moon became his friend. They would talk about football and cheese, all kinds of things really. Sometimes they would talk so much that Noah would fall asleep, and his mom would find him in the morning sleeping on the windowsill. Later that day he overheard his mom talking about it to his grandma, and maybe even crying. That made Noah sad because he didn´t like it when his mom was sad. When grandma came to give him a kiss good night, she sat on his bed and told him something interesting: -         “You know, Noah, you can make a wish upon a star.” -         He couldn´t believe his ears. -         - “Really? Which one Nana, tell me! Please please please! Which star do I wish upon?” He was so excited he had to sit up. -         “Please, Nana: tell   me!” His grandmother smiled and said: -         “All right, but then you have to go to sleep, Miss Rose comes back tomorrow, and you don´t want to be sleeping through her lesson, now do you?” Noah shook his head. - “you just make sure that you are very very calm! And think very hard on what it is your little heart desires.” Her grandson was staring at her with big eyes, - “Then you glance over the night sky, and let your eyes rest upon a star, and tell it what it is you wish for.” - “Anything Nana? Can I ask for anything?” - “Well, it´s what my grandfather told me.” Grandma answered. - “Can they make me better grandma?” - “You will ger better one day Noah” she gave her grandson a kiss on his forehead,” all your dreams will come true! I´m sure of it! However difficult it gets sometimes; you can always look at the stars and dream!” Of course, as soon as his grandmother turned off the lights and closed the door, Noah jumped out of the bed and ran to his window to look if the stars were out.  And yes, they all hung bright in the night sky. With his nose glued to the window he looked and looked and tried to pick one. But there were so many. Which one should he choose? What if he picked a star already busy granting some other kid´s wish? He should have asked his grandma. He grew sleepy from stargazing and went to bed and fell asleep right away. The next day he wasn´t too interested in the lesson miss rose had prepared. He kept asking her all kinds of questions about the starts and she promised they would spend a whole day together learning everything there is to know about the stars. Noah liked that idea very much. Later that night when his mom tucked him in, he couldn´t help himself: he slipped out of bed and ran to his window. What a dilemma! Which star should he pick? Maybe it would be better to ask Miss Rose- surely, she would know all about wishing upon a star and explain it to him. He sat in his windowsill for a little while more and just when he was starting to rub his eyes, he started seeing blue spots. He rubbed his eyes one more time; yes… he could definitely see blue sparkles. He was starting to get scared and thought maybe now was a good time to start screaming. He stared at the blue sparkling dust, thinking maybe he was asleep and was dreaming already. In a flash: a big blue shining light filled all of his room. He wanted to call for help, but he couldn´t find his voice! He was so scared; put both his hands over his mouth and tried thinking really hard, real fast. And look: on the other side of the window sat a funny looking little boy. About his hight and covered in blue freckles. Surely, he was dreaming… - “Won´t you let me in?” Oh my, he speaks… how did he get there? That is so dangerous, what if he falls? - “let me in!” the blue boy said. Noah didn´t know what to do. Maybe he should call his mom. “Who are you?” he asked. - “what do you mean? Let me in!” What to do? What to do? Noah came a little closer to the window. The blue boy put his face closer to the window too- Noah leaned back. - “You have to invite me in you know.” Said the boy on the other side of the window. Noah hesitated, and then slowly turned the window knob. The boy immediately jumped through spreading blue sprinkles all over Noah´s bedroom floor. - “You wished for me” giggled the blue boy while he was looking at Noah’s toys….” Aren´t you going to tell me why?” Noah rubbed his eyes again to make sure he wasn´t dreaming. - “Are…are you real?” he stammered,” really real?” - “Hmm hmm!” - “How did you get here?” - “I came on a star beam.” Noah´s visitor giggled “you have a lot of stuff! Noah shook his shoulders. -         “Why did you wish me here?” -         “I didn´t! I was thinking about how I should wish upon a star; I haven´t really thought about what to wish for exactly. How many times can I make a wish?” The boy giggled again and put his hands in front of his belly as if somebody had tickled him, then started scratching his head. More sprinkles landed on the carpet: - “Sorry about that! Now tell me, what can I do for you?” Noah looked at him and asked if he could touch him. -         “Sure! But don´t tickle me” his blue friend replied. Noah touched the boy’s arm- he felt so soft. -          “You are real! he whispered. -         “Of course, I´m real!” -         “Do you come from the stars?” Noah asked, a little scared he was asking a stupid question. -         “Indeed! From all the way up there” he went to the window and pointed to a bright star next to the moon. Noah didn´t exactly know what star he was pointing at, but he was too shy to admit that. -         “I have to tell miss Rose about you,” Noah was thinking out loud. -         - “Oh no! you don´t want to that!” Noah stared at him in amazement: - “Why not?” The boy turned serious now, and a little silver too. - “I don´t know. That´s just how it works.” He answered in an earnest tone. Noah didn´t understand this and he was trying to think hard on his next question. Actually, he was a little scared that his mom might walk in the room and notice his visitor. - “I´m not supposed to talk to strangers.” Noah said and before he could say anything else the boy who had turned blue again jumped in and said: - “Well, that´s the best way to never make a friend! Besides- I don´t think I don´t qualify as a stranger anymore.” Noah felt his head getting heavy and started to yawn. His blue friend came a little closer and blew some blue dust in his face….  Noah travelled off to dreamland. The next morning when his mom woke him up, Noah didn´t know where he was at first. He quickly looked around the room and was sure that his mom would ask him about all the blue sprinkles on the carpet. But he could see nothing. He jumped out of the bed and ran to the window. On the windowsill from the outside, he saw some blue glitters. So, he was real after all, he thought. He decided not to say anything to his mom just yet or Miss rose. Maybe he would tell his grandma next time she came to visit. When it was time to go to bed, Noah felt strangely excited. His mom noticed it too, but he gave her a big hug before she could ask anything. He pretended to yawn and to be half asleep already.  She tucked him in and gave him a kiss. He waited till the lights were out and his mom had closed the door; jumped out of bed and to the window. He was hoping his little blue friend would come back. He went to sit by the window and looked at the stars. He did his best to concentrate as hard as he could. He saw nothing and was getting drowsy. He was beginning to think, that maybe he had imagined it after all. He sighed and stood up and sat on his bed a little. Just when he wanted to go back under the covers, a bright blue light came through the window. He jumped out of bed and ran to open the window. - “I´m so happy you´re back! I was waiting for you!” His little friend giggled and shook off a lot of blue sprinkles. They both laughed. Suddenly Noah thought about something serious: -         “I´m not supposed to play with other children:” he said, “because they might make me ill”. The boy didn´t seem surprised. - “Don´t worry about that; I´m not here to make you sick!” Noah looked at him with big eyes. - “I´m here because you need a friend: one day you will heal and then you can go make friends outside!” Noah turned sad: - “I´m never going to get better.” - “What an odd thing to say!” his blue friend jumped in front of him and turned a little grey again. Noah thought that must mean he´s getting very serious  again. - “Of course, you are going to get better! You can never stop believing that you hear me?” Noah nodded his head. - “What´s your name?” he asked. His friend whistled a tune and giggled: - “I don´t think humans can pronounce my name! You can call me whatever you want!” Noah gave it a serious thought and said: -         “I will call you friend than”. That seemed like a very good idea to both of them. As Noah grew older, he was sometimes very sick; and Friend would come visit him at night to comfort him. He was right, in time Noah did get better. He eventually went to school and worked hard to become a doctor. He never told anybody about Friend. Well; he never told grown ups that is. When he did his rounds in the hospital and he saw one of his little patients being scared and lonely, he would whisper a secret in their ear and when he came back in the morning to see   a smile on the child´s face; he knew Friend had visited.   When he went to look at the windowsill on the outside of the hospital ward, he would always notice a few blue glitters….

ewdvu6

The Adventures Of Jack Frost And Creepy Crawley

  THE ADVENTURES OF JACK FROST AND CREEPY CRAWLEY.   Jack Frost liked dressing up in red plaid trousers, with a white shirt and red bow tie. One day while walking in the meadow, He had investigated the hedgerow, and found Creepy Crawley a brown beetle, trapped inside a jam jar. He released Crawley from  the jam- jar. Jack and Crawley then become best friends.   They looked forward to plenty of adventures together, with their friend Digby a black and white collie dog, who would often accompany them on their adventures. Crawley would visit Jack Frost by crawling up the drain pipe; He would then tap on the bathroom window to let Jack know that he was there. Jacks’ wife Belinda often wondered who Jack was talking to. She had turned a blind eye, when Jack “said that he was going out to see a friend.” She felt pleased that Jack had found new interests, since retiring from the railway as a signal man. It was better than have him sitting in a chair all day looking gloomy. With her having to work around him.   Today Jack and Crawley were going to the fair. The pair laughed and giggled at each other as they approached the fair ground. Digby dog walked besides, them sniffing at the daisies that grew in the meadow. They had a go on the Roundabout, and visited the coconut stall. Crawley sat on Jacks shoulder, telling him how to aim the balls at the row of coconuts displayed.  The coconut man wonted a break from his stall. Jack and Crawley offered to look after the stall for him while he went for his lunch.  No one seemed to be winning any coconuts, so Jack and Crawley decided to give away the coconuts to the people   passing by. When the coconut man returned from his lunch, he was surprised to see that the pair had gone, and so had all the coconuts from the stall. He looked at Digby who smiled and walked off, wagging his tail.   Jack said to Crawley “what would I do without you, Crawley nodded in agreement “Oh, what a wonderful time we had. I wonder if the coconut man found all his coconuts.”  “The children where so pleased that they didn’t have to spend their pocket money, to win a coconut.” Jack laughed.  “Let’s go to the Zoo” said Crawley so they went to the Zoo. They made funny faces monkeys performing their tricks, with a banana. Digby dog said, he was going home for his supper.  Jack and Crawley decided to visit the meadow to look at the stars. “The stars have names” said Jack, “nonsense” said Crawley, “they are just pretty stars it is the planets have names like Jupiter and Saturn.” Jack nodded in agreement. Crawley was so intelligent for a little beetle. They heard a noise, coming from the direction of the  bushes, could it be an owl, or a ghost?  The pair ran towards the bushes throwing their arms in the air, and shouting. Jack threw  his shoe into the bushes, to see if there was anyone there. The shoe hit a policeman, who come from the bushes blowing his whistle at the pair to stop. The coconut man had told the policeman, all about Jack and Crawley giving away his coconuts. What could they do? The policeman gave chase, slipping upon a toadstool. Jack and Crawley saw a bus approaching in the lane, they managed to catch the bus. The policeman lay on the ground, waving his fist in the air. “That was a lucky escape,” said Jack.   Crawley winked his eye at Jack, “Let s go Camping tomorrow,” he said. “We must buy some pots and pans from the market,” said Jack. They arranged to meet the next day. Has Jacks key turned in the lock, Belinda asked Jack, where he had been all day. Jack kissed her on the cheek he did not want to worry her, about his adventures with Crawley. So, he convinced her that he had been in the meadow with  Digby, and visited the fun fair. .  While he had been away Belinda had knitted Jack a bright red jumper to match his plaid trousers.  What a good wife she had been. He would wear the jumper tomorrow for his adventure with Crawley.  Crawley visited, Jack the next day by on the bathroom window. Belinda asked, “Jack if it was raining outside.”  Jack smiled and kissed her on the cheek saying” what a wonderful wife she was. ”He then headed towards the market place with Crawley. They found Fred the pot man surrounded by pots and pans. “What about a large cooking pot” said Crawley, perching on Jacks shoulder, Jack paid Fred for the cooking pot. “Saying Goodbye” to Fred, the pair headed towards the hills.  What about a tent said Crawley, Jack commented, “What a nice day ”he had matches, potatoes, steak, and gravy colouring in his bag. They would use the wood from the trees, to make a nice fire, and use the water from the stream in the cooking pot. He sang and whistled as the food cooked, until they heard foot steps approaching.  It was the policeman, who they had met in the meadow. He blew his whistle. He was going to catch Jack and Crawley this time. As he gave chase, he knocked over the cooking pot full of hot meat and potatoes, burning his feet. While the policeman groaned, Jack and Crawley escaped over the hills. Crawley remarked, “We must be more careful” Jack said I agree, I must remember to buy more steak and potatoes.”    As they passed the butchers shop, Crawley settled on the butchers’ shoulder as the butcher turned to knock Crawley from his shoulder, Jack took some sausages from a hook hanging in the shop window. They whistled. As they made their way home, with Jack carrying the sausages, thinking about the fry up he would do for supper with nice juicy tomatoes and fried bread. The aroma with spices would be just great? Belinda his dear wife would have her own special chef. A twinkle came to Jacks eyes.

jo030x

Turtle Soup

There once was a turtle whose name was Marcel Monroe. He had lived a modest life, all while carrying his house on his back. One morning, a boy discovered his shell and peeked inside. Marcel invited him in for a cup of hot cocoa. “Will you tell me a story, Marcel?” asked the boy. “Once,” he began, “I was in a race.” “But I thought turtles were slow.” Marcel puffed thoughtfully on his pipe, before he replied. “If you measure a race by the time it takes to get from one point to another then yes – indeed – we are slow.” The boy’s brow furrowed in confusion. “I shall tell you a story, boy,” said Marcel with a smile, and the boy settled in, cradling the cup with his hands. - Marcel lived in a land of salt and rock, for a time. One morning, he stumbled upon a man and two horses. He was waving his arms, and stamping his feet, and shouting “You must! You must!” But the silver horse – so grey as to blend into the rock, invisible if not for the whites of her eyes peeled back in fear – was shaking her head and backing away. “What is wrong?” Marcel asked the horse. “She won’t race!” shouted the man. “But she must, or I shall lose my home!” Marcel nodded patiently at the man but waited for the horse to answer him. “I’ve hurt my foot on the rock and the salt has seeped in,” the horse said. “I cannot race, or I shall break my leg and die.” “You must! You must race!” the man yelled. He kicked out at the horse in anger, but Marcel stepped in the way and the man’s toe caught his shell. He fell to the ground with a howl, cradling his foot. “I will help you,” Marcel said to the man. “Let this horse go, and I will race for you.” The man began to cry and beat his fists against the rock. “Do not fear. If I lose, you may share my home with me.” The man sniffed, and nodded, and rose shamefully to his feet. “So be it.” A red stallion was pawing impatiently at the ground, his nostrils flared as if he might breathe fire. “You must race this stallion, and win,” the man said. Marcel nodded, and the man began to count out loud. “Three, two, one, GO!” The stallion took off, a plume of smoke and dust in his wake. When the air cleared, Marcel had barely begun down the path after him, and the man dropped to his knees and wept. But Marcel ignored him and plodded on. Fifty paces, then one hundred, then one thousand… At dawn, Marcel finally approached the finish line where the stallion was waiting, the man trailing behind him in despair. “Why did you bother?” lamented the man. “It was lost before it even began.” Marcel looked at the man, and then at the stallion, and said “I see no loss.” “I crossed the finish line hours and hours ago,” the stallion huffed. “I crossed the finish line, too,” Marcel said. “But I also spared the mare's life, helped a man, and gave you the opportunity to do what you were born to do.” The stallion smiled and chuckled to himself. “You’re a clever old turtle, but I’m afraid I must still take my winnings.” “Then I have also gained the pleasure of a new companion and friend,” Marcel said as he smiled at the man. “I shall make you soup, and hot tea, so you may rest a while and settle into your new home with me.” The stallion frowned, for soup and hot tea sounded nice after such a long night of waiting. “I wonder if you might be willing to find our friend, the grey mare, and invite her as well? I have plenty of soup to share. You are all most welcome.” The stallion agreed, pleased to have been invited, and took off in search of the mare. Hours later, Marcel and the man had grown tired of waiting for the stallion to return and had filled their bellies with soup and tea before falling asleep. They woke to a knock on the door, afternoon sunlight streaming through the windows, and when Marcel opened the door it was a bird. “I have a very important message, but I am tired and have flown all morning,” said the bird. “Please sit, let me help,” offered the man, who brought the bird a bowl of soup while Marcel watched. The weary bird rested his wings, accepting the bowl from the man with deep gratitude. When the bird was done, he turned to the man and said “The stallion will not be returning. Your house is yours.” “But why?” the man gasped. The bird stretched its wings. “Upon fetching the grey mare, the stallion found himself contemplating his nature. He said to tell you that while he was born to win, he was not born to take.” “But where will he live?” asked the man. “The grey mare has offered for him to stay in her home,” said the bird with a knowing smile. “I do believe that arrangement shall work out well for all.” The man jumped up and down, clicking his heels together and whooping with joy. “Well then,” said Marcel, “I must be on my way.” The man thanked him with tears in his eyes, dropped to his knees, and with one hand on his heart pledged his home to be free and open to anyone in need of shelter, care, or good soup. “Just not turtle soup,” Marcel said with a wink. The sounds of the man’s laughter and the bird’s chirpy chuckle rang all around him. - Marcel looked at the boy with a smile on his lips. “There are many ways in which we may measure a race. Judge not by who arrives when, but by the change they influence along the way.” “But the world doesn’t see it that way,” the boy cried. “There must always be a winner and a loser.” “You still think of a race as movement from here to there. But there is only One race, and it cannot be measured in distance or time.” The boy sat quietly, contemplating the nature of turtles and men, as he finished his cocoa in silence. When he was done, he looked at Marcel and smiled. “Turtles aren’t slow at all, are they?” the boy whispered. “No,” Marcel whispered back, “we’re not.”

lh1r4v

The writter

"Are you coming tonight?", She asked this question every time she would sit down to write! Waiting for the knock on her head, signaling the gushing, pouring river of thoughts her visitor would bring her. She knew most people had writers block from time to time; but lately her block was as wide and long as the great wall of China! She even researched articles on the "Great Wall" just to get writing ideas. She tried walking around the block, going to the gym, starting in the middle of her thoughts; Nothing, it went nowhere in her head. She was getting impatient wanting eagerly to climb to the top of that dead block and start writing. Her hand went up and slapped her forehead, her head snapped back, wake it up! Nothing! Ouch! Sometimes it hurts to write. It's not like she hadn't written before. Her Word Document was Full of her writings, most of them were therapeutic ramblings about her life and what she experienced in her 69 years. She sighed, "had it really been that long"? Three marriages, although she only counted 2 of them. The fist was actually when she was only 16, that counts as a "Learning Permit". The only perfect thing to come out of that marriage was her magnificent daughter, Lisa. Lisa's dad had a habit of going out for a loaf of bread and coming back 3 days later. He was a wonderer, and artist and a very well know "Pin stripper" of cars around the country. He was an wonderful father to Lisa, but had no idea what the definition of "How To Be A Husband", meant. When he was "Asked" to leave their home he went gladly contributing nothing, zero, nadda for years. The lady remembered when she forfeited the monetary help. Lisa's dad had come to pick her up for the weekend. The lady had had it! Left without a car, a broken washer and dryer and limited funds through her meager job's she was finally going to make a stand; with a defiant hand on her hip, the other one holding her precious daughter she locked eyes with her ex husband and said, "Unless I get some help from you, you will NEVER see Lisa again"! She started to turn and walk away but stopped abruptly, their was a silent tear rolling down Lisa's cheek. The lady let out a sigh, turned back around and placed her daughter into he fathers arm. She never mentioned it again. This made her more determined to do it alone, on her terms, she would become a warrior! There were writings and poems on her computer of her early life in New Port Beach CA, everything from raising her daughter alone to a horrific event of "Date" rap. She came from a family of 10 children, "A Good Catholic" family of course but just a dysfunctional as the next family with that many mouths to feed and a father that wasn't physical able to work. That is probably why the marriage at 16; the "Great Escape", that went well. She stopped staring at her blank computer and patted herself on the back. Yes, she had made it through a bumpy, harrowing, wonderful "Mad hatters Tea Party" of her life. Her second marriage lasted almost 20 years until the bottom of her husbands alcohol bottle kept magically refilling it self. She left him this poem as she walked out the door. His Mistress name is Wine He says he loves her; she makes him feel so fine But she’s made our life a wreck Every night I sit here and watch him hug her neck! It used to be me he would run home to greet Now it’s her, I can’t compete I watch him nightly sitting there She’s on his lips; she’s on his chair He doesn’t see me anywhere He lies to me Says just the one I keep counting two three four This time he can watch me as I head out the door His Mistress name is Wine And I won’t compete anymore They can end up together, again on the floor! Maybe this time he’ll follow life’s cord And end up with Betty Ford! He wasn't a "Bad" man, in fact he was the savior she needed at that time in her life. He took Lisa in as his own daughter. For years they had the perfect marriage; envied by all their friends and family! She had sat in her chair, in her office for what seemed like an hour. The lady glanced at the blank page on her computer. Well, it really wasn't blank; at the top of the page there it was in black ink. She had written Assignment one. "Not bad for an hour", she thought, but glanced at her clock; it had been one and a half hours. Sure, she had gotten up once or twice for important things like a glass of water, a bowel of peanuts, and a cigarette on the patio. She knew she wanted to come up with a great first sentence that would draw the reader in. The lady began to type.  "She would if she could, but she can't, so she won't"! Re-reading that line it suddenly flew out of her head and smashed against her office door, breaking like a Goose egg spilling letters of the alphabet across floor. They began rolling on the tile until they landed against the Lady's dark mahogany antique hutch in her foyer. All at once she was on her knees, on the floor, trying desperately to put them back into her head. Once they were back in place, she sat, again in her chair and starred at what she had written. She quickly deleted it and looked back at the page. Assignment one...Well that was start at least. Maybe should she write about NOT writing, "That was a thought", she liked it and the words began to flow. Yes, she COULD do this. She could write. Her fingers were tapping furiously on the keyboards until her assignment was finished. A smile of complete and utter satisfaction was plastered all over the lady's face. Yes, you did come tonight, hopefully I'll see you tomorrow!

6blcib

Freddy the Frog

Freddy the Frog was very sick. He perched on the rail of the Corniche and looked out at the dark water. Frogs are supposed to like water, but seeing that much of it always confused Freddy. He always felt it looked threatening, like a monster waiting to rise up and eat him. He would stare at it for hours, waiting for it to attack him. There were some panthers walking behind him. And some monkeys, and buffalo too, going down the pathway of the Corniche. Sometimes, when he was on a ledge like this, animals would push him from behind and into the scary water. He'd fall in, in a total panic, and then hop his way back out. There was nothing he could do about it, because the animals were much bigger than him. And he's just a frog. But he always found himself coming back. Maybe a part of him liked getting pushed in. But no one pushed him in tonight. Maybe out here in Casablanca the animals are nicer. After a while of staring at the water, he began to vomit. He really was very sick. It was probably because he ate too many flies on the plane. He knew there was something wrong with them. Flies are supposed to taste like cardboard, with a little salt. But these flies tasted sweet. Flies aren't supposed to taste sweet. He should have stopped eating them, but he had about a dozen. And he hadn't even been hungry. Maybe, he wanted to see what would happen to him. He hopped off the rail of the Corniche and looked at the big steel blocks. There were a lot of them these days. They each had a thousand eyes. He wondered why they needed so many eyes. They were powerful, because they ate the humans with their tiny mouths. They ate the humans without even moving. It was if the humans wanted to get eaten by them; they just walked right in. It was very late at night. But many of the animals were still out. He was only out because in his hometown it was 2pm in the afternoon. It was his first day in Casablanca. He was a little scared and very sick. So far, he was enjoying himself. He wanted to go to the desert. He knew the Sahara desert was somewhere around here. He wanted to hop in the sand. He knew a lot about sand. Well, maybe he didn't know a lot about sand, but he thought about it a lot. When he was four months old, he once played with his brother in the park. They were pretending they were knights battling a dragon to save a princess. Once they saved the princess she would kiss them and they'd become human. Except while they were fighting the dragon a human boy came up to them with a big bucket, a bucket filled with sand, and he dumped it on Freddy's brother. His brother was completely smothered. Freddy didn't hear or see anything from his brother. He went to help him, and the boy kicked Freddy. He kicked him hard, and he went flying across the park. Freddy thought maybe he should go back, but he was scared and hopped away as fast as he could. He never saw his brother again. So he knew a bit about sand. He wanted to go to the desert to hop across the sand. He wanted to go all the way across, to the other side, and whatever was beyond there. He didn't know what was on the other side, but that was okay. In a way, not knowing the final destination made it more exciting. His brother might be there, on the other side. He got excited and started hopping faster. But then he started throwing up again. Those flies really were awful. A male leopard stopped by to ask him if he was okay. He looked up, and saw a female leopard next to the male. In the dark night, the female looked nice. Probably, he is only asking whether I am okay because he wants to impress this female. He wants to show the female how kind he is. So Freddy threw out his tongue and licked the leopard in the nose, then again in the eye, then again in the mouth. The leopard recoiled. He raised his paw - and then stopped. He put it down and kept walking with his female. Hopefully she figures it out, thought Freddy. Freddy the Frog thought he should get back to his bed. He was sleeping under the palm-bed of a nice Giraffe couple. He always liked Giraffes, they let him climb on their necks. Maybe, they just couldn't feel that he was there. He started hopping back, and thought about Fanny. Fanny the Frog. She was a female, but she could jump higher than most of the males. She had been his brother's girlfriend. But secretly, he loved her. He loved her because one time it was raining and he saw her staring at a dead tree for a very long time. He watched her watch the tree, in the rain, and wondered what was in her mind. He knew that she knew he loved him - the females always know when a male loves them - and after his brother disappeared he hoped he could be with her. But one day not long after his brother was gone he saw her climbing a telephone pole with Michael the Frog. Michael had always been a doofus, so Freddy was confused. There were many things in the world that confused Freddy. An elephant passed Freddy. Elephants always fascinated him. One time he climbed inside one of them, through the big nose. He climbed up it as far as he could, and the elephant started stamping and roaring, and swinging its long nose like a maniac. It tried to blow him out, but Freddy kept climbing in further. He wanted to see what was at the other side. Eventually the elephant whipped him out - he'd only made it about half way - and he landed on the ground in front of the elephant. He felt something inside his body had broken. The elephant looked at him for a moment. It slowly raised its trunk as if to smack him with it - but then stopped and just held the trunk high. The trunk was shaking, and Freddy realized the elephant was afraid he might somehow get back in there. It fascinated him that something as big as an elephant could be afraid of him, especially since he was laying broken on the ground and couldn't even move. Then the elephant galloped away. Freddy was so covered in mucus he could barely breathe. It took him a week to fully recover. But he was glad he did it. Freddy stopped hopping for a moment and looked straight up at the sky. It was a cool night, and the wind was blowing, but the sky did not move. Freddy thought that was interesting - the sky never moved. It looked a lot like the big scary water. Except it was bigger. And emptier. He really stared at it. He looked at the shiny dots. What were those things? He started hopping straight up. As high as he could. But he didn't seem to get any closer. But he kept trying. And he thought, maybe if he hopped hard enough, it would just suck him in. Suck him in and swallow him in to its world. A new world. A world he might be able to understand.

ufztnx

A Sinking Foundation

I can’t sleep. I’ve tried everything to keep these three letters from sinking in. From being my reality. I adjusted the thermostat. Up two degrees. Down three. I disturbed the silence until I ended up with sonic dissonance. The whirring of a boxed fan accompanied by the strings of classical music. Outside my window, the inky sky bleeds into the faintest of blues. I curl into the fetal position. I am a babe in womb, a caterpillar in cocoon . The rhythmic words lull me into semiconsciousness. A shiver runs down my spine and my body becomes unfurled. I’m being haunted. Not by ghosts, nor by words of a childhood bully, not even by anxieties of the impending work week, rather by the tiniest of enemies that has me by the neck. I tiptoe to the drawer and slip on a night shirt sans itchy tag.  Let’s try this again. I stretch out on my back with arms crossed at my chest like Egyptian royalty. The moments tick by brutally…eternally. The room is a catacomb, its air thick and arid. Opening one eye, I spot the shadowy silhouettes of my television and cell phone, treasures just out of reach. Flipping onto my stomach, I become a surfer paddling out to sea. Azure bliss. Azure bliss . Surely something is amiss. Suddenly, I remember I can’t swim. My body goes rigid and I fall off my board. Spewing water from my lungs, my coughing fills the room. I can’t swim. These three words, having always been the reality of so many people like me, replay on a constant reel.  Conceding that it's uncouth to critique social injustice at such an hour, I turn my attention to more urgent matters. I flail my arms and float parallel to the shore. My breathing is ragged. Finally, I’m able to pull myself to solid ground. Whether it be the stiff mattress beneath my body, or the pathway for meandering thoughts, I cannot deny the necessity of a firm foundation. We can attribute the lack of foundation for the shortcomings of counted sheep. Our sheep could just as easily be clearing a hurdle in a pasture as they could be bouncing in the sky in vain, searching for a singular cloud, as fluffy and perfect as their own coat.   I’ll fortify my foundation now and reap the rewards later. The darkness in my bedroom dissipates, giving birth to a glacial forest. White masses float towards their divine purpose, to explore new territories and save mankind from themselves. My mind’s eye steps back, in awe of my creation. There’s something innately appealing about ice. It is the embodiment of danger and beauty. When dining at fine establishments, I needn’t be reminded to keep my hand off the table. However, that hand may need to be thwarted from embarking on an ice fishing excursion. When the last few cubes clink away in the glass, there’s a chance of getting lucky and a chance of getting smacked in the face. Blame it on anemia, but I like those odds. Did I take my iron pill today, or rather yesterday? Note to the wise: Be sure to craft a foundation that does not induce salivation. I turn over my dampened pillow to the cool side. If only it were always so easy to summon a fresh start. We wish for such a thing in our lives without ever truly understanding the scope of it. If we were architects moments ago, laying a foundation, surely we can now assume the role of archaeologists, unearthing the bare bones of an age-old aspiration. Consider how quickly, if granted a do over, one would be boxed in by genetics. Different dimensions, but a box all the same. From the first spoken word, one’s constricted vocal cords would undermine the potential to become a great singer. One’s timidity would cause shrinking where others stood taller. One’s natural rigidity would exile them from the bendy world of gymnasts and ballerinas. Poor eyesight would put a person at the mercy of peers or the fashion of the times, for inevitably, wearing glasses warrants sophistication or teasing in any generation. Take heart! We’ve only scratched the surface of the nature of the beast.     I dig the heels of my hands into the bed and prop myself up. I turn on the bedside lamp and reach for my chapter book. My muscles feel taut and shaky. Failing at any task for hours on end causes strain. Allowing my eyes to adjust to the light, I peel back the spine, gripping a stack of pages in my left hand. The pages are weightless in my right hand. Any day now. Any day . I rest a palm on my belly. I’m struck by the image of a pregnant woman. The length of her gestation period is marked by the amount of time it takes her to read a single book. Her imagination and perspiration intertwine at the climax of the story, sparking the very essence of life. The vitality of her baby is dependent upon the love she pours into the story’s pages.  I’m struck by the image of an old man in a recliner with his finger on the final page of his favorite novel. He breathes his last breath and on his face, a look of relief. Finishing a book is akin to parting ways with the dearest of friends. I get out of bed and drop to my knees. Folding both hands, I bow my heavy head. If we have been both architects and archaeologists, builders and excavators, it comes a time when we must attempt to be archangels. I can be good. I can be good. How luxurious it is to simply be good. Surely, heaven makes for the firmest of foundations. Outside my window, the singsong of a bird reaches my ears. I can’t help but wonder if his song comes from the early spoils or if he has finally freed himself from the hollow of the tree, and is humbly singing his praises to the rays in the horizon.  

bh2c9f

Untitled Documents

There was an episode of one of the later seasons of the Gilmore Girls where the younger of the two Gilmore Girls goes and meets with her old boyfriend who had, after a childhood of neglect, turned his life around and become something of himself. In this meeting she says to him (who has now become a writer), “You know I like your writing because it doesn’t remind me of anyone. It’s just you.” I ponder this now, as the sleet pounds down on my roof, as the trees droop under the ponderous weight of the water, as the grayness like a corporeal fog seeps in through my window and dashes the light from every corner. Or maybe I’m going colorblind. The eyes fail to see so much. This place is a hell. My chair is too soft, too forgiving. The light waves of music from another room remind me too much of a home. I can feel the syrupy tongue of sleep lapping at my eyelids. It’s like the keyboard beneath my fingers sinks down, down, down into an abyss. I shiver: for other reasons I do things to keep this body alive and functioning. I do this to keep the soul revolving around me. It’s a purpose: that most cruel and immaterial of things that lacks the common courtesy to stay pinned down on one thing. I married a wife; I got a house; I got a job. These things help, of course, but as for the real thing…? I am reminded of that quote; it bothers me. My wife watches the show and I watch it with her. She tumbles through it all not unlike me; different paths to a same destination. It’s hard to tell anymore. I was a child who Knew What To Do. I am now a child who doesn’t. These things I put out: now they sink into a ever-expanding quagmire of Untitled Documents and two sentence fragments of ideas that never quite make it to being another line in my runestone. The computer’s fan stops now, as I’ve since moved my hands (they feel so much like weightless gloves now) behind my head. The screen goes black; I see a face in the darkness. For a moment I ponder if I could just stream out the loose morass in my head and call it a day (because do things ever really happen anyways?) and then I see it: my reflection no longer is on the screen. Touch the cold face; it’s still there. But the walls around me are definitely paler; tighter, maybe. If I stand, will they snatch me like a bear trap? I stand uncomfortably and walk out of the room. The music I heard from earlier is quieter now, down a hallway that is always one door away from me even as I walk towards it. I know my wife is in the other room, right? She’s here. She tells me when she leaves; but now the house is empty and cold and darkening. The music is still there though. Always still there, always one door away. I don’t run though. No matter how more terrified I get by the second, no matter how many breaths lay caught in my throat to never fly free past my lips to see the sky and earth, I never run. It may be due to my insanity, but to call me insane would imply everyone else isn’t. I wouldn’t be so sure. The house feels upside-down. I can’t explain it. Everything looks right side up, but I feel like it is upside-down. There is a phenomenon in flying when you fly in the weather where you feel as if you are leaning more and more in one direction. Your sinuses and inner ear lie to you. They stutter and tell you things that worry you to right yourself again. The plane tips ever so slightly--imperceptibly--to right or left as you spiral down, down, down and then it all--but in any event the house feels crooked. I have to way to level it, though. I walk slower, despite feeling far more afraid. My mom once said “This sounds like Hemingway!” when she read something I forced out--like vomit. Interesting implication, I’m sure. This needs little explanation. Twofold horror wrapped around me from then on: do I end it, gorged in misery, alone, after doing so, so very much with myself? And not only that, do I do it with out an original bone in my body? Feel the uneasiness now: it smells like heat. I hate being hot. The cold you can escape from. There are always more blankets, more things to turn on, more wood to burn. There is no way to peel the skin from your body. The endless friction, the constant entropy: there is no way to break even. It gets only hotter from here because of how the Great One created the universe: a ticking clock that will only ever be wound up once. I hear the clock now! At least I think I do. It’s hard. I am walking so slowly now it’s almost as if I’m not moving at all. This is the curse of the truly lost. In a video game called Grim Fandango you find a soul of the underworld trying to find his way using the sun, his method naturally being to keep the sun always on his right. Do the lost keep moving or do they remain stock still? I never quite could tell. There’s a crack in my sole. Every time I take a step my shoe sticks to the floor and I can feel a flap of the rubber peel off. I would go and get new shoes but that is a little bit of a waste because I have so many shoes, all well walked, all more or less unusable now. I believe my life is a an ever-growing pile of used shoes and miles walked; a number that goes up for an unspecified amount of time. The number now appears above me in a flash of golden light. I am startled to realize the ground has fallen from beneath my feet and I’m walking on nothing but air. The gravity that held me down now sends me careening into the sky; a ghastly, empty sky. This day is finished and tomorrow is now today and in a blink tomorrow is yesterday and today is the day after. A clock spins lazily on the wall as I pass by, telling the correct time perhaps even though each revolution feels like a second. I smell a purple breeze; I pray for a five o’clock and when I see four, I shrug icicle shoulders and pour myself a signature: booze from a plastic bottle and one of the nine hundred variations of cranberry juice. It tastes loud and brassy. I hear the rattling in between my ears, try to make sense of it and give up. There is a square of light in my pocket; it rolls like a ball down a hill in my hand. So many, many, many, many thoughts in fractions, infinitesimals of a second. Billions of miles go by under my coarse, cranberry-stained thumb. But good to see: the thing drifts away (lost in a corner somewhere, this room of endless corners for things to get lost in). Turning the cup over my lips, it is empty and at once filled once more. I am angry at something and in an instant I forget who I even consider my friends. Am I still married…? This is all a little much. I thought I was walking through my house but now I’m sitting again back in the room even though I was walking forward the whole time. I think it’s time to go to bed so I don’t for quite a while then do it out of obligation and it’s okay. I forget to kiss my starry-haired wife good night. To summarize: in a cold, gray room I get more or less nothing done.

t7zkb9

The Hacker, Pixel, and Glitch

Niko woke up to the sound of a gunshot. Luckily for Niko his life did not end with that sound, as would be expected. “Sugar snaps!” That was another thing you would probably need to know about Niko (the first being he was not already dead), he had an obsession with food that blended into his language, that and he was, to put it plainly, pretty weird. Niko tore through his living room where he had fallen asleep doing history homework, his books and papers flying everywhere, and raced to his bedroom. The gunshot sound had been loud (as gunshots generally are). Too loud. Hopefully it had not woken mother. Once Niko reached his room he stopped at the door, only momentarily, so that he could pull on the small yellow string barely visible at the top of the door. It was his secret method of security–a precautionary measure to stop his little sister, Bessy, from wandering in his room. And for his mother so that she didn’t come in and find that his school projects were… Not for school Not entirely healthy for a 14-year-old boy Once the yellow string was pulled and Niko entered the room, he saw immediately that something was wrong. To the average person it might have appeared that everything was well and good, but Niko knew his room very well and specifically, his computer. “We appear to be in a bit of a pickle, Pixel,” Niko murmured to his computer. Though at the moment she could not hear him. Niko walked forward quickly, and the wrong-ness was suddenly more obvious. On his screen a flashing yellow sign (that he had coded himself to warn him when someone had gotten past his first firewall) that was beeping more and more insistently. “Finally, you’re here. Slugs move faster than you,” Pixel snipped. She wasn’t generally snappish but the thoughts of people hacking into her inner workings always made her anxious. The reason behind the gunshot was that Niko had meticulously programmed (a habit of his) a preemptive warning system. In the event he dozed off or found himself away from his computer during the initial firewall breach, Niko had embedded a distinctive sound—a sound that would unmistakably signal him to rush to his cherished Pixel. He figured nothing would do better than a gunshot. After all, who could possibly ignore such an urgent and attention-grabbing signal? Now Niko was having second thoughts on the volume of his selected sound byte. “NIKOLAS SMITH! WHAT IN GLORIES NAME ARE YOU DOING AT THIS HOUR!” Niko winced. Mother was awake. He’d have to deal with mother and then he could get to his major issue. Fortunately for Niko he could hide evidence of his hacking quickly. If the need came, Niko could shove his computer into the closet. Which probably didn’t seem like all that great of a system but there was a reason it worked. Niko’s closet had been transformed into a clandestine hacking lab, complete with posters, graphs, paper, wires, and a cleverly designed table that swung back when shoved. Pixel, his prized possession, would find herself unceremoniously tucked away in the closet. Next, Niko would secure the closet door, locking it tightly, and obscure it further by covering it with a large blackboard adorned with intricate white chalk equations. Hopefully it wouldn’t come to that. “Uh, what mom!” Mother called back. “Niko! What in the glorious heavens above have you been doing?” Pixel pinged. She’d probably sorted through his Excuses-For-Mother file and found the most plausible one. Niko quickly looked at the excuse Pixel had picked and acted on it. “Oh, sorry Mom! It's this new video game, I guess I forgot to turn it off before I went to bed. I’ll turn it off right away!” He silently prayed mother would fall for it. “Alright and turn your volume down! You’ll wreck your hearing!” “Okay!” Niko could hear footsteps and knew mother was getting back in bed. “You’re welcome,” Pixel muttered. Niko ignored her. Now that that little errand was done, he could get to the real problem. Pixel, or more accurately, what Pixel was warning him of. Niko quickly hit the yellow sign on Pixel’s screen and followed the link to a program (of his creation) that monitored his many firewalls and such. To fit his preference, he had made it video game themed. He called it DragonWall, because firewall (get it?) and from DragonWall Niko could hurl his defense protocols at hackers.  DragonWall showed a black race car (symbolizing the hacker) driving away from a dragon (his firewalls). Niko watched as the black car simply labeled “N/A” raced through his blocks as if they were mere vapor. In fact, the little game was having problems computing and kept glitching the character ahead, as if they were teleporting. “Alright, Glitch,” Niko said. Naming the hacker on a whim. “What are you up to?” Niko followed Glitch through its progress. It was as if Glitch already had access to his firewalls and could just breeze right through them. Niko was having a security update after this. After a little more watching he sent one of his many tricks to deceive Glitch. On Glitch’s screen a small ad would open up advertising a video game. If Glitch clicked “yes”, which probably wouldn’t happen, but if they did then Glitch would be thrown into a game of Niko’s making. The longer Glitch stayed in the more info the game gained. The game was really quite fun too. It was Mario Kart and Packman mixed together, so maybe Glitch would want to stay. Oh, and it was impossible to uninstall. Pixel made sure of that. If Glitch clicked “no” the game would just be stealthily installed and would activate on Niko’s command. If Glitch clicked the “X” at the top–just kidding. Niko hadn’t added that option. He called this game a “CyberGame”. Except…none of those things happened. Which was strange. Niko had worked on that for months and it always worked. Pixel’s chipper voice emitted from the speaker. “My apologies,” she giggled. “It appears ‘Game o’ Everlasting Hacker Pain’ is not available at the moment. Would you like me to try an alternative game such as ‘Quantum Locks’, ‘Eternal Gamenation’, or my personal fave, ‘Gotcha Keyboard’?” “No, Pixel. If Glitch blocked one game, they probably blocked them all…we need to think outside the box…” “Would you like me to make your tabs appear circular instead?” Niko sighed. “No, Pixel.” But he was not dismayed for long. Niko started typing his plan into the DragonWall. Soon, Niko injected a little idea he’d had while at the corn maze last october. He called it “Data Maze”. The basic idea was that it created a loop so that every time Glitch tried to exit, they would be sent to some random site on the internet. And since there are almost an infinite number of sites on the internet Glitch would be stuck for quite some time until they hacked their way out. Creating a practically endless maze that should give Niko some time to boot Glitch from his server. …Or maybe Glitch would immediately (and rather implausibly) come through the maze’s exit and continue on their way. Which is what happened. Niko’s eyebrows raised. This was getting interesting. “Well, that was unexpected,” Pixel said. She sounded a little more annoyed now. She didn’t like it when her things didn’t work. “Decoy Network,” she asked. “You read my mind.” The Decoy Network would look like it was the entrance to Niko’s main system and if Glitch fell for it (which they probably would as it was incredibly realistic and Niko himself had fallen for it once by accident) then he would have them stuck in a waiting room, unable to do anything but wait while he hacked into their inner workings. “YES,” Pixel shrieked. Quietly, as to not wake mother. “Glitch is in the network, I assume?” “We got’er! That’ll teach Glitch not to mess with this circuit board all right! Boo-yeah!” Niko smiled. Pixel was intense when she won. And then he frowned. “Uh…Pixel?” “Yes, Niko,” Pixel said a little impatiently at being interrupted mid-celebration. “Why is there no one in the waiting room? Glitch is in the Decoy Network, right?” “Huh,” was all Pixel said. A tab from Glitch opened on Niko’s screen read: nice try stoopid-hed. “Ugh. Glitch spelled ‘Stupid-Head’ wrong,” Pixel said petulantly. And the next thing Niko knew he was booted out of the Decoy Network and Glitch was back in DragonWall racing along. “Niko,” Pixel cried. “Glitch is nearing the final Firewall!” “That son of a biscuit!” He took a deep breath. He had several other protocols, HoneyTrap, MirrorProgram, OhNOYouDidnt, and more but he knew which one he needed to do. “Initiate GhostScare.” “Are you sure, Niko? It's not quite done yet and it could go badly wrong. The backups aren’t downloaded and-,” “Pixel.” GhostScare was a code that would make it appear as if his network had shut down. Then the Glitch would either be kicked out or eventually just leave when he did not turn back on. The downside was that without the proper failsafe's he might actually go down and that could delete tons of data and projects. Niko held his breath. He could hear Pixel muttering. “Please, please, please, oh please work…” The room went dark. All the machines had turned off and since Pixel was connected to pretty much everything in his room (Heater included) it went silent as the grave. Then beeping started again. Pixel lit up. The fan (it was connected to Pixel like everything else in his room) started whirring. The heater turned back on. The small speaker used for white noise when he slept remained off, the batteries had died years ago. “Pixel,” Niko asked, tentatively. “WOO HOO, BABY!” “Pixel! My mom! You’ll wake her up!” “Oh right. Sorry, Niky,” she said sheepishly. “But it worked! Glitch has no idea we’re still live! Look.” Niko saw a new message from Glitch: r u skared??? like a baby or somthing??? where did u goooooo!!!! “Glitch’s spelling really is terrible,” Pixel commented. “Someone should give her spelling lessons. I’d do it if I wasn’t plugged into a wall.” “Holy guacamole, it worked,” Niko beamed. Niko watched as his server sent Glitch a message reading: Server connectivity terminated. Commencing countdown: 3… 2… 1… And with one last badly spelled message Glitch was gone: wait!!! how u do dat! dat is so mean!!! I thot u was dead but you actually not and kicked me out!?! HUH! MEANIE POO FACE “Maybe I should have my censor code block out ‘meanie’ as well as swear words.” “I’ll get started on it, Niko. There's just one thing.” “Yeah,” Niko questioned, turning to face Pixel. “How was Glitch getting past all our programs?” “I’m not sure. It should be impossible unless they were actually connected to our computer which is impos–hold on! What's this cable!?!” “That one,” Pixel asked. It was pink and sparkly. “Someone put it in while I was offline. I thought you were installing-,” “Good Gravy! It wasn’t me!” “I see that,” Pixel said lackadaisically. Niko picked up the cord and followed its trail with his fingertips. It fed through a small hole in the wall that hadn’t been there last night. Had someone broken in? Pixel pinged urgently and the flashing yellow dot reappeared. “Niko! Glitch is back in DragonWall!” Niko looked at the cable in his finger and something just felt…off. “Hold on,” he said. “Glitch is flying past the barriers! You have to do something! I’m trying to hold them off, but I can’t do much without you!” It was true. Without Niko all Pixel could do was inject viruses and programs Niko already had. “Keep trying,” Niko said. Grabbing his ear set and connected it to Pixel in one swift movement. “I’m going to go check something.” Niko crept past Mother’s room as Pixel fed updates into his ear. Glitch was past the beginning stages. Not good. How was Glitch getting past his defenses so easily? Of course, Niko got past his firewalls because he was already connected to the computer…was glitch doing the same thing? Was this cable… Pixel interrupted his thoughts and read a message Glitch sent him aloud: “u is never gonna beet me poo-poo-hed.” Niko ignored Pixel’s frantic warnings and headed to the Gameroom. Which held their family TV, Nintendo, and other devices Niko occasionally stole materials from. He pressed his ear to the door and thought he could hear…video games? Who would be playing at this time of night? Niko thought he knew. With a dramatic flourish Niko flung open the door and called, “Drop the controller Bessy! I’m onto you!” Pixel gasped in his ear. “Glitch’s not moving in DragonWall anymore…” “Because she’s right here.” Bessy dropped the Nintendo controller on the ground and sulked over to him. The sounds of his animated dragon eating her little black car filled the room. “You’re so mean! I almost getted you!” Niko gave her a stern look. The feelings of betrayal stung. He’d never expected his little sister to turn on him. To be honest he wasn't really sure how Bessy had turned on him. Did she even know how to hack? And he was pretty embarrassed that his 7-year-old sister had almost hacked into his database. “Bessy…How did you do that! How did you know I hack! How–when–who!” Bessy sighed. “Well, I sneaked into your room ‘cuz I wanted to see what's in it, and I found your secret closet. So, I hooked up my gaming Nintendo to your computer and started hacking into your data-whatever. But then you woke up. ‘Cept you couldn’t catch me ‘cuz I was already hooked up and I knew all your tricks.” “Except for the GhostScare,” Niko finished. “Since that one was new.” It was so simple. She had gotten past his firewalls because she was hooked up straight to his computer. He had to give Bessy credit; it was a good plan. “Yeah. I was so close, you Poopy head!” “Why were you even trying to hack me?” Bessy stuck her tongue out at him. “Because you never play video games with me anymore and I wanted to play with you. Even though you're still a poo-poo-pee-pee-stupid-face.” Niko considered yelling at her for a while but then he had an idea. “You know, Bess. That was pretty cool.” She smiled, proudly. “Wanna help me? Instead of trying to hack me?” Bessy thought about it for a moment. Then she gave him a thumbs up and a smile. “Are you sure this is a good idea, Niko,” Pixel asked. “No.” But if it stopped her from hacking him… Three weeks later… The flashy red car raced along the track. Dodging the dragon’s every advance. The dragon roared in fury. The red car zoomed by heading for the final wall. Niko leaned forward in his chair. His face was so close to Pixel’s screen it was almost touching. The clock showed that it was 10:37 pm. The perfect time for hacking. “Pixel! Initiate CyberGames!” “They’re all blocked!” “MazeData! MirrorProgram! GhostScare! Anything,” Niko called desperately. “Nothing,” Pixel said. Equally devastated." There’s nothing we can do, Niko!” Niko sighed. He hated when this happened. The sad thing was it was happening more and more after Bessy’s first attempt. “Man, I hate losing. Bessy,” he called. “It’s go time!” Bessy, who was seated on the pink bean bag in the living room giggled. They were both wearing headsets. At Niko’s signal she grabbed her Nintendo controller and entered DragonWall. Her small (now pink) car zoomed onto the track. She bounced against the large, red car until it was driven off the track and into the dark nothingness of 0s and 1s that made up coding. Niko hated when Bessy outcoded the hacker. It was barely even coding. It was just gaming! But no, every time she took the credit even though it was, he that had engineered a way to give her access to the DragonWall and given her a way to defeat the hacker. Niko watched with a mixture of pride and annoyance as the red car fell into oblivion. The red car did have a last message, but Niko didn’t let it pop up on Bessy’s screen. That kind of language was not appropriate for 7-year-olds. Even if it was censored. “See, pee-pee-face! I can hack better than you,” Bessy’s voice said from Niko’s earpiece. “Girl has a point,” Pixel added from the speaker. “That wasn’t really hacking! It was gaming! Which is totally different. Plus, I was the one that added her to DragonWall so she could boot the red car!” Bessy stuck her tongue out at the ceiling above her head where Niko’s room was located. “I still winned. You owe me ice cream!” “Oh! Me too,” Pixel chimed in. “You don’t even have taste buds.” “You don’t even have micro-processors, but I don’t point that out.” Niko sighed and got up from his chair. He quietly crept into the kitchen where Bessy was eagerly waiting and got bowls of ice cream out for him and Bessy. He downloaded an ice cream gif for Pixel and kept his earpiece on. Pixel liked to be part of conversations. And they sat together whispering about hacking and eating ice cream. Quietly laughing over a betrayal that had gone rather wrong. And it wasn’t just Niko, his computer, and Bessy eating ice cream as quiet as ninjas in a dark kitchen at night. It was The Hacker, Pixel and Glitch. Oh, and his mother. “NIKOLAS AND BESSY SMITH! WHAT IN TARNATION ARE YOU DOING OUT OF BED!” The end.

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Pinocchio

The Adventures of Pinocchio, Italian title Le avventure di Pinocchio: Storia di un burattino (“The Adventures of Pinocchio: The Story of a Puppet”), classic children’s novel written by C. Collodi that first appeared in serial form in 1881 in the Giornale dei Bambini  (“Children’s Magazine”) and was published as a book in 1883. It tells the story of the little marionette who wants to be a real boy, and it is perhaps best known as the basis for the 1940 Disney film. PinocchioIllustration of Pinocchio by E. Mazzanti for the 1883 first edition of “Le avventure di Pinocchio: Storia di un burattino” ( The Adventures of Pinocchio: The Story of a Puppet ) by C. Collodi. Frontispiece illustration by E. Mazzanti for C. Collodi's "Le avventure di Pinocchio", [Firenze]: Tipografia Moder, 1883. First edition, Osborne Collection of Early Children's Books. Reproduced courtesy of Toronto Public Library, Canada Summary A poor man named Geppetto wants to carve himself a marionette to make a living as a puppeteer. He is given a piece of enchanted wood, and as soon as Geppetto carves the puppet, which he names Pinocchio, he begins abusing the old man. Once its feet are made, Pinocchio runs away, and Geppetto is arrested when he seizes the puppet. Pinocchio returns to Geppetto’s home alone, and when the Talking Cricket admonishes him, Pinocchio kills the cricket. Going his own way, and ignoring all advice, Pinocchio soon falls in with a variety of bad characters, particularly the Fox and the Cat, who scheme to steal the five gold pieces Pinocchio was given for Geppetto. Eventually, the Fox and the Cat, disguised as Assassins, hang Pinocchio to get the gold pieces. However, the Fairy with Azure Hair saves Pinocchio at the last moment. When Pinocchio lies to the Fairy about the gold pieces, his nose grows comically long. Later, Pinocchio again falls in with the Fox and the Cat, who trick him out of his gold pieces. Eventually, Pinocchio finds Fairy again and comes to live with her as her son. Twice he begins attending school, and twice he allows himself to be led astray, the second time resulting in his becoming a donkey. After further adventures, Pinocchio is swallowed by the Terrible Shark and finds Geppetto living in the shark’s belly. Pinocchio rescues his father and thereafter takes care of him. The Fairy then turns Pinocchio into a real boy. Analysis And Adaptations Collodi’s original serial, which was titled Le avventure di Pinocchio: Storia di un burattino  (“The Adventures of Pinocchio: The Story of a Puppet”), was meant to serve as a warning against bad behavior, and it ended with Pinocchio’s fatal hanging. The disappointment of the story’s fans, however, led Collodi’s publishers to insist that he resurrect Pinocchio and continue the puppet’s adventures. Get a Britannica Premium subscription and gain access to exclusive content. Like many Tuscan folk tales, Pinocchio  has important moral lessons for children: e.g., disobedience does not pay, telling lies is seldom prudent, and boys who love and take care of their parents will be rewarded. Its pedagogical mission notwithstanding, the story remains a timeless classic. It was translated into numerous languages, with an English-language version first appearing in 1892, and it was released under several titles. Also, the book was adapted for film, television, and theatre. The Disney film is the best-known adaptation, though it is significantly different than the book, which is darker and portrays Pinocchio as more selfish and aggressive. However, the book has some humorous slapstick that is absent from the Disney version. The Adventures of Pinocchio  (/pɪˈnoʊki.oʊ/ pi-NOH-kee-oh ; Italian: Le avventure di Pinocchio  [le avːenˈtuːre d̪i piˈnɔkːjo]), also simply known as Pinocchio , is a novel for children by Italian author Carlo Collodi, written in Pescia. It is about the mischievous adventures of an animated marionette named Pinocchio and his father, a poor woodcarver named Geppetto. It was originally published in a serial form as The Story of a Puppet  (Italian: La Storia di un burattino ) in the Giornale per I Bambini , one of the earliest Italian weekly magazines for children, starting from 7 July 1881. The story stopped after nearly 4 months and 8 episodes at Chapter 15, but by popular demand from readers, the episodes were resumed on 16 February 1882. [1]  In February 1883, the story was published in a single book. Since then, the spread of Pinocchio  on the main markets for children's books of the time has been continuous and uninterrupted, and it was met with enthusiastic reviews worldwide. [1] A universal icon and a metaphor for the human condition, the book is considered a canonical piece of children's literature and has had a great impact on world culture. Philosopher Benedetto Croce reputed it as one of the greatest works of Italian literature. [2]  Since its first publication, it has inspired hundreds of new editions, stage plays, merchandising, television series and movies, such as Walt Disney's iconic animated version, and commonplace ideas such as a liar's long nose. According to extensive research done by the Fondazione Nazionale Carlo Collodi  in the late 1990s and based on UNESCO sources, the book has been adapted in over 260 languages worldwide, [3]  while as of 2018 it has been translated into over 300 languages. [4]  That makes it the most translated non-religious book in the world [3]  and one of the best-selling books ever published, [5]  with over 80 million copies sold in recent years [6]  (the total sales since its first publication are unknown because of the many public domain re-releases begun in 1940). [3]  According to Francelia Butler, it remains "the most translated Italian book and, after the Bible, the most widely read". [7] The story begins in Tuscany, Italy. A carpenter named Master Antonio, but whom everyone calls Master Cherry, has found a block of wood which he plans to carve into a leg for his table. When he begins, however, the log shouts out. Frightened by the talking log, Master Cherry gives it to his neighbor Geppetto, an extremely poor man who plans to make a living as a puppeteer in hopes of earning "a crust of bread and a glass of wine". Pinocchio throws a hammer at the talking cricket. Geppetto carves the block into a boy and names him "Pinocchio". As soon as Pinocchio's nose has been carved, it begins to grow with his congenital impudence. Before he is even built, Pinocchio already has a mischievous attitude; no sooner than Geppetto is finished carving Pinocchio's feet does the puppet proceed to kick him. Once the puppet has been finished and Geppetto teaches him to walk, Pinocchio runs out the door and away into the town. He is caught by a Carabiniere, who assumes Pinocchio has been mistreated and imprisons by Geppetto. Left alone, Pinocchio heads back to Geppetto's house to get something to eat. Once he arrives at home, a talking cricket who has lived in the house for over a century warns him of the perils of disobedience and hedonism. In retaliation, Pinocchio throws a hammer at the cricket, more accurately than he intended to, and accidentally kills it. Geppetto is released from prison and makes Pinocchio a new pair of feet. Pinocchio gets hungry and tries to fry an egg, but what comes out of it is a little bird that flies out the window forcing Pinocchio to leave the house to ask for food. Then he knocks on an old man's door to ask for food. The man thinking that Pinocchio was one of the hooligans who ring the bells for fun, and instead of giving a good piece of bread all he gets is a bucket of cold water on his head. Wet Pinocchio comes home and lies down on a stove, but the next day when he wakes up he falls to the ground with burned feet. Luckily, Geppetto is released from prison and makes Pinocchio a new pair of feet. In gratitude, he promises to attend school, and Geppetto sells his only coat to buy him a school book. The puppet master Mangiafuoco On his way to school the next morning, Pinocchio encounters the Great Marionette Theatre, and he sells his school book to buy a ticket for the show. During the performance, the puppets Harlequin, Pulcinella, and Signora Rosaura on stage recognize him in the audience and call out to him, angering the puppet master Mangiafuoco. Upset, he breaks up the excitement and decides to use Pinocchio as firewood to cook his lamb dinner. After Pinocchio pleads to be saved, Mangiafuoco gives in and decides to burn Harlequin. After Pinocchio pleads for Harlequin's salvation, Mangiafuoco gives up. When he learns about Pinocchio's poor father, he ultimately releases him and gives him five gold pieces to give to Geppetto. As Pinocchio travels home to give the coins to his father, he meets a fox and a cat. The Cat pretends to be blind, and the Fox pretends to be lame. A white blackbird tries to warn Pinocchio of their lies, but the blackbird is eaten by the Cat. The two animals convince Pinocchio that if he plants his coins in the Field of Miracles outside the city of Catchfools, they will grow into a tree with gold coins. They stop at the red lobster inn, where the Fox and the Cat gorge themselves on food at Pinocchio's expense and ask to be awoken by midnight. Two hours before the set time, the pair abandon Pinocchio, leaving him to pay for the meal with one of his coins. They instruct the innkeeper to tell Pinocchio that they left after receiving a message stating that the Cat's eldest kitten had fallen ill and that they would meet Pinocchio at the Field of Miracles in the morning. The Fox and the Cat, dressed as bandits, hang Pinocchio. As Pinocchio sets off for Catchfools, the ghost of the Talking Cricket appears, telling him to go home and give the coins to his father. Pinocchio ignores his warnings again. As he passes through a forest, the Fox and Cat, disguised as bandits, jump out and ambush Pinocchio for robbing him. The puppet hides the coins in his mouth and escapes to a white house after biting off the Cat's paw. Upon knocking on the door, Pinocchio is greeted by a young fairy with turquoise hair who says she is dead and waiting for a hearse. Unfortunately, the bandits catch Pinocchio and hang him in a tree. After a while, the Fox and Cat get tired of waiting for the puppet to suffocate, and they leave. The Fairy saves Pinocchio The Fairy has Pinocchio rescued by summoning a falcon to get him down and having her poodle servant Medoro pick him up in her stagecoach. The Fairy calls in three famous doctors to tell her whether Pinocchio is dead or not. Two of them, an owl and a crow, are unsure of Pinocchio's status with the owl claiming that Pinocchio is alive and the crow claiming that Pinocchio is dead. The third doctor is the Ghost of the Talking Cricket who says that the puppet is fine, but has been disobedient and hurt his father. The Fairy administers medicine to Pinocchio who consents to take it after four undertaker rabbits arrive to carry away his body. Recovered, Pinocchio lies to the Fairy when she asks what has happened to the gold coins, and his nose grows until it is so long that he cannot turn around in the room. The Fairy explains that Pinocchio's lies are making his nose grow and calls in a flock of woodpeckers to chisel it down to size. The Fairy sends for Geppetto to come and live with them in the forest cottage Pinocchio and the gorilla judge Once Pinocchio returns, he learns of the Fox and the Cat's treachery from a parrot who mocks Pinocchio for falling for their tricks. Pinocchio rushes to the Catchfools courthouse where he reports the theft of the coins to a gorilla judge. Although he is moved by Pinocchio's plea, the gorilla judge sentences Pinocchio to four months in prison for the crime of foolishness as he is taken away by two mastiffs dressed as Gendarmerie. Fortunately, all criminals are released early by the jailers when the unseen young Emperor of Catchfools declares a celebration following his army's victory over the town's enemies. Upon being released by stating to the jailer that he committed a crime, Pinocchio leaves Catchfools. Alidoro saves Pinocchio from the Green Fisherman. Upon arriving on the Island of Busy Bees, Pinocchio can only get food in return for labor. Pinocchio offers to carry a lady's jug home in return for food and water. When they get to the lady's house, Pinocchio recognizes the lady as the Fairy, now miraculously old enough to be his mother. She says she will act like his mother, and Pinocchio will begin going to school. She hints that if Pinocchio does well in school and tries his hardest to be good for one whole year, then he will become a real boy. Pinocchio studies hard and rises to the top of his class, but this makes the other schoolboys jealous. The other boys trick Pinocchio into playing hookey by saying they saw a large sea monster at the beach, the same one that swallowed Geppetto. However, the boys were lying and a fight breaks out. One boy named Eugene is hit by Pinocchio's school book, though Pinocchio did not throw it. Pinocchio is accused of injuring Eugene by two Carabiniers, but the puppet escapes. During his escape, Pinocchio saves a drowning Mastiff named Alidoro. In exchange, Alidoro later saves Pinocchio from The Green Fisherman, who was going to eat the marionette as Pinocchio returns home. After meeting the Snail that works for the Fairy, Pinocchio is given another chance by the Fairy. The wagon of the Coachman that leads the boys in the Land of Toys Pinocchio does excellently in school and passes with high honors. The Fairy promises that Pinocchio will be a real boy the next day and says he should invite all his friends to a party. He goes to invite everyone, but he is sidetracked when he meets a boy nicknamed Candlewick who is about to go to a place called Toyland where everyone plays all day and never works. Pinocchio goes along with him when they are taken there by The Coachman, and they have a wonderful time for the next five months. Pinocchio and Candlewick became donkeys. One morning in the fifth month, Pinocchio and Candlewick awake with donkeys' ears. A Dormouse tells Pinocchio that he has got a donkey fever: boys who do nothing but play and never study always turn into donkeys. Soon, both Pinocchio and Candlewick are fully transformed. Pinocchio is sold to a circus by The Coachman. He is trained by the ringmaster to do tricks until he falls and sprains his leg. The ringmaster then sells Pinocchio to a man who wants to skin him and make a drum. The man throws the donkey into the sea to drown him. But when the man goes to retrieve the corpse, all he finds is a living marionette. Pinocchio explains that the fish ate all the donkey skin off him and he is now a puppet again. Pinocchio finds Geppetto inside the Dogfish. Pinocchio dives back into the water and swims out to sea. When the Terrible Dogfish appears, Pinocchio swims from it at the advice of the Fairy in the form of a little blue-furred goat from atop a high rock but is swallowed by it. Inside the Dogfish, Pinocchio unexpectedly finds Geppetto, who has been living on a ship inside there. Pinocchio and Gepetto with the help of a tuna, a companion inside the Dogfish, who, following his example, managed to escape and took them on his back to the mainland. Pinocchio gave a kiss of thanks and left with his father in search of a place to stay. Pinocchio recognizes the farmer's donkey as his friend Candlewick. Pinocchio and Geppetto encounter the Fox and the Cat who are now impoverished. The Cat has really become blind, and the Fox has really become lame and is also thin, almost hairless, and has chopped off his tail to sell for food. The Fox and the Cat plead for food or money, but Pinocchio rebuffs them and tells them that their misfortunes have served them right for their wickedness. Geppetto and Pinocchio arrive at a small house, which is home to the Talking Cricket. The Talking Cricket says they can stay and reveals that he got his house from a little goat with turquoise hair. Pinocchio gets a job doing work for Farmer Giangio and recognizes the farmer's dying donkey as his friend Candlewick. Pinocchio becomes a real human boy. After long months of working for the farmer and supporting the ailing Geppetto, Pinocchio goes to town with the forty pennies he has saved to buy himself a new suit. He discovers that the Fairy is ill and needs money. Pinocchio instantly gives the Snail he met back on the Island of Busy Bees all the money he has. That night, he dreams that he is visited by the Fairy, who kisses him. When he wakes up, he is a real boy at last. His former puppet body lies lifeless on a chair. Furthermore, Pinocchio finds that the Fairy has left him a new suit, boots, and a bag in which he thinks are the forty pennies that he originally gave to her. Instead, the boy is shocked to find forty freshly-minted gold coins. Geppetto also returns to health.

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Fox

Perhaps if all life was completely unable to tell a lie, we could learn to live with the truth. Alas, we can all easily mislead others from the truth, therefore leading us to be accustomed to using lies to benefit ourselves, often but not always hurting others on the path. Lies start out simple, and they spiral. If you are not careful, they boomerang back into your face and hurt you . If you are careful, you can end up saving yourself from numerous amounts of troubles. You could lie and say your paw hurts and be excused from hunting. But if your father finds out, you would be doing the sole hunting for the next fortnight. Being a fox, all the other species are already used to our lying. They expect it, accept it. But amongst ourselves, it’s all a battle to a fresh set of eyes with the real truth, which is often lost in the stars. In the deeper parts of the forest, mysterious happenings are always at place. Rarely any foxes are found trotting about, lest we become part of the rumors. If you are a fox, you are suspicious, sly, secretive, unworthy of a second thought on your word. Of course, that’s why I was always there. They respected me to some point, the other animals. They thought me to be the only noble fox, the truth-teller. What they did not know was that I was just the best of the liars. When the self-proclaimed ‘gingerbread man’ came along into our neck of the forest, I was not too surprised. * At first, I was alarmed. All the animals who saw him were. He looked like a man. A human , which in the forest, is not a welcome sight. There were things about him that were inherently off, however. For one, he was very, very small . His face was no bigger than my front paw and his whole body less than the length of my tail. I’d never seen a human up close before, but from the stories I’d heard, assuming them truthful, they were much larger. And something else, his skin was odd. I don’t mean too dark or too light, rather it had a flaky look to it, like it would be easily breakable. Easily edible. Not only that, but his features looked strangely artificial. Beady black eyes and a completely white, an almost sewn-on smile. All the animals who happened to be there when he arrived assessed his appearance, our ears twitching and our stances softening when we saw that whatever he was, he wasn’t human. That’s when he started running. His peculiar flat body miraculously balanced itself on two legs and ran with impeccable speed. His solid features twitched and for a moment, I stood, whips of wind blowing in the slightly chilly September breeze. Oslac, a rabbit, hesitated for a brief second before running after the thing. The other animals gathered slowly dissipated, leaving me standing alone. Of course, I had to follow. Oslac was fast, his hops high and long and he never seemed to grow tired. If I really tried, I could get ahead of both Oslac and the man-thing, but I decided to stay steadily beside the rabbit, my paws barely even hitting the ground as I ran. I could see the thing right up ahead, and just as I thought, small little flakes of his skin fell with each movement. “My, my, what are you?” Oslac’s nose twitched as he spoke and we turned through the forest, tree after tree passing by in a blur. The thing stopped, and so did we, dirt and dust flying into the air as we nearly all collided. The thing blinked, or at least it seemed that way, for his unnatural eyes seemed to thin for a second. He didn’t appear to be breathing. In fact, he rarely seemed alive at all, if not for the fact that he was standing of his own accord. “I am the gingerbread man.” I could barely register his wink, one of his eyes thinning, before he turned on his ‘heels’ and was off again. Oslac sprung forward, jumping once very high and continuing forward. My ears twitched and dirt flew into my face before I followed, paws slightly aching from all the running. You might be wondering what was so special about a thing , about this gingerbread man that we should chase him, Oslac and I. Imagine if something strange were to walk into your home and promptly start running about. You’d be compelled to chase, would you not? A guilty man runs, is that not what they say? So we ran, the old spider watching us as we flew by, afraid we’d ruin his newly made web. There are certain situations, like with twisting truth, you must sabotage an opponent to win a game. Tripping someone else may be the only way to gain your own balance. Metaphorically or literally. In this case, literally. I swung my tail around and tripped poor Oslac who fell flat on his twitching nose. At least, I assume. I didn’t look back as I continued running after the ‘gingerbread man’, picking up speed and no longer being held back by the rabbit. “You won’t catch me!” The thing spoke and laughed as it ran. It was absurd, I thought, that a thing so little could run so fast. I kept my eyes on his ‘back’ of sorts as we ran, never once looking where we were going or the animals passing through. I had taken it upon me that I would catch him, if it cost me my life. Dull pain coursed through my thin muscles, my red fur lined with sweat. I didn’t want to stop. I didn’t want to lose sight of the thing, didn’t want to lose at all. As I was just losing hope, the thing stopped in front of me. I halted myself and panted, staring still at the back of his head. I darted my eyes around to see why he’d stopped, and I couldn’t help as a grin rose to my face when it fully dawned upon me. Up ahead was the river. Multiple animals of all different shapes and sizes were scattered about, drinking, gossiping, bathing. It was a thin river, thin enough that I could jump over it if I wanted to, and had done multiple times before. It was also shallow, shallow enough that I could float in it without worry of drowning. This little gingerbread man was far too small to jump, too thin to float. He turned, but before he could do anything else, I pounced. I pressed my paws on his flaky skin and pushed him into the soggy ground. He didn’t struggle much, seeing as he obviously had no lungs, no need to breathe. As soon as I pinned him down, he tried to wiggle free. A small crack froze him in his tracks. I saw a small line forming between his shoulder and arm, right where my paw sat. He was breaking. I was intrigued. The only things I’d ever seen crack were the nuts the birds and squirrels were always dropping down as they ate. Food. Curious, I leaned my muzzle down close to the thing, sniffing long and hard. His scent was interesting, unlike anything I’d ever smelt ever before. He looked scared, strangely. “What do you want, why are you here?” I whispered straight at his face, exhaling my words so that he would only hear them. “I am here to pass on a message to the-” He coughed, which was strange for a thing that didn’t breathe, and I just barely released a bit of my hold so he’d continue. “To the king. The lion.” At this, I re-pushed with all my strength, and another crack was heard. He whimpered. “This is the forest, not the jungle.” He blinked multiple times at me, weird eyes thinning and thickening again and again. “O-Of course. What I meant was-” I pushed my paw on his mouth, muffling his words. “Are you here to hurt the forest?” His eyes grew cold, more lifeless than they had been before. I moved my left paw to let him speak. “You and your species and the whole forest have already damaged the forest. I’m here to repair it.” He had stopped struggling by then, just a thing sitting still under my paws. Something about the little circles going down his body, something about them shone like...a delicious mealworm, ready to be eaten. I couldn’t help myself and stuck my tongue out just to take a small taste of the thing. He tasted sweet, unnatural. He didn’t belong in the forest. “You need to cross this river?” He nodded hesitantly. “I shall help you then, if you’ll only just climb on my back.” The coldness disappeared from his eyes and he seemed to smile. I loosened my hold and he climbed onto my back, clinging onto my fur. All the other animals, I knew, would think I ate him. I’m a fox, after all, that’s all we seem to do- eat, lie, cheat. I was not completely without morals, however. I would not eat a living thing while it sat living in front of me, after I lied straight to their face. No. I flipped over on my back once I jumped into the river, and the gingerbread man fell, falling into the waves, unable to scream for help. I drowned him, where no one would catch him ever again.

gh3hxy

Dispatched

“9-1-1. What is your emergency?” Casey moved to the edge of her chair, fully aware that all eyes in the Dispatch Center were on her. She struggled to focus on her first call, her mind ruminating on the “we-need-to-talk” text she sent Michael that morning. Her boyfriend had grown distant since starting classes at the community college. “9-1-1. What is your emergency?” she repeated more loudly. Click. Casey tapped her console, disconnecting the line before immediately calling the number back. She had been trained to expect numerous hang-ups during her shift, yet protocol required her to determine if first responders were needed or not before she could disregard the call. The phone rang several times. “Hello?” the voice of a teenage girl answered, clearly flustered. “This is 9-1-1. We received a call from this number. Do you have an emergency?” Nervous laughter. “Oh, god! I was just playing with my phone. Then it dialed 9-1-1 by itself. I don’t know what happened. It’s possessed or something—” A teacher in the background loudly reprimanded her for using an unauthorized device during class. “Okay, I’ll mark this down as accidental,” Casey said, tapping in a brief comment about the errant call into her console. “Just so you know, if you press the slide button key five times, it automatically dials 9-1-1.” “I didn’t know that,” the girl whined. “I didn’t mean to. Are the police coming? Am I in trouble?” “No, you are not in trouble. But next time, stay on the phone and tell the dispatcher what happened. That way, we don’t have to bother you at school.” “Okay.” The caller had clearly lost interest in Casey. “You could disable the Emergency SOS feature on your phone. It’s under settings.” “Fine,” the girl said, annoyance in her voice. “I’ll do that. Thanks. I gotta go now.” “Have a good day.” Casey clicked off, looking around the Dispatch Center for approval from her peers, but no one seemed to notice her deft handling of her first solo call. 🜋 🜋 🜋 “9-1-1. What is your emergency?” An older woman sobbed over the line. “My Jeffrey is m-missing!” “Your husband is missing?” “My husband? My husband’s dead . It’s Jeffrey! My sweet boy…” “When did you last see your son?” “My son? My son is at college. He’s a business major.” “Ma’am, this line is for emergencies only.” Casey had been warned about kooks. “The non-emergency number is—” “This is an emergency. Someone’s stolen my dog!” The woman’s words turned into a tsunami of tears. Casey froze, not knowing what to do, unnerved by the woman. The shift supervisor, Bernice, picked up Casey’s call to intervene. “It’s all right, ma’am. When did you last see your dog Jeffrey?” As Bernice extracted the necessary information, Casey’s face reddened. Sitting back in defeat, she stared blankly at her monitors. “That’s another thing you have to learn,” Bernice said, after ending the call. “Pets are more important to people than people.” Casey bit her thumbnail. “Why’s that?” “Because people are disappointing. Your line’s ringing.” 🜋 🜋 🜋 “9-1-1. What is your emergency?” “It’s running!” Casey’s pulse quickened at the young boy's voice until she heard other children snickering in the background. Another voice harshly commanded the others to shut up. “What's running?” she replied, a smile curling the corners of her mouth. “I said—your refrigerator is running,” repeated the voice. “You said it wrong!” interrupted another voice. “Ask if the refrigerator is running.” “Are you running with a refrigerator?” the young boy tried again. “You can’t run forever!” “You dumbass,” his partner muttered. “Boys,” Casey said. “You shouldn’t prank 9-1-1. If you report a false emergency, you could be found guilty of a misdemeanor.” “Miss who?” “The punishment for pranking 9-1-1 could be up to one year in jail and/or a $1000 fine.” The young boy whispered to his friends. “We’re going to jail.” Then she heard them whimpering. “You are not going to jail. Just stay off the emergency lines, all right?” “Are the police coming? “No,” Casey reassured him. “We’ll let this one slide today.” “Okay,” the young boy replied. “Do you have Prince Albert in a can?” Casey hung up, deciding if she did marry Michael, they would have to think long and hard about having children. 🜋 🜋 🜋 “9-1-1. What is your emergency?” “My friend’s trippin’ balls!” Techno music blared so loudly that Casey ripped off her headset to lower the volume. She quickly adjusted them. “Could you repeat that? You injured your testicles?” “No! My friend and I were partying in his mom’s basement. One of his girlfriends showed up, scrolled through his phone, and freaked out. She took his fucking dog!” “Were there any weapons involved?” “No, only a bong.” “What type of drugs has your friend ingested?” “All of them.” Bernice intercepted Casey’s call for the second time. “Sir, what is your current location?” “Um. Four Oh Seven Maple Street. It's the house with a ton of dog shit in the front yard.” Casey's eyes widened when Bernice repeated the address aloud. She looked nauseated and bent over her trashcan to retch. Bernice muted her line before leaning over to Casey. “You okay?” Casey swallowed hard as her eyes watered. She managed to nod. “Good. Your line’s ringing. Pick it up.” 🜋 🜋 🜋 “9-1-1. What is your emergency?” “Not in my car, Jeffrey! Oh, you little shit!” Sharp yapping drowned out a young woman’s shrill voice. “My boyfriend’s dog nipped me. It's actually his mother's dog, but I think I’m bleeding!” Casey shouted into her mic. “What is your location?” “Never mind," the woman continued. "The skin isn’t broken. I’ll just wait for Michael.” The line went dead. Bernice ate a doughnut as Casey clicked on the two-way radio. “We’ve got a 10-16 at Four Oh Seven Maple Street. A female suspect is in unlawful possession of the homeowner’s dog. The homeowner’s son is in the basement, tripping balls. His name is Michael.” Tossing the radio aside, Casey sat back in her chair and crossed her legs. Bernice passed her the box of doughnuts, and they both chewed thoughtfully. “Love triangle?” Bernice finally inquired, an eyebrow raised.  Donning her headset, Casey grinned. “Not anymore.” “You know,” Bernice remarked. “I think you’re getting the hang of this job.” 

hvrvi3

Convincing Death

I watch her sleep. And I watch her sleep some more. And she continues to sleep. Holy mackerel! Well, mackerels aren’t holy, but, wowzers! Is this girl gonna sleep all night? Hurry it up lady, you may be mortal, but it’s not like you need eight hours of sleep. Wait a second. I look it up, only to find that indeed, mortal humans need around eight hours of sleep. *** So, four hours later, why is this girl still asleep? She stirs. Then she starts snoring again. Call me impatient, but I got other peeps to take, so clearly I need to assert my dominance. “MARLEE!” I bellow, “HOW MUCH SLEEP DO YOU NEED?!?!” Immediately, Marlee sits upright and swings her head around, searching for the face to match to the yelling. I try to introduce myself. “Yo, I’m-” When she spots me, terrible sound comes out of her sleep encrusted mouth, interrupting me. Once Marlee finishes her screaming, she bounces out of her sleeping quarters and tears off my black cloak. She sees nothing underneath and screams some more. “SHUSH,” I say, not in the mood to waste anymore time. “Are you death?” Marlee asks. “No,” I say, “I’m an angel.” She calms down, so I can continue, “I’m an angel of death.” Marlee continues screaming, and then sobs at me, “I’m not ready to die, please don’t take me!” She says that she’ll give me anything, and I agree, just to make her stop crying. Gee whiz, it’s been a little over eight hours on the job, and I’m already getting peeved. If all mortals are this dramatic about death, I think I’ll transfer into the, “good news of great joy,” section. “So what is it that you want for my life, sir?” Marlee begins, “I have, like, seven hundred dollars saved for university.” “Well, I suppose you won’t need university if you’re dead,” I reply. “But I’m giving it to you so I don’t die!” Marlee cries. “Oh, well, it won’t stop you from dying, because where I come from, the streets are made of gold, so I don’t need money.” Marlee sighs, then scans the room for any other bribes she can offer me. Little (none) does she know that bribing an angel isn’t very easy, nor will we accept any, even if the bribe was up to our standards. I check my watch. Actually, I don’t mind staying overtime, I’d like to see what this girl has to offer. “I have this new autographed CD from Taylor Swift,” Marlee offers, “She’s really good, I’ll play some for you.” After listening to a few seconds, I shut off the CD player. When Marlee glares at me, I say, “What? I’d rather listen to Handel’s Messiah . And I can get as many of his autographs as I please.” I chuckle as Marlee sits and twiddles her thumbs, thinking of something that would appease me. We go on like this for some minutes, until Marlee’s face brightens, and she bounces out of her bedroom door. I ask her where we’re going and she says that it’s a surprise. Still chuckling, I observe as she brings out bowls and eggs and other fancy things in containers from different cabinets in her kitchen. Marlee stirs and preheats and pours and sweats. After an hour or so, she comes up to me with some brown squares on a plate. “They’re brownies,” Marlee explains, “These are a crowd favorite, passed down from generations! If these don’t convince you to let me stay, noth-” She stops. “Good idea,” I respond, “Don’t let your life ride on browns.” “Brownies,” corrects Marlee. I smile at her and pick up the offering. It’s soft and… brown. “Uhm, Marlee,” I begin. She looks defeated already. “What exactly do I … do? With this?” Groaning, Marlee answers, “You’re supposed to eat it. Like, to consume and digest?” I giggle a bit, “You’ve taken off my cloak before. I don’t really have a body, or at least not one like a human’s. I can’t digest anything.” Before I even finish speaking, Marlee already looks like she has another idea, and is skipping back up to her room. She says that she is willing to give up her prized possession, the most important thing she has ever had the privilege of owning. Marlee thrusts a huge poster at me, and holds it open so that I can behold it’s majestic contents. She grins proudly, arousing curiosity in me, and I begin to get a bit excited as I roll it open. “It’s a signed picture of Shawn Mendes. Shirtless ! Signed by his hands !” Marlee’s voice seems to become higher pitched and less abled as she continues. I look at her, expecting a bit better, a little more. After all, it is her “prized possession.” “What am I supposed to do with this pale, scrawny boy? Fight demons?” I say, gravely disappointed when I realize that this is it, “It’s not even like it’s the actual person. And what’s wrong with his stomach” What’s with all the blocks on his tummy?” I suddenly feel guilty, “Oh my, is he starving? Poor, poor boy! I’ll have to help-” “He’s not starving!” Marlee’s eyes flash with rage, then awe. “He’s sexy. And those are his abs. They make him look so powerful and-” “Powerful?!” I guffaw. “You know, after standing in the presence of God for a second, your definition of power kinda improves. Besides, Shawn Mending’s hands aren’t any more amazing than your ha-” “ Mendes ! Shawn Mendes !” Marlee seems to really like this boy, “Why do you have to be such a one-upper! I don’t wanna die, I’m only fourteen!” I stare at her for a few reasons. Did she not hear anything I said besides the guy’s name? Did she say that she was fourteen? I was told that the Marlee I’m taking is 94. I was really wondering why a 94 year old was still a girl, but I don’t have much experience with people. I clear my throat. “Fourteen, you say?” I ask Marlee. “You’re not Marlee Johnhopper of Green street?” “No,” Marlee answers, “That’s our neighbor. I’m Marlee Hognjopper. My parents are visiting her right now. So I’m not dying today?!” I nod at her, and she screams about how happy she is that she gets to keep her Shawn Mendes picture, and how she gets to see her friends at school again. Floating out the door, I sigh, hoping the older Marlee isn’t as bent on screaming as her neighbor.

298gn2

I like my old life but I probably should have a new one.

"No, no you weren't an alcoholic. You sometimes drank too much." said the therapist to his patient that he had helped for over 15 years and realizing that he had to unload his patient. Can you imagine paying off your mortgage as a result of helping someone cope with the pain of unresolved issues in their lives? There is something called a guilty conscience, ladies and gentlemen! In this case it struck Scot, Mr. Scott Zwingli when he realized that he looked forward to some of his patients more than he did his wife sometimes! Agnes had been his patient since she was in college. It was her reaction to solve and find out the reasons why she slept with her African Studies professor. When he first met her she was demure, and shy. She barely wanted to acknowledge that she had done a bad thing by sleeping with a married man. The fact that he was a professor was not important in the scheme of things but to her it was the prime reason why she had to visit Scott. She did not see herself as a fame fatale, damsel in distress type or a sinner. She saw herself as an innocent student who was in college to earn a degree. We are unsure at what point his office hours merged into "take my bra off" session. It goes without saying that if we did not understand it, probably she was more in the dark than we were hence the need to see a Psychiatrist. And that Psychiatrist was Mr. Scott, the one and only Dr. Scott. Well, Mr. Scott was a timid young man who had a conscience. He was short and unassuming, with an intelligence of a fox. He caged his patients and turned them into well oiled machines. Because Agnes had been his patient for so many years, in his mind he felt that he was a failure. But he wasn't. Some people have highly charged lives and need assistance navigating those lives and Agnes was one of those people, those poor souls. When he first met Agnes he thought to himself that someone was playing a joke on him. She needed help, yes, but she was unusual. Her sort of women never sought therapy. What was wrong with this picture, he thought to himself. He even hired a private investigator to find out the briefings of who Agnes was, if at all he needed; "Security!" "Well, doctor, I am in this History class, and there is this cute professor..." Scott: "Oh , boy....! Scott:' what does this professor say in class that makes you see me today?" Agnes: "Dr., he is so cute, he is so smart, and my mom says..." Scott:" wait a minute, your mom says, were you not in class when you met your professor? do you attend classes with your mom?" Agnes: "You are right, Sir, anyway, my mom is not even in the same state where I go to college. Why did you ask me about my mom. I was talking about my professor, Oh! he is soooo cute!" Scott: "Can I meet your professor or do you have a photo of him, so that we can start on an equal footing?" Agnes;" Oh here, I have a picture of him. We were in class and I took a selfie with him." Scott:" Now, that's great! What are the odds!! (attention shoppers! we are dealing with a nitwit! he takes selfies with girls that he will later bed and he is their teacher! He will grade their work later. Later after the act. The Act get it!). instead; Scott: "he doesn't look, so bad! compared to you, you and him together, you make quite a pair. He is married, right? His wife, his wife must be female right? Is she or he female... at least?" Agnes: "She is shit, that is all I will say about that. Enough about her. I am feeling very guilty because I feel like I took advantage of a situation that I should not have. Can you help me sort that out?" Scott amazed that she had a conscience, maybe I can help this brat, he thought to himself..."what do you mean." Agnes: " I mean, I controlled the situation by asking to meet with him knowing how I felt about him. I thought I could test my luck." Scott: "You did, and what were your findings?" Agnes: "That I liked him a lot and I wanted to spend time with him outside the class even after I finished his class." Scott: "well, when you realized that you couldn't, what happened?" Agnes: "What do you mean?" Scott: "because, if you could have him, you would not be talking to me today. you would be talking to a different doctor. like, a doctor who helps spouses who met the love of their lives while the other was still married to someone else. do you know about that self-help group?" Agnes: "Who said anything about marriage and love?" It went on like this for a decade until Dr. Scott was able to erase the memory of the: "Professor". It was almost a decade long discussion which one day explained to Agnes that, The Professor, probably met girls like her every semester! For poor Agnes, it took about a decade to understand that! Agnes: "why did this happen to me and not my friend? Is it because of my looks? I mean my life is easier because of what I look like. People are nice to me because of the way that I look. Also, I get all that I aim for, because of my family. If I was someone else, would the professor have reacted differently? Can I have a relationship and feel safe in a relationship?" Scott; (wait a minute, from cheating to reverence, will I have a relationship!!!!! what is this? Are you crazy? You are: "how do you feel about your dad, about men in general? How did you feel when your dad pointed a hose with water to your poor mom while she was trying to barbecue hot dogs in your backyard. That's who you are!" Instead: Scott: "do you feel confident to be in a safe relationship with an unsuspecting man?" Agnes: "Should I tell him that I had an affair with a married man?" Scott: " No, you should tell him that you had sex with your professor while you attended his class and he was married!" Agnes: " I am canceling my next session, I will call to reschedule!" Week one: Week two: Week three: Week four: Week five: Agnes: "i have not seen you in so long. i actually needed some clarity. i think that i am ready to talk to you now." Scott: "I bet. How are you doing? Do you feel at this point, that you need some medication or you are fine? What have you been up to?" Agnes: "actually i am fine. i understand where you are coming from, now. i think that i was trying to tell you that i drank too much when i was in college. i also slept around with a lot of men, but for some reason, i fell in love with my professor and it turned my life around." Scott: "-----Because you respect, respected your professor. He also was an authority figure that was in your life, that interrupted your soul searching needs. You unfairly made him responsible for your altered mental state, and used him as a scapegoat." Agnes: "that is too much information can I be excused for the day?" she stood up and left. Luckily she talked to the secretary on her way out and scheduled the next appointment. Had she not done that, she was not going to be welcomed to Dr. Scott's presence. Week one: Week two: Dr. Scott: "You mentioned something about drinking a lot. Do you want to stop that or you are okay with that?" Agnes: "I have since recovered from that. I spent years on AA meetings before I had the courage to face that dark time in my life while I was in college." Dr. Scott: "About your sexual activity index? Sexuality? etc. any concerns?" Agnes: "I like men. Many men. However, not all men like me. Actually, the truth is that men just want to be chosen, selected, and if you don't call them back, they get disappointed and return back to hunting mode. I didn't know that then. I like all the men that I slept with."

zwmct8

A bold choice

Little Annie was preparing for her first Halloween night, in which she would go around and ask people, “Trick or Treat?”. Her costume for this year’s celebration was Princess Leia’s cosplay. Her mother braided her hair, and she also wore a cloak because she would accompany Annie and her little friends for the night. After some time of preparation, it was time to go out. “Mom, I’m very excited! Do you think that I will be able to fill my basket with candies?” - Annie asked as they walked. “Of course, darling, we just have to go around a lot of houses. We have all night for this.” “You’re right. Let’s go now!” And so they went out and in the next few minutes the children’s company gathered. There were five children. As they walked the dark streets of Las Vegas, they met countless kids, teenagers, and adults dressed in a variety of costumes. Then they chose their first house - tiny, looked neat, was quite decorated. There were two large shaped pumpkins with lanterns in them that stood on either side of the front door. Toilet paper, gauze, and thread were scattered across the lawn, reaching the canopy of the house, creating a view of cobwebs. And a bottle of fake blood was probably squeezed out of the windows. Barbara, Annie’s mother, knocked on the door and stepped back, leaving the children ahead. A few seconds passed, and a pretty old woman appeared at the entrance with a large bowl in her hand, full of all sorts of sweets. “Trick or treat?” - The children asked. “I’ll choose a treat, sweethearts!” - The old woman replied, handing out a handful of sweets to everyone. - “Happy Halloween!” “Happy Halloween, ma’am!” - Annie said, and smiled kindly. They went on and toured a few more houses, each giving them treats. The last house on the street was Mr. Garson’s house. He was known for inviting his guests inside, and the house was called a haunted house. Barbara wasn’t sure if they would visit this house either, but as the children insisted, she agreed. There was a knock on his door, and almost immediately it creaked open. Mr. Garson showed up and the children asked him, “Trick or treat?” “I choose treat.” - The gentleman replied. - “Welcome inside, children.” They entered, and he led them down a long corridor to his backyard. “Do you see this maze?” - He asked, and the children nodded. - “There’s a bowl of countless treats at the end, bigger than two baskets like yours. There are five entrances, fortunately and you are so numerous. Each of you will go your own way and whoever reaches the end first will win the treats.” “I’m not sure it’s appropriate, sir. They are just children, I hope it is suitable for them.” - Annie’s mother said. “Of course, ma’am. It’s all about child safety.” - He answered. - “And now, my dears, stand in your seats and when you see the fireworks, then it starts!” The children stood in front of their entrances and waited. Each of them held their basket in hand and waited impatiently to see the lights in the sky. There was not a minute that Mr. Garson fired the fireworks and they exploded in the sky. At that moment, the children ran forward. Annie ran, but the turns slowed her, and after one of them, a surprise awaited her. She turned in the next direction, and a clown appeared in front of her, an ordinary clown that everyone’s parents hired for birthdays. But he stood looking at her, and she was a little scared. “Would you like some candy, little lady?” - The man in the clothes asked in a playful, twisted voice. “No, my mother taught me not to take anything from strangers!” - She replied. “I assure you, child, this is one of the most expensive and sweet candies in the world!” “If you please, Mr. Clown, I have a task!” - Annie said, and he nodded. “Very well, child, very well. Your first test has passed!” Then the clown moved away and let her pass. The adventure in the maze was not only profitable, but also instructive. Mr. Garson’s idea was to entertain children, but also to teach them the values of life. He used Halloween as a day for that. Annie kept moving forward, no longer in a hurry because she didn’t know what to expect from every angle. She stopped in front of two exits - left and right. On the left she saw only darkness, but on the right the road was littered with lanterns. The little child’s intuition led her to the right, and she walked over there. A man disguised as a vampire appeared. He gritted his teeth and the child screamed. The mother heard her and shuddered, but Mr. Garson assured her that nothing bad would happen to the child. “Good choice, kid.” - Said the vampire. “I don’t understand, I chose the lighted path. There should be no bad people in the light.” - The girl replied confused. “That was the point. Always choose the lighted roads, but you must know that evil is lurking around every corner, child. Expect bad things from the good sides of the world!” “You knew I wasn’t going on the dark road.” - Annie said. “I won’t let you out of here. You chose the wrong side, darling.” Annie ran back and returned to the crossroads where she was in a dilemma. She walked down the darkened road, and as she walked a little further it began to light up. Finally, Annie saw three doors, each with an inscription. On the first door was written: “Reward!”. On the second: “Sweets!”. And on the third door it said only: “Be careful!”. She thought. During this time, two more “survivors” in the labyrinth came to her. One rushed to the first door, the second to the next, and those doors never opened again. On the one hand, Annie thought, they must have taken the sweets, but on the other hand, it doesn’t make sense to have two winners and two doors leading to the same place. She stepped timidly forward and opened the third door. The door led her to her mother and Mr. Garson. “I do not understand.” - Annie said. “You won, little lady.” - Mr. Garson replied. “Where are my friends?” “Right there.” - He pointed to the left, and when she looked she saw them angry that they had lost. - “One lost in the beginning when he took the candy from a stranger. The other lost when he decides to go through the vampire. Only you chose boldly and wisely and that’s why you get all the sweets!” “I’m proud of you, dove!” - Her mother kissed her. - “Let’s go home now.”

0m4h97

The Grocery Clerk

I have arrived at work for another day of being a cashier. There are certain aspects of my job I truly enjoy but then again here comes Mrs. Highsmith to my checkout stand. She always lets her kids open the chips eat them and hide the bag before paying. Today I am going to tell her its company policy to pay for all goods before consumption. Hi Mrs. Highsmith. Hello Sandra. Steph sit down. Roger leave your sister alone. Margie get out from under the basket immediately. Did you hear me Margie? Don't make me call your name again. Mrs. Highsmith your kids have... Yes, Sandra. Stop it Steph. You are going to fall out of the basket. I already told you once. Aaaahhh said Mrs. Highsmith in desperation. You were saying Sandra? Oh, oh nothing Mrs. Highsmith. Do you want paper or plastic? Neither Sandra. I brought my own bags. Okay, Mrs. Highsmith. Enjoy your day. Oh, no! Here comes Mr. Long. He is well known around town. He is a retired school music teacher whose school had one of the best marching bands in town. His school band won many competitions in their heyday. He always brings a bag of change to pay for his groceries. Today I will tell him to please use another form of payment. Glad to see you Sandra. Mighty strange weather we've been having. I know. "It is suppose to warm up later in the week," said Sandra. You know Sandra I can't wait to show you some of my new pennies from 1965 and 1955. I just pulled them out of my collection this morning and cleaned them up. Well, you know Mr. Long it would be easier if, if... If what Sandra? Well, I can'[t wait to see those pennies. Sandra looks up and spots Mrs. Harris. She loves to tell long monologues about what happened when she was young. I'll just move her groceries fast and tell her I have to go to break. Hi Mrs. Harris. Hello, Sandra. It is so good to see you. You look like you're losing weight Sandra. You know in 1985 I had my own catering service. I ran it for nine years. I accidentally slipped on some flour one day, broke my hip in two places and I was out of commission for three months. After rehab I decided I would hang up my apron and find a job that required more sit time. Sandra you know what I decided to become a seamstress! You keep looking at your watch Sandra. Do you need to go somewhere? Oh yes, no, no. It's a new watch. I'm just excited about it. Very nice, Sandra. Very nice. Oh, I see your line is getting quite long. I guess I'll see you next week. Remind me to tell you about my seamstress work. "I can't wait Mrs. Long", Sandra answered dryly. Suddenly a loud gum popping sound can be heard from across the store. It is getting louder and louder as the customer approaches. It is none other than my classmate from high school, Tameka. She always stands in line popping, smacking and blowing bubbles before choosing three new flavors of gum for the week. She has to pick up almost every brand shuffle them around and leave it in a mess for me to have to straighten up later. Today I will tell her to please straighten the gum packages and put them in the same place they were in before. Pop, pop, smack, smack, smack....pop. Hi Sandra Can I help you find something Tameka? No, Sandra. You all have the same old brands that you had last week. Smack, pop. I might have to start going to another store. Oh, another store probably would have a wider selection for your taste Tameka. I don't know Sandra. This is the third store I've been to today and I haven't found a very good selection at any of them. Pop, pop, pop....smack. I guess I'll go with these three packages. Tameka do you think you could.... Pop. What! Oh just...... Pop, pop what Sandra? Never mind. That will be three fifty. Suddenly Sandra spots Mrs. Smith. She always forgets at least three items and wants someone to go and find them for her. Does she ever make a list? Does she realize that by holding up the line I have a bunch of angry customers behind her ready to bite my head off when its finally their turn. Please don't pick my line today Mrs. Smith. Why me? WHY ME? Here she comes. I am going to tell her I am short on helpers today. Sandra I am so glad to see you. I have been all over this store looking for chicken bouillons. I went down aisle three twice. I went down aisle four three times. No luck. No luck at all. You know Sandra this store seems to be getting bigger and bigger every time I come. They also keep moving stuff around. I think I need to put in a complaint to your corporate office to leave stuff where I can find it or hand out maps. My feet are tired by the time I do all this walking in this store and today I have on heels. Can you imagine how my corns on my feet are aching Sandra? Anyway, Sandra, can you please have someone find the chicken bouillons for me and I just remembered I need napkins and toilet paper. I am down to two rolls. Two rolls does not go far in my house. Mrs. Smith we are very, very..... Sandra, I am so pressed for time. Please call someone for me. I have to get home and get out of these shoes. You will hear my feet hollering any minute now. Will do Mrs. Smith. I will get someone right on it. Thank you so much dear. My manager approaches and says heavenly words to me. Sandra you are on break in ten minutes.

q9lsp0

Pause before passing the judgement

Once upon a time in a jungle near the Nile , all the animals and birds lived happily and harmoniously. One day a crow named Kalu happened to pass from there. He was amazed to see that peace prevailed in such a big place. One bad habit of telling lies had already been proven disastrous for him. He had lost his family and friends and all relationships due to this one habit and he was kicked out of his own house by his family members. So he was searching a new place and wanted to build a new house and when he came across this jungle, he decided to live there. Parrot was the watchman and informed about anyone who came to the jungle and so when he saw the crow he straight away went to the lion's denParrot: " O my king ! Lion please come out . I've a news , a strange crow has come in our jungle. " Lion came out and opened his eyes wide and exclaimed: " What! A strange crow ! But crows don't live here in this jungle. It has never been observed that the crows have lived here . They love the city areas . There they get cooked meals and many tasty dishes which are not available here at all. Please confirm your news and then come again. Go and look over and enquire as to why has the crow come." Parrot:" As the Mighty orders , shall be enquired. I'll do proper research and then come again with full information. Till then have a good day." Parrot went away thinking about the whereabouts of the crow and decided to talk with him and get the required information. He met a monkey on the way and the monkey just started to chatter about the crow , he said: " Dear parrot , you're the watchman of this jungle and you need to see who comes in it . A bad black crow has entered inside our territory and you're roaming about here and there, it's really irresponsible of you. And I have come to know from my resources that this crow is a very good liar.Our place is peaceful and happy and I won't tolerate any mischief done here . So please come with me to the lion and we'll talk about this." Parrot: " I understand you , my dear friend, I've seen the crow and I went to the lion to inform about this but he said to know the matter fully and then come to the conclusion." Monkey : " I know the matter and I'm coming with you , let's go. " Parrot and monkey were going to the lion's den and on the way they met the cute little squirrel and she told them that she had seen a crow in their jungle . And said : " My friend who lives in the city told me about one crow who has been caught telling lies without any reason. His family has thrown him out and he's searching another place . It is possible that this crow is that same one."Monkey chattered: " Yes this is that same one. " Now the squirrel also joined them. On the way further, they met beautiful Peacock and told him about the crow . Peacock:" Oh my God! What are you saying? We have to be careful not to listen to that crow at all and to maintain our harmony . I'm coming with you too."All of them went to lion and called him . The lion came out and roared: " what's all this noise about ? And dear parrot I told you to come to me after proper verification of your statement, then why have you come along so fast and that too with all of these?Parrot: " Your majesty we are here to inform you about the truth of that crow. As we have come to know from our reliable sources that the crow is kicked out off from his house as of his habit of telling lies and that can even prove to be harmful and he doesn't realize his mistakes. So when his own family doesn't want to live with him, then why should we risk our lives ? We must kick him out of here now ."Lion paused for a long time and then calmly said : " Listen to me , I'm concerned about all the members of our jungle from the smallest to the largest and as you all know that I'm kind and considerate so give me one chance to teach this crow a good life long lesson."All of them agreed . The lion told the parrot to keep a watch on the crow and see that the crow doesn't come near his den as they were discussing the plan of action for teaching the lesson to the Liar crow.After the discussion all dispersed. The next morning the cock woke up and to his surprise he saw that crow had been awake before him. He asked the crow: " I'm supposed to get up first in the morning and what's the reason that you're awake at this time ? Here in this jungle everyone wakes up after my voice is heard and you have broken this rule so you need to be punished. I'll go and complain about this to the lion ."The crow said sadly: " Go and complain and get me out of this jungle at once. I'm not scared of being kicked out from anywhere now as I have experienced it before and that has made me strong enough to handle all the odds. " as he said this he began to cry loudly and his voice getting louder with the next sentence. Soon the animals and birds of the jungle came there as they heard the sad voice and they were deeply shocked to see the crow crying. Parrot asked : " What's the reason for crying so loudly? Has anybody hurt you? Or something happened with you? "Cock uttered: " Nothing has happened. It's just the way God has made him to tell the lies and get mercy and make mischief thenafter. "Squirrel interrupted: " please, we need to listen to him first and please don't start judging him. We must have a kind ear towards all. We have been taught to be kind and merciful to each creature. "Monkey jumped out from the tree and shook the tree on which the crow was sitting. The crow was completely shaken off by such movement. He was scared and that was seen from his face. He began to cry more louder and this time too loud that it reached the lion's den. The lion came out , roared and as fast as he could, he came to that place. He was concerned about the crow and he thought that someone might have hurt him and so he was worried. When he came he asked the reason and when he was told that the crow was not hurt at all and that the lion's instructions were followed strictly , he became angry and asked the crow the reason for creating such a situation in the early morning. The crow started his story : " Your majesty, I have known from years that you're the world's most kind and generous king amongst all. I appreciate you and respect you and also that you have not kicked me out from this jungle. I am really grateful to you for giving me the shelter and allowing me to eat and drink as I wish . I wish that my family members too learn something from you and also the residents of the city area . If you allow me to tell my story , I want to share my life story in the city. " The lion agreed to listen and the crow started his story: " Dear friend, I know that you all have believed in your friend's information which they provided you about me, but believe me it's the half truth. I'm not a liar , I have a good sixth sense ability to know the future and so I keep helping the people around me and when they are helped and saved, instead of thanking me, they blame me for misguiding them but never try to understand that I didn't let anything happen to them by warning them in advance. As they were warned , they took care and were saved from the tragedy. "The lion asked him to go into detail of what he was trying to say . The crow began: " I would like to show with an example for the better understanding. Suppose I see misfortune coming in the life of the parrots living here and then I warn them of the hunters and those who make the parrots their pets. So after knowing this , the parrots will definitely keep an eye around so as to save themselves and when they will see the hunters or any such people around they will definitely hide and won't come out until they see that the hunters have gone and now they are safe. Isn't it true Mr. Parrot? What would you do in such case? Please come ahead and tell. "Parrot said : " Yes we have to save our life we will hide and see what happens and we would definitely thank you as because of your sense of seeing danger saved us. But then why the city people and even your family doesn't understand such a simple thing.?"Crow: " I explained them as I explained to you but they are biased and they only look for the bad things in all and not the good ones." "But what is bad in this example? " asked the lion. The crow answered: " You have never visited the city area so you're not aware of their thinking patterns. They always see what has been wronged and not what is going right. As when I say don't eat that food as I have suspicion about that and they believe but when they don't get other food they blame me that because of me they have to remain hungry and that food could be eaten. And when they go there again the food is not seen so they say that someone ate and nothing happened and that also they have no idea who ate and where is he now and what happened but still they blame me for that reason but never say that because of me they are still alive otherwise nobody knows what would have happened. "The animals and birds of the jungle listened to the sad story and began to weep . The lion said to the monkey and the parrot: " My dear friends monkey and parrot you need to go to the city with the crow and explain this simple fact to them. " The crow took the monkey and parrot with him to his house and knocked the door. The door opened and when they saw the crow they all tried to push him away saying : " You unlucky crow , you spoiled our lives . You just never stop telling the lies and harassing people and why have you come again? Go get out of here. We don't want to see your face at all. " The parrot interrupted: " May I come in ? " The crow's family asked why had he come with the crow? The parrot replied: " Please listen to me, as you all have faith in God so do we have and just tell me one thing that whenever this crow tells you about something bad that may happen in your life, don't you believe him? " they said : " Yes we do but now no more of that."Parrot said :" The crow just wants you to save from the troubles and you also get saved. But after that you blame the crow for telling lies because nothing bad happened with you. So do you want that something must happen in order to be proved that the crow is telling the truth? "They said : " What do you mean?" Monkey peeped from the hole and said :" Here I am, I'll destroy your nest. Do whatever you can to save yourself. "They were scared and thought that the monkey will really destroy their nest so they flew away to another tree with the kids.The parrot went to the tree with them and said : " Look , the monkey didn't destroy the nest . Now it surely means that he was telling a lie and so he must be punished and also to prove that he is telling the truth he must compulsorily destroy your nest and then you'll believe that the monkey is a true person. Isn't it? "The parrot went to the tree with them and said : " Look , the monkey didn't destroy the nest . Now it surely means that he was telling a lie and so he must be punished and also to prove that he is telling the truth he must compulsorily destroy your nest and then you'll believe that the monkey is a true person. Isn't it? "" Oh my God!" exclaimed all . They realized their mistake and felt sorry and asked for forgiveness and the crow did forgive them. They all thanked the parrot and the monkey for making them realize where they were wrong and that too in a civilized manner. Then they came to the jungle to say special thanks to the lion for reuniting them with their family member and teaching a good lesson kindly to them. Moral: Before passing a judgment , stop for a while, listen attentively and try to understand what others are telling. Be slow , kind and considerate so that your misunderstandings do not ruin your relationship.

l4tfrc

The Red Top

Rohan looked at his watch for what seemed like the millionth time, a movement that was not lost on his wife Sonal. “Why do you keep doing that? It won’t make the flight land any faster!” Sonal said with some irritation. “And stop shaking your leg so vigorously!” He made a noncommittal sound and picked up a magazine. They were in the airport lounge, waiting for his father Shankar’s flight to land. It was his father’s first trip out of India, but that was not the only reason for Rohan’s nervousness. He had drifted emotionally apart from Shankar ever since he had chosen to work in the Silicon Valley, California six years earlier. Shankar, who had been a scientist at the Indian Space Research Organization or ISRO for short, had hoped that Rohan would follow in his footsteps. Rohan’s choice of settling for a well-paying, comfortable job in a foreign country had disappointed his father for three reasons: firstly, Rohan was not working for the betterment of his country of birth by choosing to settle abroad; secondly, Rohan would not be there for his parents in their old age, something that was expected from every Indian son; thirdly, neither Shankar nor his wife would be able to watch their grandchild grow or be involved in its upbringing. Rohan on the other hand believed his father’s ideas to be outdated and in his opinion, he had only done what any smart young person would do—he had secured his future, and the future of his wife and yet to be born child. The relationship had grown even more strained after the passing of Rohan’s mother the previous year. She was the one who had forced them to talk over Skype every week, even if the conversations had barely lasted a minute. Barring the time Rohan had declared his intention of taking up a job in the US and moving there with his wife and unborn child, there hadn’t been any impassioned fights or exchange of harsh words between the father and son. But they never seemed to share anything meaningful either. They safely avoided topics that could hurt either of their feelings, especially after the way things had gone down that one time, leading to many long, uncomfortable pauses in the conversation. He checked his watched again, and with a jolt realised that it was well past 2 am! That meant the flight would land any minute now. As they hurried towards the international arrivals gate, Rohan’s eyes were anxiously scanning the faces of people. When he spotted his father, he felt his stomach clench. How could he manage to look exactly the same year after year, Rohan wondered! Shankar was wearing his trademark white, half-sleeved cotton shirt, was still tall and unbent, and his large white moustaches were still the most prominent aspect of his face. But when he got closer, Rohan noticed that the lines around his eyes had gotten deeper and he looked fatigued. He was seized by a sudden pang of guilt. It must have been really difficult for the old man after the death of his wife. How was he managing on his own? But he quickly squashed down his feelings; now was not the time to ponder over them. Besides, he had tried to make Shankar come and live with them, but he had stubbornly refused. What else could Rohan do? “Hope the flight wasn’t too uncomfortable?” Rohan said in the way of a greeting as he helped Shankar with his luggage. “It was quite alright, thank you.” Shankar said. The father and son stood awkwardly for a minute, looking at each other till Sonal intervened. “Shall we make a move then? Papa, you must be really tired after that long flight!” She said, ushering her father-in-law and husband out of the airport. “Aryan is very excited that you will be here for his sixth birthday! It is all he has been talking about the whole of last week!” Sonal smiled at Shankar, catching his eye in the rear-view mirror. Shankar smiled and nodded. He was eager to spend time with his grandson. *** The next morning, Shankar woke up feeling dazed and disoriented. He heard a murmur of voices right outside his room. “But why can’t I wake Grandpa up?” “Because he is tired from his long flight.” “But I want to talk to him!” “Come on down and help me make breakfast!” “But Mom...” “Enough Aryan! Your Grandpa needs his rest.” Shankar heard Aryan dragging his feet, making as much noise as he could, as he headed down. Since he was just as eager to meet his grandchild, he hurriedly freshened up and headed downstairs. “Grandpa!!!” Aryan launched himself at Shankar with a squeal of delight and hugged him tightly. As Shankar lifted him high in the air, he felt tears prick the back of his eyes. But he belonged to a generation where tears, especially when shed by men, were considered a sign of weakness. So he hastily swallowed them as he set Aryan down. “You are growing like a weed!” He said, as he surveyed the thin little brown-eyed boy in his rocketship pajamas. “I’m almost as tall as you now!” Aryan bragged as only a child can, standing on the tips of his toes, trying to make himself as tall as possible. The top of his head barely reached up to Shankar’s waist. Shankar picked him up again and held him up high in the air. “Now you are taller than me!” Shankar said as Aryan wiggled his legs and laughed. After a while, they both settled themselves down at the kitchen table, with Aryan chatting nonstop. “I hope we didn’t wake you up with all the noise,” Sonal said with an apologetic smile. “Oh no, no! I was already awake!” “Breakfast won’t be long. Coffee?” “Thank you, yes please.” Shankar said, accepting the cup of strong black coffee. “So Rohan is still asleep then?” “No, he stepped out very early today. Had to go to the office.” “I didn’t know he worked on Saturdays.” “Papa goes to work on Saturday sometimes,” Aryan chimed in, drawing Shankar’s attention back to him. He was sitting on the chair next to Shankar with his feet dangling, not happy to be ignored by his Grandpa for even a minute. “Mom is going to make upma for breakfast today. I wanted to have chocobombs and milk, but she only lets me have it as a special treat.” “Your mom is a clever woman.” “I am clever too! Look at my school report! Mom put it up on the ‘fridge! I got an A+ on spelling! With Aryan talking a mile a minute, Shankar didn’t have to do much to keep the conversation going. As a result, he found himself wondering if his son had stepped out of his home so early in order to avoid him. The look on his face seemed to have given Sonal some clue, for she reassured him. “This is a really busy time for Rohan, with his promotion due in a few weeks.” “Oh. Right.” Shankar hid his disappointment. He had made this trip with the purpose of repairing the relationship with his son. But if he worked on weekends, when would he have the time to talk to him? His wife’s passing had made him realise how uncertain life was. “Grandpa! Grandpa!” Aryan was tugging on his shirt, wanting his sole attention. “Yes Aryan?” He said with a wide grin on his face. If his son couldn’t spare the time, he would at least enjoy his time with his grandson. “It is my birthday in three weeks!” Aryan said with an excited grin. The boy looked tremendously adorable, having lost both his front teeth. “I know!” “Have you brought special gifts for me?” Aryan demanded. “But of course I have!” “It is a remote-controlled car? Is it shiny and red?” Aryan was practically bouncing up and down in the chair. “No! It is something better!” Shankar winked conspiratorially. “Something better?” What is it Grandpa? Is it an airplane that flies? Please tell me pleeeeeeeeassssee!” “Aryan, stop bothering him!” Sonal chided Aryan, looking apologetically at Shankar. “Never mind, Sonal! This young man will have to wait and see, won’t he?” The day of Aryan’s birthday party had finally arrived. That also meant that Shankar would be flying back to India the following day. Rohan had been tremendously busy throughout the duration of Shankar’s stay with them, spending up to twelve hours at work. The only time they spent any time together was in the mornings when Rohan had a hurried breakfast. On the morning of Aryan’s birthday, Shankar was surprised to see Rohan getting ready for work. “Dad, are you going to work today too?” Aryan could not keep the disappointment out of his voice. “I’m sorry, Aryan. I will come back in time for the party I promise,” Rohan said, ruffling the boy’s hair. “But Dad...” “And you know what? On my way back, I also have to get the very special gift I have ordered for you. They have been keeping it at the store you know,” Rohan winked at his son. “Whoa! Is it extra special?” “You bet!” “Alright then! But you promise to be back for the party?” “Of course! Now be a good boy and help Mom!” With a slight nod in his father’s direction, Rohan rushed out of the house. *** The party had been a tremendous success. Sonal had set up an inflatable pool in their backyard, there had been water fights with balloons and water pistols, the kids had the run of the place, and they hugely enjoyed themselves. After the guests departed, Aryan eagerly pounced on his presents.  Rohan had been only a little late to the party, but after opening his birthday gift, which was a battery-operated flying airplane, Aryan had forgiven his father and hugged him tightly. “Grandpa look! Dad got me a ‘plane! Can we fly it now please?” “It is quite dark now Aryan. We will do it tomorrow!” “Grandpa, you have forgotten to give me your gift!” “Right you are! Come on in! It is time to give your gifts!” Grandfather and grandson walked back into the house, with Aryan holding Shankar’s hand. Shankar opened his suitcase and pulled out an old cloth bag. Aryan was puzzled. In his experience, special toys came out of shiny new packets, not old bags. “Come on! Sit down with me!” Shankar and Aryan sat cross-legged on the carpet. One by one, Shankar proceeded to pull out handmade wooden toys. There was a horse that rocked to and fro on its base. There were girl dolls with colourful sarees painted on them and boy dolls with turbans on their heads. There were immaculately painted houses, a small train, many multi-coloured doughnut like rings of different sizes, a cow who had wheels instead of feet, and also some bright yellow ducks. And there was a shiny red spinning top. Whilst all the toys showed some signs of wear, it was nonetheless evident that they had been lovingly preserved. Aryan looked at the spread before him with an unsure look on his face. “Grandpa? What are these toys? Are you sure that they’re better than a flying ‘plane?” But Shankar hadn’t heard him. He gently picked up the wooden cow with a tender smile on his face. “I got his particular toy for your dad when he was only two. He tied a string around its neck and dragged it behind him everywhere! Look how these wheels have been worn smooth! And these colourful rings? I got them for him when he was three. See how they stack up on top of each other so well?” Aryan was fidgeting now, wondering why his grandpa was not answering the all important question. “But Grandpa, how are these better than a ‘plane?” Shankar looked into the solemn eyes staring up at him and smiled. “Because my dear, with a little use of your imagination, it is like playing with a different set of toys every time! This house for instance can be a palace today, and tomorrow it can be a farmhouse with all these farm animals. You can create new worlds for your toys every single day with your mind!” “Cool! Can the farmhouse be near a train station? Then this train can pass through!” Aryan was warming towards the wooden toys now. “Of course! Whatever you want!” “That is awesome! Where did you get these toys from Grandpa?” “There is a town call Channapatna, near Bangalore where these special toys are made. When I was in ISRO, I made frequent trips to the town, to buy these toys for your dad. He was crazy about them. All these toys belonged to your Dad!” Aryan’s eyes went round. “Really? Then these toys must be at least a gazillion years old!” Shankar let out a laugh. “They are old, but well loved,” Shankar said, pinching the boy’s cheek. “Which was Dad’s favourite toy?” Shankar picked up the shiny red spinning top and cradled it in the palm of his hand, stroking the smooth surface with his thumb. His eyes had gone misty and his voice was thick as he answered. “This top.” “But what does it do?”  “You pick it up like this and release it like so with a little flick!” With a skilled movement, Shankar let the top loose on the uncarpeted bit of the floor, so that it spun on its pointy end. Delighted, Aryan clapped his hands. “Can I try?” “Sure, go ahead!” On his first two tries, the top just fell limply on its side. But on his third try, it gave a little spin. “Did you see that? Did you? Did you?” “Yes! You are a natural at it! Just like your dad!” “Did he used to play with it all the time?” Aryan asked. “He used to love playing with it! So much so that I had to take it away from him till he finished his school work!” Aryan giggled when he heard that.  “Did you play with Dad too like you play with me?” “We spent hours in his playroom, making up stories around these toys!” “Cool! Now that you have brought them here, I hope he plays with me too, like he used to. Thank you Grandpa! I love your gifts and I love you!” Aryan hugged Shankar, and then ran out of the room with the spinning top in his hand, to show it to his mother. He did not see Rohan, who had pressed himself against the door. But Shankar had spotted him. “I hope you don’t mind,” Shankar said addressing Rohan as he gathered the toys and started placing them back in the bag. “It seemed apt that I get these for Aryan.” When Shankar looked up at Rohan, he was shocked to see tears streaming down his face. Rohan, who had followed Shankar and Aryan into the house to satisfy his curiosity, had overheard the whole exchange between Shankar and Aryan. As Shankar had pulled out toy after toy from the cloth bag, Rohan had vividly remembered the long rainy afternoons he had spent with Shankar in his playroom. Shankar had never grown tired of playing the same game over and over again, spinning the top again and again, even though now as a father himself, he realised how much patience that must have required. “I am sorry Dad!” he said and rushed in to hug Shankar. “I am sorry too, Rohan!” Shankar said, hugging him back, patting him on his shoulder. And the man who had been raised to believe that tears were a sign of weakness could not stop them from leaking from his eyes. Strangely, he did not feel like stopping their flow. It was the first time in six years that his son had hugged him. “You have been the best possible father anyone could have. And I have been selfish! I chose to do what I wanted! I chose my needs over yours! I will do anything you want! I will come back to India! We have already wasted enough time as it is!” Shankar and Rohan sat down on the bed, with Shankar’s arm around Rohan’s shoulder, the father comforting the son. “But Rohan, I have been selfish too! It was wrong of me to hope that you will give up your dreams, give up something you had worked really hard for. It was wrong of me to try and impose my views on you!” “I will do whatever it takes Dad. None of this matters if we don’t spend enough time together. None of this is worth it.” “I am a retired scientist who has no obligations. You on the other hand are an active member of the workforce. So what makes sense, you giving everything up or this old man coming here every year for a long visit?” “Do you really mean it Dad?” “Yes, Son, I do. As I have already said, it was wrong of me to impose my way of thinking on you. But Rohan, you are missing out on spending time with Aryan. Remember, at your job you are dispensable, but for your family, you are not.” “I was spending longer hours at work partly to avoid you,” Rohan confessed sheepishly. For a minute, Shankar’s eyes widened in surprise, and then to Rohan’s relief, he guffawed loudly. Rohan started laughing as well! “What a sorry pair we are,” Shankar said after a while when he had caught his breath. They sat in silence for a while, listening to Aryan’s excited voice as he told his mother about the toys. That night as the three men slept, they strangely had the same dream: of a shining red top that spun and spun on its pointed end.  

sq8dzo

The Last Throw

It was after midnight, and she clutched it in her fist. It was old and worn out, but so was she. She had no problem seeing her way as the night was cloudless and the moon so bright you could see colors. When her feet left the soft grass of her backyard and came in cold contact with the weathered wood of the pier, she turned back to see if he was still coming. He was, and had started to pick up his pace, closing the gap. She could scarcely see through her tears as she hurried towards the lake. In the quiet of the night, the only sounds were her beating heart and his footfalls, now at a dead run behind her. Finally at her destination, she reared back and launched the spherical object with all her might toward the misty water. She had done all she could, the rest wasn’t up to her. Deidra didn’t want the dog. She had made that fact abundantly clear, yet she had been outvoted 6-1. It was as if her parents and four older brothers had forgotten Mosby in an instant, swayed by a wagging tail and a few well-timed licks to the face. It wasn't that she didn’t like dogs — she loved them — but she had no place in her heart for the lab puppy wreaking havoc on the living room floor. Deidra, unlike her brothers, was consumed with despair, disguised as anger, at the sight of the new puppy and the sound of laughter that now filled the house. When the canine interloper—worn out by all the attention—climbed into Mosby’s dog bed, carefully preserved next to Deidra’s chair, it was a bridge too far. “Get out!” she screamed, pulling the bed from beneath the family’s newest member. “That’s not yours,” she continued, her voice an unsteady whisper, before standing and taking both the treasure and her heartbreak into her bedroom. It had been barely a month since Deidra, from that same chair, had looked down at her beloved Mosby. She noticed he was too tired and weak to return her glance and made him two very specific promises. “I won’t let them do it to you, boy,.” she said, almost believing that somehow her dog knew what the others were planning. They had broken that first promise, but they had no control over the second. “There will never be another,” Deidra assured him, stroking her best friend's fur. Mosby managed to raise his head and gently lick Deidra’s hand, before curling up and falling back to sleep. * * * * * * Lab puppies, even ones you ignore, don’t stay small for long. After barely four months, Milo had already started to grow into his feet. He never wanted for companionship; after all, he had four teenage boys competing daily for his attention. Yet, it was Deidra he sought out relentlessly. Smart beyond his years, Milo instinctively knew Deidra didn’t like him. A lesser dog would have seen the fruitfulness of the quest and attached himself to one of the boys, but not Milo. For reasons unknown, he loved Deidra as much as she despised him. He sought her out regularly. Each morning, just after sunrise, he would sneak into Deidra’s room to lick her face. “Get out!” she would yell while Milo barked and wagged his tail with joy. He would also bypass the rest of the family, making a point to lay on Deidra’s feet during movie nights. Undeterred when she would try to kick him away, Deidra would pull her legs underneath her in the chair to avoid Milo’s advancements. None of his antics worked, until the day Milo found a new tennis ball. It was early spring and Deidra was in her favorite lounger by the lake, the one she shared with Mosby at sunset. There was an unwritten rule that when she made her way to that private spot, Deidra wanted to be alone. That rule was dutifully respected by her family, but Milo couldn’t care less. He had a brand new tennis ball, and he wanted to play. At first Milo trotted up, proudly laying the ball at her feet, annoying Deidra to no end. She kicked it away. Delighted by the new game, Milo retrieved it, brought it back, and waited for her next move. This time, Deidra picked up the ball and threw it towards the house. In a flash he had the ball back in his mouth, before turning and racing to Deidra, once again dropping it at her feet. Anger boiled up inside her and, in a fit of rage, Deidra grabbed the ball, ran down the pier, and flung it as far as she could into the lake.  As she watched the ball sail through the air, she felt a rush as Milo raced by her and jumped off the pier. Deidra watched with amazement as Milo, in full flight, caught the ball in his mouth before disappearing into the water with a giant splash. When he returned to the surface, Milo had the ball firmly clutched between his bright white teeth. It was almost as if he knew what he had done and was grinning right at her. Deidra couldn’t help but laugh. Milo had torn down the walls guarding her heart with a single smile wrapped around a fuzzy yellow tennis ball. From that day forward, Milo was Deidra’s dog. He spent most days at her feet. Then, each night just before sundown, the two would head to the pier where Milo would prove that Deidra could never outthrow his jump and that he could never outgrow her love.   Different dog breeds have different lifespans, but each breed and each span have one thing in common: there’s never enough time. In the blink of an eye, twelve years passed. One day at sunset when Deidra threw the ball towards the lake, to her dismay, it fell into the water, without intervention. Instead of running down the pier with his usual vigor, Milo simply sat down next to her, looking up as if to say, “I can’t do it anymore.” His eyes never left Deidra as, for the first time, she waded into the water to retrieve her best friend’s treasure. A trip to the vet confirmed Deidra’s worst fears. Milo was in pain; it was his time. In an instant, Deidra was transported back to Mosby’s last day and the memory of her friend dying in an unfamiliar room—the victim of a broken promise. That wasn’t the way a good dog should die. After many tears and lots of bargaining, the family decided to give Milo one last day. Deidra’s parents and brothers wanted time to say goodbye, but Deidra and Milo had other plans.  It was after midnight, and Deidra had the ball clutched in her fist. It was old and worn out, but so was she. As she flung the ball towards the lake, Milo summoned the strength for one last jump. Ignoring the pain, he raced by Deidra and, just like he had on that first day, caught the ball in his mouth right before he hit the water. When he emerged from the lake, in the bright moonlight, Deidra could see her friend with the faded yellow ball in his mouth. Once again, it appeared as if he were smiling at her before he slipped back under the water. Deidra watched intently as the ripples in the lake slowly smoothed. Milo, the lake jumping dog, was right where he belonged. “Hey Mosby,” Deidra said, her heart broken in two again, “take care of Milo until I get there.” Then, not wanting to leave that sacred space, she sat down on the end of the pier and wept.

o09j7r

MUM'S LAND

It had been twenty-four years since she’d last seen it, but the place looked exactly the same. The long, muddy driveway leading up to the huge litchi tree right in front of the main entrance of the main house, with plumpy, red fruit gravitating towards the fence-less balcony on the upper floor. As she stepped out off her cousin, Sid’s, 1994 Toyota Corolla (the first new thing she identified), her foot went: “puch!” Her new Puma takkies were initiated with chocolate coating of the puddle she stepped into. “Oh, well,” she struggled in annoyance, knowing very well that this was what she should expect for the rest of her visit. Sid, whom she remembered as a puny, shy and extremely quiet young lad, ran around the car and held opened the door, emphatically repeating: “I’m so sorry Juliette. I will clean up your shoes immediately.” “It’s ok,” came Juliette’s irritated reply. Outside in the yard was a little crowd, waiting with loving smiles. She could see little ones eagerly emerging from different doors. The smell of spicy, home cooked curry reached her nose as she received the traditional kisses on both cheeks from each of her aunts, uncles, cousins, nieces and nephews (the second new observance from twenty-four years ago). “That’s Aunt Juliette from overseas in France,” she heard the children whisper to each other with a thrill, making her feel like a fairy God mother of some sort. “Come, come… let’s go inside,” chided the ladies as she was whisked in and made to sit at the table. Everyone else found a spot in the kitchen to stand and continue the rapid fire round of questions. “How’s your father? How is Mahi? How’s work? How was the flight? Are you tired? What did you eat on the flight? How long was the journey? You came through Paris? After how many years are you coming to Mauritius?” Juliette very politely answered with a smile on her face, although all she really wanted was to have a hot shower, put on her pyjamas and snuggle up. “Ok you wash up and we will serve lunch,” requested her eldest aunt, the wife of her mum’s brother. The food smelled divine but she wasn’t too hungry. however, realising that it may be best to eat immediately so that she could leave for her hotel sooner. A newly opened soap bar and a brand new towel was left at the sink for her, and by the time she returned, a small feast was laid out on kitchen table. “Here, eat,” said almost everyone there excited for her to sample each of their special dishes. “There was only one plate on the table, but she insisted that everyone eat with her. Finally, all the children were given a seat at the table, while their mum’s filled their plates directly from the pots. The food on the table was reserved strictly for Juliette. Everyone else stood around chatting and drank half-filled glasses of cool-drink. It was a pure vegetarian meal, seeing that it was Tuesday, one of the fasting days observed by the family. “Oh dammit!” she had forgotten about that tradition. “Some things never change”, she squealed in her mind. It turned out to be one of the most heavenly lunches she had ever enjoyed. This was followed by a tour of each her uncle’s houses. Downstairs was the eldest uncle who renovated one of the rooms when his eldest son got married about four years before. Her mom’s second brother lived upstairs and his family had new curtains, and a new lounge suite to proudly show off to her. And her youngest uncle lived right next door. If you stood between the houses you could touch the two brother’s houses with your outstretched arms. Dusk was setting in and the over-enthusiastic welcome wasn’t quite over. She was escourted to her bedroom, where her suitcase was already neatly kept next to the antique wardrobe that she clearly remembered from two decades before. The freshly painted lilac walls glistened as they switched on the light to reveal the brand new light fitting, which was chosen by her Sid’s wife. Lilac curtains with grey embroidery danced softly as the breeze swished in though the half-opened window. The bed was covered with a new cotton bed spread, in red paisley. Juliette was born in France, two years after her parents got married. Her mother had emigrated from Mauritius and her father, an only child, was a thoroughbred Frenchman. So, she is a French woman with an Indian face, and her mother made sure that they followed some of the Indian traditions and culture too. The Indian in her loved the paisley, but the French in her thought for just a brief moment, “red?” She turned to Sid and with her eyes asked him what was going on. He clearly didn’t inform the family that she had booked a hotel for her stay. She wanted to have some first-world comfort during her stay. Sid took a deep, heavy breath and turned to his mother. “Ma, Juliette will be staying at a hotel.” “Hotel!!!” cried out her aunt in disbelief. “No, no no…no hotel. You can’t come to Mauritius and stay in a hotel. I will not hear of it. This is your mother’s home. It is your home. You will stay here for as long as you want. Cancel the hotel.” This outburst was supported by her other two aunts. Before she knew it her bags were unpacked and she was in their bathroom, trying to wash her jet-lagged hair using their ancient low-pressured shower. As the lukewarm water poured over her, she wished it was hotter, but she closed her eyes and relived her first day. She realised that it was a losing battle and she was destined to spend the next two weeks in this overcrowded, mosquito-laden hamlet. “It’s weird”, she thought, “I tried so hard to keep in touch with these cousins all my teenage years. And there was never a reply to any of my letters. Not even a card for Christmas. Phone calls were reserved for special occasions only. And the moment I learnt of Facebook and WhatsApp, I did everything possible to rekindle our dying relationship. It hurt that no one else was interested. It hurt hard. My friends told me to give up but I couldn’t. I wanted to know my family from my mother’s country. My ‘motherland’, she laughed. Mahi and I had no family there in France. When we visited Mauritius as children we did not see the ‘third-worldness’ about the island. We were just thrilled to be playing with cousins who were our very own. Then on that last trip, all our pre-teen and teenage hormones made the trip seem ultra-boring. Just sitting around the house wasn’t so much fun anymore. We wanted to go on explorations and adventures in this tropical island that was supposedly ‘paradise’. But it was difficult to travel around by bus in the blazing heat on those uncomfortably, humid days. But, when we did go out briefly, the dirty, cramped streets irritated us beyond measure, so we didn’t bother to accompany mum on any of her trips to Mauritius thereafter. We still adored our cousins, but preferred to chat from afar. But they were always too busy to chat to us. ‘Hey cuz, how are you? How’s the new job going? It’s really hot and humid here in France. Wish we could just dive into one of the gorgeous beaches in Mauritius again. Miss those beach trips. Miss our good times.’ Reply (after a few days): ‘Hi. Am good. Work is fine. Didn’t go to beach in a while. Take care.Bye.’ Ohhhhh how those responses killed me inside. But, I eventually learnt, after some serious water works sessions that left my eyes bloodshot, not to bother at all anymore. And now… just look at how friendly everyone is. What a grand welcome they planned for me. Mum, I miss you more than ever before. How do I deal with this emotional rollercoaster? (And this is not pms)” The next three days she spent chatting to everyone as they went about their daily duties. She spoke to her heart’s content about her mum. She cried. They cried. She video called her sister Mahi and like little kids, the ladies and children relished their first experience of such advanced technology. She could still not understand why her cousins, were so lazy to use stay in touch. There were hundreds of ways to stay connected. Juliette tried her hand at Indian cooking, and with some assistance, her idlis, dalpuri and chutneys (hand ground on the special grinding stone outside) turned out to be “palatable”, the opinion of her cousins (five boys – now men), who used every single the opportunity to playfully tease her. Being a dancer, she used her agility to her advantage by chasing them around the houses until she could dig her fancily manicured designer nails into their skin, or tickled until they screamed out: “SORRY YOU ARE THE BEST COOK.” It was just like when they were kids. Early on Sunday morning the entire family squeezed into the hired mini-van and she held the canister with her mum’s ashes close to her heart. Sid’s wife handed over a CD of Indian devotional songs which they listened to. They stopped on the way to the beach to pick up her only female cousin, Divya from her home.  Silent tears accompanied her throughout the ride. The Hindu songs that played felt like a soothing balm, attempting to gently pacifying the her sore heart. But then, the sitar strings would be pulled in an interlude, and her insides would shatter with the deepest sadness in remembrance that she will never see her mother again. Then a violin piece would once again reveal her mother’s beautiful smile in her mind. The continuous harmonium and tabla played the role of a glue that sub-consciously made her feel a one-ness that she never felt before. They alighted the van, each one hugging her as she stepped out. They walked hand in hand towards the ocean, barefooted. With both her hands, she clenched the little urn to her chest and wailed as the entire family chanted together: “Aum….Aum…Aum…” followed by a series of divine chants. Juliette listened in silence and joined in for those chants that her mother ingrained in her as a child. Sid had his phone on video-call mode so that Mahi and her father could also view and participate in the proceedings of the final ceremony. The energy of their collective prayer gave her the courage to open the red silken scarf that covered the urn. She placed the scarf around her neck for safe-keeping. Red was her mum’s favourite colour. One of her uncles opened the tightly closed lid. She held up the urn, facing it towards the brilliant sun. All hands were held under Juliette’s, and with vibrant chanting, they slowly poured the ashes into the sea. Her mother’s body was at last one with the country of her birth, the country she adored. As the last grains were dusted off with a few taps, her legs became jelly and she landed on sand. The cool water lapped beneath her and she was given some space, with just Divya holding her, to cry until she felt better… By the time she opened her eyes again, she could hear sounds of people laughing in the distance. She was awe-struck by the heavenly sight before her. Crystal blue water over the white sand lapped therapeutically before her, giving her the strength to stand up. Completely mesmerised she, appreciated God’s wondrous creation in way that she never experienced before. A calmness poured into her heart. She knelt and filled her cupped hands with water and splashed her face. A cold flash of energy bolted down her spine. She did it again… and again. Then stood up and smiled. Turning around to her family who were nearby she uttered: “Thank you. Thank you so, so much. I truly appreciate this.” Needless to say, it was another hugging and kissing session once again, until they were stopped by her aunt who shoed everyone aside and placed a plateful of hot biryani in her hands. Taking her hand she was led to a clean spot on the picnic mat. Soon the entire family was enjoying an early lunch in view of the incredible Indian ocean. Ice cold fizzy-drinks were brought out. Emerald green Eski was poured into a paper tumbler for Juliette and they all reminisced on how it was her mum’s favourite Mauritian drink. Her uncles shared childhood stories of her mum. And before long they had joined in the laughter of the others on the beach. A trip like this is never complete until someone is unwillingly dumped into the water, fully clothed off course. It was carefully planned, taking into consideration Juliette’s sprightly body. While Divya distracted Juliette with stories of her husband and the latest updates of her pregnancy, as they went for walk,  three cousins snuck up from behind, carried Julliette by her hands and legs, and with her still wriggling and screaming, they dumped her and ran off. Sid successfully captured the scene on video too. Even in her dripping Punjabi top, she followed up with a chase between the trees, but finally gave up, grabbed another cool-drink and returned with everyone to the mini-van to change into swimming gear. Memories of their childhood trips to the beach came flooding back as the adult cousins played with the ball in the water, ate ice-cream, bought pungent street food, ate more than they could handle, sang loudly on the sticky trip back home and fought to be first in the bathroom. No, Juliette was not given preference because she was no longer an overseas guest. She yawned loudly as she dried her long hair with the hair-drier, looking forward to a long, deep sleep, when she heard a horror movie on in the lounge. Packets of chips, bowls of popcorn and a variety of chocolates was piled onto the coffee table. Divya stayed over too… No one went to work on Monday morning. Their stories didn’t end. On Friday, the mini-van was hired again so that everyone could accompany Juliette to the airport, as well as to accommodate the additional gift-laden suitcase. In the aircraft, as she browsed through her photo gallery with a warmth cuddling her heart, thinking: “I wonder if these useless cousins will keep in touch this time,” the aircraft took off and she smiled. Juliette knew for sure, in the depths of her heart, that she had family in the world, who loved her dearly ... and that was all that mattered.

clyalz

Treat

It is so cold today I wonder what the night is going to be like. We bought so much candy because it is my younger daughter's first trick or treat! At night we will all dress up as characters that we like or fear in order to scare others into wanting to give us candy and a conversation. Halloween should be a holiday. On this day kids and parents walk up and down the streets asking for a treat from neighbors who usually have carved pumpkins that have candles inside to let others know that they could stop by for a treat, if lucky. Some families light bonfires to celebrate not being pranked. It is a celebratory event with games, visiting haunted attractions. Sometimes others watch horror movies in order to celebrate this very previously unknown ritual which has turned into full blown retail sales. In stores, if you are not in a hurry you can look around and see Cashiers and employees in stores who usually are demure would, on this day be in outrageous costumes. There almost always will be a ton of shoppers and nit picking children trying desperately to decide which costume to buy or what character to be for Halloween. Restaurants have started serving themed food which will mock the obsession with death and death like rituals. Some bakers make body parts out of pastries which many find to be funny and fun to eat. My kids are young and do not understand the meaning of this very family celebration which is also a public event. Malls also allow shoppers to stop in for a trick or treat. I am yet to be tricked. I and my kids always get treats and we give treats too if we are home. Once we stopped at a neighbor's house for a trick or treat, alas, there were piles and piles of pizzas, but no-one was home! The door was open. If you enter the house, you would see boxes and boxes of candy and drinks with simmering smoke like a cauldron brew. On the walls were hosts made of skeletal plastic bones which also had smoke coming out of their mouths. Haunting music underscored the movements of all that trotted in the house and masks made of plastic which I bet were remote controlled or used some form of batteries, whistled to those who entered. Who knows for sure, what the whistling was about right? My kids were taken aback by this and we had to stop and let them wonder, touch and feel what seemed to be a haunted house with plastic ghosts and brew. There was even a soul in this house. We did not even know who lived there. We ate their pizza and packed our totes that we carried around to fill our treats with candy. An hour passed and then entered a scary looking tall man in a fox costume. With a scary voice he said "Move along, Move along we have more visitors streaming in." the kids were so scared they flew out of that house and parents some, with strollers, had to rush out to identify their kids in the commotion. With pizzas on one hand and candy on the other kids felt scared enough but also wanted more and more of such treats. The streets are always crowded at this time and it usually lasts the whole night. Even if the kids are going to school the following morning, they still insist on combing the neighborhoods. The sugar high is never something that a parent enjoys to watch as kids douse themselves with candy, skipping dinner or breakfast because sugar is usually okay on this night of all nights which must be knighted as a holiday, Halloween! When I was younger, a stranger with many kids following her waltzed on our streets asking for tricks or treats! I remember being so afraid because then I did not know what Halloween was about. I was so scared at the masks that the kids and the adults wore. The candy that they carried and the sounds that they made as they were also making others feel scared, were confusing to me. It is a childish event. If a dentist could ask everyone to skip this day, I am sure candy would be added on the list of do not eat list because from a young age we are all told that too much candy will make our teeth rot. The day after a Halloween night is so hectic because there would be scores of candy wraps and costumes that some leave behind. The hustling and bustling from the night before suddenly become ancient and it becomes eerily silent. And if you stop at the party supply stores which was brimming with customers the night before as costumes rush to buy costumes and candy, suddenly the store feels vague and a bore. Yet the costumes which might have frightened hanging on the wall the night before, still gaze at you as if they are asking if you want some more. Cashiers return to their old habits no longer in costumes unknown or in characters. It is amazing how groups can agree to do the same thing at the same time. Once done it is as if whatever the group was involved in, never happened. It is the same with Christmas. Everyone agrees that on a given date certain rituals shall take place. How does it help to have a day set aside for candy? It is a dreamy time for children and can be scary for adults especially if kids choose costumes of frightening characters like serial killers or slayers of the night who supposedly hunt for demons that can visit the dark side of our psyche. Indeed it might also challenge Christian values as if one is exposing oneself to evil if not for a moment. I have wondered about that if at all such images disturb the goodness in all of us and what we strive for when we raise our children. Are we celebrating death, the dead, witchcraft because of the way some costumes make us behave. Or it is just candy land and may all who get treats: "Be wise and be prosperous"

q9pgyl

Over the Moon

Over the Moon Ingrid Bacsa-Mott Carlo and Stephan had boarded together for two years in the Derbyshire village of Buxton. They had known one another since they were children and Stephan was always the one that stood out.  Carlo was small and shy and depended on Stefan to support him as a “big brother” at school. They were very different in character, and while Carlo was a serious student, Stefan would always be more popular. Both lads passed their exams with flying colours, but Stefan was always a favourite with their peers, tutors and the opposite sex.  Nevertheless, the two always remained best friends throughout the years. Both of these two young Astronomy students were fascinated by UFO’s and often camped out in the nearby Peak District which offered wide remote spaces where they could venture out and explore the broad expanse of skies at various times of the day and night, often recording unidentified objects and movements across the sky.  On this beautiful autumnal morning they decided to walk along the Lakeside path at Blake Mere to watch the early sunrise and capture its colourful reflections in the lake while they could.   It was early October and the weather would be changing soon to restrict such opportunities.  It was a half hour walk along the length of the lake on the upper west side and every minute of this walking was blessed with the sun’s orange glow reflecting across the surface of the water  as it slowly rose up from the eastern side of the lake.  Carlo had brought his video camera so they were able to record this spectacular sunrise as they strolled along the western edges of the banks.  They put up their tent and ground sheets half way along the westerly shore and proceeded to then set up the camera and video recording equipment pointing the lens towards the pink cloud dappled skies immediately surrounding the huge ascending sun. Carlo was in awe of Stephan, as he had invented a digital telescope, which, although slim and lightweight, was twenty times more powerful than any other telescope before. This invention was not shared with anyone except Carlo as yet and they had planned on trying it out on the night sky that evening, when a full harvest moon was expected.   Carlo greatly admired Stephan and knew he could learn so much from him. Secretly, though, he was just a bit envious of his friend. The two of them relaxed for much of the day, reading and photographing the wildlife around them, frogs, voles and water fowl of various species. In the afternoon, after having cheese and ham sandwiches, they studied and did their homework together. They joked and teased one another about the females they were grouped with at the University. Stephan always attracted the prettier girls. From 6:30 p.m. onwards, a dramatic sunset was in full flush to the west, so Carlo proceeded to relocate to the opposite side of the lake to harness the full display.   At the same time, the harvest moon was soon visible to the east. It was a full golden moon and Stephan already had his newly designed telescope set up and fully focussed on this, from the opposite side of the lake. As Stephan stared into his powerful telescope lens, he couldn’t believe his eyes. Instead of the usual outline of the man in the moon, he saw, quite un-mistakenly, – a young woman standing up there. She was waving frantically, her arms apparently motioning for him to move away. Stephan was spellbound by the mysterious beauty that he saw. He couldn’t move, his eyes were fixed on this alluring creature. As he adjusted his telescope to maximize the lens, Steph noticed that she appeared to be sobbing and desperate. Shooing him away! He was bewildered – what was this about?  Suddenly, a beam shot out from the moon – Stephan did not see this, as it was still daylight.  The moonbeam’s light pierced him through the heart. He was speedily hauled upwards … up, up, up; the beam shot forward at the speed of light, propelling Stephan all the way up to the moon itself in a matter of minutes. Carlo had been standing still on the opposite side of the lake as he recorded the sunset, and he had witnessed the whole thing. Desperately, he rushed over to where Stephan had been.  He peered through his friend’s telescope, which was focussed directly on the moon.  He saw clearly that Stephan had been left, unharmed and in situ, standing immediately next to the beautiful woman on the moon. She was crying incessantly. Carlo saw Stephan holding her close to him to comfort her.  He could not hear her, but she was sobbing to him:  “I wanted you to escape. I was caught by a moonbeam in the same way a month ago!  We can’t get back!” Carlo was at first astonished. He wanted to do the right thing and contact the emergency services to report the plight of his friend. He peered through the telescope again. Then, he remembered hearing that the old man in the moon had finally passed away, leaving the moon desperate for a replacement human image or two on its earth-facing surface. “If this is true”, he thought, “then, if Steph is removed from the moon, nobody would be safe from shooting moonbeams in the night”. Not wishing to risk a treck across the wild plain into the village as the dark of the night approached, Carlo thought to himself, “Stephan and the mysterious woman can stand there and stare and watch the earth, in hope, holding on to one-another, in the silvery cold atmosphere of the moon’s surface, until the morning. Then I will decide what to do”.   Carlo was sleepy, he stretched out in his sleeping bag, gazing at the last glowing streams of the spectacular sunset disappearing into the lake.  As it did, he turned his head slightly, to see the full moon and its golden reflection in the water to the east side, glowing brightly in the new darkness. Carlo then curled himself up snuggly into a ball, watching the low distant moon slowly moving across the sky, from his pillow.  Then, he dreamed, dreamed that he would get full credit for inventing the telescope, and that the girls in the group would be swarming around him; a huge smile grew across his face; tomorrow, he would be over the moon! By: ingrid Bacsa-Mott       November 2020       1040 words

gqqpgj

Breaking the Cookie Record

      “Hand me another bag of flour,” I said. My hand was out, waiting to feel the weight of the bag.            Nothing. “Okay, PLEASE hand me another bag of flour,” I said, this time with my palm up and my fingers wagging in anticipation.            “Anna, that was the last bag,” said Layla, my best friend, and eighth-grade science partner.            “How can that be the last bag? I counted 6 bags this morning. The dough is too runny, we need more flour,” I said with panic in my voice. “I’ll call your Mom and see if she can go to the store and get us more. My Mom is at work for a few more hours,” Layla said wiping her hands with a clean towel. That was Layla, always on top of it, and that was just how we all liked it. Layla and I were at our school, working on our junior high science fair project that was due next month. We were experimenting with different kinds of flour to see how they changed the consistency and flavor of the five recipes we had selected to experiment with. We were using basic recipes for chocolate chip cookies, blueberry muffins, devil’s food cake, golden cupcakes, and pound cake and things weren’t going so well. “Your Mom is on her way,” Layla said as she hung up the phone. When we picked the food card during class we thought it was going to be easy, but it had turned out to be everything but that. “We should just throw all of this in one giant bowl and make one giant cake,” I said, frustrated with the consistency of the cake I was working on. “Where are the instructions for the science fair?” Layla asked. “In my backpack,” I told her. Layla pulled out the instructions for the science fair and started reading. “It says here to come up with a unique project that shows the correlation between food and science,” Layla said. We were doing that, but it wasn’t working out in our favor. “What if we make a giant cookie and talk about the science behind the ingredients combining and the heating process to cook it. We could use three or four different size cookies to show our results,” I said. “That actually sounds like a better idea than the one we are working on,” said Layla, wiping flour off of her face.            “How much did the world’s largest cookie weigh?” I asked. Layla pulled out her phone and looked it up on the internet. “Baked in May 2003, the cookie was 102 feet wide and weighed more than 40,000 pounds,” Layla read from the site. “How are we going to afford all of the ingredients for that cookie?” I asked. “Why don’t we build a small-scale model of an outdoor oven and bake cookies in it for the science fair and we can start a fundraiser to gather money to help us build a real giant cookie using our outdoor oven concept,” Layla said. And that is how the idea for the giant cookie started. The next day we presented our proposal to our science teacher Mr. Higgins. He thought it was a fantastic idea and asked us if the whole class could be involved. We of course said yes. Mr. Higgins said we would have a class meeting the following day to discuss the project and start assigning job duties to everyone in the class. He told Layla and me to put together a list of stuff we thought we needed and he would talk with us before class.            That night after dinner, Layla and I sat down at the kitchen table at my house and started putting together the list of items Mr. Higgins had asked for.           Things weren’t going very well. “Layla, they used over 12,000 pounds of flour to make that giant cookie, and they only raised $20,000 that day selling cookie slices. A 50-pound bag of all-purpose baking flour costs, let's just say, twenty dollars. Three hundred bags of flour, which is what we will need to make a bigger cookie, will cost us about six thousand dollars. I don’t think our class is going to be able to pull this off,” I said, trying to be realistic.            “You are right, Anna. This cookie is getting bigger than we can manage, we need a new plan to present to Mr. Higgins. I was just reading up on the original giant cookie and it took them over six months of experimenting just to get the heat and circulation to the right levels in a smaller ten-foot test oven. We don’t have that kind of time or money,” Layla said.            What were we going to do? Time was running out and we needed some ideas and we needed them fast. I really liked the idea of making a giant cookie and so did Layla. Winning an award would be fun but being in the Guinness Book of World Records would be a chance in a lifetime for our class.            “I have an idea. What if we get the bakery that beat the record to help promote and sponsor our project?” I asked Layla.            “They are in North Carolina, we are in California, I don’t think that is a good partnership. I do understand where you are going with this, Anna,” Layla told me.            “Then we need something else,” I said, starting to get frustrated.            “How about we break the record for the tallest homemade cookie tower? That one looks like our class can do it. The previous winner stacked 48 homemade chocolate chip cookies to create a tower. Why don’t each of our classmates make individual towers and then we could have two records, the largest cookie tower and the largest number of cookie towers created by a group at once,” Layla said.            “If we bake them ourselves then they will all be the same size,” I said, smiling at Layla.            “How is that going to work with our science fair project?” Layla asked.            “I’ve got it, we will make chocolate chip cookies using different types of flour and we will discuss the similarities and differences of each,” I offered. “How about consistency, thickness, the stability of the cookie when baked, flavor differences, color differences, baking times for each type, oh and baking temperatures, how well they stack into a tower, how high of a tower we can make based on the type of flour,...” “Whoa, Layla, I think that will be plenty. Let’s make a list of those ideas before we forget them,” I said quickly. “...and then we discuss why the cookies did what they did,” Layla said, finishing her original thought. “Hey, Mom, what do you think about this idea we have for the science fair?” I asked. My Mom was loading the dishwasher. “I think it is a great idea, Anna. When I was in school kids did volcanoes and solar systems for their projects. It is nice to see that they want you to figure out the connection between your topic and science. I just wish my teachers had come up with such a great challenge. Your Dad and I will be happy to help you in any way you need,” she told us. It was perfect. Now to present the idea to Mr. Higgins. Our class was sure to win an award for breaking the giant cookie record, even if it was for a giant cookie tower. The End.

vifm3g

The Graffiti Vandal

The sound of the spray can was the only noise that could be heard in the posh downtown retail district. A vandal had already tagged almost all of the building fronts on the one hundred block of West Main Street. They finished painting and tossed the empty can aside, intentionally leaving it for the police. The vandal then pulled out a hammer from under their black overcoat and when they were done the windows of the elite bridal shop on the corner were smashed to bits and glass shards were scattered on the street, the sidewalk, and inside the shop. The alarm blared with the first strike of the hammer and continued long after they were done and gone. It was after midnight and the streets of downtown were deserted at this time of night, finding a witness to the crime was going to be difficult for the police, and that was what the vandal was counting on. The police station was only a few blocks away but it took the officer more than twenty minutes to arrive at the scene. That was something else the vandal has been counting on, enough time to make a clean getaway. The first bell rang in the halls of Hamilton High School and everyone was scrambling to get to class on time, well, almost everyone. Mack, a high school junior and graffiti artist was sitting outside of the Principal’s office, slouching in a chair. The door opened suddenly and Mack sat up straight in her chair. Principal Turner stepped out, looked left, then right and when she saw Mack she put her hands on her hips and looked down at her. “Okay Mack, get in here!” Principal Turner said a little agitated seeing her sitting there.  Mack stood up, picked up her backpack from beside the chair, and sauntered in. Each of them took a seat facing the other. “Mack, how many times are you going to come to my office this year?” asked Principal Turner. “Okay, I’ve been here a lot, but this time it wasn’t me,” Mack said honestly. “That’s what you said last time.” “And I was right, wasn’t I? I know it looks bad but I swear I didn’t do it.” “Mack, you can’t keep going on like this. I have gone to bat for you more times than I can count. This time is serious.” “And I appreciate that really I do, but you have to believe me. I didn’t paint the graffiti downtown and I definitely didn’t smash the windows at the bridal shop. I would never do that. I was home all day yesterday after school, you can call my Mom and ask her, she was there too. Besides, Principal Turner, my ink is way better than that!” “Mack!” “Hey, I’m just stating facts. You’ve seen my work. You have to admit that my drawings blow that one out of the water.” “Yes, I have seen your work. On the school marque, the library doorway, outside the teacher’s lounge…” “Okay, Okay! Yes, that was all me. But that was also last year, Principal Turner. I haven’t done anything like that here, not since my last piece that you left up on the handball wall. I swear.” “Alright, Mack, I believe you.” Principal Turner pulled out some photos and laid them on the desk. “Tell me what you see that can help the police identify who did this.” Mack picked up the photos and looked at each one carefully. “I’ve seen this before,” Mack said and pointed at a green clover symbol on the photo. “Do you know the old bus depot? The one down on McCray Street,” Mack asked. “Yes, I know it. Why?” “I’ve seen that symbol on the wall there. Whoever painted the depot also painted the buildings downtown. “Are you sure?” “Yes, I’m sure of it. Artists like to brand their work so everyone knows it was them. I paint a purple heart inside a triangle on my tags and everyone knows they were done by me,” Mack explained. “I appreciate your help, Mack. You are so talented. Did your art teacher tell you I have been monitoring the paintings you turn in for his class?” “NO. Why would you do that?” Mack asked, slightly horrified by the information. “Well, Mack, I think you have great potential as an artist. I think you should be applying to art school.” “Look, Principal Turner, I appreciate everything you have done for me but my Mom and I don’t have money for me to go to art school. She’s already working two jobs. What little money I make at the Burger Shack helps us pay for food,” Mack told her. “Mack, I think your grades are good enough that you would qualify for a scholarship. I also think that if you apply yourself this year and take a couple of college prep classes next year you could get into USC or CSU Berkeley. They both have excellent art programs.” “Thanks and all but those schools are too far away from home and my Mom needs me. I can’t just up and leave her.” “Mack, someday you are going to go out on your own. Your Mom knows that. That is what kids do, they grow up and they go live their own lives.” “Am I done here? Can I go now?” “Yes, you can go to class. Have Mrs. Wilson get you a hall pass.” As Mack left the office, Principal Turner picked up the phone and dialed the police station. “Hello, Detective Nelson, it’s Marsha Turner over at Hamilton High School. I wanted to let you know that I talked to Mack and she says the graffiti came from the same artist that tagged the old bus depot. Yes, she’s sure. She said she doesn’t know the person and I believe her. She thinks they are new around here because that tag went up not too long ago. She didn’t have anything to do with the vandalism downtown. I’m certain of it. She’s a good kid. She just needs a little direction and guidance to get her on the right path.” Principal Turner nodded her head as she listened to the other end. “Sure, Detective, if I find out anything else I will give you a call,” she said as she hung up the phone. At the bus depot on McCray Street, Slash, a twenty-year-old street vendor, and Monte, a sixteen-year-old drop-out graffiti artist were standing in front of the bus station looking at the new graffiti when two police cars swooped up on them and took them into custody. They were taken downtown to the police station for questioning. Detective Jack Nelson paced back and forth inside the interrogation room. He was trying to get answers from Slash, who was sitting in a chair across from where he was pacing. “Look, Detective, I already told your boys I didn’t have anything to do with the tag downtown. I have a good business going and I don’t tag anymore. Tagging is for kids. I have a family to think about now. My son just turned one and my wife is pregnant again. “Then who did it? Was it Monte?” “No, it wasn’t Monte either.” “What were you two doing out in front of the bus depot?” “Monte called me and asked me to meet him over there. He said he had something important to talk to me about. I had just walked up when your boys rolled up and cuffed us without giving us a chance to explain.” “What did Monte want?” “He never got a chance to tell me. Like I said, I had just walked up to him when the next thing I knew I was being rolled by your boys. You’ll have to ask him.” “Do you know who painted the tag at the bus depot?” asked the Detective. “Word on the street is some new cat named Grover did it. I’ve seen that tag symbol before but I don’t remember where. It wasn’t around here though.” “So you don’t know where this Grover is hanging out?” “Na, man. I don’t really kick it in that circle anymore. The only ones I still stay in contact with are Monte and Mack. I saw Mack a couple of days ago. She told me she’s been working at the Burger Shack. She’s not tagging anymore either, just trying to help out her Mom and finish school. “Okay, Slash, sorry about the confusion. Do you need a ride somewhere?” “It’s cool. But next time just call me and ask me. You know I’m always straight with you.” Slash got up and shook Nelson’s hand and left the interrogation room. Nelson followed him out and headed into the interrogation room down the hall. When he opened the door he saw Monte sitting in the chair in handcuffs. Nelson removed the cuffs and Monte rubbed his wrists. “What am I doing here? I didn’t do anything.” Monte said impatiently. “What do you know about this new tagger named Grover?” “You drag me down here and keep me in cuffs just to ask me about Grover? Man, let me out of here. I don’t know nothing,” Monte said, angry at the Detective. “Monte, don’t play me. Either you admire this Grover kid or you want to push him out because you think he’s better than you. Either way, I know that you know something.” “I already told you I don’t know anything. Charge me or let me go. You already know that tag isn’t mine. So you already know I didn’t do anything. And who says I know this chump Grover?” “Then what were you doing at the old bus depot?” “I was meeting with Slash.” “What were you meeting Slash about?” “I wanted to talk to him about something,” Monte confessed. “Monte quit playing games and just tell me,” Nelson said, banging on the table with his fist. “I have an idea about turning the old bus depot into an art center and I wanted to see if Slash wanted to help me out. We didn’t even get a chance to talk about it because you picked us up for just standing there.” “So what you are trying to tell me is that you and Slash just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time?” “Exactly. Can I go now?” Monte asked. “No. Tell me what you know about Grover?” “I told you I don’t know him. I’ve seen his work a couple of times but I’ve never met him.” Nelson laughed out loud as he turned the spare chair around and sat on it so it was backward. “How long have you been on the street, Monte?” “What does that have to do with anything? I already told you I don’t know that chump.” “How is it you know everything that’s going on out there on the street but you don’t know Grover?” Nelson threw at him. “He don’t stay around here. I heard he just pops in to tag our spots and then leaves.” “Are you hungry, Monte?” “I could eat. But I’ll tell you right now, feeding me isn’t going to change my story. I still don’t know this cat Grover.” “All right. You can go. Here’s some money. Go get yourself something to eat. Promise me you will call me if you hear anything?” “Only if you promise me that you won’t roll up on me like that anymore. You know how to find me. I'm still living at the teen homeless shelter down on First and Vine.” Monte got up and opened the door. “You know, Detective, I have been working really hard to change my life. I am taking online classes and I have been working at the community center teaching art to senior citizens three times a week. I am trying to turn my life around since my Mom ran out on me a few years ago and left me on the streets to fend for myself. You should be proud of me, not always harassing me,” Monte said as he walked out and shut the door behind him. Now what? Nelson had no leads. He was hoping that one of the kids he had dealt with in the past would tell him what he needed to know. He didn’t really care about the tagging so much as he did about the broken windows at the bridal shop. As far as they could tell, nothing has been stolen from the shop and the broken windows were just an act of vandalism, but for Nelson, it was much more than that. His sister owned the bridal shop and he was taking the vandalism personally. That connection was starting to cloud his judgment and he needed to take a bigger look at the whole picture so he could start connecting some dots. That night while Detective Nelson was sleeping, another crime happened downtown. This time it was at the bakery across the street from the bridal shop. Someone was definitely targeting the downtown area and kept going back to the same street to do more damage. Maybe they should stake out the area, maybe do a sweep of the homeless and see if any of them saw anyone or knew anything. The next morning the police department questioned the homeless in the area. No one saw or heard anything. The only thing left, to stake out the area and see if they could surprise the vandal. Nelson set up the stakeout and waited all night but nothing happened downtown. The same with the following night. Detective Nelson was getting frustrated. He needed a lead so he decided to investigate the owners of the businesses downtown to see if he could find any connection. He looked for hours but didn’t find anything relevant. Next, he pulled up public records on the property owner and that was when he saw it. The property had lost value due to the downturn in the economy and it looked like the owner hadn’t paid the property taxes for over a year. That was something to investigate. He looked up the owner’s address and went to go talk to them. When he got to the address, the old house looked abandoned. The grass in the front yard was up to his knees and the house was dark. He knocked on the door but no one answered. He walked around to the back and tried all of the doors but the house was locked uptight. “Hey, Sandy, how are you this morning?” Jack asked his sister over the phone. “I’m fine, we got the shop boarded up and the glass company is supposed to come by today and fix all of the windows. What’s up, Jack?” Sandy asked. “Who do you pay your rent to?” Jack asked. “Priority Property Management. Why?” “I went by the property owner’s residence and it was abandoned. It looks like the owner hasn’t paid his property taxes in over a year. Do you know where the owner went?” “No, we have been paying the property manager ever since we moved into the building three years ago. You might want to talk to them, they are down on Vine Street across from the bank.” Jack hung up the phone and headed over to Vine Street. He talked to the property manager and found out that the rents were deposited into the owner's bank account every month and that the manager hadn’t talked to the owner for quite some time but that was normal so nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Now, the only thing to do was to keep staking out the downtown area until they caught the vandal. Detective Nelson didn’t have to wait long. He had been sitting in the dress shop with the lights out when he saw a person dressed all in black walk by. They stopped a few doors down at the toy store and stood in the doorway looking around. Then they crossed the street and stood in front of the florist shop looking left and right. The detective snuck out the front door of the dress shop and quietly crept up behind the person dressed in black.   “Hold it right there! Put your hands on your head and kneel down on the ground,” Detective Nelson said with his gun drawn. The figure put their hands on their head and knelt down on the ground. The detective put his gun away and pulled out his cuffs. He grabbed the person’s left hand and pulled it around to their back. “Hey, not so hard,” the girl said. “Mack?” Detective Nelson asked lifting the girl up and turning her around to face him. “Yeah it’s me,” she said, rubbing her wrist when he let go of her. “I knew it was you,” he said. “You did not know it was me. You thought I was Grover.” “I knew you were responsible for the tagging!” he said. “I told you guys, I don’t tag anymore. I only came down here to see if I could find any clues to help you out. I heard about you picking up Slash and Monte. That was a bum deal for them and you know it!” “I am taking you down to the station, Mack. I am going to book you for the vandalism,” he threatened. The sound of a spray can hitting the ground cut through the quiet night and right then Detective Nelson realized he once again had the wrong person and the vandal was getting away. The End.

en7e5p

The best ingredient

We used to have a television always set in the same cooking channel, which was located in the reception of the bakery shop. There used to be another one in the right corner of the opened kitchen, where customers could see the process of baking bread, cakes and all pastry. That sunny day, the old baker decided to turn the t.v. on another channel. - Look at the television ! That is the ad that i was talking to you about. - The contest? - and my boss stopped whipping the cream , to take a deep look at the screen. A close up of a huge wedding cake with three floors, goldenpearl’s of sugar sprinkled all over the cake, fruit-like chocolate on top of it . My boss could not take his eyes off the cake, astonished, beat by the beauty of it. - It is absolutely gorgeous ¡ - he exclaimed – trying to read the disposable message of the ad. I looked at him, trying to find any subtle hint of his eagerness to take part in that contest. - - So, boss, what do you think about the contest? - - Contest ¿ what contest ¿ - Are you telling me that you haven’t seen the message of the contest ¿ - Well…I could read some little things, something like “ cake contest" … - All of us did it. As a matter of fact, the name of the contest was “ the best cake contest" – defying, and even trying him, the chubby and mighty boss completely list because of an ad ¡ - Sure! Yes, I think it was, as I was a bit busy with the cream. On talking about it, could you bring some more sugar please? - You have already put it - I did ¿ oh ¡ yes! Yes ¡ forget about it - he asked, closing his eyes and moving his white hands covered in flour. - You did ¿ - and this time he stopped measuring the cups of milk for some pudding he was asked to do. - I was just trying your ability to pay attention…. But, on talking about the contest again…. - Sure. We are going to take part of it, as we have more than ten years of experience in this field. Besides, we can not loose the won reputation for winning g many prizes. This is goi g to be another one - You think so? - Of course! - We have to make the biggest cookie ever. - Piece of cake. - Cookie, not cake. - Whatever. And so it was. The very early next morning, the boss took his phone and asked with some urgency for ingredients that were missing: - Extra high quality flour and margarine, first class eggs, fresh yeast, raisins, nuts . Don’t forget cloves and extra higher quality chocolate chips. - Don’t you think the best ingredient is .missing? - Yes?, I think so. You get in charge of it – knowing that there should be some nutmeg or vanilla extract to be bought. - Thank you! – I answered to him, knowing, by my side, that there was something a lit more important to be considered in that specific receipe. So, being one of the bakers, sincerely smiled , showing his inner satisfaction about the boss decision. And chose a renaissance classic music to share with all the bakers and collaborators through their earphones connected by the internet, The four seasons , by Vivaldi, where every single note in the partiture seemed to float in the air, together with the elegance of each musical instrument and strict design of each flavour in every single chord. They all were glad, receiving the ingredients, adding them, mixing, baking. Time was an obnoxious concept, and all four bakers, smiled. Peacefully. Deep breathing. Shining eyes. Receiving more ingredients, mixing adding , baking, smiling. Baking. Smiling. Baking. Smiling. At the end of the day, they had baked more than ten times each one, together with their smiles. And they created a really big cookie, of about the area of a block ., or maybe less., but sti a cookie 9 Something so big that could feed more than one thousand people for a week. - Good job! – the boss congratulated all the staff with a long and vibrating applause – great job ¡ - he repeated. The group.of five bakers snd the auxiliary and administrative personnel, including the cleaning service, they were all gathered, together , afterword. - Well – the boss said – in a really moved type of voice - it is obviously not a wedding cake – a d everyone laughed – and it us probably not the winner of any contest. - But, remember that this giant cookie, this one that is displayed outside the shop, Where all the people could see it, and admire it not only because of its size, but specially because of the quality of its refined details. , but because it was perfumed, and seemed to have a message written on it. Something like - Happiness issomething you can eat “ That was it : something little, but so powerful f that could be easily applied to the ordinary life lived by the ordinary people that would eat it – a soft and sweet detail the baker, using a little inspiration -like, for instance , that gorgeous inspiring classic mus. All the customers and the people in general,, took pictures, commented and liked it in social media In total, a million likes . Then, the baker called the judge if the contest, so he could try it and finally send the likes and pictures for appreciation, together with a piece of the cookie for each member of the jury could try it. - Fine – the jury said. But we have to wait for the end of the contest, so we decide which is the best. So, we did waited up to the end of the contest, more three painful waiting days, as we know that waiting is always impossible, because of the anxiety it creates. - I am not gonna stand it – the boss concluded its reflection, biting the nails of every finger of his both hands. - Do you want that hard to win? – asked the baker, looking at the desperation of his tense face - Well, I would say that we invested time, ingredients , effort in it. So we deserve the victory- he said, seriously believing in it. - This is not about winning a contest – the baker said, tapping his shoulder twice – it is about love. On having chewed , degluted and finally absorbed the whole idea through understanding the astonishment that it caused in the perception involved in the entire process, I saw the wrinkle on his forehead vanish, one by one. And I saw the modified behaviour of my dear boss , as he started to smile and even hug all the colleagues, in a real demonstration of his way of being affectionate. So, the contest , the most important one, has been won. 

d55gw4

Robbery at Classic Creations & Confections

The phone rang, pulling me out of my sleeping slumber. I blinked quickly, trying to get my eyes to focus, and sat up in bed. I looked at the clock on the nightstand, it read 3:06 AM. Who was calling me at three in the morning? “Are you up?” the voice on the other end of the phone asked. It was my Aunt Martha, the dispatcher for the police department. “I am now,” I replied, yawning. “Get dressed, someone broke into the bakery. Kyle is already down there,” Aunt Martha said before hanging up on me. Aunt Martha was always in a hurry and did not waste any time on small talk and at three in the morning, I was grateful for that. I got up and quickly threw on some clothes so I could go meet the officer at the bakery downtown. Who in their right mind would want to break into a bakery? What could they possibly take, some bags of flour and sugar? Some already made cupcakes? It didn’t make any sense. Maybe it was just some of the kids from my school being pranksters. When I arrived at the bakery I was surprised the owners weren’t already there talking to Kyle, the police department's new rookie cop. “Morning, Mya, what are you doing here?” Kyle asked when I walked up to the front door. “Hi, Kyle, I’m here to report the news like always,” I said. Kyle was my older brother’s friend and I had known him all my life so I found it a little hard to call him Officer Nichols. “You are more dedicated than our local news people,” Kyle said looking around to see if any other reporters had shown up. I was the head reporter. Well, okay, technically I was the only reporter, for our school’s newspaper. “Where are the owners?” I asked, looking around for them. “They went to a funeral a couple of days ago and won’t be back for a few more days.” “Who’s in charge of the bakery?” “The baker Amelia Sanchez,” said Kyle. “Oh right, Amy,” I replied remembering that Amy had worked there for more than five years. “She is on her way,” Kyle said. “Tell me what we’ve got,” I said, wanting to get started on the break-in investigation story. “I was patrolling in the area and I saw lights coming from inside, it looked like two people were inside using flashlights. I pulled over across the street and watched for a second to make sure. I got out of the car and checked the front door and it was locked. They must have heard me try the door because within seconds the lights were gone and when I went around to the back I found the back door wide open with the lock broken.” “Did you go inside?” I asked. “Only a quick sweep to make sure someone wasn’t still hiding inside,” said the rookie. “Good,” I said nodding my head. Kyle had done exactly what he was supposed to do, which was secure the area. We entered the building cautiously. In my experience, I had learned that just because a building looked safe, didn’t mean it was. Together, Kyle and I went into the building looking for signs of theft but we couldn’t find anything that looked missing or out of place. Everything was neatly put away. “Good morning, are you two trying to get a jump on the morning rush line?” Amy joked when she found us inside the bakery.  “We thought it would be faster if we just helped ourselves,” I joked. Amy and I had known each most of my life so she knew I was joking. “Ouch, don’t tell the owners that when they get back, I might not have a job,” Amy replied, pretending to be hurt by my smart remark. She gave me a quick hug to show she was in on the joking. “I checked everything and don’t see anything missing,” said Kyle. “Did you check the safe?” Amy asked. “What safe?” I asked, not seeing a safe anywhere. “In the office. Here, I will show you.” “What do you keep in the safe?” Kyle asked before I had a chance to. “The drawer for the cash register, coins, and bills so we can make change, the cookbook, and some stuff the owners keep in there,” Amy said as we rounded the corner to the office. Amy stopped suddenly in the doorway and Kyle and I almost plowed into her. “What’s wrong?” I asked. “The safe is open,” Amy said quickly. The safe, in fact, looked like something out of a movie the way the robbers had drilled into it and removed the combination lock and locking mechanism. The safe was still intact except for the lock. Amy only had to touch the door to make it open. Amy checked the contents of the safe. As far as she could tell, nothing was missing. “Why would they go through all the trouble of breaking into the safe and not take the money?” Kyle asked. “They weren’t looking for money,” I told him. “What were they looking for? I don’t see anything missing so why would they go through the trouble?” Amy asked out loud. “What were the owners keeping in the safe?” I asked. “I don’t know, but the answer to that question might just help you solve this case,” said Amy. “Didn’t you have access to the safe?” asked Kyle. “Yes, but I never touch their personal stuff in the safe. In fact, I only open it to take out the cash drawer, pull out the cookbook, make change, and put the cash drawer and cookbook away at night,” said Amy. “Who do you think would want to break into the bakery?” I asked. “No one,” Amy replied. “I honestly can’t think of anyone at all.” “When are the owners coming back?” Kyle asked. “They were supposed to be back at the end of the week but it looks like they are coming back today or tomorrow instead. Mr. Willis wasn’t very happy when I called him to tell him about the break-in. He said they would be on the first plane out.” “Where are the owners?” Kyle asked. “I’m not exactly sure. They said they were going back east to a family funeral. That is all the detail they offered.”       This was strange. Why hadn’t the owners told Amy more about the funeral? Did the funeral have something to do with the break-in? All kinds of questions were running through my mind.      “Kyle, are you going to fingerprint the safe?” I asked since Kyle was still a rookie.     “Thanks, Mya, I should probably do that,” Kyle said, turning to go outside to his patrol vehicle.      “Amy, can I look at your cookbook?” I asked.       “Sure, Mya, it is just a little binder with handwritten recipes in it,” Amy told me.      “Who created the recipes?”       “I think most of them have been handed down for generations through Mrs. Wills’ family.”      “That makes sense,” I said. “Most bakeries get started using old family recipes.”      “We also use different types of flours, which is becoming more popular in the baking world. We use white, wheat, cake, rye, buckwheat, and almond flours. It is a healthier alternative to processed white flour, it gives the cakes and cookies a different texture and flavor, and it is a nice change for the holidays. We make a chocolate rye brownie with dark chocolate that works so well together and you can taste both flavors at the same time,” Amy explained.      “What about the secret ingredient?” I asked.      “How do you know about the secret ingredient?” Amy asked in a hushed voice.     At first, I thought she was kidding, but the look on her face told me otherwise.     “Every baker or chef has that one secret ingredient,” I said nonchalantly.      “You will have to ask the owners about that,” she said, not wanting to talk to me about it anymore.       “Hey, Kyle, how are you doing with those fingerprints?” I asked to change the subject.      “The safe is clean, no fingerprints,” Kyle told us.       “What about the backdoor knob?” I asked.       Kyle looked at me and smiled. He was still learning the job so he was thankful for my insight. I had been writing the column for the school newspaper for several years and was more of an expert than him, and that was saying a lot for a seventh-grader.      Kyle went to work on the back door and quickly reported that he had pulled a partial print from the knob.       A clue! But was that print from Amy or one of the other workers leaving the night before? We would just have to see what the police department was able to figure out and that would take a day or two.       I looked down at my watch. The sun was coming up and I needed to go home and get showered and ready for school. I left the bakery and told Kyle I would check in with him after school to see if there had been any progress on the partial print.      “Guess who the print belongs to,” Kyle said when I called the police department after school.      “Amy,” I said.      “Wrong! Guess again.”      I thought and thought but could not come up with a suspect.      “Mr. Willis,” I blurted out since I had no one else in mind.      “Warm!”      “Mrs. Willis?” I asked.      “BINGO! Give this girl a prize.”      “Haven’t they been gone for several days?” I asked, wondering how the print could still be on a knob that was used many times throughout the day.      “That’s what Amy said.” Kyle offered.      “What does that mean, Kyle?” I asked, already knowing the answer.      “It means that Mrs. Willis has touched that door in the last twenty-four hours,” Kyle affirmed.      “Are you sure about that?”      “Amy told me that their maintenance person has a vigorous cleaning schedule and does all of the windows and doors, including the knobs, several times a day. That door had already been cleaned four or five times after the owners left. Mya, remember that was all off the record,” Kyle said before he hung up.      Dang it! Why did Kyle have to say it was off the record? “Oh shush Mya,” I said to myself. I knew exactly why that was off the record. If I wrote a story about the fingerprint, Mrs. Willis might find out before the police could question her. So many things could go wrong if I printed the story too soon and I didn’t want to be responsible for blowing this first case for Kyle because if I did, he would never trust me again. I had already written and turned in the story about the break-in for our school newspaper. I had not said anything about the fingerprint because I didn’t want to tip anyone off about any information the police had that hadn’t already been made public. I would just write a follow-up story about the outcome. Why had Mrs. Willis broke into the bakery? This did not make any sense. She could have just taken whatever she needed out of the safe without anyone else even knowing it was missing. Why did she go to such lengths to steal something from the safe? And that was when it hit me. I needed to call Kyle and tell him. Kyle answered his phone on the first ring. “Whatever was stolen from the safe must have been valuable because it was locked up.  People ensure things of value. Mrs. Willis was stealing something so that the insurance company would pay her for it,” I blurted into the phone. “That is one of our current theories,” Kyle told me. “You have more?” I asked, kind of surprised that the case wasn’t cut and dry. “Well, of course, we do,” Kyle said. “What are they?” I asked. “I can’t talk about it,” Kyle finally revealed. I knew better than to try to pump him for information so I hung up the phone with less information than when I first called. Of course, the police had thought of my theory, they did this all the time, but what other theories could they have possibly thought of besides insurance fraud? So I pulled out a piece of paper and started jotting things down. Rival bakery stealing trade secrets? That was a good one, but why would Mrs. Willis be involved? Disgruntled employee? Also a good one, but again why include Mrs. Willis? Angry customer? This was not done by your average customer, angry or not. Mr. Willis? That was a tricky one, but the one that made the most sense to me because he could easily be trying to frame Mrs. Willis. We would just have to wait and see what happened when the owners returned to town. The End.

fm6g2q

Words

Once upon a time in a city of bailout a very weak baby was born her face was pale and pink and her hands were small then other normal newborn babies. She came out as young 9 months baby so nobody understands why that baby is so weak. Her mother named her Diana. When Diana turn 9 she always used to stay close her mother and anybody she used to meet told her she looks so weak like a little thing and she younger than her actual age and people often told her that she needs to take proper diet. Her mother did everything for her daughter to be healthy but she was still pale and weak people often laughed at her when she used to go take shoe shop looking at her small feet she might disappear one day. She started to become more introvert because every other person she used to meet told her how small her hands and her legs looked she was often bullied in her school and they named her mice, matchstick and many more. Instead of playing outside with her friends Diana used to enjoy playing with her toys "hello Mr Tobby it looks like you spill the tea, again! But don't worry I won't judge you cause you're clumsy I like you Mr tobby cause you don't judge my from my apperance" talking to her teddy bear Diana felt joy playing with her toys who never used to judge her. You know Mr tobby the schoolboys in my class told me today I might get kidnapped by someone cause I'm short and they always laughed at my apperance and I'm always so nice to them even though I hate them I wish I could tell them how I feel when they hurt me like that . After some years Diana grew up as a young beautiful girl but still looked weak and small. Her younger sister Este was born and was 12 years younger than Diana. People often told her mother that her younger daughter would look more older and mature than Diana. One day her aunt arrived Daina was happy to see and came forward to greet her but her aunt instantly told her "oh Diana! you haven't changed yet, your face looked like ugly as a weak rat, looking at her with disgust in that moment Diana felt so hurt she couldn't even say anything and put her head down the whole time and she went in her room and could hear her aunt speaking to Diana's mother about her. Looking at her room's window a tear spilt down her cheek and moving forward and holding Mr to by she said 'it feels like people are constantly throwing stones at me and I don't even know why I'm in this place at the first place why can't just be normal Mr tobby? After somedays when her aunt left Dianas house she still kept on thinking about her words and refuse to look herself in the mirror for days" why? God why? I'm like this it's like I want to tell People how badly they're words hurt me I want to hurt them like they had hurt me but every time I had so many things to tell them but I just can't I just cant. Why I'm so weak, why I don't have a courage to tell them at least just one time I want to speak for me. After being alone for some days Diana came out from her room and she said this is not the life I wanted for me her eyes were red and her hands and feet were shivering and it looks like every skin in her body told her that I had enough all these years she felt like a tree where people keep on cursing the tree till it finally became a dry lifeless one this is not the life I want she decided that she will never going to meet her relatives and her toxic friends who tolerated her instead of celebrating her. She grew up and atarted to work on herself and did actually what made her happy. After Some years went by When Diana turned 35 she had a beautiful skin dark black jet hair and her body turned healthy and beautiful she looked like she was in her young 20s. She came to her parents house for their anniversary where she met her ." oh Diana ! you look so young nobody can make out that you're 35" and when you were so young you used to be so ugly and now look at you turned into ugly duckling story. "You see aunty meera I been always younger than my actual age there's nothing new about it .When you said I looked ugly as a mouse I cried for four weeks telling myself that why God made me this way and I wish I could have never existed I felt like people had to see my face and they had to tolerate it and they let me down so many years till I met my husband John who made me feel like how special I was and he told me it was love at first sight when he saw my face and my hands and felt like theyre so cute" so you see it's all about perspective sone people they can never love you no matter how nice you are to them and some people always going to love you cause it's "you" and all these years i had a lot of things to say to you ,words that might hurt you too but I never utter those words i never said instead I took all the pain to myself cause I never wanted you to feel the way I felt and that taught me that I always had a good heart cause people don't remember which nail polish, or which brand attire you wore I'd day but they will always going to remember how you treated them that day thet place. So aunty the story of ugly duckling didn't teach you how "an ugly duck turned into a beautiful one" but it teaches you "that the duck was always bautiful in the first place".

fq0ai9

Humpty Dumpty, The Real Story

Humpty Dumpty, the Real Story  George Davis   The headlines in the Eggland Gazette read, HUMPTY DUMPTY, FELL FROM THE TOP OF THE OLD STONE WALL AT POACHBURG HALL. Mr. Dumpty is in surgery at the Albumin Medical Center.   The article went on to say, he had a skull fracture. The King has sent for all his men, ordering them to drop whatever they are doing, and rush to the hospital and make sure, Humpty lives.   “I want you to stay with him until he recovers,” the king said.   Humpty Dumpty is the mayor of the small town of Cracopen on the coast off the island of Crate. His work has been exemplary for the seventeen years he has held that position. He has collected more taxes for the king than any previous mayor in that town. Is it any wonder the king wants Humpty restored to health?   “Nurse Cluck, keep the patient comfortable and let me know if anything changes and I mean, anything.”   “Yes, Doctor.” Doctor Crower knew how important it was to keep Humpty alive. If anything happens to him on the doctor’s watch, the king will have his head.   “How are you feeling, Mr. Dumpty?” Miss Cluck asked.   “I’ve got a terrible headache,” Dumpty replied. “And I hurt all over.”   “Well, the doctor is doing everything within his power to get you up and out of here.”   “That’s ni...” Humpty fell asleep; the drugs kept him drowsy most of the time.   The King himself came by the hospital to check on Humpty.   “How’d this terrible thing happen?” He asked.   “How?” Miss Cluck said. The king, known for his impatience and terrible temper, frightened Miss Cluck.   “They said he fell off the wall at Poachburg Hall, Your Highness.”   “What was he doing sitting atop that rock wall?” the king asked.   “I... I... I'm--- not--- sure, Your Majesty,” Miss Cluck said.   “Then who is? I want to know what he was doing on that wall. Get me the doctor. Now.”   “Yes...Your...Magnificence.”    Miss Cluck called the doctor at home and told him the king wanted to see him. Now.   “But... I haven’t eaten supper yet--- oh, never mind, I’ll be right there.”   “Good evening, Your Highness,” Doctor Crower said entering the room.   “Good evening, nothing. I want to know what Dumpty was doing sitting atop that awful wall. Now, why was he up there?”   The doctor afraid to say the wrong thing said, “I don’t know, Your Highness.”   “Well, who, for pity sake knows if you don’t?”   “I have no idea, Your Highness. I only know they brought him in around three-thirty this afternoon...”   “I won’t stand to have you lose this patient, Doctor. He is very valuable to me. If he dies--- you will answer to me. Do you understand?” the King raged.   “Y...es, Your Highness, I understand.”   “Then see that you use whatever is necessary to make sure he lives. All my men are available to help. Is that clear?”   “Yes, Your Highness.”   “Now take these men and their horses and put my mayor back together. Today, Doctor, today.” The king stormed out of the room, his entourage in his wake.   “Doctor, Dumpty isn’t going to make it, is he?” Miss Cluck said.   “I’m afraid not…too much damage.”   While the doctor and Miss Cluck were talking, Humpty Dumpty flatlined.   “He’s gone, Doctor,” Miss Cluck said.   “What are we going to do Miss Cluck?”   “I don’t know, Doctor, but you’d better think of something fast, or you will be at the king’s mercy, and you know, he is not merciful.”   Doctor Crower thought for a moment, his eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. Suddenly, a smile crossed his lips. “I’ve got it, Miss Cluck, I’ve got a plan. I’ve got something I want you to do for me.”   “Anything, Doctor?”   Miss Cluck returned from her errand for Doctor Crower. She passed him the gray carton containing a dozen eggs, twelve mayoral candidates enclosed. It should not be a problem.   “Yes, we are going to find a clone,” the doctor smiled.   “But, how will you pass him off as Mr. Dumpty? There is a lot to being a mayor.”   “Humpty Dumpty was nothing more than a stooge for the king, and anybody can make a stooge out of an egg. After all most of these guys have scrambled brains.”   The doctor sat back in his chair, a frown on his face. “Now get going, Miss Cluck, and don’t let any of the King’s Men know what we are up to, or it will be the end of us all.”   “I won’t, Doctor.”   Miss Cluck opened the carton and picked an egg that looked very much like Humpty Dumpty. She put it in an incubator to warm it up.   “Brrrr! I’m cold,” the egg said. “Where have I been. The last thing I remember is some man putting me into a soft bed. I must have fallen asleep.”   “What’s your name?” the doctor asked.   “I have no idea. I don’t know who I am.”   All the better, the doctor thought. “Your name is Humpty Dumpty. You are the mayor of Eggland.”   “I am? That’s funny, I don’t remember being a mayor.”   “You’ve got amnesia, Mr. Dumpty, of course, you wouldn’t remember. Trust me, you are Humpty Dumpty.”   “If you say so...eh, just who are you?”   “I’m Doctor Crower and this is Nurse Cluck. You are in the hospital.”   “I am? What’s the matter with me?”   “You fell off the wall at Poachburg Hall and broke your skull.” “I did?”   “Yes, and our fine staff here put you back together again. You are as good as new.”   “That’s nice," the new mayor replied. "When can I go home? And, by the way, where is home?”   “Why, it’s Eggland. You’re the mayor, remember?”   “Yes, yes, of course. I am the mayor of Eggland. My name is Humpty Dumpty.”   “And, under no circumstances are you ever to sit on that wall at Poachburg Hall. Understood?”   “Yes, Doctor, I understand.”   The Captain of the Guard told the king, his men had put Humpty Dumpty together again.   The egg from the market became the new mayor of Eggland and ruled for many years to the delight of the king and all his men. And, everyone lived happily ever after, except the real Humpty Dumpty, of course, the doctor poached him for breakfast the next morning and had him on English muffin with Hollandaise sauce. From then on throughout the city of Eggland, that meal became known as Eggs Benedict(ion.) Though, I doubt Humpty would have appreciated the doctor’s irreverent choice of food.

ccaap4

Out of Hand

All right, the omnipresent omni-powerful phone thing is getting out of hand. I mean a guy can’t even take a girl out anymore without her trying to wrap his phone in a wad of tin foil. They follow us into the restroom on the first date. Not to make sure we are washing hands but to make sure we do not defile the stalls with the lust which is founded in the Wall Street Journal. “I can see your feet!” Olivia is screaming at me and I thought it was a private place and the waiter understood. He would fill her cup with iced tonics and maybe some small talk. Since he was young and handsome he doesn’t need the Journal. Young men do not need these things to make themselves feel like a man. As older fellows, we have to follow the market because we are feeling the great waves of emotion, the happy ending. She’s banging on the door. Rappa Dappa Dap. I’m trying to get my feet way up but obviously, the door is locked on purpose to the stall. I have never heard of a bathroom stall being locked on accident like a car or a house. It might be because it requires a person to be present. I didn’t want to be present. There’s a way to climb over to the next stall. I can wait till she dives under the floor, take the fire escape window, run around the restaurant to the front but that means the mean Hostess is going to see. She made us wait for ten minutes in dresses and suits and pretended that we were just commoners instead of royalty. We pay extra to be treated with a certain uptightness. This is the way. Bang Bang bang… The futures on soybeans are so enticing. I was wanting to scoot a little money over before I ordered a soy burgers with truffled cheese (which is also soy). Henry Ford did not invent the soybean but he smashed it into a paste and blew it out for some of the first food-grade plastic. I love that guy. I don’t think it makes me gay. Well, maybe. Bang BAng… [tears] “Tommy… Tommy… I thought you could be the one. The man of my dreams. We spent six months talking about this night. I flew from Toronto!” Canadian stocks are kinda dumpy which is really attractive when you want no questions asked. I mean the Los Angeles money markets went from some lousy street hustles down in The New Otani to a full-fledged courtesy service. They have ticker tapes and all the acronyms and Hoovers Reports and math geeks are getting sweaty. A man can have a heart attack with so much joy. She falls on the porcelain floor before I can even put it in. Soy Futures are trading at 31-¼ and I feel like it won’t last forever. I feel like Olivia won’t be so angry if I just buy her a big ring, and carefully deduct the cost as a business expense. I mean we could probably be happy…? “You’re just like Herb. He was always playing in the bathroom… even brought home an AI from the Hong Kong exchange. It didn’t end well. “ (Shhhh… shhhh… almost there) (why do I have to double verify my identity. Charles Schwab is a crappy pimp. We need to finish. Must finish… must…) “Then he says to me… ‘Liv we got to go out west. Because the hills are green for our future.’” Olivia turns so that her legs are under the door and her mouth is right on the metal. “It wasn’t _our_ futures he was talking about Tom. (sniff) A girl knows.” God, it’s so hard to concentrate when she’s crying. Do I want to take a double-back split? Set the auto trader to commodity lows or highs? It really depends on if you think people are happy and healthy and will buy buy buy… Olivia was reestablishing her makeup. Wiping the mascara trails. Leaving the tissue clean-up rag for the maid. She didn’t even wash her hands when she left because the heels stumbled away like she was really done dating. I didn’t mean to ignore her because I knew she liked swordfish, Akai tuna rolls, the way the Cordon Bleu chef came over to the table to beg how he could please us. Olivia could have the entire staff at their becking call. She could have taken them all home and showed them an executive kitchen. She could have tipped 200% because soy futures were very lucrative. It’s all about the futures. Instead, she did the walk of shame out of Tarpy’s old southern Italian plantation building. She walked right out to the Carmelite stone wall, before the coy pond, surrounded by daffodils, dragon hearts, and sprouting purple magic carpet in bloom. And if she had taken a moment to pray, to pause, to consider – she wouldn’t have walked past the second barrier to Highway 68. There was a bump in the night but I think the driver was on his phone. . . I felt really bad about Olivia. I mean... Anyone can pretend they are doing it for balance, not pleasure. We can say it is the emotional equalization of primo domini -- that Gatsby found his fortune for Daisy. We can put the market down, pretend that the Wall Street Journal has great articles in the back and that Richard Bauchman shot his horse without pleasure. We can Celebrate Recovery with modern psalms: No man can serve two masters: for either he will hate the one, and love the other, or else He will hold to one, and despise the other. Ye cannot serve God and mammon. We all trying to better ourselves. I bury Olivia's remains and stand next to her mother. The pastor talks about the excesses of this world while Olivia's uncle has his head bent toward the horizon. An earplug needs the silence. He's gonna score.

bll0g9

You'll Never Open the Door

I didn’t do it. Imagine. Me. Out of all people. They sure think I did it. But I did not. Never in a million years. Never in a lifetime. My sister has been missing for a year now. It’s her 1st year anniversary of the day someone took her from me. But I wasn’t that someone. I’m still locked up. Still breathing though. I collapse onto the concrete floor of the jail cell. If only she’d have listened to me. It was a dark night. I told her to go to bed. I floated off to sleep on the living room couch. I woke up hearing muffled screams. I ran to her room. He had his horrible hand over her mouth, drowning out her pain. She was holding out her small hands and struggling. I ran to tackle him, but he jumped swiftly out the window like a shadow in the night. I started screaming and running after him. I ripped my favorite shirt on the shattered glass that surrounds the tiny square window, but I didn’t care. I held my breath and ran as fast as I could. I kept running after him until I lost sight of them. I was in the middle of the woods, but my mind was somewhere else. It was in a boiling river of ice, drowning. I didn’t know where I was going, but I didn’t even notice. I looked and looked for hours, until they found me next to a river. The cops. They thought I did it. They thought I threw her in. But why would I throw the only person I have left to love? I don't have an education, but I'm not that crazy. That’s the story I told in court, but of course, when you’ve got a skin color as dark as mine, no one believes. Everyone thought I did it. There was no shame or pity, just assurance. I would be spending the rest of my life rotting in this jail cell. My poor sister rotting in who knows where, maybe miles away, and not in my arms. I begged them to keep looking. Told them it wasn’t me. They just pulled my hands behind my back and slapped my face until I would shut up. Maybe if I was lighter, they’d listen. But I’m not. I cry every day, but people look at me as if I’m dirt, and my tears are just watering the dark soil of my skin. I can’t anymore. I have nothing except the filthy plate of bread they give me every morning. Why. Why. Why. Help. My hands are tied behind my back. I keep pulling and pulling, but I’ll never be set free. Even if I did manage to make it out of this dump, I’d still be stuck, wondering where she is. Every day, I ask myself the same questions. “Why did he take her? Why couldn’t he have taken me?” I’m lost at this point. I never went to school, but It's never hard to realize when something is going wrong. I never had a family to guide me. My mother died of the plague right after she had my little sister, and my father decided he didn’t need two dark souls left on his hands, so he left too. I never remembered my parents. Them pushing me on the swings or cradling me in their loving arms always seemed like a distant memory. They were probably so beautiful. But I don't cry about them anymore. Now, I cry because I've lost everyone. Everything. From then on, it was me and my three year old sister. In just three weeks she’ll be turning four. My eyes are purple and red because of the amount of tears I’ve cried in here. I look like I’ve been starving, but I probably have. I forget if I’ve eaten or not the last couple days. But honestly, starving beats eating the horrible leftovers they throw through the metal bars of the cell. No one has ever talked to me, and I’ve never talked to anyone. After all, I have nothing to say. “Good morning.” It’s the first happy voice I’ve heard in months. “You know,” I look up. It’s a cop. “We found her.” He starts pacing back and fourth, slowly and carefully, until he knows I'm watching him. He kneels down and looks at me, almost in pity. “She was in the middle of the woods. Dead.” I haven’t heard my own voice in what feels like forever. “What?” I feel tears rushing to my eyes, forcing their way out. He laughs and stands back up. “You can leave whenever you want, you know.” I look up confused. He sees my interest and keeps going. “We never actually lock this door. We like to make bets sometimes, me and the rest of them cops, over who’ll try to bust themselves out or who will realize the door’s practically open. I always bet that you’ll never make it. Even if you opened the door.” He’s right. My sorrow and self-hatred would make me collapse in a second. Even if I made it out. I feel a hard pain in my stomach. It feels like I’m going to throw up, but I have nothing in my stomach to throw. I lie down, my hands still stretched out in handcuffs behind me. The cop walks away. I close my puffy eyes, and whisper to myself. “She’s gone. And it’s time for you to go, too.” I close my eyes, and decide to never open them again. I'm falling. Deeper and deeper down the volcano of tears. I barely touch the surface before I wake up. I bolt awake from the nightmare. To my surprise, my hands aren't restrained anymore. I'm in the back of a wagon, and I can feel every bump of the rocks below the wheels as it speeds down a tiny dirt road. It's so relieving to know that I can still feel. Suddenly, I realize that I have more things to worry about than my sense of touch. The wooden wagon is rocking and jumping and there's boxes all around me. I'm in the trunk. I can't quite see the driver. I rush to the front of the wagon and see the strange person gripping the halter of the horses. We're going too fast for me to grab the hood over his head. A sudden jump of the wagon makes me fall onto the boxes. With a small "argh" and an ache in my back, the driver turns around. All I can see is the small holes he cut in the mask. He has bright blue eyes, but it's too dark to see anything else. He turns back around. "What am I doing here?" I scream. The wagon stops suddenly and I fall forward. The man gets out, grabs me, and pulls me by my collar. We're in the middle of the dark woods before he pushes me down. "I got you out of there. Who knew they leave the door unlocked? Give me some kindness, would ya?" I stare up at him. I hear rustling leaves behind me and turn. Is it a ghost? Is it my imagination? No. It's her. I run up to her and squeeze her as tight as I can, just to make sure she's real. She hugs me back, nice and tight. If I could choose, I'd stay there forever, hugging my little sister. I turn around and see the man slowly take off the mask. "You." I say, giving him a stare through my dead eyes. His are more dead, if that is even possible. "Me." He says. I start to run towards him, but my sister grabs my arm. "Why don't we talk?" She says. Turns out, the man is my father. He took her when he heard that the plague was spreading. He tried to protect her. Of course, I didn't mention the fact that he didn't try to protect me. He put a fake body in the woods to trick them, and he came for me when he knew I wouldn't escape. I relax, swallow down some soft bread. it tastes like a cloud that fell from heaven. I pull them both into a hug. I don't know what got into me, but I want something to hold. Something to be true. Everyone thought, still thinks, I'm guilty, but I haven't lost everyone. They're here. They're right here. And so am I. For once, my world is silent peace.

i4rclw

Jadie the lonely soul

As night rise coldness indulge itself into the murk making it thicker and harder to breathe but at least not for Jadie who had already survived in the fierce dilemma of this world with a spear ripping her heart she will always continue her journey until the every drop of her blood will drain out of her scars but which journey? what sort of avenue? as soon as she had decided to become wayfarer of her parent’s mended path she had found herself lost. The footprints she was following faded away as the shoulders supporting her were no more there. those lips always curled into a sonorous smile that ignited jewels into her heart was just an arc, those mangata’s entangled in their eyes were no more there , just vacant blueish yellow eyeballs, those warm calloused hands always ready to hold her’s were cold and Gray when she last saw her beloved ones. how can she forget the look on the corpses’ face. even though she knew they know more existed a teeny bit of fragment in empty vessel of her soul hoped to see them again and that hope had dragged her to sneak out of orphanage in the dead of night. Her limbs numb with cold and fear making her wonder will they even cooperate for a few more seconds. she was on the ground now, lack of energy had made her crawl like a writhing centipede with no legs, her ears could hear the distant hauls of wolves jamming blood in her veins. she looked back and forth with a little hope fluttering in her eyes. indignation rose letting the tears behind the bars to trickle down her cheeks desperate for a brush of hands she once used to get. after all that struggle she dropped her head down waiting for death to come, not even flinching as the blades of grass cut her skin and crawling bodies Nestled in her hair. she could smell the love , feel the smooth texture of cherry blossoms as her father will hand her because of her will and his desire to see her young daughter overwhelmed with felicity. Her vision went dark and she got lost in the maze of her brain…………. she was losing track of time and that frustration made her open up her Oceanic blue eyes again. she had never been able to see the night Sky before what a waste of life!! crystal clear dark, prominent treetops and smooth glassy black Sky holding up millions of galaxies, stars and moon perched on clouds even with their negligible size twinkling stars proved their existence not by becoming an empty whole but by scattering their light into the dark, illuminating their selves from the moon. Stars masterfully curved into magnificent constellations leaving her stunned. “ these stars reflected the same light the ones sparkling from my Mama Papa’s eyes” she muttered under her breath.  she stood up and headed to the graves. “ one step more” she told herself and dropped on the wet mud of their graves and All in all the tears she was holding back rushed down and she fell asleep drawn back to her memories, feeling as though she was curled on her mama’s lap gibbering “do you even know how much I missed you” . . The world looked prettier than it ever did and Jadid could not save herself from drowning in kalopsi. Niran beauty of the Sky above her head and below, the same place where she had left unconsciousness but she was not alone any more someone was sitting beside her. Someone else was holding her hand, fragile, warm and delicate grip. she looked up, Golden cheekbones, sparkling oceanic eyes and serene smile “ you’ve grown into a beautiful girl” A tear rolled down jadie’s cheeks . “..Ma..ma.. is it really you?” she asked poking her in ribs and she chuckled. “ why don’t you say something to daddy?” Jadis turned and was amazed to see him the same sturdy Body, sharp jaw line and close cropped hair. “ look what have I brought for you” He said and she opened his hands like an excited kid about to get a treat. “ Oh.. my ..goodness Cherry blossoms… in winter …but how?? “ I can do anything for my child and i knew it was your birthday today! Though i could not get you a gift but i believe these will do"” he replied holding her hands "No..it's ok and i loved even that somebody remembers my birthday even when i had forgotten.. Can i ask something" "Ofcourse" “ and why did you left me alone?” she asked looking straight into his eyes “ why don't you take me with you as well. they say heaven’s really..”  before she could finish her sentence put a finger to her lips. “ look.. there! can you see them.” He asked her pointing behind her “ where?” but her question dissolved into thin air when she saw a dozen, hundred thousands of souls lurking in the dark, shadowing over their own graves. “ can you see them. They are striving really hard to come back, trying to forget the regret of wasting their life. what would you prefer dear a whole vast world to wander or a luxurious building?” “do you have any regrets too daddy?” “ not dear because I have made you smile but I will if you won’t cherish your life” “it’s OK dad. I will “ she muttered wiping tears off his cheeks and she hugged both of them tightly. Tight with the fear of not losing them again. . . .  disturbing noise of crows woke her up. Forcing her to crash into reality once again. wiping mud off her face she said “oops I forgot these were just graves.. but no.. wonder I still remember the warmth of that hug…”.l . . .  she stood up and was about to leave when she knocked into something big and really sturdy. after catching full sight of it her jaw dropped.” But.. I… I.. don’t remember this cherry blossom was not here before…” her voice cracked as wind rushed gently brushing against her face making her believe it was a hi from her parents. “ I was wrong with requesting people for coup de grace regarding me.”

032ycm

Seeing Red

Once upon a time… In a pretty little house in a pretty little wood there lived a pretty little family. The family consisted of a mother, a father, and a little girl. The mother was called Clara, the father was called Jonas, and the little girl was called Red. The little girl was not named Red, for her name was Jennifer, but she’d been called Red ever since her grandmother, who lived a little ways away in the same wood, had given her a red jumper that Red had refused to take off until it fell to pieces. Even now, Red loved the colour red; she always made sure to wear at least one thing in that colour. Her parents didn’t mind, as it made Red easy to keep track of in a crowd. Not that Red often had the opportunity to get lost in a crowd. She and her parents lived in a wood, remember? Nobody came through the wood except for the occasional woodcutter who had to be chased off. The closest neighbours were a family of bears and Red’s grandmother, a spry little woman who lived by herself and kept her garden neat and her cookie-jar full even though she was getting on in years. By the time she was five years old, Red knew the way to her grandmother’s house by heart- it was easy; there was a path, after all. The summer she turned twelve, Red’s parents let her go to her grandmother’s house by herself. They were a little worried about her, for she had seemed rather lonely as of late. There weren't any other little girls in the wood, so Red didn’t have anyone else to play with besides for the woodland animals, and after she had finished her lessons for the day- her mother taught her out of an old book- she would go outside and make up her own games. She’d already picked all the berries on the bushes near the house and climbed all the trees nearby as well, and she was thoroughly bored. “Why don’t you go visit Grandma?” Clara asked one day to stop a very bored Red from bouncing off the walls. “You can bring along some of the jam we made from last week’s berries.” “Oh, Mummy, can I?” Red asked excitedly. She flipped forward off of the couch upon which she’d been lying upside-down. “Can I really go by myself? You and Daddy always say I have to have someone with me!” Clara would have taken Red to visit Grandma, but she had things to do in the house, and Jonas couldn’t take her either; he was out hunting down the latest woodcutter. Red was twelve years old now, Clara reminded herself. “I think you can,” she said, putting two jars of jam and a bottle of water into a basket. “You know the way, and if you promise to go straight there and not to go exploring on the way, I think it’ll be fine.” Red ran to her mother and hugged her. “I’ll do that. Oh, thank you, Mummy!” ~ Red skipped happily along the path to Grandma’s house, a basket swinging from the crook of one arm. She was going to visit Grandma all on her own, for the first time ever! The sun was shining merrily, and Red was full of bouncy excitement. The walk to Grandma’s house took about half an hour, and though it wasn’t a very long walk, it seemed long to a twelve-year-old girl walking on her own, as Red was. It took about five minutes for the novelty of walking to Grandma’s by herself to wear off. Red’s basket was getting heavy, and she transferred it to her other arm. After another minute or two, she switched it to her hand. She was getting tired, but she refused to turn back. If she went home now, who knew when Mummy and Daddy would let her go on her own again? To pass the time, Red sang nonsense songs that she made up as she went. “The sun is shining brightly, and the day is hot, but I’m not turning back yet; oh, no, I’m not! It’s shady in the wood ‘cause I’m underneath a tree. And all the lovely shade keeps the sun off of me!” When she tired of skipping, Red tried bouncing with both feet together. When that got boring, she hopped on one foot, then the other. When she tired of that, too, she tried walking backwards. This was a little harder, for she had to keep craning her head and twisting it around to see where she was going, but that also made it more fun. After about three minutes of bouncing, two minutes of hopping, and five minutes of walking backwards, Red decided she’d had enough. She was more than halfway there, but she was tired from all her various modes of travel and needed a break before she kept going further. She spun around, intending to plop down on the side of the path for a little break, but before she could, she smacked into someone and the basket went flying out of her outstretched hand. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” Red said, scrambling to pick up her basket and put the jam and water back inside. “I’m afraid I wasn’t looking where I was going, and—” Red broke off abruptly as she stood up and got a good look at the person whom she’d bashed into. He was about her father’s height and build, but much scruffier. His clothes were scruffier and shabbier than anything she’d ever seen in her life; though her mother often had to repair her family’s clothes, it was always done neatly and as unobtrusively as possible, whereas this man wore clothes that were caked with dirt, had all the seams showing, and looked like they had been purposely cobbled together from anything and everything: old tablecloths, curtains, bedsheets, towels… There was even a part of his… shirt-like garment… that looked like it had been made from an old burlap sack. His hair, caked with dirt, seemed to stick out in all directions, and his hungry eyes peered out from a face that was even more caked with dirt than the hair. “Who are you ?” Red asked in bewilderment, then immediately regretted her tone. “Sorry. That was rude.” Nobody else came through these parts, as far as Red was concerned, but on the rare occasion that one did, it was usually a woodchopper. In the past, Red’s family had tried to convince passersby that the wood was haunted to discourage people from chopping it down, but Red never felt unsafe within its boundaries, and now was no exception. It didn’t cross her mind that this dirty stranger could be dangerous. She was merely curious as to who this stranger was and what he was doing in the wood. “They call me the wolf,” the man told her, “because I’m a scavenger, see.” He seemed friendly enough, and Red could see that she hadn’t offended him. “Of course, wolves aren’t really natural scavengers, but they will scavenge if necessary, so I suppose it does fit.” “I’m called Red,” Red told him. “On account of the fact it’s my favourite colour of all time.” A thought occurred to her. What if he was that woodcutter in disguise or something, come to chop down the wood that was her home? She’d better bring him to Grandma. Grandma would know what to do. “Say, scavengers are usually hungry, aren’t they? I’m going to my Grandma’s house for tea. Why don’t you come along?” What would she do if he said no? “Sure, Red. I’d like that. Are you sure your Grandma won’t mind, though?” Phew! He was going to come. “She won’t mind at all. She’s very fond of this wood, you see. She’s been living here for ages, but she doesn’t get too many guests.” Now that Red had someone to talk to, she wasn’t tired anymore. She wanted to get to Grandma’s, fast, and she couldn’t leave this stranger alone in the wood. “Come on! Grandma lives just through these trees.” Red grabbed the stranger’s hand and pulled him along, chattering about any little thing that popped into her head as she went. “Don’t you just love this gorgeous breeze? I love breezes, especially the ones that swoop down from the treetops and whoosh by your ear and whisper promises of all the wonderful things you’d see if only you could fly, and then the breezes offer to pick you up and swoosh you away, and you really want to go, only you can’t because you’ve got responsibilities, and anyways you don’t know how to fly. Do you wish you knew how to fly? I sure do. How wondrous it must be to swoop above the trees and play with the wind and birds and every now and then dip back down to make the leaves flutter!” Red tended to chatter when she got nervous, but she kept her chatter lighthearted and didn’t let the stranger see her uneasiness. “If I could fly, I would stay up there in the sky, swooping around, light as a feather- hey, maybe I could become a feather! I wonder what it feels like to be a feather. Have you ever thought about being a feather?” “I imagine it must feel rather… fuzzy,” the stranger ventured when Red looked at him intently, waiting for an answer. “I suppose it might,” Red agreed, still pulling him along down the path. “Or perhaps furry, but not too furry, really, and well, it must be feathery, I suppose; after all, it’s a feather we’re talking about. It must be rather a nice feeling; it wouldn’t do for a feather to be an uncomfortable thing to be, not when they’re so pretty, and so useful, too.” Red chattered in this manner all the way to Grandma’s house, which made the walk seem shorter than it ever had before. Grandma lived in another pretty little cottage. A cobblestone path lined with flowerbeds led up to a big square door set into cheery yellow walls. Big windows and a thatch roof completed the picture. Red skipped up the path with her new friend following close behind her. She had long ago left off tugging on his arm, for it seemed he was not going to desert her. She’d even let him carry her basket, for it had gotten rather heavy. Clara’s jam jars were BIG. Making the wolf carry the basket had another effect. After chattering at him for a few minutes, and watching him closely all the while, Red was sure he was an honest man, the sort who wouldn’t run off with a little girl’s basket. In case he was not, the heavy basket would make it difficult for him to run off if he tried. Red rapped lightly on Grandma’s door. “Who is it?” Grandma’s warm voice called out from the other side, though she already knew. Red had a distinct knock, and nobody else tended to visit Grandma. “It’s Red, Grandma!” Red called back. “I’ve brought someone to see you!” “I’m coming, sweetheart! Just a minute!” Grandma came to the door and pulled it open, reaching for Red to give her a big hug. Red breathed in Grandma’s cinnamony scent and grinned. She’d brought the wolf to her grandmother, and Grandma would know what to do. “I brought you someone. I thought he might be the woodcutter Daddy’s looking for, but now I don’t think so.” A minute later, Grandma was ushering Red and her guest into the kitchen and putting the kettle up for tea. “I hope you’re not offended,” Grandma told the man. Her voice was businesslike. “But I can’t have you tracking dirt all over my house. You’ll have to wash up before you sit down anywhere. And if you’re not attached to those clothes, we’ll have to find you something else to wear. Perhaps some of my late husband’s things should do.” Red couldn’t be sure, but she thought the man looked a bit embarrassed under all that dirt. “I’d like that,” he admitted. He was definitely embarrassed. “I don’t often get a chance to be someplace this clean. I’ve got to scavenge for a living. I’ve had to for a long time. They call me the wolf,” he offered by way of greeting. “Now, that won’t do,” Grandma said briskly. “You must have a given name. What is it?” The man was taken aback. “Nobody’s asked for my given name in a very long time,” he explained. “It’s Ernest.” The name seemed to suit him. Once he was cleaned up and dressed in some of Red’s late grandfather’s clothes, which were somewhat worn but neatly mended and certainly much cleaner than anything Ernest had got on before, Ernest insisted on helping get ready for tea. In response to Grandma’s questions, Ernest’s story began to come out. He’d been cast out of his house and forced to seek his fortune by a wicked stepmother. He’d never been on his own before and did rather a poor job of it. He’d not thought to try finding work, just lived on whatever people threw away. The thought of stealing had likewise never even occurred to him. He slept on the ground and tossed in his sleep, which was how he’d gotten so dirty. His clothes had been washed away one time when he left them too close to a stream while attempting to bathe, and he’d been forced to cobble together new ones from whatever he could find. He’d also been scared to wash after that. He didn’t want to be a bother, but it had been so long since he’d had a solid meal, and even longer since he’d had anything sweet, that when Red invited him, he had not been able to do anything but agree. Hearing this, Grandma got some chicken soup out of the icebox and put it on the stove, then took an extra loaf of bread from the pantry. By the time tea was ready, Ernest had told Grandma everything he had planned to admit and then some. Grandma had already started thinking of excuses to keep Ernest around. The young man obviously couldn’t make it on his own, but he had a good head on his shoulders and was honest. She liked that. Red had also become quite fond of Ernest. Once she had Grandma’s approval, she knew he was okay. And he had been a good listener and good company on the walk over. He had paid more attention to what Red had been saying than Red herself had! “You’ll have to get rid of those old clothes,” Grandma said as she spread some of Clara’s jam on a piece of bread and passed it to Ernest. Ernest did not like that idea. He blatantly refused. “It’s the only thing I have left that’s really mine,” he explained. “It took me ages to put together. And it’s warm. You have no idea how cold it gets at night in these parts.” Red did know how cold it got, and so did Grandma, but they let this last remark slide. Ernest was obviously attached to his raggedy patchwork clothes. “Well, at least let me wash them for you,” Grandma offered, but Ernest would not hear of it. “If you’ve just got a bit of soap to spare, I’ll wash them myself. I’m not afraid of hard work.” He really wasn’t. After tea, which for Ernest turned out to be something like dinner instead, for Grandma plied him with all sorts of food until he could eat no more, Ernest insisted on cleaning up. He tied on a frilly pink apron that Grandma loaned him and started washing all the dishes (he’d been made to use several for all the different types of food Grandma had forced on him, of which he ate heartily), whistling cheerfully as he worked. When he was through with that, he took the broom from the corner and began sweeping the floor. Red and Grandma shared a conspiratorial look. “I may just keep him,” Grandma confided in a whisper. “I can’t imagine why his stepmother chucked him out.” But it was not to be. As soon as Ernest was through with the cleaning up, including giving his old clothes a thorough scrubbing, he told Grandma that he had to be on his way. His clothes were still damp, but Grandma told him he could keep the ones she’d given him, so he hung his old clothes over one shoulder and said his goodbyes, looking a little sad to be leaving. “I’d be out of place here,” he explained. “I have to go.” “Come and visit sometime,” Grandma told him, and Ernest promised he would. CRASH! The glass in one of the windows shattered; a hatchet flew through it and buried itself in the opposite wall, missing Ernest by inches. A man jumped through the hole in the window and landed awkwardly on one of Grandma’s chairs, breaking one of the legs off. He jumped to his feet and lunged across through the room. “I’ll save you!” he proclaimed, reaching for his hatchet. Grandma got there first, swatting his reaching hand away. “What is the meaning of this?” she demanded. “Hasn’t anyone ever taught you to knock? Look what you’ve done to my house!” “But- but-” the vagrant stuttered. “That wolf…” He was looking at Ernest. “Red, run home and get your dad, or your mum, if he’s not there. Quickly,” Grandma told her. “We’ll take care of this vagrant until you get back. I’ll bet my cookie-jar he’s the woodcutter they’re after.” She turned to Ernest, a smile on her face. “Do you have to go?” She asked. “My house will need repairing. I’d like to offer you a job.” This time, Ernest couldn’t refuse. He smiled. “I’d like that.”

af8sks

Rebecca

Her eyes are now a dull, glassy pale blue. No longer the bewitching deep green they once were, making me think on a pair of emeralds glimmering and polished. Her hair, frazzled and dusty. No longer the luminous copper ringlets they once were. But her cheeks are still rosy. Freckled. Beneath the dust with a smear and a bit of spit. Her complexion a dewy pale gleam. There remains, from all the years gone by, those cracks where my grandmother expertly glued her leg back together for me. It was told to me then that pretty dolls are hardly for playing with.        But once, though I had played with her no more after that fateful cracking of her fine porcelain, she was forever the maiden, the adventurer, of all the tales I told myself and scribbled in my little notebooks. We had found her at a doll and teddy bear fair, and my grandmother had treated me to her.     So unlike was she to me. A wish fulfilment in the flesh of all that I so desperately wanted to be. With what I considered then to be very plain brown eyes of my own, and mousy brown, dead straight hair. Hardly the making of any fair maiden I could imagine with even my own wild imagination.        I look upon her now, on the mantle in my grandparent’s bedroom with nothing but the fondness for an old friend.        And beside her is Growler, a bear from that self-same fair for my grandmother’s collection of prized teddy bears. Growler, aside from a worn voice box, has fared far better than my old porcelain friend, my Rebecca. He is still the same glistening and bristling dark chocolate brown he always was, his deep brown and animated glass eyes still full of mirth and twinkling.          I lift Growler from the mantle, tipping him forwards and backwards as I once did before bed as a child, hoping to hear him growl, but he does not. I remake the green bow around his neck. Next I lift Rebecca from the mantelpiece, and touch her cracked and pieced back together leg, remembering how I once learnt she was not as relentlessly hardy as my Smurfette figurine or Ariel the mermaid doll. Strange isn’t it how many beautiful things we are taught are for looking only.           All the same, growing up in my grandparents’ house, she had always been my pride and joy. I think back on the pair of copper haired twins I used to watch from the vantage point, hiding beneath the lattice work on my grandparent’s balcony and hidden further by the large pine tree. They went to a different school than me. And how I envied their copper hair. So like my Rebecca’s. Their ocean coloured school uniform of green and turquoise check, dreary again as I imagined mine was in plain navy blue. All I ever wanted was to be them, or to be more like my Rebecca.        I wanted their hair. Their uniform. Their sisterhood, an only child that I was.  I wore a different ribbon in my hair every day, to make myself more like my Rebecca.        But I am so much older now. Such things seem foolish now. I bring Rebecca out from her resting place on the mantle and sit down with my grandparents in front of the telly. I cradle her under my arm as I might once have done, and stroke her hair, remaking the cream silk ribbon into a resplendent bow once more.         I think on us all as generations with dolls, even in my family. A generation of dolls one after the other. My mother once told me she had a doll she shook so hard in a display of mock anger, its eyeball popped and fell inside its cavernous body, rattling ever after. My grandfather once told me he had a nursing dolly but he fed it milk instead of water and it rotted inside out, reeking so terribly eventually there was nothing for it but to discard it with the trash outdoors.            But it is my grandmother who surprises me most this evening, as I cradle my dear Rebecca perhaps for the last time before I leave her again on the mantle. In the way my grandmother so often surprises with bizarre tales of her youth.          My grandmother’s mother died when she was only eleven and as far as her childhood stories go they almost always start when she was eleven. Like that time her father told her he had a surprise for her on the back of his pick up and she hoped and prayed that it was the cherry red new bicycle she’d been hinting at as all the other kids had one. Instead it was a cot for the new baby of his second bride.      This evening she regales with yet another one of her stories. Strange stories they often are. With a father who was want to marry a series of women who were without a single maternal instinct amongst them for the almost altogether orphaned trio of my grandmother and her siblings left in their charge. Cinderella may have envied my Nana for all that she suffered and fended for herself and younger brother and sister so industriously. And tonight it is story night again.     “When I was eleven,” she begins as always. “My Aunt Jenny sent me a doll.”     I remember this Aunt Jenny vividly from my own childhood. Perhaps she has been embellished upon as the years have gone by, but she always takes the form of an elegant, slender figure straight from the pages The Great Gatsby , dressed head to toe in glimmering gold with a matching cigarette holder and lighter set lined in mother of pearl and rimmed with gold trimmings, the waft of her skinny Vogues so familiar to her signature scent, a heavy chain smoker that she was to her very last breath. A veritable fairy godmother in all of my grandmother’s stories.      “When I was eleven, my aunt Jenny sent me a doll. And it was such a pretty little thing. That night, I took it outside and drowned it in a barrel filled with rain water and left it there.”       My grandmother can tell such odd and quickly summarized macabre truths as if it were as simple as commenting on the weather. I usually let them slide but this evening I am particularly puzzled.    “But why, Nana? Why would you do such a thing?” I plead, looking truthfully for an answer to something so dark and dreadful.    “Oh, I don’t know. I think it just seemed like another thing I had to take care of.”  

tth838

The Mickey Mouse Watch

Buddy sat on the front porch steps in his bare feet. It was late summertime, and he had no need for shoes. The ones he had were too small anyway, and he wouldn’t get a new pair until Christmas. He sat there with his elbows on his knees, chin in his hands, avoiding the dirt lawn he was supposed to be raking. He wasn’t really looking at the dirt anymore.  His usually twinkling eyes were adrift. He was daydreaming again. He had taken to staring at the old Hickory tree across the road. Lost in his thoughts, he was thinking about his brother Lyton again. Lyton had gone off and joined the Army, and Buddy missed him somethin’ awful. Although he had a heap of brothers and sisters to play with, or to get into a tussle with, he missed his big brother-- the talks they shared and the times they just sat outside together in silence, listening to the tree frogs and crickets, and watching the lightnin’ bugs. that surrounded their humble little mill home in the foothills of the Western North Carolina mountains. Out of nowhere, Buddy was startled back to reality by his Mama’s voice, hollerin’, “if that yard ain’t raked by the time I come out there to take the wash off the line, your Daddy will be hearin’ about it”. Buddy also knew that if he didn’t get it finished right quick, he would not get that last biscuit left over from breakfast that Mama had promised him if he got all of his chores done in a timely fashion.  Mama made the best biscuits!  After all, his Mama’s love was kneaded into every biscuit she ever made! Buddy’s family was a big one, with lots of brothers and sisters. Mama’s meals were always delicious, but they had to be stretched to feed her large family, and sometimes food could be scarce, so that last biscuit was always considered a treat, and sometimes even fought over. Buddy was a happy boy, always with that special sparkle in his eye. He loved his Mama and Daddy, and all his brothers and sisters. But he really missed his big brother. Every night before bedtime, when he got on his knees to say his prayers, and count his blessings, Buddy would say an extra prayer asking God for Lyton to come home soon for a visit. As the summer slowly turned to early fall and the leaves began to change, Buddy would watch the sun set as the nights got cooler. He would often sit and wonder what a brave soldier like his brother might be doing. “Was he cleanin’ a gun? Was he shootin’ a gun? Was he patrollin’ an area lookin’ for the enemy? Or guardin’ a command post? Would he have to go off to war one day?” Not too long into the month of October, Buddy was outside raking the dirt and scrambling to get it done before Daddy got home. He looked up to see a figure coming down the dusty road that led to the house. At first, he thought it was Daddy coming down the road after a long day working as a fixer at the cotton mill. But no, this person was moving a might faster than Daddy would have been after a long workday. Buddy put his hand to his forehead above his eyebrows to shield the glare of the setting sun. His heart skipped a beat or two, when he realized it was his brother Lyton coming down the road! Buddy could not wait for Lyton to walk all the way up that dusty old road. He dropped his rake and ran as fast as his bare feet would let him; all the while looking backward and hollerin’ at anyone who would hear inside the house or out in the yard. “Mama, Lyton’s come home, I see him comin’ up the road!! Mama, he’s home!”. In all that excitement, he managed to trip over some rocks on the road and fell plum on his face. By now, Lyton was close enough that Buddy could hear him laughing at his clumsiness. When they reached one another, Lyton greeted his little brother with a rub on the top of his head, that soon turned into the kind of hug that lifted Buddy off his feet and spun him around in a circle “Boy, you need to pay better mind to what you’re doin’”, Lyton said with another laugh. Buddy had a million questions for Lyton, but now Mama had come running down the road in tears, while affectionately scolding Lyton for not sending word of his return so she could have some hot biscuits ready with some pinto beans, and on a count that she would have prepared a special supper of some sort. When she reached him, they hugged for a real long time, and soon the others came runnin’ to greet their brave brother home. Next morning after Buddy had dressed for school, Lyton came to him and told him he had brought him a present. He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out the most fancy, expensive thing Buddy had ever seen in real life, ever. A shiny, brand-new watch. But this wasn’t an ordinary watch. No, this was a Mickey Mouse watch! Buddy loved to look at the comics when his Daddy was done looking at the newspapers, and Mickey Mouse was his favorite. He had heard about Steamboat Willie and hoped to see it one day on a big picture screen somewhere. Lyton explained that Mickey’s arms would serve has the watch hands, and before he wrapped the band around Buddy’s wrist, he showed him how to wind the watch and said to him, “Now Bud, this is very important. Don’t wind the watch too tight. And only wind it once at night before you go to bed.” “Yes sir”, Buddy replied, with a salute to his brother, who he was so proud of. But later that day at school, Buddy could not stop looking at his new watch. He could not stop thinking about how badly he wanted to wind the watch. It seemed like Mickey’s arms were moving as slow as the turtle he saw crawling by creek the other day. It seemed like it might be forever before he would be able to wind the watch. Every so often, throughout the rest of the school day, Buddy would wind the watch just a little “Just a tiny little bit won’t hurt it” he told himself. Later that night, he wound the watch one more time right before he said his prayers, until it stopped clicking. The next day, during school, Buddy noticed the watch was no longer keeping time. It didn’t seem to want to wind anymore, either. It wasn’t making the clicking noise it had made those other times he wound it. Mickey’s hands weren’t moving, and he couldn’t hear the watch ticking anymore. His heart sank like an anchor as he realized that the watch had just…. stopped. That evening when he saw Lyton sitting in the rocker on the porch, he went to him and said, “Lyton, my watch has stopped keepin’ time. Can you help me fix it?” Buddy took the watch off his wrist and handed it to his brother. Lyton inspected the watch, looked at Buddy and replied “Yeah, I can fix it. Come on, let’s go out to the woodshed”. “Shoo, what a relief!” Buddy thought to himself. Right near the shed, Lyton laid the watch on the big tree stump, that was used for wood choppin’. While Buddy waited by the stump, Lyton found the old axe that hung on a nail in the shed and returned to the stump where Buddy was waiting.  Lyton stood over the stump, looked once more at Buddy, and then swung the axe hard, shattering the watch to pieces with one blow. He looked at Buddy and said: “Now Bud, I told you not to wind the watch too tight, didn’t I?” Buddy was heartbroken. He felt as if Mickey’s heart broke too, when the watch had stopped its ticking, and now both their hearts were just smashed all to pieces! He was so hurt and angry at his brother. How could his brother, who loved him so much, do such a mean thing!? WHY would he do such a thing? He didn’t think he could ever forgive Lyton.  A few days later Lyton left, to return to his Army post. As the weeks passed with Lyton gone again, Buddy had nothing to do but think. And he knew that he had done what he had been warned not to do. He knew that his excitement had gotten the best of him. He also knew that he himself had ruined the watch first, and his big brother had been right. If only he had listened! He realized that there was a lesson to be learned in the hurt he felt in his heart. Months went by, and Buddy was sitting on the front porch steps again, avoiding the dirt he was supposed to be raking. His elbows on his knees, chin in his hands, and his twinkling eyes staring at the Hickory tree across the road. Lost in thought, he was thinking of his big brother who had gone off to the Army. Buddy missed him somethin’ awful. He wondered what Lyton was doing, and he said a little prayer, asking God for Lyton to come home soon for a visit.

jkx488

A future of sweet dreams

The letter came in the post on a Monday. It added to the somewhat weighty feeling the start of a week can bring, walking in to see the handwriting sitting on my doormat. It had been thirteen years since I'd heard from her. My initial thought was of how dramatic a letter was, so like her. She could easily have just sent me a DM or even emailed; my address was in my bio. But no, a letter, of course, even if the effort of finding my address took time out of her day, something she had never wanted to give before. I tore back the think yellowish envelope flap, the thin line of shiny glue making it tricky to prize open. It's not a massively thick envelope but it's thick enough for me to want to at least take a quick look before I throw it out. Joe walks through the door and drums his fingers on the table, an old habit, something I barely notice anymore. 'you alright babe?' I pull out the paper as I answer, 'yeah, you love? How was work?' he pulled out the peanut butter and a loaf of bread as he answered, telling me about a day that fell in deaf ears, my eyes focused on scanning the page in front of me. the familiar chunky handwriting brings back flash memories of apology notes, alarms, and social services workers. I shake off a light shiver and Joe walks over placing a hand on my shoulder. 'What you got there?' ‘Looks like she finally bothered to write.' His brow furrows as he leans down to see the paper. It’s not a long letter, half a side of paper. I'm divided, part of me doesn’t even want to read it, the anger I harbored for years simmering just below the surface. But the other part, the child in me is begging to see what she's said, what little acknowledgement of my existence she’s given this time. It’s the child that wins, as I knew she would. My eyes scan the page as Joes do, taking in her words which play through my head in her voice, something I heard most through the answering machine. ‘Cas, I know me leaving you has left you with a hatred for me that I can’t help but understand. I  know I broke your heart by doing what you begged me not to Cas and I need you to know, I am so deeply sorry. Nothing I can do anymore can give you back the childhood you deserve and I wish it could but If you will allow me, I still want to make amends. To try to, even just to talk. If you feel comfortable, please meet me Cas.’ Below was an address and she’d signed it ‘Mom’ Joe finishes reading at the same time as I did and let out a sigh. ‘How do you feel?’ I shrug and place the paper down. ‘I find it funny’ I reply ‘her audacity’ He nods picking up his freshly made toast. ‘i get that babe, of course I do. But if you feel up to it, don’t you feel it might help? To bring you some colure maybe, even stop the dreams?’ He’d been great with those. The dreams where I'd wake up in the middle of the night crying because six year old me was standing watching the car drive her mother away down the road again. I hadn't considered that. I'd let the repressed simmering anger boil over finally and as usual, he’d brought me back to sense. Maybe I should? ‘Do you think I should?’ He looks up and shoots me his familiar comforting smile. ‘I think you should do whatever you feel you need to do Cas’ The nutty undertones of the coffee shop fill my nostrils as I push open the door, washing over me in a wave of warmth. I walk in, making my way to a two person table by the window, smiling at the waitress as I take a seat. The view is pretty, you can see the nearby river, quite picturesque in the soft autumn sunshine. The shop bell tinkles and to me time slows down. Way down. And then starts running backwards instead, like the rewinding of a tape, back into my childhood as I meet the eyes of my mother for the first time in thirteen years. ‘Hey Cas’, ‘Mu- Jan.’ I stutter I get to my feet awkwardly, I don’t know why, I don’t quite feel like a hug but instead gesture to the seat opposite. ‘Thank you for meeting me, I honestly didn’t think you would’ ‘Neither did I actually’ She nods and tries to smile ‘So how have you been?’ We talk for hours. I hadn’t thought I'd stay for long. But two oat milk lattes and multiple pastries later we’re still talking. She tells me about the life she’d gone on to have, her path seeking help, her motivation to get better. ‘It was you Cas. But I knew I couldn’t come back into your life before I was one hundred percent sure I was well enough to be there for you if you’d let me. To play some kind of a role in your life again, even if it was simply some woman you met for coffee. I had to try.’ By the time Joe rang it was getting dark outside, the last golden yellows just fading from the skyline. I hadn't noticed how long we’d spoken but I did notice the weight that had lifted from my chest and the relief it brought me. I had felt for years as though she just didn’t want me, that I hadn’t been good enough for her. That she’d left to get away, no idea that she’d left so that in the long run she could actually remain part of my life. Or even life itself. We left together through the door, walking out into a cool breeze coming from the river. As we stood to part ways, she thanked me again, for the chance to explain and give me some comfort in knowing I was never the reason to her leaving. She reached out for a hug and this time I did, I was happy to. For so long I'd felt as though I was never quite good enough, like I must have done something wrong along the way and yet she’d managed to take that away despite the years of it sitting comfortably at home within me. I went home more than happy. Joe saw it the second I walked in the door, the glow in my cheeks and as he said the, ‘Joy in your eyes’. As I lay down to sleep all I could think of was the future of sweet dreams awaiting me on my pillow. 

gckfni

The dilemma of love

It had been 24 years since she’d last seen it, but the place looked exactly the same. The sun was shining meekly and the slow breeze of evening felt fresh and the sky looked clear. She stood at the doorway for quite some time observing her surroundings. Samantha was visiting her house after 24 years. Her grandmother died last month. She could not visit back then as she had certain personal issues. Samantha, she is a successful entrepreneur and lives in another city quite far. She is a quiet and shy lady. She was never quite attached to the house nor to the members residing in it. She only had a slight attachment with her grandmother but she lost that attachment too. She stood in front of the main entrance and rang the doorbell. Her memories of childhood came rushing back in front of her eyes while standing at the doorway. She remembered that how much she felt biased at her own house. She has a younger brother, Joey, who used to adore her a lot but Samantha never liked her brother as she always felt that her parents loved him more. Joey was good at mostly everything, whether academics or sports or any other curricular activities whereas Samantha was a very average student. Joey always managed to garner the attention of his parents and used to get the best things. Her thoughts vanished as she saw her parents open the door with a smile on their face. They welcomed her with a warm big hug. She entered the house; the house maintained the same grandeur she thought in her mind. It looked very cleaned, there were no trace of dust. She noticed the sofa set has been changed and the carpet too. “It’s so good to see you after so long” her mother said with a smile on her face. “I know you have been keeping very busy with your work but thanks for visiting. You grandmother kept on repeating your name before she died.” And then she burst into tears. “oh! She must be very tired from the journey, let her rest for some time, we will talk at dinner.” said her father. Samantha’s father took the luggage and went to Samantha’s room to keep them. Samantha followed her father quietly. Samantha noticed that her room has been transformed quite much. There is new furniture, new paintings. Nothing old has been kept in that room. She kept her thoughts aside and went to the washroom to freshen up. She changed quickly into her sleepwear. She was passing through her brother’s room and decided to enter. His room was neatly decorated as it was used to be, nothing has been changed. She really got furious but was good at hiding her emotion. All these years she did not come home, she just had telephonic conversations and nothing else and once she arrived, she never expected to see the changes. At the dining table, she sat at the same chair where she used to sit in her childhood. Her parents kept on talking about that how their son is busy and could not make it. Samantha was somewhat glad that Joey was not at home. Her parents kept on talking about their son’s achievements. Samantha eventually got very agitated and then she finally spoke. “I think he should have been here instead of me then you both would have been happy” said Samantha with a loud voice. Her parents got startled by the sudden burst. “What made you think that? We are very happy that you are here with us,” said her mother nervously. Everything, everything reminds me of the biased behavior you have made towards me since childhood shouted Samantha. “We never differentiated between you two and why would we? You both are our kids,” said Samantha’s father consoling her. “If that is the case then why only the things in my room has been changed and not his, why you both are still keep talking about him even if I am sitting in front of you. You did not even bother to ask me how I am managing from all these years on my own. Did you? No, you did not, because you both only care about your son and not about your daughter” said Samantha panting. Her mother gazed at her with teary eyes and said,” the furniture of your room became very old thus we had to replace it with new ones. We thought you would like the new ones and all your stuffs since childhood, we haven’t thrown anything out of house, we packed it and kept it in the attic. We thought that you would like the decoration of your room when you visit us but you never thought visiting us in the last 24 years. You went to another city for work, found a life partner but you never thought of sharing any of your happiness with us. Even you cut the telephonic conversations short every time. You never even bothered to ask us that how is our life going on and still you think that were biased to you? We were not biased nor selfish. Your own assumptions made you think so.” Samantha kept her eyes fixed towards the ground listening to what her mother said. Her father was still sitting on the chair shifting his gazes. There was silence in the whole room for quite some time. “I think I need some sleep; I have had enough discussions for the day,” said Samantha without any emotion. She did not even finish her dinner and got up to leave. She went towards her room but somewhere her mind was wandering to go to the attic. She sheepishly went out of the room when she thought everyone was asleep. She found a torch light in the drawer of her room and took it. She went to the attic and switched on the light. The light was dim but enough to lit up the attic. She found there were many big brown boxes with her name on it. She sat down on the wooden floor and opened the first box and found her things from her childhood. The coloring books, the colorful hairbands, few crafts that she made and her favorite pink teddy bear she had when she was 8. She opened another box and found her old clothes. “Mom was right she never threw anything out of house” she thought in her mind. A little guilt and a little happiness filled her heart. A little drop of tear came out from her left eye and fell on her hand. She could not stop her tears falling from her eyes. She ran downstairs with the pink teddy still in her hands. She sneaked in her parents’ room. They were asleep. She turned to go back to her room when suddenly the light of the room lit up. She turned back and saw her parents sitting up on the bed holding each other hands. Her mother said in a heavy voice “I am sorry Sam if you ever felt biased but we always loved you very much and we will.’ Her father nodded and both of them went up to hug her. Finally, the warm hug made her feel comfortable. She finally felt and accepted the true love and that was all that mattered.

qrkwr1

Seasons

The Seasons Caroline Hart, 11 years old By the time I stepped outside, the leaves were on fire. The low-hanging clouds looked like smoke rising from the burning leaves. Where there was sky, it was red with anger, where it met the fire reaching up from the trees. Under the clouds, however, the sky cried fat tears, but even with the cries of the sky, the leaves remained as flickering flames. Under the press of rain, the trees quivered and gradually shed their cloak of leaves, which then lay on the ground as flames. A vigorous wind punched me in the stomach, and gnarly roots protruded from the balding ground. Soon the sky opened up, and forked lightning split it into two. The brooding, gray clouds painted across the angry, red sky mirrored the mood of the land, as life dropped around me. It was as if the world had given up. I screamed. I know it didn’t help, but I felt better doing something rather than doing nothing at all. The sun hid herself behind a cloud and the moon refused to come out. The dirt was hard against my feet. So, I shifted and turned around. A pile of soot lay where my neighborhood once stood. I couldn’t bear to see the damage. Blocking out the desperate howls from the wind and mourning cries from the sky, I walked forward. Suddenly I felt soft ground, surprised I looked down to find white snow. The world turned dark and stars danced in the sky. The moon slipped from a cloud, and all became still. Streams froze, and it felt as if time did too.  A brush of cool wind crawled up my body, I shivered. The light of the moon glistened off of the snow that had started to seep through my toes. I clenched my jacket closer and I shut my eyes. Ice clung to the leafless trees, almost hugging them. The breeze made a whistling sound; its melody dominating the landscape. Soon it stopped and all became silent . All were afraid to disrupt the noiseless world. I was afraid that if I did anything, something could go wrong. So, I did nothing. And I liked doing nothing until the stars asked what my purpose was. When I didn’t have an answer, I curled into a ball. All was quiet, all was lonely. I longed for more life, for even though life could be chaotic, it was never lonely. And at least chaos was something, something to fix or even to cause more chaos. At least chaos gave me a purpose. My feet left indents in the snow and marked a trail behind me. My trail was my only true companion here. I hadn’t heard my voice in a long time—I longed for a friend, so I decided to move forward. As I walked through the beautiful snow, I said goodbye to stillness.  After a long time of walking, the sun revealed her face inflamed with passion for life and radiating heat. She shot her rays at the snow, and as it evaporated away, blades of grass sprung from the moist ground. Daffodils and sunflowers covered the land, and trees stood proudly smiling at me. Butterflies greeted me as I walked past, and houses entangled in vines, stood with nature instead of on top of it. A smile was born in the world, and life sprung from its roots. The sun was willing to share her time with the moon but lingered longer day by day as a pleasant guest. A rainbow appeared in the sky, and ended in a golden horizon. Roses overwhelmed their thorns in bloom, and the sweet smell of fresh berries refreshed the air.  Trees teeming with leaves offered me shade, and a home for others, and no one was sad. After a while I had become accustomed to the luxurious life, and I stopped appreciating it. I forgot the bad times, and my expectations became too high. Before warmth and accompaniment was all I had ever wanted, but now it was not enough. For you see when all is made perfect, the perfect is no longer perfect anymore, it is just normal . I forced myself to leave paradise. After a short journey, the sun began burning my face. She hogged everyone's attention and squeezed herself through the branches of the trees. The earth was no longer soft, and the clouds, too afraid to get in the sun’s way, hid. Everything in the sun’s path sagged and wrinkled, I did not want to become like them. I was scared she would find me, so I, like the clouds, stayed far away from her. She was angry and burned anyone who stood in her way. The world deceived me, for from the outside it looked beautiful, but once I saw the inside, its anger shriveled me into a raisin. The sun’s piercing stare shot onto my back and stopped me from feeling an ounce of security. Everything was too dry, and too wet at the same time. I longed for rain but hated being soaked in sweat every day. I could never make my own choices, because I had experienced the worst of both. Or so it seemed. I became tired quickly, but the sun never seemed to sleep. She would rest late at night and arrive early in the morning, and never was late. I wished to leave the heat behind and hoped that one day the sun would be tired too. When the constant light made my skin turn red, and my clothes were plastered to my body through heat and sweat, I could only lay down and hope to wake in a more temperate world. But before I drifted away, a slight breeze lifted me up. And soon again the sun and wind lit the leaves on fire, but this fire came with cool winds, as the heat faded. The sky turned red, but this time, I appreciated the chaos. It wasn’t lonely, and it wasn’t boring, but I still couldn’t wait until the stillness approached again. For it was the cycle, or the change, that made me see and appreciate all the little things. 

0baz8v

Thereby Hangs A Tail

There was once a boy called Billy Nutbeam who lived with his mother and father in a small cottage near a dense forest. His father worked at a nearby farm. Billy accompanied him to see the young calves and the new yellow chicks. But animals and birds didn’t like Billy. He always pulled their tails. He just did it to tease them, and they hated it. It frightened them. Billy didn’t care, and he just went on pulling them. Billy pulled the tail of Whiskers, his mother’s cat, and often caught hold of the long, shaggy tail of Bingo, his father’s old dog, and made him yelp with pain. He pulled the pony’s tail, and he even pulled the pretty, drooping tail of Doodle-doo, the farmer’s prize cockerel. The thoughtless lad did it just to annoy the animals and didn’t appreciate the distress it caused. To be fair, he never forgot to feed his rabbit, and he always saw that the dog had plenty of water in his bowl. However, the inconsiderate teasing upset his mother. “I’m ashamed of you, Billy,” she said. “One of these days something will make you sorry for pulling tails so much.” Billy laughed at this warning. He ran out of the back door, pulling the cat’s tail as he departed. # During the summer holidays Billy went for a long walk in the forest. It was a lovely sunny day, and he’d offered to gather some wild berries for his mother. He followed a winding path that led between the trees into the wood and he searched for ripe fruits, but struggled to find much that was worth picking. Billy continued down the narrow track between the tall and shady trees until he encountered a bright clearing in the forest’s heart that was a perfect place for strawberries. They were plump, sweet and plentiful and many more than he could carry home. He collected many handfuls and stashed them in his knapsack. Billy wasn’t the only person engrossed in harvesting the bountiful crop. He lifted his head in search of more runner stems and noticed a little girl with a wicker basket. She had the prettiest face he had ever seen, framed by short-cropped hair. Her hands and feet were petite and yes, she had cute pointed ears too. Billy ducked down so as not to be spotted and watched her flutter about. She was so light, Billy was sure that she hovered above the ground as she moved. The lad recalled stories of woodland folk that lived deep in the forest, but he assumed those were just Grandma Nutbeam’s daft tales. She raised Billy on her bedtime stories about goblins that lived under tree trunks and ogres who inhabited riverbanks, but he’d never believed them until now. She could only be a pixie, he surmised. When the little girl’s basket was full, she drifted into the forest. Billy wanted to know where she lived, and he followed her at a discreet distance. His pulse raced as he gave chase. He was careful not to make too much noise. He didn’t want to frighten her in case she flew away. The trees thinned out again and in another clearing was a dainty peach-coloured cottage. It had an oval door, two matching windows and a roof made from straw. The pixie floated up the footpath, disappeared inside the building and shut the door. A cream coloured wall ran around the garden, and on top was an elegant black cat. Its slender limbs and straight back gave it a majestic air. Billy observed the curious feline. He concluded it could only be a pixie cat, and he reached out to stroke it. The cat had a haughty manner and raised its whiskers with disdain as Billy approached. Its long black tail lolled back and forth as if it was marking time. The cat allowed Billy to stroke its long, sleek back and purred as his fingers curled round its tail. Its awful yellow eyes rolled over, and it hissed as Billy tightened his grip. Billy narrowed his eyes and smiled at the cat as he pulled with all his might. The beast appeared to grow, its eyes flashed a hellish crimson, and it screeched with a shrill high-pitched cry. Billy stepped away from the animal and the colour drained from his face. The cat disappeared from view and it left Billy clutching the long black tail in his right hand. The cat meowed, and he spotted it leaping up and through one of the oval windows into the house. He heard a shriek and crash from within. The door flew open and the little pixie appeared. The little girl no longer looked pretty or friendly. “What have you done to my cat, you nasty boy?” She screamed at Billy. “You wicked boy!” she yelled. “My poor cat’s tail!” “I didn’t mean to,” said Billy, shaking as tears came to his eyes. “Believe me, I---” “I don’t believe you,” shouted the pixie as she fluttered toward him. “All the animals complain you pull their tails.” “But what can I do with this tail?” He wiped his eyes with his shirt cuff. “Can you reattach it?” “No, I can’t, you silly boy!” she said, landing in front of Billy. “Tallulah will grow a new one, but that’s not the point,” she said. “They come off easily and it’s very painful for them.” “I wouldn’t have pulled it if I’d known that, I promise you---” “Tail snatcher!” she said, grabbing the writhing appendage. “Keep it for yourself!” The pixie threw the tail at Billy and it darted around his head like a flying serpent, avoiding his flailing arms. “No! No!” The tail wriggled down inside Billy’s shirt and trousers, and attached itself to the base of his spine. Billy grabbed the contorting limb and tried to release it. He pulled and yanked, but it was no good. There was no way to remove it. The tail was grafted to him and all he did was hurt himself. The little pixie laughed at Billy. How she laughed and laughed. She held her sides and laughed until tears rolled down her cheeks. The laughter echoed from the nearby trees and into the dark forest beyond. Billy looked around and spotted little faces emerging from behind tree trunks and bushes. Before long a mighty congregation of brownies, gnomes, bogles and goblins surrounded Billy and the pixie. When the pixie explained what had happened, they all started laughing as well. “Please help me…” Billy couldn’t hold back his tears. The raucous cacophony drowned out the poor lad’s pleas. It was impossible to be heard above the assembled crowd. He stumbled about as little hands reached to grab his tail. He retreated into the forest before running away and leaving behind the hysterical laughter. Billy followed his footsteps as he charged through the dense woodland. He was out of breath and gibbering to himself when he collapsed in a grazing pasture. The wretched boy tugged his tail, but he couldn’t remove it. It was a part of him now. That was that. There was no choice but to explain to his parents what had happened. # It was getting dark when Billy picked his way through his parents’ rear garden, his black tail swishing behind him. At last he reached the kitchen door and crept in. He was still wondering what to say. His parents were eating their supper when he entered their dining room. They looked up. “What time do you call this…?” His mother began as the long black furry tail wafted into view. “Billy, watch out!” “What on earth?” His father stood up, grasping a sharp knife from the table. “Please, father don’t---” “What’s that you’ve got there?” Billy explained the story to his parents and his mother furrowed her brow. “I told you something would happen to you one day,” she said. “The best thing to do is stop pulling tails and pray yours will disappear.” # Billy stopped his cruel pranks, but it didn’t go unnoticed amongst the local animals that he now had his own tail. Every time Billy passed a squirrel, cat, duck, dog, goat, donkey, cow or horse, they dashed up behind him and gave his tail a good pull. How they quacked, howled, squawked and barked with laughter. Whiskers would give it a good scratch, and Bingo would lie in wait and make him jump.  “I hope you appreciate what it was like for all those animals,” said his father. “But can’t you make it stop?” Billy asked. Mrs Nutbeam examined her son’s new appendage every day and agreed with her husband it was there to stay. For eight weeks Billy endured the pixie-cat’s tail, and many times a day he suffered when he had it pulled. He tried putting the end in one of his pockets, but it wouldn’t stay there. He tried tying the tail to his chest, and it escaped to dance around behind him. The tail had a mind of its own. It waved about in the air both day and night and wouldn’t keep still. Billy was powerless to stop it. He just had to put up with all its terrible antics. “Your tail doesn’t look like departing, Billy.” “I’m so sorry,” he said, “I can’t stand it any longer, Mum.” “It’s getting worse, I imagined it would’ve dropped off by now.” “I’ll never pull another tail again.” Billy’s parents discussed the problem with Grandma Nutbeam. The ways of the woodland folk were her area of expertise. She suggested contacting the pixie and telling her Billy had learnt his lesson. Mister Nutbeam smirked when he heard the idea, but Billy’s mother agreed to try it. She wrote the pixie a letter saying how much her son had changed and how contrite he was. “It’s all we can do,” she said. It took the family all day to locate the pixie’s cottage, and when they found its whereabouts it saddened them to discover it looked abandoned. They left the envelope on the doormat and trudged home with their heads hanging in despair. # The next day, as Billy was feeding the animals their morning rations, he felt a strange twisting sensation in his tail. The tail rotated and shot up into the air and danced for dear life. After a moment, it fell to the ground, slithered across the floor and disappeared under the door. “Yes! Yes!” he said. “Mum! Dad! I’m free at last!” “Now let that be a warning, Billy.” “I’ll never do it again,” he cried. It’s a vow he’s kept until this day. # People say the tail is out there somewhere waiting to find another cruel child who’s not learnt the lesson. Let’s hope that’s nobody we know. The End

byobwa

Fairy Tale Meets Fabio

Fairy Tale Meets Fabio Long, long ago, and far, far, away from anywhere your mama might have told you about, a lone man walked the floor of the pine, needled earth. It was a time so far back, you could smell the green, the dark richness of the soil and the worms within. His senses were keen like the animals that surrounded him, often raising his head to the clean blue of the sky to smell what was about. Sometimes, those skies would darken by the shadows of countless birds, while the land creatures loped by his side. It was a time of plenitude of creatures, and only taking what was needed from the land. The man did not even know the word for “waste”. Souls were refreshed and awakened by this peace and graciousness. The man could hold a rabbit or help an injured boar. Once, a mother bear put out a frantic plea to the man to help find her lost cub. After two long days and many miles, he found the cub, safe in an old abandoned bear den. Of all the animals, though, the wolves held the most reverence, they were of the same spirit and shared a love for running and straining their taut muscles through the woods. The forest floor often was a blur as paws ran with feet and flew over rocks, brush and packed dirt, only stopping to gulp enough air to satisfy their lungs.  The man knew the mind of the wolf and most of the other animals, no words were needed, yet they communicated much. There was respect and kindness with a gentle quietness. This language, talking to the spirits and living in harmony with nature, were tools handed down through his tribe and transcended all life. He was separated from his tribe since he was a wiry twelve year old. Now, sinewy muscles, bronze skin and long hair helped accentuate his handsome features, but the squirrels and chipmunks took no notice, nor did the man. This “romance book cover looking” of a guy, however, didn’t mind his looks wasted in the woodlands, he had his animals if not his tribe, and cared about deeper impressions. Aside from changes in the weather, deciduous trees, and occasional shifts in the animal habitats, things were predictable in the man’s world, and he found contentment in all its beauty. Although he longed for some human contact, he never strayed from his delight with the animals.  Yes, you guessed it, as fate would have it, one day while foraging for mushrooms, he heard a strange noise. He froze as did the wolf by his side. They listened, smelled the air and waited. The sound came again, so foreign to his ears, it took him a while until he realized it was a scream! Usually, he assessed, planned and executed into action anything in the wild that needed tending but this was a new challenge.  2 Finally, his feet led the way as his mind caught up. He followed the scream to the riverbank and saw a shape struggling in the water. The river looked greedy, not wanting to share the figure but swallow it up whole. He sliced through the rushing water, however, and grabbed her around the neck and swam as his strong muscles fought off the river’s pull. Once on the bank, he placed her on the dirt and marveled at the sight of another person in front of him, and a woman at that.  While he was busy marvelling, she coughed violently, then vomitted, not the way he hoped for a first encounter. She continued this until there could be no question of anything left inside her. Then she shuddered as she looked up at him, not sure if the cause was from the man or river. He stared with deep hazel eyes that gave no indication of what he was thinking. She swallowed and tried to speak but coughed again and thankfully, nothing more followed. She looked at the wilderness around her, then back at the man and smiled, for she felt calm instead of fear. When you are a woman, and of these times, running away from abuse, curses and some evil thrown in, any alternative can be salvation. Again, those hazel eyes stared, then a hand took her arm, gently -relief. He helped her up onto her unsteady feet and checked her body as she blushed, how could she know it was an injury check. She waited for him to speak, but when her curiosity was met with silence, she spoke up. She touched her chest and said, “Mariana” He said nothing, so she repeated the gesture and her name. He reached out, and to her embarrassment, touched her chest and said something somewhat similar to her name.  “No, I’m Mariana. Now you, what’s your name?” And she put a tentative hand on his broad chest. He looked at her and said something she did not recognize. He saw the look of confusion, so said it once more and slowly. “Calian.” Then he spoke words in a language that was unfamiliar and captivating with its songlike flow. Consonants and vowels never held such a trance-like power before, making her long for comprehension.    “I’m sorry, I don’t understand, but I do have the time to learn, and this looks like it could take quite a while.” The man walked her back to his thatched home as the animals peered from within the safety of the forest, not understanding the presence of this other female animal. She instantly felt peace and only looked over her shoulder a few times. There was a simple beauty to his place. She scanned the tools, the warmth of the design and the feel of contentment that seemed to flow from the earth and into his home. The outside garden area seemed to let all of nature seep into his dwelling, giving it a natural and open feel, which was exactly what Mariana 3 longed for. She noticed no other people around, she thanked the gods, only animals and they appeared to have a special bond with him. Mariana had inherited her own strengths that were often the cause of envy and attacks. She had survived abuse at the hands of a man, a curse from a cruel overseer and vicious encounters from neighbors. What made her laugh, was the idea that the curse and abuse were connected and ultimately, only helped her gain release from its control. She was cursed to silence in her village, so when she was able, she ran away where the curse did not hold its power and the abuse ceased. Without her voice, she could not wield the power over the wind and of nature, once away from the town whence she was cursed, she was free. The weeks of learning the land as well as each other turned into months. Mariana and Calian often spoke in a mix of the two languages, and had endless days sharing knowledge and finding treasures in the river and woodland. Although she knew she could trust Calian, she kept her powers a secret, she knew all too well the pain that others could wield once they found out. Mariana was in no haste to disclose her ability and the months pleasantly flowed without a need for its use. Her intentions were not to keep her natural born gift hidden, but time seemed to have its own power over her. They walked along the well worn path to the river and found a dusty rose feather of the grosbeak bird, a brilliant yellow from a flycatcher and two eye catching orange ones from a crossbill. She tickled him with a crossbill feather and they both laughed. Suddenly, he froze and pushed her behind him, as three men emerged from the woods. One burly and very dirty looking man sneered at them both as he pushed his way to her. “Well, well, so you thought you could escape me.” He literally spat out the words followed with some wretched looking phlegm globbed out at his feet, probably for effect. “You are coming with me and this man next to you is dead if he tries to stop me.” Knives were drawn from the other two men as the man moved in. He was wasting no time in collecting what he clearly thought he owned. “No. Calian yelled and held her behind him” He might have missed some of the man’s evil words but understood all too clearly his intent. “Fine. But just to warn you, we’ll leave your body out for the animals when we’re done, no burial from us.” Another glob on the ground, this time closer to Calian. They moved in and slashed at air as Calian deflected the strikes, knocking one man down with a heavy blow to his head. The other kept circling like a wolf, mistake- as Calian expertly dodged then struck him repeatedly, until he also was in a heap next to the first attacker. When Calian finished with the man, the burly "spitter" struck a cowardly blow to Calian as Mariana screamed. He hit him again while he was down, then rolled him over to a drop off by the river. He was trying to throw him over the cliff when Mariana spread her arms out. She summoned the wind with a quick plea. At first, there was only a slight stir in the air but she kept pursuing. Gratefully, man had some difficulty moving the muscular Calian, but was nearing the precipice, when the wind increased to a roar. It swirled first low to the ground then spiraling 4 upward, rising like a reverse tornado. The man stopped and stared, his last mistake of this world. The wind gripped under his feet and flipped him clear off the cliff only stopping to hit each rock cragg, on the way down. The wind offered no mercy today. Once the other two men roused and saw what happened to their leader, they scrambled upright and fled, tripping often with a little help from the wind. Calian got up from his head injury in time to observe Mariana commanding the earth’s element. He was amazed at the woman he cared for and admired her even more for the strength she possessed and ruled with such ease. He knew the spirits of the earth would never grant someone such power unless they had faith in her. Instead of shunning her, as she feared, he ran over and held her tightly. Mariana knew she had found true magic and a place within this world where she finally could be both strong and loved. They walked back to the hut hand in hand down the path away from the river and all thoughts of the men and their invasion. Suddenly, a fairy flew around the pair several times, then led the way back to the hut. Mariana stopped short and stared after her as Calian simply smiled. “Yes, it’s what you’re thinking it is, what else would you expect in this land!?” At that moment the birds fluttered away and a sunbeam of light hit Calian’s teeth at the perfect angle and sent a dazzling shine into Mariana’s sight. She thought she even heard the tinkling of a bell to match his sparkle. Paradise and perfection in the woods, she thought. And of course, the charming couple lived happily ever after. Doreen Shea 3/2021

g2gkw1

The Golden Bird

Disclaimer: The characters Panchali and Krishna are inspired by Indian Mythology. However the story is completely a fiction and not a part of the Indian Mythology. Little Kittu was lying on his Grandma’s lap, his cute little eyes wide open in excitement and his half agape mouth drooling. ‘Jusht one more shtory grandma, pleeeeeashe,’ said Kittu in his squeaky voice. Who could deny any request that comes from this soft melodious voice?            ‘Ssshhhh! Not so loud! Your mother won’t be too pleased to hear your voice at this late hour. Do you want your grandma to get into trouble?’ asked his grandma, pinching his tiny nose adoringly that immediately turned a mild shade of pink.            ‘Thish ish lasht one. Promishh. Thell me the shtory of Princeshsh Panchali,’ pleaded Kittu in a husky voice to save his grandma from the wraths of his mother.            ‘Princess Panchali, huh? You do speak a lot of words for a three-year-old.’            Kittu stared at her with anticipation, not really understanding what his grandma meant.            ‘How can I deny the story of the brave Princess, although this is umpteenth time that I am repeating the same? Alright, now listen.’            Kittu settled comfortably on his grandma’s lap, plugging his thumb inside his teething mouth, closely reading his grandma’s lips.            ‘Once Princess Panchali was travelling across a dense forest along with her maids. They walked throughout the day and when the Sun sank beneath the Earth, they decided to rest for a while.’            ‘Princess Panchali was so tired. Like little Kittu is right now. You are tired, aren’t you darling?’            ‘Nooooo! Kittu is not tired!’ shrieked the kid.            Grandma broke into laughter. ‘Okay…Okay… Princess Panchali was so tired and she decided to rest under a divine smelling Sandal tree. The colourful birds gathered around the Princess and pecked her lovingly. And what did Princess Panchali do next?’            ‘She gave them fruitshh,’said Kittu clapping his hands excitedly.            ‘Yesss! Princess Panchali ordered her maids to bring some fruits from the royal basket. There were all kinds of exotic fruits in the basket. Bananas, Guavas, Apples and Kittu’s favourite Mangoes!! Princess Panchali fed the fruits to the birds. They birds chirped happily and flapped their wings.’            Kittu threw his little hands into air and shook them furiously, making an imitation of the birds.            Grandma chuckled and patted his forehead. ‘Enough! Enough! Don’t break grandma’s specs! Your father doesn’t have enough time to get me a new one.’            ‘Among the birds that Panchali fed was a golden bird. The golden bird came near Panchali and said to her, “Oh great Princess! Take this golden egg. Tomorrow the egg shall hatch and from it shall arise a golden chick! It shall grant any wish that you ask! But beware! The bird shall disappear if you tell a lie in front of it!” Saying so, the golden flew away. Panchali took the egg, carefully placed it in one her royal baskets and covered it with a silk cloth.’            Kittu moved closer to Grandma for they had reached his favourite part of the story.            ‘Princess Panchali took the egg to her palace. She ordered the servants to build the most beautiful cage. She decorated the cage with fresh fragrant flowers and waited for the egg to hatch.’            ‘Next morning, Princess Panchali woke with the Sun, ready to watch the hatching egg. As the first rays peeped through the window, the egg vibrated on its place, cracking mildly from the sides. Within few minutes, a tiny golden bird peeked through a small gap in the egg. The golden glow of the bird lit the entire room! Princess Panchali was mesmerized by the beauty of the bird. The bird looked at Panchali and blinked with its tiny eyes. It let out a mild squeak as Panchali took it in her hands. She carefully placed the tiny bird in its beautiful cage, taking care not to hurt it. She ran into the kitchen and brought water and milk for the bird.’            Grandma knew that Kittu was already sleepy. His eyes watery and drooping. He was trying hard to stay awake to listen to the most interesting part of the story.            ‘When Panchali returned from the kitchen, she was astonished. The bird had doubled in size. “Oh! my goodness! You are so big already! exclaimed Panchali. I shall name you Swarna.” Thus, Swarna became Panchali’s favourite pet bird.’            ‘Everywhere the Princess went, she would carry Swarna with her; even to her music class. Panchali loved music. One day, after her music lessons, she asked Swarna, “Hey Swarna, can you give me the most magical, divine sounding flute? It’s for my friend Krishna! He loves playing the flute and I love listening to his ever-ringing tunes!” Swarna acquiesced. The bird chirped five times and, on its beak, manifested a beautiful flute.’            ‘The next day, Panchali went to take bath in a nearby stream. Of course, she carried Swarna with her. Panchali was extremely hungry after the bath. She turned to Swarna and asked, “Hey Swarna, can you give me the sweetest fruit that even the Gods haven’t tasted?” Soon enough, Swarna chirped five times and the fruit appeared on its beak! It was the juiciest and the sweetest fruit Panchali had ever tasted. “Hmmm… Yummy… The fruit tastes divine!” You like fruits too, don’t you Kittu?’            ‘Yesh grandma! I like mango!’            ‘Ha Ha! Very well, very well! Let us get a golden bird for Kittu too. Let us ask your father tomorrow.’            ‘Alright now! Back to the story... Every day, Panchali would play with the bird and the bird would grant all her wishes. The Princess’s maids were worried. The Princess was too obsessed with the bird that she was slowly drifting away from reality. The maids explained their predicament to the King. The King immediately came up with an idea. “The bird will disappear if Panchali utters a lie, won’t it? I know just what to do!” Saying so, he dispersed the maids.’            ‘The next day, the King announced that he was going to organize a grand festival where all the citizens could display their talent and win prizes from the Golden Bird! The entire Kingdom was pompous, awaiting the grand event. Dancers and musicians were working day and night to make the best display of their art.’            ‘Finally, the evening of the festival arrived. All the artists gathered at the palace, dressed in their most elegant costumes. Colourful festoons and fragrant flowers in their full bloom draped the otherwise bare pillars. The palace echoed with the sounds of chattering women and kids’ laughter. Princess Panchali, in her golden silk skirt and ivory blouse that complemented her dusky complexion, sat near the King with Swarna proudly perched on her lap.’            ‘Artists from faraway lands, who had heard about Swarna, had travelled miles to display their talent. There was music, there was dance, there was also different types of martial arts that captivated the audience. Swarna delighted the artists by her munificence. That night, no artist left the stage disheartened. The celebration extended into night. The colourful bright lights from the palace swallowed the darkness and lit the entire city.  The King quickly glanced at Panchali, with her favourite pet immersed in the festive mood. He knew the time to execute his plan had come.’            ‘It was well after midnight and the guests had started leaving one by one. The King moved closer to the Princess and said, “My dear Panchali, I believe you enjoyed the festival!” After a long day, Panchali was tired and her eyelids were drooping. Yet she replied with all the energy she could muster, “Yes father! I have never seen a festival so jubilant! Swarna enjoyed the festival too!”’            ‘The King patted Panchali’s shoulder. “I hope you and Swarna liked the food.”’            ‘Panchali beamed with happiness. “Oh yes father! I enjoyed the delicacies. I have never seen Swarna eat so much!” Swarna squeaked in acknowledgement. Panchali gently stroked Swarna’s little golden head. Both of them were tired. Panchali yawned widely.’            ‘The King immediately grasped the opportunity. “Panchali dear, it’s time for you to sleep. You look tired.”’            ‘But Panchali did not want to miss the festival. She had to meet her friends and from other kingdoms! “No father! I am not sleepy! I will stay until the festival ends.”’            ‘At this, Swarna fluttered her wings furiously. With one loud chirp, the Golden Bird vanished, leaving golden sparkles swaying in the air.’            ‘Princess Panchali realized that she had lied in front of the bird. She went to bed and slept, hoping the bird would return to her.’            Kuttu smiled at his grandma. His eyelids gave up and he slept peacefully while his grandma gently stroked his hair and planted a soft kiss on his forehead.            ‘Here goes yet another day!’ The Grandma, carefully placed Kuttu on the pillow beside hers and fell asleep immediately.            Through the small gap in the door, the Mother witnessed the two happy souls sleeping peacefully and prepared herself for the dawn reassuringly. 

7qqblp

Some Days .......

Snow melting at last, the harsh bitter cold and storms finally gone and over, the morning air crisp but the afternoon sun warm and inviting. It was March end in the Colorado mountains, snow capped mountains still breathing - always snow in the high hills here. But now, signs of life and change in weather made the promise of a beautiful summer ahead. Leon Black and his wife, Joanne, lived in the tiny village, had a small cottage home with some nice acreage around them, she loved her garden and he loved to do his word working outside with the garage door open and his radio blaring out the oldies as he sang out to his favoriate songs. After lunch, Joanne brought out a pitcher of sweet tea, with the thin slices of lemon floating on the darkly brewed liquid, lots of sugar stirred in, oh, Leon loved his sweet Southern tea. His mother used to make it for him back home in Tennesee, when the summers were so hot even the dogs just lay there in the shade trying not to move, the four hunting animals his daddy had gotten to get rid of the foxes. He sighed with contentment, thinking of the old days back on the farm, the chickens and collecting eggs were his chore, the two big work horses kept in the barn were daddy's and the boys, strong and muscular. "Ahhh, this is more like it, glad to see another winter gone." He said to Joanne as she began to darn a basket of old socks. She smiled nodding, "The garden has to be weeded and raked through so we can start planting the vegetables." She reminded him, nodding toward the rake she'd brought out yesterday. "I hope we get a good crop this summer, corn and tomatoes bring in some xtra money." She said tiredly, they were not young anymore, her back had started to bother her last winter. "do u want some ligament? I have a jar in the bottom of the pantry downstairs." He asked her, as she rubbed her neck and shoulders. "No, you just rest, maybe later after supper I will go down and start getting the seeds ready, - oh look, the hummingbirds are back." She pointed happily, as two of them fluttered around, looking for the little bowls of sugar water to feed on. Joanne could just sit and watch those little tiny things forever, the rythmic pattern of their wings as they dove in, drank the sweet water and dove out, repeating the pattern. She leaned back in her rocker and continued to darn the socks. "I am going to build a fence around the chickens soon, foxes are going to be this year apparently. Anton said so down at the hardware store. he says, Leon, those little critters are gonna eat up all your chickens." He told me, and I got the wire for a good price too." Leon added proud. "And you just gotta believe everything he tells you." Joanne frowned, if it were up to her husband they would be in the poor house. Joanne secretly kept a jar hidden and was saving up for emergencies, adding to the jar now filled with bills and spare change, Joanne was smart and frugal. "Oh now, dont you worry, itsn't it better to be safe now than sorry later? He beamed at her and drank down his tea. "Oh I just love Spring, soon the land will be filled with wildflowers, birds, the lakes will be warm, the rivers full. I think this is my fav time of the year." Joanne sighed contendly, her soul filled with joy and the lingering memories of winter behind her now, no more shivering getting up and getting wood in the stove. No more wrapping up with old quilts at night to keep warm, and listening to the wind howling outside the windows, pounding in her eardrums at night keeping her awake as she huddled in her big soft bed next to Leon. She'd met him years before, and on their first date Leon proposed to her, she thought he was plum crazy!! "What? You have to be kidding right? We hardly know each other! She exclaimed as he knelt down and proposed at the restaurant. "I know that, I also know you are the most beautiful woman I have ever laid eyes on and we will have an entire life to get to know each other." He announced boldly, grinnng from ear to ear. He held her hand and kissed it gently, how could she say no? It was 1947, not unusual for women to marry and have a family - she couldnt live at home forever and had finished her high school year. And so, they had married, had three children who were now living on their own, one in college and two married - no grandkids yet, but that was good, Joanne just wanted them to be happy and healthy, and she had a great marriage for the most part, living in Colorado, enduring the harsh cold winters waiting for Spring, spending summer gardening and farming so they could earn enough to survive through the next winter, and so, that was how it went. The life was peaceful, steady, aside from the usual town gossip and the church ladies creating drama, that is the life they shared, and now when Spring came, it was a welcome to see the sunshine warming their land, the birdsong in the air and the blossom of apple trees filling the sky with their pretty pinkness. They would never trade this life for any other really, what would living in the city be like for them now? None of the beauty and calmness that country living offered them, that was one thing Joanne knew. She darned her socks awhile longer, pulling her hair back into a pony tail, still long at her age, and getting up to start dinner. The windows were opened for fresh air, "And dont forget to get out the rags and help me clean these windows now." Joanne reminded her husband, who now had his eyes closed and softly snoring in the warmth of the sun on their veranda. She smiled.

cg2429

5 years

 levtashion   “Katie, come to the office you are getting signed out.” That was the last thing I heard before my life had changed forever! I waited in the car while my mom was screaming on the phone about a lake house in some kinda woods, I think. It was winter and 10 degrees so I hoped we weren't going there. Finally, my mom got in the car and she didn't say anything. I asked her where we were going and she said” don't worry about it”. At this point I was a little bit scared, like is my mom a criminal or something. An hour went by and we were in the woods where I have never been and there was a house. One house In the middle of the woods is strange. Is this what my mom was talking about on the phone?   The next thing I know my mom is getting out of the car while telling me to stay here and to stay put. 10 minutes pass and my mom is still in the house. I was on my phone texting my friend Lucy. I tell her everything. Then finally my mom comes out of the house and says. To unpack my stuff, and that my room is upstairs to the left. I was confused because I didn't pack anything, but then my mom added “ go look in the trunk.” So then I knew she had packed some of my things. About 3 hours later my mom had me come to the living room. When I got there she had this worried look on her face. I thought it was something about my dad, he went missing 6 years ago. Then she said something WAY different. I was shocked about what she said and I was also confused. My mom had told me I was going to have powers! She said that on my 11th birthday which was on march 9th. Of course, I didn't believe her. I was in shock. So later that night I was in my room thinking about what my mom had said. I remember I was thinking about how my birthday was in 2 days and maybe I could have powers, but then I was like there's no way I could have powers. So the next day I avoided my mom until dinner. I asked her a bunch of questions like “mom were you telling the truth yesterday.” then she said she was “100% telling the truth”.    At dinner my mom talked to me about being homeschooled and how she is going to sell our house. Those 2 things made me very mad because I would never see my house again, but then she said we would go get our stuff tomorrow. I was so mad at her because she took everything from me. The next day was my birthday, I was going to see if what my mom had said was true. For breakfast my mom had made me french toast! She told me to go outside and play so I did but I was bummed out because Lucy didn't come to my birthday. About 2 hours of me playing outside, my mom came out and told me to follow her so I did. She took me to this lake and told me my power was levtashion. I was shocked at what she said because she had a serious face. An hour later I started to feel kinda sick. I told my mom and she said “the time has finally come”. She also said the feeling sick was a symptom of getting your powers. 20 minutes later I was puking in the toilet and then I yelled at my mom to get out of the bathroom and she wouldn't so I yelled again and then something went up in the air… (shampoo bottle). My mom told me to keep yelling at her so I did and basically everything went up in the air! My mom was so exceeded,it was dinner time so I got up to go eat dinner and all the things fell on the floor. We had some burgers and fries. 4 months go by and i have my powers undercut on and then one night my mom said she had saved our house and that we were moving back in so then 2 days later we started to get packing and then she told me that all girls that are 11 have powers and if they tell any boy they will die.    2 weeks later we were all moved in and I was hanging out with lucy, her power was Elvis's belly and we played hide and seek a lot. When I and Lucy got older (22) we were still friends and we hung out a lot. We worked in the same job we had an apartment. My mom and I went speaking because she tried to take my power and my dad was found and I was so happy and everything was so great to untell lucy created souside! sgould i do more btw dont mind the restt jhvgjchjbkjkjkjkrb levtashion   “Katie, come to the office you are getting signed out.” That was the last thing I heard before my life had changed forever! I waited in the car while my mom was screaming on the phone about a lake house in some kinda woods, I think. It was winter and 10 degrees so I hoped we weren't going there. Finally, my mom got in the car and she didn't say anything. I asked her where we were going and she said” don't worry about it”. At this point I was a little bit scared, like is my mom a criminal or something. An hour went by and we were in the woods where I have never been and there was a house. One house In the middle of the woods is strange. Is this what my mom was talking about on the phone?   The next thing I know my mom is getting out of the car while telling me to stay here and to stay put. 10 minutes pass and my mom is still in the house. I was on my phone texting my friend Lucy. I tell her everything. Then finally my mom comes out of the house and says. To unpack my stuff, and that my room is upstairs to the left. I was confused because I didn't pack anything, but then my mom added “ go look in the trunk.” So then I knew she had packed some of my things. About 3 hours later my mom had me come to the living room. When I got there she had this worried look on her face. I thought it was something about my dad, he went missing 6 years ago. Then she said something WAY different. I was shocked about what she said and I was also confused. My mom had told me I was going to have powers! She said that on my 11th birthday which was on march 9th. Of course, I didn't believe her. I was in shock. So later that night I was in my room thinking about what my mom had said. I remember I was thinking about how my birthday was in 2 days and maybe I could have powers, but then I was like there's no way I could have powers. So the next day I avoided my mom until dinner. I asked her a bunch of questions like “mom were you telling the truth yesterday.” then she said she was “100% telling the truth”.    At dinner my mom talked to me about being homeschooled and how she is going to sell our house. Those 2 things made me very mad because I would never see my house again, but then she said we would go get our stuff tomorrow. I was so mad at her because she took everything from me. The next day was my birthday, I was going to see if what my mom had said was true. For breakfast my mom had made me french toast! She told me to go outside and play so I did but I was bummed out because Lucy didn't come to my birthday. About 2 hours of me playing outside, my mom came out and told me to follow her so I did. She took me to this lake and told me my power was levtashion. I was shocked at what she said because she had a serious face. An hour later I started to feel kinda sick. I told my mom and she said “the time has finally come”. She also said the feeling sick was a symptom of getting your powers. 20 minutes later I was puking in the toilet and then I yelled at my mom to get out of the bathroom and she wouldn't so I yelled again and then something went up in the air… (shampoo bottle). My mom told me to keep yelling at her so I did and basically everything went up in the air! My mom was so exceeded,it was dinner time so I got up to go eat dinner and all the things fell on the floor. We had some burgers and fries. 4 months go by and i have my powers undercltron and then one night my mom said she had saved our house and that we were moving back in so then 2 days later we started to get packing and then she told me that all girls that are 11 have powers and if they tell any boy they will die.    2 weeks later we were all moved in and i was hanging out with lucy, her power was elvis belly and we played hide and seek a lot. When me and Lucy got older (22) we were still friends and we hung out a lot. We worked in the same job we had an apartment. My mom and I went speaking because she tried to take my power and my dad was found and I was so happy. t

gexbqb

Gray

On the horizon, a black plume of smoke rolling upwards into unending clouds. A soft breeze moaned over gentle hills, rattled dead trees, smelled of fire. Empty towns sprawled for miles, cracked roads, piles of wood and metal and plastic. He touched his stomach, then the ledge he rested on. Cold and jagged. His eyes flittered from exhaustion. It was April, maybe. He had emerged from the frigid months skeletal and near death. He ate canned foods from the prepared few, often unsealed and molding, but calories. Sick mammals, unable to run. But it had been many days. His hair was patchy, falling out in clumps. Kindling, added to dry grass and birch bark. Encompassing nuclear rot. Rain and snow, flesh and flora. Eternal autumn within, clinging life-force letting go. There was a small town below, along a gray river. He picked up his bag and felt for the knife on his hip, then descended. He had seen no one, a desolate vista.   What remained was a gas station sign, a monolith amongst ruin, a yellow clamshell. He stared at it. Color . He entered the station. The ceiling drooped and glass and debris littered the floor. He searched the shelves, crackling steps. Gum, cigarettes, cash for fire-starting, but left with nothing. Homes were ruins, impassable jagged mazes. There was one searchable structure, a trailer on the riverbank engulfed in a jungle of desiccated knotweed. Three fallen pines had crushed one side, but the other was unscathed. He pushed through the brittle stalks then stood on the trailer’s plastic steps. It smelled strongly of mildew. He pulled his coat over his nose. The door opened harshly, jammed by fallen ceiling tiles. Pale yellow insulation hung from the ceiling. It had been mostly ransacked. He found a Bic lighter at the back of a kitchen drawer, tried it and flame came forth. Piles of gray fuzz in the warm fridge. In the far corner of the upper-most cabinet, reached by standing on the counter, two cans of green beans. In the only bedroom untouched by fallen trees, he sat on the bed. It creaked and sent dust swirling. Where once a mirror, now dusty shards under foot. He opened the bedside table, pushed aside an old mouse nest, and his hands met something unfamiliar. He pulled it up, held it in front of his face. A black nylon bag, and within it a small black camera, coated in dust. He cleaned it, then inspected it, an alien technology in the new gray age. Assuming it was broken, he pressed the power button and it whirred, then clicked, and the display activated. A bright blue screen, crisp and pure. He pointed it out the window, a frame of crumbling wall and tangled weeds. It shuttered and there was the world on the screen. How long it had been since reality was still. He put the strap over his shoulder, searched the home again, and left with nothing more. The road ran on a hillside. It was covered in rocks and mud and a house which had slid with the soil. He leaned on the guardrail. Bare sumacs, and behind them the desolate sprawl. Beautiful, in a way . How rare that word had become. He raised the camera. The result was brutal, bleak, and geometric. But beautiful. He gazed at the picture, imagining it on a wall in the distant future, a symbol. Future . A concept that had escaped his mind. He did not smile, nor feel happiness. Too deep was his pit of despair to yet find light. He gripped the camera tightly and kept on. When light started to fade, and chill crept in, he thought of shelter. An auto shop just off the road, pavement cracked and sprouting with desiccated bluestem. The windows were broken. Tools and metal strewn about the concrete floor, but it had a roof. He set his bag on the floor, then gathered dry grass and sticks outside. He cleared a spot on the floor with his foot, metal scraping harshly, then made a pyramid of twigs. Grass was stuffed beneath. A poster torn from the wall, faded now but once an advertisement for tires, was ripped into small pieces, lit with the lighter he had found, then prodded into the grass. The fire caught quickly, for it had not rained or snowed for many days. He poked a hole into a can of green beans with a screwdriver, then set it by the fire, label curling as it burned. When it was finished, he wrapped his hand in his jacket, stuck his knife into the hole and cut the lid off. While he ate, he picked up the camera, looking once more at the photo he had taken earlier. In the top right of the screen: 18/18. He furrowed his brow and pressed the left arrow. The picture from the trailer. Then again. His breath shook. Tears close to forming. A young girl, perhaps five years old, sitting on a green lawn in front of the trailer. A white dress covered in yellow daisies, browned at the hems. Her dark hair was a mess. Dirt on her face. Blue eyes. Left again. She held a maple leaf, Autumn red. It covered most of her face. It was sunny. Left again. A close-up of a purple aster. Dainty petals, deep yellow pistils. Left again and again. More pictures of the young girl, of flowers and trees, of Autumn scenes. Always happy, always vibrant and beautiful. 1/18. The trailer. Great pines swaying beside it. Staghorn sumac on the lawn’s edge, berries maroon and passing. Long grass beside the steps. The beans had gone cold. He finished them, then laid down, wrapped in a sleeping bag. He cried, tears running down grimy cheeks. Such sadness for what had been lost. So much beauty gone. But it was feeling. Crushing and overwhelming, but an emotion. He had not slept so soundly in months. When he awoke, ashy snow fell softly, an overnight dusting. It was quiet in dawn’s gray. He could not remember his dreams but knew he had them. For breakfast, a can of brown bread acquired days ago. He tapped the knife on his hip, then the camera. He left the auto-shop, backpack filled with old posters for kindling, footprints in the thin, damp snow. Snow stopped falling. He had traveled six miles and stood now on a hill overlooking a crumbling town, the faintest white veil on the landscape. The plume of smoke on the horizon was growing. He took a picture of that snowy vista, then inspected it. There was a comfort in capturing the gray age, a relief in sharing the ugliness and despair with another entity. He did not have to think about lost families, nature’s indifference, forgotten history—the camera held those thoughts for him, shared the burden. His thumb hovered over the left arrow but did not press it. He leaned against a dead pine and surveyed the town. No movement. He descended the hill, camera bobbing at his waist. ~ ~ ~ A fire crackled before him. He coughed and tasted blood. Clouded darkness hung over him. Weakness of mind and body were overtaking every waking moment. The air was poison, and his body was failing. A can of corn simmered over the flame and, with hands wrapped in cloth, he removed it with a shaky grasp. He finished it, then tossed the can into the embers. I need to sleep . It had been dark for hours, and he was exhausted, but a new force kept him awake. Hunched over on the stump, camera in his grasp, he scrolled through the pictures he had taken—barren sumacs, snowy towns, burned cars, ruined homes—, then at those of the girl, and her trailer, and the Autumn colors she danced through. When his eyes fluttered or his head drooped, he forced himself up, staring at the happiness of Before, then the devastation of After. Over and over, until he could fight no longer and fell onto his sleeping bag. It had been that way for four nights, falling asleep as he tortured his mind. He was too fatigued, too sick, to stop himself. He was nearly bald. Almost all food was indigestible. Skeletal figure. Rashes were appearing on his body, cuts remained unhealed. He always knew the danger; they spoke of it Before. What to expect after the bombs fell. He had since forgotten. A conscious choice, ignorant to inevitability. Nuclear rot tore through him—the air he breathed, water he drank, food he ate. Each breath removing a piece of his body. But he had the pictures. Those of Before to comfort him, those of After to unload his despair. When he awoke, the wind had shifted, and the air held a chemical scent suggesting more than a brush fire. The plume had grown in intensity and width, a black wall. Growing exponentially as he neared it, and as it devoured its surroundings. He could hardly move, and his vision was blurry. There was a farm on the opposite hill across the valley. Only five or so miles. That was his goal for the day. Then he would rest. A cool day. All snow had melted, its moisture deepening the browns and grays that now dominated barren Nature. But his coat remained, for his body’s frailty could not combat even the slightest chill. He hobbled through a small neighborhood of trailers, all rotting folding in on themselves. Mildew mixed with chemical smoke. He was walking toward the plume but knew not where else to go. After the bombs fell, and he realized he had lived, his plan was to walk east towards the sea and south towards warmth. For some time now, he thought not of this plan, and hoped only peripherally that he was heading to the coast. A river burbled nearby. He rounded a curve, then descended a hill, and was upon a bridge. The river ran beneath him, gray and brown. A dark shape a dozen yards upstream appeared to be a corpse, but he did not look long. He turned downstream, where smooth ledges protruded from the riverbanks, and made the water cascade in a thin, glass sheet before tumbling down stone and sending up mist. The flat beauty of Nature beneath a gray veil. Despite his weakness, he stopped for a moment and took a picture of those glass waters, and dark stone frame, and the splattering of mist behind it. It was a nice picture, composed poorly and with unfavorable light, but raw in its simplicity. One that is not meant to be looked at for long, but to make the onlooker yearn to visit the pictured place. Show the gray age to verdant futures. He had almost forgotten about greenery, about the lushness of Spring, the weight of Summer. The camera had become a device of hope. One that forced him to consider that humanity might prevail, that Nature might rejuvenate. He had become a storyteller, perhaps one of few, or none. So few survivors—who else had a means to journalize with such inarguable truth the result of human folly? He turned then, back upstream, and raised the camera at the body decaying on the river’s edge. He inhaled deeply, closed his eyes, and the camera shuttered. An eternal corpse. His self-bestowed duty invigorated him, and he climbed the opposite hill without rest. At its crest, he stopped. Vision was blurred, and his ears rang. His heart beat frantically and he sat against a rusty guardrail. He thought he heard a crow call in the distance, faint and in harmony with the breeze and the river below. He focused, and craned his head, but heard nothing more. There is no more life . The last two miles to the farm were a crawl, stopping frequently to rest, to cough and heave, to grasp at the implacable pain in his chest and place his palms against his temple to combat a pulsing brain. His heart felt weak. A pain expanded in his chest, then shot through his torso. He cried out and his voice echoed through the barren trees and hollers. How long it had been since he uttered a sound. Soon, he kept on. The farm was still mostly standing. An old home with a rotting picket fence surrounding a lawn of weeds, and white siding covered in dead vines and lichen. Parts of its roof had caved in, but others remained. A porch encircled it, though mostly crumbling. Behind it, what was once likely a corn field was now an expanse of desiccated weeds. A windmill’s bottom rose in the middle, its blades beside it. It was quiet. The porch creaked from his weight, rotting boards ready to give way. The inside was peculiarly kept, debris that would have otherwise fallen from the open roof had been removed and walls were patched with clay or planks. In the room on the right, a large stack of canned goods. He went for them quickly, turning into the living room. He was met with a dark trembling gun barrel, and a man behind it. They stared at each other for some time. The gunman only feet away from the other, who stood against the wall, hand hovering over his knife. The gunman’s young age was evident only in his eyes, for the rest of him was grimy and gaunt. He seemed tired, like holding the shotgun took all his strength. “Please leave,” the gunman said. The man went to speak but triggered a cough. He heaved harshly, and blood appeared on his sleeve. His eyes fluttered and he slid down the wall, hands outstretched. The gunman relaxed the barrel. “Are you alright?” The man shook his head as another coughed wracked him. The gunman lowered his weapon and watched the man cough and wheeze, apathy of survival clashing with pity for weakness. The man looked to be near death. Face sunken, hair a wisp atop his skull. Joints protruding from limbs, and discolored eyes that yearned to see no more. The gunman offered a hand, and the man took it without hesitation. ~ ~ ~ The fireplace sent orange light dancing around the room. It was warm in the house, and the wind whistled outside. Canned beef stew bubbled in an iron pot over the fire. A handmade calendar hung on the wall—April twenty-fifth. There was a cot in the corner, next to it a nightstand with a candle. It was almost a home. The sick man was wrapped in his sleeping bag, laid near the heat. Consciousness was beginning to elude him, fading often into darkness, then appearing again in reality. “What is your name?” the gunman asked. “I don’t remember.” It was a lie, but it did not matter anymore. “Been alone the whole time?” “Yes.” “Me too.” It was a lie. Silence for a while. The sick man basking in his final glow, the gunman toying with a pocket knife. “You’re very sick, aren’t you?” the gunman asked. The sick man nodded. “Must’ve been near a drop,” The sick man nodded again. “Where are you from?” “North.” “We’re all from the north.” “Adirondacks.” “I’m from just outside Columbus.” The sick man furrowed his brow. “Where are we?” “About a day’s walk from Petersburg,” the gunman said. “Virginia.” The sick man laid his head back. So close. So, so close. But, thinking on it then, he did not know why the coast seemed a worthy destination. What did it offer that elsewhere couldn’t? Nowhere else to go . A sizzle from the fire, soup bubbling under the pot’s lid. The gunman stood. “Soup’s ready.” The sick man had not tasted anything better in his life. That night, after the gunman fell asleep, the sick man removed the camera from its bag. He stared at the pictures he had taken, then went to those of Before. He looked at them for a long while, wondered what her name was, what her mother did for work, what she dreamed of becoming. Then he deleted the pictures. All those of Before, leaving those of After. All the light, the joy, the muddy dress, the green lawn, the colorful Autumn. He breathed deeply then exhaled a heavy breath. Using all of his strength, he sat up and took a picture. The flash illuminated the room, the gunman on his cot, the calendar above him. It was blurred and washed out. He slept and dreamt of nothing at all. The next morning, he was hardly alive. The gunman leaned over him. “Take this,” the sick man said, holding up the camera. “Keep it safe.” The gunman took it from the sick man’s grasp. “Thank you.” “Are you to keep on southward?” The gunman nodded. “Be careful of the fire.” “It’s why I’m leaving. I’ve been here a long time.” “That’s good,” the sick man said, then spoke no more. That morning, spade met soil. The gunman was alone again, a silhouette against the brown hills, the gray sky. He dug a hole in the old corn field, dropped the man in, and covered him. He looked at the disturbed patch of dirt for a moment, pulled his pack onto his shoulder, then kept on, camera bobbing at his waist.

sgxwus

Read The Scoop! With Lucy Luke

DREADFUL DIVORCE! Madison and Joshua Lanfield spotted outside lawyer’s offices downtown. Fans of “Madshua” despair once again! Madison (née Harrison) and Joshua Lanfield are back in divorce court. Readers will remember that this is the couple’s third attempt at separating. Impressive! THE FAIRY TALE BEGINS… After only 27 days of courtship, former wild child Madison finally decided to settle down with the love of her life! Josh, who already had three movies under his belt (SAVING SAMANTHA, DOCTOR DEATH: THE TRUE STORY OF RICHARD MORTUS, and blockbuster hit RUNAWAY TRAIN) fell head over heels for the party girl and proposed with a six-carat princess cut diamond.   The couple married at the Harrison estate in October 1997 with Madison in the Henri Swan dress that made history, and the debut designer couldn’t have asked for a more perfect launch to his career! If your memory has evaded you, the iconic dress featured an all-mesh body with over two hundred thousand crystals hand-stitched onto the fabric. It was Madison’s last bacchanalian hurrah as she said goodbye to her bachelorette lifestyle and she sure sent it off in style. The barely-there gown caused quite a stir with Josh’s conservative family, who called the bride “offensive and gauche.” The bride, bedazzled thong and all, left little to the imagination and gave blushing husband Josh a preview of their honeymoon night while walking down the aisle. The wedding was a gargantuan affair with a guest list of over 450 people, including childhood-friend-turned-haute-runway-model Laura Collins, who flew from Paris to L.A. for three hours for her bestie’s ceremony. THE FIRST INDISCRETION But the honeymoon period didn’t last long! In February 1998, Madison stepped out on Josh with ex-flame Slade Burnside of the popular death metal band, WORM BURDEN. After being seen at a restaurant with Burnside (and without her wedding ring) a childhood friend of Madison’s confirmed that the heir to the Harrison fortune had a history of “playing boys against each other” throughout boarding school. The source reported Madison had privately begun complaining of boredom with her beau only weeks after returning from her honeymoon. Josh, still an aspiring actor at the time, knew he had hit it big with the playgirl and heiress and he spared no expense in trying to make aments. He made headlines with his grandiose displays of love and affection, trying to win Madison back. Who else remembers the lake in Atwood Park filled with thousands of roses? Swoon! Readers will also remember the headlines about his very public temper tantrum when Maddy failed to attend the premier of his biggest movie to date, DOCTOR STEELE. Although the sci-fi thriller wasn’t exactly a hit, the couple announced shortly after that they would be attending couples counseling and working together to fix their marriage. They were seen at all the right locations in the city: Outside the office of celebrity therapist Ethan Stirling, smooching in the park during sunset, and on a secluded beach vacation in the Caribbean. All seemed sunshine and rainbows for a while with Madison attending Josh’s next movie premier, DOCTOR STEELE 2: ALL FOR ONE AND ONE FOR ALLOY. She was also been seen in the audience of every late-night talk show Josh has featured on, looking slim and pretty in her classy—but sedate—outfits. It was clear that Madison had finally put her trifling past and cheating ways behind her. With the threat of divorce valiantly overcome, fans of the couple rejoiced and hailed the strength of true love.  SEEING DOUBLE Unfortunately for Madison, Josh was no angel either. Perhaps because of the stress of the failures of his DOCTOR STEELE movies, the actor had a brief fling in Aruba with identical twins Liz and Emma Bailey at the end of 1999. At the turn of the millennium, he got caught sharing margaritas with the models, and he showed no signs of holding back his affections in the name of marital fidelity. Emma had frequently commented to reporters about her outlandish Y2K theories, insisting that the general public was underestimating the metaphysical power that the millennium had. Convinced that the end of the world was upon them, a source close to the Bailey twins told us that they had chosen Aruba to spend their end of the world, citing childhood memories as their inspiration. Josh seemed to buy his ticket to the end of the world with the twins after the girls were seen wearing matching diamond and amethyst chokers. The twins have been vocal in the past about preferring amethyst for its psychic protection powers, the reportedly wore the necklaces constantly during their time in Aruba. But, as we all know, the end of the world never came. The twins, long known for dating the same heartthrob at once, split with Josh once they landed back on American soil on January 2, 2000. (They kept the necklaces.) After a tumultuous reunion in January, Madshua was back in early 2000, and once again the pair publicly committed to couples therapy, weekend couples retreats, and even tantric sex workshops! Sweet and spicy. THIRD TIME’S THE CHARM? Since then, however, Madison has been spotted traveling Europe with only a few friends with her (soon to be ex?) husband nowhere to be found. Although Madison has been seen at a number of WORM BURDEN’S shows in LA over the years, she has recently started attending their touring performances as well and was seen in both Barcelona and Munich this summer. Without her wedding rings and without her husband to temper her behavior, Madison’s appearances at both Barcelona and Munich shows. The band attracts fans of death-doom, grindcore, and funeral doom styles, with packed venues at every stop in their European tour. Has Madison really put her party girl lifestyle behind her? Or is marriage to Josh just too blasé to keep her attention for long? It sure says something about Madison’s mental state that she’s wearing merch from a tour called COFFIN BIRTH, doesn’t it? Blink twice if you need help, Maddy! Until next time, faithful readers! Lucy Luke

kxck6u

Hombre de Agua

He couldn't play the guitar.                                                                Neither could I. But we were smitten with the art of music and strived to understand the craft of it. We spent countless hours in his single-wide practicing our shared disciplines. Drinking ourselves stupid while trying to play our guitars. Smoking illogical amounts of weed while attempting to decipher music theory. Ingesting questionable drugs while striving to understand the music of 'YES.' But it didn't matter how many hours we jammed or how many pints we drank. Jerry couldn't play the guitar. He could play any scale or chord...just not on the beat. It was the weirdest thing. Playing on the beat was impossible for him because he had no rhythm.  "Hey! Shut the fuck up! Geezus! You've made your point! Give the guy a break, for Gawd'z Sake!" Yeah. Give Jerry a break.  " Hey, Jerr...I want you to know I love you, Brother. But it's not about love. Your guitar playing does now, always has, and will in the future suck. So I'm joining a band without you in it. And I'm not going to tell you because I'm a coward.  So now I'm going to jam with them instead of you. And when you write me the letter asking why, I will ignore it because I don't have the balls to face you face to face. But despite my bad behavior, you kinda suck... You don't got the beat, Dude! Jerry's awakening came during the 1976 Winter Olympics. I was there to witness it. I felt his frequency dial-in. On the downbeat. We were watching the final run in what was perhaps the greatest race in men's downhill history. Of course! Franz Klammer for the gold! His name etched forever in Alpine lore. A permanent resident in the Hall of Downhill Heroes...and it's a disgrace. Because the guy who came in 2 nd , the loser, was the one who executed the flawless run. Bernhard Russi spun the perfect web that day, like the Garden Spider on acid. And that's what got Jerry's attention. Bernhard was the one who flipped his switch. Apparently, Franz Klammer was also paying attention. He understood the only way to beat Bernhard Russi, the current World Champion, was to jump off the cliff and free-fall down the mountain, so he did just that. He didn't push from the starting gate. He fell from it, sky-diving to the finish line. His run was a clown show. Riding on the edge of his skis at 100 MPH, teetering on the brink of an epic limb-snapping crash, flapping his arms like a shot-gunned duck, falling, flailing all the way to the podium, beating Bernhard by a third of a second! The next day, Jerry rigged up a slack rope in the backyard. It was sagging like an old swayback, impossible to stand, let alone walk on, as far as I could tell. I was there when he stepped up and fell off for the first time...and the second and a hundred more after that. It could have been difficult watching him flail and fall over and over a thousand times if it weren't for the look of determined bliss on his face. I had never seen serenity like it before. Certainly not the confused persistence he displayed when attempting to play the guitar. He stayed up a bit longer each time he got on the line. It was imperceptible to the observer, but his body felt it, and his face reflected it. Time marched on. I played in the band Jerry wasn't in until it broke up. Jerry fell off the rope again and again...until he didn't. "Honey! Hurry up...Uber is here, Dearest! We mustn't miss our flight!" "I'm coming, my Darling! Oh, I'm so excited! I've waited my whole life for this! Skiing Mt. Baldy!" It is a conversation you will never hear. Yeah, 'Center of the Universe Los Angeles,' you've got some cool stuff. Griffith Park Observatory, Grumman's Chinese Theater. Surfer Girls. And if Jerry was a surfer, he was in heaven—a thirty-minute drive to the Santa Monica Pier. From there, take your pick: north, south, 200 miles of waves. But Jerry wasn't a surfer. Jerry was a skier. So he moved to Taos, New Mexico. There were several advantages for him in Taos. One was the 'Vinella Connection,' which, several years earlier, triggered a small migration from our LA suburb to Taos. The group, filled with Jerry's friends and family, gave him that 'Welcome Home!' vibe when he arrived. And there was the Taos Ski Valley. So he started skiing. I lost touch with him. I was busy counting to four, being a west coast bar band douche bag. But I knew what he was being. He was being a skier, flying down the mountain, reading the snow. Feeling the shadows and light, the textures, angles. Every bump, every frozen ripple. No two runs alike. Powder. Ice. Gelid. Vision. Riding the frozen waterfall. Balance. Legs. Love. Speed. His body, the orchestra. His music: The Snow.                                           Composing his symphony run by run. Beethovean syncopation. It turns out Jerry got the beat, after all. So that's it... he's found his instrument. He's a skier...wait...what? Where does the snow go when it melts? Well, of course, it pours down the Rio Grande Gorge, ripping through the Box.  A glorious release, as if aware of its languid future meandering to the Gulf. No rhyme, no rhythm. No logical beat. A cacophony of dissonance and madness. Experimental free form poly rhythmic jazz. And there you'll find Jerry, y ear after year, guiding countless Texans safely through the rapids in a glorified inner tube.                                                                                                             Never missing a beat...or Texan. I never skied with Jerry. I couldn't keep up. And I never ran the river with him. Too scary , jazzy. So when you wake up to an ice-blue mountain draped in a Payne's November sky that stings your cheeks, that's Jerry's friendly ghost. "Did Frank wax your skis? It's supposed to snow tonight. C'mon! I'll race ya!" My gratitude for you runs as deep as the Rio Grande. Ski In Peace, Jerry. 

r3yww8

Nooks and Crannies

There it sat, in a framed glass on the windowsill that overlooked a spice garden and a sloppy view of the city. Mark never really noticed it, but he remembered it being there every time he washed the dishes, his hands moving brilliantly through the suds. Under stalks of parsley and coriander, his eyes would drift to it- its hard brown frame, the aged curl of the photo, his reflection peering ghostly over the two girls. Then it would disintegrate in his mind, into the hot, shifting clutter of his work, hiding until his sight reclaimed it the next day. There were many objects like that in Mark’s apartment- a doorstop shaped like a Mallard, a black umbrella from a college he never attended, a half-opened pack of cigarettes hidden behind his blender. He knew of their existence, knew they were his, but was never sure what purpose they served in his life. Most of the time, he believed them to be the simple banalities of a couple in motion. But once in a while, when he filled his glass of bourbon a little too high, Mark saw them as the ultimate expression of humanity- the thin red line in a world painted black. Tonight was one such night. He had captured the picture frame and brought it to the couch, where it hovered in his lap above a smoked old fashioned. Mark rubbed his thumb over the glass, and a small, clean window broke through the pane. It showed another time- the filter was grainy and dark, with a bright orange glimmer behind the two silhouettes of the girls. Carved on their faces were smiles, identical and gray and close to each other. In the bottom corner, the sharp edges of a timestamp sliced upwards. Mark excavated the yellow date from the dust: 09-14-2009 The front door made a loud snap as the lock was defeated, and then creaked open. He knew who it was before he looked up, but it still shocked him, and he felt the photo rattle off his knees and onto the rug. Portia moved quietly, as a cat might mid-stalk, and her hair burned crimson and blond and some other color. She made no acknowledgement when she saw Mark drunk on the couch. They were two pets playing house, and any engagement outside of eye-contact was a call for battle. Portia slipped off her shoes near the Mallard and moved to the fridge, her footsteps unburdened by gravity. Portia’s presence had an effect on Mark, and although inebriated, it still sunk deep within him. With her entrance came water, and lots of it, filling the room until the vaulted ceilings swelled and the paperbacks from his library lost their structure. There he would sit, holding his breath, the room very blue and her hair dancing like coral, and he would last as long as he could. But eventually, his lungs would kick out, and he’d let the liquid find a home within him, and those memories- her dinging phone as she slept, that hairy present from the sushi chef, the way glass bullets over hardwood after landing flat on its face- were what Mark believed to be the slowest of deaths. There seemed to be something different today, however. He glanced around, and found that in his trance, he’d retrieved the photo from the floor. His fingers gripped it with the special intensity of a starving man, one with no hope or resolution. He wondered why that was and studied it some more. As Portia pulled okra and overpriced kale and mung beans from her den, Mark leaned into the picture, and he learned things. He learned that the girls were standing outside, which accounted for the porch light and the buzzy quality. He learned it was something candid, for he could notice an outstretched hand from the girl on the left, an attempt to swat the lens away. But most impactful was the lines of their faces. He traced them, the gray parts and the dark parts and the sort-of light parts. He traced them until he was absolutely sure that the girls were sisters. Portia had a sister. And she had never told him. The water had been drained from the room, and Mark felt very strong. He was a forensic accountant in the daytime, and in the night he dreamed of taking his skills against a more personal enemy- a cashier who snuffed him out of a quarter, maybe, or an abusive car salesman. But this, he could tell, would be his magnum opus. The red line had become a thread, and Mark prepared to wrap his fingers around it. There was chopping from the kitchen, and the purr of a boiling kettle. Mark stood up without excitement and moved to the liquor cart which hung ten feet from Portia’s back. It always seemed to him that, even after the fallout, they still carried that sixth sense between them- that feeling of knowing where Portia was in the house without seeing her, her movement as intrinsic as breath and sleep. So Mark was confident that the announcement of his words wouldn’t shock her. “How long have you had this picture?” The chopping ceased, but Portia didn’t turn around. Instead, she looked over towards the windowsill as if expecting to see something. Mark had foreseen this feint and brought his drink over to interrupt her gaze. He sipped on it, and it tasted good and bitter. It was distilled in Segovia, gifted to him when things were sweeter between them. Mark pulled from its strength and history and calcified into a harder man. “It should say on there. I think it has a timestamp.” “September of 2009. What were you then, ten?” “Eleven.” Portia went back to chopping, her hands fast and elevated like a pro. Her hair was fire and embalmed her white flesh so that nothing could be seen of her face. Mark took a step closer. The mung beans had sprouted and interloped with the steam from the kettle, turning his kitchen into rot, into a squashed possum on a ninety degree highway. The smell was necessary as all hell. The smell was what they had always been. “Eleven. OK.” Mark took another drink, and his fingers shook imperceptibly on the glass. It always came down to finding that receipt, that little scrap of financial holiness that ripped all the curtains from conversation. This photo was no different. “And this is your sister.” The tide of Portia’s chopping picked up, as if attempting to drown out the statement. But it was in the kitchen now, and it had become as immovable as the mallard and the umbrella and the things that defined their life together. Portia knew it, so she nodded, her face still tucked from view. Mark slammed the drink down against the tile, and the ball of ice clinked at wild angles. The look on his face did not sting or curse or hurt. It was the look of the judicial, of the uncaring. “Four years together and not a word. Why wouldn’t you tell me that? Why hasn’t she visited?” Portia finally turned, her hair pulling off her face like an old bandage, and inside was cured hatred, sparkling in a very pretty way. The skin on her face burned red all the way to her pupils, and a black mole on her neck looked close to ignition. Mark quieted a whisper of fear, for he seriously believed her to be aflame. “You SHOULD know why,” Portia said. “You SHOULD understand by now.” And then a smile, a wicked endearment which he forgot existed, graced her lips. “But you’ll never get it, will you?” Mark could feel the receipt slipping away, her coaxing words a lubricant between his fingers. He was desperate, and that hunger was very loud within him, scratching in his chest. With his left hand, he smashed the picture frame against the counter. It screamed a song of dissolution, of splintered wood and glass and freedom. Clear shards nested between the mung beans and under Portia’s knife. His palm became a warm liquid. Mark wrestled the photo from the debris and pushed it face-out to Portia. “Then MAKE me understand. TELL me what this is.” Portia had stopped smiling, but the expression still hung there, radiating from her soul. She spoke again. “Think back. Think back to how this all started.” “Oh, I know how.” The impartiality had run from Mark’s face. He now wore the look of both victim and defendant. “I caught you taking a pork roll from a fucking sushi chef!” Portia laughed this time, and the sound gave Mark a strange thrill. The photo was still outstretched, and red dripped down his arm and onto the counter.  “That was nothing. Think back further.” Mark didn’t enjoy these games. They were variable and messy, a combination he never faced during work hours. He was used to paper trails and loose lips- those were his currency, his clues to the crime. Memory was something else altogether, a medium he’d never been one to trust. “Think about Bermuda. About the Poconos. About the kitchen we’re standing in right now.” Portia looked into Mark’s eyes. There was hate and lust, sure, but behind that was the true action of his mind- the search for a needle. A pattern for his receipt. “Let me remind you, then.” Portia told him. And then, with all the might and fury her 135-pound body could muster, Portia punched Mark across the face. It was a punch like no other, fueled by something more powerful than muscle. It was a punch that, in her last moments, she would never regret throwing. Mark thought about its form and its perfect arc as he collapsed. His chin had been split from her engagement ring, and his knees rung sweet on the hardwood. The photo fluttered a foot in front of him. Portia did not stop. She began kicking, her bare heel beating into Mark’s side. Behind the scalding kettle and the ringing in his corneas, he could hear no words. But he didn’t have to. He remembered everything now. “How could you?” Portia yelled. “How could you call that love?” The fire had fled her face now, finding an outlet in her limbs and her throat. She wanted it all to burn. “My FATHER had to nurse her black eyes! My own FATHER!” Pain blossomed in curious places. Mark felt he might deserve it, but part of him hadn’t forgotten the water in his lungs, the act of not breathing. That was enough to live on, Mark decided. With his sliced hand, he grabbed for the corner of the photo, praying he wouldn’t get stomped on, and pulled it closer. “You never DESERVED her.” Portia began panting, and the interval between kicks decreased. “She gave you her future and you took it for GRANTED.” Mark scooched the photo beneath him, and as he scrunched up, it gave him a second to analyze. The back of the photo was smeared with blood, but in the middle were two words. Side by side, the names were “Portia” and “Mallory.” A kick catapulted against his groin, and Mark moaned, a sound he was not used to making in pain nor pleasure. Portia stopped as Mark toiled on the ground, his body wriggling as a lame dog might moments before being put down. The kettle quieted its whistle, and there was the smell of char and carbon and decay. “She couldn’t stay here. I think you knew that, at the end of the day. She had to leave, but she wanted the apartment, too. The one you two co-signed ownership on- that was a stupid idea in the first place.” Mark, in his anguish, started to crawl away, back to the living room. This was the price for falling curtains, for the unraveling of a thread. Mark wouldn’t have it any other way. “The mole…” he moaned as he scooted. The assault had knocked something clear in his skull- everything seemed very clear now. “Portia never had that mole…” She scoffed. “And you call yourself a husband.” Mark was almost out of the kitchen now. She followed him. “Cheating was the least of your problems. Which Portia would have never done, by the way. She was loyal like that.” The woman Mark used to know walked in front of him and leaned against the wall. “But I’m nothing like my sister. I came to take everything. The apartment. Portia’s freedom. My revenge.” Mark had made his way to the shoes, and to another object with forgotten utility. The black mallard stared at him, face to face, its yellow wooden beak holding a secret shared only between them. Mark suspected the duck had always known what role it would play in his life. He was just too near-sighted to notice. Mark grabbed the duck by the face. With his last bit of strength, Mark smashed the duck against the woman’s open toes. He felt them crush and imagined the red ball of yarn within her, the spindly thing he’d been chasing all his life. Mark wanted it so bad that when she fell, he didn’t doubt his decision to strike her again, this time at the temple. And a third time in the teeth, just for good measure. The apartment had become a quiet place, a place good for a drink and a pondering of things. As he wobbled up from the floor, blood streaked and staring at a dead woman, he realized what he could really use was a cigarette. He smiled and retreated to the blender, where a lucky pack was waiting for him. “The ultimate expression of humanity,” Mark whispered as he found himself a light. 

auxn5k

Lost & Found

" Dad, can you pick me up? I don't feel good. My heart hurts." " Honey, you only have two hours remaining, be strong, I know you can do it." " But my teacher was mean to me and now I'm sad." " I can't pick you up again today. You need to put your big girl panties on and soldier on." " Also, Dad, I lost my Hello Kitty backpack." After I pushed 'end call'; I opened Google, " How do you send an email to county jail?" I want to love someone, someone who will love me and take care of me. I want to sing duets with Denis- he can sing the John Travolta part while I sing the Olivia part. But I don't know how to tell him 'You're the One that I Want' . 'Showing 85,00 results, Search instead for'…. none of which actually helps me. My heart hurts a little more until I realize that I typed 'tail' instead of 'jail'. God. I am so sloppy. My dad doesn't understand me. I heard him say that he believes that I will live with him and mom forever. God I can't think of anything worse. I'm not though. Even my doctor believes me when I say that I am going to marry Denis one day. I like my doctor because he is nice and he gives me medicine. --------------------------------------------------------------- Dear Denis,   December 27, 2019 Last weekend I watched A Man, A Prisoner, and Quilting . Wow. It's so unbelievable. I guess that's why CNN wanted to document the insanity, plus it helps that you are so good looking and charming. 😉You also have such a great body. How often do you work out? Is there a Peloton in jail? I love my Peloton. What is your leaderboard name? We should be friends. My favorite instructor is Denis. He spells his name the same as you. Oh, BTW my name is Amanda but my friends call me Mandy. Also, I am 18 years old and in my last year of high school. What were you like in school? PS- I've never done anything like this before. I'd really like to be friends. I hope you get this. PPS- Also, your quilts are really beautiful. I quilt too, luckily, I have my own scissors, well several pairs actually. When you had to keep asking the prison guard for your scissors it made me mad. ♥️♥️♥️ dear amanda         feb 1, 2021 thank you for your email. can you load $200 on my prison commissary? i can't eat another bologna sandwich. i will write more later. gotta go G4075-68 Dear Denis,     February 1, 2021 Yay! Oh my Goodness! My friends and family all told me I was crazy for emailing you over a year ago. They offered me a million reasons why you wouldn't respond. They said things like he probably doesn't know how to read, or maybe he got shanked. I always felt that I would hear from you. I knew it in my heart. 💗 I am embarrassed to admit this, but I don't know how to do what you asked. I'm not saying I won't. I tried to Google "how to load a prisoner's commissary?" PS- I've watched A Man, A Prisoner, and Quilting like ten more times. It's so funny when you say that thing about smiling.  PPS- Is that a lightning bolt tattoo? I am so jealous. I want a dragon tattoo but my dad says only sailors and circus performers have tattoos. Do you like cats? ♥️♥️♥️ dear amanda,      feb 2, 2021 my homie got a hold of a drill and spit out that lightning bolt real fast. hurt like a mother. are you one of them religious types or what? send pics how to load prison commissary link G4075-68 Denis,           February 3, 2021 You are so funny. Did you get the $300 I put on your commissary? Did you get the pictures? I used a new App to swap your face with my uncles, now it looks like we went to Disney World together. If you won a trip to anywhere in the world, where would you go? Since we are friends now, you can call me Mandy. Do you have a nickname? What is your favorite movie? Have you ever fainted? What do you mean 'religious types'- I don't think so. I think I am just like everyone else; my family believes in God and Jesus and stuff. Mom says that if I do something bad, all I need to do is ask for forgiveness and everything is all-good. Anderson made me very mad when he called your case 'suspicious'. I don't believe that you poisoned that teacher. In fact, I know you didn't. There is no way that you did any of the stuff that they are accusing you of. Besides, just ask God for forgiveness. I can't remember, do you have any children? What sign are you? I'm a Gemini. ♥️♥️♥️ dear mandy- feb 3, 2021  you look pretty in your picture. where do you live? maybe you can visit. G4075-68 Big D- Feb 5, 2021 It was so great seeing you, especially now I know the origins of your nickname 🍆(hahaha). It didn't hurt as badly as I imagined. I know you said you need $200 every week for commissary, but I can only afford $100. Is that okay? Please don't leave me. I think I love you. Have you ever eaten a Lion bar? They are so good. Last year when my dad took me on vacation to Europe, I discovered them. Hopefully one day we can go on a vacation together, maybe even a honeymoon, but not somewhere where people wear flip flops, looking at other people’s feet disgusts me. Eww. PS- I keep forgetting to ask you, what is your favorite color? ♥️♥️♥️ The Herald Headline: Police found a Hello Kitty backpack with a bloody name badge that once belonged to former teacher, Kelly James.  Local teenager Amanda Blue Collins has been arrested for poisoning her teacher. Shortly after Collins' arrest Ms. James' former boyfriend was released. Denis Campbell spent four years in jail awaiting trial.

f6e12m

Occupational Games: Blasted (To Twenty-Five Years Ago)

OPENING CEREMONIES: A large red ribbon, severed in half, lays on the ground in front of a sleek, modern edifice. Young girls in fresh make up and short uniforms, with taut bows, form two parallel lines in front of wide open glass doors. They shout hellos as people saddled with bags traverse between them. A woman entering the building beside me points to my espadrille wedges, “You did not wear running shoes.” “Why would I?” “For the drill.” “The drill?” The woman side-eyes me and turns to a young girl with shellacked dark hair, “Oh my! How spirited. What a greeting.” The girl, and her others, extend silver and black sparklers and shake them with vigor to form an explosive, glittering barricade. My hands raise in protective reflex as I attempt to push toward the entrance. With waxy, pink lipped grins the young girls bellow, “Welcome back. Go team!” FORTIFIED ARENA: One by one we step through the edifice doors into a multi-story corridor. A row of administrators, suited in ties and polished shoes, form a half-circle in front of trophy cases. With frozen, plastered smiles, the administrators point in unison. “That way,” they recite in chorus. We adjust bags to redistribute weight and shuffle down a barren hallway. A music stand in the center of the hallway blocks us. Upon it rests an arrow—scrawled on a sheet of paper—pointing to a propped open door. We step through into a room with accordion dividers pushed open. A low din of chatter rolls as people remove cross-body satchels and tuck canvas bags beneath tables. With a cough that quells the noise, an administrator from the greeting corridor steps inside. Silver temples suggest he is a man in his mid-forties, but the youthful curve of his jaw and chin causes second guesses. He wears a turquoise tie and a grey suit. His belt matches his shoes. His suited counterparts follow into the room, cough, and close the door behind them. The turquoise tied man gestures with his hand, and TV’s—two per wall, eight total—illuminate with graphs, figures, and specs. In a voice twinged by costal accent, the man shares, “For months, construction’s been hard at work. Our building now houses innovative technology, flexible spaces for collaboration, and state of the art infrastructure. But most importantly, notice the new titanium doors. Impenetrable. Look out the windows. The glass is bulletproof.” The room erupts. People jump to their feet. Applaud. Exchange looks of triumph and relief. I stand, too. Clap. Avoid eye-contact. My chest tight, throat constricted. TRAINING PRACTICE: The man in the turquoise tie motions, with hands, for the room to sit. Excited ejaculations of “ finally ”, “ about time ”, and “ hallelujahs ” quiet. A heavy set woman picks her bag off the floor and places it in her lap. Her breath labors. “First drill?” she points to my espadrille wedges. Before I can respond, four uniformed officers rise from seats in the front to flank the man with a turquoise tie and grey suit. They possess height, broad shoulders, thick thighs. Their meaty hands rest upon belts weighted with weapons. The TV’s lining the walls blink from building statistics to a list of instructions. A murmur spreads throughout. “Yes, fortified doors and windows increase protection,” barks the tallest of the uniformed officers, “but perpetrators find a way. You are vulnerable. You need to be prepared.” “Ready for the fun and games? I hope you wore running shoes,” quipped the tied man. Laughter, agitated, replaces the murmur. The broadest of uniformed officers steps forward and points to the instructions on a screen, “Pay attention. We start in the hallway.” The participants in the room tuck bags aside, rise and begin to file out into the hall. I follow. We form two parallel lines with our backs against the wall. We fold our arms across our chests. The uniformed officers stomp between us. “You will hear a clap.” One officer smacks two wooden boards together, creating the sharp staccato sound of a gun shot. “That means run.” Another officer jiggles the handle to ensure the door we exited from locks behind us. “Don’t get hit,” says a third officer brandishing a dart gun. “At the sound of my whistle, begin.” THE DRILL With folded arms, we look at each other. At the shrill trill of a whistle, we peel ourselves from the wall and begin meandering up and down the hall. We’ve been instructed to act normal, to walk with ease, but as we anticipate the imitative crack of gun fire, the tension pulsates, the paint so pungent and fresh it nips at our tongues' tips. Clap . Every body petrifies, limbs halt mid-motion. Clap . Clap . The once-pretend meandering morphs into shoving. Bodies break into sporadic running. People scream. I do not move by the control of thought, but rather leap by the demand of heart thumps. I pull on the knob of a locked door. Scatter down the hall. Pull the locked knob of another door. The crowd cries out in panic. Two imposing uniformed officers pounce from a door across the hall and pendulate large rifles to part the crowd. I cower with hands over my head and sprint in espadrille wedges. I hear the air puff of ammunition exiting the weapon. A young woman with dishwater blonde hair reels backwards and clutches her leg. A man wearing a basketball t-shirt darts sideways and maneuvers a door open. I follow, and with two hands, shove him in. Stumble over him. The door swings shut. “Did you get hit?” he asks. I shake my head. “First drill?” I nod. “Don’t worry. They shoot blanks.” We heard a swell of cries in the hall, and the man’s eyes grow wide. “Hide,” he mouths and points to a desk. As I scramble beneath it, he moves a bookcase away from the wall. Climbs behind. We fall silent. The door swings open, thuds against the wall. My body curls tight, knees clutched to chest. My eyes squeeze shut as my forehead presses into the carpet. “Found you,” a baritone voice speaks to the rhythm of boot steps. I hear the sound of air popping out of a muzzle. I hear the soft thump of impact. I hear the groan from a man hidden behind a bookshelf. I turn my head so my cheek imprints upon the carpet. My held breath burns. My eyes crack apart to peek beneath the desk. Two black boots, one by one, materialize before my vision. “Found you, too. Bang. Bang. You’re dead.” PERFORMANCE EVALUATION The black booted officer did not fire his weapon. Instead, he reached out a hand to pull me to my feet. “Congratulations,” he said and pointed to my espadrille wedges, “Your first drill is complete.” We return to the room with accordion dividers and eight television screens. Those hit by blanks are instructed to stand. We chuckle. They trade experiences. The man in the turquoise tie coughs. "If this were real, those hit would not be here." The suit and tie administrator nods and sits down. The officers nod back and stand shoulder to shoulder at the front of the room. They click through text-heavy slides laden with acronyms. Their voices punctuate the words if , when , and exit . "Any questions?" The man with a turquoise tie and gray suit grins and opens the door of the large, undivided room. The uniformed officers wish us luck. File out. As we sling bags over our shoulders and crook totes into elbow nooks, the young girls with high ponies, sparklers, and pink rouge enter to cheer us off to lunch. The heavy set woman cradles her sack like a baby in arms and pants, “Let's hope, this year, it does not happen to us." OPERATIONS PARADE “Lock the door. Now. No one exits.” The administrator's head, which popped in, disappears. I stare at the room I'm instructing. We pass around quizzical looks. I place the laser pointer on my desk as if resting a precious relic and take calculated steps toward the door. Open it. My head turns down both lengths of the hallway. Aside from fluorescent reflections, it is empty. No sight of the administrator. I slide keys from my pocket. Grip them so they do not rattle, and fumble to lock the door. I’ve unlocked this door many times to enter, but I've never locked it from within. “Is the door locked?” “I think so?” “Holy shit!” someone cries, standing in front of the window. All other bodies in the room push aside desks and chairs to meet him at the customized, bulletproof glass. In eruptive chatter, they pronounce similar expletives. I gently touch the shoulders of my instructees to part the way and peer below. In the parking lot, a melee of emergency vehicles converge in divergent directions, creating a blaring foray of red and blue lights. Administrators and uniformed officers holding portable radios wave, point, and run. The scene unravels like a silent film, for the bulletproof glass also barricades noises. A boy turns to me, his face drained of color. “SWAT is here.” From an ominous black truck void of labels, handles or plates, a dozen figures emerge. They march in tactical, black vests, black armored sleeves and pants. Black kevlar helmets, like welding masks, cover their faces. Identity obscured. Several SWAT officers push forward with polycarbonate ballistic black shields. Others follow, shouldering large, missile weapons. They enter our building. We, at the window, giggle, but our throat gurgles are not joyous. The drill. I remember. “Hide," I mouth, and point to the corner. With outstretched arms I corral everyone into a huddled pile parallel with the door. We press in amongst each other. We cower. Someone whimpers. Another shooshes. Through thin drywall we hear, in the hallway, the pelting march of boot soles. Then we hear, from the room next door, a clash. A bang. A heavy thud, like objects being hurled. My projector screen shakes. My phone vibrates. I look down and read: -Is this a drill? -No. It's real. SWAT here. -Get away from windows. -Hide under desks. -Everyone on the floor. -Keep quiet. A girl begins to gasp in rapid, frantic patterns. She clutches the hand of another. "Please," she gulps in whispers. "Please," over and over. Her saucered eyes, rimmed wet, meet mine, "Please. I need to call my parents." On hands and knees, I move closer to the pile of bodies to force them in tighter. The carpet fibers dig into my flesh. I take a measured breath. Speak slow, steady. "You may panic once you see me panic." But a junior uncurls from the fetal position and rises onto his knees. He points to my hand, which holds my phone. "You are shaking." CLOSING RITUAL The door rattles. We crouch, tense. With eyes shut, our pile melds into a single, silent abyss. Our arms wrap around our heads, cup our ears. No one releases a breath. The carpet threads dig designs into our skin. Did I lock it? Did I lock the door correctly? repeats in my head. The door swings open. Thuds. "All clear." The administrator who first instructed no one to exit steps into the room. He is followed by several other administrators and three SWAT personnel. Our pile of bodies in the corner untangle in collective exhalations. Our bags, purses, and backpacks are searched. We are given orders to "hold and wait" for administration and law enforcement to conduct full building investigations. "I need to use the restroom," a junior mews. "Hold it. No one exits until we finish." "Please." He presses his thighs together. I can see a growing, dark stain. We learned, after, the noise from the adjoining room came from its occupants piling furniture atop furniture to create a blockade in front of the door. We learned, after, the threat resulted from someone contacting emergency services. They claimed to possess a weapon. Promised to shoot anyone who entered the bathroom stall where they hid. They gave the address to our building. A prank call. A cruel hoax. All fun and games when it’s fiction. Haha. But this story is real. These 'games' are REAL. It happened to me. To my students. This is the occupation, today, of being a teacher.

t99gx8

The End of Light

As a child, you told your mom that you were afraid of ghosts, but you are pretty sure she knew you were lying. It wasn't ghosts that you feared as a child—it was the dark and the unknown terrors it concealed. You don't remember what she said to you that night, but you’ll never forget what your mother did. In the electrical socket beside your bed, she plugged a little night light, just bright enough to scare away your fears or any ghosts that wanted to do you harm. You think about your childhood more often than you used to. You don’t know if that is because back then big problems had easy solutions or if you long for that little night light to comfort you in the dark. But unknown terrors have come to life in the form of an ophthalmologist who seldom smiles and smells of antiseptic. “Your visual acuity is 20/200. I’m afraid your macular degeneration is progressing.” “Isn’t progress a good thing?” You attempt to make the eye doctor crack a smile, share a laugh with his patient who faces the specter of becoming blind. Instead, your mother covers her face with her hands, eyes red-rimmed and watery. She feels the pain for both you and her. “Your test results show severe damage to your macula,” the doctor continues. “Should I wear garlic around my neck?” The ophthalmologist continues scribbling notes in your file. “Not Dracula. Macula . The central part of your retina.” You are more disappointed at failing to make the doctor laugh than any prognosis about your vision loss. “I can still see quite clearly out of the corners of my eyes,” you say. You shift your eyes side-to-side to demonstrate. “Perhaps there’s some hope after all?” The doctor shakes his head. “Although your peripheral vision is still intact, your ability to see shapes and movement has profoundly decreased. Perhaps using magnifying glasses and bright lights will help you see things in your remaining time.” My remaining time. As if a nineteen-year-old man should be worried about time. You have worn glasses since you were little. With each new pair, the lenses thickened as your chances with girls thinned. Before your diagnosis, all the pretty college girls said no, but afterwards? The ugly girls said no, too. You have thoughts about blindness since the day of the accident. The light was red, everyone said so. You didn’t see it. Even though you only hit an old oak in the center of town, your only friend hit his head on the dashboard, ending up with a dozen stitches and a concussion. He never talked to you again. You lost your driver’s license and best friend on the same day. Afterwards, your mother took you to the eye doctor for the damning diagnosis: juvenile macular degeneration, an eyeball’s death sentence. There is no known therapy to slow the development of the disease or prevent vision loss. Every day, you inch closer to eternal darkness. Your family is so helpful, so supportive to the point that you are resentful at being trapped in their suffocating world. They blink blankly at you during dinners with their two healthy orbs and you come to hate them even more. You wear dark glasses and tap tap tap with a white-tipped cane. Women and girls touch your arm and ask if they can help you cross the street. Instead, they could laugh at your jokes. That would help, but they don't laugh when you make them. No one thinks that a nearly-blind man should be funny. “You know what the light at the end of the tunnel is?” You tell your mom jokes to break the heavy silence while she makes dinner. “Darkness!” You blurt out the punchline, not giving her the chance to answer. “That’s not the slightest bit funny,” she responds in a strained voice. You laugh for her, then whip your head around.   “What do you want?” You shout, loud enough to startle your mom. She drops a pan of rolls, hot from the oven. “How did you know I was here?” your younger sister asks, standing directly behind you. “My ears work just fine.” Almost too well, you think. The truth is becoming more obvious to you. When you lost your sight, you developed a sixth sense. You know when someone is staring at you, and you can feel when people stare. It enrages you, as you can feel their pity. “What does it look like when you can’t see?” your sister once asked. She’s not the first one to ask you what going blind looks like. “You know what it looks like when you can see everything perfectly well?” “Yes,” she answers, naïve and sincere. “It’s exactly like that—only the opposite.” She doesn’t laugh. You don’t blame her. That one wasn’t really that funny, but she rarely laughs at any of your jokes. What you don’t tell her is that going blind makes you the god of your own world. You see things in a new way, not like a scared child who begs his mother for a night light. You begin to realize that no matter how bright or dark the room is, the ghosts are still there. And sometimes when you listen, the ghosts talk to you. They tell you that the disease eating the colors and shapes from your sight isn’t your fault. It’s genetic. Except your pretty sister didn’t inherit it—only you did. Just like your father’s overbite and your mother’s penchant for nail biting. Things like this just happen, the ghosts say, lying in the darkness and telling you truths that no one else will. Where one child has to learn braille and undergo adaptive training, the other can go out with her friends and fool around boyfriends in the basement. Your blindness is no one’s fault. Not really. Except for your parents who rolled the genetic dice and damned you to a lifetime of being coddled and watched. How easily fear turns to anger , you think.  With each passing day, the light grows farther and farther away, but just like eyes in the dark, your mind adjusts. You see more clearly now that you can’t see.  It wasn’t hard, not really. Not even for a blind man. Especially not for a blind man. When you can’t see others, they can’t see you either. No one even considered it was you, and to think you were jealous of your sister's eyes before they became yours! At her memorial service, you wonder if she still sees the value of being an organ donor.  “Why did your brother cross the Rubicon?” You whisper by her grave. “So he could see what was on the other side.” You blurt out the punchline, not giving her the chance to answer. You no longer think about your childhood. You have no need of little night lights because you are no longer afraid of ghosts.  Why should you be?  You are the terror in the dark.

9n875z

A Walk In The Garden

Copenhagen was sweltering in an unfamiliar heatwave as Carlo Spoto walked out the side door to the hotel gardens. As he expected, his boss was sitting on the closest bench. In their years together, he knew Hurst Dansk would not keep him waiting. Even with the unusually hot weather, the Danish company’s patriarch was always dressed in a heavy, woolen, dark business suit. Behind him, similarly dressed and mere yards away, the old man’s guard stood quietly attentive. In 20 years as head of American operations, Carlo had never seen one man without another. The older man rose and started walking away from the building. Carlo caught up quickly, noting the bodyguard’s presence a few feet behind. “Thank you for joining me,” Hurst said by greeting. “Sorry to keep you waiting,” Carlo replied. “No I enjoyed breathing in the fresh air. Let us walk these grounds and continue to enjoy the air.” “With pleasure, I don’t get out that much.” “Neither do I. Events always interfere.” “My wife says I need to do more away from work.” “My wife wants me to retire.” “Retire? You? What would you do? What would I do?” “Die a slow, boring death.” “You and I were meant to work.” “True, but my time as head of the company will end soon.” “No, it cannot be.” “It is and my retirement is why I wanted to talk with you.” “My father used to say it is better to listen then talk.” “I wise man. I enjoyed working with him as I enjoy working with you.” “And I with you, but who will replace you?” “Two of my sons are impatient to replace me.” “Young people are always impatient.” “And anxious to change things.” “That too. But when will this happen.” “Next month.” “So soon?” “Yes, their mother agrees, she says it is time for me to let them run the family businesses.” “You will be missed.” “Only for a short time, then they will have their way and change things.” The men walked on a bit, each in their own thoughts; Carlo was afraid to ask about the American company but also sure he was about to be told. “Which brings us to your company. For the past five years, I have manipulated the books so it has been making a small profit,” Hurst said finally. “Haven’t we?” “No, it has been in the, what Americans say, in the red.” “The numbers I saw were always good.” “You know, I met Rosamond, my wife, when I applied to come here to work at our American company?” “No, I didn’t know that.” “She had read my vitae and knew how strong I was in math. I was told to see her.” “What happen?” “Although I didn’t know it at the time she had decided to marry me. She offered me a job at headquarters instead of going to America, I went to work here in Copenhagen.” “Did you like it?” “I hated it. But I liked her, she made sure of that. But a year later I told her I still wanted to go to America.” “And? “She laughed and said I should marry her instead. Her brother was a wastrel, and she knew the company wasn’t ready for a woman leader. I was the best solution. But to marry her and take control, she made me change my name to her family name. “Women decide for us men.” “In my case yes, when I finally knew of her plans, it was too late for me to go to America.” “They tell me you are a legend in managing company figures.” “I rather make furniture like you.” “It is a dying art.” “True, but perhaps you can carry it on a bit longer.” “How so?” “Let me go back, first. Two years ago Frank approached me about a project someone in South Carolina had brought him.” “Let me guess, Knox Alexander.” “Do not sell the man short, Carlo, he is a ruthless business man but he loves his home town.” “You could not prove it by me.” “Listen, like your father said. Alexander asked Frank to find a way out of a predicament of his own greed.” “You’re talking about the property next to ours?” “Years ago Alexander needed money and sold an easement through the land for a company laying fiber optic cable for data transmission. Before he knew it, the company had crisscrossed the land and he could not build on it or sell it.” “When that dilemma became known, we all laughed about that.” “Frank was never the one to laugh at a project without first examining it from different angles.” “We all knew that, Mr. New York City.” “He has, or should we say had, a tremendous reputation there and in Europe.” “Then why did he come back to be chairman of our small company?” “To conceal his bigger plan and to get my approval.” “Approval for what?” “Carlo, if Frank had lived, next week we would have announced a major construction project involving Alexander’s land, our factory, two other pieces of land to the north of our company and south of the transmission lines. A major European investment fund is putting up half the capital.” “What happens to my company?” “It dies.” “Why?” “Because there are two things the company has that is needed for this project: the land it sits on and the water it uses to bend the woods.” “What do you need the water for?” “To cool the service centers that be built on the computer park we are about to build.” “So our company dies.” “I am afraid so. Frank has been trying to sell the company and move or replace the machinery. Did you know almost every company who built the machinery is gone?” “Yes, we can’t get new parts, so we fabricate replacements ourselves.” “All people Frank approach would buy are the designs and trademark.” “So they can make cheaper versions.” “I won’t allow it.” “And you’re telling me now?” “Because I want you to run a company that repairs our furniture and keeps our craft alive.” “I take the young workers and keep the craft going?” “No, you take the old workers who can’t adjust while the young people are taught new skills.” “Younger people don’t like sweating in hot production factories.: “Why should they? Other opportunities abound.” “My son, Anthony, a foreman, wants to open a pizzeria and restaurant.” “You already see that.” “Did you think of this?” “No, it was Frank at our first meeting. He had a plan for everything before I thought of it.” “I’ll be damned. He never told me.” “That’s how he operated.” “And you’re going along with it.” “My sons want it and they would close the furniture company the day after I retire.  It is the best I can do.” “Can it be done without Frank?” “I think so. Who knew at his age he would have a heart attack and die.” “Our company dies to be replaced by soulless machines?” “Yes, and I am sorry.” “We all die, some more quickly than others.” “True, but you’re still young enough to change.” “I am 62, I will need to change, but what will you do in retirement?” “Slowly die of boredom.” “Frank was 52, he never faced retirement.” “He never thought of death either. He is gone and we must make his last plan a success.” “Do you still wish you had come to America years ago?” “Yes, every day I go to work.” “So I guess I’m lucky, my father loved the company and I do as well. We both loved coming to work every day.” “Consider yourself lucky and try to preserve its legacy.” “You know, now there is no way to apologize to Frank for all the things I thought about him.” “He knew you would be angry.” “I could have killed him.” “God did it for you.” “The question is why?”

8ii56i

View From The Window

The plane is halfway through the air when the windows start to dim. It’s a connect flight from Houston to Albuquerque and I’m sitting by the wing, dreaming about a conversation long ago. We lived in a shank shack out in the desert, a fifteen minute walk up a single lane road where no one could get to us. The realtor knocked ten percent off the asking price because there was no running water, so we had to use a well in the twenty-first century. Daddy saw that as a plus- thought all that walking would turn us into a real family, one worth its salt. Near the well was a chicken coop, and a windmill that made a strange whistle when the day was quiet enough. The days were always very quiet, especially in the summer, when my brother and I would play cards on the dusty living room carpet, the only light coming from the hatchings of the screen door and the curtains in a blue cotton tint. We’d play war and rummy and games like that on milk crates where we’d sweat in our boxers and talk about comics we stole from the school library. On one specific day, that screen door barked like a gavel as it opened and came to rest. Me and Greg looked up, a bit scared, a bit excited. It wasn’t a sound we associated with loneliness, and like most things loneliness could become a protection of its own. “Morning, boys.” It was my father, the highway cowboy of our daydreams. His beard was long with streaks of gray, and his hair flowed longer under his tan “Merle Haggard” ranch hat. The wind that designed the desert pulled at his loose denim, so that even then, the world was trying to steal him away. My brother and I latched onto his legs, shackling him to our home. “What’re you doing here, Pa?” my brother said. “I’ve got something to show ya.” He moved to the kitchen, walking like Frankenstein. “But I want to tell you boys a story first. Wanna hear it?” Greg and I nodded with great eyes of pearl. “Well, then, come on up. And Greg” Daddy pointed under the sink, which was a spigot-less fossil filled with Vienna Sausage cans. “Grab that bucket.” In the rear of the kitchen was another screen door, and in the summer it turned orange and alive. Daddy pushed it open, and in the heartland of our little America, between the tired wooden giant and the muted clucking and the sand that seemed a permanent resident in our home, he reclaimed his title as the ruler of it all. The orange from the door had stained his hands, and we felt it on our shoulders as he led us into the country, his fingers a comfort that, even to this day, I’ve never found in religion or elsewhere. As we walked, he spoke. “You see, your Daddy ain’t too different from this world. He’s a driver, and in a lot of ways, so is everyone else.” “What you mean?” Greg held the bucket low, and it clipped the ground every step or two. “Well, I move things. I load them up in my truck and I get them to people who need it. Then, once that’s done, I load up some more and start moving again. Texas to Kentucky, Kentucky to Pittsburgh, Pittsburgh to Cleveland. Round and round and round like that.” I nodded, and he turned his gaze towards my side. “Now, it may not seem like it, but most everybody works this way, too. The farmers plant and harvest, the schools churn out the students, the little barn mice search for food and hide when they got it. Have you noticed this?” We were closer to the well and the land was losing a bit of its luster. His words reminded me of how Greg always folded with pocket sevens. Just like that, as if he hadn’t any choice to do so, just tossed them on the milk crate face up. When I asked why he tossed a pair, he’d shrug. Pocket sevens and a shrug. I told my father I noticed this. Greg piped up, as if this were an accusation. “Well Billy strokes the chickens before he puts em’ down. Pets them for a half hour. And he cries when he wrings them out.” My face grew hot. Pa’s hand strengthened on my shoulder. “Boys, you’re missing the point. It ain’t a competition. We all got these things, these little cycles we’re involved in. Just look at the sun and the moon. Everyone depends on em’, but they don’t know any different. They move when they gotta move, running their course, and when it’s over they do it the next day. Again and again.” “When’s the moving stop?” Greg asked. My father chuckled. “Well, that’s the great mystery, Greg. We could sit here and guess, but the truth is maybe forever. Or it could be tomorrow.” Daddy felt my body tense up and took it back. “Not tomorrow. Probably not in your lifetime.” I tried to move the conversation along. “What did you want to show us?” “You’ll see. We’re almost here.” We approached the well, and in the presence of our Pa, whose appearance we considered almost mythical, it looked incredibly dated. A few bricks had fallen into the sand. Plus, my brother and I had broken the spoke a long time ago, so a chaffed bit of rope hung out of the well’s mouth like a snake put to sleep in the shine. “Fetch us some water,” said Pa, but Greg needed no instruction. He’d already awoken that snake, looped it under the handle of the pail, and twisted it until a sort of fibrous tumor developed above the bucket. Then, he tossed the bucket inside the well. The rope spit old grains of sand as it ran through his hands. When the water and wood collided, we could hear very little of it- only breath, a single breath, one that traveled round and round. All three of us pulled it upwards, and when it had been unearthed, it was wet and glimmered warm as the stars above our house in the summer. “Now,” Daddy began, and he got on one knee, slower than the two of us boys did. “When I’m on the road, a funny thing seems to happen. I’ll be moving through my day, but so are many others, and these cycles overlap sometimes. Usually they’re truckers- occasionally it’s a cross country tourist. We’ll throw each other a smile, and if it ain’t our first time, then maybe we’ll grab a coffee. But it’s never much more than that.” “One time,” Greg said, “I saw the same turkey vulture everyday for two weeks. Sitting on a gutted jackrabbit out a half mile from our house.” I nodded because I remembered that bird. Its head was always covered in red pulp, and in the night I thought I could hear it batting its wings outside our window, as if warning us where all this was headed. Daddy looked very solemn. “That’s part of it, yes. The vultures and the jackrabbits and the fat black ants that we find when we look close enough. They’re all in on it, all tapping into each other’s cycles.” My eyes were downcast, focused on the bucket. The water tilted and slowed inside like a dying hurricane. “But there’s the other side, too. Honeybees and hummingbirds and the turning of the world. And that’s where some amazing things can happen.” It was only then I realized how much darker the world had become, as if my father’s speech had sucked the soul and the pale yellows out of the land. The water had finally stilled. A glowing object lay prone within it. “Here’s one,” Daddy said, and pointed to the bucket. “Remember what I told you about the sun and the moon? Them not caring much about their course?” Between the bucket’s lips, under the beating heart of twine, the sun had become a crescent. A black cut of ink chewed hungrily at its white skin. The sky had turned gray, and I grabbed my father’s hand. “Even they run into each other once in a while.” Me and Greg said nothing. We knew what it was, in theory- the comics mentioned them all the time. But to see the drive-by in real time, to taste night in the afternoon and complete silence and a hope that your father might come home…  can you put a price on that? His voice was strong and etched hard by long roads and rest stop cigarettes. “This is all it is, boys. That’s what I’ve figured out. We follow our cycles, and when our time comes, we take it to the end.” He grabbed harder on our shoulders, pulling us closer. “But it’s these communions that make a life. The good and the bad and the strange. All of it.” The crescent had receded to a fingernail and then a whisker. When that shiny whisker was gone, our father turned us around to look. Up above our home, hung between the blades of the mill, was a ring, rail-thin and brilliant. Beads of light bled from the edges of the dark, dripping onto the desert and onto the footprints that we paved out to the well. It was the outline of a dream, a tunnel you chase after death, a vulture’s eye, the beginning and the end. It was everything. “Dad,” Greg said. “Will Mom ever come home?” Daddy looked onward, and his long brimmed hat shook from a quiet breeze. It didn’t stop until the sun had become barren and clean again. Out in front of us, encouraged by the breaking of a new day, the chicken coop rustled and clucked. From inside, a rooster crowed. I come back to it just like my Daddy, staring endlessly out a window, and my eyes feel coated in silk. I blink it away. The plane is very empty except for a few suits and a flight attendant. She comes down the lane with a tired smile and offers me a drink. I decline. “Can’t believe I’m missing the eclipse,” she says. “Do you got a good view over there?” “No,” I tell her. “Darn,” she says. “Bet you wish you were down there, huh?” “Yup,” I tell her, and this time it’s a lie. I chose this flight for a reason. For two reasons, actually. The first is that a funeral always comes around on such short notice. Greg hadn’t left me much time to be picky. Selfishly, I wish he’d told me a week or two in advance, before he knotted himself up like he did that bucket. That way, I could’ve made a drive out of it. A stop at Daddy’s grave, another stop at the old house, and maybe lunch at that place where me and Greg liked to skip stones before school. That would’ve been a nice trip, I suppose. The news had wrecked me, but it hadn’t surprised me. In my heart, I always knew that he’d go out that way. Just as I knew he’d fold on pocket sevens and shrug it off like it was nothing. Part of me hated him for it, and part of me understood. I picture that vulture digging its head into the insides of that jackrabbit, picking it to the bone over fourteen rotten days, with my mother standing behind them all the while, and I think to myself, why bother? These things run in cycles, a wise man once told me. The second reason wasn’t something I could put a finger on. It was more a feeling, or possibly a reaction, to the current state of things. I believed- and I really believed this- that if I watched that eclipse on solid land, through the bucket as I did on a Saturday afternoon in Lubbock, Texas, then I might take a note and follow my brother. Not out of fear or grief, but out of necessity. There are some things you can only see once, and when you urge for communion like I do, there’s only so much temptation you can take. So I stare, 35,000 feet in the air, as the sky turns to nothing, imagining how that ring of fire is scaring and mesmerizing and changing the lives that we fly over. I think about that until the window heals and returns to blue. The flight attendant moves back up the row, dragging a cart as she walks. There is no one to take a drink from her. It rumbles in the numb exhale of the plane’s interior. I stop her near me, giving her a smile that I think I learned from my father. “Would you like to have a coffee with me?” 

6i880e

Robincloud

The President is always the last to enter. The rest of the Council of Economic Advisers wait for him in mesh office chairs inherited from the Clinton era. Jeremy Evans can’t help but swivel back and forth- he is the only one not in a suit, and his chambray shirt has a ketchup stain near the front right pocket. He hopes nobody notices. “Who’s the guy with the ketchup stain?” a man across the round table asks. He’s wearing tortoise horned glasses and a small white hanky in his blazer. The accountant neighboring Jeremy speaks up. “Mr. Frasier, that is Jeremy Evans, sir. Beat reporter out of Mississippi.” The man gestures as if inviting a handshake between the two of them. “He’s the one who kickstarted the investigation.” Frasier nods and leans closer to the table. “What’s your daily called?” “The Bolivar Bullet.” Jeremy drapes an arm over his neck, covering the stain. “It’s only a few counties wide. Most nobody reads it- the homeless tend to use it as oil drum tinder.” Frasier runs a hand through his white hair. It’s both light and thick, as if the lack of color has made the fibers bone-heavy. Then he speaks. “I used to write for the Financial Times. Short stint, back in the 90’s. It’s a dead medium, but it’s a good one.” “Yes, sir.” Jeremy says. “Still has some power, though. I mean, surely you know, if one story got you wrapped up in all of this.” Frasier gestures to the beige war room, where three senators clamor about the debt ceiling, and four Secret Service members pack an assault weapon in every corner. “Yes, sir.” Jeremy gulps, a bit excited by the topic. “What happened was like nothing I’ve ever seen before. When that first storm-” “Hey,” Frasier says, putting a hand up. “Save it for the big man.” Jeremy nods and begins to squirm again. He forgot who he was waiting on. He wishes he ate his burger more cautiously. Seven minutes later, the door opens, and a stampede works themselves into the door. There are more Secret Service men, with long droopy earpieces and heavy padded armor that must make them sweat in the small office space. Some interns and secretaries fill in the standing room, arming clipboards just as aggressively as the soldiers. Finally, the Chief of Staff leads the President to the open chair eight seats from Jeremy. He is sturdy until he slips in his seat, which seems closer to a collapse. His brown hair has faded gray near the ears, and his red tie fails at providing authority. He never looks this exhausted on television. “Let’s hear it, men. I’ve got ten minutes before I board a flight to Morocco.” The Chief of Staff clears her voice and sets the agenda. “The Council of Economic Advisers meets today to discuss a potential minting issue coming out of a southern community in Mississippi.” She squints her eyes as she gets to the note. “Jeremy Evans, a reporter and witness of the event, is here to speak.” Jeremy hears every head in the room turn, the way that satin swishes against the wind. Their eyes are more uncomfortable than the fluorescents, and with all this focus, Jeremy knows his ketchup stain must be glowing by now. He drapes his arm over his shoulder again and looks over at the President, who is the only one not looking. His head is hanging back, and he may have fallen asleep. Jeremy turns his gaze and, two seats away, catches Frasier. The man has tilted his glasses and gives Jeremy a thumbs up. Jeremy nods and pulls some papers to his chest. “Ok,” he murmurs, “here we go.” “My name is Jeremy Evans. I cover the financial beat for the Bolivar Bullet, across the counties of Bolivar, Coahoma, Sunflower and Washington. My job…” Jeremy pauses, “is very dull. These are the poorest counties of the poorest state in America. So, suffice to say, it is rare that there is any good news to be written about.” “Things changed two days ago.” Jeremy feels a little surge in his voice. “Our in house meteorologist, Dan Quail, forecasted a summer storm to occur across the four counties we cover. Nothing crazy, he mentioned- some showers and maybe a little heat lightning was all that was planned for. So we wrote it up and sent it out to the commons.” “On the night of the forecast, the sky looked bullheaded. Thick, ugly storm clouds boiled over the river. They looked very heavy, as if weighed down by ice. They were so low to the ground, I remember noticing, that they were tinted green, as if reflecting off the farmland. That’s what I thought at the time, at least.” The President sinks deeper in his chair. “I stayed the night in my apartment- my dog gets thunder shy, so we went to bed early. The wind was stronger than I’d expected, and it beat against my window in loud, open-palmed slaps. But there was no rain, which was strange, because there’s always rain in Mississippi. At around midnight, I decided to check why, so I rolled out of bed and threw open my window curtains.” Jeremy’s arm drops from his shoulder, his eyes wide and gone from the office space. “It was money. Wet, green wads of money. Hundred dollar bills, I ended up discovering. They were falling like balls of hail, splattering in the dirt and on car hoods and the roofs of abandoned buildings. As I watched, one of them was tossed against my windowpane, and I got a good look at the design. A little torn from the elements, but it was real. Had the serial number and everything.” Jeremy doesn’t notice, but the President lifts his head from his chair. He is both sleepy and angry. “The storm was too strong to go collecting in, but once early morning rolled around, most of the residents were out hunting. There were no fistfights, which is what you’d expect from charity of this nature. Instead, it was all excitement, like some cosmic easter egg hunt. We had people searching through the corn rows and under every car. Some of the stronger guys climbed the buildings and sifted the gutters. There was plenty to go around- everyone came out of it with five or ten grand.” The entire office is leaning towards Jeremy now, and his focus is suddenly broken by the intensity of his listeners. Jeremy coughs, then melts back into his seat. “And yeah. I wrote an article about it the next day, and that’s what happened.” The room is quiet. Frasier is wiping his glasses with his hanky, and he smiles, showing no teeth. The President has a quivering vein above his right cheek. He rubs his temples and whispers something to an associate. Then he speaks to the rest of them. “How confident are we in…” The President searches for a name, then gives up. “… this reporter’s account?” The accountant next to Jeremy pulls a clear plastic file from under the table. Inside are two dollar bills. His voice is like a mouse stuck in a door jam. “Jeremy was kind enough to provide a sample for us. One of these is from the storm, and another was printed this morning at our D.C. location. As you can see, one’s more beaten up than the other, but they’d both be accepted at any financial institution across the United States.” A man with wide spectacles and a curled brown mustache follows the thought. “We’ve also seen an increase in spending across the four counties noted in Jeremy’s anecdote.” “What are they buying?” the President asks. The spectacled man flips three pages, then squints. “Nothing extraordinary, sir. Groceries. Gasoline. Some have even applied for low-income housing loans.” The President slams his fist on the table. “Damn Commie bastards!” Frasier narrows his eyes, tucking the hanky back in his shirt. “You think this is an external attack, sir?” An associate comes back with a green bottle and a shot of liquor. She slides it to the President, who slams it, then rubs his eyebrows. “Yes? No? What am I supposed to make of this? You practically told me Robinhood knocked up a low pressure weather system.” He sips the bottle. “We need to get answers. I want intel from all of our embassies- tell them to keep their noses up on any currency talk. If it’s a foreign inflation attempt, I can deal with it.” He chuckles a bit, the buzz warming up his voice. “God damn helicopter money, man.” The wide spectacled man raises his hand slowly. The President sees it. “This isn’t fucking science class. Just tell me what you know.” He grunts, then flips to the fifth page. “Our meteorologists suspect another one of these… Robinclouds… is brewing over the Gulf of Mexico as we speak. They expect it to make landfall across Louisiana and Mississippi within the next day or so.” He turns another page and shows it to the table. It’s a hurricane symbol in green ink, showing a path across the bayou and up the Mississippi river. “They predict this storm will be three times as large.” “Christ,” the President says. “That’s half a year’s paycheck for each civilian. How can we afford this?” Frasier chimes in. “Well, sir, for one, we’re not actually minting anything, which means there’s no effect on our debt ceiling. So if you’re talking strictly budgeted change, we could take one-tenth of a percent out of the defensive spend and put it towards covering the impact of these Robinclouds.” He pauses, biting his lip, then speaks again. “Or we do nothing. It’s not enough money to cause any lasting damage, and quite frankly, their economies could use a cash injection.”  His hair seems to have gained some color. The President scowls at Frasier. “Do nothing? What kind of President would I be if I did nothing?” Frasier looks towards Jeremy. The President continues. “We won’t cut defense. In fact, we’ll up it- Marjorie, I want fifty troops of National Guardsmen relocated to the storm’s impact zone. We’ll also need assistance from local police, and a lot of help from the labor union.” The buzz becomes stronger in the room and on the President’s face as every assistant marks up their clipboard. The senators have begun chatting again, and it’s only then that Jeremy realizes the impact of the President’s words. Jeremy stares back at Frazier, who shrugs and begins wiping his glasses again. “Sorry, I’m new,” Jeremy mumbles. “So what does this mean for Bolivar?” The President pulls himself out of the chair. He does a little stretch with his toes, as if he’s finishing off a catnap. “They’ll brief you on the ride home, Ketchup Boy. But listen-” Jeremy notices the President’s face harden. It is dry and hollow, like a skull in a catacomb. The posse of soldiers and assistants have already begun to leave, and yet the President keeps that look focused on Jeremy for just a second longer. Then, with a white, Andy Griffith smile, the President says, “Write me something nice, won’t ya?” --------------------------------------------------------- DISASTER AVERTED AS MILLIONS EVACUATE HURRICANE RICHARD By Jeremy Evans A rapidly intensifying Category Five storm scared Mississippi natives this past Saturday. The National Hurricane Center in Miami forecasted Friday that the damage “could outshine Katrina in wind speeds,” and to “search for an evacuation zone immediately.” The President sprung into action, sending resources and removal plans to every county from Louisiana’s coastal Lafourche to upper Mississippi’s Tuneca. Many were aggrieved to be forced out of their homes. However, servicemen helped ease minds by conducting property searches and judging shelter strength based off of the National Hurricane Center’s recommendations. Bolivar County unsurprisingly failed most of these tests, and over 98% of civilians were shuttled to accommodations twenty five miles east.   Hurricane Richard made landfall on July 25 th across the stretched-out islands of Plaquemines. Over the course of two days, Hurricane Richard marched up the Mississippi river, tearing down domiciles with an average wind speed of 85mph. Minimum flooding occurred, which bodes well for future infrastructure anxiety in the city hall of both states [SEE PAGE 7]. Evacuation resisters paid dearly for their decision. Current reports suggest over three thousand fatalities have occurred since Hurricane Richard touched down two days ago. Seventeen of these victims were residents of Bolivar County, including local legend and restaurant owner Bob Huckabee. The infamous penny-pincher was felled under the collapsed roof of the Red Star Diner. Strangely, relief workers found twenty thousand dollars cupped in his hands upon rescue. He was 57. [SEE OBITUARIES, PAGE 15]. The President has received praise for his emergency response. After returning from a diplomatic arrangement in Morocco, the President stated his appreciation for the swift rollout of aid to “our two most vulnerable Southern communities.” He congratulated his servicemen in keeping “both expenses and casualties to a minimum.” Pundits on both sides are confident that the President will point to this moment as a defining success during his term, and his administration will surely leverage the event during his reelection campaign next year. [SEE PAGE 5] Hurricane Richard will leave a stain on the already stressed economies of Mississippi and Louisiana. However, Bolivar County isn’t the type to take it lying down. For a town that’s always hanging against the ropes, it’s clear the residents here carry an iron chin. This mentality inspires me to comment on my perspective of last week’s weather event. In my past article, I discussed [REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED] [REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED] Editor’s Note: Jeremy Evans is no longer a reporter for the Bolivar Bullet. Although we are surprised to see him go, we celebrate his hunger for the truth, his knack for power-filled wordplay, and of course, his obsession with the McDonald’s dollar menu. 

0nohh7

Bishop Seymour Memorial Hospital

The Bishop Seymour Memorial Hospital in Fort Wayne, Indiana is a two hundred and fifty bed medical center. It employs 112 doctors, 401 nurses, 273 orderlies, 108 emergency responders, 52 janitors and fifteen receptionists. Only a few of them are happy. One of the 401 nurses on staff, Nurse Bradley, guides Nancy Peters across a two thousand square foot parking lot. In the morning, the lot is a sardine tin, but when visiting hours are over, the cars thin out, refusing adjacency. Right now, as the sun pulls behind the flat crimson roof (known affectionately as “Death’s Landing” by the Medevac pilots), every car has a golden crust, and Nancy’s eyes glisten as she scans them. “What kind of car is it?” Bradley says. “It’s my husband’s car.” Nancy says, her hand sinking closer to Bradley’s wrist. “I know that Mrs. Peters.” Bradley looks at his watch. It’s a Mickey Mouse Timex, which he hates, given to him by his eldest daughter, who he loves. Mickey’s fat-fingered glove inches towards five. “Do you remember where he parked it?” “No.” She shakes her head, and the white curls tighten around her face. “It was so long ago,” she adds, “that he was able to drive here.” “Ah,” Bradley says, and remembers something, a clue from the fourth story window where they met. She was wearing a sequence green dress on a Tuesday afternoon, clutching Mr. Peters limp, liver-spotted hand. When Bradley inquired about the formality, Nancy answered without breaking her smile: “It was always his favorite color.” “Is it that one?” Bradley points. Twenty feet on their left is a Rover Mini Coop, dusty and alone, shining like a scarab. It’s painted greener than summer, greener than spring, perhaps, and Bradley thinks he can identify the exact tone: Willie Oak, camping with his pregnant wife, touching the veins of each leaf as if they were running inside her. Nancy’s hand forms a bracelet at his wrist. “Yes. That’s the one.” Five feet away, Nancy stops, and pulls her free hand against her hair, exposing her lips, her sunken eyes. For her age, she should look chapped and overrun, but flush against the decaying sun, Bradley sees she is gaining years right in front of him. The light pours youth across her dimples and turns her hair blond. In a quiet voice, barely perceptible above the oncoming shriek of an ambulance, Nancy whispers. “He was a good man, you know.” Bradley looks over at her, his Hippocratic oath dissolving in his gaze. No one in the hospital matters in this moment- only Nancy Peters, the woman in the sequence dress. The woman who waited for the day when her husband could drive himself home. A true smile appears on his lips. “I know, Nancy. It was obvious.” --- On the first floor, Dr. Schroeder is catching up to a rattling wheelchair. His knees lock and click as he jogs, a brutish reminder of his college basketball days. His mother never attended those games; wouldn’t even watch them on TV. She was always stuck on “Wheel of Fortune” and those silly little word puzzles. As the doctor approaches the patient, the noise in his knees slows down, and he imagines the ticker smacking against the pegs of her favorite wheel, nearing towards Bankruptcy. “What’s going on here?” Nurse Sheila has a bag of ice in her hand, and she gives it to Dr. Schroeder. Inside is a nub of bloody white flesh, and a few wet lawn clippings. Dr. Schroeder looks at the boy. “What were you doing?” The teenager opens his eyes, teeth clenched. “We were playing a game.” “What game?” “It’s on the iPhone. Fruit Ninja?” Dr. Schroeder raises his eyebrows. “You cut your finger on an iPhone?” “No, sir. We used to play the game on the phone, but today we went to the grocery store and bought a bunch of produce. We wanted to see…” The teen blushes, “how realistic the game was.” Dr. Schroeder doesn’t feel the laugh building in his chest and is shocked when it parts from his lips. The doctor is lucky to have been blessed with a good laugh, though- the kind that brings others in on the joke. Nurse Sheila smiles, and some color comes back to the boy’s face. “So,” the doctor says, “it was pretty realistic, huh?” And then they all begin to laugh. --- Three floors above, in the cluttered corner office of the cancer unit, Dr. Crosby gestures to a middle-aged couple to take a seat at his desk. They are corn-fed people, the only type of patient that exists in Fort Wayne, and sometimes Dr. Crosby believes they all look like ghosts, pale and dead from the news he’s tasked with giving them. “Your results are in, Mrs. Loftman” Dr. Crosby says. The room goes quieter than it should be, as if the electronics and AC units want to hear what he has to say. Mr. Loftman grabs for his wife’s hand, and Mrs. Loftman grabs for the cross around her neck. “It’s good news. Ductal carcinoma in situ. We caught it very early.” The man deflates, not understanding Crosby’s language. Tears populate his cheeks. But the woman is silent, dissecting every word. Dr. Crosby speaks for her now. “Out of the five stages, you’ve got the best one. It means that even though the cells in your milk gland have become cancerous, they haven’t begun to spread yet. The procedure is a simple mastectomy with a 98% chance of 10 year survival.” Mr. Loftman is confused- he looks to Mrs. Loftman for help. She is smiling now, a docile thing, sacred in an office like his. Her fingers keep stroking the little gold cross on her chest. “She’s gonna be OK?” Mr. Loftman says, barely a GED to his name. “Yes, sir. She might lose some flesh, but she’ll be OK.” He turns and kisses her, the tears still shiny on his face, his hand grasping at her chin. It is a forceful embrace, and Dr. Crosby feels he is witnessing something rare. There may never be a kiss like this in his office ever again. So he doesn’t feel strange as he smiles and watches from across the desk. --- Down at the other end of the hallway is a subsect of the hospital called the Pediatric Cancer wing. It is rarely visited because its contents are so harrowing. Kids fighting losing battles, parents grieving in the waiting rooms. The only janitor brave enough to clean those rooms is Travis Wayne, fifty-eight years old. Today he comes wielding a mop and a red package under his armpit. Marcus Fillmore, thirteen, is waiting for him. When the door opens, he props himself in bed, shooing away the blankets and stuffed animals that are given to him by the dozen. He tries to look big, healthy, alive, but it’s a difficult task with two IV’s and a breathing tube. Travis smiles regardless. “How we doin’ today, bud?” He turns to the television, where the First Take members are barking away. “Catch them Pacers last night?” “Yeah,” Marcus says. “Haliburton went crazy.” “Yeah, yup, I was thinking the same thing. That’s gonna be you someday, I believe it.” Travis fakes a fade-away, and a splash of water leaps from the mop bucket. “Really? You think that?” Marcus crosses his arms. He’s used to fake promises, false hope. “No doubt, no doubt.” Travis moves to his bedside, fishes the package from under his arm. “Not without this, though.” Marcus doesn’t grab for it- he doesn’t know who it’s for. Only when Travis pushes the package in his hand does he hold on to it. “Open it, bud.” “Forreal?” Travis grins, his right canine the rusty color of iodine. Marcus peels the bow off and opens it. Inside is a mini basketball set, with a plush basketball the size of his palm. Marcus grabs it and laughs as it compresses in his hand. “We gonna get you trained for the league while you’re in here. I’mma help you with your triples. No doubt.” Marcus looks at Travis and wonders if there’s anyone that understands him better. “Happy holidays, buddy.” --- At the entrance of the first floor, Mary Ellen patiently does her job. It’s not difficult. She checks people in, checks people out. Checks insurance and payment and visiting hours. Mary Ellen is a checker, and she likes it that way. Sometimes Mary Ellen wishes for more. These moments come rarely, when she has enough free time to scan the room and really look at the patients, who are indiscernible from the cracked brown leaves that are tracked in through the double doors. She doesn’t want to end up like them, the ones that come here without a hand to hold. There’s a guy, Rodriquez. Mary Ellen thinks about him. He’s an EMT who is often in her lobby, usually sprinting around with an air of urgency and loud sirens. Short brown hair, stringy muscle under his gray uniform, fearless. They have never met before, except on a one-off case when he asked her for a pen. She grabbed it, a BIC Black Xtra-Life Ball Point, and brushed his thumb as she gave it to him. He never said thanks. It’s this memory that she’s clung onto for eight months, often when she has trouble drifting off on a cold purple queen bed. It’s also the memory that bubbles up when she witnesses him racing in on New Years Day, his rubber soles squeaking on linoleum, his back perfectly cut under his collar. Mary Ellen almost does nothing- it’s all she knows, being a checker for so long. Checkers catch mistakes; they rarely make them. But when she notices the BIC in her hand, notices it scribbling on the footer of an insurance registration form, she feels completely powerless to her desire. She rips the corner off the page and runs to the double doors. He is on his way out. “Wait!” Mary Ellen shouts. Rodriquez turns around. The man has the poise of a German Shepard- respectful, quiet, but fierce. She almost believes that he might bite her as she holds out the slip of paper. “Call me,” she says. Rodriquez looks at the paper without reaction. Then, he pulls it from her grip, and pockets it as he runs for the blaring ambulance. He never says thank you. Mary Ellen bites her lip, and the dimples on her pale cheeks show themselves for the first time all winter. --- A constant tempest brews above Bishop Seymour Memorial Hospital. All 961 employees feel it, and as they retreat to their homes and apartments and coat racks and closets, it gnaws at them. Feeds on them. As they fall asleep, they won’t know why they continue working at the house of death in Fort Wayne, Indiana. The house that saves so many. But the chosen few will know why. The hoopers, the lovers, the Timex-wearers. And when they rise, donning their overcoats and chapstick for the morning freeze, they’ll grasp onto that feeling, and choke it til’ the next one comes along. 

9h1gw2

Rape Is Wrong, Right?

Trigger Warning - Multiple mentions of rape. “Adam, somehow I knew you’d be here.” “Really? This is supposed to be my secret spot. How did you find me?” “You’re on Life 360, my friend. Your wife always knows where you are. She sent me.” “Ah, that makes sense. Can I order you a drink?” “Sure, I’ll have a Sam Adams.” “I’m sorry buddy, it’s not that kind of bar. How about a ginger ale or coke with light ice?.” “Who are you and what have you done with my friend Adam?” “This is my thinking bar. Alcohol just clouds the mind. I come here when I need to contemplate, reflect, ponder.” “No wonder Jenny told me I wouldn’t like this place. Fine, gimme a coke.” “Is she still angry? She wouldn’t even look at me when I left.” “What do you expect? I’m pretty sure she thought you would change your mind at the last minute. He is your son, after all.” “He’s my son, Steve, and I love him, but some areas aren’t gray. I know it’s not a popular opinion these days but, to me, this is black and white. Right and wrong. If I was there it would have been like I was endorsing it and I just can’t give them my blessing.” “You are a dinosaur, brother. You’re fighting a fight that’s already been decided. The Supreme Court said so. Public opinion says so. Heck even Hallmark Movies say so. In a lot of ways I really understand what you’re thinking, but times are changing. People are changing. Love is love.” “So societal norms are flexible? What is right today may or may not be right five years from now?” “That’s a pretty simplistic view of it, but yes. Society evolves and you either evolve with it or you become an other.” “An other?” “Yeah, you know what I’m talking about. The kind of person who can’t be on the PTA or get into politics.. You stop getting invited to dinner parties and people start calling you the B-word.” “You mean bigot? Is that what you’re implying?” “You know I am, buddy. So unless you want your only friends to be the other B’s you hang out with at church on Sunday, I suggest you get with the program.” “Okay, if that’s what you think, can I ask you a question?” “Sure, shoot.” “Alright, but first let’s set some parameters.” “Yep, whatcha got for me?” “Well, let’s start with something I think we agree on. Do you agree that rape is an awful and morally repugnant crime?” “Absolutely, but what does that have to do with anything?” “Stick with me here. If we agree on that, then we should also be able to agree that rapists are flawed morally, spiritually, and maybe genetically. Are we still on the same page?” “I’m right there with you, Adam.” “With that in mind, what if, sometime in the future, self-identified rapists stood up for themselves, claiming they were born that way and shouldn’t be ostracized for something they can’t control.” “But…” “Wait, I’m still getting to the question.” “Ok, go on.” “In this scenario, imagine that at first society scoffs at the notion of rapists being even the slightest bit acceptable. There is almost universal opposition to this idea, but a few fringe doctors and psychiatrists publish papers contemplating theories that seem to give support to the idea that rapists might be a product of genetics, that they are born more sexually aggressive than most. They don’t necessarily endorse the idea of acceptance but they do give these people a small amount of legitimacy.” “Well, that—” “I’m not finished.” “I’m afraid to say this, but continue.” “Now because of this, some rapists and those who have contemplated rape emerge from the shadows. They are prosecuted and I’m some cases, are the victims of vigilante justice. There is still nearly universal agreement that being a rapist is abnormal but pockets of sympathy start to emerge. Stories of otherwise good people who do selfless and noble things but who also have desires to rape start to change some minds. Small groups of people begin to support the rights of rapists, although most rapists still hide their desires and live in the shadows. Then, in Hollywood, some of these closeted rapists who own and run movie and television studios start to create characters who are rapists, but in every other way are charming and extremely virtuous. They also start to portray people who find rape morally indefensible as bigots and small- minded. Now because our children grow up using screens as a babysitter, there is a slow shift as those same children become adults. They begin to embrace this new ideology and societal ideas begin to change. A movement towards an acceptance of rapists as normal members of the community gains traction. This is accelerated as children who grow up in the new culture go into psychiatric fields. Before long the definition of rapist changes from abnormal behavior to normal.” ”You’re going to a dark place, my friend.” ”Maybe, but I’m not done. I’ve never been sure who decides these things, but before you know it R finds its way to the end of the increasing long list of initials. It’s inclusion making it even harder to be anti-rapist. Eventually there are politicians who run for office on platforms of fairness and equality for all—including rapists. Some members of the government feel free enough to come out as rapists and eventually the first openly rapist politician is elected. Finally, an altruistic rapist decides it is unconstitutional to discriminate based on genetic sexual aggressiveness and brings a case against anti-rape laws in the whole country. Once enough judges and justices who are raised in a culture of inclusiveness towards rapists, the tide turns and the Supreme Court, in a landmark decision, codifies, into law, the Constitutional right of all Americans to engage in rapist behavior." "But Adam..." "Don't stop me now, I'm finally ready to ask my question, and it's this: Even though majorities of Americans now support the right to rape. Even though laws in all states now make rape legal. Even though rapists are accepted and celebrated in our society. Even though those who oppose the right to rape are now ostracized. Even though the Supreme Court has made the right to rape the law of the land. Can’t we all still agree that rape is wrong? Please tell me we can at least agree on that.” “Uh, well… I’ll tell Jenny I found you and that you’ll be home soon. When will you be home?” “I don’t know, an hour or so.” “I’ll let her know. See you later, Adam.” “Goodbye, Steve.”  

c2g9j9

Pep talk

It took forever to get out of the house. I am late again. I feel every bit of the mess that I am sure I look like. The cuff of my white button-down sleeve is soaked in coffee from my not putting the lid on right and sprintwalking to get to work. Now there's a drip down my light gray pant leg and a splat on my new blue suede shoes. This is why I should stick with an all black wardrobe. Ugh! I feel myself spiraling into a bad day. It only gets worse when I see a sea of people leaving the train station I am rushing toward. Great. What's happened? I ask a man walking by from the throng of people. I have never seen this many people in my neighborhood before. The man says "yeah the trains are stopped in both directions," then motions to his ear to tell me he was on the phone and continues speedily walking on. "It's been almost two hours since there was a train," another man says, pushing past a lady with a stroller. Rude. "Then they said we all had to leave the station," said a woman crossing after him. Practically everyone was on their phone informing whoever is waiting for them at whereever it is they are going of the situation. I reach into my pocket to follow suit. My boss is surely going to make note of these past few weeks. I have been late more days than not. My evaluation is next month. It's not going to go well. Ugh. I turn on my phone to see my screen dim and the battery icon on a sliver of red. I didn't charge my phone. Great. I searched the bottom of my backpack, but of course, I don't have my battery pack. I look back at my phone. I have 3%. That is not enough power to call. I texted my boss as fast as I could. "Running late again, sorry. No trains going downtown" and send. The phone shut down. I don't know if it made it. Great. I sigh. All I can do is try to figure out how to get there. I push into the crowd and follow the current further up the street. There was a mass of people surrounding the bus shelter. It is at least four bus loads of people waiting. I can't fathom cramming myself in a city bus having to touch people and them touching me. Ugh. Nope. I continue with the crowd and head towards the express bus stop. They won't fill those busses the same way. It's a little more money than the other mass transit but worth the peace and quiet. The express bus stop was not so crowded, but it was still going to be a wait. We just missed a bus as we approached. I begin to feel like the rain cloud that is obviously following just me is about to start pouring. What is even wrong with me? Why me? What is even happening? I feel someone on my left move closer into my personal space. I look to the side and inch away as far as I can. I am at eye level with a man's arm holding his phone to his ear. There's a tattoo on the side that says, "...and chaos ensues..." Well then, that must be what's happened. I almost chuckle to myself. Like a message from the universe. "Uh huh, yeah, right," the man says, kinda loud, like he's not surrounded by people. I guess he's been listening to someone this whole time. "Well, you know, the whole family is like that, so of course, the kid is going to be like that too. " Wait, what? Now I am wondering, who and what is he talking about? Sheesh. I need my phone, expressly, I need my headphones. I am not sure they would cancel the noise of Mr. Chaos Ensuing here, but I need to focus back on myself and figure out what I should be doing to get it together. I'm falling apart. I need to fix all of this and quick. "Well, you know," the man starts again. "They are such a hot mess, always late, never doing what they said they would do. There is always an excuse." Oh, no. Who is he talking about? It feels like he is talking about me. But I haven't always been this way. It's not who I am, I am just having a hard time lately. He chimes in, "Yeah, they are out of control for sure." Well, everyone loses control from time to time. No one is perfect. Besides, no one is in control, not really. Right? "No one thinks they are a bad person, no. But, people are starting to give them space or just avoiding them altogether." Oh no. Are people avoiding me? When was the last time I hung out with people? My mind goes blank as a bus pulls up to the stop. People rush in front of me, attempting to be the first to the door. People getting off the bus angrily weave a path through them all. Once the last one stepped off, the crowd encroached, pushing forward to squeeze into the small bus door. The force of them all is pushing me further to the back. I won't make it on to this bus. I ease on back to the sidewalk and claim a spot next to the bus stop sign so I can have a place to lean. I am feeling kind of wobbly. Mr. Chaos Ensuing didn't make it on the bus either. Now that the crowd has thinned, he has room to pace somewhere behind me. His barotone voice floats closer toward me. "I think they just need to learn to believe in themself. I don't know if they have ever believed in them as much as others have believed in them." I've had moments of believing in myself. I guess I haven't felt that in a while, though. "And they have got to get back to dreaming. They had plans, always big plans," I had plans, and I had dreams. Somewhere along the way, they got lost and drowned in my life. What if they are permanently gone and never to be seen again? What if I am stuck in this hot mess limbo forever? His voice floats back to me. "You are right. They are full of potential and very talented." Yeah, but what good is that doing me? I feel myself enter full downward spiral mode. I clutch the poll and look at the sky. It was nice and sunny before. Now, the sky is gray and full of ominous clouds. Or is that just in my mind? I can't tell anymore. The man paces back in my direction. He is quiet except for the sound of his dress shoes clicking the pavement. He mills about through people he almost seems to be oblivious of and gives affirming acknowledgment sounds occasionally. I find myself waiting for him to say something else in hopes of him having a concrete solution to the issues I seem to share in common with his friend. But he doesn't. He ends his call and puts on headphones, leaving me anxious and depressed. Another bus comes. I make it on to it and get a window seat in the middle of the bus. I sit down and lean on the cool window pain. I feel the vibrations of the idling bus and pretend it is a massage for my head. I look down to where the seat meets the wall of the bus. I see something round stuck in between. I gingerly pull it out. It is a lapel pin. It says, "Don't Panic." It's from The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. Hmmm... I think to myself, another message from the universe. A little giggle erupts from deep within me. The bus pulls out into traffic and makes its way down town. The sky clears again. I take a deep breath and clutch the pin tightly. This is me not panicking.

3wtl1f

In Search of the Flying Women of Georgia Folklore

In Search of the Flying Women of Georgia Folklore  Laura Holt Montezuma Jones, Folklorist and Amateur Explorer Diary Entry # 1 – July 16, 2023 The boo hag is a winged witch, most often a woman, with the ability to shed her skin, take to the air via a pair of bat-like wings and visit the homes of her sleeping victims at night, where she sits on their chest and drains their lifeforce from them—normally, this lifeforce is energy, although in some cultures it’s believed to be blood or soul—then returns home and steps back into her skin before the sun rises. This is where the term “being ridden by the hag” comes from. As I travel the state of Georgia hunting this elusive creature, there are three important things that stand out in this story. The first is the fear of the woman who’s more powerful than the man. The boo hag is a woman who defies the norms of a patriarchal society, which tells us that females are supposed to be submissive toward, subservient to, and weaker than males. In her true form, the boo hag has the ability to bring even the strongest full-grown man to a place of utter weakness and sickness. He has no power against her, no way to fight back in his sleeping state, which must make her a monster. Instead, he has to seek out the power of the church in order to combat her, thus better emphasizing her demonic nature. And the weapons that the preacher who comes to aid arms him with are familiar ones to those of us who have watched black and white horror films: blue paint around the windows—something that is still seen to this day on old houses in Southern towns from Savannah to Macon. I was lucky enough to visit one such house in Savannah’s historic district, aptly named The Haint House for its bright blue shutters, while on my hunt. It’s supposed to be home to all kinds of supernatural entities. However, while I didn’t see any winged women, I did feel like quite the hag walking around the grounds. Montezuma Jones, Folklorist and Amateur Explorer Diary Entry # 2 – July 17, 2023 Salt covered the fried porkchops I consumed in a little diner off a state road today. In many cultures, this spice is a purification agent, a natural talisman against black magic. “Form a circle of salt to protect from zombies, witches, and old boyfriends,” Allison tells Max in the 1993 pop culture movie hit Hocus Pocus. While Pliny the elder tells us, in his Naturalis Historia if a person was to “take two dried walnuts, two figs, and twenty leaves of rue with a grain of salt while fasting, he will be proof against all poisons for that day.” Even in ancient Rome, salt was used as an antiseptic, and the Roman word for salt, sal , can be ascribed to Salus, goddess of health. One retelling of the Boo Hag story from Cordele Georgia gives us another way to protect oneself from these salacious creatures. According to the potato farmer’s wife who told it, along with salt, she and a friend used the boo hag’s obsessive-compulsive urge to count small objects to bring about her ultimate demise. This disorder is common in folktales about creatures who stalk the night. I think because it allows humans to use ordinary, everyday objects that they already have at their disposal to fight a supernatural entity who might otherwise not be so easily overcome. Other items that a boo hag supposedly cannot resist counting are grains of rice, a flour sifter, and the bristles of a besom broom. The way the pioneer woman told it, the boo hag was a fearsome creature, devilish and unnatural. A thing straight out of nightmares, if you’ll excuse the pun. Many a night on this expedition before going to bed, I have made sure to double-check that the latches on my windows were locked, in case a boo hag decided to stop by and get in. Still, I cannot help but notice the way that the boo hag appears as a beautiful, kindly woman on the outside, and only later reveals herself to be a being other and monstrous. This is strikingly similar to other folkloric female entities, like the rusalkas from Slavic lore and the huldras of Swedish mythology, which also appear to unwitting men, normally those lost in the woods at night, first as beautiful women. Then, once their victim has spent the night with them, they reveal themselves to be hideous, rotting corpses before either drowning him or devouring him. It is this part of the boo hag’s story I think we can learn our second lesson from, and that is the male fear of the unknown woman who isn’t what she seems, or what society says she should be. Montezuma Jones, Folklorist and Amateur Explorer Diary Entry # 3 – July 18, 2023 Today, I spent all morning and most of the afternoon interviewing a retired English teacher from Eastman Georgia who claimed to have known a boo hag personally. The way she told it, the boo hag represents that feminine unknown which men cannot tap into, either because of lack of effort, lack of knowledge, or just the sheer of amount of testosterone running in their veins. Unlike the boo hag I’m most familir with, who does a complete three-sixty, going from being the perfect girlfriend to the worst wife a man could have, once married, this one is, at least on the surface, what we have been taught to view as the perfect female. The kind that you would want to bring home to mama and marry the very next day before some other lucky fella snapped her up. Pretty, well-dressed, soft-spoken, and, honey, she can cook. Never mind that she’s a little odd, or that she has no past or relatives to speak of. Those things can be easily changed by putting a ring on her finger and giving her a nice, big house in town to have a family in. Only like her fellow, skin-shedding wild women the selkies, the Boo Hag proves difficult to domesticate, adding one more piece to the feminine puzzle which men to this day still struggle to put together. She is still independent unto herself despite being wed, unlike other women of her time who found their identities within the matriarchal roles of housekeeping and having children, and drives away the men who would challenge this duality. The power of the boo hag’s voice is an important element of this story to note, since it is one that makes its reoccurrence in many other tales involving the monstrous feminine. Most notably the sirens of Greek mythology, who lured sailors to their deaths with the sound of their song, and the Banshee of Irish legend, whose cry is a portent of doom to anyone who hears it. It indicates that a quiet woman is a good woman, while a loud woman, one who speaks her mind, and to a man no less, is a bad one. In Witches, Sluts, Feminists, Kristen J. Sollee explains that, “Language is a powerful force.” But why is this side of women, this non-maternal, outspoken type of female, so quick to be categorized as a monster? Montezuma Jones, Folklorist and Amateur Explorer Diary Entry # 4 – July 19, 2023 Since the dawn of time, we have been taught that women need to be controlled by men because, on their own, they are unpredictable, untrustworthy, and downright dangerous, not only to society, but to themselves as well. In The Malleus Maleficarum, translated as The Hammer of Witches Heinrich Kramer presents the argument which led thousands of women across Europe to be wrongfully accused, tried, tortured, and executed for the crime of witchcraft: that women are more susceptible to demonic temptations through the manifold weaknesses of their sex. In the Babylonian Talmud, Eruvin 100b, Niddah 24b, Shabbat 151b, Baba Bathra 73a, Lilith, also called Lilit, Lilitu, or Lilis, is created by God along with Adam in the Garden of Eden as his first wife, only to be banished to a desert wasteland after her husband refused to treat her as an equal where she becomes the mother of demons, thus leading to the creation of Eve, who, through her female weakness and curiosity, brought about the fall of mankind. This demonization of a woman who has her own thoughts or ideas, possesses an insatiable curiosity for knowledge, or is comfortable with her innate sexuality is present in numerous folklores and mythologies worldwide, and the South is no exception. Yet right alongside this negative trope is another, more positive one that cannot be ignored: the presence of an equally powerful but more trustworthy woman who, while more of a gray character by society’s black and white standards, often helps the hero, heroine, or other characters of these stories in some way. Today, I heard a story about a swamp witch on a guided tour of the Okefenokee Swamp that reminded me of ones I’m familiar with from my studies. In this version, the magical woman is normally old, or at least past the accepted marrying age, and always lives alone in a secluded place surrounded by nature. She has many names: in Russian folklore, we call her Baba Yaga. In Celtic mythology, she is known as the Cailleach, while in Japan, she goes by Yamamba. And she, like the Boo Hag, has her own lessons to teach us, if we are brave enough to climb the mountain and wade past the gators and knock on the door of the hut with chicken legs and ask—to value the aging process and the wisdom that comes with it, and to embrace our inherent connection with the natural world by working with plants, stones, and other items. Unsurprisingly, this parallel mythology is what most folklorists recognize as the earliest written version of the Hag Witch story. Yet the oral traditions can be traced back much further in Gullah culture, along with evidence of the Conjure Woman. Montezuma Jones, Folklorist and Amateur Explorer Diary Entry # 5 – July 20, 2023 Savannah Georgia is the heartland of Gullah Culture in the South. According to an artist and practitioner of the Gullah ways who agreed to an interview, Gullah is a creole culture that was first brought into the United States by African Americans who lived predominantly in the Lowcountry states, particularly Georgia, South Carolina, Florida, and North Carolina. Its roots come primarily from the Congo region of West Central Africa and contain a diverse range of beliefs, customs, and traditions surrounding the supernatural. Hags (witches) and haunts (malevolent spirits and devils/forest spirits) are believed to be as real as you and I, and twice as harmful. Therefore, Conjure Women, also called Root Doctors, Witch Doctors, Voodoo Priestesses, and Medicine Women, depending on the time period, are highly valued for their skills with herbs and tinctures because this more benevolent form of magic enables their clients to protect themselves from dangerous spiritual forces, like the Boo Hag, as well as cure all manner of illnesses. “The Boo Hag is the spirit of an evil witch, you see, who goes into a trance state and sends her corporeal form out into the night to do malicious harm to other good, decent folk while they sleep. That’s how she’s able to get in and out of houses so easily, because she can fit through even the tiniest crack in the wall. This was a big problem back in the old days, when everybody lived in houses so close together that they were nigh cramped on top of one another, and a Boo Hag could easily visit multiple victims before the sun came up. Why, a whole village could be taken ill from a Boo Hag’s power in a single night if she was willing. And if you got wise of her, and tried to stop her, well, she’d just hop into the first critter that walked by and escape the noose slick as you please.” The words of my anonymous interviewee weave a spell as I sit surrounded by colorful paintings and feminine sculptures in glossy matte black in her small, welcoming studio tucked away in Savannah’s art district. She was kind enough to grant me an in-person interview for this book. When I ask her why she thinks Conjure Women are treated as such powerful and respected figures, she explains, “With age comes wisdom. The media today tells us that a woman’s only value is in her beauty. That when we get old, we’re useless, dried up, and nothing but a burden on our family and loved ones. They fill the covers of magazines with young, size zero, twenty-something airbrushed blondes, market creams and dyes that promise to slow down the aging process. And what do we do? We get gym memberships and squeeze ourselves into uncomfortable pants and go to the salon or the makeup counter twice a month, terrified of spotting a wrinkle or gray hair in the mirror. But in Gullah culture, we see age as something to be valued rather than feared. A natural next step to becoming the powerful woman you were always meant to be.” I scratch her words into my journal in a hasty scrawl, feeling a bit in awe of this woman, who appears like a goddess straight out of African mythology in her flowing, brightly colored kaftan and turban. This concept, of aged female members of a community holding positions of high authority, is one that has mostly been lost in the Anglicized world of organized Roman religion. Yet echoes of it still cling to our consciousness through people like the Gullah who still practice what I like to call the old ways. As someone who is descended from Vikings, admittedly my favorite are a group of Scandinavia women who continue the traditions of the Volva in the modern age. These females held the highly esteemed position of spiritual leader in ancient Nordic societies due to their ability to practice Seidr, or magic, which allowed them to travel to the realm of the dead, communicate with the spirits of their ancestors who dwelt there, and predict the future. It was practically unheard of for a man to be a Volva, as it was considered unmanly. Possibly due to the fact that the Volva wore a specific type of ceremonial dress, or perhaps because she wielded a staff instead of a sword. Volvas, like the Boo Hags described in Gullah culture, were also able to leave their bodies and enter into those of animals in order to travel great distances in a short amount of time. And, like Root Doctors, they could conduct rituals to heal wounds, create happiness, guarantee a bountiful harvest, and even control the weather. It should come as no surprise, then, that I leave the store still a bit mesmerized, carrying a fire-made, hand-painted pot and imagining ethereal beings dancing around a bonfire at every corner. Montezuma Jones, Folklorist and Amateur Explorer Diary Entry # 6 – July 21, 2023 As I sit on the train for the travel home, watching the rolling green hills of Georgia farmland pass by out the window, I reflect what this expedition taught me. True, I did not find a a Boo Hag. Yet the stories about her reveal more than a cautionary fable whose moral is “men, be wary of who you marry,” or legends to inform listeners about the existence of a life sucking, skin stealing monster. True or not, they are tales cleverly and wickedly devised with one goal: to teach us at a young age to behave like “good girls” lest we turn into something ugly, wicked, and unlovable. And sadly, they are not the only ones. Our world is full of fairy tales that tell us we ought to be more like the princess and less like the wicked witch, the evil fairy, or the ogress. It’s the only way we will get our happily ever after. And who among us doesn’t want that in some form or fashion? So, we listen. We hang up our brooms, take off our horns, and stuff our feet into pointy, uncomfortable shoes, then sit there and wait for prince charming to show up. However, what we don’t realize, often until it’s too late to stop our impending domesticated doom, is it’s not only our physical natures we’re suppressing by giving in to this standard of female goodness. It’s our spiritual ones. Our soul songs. Our heart cantador, heart stories. Our wildest self. And we must reembrace it. Be the witch in the forest who gets along better with animals than people. The single mom who lays on the couch once a week and does nothing but read and eat chocolates because she needs some time to herself. The working wife who hires a maid because housework isn’t her thing. The night owl who’s most awake when the moon is bright and takes pleasure in having multiple lovers. The cackling hag that keeps secret treasures in a trunk under her bed or buried in quicksand in the backyard. Love your wrinkles, your crinkles, your laugh-lines and flyaway gray hairs. Love your body, whatever its shape, and dress it in clothes that make you feel like you. Treasure your stories, the ones that make your heart sing. Speak your mind, even if they banish you and call you difficult. Trust me, it’s a compliment. May a little of the wild thing, the Boo Hag that sheds her skin and flies off on adventures then returns home to rest, reside inside every one of us.

jqrt0a

The Wonderful Victims episode one

crude language blatant stupidity 1984 We grieve as the 'New Wave' recedes into history, leaving behind nothing but pools of brackish memories.  Meanwhile, the wretched 'Big Hair' band grows in pomposity like quaffed dust bunnies.  Gone are the 'Police' and 'Cars.'  Hello 'Ratt' and 'Poison.'                                                                                                                                                                                               There are many tales of those enchanted times, called by some the 'Camelot' of white pop music. We had it all. Genre Domination. From Devo to Michael Bolton, White Music Reigned Supreme...never mind that scratchy-record urban poetry fad....and that Jackson 5 kid, big deal. And among it all: the 'Wonderful Victims.' A 4-piece, ass kick bar band.  We are the foot soldiers of rock and roll. Waging Rock with the night crawlers of the world.   Late one Thursday night in an over-sized, matte black club, a stranger approaches our table. He's a tool. Not uncommon. But this guy is a serious asshole. Loud, obnoxious and not cool.                                                       "Hey, back off, asshole! Get the fuck outta here… what's that? You're a multi-millionaire and you want to hang out with a rock band? Wally! Get this gentleman a chair! What are we drinking, friend?" Enter Jonathan Beaumont III of Old El Paso. Our new best friend and a really swell guy! He entertains us with mature games: "Hey, Wally! I got a hundred bucks in one hand and a dollar in the other...go ahead, pick one!"                                                                               "That one."                                                                                                                    "Here's your dollar, now crawl over here and get it, HA-HA!!!!"                                                                           Do we stand up for Wally? Call Jonathan out for being a little prick? Fuck no! Why would we mess with our Golden Goose? Besides, we humiliate each other hourly.                                             Then Jonathan makes us an offer we should refuse. He's flying us to El Paso, where we will record a three-song demo at the legendary 'Cera del Oido' Studios.  Iconic rock bands such as 'Penile Hell-Mitt' and Country legends like 'Rusty Muffler,' have recorded here. Why is Jonathan doing this to for us? Because he's playing 'Who Wants to be a Big-Shot Producer for a Day.' But first, to prove he's Rad, he rents a car and takes us on a misguided tour of the Dumpsters of El Paso. ‘Accidentally’ ramming into random trash bins, reducing the hapless Honda to piece-of-shit status.                                              Of course, he returns to the 'Beaumont Car Rental,' demanding a car that isn't all fucked up.                                    And on the third night, we fly to Paris in his private jet piloted by Lance?                                                           Nope.                                                                           We pile into his fifteen-year-old Cessna…with Jonathan behind the stick. He's taking us on a birds-eye tour of Greater El Paso, reminding me of that scary Peter Pan ride at Disneyland.                                                                   Are we idiots? Yes, we are.                                             It's just not right. I can see the headlines of the El Paso Gazette:  GRUESOME CRASH SCENE PLANE NOSE DIVES                                                                    INTO  SEWAGE PLANT KILLING 5 ONBOARD PILOT MIRACULOUSLY SURVIVES UNSCATHED The Bar Band world was mildly shocked by the somewhat tragic deaths of Rodrigo, Lorenzo, Armando, and Frank,   along with roadie/sound man Wally and his talking horny toad, ‘Fluffy.’ The 'Wonderful Victims' perished in a not-cool aerial mishap.                                                                                           A single-engine Cessna registered to 'Beaumont Acquisitions, LLC,' plunged into 'Beaumont's Turd Wurks.'  The cause of death is yet to be determined. "They were either burnt to an agonizing crisp or suffered fecal suffocation. Observed the County Coroner. Night club owner REDACTED commented:                                                                          "I can't believe it! I was with them last week at 'Poopsie's Place' enjoying a round of Lemon Drops! Those guys sucked! I have a reputation to uphold! And they weren't equitable. Now they're sucking in Hell...sniff, Gimme another toot!"                                                                      According to record producer Sycho P: "Devastated, is all I can say! We had just finished a grueling 5 hour high-hat session and were taking a well-deserved break. But thank God I captured Rodrigo's last cymbal solo, possibly the best triplet sequence ever recorded..." The lone survivor of the deadly crash, zany billionaire Jonathan Beaumont III, known as the 'Texas Tool,' was held briefly by police. He was released into the custody of his father, Sir James Beaumont Esq., the founder and CEO of 'Sir Beaumont's Custom Rubbish Receptacles.'                          "We were just having fun!" Jonathan protested.                  "You know…Rock Star Stuff! We're Rebels, maann!! We're Irrelevarent! We do things our way! So don't start digging what we're trying to say!                                                What?                                                Shut the fuck up? OK…sorry, officer, it's just that I was born to be wild, and I'm a true nature child… 'scuse me?                                                          Really shut the fuck up, or you're gonna bitch slap me to the ground? Just tell you the facts, man?                                                                                             OK...I was just messing with them, you know, 'cause I'm a rebel, and I never ever do what I should and…Ow!                                                                                      Hey, Man, that hurt…Aarrg! OWOWOW, you just kicked me in the ba…                             Eeoww…let go of my… Waaa, PaPa!...he pumfed me inna mouf...ith my wip thwollen?                                                                                     I gave the thtick to Fwank, and wet him fwy the pwane, jutht for fun!                                                               I thought Fwank wath joking when he thtarted thcreaming;"                                                 "Don’t Do This To Me, Jonathan! I don't wanna fly the plane!!”                                                                               “They were thcreaming from the back theat.” “Yeah!!! Don’t let Frank Fly the Fucking Plane!!!!”  It wath Fwank’th fauwt, PaPa! I wathn’t even dwiving! They made me do it… waaa…?”                                                                                                                                                                                             That’s how it happened in the Other World. In this world, we survive the scary plane ride and let Jonathan decide our next adventure.                                                                           Viva Las Vegas, Baby. It’s the logical place to ‘hang’ with a cool rock band. He pays for everything...sort of.                                              Are we grateful? Not really...after all, hanging with an insufferable douche-bag like Jonathan, we are expensive. But no cash for the slots? Really?                                               I dunno...maybe a hundred bucks each? Counting Wally, that would be $500. Chump change for chumps. You’re dropping ten grand or more for this shindig. Yesterday at Wendy’s you gave Wally a hundred bucks so you could pour a chocolate shake on his head. What the fuck do you care, Jonny?                                                                                                 But honestly, wouldn’t you rather be the petulant ringmaster with your whip and whistle, rather than a circus bear with your little hat? Poked and prodded to perform for peanuts. The line blurs when it comes to bad behavior. It’s all about Primal-Alpha-Male Domination;                   ‘Me HaVe MoNeY--YoU nOt HavE--yOu WaNt--YoU dO WhAt Me sAy--MaYbe Me GivE--mAyBe Me NOt GiVe--NOW BEND OVER!’               So, after bending over backwards, we eat cheap steaks and drink free bourbon. We peruse the latest technological advancement, cable TV, in our cheap rooms. We watch, mildly spellbound, as Siegfried and Roy transport a Bengal tiger across the theater.                                                                                               Arnold Schwarzenegger, surrounded by showgirls, followed by mobsters. Typical Las Vegas stuff.                                                                             On our last night, we spread out and wander the floor while Jonny Boy spins away a small fortune at the roulette wheel. Fuck him! I’ve got an hour to blow with nine quarters, so I do what anyone would, drop quarters into random machines.'  Cherry~Bell~Lemon.  A few machines down;  Lemon~Bell~Cherry. Clutching my last two quarters, I approach a ‘SuperSlot’ machine. Its sirens and strobe lights dark and silent, patiently waiting for the next big winner. ‘OK. Here comes one...he’s obviously a loser, but he’s getting closer...c’mon over here and shake my arm, friend!’ I move through the crowd, stopping before a shiny chrome progressive machine. My right hand, clenched in a fist, unfurls, revealing two quarters.  I drop one into the slot, reaching for the bandit’s arm, but hesitate for a momentary second thought. I pull down on the handle, starting the  tumbler’s spin.                                                                                                                            Close-up of my bored face. Closer-Up of blurred tumblers. Time slows to a crawl. The sound of a head-on collision as Tumbler one snaps on a black bar. Tumbler two stops on a black bar to the sound of a train wreck. The earth stops spinning as the last tumbler plane crashes onto the 3 rd black bar. My shock and amazement is understandable. Never have I felt this rush of adrenaline! I’ve never won anything! And now I’ve won the jackpot! What are odds of this happening, a million to one? I’m Rich! I put my hands to my face. My eyes flick rapidly between the three bars and the strobe lights, anticipating the cacophony about to happen.                                                                                                                        But nothing happens. Nothing at all. Nothing but silence. The bells and whistles remain cold and sadly dark. The vast room spins like a kaleidoscope. Etched on my face...confusion, then horror as the machine remains asleep, the black bars a mocking toothless grin. I examine the machine, looking for...something grabs my attention. My expression reflects a strange combination of despair and understanding. Because riveted next to the semi-hidden coin return button is the brass instructions badge. It reads;                                                                                 ‘YOU MUST DEPOSIT 2 QUARTERS TO WIN THE SUPER-MEGA JACKPOT’   [douche bag] That second quarter sits in my hand like a melting ice cube. “I didn’t see that one coming,” I mumble, dropping the lonely quarter into the slot. Not bothering to shake hands with the bandit, I disappear back into the crowd, back into obscurity.   Back to ‘Poopsie’s Place’ where the Lemon Drops are always on the house. 

y71aft

A life.... time.

Rita sat in the mauve vinyl chair, her thin legs covered with several white blankets, the heat having escaped them despite the nurse bringing them from the warmer. She shivered in response to the clinic's cool temperatures, and the feel of the ice chips on her tongue, but mostly she shivered at the sight of the IV drip from the bag that hung over her head. She watched stoically as the fluid traveled from the bag, down the tube, and into her body. It was several minutes before she spoke to her daughter. "I'm proud of you and your sister you know. You two girls turned out pretty good after all." Michelle, distracted from the magazine she read looked sideways up at her mother. "What does that mean Mom?" "It means I think I could have done things differently when raising you girls." Rita looked at the floor as if she were far away from where they sat. Looking up to Michelle, she responded. "It means that I have a lot of regrets about things I did or didn't do with you. I could have been a better mom to both of you." "What do you mean? You've been a fine mom. Where is this coming from?" "I don't know, I just mean maybe I could have had less parties with the neighbors, or went on vacations with you, or done more. I just wanted you to know that, because, well..." Rita looked up at the IV again. "They are poisoning me, but I'm giving this a try because I feel like it's the right thing to do. Is to try and beat it for you girls." Michelle was taken aback. She had never heard her mother speak this way before. Sure, she was a bit on the cup half empty side of life, but in all her forty years had never heard her mother speak freely of any regrets, let alone speak about motherhood and her role in it. "Mom, you are just scared. And don't talk like that. Your're going to be okay. We are going to get through all of this together." Rita's face and eyes flashed the wordless doubt that Michelle had grown to become familiar with in regards to her mother. She too, felt inward doubt. She had been there when the pulmonologist gave his diagnosis. She was far more present in the moment that she had ever wanted to be when she heard her mom literally cry out with both fear and anger. She threw her purse over her shoulder and stomped her foot as if ready to walk out of the room, but with a sudden fearful look in her eyes, and tears welling up in them, sat down beside Michelle and Sofia. "So what then? I'm just gonna die? Just wait and die like my Dad, my brothers, and Mark did?" Treatments were discussed and referrals given. Two months had gone by and here they sat. In the Woodland Cancer Center for chemotherapy. Radiation was to follow. Then Michelle would drive her mother the forty minutes home talking about anything other than her mothers cancer. Michelle and Sofia took turns with driving, the home, and everything else that comes with care taking. Sofia was strong in areas that Michelle lacked such as bill paying, and legalities. Michelle was better in the areas of empathy and sympathy. Together they made the best team possible all things considered. Then came the positive twist. Despite the cold of the season, the sun was shining especially bright. Michelle, Sofia, and Rita sat inside the red mini van discussing the results. Michelle noticed Rita's doubtful tell. "Mom, why do you look so sad? Aren't you happy? It is a true miracle and despite your prognosis, the Doctor said the scans were clear! Your lungs have some scarring, but your cancer is gone! Its GONE Mom!" "Yea, but you heard what he said in the beginning. It could come back and probably will. The same thing happened with your Grandpa." Sofia looked toward her Mother with shock, and sternly replied, "Are you serious right now? Mom, it's clear. You should be happy and we need to celebrate! Why are you so negative?" Sensing a brewing argument, Michelle cut in. "Mom, Sofia's right! You can be happy now! We will celebrate this weekend with that steak dinner you wanted, and beer!" Rita chuckled at the idea, and said with a crooked smile. "I'm just still worried as all. " "Well stop it! You have been given more time with your grand kids and us! I have to get inside to work now, but Sofia will take you home, and you two can make plans for the weekend okay?" Michelle hugged Rita. She was still getting used to the feel of her mother's hugs, having not received a great deal of physical affection as a child from her mother. Rita, with reasons of her own, had known that her entire life, but had learned to give these things a bit more freely these recent few years. She thought of her six Grandchildren, and how times in life bring us new meaning and change, more often for the better than the worse. The steak dinner BBQ was a success. Rita had developed new hops and her daughters had as well. That is, until they all saw the changes happening again. The cancer returned, and with more aggression than any one body could fight. Rita decided that there would be no more treatment. She called for her older sister Susie to come home and be with her. Michelle and Sofia brought their children as often as possible to visit. They played UNO, and told stories. Rita laughed at each of her grandsons jokes, and marveled at the beauty of her grand daughters. They cooked together despite her having no appetite. Fading to nothing her appetite did, as well as her strength in those final days. But despite her body giving up, her will fought hard. She refused the bedside commode. She was as pissed off as an angry hornet when the hospice nurse suggested adult diapers. She despised taking the morphine. The last day that she could audibly speak, she asked for her ex husband, her daughters' father to visit her and what she spoke to him about, the girls may never know. MIchelle had felt the shift in her mothers once hardened exterior shell. She remembered her mom reading Charlotte's Web to her as a small girl. The memory made her feel warm and loved, as she recalled sitting beside her mother. Mom in her fuzzy yellow robe, and she in her cabbage patch pajamas. Sofia, an infant had already been tucked into bed for the night. Sharing the memory with Sofia, together they decided that Sofia would go to the library and check out a copy of the famed tale. They hoped that by reading aloud to their Mother it would return the comfort she had once given to her daughter when she could not; or did not want...to sleep. As time goes though, there was not enough of it. Sofia did not make it back in time from her respite, nor was able to obtain the book, before Rita's vitals began to fail. Michelle could see her mother's heart beating with ferocity beneath her frail chest. Her breathing became shallow and raspy, otherwise coined as the death rattle. Grabbing her mother's hand, Michelle improvised and spoke aloud to her Mom. She knew she was still listening, scared, and possibly regretful. "Mom, I just want you to relax. You know that Grandpa, Grandma, Uncle George, Uncle Tom, Mark.. They are all up there waiting for you. I want you to know that without you to help me through my divorce I would have lost my sanity. You took such great care of me and the kids through that. I want you to know that you were a great mom despite what you might think. You made Sofia and I homemade playdough, played games with us, and added hot water to the cold pool when we were little. I wanted to read to you from Charlotte's Web, but we couldn't get a copy. I can see that we ran out of time. Its okay to let go now. Even if you are out of time here, I know I will see you again, and that you will have all the time you want with everyone up there now. You were a good Mom. I love you." With silent tears rolling down her cheeks, and a brave, firm grip on her mothers's hand, she felt Rita relax, and watched her heart stop beating.

dn5zoe

Free Bird

The road is eternally paved, and the sky is eternally blue, and I’ve been sitting next to her forever. She has staple-sized dimples and green eyes and coarse red hair. An old rock song is playing, something with no bass, mostly guitar, so familiar that it irks me. The air is broken, and we sweat, a smell that contests my Black Ice pine tree. The smell is victorious. Her head turns, her lip quivers- I can see it in the window’s reflection. I won’t touch her because I don’t want glass in my car. It’s these highways that kill me. My urban planning teacher, Mr. Maroogan, this egg-belied little tortoise, told us half a million civilians were displaced in the seventies by federal highway construction. Isn’t that fucked? I imagine wheels tearing over chicken bones, torn shingles, clipped fingernails, dollies nicknamed “Dolly.” And for what? So I can stretch a moment like today into piano wire, stretch it until it shivers and peels. Until it hurts. My free foot, the one next to the clutch, is testing that wire, bouncing up and down. Unlike my right foot, which lays absently on the gas, my left has always been a realist. Showed up when Pauly stole those Jameson shooters from the Tom Thumb, and when I took personal communion in Father Romeo’s back office. He kinda looked like Mr. Maroogan, now that I think about it- a hairier version, cut from lilac and old postal stamps. Nothing happened, but he made me get on my knees for sacrament, and a brown hair from his thumb ended up on my lip. I blew it away like a sneeze. “Sorry,” he said. There’s a pulse from her side of the cabin, and it seems the membrane has been compromised. There’s nothing I can do to stop it- a wet landslide, tossed gravel escaping from her throat. She doesn’t try to hide it anymore, and in my peripheral is the full breath of her image, exposed by a roll of her head. Her tears glisten and merge with the sweat, but they have a different smell. More humid, like cherries. “So what are you trying to say?” she whispers. Before I can answer, I hear a thunderclap, and a brown flower blossoms against our windshield. She screams. I do not, because I don’t think to do so. Most people expand in panic, but I compress. I imagine the brown consuming the windows, the rearview, and all of our oxygen. I imagine Mr. Maroogan and Father Romeo snuggling under a Turkish brown quilt, feet interlocked, shades drawn low. My hand moves without thought, flicking the wipers up, letting the sun back in. It helps define the blemish, which is actually beautiful- an American kestrel, amber brown, a drip of yellow under an open and staring eye. I’ve never seen one before, yet somehow I know exactly what it is, benign primal knowledge sourced from an ancestor. It’s the first thing I’ve made eye contact with all day. I want to save this bird. The feeling is so clear, so penetrative, that I almost jam the steering wheel headfirst into the green embankment on my right. But the wipers have not stopped moving, and before I can stop them, they swipe the kestrel clean off the windshield, onto the roof. It thumps twice as it catches in the wind, and then I hear nothing except a guitar solo from the stereo. She starts to scream again. In the rearview panel, I can see the bird go quietly under the wheel of a semi, as if aiming for it from a high up in the air. I wonder if there’s any better way to go. My eyes lock back in front of me. Looking at the road feels like staring through a dream, both near and far from reality. Her tears have dried up, and so has her face, which is wrinkled tight with fear. Soft, hot breathes escape her lungs, groping my shoulder. Above the dashboard is a fuzzy crack, reminding me of a discarded cornea from a botched LASIK video. Below it, nabbed between the glass and the rubber wiper, is a light brown feather. “What just happened?” she pants. “Sorry,” I say. “Why are you sorry?” she says. There are too many answers to this question. The freckled constellations on her back that I never finished tracing. The nights where foreign skin kissed and wept against me. Third floor dorms I’ll never visit again. Egg white I’ll never scrub from my tongue. Was every “I love you” shorthand for a lie? Did it start with college, or did it end there? When my lips refuse to move, I shrug. She doesn’t try to wrestle it from me, and for that I am grateful. The red cocoon around her can’t hide the fact that she wants to cry again. Her hands are wrung white in her corduroy lap, and there are warning drops of a spring shower on her window. But she doesn’t cry. She just moves her hand to the radio station, turning her fingers around the volume. The drawn out guitar solo is finally wrapping up, and a raspy voice merges in with the dying wails of metal string. The lyrics are belted loud, from some other universe: “…but if I stay here with you, girl things just couldn’t be the same cause I’m as free as a bird, now and this bird you cannot change…” And as the tempo speeds up, and the drums crunch against the guitar with ugly fangs, and the memory of a kestrel bubbles back up in my mind, grainy as if pulled from long ago, and drops of rain appear in my vision, prompting movement from my wipers, which makes the feather between us dance, a speckled and charming version of worship, stolen from the homes and lives of those exiled from this sacred ground, this sacred plane, this sacred highway, I find that I just can’t help myself. I grip the steering wheel, push my head against it, and laugh.

18v0eo

LOST!

LOST! Where the hell are we? I’m praying like I’ve never prayed before. I’m lost and scared practically out of my mind. I’ve been afraid before. There were the middle of the night firefights in ‘Nam. Especially the times we were overrun and the fighting was hand-to-hand. Nothing between me and Death but my K-BAR knife and my fists. Or the time our chopper went down, dumping us in the shark infested waters of the Atlantic. Ocean. But then I was only afraid for myself and the men under my command. Now I’m frightened for my wife and our soon-to-be-born child. This is many times worse. Especially since I wasn’t fighting men or ten feet long fish. I was fighting God and the weather. None of this was according to my plans. I’m big on planning. Everything mapped out with time-tables, full lists of supplies and every angle and contingency considered. There’s a saying: “Man plans and God laughs”. The Old Man must be rolling around on a cloud and laughing fit to split a gut over our predicament. I prayed harder. My Grandmother’s death was totally unexpected. We had spoken the day before. She was in good spirits, returning from her doctor’s office after a physical. He said she would likely last another twenty years! Bloodwork, stress test, mammogram, the whole works, she reported. Everything said she was as healthy as a mule! Nobody could believe she was 82 years old. Her weight of 109 pounds was the same as in High School. Never drank, smoked or did drugs. Walked three miles daily. Lots of vegetables, vitamins and eight hours of sleep a night. She was singing a solo with the choir at church that night and toppled over after hitting a high note. She was dead before she hit the floor. It reminded me of the story of J. I. Rodale, the founder of PREVENTION MAGAZINE, the magazine about health and nutrition. On June 8, 1971, Rodale appeared on the Dick Cavett Show. Aged 71, he bragged to Cavett that he would easily live to be 100. “In fact,” he said, “I may never die!” Another guest was introduced and Rodale moved down the couch. Minutes later Cavatt noticed Rodale had fallen asleep and he and the guest joked about it. But when they tried to wake him, they found he had died from a heart attack. The episode was never aired.  I had to travel to South Florida to bury my beloved Grandmother. She raised me after my parents died in a car crash when I was ten years old. She was my anchor when everything fell apart. She put me back together. She was my best friend and greatest supporter. She couldn’t wait to hold her great grandchild. But she never would.  We drove to South Florida. I didn’t want Ellie coming with me but she insisted. But first I spoke with her obstetrician. My wife was pregnant and her due date was four weeks away. She had experienced cramping and bleeding early in the pregnancy but the doctors got it under control. The doctor was unhappy about her taking the trip but said as long as we drove instead of flying, things should be okay. But she firmly warned me that if Ellie experienced any issues, I needed to rush her to the nearest hospital! During the sixteen hour drive, the radio stations repeatedly covered the powerful hurricane that was blowing up the Atlantic waters. The forecasts all said the storm would scrape the eastern side of Cuba and would continue away from the American coast. It would not pose a threat. Two days later we attended the funeral. Two thousand people proved how beloved my Grandmother was and I was overwhelmed by the flood of sympathy. As the casket was being lowered into the ground, I wept unabashedly. We stayed the following day to speak with her attorney since she left everything to me. The hurricane was still two days from Cuba. Around 3am the storm changed course and started going out to sea away from Cuba. And it grew from a Category 2 storm to a Category 3. Ellie was exhausted and I decided it would be beneficial to her and the baby to stay another day and let her rest. Her due date was three weeks away and the storm is heading away. I was comfortable with my decision. I was wrong. About 2 am that night, the storm changed direction again. It was heading west-northwest and angling towards the American east coast. It grew to a Category 4 storm. Now everybody from Key West north to Jacksonville, Florida was trying to evacuate. I didn’t take time to pack but shoved everything in the backseat of our Jeep. I half carried Ellie and put her into the front beside me. The sky was a bright blue with no clouds. A slight breeze is blowing . What is everybody so worried about? I drove to a nearby gas station. It took the owner twenty minutes before he came over to fill my gas tank. Instead, he was busy trying to mount sheets of plywood over the windows of his building. I asked if he had any gas cans. He hesitated but noticed Ellie’s swollen belly and he reluctantly admitted he had a half dozen five gallon cans. He said he wanted to keep them for himself but sold me two. For twenty dollars each!   That’s four times their value. And the cost of gas was extra. I started to tell him to go to Hell, but I glanced at Ellie and agreed. Soon I had ten gallons of gas sloshing around in the back of the Jeep. I asked him what was the quickest way out of town and he told me that the major roads will be bumper to bumper. For another five dollars he brought me a Rand McNally map of Florida. The map was priced at ninety-nine cents. But apparently feeling guilty, he handed Ellie a couple of Snickers :bars and a small box of raisins. He told me how to find the farm roads and avoid the major roads. “Hopefully,” he said, “those roads will still be fairly clear!” He warned me that the storm had shifted again and is now predicted to hit the Florida east coast later today. Landfall could be from Key West to Savannah. And as the storm grows, it is widening and may become five hundred miles wide! “Don’t waste any time! Get out of here as quickly as you can!” Then he added, “In about an hour, my old lady, three dogs and me will be right on your tail! Good luck!”  We zig-zag our way through neighborhoods while heading in a general northerly direction. Everywhere people were boarding up houses or frantically packing cars. And the normally quiet streets were filling up with streams of cars and trucks. There was no music on the radio. Instead the airwaves were filled with updates on the storm. And there were pre-recorded Civil Service announcements on boiling water and avoiding fallen electrical wires. Apparently the local disc jockeys decided to not come to work thatj day.  Almost immediately Ellie had to go to the bathroom! Inwardly I groaned because, due to her advanced pregnancy the pressure on her bladder makes very frequent bathroom breaks a part of life! This is a real dilemma because I’m noticing that all of the businesses are closed. And as the number of cars on the road increases, I suspected that if you pulled out of traffic it may be hard to get back in. Good manners and courtesy are trumped by fear and panic. She was squirming and moaning and obviously in discomfort. I’m looking for a solution. I see a truck stop ahead and I sped into the parking lot. It’s closed and I tell Ellie to run around the corner of the building and take care of business. Always a lady, normally she wouldn’t dream of urinating outside, but modesty has been temporarily tossed out the window. She scrambled in that direction and I ran to a dumpster on the opposite side of the building. I threw the dumpster lid open and pulled myself into it. It is half full of beer cans, partially eaten food, truck parts and assorted other trash. I started throwing stuff around to find what I’m looking for. I ran back to the Jeep as Ellie returned and I helped her in. Then I handed her my treasures. It’s a two gallon bucket full of newspapers and rags. She asked me what’s its for and I grinned. I ran around and jumped in and I told her she’s going to need a bathroom often and that bucket will have to do. The rags and newspaper will serve as toilet paper. She started to protest but I interrupt her and tell her that we might soon be in real trouble and we can’t afford to waste time. There’s not likely to be a better solution. That’s when it started to rain. I drove to the road but as I feared, nobody wanted to let me back in. The traffic was crawling and occasionally stopped. When it did, I’d tap on my horn but the people in front of us pointedly ignored us and simply stared ahead. Finally I opened my door and told Ellie to slide over behind the wheel. Then I walked into the road and planted myself in front of the car in front of us. The driver stared at me like I was crazy. The rain is getting heavier and the wind is picking up. I’m getting soaked and I’m shivering. When the traffic moved up a bit,I motioned for Ellie to pull into the gap, then I climbed back into the Jeep as she slid to the right. I waved to the driver behind us and a single middle finger was the reply. I laughed as we rejoined the turtle pace of the traffic. In an hour we traveled only two miles. Our situation is starting to dawn on me. The rain and wind are pummeling us and our Wagoneer is shaking like a leaf. Ellie is frightened and frankly, so am I. Slowly at first but then more frequently, cars were coasting off of the road. Either they ran out of gas or are having mechanical issues. Twice I saw men struggling to change flat tires. I wished I could help but I needed to get my wife to safety. And then it happens. Ellie lets out a hard gasp of pain. Her eyes are wide open with disbelief. And then her water broke. She’s in labor. Three weeks early… I have only one option. I put the Jeep into four wheel drive and pull onto the shoulder of the road and drive. I’m honking the horn madly to warn people of my approach and a quarter of a mile ahead, I see a paved road on the left and I don’t see any traffic feeding from it onto this road. As I approach, there’s a car obviously having issues as it’s jerking back and forth and a small gap opens up between it and the car ahead of it. I slide the Jeep between the two cars and then hit the gas and make the left turn onto the new road. And there’s no street sign identifying the name of this road. But that’s okay. Surely there will be signs further down. But for now, the expensive map I bought is useless. I needed to find a town. A town with a hospital that is still open. Finally I could make some progress and I hit the gas and the Jeep sped up. But almost immediately I have to slow down before the Jeep slides off the pavement. The Jeep’s tires are made for off-road travel in dry sand, not water or mud.  Ellie has another contraction, a more powerful one. She lets out an unexpected scream, practically in my ear. I was struggling to stay calm as I faced our predicament. Ellie going into labor was not part of my planning! I had no idea where we were or where we were going and a killer storm was bearing down on us! The wind was growing. The rain was coming down in sheets and my windshield wipers couldn’t keep up. I was straining to see what’s ahead of us, especially since stuff was being blown into the road. A tree fell over right in front of us and I barely missed it as I jerked the wheel to the left and swung around it. Thank goodness for four wheel drive! Ellie was panting and crying, her eyes wide with pain and fear. We came to an intersection and there was a street sign. I couldn’t read it so I jumped out to get a closer look. The street name was Phillips Road but it didn’t appear on the map. It might be a new road. Maybe it led to a town. I turned right, going north. I realized I’m heading into the storm but I needed to find help for Ellie. Her contractions were getting stronger and more frequent. There is another massive tree laying across the road, blocking our path. But there is a narrow dirt road veering to the left. I had no choice but to drive down it. It’s little more than a path or trail. The thick mud of the road was affecting the performance of my tires and the Jeep was becoming hard to control. Every muscle in my body ached from the strain of fighting the Jeep. We came to another paved road. There is no road sign. I turned right, again heading north. I was driving with no idea where I am or what’s ahead of us. I was terrified. There are wide, deep drainage ditches on both sides of the road. They are rapidly filling up and the water is spilling onto the road. I can’t tell where the road is. And isn’t. If I drove us into a ditch, we were screwed. The sides of the ditches were steep and we would topple over into it. It’s possible we would roll over and we wouldn’t be able to get out. The Jeep would quickly fill with water. I stopped and got out and the water was mid-calf deep. I struggled against the flowing water to walk forward to determine where the road was. I discovered we were entering into a curve. If I had continued forward, we would have gone into the ditch. I traced out the path I had to drive and then got back behind the wheel. I slowly moved forward but I quickly lost my confidence and several times I got out and confirmed the path. It’s getting dark and the headlights of the Jeep are unable to pierce the coming night. I had to continually slog through the water to determine the path of the road. Once I stepped off the road and fell into the ditch. I struggled to escape the steep sides and crawled out, too tired to stand. Somehow I made my way back to the Jeep. Ellie is nearly hysterical after seeing me fall into the rising water. She hugged me tightly and I held her. The rain streaming from my hair hid my tears of fear and relief.  She had another contraction. A very strong one and she screamed. A short distance away the water cleared and I was able to see the road. Soon the road ended at another road and I blindly turned left. I didn’t know where I was going but the idea of not moving forward is inconceivable. A mile down the road, a massive pine tree blocked the road. I could go no further. And Ellie was in unbearable pain. She was rolling back and forth within her seatbelt, unable to sit still. In a daze, I got out of the car and walked around to the passenger side. I opened the door and unbuckled her seat belt and gently removed the shorts she was wearing. I was bending over, half inside the vehicle, trying to block the howling wind and driving rain from my wife’s body. I positioned her and prepared to deliver our child. I had no idea what to do or how to do it. A buddy of mine from Nam and I have stayed in touch. He became a cop and once he had to deliver a baby. Rod, one of the bravest and toughest men I’ve ever known, told me he’d never been more afraid than when he delivered that baby. Nor has he ever been as happy as when it was done.  I stood there in the cold rain holding Ellie’s hand and feeling more helpless by the minute. I cursed God and prayed for His help at the same time. But after three hours, Ellie clenched down and our daughter’s head appeared. I carefully supported her head and then her body popped into my trembling hands. I handed her to Ellie and got back in the Jeep. All three of us were crying at the same time. She was hungry and we were happy. Eventually we fell asleep. I was awakened by a tap on my window. There was a policeman wearing rain gear, who motioned me to roll down the window. As I did, two men in a State owned truck attacked the tree with chainsaws. Two other men rolled the logs out of the road. I quickly explained what we had just gone through. I said I needed to take my wife and baby to the closest hospital and asked him how to get there. He pointed in the direction we had been traveling and said, “Drive a half mile and you’re there.” We named our daughter Wendy Gail. We call her Stormy.

fa2wdx

CeeCee's Burnout

Oh my God. I can’t keep living like this. I’m exhausted, CeeCee thought to herself as she stood in front of the refrigerator, doors wide open, as she peered into the cold box, hoping dinner would just magically appear. If one more person asks me what’s for dinner, I literally just might scream . Feeling a wave of defeat wash over her, she closed the doors and she made her way over to a nearby comfortable swivel chair, collapsed into it and rested her head in her hands. “You good,” her husband asked as he walked into the kitchen to grab a snack. Holding back tears, CeeCee replied, “I just can’t.” “You can’t, what?” “The kids want to know what is for dinner and I can’t.” “Okay. The kids and I will plan and cook dinner tonight.” “Really?” “Yeah. Don’t worry about it.” “Thank you.” “Babe, you got to talk to me. What’s going on?” “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. All I can tell you is I’m exhausted, all I want to do is cry, and I don’t want to be here in this house, in this town, or in this state. I just want to go away, anywhere but here.” “Do you need a getaway?” “I think I do.” “Is it an emergency, like you need to go today?” “No I don’t think so,” is all that would come out of her mouth, but her heart was screaming yes. She had been wrestling with a terrible case of wanderlust for weeks now, spending all her free time looking into Airbnbs and hotels wherever it was sunny and warm.  But looking is all she did. Lurking in the back of her mind was fear of what wanting to leave really meant. Does this means I don’t want to be married anymore or be a mom anymore? That would mean I’m a bad wife and a bad mom. Now that Duke had given her unquote, his permission, to get away, her mind was ferociously trying to make it work out. Where do I want to go? How long do I want to be gone for? Then she started to care about what other people would think. What will people think if I go out of town alone without my family? They are going to have questions that I don’t have the answers to and I just can’t right now. CeeCee knew, deep down inside, whatever she was going through was pretty bad. Antidepressants weren’t working anymore. She was having some pretty scary thoughts and crying on and off all the time. Gloominess just lingered all around her and had no sings of lifting. Therapy was hit and miss with helping for a time, but her and her therapist just didn’t see eye to eye and she had to go. Her thoughts were amped up and on overdrive, and she could physically feel the anxiety in her body. Tightness in the neck, shoulders, and chest, headaches, and sweats accompanied by feeling like she was in a pressure cooker and just about ready to explode. She had opened up to a couple of friends about what she was going through, but they too were experiencing some sort of depression of their own and had no practical advice on how to help CeeCee cope in the situation she found herself in. Frustrated and fed up with her current situation, she made the decision to stop taking the antidepressants all on her own and does the one thing you are not supposed to do. She just stopped taking them. Trying to save face with herself and with her family, CeeCee puts a plan into action. She fills her calendar with people and things that bring her joy. Lunch dates with friends, date nights with her husband, double dates with other couples, quiet time, line dancing, learning Spanish, journaling, praying, and restorative yoga. She was doing anything and everything she could possibly do to improve her quality of life. She even cut out added sugar from her diet, like that ever made anyone more happy. Her mental health would not be in such a state because of negligence on her part. A month into this plan, there had been no improvement. Desperate, CeeCee reaches out to a dear friend who had done extensive research on the correlation between mental health and the gut. Her research had lead her to the importance of micronutrients in the battle against mental health. She just so happened to have a bottle of these vitamins and she gave CeeCee a bottle, saying, “take these as directed,” she continued, “let’s see how you are feeling in a couple of days.”  CeeCee took the vitamins home and took them as directed on the bottle. The next morning CeeCee gets up and starts her day as normal. It was Monday and that meant a trip to the grocery store. While walking up and down the aisles she noticed she wasn’t feeling quit right. Every time she would bend over to grab an item off the shelf her head felt dizzy. Like her brains were being sloshed around on a cruise ship caught in a hurricane. You’re fine. Everything is fine. It’s all in your head. She repeatedly told herself trying not to get all worked up. By the time she made her way down the dairy aisle, she was not fine. Her heart was racing and it was everything she could do to walk straight and not stumble around like someone who was intoxicated. There would be no self checkout for her today. Trying to remain calm and act as normal as possible as the grocery clerk rang up her groceries, her anxiety was growing. When she finally made it to the car, she couldn’t unload her shopping cart fast enough. Sweat was literally pouring off her body and she had a pounding headache on top of the dizziness and racing heart rate. Hopping into the cab of the car and turning the air condition on full blast as cold as it will go, she tried some breathing exercises she learned to help her calm down. Call Duke. Something isn’t right. Hesitantly she picks up her iPhone and gives Duke a call. “Hello” “Hey Babe” “What are you out doing this morning?” “I’m at the grocery store,” she quaked. “You good? “I’m not feeling so good and I need you to stay on the phone with me.” “Okay what’s going on?” “I’m dizzy. I feel like I’m going to throw up and pass out.” Her voice growing more shaky as she continues describing her physical condition. “Something is wrong with me. My heart is racing and I’m sweating like crazy.” “Where are you?” Duke responded with concern. “I’m in my car in the parking lot at the grocery store. I don’t know if I can drive myself home,” she admitted. “It’s okay. Just sit right there for a few minutes and calm down,” Duke encouraged her. Trying to distract her, Duke starts talking about other things and CeeCee listens and goes about the conversation with him. Having calmed down a little bit she realizes, This isn’t working. I have to get home as soon as possible. CeeCee put the car in drive and started home. “How are you? Are you okay?” Duke asks. “I’m okay. I’m on my way home. I can’t sit in the parking lot, I’m not getting any better.” “Okay just drive safe.” “Stay on the phone with me,” CeeCee pleaded. “Of course,” Duke added. Upon making in home safely, CeeCee rounded up the kids to unload the car and put the groceries away. “Babies, I need you help. I’m not feeling well and I need to go lay down.” “Okay Moma,” they trailed off with voices full of concern, as they started doing what she had asked them to do. Why am I so sleepy? She questioned herself as she rushed into her pajamas and crawled into the bed eager for sleep. Waking up the next morning, physical symptoms somewhat improved, her mental condition not so much. Her depression had worsened, making her feel like an extremely heavy weighted blanket was holding her captive. Realizing the extreme mental shift from the day before, she wondered if the vitamins had anything to do with what she was experiencing. She decided to give the customer service number a call and just see what happens. “Customer service, how may I help you?” “Hey. I had a friend give me a bottle of your vitamins and I just started taking them yesterday. I haven’t been feeling good today and I wanted to see if they cause any side effects.” “Sure. I need to ask you some questions first.” “Okay” “Are you currently on any antidepressants?” “No.” “Have you ever taken any antidepressant?” “Yes.” “For how long?” “Six months.” “Which medication were you on?” She asked. CeeCee answered her question while wondering where she was going with this. Finally the voice on the other end of the phone started connecting all the dots and CeeCee started taking notes. “You see these micronutrient vitamins are extremely potent because they are in their purest form. Your body was shocked to receive such nutrients. I need you to reduce your dose to one vitamin with breakfast, one with lunch, and one with dinner. You see, antidepressant drugs can linger in the fatty tissues of our bodies for months after the last pill is taken. These symptoms you are experiencing are withdrawals from the antidepressants and they can last up to three months. That is normal. Our vitamins are balancing out your brain chemistry causing detox. I need you to drink protein isolate and drink lots of water everyday. No strenuous exercise, massages, cleanses, or anything that could rupture one of these fatty tissue pockets. If one of the pockets rupture it will release the antidepressant into your blood stream which causes detox symptoms all over again. ” Well I’m glad to know that I’m not going crazy and I have to tell Duke what’s going on. The conversation with Duke went better than expected. CeeCee explained to him the conversation she had with the customer service representative and he supported her decision to try the vitamins. He could see that she had been at her whits end for some time now and he truly hoped this would work out for her. Things only got worse for CeeCee. Her wanderlust had morphed into serious frustration and a restlessness had spread like a vicious virus inside of her. Deciding she was tired of taking care of everyone but herself, she finally booked a little getaway for herself at a boutique hotel she read about in a magazine article. It was only two hours from home and she was looking forward to her time alone.  While managing her emotions, her physical symptoms of withdraw, her everyday life of a stay at home mom, and her husband’s drama at work, she saw no light at the end of the tunnel, which made her feel stuck and in a cage. Keeping up with her game plan, her and Duke made brunch plans with their oldest friends Van and Natalie. The same dear friend that gave CeeCee the vitamins. Natalie was also a world traveler. She was sharing her desire to buy a home in Italy and living a much simpler life. She was singing CeeCee’s heart song and she reached over and placed her hand on Natalie’s arm and jokingly pleaded, “take me with you,” but she was dead serious.  The car ride home from brunch was quiet. When Duke and CeeCee got home, Duke decided to share his concern with CeeCee. “All this talk about you wanting to leave makes me feel like you don’t want me and the kids anymore.” Not knowing what to say, CeeCee countered, “that’s not true.” But in the far back corner of her mind she questioned herself, what if he is right? Tossing and turning and not getting a wink of sleep at 4am, CeeCee decided to go downstairs so she wouldn’t wake Duke and try to calm her mind. The conversation from earlier was on repeat in her mind and she was examining herself and her motifs with a fine tooth comb. Bursting into tears at the realization that Duke very well could be right was far too much for her to comprehend and she lost it. Full on ugly crying for some time before getting more and more upset as time went on. A voice in her head said, “ go get Duke!” Afraid to startle Duke, she tip toed into the bedroom at 5am and turned on the small bedside light. He didn’t wake up so she crawled into bed and whispered his name. He woke up wondering what was going on seeing CeeCee so upset. “Duke, I need to talk to you,” she barley got the words out in between sobs. “What is it,” he muttered. “What if you are right? What if I don’t want you and the kids anymore?,” she got out before squalling. “I don’t want that to be true,” she sobbed into the blankets. “I don’t either,” Duke insisted while wrapping his arms around her and holding on to her. The tears just kept coming. There was no sign of stopping any time soon. “I’m scared,” CeeCee cried. “I am too,” Duke declared. CeeCee’s crying only got worse. Duke tried calming her down, “I’ve got you,” he whipped into her ear as he held onto her. Hyperventilation kicked in as well as dizziness and tingling down the left side of her body. The thought had crossed her mind, this must be what a mental breakdown feels like. By 6am she had finally dozed off to sleep as Duke’s alarm went off signaling it was time for him to get up and get ready for work. “Good morning beautiful,” Duke whispers as he kisses her cheek at 10am. “Good morning,” CeeCee whispered back. “I need to you rest today okay.” “Yeah okay,” is all she could muster up the energy to say. “The kids know you need your rest so I’ve told them to check in on you while I’m at work and if they need anything, they are to ask me and leave you alone.” “Okay.” “We’ll take care of everything around here. Just rest.” “Okay.” “I love you.” “I love you too.” A week later, the tears had finally ended and CeeCee was finally feeling up to getting out of bed. She had slept right through her out of town getaway and it didn’t bother her one bit. She hadn’t even given it a second thought. She had been diligent with taking her vitamins and getting the rest she so desperately needed. Physically she was feeling much improved but mentally she was still very fragile and unsteady. It was like she had her slate wiped clean, a rebirth so to speak. She felt new and the fresh life she was so desperate for had been breathed into her lungs. It took her some time to find her bearings.   As she walked thought the house she was amazed at how clean it was. There was no clutter anywhere to be found, the rugs and carpet were vacuumed, and the bathroom in the downstairs hallway didn’t smell like a gas station toilet. In awe, she continued into the kitchen. There were no dirty dishes in the sink, food was in the fridge, pantry stocked, and the dogs had been fed. She couldn’t believe it. She wondered, why have I been doing everything for everybody in this house for so long when they are clearly capable of doing it themselves? Later that night at dinner, Duke addressed their family. “It is really important that we continue to take care of mom and help her around the house. We need to give her time to get better.” He continued, “don’t make her ask you to do anything. If you see something that needs to be cleaned or put away, you do it. Each of you will take turns cooking dinner and I’ll help you as much as I can. We have to do this for mom.” All three kids agreed and took turns giving CeeCee hugs. In the following weeks the gloominess had finally started to lift, something she thought would never go away, but things were still difficult for CeeCee. She had to take things slow. The smallest of tasks was a lot for her. Her normal hustle and bustle of life was not an option anymore. Her mind and body were forcing her to take it easy. She was having to listen to her body. When she was tired, she had to sleep. When she was hungry, she had to eat. Certain things had to be removed from her diet in order to keep your mind free and clear. She had to learn how to speak gently and kindly to herself. She was learning to take care of herself in the way her body needed as well as putting herself first for the first time in her adult life. No putting herself first in a selfish way but in a way that was necessary for her to live healthy and happy.   She was amazed by her husband and their three children. The outpouring of love from them spoke volumes to her. Their actions were so much louder than their words. Their kindness and gentleness help mend her back together. She no longer had that pesky wanderlust tugging at her and her family was no longer burdensome. Slowly but surely she started to find her joy again and living wasn’t so hard.  

u7yo1g

It's All Fun And Games

Something about a joke I like!”, she smiled. It hadn’t been six months since it began each day better than the next and now she had to question everything. The concert wasn’t designed to be a big time production but it had far exceeded all expectations. Everyone had a great time. It was a warm spring day and just as the glowing sun faded into the coming darkness beautiful music and voices filled the glade. It was one of those perfect moments in time neither of them wanted to end. Ronnie was a great guy and Sherri knew how lucky she was to have met him. Maybe her expectations were a little high but she had her standards. Of course it wasn’t his fault those men approached them and there was little he could do to dissuade them. It was almost like watching a show. The first man, the tall one with the brilliant smile was totally disarming and she had been as intrigued as Ronnie when he asked, “Ya’ll ever seen me on T.V? Y'all ain’t never seen me when I do it?” Before she could caution him against proceeding further with the stranger Ronnie asked? “Do what?” Instantly three cards appeared in his hands and he was moving them back and forth as he told us this story. “I’m from the Cincinnati Card Company and they pay me to go around the country and show folks this game. It’s a little game that started in China. See a Chinaman showed it to a Hindu who showed it to a Jew who showed it to me and now I’m showing it to you. It’s called the Red Card Game because it’s the red you want (as he showed us the Queen Of Hearts) and the black you don’t.” Showing us the two black queens. “Now remember” he insisted “the red sets you ahead and the blacks set you back. Now I’m going to slip, slide and glide and try to hide it, you watch it when I stop it and try to cop it.” His every word is in sync to the cards moving smoothly in front of us and not really fooling anyone at all. By now several more people had stopped to see the show and we were all intrigued so when he said, “First one point to the red card I’ll give them $500.” Both Ronnie and I were pointing with everyone else to the center card but apparently this other guy was ahead of us because he’s the one the guy called on when he asked, “Who was first?” As soon as the guy pointed to the card on the left, I knew he was wrong. Oh my God, he had to be blind. I whispered to Ronnie, "I know where it is”. “Me too”, he assured me looking toward the center card but before we could challenge who was first the guy from the Cincinnati Card Company handed five one hundred dollar bills to the blind man who could see just well enough to reach for the money but before he could get it, the card guy snatched it back saying, “There are rules to his game and the rules say before I can give you 500 you have to show me you have 500.” I don’t know what that guy did for a living but I was amazed when he reached into his pocket and pulled out 500 dollars. That’s when the card guy looked at him and said “500 gets you a thousand but before you can turn it up you have to put it up. And then he looked directly at me. “Let her hold the bet.” And they each handed me 500 dollars. I was so nervous I didn’t know what to say. I wanted to tell the poor guy he was throwing his money away but I just stood there holding the money watching Ronnie watch me watching them. And then the card guy announced, “Turn up the Red card to win” And the poor blind sucker turned up the black. I felt terrible for him as I handed the money to the card guy but quickly forgot about him when the card guy asked, “Who seen it out of the two? Point to it and I’ll give you a thousand dollars.” I can’t honestly say who was first, Ronnie, the other guy or me. We all pointed with extra quickness but the card guy chose Ronnie. Point to it sir he instructed and I’ll give you this thousand. Ronnie pointed to the previous middle card and I knew he was right. I was so proud of him as he reached for the grand but again the card guy snatched it back. “ Sir I’ll give you this thousand dollars for the red card but before you turn it up you know the rules. Before I can give you this thousand you have to show me you have a thousand.” I felt my heart sink when Ronnie was only able to produce a couple hundred dollars but my faith was restored when the card guy said he’d bet watches, rings and all sorts of things. Before I knew it I was taking off my engagement ring, Ronnie’s watch and producing all my cash. Together we were just able to cover the thousand and I couldn’t believe our good fortune as we put up our end of the bet and let the other guy hold it as Ronnie turned up our card and it was black. In an instant we were crushed and it’s all Ronnie’s fault. That ring meant the world to me and I can not understand how a man who supposed to love me could allow anyone to take it from me. I don't think I'll ever be able to forgive him and no, I don't want him to buy me another engagement ring. He shouldn't have allowed me to lose that one. And I didn't appreciate his attempt at humor. Instead of laughing and trying to play it off, he should have had more restraint. Like I said there’s something about a joke I like but this wasn't funny. Ronnie should have known it’s all fun and games until someone gets her ring taken.

n2qh73

Rough Waters

In the Summer of 2021, my family of 5 took a vacation to Cutter Reservoir, New Mexico to go camping with my husband's life long friend, Josh. Our boys were ages 7, 5 and 2 at the time. Josh is well known for being a river-rat, which always brings to mind the book, The Wind in the Willows by Kenneth Grahame. Josh is a good fellow, kind hearted, experienced with water activities and a good laughing conversationalist. He heartily invited our family for a river float. Key word...float. With absolutely zero experience with river floating, my husband Eric and I placed our trust in Josh to help us figure out how to paddle, with 3 kids aboard a floatable raft. Easy, right? We practiced on his inflatable boat with the oars In Cutter Reservoir, in the slow moving outlet. We did awesome! Time to take the family to River float on the...raging fast, white water rapids of the Animas River? Not what we expected. All of us geared up with our swim suits, life jackets, flip flops, lunches and I took my cell phone to put it in Josh's dry bag. More on that later... We did decently river floating down the 12 to 15 mph river. My husband had our eldest, Ethan and our youngest, Andrew in an inflatable raft and I had our middle boy, Isaac in my own raft with Josh holding dry bags in his own raft. We stopped for lunch on the rocky river bank. I mentioned to Eric how my stomach was in knots because I didn't think we should continue. It made it difficult to eat. He was nervous as well. But once on the river...there is no getting off easily. Josh reassured us and we piled back into the inflatable rafts. As we are going along the river, I start getting stuck in the curves of the river more often. Josh helped me get out of them with ease, but my arms were growing tired. I was not used to having to power through rapids. The next bend in the Animas River had decided my fate, as the rapids pulled me into the bank of bushes and trees known as 'sweepers'. The raft was caught, the rapids were stronger as I tried to desperately get out. I screamed Isaac's name as the boat flipped him underwater first. I bolted past him underwater and caught a branch to hold onto. I desperately looked around for my middle son Isaac, who was about 10 feet in front of me holding onto a branch. He was scared and his fingers were loosing grip. I acted quickly, as I made my way up the side of the bank in the rapids, gripping onto the branches to help pull me to my son. I reached hom right as his fingers lost their grip on the branch. He plopped right into my arms, but I slipped and lost my footing on the slippery rock I had been standing on. It pulled us only a few more feet to a calmer pool near the tall 5 foot bank of the river. I held Isaac in my arms as he shivered and started screaming for my husband. 10 minutes goes by...nothing. I screamed more. Finally, I hear my husband's panicked voice as he found Isaac and I. "Oh, thank God" was what I heard him say as he helped pull us onto the bank. All 5 of us were safe, as we cried and shivered against each other. My husband recounted his story...my fear shaking me to my core. After Eric witnessed Isaac and I get pulled underwater, he tried to get out of the same strong current and was sucked under as well, with our 2 year old Andrew and 7 year old, Ethan. Eric held Andy and went under water for a few seconds. Once he was able to surface, he found the one clear spot on the bank of the river and tossed Andrew on the bank and told him firmly, "Stay there. You understand?" to which Andy nodded, shaking with fear and cold. Eric turned his attention to Ethan, who was holding on to a large sweeping branch, only about half in the water. He had been holding on for 5 minutes. He got both boys to safety on the bank of the river as Eric frantically searched for Isaac and I. To this day, Eric says he still gets nightmares about possibly seeing bright colored life jackets stuck in branches below the water, known as 'strainers'. I still have reoccurring nightmares of my whole family being swept away and caught in strainers and sweepers. After finally finding Isaac and I, Eric found a broken bridge that he went across to reach his friend Josh on the opposite bank. Josh was a wreck and so relieved everyone was okay that he turned his head and stressed vomited. Eric firmly told Josh that we would not be getting back in the boats to get back to our truck. They worked out a plan and Eric arrived back to myself and the boys with our dry bag. I was the only one who had a cell phone. And it was dry! All of us had lost our flip flops...except the 2 year old who had strap on sandles. He didn't really need the sandles since he was hitching a ride on Dad's shoulders! We also had water to drink, a few bars for a snack, and I brought a light jacket. We had the problem of scorching hot ground with bare feet and miles to walk to get help back to our truck. Eric took my light jacket and cut it up into strips of cloth that we tied onto our feet. We walked for a few miles along the Farmington, NM desert on a ranchers property. Nervous excitement hit us when we saw the rancher from a way off as he was attending to his cattle, but he was shouting. It made both Eric and I nervous. As he approached us, he put his hands on his hips seeing a family of five. "You all look like you have been through some things," he had said. We explained our story and he kindly offered a ride to our truck in his 5 wheeler. He offered us water and snacks for the kids. We made it back to our truck and realized....Josh had the keys!! Thankfully, I was able to get in touch with Josh's cousin, who Josh had said to contact while all of us were split up. In the end, it all worked out, with many lessons we learned. We don't blame Josh at all for our lack of knowledge and skill. To say the least, we will not be jumping into a raft so readily, with out knowledge or practice. Be warned of the rivers strainers and sweepers, that often claim lives. The very last thing anyone wants to see is a life jacket caught in branches, flapping lifeless, with out it's owner.

8d5e0p

JUST BEEN NICE

The sun reflects off the ocean, casting a golden tint over the beach. A gentle breeze moves through a path decorated with white roses and lilies, playing with the edges of silk dresses and tailored suits. The wedding guests, a mix of sophistication and wealth, share whispers of anticipation. At the outskirts, Joe sits relaxed, observing the celebration, lost in his thoughts. “Smiles like they're selling something," he quietly speaks with a slight sneer at the corner of his mouth. "All those teeth gleaming... until you get down on one knee. Then it's 'What can you do for me? Can you afford my lifestyle?'" He forcefully exhales, his meticulously styled hair barely ruffled by the sweeping gust of disillusionment. Despite the weight of solitude, he adjusts self-assuredly, confidently drumming his fingers against the armrest. "Money, money, always about money," Joe whispers, as if confiding in the sea breeze. Looking around the crowd, he notices the fancy jewelry and expensive clothes that seem more suited to a Hollywood event than a beach gathering. He tries to distance himself from the showy display but can't help feeling out of place as the only single person among a group celebrating togetherness. A line of elegantly dressed women walks by Joe, each looking stylish and graceful. Their dresses move with the ocean's rhythm in shades of champagne and blush. They say "Hi" to Joe, and he replies, feeling unenthusiastic. He says, "Enough," stands up, and walks to the front row for some solitude. Sitting down, he finds the emptiness around him comforting. "Better." The groom stands tall, radiating joy and anticipation, his grin resembling a wave reaching its peak next to the priest. Joe can't help but be drawn to the enchanting spectacle before him. As the bride enters, her hand firmly clasping her father's arm, she seems both rooted in tradition and ready to embrace the future. Joe watches in awe as the scene unfolds before his eyes. "Pretty picture," he whispers with skepticism in his tone. He observes the happy look on the groom's face, noticing that his smile stays constant. Joe subtly shakes his head, silently communicating with someone, and a silent dialogue unfolds. "Enjoy the happiness while it lasts, friend," he quietly says. The sun dips lower, casting an amber glow over the beach as Joe checks his watch for the umpteenth time. "Such a waste of a perfect Saturday," he mutters. He’s tapping his foot and ready to bolt from the matrimonial display that has him shackled to his front-row seat. The ceremony builds up to the most crucial moment, with the exchange of vows and rings. The priest then asks for permission for the couple to kiss. As Joe watches the beautiful moment of the bride and groom kissing, the crowd erupts into applause to celebrate the special occasion. Suddenly, he feels a strong push at his side, causing his phone to fall to the ground, as someone quickly takes the seat next to him. Feeling annoyed by the disruption, he leans down to pick up his phone. "Watch it—" As he stands up, he notices a lady taking the next seat. She is Gina, and she's crying. This moment sparks Joe's curiosity instead of annoyance. "Hey, are you okay?" Joe whispers. She ignores him and puts her finger to her lips, telling him to be quiet. She keeps crying silently, expressing her emotions without making a sound. After the couple’s kisses, the crowd's cheering fades into a soft hum of conversation and the sound of glasses clinking. Gina gets herself together, gently wiping her eyes with a tissue. "Wasn't it emotional?" she asks, her voice is barely audible. "Uh, yeah," Joe replies with an enthusiastic nod. "Sure." Inside, though, he scoffs at his lie. "Nonsense." As the wedding celebrations end, Joe quickly moves towards the parking lot, his keys in hand and a sense of freedom calling to him. "Excuse me, sir?" Joe quickly turns around. It's Gina; her eyes are red-rimmed, but she looks composed. "Remember me from inside?" Her tone is hopeful. "Gold digger," Joe sneers inwardly while offering a tight smile. "I'm not buying what you're selling." "Ah, my brother was the groom," she explains, oblivious to his cynicism. "That's why I was such a mess." "Right," Joe responded with skepticism. She extends a small package to him. Joe eyes it warily before taking it, suspecting a ruse. "What's this? Why are you giving this to me?" His voice is edged with suspicion. Gina smiles with a cryptic lips curve and walks away without a word. "Typical," he grumbles to himself, staring at the parcel. "Probably her phone number or some sob story." He's about to toss it aside when he notices others clutching identical packages. He becomes curious and opens the paper to find a keychain with the smiling faces of the new couple. "Damn," Joe exhales, a flush of chagrin warming his cheeks. “She didn’t ask for my name or my contact.” His preconceptions crumble like a sandcastle at high tide. He pockets the keepsake as a reminder that sometimes, he can be wrong. Joe's strides carry a penitent urgency as he weaves through the dispersing crowd, his eyes scanning for Gina. His ego weighs heavy in his chest, a stone of remorse. There she is, alone, her slim figure outlined against the dusk sky, busily stacking boxes into the trunk of her car. "Hey," Joe calls out lightheartedly, belying his inner turmoil. He taps her shoulder gently. "Do you remember me?" Gina turns, a flash of recognition sparking in her eyes. "How can I forget? We just spoke." A smirk tugs at Joe's lips, his suspicions churning beneath the surface. "I knew she was up to something." Before words form on his tongue, a figure approaches—a man with a presence that commands attention. He's all effortless charm, starkly contrasting Joe's calculated poise. "Sir, meet Michael," Gina introduces, her voice threaded with pride. "My lovely husband!" "Hello," Michael offers a firm handshake and a sincere and warm smile. It's the type of smile that genuinely reflects in his eyes. Joe shakes the hand offered. His arms now rest at his sides. He looks surprised, his usual confidence deflated.

xjlo2s

Hope

My family tree has always included branches just for dogs.  It started with my dad’s granddad more than 100 years ago and is true to this day. My great-grandfather grew up in rural Tennessee when times were tough and money was tight. As a boy, he would relentlessly ask for a dog, but each time the response was the same: there wasn’t money to feed an extra mouth—especially if that mouth was on a dog. It might have been his dad’s new job or just the persistence of a ten-year-old boy, but his mom finally relented. The new family member was a Bluetick hound that my great-grandfather called Tick. This started two traditions that have lasted through four generations. Since then, my family has always had dogs, and all of them had Tick in their name. The original “Tick” was followed by Luna Tick. Then came Gigan Tick and Roman Tick. They were followed by at least 10 other “Ticks” before Fran. Fran Tick, a hyperactive border collie, came on the scene seven years before I was born. I hadn't been there to name Fran, but for the eight years I knew him, he lived up to his moniker. On more than one occasion, Mom, Dad, and I would spend hours playing a game Fran invented called: I’ll-let-you-get-close-then-I’ll-run-away-again. Fran seemed to like the game more than we did, but when we would inevitably catch him, we could never be mad. He only wanted to play.  Little boys tend to make friends easily, but there is no friend like your first best friend, and my first best friend was Fran. From the time I was a baby, I would fall asleep with my head on Fran's belly. And, when I was old enough to have a “big boy" bed, Fran would jump in every night and lay next to me as we both fell asleep. The only exceptions were the nights I would spend at a friend's house. On those occasions, Fran would climb on the couch and place himself on the back cushion in such a manner as to be able to look out of the front window and wait for me to come home. As Fran got older, our routine started to change. He still slept in the bed with me, but he couldn’t jump up anymore. I had to pick him up and put him in his special spot. The morning I woke up and found he had peed on my bed, I wasn’t upset. I was scared . Although I didn’t fully understand it at the time, my parents had been preparing me for my last days with Fran. They did their best to explain to me in terms I could understand that my best friend wasn’t going to be around much longer. “Every dog has only so much love to give,” my mom explained. “They give it to us so completely that they run out of love before we do.” “Fran has been with you since the first day you came home from the hospital,” my dad added, “and even though we’ll miss him when he’s gone, all his love stays with us forever.” I didn’t want to tell my parents about Fran’s accident, but since I didn’t know how to clean my blanket, I picked up Fran and carried him downstairs. “Is Fran out of love?” I asked, not really wanting to know the answer. We laid him on the couch. After a few minutes, my mother turned to me and said, “Honey, I’m afraid so.” There are few things more heart wrenching than the sobs of a boy who knows his dog is about to die. I was inconsolable. I begged my parents for one more day with Fran, but they could see that Fran was in excruciating pain. They knew how much I loved my dog, and they hoped that one day I would understand that they were doing the most compassionate thing for both Fran and me. “Get your shoes on and grab your coat,” Mom said as she grabbed her keys and a blanket for Fran. Her words caused both relief and anxiety. I knew when the time came, Fran would have to be taken to the veterinarian, but my parents weren’t sure if I should go. To this day, I don’t know why my mom and dad made the decision to let me go, but I am forever grateful that they did. I wasn’t there the day Fran came into our family, but I was able to stay with him until the very end. The final thing my dog saw before closing his eyes for last time was my face. As painful as it was for me, I hope it comforted him. On the way home from the vet, my mom reminded me that we were a dog family and that “when the time was right” we would get another dog. I know now she was just trying to ease my pain, but at the time I wasn’t interested. Fran was irreplaceable, and I was no longer a dog boy. Sunday mornings were bacon-and-eggs days, and for a kid who had to eat cold cereal Monday through Saturday, I counted the minutes between Sunday breakfasts. On one particular Sunday, the aroma of bacon and coffee woke me, as it usually did, but something was profoundly different this time. When I ran into the kitchen ready to eat the delicious feast, standing right behind my mom was the most adorable Miniature Schnauzer puppy anyone had ever seen. She was gray and white, salt and pepper, as I learned later, and she was peeing, right there on the kitchen floor. “Mom! It’s a puppy, a real live puppy!” A real live puppy , I actually said that. I had been certain that I was no longer a dog boy, but here was this little ball of fur who was as lost as I was. She didn’t know how to go outside to pee, but I could teach her. She needed a friend, and in that moment, I realized I needed a friend even more. “Get some paper towels and a mop,” my mother said with a smile that lit up her eyes. “Yes, ma’am!” I ran to the hall closet to follow my mother's instructions. When I finished cleaning, I sat down at the breakfast table and gave my parents the news. “Okay, you know I said no dogs, right?” I paused for dramatic effect. "Well, I'm willing to keep this one, but only if I can name her.” “What did you have in mind?” my mom asked. “Miss Tick!” “Miss Tick it is,” my dad said as he and mom clinked their coffee cups with my glass of orange juice. “Now, let’s have some breakfast and celebrate.” It’s a funny thing about getting a puppy after you’ve lost your best friend. You are still heartbroken, but you’re also really busy. It felt like the only thing I had time to do was take care of the dog. At the crack of dawn, I filled her bowls with food and fresh water. Next, I took her outside to go “potty.” Miss Tick wasn’t very good at that for a long time. Until she was trained, I would stand outside, having a staring contest with her, until she would lay down in the grass. However, once I brought her inside, I soon needed paper towels and a mop. The best thing about Missy, as I called her, was she was attached to me. It wasn’t easy at first. Missy couldn’t jump on the bed by herself, and I initially felt guilty for letting her into Fran’s space, both in the bed and in my heart. But before long, I was snuggling every night with the cutest little dog you ever did see. Missy became every bit the best friend Fran had been, and the two of us grew up together. By the time I started high school, Missy was a full grown Miniature Schnauzer. The good thing was, being small, she still seemed like a puppy. She was always active, always loyal, and often smarter than me. I taught her how to shake hands, give a high five, roll over, play dead, and speak on command. Though I had plenty of friends in high school, Missy was my best friend. I went to college locally, so each night when I would sit at my desk to study, Missy would plop herself down on my feet and fall fast asleep. My friends would tell me how much fun it was to live in the dorms, but as far as I was concerned, staying home with Missy was the best part of college. When I graduated and got my own apartment, Missy came right along with me. It didn’t take long for her to get the lay of the land and in short order she was queen of our new place. I didn’t get to see the full life cycle of a dog with Fran. He was an adult by the time I was born. He was fully trained and confident from the first day I knew him. On the other hand, I was there to see the “puppy days” with Missy. I was one who was there to teach her and clean up after her. I was there when she started jumping on the bed by herself and when she learned to let me know it was time to go out. I knew her when she was little and afraid and when she grew brave, protecting the house with her ear-piercing bark. But now, she doesn’t run like she used to and a lot of times she waits for me to put her on the bed. She still cuddles up with me at night and sleeps on my feet during the day, but she doesn’t always make it outside to pee. Little by little, I’m becoming that eight-year-old boy again, living in fear that Missy is running out of love. I used to say the worst day of my life was the day Fran died. Fifteen years ago, my parents made the choice to mercifully end my best friend's life, but now I was the one who had to make a decision. I sat on the floor and held Missy in my arms the same way I had done since I was a boy. I stroked her fur and told her over and over how much I loved her. I gave her all of the treats she could eat, and for a few moments it was like we were young again, but I knew it was time. I then took my best friend to the car, laid her gently in a soft bed on my passenger seat, and drove to the same vet we had gone to all those years before. My mom and dad met me at the veterinarian's office. Without words, we all began to cry together. The three of us were directed to a room where we could be alone with Missy. There is never enough time to say goodbye to your best friend, not when you are eight and not when you are 23, but I was glad for the time to reflect and remember. When the vet came in and asked if I was ready, I couldn’t speak through my tears. I just nodded my head and held Missy close. A quick painless shot—that’s all it takes. Once again, I stared into my friend’s eyes until they closed for the last time. As I sat there crying, I looked at my dad and said, “That’s it. I can’t do this ever again. I know there is a family tradition, but losing a dog is too painful.” “I understand, I really do,” he replied. “I need to be alone with Missy for a few more moments.” “Of course, son. Take as long as you need. They won’t rush you, I promise.” After a few minutes of final goodbyes, I called in the veterinarian’s assistant. “I’ll take good care of him, I promise,” she assured. ”Thank you,” I responded as she left the room and I the office. In the parking lot, a man who had parked in the loading zone was busy collapsing a pop up shelter and loading it into the back of his pickup truck. I wouldn’t have taken any particular notice except for hearing a chirp that sounded a little like a smoke detector whose battery had died. I turned my head and saw the smallest dog I had ever seen. She was in a cage with a sign that read “Free Puppies.” “You interested?” The man asked. “This is the last one. She’s the runt of the litter. No one wanted her.” “No, thanks,” I said, forcing a half smile. I’m done with dogs. Good luck though.” I turned back towards my car. Then I heard the chirp again. Inexplicably I turned around and this time the little dog looked right at me, wagging its tail, barking. “What kind of dog is it?” I asked. “She’s a Miniature Schnauzer.” “You’re kidding.” "Serious as a heart attack," he responded with a chuckle. "Baby Miniature Schnauzers pretty much look like generic puppies for their first six months." "Can I hold her?” I said unexpectedly, the words coming from my heart. He pulled the little girl out of the cage and handed her to me. As I held her in my arms, I fought back tears. "I don’t want a dog," I muttered under my breath. Turning back to the man, I asked, “What’s her name?” “You get to decide.” The man answered before his expression and tone of voice changed. “I’m so sorry, she didn’t mean it. She’s a puppy.” I looked down to see what the man was talking about. Right there, smack dab in the middle of my previously clean white shirt, was a small yellow stain. Sometimes the universe sends you a sign. When it does, it's best not to ignore it. “I’ll take her." I said with a smile that a few minutes earlier seemed impossible. "This little girl needs a friend, and I need one even more.” “Done and done. She’s yours." The man said, slamming shut the tailgate on his truck. "What are you going to name her?” “Hope,” I said, as my new friend started to lick my hand. ”It’s a strong name,” he said walking to the front of his truck. “It suits her.l I knew the choice broke an old family tradition, but the man was right. Her name did suit her and it seemed to be a good time to start a new tradition. "Let's go home, girl,” I said, my arms and heart filled with hope.

jmc6t7

A (sort of) Dry January

I knew that I wouldn't be able to do it. Even as I agreed to try, that deep intuition in my stomach told me how it was going to turn out. Should I feel depressed? Disappointed? I wasn't sure how I felt except that my heartbeat didn't speed up or slow down. Dry January is a month long, and I would be surprised if I made it to 6pm without having another drink. But sure. Let's give it a try. I should probably give some context so this all makes a little more sense. I'm from a big, loving family that lives in a fishbowl filled with aged bourbon and tequila cocktails. Two of my sisters decided against taking the plunge and actively criticize our alcohol fueled tendencies; the rest of us pretend we don't have a problem. It's like a fun game of cirrhosis roulette. And you might think that you would be able to recognize our degeneracy immediately, but you would be wrong. Even after our worst nights, we'll wake up for work like a good little capitalist trooper, dress for success, and walk out the door ready to show the world that there's no reason for us to cut down on the drinking because we're on time and doing just fine. It might be a rough day, but nothing that a few drinks can't cure after work. So why am I breaking ranks now? The simple answer is that I watched my dad in front of the TV one night and it terrified me. My dad had stopped drinking because he had developed heart problems, but alcohol played a tremendous part in who he became over the years. He traded everything he could be proud of - success, kindness, tolerance, dignity - for another pour. My respect for him was one of the first to go, but the horror I felt at the prospect of becoming him was a new development. I resolved to stop drinking. It was a soft, gummy bear like resolve that always wanted to start tomorrow, but it was more than the other fishies in my family. That brings us to the present, where I made the mistake of telling my sister about my newfound resolve. The funny thing was that my sister wasn't asking me to stop drinking for a month because she thought I had a problem; most people thought I had my shit together and my sister was no exception. She thought I would be a good example for everyone else. No one else in the family agreed to even try staying sober when she asked (no surprise here, they don't see the point or need for it), so I don't know why I decided to take up the mantle. I mean, I would really like to actually have my shit together and now I had my gummy bear resolve, but none of that translates into the kind of self control I need to be successful. With all of that in mind, I will give you an update: the good news is that I made it past 6pm before I had my first drink. The bad news is that I rewarded myself with an extra drink for having the self control to make it until 7. And before you start judging me and thinking I'm a lazy, good-for-nothing alcoholic, let me say that you're only partially correct. I am lazy, sometimes good-for-nothing, but no one has found out that I'm probably an alcoholic yet so the label has yet to be formally applied. Hopefully, I'm sober before anything can stick. Now that I'm actually paying attention, I can see that it's worse than I thought. For example, sometimes I have to give presentations for work and I always prepare diligently in a responsible way that showcases my professionalism. What I mean is that I don't know the material very well and I pour whiskey in a coffee cup to get liquored up enough to speak with confidence. It works better than you would like to admit, but probably not as well as I think. Day 2 of my dry January “resolution” doesn't go very long before I fail again. My sister thinks I'm killing it and briefly mentions how happy she is that I'm setting a good example. That alone made me drink a few beers with lunch. I'll teach her a lesson, pour me another one! It feels good to be rebellious, especially when I can protest by doing something that I like and will be doing anyway. Also, I know that I'm being insufferably disingenuous because I didn't have to agree to be sober in January for her. I feel bad again, so I have a couple more drinks. I didn't like the emotional up and down from day 2, so I decided to go running on day 3. I felt fat and heavy, and I'm pretty sure my watch is broken because it showed that my minute per mile pace watching Netflix is faster than my current running pace. It's probably better to just not pay attention, anyway. I felt pretty good after the the run. Why is my run time suffering so much? Is it alcohol, lack of exercise, shit diet, or a combination of everything? And if it's a combination, which part affects it the most? I looked for some good articles while eating dinner. We were out of wine, but I was too tired to make a run to the store. I woke up with enough energy to get in a workout in the morning before my first meeting. I was still fixated on solving my run time problem - I used to be a great runner, so this was a blow to my ego - when someone brought up an issue in the meeting. I've heard the issue a few times before and just thought that it was mindless drivel from a stuffy cat lady, but suddenly the pieces linked together in a comprehensive way and I saw how the problem would extend to everyone on the team if it's not addressed. I said I would focus on fixing it over the next week. Everyone looked at me in surprise and maybe a bit of silent approval? I don't blame them, I was also surprised but acted in such a matter-of-fact way to show that THEY are the ones acting strange, not me. A week later and the problem at work was fixed. My run time was still abysmal, but slightly less. I came upon an article about how to combine slow cardio and VO2 max workouts to help drive improvement, so I'm trying that out. I'm starting to get annoyed with my brother's insistence that we drink whiskey every night as a toast to some success or future success, which is usually just some kind of imagined bullshit: “Here's to the millions of dollars that will be ours before we know it, and to the end of our limitations on this Earth!” You have to imagine this toast in a slightly slurred voice for full effect. Was it always this obnoxious? Or was I just as toasted? For the first time ever, I poured the rest of my drink down the sink when he wasn't looking. I just wasn't feeling it. My sister came up to me on the last day of the month to ask how I did, and of course I did so well that I didn't even notice a difference between drinking and not drinking. We both knew I was lying, but I only just noticed then that she knew I was lying the whole time. Maybe she knew something about gummy bear resolve that I didn't, that even a lie could be some kind of start. I made a mental note to explore this idea a bit more later, I had to make my coffee before my presentation and was running a bit short on time. But recently I'd been prepared, so I wasn't too worried. 

57vqu0

A Timed Tale

Dr. Brandt had overslept. Evanhour Brandt had not heard the alarm clock despite sleeping in a room the size of a walk-in closet. With all the variations of alarm devices he’d slept beside, this had never happened. Whether Evanhour should thank his grandfather’s Westclox, a rare WW2 commodity, the chronograph Omega Mother and Father splurged on for graduation, or the indefatigable Timex secured on sturdy, metal nubs on the night table, Evanhour had never been late for anything. Not lectures, dates with his then-girlfriend, or appointments with his now-wife. Most adamantly, not to his dust-free cubicle sequestered on the rooftop of The Briskane Weather Bureau. “Throwing out an old Ella tune for you jazz lovers out there. Here’s “We’re Having a Heatwave!” Jukebox Jeff announced. It had gotten so Evanhour didn’t require an external device to rouse him. Between middle age, parenthood, and years under the weight of societal responsibility, “Ev,” as Meg preferred, had developed a finely tuned and fail-safe internal timekeeper. Until today. Ev checked his pulse and then for fever, flying a hand to his forehead, before catching himself. He felt fine. Splendid, actually . Until the recriminations of missed duty told him he shouldn’t. If his day ran 5-10 minutes ahead, Ev’s nose reddened and itched as if he’d blown into a pepper-laced hanky. However, the inconvenience of sneezes and rheumy eyes was minimal and preferable to the unspeakable alternative. What might transpire in Briskane, in him, should he be delayed… Ev didn’t want to think about that, even without the experience to justify the dread. Uncharacteristic sensations shot from his skull to his feet. Ev must never run behind. Ever. International news about recently independent African countries, droned from the clock radio. The instrument sat on the repurposed file cabinet, now dresser, on the left side of the cot. Ev didn’t join Meg in the luxury firm queen she slept in next door. Her plumpingly warm form might lull him into a morning spoon, awaken his southerly member, and throw off more than his schedule. Thirteen years of matrimony and twin boys stored in bunkbeds meant a pre-dawn elevation surprised but didn’t last. Ev didn’t care for surprises. Without spectacles, Ev knew it was past 4:32 a.m. The disc jockey launched into the week’s hit parade at an hour when normally employed Americans either enjoyed or contradicted the ten-tuned line-up. Between 7:45 and 7:47. Jukebox Jeff, Briskane’s A.M. Jock,” then named the week’s number one over 60 minutes. Jukebox was introducing song number 3 when he zigzagged in the Fitzgerald standard. In the spaces between the countdown, the listeners had been teased or tortured with anecdotes, adolescent-like riddles, and sprinklings of entertainment drivel. Sinatra and his overgrown frat boys were starring in a new movie. On a well-ordered morning, Ev would’ve found a title with “Ocean” intriguing. Had he awakened 4 hours ago the way he’d done some five thousand mornings, weekends included, Jukebox wouldn’t have had his ear. Dr. Brandt would be huddled over his desk in front of the bookshelf, radio locked to the classical music station. Ev worked alone and preferred wordless music or music with words he didn’t understand. The Saturday opera hour featuring Wagner was his favorite. Why hadn’t Meg checked on him? Ev brought his left wrist to his ear and shook the Omega. Blinking and squinting, he rested it on his nose. “4:02.” He blurrily confirmed the same reading on the clock radio on the dresser. Each of his timepieces had stopped. Died at the stroke of 4:02 a.m. Ev was past late, catastrophically, but he needed one more confirmation. He fumbled in the night table drawer for the Seiko hinged in its travel case. Last year’s Father's Day deviation from the kids. Designed to be snapped into an overnight bag, this charm against the evils of travel tardiness silently agreed with its peers. Undoubtedly it was at least 8:30. Elvis was pleading, “Are You Lonesome Tonight?” and giving the hips a rest. Throwing off the covers, Ev discovered he’d slept solely with the top sheet, and soundly. Another aberration. The overnight temperature should have dropped to 52 degrees. Ev jammed his feet into the slippers positioned parallel to the door. Thank Atmosphere something was still right. “And the top story of the morning is… Briskane is… hot! A whole 88 degrees!” The radio remained at low volume, but Jukebox’s announcement blared at its owner. Ev wanted to bolt. Was going to the office futile? What had he unintentionally set in motion? Jukebox was no prophet or preacher, yet he had just declared an apocalypse on the homogeneous, nuclear family-dominated, population 3,972 city of Briskane, Alabama. “Meg? Troy? Theo?” Ev shuffled into the hallway, throwing open doors, knowing as he did, they shouldn’t be there. Today was Briskane Elementary’s morning assembly. The boys had counted down to their first Friday as color guards, gladly handing their mother white shirts and red ties to be ironed. Ev recalled his surprise when Theo, the younger of the pair by 11 minutes, wanted help shining his shoes. Come to think of it, the day Troy and Theo were born had been a brow-mopping 83 degrees. Then, Evanhour was two positions from the bestowal of “Chief Atmospheric Specialist,” but had already impressed the Chairman with his anti-warming drawings. After his prototype produced five weeks of 79–82 degrees that summer, the bureau reorganized. Ev was elevated and repositioned, according to the memo outlined and authorized by two men, to be read and signed by a third, Brandt. As long as Ev remained ever reliable, discreet, and invisible so that Briskane remained ordered, all was well. The beach lovers whined about the tenacious chill of course, but Briskane’s leaders were ahead of the complaints. The Weather Bureau, Enforcement for Social Stability, and its auxiliary arm, the Public Health Service, combined forces. Activities were concocted to create enticing summer calendars, the most successful, being the Miss Briskane Beauty Pageant. Held each year in the tulip-festooned Briskane Gardens, the citizens forgot they even had a beach. Most profitably, their designation by Ladies Home Journal as “the enviable wedding destination of the South” muted the collective memory of “real” summers. Under Dr. Brandt’s monitoring, his invention guaranteed the city’s nearest jetstream held below 87 degrees between June and September, while surrounding cities surrendered to 5 degrees higher. It even assured against Indian Summer aberrations through late October. That is, when Dr. Brandt performed no later than 5:35 a.m., 365 days a year. Otherwise, Briskane threatened to derail and spin off its social axis. Through surreptitious whispers, Evanhour had learned of male citizens, 21 and 31 years of age who one summer, became… “ unlike themselves .” After two flower-wilting weeks of 92-degree-plus temperatures, several of these males were spied washing dishes through open windows. The same week, two elders in the Methodist church noticed the lopsided ratio of women in the pews to that in the pulpit. And one particularly deranged fiancé bragged about the aspirations of his bride-to-be over cans of Rheingold. Lauding the anticipated birth control pill, “because she too had a right to attend law school,” he and other males nodded and toasted in equal confusion. The straw to break the mayor’s back was the high proportion of wives giggling contentedly over backyard fences. Their whispered topic: husbands who wanted to talk, listen, and disturbingly, understand. Ev sped through his hygienic ministrations and stumbled into the Chevy Impala. The steering wheel struggled under his clammy hands as he lay heavily on the gas pedal. Slow down , he willed himself. His eyes swept both sides of his magnolia-lined street looking for “it.” Signs of his beloved city going the way of debauchery. Mr. Pritchitt’s lawn was in its usual state of pristine. Good. The milkman clothed in skin, shirt, and pants the same shade as his delivery, waved at Ev cheerily. Good, good. The Pritchitt’s maid, the same shadowed shade as her uniform, opened the door and retrieved the delivery on behalf of her mistress. Ev wondered if the servant heard Zaire and Madagascar, countries not on his radar, but somehow in his head, had become independent. With a contained nod and downcast eyes, she too acknowledged him. Very good. Ev scanned the console. He never had to turn it on before and he used the time at the light to find out how. He flipped the a/c vent and turned the stiff dial. The creases in his face, already glistening from the morning’s mugginess, smoothed as the slowly cooling air bathed his face. Ev was late. He tried to mentally prepare for the Chairman’s reaction and his sure termination. Ev couldn’t predict if the Chairman would be more discomfited by his missed duties or by his lack of explanation for the morning's anomalies. Considering everything, Ev felt physically wonderful. His nose neither ran nor twitched. Nothing spasmed or jerked. Maybe it wasn’t too late. Maybe the Atmosphere was giving Briskane a break. Granting Ev grace for the one-time offense, by keeping every man, everything unchanged. Ev took the left turn at the twins’ school. Pairs of first graders trekked hand in hand to the pond located after the next corner. The boys wore slick left-side parts, while the girls' twin-sided ponytails swayed to and fro in the mild breeze. Mrs. Sterngood led with her back ramrod straight as she had three years ago when the twins were in her class. Still good. Ev exhaled and cruised down the unsloped street. What day was it? His mind drifted to Meg. It was their wedding anniversary. In 13 years, Ev could never pull up the date on his own. The trap traditionally was set when Ev walked in after work. Meg’s “Anything happen today?” devolved into a guessing game devoid of fun or wins until one or the other of the smart-alecky boys put him out of his misery. But Ev remembered today. Specifically, and not vaguely. The sky bladed in through the windshield and he flipped down the visor. All these years of going in before sunrise deprived me of this. Meg would love the new Frankie movie. Love getting out of the house. If Sinatra sang a tune or two, even better. I should surprise her, Ev mused. Arrange for her folks to keep the boys. Meg makes our home a dwelling of middle-class joy, and I haven’t told her that enough, actually ever. Ev was startled by the next realization . He wanted Meg’s happiness and should shop intentionally for an anniversary card. Hopefully, the florist’s stock of white hydrangea and blue forget-me-nots was living room-window-worthy. Those blooms did well in cool weather, Ev discovered he knew. The look on Meg’s face when I start the game this year… One more turn and the building’s gothic arches would loom into view. Ev should’ve allowed himself to enjoy the drive more. After all, there’d been no frantic or threatening calls before he left. Meg always said he worried too much, and he’d tell her so later. He was here. Though his designated parking spot in the once-used delivery area was around the back, Brandt stopped where he was. The grounds had a feel as well as a look. And every day since joining his existence with The Bureau’s, the aura of permanence had prevailed uncompromised. The Impala chugged softly in “park” awaiting his next move. No police, hoses, or dogs lined the entrance. Everything was as it had been yesterday, though the neck of the swan weathervane, centered in the building’s façade did seem imperceptibly unlike itself . Ev lingered on the accessory which shared a birthday with the edifice. Both had seen six decades of active duty in the lives of Briskanians though they didn’t know it. What am I waiting for? Ev shook off his imagination, drove to where his car was to spend the rest of the workday, and turned off the ignition. “Full of nonsense this morning.” Ev peered into the visor mirror and examined his left and right profiles. He went about swabbing the lingering shine off his cheeks with cooled fingertips. “ I’m getting fat ,” he said, tugging the flesh behind his chin . Dr. Brandt shut the door, locked it, and exhaled. His fears had been for naught. Nothing had changed.

wywbbm

Chocolate Milk Naps

          Chocolate Milk Naps  by Eliana Smith If Beatrice could go back and turn back time, you best believe she would. She would have started at the ripe age of 7. She would have done some things the same like staying at her Grammy's every summer, but some things differently like staying away from the older neighbor boy who knew more about life than she did at the time. She would brush her Grammy's hair more often and hold her papas hand during prayer. She would pet her now deceased dog frequently and play with her dolls only in the afternoon. She would love her mother harder and not be so harsh to her father. She would be kinder to her younger brother and hug him tighter. She would never have chosen that girl over her mother. She would have never picked up that can of alcohol and never drawn blood on purpose. She would have never said ¨i love you¨ to that boy and never have gone to that dance. She would have done a lot of things, if Bea could have turned back time, but if she could do it all over again she would have loved herself more if anything. Bea grew up in a medium sized house on east 12th street in a small town named Rifle. The town wasn't very exciting, it's depressing, sort of if you don't make the most of it. Everyone there knew everyone even if you didn't you still knew everyone because everyone's name was always in someone's mouth that it didn't belong to. That's why the town sucked, but if you looked hard enough you could find beauty in the hidden gems, the thick forests, the beautiful creeks and rivers, the parks and street lamps at night after everyone has fallen asleep and not even a cricket dared disturb the peace. There was beauty that laid within but only if you ventured out. Bea lived at her Grammy's house in the summer. She would wake up every day at 6am and brave the cool morning air, she would exit her house and feel the crisp wind wrap around her, the breeze of sprinkler water drops coat her skin, and the dewy smell of rain that still lingered on the flowers outside of her medium sized orange house. Bea would get in the car and watch out the window as she passed dead street lamps, stray cats, morning joggers, and tired oil field workers on their way to work from Kum and Go. When she arrived at the end of the drive at her grandmothers she was pleased to see that her Grammy was waiting for her and her little brother on the sidewalk with a humongous grin and welcoming arms. Nothing would ever replace or amount up to seeing her Grammy in such a happy healthy state. Her days consisted of playing in the turtle shaped sandbox with her brother when he wasn't occupied in a wheelchair, eating ice cream and playing board games, but her favorite part was when she got to listen to her Grammy read the children's bible while her and her brother laid on the patched up couch and drank chocolate milk until their bellies filled and their consciousness floated into a deep slumber. After the day had ended and the sun set she would ride home for dinner and wait until grogginess once again took her by surprise and she drifted off to sleep, excited for the next day to come. Looking back now Bea wished as she got older she didn’t get on her phone quite as much at her Grammy's, she wished that she didn’t take advantage of chocolate milk naps and sleep all day, she wished she would have hugged her Grammy tighter and kissed her forehead longer during their farewells in the evenings, she wishes she would have told her more about her day and less about what’s going on, on the internet. Considering that her Grammy is now in her late seventies and diagnosed with dementia and in her final days, Bea wishes she would have spent more time in the gray house holding her Grammy's hand and watching the news. Bea knows she doesn’t have much time left so if she could go back in time and re-do it all she would.  Bea was a straight A student throughout middle school and into high school until the second semester of her freshman year, and that is where her life began to slide down a steep hill. She fell in love with a young boy who was a grade ahead of her. They hung out every weekend, played games and watched movies together, it was a simple yet intense love, tender yet air thinning. Bea had finally found someone she called her best friend. No one tells you how earth rattling teenage love is, until you’ve lost it. She would say that it’s one of the best yet worst things that you could ever experience. After her first breakup, Bea’s world began to feel a little less bright. She knew she had always felt different than all the other children as a child, less happy and more guilty about being alive but she thought she would grow out of it. After the breakup her feelings intensified and her actions grew odd. She had lost her best friend and in place of that empty hole she replaced it with someone knew, A girl best friend. She spent every minute with her, school, the weekends, her nights, everything began to be consumed by this one girl. She began to shift her morals for this friend and her behavior differed greatly from how she normally acted before. In hopes of numbing her pain from other life challenges her friend suggested she tried other things, such as alcohol and self harm. Bea’s world lit up when she realized she could now not only numb her pain but also feel better while doing it. She chose this girl over everyone as she was the only person who made Bea feel like she was “fixed”. Soon the results of her actions stepped in and she faced the consequences of her actions around her friend. Bea and her friend were soon separated from each other and never spoke again. Bea never after picked up another bottle of alcohol as she saw what it did to her family and her mother. But some things you can’t let go of. Addiction is a disease, and not one many can control. It runs thick in your veins and clouds your vision. Bea still drew blood as an act to relieve herself from the pain she felt every day. Years went by until her mother noticed. She felt like a failure after she watched her mother collapse to the ground in tears that ran through Bea’s mind for months after. Nothing would ever replace the bond and trust that her mother once shared with her daughter before that night. Months later in February of 2023 Bea had realized that she couldn’t bare the pain any longer. That night at 11:09pm her family had gotten into a tremendous fight. One where words cut through her like a knife, and the things that were said were ones that drove you to a breaking point. Bea sprinted for an eyebrow razor knowing these were her final moments. After it was done she was tackled to the ground by her father, and 911 was called. When Bea woke up in the hospital from the tears that smothered her throat after the incident, guilt ran through her body and nausea set in. After being treated, Bea got the right help. Diagnosed with Clinical depression and Crippling anxiety, Bea felt like things made more sense. Now it’s January of 2024. Bea sits in an advanced English class writing this story for creative writing, thriving. Life is not perfect by any means. Life is not gentle, life is not kind, life is not easy, but life is beautiful. It is breathtaking and moving. Life offers so much but you must be willing to accept the challenge and explore what you are offered. Bea learned a lot in her 17 years of life. Bea saw the ups and downs, the twists and turns, the lefts and rights of life, but if Bea could go back in time and do it all over again, you best believe she would. Bea would see herself as more than an object, more than a man's woman, more than a bystander, more than a puzzle piece, more than just another person that walks the planet. If Bea could go back in time and do it all over again she would, and this time, things would be different.

noelww

Chalk and Cheese

Chalk and Cheese Dad loves all things British; William and Kate, tea and crumpets, The Crown, saying the loo, not so much queuing though….. People in our small town treat him like he is a rare and exotic bird. "Lovely," he says. It is baffling to me to watch the faces of folks in conversation. The faces of both men and women brighten when near him. Most of the people around here have never traveled out of the state, much less another country. Just between you and Me- neither has dad. "Do you guys have the same father AND mother?" I wondered last Christmas. My Aunt, dad's sister, visited. She seemed to know the root of my question and didn't take offense, "Your father struggled. He has always been feminine. Anything 'different' (she actually used air quotes) wasn't accepted; however, I am happy to report, things are improving." I still wondered if both of their parents were the same, but something told me I'd find out more if I didn't interrupt.  "Gary the Fairy was what kids called your dad," Aunt Judy said as she looked out the window. "Kids can be cruel." How did I not know that, I wondered. "He had to detach himself from the small minds of Vander City." She said, "When he turned 15, that's about the time he started to change, coincidentally right after he watched Mary Poppins something in him changed." "That explains a lot," I said with a laugh. To prepare for this years' Dry January Dad started storing his Gin in his boot, err is it bonnet? I don't know. What I do know is last year his attempt at Dry January almost killed him, the alcohol withdrawal resulted in days and days of vomiting. He was tired and irritable. Instead of his light, jovial joking he couldn't even bring himself to speak with a phony British accent. Last year Dad lasted for 16 days. He endured 16 days without calling a cookie a biscuit or going to the 'pub'. I was proud of him; mom was proud of him. He confessed that he had not been sober for 16 straight days since high school. "The goal this January is to be dry every day except for my birthday, of course. I am gutted to report my first three days have been bloody Hell." Dad said as he removed Christmas decorations. "Is your mother coming to my birthday party this year? Oh, look at the Blue Jay, darling. Isn't it marvelous?" He hoped to arouse Pip to see the bird and hoped the cat might instinctually chase after the bird. "Go on, go on. There it is." Sadly, though, the cat showed no interest in the Blue Jay. Dad yelled at Pip, scolded the cat, "You are a cat, act like a bloody cat." Silently I noted the irony, you are American, act like an American. "Do you want her to come? You know if you are planning a dry party she will not come." I said, trying to get the feel for his intentions. I have asked him in the past to call her mom, not 'mother'. I should've taken that as a clue to his mood. By the 13th of January, scones had turned into pop tarts, empty pop tart wrappers were stacked high on the side table, blueberry, frosted strawberry, cinnamon sugar. "Dad, the smell of cat litter is sickening. Where is Pip? Dad, you asked me to come over. If you want me to clean- forget it." His printed, bright pink, Liberty of London shirt was tight, the buttons were fighting to stay closed. Should I say something? Out of caution I lowered my readers over my eyes just in case a tight button exploded from the shirt. "I am so embarrassed. I have gained 5 1⁄2 pounds. I don't want people to see me like this," he said. "Nobody wants to watch a fat person eat, God knows I don't." Impatiently I asked, "Well, Dad, what do you want to do?" I really do try to be passive with him, but it gets old. He only started the Dry January challenge to further his 'I'm British' charade. "Don't you ever get tired of all the pretending?" I asked, hoping to break through, to dig deep into the real part of him, his soft center. "Don't be so dreadful. Why are you so negative?" He asked as he approached with his buttons (weapons) of mass destruction. The tension was real. "Me? You think I am the one being negative?" I started to gather my things. Where did I put my hoodie? "Believe it or not, I love you. Why can't you just accept me- for me?" Just then one of the middle buttons sprang from his shirt, and thwacked Pip on the tail. "Crickey," he shouted as his left hand covered his heart. "You see, it’s just been an awful two weeks." "Sorry Pip." I whispered. Too late I realized I should've protected him. Not surprisingly dad suddenly had an 'Emergency'. "Cheers. Of course. It has been lovely spending time with you, but I'm knackered." He then walked past me, his daughter, no hug, no handshake, nothing- into a closed-door room then shouted, "You are behaving most indelicately. Can you please take out the rubbish as you leave. Bye now darling." I petted Pip knowing that it might be a long time before I returned, the innocent cat scratched my hand as if asking me to rescue him. Dad didn't reach out to me, nor did I reach out to him. Weeks passed. I found out through Facebook that Dad's birthday party was canceled, allegedly 'Due to weather'. I suspect that his vanity made the decision.   He posted that he read Harry Potter while he was 'drying out'- I don't believe him. He also posted that he kept his January goal-I don't believe him. Happily, Pip is now safely living with me and my other two cats and he has a clean litter box. Incidentally Pip chases squirrels now.

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The Mysterious Man in the Photograph

I am dog-tired as I stretch my aching legs before me on the chaise lounge. It is already 6 o’clock and I have not even thought about supper yet. I consider my achy bones and bunched-up muscles as I ponder whether making dinner for one is worth it. As I procrastinate, images of refrigerator contents float through my foggy brain. I could always warm up some left-over Lasagna and those Italian Green Beans my mom gave me from her perfect, oversized garden. Unconsciously, I groan as I make my unsteady way to the darkened kitchen on the other side of the house.  I stagger into the small and tidy kitchen and then flip on the lights. I open the cabinet to grab a plate as my eyes adjust to the brightened room. While I shut the cabinet door, I turned toward the fridge, which seemed to be threatening a war against itself. Clanging noises compete with foreboding clinks at the back of the sickly fridge. I suppose I will need to make a call to Reliable Rescue for poor old “Bertha.” I set my plate down beside the dish of lasagna and dip out a healthy square, then the beans into a mini mound of green. The kitchen lights glitter in the twirling reflection of the microwave’s shiny door as I head over with my offering plate. While I sit at the small and wobbly table for two, I let my mind wander as I wait for the food to warm. I recall getting my bachelor's in social work a few years ago.  I remember being full of hopes and dreams of changing the world. There is something that I must have missed in college. Either that or I just skimmed over that part. The part that says you should take time for yourself and give a little self-care. College does not prepare you for long hours, the self-doubt, and the guilt of feeling like you did not do enough.  And now, I think about the long hours of work and the expectations placed upon me. And loads of guilt. Do not even get me started on the self-doubt. Often, I have come home feeling like I have not done nearly enough. I heave a sigh of gloom. I wish my husband were here with me instead of on his business trip.  He has a way of helping ease the exhaustion and self-doubt that threatens my mind. After a long day of work, I can come home to a plate already warmed, dishes done, and a bit of thoughtful insights. Ah, well! I look forward to hearing from him soon after the plane lands. The microwave’s ding breaks my train of thought and brings me back to earth with a bang. Quickly, my eyes focused on the small flying bundle of fur that crashed into the chair at the desk and then onto the bulletin board above the cluttered desk. Just as quickly, my mind forgets the microwave as my eye lands on reminders hanging lopsided above old and forgotten grocery lists. Anecdotes attempt to brighten the mood while the dried rose threatens an escape plan. A newspaper article reminisces about “On this date 50 years ago…” My eyes go further yet. Tucked underneath the wrinkled wrapper of a recipe, I see the bent corner of a photograph. The food is long forgotten as I reach out a shaky hand. I had forgotten this picture from long ago. I knew what it was before I even had it cleared away. As a teenager, I had snagged this picture from my mom’s closet. It was a black and white photo bent in the corners. It held an air of mystery that I could not ignore. Glistening in the sun, a black steam engine stood waiting for its passengers. A mysterious man, arms laden with parcels, turned towards the camera and was getting ready to board. He has black hair and dark eyes like me. My mother had once told me about a man she loved. I looked at this photograph and wondered if this was the man she talked about and if he was my father. I have always hesitated when I thought about asking her. What if it brings her sad memories? What if she does not want to tell me anything at all? However, the weight of uncertainty is lifted, and replaced by an eagerness to uncover the mystery man in the photo. I am excited to expose the secrets that have remained hidden for so long. This renewed sense of hope carries me forward with a firm purpose. Maybe this journey is what I need to combat the stages of burnout I have been experiencing. I could use a vacation anyway. They certainly talk about having self-care. Maybe that is what I need.  I reach for the phone and dial her number. She picks up on the third ring and answers a bit groggily. “Hey, Mom!” I said, feeling a little guilty for calling a bit late. We exchange some gossip and, in a pause, I bring up the picture. She grows momentarily quiet and then with a small sigh, begins on a small tale of love and being pregnant with me. “He left. He wanted to stay but he couldn’t” she said. Mom gave me the name and the last known address. “Thank you, Mom, for giving me this,” I told her and hung up the phone. I glanced up at the calendar to figure out my next move. Monday and Tuesday are full of work-related business but the next 3 days after are free. Perfect! Five days of investigative work will be helpful for sure. I grabbed the notepad and started making notes. And soon enough, the anticipation made the days fly by and I began the journey to find my father. Quicker yet, I walked up the steps to greet my father. He is older now, with silver hair, but holds the same dark and smiling eyes. A week ago, this journey sure wasn’t what I expected!  

y4ryye

To Listen is Inheritance

My cat Blue could operate a door handle and would jump at it for hours until he could pull the thing down. The only problem was that he could not pull it open. He was a frustrated being until I owned a home with a cat-door. He was smart obviously and I thought we were remarkably close. He spent hours laying in the sunshine at my feet while I worked until one day he disappeared. My heart broke as weeks went by without him. It was three weeks later that Blue came home combed for spring and smelling like sweet perfume. I finally understood the phrase “catting around.” He was a handsome Flame-Point Siamese cat, cream-colored with orange ears and orange stripes on his tail. He had the brightest blue eyes you ever saw and black freckles on his pink nose. I had to go further to claim him than just feeding and watering him. I clipped and ground down his nails. I gave him a bath. I considered locking down the cat door, but I didn’t want to make him hate me. Instead, I gave him a blue collar with tags clearly stating his name and my phone number and address. Tuesday, though, I received a phone call from a stranger. She had the voice of someone sweet and old, “Please forgive me. I had no idea he had a home. He showed up so dirty and bedraggled.” It took me just a moment to realize that Blue had already left me! “Oh! Thank you so much for calling.” “I would bring him over to you myself, but I’m not really walking or driving these days.” “I can come and get him.” “We are close to each other. I am just in the next block.” She gave me her address, and I told her I would come within the hour. I had a white paper to finish and send, and this event would have to wait just that long. I also had to think about how I would get him, Blue, to come home and stay. Her home was the second home away from ours. It was a one-story Spanish Colonial with a beautiful, if over-trimmed for my tastes. She opened her door as soon as I rang her melodious bell. The front door led into a round foyer, laid with rosy Saltillo tiles, walnut bookshelves built into the walls and displaying an array of Asian knick-knacks and tall windows allowing light to flood into the small space generously. It smelled like that sweet perfume when she welcomed me in, wearing a housedress and slippers. Her graying hair was styled, and her face was in an elegant smile. “Come in,” She introduced herself, “I am Janet. Welcome!” I introduced myself and there was Blue, wrapping himself in a sinuous figure-eight between us. We both laughed. Janet offered tea. Blue and I followed into a darkened living room full of memorabilia, mid-century modern furniture with no square edges and upholstered in a dusty rose. Oriental rugs were generous and lay over walnut-stained tongue-in groove pegged floors. She showed me a spot on her sofa to sit, and she took a seat in a commanding armchair. Blue immediately sat in her lap. She apologized, but I raised my hand and explained, “He has always had a mind of his own. I’m very relieved to know he hasn’t gone that far away.” “His name is Blue?” she asked as she stroked his back. “I had named him, “Bishonen.”” I asked her what language it was, and what it meant, and she answered, “Oh! It means ‘attractive boy’ in Japanese.” We smiled at each other awkwardly, and she looked at the silver tray of tea and biscuits on the Asian style coffee table. She gently pushed “Bishonen” off her lap and reached out her old, but delicate, perfectly manicured hands, and poured green tea into beautiful China teacups decorated with cherry blossoms. We looked into each other’s eyes and smiled as we drank our tea. We were suddenly the best of friends and Bishonen Blue was satisfied with his work enough to wander back into the foyer to stretch out on the warm Saltillo tiles. At the same moment we asked, “Tell me your name again…” and laughed again. Her full name was Janet Saburo King, and she easily fell into conversation about herself. She had lived in her home fifty years. I asked her first, “You sound like you might be from the East Coast?” “Yes,” she gleamed, “I was born in Brooklyn, New York, in 1897.” I thought quickly, she is 99 years old! She is still beautiful. “I met my first husband in Brooklyn. He was a Navy Officer for the Japanese Navy in 1913, when they brought the Cherry Blossom Trees to New York in a diplomatic trade. I was a 16-year-old dancer in the welcoming ceremony. I saw him watching me when I looked over my fan.” And my new 99-year-old friend giggled with delight. “Was he handsome?” I asked. “Oh, yes! He was a dreamboat as we used to say.” The young man snuck branches of cherry blossoms to his favorite dancer, and that was the beginning of their true love story. Once all the trees were planted properly, Janet’s father gave the young couple permission to walk in Sakura Park before the young man’s ship set out to sea. They corresponded faithfully and whenever his ship was in New York City’s harbors, he visited Janet’s family. It was seven years more before her father permitted her to marry Kurusu Saburo. He had left the Navy and joined the Japanese Imperial Diplomatic Service. It meant she would be traveling with her new husband wherever he was sent. The first place was in California. He was the Consulate-General in Los Angeles, and they made many friends before he was called to move his new family to Jakarta, Indonesia in 1926. She smiled, and I could see that she was tired. Blue Bishonen walked over to her in a knowing way and jumped up on her lap. She hugged him with joy. “I am so happy you gave him a bath. He really needed one.” He jumped down swishing his tail to make sure we both knew the word “bath” was very bad. We watched him together and laughed. “He really did.” “Do you mind if he visits me?” “Good friends are the best friends for him and for me.” “You must come and visit me again, too,” she said as I rose to follow my cat. I nodded. “I’m near and a full-time writer at home. You can call me anytime,” and I pulled out a sticky note that I always carried with me in case I was struck by brilliance and wrote down my telephone number. We grasped each other’s hands at the door. Her skin was so smooth and delicate, and I was afraid I would crush them. I noticed my chipped manicure and thought about my moppy hair as I carried my Bishonen Blue home. There was no hope for me to be like Janet or my mother, but I could admire them. I thought about what Janet must have seen throughout her lifetime. I was so curious. She called me just days later and squealed on Bishonen Blue and invited me for lunch. I offered to bring something, but she replied that she just enjoyed having company. I cut the better roses from a few of my bushes and brought them wrapped in paper towel and plastic bag. She opened the door and was happy to receive them. She grasped my hand and led me into her kitchen, which was pristine 1960s. She pointed to a jade glass vase on an upper shelf and asked me to bring it down for her. With two hands she carried it to her sink and rinsed it twice and filled it with water the third time. Then she pulled shears from a drawer and cut the stems at an angle. She taught me that the more of the stem that is exposed to water, the longer a flower will survive. I asked her if she also arranged traditional Japanese vases or bonsai trees. She smiled and nodded, “I arranged ikebana far more often in my younger years, one or two arrangements in every room, but with arthritis it is difficult.” She brought me into a den at the home’s back, “But here is my bonsai collection. Many are 50 years old!” The gnarled willows and junipers were familiar to me, but she also had a miniature flowering tree, and maples with tiny, tiny leaves. I’m sure I gasped before I said, “I would love to do that someday. Though now I’m taking care of full-sized trees. Last year I planted six gingko trees in my back yard, and a dozen other kinds of trees. I live on a hillside, and I am hoping the trees will keep rivers out of my living room.” She pulled me to a small table where she had set our lunch. There was miso soup to begin with in small hand thrown clay bowls with hand-painted glaze. Next, she served a Japanese Curry over rice perfectly molded in small balls. She politely ate her lunch with a fork, but I braved picking up the chopsticks and managed to eat my curry without making a mess of myself. She took the plates back to her kitchen on a small cart. When she returned, she had a teapot and two China cups on top. She gracefully pointed to the leather sofa, rolling the cart behind me. She poured my cup first and handed it to me, then placed her own up on an accent table beside a small pile of interesting things and a small photo album. We sipped our tea and spoke more about her time in Jakarta, Indonesia in the late 1920s. I asked her if she wore a kimono in those days. I wondered if I crossed a politeness boundary when she hesitated. “Oh, my dear, I wore all sorts of costume and fashion as the Ambassador’s wife. Yes, I did wear a kimono on special occasions. However, growing up in New York City, I was also aware of modern fashion, and to be fair and true, I loved it!” Jakarta in the 1920s was still under the Dutch East Indies rule, she explained, so the purpose of their stay there was to create good relations with them. They threw grand parties, and opened a Japanese school while they were there. She had an Indonesian nanny for their son who was a small child then. Janet had the opportunity to get to visit local villages. She said they had not evolved to the 20 th century. In fact, to her they were stuck in the Middle Ages. At this point she gathered her collection on the table to share. First, she showed pictures of her son and his nanny. She smiled so proudly at her little boy, who had a perfect round face, held by a darker young woman with long hair and wearing cloth wrapped around her sort of like and Indian sarong. There was a beautiful photo of Janet in a formal kimono, her hair shellac into a perfect coif. Her white and red make-up was modest and perfect. She wore those wood platform shoes, which seemed a good idea there. She added here, “They called the city ‘Batavia’ and indeed it was more garden than city. This was before WWII by two decades.” Janet looked pained for a moment, and only very slowly did I begin to realize what that meant. Next, she pulled a cloth onto her lap and unfolded it. Inside were brass miniatures of a type of village building, one large and one smaller. The roofs came off, so that they became little boxes. Also, there was a small cart and a donkey or mule pulling it. “Now this is from a village where men women and children lived in separate housing. It was where our nanny was born and raised. This building is where the women and children lived,” and she opened the larger brass building with a pointed-thatched roof. Then she closed that and put it on the table, and then opened the smaller box, also with a pointed-thatched roof, “and, of course, this is where the grown men lived.” She giggled and said she thought that was an excellent idea. Then she pulled out of her pocket a very small house, “and, this is where the newlyweds lived and couples without children.” She wiggled her eyebrows knowingly. I smiled back at her knowingly, and asked, “Who owned the cart?” “The entire village owned the cart, so they could bring these to Batavia to sell in the market.” She held out the cloth the village had been wrapped in. It had a batik pattern on it of mustard yellow, brown, and a tiny bit of blue outline. She opened it and shook it out so that I could examine it. I clapped my hands and asked, “Is this batik?” She nodded, and asked, “have you been to Indonesia?” “No, but my mother is a textile artist and showed me how to batik when I was a child.” “This is perfect then. I want you to have this village and batik cloth.” “Won’t your children want to inherit this history?” “No. They are very American and not that interested in the past.” “Don’t you want it?” She smiled, “It is time to pass these pieces onto someone who will care for them.” “Arigato. Thank you.” I bowed as deeply as I could when Bishonen Blue and I left soon after that. I sent a thank you note rolled up and tied to Bishonen Blue’s collar. I hoped that she would get it when he came home later without it and smelling sweet with her perfume, and we visited several more afternoons over the next month. Then I didn’t hear from her again for a week. I became worried, and Bishonen Blue wore off her perfume and took to bringing me lizard tails again. One day he returned smelling like her perfume. I was relieved that Janet was up and about, and I made banana bread to celebrate with her. I went over and knocked on her door with my gift. When she answered the door, she was less put together for her standards, and let me in, nevertheless. She was clearly upset as she looked outside before closing the door. “What is wrong, Janet?” I asked before thinking, “Is it all right for me to ask?” She looked into my eyes, clearly upset, “My children want me to live in a nursing home! I had a little fall on my hip, but nothing was broken.” I did see that she was limping to her parlor. She was glad to sit down and pointed me to the sofa after she made herself comfortable. “Can I get you some tea, or water?” I asked. “Would you like a piece of banana bread?” “Perhaps, later,” she said and reached down to pet my cat, talking to him, “I heard you got yourself into trouble, Bishonen Blue.” “Yes, he was stuck in a tree during the rainstorms,” I told her. She scratched his chin, “I heard him yowling.” “Naughty boy. I had to wash him in peanut butter to get the sap off him!” I told her. She didn’t seem to want to waste time chatting that day. “On the bottom middle shelf in the foyer, there is a large plate. Will you bring it here?” she pointed to her lap. “Of course,” and I went to get the plate, and laid it gently on her lap. She grasped it with both hands and looked at me. “This not worth much because it has broken and been fixed many times, but it is incredibly special to me. I want you to have it before they send me away because I have so enjoyed our time together.” I swallowed hard and asked, “But why are you giving me something so important to you?” “This Arita platter belonged to my parents and passed to me when I became a wife. It is to serve sushi on. But it broke as I moved from Jakarta back to Tokyo before World War II. I had it mended and kept it close. It would have been wise to leave it behind as my story became darker before I emerged mended myself. It is like a physical Haiku. Do you know what that is?” I nodded and looked down at the pikes swimming in a blue porcelain ocean that had golden rays interrupting it. “I will tell you more about my time in Manchuria and Tokyo tomorrow, if you’d like?” “Arigato, Janet. May I help you in any way?” “I have a home nurse coming later today. We will share banana bread then. Arigato. Arigato is the best word in Japanese to know.” And she smiled. Late that night, I heard sirens blaring, and dressed, running to the door as fast as I could and ran to the next block where the firetruck and ambulance were parked. I looked at Janet lying on a stretcher, but they were wrapping her body in a bag. I burst into tears. She had marked my heart. I felt Bishonen Blue wrapping himself around my legs and I was so grateful to have him there when he jumped in my arms with that sweet perfume and looked at the body bag and then up quickly, swatting the air and purring. I buried my face in his and walked slowly home. Time can be so generous and so stingy.

3xbd5v

Prince Charming

PRINCE CHARMING g s martin 1955 Los Angeles, California. Millions of V8s spewing second-hand petrol. Leaded gas weather. Every morning, I watch the smog fill the LA basin. It looks like that picture Granny showed me of a dust storm. Smog is bad. When the brown wave gets here, breathing hurts. Like poison gas. Sometimes, the Santa Ana winds blow the smog out to sea. When that happens, the sky turns blue. There is no wind today. I just turned four. I stay at Miss Fleurette's Nursery School while my mom wraps meat at 'Shopping Bag.' All the butchers like my mom. She's pretty. The butcher shop floor is covered with bloody sawdust.  I never met my dad. My mom has a picture of him holding a baby. Dad looks scared. Like he might drop it. Miss Fleurette's is a good place to be when you're four years old, and today will be special. Because some of us are going to play a game. A special game. There are no men at Miss Fleurette's. They're building houses and drinking Bubwizer. The few other boys and I are lucky to be with the women grown-ups. The grown-up men are mean. Fighting Japs made them crazy. My mom says to not call them Japs. She says it's not nice. Uncle Phil disagrees. Uncle Phil only has one arm. The school is a white two-story house. It sits behind a block wall with a big wooden door, like a castle gate. Miss Fleurette and her daughter live upstairs. They made the playground out of sand. Sand is cool. A teacher told us we'd get to China if we dug deep enough. Billy and I tried. What's China?                                                                                                         There's an old car sitting in the sand for us to climb on. No seats, no doors. No windows. It reminds me of my grampa's car. Except his car has a steering wheel and shiny paint. Miss Fleurette says monkey bars are too spensive. There's a big block of wood porcupined with bent, rusty nails. The grown-ups give us hammers. "Have at it, boys!" The goal is to get through a nail-hitting session with both hands and all fingers un-crushed. We draw pictures. We play toy instruments and eat home-cooked meat pies. Yesterday a man came with a chicken egg. He cut a window in the shell so we could see the baby chick inside. We asked if we could keep it for a pet. He said it was too young to vive and threw it in the garbage can. I liked the baby turtles in their plastic pond. Until Danny smashed them with a rock. Last week, the kid with the robot legs talked to me in the boy's bathroom. I could hear him coming up from behind. He didn't come to pee because he can't do that. Instead, he came to ask questions. This boy has polio. He wears noisy braces that keep him standing up. Because his legs don't work anymore. The doctor thought I had polio and made me wear those things for a while. Lots of us kids have polio. The doctor says they're trying to make a shot to make it go away. It makes a mark. The robot boy watched me pee into the trough. "How do you do that? What's it feel like?" he asked. I tried to explain with no success. I'm only four. The back half of Miss Fleurette's is a big open room. Water-stained cheesecloth blinds, three shades too dark, cast a hideous amber glow. Even more sinister when it rains. Wooden baby cribs against the walls. The cradles are rolled out at nap time and placed around the room. Cutouts of nursery rhyme things line the dingy walls. Scary spiders and dire wolves. Broken crowns and mutilated sheep. If a grown-up sees you playing with yourself, she swats your hand away. "Don't touch yourself like that!" So here we lay, bathed in a dim, smoggy glow, surrounded by pastel violence.                                                                                                     Fidgety cadavers in a restless morgue. There's a hubbub among the girls and grown-ups. All a-twitter, they gather in the amber room. Us boys are left out on the playground to wonder. Until a grown-up finally comes out. "Jake! Come with me! The rest of you boys stay out here. Hit nails or something!" She takes me to the big room, where all the girls are gathered. Two old trunks come out, one big and one smaller, filled with ribbons, lace, and plastic jewelry. Stuffed with golden belts and long, flowing gowns. The girls tear through their chest, dressing up in pink, purple, and green. Princess stuff. For me, the smaller chest, filled with foppish garb. Even a be-costume-jeweled crown. Once adorned, a grown-up takes me to my throne. An old chair painted a lovely shade of lead gold. On an ancient Motorola, locked and loaded, plays a scratchy waltz. And now I understand. The girls are Sleeping Beauties. And they picked me to be their Prince Charming. They skip and prance. Colorful strings of wool trail from their clenched hands. They go round and around and around, twirling to the music like spinning wheels. Their gowns fly bedazzled, throwing slivers of light. The music builds from strange to stranger as they spin fast and faster. The music stops. Like synchronized swimmers, the girls collapse to the floor. Exhausted...dizzy... too many Highballs dizzy.                                                                                                                                              So it's bad to touch yourself because it feels good, but spinning the girls into a shit-faced stupor is OK? Training the girls. Until they understand the importance of subordination and servitude. A lifetime of lessons ahead. The Prince Charming music starts as I wander in a daze through the field of fallen beauties. At least I'm not dizzy-drunk.                                                                                                          Something in the music prompts the grown-up to gesture. It is time for me to choose my Princess. I pick Betty Kline and give her a Magical Kiss, rescuing her from the Evil Spell. A festive polka plays. And Oh, the Joy! The loser beauties scuttle off to the side in shame. They're not having much fun anymore. But Betty and I dance joyfully around the room, madly in love! Living Happily Ever After! Until snack time. And the lesson: "Girls, you will lose most of the time. But remember, always be pretty! Don't get uppity! And never ever forget it is now and always will be Mr. Charming's world! And maybe, just maybe, you'll get lucky and find a man. A good man. One that imbibes infrequently and doesn't slap you around too much  at night. Now go wash your hands, and we'll have some apple sauce." When my mommy came to get me after school, I tripped on the doormat and fell on my tummy, and I couldn't breathe. I cried. I'm glad mom was there to pick me up.  [O1]

tl8xqh

ALL AMERICAN

ALL AMERICAN Chase Malone was the quintessential American hero: tall, strong, blonde and handsome. He was fun around the guys and chivalrous around women. He drove an enviable Porsche Boxster to work and a Jeep Wrangler to the beach in summer. He rose at 5am each morning to go work out at the Y and had the kind of buff body that would not be out of place in a pro-sport locker room. Additionally, he played racquet ball competitively, swam lengths twice per week and, on weekends, was the best player in his team’s softball league. In summer, he tanned perfectly, highlighting his physique and pearly white smile and, even in winter, he, somehow, maintained that healthy glow. Not that fitness and sport was the be all and end all for Chase. He enjoyed his regular Friday night poker game with the guys and would indulge in a few beers and a stogie. When he and Gladys, his wife, hosted a barbecue, he would perform manfully at the grill, cooking plenty of free range chicken and vegetables for the women while ensuring that there were plenty of juicy steaks and burgers for the men. In short, Chase was the perfect American…except he wasn’t. Chase Robert Malone was not really American. Born, Sergei Nikolai Abramovich, good old homeboy, Chase, was Russian; a Soviet agent. To be more precise, Chase was a deep cover agent aka a sleeper. His “wife”, Gladys, too, was a sleeper. As beautiful as Chase was handsome, Gladys was lusted after by most of their coterie of male friends and had even been propositioned by one of her female friends. Unlike Chase, Gladys projected the image, however, of the loving, faithful wife and maintained a low profile. Chase’s profile, on the other hand, was anything but low for internal low confidence issues drove him to excel at everything and he simply hated to lose. Even playing poker, his game was reckless, dangerous. He would wager large bets on poor hands in a desperate effort at ending the night ahead of the pack. Though the rumours were unconfirmed, Chase’s male friends knew that he was sleeping with one of their wives. They argued among themselves as to a) which of them was being cuckolded and b) how Chase could possibly cheat on his gorgeous wife. What none of them could possibly know was that, each night, as the couple retired, often having spent the evening with friends and appearing to be in perfect harmony, the husband and wife would part at the top of the staircase and each adjourn to their own, separate bedrooms. Usually, Gladys having berated her husband for the way he had behaved that particular night, the centre of everybody's attention, but, she knew, her words fell on deaf ears. Chase worked for, ironically, the Chase Manhattan Bank where he was a mid-level executive and did a moderate job. He earned a decent salary and, usually, an end of year bonus, but it was no more than would be expected for anybody at the same level. His job bored him but was bearable and it was the one area of his life where he felt no impulse to excel. Once per week, Chase would deviate from his usual healthy lunch routine and would visit the local Westfield Southcenter shopping mall, partake of junk food in one of the fast food outlets in the food court and be discreetly joined by his handler, Alexei Pavlovich, an employee from the Russian Embassy on Wisconsin Avenue. Few words would pass between them for Chase was not a spy. Usually, Pavlovich would calmly admonish his agent for being so high profile. It had become a constant refrain and the handler knew that his words would not change Chase’s behaviour; the man simply could not help himself and was, without question, the least reliable of the agents under Pavlovich's personal wing. For his part, Chase felt only scorn for his handler dressed, as he was, in his usual dowdy, ill-fitting Moscow suit, cheap haircut, permanent Soviet scowl, he exuded greyness. With nothing in common, their meetings rarely lasted more than ten minutes before Chase got to go back to his pleasurable, bright American life. He was intelligent enough to know that, at any time, he could be recalled from the field, that his perfect existence was tenuous at best and, for that reason, he did make the effort to lower his profile…for a week or two. Eventually, however, his hidden insecurities would, once again, rise to the fore and drive him to excel. When Admiral Halsey and his wife, Virginia, moved into Chase’s Woodley Park neighbourhood, they were welcomed warmly by their neighbours. The Admiral, in his sixties, had been posted to a desk job at the Pentagon after a successful career spent, mostly, overseas. Virginia Halsey, a decade younger, eschewed fake beauty, rarely wore makeup and allowed her naturally greying locks to flow. This did nothing to take away from her ethereal beauty and, despite their difference in age, Chase was attracted to her from the first moment he saw her. He pursued her and, for a woman, more used to hosting boring dinner parties for her husband’s important but elderly acquaintances and swapping recipes with their old before their time wives, Virginia could not help but be seduced by the attentions of this handsome jock. Soon, they became lovers. “Are you crazy?” Gladys was furious when she found out about her husband’s latest shenanigans. “You are placing me in danger, you fool. An Admiral’s wife? How could you be so stupid?” Shamefaced, Chase could only stand and take his admonishment. He knew that he was playing with fire but… When he met with Pavlovich that week, he expected to receive another scolding but, instead, he found his handler in sanguine mood. He was more open to Chase continuing the relationship for who knew what secrets might be divulged in a bedroom setting? Unknown to both, on a level above the food court, their meeting was being secretly photographed. “I think my husband suspects something”, Virginia Halsey told Chase as she lay in his arms after their latest liaison. Alarmed, Chase sat up. “What do you mean?’ “He’s been a bit distant, distracted but, this morning, out of the blue, he spoke about you”. “What did he say?” “He just said that you’re not what you say you are”. The blood chilled in Chase’s veins. That weekend, Chase and Gladys were invited to a 4th of July barbecue at the Halsey’s. Most of their usual friends would be in attendance and, despite his apprehension, the gathering would have been difficult for Chase to wriggle out of. All afternoon, he went out of his way to maintain his distance from Virginia and she did likewise. Everything seemed to be going well and Chase had started to relax and be his normal, boisterous self when he found himself alone in the kitchen as he hunted for a beer. As he turned from the refrigerator, he was confronted by the Admiral who was staring at him with pure malice. “I know !” “That was all he said?” “It’s enough, isn’t it? He knows who I really am”. Since the barbecue, Chase had been a nervous wreck. Believing that the Admiral, with his high level Pentagon contacts, had, somehow, discovered that he was a sleeper, had made all of his, hitherto hidden, insecurities rise to the surface. Convinced that, at any minute, he would be arrested, he did what he had never had reason to do previously; he called the secure, emergency number at the Embassy. “He could have been referring to your screwing his wife. Stop panicking”. Pavlovich’s words did nothing to placate Chase. “I’m telling you. He fucking knows. You’ve got to pull me out”. “We would have heard something if they even suspected. You’re being paranoid. Get a grip of yourself. Go lift weights or swim or whatever it is you do. Don’t ring that fucking number again unless you have a real emergency”. That afternoon, Admiral Halsey received a visitor in his office. The man showed him a collection of photos. Some showed Chase meeting with a stranger at the Westfield Southcenter Mall. He cast these aside. Others showed Chase working out at the Y. These were cast aside also. The ones that he did not discard were those showing his wife, his beautiful Virginia, entering the Conrad Washington Hotel on New York Avenue, followed within minutes by Chase Malone, the ones showing them leaving, two hours later, together, and, in particular, the ones of the two lovers, naked and unsuspecting, snapped from a building across from the hotel. The Admiral, any last hopes that he might have been mistaken, shattered, thanked the private investigator, watched as he left his office then, taking his Sig Sauer M17 from his desk, blew his brains out. The news travelled fast. This time it was Pavlovich who decreed the emergency and summoned Chase to meet him, not, as per usual, at the shopping mall but at the Potomac Overlook Regional Park, far away from any possible observers. As Chase hiked the trail to the meeting spot, he looked all around him, his paranoia causing his facial muscles to twitch, expecting FBI agents to emerge from the trees at any moment. If convicted of being a sleeper agent, he could face decades of imprisonment or he could be part of a swap for any US agents being held in Russia. In that case, he would be returned to Moscow in disgrace. His best option was to be simply recalled before any possible repercussions from the Admiral’s suicide. At the peak of the trail overlooking the Potomac far below, Chase found Pavlovich sitting precariously near the edge. He gestured for Chase to join him. “All we asked was that you keep a low profile. Nothing more. No danger. A good life in return. But you couldn’t do it, could you?” “You wanted me to continue the relationship. You encouraged it…” “A fucking Admiral’s wife, Sergei. From the fucking Pentagon, no less”. Chase shocked at Pavolich’s use of his real name, could not answer. “Yes, I called you Sergei. There’s no more Chase Malone. No more pretence, my friend. You have blown it. No more deep cover. You have exposed our operation, me, Gladys, everybody. I hope you’re proud of yourself”. “I’m sorry but what was the point of it all? I’m not a spy. I don’t do any espionage. What was my purpose?’ “Your purpose? Your purpose was just to be! To show that we could achieve it; to have agents in every aspect of American life. There are hundreds more just like you. Just to be! In return, for serving your country, you got to live the fucking American dream; the perfect life. But that wasn’t good enough for you, was it?” Pavlovich stood and started to walk away. Chase turned and called after him. “What happens now? Do I get recalled?” “You know, Sergei, I just don’t understand you. Even now, after the trouble you have caused, you expect me to get you out of it. What? You don’t fancy spending twenty years in a penitentiary? You had it all, my friend. Anybody with half a brain would have swapped places with you without a second’s thought. You had the perfect life. Compare that to my situation. What do I get for serving my country? Shitty food, shitty clothes, a bleak, grey, sterile, mind numbing existence, dealing with morons like you. You have the life that should, naturally, be mine. You think I don’t wish, every single day of my shitty life, that my country would call me back? You think only Russia has sleepers?” Chase stared incredulously at his handler, realising that Pavlovich's accent had changed completely, no longer that of a born Muscovite.  Standing, flabbergasted, he asked: “You’re American?” Without answering, Pavlovich stepped forward, raised his right leg and thrust it with full force into the chest of the Russian sleeper. He watched as Chase’s body plunged to its death in the water below. “As apple pie, buddy!”.

jso1ws

Billy’s life

  Billy has been taking care of his son by himself for the last eighteen years. Ever since his wife passed during the child-birth of their son Bobby. Billy was a successful lawyer that did very well for himself, and when Bobby was born he decided to stop working and put all his focus into his son until the day he leaves home. It’s the day Billy has been fearing time for the young man he had raised to be on his own in college and Billy now having his house to himself didn’t know what he would do. Bobby since his dad was feeling blue so he told him “why don’t you go back to work dad”, which Billy wasn’t even thinking about, Billy replied “I might just do that son”. Billy and Bobby arrived at the college and said their goodbyes, when Billy got back to the car he emailed his old partner Andrew if he had any positions available at the firm for him. Andrew told him he would always have a place at the firm for Billy. The next day Billy woke up, took a shower,made a cup of coffee, and even ironed his best suit. Showing up eager to work in his best suit, which he was lucky it still fit after eighteen years, Billy couldn’t wait to jump back in and distract his mind from his empty house. Andrew was waiting in his office for his old friend where they talked about the good ol days and how much they missed each other. Billy eagerly asked Andrew “So what big cases did you want me to start on”. Andrew had a confused look on his face and then he replied “Billy you can’t be serious you haven’t been working for eighteen years, I would be a fool to throw you in a major case without letting you work on something more simple first”. Billy was shocked so he asked what would Andrew have him do then, Andrew told him he can start off by helping the paralegals with the paperwork. Billy couldn’t believe he was doing grunt work, he didn’t complain, at least it was better than being in an empty house.  A few months go by and Billy is still helping the paralegals with filling forms with the courts and picking up the office. but he gets calls from Bobby once or twice a month where Bobby tells him how he is enjoying college life, which makes Billy feel overwhelmed with joy and make the mountains of paperwork bearable. Andrew called for Billy to come to his office, Billy asked him in a joking manner “how can I help my boss today”. Andrew told him he needed Billy to set up the conference room for the meeting which was like a smack in the face to Billy because that’s what interns do. He did it but as he was setting up the table he got a little light headed, he sat down for a little bit and shook it off. Billy was just trying to keep a positive mindset but he can’t help the big whole in his heart keep weighing him down. He thought that getting a job would help him forget that when he goes home it’s just a house of memories of the better days when he and Bobby would hang out all day long. Billy’s been working hard and every now and then he would get light headed but he didn’t do anything about it, he would just sit down and wait for a little bit and then get back to work. One day Billy got the chance he was waiting for to help Andrew and the partners on a major case. Andrew was briefing everyone and asked Billy to come up and finish the presentation since he helped make it. Billy leaned forward to get up. He felt a little lightheaded but continued to give the presentation. His palms started sweating and he felt his collar was getting tight. In the middle of him finishing the presentation Billy collapsed and was rushed to the hospital.   Billy has been in the hospital for a few days. The doctors said they sent off for some lab work and will be in touch with the results, but they don’t see any reason to hold him longer so they let him go home with Bobby. When they got home Bobby asked his dad what happened. Billy said he felt lightheaded and that was it but told Bobby not to worry and how are your classes going. Bobby told his dad that his classes were good and he was thinking about staying home for a semester or two until his dad gets to feeling better. Billy couldn’t believe his ears he yelled at Bobby you're not going to miss school because I got a little lightheaded, you work so hard to get to where you are now I could never forgive myself if you did that. Bobby nodded knowing if he didn’t agree it could make his fathers health get even worse. Bobby asked his dad since I’m going back to school, can you promise me that you won’t work so hard since I’m far away, Billy said I can do that no problem. The next day Billy went into the office and when he got to his desk there were a bunch of gifts and cards waiting for him from all his coworkers. Billy couldn’t believe his eyes when he was about to cry, all of the sudden he got a phone call. It was the doctors they told him he had a rare heart condition and that he had a heart attack. Billy was trying to hear what they were telling him but he couldn’t quite make out what they were saying he could only hear a ringing in his ears, his palms were getting sweaty, light-headed, and his collar was getting tight. He knew what was happening because of all his emotions going on a roller coaster he was having a heart attack but it was to late he collapsed and banged his head on the corner of his desk causing him to bleed out to death.

mi0f27

Grace and Mercy

“Cleopatra?” the barista shouted as he put the cup of coffee on the bar. “It’s Cleotha,” the elderly woman replied, grabbing the cup with her name conspicuously misspelled. “Ms. Jackson if you’re nasty . . .” If she hadn’t been in a hurry, Cleotha would have preferred to get her coffee from 7-Eleven or Dunkin’ Donuts. She never understood why seemingly intelligent people would pay more than five dollars for an average cup of coffee created by a self-absorbed twenty-something. On this day, however, necessity forced her to the boutique coffee shop situated on the corner of the block where she had lived most of her adult life. She had a plane to catch and a granddaughter to meet, so she held her tongue, grabbed the cup, and hurried out the door. *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   * Cleotha Jackson had been born both in New Orleans and poverty. Delivered at home by an elderly neighbor who claimed to be a midwife, she spent the first few minutes of her life wrapped in a filthy blanket on a floor she had to share with the ever-present cockroaches. Her home, situated on Cleveland street, was a classic shotgun-style house, narrow and rectangular, no more than 12 feet wide. The rooms were arranged directly behind one another with a hallway that went from the front to the back, uninterrupted. A person could literally stand at the front door and shoot a shotgun right out the backdoor if they had a mind to. Cleotha had no idea when the house was built, but on Cleveland Street, every home looked as if it had always been run down. Her father had been a soldier. That was the beginning and end of the knowledge of her dad. In truth, Cleotha wasn’t even sure if that was true. Her mother was a drug addict and had traded sex for drugs for most of her life. When Cleotha would share stories of the pitiful wretch that bore her, she would say her mother had only given her three things of value: her name, which meant glory; a pearl necklace passed down from her grandmother, and the finest Cajun recipes in all of New Orleans. *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   * “Will you be checking any bags?” asked the airline agent. The question made Cleotha chuckle out loud. She had made a promise to herself 52 years earlier when her Greyhound bus crossed the state line taking her into Mississippi: she was never going to return to New Orleans. Circumstances had forced her to break that promise, but she wasn’t about to stay longer than necessary. “No, I just have my carry-on and my purse,” she responded politely. “A few days in New Orleans is all I can take.” “Enjoy your flight,” came the agent's sincere reply, as Cleotha looked distraught. It didn’t take long for Cleotha to find her seat, sit down, and fasten her seat belt. She had requested and received an aisle seat and was fortunate to have an empty space between her and the businessman who peered out the window before falling fast asleep. Cleotha had ample room to her left and right. Yet, as soon as the door to the plane had closed, she felt trapped. Cleotha had never been claustrophobic, not in her tiny room as a child and not on the crowded streets of her adopted home, New York City. Most native New Yorkers scurried from place to place as if the sidewalks were made of hot coals. They rarely made eye contact unless it was to show off their longest finger. But not Cleotha. She meandered from place to place saying hello to as many people as she could. The tightness of the city was a swaddling comfort to her. Knowing this, she couldn’t understand why the cabin of the 747 was making her chest tight and her breathing labored. It made no sense until she realized it wasn’t the plane that caused her distress—it was her destination. Cleotha’s relationship with her daughter was a lot like her relationship with New Orleans. She loved them, against her better judgment, but she had been hurt by both equally. New Orleans was her birthplace, but it was also the source of visceral pain caused by her troubled mother. Similarly, her daughter Hanniel was her blood and her greatest love, but she was also the source of the same kind of pain and for the same reason. The birth of Hanniel, meaning gift of God, was a surprise to say the least. Cleotha had escaped the slums of New Orleans and made a good life for herself in New York. A cook by trade, she brought authentic southern fare from The Big Easy to The Big Apple. In less than five years, she was running her own kitchen in the heart of Manhattan. A few years later, she opened her own place. With no family to speak of, the restaurant became her closest companion and the diners her children, but there was a loneliness that comes from not trusting anyone, a cruel side effect of being the offspring of a drug-addicted liar. Given the choice, Cleotha wouldn’t have decided to start a family. After all, motherhood is a young woman’s dominion. Alone through her 20’s, 30’s and 40’s, she had given up hope of having a child, but fate had a different plan. At 50, she gave birth to a healthy baby girl. A single mom and a business owner, Cleotha had precious little help raising her daughter. Even as a child, Hanniel would spend her evenings in her mother’s kitchen. Before she was old enough to read, she knew Cleotha’s recipes by heart, and by age thirteen, she was helping prep the kitchen and cook the meals. What had been a struggle initially had become a perfect mother-daughter relationship until Marty came into their lives. Marty, a friend of one of the busboys, never worked an honest day in his 25 years. He was rough, uneducated, drug-addicted, and had an eye for the sixteen-year-old daughter of the head chef. Hanniel wanted to be responsible, she wanted to make her mom proud, but she also had a weakness for Marty. The young girl saw none of Marty’s flaws—all she saw were his piercing blue eyes, his perfect white smile, and his broad shoulders. At first, it was just flirtations accompanied by the occasional trinket, but Marty was playing the long game, and soon the young girl gave in to the older man’s seduction. Hanniel, the bright, beautiful, talented daughter who was Cleotha’s greatest joy, soon followed her boyfriend, becoming a drug addict who practically lived on the streets. Cleotha did everything she could to save her daughter. She paid for rehab, loved her through overdoses, and, above all, prayed for her constantly. She stood by Hanniel without judgment until one day while Cleotha was getting ready for work, she noticed her grandmother’s pearl necklace was missing. It didn’t take long to find it. Hanniel had pawned it two blocks from the restaurant. Cleotha bought her own necklace from the pawn shop, turned off Hanniel’s phone, and changed the locks on the doors. The first part of her life had been ruined by her good-for-nothing mother. She wasn’t going to let the last part be ruined by her equally useless daughter. The last time Cleotha had seen Hanniel was through the peephole of her front door when the strung-out wretch pounded ceaselessly, crying to be let in. When a neighbor called the police, Hanniel ran down the stairs, into the street, and out of her mother’s life. It wasn’t long before Cleotha discovered Hanniel had moved to the one place Cleotha hated more than drug abusers: New Orleans. Cleotha knew this by the postmarks. The first batch of letters asked for money, the second for forgiveness, and the third went unopened. A hard life had made Cleotha a hard woman. In fact, if it hadn’t been for the picture postcard, she might have never seen Hanniel again. The most recent postcard wasn’t a scenic view of New Orleans or a cartoon crawfish saying, It’s butter in Louisiana.  The postcard was a picture of a baby, no more than a few months old and with eyes and a smile exactly like Hanniel’s. The address was in her daughter’s distinctive handwriting and the note read: This is your granddaughter. Cleotha instinctively knew it was an invitation, one she would not—could not—refuse. The next day she purchased a plane ticket to New Orleans.  Cleotha didn't have a plan—she had no idea what was waiting for her in New Orleans other than a baby and a story she knew she needed to hear. ********* New Orleans is the kind of city you can recognize without seeing. Walking through the French Quarter, one’s olfactory glands are inundated with the wonderful smells of crawfish etouffee and jambalaya. The unique and wonderful dialect is a cross between southern drawl, Cajun twang, with just enough French to make it sing. *********** There was nothing Cleotha wanted more than to hate walking down Bourbon Street as she followed the GPS on her phone. However, like so many bad parts of the past, when one is forced to go back and reflect, all that is remembered is the good. Back on the streets of New Orleans, Cleotha wasn’t thinking about her mother; she was thinking about old friends, warm summer nights on the bayou, and the heartbeat of the city she once loved. She was also thinking about her new granddaughter, and for the first time, she felt the thrill of seeing Hanniel again.  The sights and sounds and memories were so intoxicating that Cleotha almost walked past the place she had been looking for since she received the postcard. “Arrived,” announced an automated voice from the phone in her left hand, breaking her reverie. Cleotha’s eyes widened as she looked at the sign above the beautiful restaurant she now stood in front of. A freshly painted sign read: “Cleotha’s Place.”  The restaurant was packed with customers waiting on their orders. Cleotha recognized the smells instantly. It was as if someone had moved her own restaurant 1300 miles south. As she scanned the room, a server burst through the kitchen door with a plate full of delicious crawfish. For a split second, Cleotha could see Hanniel in the kitchen, busily preparing the dishes to be served to her patrons. Cleotha broke down into tears. “Excuse me, ma’am,” Cleotha heard as a server sped by her on the right. “Coming through,” came the voice of another as she passed quickly by Cleotha on the left. “Mamma, is that you?” Cleotha turned to the voice she longed to hear just in time to be embraced by her daughter. Through teary eyes, Cleotha looked at her Hanniel for the first time in ten years. “Come with me,” Hanniel said, taking her mother’s hand, leading her to a small office in the back of the restaurant. Once there, Cleotha sobbed as Hanniel picked up her phone and made a call. “Honey, my mom is here. She’s really…” Hanniel’s voice trailed off as tears started to flow. “Can you bring Grace here? Please come quickly.” Hanniel hung up the phone and turned to her mother. “Mama, I am so sorry I hurt you.” Stopping mid-sentence, Hanniel saw the pearls hanging from her mother’s neck. “You bought it back! I searched all over the city but I couldn’t find it. You have it. Mamma…” Hanniel latched on to her mother in the same way she had done as a child. They both wept until the door opened again, revealing a handsome young man holding a child Cleotha instantly recognized as her granddaughter. “Mamma, this is my husband Jackson. We decided he shouldn’t take my last name because then he would be Jackson Jackson.” The three of them broke out into spontaneous laughter. “And this is Grace. Grace means undeserved favor.” Cleotha took the baby from Jackson, aching to hold the child in her arms. “Hanniel, she is the most precious thing I’ve ever seen,” Cleotha said, turning her gaze towards her own daughter. “She’s as precious as you were. I am so proud of you.” Cleotha’s visit lasted just two days, but they were two days that changed three lives. At the airport, as Hanniel waived goodbye, Grace, unimpressed by all that was going on, reached up and played with the pearl necklace which now adorned her own mother’s neck. 

66ns5t

Huston, we have a problem

“Huston, we have a problem,” I mumbled to myself.          “What?”          I looked up to see my wife standing, hands on hips, a puzzled look on her face.          “Oh, sorry, I was talking to myself,” I replied sheepishly.          “You said, Huston, we have a problem.” She stepped a little closer now, concern all over her face. “What’s going on?”          I held up my hands, then tried to explain, “It’s a writing challenge from Reedsy. I have to write a story with the words Huston we have a problem in the first sentence.”          She sat in her desk chair and scooted closer to me before asking, “What are you going to write about?”          I shrugged. “That’s why I was mumbling to myself.”          “Okay,” she inched closer. She was getting into this. “Have you considered a story about the conversation of the astronauts as they were trying to solve the problem?”          “That’s an interesting subject and the basis of the prompt. The problem is that I’ve been away from the NASA program for too long. I don’t think I could honestly portray what they endured during that time. I mean, think about it. The pressure they must have felt. Alone and so far away from earth. I don’t think I could do it justice.”          “Well, how about writing a story about teaching our daughter to drive?”          “What? You want me to tell everyone about how you made me teach her to drive because it scared you too much? How she always sped up behind a car before stepping on the break? That was forty-odd years ago, and she still drives that way. Na, that would be a horror story. That was one of the other prompts, but not for this story.”          She shifted in her chair and leaned forward. “How about the time we lived in Mississippi and the ice storm we went through?”          “I remember. I was in Atlanta at the time. You were still in Mississippi. The NASA project had ended, and we couldn’t sell the house. You were still working with the termination team, and I had that job in Atlanta.”          I shifted in my chair to see her better. “The story wasn’t the ice storm, per se. I mean, we had three inches of ice on the roof of our house. The true story was that you were sick as a dog and unaware that the entire area’s power would be out for three weeks. The ice had brought down the primary power lines across Northern Mississippi. If it wasn’t for our neighbor coming over to check on you and start a fire in the stove, you might have frozen to death. Yes, that was a problem, but I don’t think it qualifies for this story.”          She leaned back and scratched her head, thinking. “How about the time you flew in the Sky Warriors thing?”          “Yep, that was cool. The aircraft had laser guns in the wings. Sensors around the plane that, when struck with the laser, caused smoke to come out of the engine. I got to do barrel rolls and hammer stalls. Flips and cuts, and pulled five g’s. I will leave that one alone as I got my butt kicked by a more experienced pilot.”          “Here’s an idea,” she inched over to look at the blank page on my screen. “Do you remember when I stopped by your office, and that guy kept walking back and forth? He was talking to someone, but no one was there. He had lost contact with reality. That would be a good story.”          “That’s true; he had several imaginary friends with him around town. He also slept under the bridge in a homeless encampment. I don’t have the time to follow him to see any of the glitches that portray him in a realistic light. Even though he is defiantly experiencing issues with reality, it would be demeaning to portray him improperly.”          She rolled her chair back to her desk before saying, “You know your cousin Kenny? Didn’t he go totally off the grid when he returned from South America? He’s a pretty interesting guy to talk to.”          I looked over at her and said, ”Kenny is a strange man. Some of what occurred in the gold fields messed up his mind. The stories he told me would make your hair curl. Also, he lost most of his teeth from some jungle fungus. He and a couple of his friends were working the goldfields when some government soldiers took over half of their gold as they made their way out of the jungle. As far as I know he has gone totally off the grid. He bought a cabin up in the woods and, doesn’t own a phone.”          “Ugh,” she stood to go out the door. “When you finish bloviating, let me know.” She stopped at the door and asked, “Would you like a cup of coffee?”          “I’d love one. Please.”          I turned, looking over my shoulder at the open door, and said, “Bloviating, you say. I don’t bloviate. That would mean I would write useless babble. I might as well copy and paste ‘ Lorem Ipsum  is simply the dummy text of the printing and typesetting industry.’”          I turned back to my blank screen. As if by magic, a cup of coffee appeared in front of me.          “Thank you, my dear. Now please explain how I am bloviating?”          She sat in her desk chair and stared at me over her cup of tea.          “If I were to bloviate,” I went on, “I would write about some guy that came home to find a push button sitting on his table. He might think it looks like the ‘Easy Button’ as seen on TV. He would stare at it and wonder what it was for and how it got there. He would walk around the table looking for any wires and then even look under the table too. Maybe he would think it was the golden buzzer on the show  America’s got talent. If he pushed it, gold confetti would shower down from the ceiling. He would walk around the room and search for canisters that might spew the golden leaflets. He might even walk over to the table and hold his hand over the button, trying to decide whether or not to push it?”          I turned to my wife, who now stood there with a knowing smile, and said, “See, that’s bloviating. Lots of words that say nothing at all.”          “Now, there is something I could write about.”          “What’s that?” she asked.          “How could anyone love the aroma of coffee but hate the taste?”          “Don’t you dare go there if you want dinner tonight?”          I watched her leave the room, then turned back to my computer. The screen still read, Huston, we have a problem.          “You bet,” I sighed.

zq6lf2

SOMEONE ENTERED A FLOWER SHOP

The sign on the door read: Art of Bloom Florist, Sakura Sato Ito, Proprietor Word of mouth from satisfied customers made the small business very successful. Sakura was a petite young woman with jet hair and expressive dark eyes She was well-trained in the Ikebana style, an ancient Japanese art of flower arranging. It emphasizes harmony between the human and natural worlds. It was a Spring day that seldom occurred. The day was perfect, with a bright sun and a cloudless sky. The sweet fragrance of cherry blossoms perfumed the air. What a wonderful day to be alive! Richard and his mother hesitated in front of the door. His mother nudged him to enter the flower shop. A tinkling silver bell in front of the door greeted Richard and his mother. This musical sound alerted Sakura, who was working in the back room. Sakura decorated the shop with her creations. While every display was for sale, they provided inspiration to the customers. Seeing the pieces helped customers bring to life the pictures in their minds. She emerged and approached the couple with a pleasant smile and twinkling eyes. “Good morning. My name is Sakura. How may I help you today?” Richard’s mother nudged him again. “Go ahead, son. Tell her what you need.” The teenager blushed. “I need a corsage for my date to the prom on Saturday night.” Sakura’s smile widened. She asked Richard if he knew the color of the girl’s dress. “Carole describes the color as ‘blush pink.’” Next, Sakura asked if he wanted a matching boutonniere. His mother answered for the young man and said they did. “You may pick up your items tomorrow. I will use silk flowers, so you can have them as a keepsake.” “Sakura, that is a wonderful idea.” “I agree, Mom. It will delight Carole.” The mother and son left Sakura alone to work on their order. The next day, Richard and his mother returned to the flower shop. Sakura showed them the items. She had created a corsage featuring a full silk blush pink colored rose with a matching bud beside it. The design included upright stalks made of tiny white pearl beads. Sakura chose an ostrich feather and a slight semitransparent blush pink ribbon. Richard’s mother gasped when she saw the creation. Richard was in awe. Then Sakura displayed the boutonniere: Remarkable not only in its simplicity but in its elegance, too The item comprised a blush pink rosebud and a single pearl stalk wrapped in the same ribbon as the corsage. Richard and his mother express their gratitude to Sakura and her artistry. They paid for the items, promising to return to buy more things. Left alone in her shop, Sakura smiled with satisfaction. Another happy customer. ~*~ It was a Summer day that seldom occurred. The day was perfect, with a bright sun and a sky filled with big, billowy clouds. The sweet fragrance of mown grass and myriad wild flowers perfumed the air. What a wonderful day to be alive! Richard and Carole hesitated in front of the door. The couple loved one another. Richard and Carole stood with their hands entwined to steady the trembling. They drew in deep breaths. Then released them. Richard smiled as he read the sign on the door. Sakura had not altered her signage. It still read: Art of Bloom Florist, Sakura Sato Ito, Proprietor The tinkling silver bell in front of the door greeted Richard and Carole. Richard felt a sense of returning home. Sakura emerged from the workshop. As she approached the couple, she felt a sense of vague remembrance when she saw Richard. She smiled her wonderful smile as she walked towards the couple. “Welcome to my shop. I am Sakura. How may I help you today?” “You may not remember me. I am Richard, the teenager who bought the corsage and boutonniere for the prom four years ago. This is Carole. She was my prom date.” “I have cherished the corsage since Richard gave it to me.” “Ah. I knew I had met you before, Richard. You have grown.” “What brings you here today?” Carole blushed. “I apologize for the short timeline, but Richard and I are getting married on the Fourth of July. We hope you can design a bouquet for me and a matching boutonniere for him.” “Not a problem. What are your colors and themes for the event?” “I will wear white adorned with crystals. Richard’s tuxedo will be light blue with a white tie and shirt.” Sakura thought of designs for the couple. They waited in silence, fearing disrupting her concentration. After much thought, Sakura suggested a pure white rose with a variegated bud in pink and pale orange shades. Lavender and pussy willows surrounded these. Eucalyptus adds a vibrant backdrop of dark green. Crystals encrusted white ribbons to complete the arrangement. The couple agreed. It was flawless. The boutonniere included a single white rosebud, a sprig of lavender, and a medium-sized eucalyptus branch. The materials she used were silk and preserved specimens. They become a permanent souvenir of their special day. Having made their decisions, the couple left the Art of Bloom Florist. Standing alone in her shop, Sakura smiled. Another happy customer. ~*~ It was a Fall day that seldom occurred. The day was perfect. The bright sun shone through a sparse sprinkling of clouds in the sky. The rich, earthy smells of Autumn filled the air. What a wonderful day to be alive! Richard and Carole stopped in front of the door. The couple was ecstatic and stood with their hands entwined. This helped to steady the trembling. The familiar sign defined where they were: Art of Bloom Florist, Sakura Sato Ito, Proprietor They pushed the door open. The tinkling silver bell in front of the door greeted Richard and Carole. Sakura came out of her workshop at the back of her store. As she approached the couple, she recognized Richard and Carole. She beamed and hurried across the store. “Richard. Carole. Welcome back. How are you? How may I help you?” “Carole and I are here today because we have a new baby. She is Sophie, and we want to welcome her to our home.” “She is a tiny fawn-colored deer Chihuahua. We cannot have human children, so we adopted her.” “Please use your genius to create something spectacular for her.” Sakura knew Richard and Carole wanted a permanent reminder of the joyous occasion. She chose a large bronze vase. Sakura placed two giant smiling sunflowers surrounded by orange tulips into the cylinder. Four tall pussywillow branches stood guard over the other elements. They added the balancing white missing in the work. Southern Smilax draped with grace over the vase. The green stood out against the bronze container. Carole and Richard picked up their order. It exceeded their expectations. They hurried home to share the work of art with Sophie. Sakura stood alone, looking around her shop. Another happy customer. ~*~ It was a Winter day that seldom occurred. The day was perfect. The bright sun shone through a sky filled with snow clouds. The sweet fragrance of the crispy snow perfumed the air. What a wonderful day to be alive! Richard and Carole were inconsolable. Sophie, their precious Chihuahua, was gone. For the past fifteen years, she was a treasured family member. The veterinarian explained in quiet tones. “The cancer treatments did not work. There is nothing else to try.” “I cannot predict how long Sophie may cling to life.” “She does not want to leave you. It is the only thing keeping her alive.” “This is a poor quality of life.” “Sophie is in agony.” “It is time to say goodbye. Show Sophie your love by letting her go.” Richard and Carole sat with Sophie. They petted her, reminisced on happier times, and told her how much she meant to them. They asked her to wait for them at Rainbow Bridge. It broke their hearts when she breathed her last breath, but she was at peace. Richard and Carole stood in front of the door. In silence, Richard read the sign as they had on every significant event in their lives: Art of Bloom Florist, Sakura Sato Ito, Proprietor Their hearts were heavy with grief and guilt. They entered the florist shop with their hands clasped together. Holding hands comforted them and helped to steady the shaking. They pushed open the door to the familiar tinkling of the silver bell. Sakura exited the workshop. She recognized Richard and Carole. She knew they were in mourning. The florist, their friend, drew them to her chest and cried with them. A cloud of compassion enveloped Richard and Carole. Richard tried to regain his composure. He shared with Sakura they needed the arrangement to place beside their beloved Sophie’s urn in its place of honor in the curio cabinet. The front of the store created a soothing environment. The emotional events of the day left them drained. The couple waited for the florist in the soothing cocoon of her front room. Looking without seeing, they stared straight at the floor amid the various designs Sakura placed for displays. Sakura gathered her materials. Her thoughts centered on the couple waiting in the shop’s front. She considered making a quick small floral arrangement in a vase. This offering has a short period fading after seventy-two hours or fewer. Their sense of loss may increase watching the cut flowers in the vase “die.” Sakura created a permanent arrangement using silk flowers and dried branches in the Ikebana method. Ikebana is a Japanese art of flower arrangement that emphasizes harmony between the human and natural worlds. A small, delicate, black bowl-shaped container served as the substructure for the compact design. The centerpiece of the bouquet was a single flawless red rose surrounded by yellow chrysanthemums. As a finishing touch, Sakura added kiwi branches. The fabrics and hues were ideal for their first period of grief---mourning. Sakura’s artistic arrangement’s serene elegance carried over without effort into the healing stage of the grieving phase. Sakura returned to the waiting couple carrying her artistic creation. Richard and Carole agreed it was perfect. They walked over to the counter to pay for the memorial Sakura had created. “No, no. There is no charge for this. It is a gift to you: from my heart to yours.” The trio embraced one more time. Richard and Carole left, clutching the remembrance against their shattered hearts. Sakura stood alone in her shop. Tears streamed along her face. Her jet hair was now salt-and-pepper, but her bright eyes still shone. Depleted: This last sorrowful arrangement overshadowed a lifetime of joy she provided to her customers. They were not happy customers. Their hearts remained broken. ~*~ It was a day unlike any other. Torrential rain poured, bouncing off the mourners’ umbrellas. The endless line of grieving people dressed in black walked behind the casket on its way to the Buddhist temple. The sign on the door was gone. The tinkling bell was gone. The bright, artistic Proprietor was gone. She requested to be cremated. Next Spring, our Sakura asked for her ashes to be scattered in the wind during Sakura, The Festival of the Cherry Blossoms. Her indomitable spirit becomes one with the Universe.

1l3mkd

Witch

The sound of hoofbeats were loud in the early hours of the morning. For those first few seconds, through the thick fog of sleep, Tobin Swinton thought he was dreaming the sound of a galloping horse. But, as the sound grew louder, he sat bolt upright. No one ever roused Tobin from his sleep unless they were holding someone in the Witch Jail.    It had been years. Years. He had believed this was all over with. He had thought this had all ended years ago. He had prayed the last one was the last one. Until now, it seemed.    Tobin Swinton was a man haunted. His past was always present. And how his past did haunt him. Solitude, silence and time itself, however, can provide a very clear perspective. Completely unlike the lens of hysteria and frenzy and emotion, which is loud, heated and strident.    Sattersfield, Massachusetts 1700     Tobin Swinton had been a very obedient child, a very good child. No one in his township of Sattersfield would doubt that. Born to be good many would say, a righteous young man. Following the death of his father, he would become a strong right hand for Reverend Williams, the township's fiery passionate Minister. Tobin had been taken into the Reverend's household at an early age, his mother having passed away within a few months of giving birth to Tobin, and his father dying, of a hacking cough, just a few years later. The township had admired the Reverend's generosity to an orphaned boy. They were proud of the way he had raised Tobin. Tobin was a thoughtful child, considerate and kind and profoundly moral.     They knew Tobin would inherit the Reverend's pulpit. The Reverend preached powerful sermons every Sunday, Tobin by his side. The Reverend did not neglect his parishioners. He took good care of his devout flock.     He was also a witch hunter, and he took his duties-here-very seriously. He had chased the Devil out of the township. And the township was very grateful for that. There was no devil in Sattersfield. And under the Reverend's tutelage Tobin had been zealous. He had never shirked from doing what the Reverend told him to do. The Reverend had been a Godly man, to whom Tobin owed much.    In the name of God searching out the devil, and saving the souls of so many, was a righteous task, never to be denied. It was a task born of love for humanity. Love of God. The desire to save. And a determination to keep one's flock on the Path of Righteousness.    While Tobin felt tremendous loyalty and gratitude to God and to the Reverend, the Reverend's gratitude and loyalty moved along a different track, and he worshipped a very different God. Same God as the town fathers and the town Elders. Their God was wealth, riches. And Tobin's love of God, his desire to protect his flock from evil, his loyalty and gratefulness to the Reverend had proven highly useful and quite lucrative. They had all profited heavily from it. Quietly and heavily. Yes, Tobin was a haunted man. He understood all of it now. He understood he had been used. The Reverend had gone to meet his maker four short years ago. And Tobin had inherited his duties and his pulpit. On Sunday's he preached passionate sermons. He guided his flock and Tobin had prayed--daily--there would be no accusations of witchcraft leveled at anyone.     In the past, these accusations had whipped the town into a frenzy. And in his passion and almost blind loyalty Tobin had been whipped into a frenzy, as well. The Reverend holding him by the arm insisting the devil must be driven from the township, and Tobin was perfect for the task. Young, strong and healthy. Accusations of witchcraft took hold of the township of Sattersfield, as they had almost everywhere, it seemed. Accusations thickened the very air, poisoning everything, and everyone. Tobin pursued suspected witches with true zealotry. He had truly believed he was saving souls. Protecting people from great evil. Now he knew better. How blind had he been? How many innocents....how many?    His thoughts were interrupted by the pounding on his door. Sighing, Tobin looked down at his long underwear and shuffled to the door. As he expected, town Magistrate John Goodman was the visitor. "We have found a witch Tobin! We have found a witch. You must come immediately!"    "Who?" Asked Tobin.     "Goody James's daughter Felicity. Felicity James." The James's, a wealthy family in Sattersfield. Tobin was not surprised. He ran through his recollections of the people he knew in Salttersfield, and he vaguely knew who the James' were. "Where is she?" He  asked.      "We're holding her in the Witch  Jail," said the Magistrate giving Tobin a searching look. "That is where witches are held. Is it not?"    Tobin stared off into the distance. He could not return the look. 'There are no witches" he thought. Eyes carefully averted. Expression neutral.      " But, of course" is what he said, clasping his hands in front of him.. "Can you come along, then?" asked Goodman. "Let me get dressed and saddle Old Jack," said Tobin. " I thought we had beaten the Devil back into hell," said Tobin.    "Apparently not," said Goodman. A smile on his lips. Tobin did not return the smile.    "Felicity James".........he mused. No one specific really came to mind.    "She is of 12 years and has already been examined." "That will be helpful," said Tobin. "Makes God's work easier. Ride ahead while I prepare. I will be close behind you."    Tobin closed the door and stood quietly for a moment....eyes closed. He already knew he was not going to do this. It made him sick just thinking about this. Too much..too many. Too many... The Reverend, whom he had once loved and trusted with his life, had filled his pockets along with the town Fathers, the Elders. They had stolen from the accused. Land, property, money, and the personal possessions of those, soon to be dead: by his hand, and the Reverend's.    It had taken Tobin years to discern the pattern. It had all been so cleverly done. Sattersfield had been a very poor community at one time. Not anymore. Once the hysteria had died down, Tobin had ample time to think. The Reverend had been bedridden at this point, soon to pass. Tobin had ascended to the pulpit, inheriting the Reverend's duties, and in moments of quiet contemplation he realized how badly he had been used.    All lies. People abused, tortured, and killed for lies. Burned alive, some of them. For greed. The ghosts were real. They had names, they had faces.   Years ago, Tobin had believed in what he considered to be his holy mission. He had truly believed God had given him a purpose. Chosen him for a holy purpose. But with the Reverend gone, in the quiet, Tobin had realized many things. There was a pattern.    Properties were seized. Livestock was taken. There was a reason for all of this. Greed. Money, gain, and possessions. Accusing people, sentencing them to death, then stealing from them. Taking everything. All now owned by the township. Lies for personal gain, for personal enrichment. The abuse, the torment. The convictions all based on lies. He sighed as he dressed. His heart was heavy as he tugged on his boots. 'I am not going to do this," he thought. 'But how can I save this child.'    He slammed his door and headed to the barn. Old Jack whinnied softly when he saw him. He led Jack out of his stall and saddled him as he had done so many other times. Jack stood quietly...patient as always. Tobin climbed into the saddle and Jack headed toward the township.    Luckily, Jack knew the way by heart. Tobin's mind was was not on the trail ahead of him. The past was present. All the faces blended into one. What he clearly remembered was the screams, then the groans, the soft sobbing, moaning, the begging the pleading. The flow of blood, the color, the bones cracking, the gasps, then the silence. The silence. "I am not doing this,' Tobin thought. 'And they will turn on me. They will turn on me. But my mind is made up.'    All too soon...Jack reached the Jail. Tobin climbed down and looped his reins over the rail. Goodman had left the key hanging from the iron hook next to the door. Tobin reached for the key, but he stopped.    He leaned his head against the door. He stayed there for a few minutes...thinking. He was coming to a decision. He had the basics of a plan.... He grabbed the key, twisted it in the lock until he heard the click. Upon entering the jail the darkness was complete. He lit the lantern placed on a small wooden table outside the small roughly made door. Iron bars on the top half, wood on the bottom.     He squatted down to crawl through, lantern held high. There was a small bundle of rags in the corner...shaking, trembling, snuffling, hiccuping sobs rising and falling from the bundle. As Tobin raised the lantern higher he could see bloodstains darkening the material in spots. The material looked expensive, silky.    "Look at me child" he said. The rags shifted and a mewling sound rose." I am not going to hurt you. I am going to take you out of here. You are rescued."     A small face turned to look at him. It was the face of a terrified, cowering child. Her face was covered with bruises, one eye swollen shut. Blood red and sticky ran down her chin. She stared at Tobin with eyes that were empty, wide, staring.     Tobin reached down and hefted the child into his arms. In a stooping squat, he carried her out of the jail and into the early dawn. As he placed her on top of Jack, he told her to hang on, praying that she had enough presence of mind to understand. He swung himself quickly up behind her, not wishing to take any chances    "You are no witch," he said. I am taking you out of this village. You must never return." Your life now lies elsewhere. Do not return."    He looked down at her face as he spoke. Her eyes fastened on his face. Tobin breathed a sigh of relief.     There was a settlement some miles down the road. That is where he intended to take the child. At least....there...sanity prevailed. Over the years, Tobin had become acquainted with the settlement's Reverend and his wife. They were aware of what had been done to Tobin. How he had been used. In the past, this Reverend had attended many Faith Conferences and his friendship with Tobin had flourished.    He considered cries of "witchcraft" to be superstitious nonsense. The accusations harmful and malicious. They quietly educated their Flock every Sunday. And they had educated Tobin as well. Tobin believed the Reverend and his wife would help.    They were people who did not approve of this hysteria, this frenzy, this suspecting everyone of witchcraft.    Every Sunday their Reverend had preached against this. He worked hard to reach his flock. Tobin knew the child would be safe with these people. They were childless, and good, kind people as well.    He urged Jack onward. 'The witch simply disappeared, the wagging tongues would say, and she took Tobin Swinton with her! The devil wanted Tobin. He walked in the Reverend's footsteps.' Tobin had made his decision. He knew exactly what he was going to do. The people in Sattersfield would believe for the rest of their lives, that the devil had taken both Tobin Swinton and the "witch."    Tobin sighed and shifted the child in his arms. There was little he could do about the mentality. He had worked hard at the Reverend's urging to instill this mentality. His conscience would prick him for the rest of his life. He deserved it, he thought.    He began to rein Jack in as he approached the Reverend's house. The Reverend and his wife opened the door and came down the steps, helping Tobin hand the child down. Tobin dismounted and placed the child in the Reverend's arms. The Reverend took one look at the child's beaten battered face, and raised hand his eyebrows. "A witch?" he asked. The Reverend's wife clucked in sympathy and whispered to her husband to bring the poor child inside.    "Can you keep her? Can you hide her? Will you keep her?" asked Tobin. I am leaving. I will not be returning. This is for both our sakes."    "How can we not?" asked the Reverend, answering a question with a question. "It is our Christian duty."  "A good decision Tobin. For her and for you. May you find peace."    The Reverend's wife laid her hand gently on the child, and with her other hand she lightly patted Tobin on the shoulder. " You are a good man Tobin. She is safe with us. We will keep her, we will protect her and God speed."    Tobin mounted Jack and the last he saw of his friends they were carrying the child into their home. The Reverend's wife gently smoothing the hair away from the small battered face.    Yes, Tobin Swinton was a good man. A very good man, and in the name of God . 

27kfe1

Hummingbird

Jake sits upright at the end of the couch, elbows locked on his knees. He stares past his therapist, out the pale screen of dawn, to a hummingbird that darts between red and purple petunias. “Look,” Jake says. “A hummingbird.” The therapist doesn’t turn. He speaks in staccato. “What draws your attention to the hummingbird?” Jake shrugs. “I haven’t seen one in a long time, that’s all.” “And how does that make you feel?” “Nostalgic.” Jake pauses, making sure his next word is closer to meaning something. “Wanting.” “What exactly, ” the therapist says, raising his eyebrows, “do you want, Jake?” Jake looks at the shimmery green as it bounces across the window. “For it all to go back to normal. That’s what I want.” “Well, let’s start with normal.” The therapist pulls a white clipboard atop his crossed legs. “What does normal look like to you?” Jake drops his head deeper into his lap, his hands running across his face and through his hair. Then he looks back at his therapist. “Normal is before I met Mushu.” “Ah. Now we’re getting somewhere.” The therapist smiles with guarded teeth. “Tell me about this foe of yours, Mushu.” “He’s not a foe,” Jake begins. “He’s a friend, actually. I met him at the tennis court.” “What made you befriend Mushu?” “He looked dependent.” The words leapt from his lips, and he was embarrassed of them, despite their truth. He’d been looking for a doubles partner, and Mushu had dressed the part. Jake remembers their first match, the way Mushu’s waterfall hair seemed to expand as he ran, his lanky backhand that put fuzzy green skid marks on the court. “We started hanging after games, for pints or dinner or whatever.” The therapist jots a note down. “It seems like a normal relationship to me. What about it feels abnormal?” “That’s the thing.” Jake grits his teeth and releases. “It sounds crazy.” “Go on. I won’t judge.” But he’s raising his eyebrows again. “Well, it started a few months ago. We had planned on dinner at my place, so I was grilling on the lawn. My girlfriend, Nancy, was prepping some Brussel sprouts inside, and when Mushu’s girl arrived, she ran right in to meet her. That left me and Mushu alone out front.” “And? Did anything occur?” Jake sighs, his entire being deflating with it. “Not on the surface, no. It was just regular Mushu in his tennis whites, his red headband keeping the hair off his ears. He made a few jokes about me burning the food and the paint job on my fence, and then we went inside.” “Sounds pleasant.” “Yeah,” Jake knots his hands together, “but it wasn’t. It was all fake.” The pen in the therapist’s hand stops suddenly. “Explain.” Jake thought back- how had he known that first time? It was a summer day, a season where the colors became hypnotic under so much light, and all those colors seemed etched in his mind like a gravestone- the Miracle-Gro green at his feet, the Egyptian blue that ran around Mushu’s form, and his form itself, which was so white and tan that he could have passed as the final piece of his fencepost. That wasn’t what he remembered most clearly, though. It was- “His smile.” Jake says, his voice brittle. “He was wearing this yellow smile, so tight to his cheeks that I thought it might snap like a rubber band. And it was the whole time, through every joke, completely unwavering. It felt like… you know…” “What?” The therapist knots his hands in reflection. “It felt like he was performing.” “Performing?” The therapist gives a tight grin. “Performing for who?” “It wasn’t for me, that’s for sure. He’d take these big, long pauses after each joke, even when I wasn’t laughing. It felt like his jokes went…through me, like we were somewhere far away from that lawn on Meadow Lane, and he was on a stage or something, projecting.” “Jake, I don’t want to upset you,” the therapist begins, “but this sounds like a textbook case of paranoid narcissism. Nervousness, delusions of grandeur, and a high sense of self-importance.” The therapist stares at Jake. “Do you think this aligns with what you’re feeling?” “I’d agree,” says Jake, “if this only happened the one time.” “This is an ongoing trend?” “About every week. When I walk through the gates to the tennis courts, I feel this weird… static. It’s like pins and needles across my skull. And that’s when I see Mushu come over, his teeth the size of saucers, and he starts cracking away. ‘Jakey! Hope that’s a limp I see- I’ve got lunch in an hour!’ or ‘Make sure you double knot those laces- the weatherman said 50% chance of ace!’” “So he annoys you? Is that the core of this?” The therapist is writing again. “No,” Jake says. “That’s not it at all. Sure, the jokes are lazy, but if he was my friend, I’d smile and shrug them off. The point is, I’m not sure he’s my friend anymore. Under those wet blue eyes and that Cheshire grin is… someone that wants to use me.” “There goes those feelings of narcissism, Jake.” The therapist clicks his tongue. “We’ll work on-“ “It’s spreading,” Jake interrupts in a cold breath. “That’s why I’m coming to therapy. Because I think it’s spreading, and I don’t know where else to go.” “Spreading how?” The therapist crosses his legs. “It’s at these big events, like a dinner a few days ago. It was the four of us again, at Mushu’s place, and I already didn’t want to go, but Nancy told me it’d be rude to say otherwise. So we went over, brought some wine, and it all seemed OK until I walked through his apartment door.” “The static?” Jake nods, shifting his eyes back to the window. The hummingbird is still there, moving faster now, zigzagging between the hard-to-reach blossoms. “It was bigger this time, closer to a convulsion, and I nearly passed out as those pins ricocheted through my sciatic. It did weird things in my head, too. I started to hear applause, like hundreds of hands at once, and what sounded like corny laught- “ “This sounds serious, Jake. We’ll have to get you on some Prozac. Remind me at the end of our session.” The therapist takes a note, and notices Jake is waiting to speak again. “Continue.” “Mushu looked bad. Not in a dying way, but it was obvious he was losing to this… force… within him. His eyes were bloodshot and dry in their broadness, and every action seemed strained and over the top. He’d fling open doors with wild mannerisms, skid into each room, and almost fall on top of the expensive China hidden around his house. He even knocked a family photo off the wall, sending glass across the floor like a burst atom. All he said was ‘Praying THAT’S not an omen!’” “OK. And the pauses?” “They were longer, more than a beat. It wasn’t just for dramatic effect, either, like the other ones- I think, in the group setting, he was looking for a back-and-forth. Which is ultimately what he got.” “Expand on that.” “Well, we were at the dinner table, with chicken and mash and corn between us, and Mushu began his antics again. ‘Pass me the Jake- I mean the chicken!’ And there was silence. I waited for it to wash over, so we could eat and just abandon the dinner altogether, but then I heard Nancy over my shoulder. ‘At least he’s not as corny as you, Mush.’ I choked on my water as she looked at me. Her eyes had calcified into buttons, and she wore a new, glossy smile that was closer to a car decal than a true expression of self.” “Did it frighten you? Your girlfriend’s reaction?” “Yes! It’s easy to pass judgement in the majority. But straight after Nancy was a comment from Mushu’s girl, and that’s when I knew the disease, or whatever it was, had gotten them. I knew they had turned on me.” “Don’t you feel ‘turned on me’ is a bit of an exaggeration? It was just harmless quipping.” Jake stands up, his fingers now serrating his hairline. He begins to pace in little circles. “You couldn’t see the stares, Doctor. After the three of them had spoken, they all locked their gazes on me. Each was that over-excited, drug-addicted gape of the lost- and that, I could have gotten over. But there was more than that. More eyes. It felt like the world had turned its attention on me, as if fifty million ghosts had packed that dining room and were breathing down my neck. It was stage fright of the millionth degree.” “So what did you do?” Jake freezes, his spine arched like a cat, his hands balled into cement. “Nothing. Not even Jerry Lewis could have shrugged off that pressure. So I choked on my tongue. It washed over the entire table, a minute at least, while I juggled with my own presenter’s dilemma on whether to scramble for words or shrivel up in the silence. I found there was no right answer, though, because that’s when the other side of that thing came out. The side that hid between cracking teeth and vacant pupils.” The therapist bites his top lip and scrunches his eyes up. “You’re referring to the monster?” He notices Jake’s foot tapping three raps a second. “It’s more of an energy, I think. First I heard was the cracking of dining chairs on the hardwood floor. It made me flinch at the force of it, and when I looked back up, they were all standing, staring through me. On their faces were frowns, curved so tight and aggressive that they weaved into the neck and called upon every tendon. Mushu began yelling, almost barking, and there was a touch of static in his voice now, as if his scream was carried on radio waves. ‘LINE!’ I could hear him saying. “LINE!” I backed my chair away to make a quick exit. But, turning to run, I noticed the ladies had blocked my path and were chanting the same phrase- ‘LINE!’ ‘LINE!’ ‘LINE!’ They moved closer to me, trapping me between them and the dinner table. I only got out of there by diving headfirst under the tablecloth and crawling towards the door. I haven’t seen any of them since.” There is a silence now, and as the therapist uncrosses his legs, Jake does another small circle. “So, Jake, you tell me this story. The question is- what do you make of it?” Jake’s mouth, which had been gaping open throughout his tirade, snaps hard against his jaw. He sits back down, realizing he’s exhausted, and reclines against the blue couch. There’s an answer for this question- Jake knows he’s been dancing around it all afternoon, which has felt longer and more eventful then his last ten years combined. He closes his eyes, and channels that feeling as best he can. Copying his therapist’s staccato tone, he says: “There’s another world out there. And I’m afraid it’s trying to claim me.” The therapist looks to Jake, and for a moment he believes the therapist has become one of Them, the way his eyes seem so far away. But then he turns and walks towards the window. The sky has become murky during their talk, the window flush with clouds with only a few flowers to brighten the day. The hummingbird hovers no longer. “I get it now,” the therapist says, his arms crossed behind his back. In the frame of the windowpane, he is a cutout cloaked in black. There is a short laugh, declaratory, and he speaks again. “I get it.” “Get what?” Jake says. His foot is beginning to tap again. “How you need to be written.” The therapist turns, and Jake can see he is scribbling furiously on the yellow swatch of paper attached to his clipboard. “What about me are you writing?” Jake is clueless, and he feels a spark of anger in his stomach that is quickly extinguished. “I’m not writing ABOUT you, Jake. I’m writing YOU.” The therapist pedals back to his seat, and Jake can see a half-grin across his face. They meet eye-to-eye. “See, before, I thought you were a foil,” the therapist says. “Casting wise, it made sense- Mushu is tall and skinny, while you’re boxy and strong. A Costanza type to balance Mushu’s Kramer.” The therapist flips the paper. “But you’re not a Costanza, are you? Too flighty for conflict, too cautious for comedy. Awareness is your greatest strength- and your biggest weakness.” Jake pushes a finger out, attempting a word, but the therapist battles on. “See, it was all that hummingbird garbage that got me thinking- maybe you’re my hummingbird! They’re delicate creatures, beautiful feats of nature, and that could make for a good character arc in season two. But for now we need conflict, and throwing a hummingbird in a cardboard box every other episode will surely stir things up, right?” He delivers a storky cackle once more. Jake doesn’t know when he’ll get to speak again, so he stands and blurts out “What are you talking about?” The therapist points out an outstretched hand, eyebrows up high. “See? Look at yourself. This is what I’m talking about- the fact that you can’t figure out what’s going on causes you to panic. To act irrationally.” The therapist shrugs. “It’s good television!” Jake feels dizzy, and in his wet paint vision he realizes none of this looks familiar. He doesn’t remember a receptionist, a lobby- he can’t even recall if he drove his own car. “How did I get here?” Jake says as he stumbles into the coffee table. “I brought you.” The therapist says, smiling openly now. “I brought you all here, on pen and paper.” He disconnects the yellow sheet from his clipboard, and places it on the table between them. A small ding radiates through the room, coming from the therapist’s wristwatch. He sucks his teeth. “Seems we’re out of time. No worries- I’ll see you on set. As for my 10:30 block…” He holds up the white clipboard, which Jake recognizes not as a clipboard, but as one of those film clappers they use in movie shoots. “I think I have some revisions to make.” Jake straightens up again and makes one lunge for his therapist. The therapist doesn’t wince, like he might do in the same situation- he only drops the hinged bar atop the slate, sending a sharp clap across the office, into Jake’s body, into Jake’s being, with all the force of a nuclear generator. He sees static, moves across it like a hand over a television screen, and finds himself falling into the world of a million laughing faces. He begins to scream, and as his shouts turn to tears, he beats his arms all the way down. 

u51sfy

The Gardener

Her hands were the color of the earth around them, ungloved like roots. “We try too hard,” she had mumbled when I noted the bare skin. “Put too much work into keeping separate from anything alive.” It was the longest sentence I’d ever heard in that dry-leaf voice. She was an orator of actions, and she had small interest in philosophies she couldn’t touch. In the month since I met the gardener, I learned that she had no love of talk, no interest in convenience, and no respect for weakness. A tree-hugging Spartan. If I had to be here, though, then I might sift through the antiquated, humorless delivery to salvage something like wisdom. Presently, she scooped out a rock and threw it aside to split into chalky reddish layers. I recognized the shiny black shape she tossed out after it, swore when it landed by my shoe. My feet touched the ground again a few feet nearby. “The hell are you doing?” I demanded. “The hell are you afraid of?” she answered without looking up. My eyes narrowed with the suspicion that she was smiling. Outraged, the spider scrabbled a moment before regaining its dignity and creeping away in search of shade. I adjusted my assessment of the gardener’s wisdom, and not for the better. She held out a soiled palm expectantly. My complaints tumbled uselessly in the humid air as I handed her a clump of grass. “We could just sod the whole space,” I said. I got no response.  She grunted, twisted around with the green bundle dangling in her grip. “Break up the roots.” She kneaded her fingers through the tangled white strings until they hung freely before setting it in the hollow she’d dug. I thought about the dispossessed black widow when I picked up rocks from around the plantings, checking below the larger ones as I collected them. The rocks dropped into the wheelbarrow with a sound like…rocks. The gardener told me before that simple things are better left alone, and rocks make simple sounds. The gardener levered herself up and reached for the pickax. She pressed the tool on me and pointed to the next area of compacted ground and patches of concrete. The sun arced overhead. When I clambered into my rusting Jeep to rattle back home, the gardener was still there, hands submerged in broken dirt and sandstone. The next day, I stepped into the empty block and looked around. There was the gardener, off to an early start as she always was. Beds of mixed grasses continued their march into the dead ground. Low, young bushes dotted the green incursion. There was an unintentional artistry in the irregularity of the gardener’s landscape, one that she genuinely tried to avoid. It seemed to me that she took satisfaction in it, though, no matter how she denied it. The day passed like those before, leaving my neck burned redder and my hands rubbed rawer. People stopped sometimes to talk to the gardener, making me wonder if she was secretly able to carry a conversation. Occasionally they even lent a hand, but in the end she would shoo them away and tell them to find their own jobs. I waved to Ben, the retired chef who never left without planting something. “Oh, I like seeing you work!” he said in his smoker’s voice. A new patch of prairie grass tufted beside the scuffed Oxfords he wore. I gave him a smile. “Anyone who isn’t you, right?” Ben laughed, continued down the street. The gardener always seemed more reticent than usual after I talked to Ben or any of the other folks who dropped by. I figured the socializing was a drain on her. A smear of cirrus clouds above the sun gave the impression of an egg cracked in the sky, dripping toward the horizon. We hauled the days collection of rocks and crumbling concrete to the corner of the lot for the city to pick up. The gardener glanced at her watch. “Time’s done.” She signed my papers, handed them back. I glanced at the page. “What happens when it’s all done?” I asked. “City picks the next block.” She held out my pen. “Next week, first block’s ready to grow some trees.” *            *            * I rubbed the back of my neck, noticing the scratch of callus on the skin. Everything was drying out as the hot days rolled on, but the rehabilitated lots were intended to thrive without our intervention. It meant something, laboring all these hours. The three month sentence had stolen my summer away, but sweat and poor conversation was better than a cell block. God bless the system that trusted me to reform, the college kid from a good family who’d never been caught before. The gardener’s project would soon be behind me. Strange—these days I almost enjoyed it. When my last community service hour was marked away, the gardener treated it like any other day. To my own surprise, I told her I’d volunteer a few weekends at the land rehabilitation project again. And I did. My academic suspension ended in cooler air. I prepared to return to school for my final year. And I readied my words for the gardener who had taught me in spite of myself. The day came, and I set aside my shovel for the last time. I crouched and ran my hands, ungloved, through the clay-clogged soil, feeling the satisfaction of a day’s labor and dirt under the fingernails. I approached the gardener. “This project... it started as something I was forced to do. It was a box to check before I went back to what I want, you know? But somewhere along the way, I learned—” “Stop.” The rebuttal shocked me into silence. The gardener met my eyes, her expression bizarrely angry. “Don’t want to hear about your reform.” I was at a loss. “Look, it’s not just that. You taught me about hard work. You taught me about, um, community. And I just want to say thank you for that.” “It’s not about you.” The gardener turned her back on me, went back to breaking up an old shed foundation. Stunned, I strove without success to move from surprise to outrage. I stood in a cold stupor while the chink , clank of the pickax jarred against my ears. Between swings, a sluggish breeze stirred the scarf around her graying hair. The gardener realized I hadn’t moved and snorted mirthlessly. “I used to talk more,” she continued. “Went to school for business, had a second major in biology.” She shook her head, turning to face me and leaning on the ax handle. “I traveled around, started working in conservation, researched dying neighborhoods like this one. An’ I figured out what keeps us from getting anywhere.” She hefted the pickax and leveled it at me. “We do,” she said. “I went abroad and came back with experiences . I participated in conservation campaigns, and I fretted over the crises like everyone else. I studied poor and disappearing neighborhoods, listened t’ the people who ‘got out’ as if they succeeded. I felt good about trying to make a difference and I thought I was getting somewhere because what mattered was my damn story .” She tossed the pickax aside and turned to gesture to the green lot, or maybe to the world. “None of this is meant to teach us. Hell, it’s meant to erase us.” I took a step back, wishing I had something to say. “I love the people in this neighborhood, kid,” said the gardener after a long minute filled with wind. Exhaustion shaded her. “Just want to make things better around me.” With that, she gathered up her tools and walked home. *            *            * I never forgot the gardener. Years later, on a visit to the city, I drove back through the neighborhood to see the land rehabilitation project. A few of the blocks made up a thriving wildlife corridor, marked by a higher quantity of roadkill nearby. I approached the site of my first project lot, found it rezoned and sold as commercial property. Not thirsty but wanting a drink, I walked through smooth electric doors into the Dollar General there. Fluorescent shelves hummed with borrowed light. I shifted a Coke from the cooler to the counter. “That’s two forty-three,” said the cashier in bland Midwest tones. She didn’t wear a nametag. The machine beeped tactlessly at me until I gave up on paying with my card. I fished out a wrinkled Lincoln under the worker’s indifferent stare. When I emerged again, I paused to look at the sandy ground between the parking lot and the next building. I took a sip of soda and smiled at the memory of earth in my hands.

2w9zyr

Clear the Rail

“Clear the Rail” By  Autumn M. Brock Flying through the breezeway hall into the back of house slapped with smells of soup, a smorgasbord of cooking and rising heat. Sounds changed from buzzing conversation to the bang of equipment, taps of dishware and the defined command or response from both sides of the line which inevitably flew covers in and out of this speed zone. Once through the threshold front of house staff transformed from polite amiable hosts to the more realistic versions of pestered humans they were. This often left the kitchen staff to act as snarky malcontents. Each server had the consuming goal of expediting multiple complex orders to their guests. All that stood in their way were other servers, who also had the same time constraints, and the kitchen staff. This delicate dance thrummed a pace of chaos, always accompanied by the demon of new tickets spewing from the printer. Food hit plates, slid along the line and was dressed by artistic garnish. Up it went to the hot deck and held its breath for a moment before collection. Arms, hands and elbows flipped up and down, jostling for position and tray space to create a perfect balance before a shoulder hoist would ride them down the breezeway and out of present memory. Water and bread were delivered, drinks and meals for three fresh multi-tops were entered into the POS, a full section was biding time before salads, appetizers then mains dropped. New salads should hit the line in 5 minutes. Drinks would be delivered by Cocktail, so Linn sipped a lukewarm cup of soup. She’d poured it an hour ago then stashed it on a high shelf behind the coffee mugs as service picked up. She watched the chefs dance grill and sauté stations, robotically grabbing a tool or reaching for ingredients. They stepped back from the burners, raising searing pans off the flames and reached for tongs, knives or spatulas with one of six hands they seemed to possess, then spun around to plate. Amid the fired orders, calls, responses and demands for refreshed mise from the way back to the line, there was also discussion of drinks and poker later. Sous chef Rachel raised two direct hazel eyes over the hot window shelf as she sauced pasta with a pan of alfredo, ‘Any chance a pitcher will walk back here soon?’ ‘I’ll ask Cocktail to mention it to Woody.’ Linn said. ‘What’s the buy in?’ ’Twenty. Bring whiskey, yeah? After closing we’ll all head to Todd’s.’ Her eyes darted back down briefly, and two chicken alfredo’s hit the deck for Expo to check with a polite dish spin. He moved them together with two rib eyes and a top sirloin which had been up for a minute. His ticket hit this collection and Expo stepped forward so the server could have space to take their tray. The swish of rapid-fire printing spit two more chits up and grill chef Todd snatched them from over the top of Rachels shoulder as she dipped down and returned to her simmering sauté pans. ‘Walk 23!’ Expo called. ‘Table 17. Three Special, One Pasta Prima, Well Loin drags that. Table 3. Sockeye, and One Med Prime all day!’ ‘Heard Chef.’ Chorused the round of distinct voices. Todd fed the tickets into the rail line and spun to start searing meat. Linn kicked herself off the counter, dropped her empty cup of soup in a tub and grabbed a tray, sliding into place on the salad pass to the right after another cover walked inches from her nose. She reached for plate after plate of salad and appetizers sitting ready for her. She counted seven, placed them evenly around the tray, jockeying the edges of the dishes to lock steady and save space. ‘Extra side of ranch, please.’ Line cook Dave immediately hit a ramekin on the pass, and she brought it down to the correct plate, shoving a little greenery aside to make it fit. Steady hand on the tray, Linn bucked her knees down and guided the entire circus to her shoulder then walked. Another server took her space immediately. It was a few minutes before she came back down the breeze with a collection of completed plates and a few empty glasses on the tray. She paused at the rack and without malice sorted them to specific tubs for Dish pickup. Silverware in a pile to the side, plates to the middle and water glasses right beside them. Bar glasses like the heavy highballs, pints and delicate martinis were stowed in the lowest rack; they would be run straight up front for a clean turnaround by the barback. She wiped the tray, tossed the spent napkin into the linen hamper and leaned the stand into line with its mates against the wall, stowing the tray on a shelf for its next trip. She washed her hands off in a sink and grabbed a fresh cloth napkin. She was tucking it into her belt and stepping in queue for a hot line pickup, already eyeing available dishes for whichever ticket was going to make up her next steps. She had an idea which it should be but there was always a temp specification or ingredient request which might lag items on the deck. Expo Matt would decide when a ticket was fulfilled and could walk. ‘Behind, behind, behind.’ came the call as Dish scuttled through the mayhem of salad/fry, fish, sauté and grill stations. He was restocking pans, spatulas, spoons, tongs and knives with marked efficiency as each station continued cooking. He reached across backs and under arms, tucking a fresh utensil here and there, setting them on to specific hooks and locations, stowing clean pans and pots to low shelves. He managed to be wherever that station chef presently was not and then he was gone, disappeared to the way back and steam of the dish section. ‘Pitcher fired. Shouldn’t be long’ Linn told Rachels back. She saw a small nod and Todd glanced toward her with a relieved smile. He grabbed up a carving knife and turned for the prime rib drawer. Setting a plate into position, he secured, sliced, au jus dipped then maneuvered that thick cut into position. Rachel turned with a pan of marinara and was pouring it over noodles as he shut the meat drawer, which jostled the carving knife and Todd tried to save it from falling. Rachel moved for a spatula to get the last of the sauce out. Linn had seen one hundred thousand passes same as this. It was always smooth when people and the hot things boogied about. And this was no different than any other she could remember. Only this time, the symbiosis glitched and that 10-inch carving knife was suddenly impaled through Rachel's hand. It slid between the middle and ring finger when she reached for the spatula, embedding through the palm as though passing through hot butter and poking an inch of pale steel clean out the other side. The two chefs froze, momentarily trapped together by momentum's. Todd dropped his knife, though it didn’t go anywhere now. Rachel dropped the hot pan with a muted clatter onto the mats at their feet; marinara spattered. She didn’t cry out, just looked at the offending object juxtaposed oddly through her body. She held her arm very stiff. Color greyed out of her flushed skin and all eyes refocused from whatever task they had been on to her. ‘Ethan, Manager.’ That was the only order. It came sternly but quietly from Expo Matt who delicately took his hand off the plate he’d been inspecting and moved through the pass doors to join the two chefs in the kitchen. Beside her Linn saw Ethan make a hasty retreat toward the front of house. While she was frozen the better thought of action was already working through her. ‘Towel!’ She heard her own word and threw that fresh napkin off her belt through the hot pass window. Todd’s hand went up and snagged the flying linen while reaching for Rachel, mostly to steady her as she started to step back near the fryer. He obviously wasn’t sure if she might catch herself. He pulled her vertical, and tightened his grip on her wrist, wrapping the towel expertly around the protruding knife. She eased her arm toward her body like she was cradling a child but kept the pressure. Now there wasn’t blood as might be expected but Linn could see red pooling around and through the cloth lacing Rachel's palm. ‘Eyes on me.’ Todd said so he and Matt could guide her past the hottest area of the kitchen toward the dish racks. ‘Ben watch the grills.’ The line cook edged to his left, turning down knobs to gain extra time he felt was needed. One breath later and Manager Sean came barreling down the breezeway with Ethan in tow. He went straight through the pass doors, into the back to assess this situation. Linn stared at Matt beyond the pass window, he was wide eyed focused on her too and all the staff presently in the area were stuck in place. He suddenly reached through the pass and thrust a stack of tickets toward Linn. ‘Keep it moving. Linn, take Expo.’ Suddenly they all started again. Linn read tickets, pulled plates, servers walked. It was almost like nothing was happening. Sean could be heard in the back telling Todd he was taking Rachel to the ER; she would be fine. Finish the service. As Todd and Matt stepped back to their respective lines the printer was already whirring another round of orders out. The tension broke upon continued expectations. He grabbed the new chits like a zombie and read off, ‘Tables 5, 12, 18. Two Prima Vera, Black Chick Alfredo, Three Prime Med, One Top Rare, Swordfish. Three calamari all day. Let’s clear this rail!’ ‘Yes Chef!’ Pans clattered against burners, utensils clacked, the chorus sang. Woody walked down from the bar pass door none the wiser with that pitcher of cold beer. They always said it was for the fish & chip batter, only it wasn’t. As usual he’d also brought 6 small cold glasses – for the batter. ‘Gimme!’ Dave stepped around the salad window and towed the prizes from the bartender’s arms into the back of the house. ‘I might actually win at cards tonight.’ Matt dropped a completed ticket onto another grouping of plates and Linn stepped back to her space in the line, server once again. She pulled a tray up and with shaky hands began steadying plates for her next cover. Service was nearly over; the kitchen staff had their shift beers and were adjusting positions to cover their missing Sous. The rest of the staff in front of the house wouldn’t hear a peep of this until closing. The End

4uni4t

Weirdo Walter

   December thirty-first, a day that always found me compiling a list of New Year’s resolutions typed on my computer, to likely sit there, and not be revisited until next New Year’s Eve. It usually was a short list and unfortunately, often repetitive; lose weight, exercise daily, take my wife out to dinner more often, apologize to family and friends when I’d been hurtful in some way. The last resolution on my list was always the hardest to fulfill, yet the one of most importance. I just wasn’t good at it. I tended to taint my apologies with rationalizations and defensiveness, weakening their effect on the recipient. Too many times I’d hear my wife ask our son, “Did Dad apologize?” His reply, in a sad, disappointed tone of voice, “Yeah, sort of.” (This, when he was young). Now as an adult during arguments with me, he angrily retorts, “Don’t bother apologizing. You never can admit you’re wrong.”     This year I vowed to change, to truly apologize when needed, to drop my excuses and justifications. This year, I’d even go as far as asking for forgiveness for all those years of weak, worthless apologies, especially to my son. Feeling my resolution list was complete and satisfied with this resolve, I exited Word and began scrolling through the news. A recent article caught my attention while I enjoyed my morning coffee.     “Walter Thomas Cunningham Awarded United States Poet Laureate,” the byline read and not being a connoisseur of poetry, I surprised myself by clicking on the blurb to read more, missing last year’s date in small print at the top of the page. As I perused the article I felt an odd sensation of something scratching the surface of my memory. But whatever was stored there seemed too deep to be extracted. When I reached the last paragraph though a chill passed over me, I shouted out loud, “I know this man!” The name was somehow familiar but I couldn’t place how or when I knew him. Staring blankly at the computer page before me I reached for my coffee spilling a few drops on the desk. I wiped the coffee splatter with my shirt sleeve and leaned back in my chair, closing my eyes.      Walter, Walter. Was he a work associate? No, retirement was only two years ago and no one I worked with was named Walter, nor would have been a closet writer. One of my son’s coaches? That list was exhaustive to review as he had  played football, baseball and basketball, but nonetheless a Walter was not in the mix. Scrounging around for the names of past, and even present, home and car repairmen turned up only common names like Joe, the plumber, and Sam, the car mechanic. I felt a headache coming on and thought better about continuing this name search. Maybe, I had never known a man named Walter…maybe it wasn’t a man after all, but a boy.     A boy, that could be it!  it was an old-fashioned name, hmm…? I pondered. Suddenly a child’s face flashed before my eyes. A boy of nine or ten, skinny kid with pointy features, a bowl cut that didn’t contain his flyaway hair, and thick, horned rimmed glasses too big for his small face. This was Walter! Instantly I knew it for certain, Walter was in my fourth-grade class back in 1959. I hadn’t thought of him in over fifty years.      A blossoming jock, I was into sports in fourth grade, playing football, basketball, and baseball, all organized by the school.  Sometimes these were played at recess with teammates, though often the quicker games of kickball, dodgeball, and Red Rover were preferred, easier to organize in the short time allowed for recess. I was popular then, taller, and stronger than most of my friends; a leader who most likely could have stopped the mean and cruel things that were done to Walter. Walter didn’t play sports, in fact I don’t remember him doing anything at recess but sitting alone on the stone wall at the edge of the playground, reading. Once in a while he sat on the swing if no one else was around, the girls went off to jump rope or play their own gentle version of Red Rover.  This earned Walter the tag of “Sissy”. I remember watching him, his nose buried in a book, ignoring all that was going on around him, ignoring us. Who’d he think he was anyway? Too good to play with us or just too weird. I don’t know why he bugged me so much or why I wanted to get a rise out of him, but I was the one who taunted him first, calling him Weirdo Walter. Soon, everyone called him that, first from a distance, then right to his face. My friends and I even made up a chant, “Weirdo Walter sitting on the wall, don’t do nothin’, can’t throw a ball.” But it didn’t seem to bother him, he never once looked up from his book and this angered me further.     One day, his lack of attention to our taunting got the better of me and I launched the kick ball with as much force as I could muster directly at him. The whizzing ball forced his book into his face knocking off his glasses, breaking them. Believe me, he looked up then and that was when I saw a trickle of blood sliding down his nose, a look of bewilderment on his face. Witnessed by a school monitor, I got in trouble big time for that impulsive act. My parents were called to take me home and I was suspended for a week.  I remember being really pissed off because I missed baseball practice and wasn’t allowed to see my friends. When I returned to school, Walter was gone. His parents had sent him to a private school, one for exceptionally bright kids.      I never was given the opportunity to tell Walter I was sorry but at the time felt it was his fault for making me mad in the first place. Over the next several years, I thought of him occasionally with some remorse, especially when I saw a kid with glasses.     Shaken from my reverie by the phone ringing, I noticed the computer screen had turned dark. Ignoring the phone’s trilling, I hit the space bar and the article appeared. Scanning it again I found the city and state where Walter now lived. A continuing search found his phone number and I stared at it for several minutes wondering if I dared to use it. The phone, no longer ringing, rested on the desk within my reach. My recently completed list taunted me. I nervously picked it up and dialed the number staring at me from the computer. It rang several times until a woman’s voice answered. Stammering, I asked if I could speak to Walter. The frail voice replied, after hesitating, that Walter was unavailable. He had died one month earlier. Speechless at first, I managed to convey my condolences and explain who I was after she confirmed she was his wife.   I gathered my courage and with a calm I didn’t know I could possess, told her the short version of my relationship with her husband, Walter, and that I was extremely sorry for my past actions. There was a long pause before she replied, “Thank you. Walter would have liked to hear that,” and she ended the call.     I sat there motionless for a long while, feeling a dampness on my cheeks and replaying the most honest apology I’d ever made. Buoyed with a certain lightness and firm resolve, I clicked my son’s number on the phone I still held. I’d wish him a Happy New Year and explain my reason for calling early. I fervently hoped I wasn’t too late; I didn’t want him to be another Walter.

4zmmui

Shooting Star

CW-drug use For Antoine de Saint-Éxupery who taught me about shooting stars “Thank you! Enjoy your birthday party,” I smile at the blonde little boy with a red dinosaur shirt and blue tennis shoes as I hand his birthday cake over to his mother. I pause at the counter, my finger tips softly drumming as they make their exit past the small wooden tables and through the bakery door; the bell dings. I make my way swiftly to the door, flipping the sign to indicate closed. Bella walks from the back of the kitchen, her pink apron covered in a flurry of flour and sugar. She smiles at me while brushing some strands of dark, chestnut hair from her face. I’m listening to chatter in the kitchen as I start to sweep and mop the floors. I join my colleagues in the kitchen where I grab a red bucket, fill it with a sanitation solution, and grab a towel. “So, only two more weeks; how does it feel?” inquires Annie. She looks up at me from the humongous mixing bowl. Her blonde curls are tied back in a precarious ponytail. “I feel OK about it all. It is what it is. I’m ready for the next journey,” I tell her. Annie shrugs before adding in her large bowl of eggs to the dry ingredients. I stop back to the lobby and place the bucket on the wooden cashier counter. After mopping, I sanitize the mop before I wipe down all the tables and chairs. Bella swings into the lobby with white boxes; the bakery’s logo of a little boy staring at a shooting star adorns the top. “Do you want some of these cookies? I think Mark will be impressed. We don’t have many left from today,” she observes. All three of us leave together. The bakery’s sign still glows along with Herb’s Herbs neon green sign on our left. On Monday morning Nick slides the chocolate chip cookies into the display case while I lose myself in a love song with a banjo. Nick goes back to the kitchen for a few more cookies, then some cupcakes, and finally, our signature pastries. I do everything I can to not look at him, to not watch his strong arms flex with each tray of goodies. I do everything I can to not imagine his rough fingertips on my smooth cheek. I do everything I can to not think of him so close to me. I’m scrawling numbers on inventory sheets. “Hey, Marnie,” Nick starts and I turn to him. I make the mistake of staring into his soft, brown eyes and noticing his stubble from the weekend. Nick adjusts his pants because they’re half a size too big before telling me, “Uh, Mark is gonna have me take over ordering so you can just give the inventory sheets to me.” I nod at him obediently. Friday morning and we have twelve cake orders for the weekend. I’m glad Nick spends the day in the kitchen. Mark spends his day in the office, asking vendors if they can get more ingredients. It’s a rush that the bakery hopes for, but never counts on. Towards closing time, Mark pops out of his office; he flips the sign. I’m surprised, but he just mumbles he’s out for a smoke. A young man, dressed all in black, approaches our store front. He saunters in. “I’m sorry, sir, we’ve closed early,” I call out from behind the counter. “I’m here for an interview. My name is Alex,” he tells me and I pause my cleaning. I stand up straight, brushing the long black tendrils from my ponytail out of my eyes. My cheeks are flushed from the day. I clear my throat. “Ok, let me go see if Mark is ready for you,” I tell him while he takes a seat. I knock on Mark’s door and he mumbles something about being there soon and to give the interviewee a cookie. I offer the tray to Alex. His skin looks unnaturally pale against his black t shirt, black hair, and black skinny jeans. But his eyes are blue. I smile at him and he chooses Chocolate Chip. I return to my usual cleaning. Mark strolls out, his baker’s belly bouncing with each step. Mark’s eyes are always bloodshot. He rarely wears an apron so he is always covered in his craft. He grunts out some questions; Alex mumbles back some answers. I tell Bella there’s an interviewee in the lobby and she spies with me from the kitchen. After about twenty minutes, Alex takes his leave. When Mark’s back is turned he looks at me and winks. Sunday morning is Alex’s first day. Mark explains to the team that Alex will be on the front end, with me. Alex will be my replacement. I walk him through a tour. We pause at the bulletin board in the backroom, littered with past and present schedules, our contact list, and reminders to wash our hands and clean up after ourselves. Alex glances up at the sign I made, MARNIE’S LAST DAY ON SUNDAY! COME SAY GOODBYE OVER BREAKFAST FOR DINNER AT LUCY’S DINER! 7PM-8PM. “Can I come?” he asks me. I nod at him, he winks at me again, and heads back to the lobby. I walk him through the Point of Sale system and explain which orders will be picked up for today. Until then, I tell him we have to wait to be needed. We take seats on two small stools tucked behind the counter. I begin to ask Alex about himself. I learn he’s just moved from Oregon. When I inquire what brought him here he tells me it’s about the sunshine. “What about you? What’s a pretty girl like you up to in the last week of summer?” he asks me. I blush. I swing my feet from my stool and resist his gaze. The phone rings which I answer. I quickly scrawl down the cake order before taking Alex to the kitchen with me to ask if we can make it. “We’ve got a request for two dozen cupcakes and a smash cake. Any flavor. But they want it by 2pm today. Party theme is the first birthday of a boy. And they want blue elephants decorating it. I checked, we have a topper,” I tell Annie. Annie rushes over to the fridge, checking our inventory before giving us the go ahead. I take down the customer’s information. I have Alex run the payment in the system for practice. “I don’t do much, I’m starting my senior year in a couple weeks,” I tell my feet. Alex was staring at the wall art but turns his attention to me when I speak up. “You don’t seem seventeen,” he replies. I meet his blue eyes, “No one ever says I do.” We sit, staring at each other for a moment. “What’s up with the little boy and the shooting star?” Alex breaks the silence and indicates the cartoons that adorn our walls. “It’s Mark’s favorite book. It was written by a French man. I guess it’s pretty famous.” I say. Alex hops from the stool to go stand under a drawing of a rose. “This one is my favorite,” he tells me. We stare at the curves of the petals and admire the thorns along its body. “You know, guys like flowers, too. It’s always expected that a guy should get the girl a flower, but it’d be nice if they got us some, too,” he muses. Alex makes me laugh all week. On Wednesday during clean up, he blows flour in my face. He challenges me to see who can fit the most marshmallows in their mouth during a particularly slow hour on Thursday. Friday, we have a contest to see who could get the most cake orders for the weekend. I am pleasantly surprised and a little disappointed that Alex wins the competition that day. “So, I won and that means I would like your number,” Alex tells me. I blush beet red while punching my information into his phone. He smiles and we clean up for the evening. That night, Alex texts me hello. We spend the evening talking about work and his life before he came to Colorado. He tells me that he left a girl behind whom he loved very much. Alex is older than me by three years, just like Nick. A moment later, Alex asks me to meet him at a cafe for coffee. We meet up on Saturday at 11am, before our evening shift starts. I arrive for coffee first and order a vanilla latte. A small beat up white car pulls up, Alex says something to the driver, and heads over to me. Alex orders a tea and I make fun of him, “Why ask me out to coffee if you don’t drink coffee?” Alex just winks at me. We sit on cold metal outdoor chairs. We talk for a few hours and then Alex goes quiet for a bit, “Do you think you’d want to be my girlfriend?” he asks me. He takes my hand for the first time. Sunday is my last day and we all go out for pancakes for dinner. Alex sits next to me. He holds my hand the whole time. I’m surprised, but Nick shows up, too. It’s his first one in months. I feel his eyes as Alex kisses me. Bella remarks that we’re a cute couple. Nick focuses on his waffles-watching the syrup nestle into each little square. Before leaving, Mark says goodbye to me and looks at Alex, “You take good care of her.” I feel Alex pull me in and kiss my cheek. He promises Mark that he will. Annie takes a picture of all of us sitting in the red leather booth. After the photo, Nick keeps his eyes only on mine for a moment as he says, “See you later, Marnie.” It’s a promise he can’t make me, but, for a moment I forget Alex. I remember Nick and our inside jokes. I remember the way he called me Marshmallow all summer long. I remember his messy handwriting on personalized notes for me to find each morning on the cash register. I remember telling Bella I liked him. Her laugh echoes in my mind as I realize, I may not hear it again. Not the way I used to. School starts soon for me and Alex still has to work. So over text, we agree to meet for a picnic. We walk around a beautiful lake near his home and enjoy sandwiches in the grass. I also packed him a surprise dessert, some homemade brownies. When I pull them out Alex winks at me, “Are these special brownies?” He seems excited. I laugh at him, “Of course they are, I made them for you!” “No, no, Sweetie, I mean are they special?” he repeats the question. “Yeah, Babe, I made them for you from scratch earlier today.” I say, my brows furrow slightly. “Baby,” he takes my face in his and I stare into his blue eyes, “Baby, I love you. You’re too good for me.” He laughs and takes a bite of brownie. “You love me?” I ask him, stunned. It’s been barely two weeks since we met. I smile. He nods at me, a mouth full of brownie. “I ought to marry you,” he lifts a brownie and winks, “And teach you how to make these real special.” My senior year is in full swing and per Dad’s advice, I’ve taken a couple weeks to hunt for the next job opportunity. I decide to interview for a few different nannying opportunities before eagerly taking a job caring for the Jacobson boys: Carter and Elliott. Carter is nine and Elliott is five. I meet them at their home after school; Jane, their mother, takes a few hours to run errands or take one of the kids to an appointment. One Friday evening, I watch them while their parents go on a date night. I spend the night texting Alex asking him how he’s doing with the busy season. He says that Nick and some of the other guys are going out for dinner. I tell him to go have fun and be very safe. Once I put the boys down for the night, I head over to the couch. I wake up to the sound of my phone ringing, it’s Alex. “Hey babe!” I yawn a greeting to him and check the time. It’s around 10:30pm. I hear someone calling out, “Take the shot! Take the shot!” I hear club music loudly blaring through the speaker, “Babe? Hello? Alex? Can you hear me?” I call out as loud as I can. I’m cautious. The Jacobsons could come home at any minute. I wait a moment, turning down the volume on my phone as more music blares through, “Just one more beer, man!” I hear Nick say. I’m surprised. “Alright, one more beer,” I hear Alex respond. I’m nervous, Alex is 20. “Who are you calling, Baby? Alex, put away the phone,” I hear a sultry voice. The phone disconnects. My heart shatters. I feel it. I feel the moment that woman calls Alex “Baby”. I burst into tears. Loud, obnoxious, angry tears. He’s at a bar. He’s drinking with a woman who calls him “Baby.” That Friday, I confront Alex in the park during our usual after school picnic. His eyes have bags under them. I wonder if it’s from the busy nature of the shop or if it’s from his late nights at the bar. Alex sits cross legged in the grass and pulls apart his sandwich. He tosses out a pickle as I say, “You know, you called me last Friday.” Alex puts his sandwich back together and gives me a puzzled look. “When?” he asks me while taking a bite. “When you were out at a bar,” my voice is quivering. I’m cold, despite the fact that it’s 80 degrees out. My palms sweat. “Baby,” Alex starts, he puts down his sandwich and leans over to me so he can take my face in his hands, “What’s wrong?” I stare up to his blue eyes and swallow the lump in my throat. “What’s wrong is you’re out drinking with some girl calling you ‘Baby’ at 10:30pm on a Friday night.” I feel my lower lip quiver as tears begin to fall. Alex wipes them away, “Baby, I like havin’ a little fun. Don’t you worry. I love you. Remember?” “Don’t do it again, ok? It’s not right to be drinking under age,” I say. Alex rubs his hand on my goose fleshed arm. He leans forward, shedding his jacket and wraps it around my shoulders as he kisses my cheek, “Baby, don’t you worry. I’ve been drinking and smoking since like 14.” I don’t feel better. Alex returns to his sandwich laughing, “Baby, you are just too good for me.” I open my mouth to protest, but he seals it with a kiss and I melt into him as we fall into the silky grass. His dark curls are slicked back and I notice how thin he seems to me without the jacket on, a thin t-shirt to keep him warm. I inhale his scent, nestling in. I notice the strange perfume again; it’s stronger now with the jacket around my shoulders. I suppose it’s a new cologne. “Baby, keep the jacket,” Alex instructs me before I drop him off at home. I smile big before kissing him goodbye. On Monday, I head over to the Jacobsons after school. After playing on their backyard jungle gym I’m a bit cold and grab Alex’s jacket from the back of my car. I wrap it around myself and smile. I fix the children's supper of mac and cheese. We color until Jane gets home who tells the kids to head to the playroom for a bit after hugging them. I tell her everything went well. Jane tells me to take a seat. “I need to discuss a very serious concern with you,” Jane begins. She tucks a lock of her short, brown hair behind her ear. She looks worried. “Marnie, we’ve noticed a very specific smell and we have a concern that it may indicate an exposure to our children. We were young once; we understand we live in Colorado. However, we absolutely can not allow our children to be exposed to marijuana.” I stare at Jane for a moment. I want to rip Alex’s sweatshirt off. My skin burns with embarrassment and tears fill my eyes. I clear my throat, “What smell? I don’t understand. I have never touched drugs or alcohol! I would never dream of exposing Carter or Elliott to anything like that!” “Honestly, I can smell it on you now,” Jane says softly. She looks down at me. I ball up the sleeves of the sweatshirt in my hands, “Jane, I really don’t understand. I’ve never done drugs or alcohol.” “Sweetheart, do you know anyone who might be in your life who smokes marijuana?” asks Jane. My heart drops. I know where I recognize the scent now: Herb’s Herbs-Medicinal and Recreational. In that instant, I put all the puzzle pieces together. Jane lets me go. I drive home sobbing. I toss the jacket in my backseat. I call Alex five times. He doesn’t answer. 

ndih25

Deductions of a Bartender

“I think that’s a good idea, Tommy, hurry on home to Betty and the kids. It’d be better to face up to her now.” Tommy sighed. “Yeah, you right man. It’s gon’ be a couple nights on the couch, but I’ll get past it.” He took the credit card from Shawn’s outstretched hand, returning it to the empty slot in his wallet and turned to leave. “Thanks again for all your help, man. You real easy to talk to, man. S’good to meet you.” Shawn smiled. Success. “It was good to meet you too. Hopefully next time we see you in here, it’ll be under better circumstances. Drive safe out there in that storm.” Pausing at the door, Tommy agreed. “Yeah, it’s really comin’ down out ‘ere, like cats and… oh, ‘scuse me.” Tommy stepped back, allowing a broad shouldered, hooded man to pass through the doorway before slipping out behind him. After the door shut behind him, muffling the steady drum of raindrops, the only remaining sounds in the bar were the chatter from the table of Marines and a TV commercial about a Memorial Day sale at some used car dealership in town. The new guy stopped at the entrance to peel back his soaked hoodie and wipe the water from his forehead. He’d never been in Ernie’s Bar before; even with a rainsoaked beard and matted hair, Shawn would recognize him if he was one of their regulars. Getting new customers was rare; Ernie’s Bar wasn’t exactly in the heart of civilization. Two in one day, though, was almost unheard of. Shawn’s smile grew; getting to know new customers was the best part of the job. It was why he’d quit the more lucrative world of nightclub bartending and come to Ernie’s a year back – the ability to actually connect with his customers, figure out their stories, where they came from, what makes them tick. And with newcomers, what made them decide to come to an out-of-the-way dive bar for the first time. As the new guy stood by the door, taking in the room (and, as Shawn figured, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dimly lit barroom), Shawn took some time to jot down some mental notes: Roughly 6 feet tall with somewhat of a dad bod : not necessarily out of shape, but the soaked hoodie clung to his frame, revealing the spare tire around his waist. A small, black line on his ring finger: married. Most likely with kids. Seemed to be in his work uniform, the bit of shirt visible underneath his hoodie matching the navy color of his pants. He’d need more information to fill in some gaps, but as he did with every new customer, Shawn was able to get a decent profile on the customer before he ever stepped to the bar. A voice in the back of his head wouldn’t let one particular question die, though: why would a married father be in this backwoods bar on a Monday afternoon in his work clothes? After a few more seconds studying the room, the stranger made his way towards the bar, his heavy footsteps accented by squelches from his soaked boots. Eschewing the middle of the bar, where pretty much every other new customer went, he instead went to the end of the bar furthest from the register. He chose the last stool in the back corner which was situated next to a wall adorned with old photographs. The photos, now nothing more than part of the bar’s décor like the neon signs for now-defunct beer brands and old license plates, were from years prior when the owners used to encourage their regulars to tack up photos of themselves to liven up the décor. Shawn could count on one hand the number of customers who sat back in that corner since he’d arrived – and none of them were new. Those who did go back there did so when they weren’t in the mood to be bothered and wanted to drink alone. With this guy not knowing the place very well, Shawn just assumed he picked the first place he saw and sat down. As New Guy pulled off his hoodie and hung it on the back of his chair, Shawn made his way over. “You… look like a margarita kinda guy.” The stranger looked up, his face unchanged. “No thanks. Coors Light, bottle if you got it.” “Not a margarita guy, got it.  We have Coors in bottles, $3.50 apiece. Got some ID on you?” The man pulled a thick, leather wallet from the back pocket of his blue Dockers uniform pants that matched his uniform shirt and handed over a North Carolina license. Shawn noticed three boys’ names tattooed on the man’s forearm as he took his ID. “Thanks… Lucas,” Shawn said as he handed it back. “Is it Luke, or Lucas?” “Lucas is fine.” “Well, welcome to Ernie’s Bar, Lucas. We don’t get many new folks through our doors.” Shawn paused, leaving room for Lucas to join in the exchange – which he declined. “Opening a tab?” Lucas pulled a $5 from his wallet. “No. And keep the change.” Shawn pulled the bottle from the fridge, popped the top and slid the bottle to Lucas. A seasoned bartender, Shawn knew when to press and when to back off. Almost everyone wanted to talk about something , there were just those who opening those lines of communication was much easier than others. Lucas wasn’t in the mood to chat, that much was clear. Still, Shawn gained two additional pieces of information: not only was Lucas a father, but he had three boys named Cooper, Martin, and Parker. Confirming that he was a father on top of being married helped solidify Shawn’s working theory. Whenever a married newcomer came in, especially if they had kids, it was almost always to gain a bit of respite from the constant back and forth that often accompanied spousal spats. Given that Lucas was still in his uniform, and it was the middle of the afternoon, he was probably getting out of work and wasn’t ready for the night of bickering that awaited him at home. Best to just give him some time to decompress after work, drink his first beer in silence. From the opposite end of the bar, Shawn watched as Lucas just sipped his beer and looked at his phone. Occasionally, he’d get a message and tap away at the screen to respond, but for the most part it appeared that he was swiping through Facebook or some other social media platform where the design allowed – and encouraged – endless scrolling. As he scrolled, Lucas seemed to grow more distraught. Well, more… something. Shawn couldn’t quite place it, but it was obvious that whatever he was looking at affected him. His other hand moved to cover the lower half of his face, and his eyes glistened a bit more in the phone’s light than they did initially. Shawn’s hypothesis might have needed a revision. The facts didn’t fit… if it was just a fight, he’d be texting more frequently and more urgency, more frustration in his actions. Yet, while he occasionally texted, it was in a calm, even methodical manner. He didn’t seem angry. He seemed… sad, heartbroken. Shawn entertained the idea that maybe him and his wife had split, but that didn’t make sense either. The sadness wasn’t accompanied by anger, it seemed, meaning whatever he was experiencing wasn’t fresh. It didn’t add up… until he thought of the names on Lucas’s forearm. Of course, Shawn though. That makes perfect sense. Noticing the empty Coors bottle, Shawn took the opportunity to open a dialogue. “Another Coors?” When Lucas looked up, his eyes bloodshot, he saw that Shawn had already placed an opened bottle in front of him. “This one’s on the house. It just seems you need it more than we do. Problems at home, I take it?” Lucas’s expression shifted from completely blank to one with a hint of confusion. Shawn elaborated. “I’ve been behind this bar for a year now, seen many folks come and go. You learn to read people. And in your situation, most fathers would be upset. Well, all real fathers would be, anyway. The boys may be with her for now, but you’ll get to see them, still a part of their lives. It’s not like they’re gone forever. And who knows? Maybe this’ll be good for everyone, you know, get a fresh start and all.” Lucas squinted at Shawn, tilting his head as he asked, “and what gave you those ideas?” “Well, I don’t think they’re so much ideas as insights. Something’s bothering you, that much is clear - as if you’ve lost something dear. The work clothes and wedding band tell me that you’re married and that you’d stopped on the way home from work when you stopped in today. The main reason new folks stop in this bar is to get away from something, to avoid going home… and at first, I thought that you might have had a fight with your wife and was avoiding her. But with how distraught you are, it couldn’t have been a simple fight. You wouldn’t be tearing up over a simple marital spat. “And then there’s the names on your arm… people don’t get names tattooed unless they mean something. Like the names of their kids.” Shawn paused, giving Lucas a chance to absorb what he’d said as well as correct any misconceptions he’d made. Lucas sat silently. “If I had to guess, I’d say your wife moved out over the weekend and took the boys, something you didn’t want to happen – which is why you still have the ring on. But you knew this was coming for a while, so you’re not mad at her – but you don’t want to go home to an empty house. So, you’re here.” Lucas stared past Shawn, lost in thought, and for a bit he didn’t respond. Shawn waited without adding anything to his previous statement, knowing that he’d just pulled the Band-Aid off and Lucas would need time to process. “You picked all that up just by watching me?” Lucas asked before downing another gulp. “You are very observant, I’ll give you that at least.” He turned and faced away from Shawn who figured he needed to wipe away the tears that he’d been holding back. “What’s done is done, my friend. It can’t be changed. All you can do now is…” “What happened to the piano? It was Shawn’s turn to be caught off guard. “Uh, we’ve never had, I don’t think we’ve ever had a piano, not as long as I’ve been here. And I’ve been here just over a year. Maybe you’re thinking of a different bar?” “Nah, there used to be a piano right here,” Lucas responded, pointing at the corner near where he sat. “Take a look.” Lucas pulled a tack of out the Photo Wall, catching the falling picture. He held it out for Shawn, displaying a piano with four younger guys standing and sitting around the instrument. “Well, I’ll be damned. I guess we did have one.” For a moment, Shawn actually suspected that Lucas had been to Ernie’s before and he’d just never noticed him. Seems he’d see the piano in the picture on the wall. “I’m not sure when they got rid of it though, sorry. You play?” “No, I was never any good. But it’s probably best that they got rid of that thing. It was never in tune, even when they brought in a professional tuner.” For the first time, Lucas cracked a hint of a smile. “Wait, huh? I thought you had never come to the bar before.” “I’ve been here plenty of times, actually. Just never by myself.” “But earlier, when I said…” Shawn wasn’t sure what to make of this new piece of information. “I said you were observant. I didn’t say you were right. Look, thanks for the beer, but if it’s all the same to you, I’d like some time to myself before Sandy gets here.” “Yeah, alright.” Shawn didn’t know what else to say. His mind was racing, trying to reconfigure and reorder the facts in his mind, including this new one, to try to make sense of Lucas’s situation. His original theory made no sense, as its foundation was built on the premise that this was Lucas’s first trip to Ernie’s. When had he come to the bar before? It had to be over a year ago, as Shawn was sure he’d have remembered Lucas. Right? Shawn looked back to Lucas, trying to get a closer look at his face. Could the beard be throwing him off? Lucas was looking down, making it hard to make out his face. What was he staring at so intently? His phone rested on the counter in front of him… The photo . The impression left by the dust on the wall was still left unfilled, meaning he never put it back.  Was Lucas crying? Sure enough, the tears had begun to fall on the picture’s face. Ding! The door chime sounded out, pulling Shawn out of his thoughts. A middle-aged woman, one he’d never seen before either, came into the bar. It was quickly apparent that she was with Lucas when she scanned the room and took off in his direction after seeing him. “Is that them, honey?” “Yeah… that’s them.” Both of them studied the photo, going over each detail. Lucas’s wife didn’t interrupt his moment, letting silence settle over their small corner of the bar. When he finally returned the photo to its original place, she spoke. “How are you holding up?” “I’m ok… can we just go? I think I’ve gotten everything I can out of this little trip.” “Of course, let’s get out of here. It doesn’t feel right coming here without them.” After the couple made it out to their SUV, Shawn walked over to pick up Lucas’s empty bottle. He also stopped and took a closer look at the photo. Four men, each of them with closely trimmed hair and clean-shaven faces, were hamming it up for the camera. One of them, upon closer inspection, was obviously a younger version of Lucas. As the realization of what he was looking at hit him, the same commercial came on from earlier telling anyone who would listen about the sale they were having this Memorial Day.

019r23

THE INTRUDER

THE INTRUDER I’m not sure exactly when he started coming around but, literally, it was like, one minute he wasn’t there and, the next, he was constantly in our lives; and I mean constantly. We, Billy and I, were told to call him “Uncle” Fred but he was no uncle of mine. I knew all my uncles and aunts and cousins; had done forever. I’d grown up knowing them. Even the ones we only saw every couple of years, we still knew about them, talked about them. So I knew this guy was no relative. Billy was too young and just did as he was told. Maybe that’s why he and this imposter got along so well. But me, I couldn’t stand him. I remember that first morning. It was a Saturday and I came downstairs early to watch cartoons, same as I had done every Saturday. I wondered what the lumpy shape reclining on our sofa was. Then the smell hit me. His smell. Pungent! A mixture of sweat and alcohol interlaced with that sweet, sickly after shave that he favoured; a smell I would come to know and loathe. That was when my ma’s hand grabbed me from behind and dragged me from the room. “No cartoons, today, Jake”. I couldn’t believe it. “Who is that?” I demanded to know. “That...that is Fred. Your Uncle Fred”. “I ain’t got no Uncle Fred”. “You do now. Okay?” Later, at the breakfast table, as this stranger joined us, I couldn’t help but show my resentment towards him and no amount of coercion from my parents could persuade me otherwise. He sensed it immediately and made no effort to get along with me, which, if I’m honest, just made me madder. Instead, he focused his efforts on Billy; an easy conquest. Even when Ma told me that I could leave the table and go and watch cartoons, having tidied up the living room, I could still smell his odour and refused point blank to do so. From that day, he just started hanging around more and more. Always at weekends and my Saturday morning ritual of the Simpsons became a thing of the past. I started playing Little League in earnest just glad to be out of the house as much as possible. Him being around was the reason I joined the Nippers, too. It really helped with my swimming but it was more to have a genuine reason to stay away from the house on Saturdays and Sundays. But it was when he started showing up in the middle of the week for dinner that my dislike and resentment turned into feelings of pure hatred. Ma would make such a fuss of him and it turned my stomach. Turned out that he worked with Pa on the docks and it had been Pa who had first invited him home. I learnt all this by listening in to their conversations via the air duct that lay above the skirting in our bedroom, Billy’s and mine, that adjoined my parents’ room. Billy would be asleep but I would sit there, my ear to the grill, listening to them both speak glowingly about Uncle Fred. I could see his intentions, right off the bat. It amazed me that neither of my parents could see it, too. Whenever he came for the weekend, he made sure to bring Ma something pretty as a gift. Oftentimes, it was just flowers but, sometimes, it would be perfume or an item of clothing and Ma would make such a fuss; be so grateful that I would want to vomit at the sight of her hugging him. How could she get so close to this man? His aftershave was repugnant. Wasn’t she, too, offended by it? Even when he joined us for dinner during the week, he was sure to bring along a bottle of wine or two. Not just any wine either. It was always a sparkling variety; her favourite, of course. The three of them would consume the bottles over dinner and Billy and I would be excused from the table but I would keep an eye from afar as they became more intoxicated and hands would touch and whispers were exchanged between them. I just wanted to grab the carving knife and erase this man from our lives. I had never felt such venom towards any person before. Was my father unaware of this growing intimacy between his wife and his friend? It seemed to me as though he actually encouraged it, content to see Ma become ever more accepting and appreciative of Fred. When I heard them discussing our summer vacation, I knew that I had to make a stand. I listened as Fred extolled the virtues of the Rockies and how we could all take a camper and make a road trip of the entire summer, camping out under the stars, cooking over an open fire, going wherever we wanted. It sounded ideal but, when he proposed coming along with us, claiming to know all the best sites, I broke into a cold sweat. From time to time, both Ma and Pa had tried to talk to me about my behaviour around Fred but they had quickly realised that my feelings were deeply entrenched and no amount of cajoling was going to change my view of this man. That night, after Pa had driven Fred home, I marched into my mother’s bedroom and furiously announced that I had no intention of accompanying them on any road trip to the Rockies. Period! “You go. I’ll stay with grandma. I mean it”. “Still up to your little tricks of listening in to grown up’s private conversations, I see, Jake”. “Can’t you see what that man is up to, buying you presents all the time? Why does Pa allow it”. “You have no idea of what you speak, Jake Horowitz. You should go and wash your mouth out with soap and water immediately, you hear? You’re only eleven years old and you don’t make the rules around here. It’s about time you learnt that”. I had skulked off to bed but, when Pa returned home later, I could hear them whispering frantically as I pressed my ear to the air duct grill though I couldn’t make out every word clearly. But, the following morning, Pa made a point of telling me and Billy that we, the four of us, would be heading to the Rockies for our family vacation. Ma nodded on, smiling. I suspected some trick so I made sure to clarify this. “You said, four. So it’s just us four, right?" “Like I said, Jake. This is a family vacation. Just us four”. I felt as if I had just won a great battle; Hawkeye defeating the Iroquois, and, for the first time in several weeks, my parents saw me smile and tuck into my pancakes with glee. They seemed to be pleased by the effect of their news. Billy was ecstatic and we were a real family, once again. In the days that followed, Fred stayed away and it was as if he had never existed. That first Saturday morning, I ventured downstairs apprehensively only to find the living room empty, no odour of Fred. I felt a feeling of joy and contentment coursing through me as I switched on the remote and settled down for a couple of hours of cartoons. When Pa brought home the hire camper, Billy, Ma and me clambered all over it excitedly. This was really happening. We were setting off on our first ever road trip; a real family. The weather was glorious as we drove through places we had never before seen, stopping whenever we felt like it, taking in the views, chatting happily to other boys, just like us, embarking on a great American road trip and it seemed to me that both my parents were equally as thrilled as Billy and I as we made our way north, the Heart of the Rockies campsite our destination. We could smell the cleanness of the mountain air, the fragrant, aromatic scent of the pines as we entered the camp grounds. Ma wanted to call in at the camp store so we could stock up on food and provisions. Billy and I took the opportunity to stretch our legs and check out the fishing rods that were on display for Pa had promised us both that he would spring for some rods and teach us the intricacies of fly fishing on this trip. You can only imagine how I felt when I saw the red pickup truck parked in the store’s parking bays. I recognised the plate and the rear window stickers from when Fred would come to stay at weekends and my heart plummeted like a lead weight in a rain barrel. I felt sick to my stomach and pulled back on Billy who was trying to drag me into the store. A sense of deep betrayal had overcome me and I broke away from my brother and ran off wildly along a trail. I had no idea where it led, I just had to get away from those I loved the most who had played me false. They had to organise a search party to find me. I could hear people calling my name in the darkness as I lay deep inside a thicket, scrunched up like a ball. It was the hunger gnawing at me that brought me out, finally, resigned to the fact that, for some strange reason, beyond my youthful comprehension, this man meant more to my parents than their own son. Of course, they protested their innocence: it had been just as much a surprise to them as it had been to me, they had had no idea that Fred was planning to be here, in this campsite, on this week. All lies, I knew, but what could I, an eleven year old boy, do, so far from home? I can’t remember too much about the rest of that vacation; just bits and bobs, blurred memories. How Fred taught Billy how to fish properly, light a fire. How Pa and Fred would go off together to the local tavern at night. How, slowly, Ma began to, finally , see the light and come to feel as I did but it was all too late by then; the seeds had been well and truly sown. Pa left home immediately we returned to our house. Ma didn’t protest. Like me, I think she was just too disappointed that the wool had been pulled over her eyes for so long. She was probably disgusted also at the thought of what had been going on between Pa and Fred night after night, right under her eyes. I never again failed to trust my instincts for I may have got it wrong about Fred’s real target but I sure in hell got it right about that man. 

zx8bmz

Happenstance

The water raced along, ignorant of the brilliant sunshine gleaming off its surface. As I watch its seemingly endless progression, I feel it mocking my own life, forging ahead with no end goal in sight. Unlike me, the water doesn’t seem to have a problem with its race to nowhere. Also, unlike me, nature’s ‘race to nowhere’ usually has a purpose. That’s the flow of life. The creek, filled with rainfall, nourishes all life it touches. That is where the water and I metaphorically part ways. The ‘flow of life’ clearly forgot to carry me along in its journey. I’ve become the poster child for the title starving artist. I haven’t sold a painting in months, and my bank account has hit bottom, along with any inspiration for the next art piece. Apparently, an empty bank account = an empty stomach, resulting in an empty mind. Along with the flow of income, the flow of ideas has been swept away, like this never-ending creek. After three hours of idle staring, I packed up my still-blank canvas and supplies and headed back to the apartment. It’s still mine for another week, barring an unexpected windfall – a hail Mary, if you will. Walking home, I pause to hike the easel strap further up on my shoulder. A little girl’s laughter catches my attention as she skips along, not a care in the world; her smiling parents close behind. They stop to spread out a blanket, setting down a picnic basket. Her father begins to remove an endless array of food, and my stomach rumbles, reminding me of its current status. I swipe at the tears that hadn’t alerted me of their pending arrival. I hang my head and continue my trek toward my awaiting empty cupboard. I can’t ask to borrow any more money. You can’t keep borrowing what you can’t return. As I reached my apartment, I caught the attention of a scroungy, stray cat. I don’t see a collar. “Hey there, buddy. You are definitely my spirit animal. I don’t have food to give you or either of us.” Using the railing to stand, I hike on my supplies. “What’s that?” I ask the air around me. It looks like a full, fast food bag. Curiosity getting the better of me, I drop my stuff again and open the bag, hoping for a morsel for my new friend. I inhale sharply, roll close the bag, grab my things, and race into my apartment, voicing my apologies to the kitty as I run. My heart’s beating faster than my feet are flying up the stairs. “No way! No way! No way!” I drop my things on the foyer floor and hurry to the front window, drawing the curtains. Sitting on my couch, I place the bag in my lap, hesitating to open it again – for fear of what I believe I saw being there or not there. I once again slowly open the bag while drawing in a breath. Holding in that breath as if it were holding me together, I empty the contents onto my couch. Packs of hundred-dollar bills tumble out. I feel around the bag for a note, something to explain a large amount of cash. There’s nothing. I’ve always been a moral person –honest to a fault. Any other time, literally any other, I wouldn’t hesitate. I’d have taken that bag straight to the police station. Then, why aren’t I leaving? This is probably drug money. No one throws thousands of dollars into a fast food bag, then loses it or throws it away unless they’ve committed a crime. Yeah, but what would it hurt to take a twenty? I’d be able to make a better decision if I wasn’t so damn hungry. I pull free a twenty and convince myself that the money is a gift from the universe; at least this twenty is –for now. I shove the money in my pocket and pick up my art supplies, my automatic reaction before I leave my house. I decide to head to the center square. There’s a great food truck with the best Cuban sandwiches. After I pay, I head over to the large fountain, place down my supplies, and begin devouring my meal. Not paying attention to my surroundings, I audibly moan. I hear a man chuckle to my right. I turn to see him looking at me. “Oh, sorry. I was starving, and this tastes like heaven on bread.” “Don’t apologize. I could use the laugh,” the man said. “Then I’m glad to oblige,” I said before shoveling in more of my sandwich. The man adjusted the tie of his three-piece suit. I can’t help but notice his laugh never reached his eyes. Empathy has always been my strong suit –much to my chagrin. Of course, I can’t keep my mouth shut, and I’m not talking about the sandwich. “I’m sorry, being forward is my superhero weakness. Are you okay? You don’t seem happy.” “It’s that obvious?” he asked. I simply shrug. “Your superhero weakness is correct. I am having a rough day. Am I guessing correctly that art is your superhero strength?” I glance at my portfolio. “I like to tell myself that.” “May I have a peek inside?” “Sure. Be gentle with your critique.” “Of course,” he says, some sparkle returning to his eyes. I watch him intently and can’t help but notice him inspecting each sketch with what seems to be skilled eyes. “These are breathtaking. Where have you been all my life?” “I can honestly say that’s a unique pick-up line.” “Oh, geez, no. That wasn’t a pick-up line. My name is Brett. I’m an agent for a high-end company that looks for budding talent in art, music, and literature. I meant it when I said your work is breathtaking.” “Wow, thank you. I haven’t had much luck with my art.” “I understand. I haven’t had much luck as of late myself.” “Is that why I sensed sadness?” I asked. “Partly. I haven’t found any exceptional talent in quite a while. I know this is personal, but you’re easy to talk to.” “Great, now I’m blushing,” I respond. “My ex-wife cleaned out one of my accounts. Someone told the police they saw her running from the police holding a fast-food bag. They haven’t caught her yet. I’m guessing my money was in that bag. That’s what I get for not changing my PIN fast enough.” Standing, I run my hand along the back of my neck. How do I tell this guy I have his money? How do I tell him I took some? I turn to him, not sure how to begin. “Are you okay? Um, I don’t know your name,” he says. “I’m Chloe. I’m not completely okay. This is all so crazy.” “What is?” he asks, curious. Chloe sighed. “I’ve never put too much stock in fate and coincidences, but this is incredible.” I look at Brett, and his face shows utter confusion. I spend the next few minutes telling him that I have his money. I explained how I found it and why I didn’t immediately turn it in to the police, taking the twenty for food. “I’m so sorry. I promise I’ll pay you back as soon as I can. Let me take you to your money. My apartment is just over there.” “I’ll tell you what, Chloe, let me get that money and notify the police that it’s been found. Then, why don’t I come back and pick you up? I’ll take you to my office. Bring along whatever sketches you have. If a ten-thousand-dollar advance sounds fair while we plan a gallery to introduce your work to the art community, I’ll forget all about that twenty dollars, but under one condition, you let me take you to dinner tonight.” I can barely squeak out a thank you, a yes, and a nod to him returning to pick me up later. As I close the door behind him, my mind returns to the rapidly flowing creek this morning. Like that creek, life may rush by at an alarming rate, but it doesn’t always leave us in its wake. I’ve come to find that sometimes it meets us right on time, especially when we least expect it.

7ohnt5

The Period at the End of A Sentence

Tyler Stevens was a man condemned to die. He had been convicted by a jury of his peers and sentenced by a judge who prayed for God’s mercy on his soul. As is the case with all death row inmates in Texas, Tyler became a permanent resident at the Texas State Penitentiary in Huntsville. Bitter and unrepentant, he spent most of his days starting fights, ignoring orders, and proclaiming his innocence to anyone who would listen. At night, however, Tyler would sleep. He would often tell fellow inmates and guards alike that he “wasn’t good at many things but sleeping was one of them.” In fact, there were very few things in prison Tyler enjoyed more as it was often the only respite from the terminally mundane. Each night when the lights would flicker off, Tyler would lie in bed, pull up the covers, and fall fast asleep. Until tonight. Tonight sleep was his enemy, and he was going to fight his foe with all his strength. Tyler had been on death row for just over 227 months. He found it funny how the inmates counted in months, like a mother telling someone that her child was twenty months instead of almost two. On this day, however, Tyler stopped counting up and started counting down. His last appeal exhausted and his request for clemency denied, he knew the moment the lights went out that he had five-hundred forty minutes to live. He wasn’t going to waste a single one sleeping. When the lights were on, Tyler would find himself in a cell which was little more than a medium-sized bathroom with a bed. The walls and the floors, like the atmosphere, were ice cold. It was why, up until that night, Tyler craved the dark. Throughout his incarceration, its blackness had been a blanket that swaddled him. It gave him solace and undeserved peace. Tyler also discovered early on that there was no time in the dark. Each moment felt like the one before, indistinguishable from the one to follow. He rarely encountered this phenomenon as he was usually sound asleep within minutes. But on this night, he lay awake as if time stood still. When the light went off all he could feel was the void left by it’s absence, and the silence that used to sing him to sleep was loud. The little light that did find its way through the small window on his cell door wasn’t enough to provide any comfort. Instead it played tricks on his mind, filling it with thoughts of the past and regrets heretofore buried deep in his subconscious. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, he was startled by a shadow he was certain he’d never seen there before. It stood as silent and motionless as the dead but Tyler knew it had a human form and even in the low light Tyler could tell the shadow was staring directly at him. At first, he thought his eerie cellmate might be the spirit of his mother, but he quickly dismissed that idea. Tricia Stevens was a cold, unfeeling woman. She sat idly by when Tyler’s father, drunk or high, beat her son mercilessly. She hadn’t come to a single one of his hearings or visiting days. He knew she didn’t have the time or desire to haunt him. In truth, he had no idea who his mind had conjured up as a companion for his last night on this earth. He only knew that the shadow did nothing but watch in silence, until Tyler turned towards the wall. Then the shadow spoke to him in a thick Boston accent. “Well Tylah, this is a fine mess you’ve gotten yourself into.” The voice was terrifying yet familiar. In his heart of hearts Tyler knew he was alone but it still took superhuman courage to turn back in the voice’s direction. To Tyler’s dismay, the faceless shadow, still encroached his space. He knew the voice instantly. Mrs. Murphy had been a staunch Irish Catholic English teacher from Tyler's first high school. In Tyler’s whole life, she had been the one person who believed in him. “This isn’t like skipping my class or cheating on a test,” the shadow continued. “What did you do to get yourself locked up here?” Tyler knew in the depths of his soul, in the place where truth goes to die, that the shadow wasn’t real, and Mrs. Murphy wasn’t in his cell talking to him. Though in the dark and facing the end, he felt something completely unexpected—gratitude. He was glad for the companionship. “I did something awful, Mrs. Murphy.” Tyler responded, now looking directly at the shadow. “It turns out everyone was right—I was a bad seed from the start.” “You stop that right now, Tylah Stevens. You are not a bad person.” “But Mrs. Murphy, you don't understand.” “I understand more than you know, Tylah. You were always one of my favorite students.” “How can you say that? I skipped more days than I was present and…” “And when you were there, no one wrote with more depth and insight. You, my friend, were wicked smaht.” “No, Mrs. Murphy, I was just wicked.” “Wicked? Hahdly, Do you remember the necklace?” “I don’t,” Tyler answered, lying to himself and the shadow. “Yes, you do.” The shadow responded as if Tyler was back in school and had gotten a question wrong. “When I had cancer, you came to see me in the hospital and brought me a necklace.” “A cross.” “Yes, a cross, Tylah. You were the only student who visited with me. You sat with me and read to me and comforted me when I was in pain. You gave me that necklace.” “My grandmother’s necklace.” “That’s right. Those weren’t the actions of a wicked boy.” “But you don’t know what I did!” “Okay, tell me, what exactly did you do?” “I killed a man, Mrs. Murphy. I shot him and I left him to die.” For a moment the shadow sat silent, long enough for Tyler to contemplate what he had just said. It had been more than 18 years since he had been arrested. 18 years of trials and appeals, and this was the first time he ever admitted to himself what he had done. “Are you sorry, Tylah?” the shadow asked, breaking the silence. The question hung in the air somewhere between light and dark. Tyler had never allowed himself to consider if he was sorry, but he was. For the first time since his arrest, he felt true remorse. “I am Mrs. Murphy,” Tyler said, breaking into tears, “From the bottom of my heart—I am so sorry.” “Why?” The shadow asked. “Why are you sorry?” “Because he didn’t deserve to die. He was just a clerk at the gas station. I knew him. We would talk when I stopped in for cigarettes, and I killed him. I killed him for fifty-eight dollars.” “So you’re not just sorry you got caught?” “No, Mrs. Murphy, not at all. I deserve to die.” “Maybe so, but you’re not dead yet. So what are you going to do now?” “What do you mean? What can I do now?” “You can choose how you die.” “But I don’t understand—what does it matter how I die?” “When dying is all that is left, it matters a great deal.” ”I don’t understand. How? I don’t control anything.” ”Yes you do, Tylah. You can die with dignity. Accept your fate—repent. It will make all the difference” Before Tyler could respond, the light coming through his window flickered. The shadow disappeared. At dawn, breakfast was brought to Tyler who had accomplished his initial goal, he had not slept. His last meal was nothing fancy, just bacon and eggs, a favorite from his grandmother’s house when he was a boy. Tyler ate in silence with a peace that seemed unattainable only a few hours earlier. Then, with breakfast finished, there was just one thing left to do. Tyler accepted his restraints willingly, walking without complaint to the room where he would receive a lethal injection. When he was secured to the table and had his IV needle inserted, the curtains allowing people to view the execution opened up. There were only three people in the room. Tyler recognized two right away—the mother and father of the young man he had killed. Tyler’s eyes welled up with tears, but he made sure his words were clear and heartfelt. “I am so sorry for what I’ve done to your son—your family. I hope you find peace.” When he finished, he looked at the third person in the room. She was much older than he remembered, but the cross that hung on the chain around her neck gave away her identity. He had no words for Mrs. Murphy, just a head nod to thank her for being there. With nothing left to do but die, he smiled as the first drug entered his veins. Then, he was finally free to fall asleep.

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