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Mielikki 2

Monotonic Monday

“Scanning techniques: Identify target vein. Reevaluate to confirm anatomy and pathology. Draw a line of the vein on the skin. Some physicians want 5-10 cm intervals indicated to assist with anesthesia introduction. Keep the room warm to prevent vasospasm.” The professor mumbled. I am trying my hardest to stay present. I am trying my hardest to focus on the material and not the monotonicity, boring, slow, unenergetic, and just old-fashioned delivery of the instructor. There has to be a better way for us to learn this stuff.  “Image guidance during procedure: Access. Placement of instrumentation. Perivenous anesthesia. Thermal treatment. Post treatment,” he tamely drummed on. Reading word for word from the PowerPoint. This is so painful. This is important information. Midterms are in two weeks and my goal is to do well, obviously, enough to have a comfortable cushion for the second half of the semester. But listening to him present the information is harder than memorizing it. I think it would be easier if the sound of his voice was anything else but sheep jumping over fences to my ears. The dullness is briefly interrupted by the clicking-on of the A/C system. Which is terrible news. It is 58 degrees outside. Hoodie weather. And we are not even allowed to wear hoodies inside due to the school dress codes. Here come the goosebumps. I feel them start at the lumbar. They quickly travel up my spine to my shoulders, causing me to do the shimmy. I swear they, the people in charge, want us to freeze to death. My attempt to focus on the information that is currently being excruciatingly provided to us is now replaced with focusing all my blood to move towards the important parts of my body, so I don’t die of hypothermia. Ugh. There go my fingers. C’mon blood. Do your thing. Luckily, I sit next to this giant window. An escape of sorts. A whole row of windows line the entire length of the exterior wall in the classroom. It is easy for me to get lost in the scenery of day-to-day life outside. A team of landscapers mow, edge, blow, and sweep their way through the courtyard. Something they do every Monday. Judging by the efficiency of their work, they know what they are doing. I hope they get paid enough. The parking lot is a little less full today than any normal Monday. I bet some students partied a little too hard this weekend. Lucky for them. Maybe some are sick. Unlucky for them. Either way, they are not here. The family of squirrels in the large cypress tree in the front garden seem to be quite active today. Looking around, I just realized that the front garden is filled with native trees. There are a couple of Mexican Buckeye and two Honey Mesquite. How did I not notice these pretty trees? “The needle is advanced from below the transducer into the field of view where access to the vein can be imaged.” He continued. Oh good, the A/C just shut off. I survived. I suppose it does not need to be on long to ensure an average indoor temperature of what I guarantee is set to freezing. Just across the street there is a large interstate highway. It is elevated by large concrete pillars and built-up grassy knolls. I can hear the traffic from here. A lot of people are in a hurry. I am curious to know where they are going. I am assuming most are headed to work. Maybe school. Some could be coming back from vacation. What I would give to be heading towards a warm beach right now. “Duplications: most are segmental; complete duplications are rare. To be duplicated, both saphenous veins must follow the same path and remain parallel within the fascia. Duplication demonstrates a beginning and end along the same path,” said Charlie Brown’s teacher. I think. My nostrils flare, picking up scent coming in from down the hall. The cafeteria is not that far from our door, but being able to smell food from that area is still an uncommon thing. It smells like another student just pulled lunch out of one of the microwaves. What is that? Is that.. Is that fish? Holy crap. It is fish. Who? Why? What have we done to deserve such blatant disrespect? That is a very violent smelling microwaved fishy aroma. My nostrils and olfactory sensory neurons are in a battle for their lives. I think they are losing. My eyes are watering. The fishy smelling air particles are now in my eyes. In a weird way, it makes me hungry. I have a snack-sized bag of Cheez-it calling my name from my lunch carrier. And just thinking about sinking my teeth into the BLT wrap that I have prepared is making my mouth water. I don’t do BLT’s the traditional way. I chop the bacon, the hickory smoked goodness of bacon, lettuce, and tomatoes. I throw them into a bowl. I combine mayonnaise, ranch, and sriracha in another bowl. I then mix the two bowls. After spreading on and rolling up tortillas, boom! Delicioso. I need a haircut. One of the girls in the class just got new hair put in. I am still not even sure what that means. But what happened to the poor horse? Is there a hairless horse walking around somewhere? Looks good, though. Even after her pointing it out, I still cannot tell what belongs to a different animal species and what is natural. I just grow my hair out the traditional way. Then cut it. Then I grow my hair out. Repeat. I just need to taper it back. Maybe, a low skin fade is in order. I have gotten away with growing my hair out for far too long. The tips are passed the collar of my shirt. I really should have taken the clothes out of the dryer last night. Now, when I get home, I am going to have to run them for at least 15 minutes to get the wrinkles out. 20 minutes makes them too hot. But it is just whites. Do I need to get the wrinkles out of the whites? It is just work out shirts and socks. Maybe I am good. I hate folding wrinkled shirts, though. I will play it by ear. “...trendelenburg position. Post treatment. Okay, take a break. Be back in 10 minutes.” Damn it! What did I miss? 

4ogx04

I Left the Lights on and Ran Errands

I left the lights on and ran errands. And thank Christ, I did. They always call my kind animals and savages but look at what they do to my house when I'm away. Torching my home where my wife and my kids sleep. And for what? Because we live in their neighborhood? To torch your neighbor's home because he and his family live here is obscene. And my kind is called animals and savages. Simply because of the pigmentation of our skin. I left the lights on and ran errands. But I didn't leave them on purposely. I was in a rush to get to my job interview and forget to turn them off. But it's a good thing I left them that way. Now the white folks think my family and I are home and they're hurling Molotov cocktails into our windows, causing the place to be consumed by an angry flame. If it weren't for my forgetfulness, they'd wait until my family and I got home to torch us. But no. God saved us this day. I left the lights on and ran errands. And while I was off taking care of my duties, my wife was dropping the kids off at school. They're angry. They're all angry at a family simply for living. And it's because of those Jim Crow laws. Segregation and division in this country all because of the white man's ego. How is society supposed to get any better when this is where we're headed? How can the world become a better place when this is how man treats his neighbor? I wouldn't speak ill will of my worst enemy. I wouldn't. Just wasn't how I was raised. But this heinous action, this crime, shows me how these individuals were raised. The fact that I'm even alive to see this just means I must thank my lord that... ...I left the lights on and ran errands. And now my home is being torched by a group of angry white men. Men who are supposed to be my neighbors. I'd be lying if I said I didn't see something like this coming. When my family and I moved into this neighborhood, we would receive judgmental looks and overhear hateful speech while walking down the street. Those stares and gossip eventually became death threats that were aimed directly at us. The first instance of this was when my wife and I went to the corner store to get some diapers for our daughter. We ended up leaving the store without those diapers that night because the store clerk, instead of selling us what we needed, pulled a 12 gauge shotgun from underneath the counter and stuck it in my wife's face. I was already coming up with ways to explain to the kids why I was returning from the store without their mother. Before I could even react, the man opened his mouth and gave us a warning. He said that if he ever saw us "eggplants" in his store again, he'd kill us where we stood, mop our blood off of his floor, and leave our bodies in the dumpster bin behind the store. My wife couldn't get her words together and respond to him because her voice was shaking and breaking as tears rolled down her face. I answered for both of us, saying "yes sir. My apologies for the inconvenience." He stared into my soul for one full minute before sticking the gun back underneath the counter and allowing me and my wife to return home to our kids. Later that day, my wife washed the poop out of our daughter's diaper in the bathroom sink and placed the diaper back on her. None of us could sleep with Bella's crying that night. I left the lights on and ran errands today. And now I'm standing across the street from my burning home, the one that I worked so unbelievably hard to get for me and my family. My blood sweat and tears are about to be a mere pile of ashes. My wife isn't gonna have a kitchen to prepare her classic Jamaican dishes in anymore. My daughter's dollhouse and her tea party set will be no more. My son's books are probably sitting in a pile of burnt paper and unreadable words. None of us will have pillows to rest our heads on tonight. But because I left the lights on before running those errands, we get to live and figure out what's next, together. I left the lights on and ran errands. And my lord, I thank you for that. The fire rages on and on and the persecutors continue to shout and release the concealed hatred from within their hearts. The street below the house is loud with their rage and what used to be my home now looks like a burnt offering to some sort of diety. The smell is that of melting mercury, tenfold. And I can feel the scorching heat on my face from several feet away which causes the skin on my cheeks to feel as if it's about to melt off of the bones. My lord, why are these men doing this? Why are they so angry? Why are their hearts so filled with rage that they would be willing to burn a family, simply for existing? Man is meant to love his enemy as his neighbor according to your will. But when my neighbor is the unlovable one, where does the love begin? My dear lord, I was never raised to speak poorly of anyone or to slander anyone's name, or even to give another person a foul look. But what I am about to ask of you is only being asked because of my conflicting emotions right now. I am angry, confused, and horrified. My God, if they wish to see the fire burn bright, then let the fire be their abode. Men like this have no place on this Earth and certainly not in your divine paradise. The fire should be their home, eternally. My lord, please strike them down where they stand and send them to their new residence in the hellfire beneath their feet. I know it's unrighteous to ask of you, but I am simply a human with my own feelings. My anger grows more and more as I witness this event unfold. And now, it must be akin to theirs. The fire blazes, turning the sky above it auburn. The air becomes unbreathable and the crowd's roar fills the neighborhood. And here I stand, witnessing such an egregious thing.

21vuqp

TragicHearts

In the coolness of the night two tragic hearts intertwine trying to be entangled for all time. So many wounds to heal and mend, but there's no one close not even a friend. Trying to understand the atrocities of loveless pleasure infecting all of society. Tears fall some seen and unseen two tragic hearts living in this nightmare hoping it's just a dream. Hugs and kisses and embracing the warmth of another fractured soul comforts enough to Hope. Oh it would cost we have all paid, enduring the loss of mistakes made. To tragic hearts afraid to love and afraid to lose both lost and confused. Both stuck together so use to the abuse to seek out something new. So two tragic hearts they live side by side kissing and making love one day,arguing and saying goodbyes only to return with tears in their eyes realizing they're both two imperfect people trying to make something perfect consequently the effects of living in anxiety imprisoned by the depression of a dying world. Two tragic hearts forever hurting forever trying to numb away their wounds. So broken eyes swollen by the intoxicating fumes of the delusion they consume. Believing in their lies they tell each other so interlocked as they spiral down and out of control. So used to the bottom all they can do is look up to dream of better Days brings a smile upon their face. Two tragic hearts beating hard after the fights, the cries, the yelling, the lies. Don't leave they tell each other they reach out for each other to hold on to what little they've ever known. Two tragic hearts trying to Love in this loveless toxic fairy tail both trapped in their own hell as well as forever feeling alone. What coincides the drive inside of two tragic hearts destined for tragic romance to collide with reality such a tragedy and travesty they've come to know. So cold their views on the world around them so cynical so hypocritical two tragic hearts have become. Struggling day by day in the poverty of their addictions and afflictions trying to distract themselves from feeling the shame and pain of Insanity's hold. Two tragic hearts together trying to make the impossible possible all while dodging the inevitability, the lack of stability, credibility, furthermore outlines the insidiousness of their existence. Help me believe one cries out on the eve of a night of solitude only to be met with the stillness and silence of the midnight hour. Two tragic hearts yearning for salvation yet the indoctrination of their creation their beliefs of deserving their place amongst the unholy unwanted unloved snub by the world. So many questions run through their mind so many thoughts all at one time what terrors to tragic hearts must feel and feel they do and wish they didn't. Two tragic hearts wanting nothing more than to be understood valued, their voices heard amongst the wind blowing in the desert of nothingness. You can see them everywhere if you only looked but no one looks no one cares. Too busy in the hustling bustle of everyday trying to make a way with their minimum wage trying to reach their goals. Invested in their materialistic distractions unbeknownst to anyone how quickly they can become two tragic hearts. Instead the world slowly turns the world slowly Burns all the while the inhabitants of this dying Paradise have become selfish and driven by ego. Suddenly now and in a uniquely turn of events what no one could foresee two tragic hearts have become the heroes and the horror story of life. Can you hear the end of everything can you predict the unpredictable can you stop the unstoppable have you ever Loved someone who didn't love you.. have you ever hurt someone who never hurt you.. we all leave wounds throughout this journey to the grave. So unappreciative of the beautifulness and ugliness of the truth. So naively striving for the knowledge of Good and evil only to still be confused and given to folly. Pretending to be sane in this insanity is a creative way of avoiding the image in the mirror staring back at all of you. Ever considered what prompts you to get up from the bed in the morning to face the day to face the unknown knowing we know nothing but pretending we know everything this is why we've all in a way become tragic hearts beating in the majesticness of silence. The phrase has become chivalry is dead it is not dead it's just tired of being used abused discarded like yesterday's trash. The morals of today hold no value to what we seek the morality has all but vanished like the concept of love delegated to fairy tales and Myths.. some say love is hard to find but when they find it they're emotional immaturity sabotages which they crave so they declare it dead before they know. How foolishness has become the humorous hubris of the youth. The shredding of our dignity our intimacy has become loveless acts of pleasure yeah we're oblivious to the Oblivion awaiting us all. So much is gone already so much is unretrievable even the memories of yesterday are fading away with time like tears in the rain we've all become. Slaves to the corporations that has deceived us, blinded as they miss lead, us manipulate us, seduces us, into something controllable, manageable, disposable. Consumers of their supplies forever at the bottom fighting amongst ourselves for the crumbs off their table. You see so it's easily taken for granted passing by the future you standing there with that blank stare that look of confusion and depleted of strength and the willpower to resist giving up on feeling love unconditional love it's something we never knew. So we go on posting stories of fake lives we live the projection of happiness oh how we all become unpaid actors in this show called life. Or if we just get a few likes a few views it'll get us through our day. That's the sadness that's the nightmare that's become our everydays. Two tragic hearts is a story easily of me and you.

vfh7eh

Thirteen Roses

The bar was dark, as a bar should be. That didn’t bother John. In fact, it was one of the reasons he had stopped by for a drink. The last four years had all made sense to him. Boy met girl. Boy fell in love. Happily ever after. It had been a fairy tale to be sure, until tonight. She wanted roses at their wedding, yet his mom wanted lilies. If you really want to make a bride-to-be angry a week before her big day, try changing one of the major decisions at the last moment to please your mother. John learned that the hard way. Somehow, he knew he should have sided with his fiancée, but he'd spent most of his twenty-three years saying yes to his mom. After all, it was just flowers. John had obviously miscalculated; after the ensuing skirmish with the women in his life, he wasn’t sure there would be a wedding. The only things he was sure of were that he needed a drink and he wanted to be alone. The first was no problem—he was in a bar and over twenty-one. The second was a little more problematic. “Is this seat taken?” John scanned the bar before answering. The question practically echoed as the bar was nearly empty. The stool next to his was, in fact, currently unoccupied. “Um, well, no,” John replied, using his hesitation as a signal that the stranger should find another seat. “Thanks, my friend. I’m Scott. Pleased to meet you,” replied the man as he sat down and ordered a beer. John hoped that the stranger, now sitting beside him at the bar, would drink his beer quietly and leave. No such luck. “What brings you here?” Scott asked, taking the first sip of his beer. “I don’t know about you, but today has been rough for me. I’m feeling kind of lost.” "You have no idea," John replied, in a whisper he hoped Scott would ignore. “Do tell.” "Honestly, I'd rather not," John answered, darkness hiding a flush of resentment. "Understood," Scott responded, returning to his beer. For the next few minutes, the strangers sat next to each other in uncomfortable silence until Scott spoke again. "Listen, my friend. We're both in a bar in the middle of the day, drinking alone. We might as well make the best of it, so lay it on me. Why is today so bad?" John had a decision to make. Should he engage the stranger in conversation or shut the whole thing down? It was obvious Scott needed to talk. Somewhere deep inside, John knew he did, too. “I’m getting married a week from Saturday,” John said, “and I just had the worst fight with my fiancée.” “Fights before marriages are common. Don’t let it worry you,” Scott reassured him. “What was it about?” “Flowers,” John answered. “Roses versus lilies. Honestly, I couldn’t care less. I just want to marry the love of my life. Is that too much to ask?” “Roses,” Scott replied as if he were speaking to himself. “A dozen roses.” “That sounds like a story begging to be told,” John interjected, knowing he would much rather listen to another man's sob story than tell one of his own. “If you share it, I’ll buy you a beer.” Without waiting, John signaled the bartender to refill both glasses. “A dozen roses, you say?" “It’s actually a story about one woman, three men, and a dozen roses, but, nevertheless, I accept your offer.” The two men clinked their beer mugs together, a stranger’s contract signed. “The day she was born was anything but ordinary,” Scott began. “Her mother had been pregnant once before, but her first child was stillborn. The devastation made the young couple fearful during their second pregnancy. Until the little girl was safely in her mother’s arms, neither spoke of the future. Her father had been so cautious that he hadn’t even bought a gift for his daughter, who now slept soundly on her mother’s chest. This, of course, would not do, so he hurried to the hospital gift shop where he bought the most beautiful thing in the store: a single red rose.” “A single rose?” “Trust me,” Scott said, chuckling. “By the end of my story, you’ll have your beer’s worth and a dozen roses.” “Excuse me,” John responded as he bowed slightly, waving his hand like a game show host. “Please, continue.” “I think I will,” Scott responded with a melancholy smile. “You see every girl is beautiful in her father’s eyes, but this daughter was a little bit of a late bloomer.” Scott wrinkled his forehead, deep in thought. “When she turned thirteen, just like most thirteen-year-old girls, she was hopelessly in love. With more courage than sense, she invited the object of her affection to her birthday party. To hers and everyone else’s surprise, he agreed.” “Oh no, I think I know what’s coming." “Exactly,” Scott replied, shaking his head. “She told everyone she knew the good news..." "But he never showed up," John interrupted. "Yep.” “That’s awful.” “Yes, but it’s also the story of the second rose. You see, her dad, having been around the block a time or two, was afraid that would happen,” Scott took a sip of his beer, interrupting his own story. “You’re going to be a dad someday, and my advice is: be prepared." Scott paused to allow a moment for John to contemplate before continuing. "Now where was I?” “Her crush didn’t show up at the party.” “Oh, that’s right. So, the story of the rose had been told at picnics, family gatherings, and holidays—ever since the day she was born, so when her dad knocked on her door and came in holding a single red rose, it made a sad girl smile and a very bad situation not quite so bad.” “That's a good man, there," John said, offering Scott a small smile. "That's two roses down. You still owe me ten." “I’m getting there,” Scott assured him. “As I said before, she hadn’t really come into her own at thirteen. That was not the case at eighteen. She had become a head-turner and had more than a few invitations to go to the senior prom, but she declined all but one. I think she knew that particular offer came from the young man who would become her husband." "High school sweethearts?" "It was storybook perfect and, five years after getting her second rose, her dad gave her the third rose as she left for her special night. It was a father’s way of saying he approved of her date without using any words. She may have married him without the rose and her father's endorsement, but we’ll never know for sure.” “I hope their wedding went better than I expect mine will.” “Like I said, don’t worry. All weddings are stressful. I’m sure yours will be fine.” "From your mouth to God's ears," John sighed. "So, what’s the story behind the next rose?” “I think you'll appreciate this one. It was on her wedding day and a little like your fiancée, she was angry and hurt that her mom had made most of the important decisions. Her dad found her sitting alone, and as only a dad can, he fixed it with another red rose. With all the chaos of the day, that one red rose brought her back to the simplicity of it all. Two people who loved each other. The rest was just background noise. She didn’t know it at the time, but it was also the last rose she would ever get from her father.” “Wait, you promised a dozen roses!” “I did,” Scott admitted, "but I also told you it involved three men.” “I’m sorry,” John said sheepishly, more invested in Scott's story than he had realized. "Go on.” Scott took a long overdue sip of his beer and continued. “They call the first year of marriage ‘the honeymoon phase’ because it’s expected that couples will be lost in wedded bliss, but it’s also the time when the worst fights happen.” “Don’t tell me that,” John said, rubbing his eyes. “I was hoping this fight tonight would be the worst.” “Trust me, you’re going to look back on this fight and laugh,” Scott replied with certainty. “In fact, most of your marital fights will be forgotten as long as you remember one thing.” “What’s that?" “Never say anything you can’t take back. When you’re in the middle of a fight with someone you love, winning isn’t the goal. Forever is.” John sighed, turning to glance at his reflection in the mirror behind the bar before looking back toward Scott. “So, there was a big fight? About what?” “Well, the important thing isn’t what the fight was about. It’s how it was handled. She walked out the door, got into her car, and headed to her parents' home. She was met at the door by her dad. In tears, she told him all about the kerfuffle between the sobs. After listening intently, her father went and got…” “The next rose?” “No, I told you the one at the wedding was the last rose from her dad. He went and got his car keys and left his daughter with her mom. She didn’t know it at the time, but he went to talk to her new husband. Although the conversation was just between the two men, it’s assumed her dad shared the story of the flowers as that was the day the rose tradition was passed down. Less than an hour later, her father and husband both drove up together. Her dad and mom went into the kitchen while her husband presented her with a single red rose. No words needed to be spoken. It wasn’t their last fight, but it was the last one that would require a rose.” “So, her husband was the second man in your story?” “He was," Scott confirmed. "That brings us to the next rose which was the most bittersweet.” “Oh no.” “Yeah, there is no good way to lose a parent. The call came in the middle of the night. Her mom didn’t have to give any details. They didn’t matter. There had been an accident, and the girl’s father was gone. There is a bond between a father and daughter that is impossible to explain, but if you ever have a daughter—you’ll understand. Arrangements needed to be made and details needed to be ironed out, but right after the funeral, in that quiet time when there is nothing left to do, that’s when the weight of loss truly hits. A good man knows when to talk and when to be silent, and she was married to a good man. She would say in later years she should have known, but the rose he presented genuinely surprised her. Of all the twelve, that one was her favorite.” “That’s amazing,” John said, wiping away a tear. “I hope I can be such a man.” “I’m sure you will be,” Scott encouraged. “I have a feeling about you.” “Thanks.” “The important thing to know," John continued, "is not every occasion deserves a rose. The next one came on their first anniversary. It was his way of telling her that, as far as he was concerned, the honeymoon would never end.” “Be careful, Scott. You’re giving me hope that all might be ok.” “I told you.” “So what comes next?” “Well, that rose was followed by the one she always said had brought her the most joy. She would only have one child—a son—and on the day he was born, her husband presented her with another red rose.” “Was he the third man you spoke of—her son?” “He was, but don’t get ahead of the story.” “You’re right. I promise I’ll just listen.” The two men broke out into laughter. “So, that was the last rose for many years—the next one, however, was the most exotic. Twenty-five years of marriage is quite an accomplishment, and in honor of the occasion, her husband planned a secret trip for the two of them to Hawaii. When she tells the story, she smiles broadly, recounting tales of blue water and white sand. She laughs hysterically about the wave that pulled her husband's swimsuit completely off. She speaks in hushed tones when she reminisces about the sunset as they walked along the beach, but she truly shines when she talks about the rose. I honestly wonder if she would have been as happy if she’d only gotten that one.” “Noted,” John said with a smile as he used his finger to pretend he was writing reminders on a cocktail napkin. Though he was joking with Scott, he wasn’t with the plan. He decided when he was married for twenty-five years, he was taking his wife to Hawaii. “That’s nine roses, only three to go.” “Yes, three to go,” Scott confirmed, but John could tell he said it with a touch of sadness. “That was the last rose her husband would ever give her. I’m not sure if I should tell you about the next one, considering you’re about to get married.” “You have your beer, and a deal is a deal,” John said, trying to reassure Scott. He needed to hear the end of the story. “You’re right,” Scott continued, a little distracted. “Her husband had plans to give her a rose on their fiftieth anniversary, but he came up two years short. The cancer hit fast and it hit hard. In what seemed like the blink of an eye, he was gone. Not since the day her dad died had she been so devastated. No marriage is perfect, but theirs was perfectly imperfect. Afterward, she was lost, unmoored. Her eyes and ears worked, but she didn’t see or hear anything until her son asked her to join him in the family room. Everyone knew the story of the roses, but only one man could continue the tradition, and continue it her son did, as he presented her with a single red rose. In an instant, she felt grounded. Though aching for the loss of the love of her life, her son’s rose let her know, somehow, that everything would be alright.” Scott’s head fell and he choked back tears. “It’s you," John said. "You’re her son, right?” Scott nodded in the affirmative, attempting to keep his composure as he finished his story. “Which brings me to the last rose. My mom died a week ago today. I’m on my way to say goodbye and to give her one final rose. Her life has been defined by her flowers and the men who gave them to her. For my grandfather, my father, and myself, I will give her this one last gift.” And with that, Scott finished his beer, stood, and offered his hand to John. “I’m not sure why I came in here, but I'm glad I did. Thanks for listening.” “It was my pleasure,” John replied earnestly, shaking Scott’s hand. “Thank you for sharing your mother’s roses with me.” As Scott turned to leave, John put a hand on Scott's shoulder. “That was only eleven. You said there were twelve. Where is the last rose?” “It’s my mom,” Scott answered with a smile. “You see, my grandparents hadn’t thought of a name before her birth, thinking it would be bad luck. When my mom was born healthy and her dad gave her the first rose, my grandparents quickly agreed on her name. My mom, Rose, is the twelfth.” Scott again turned towards the door and left without another word. John would never see him again. Alone once again, John came to a firm decision. A quick phone call to his mom let her know the flowers at the wedding would be roses, just as the love of his life desired. His mom protested a bit but soon relented as John was resolute. John didn’t call his bride-to-be to let her know of his decision. He wanted to tell her in person, and he also had a story to share. He paid his tab and left the bar, no longer apprehensive. He jumped in his car and headed straight home—stopping only once, at a florist, to buy a single red rose.

3aeqg1

Distance Ascendant

Distance Ascendant   By Kara Celeste Nabors “I figure we can make it here for a while. It just inconspicuous enough. So we need to cover ALL of our based. We gotta secure anything and everything. You understand?” “Yes.” “Yes. Anything and everything.” “We should start with the doors, windows, vents. Teffi, I’m sending you will gather sheets, blankets, clothes, pens, pencils, medical supplies, paper, food, drugs. Anything that you can fit in your pack. Think ‘Hoarder on steroids.’ You got it, Squirrel? I want you to do as squirrel’s do. ” “Save up for winter? Done.” “We are setting up in the room on the bottom left. It looks directly at the parking lot and is close enough to the main entrance. Any questions?” “I got it. I’m the ultimate pack rat. I’m more worried about Rhynn, he’s being way too quiet. What’s is up with you?” “Teffi, we’ve been here for two days. We were at the last place for ten. I’m just sick of doing the same thing over and over again. ‘Squirrel gather this. Rhynn guard that.’ None of this freakin’ matt—” “Rhynn. ENOUGH. I’ve had enough! We are doing the best we can. We are scared and running with no destination. But we are in this together. We are learning more about what we are up against every day. Do you trust me?” “NOT REALLY” “Excuse me? What did you say?” “I DIDN’T SAY ANYTHING. There were no words that came out of my mouth.” “Liar. You said ‘Not really’ in the classic Rhynn tone. Whiny.” “Shut up, Teffi! Why can’t you just KEEP. IT. SHU—” “ Sweet baby Jesus, I will murder these children.” “Whoa…. MURDER us? Harsh” “DAMN STRAIGHT, TEFFI. MURDER. ELIMINATE. TAKE OUT. BUMP OFF. MAKE PEACE WITH………SO SHUT IT.….NOW… BOTH OF YOU NEED TO SIT DOWN AND SHUT UP AND LISTEN TO ME. THIS IS THE PLAN. WINDOWS. DOORS. VENTS. SUPPLIES TO BACK ROOM LEFT…. I’s sorry for yelling. But we need to keep it together and Teffi gave me a plan. We want to create shelter for winter. Like squirrels. We want to clutter the hallways. More cluttered the better. Clear the small rooms. Think TUNNELS. Not hallways.” “Guess it pays off to have one squirrel-obsessed weirdo in the family.” “Rhynn. You always seem to forget about your—” “WILL YOU BOTH JUST GIVE IT A REST! Seems like I’m the only one here with a lick of common sense! If you both don’t shut up and listen to me right quick, we are going to have some real problems. You are going to be BEGGIN for—” “OKAY……. OKAY…. CALM DOWN. WE ALL HAVE SENSE!” “Um, Rhynn. I didn’t say that out loud.” “What do you mean you didn’t say that out load? I heard it, clear as day. You hear it too, right Teff?” “ Yea, I heard it.” “Squirrel. You didn’t move your lips. Why did I hear you?” “Guys, what is going on?” ------------------------------------- “I don’t care, Teffi. I don’t have time for STUPID Rhynn this or ANNOYING Teffi that. OKAY?...... KEEP IT CLOSED……SHUT…. ALL OF IT. NOTHING MORE. YOU GOT IT. THIS CONVERSATION IS OVER. I’m sick of both of you constantly fighting. So, FOR RIGHT NOW, NO. MORE. FIGHTING. You got it? You need to say YES. You need to look me in the eye and say yes. Now, do you understand?” “Yes.” “Yes.” “Thank you. Ok. We are going recheck the doors and windows. Then we work toward a tunnel system. And we continue hoarding like there is no tomorrow.” “There is no tomorrow.” “There is no tomorrow when I say there is no tomorrow. You hear me?” “Love you.” “Love you, Rhynn.” “Love you, Teffi.” “Love you.” “We move to the outside slowly. But first, we track the days. I want you two to prepare for a lot of waiting. We aren’t out of the woods yet.” ----------------------------------------- “I finished the tunnel on the top floor. I marked it on the board in 2A.” “K, Squirrel. I’ll double check it later.” “You know, you really don’t have to keep checkin’ my work. I haven’t made one single mistake in two months.” “I know, Squirrel. This isn’t about you. It’s what I need. You know it’s me, right?” “It’s all of us……. But the point is, I get it. For right now, it’s for you.” “This nasty ant-hill looking, heaping garbage palace of dying dreams. This place is driving me crazy. It is absolutely foul. We are starting smell just like THEY do. The Chimera what-ever-hells. I can’t stand it. It smells like a coal miner’s buttcrack.” “Are you kidding me, Rhynn? We can hear your stupid thoughts, Genius. It not just about you. It’s killing all of us. We are all trudging through garbage and actual excrement. Actual FECES. It’s chipping away at every single……. MORSEL of whatever we got left!” “Every single MORSEL…. Every single morsel. WE ain’t never leaving here. All I’m sayin’, Teffi, is….I’m over it.” “I’M OVER IT, RHYNN!” “I SWEAR TO CHR—" “I thought you didn’t believe in GOD, Rhynn?” “I SWEAR TO THE FOUR OF PENTACLES AND BUTTHOLES THAT I WILL—” “DUDE, YOU ARE A BIGGER NERD THAN I AM!” “I DON’T SWEAR TO ANYTHING, OKAY! WHATEVER! GO AWAY. IT DOESN’T EVEN MATT—” “I SWEAR TO THE RIGHT HAND OF GRANDMA PEARL, IF YOU BOTH DON’T SIT DOWN…. RIGHT NOW……BOTH OF YOU……NOW!” “UM. Okay. We hear you. GEEZUS.” “Oh MY GOD . I’M SICK OF BOTH OF YOU.” “Ditto, Teffi. DITTO” “WHATEVER, RHYNN. I’M GOING TO BACK THE TOP FLOOR. AND ITS NOT TO DOUBLE CHECK MY WORK. ITS BECAUSE IT’S THE ONLY PLACE THAT DOESN’T MAKE ME WANT TO THROW MYSELF TO THE WOLVES.” “Bye, Teffi…. see you later…… you are annoying…. go cry…. Love you.” “Why do you mess with your sister like that? You’re both driving me crazy.” “Teffi just doesn’t leave well enough alone. She ALWAYS gotta fuss with stuff! She is ALWAYS in my business. I’m sick of it.” “WELL RHYNN…. I’m sick of hearin’ both of you. So this is the END OF THE ISSUE……WE ARE DONE HERE….I NEVER WANT TO HEAR ABOUT IT AGAIN. Got it?” “GOT IT.” “Go get your sister and do door checks. Then we gotta do inventory.” ---------------------------------- “Get back here, Rhynn. You sister found something. Time for a family meeting.” “Be there in 20. This front door is getting weathered out. I won’t be able to sleep till I make sure its secure.” “We may be out of this place, Rhynn. I found out where we are in the cycle.” “TEFFI. I said…. I’ll be there in 20! ” “Every 177 days, Rhynn. There are 4 phases and they repeat.” “Good job, Teff. Guess you’re smarter than I thought. I’ll be there in a bit. Promise.” ---------------------------------- “Teff, are you sure we have three days. Then we are out of here? I’m having a real hard time trusting it. I’m still scared about how unpredictable THEY are.” “Come on, Rhynn. You gotta trust me. We’ve seen the same things. I’ve seen the same things as you. I’ve even… SHOCKINGLY enough…. seen the same things that made me feel like I got nothin’ left…. Like nothing matters…… JUST LIKE YOU…. You just won’t admit it! But you also gotta admit, Rhynn, that it would be pretty amazing to be around to see THE after. I’m not ready to let go yet. Let me be the optimistic one here, okay.” “I just mean, I don’t fully trust it. But I didn’t say I was backing out. It either works or it doesn’t. I didn’t waste this entire last week and half fighting with your stubb—" --------------------------------- “GIVE ME THAT RAG. Right there next to you.” “Look at my leg. This is a freaking CHIMERA scratch—NO. I ain’t using no NASTY floor rag. Its covered in… CHIMERA!” “Well look around, RHYNN. It’s all NASTY FLOOR RAGS. You got a better CHIMERA-FREE idea?” “No, TEFFI. I DON’T HAVE A BETTER CHIMERA-FREE IDEA. BUT………... WE HAVE NO IDEA WHAT HAPPENS AFTER SOMETHING LIKE THIS. Jesus, I can barely walk, guys. Am I going to die here? AM I DYING ON THIS DISGUSTING FLOOR? AM I GOING TO TURN INTO ONE OF THOSE THINGS?” “GEEZUS, RHYNN. NO ONE IS DYING! Don’t bring that trash thinkin’ in here! I’m going to figure it out. Call me Wonder Woman, and you are fittin’ to be Iron Man. But you gotta trust me. You gotta TRUST me.” “Ok, Wonder Woman. This is my only choice…… I love and hate you right now.…... But you are a ROCKSTAR .” “I know I am.” ------------------------------------ “I’m going to make sure that middle door is secure.” “THE HELL YOU ARE! YOU JUST HEARD THAT!” “…... like SERIOUSLY?” “Yes, I just heard that, Teffi. Yes, SERIOUSLY, Rhynn. I’m going to reinforce the door. NO QUESTIONS ASKED. This is how Rhynn got hurt. We got lazy. They breeched once and we’ve been lucky for two days. But I need to make it hold for one more day. The end of the cycle. The plan hasn’t changed. So from here on out, I don’t want to hear nothin’ but HEARTBEATS. Got it?............... LET ME SEE YOU NOD…… OKAY…… THANK YOU……...OK, THANK YOU. You can say your peace after I finish my big speech…... BUT FOR RIGHT NOW…... IN THIS MOMENT…… Listen….very carefully. The two of you…. TEFFI AND RHYNN……. are STAYING IN THIS ROOM. THIS…. ROOM…. Got it? Nod, please…... Thank you, T…… Thank you, R…… You stay LOW and NOT A BREATH. Not a SNEEZE. Squirrel, I need you to CONSERVE whatever ENERGY you got left. DON’T use it until you ABSOLUTELY NEED IT. You conserve EVERY LAST DROP………You did great fixin’ your brother. But now we gotta build you back up. Nod for me please? Let me know that you heard me. Thank you, Love. …… Rhynn. Strong Rhynn. It’s your turn to protect her now.…. Protect Teffi. You have more left that what you think. I’ve got what I need here in my belt and bag. I’ve also got all the fight I got left. This next part is the most important…... And you are not gonna like it……. If you see me fall, you RUN. No questions asked. You RUN. NOD if you understand me…. Teffi, you hesitated…… I will clarify. RUN means RUN. You leave me for dead. AND YOU PROTECT EACH OTHER. You split. You go. You LIVE. If by some act of DIVITY, I SURVIVE, I will find you BOTH. But you both gotta keep on surviving till then. I LOVE YOU……Both……but especially this one……. Fist bump me, Rhynn.” “Told you, Teffi.” “Whatever, Rhynn. You need that win more than I do right now.” “What we need is to see our MOM tomorrow.” “You are my two favorite children. And I LOVE you equally. For some reason .” “Mom, we are your only children.” “Best two I could’ve never asked for.” “Love you, Mom.” “Love you, Squirrel.” “Love you, Rhynn.” “See you tomorrow, Mom.”

6vfkn1

Forever Not

Forever Not The morning hue was magnificent with voracious and vibrant colors. A light and misty fog grazed over the field of sunflowers. A late resting owl swooped down into the field to catch his breakfast. Songbirds were singing a delightful melody of peace and joy. The morning was fresh and inviting. However, Anton was not happy. He could not find any pleasure from the beauty that was right before him. Always before, when he came to this place, his spirit was refreshed and rejuvenated, but not today. He had hoped that by coming to this special place, that he could once again ‘feel’ what he was missing, but alas, today was not the day for this be accomplished. Sarie was a beautiful and exciting queen. Though not truly royalty, to Anton, a queen none the less.  She was five feet seven inches tall. Her hair was long and full of life. When the wind would catch it just right, her hair would flare like the tail of peacock and though her hair was brunette, when it was in the fan of the wind, it was a multitude of colors in the sunlight. The closest comparison would be a sun catcher in the window. Her laughter was child-like and immediately you were entranced in her humor. All problems were withdrawn as soon as her voice was heard. The magic she possessed permeated a room or an area the moment she walked into your life. You could not help but fall for her kindness, her levity, her gentle nature. She was a queen. Anton and Sarie met in the market on a rainy Saturday afternoon, when Anton was in hunt for fresh produce for his weekend meal. Sarie was filling in for her father. Sir Tom of the village was known to have the best prices and the best food. Anton was first on scene bright and early. He needed shallots and garlic scapes. Sir Tom never has failed him, though they were not in season, Anton was confident that he would find some with Sir Tom. The sun was fighting for dominance in the east, the church bell rang loudly to notify of the time and that the market was now open. With exuberant excitement, Anton marched to the middle of the market where Sir Tom was always set up. As he approached the centermost part, Sir Tom was not there. There was another stand there. Not Sir Tom. Where had Sir Tom gone. Anton, looked cautiously around to see if he could find his favorite vendor, but to no avail, Sir Tom could not be located. Discourage, Anton approached the place where Sir Tom normally was, and started to search the produce haphazardly. He did not ‘feel’ as though he was going to locate what he needed since Sir Tom was not there. All the other vendors were not as well prepared as he. Handling this bundle and that bundle of shallots, he found one that he liked, it appeared as though this marketeer had quality as well. The crispness of shallot was inviting. Anton search around, but he could not find the garlic scapes. Discouraged, he was about to leave when this captivating voice said, “Sir, may I be of assistance in helping you locate something you desire?” Anton turned and locked eyes with he most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Stumbling over his thoughts and words, he asked, “Do … Do you …Do you have any garlic scapes?” The woman smiled, “You must be Anton. Uncle said that you would be coming by today. He had me set these aside for you.” She reached into the cart, retrieved a bundle and handed them to Anton. “You desire the shallots as well sir?” she asked. “Um… yes. Sorry. The shallots and the garlic scapes. How much do I owe you?” Anton stuttered. “That will be 20 sheckles today sir. Anton searched his pockets, retrieved the money, and paid the lass. “My lady, you have done me a great service today. I will now be able to prepare my favorite dish.” With a smile on his face, Anton retreated to his cottage. Sarie watched as he stumbled across the marketplace and down a small alleyway. With a smile on her face, she said to herself, “I shall marry him some day.” Anton unloaded his treasures on to his tabletop. He could not focus on his task for the marketplace queen had captivated his mind and thoughts. She was so beautiful. Her voice so mesmerizing. ‘I am going to marry her one day’, he thought. No longer able to focus on his meal, Anton returned to the marketplace and to her stand, he decided that he was in need of carrots and celery root as well. Though he had no idea what he was going to use it for, he had to speak to this queen one more time today. He was not going to be able to finish anything, until he spoke to her again. As he approached the stand, his palms were sweating and all of a sudden, though the temperature was quite cool, he felt like he was on fire. Calming his entrance to the stand, he asked, “Excuse me miss, would you have carrots and celery root as well?” With a hearty laugh, Sarie replied, “Why yes sir, I do. You are standing right in front of them.” The both of them laughed and Anton made his purchase. Just as he was to bid a farewell, he turned and asked, “Miss, would you do me the honor of joining me for dinner on my front patio this evening. I would like to share with you the bounties of your stand.” Blushing a bit, Sarie accepted his invitation, expressing that their meal must be outside in the public view for she was a proper lady. Anton agreed and smirked that he was a proper gentleman. The market closed promptly at four in the afternoon. Sarie finished packing up the small portions of produce that did not sell. Sir Tom had told her that the marketplace was a delight and profit was abounding. He did not lie. She barely had anything left to pack away. As she bundled up her cart, Anton arrived in full cloak to gather her up to be a proper gentleman and escort her to his patio. Though the cart was nearly empty, he was grateful that he lived so close by, for it was quite sturdy. The two of them sat on the patio, observing the towns people, and enjoying the meal that Anton had prepared. They spoke of Sir Tom and that he had fallen ill last evening, thusly asking Sarie to cover his stand for him. They chatted well past sundown. Anton cleared the table, brought out yet another cloak, wrapped Sarie up in it, and requested the honor of escorting her home…properly. She accepted. The two of them had several dinner dates as this over the course of the next year. They had become quite a couple of love and kindness. Together they would help with the homeless and orphans. Anton became a second hand at the marketplace to assist her in the unloading and displaying along side Sir Tom. Anton had been invited to dine with them at their home as well on several occasions. It was becoming apparently clear that the two were well suited for each other. One day, while Anton and Sarie were on a walk through the fields to the river, he asked her, “Why do you live with your uncle?” Sarie smiled and said, “I do not. Tom is my father. We have a joke between us that I call him Uncle. It started when I was just a little girl, and it has stayed my whole life. Mother gets annoyed with it but sees how it makes us happy and had just accepted it.” After they had traveled a little bit down the path, she asked him, “Why do you ask?” Anton replied, “I was just curious. It seemed weird.” Anton maintained that there was no deception, he was just honestly curious. However, Anton was planning to ask for her hand in marriage and had to understand the complexities of her living arrangements. Proper requests are made to the father, however, with her calling him Uncle, Anton was confused. Now that he knew … he could make his request known in accordance with custom. The two sat along the riverbank and enjoyed the scenery, not only of fields that flowed, but of each other as well. The sun began to fall and Sarie asked if he would wait to walk her home until after night had fallen. She wanted to see the stars with him. Anton reminded her that they both professed to proper, that would not be advisable without consent. Slightly disappointed but also happy that he would not be swayed, she agreed and the two of them started for town. Dropping her off at the front door, as promised, Anton kissed her hand and wished her a good night. While he was walking past the back of the home, he noticed Sir Tom in the back garden. Anton decided that now was as good a time as ever, he approached Tom and requested a meeting and walk with him. Sternly, Sir Tom agreed to walk with Anton. Sir Tom knew what was happening but wanted to see Anton sweat just a little. With his most fatherly voice as low as he could sink it, “What do you want to talk to me about Anton?” Never hearing this voice before, Anton sank into his cloak. They walked a bit and then Anton took a deep breath. “Sir. Your daughter…Sarie … she is a queen to me sir. I hope that I have shown myself to be a gentleman and I wish to declare my love for her to you. In doing this I also wish to ask you for your daughter’s hand in marriage.?” Anton rushed through his presentation and then promptly stood to hear Sir Tom’s response. With a glare in his eye, a firmness in his face, Sir Tom looked squarely at Anton and said, “You have my consent”. Prepared to defend himself and his intentions Anton began to beg, but Sir Tom stopped him mid-sentence and said again, “You have my consent” Anton stood their stoically and confused. Then it hit him, ‘HE SAID YES’. Anton, with complete and total excitement thanked Sir Tom and headed off for home. Now he had to plan the proposal. That night Anton practice and practiced and practiced his approach to Sarie. He barely got any sleep and was exhausted when morning hit. Preparing for his journey to her home, making sure that he was prepared as a proper gentleman, there came a knock at the door. He was not expecting anyone, so he was confused as to why anyone would be here at this hour. He opened the door; it was Sir Tom. “Son, you need to sit down. We need to talk.” Sir Tom began. Anton found a table chair and sat down as instructed. “What is wrong sir?” “There has been an accident. Sarie went for a walk last night …” Sir Tom paused to regain composure “Sarie is gone. She…She is dead. I am sorry.” Anton was in shock. What just happened. Sir Tom did not give a lot of details and Anton had lots of questions. He was going to marry her. This could not be happening. Sir Tom left Anton’s home, leaving Anton with questions and no answers. Anton’s world was now in turmoil. His queen was no more. The investigation ended within a couple of weeks. The conclusion was that she had misgauged her footing to the edge of the riverbank, she slipped, hit her head on a rock, fell into the river and drowned. Her body was recovered ten miles downstream. Anton wished that they had stayed to watch the stars, maybe had they stayed she would not have ventured out after dark. His world was a shambles. His quiet place no longer soothed him. He was not sure that he would ever recover.

xw1s7l

Uncle Fred

My Uncle Fred was a shyster. He was a drunk, a womanizer, and a thief. But he was extremely charming to most people, although not to me. I’ve known since I was five years old that he was basically up to no good. When we would see him drive up our driveway my sister and I and would run around the house yelling “Hide the Booze, Hide the Booze”. My mom would put it in the washing machine, a place Fred would never think to look. This was our job, warning them of Fred’s arrival and we had fun doing it. Sometimes Fred would show up when no one was home and when we got there he would be on the couch, drinking, with our German Shepherd, Kelly sitting by his side. This wasn’t because Fred was such a great animal lover, it was because the dog would let anyone into the house, he just wouldn’t let anyone leave; not without my dad there. When Fred would try to leave the dog would growl, take Fred’s hand in his mouth and lead him to the couch. Smart dog. Once when I was five or six I had a loose tooth when Fred was visiting. He suggested to my dad that they should tie a string around my tooth, tie the other end to a door knob and slam the door shut in order to pull my tooth. I think they had both been drinking when they decided to try this. It didn’t work but I’ve never forgotten it, or Fred’s sly smile while he tied the string or my fear about what might happen. For some reason that I’ve never figured out Fred held major sway with my dad, his older brother. Fred was about 3 years younger than my dad. The two of them went overseas together during WW2, and they served together and got into trouble together. They spent one Christmas in the brig in England because of a fist fight with British officers. Both my dad and Fred were handsome, my dad was a ringer for Clark Gable and my uncle a sandy haired Errol Flynn. They both also had that definite Irish charm. Women were suckers for them both. Dad was married 3 times and had many more ladies in his life. Uncle Fred married a beautiful Brit during the war, brought her home and immediately had a baby. He stayed and strayed from Betty the Brit the rest of his life. He couldn’t live with her or without her. Fred didn’t like working nine to five and found it difficult to support his family alone. As Betty said, “if I had got a job in the early days he never would have worked again”. He tried selling baby pony pictures with my dad. Fred handled the pony, dad sold the pictures. He tried used car sales but he was much better at stealing hubcaps than selling cars. He finally found a home in construction although I’m not sure how financially successful he was at it. I think my dad considered Fred his best friend for a long time, even though he used and abused my dads slightly better good nature. I don’t really know why their friendship ended but my suspicion is that it was likely about money. Fred was always short of money. Family stories include one about Fred selling my fathers precious pigeons when they were kids. He killed them, plucked them and sold them as small chickens. Dad always loved those birds and never forgave him for the death of the pigeons. Fred was an alcoholic for many years and eventually succumbed to Meningitis, something people with low immune systems are very susceptible to. He had been living in Long Island but in the winter before he died he returned to Toronto and stayed with my dad for a couple of months. They reconciled, which I was glad of, especially for my dad. I remember visiting my dad, that winter, while Fred was living there and he was never happy to see me. I particularly remember going to see my dad on the day I got married at city hall and Fred was there. My dad gave my new husband and I a cheque for $1000 which Fred voiced was a big mistake. We were young and of course he had hesitations, as did everyone, about how long our marriage would last although we recently celebrated 50 years of marriage. Honestly I think Fred was just pissed that my dad gave me some money and didn’t give him any. While Fred was living with my dad my car broke down and I called dad to help me out. He sent Uncle Fred instead. The car needed a boost. It was January and very cold which probably didn’t put Fred into the best of moods but my recollection is that he was miserable about having to be there. He complained about my dad sending him the whole time he was trying to get my car started. He blamed me for flooding the car. He told me the choice of the car was a bad one. He was basically a shit and I was so relieved when the car started and he drove away. I hoped that the car would stay running and I would never need his help again. His redeeming qualities were few but he did love to laugh. I have a silent home movie of him serving up champagne from the trunk of his car to his wife Betty, my dad and my mom and everyone is laughing a lot so he must have been pretty funny. I didn’t love him, I didn’t even like him but he was my uncle, my dad loved him, his daughter, my cousin loved him and he is a strong memory of my younger self. Family is often made up of a variety of different characters and some are unlikable. But they are part of your history and your memories, sometimes as “my uncle Fred was a shyster”.

3onwj6

MACUMBA - VOODO Etcetera

MACUMBA – VOODO Etcetera PREFACE The term “Macumba” is also used to describe various popular Afro-Brazilian rituals that aim at healing and worldly benefits. The religion involves syncretistic elements and is practiced mainly by Black Brazilians in urban areas. I lived and worked in Brazil; from 1956-1958 and again in 1980-1983. My first exposure to Macumba was very limited; lasting a little more than an hour in 1956, viewing groups—ranging from twenty to a hundred or more—chanting/praying on the beach; calling for the spirits to rise from the dead . Circa twenty-years later, in 1980 I was hired by ITU – International Telecommunications Union – Geneva, Switzerland—to go to Brazil with the goal of Helping the Brazilian Government to consolidate nearly 500 different telephone corporations into ONE. The problem had been going on since the first telephone companies were incorporated in Brazil in 1879. My task was to train a counterpart in the skills of: 1. IDENTIFYING THE OVERALL OBJECTIVE : (Previously cited in Bold type) International Committee of the Red Cross United Nations Office at Geneva World Intellectual Property Organization World Health Organization World Meteorological Organization World Trade Organization International Labour Organization International Telecommunication Union International Organization for Migration International Organization for Standardization International Federation of Red Cross and Red Crescent Societies International Electrotechnical Commission International Bureau of Education Initially, I operated alone, traveling to many of the principal corporations, one being located in Bahia. (Originally the: Captaincy of Bahia de Todos os Santos. ..i.e. Salvador. Named for The Bay of All Saints  ( Baía de Todos os Santos  in modern Portuguese). A major feature of its coastline. The bay itself was named by the explorer Amerigo Vespucci. For nearly two hundred years, Central and Western Africans were captured; placed on the largest ships available and hauled off—like cattle. (Worse than cattle; cattle would have been fed and given water, not so with the African slaves.) The largest number—close to 800,000—were sent to Bahia—on the Eastern most, to be sold to owners of large plantations—some as far away as Haiti and other small islands to the East Cuba. And finally: What I learned while in Bahia for nearly one month. Candomblé is an African diasporic religion that developed in Brazil during the 19th century. It involves the veneration of spirits known as orixás, which are equated with Roman Catholic saints . Each individual is believed to have a tutelary orixá who has been connected to them since before birth and who informs their personality. A central ritual involves practitioners drumming, singing, and dancing to encourage an orixá to possess one of their members. They believe that through this possessed individual, they can communicate directly with a deity. Offerings to the orixás include fruit and sacrificed animals. Offerings are also given to a range of other spirits, including boiadero, preto velho, caboclos, and the spirits of the dead, the egun . While some Candomblé groups prohibit possession by the dead— considering it to be spiritually polluting— for the limited time I was in Bahia and what I learned from my friend—Clarence—who lived and worked in Bahia— there were ceremonies on the beaches where prayers and incantations were offered regularly. Clarence and his girlfriend told me that they had their reasons for not wanting to get too close to what was going on. All of which centered around not wanting to be “SNATCHED AWAY IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT, BY SOME EVIL SPIRIT!” The next time I traveled to Bahia—two or three months later, on my way back to Brasilia—I went with them to the beach. “They don’t seem to have any set rule on who will lead the ‘incantations,” Clarence informed me. We sat on some large rocks, approximately fifty meters from the ceremony. The prayers were a mixture of musical incantations and low mutterings from the leader. Most of the twenty or thirty members were carrying small candles...that were poorly made or were purposefully designed to give off a lot of foul-smelling smoke. The closer the group got to us, the more the smoke blurred our vision. As the group came closer and closer, they encircled us...muttering once in a name of a Catholic Saint or one of Jesus disciples...as if calling up a dead-spirit. Whatever their intentions, it was enough to give me some spine-chilling moments in Bahia. After living in Brazil for a year, I took my first ‘paid leave’ and returned to the U.S. via...Three guesses? If you guessed Haiti, you’d win the prize. When Clarence first noticed my interest in ‘different religions’ other than a variety of Christian Faiths: “You really should check out Haiti. Rather than my take on things that might scare the Bejebbers out of most Americans—not all, mind you...since there are some American religions that would require you to drink purple COOL AID laced with arsenic...or reach into a box of poisonous snakes Voodoo Voodoo is still a prominent religion in Haiti. It is considered the national religion and is practiced by a majority of the population . Vodou is a syncretic religion that originated in Haiti between the 16th and 19th centuries . It is a blend of traditional West and Central African religions and Roman Catholicism.) Now that I have focused on ‘strange religious practices' Perhaps in all fairness I should include the following: THERE IS A passage you mentioned is from the book of Isaiah in the Bible. It describes a vision of a peaceful world where all creatures coexist without harm. The verse you referred to is Isaiah 11:8, which reads: “The infant will play near the cobra’s den, and the young child will put its hand into the viper’s nest.” 1 This verse is often interpreted as a metaphor for the peaceful coexistence of all creatures in the world, as you mentioned. It is also seen as a prophecy of the coming of Jesus Christ, who would bring peace to the world . Now that is realllly scary! (My hope is...that the last paragraph won’t disqualify me from the contest.) END 2] 

rxbjbg

Double Agent

The company Rolex said 6:43, but he knew it was running five minutes fast. After 45 years of service, they gave him a watch that ran fast because ‘he’d be slowing down in his old age and needed to plan accordingly.’ He thought constant math would keep him sharp so he left it. He shook his head knowing that his days of precision timing, down to the half second, were done though his body and his wife, Yuval, knew he was done a few years before. When everything is always on fire, agents never have time to think about themselves. Maybe that’s why he got into it to begin with. From a broken home, he was spawned into fire which is probably why the job never affected him like it did the other men. Either broken by the job or by life they all seemed to recreate and perpetuate the cycle: Broken homes lead to wayward teens which lead to the military which leads to operatives who themselves create broken homes. Somehow- as he made it to retirement he had risen above the fray and as he opened his lock screen he looked at what was his greatest accomplishment to date- a family. The photo displayed his son, Tyler sitting on a tire swing laughing, his wife and daughter standing behind him watching him apprehensively. Did he retire for himself or for them he briefly pondered. He locked his phone and put it back in his pocket, noting that it was a few minutes slower than his wristwatch. Retirement had suited him, and when it came, he was eager to stop running and enjoy peace for the first time in his life. It was the suburban bliss that afforded him pleasures like joining a racket club, taking up sailing again, and finally getting to spend time with his young family. Basking in the early morning sun, he sat at a patio table outside the clubhouse of his sailing club, watching the sun as it made its way over the horizon. He missed the structure and timing of his previous role, so he followed a morning routine pretty strictly, sitting at his usual table with the paper open. The sailing club was nothing pretentious, just a few sailboats and salty dogs. A place of comfortable leisure, not excess. He had taught his children, Tyler and Maria, to sail here though Yuval was a lost cause. The wind began to pick up ever so gently ruffling his paper and sending slight ripples across the water’s glassy surface. He took the first sip of coffee of the day, which in his old age, he learned he actually preferred cream and sugar in. Outside of the occasional bird caw, it was silent, so the harsh vibration of his phone on the table startled him. The wife and kids, his only priority nowadays, were still asleep, so without looking, he silenced his phone, put it away, and went back to the paper. His friends or telemarketers could wait. That’s when the table itself began to vibrate- a consistent 1-2-1-2 cadence.  Instantly his blood ran as cold and calm as the glassy water just beyond. His creamy coffee- a testament to his newfound taste, began to pool on the table around him. He took a deep breath and began to take stock of his surroundings- getting ready for waht was to come. A slight sloping lawn lead down to a rickety old dock with a few sailboats docked- one bobbed slightly. He looked to the left and followed the sidewalk that circled around a blind turn that led to the parking lot and to the right was a lawn with a garden gnome holding an anchor and an old willow tree with a tire swing. The tire swing that he took his lock screen photo on. Behind him was the shop itself. A once dingy shack, now renovated to a dingy building painted blue and white on the outside with one haggard oak door leading in. He knew that there was only one way in and Melvin, the barista 12 years his senior, wouldn’t pose a problem. Finally sure that there were no immediate threats, he reached under the table and felt a bump covered in tape. He ripped it off and found an old flip phone pulsing through strands of tape. This would be his last few moments of retirement, he knew it. He took a brief moment to look around once again, and his eyes stopped dead on the tire swing. The memories played themselves out in front of him like an old projector displaying nostalgic micropheshe. Maria had just won the local spelling bee, but Tyler, ever the performer, wanted attention and was willing to work for it. Maria was trying to say something but Tyler cut her off with his impressions of the proctor- “Your word is butt” he said in his deepest voice, giggling at his own joke. It was Maria’s moment but he couldn’t help but laugh at Tyler. Maria stood off to the side and smiled sheepishly- clearly feeling overlooked. This was when it clicked in his head what it meant to be a father. That even in a simple moment like this, there needed to be two of him, both at full attention. Fatherhood would be just as much a full-time job as his younger days spent in deep cover. By the time the photo was taken Maria’s special evening was on the precipice of being ruined and Tyler, who, as always, was as oblivious and happy as a golden retriever. They needed him. Yuval needed him. Then the phone stopped ringing. He felt a deep and primal rush of urgency. When the agency tried to get in touch, they usually didn’t try twice. Agents were only ever contacted to come out of retirement when their specific skill set was in dire need, but usually, in those moments of need, they didn’t have time to sit around and wait for an answer. He felt a bead of cold sweat run down his spine. All of his cases ran through his mind as he tried to guess what it was that he would be asked to do. He was always the one that was sent overseas given his ambiguous skin tone and ability with languages and he knew he’d most likely have to travel once more. The tire swing once again came into focus. He’d promised Yuval that he’d be there to raise them and finally be a father. To be a husband. If he answered the call, he wouldn’t be able to turn them down, not due to a love of work but a sense of duty. Duty to a broken childhood household that he, ultimately couldn’t save, nor it, him. Duty to the military, in which he served faithfully for years till being recruited by the CIA. Duty to family. But something in him remained broken and untethered. The work ultimately meant freedom within the confines of the job, the family meant freedom within the confines of family. His eyes darted from phone to tire swing and back again. The military was the first familial situation he had ever known. To rely on one another had to be taught as he had always fended for himself. He was comfortable alone which is why it felt strange- even unnatural when he and Yuval fell for one another.. He thought love would be enough to bridge the gap left within him from not being loved as a child, but as he looked at the phone he wasn’t sure. It began to ring again. A third call was unheard of. He momentarily had a flashback of Yuval pleading with him to quit, the kids deserved a father and her, a husband. His eyes drifted beyond the old willow tree to the water beyond as his thumb flipped the phone open. He’d soared higher than he was expected to as a father but as hard as he pushed, he knew that water would always find its level. He came into the world alone and alone was where he felt more comfortable. Who he had become was at war with who he had always been. He watched the sailboat continue to bob as he lifted the phone to his ear. "Hello?" he asked

7u93yf

Coming Out

So, what’s the catch? Now there’s a question. It’s actually a secret. Wait, I don’t mean I can’t tell you. I mean that the catch is I have a secret, and that’s a problem. The odd thing is that my secret shouldn't really be a secret at all. This is 2023, not 1923. We’ve had an African American president, an orange president, and for good measure a female vice president as well. It’s the era of #MeToo and rainbows and non-binary acceptance. Why then, is revealing my secret so hard? Wait, don’t answer. I’ll tell you. It’s because the only person I really want to accept me and my secret may not—and the thought of that rejection is far worse than keeping a secret with which I can no longer live. My name is Ricardo, but my friends call me Rico. Since I was ten, I have introduced myself as such. My mom is a humanities teacher at The University of Kansas, and my dad is a nonprofit lawyer. The family joke had always been that being nonprofit wasn’t intentional—it just worked out that way. My parents are unique to say the least. They were born both 20 years too late as well as 20 years too early. What I mean by that is they were flower children long after it was cool and ultra-progressive long before it came into fashion. This anomaly was of great benefit to me as I was raised to be open-minded and accepting. From the time I was young, my parents taught me that love was love and, unlike those who are hypocritical, they meant it. They didn’t care who I chose to date or marry, the only thing that mattered was if I loved them and they loved me. This was critical because, unlike the other boys at school, I liked the other boys at school. In many families, this would have been cause for anxiety and counseling and, in the worst case scenario, conversion therapy. However, in my home, the revelation was greeted with hugs and smiles and encouraging words. This is not to say that my classmates and their families were so open-minded. On more than one occasion, I came home with my eye black and my clothes torn. Honesty and openness, a hallmark in my family, could be dangerous at my school or in our small town.  There was only one other person who accepted me for who I was, Terry Whitaker. Terry’s family had moved next door when I was nine years of age and a full two years before I came out. We were thick as thieves from the moment we met and, as good luck would have it, the Whitaker household shared my family's open-mindedness, unlike the neanderthal hoard which inhabited the rest of the town. The day I told Terry of my attraction to boys, it barely registered a blip. I remember a little sideways glance, then we went back to playing with our trucks before climbing our favorite tree. I’m not sure what the exact definition of friend or acceptance is, but I’m pretty sure if you look either up in the dictionary there will be a picture of Terry’s smiling face.  Emboldened by Terry’s acceptance and my parents' encouragement to live my “authentic” life, I didn’t give a second thought to being honest about myself when I entered high school. In theory, I did the exact right thing. In practice, not so much. Being gay in my hometown was, to say the least, complicated and, truth be told, it was a recipe for disaster. It was bad enough that everyone knew who and what I was, but what made it worse was no one else in my whole school was gay. Yes, that’s right. 500 kids in my freshman class and over 2000 in the school, and I was the only “homosexual.” Not only that, in a school full of kids from different families, different backgrounds, and different ideals, Terry was the only one who stood beside me, the only one who would admit to being my friend. As a result, the two of us had something in common. We each had only one friend, but to us, one was enough.  It’s a funny thing about being gay. You have a sixth sense about others as well. I’ve heard it called a “gaydar,” but whatever it is you call it, I had it. I know it sounds cliche, but it’s true, I could tell the guys in my school who were in the closet. I even liked some of them, but if I ever tried to act on my feelings, that was when I received the aforementioned beatings. It became clear to me that I could live my true self as long as I did it in secret.  No one was happier than I was when graduation day arrived, and I was able to walk across the stage and received my diploma. Well, no one except for maybe Terry. The two of us were headed to college where we hoped we would find greater acceptance. We no longer climbed trees or played with trucks, but we were still thick as thieves and we were leaving this one sexually-orientated town in our rearview mirror together. When you spend your life feeling like an outcast, trust doesn’t come easily. Neither Terry nor I were ready to take a chance college would be any better than high school. For this reason, we rented a small apartment just off campus instead of taking our place in the dorms. This allowed us to live together, giving us the chance to see if things in higher education were actually different from a safe distance. We were two old friends, inseparable and like-minded, living together. What could go wrong? Or should I say, what’s the catch? In a word, everything. From the moment I met Terry, the only feelings we had for each other were platonic. This made sense because, even though I didn’t know it when we met, Terry was never my type. Not only was I gay, but I was also particular. I wanted boys to be sure, but I wanted them big and strong. To say the least, Terry was nothing like that. This brings me to my secret. The first time I ever really saw Terry everything changed. We had been friends for ten years, but that day in our apartment was the first day I had seen Terry naked. We both knew we weren’t interested in each other. We were friends—that was all. But there had never been a time when being naked would have fit into our friendship. Terry had just taken a shower and, without a towel, walked across the room to get dressed. I tried as best I could not to stare, but how could I not? I was being treated to the most beautiful body I had ever seen. Now don’t get me wrong. I didn’t have many points of reference for the naked human body—just what I had seen in a few magazines and from a couple of pornos I had watched online. But this was different. I had been wrong all along about my type. Terry was not muscular or at all hairy, but I was floored at what I saw. All of a sudden I saw Terry as more than a friend. I had been too blind to see it before, and now all I could think about was how these new feelings would play out. If I told Terry, it might change everything. Heck, who am I kidding? It would change everything. But if I said nothing… Well, after that day, that wasn’t an option. I didn’t want to ruin our friendship, but so many questions flooded my mind. If I confessed, could we still be friends? Did Terry have an inkling? Or, God willing, did Terry feel the same?  There is a saying in football that when you throw a pass, three things can happen, two of which are bad. That seemed to be a metaphor for my new dilemma. I could express my feelings, and Terry could say thanks-but-no-thanks, and we could go back to being friends. The more I thought about that option, the more dismayed I became. Even if we stayed friends, there would be a dark cloud over our heads. I could pour out my soul and freak Terry out. If I did that, it was entirely possible I could lose my one friend, another awful outcome. Or I could trust my instincts and find that maybe—just maybe—Terry felt the same. The only thing I knew was that the status quo was not going to work.  Love at first sight is a myth. I hadn’t fallen in love with Terry at that moment. It was a love nurtured over years. It was trust and acceptance and kinship. It was a shared experience and a unified outlook and connection. It was a deep, soul-level love, and I had found that with Terry. I decided to be honest.  Public places are the best place for shocking declarations. As much as I knew Terry wouldn’t make a scene, I still wasn’t taking any chances. I set up a table for two at a local restaurant and told Terry I wanted to celebrate all our years of friendship and support. Never underestimate the power of free food because as odd as my request seemed, Terry accepted without hesitation and the “date” was set. Terry arrived at the restaurant first and had already ordered a bottle of wine and filled two glasses by the time I entered the restaurant. I was both excited and terrified but was also resolute as I made my way to our table. Seeing Terry waiting for me crystallized the gravity of what I was about to do. There was no way to know how it would come out, but there was also no turning back. Sitting down with a nervous smile on my face I looked across the table at the object of my affection, my heart began to race and my palms began to sweat. I grabbed my wine glass and drank its contents in one gulp. I then cleared my throat and posed the question. “Can you keep a secret?” “With my life,” came Terry’s response. “You know that.” “I’m in love with someone who has no clue about my feelings.” The words, in any other situation, would have been normal for old dear friends, but nothing about this was normal. “That’s fantastic.” Terry replied. “Are you sure they don’t know?” “I’m not.” I responded, shrugging my shoulders. “Do you know?” “Do I know? What do you mean?” “It’s you, silly.” “You are in love with me?” I nodded my head. “But…” “Trust me, I’m as surprised as you are.” “You know I’m a girl right?” “Yup.” “And you’re gay.” “I thought I was, but turns out I was wrong. So, what do you think?” I filled my glass again and emptied it in a single swig. I waited anxiously for Terry’s response. “All of a sudden I’m not hungry.” The look on Terry’s face reminded me of the day I first told her I was gay, but instead of going back to playing with trucks, she smiled and called for the check. “Don’t you want to talk about this?” I asked, afraid of her answer. “Talk? Hardly.” She responded, her smile growing even bigger. “What, then?” Taking my hand in hers, and giving me a gentle kiss on the cheek, she said, “Let’s get out of here and go home.” What’s the catch? The funny thing is it turns out there isn’t one after all.

dcu2w2

Familiar

There is a point past weeping , Dr. Christensen thought to himself, when the pain numbs. He peered at his face in the back of a spoon. The distorted image magnified the broken capillaries under his eyes. From medical school, he knew his lacrimal glands were responsible for his bloodshot eyes and dilated pupils. He maneuvered the spoon to view the extent of his puffy red face, caused mainly by the salt from his tears. The spoon’s reflection revealed the monster he felt he had become. No wonder his wife had left. No wonder his son had been taken. For a third time, Dr. Christensen attempted to spoon tuna directly from a can into his mouth, but he could not swallow. As he walked to the sink to spit the tuna out, he heard a plaintive high-pitched mewing from the yard. “For the love of God, please leave me alone!” the distraught physician screamed, ostensibly at the feline announcing its presence in the alley next to the three-story brownstone. As is often the case when tragedy strikes, his demons mocked him, not the orange tabby cat that had found a home behind the tin trash cans overflowing with rubbish and memories. Detesting the feeling of powerlessness that enveloped him like a straightjacket, Dr. Christensen ripped open the screen door that separated him from the interloper and flung the remnants of the canned tuna at the cat in a fruitless attempt to regain the comfort of silence. The cat, however, just stared at the man as the can flew harmlessly over his head. Then it meowed again as if to say thank you before devouring the feast now conveniently at its feet. Dr. Christensen watched the cat blithely finish its meal, completely ignoring the neighbor’s barking dog, which strained at its leash in a futile attempt to sink its teeth into orange fur. As barks grew into snarls, the cat merely licked its paws, then blinked its green eyes at the doctor, as if they shared a private joke. “I hope you enjoyed yourself,” the doctor said, a small smile curling the corners of his mouth. “Now move along. Find another home. There’s nothing here for you.” The cat walked closer to the screen door, purposefully misunderstanding both the doctor’s words and tone. It meowed again in earnest. “No more for you. Go away,” Dr. Christensen said, half-heartedly. The cat tilted its head, taking in the sad-eyed man who still wore his scrubs from the Emergency Room. Splatters of blood had long turned to rust. “I can’t help you,” the doctor replied, “I don’t think I can help anyone…” The cat meowed more loudly, putting its two front paws on the screen door and lifting itself up to peer into the kitchen. The doctor turned to see a cabinet open. Perhaps the cat was still hungry? He still had several cans of tuna. They’d always had tuna on hand. His son liked to eat his tuna melts. No, that’s not right , Dr. Christensen corrected himself, adjusting his thinking to the new normal. His son used to like his tuna melts . At that thought, the man’s knees buckled. He slid to the floor and started to weep again. Burying his face in his hands, his shoulders heaved as he keened into the night. At the pitiful sound, the neighbor’s dog quit barking. The orange tabby cat sat still, watching over the man through the screen until the morning light.  Few things are less comfortable than sleeping on the cold tile of a kitchen floor, but to Dr. Christensen, it wasn’t nearly intolerable enough. He felt he no longer deserved much of anything. So when he woke to see the orange tabby cat sleeping on his porch, he felt immeasurable guilt. Surely God was mocking him. His son, his beloved son, had asked for a cat on his eighth birthday. Instead? He was given a stethoscope. His son had begged for a cat the Christmas of his twelfth year, only to be surprised by a new sweater and an itchy sports coat. And when he brought home a stray cat he had found under the bleachers during his sophomore year in high school, Dr. Christensen forced the lad to take the creature to the animal shelter, knowing full well that no full-grown cat would be adopted. Each time the physician closed his eyes, all he saw was the somber face of his teenage son as they walked silently back to the car after leaving the cat for others to euthanize. God had sent only a single orange tabby cat for his comfort, yet his seeing the cat brought the doctor a peace he hadn’t felt since the day his son died in his arms. “Hello,” Dr. Christensen said to the cat who steadily blinked at him. The cat said nothing. “Would you like to come in?” the doctor asked, opening the screen door. The late autumn breeze had a chill, and the cat sidestepped brown crinkly leaves to enter the kitchen. “Tuna again? Or maybe some ham…” He opened the fridge and poked among the takeout containers. He hadn’t cooked much after his wife left. The cat rubbed against his leg, purring with contentment in the cozy kitchen. “How about both tuna and ham?” The doctor busied himself, opening another can of tuna and dicing the remaining ham. It was good to keep busy. At least, that’s what his therapist said. If his son, or anyone else for that matter, had seen how carefully Dr. Christensen sliced the ham into bite-sized pieces, they might have thought the surgeon was practicing his knife skills. Perhaps he needed more practice , he thought bitterly, since he had been unable to save his own child . His wife had rushed his son to the ER. Already turning blue in his face, lips, and fingernail beds, Dr. Christensen worried that too much time had passed as permanent brain damage occurred after four minutes. His son clearly had an esophageal food bolus obstruction, but the remnants of the hot dog he’d ingested were stuck too far down his throat for his father to reach. Fumbling with his medical instruments, Dr. Christensen watched his own son code before he could perform an endoscopic procedure. His wife had clawed at his face when he told her. Dr. Christensen had no idea if cats preferred their tuna and ham on separate sides of the bowl or mixed together in a cornucopia of deliciousness, but watching the cat eat with such intense delight brought him back the sound of his own laughter. “How did you like your breakfast, Bob? Or are you a Tom?” The cat, oblivious to the man’s inquiries, continued to play with a dustball he found under the kitchen table, causing another spontaneous chuckle. “I know. I’ll call you Willie, after my son, William. I think he’d like that.” At the boy’s name, the cat darted out of the kitchen, and, before the doctor could stop him, zoomed up the stairs. “William, come down here this instant!” Dr. Christensen shuddered at the sound of his own words. “Willie,” he said, more gently this time. “Come, back down here, my friend.” He took a step towards the second floor. “Don’t be afraid.” He took another step, then another. At the top of the stairs, Dr. Christensen turned to where the orange tabby cat sat waiting for him, just outside the familiar bedroom door. He hadn't had the strength to climb the stairs or walk down the hall before, but the cat seemed to be guiding him, just before disappearing into his son’s bedroom. Dr. Christensen's throat constricted, tears beginning to fall. Entering William’s room for the first time since his passing, the doctor found the orange tabby cat curled on his son’s bed. Without a word, the man lay down on the handmade quilt. Dr. Christensen had been in his son’s room many times, but he had never seen it from that particular vantage point. As he looked around the room, he thought he would see a monument to a life cut short, but to his surprise, he saw something different. He saw a tribute to a life well lived. There were pictures of father and son trout fishing alongside a needlepoint his wife had made before their son was born. There were snapshots of friends including one of a cat that looked a lot like the one who snuggled next to him. Every corner of the room held a memory or a memento of a young man who had been loved and cared for. At that moment, Dr. Christensen had no memory of the day his son’s life ended. All he could remember were the other days. And those memories brought a different kind of tears, tears of joy. After drying his tears on the back of his hands, the man picked up his new cat and smiled—really smiled—now peacefully contented as an orange tabby cat full of tuna and ham.

o854g7

The Antiques Roadshow of a Lifetime

As I walked through the bustling crowd at the antique roadshow, I couldn't help but feel a sense of awe. I had always been a fan of the television show, but nothing could have prepared me for the real-life excitement of attending a roadshow in person. My husband and I had been collecting antiques for years, and we had brought a variety of pieces with us to the event. From a vintage camera to a set of antique silverware, we were eager to see if our treasures were worth something significant. As we made our way through the aisles of vendors and exhibitors, we were amazed at the wide variety of antiques on display. There were rare books, vintage clothing, and even some antique weaponry. But despite the wide range of items on display, one thing united everyone at the event: a love of history and a passion for preserving the past. I spent most of my time at the event, browsing the various booths and exhibits and admiring the unique finds that other attendees had brought. There was a stunning collection of antique jewelry, including an intricately designed necklace that dated back to the 1800s. I also saw a beautiful set of antique china, complete with delicate hand-painted flowers and intricate gold detailing. As the day went on, my husband and I began to feel a sense of excitement building. We had brought a few pieces with us that we were particularly proud of, and we were eager to see if any of them were worth something significant. The first piece we brought to the appraiser was an antique table that we had purchased at an estate sale. It was a beautiful piece with intricate carvings and a rich, dark finish. The appraiser carefully examined the table, noting its age and unique design. When she gave us the appraisal, we were thrilled. The table was worth far more than we had paid for it, and we felt a sense of satisfaction knowing that we had found something precious. But the real surprise came when we brought out a small antique brooch that we had picked up at a flea market a few months prior. It was a delicate piece featuring a beautiful ruby at its center and intricate gold filigree work. As we waited in line for our turn with the appraiser, I couldn't help but feel a sense of nervous excitement. What if the brooch wasn't worth anything at all? But then again that’s the nature of being an antique collector. Some things will have monetary value, and some won’t. But as the appraiser carefully examined the piece, her expression changed. "You're going to be very pleased," she said. "This brooch is a rare piece from the 1920s. It's a true work of art, and it's worth upwards of $600,000." My husband and I were stunned. We had never imagined that our little brooch could be worth so much money. As we hugged each other in excitement, we couldn't believe our luck. But even more than the money, I was grateful for the experience of attending the roadshow. Meeting other antique enthusiasts, seeing the excitement of fellow attendees, and finally getting an answer to the question that had been on my mind for so long was an unforgettable experience. As my husband and I left the antique roadshow, we were still reeling from the news that the small brooch I had picked up at an estate sale was worth over $600,000. We couldn't believe our luck and the incredible experience we had just had. But little did we know, our adventure was far from over. As we arrived back at our hotel, we noticed something was off. News vans were parked outside, reporters milling about with microphones and cameras in hand. It was like something out of a movie, and we felt like celebrities being bombarded by the paparazzi. At first, we were hesitant to approach the media. We didn't want to draw attention to ourselves or our newfound treasure. But as we made our way through the crowds of reporters, one of them spotted us and rushed over. "Excuse me, can you tell us about the antique piece you just had appraised at the roadshow?" the reporter asked, thrusting a microphone into our faces. Feeling a bit overwhelmed, we shared the news of our valuable brooch with the reporter, who eagerly jotted down notes and snapped photos of us. My husband firmly said to the photographer, "we appreciate your interest, but we didn't give permission for our photos to be taken”. We also don't feel comfortable speaking with the media at this time." The reporter seemed taken aback but respected our wishes and backed off. We quickly made our way inside, grateful for the privacy and quiet of our hotel room. From that moment on, it seemed like our lives had been turned upside down. We were constantly bombarded by calls and emails from museum curators who wanted to display our brooch in their exhibits. In addition, dignitaries from other countries were reaching out to us, offering staggering amounts of money to purchase the piece from us. It was overwhelming, and my husband and I found ourselves struggling to keep up with the constant barrage of attention. But despite the chaos, we were thrilled at the opportunity to share our treasure with the world and be a part of something extraordinary. After careful consideration, my husband and I decided to loan the brooch to the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City. It was an honor to have our treasured piece displayed alongside other rare and valuable works of art. The process of preparing the brooch for display was extensive, involving careful packaging and transportation to the museum. But when we finally saw it showcased in a glass case, surrounded by other stunning pieces, it was a breathtaking sight. Visitors from all over the world came to see the brooch, and we were often approached by art lovers and collectors who wanted to hear the story behind the piece. It was an unexpected turn of events, but we were thrilled to share our experience with others. As the loan period came to an end, we were faced with another difficult decision. Many museums and collectors had expressed interest in purchasing the brooch from us, offering staggering sums of money in exchange for ownership. But in the end, we decided to keep the brooch in our family, passing it down as a cherished heirloom for generations to come. It was a reminder of our incredible experience at the roadshow and the unexpected journey that followed, and we knew that it would always hold a special place in our hearts. As we reflect on our experience at the antique roadshow, we feel incredibly grateful for the opportunity to be a part of something so extraordinary. And who knows – maybe one day we'll return with another unique piece to appraise, and the adventure will begin all over again.

vax8xo

Shattered Etiquette

Once upon a time, in the quaint town of Harmonyville, there lived a man named Theodore Raines. Theodore was an unassuming character, known for his impeccable manners and unwavering adherence to the unwritten social rules that governed the tight-knit community. Harmonyville was a place where tradition and decorum were valued above all else, and its residents prided themselves on maintaining a delicate balance of social harmony. One sunny morning, Theodore received an invitation to the annual Garden Gala, the most prestigious event in Harmonyville. The Gala was a spectacle of refined elegance, where the town's elite gathered to celebrate the beauty of their meticulously maintained gardens and showcase the splendor of their homes. Theodore was no stranger to these gatherings, having attended every year without a single misstep. However, this year was different. A mysterious energy had taken hold of Theodore, a rebellion against the constraints of conformity that had bound him for so long. As he perused the invitation, he felt an inexplicable desire to break free from the shackles of unwritten rules and expectations. An idea began to bloom in his mind, like a wildflower amidst a manicured garden. Theodore's deviation from the norm was simple yet profound. Instead of wearing the customary black-tie attire, he decided to don a vibrant crimson suit with a polka-dotted bowtie that clashed outrageously with the town's subdued palette. The decision sent ripples of shock and discomfort through Harmonyville. The mere act of deviating from the established dress code was an affront to the unspoken agreement that everyone would conform to a specific aesthetic. The night of the Garden Gala arrived, and as Theodore stepped into the venue, gasps and whispers followed him like a mischievous shadow. The sea of black-tie attire parted as he made his way through the garden, the vibrant red of his suit standing out like a wild rose in a field of daisies. The air was thick with disapproval, and the tension among the attendees was palpable. Theodore's audacious choice of attire, however, was just the beginning. As the night unfolded, he danced with abandon, twirling partners with a joyous disregard for the choreographed precision that typically characterized the Gala. He laughed louder than was deemed acceptable and engaged in conversations that delved into controversial topics, shattering the polite veneer that usually adorned Harmonyville's social interactions. As news of Theodore's transgressions spread, the town's residents found themselves torn between disapproval and a clandestine admiration for his audacity. The younger generation, in particular, secretly reveled in his rebellion, while the older, more conservative members of the community were scandalized. The consequences of Theodore's actions became apparent in the days that followed. The tightly-knit social fabric of Harmonyville began to unravel, and Theodore found himself at the center of a storm of whispers and pointed fingers. Invitations to social events dwindled, and once-friendly faces turned away in disapproval. The once-celebrated man of impeccable manners was now a pariah, an outcast in a town that valued conformity above all else. As Theodore faced the consequences of his rebellion, he found solace in unexpected places. A group of like-minded individuals, inspired by his courage, began to emerge. They were tired of the suffocating norms that governed their lives and sought liberation from the chains of tradition. Together, they formed a clandestine society that embraced individuality and celebrated the beauty of breaking free from the constraints of societal expectations. Theodore's act of defiance had inadvertently sparked a revolution in Harmonyville. The younger generation, inspired by his courage, began to question the stifling traditions that had defined their lives. The town, once bound by unwritten rules, now faced a choice: cling desperately to the past or embrace the winds of change that Theodore had unleashed. Despite the support he found within his newfound community, Theodore couldn't escape the loneliness that came with being an outcast in the town he once called home. The bridges he had burned were not easily rebuilt, and the disapproving glances that followed him wherever he went served as a constant reminder of the price he had paid for his rebellion. As the seasons changed, so did the dynamics of Harmonyville. The traditionalists fought to maintain the status quo, while the rebels, inspired by Theodore's bold actions, pushed for a more inclusive and open-minded society. The town became a battleground of ideologies, with debates echoing through its cobblestone streets and the once-harmonious community now divided into factions. One fateful day, Harmonyville faced a crisis that required unity and cooperation. A devastating storm threatened to destroy the carefully tended gardens and homes that were the pride of the town. In the face of this impending disaster, the residents were forced to put aside their differences and work together to protect the essence of Harmonyville. Theodore, despite his status as an outcast, was not excluded from the communal effort. As the storm clouds gathered and rain began to fall, he stood side by side with those who had once shunned him. In the midst of the chaos, the divisions that had plagued Harmonyville began to crumble. The realization dawned that, beneath the surface, they were all bound by a shared love for their town. As the storm raged on, the people of Harmonyville worked together to fortify their homes and salvage their gardens. In those moments of crisis, the arbitrary distinctions that had divided them lost their significance. Theodore's bold act of rebellion, once a source of division, became a catalyst for change, paving the way for a more inclusive and compassionate community. In the aftermath of the storm, as the sun broke through the clouds, Harmonyville emerged transformed. The rebellion sparked by Theodore's actions had left an indelible mark, reshaping the town's social landscape. Unwritten rules and stifling traditions gave way to a more dynamic and accepting community. Theodore, once an outcast, found redemption in the most unexpected place—within the hearts of those he had challenged and inspired. The Garden Gala, now a symbol of both tradition and change, became an annual celebration of diversity and resilience. The town that had been on the brink of division had learned that true harmony arises not from rigid adherence to unwritten rules, but from the acceptance of individuality and the strength that comes from unity in the face of adversity.

thgx1q

Polar Night

“Give me that thing” Chunhui grabs the cigarette from Bobby’s hand. There is a moment where their fingers touch, the warmest feeling in Alaska’s Northern Slope, and then it is gone. “No need to get handsy,” Bobby says to her. His voice is a dead whisper against the sweeping brown coastline, but she can hear him. They’re sitting shoulder to shoulder on the dried-out vertebrae of a bowhead whale. “You wish, cheechako.” Her lips are around the filter now, pursed in a way he has never seen. Bobby is glad to be under six inches of parka- his boyhood is screaming. “What does that mean?” Bobby asks. Chunhui puts the cigarette in one hand and grabs his red jacket in the other. Their faces are eight inches apart, and she bridges the gap with a long push of tobacco. Then she smiles. “It means you don’t belong here.” It’s like static on his face, the heat traveling across his ruby nose and down to his pants. Her eyes are browner than moleskin. “Is that a bad thing?” Bobby says. “Depends. Are you a jerk like all the other guys in this town?” It’s now Bobby’s turn to smile, and he takes the opportunity to show it off, white and gritty. Chunhui laughs and turns out towards the slushy whitewash. The scene is strips of pink and yellow against a descending orb, the sea a million snowy molehills separating the two teens from the Artic tundra. She pulls on the cigarette again. “You never forget your last sunset,” Chunhui says. “No?” “Never. For two months, it’s all you have.” Chunhui’s exhale is silvery, like an invisible fox. He wants to steal it from her. “So you gotta savor it.” Bobby leans a little closer, his hand moving atop the girls. She doesn’t pull away. One day, Bobby thinks, they will end up like the bones they sit upon. But it won’t be today. “Trust me,” Bobby says. “There’s no chance I forget this.” --------------------------------------------------------------- Sakari walks up the frosty shore, as far as he can go. He is completely alone for miles. In front of him is a drop off, a collection of tan and black rocks that drift into the sea. It is the northernmost point of the Western Hemisphere- the locals call it “The End of the World.” His long flowing hair bounces to a stop as he saddles five feet from the edge. He slips his hands into his kuspuk and takes a deep breath. Sakari knows the air is different out here, yet today he feels no spark. He lets it out slowly, disappointed. Things in Utqiagvik have felt like this for a while- sparkless- and despite the shifting colors above him, he can’t seem to recapture it. The realization had come unexpectedly months prior, on an ice fishing trip with his brother. They were huddled together in a small blue teepee, the wind hard and angry against their tent. Miku, who is two years younger, had thrown white lima beans in the fishing hole, and always enjoyed staring into the blue pit, waiting for the break in color. “Oh! Here one comes!” he said in a whisper, feet doing a little patter like some antsy sled dog. The rod was in Sakari’s hands, and it began to bend, not violently but with delay, as if something was chewing instead of swallowing. Sakari waited a few seconds, then began to reel at the same pace as the fish’s bite. Halfway up, the creature realized its mistake, and began sprinting back in forth, slapping the roof of the ice floor. It only took ten more seconds before the head of the artic char was breaching their little hideout, a beautiful orange 33 incher. Miku grabbed the line and pulled the rest of the fish out of the water. “Nice, Sakari! This might be our biggest yet!” Sakari dropped the rod, and Miku handed the fish over. Sakari was smiling at first- that he remembered. But when that cold slime ran over his fingers, and those orange-spotted muscles began fidgeting and flexing, he felt a sudden drop in temperature within him. Sakari looked into the eye of the fish, an open black hole the size of a dime, and saw there was nothing. A trickle of blood fell from its gill flap and puddled in his frozen palm- that seemed to make it worse. He pushed the fish away, afraid and disgusted by his lack of excitement. “Are you OK, Sakari? Did you hear something?” He shook his head, wiping his hands on the ice, but his eyes were locked on the flopping fish, and its cold, dead, upward gaze. They didn’t camp for much longer that day. That was where the stain began. It drifted over everything- the deckhands on his whaling boat, the diner waitresses, his snow-shoveling neighbors- and corrupted them. Where there once was life, and personality, and fulfillment, now reeked of a truth only he seemed to be aware of. That all of this- this frozen, aquatic existence- was just a passive march towards fish eyed emptiness. At the End of The World, Sakari ponders his next move. The dancing kaleidoscope above him is dimming into night, and on his shoulders he can sense the coming of a heavy snowfall. In the morning, he won’t be able to see it- there will be darkness for sixty six days, and for the first time in his life, the idea of a full Polar Night scares him. Outside his vision, a bowhead whale breaches the surface. There is a faint sputter of broken water, and a louder pshhhh from its blowhole before things are quiet again. As darkness comes closer, and Sakari turns towards home, he makes a note of the giant mammal, and wonders if he’ll be around when the light can reconnect them. ---------------------------------------------------------------- Nanook wheels Yuka to their living room window. In front of them is a mural they are familiar with- the bright cream hues of an Alaskan sunset- and on ordinary occasions, they would take a stroll out to the beach to celebrate another notch on their long post of revolutions together. Yuka can’t keep her eyes open, though, and her feet are crusty and bloated. So their tradition will have to wait. “It never gets less beautiful, does it, Yuka?” She says nothing, but answers via a small squeeze on Nanook’s palm. It is so weak that it feels like a newborns. Nanook continues to speak in their quiet home, the crackling fireplace his only narrative aid. “Remember the year after we got married, Yuka? The sunset came early, and we were upset we missed it- too busy working in the shop, both of us.” Nanook pauses, as the sun marks its halfway journey beneath the horizon’s maw. “Remember how this one ends?” Another squeeze. “We walked outside that night, with our hands coated in that thick motor oil that they always shipped in frozen from Anchorage. A glob of it had stained your cheek, and I remember how it felt to not recognize you. My love, turned into some greased-up motor monkey.” The sun is three quarters gone- a sliver of bright red licks their snowy encampment like raspberry glaze. “We were desperate, overworked, exhausted. And then- you remember this, Yuka, as we left that garage? The black sky ignited into neon, right in front of us, with wavy crystal ribbons that intertwined like loose balls of yarn. A cheechako might have mistaken it for the rapture, given how bright those gemstone colors pranced across the stars.” Yuka squeezes hard, and Nanook feels a pull on his vision. “And then I turned to you and grabbed your hand-“ Nanook leaned over and grabbed her other hand, standing behind the chair- “and felt the sticky lock of our fingers in the negative fifty freeze. There was a hundred shades of purple across your face, and this time I failed to recognize you in a different way. You were a goddess, a primitive spirit with no ties to the living. You were up there with those ribbons in that moment, I could tell.” No squeeze, but a small grin across a thousand wrinkles, illuminated by a dying sun. There is morning dew across his cheekbones. “And do you remember what I asked you?” Nanook says. Yuka moves her shriveled lips delicately, each word a raspy, singular effort. “Can… anyone… exist… as… perfectly… as… you… do?” The sun is subsiding off the coastline, leaving a dusty orange residue that is being cleansed by an oncoming storm. Nanook holds Yuka’s hands, tight as he knows possible, and quiets the whimpers in his chest. Together, they look out into the departing sunlight, and wait for harder days to come. ---------------------------------------------------------------- When Randall told his beer friends that he was moving to Alaska, their reactions were mostly the same. “What they got in the Tundra that they don’t got in the South?” Randall lined his pool cue up to the ball, the tip compacting on the glossy face as he spewed his holiest dream. “I want to run the sled dogs.” Brant, the loudest in their crew, chuckled so hard that the stretched pitbull on his tee shirt began to rumble and growl. “What you know bout’ sledding, boy? The only sledding you done is with your nose down the bar line!” The rest of them, equally obtuse and disgusting, giggled in agreement. “I kicked that shit, long time ago. I’m done with the drinking, too.” Randall powered through the last of his frosty Miller. “Starting now.” Brant moved from the booth, his knees buckling under his own forgotten weight, and waddled behind Randall, slapping two thick hands on his shoulders. “You’re a fine man, Randall, for an Alabama hick. You should know, though…” Brant brought his lips behind Randall’s ear, his breath an acrid, hair-frying heat. “You ain’t ever gonna make it out this town,” he whispered. It wasn’t a moment Randall thought about very often, those nine words in a locals-only backwater saloon. But today, as he pets Kamona’s head in the pale shiver of November, it strikes his mind like the presentation of some great achievement. There was nothing easy about it- the first challenge was finding this town, the coldest gulley in all of Alaska if you account for the onshore wind chill. Then he had to find an elder to learn from, in a language he was not familiar with. That took ages, sweeping bars and online forums, pulling for a lead. Turns out, all he had to do was wait outside and listen. A mile from his house was a barking place that set eruption to the empty land. Randall chased the noise one morning, and met twelve leaping huskies, all riled and untethered in the six-inch sleet. It must have been strange for Sitka to witness a redneck being absorbed by the bouncing pelts of his kin. It was why Randall had to answer to Sitka’s glistening bolt-action before they could discuss apprenticeship. Sitka was a good man, and Randall was a good worker. That was six months ago, and they’d shared a lot of coffee and frostbite since then. On his birthday, Sitka pieced him in on some good news- Kamona, the dog Randall had grown fondest of (every sledder has a favorite), was pregnant. She was due in January. Up above him, the sky skims and twirls in a million different arcs, like a boy learning to scribble in his coloring book. The high mountains shiver in gold tinfoil, and a small sneeze leaps from Kamona’s nose. Randall pats her belly slowly, feeling the gurgle and tensity of her chest through his mittens. This is the time of day he feeds the dogs and puts them to rest, but Randall knows that can wait. For a kid from the sticks, this is all he’s been waiting for. ---------------------------------------------------------------- It is January 23 rd . The town of Utqiagvik is quiet, almost to the point of religious divinity. Snow spreads across the ground like frosting, and on the exposed parts of buildings, a thick layer of white freezer burn rides up the wooden edges. These are not developments anyone can notice. The sun, a shy schoolgirl, has avoided this town for two months. The others make fun of her- the wind screeches laughter on worn-out haunches, the storm clouds dump their misgivings onto those unlucky enough to be below them, the sea continues its eternal bubbling hiss. None of this encourages her to show her face again. Today is a new day. It is expected she will be back, recovering a flash of braveness after a dark, lonely hibernation. The townspeople cower to their windows, peeling back the frost using only their breath. Utqiagvik has been patient, patient as a town can be, and they expect to be rewarded. Her entrance is grand- she’s always been an agent of class, and today she shows it, warming up the sky like a pot coming to boil. The darkness fades to gray, fades to blue, and then sparks of orange and pink begin to pop between the clouds, hidden kernels against solar heat. It is an articulate dance that she’s curated, and it scares the elements away. There is no more wind, no more churning sea. Only a white canvas for her to perform against. The first civilian makes their way outside. A little girl opens the front door, a slip of red nose peaking from her parka as an offering. The sun takes it, climbing a little higher and shining some hotter rays across the one-story homes, which swim over the rigid mountaintops like unseen ocean tides. A bark cracks across the quiet space, and then another. The sled dogs billow out Sitka’s door, their coats downy and hungry for a good shine. Randall follows the crew, and in his arms are two pups, their eyes clipped fingernails, their fur gray as the past. Behind him is Kamona, heavier and milk-laden. She rubs against Randall’s side like a housecat, knowing his smell as closely as her young. The sun continues to stretch and rise, a lump of sourdough set to proof. It ignites Barrow High School, then the Whaling Museum, and finally the town common, where fifty men and women stand within kissing distance. There is heat as the sun arrives, but with the temperature still in the negatives, no one is tempted to stray from the pack. This is good news for Bobby and Chunhui, who stand face to face in the coming light. Bobby’s skin, almost transparent from the lack of Vitamin D, pulls tight against his lips as he sticks a tongue out, the red wet flesh baring small, smoky trails. Chunhui giggles and grabs his hands. It is these little faces, these passing glances, that have taught Chunhui what she’s been missing all her life. She doesn’t care what anyone thinks- she drags him in until his tongue is within her own. Another man hangs inside the crowd- Miku. He is a man now, and the others recognize it, like the horns of a freshly matured elk; only Miku wears it in his grizzled beard, and his creased cheekbones, and his eyes that sing like judgement day. On his shoulders is his brother’s kuspuk. The sleeves are knotted tight against his chest, medallion-like, and in his pocket he chokes a cell phone. He winces constantly at the touch of it, as if it is made of something molten. Except it’s not a physical pain- it’s a spiritual kind that comes from waiting, from not knowing. Miku stares up, into the open blue sky, and lets the heat wash over him like a winter storm. There is a twinge in his eye, and then it comes, unexpected, a forgotten feeling. It is hope, overflowing his long empty cup. Away from all this, and the last one to be touched by the glowing sky, is the farthest home on the hemisphere. Inside is a dusty living room- a covered sofa, an old rabbit-eared television, an empty wheelchair. The door is wide open, yet the wind doesn’t catch it, so it stays that way, a bright blue gullet with one man within its lips. Nanook steps across the beach. Each movement is slow, and as his boots break the skin of the icy soil, there’s a loud crunch. He has never done this walk alone- never dreamed he would have to. But it isn’t as bad as he thought it would be. The warm feels good on his joints. As he moves, he holds onto each crunch like he does with everything else- the patter of her eyelashes, the meeting of their noses, the soft sigh as she lowers into bed. And for a moment, it’s as if she’s behind him, walking in his trail, her skin a golden fire and her gaze a neon sky. Nanook wants to turn around, to catch her in his tracks. He doesn’t. Instead, he moves forward, chasing the unbroken snow in front of him, and blesses the light that shines upon their small, little world.

hgnqwi

Sue & Bernice

It was just a museum, an old building with old stuff that no one cared about, sitting right in the middle of town. It was also right where a supermarket could go. No one went to mom-and-pop stores anymore like Bill’s Grocery or Jack’s Supply. They went to SuperMart because it had everything they needed at a low, low price. The town needed a new shopping center. It didn’t need a museum. But to Sue, it wasn’t just a museum. It’s where she met Bernice. Bernice had always been so smart. She was an engineer—and not the kind who worked on trains. She was the kind who worked with numbers and whatever things smart engineers worked with. Sue didn’t understand most of what Bernice did for a living, but she was proud of Bernice just the same. The two had met in the lobby of the museum on a hot day in the summer of 1951. Sue was on lunch break from her job as an operator for Ma Bell. Unlike Bernice, Sue wasn’t booksmart. Heck, she wasn’t even streetsmart, but she always made sure the gentleman’s calls went to the wife when they wanted to talk to the wife and to the mistress most of the other times. It had taken Sue months to properly learn the switchboard. Sue was the only one who had applied for the job which was probably the only reason she made it through the first week. But once she got good at plugging wires into the right holes, she was really good. Sue was glad she was good at one thing as it made her feel better when she was around Bernice. The fact that Sue even met Bernice was a happy accident. In August in Augusta, it’s not uncommon for the temperature to reach triple digits. It was on such a day that Sue decided to eat her lunch in the lobby of the local museum, the only public building within walking distance. The museum had benches located in the lobby, and more importantly, it was always a cool 72 degrees inside. On that day, as was normally the case, Sue’s head was in the clouds as she entered the museum, causing her to walk right into Bernice. Sue’s meatball sub crashed to the floor, her apple rolled under a counter, and her coffee spilled all over Bernice’s pristine white shirt. “I’m sorry,” Bernice said with a smile. Though not at fault, she apologized anyway. “Oh, there’s nothing to be sorry about.” Sue blushed, as she did her best to wipe the coffee from Bernice’s shirt. “I’m the fool.” “Not at all.” Bernice responded, touching Sue’s arm gently. “It could happen to anyone.” Sue didn’t know if it was Bernice’s smile or disposition or fate, but she was immediately attracted to the girl in the coffee-stained shirt. Sue’s feelings were, to say the least, confusing. In 1951, it was unthinkable for a woman to have feelings for another woman, but Sue couldn’t help it. It wasn’t about her physical appearance as Bernice wasn’t a beautiful woman. She was about Sue’s age and a few pounds overweight, but Bernice had lovely cornflower blue eyes. Bernice’s hair, short and auburn, looked like she didn’t care what her hair looked like . Sue immediately noted Bernice’s kindness and gentle humor. Sue saw someone who belonged in the museum, making Sue want to be there as well. In the matter of what seemed like seconds, Bernice had forgotten she had coffee all over her shirt and began peppering Sue with questions—ones that Sue was ill-equipped to answer. “How often do you come to the museum? What is your favorite display? Do you think they should add a wing exclusively for modern art?” The questions came one right after another, as if Bernice didn’t notice Sue wasn’t answering all of them. When Bernice was done with her litany of questions, Sue asked Bernice just one. “Will I see you tomorrow?” So much hung on the answer to those five words. Sue nervously scanned Bernice’s face, looking for any indication that her new friend felt even a little of the attraction that threatened to consume Sue. “I sure hope so!” Bernice replied breezily over her shoulder, as she scurried out the front door. The next day, precisely at the same time, Sue made her way back to the museum. It was still brutally hot outside, but Sue wasn’t after the air conditioning. She was after Bernice. Dressed in her prettiest periwinkle summer suit, Sue marched right through the museum’s front doors. She didn’t carry any coffee this time—she wasn’t taking any chances. Once inside, Sue positioned herself so she could see everyone who walked by. Crowds of people entered and exited, perpetually filling the lobby, but Sue patiently waited for just one particular visitor. Then it happened, like clockwork, at the exact time as the day before. Bernice walked briskly through the door. “Hello again!” Sue said, not even trying to hide her excitement. “I was hoping you would be here,” Bernice replied, putting her hand on Sue’s arm just as she had the day before. “Would you like to walk with me?” “I’d love to.” Sue smiled from ear to ear. Sue learned later that day that Bernice, who normally rushed from one place to another, always slowed down when she spent time in museums. The two young women spent all of Sue’s lunch hour admiring paintings and sculptures and each other. When the time came to finally part ways, Bernice gave Sue a hug and offered Sue her phone number. At the museum, Bernice wandered slowly, studying the exhibits, reading every information card and exhibit posting. The displays contained a cornucopia of knowledge that Bernice would feast on during her lunch hours. Through the maze of hallways, Sue would follow Bernice, not like a puppy, but like an inquisitive student. Sue struggled at times to understand all Bernice explained to her, but hearing the sound of Bernice’s voice brought Sue great comfort. Over time, she would come to understand, enjoy, and love the exhibits just as much as Bernice did. Bernice was especially fond of new offerings and exhibits. She made a point of getting to know the curator on a first name basis so as to get the scoop when new collections would arrive. She would then circle the days on her calendar in bright red so she was sure to be the first to see all things fresh and exciting. At the time, there wasn’t an acceptable word in polite society for the type of relationship Sue and Bernice engaged in. They were friends, of this there was no doubt. Yet, as powerful of a word as friend was—it vastly understated their attachment. Days at the museum were augmented by lunches and dinners and movies. Eventually, Sue would spend the night at Bernice’s apartment. Soon after, she would spend all of her nights there. Over the course of years, they became each other's constant companions, yet they never identified themselves to others as anything but friends. Bernice was the one who stayed up all night in the hospital’s waiting room the night Sue’s appendix burst, and Sue went to every oncology appointment with Bernice. Afterwards, they would make their way to their home away from home, the museum, commenting on the latest acquisitions. Bernice would give Sue updates on her condition, explaining her prognosis in technical terms that Sue struggled to fully understand. She used words like white blood cell counts and platelets . “Are you getting any better?” Sue would ask, as the numbers simply jumbled together in her mind. Bernice would always put a positive spin on her test results, but after decades together, Sue could read her friend’s non-verbal clues. Bernice wasn’t going to get any better. On another hot day in August, a day a lot like that first one in 1951, Bernice lost the battle against her unseen enemy. Sue was alone—alone except for the museum and the memories it held. After Bernice’s death, Sue would get up each Sunday morning, stop at her favorite coffee shop, and head straight to the museum. The collections changed, but Sue’s affection for both Bernice and their museum did not. As Bernice had done before her, Sue would circle the days on her calendar in red whenever a new exhibition was opening. Sue knew everyone at the museum and everyone there knew Sue. It wasn’t uncommon for Sue to stop and talk with the curator, the staff, and the security guard, so she wasn’t the least bit flustered the day the latter stopped her as she walked towards the door. “Sue, I don’t know how to tell you this,” the guard confided to her before taking a deep breath. “What is it?” Sue asked, flashing her trademark smile. “I’m sure it can’t be that bad.” “I’m afraid it is,” the guard replied. “They’re closing down the museum, Sue. It’s been sold to a developer.” “A developer? What in the world for?” “They’re going to build a SuperMart right on this very spot.” It was just a museum, an old building with old stuff that no one cared about, but to Sue, it was her connection to Bernice, and the news was more than she could bear. Tears streamed down her face, she was helpless. Tears are God's way of easing both physical and emotional pain, but they can do precious little to save a museum. After a good long cry, Sue asked herself a question out loud. “What would Bernice do?” Bernice had been more than just a smart woman; she was a woman of action. She wouldn’t take this lying down, Sue thought. Sue had no idea how she would do it, but in that moment she decided she would honor her friend by doing all she could to save the museum. After numerous phone calls, Sue discovered she wasn’t the only one who was upset the museum had been targeted for developers. A small but spirited group of museum supporters had already decided to block the entrance to the museum on the day of demolition, hoping to bring attention to their cause. Sue woke up early, bought a cup of coffee and met her new friends on the steps that led to her and Bernice’s favorite place. She sat down on those steps directly in front of several bulldozers and angry men in hard hats. Sue proudly linked arms with all who were there. She had no idea if their protest would work. She expected it would not, but she felt Bernice was watching and cheering along with their chants. That thought made the effort to save their special place entirely worthwhile. After several hours of the standoff, supporters brought in refreshments to the growing crowd who hoped to keep the museum and its memories alive in a town that was quickly losing both. A woman about Sue’s age with close-cropped hair distributed sandwiches and coffee to the museum protesters. When she handed Sue a cup, the woman managed to spill it on Sue’s pants. “I’m sorry,” Sue said with a smile. Though not at fault, she apologized anyway. “Oh, there’s nothing to be sorry about.” The other woman blushed, as she did her best to wipe the coffee from Sue’s pants. “I’m the fool.” “Not at all,” Sue replied. “It could happen to anyone.” Without much thought and happy to have found a kindred spirit, Sue began peppering the woman with questions. “When did you join the protest? How long have you been coming to the museum? Do you remember the old curator?” Sue quickly realized she hadn’t given her new friend a chance to answer. "That's a lot of questions, isn't it?" "It is," agreed the other woman, looking at her boxes of sandwiches. "I’d love to answer them all, but I have to hand these out.” “Oh,” Sue replied. “But I do have one question for you," the other woman said. "What is it?" Sue asked, flashing her trademark smile. “Would you like to walk with me?”

i4go0w

Selling Features and Bullet Points

Marissa, is struggling with a major depressive episode and self harm. Marissa and Lexi Thompson-Harold held hands as they took a left onto Vance-Jackson Street, deep within the concrete jungle of Northwest San Antonio, Texas. Their forest green Nissan Altima’s low fuel light came on during the outro of Heart’s Magic Man . The gas prices really deterred Marissa, the couple’s budgetary expert and CPA. She winced each time they unhooked the gas cap and stuck a nozzle in. They didn’t have time to stop now, and even if they did. Marissa implored her wife, a struggling artist and street musician, to only fuel up at Sam’s club gas stations where they received the member’s discount. The ticking of Marissa’s Altima’s blinker ticked at 154 bpm as they yielded to the oncoming traffic coming from FM 1535 onto Vance-Jackson in a terrifyingly confusing intersection that looked like it was made by a city planner who drew in crayon and without any straight edges. Marissa knew it ticked at 154 bpm because Lexi just covered Eric Clapton’s Tears in Heaven on her newest LP recorded in the home studio that their favorite friend, Rodrigo Fab on YouTube, bought them off their registry. Her album was titled Robbed Blind, a ten song LP that she wrote and recorded in under a week, an incredible feat . “I just want a place where they understand us,” said Marissa. “I want that too babe.” Marissa finally turned down Larkspur Dr in Castle Hills into their prospective new apartment homes after what seemed like ages waiting on a mid 2000s gray Buick LeSabre to get through the yellow light. Fourteen hundred square feet for fifteen hundred a month was well within Marissa’s highly regimented budget as her stable six-figure income allowed for her partner’s artistic endeavors. All that was left now was to tour the apartment. When they pulled into the leasing office, the spot labeled “future resident parking” did little to inspire any real sense of certainty in calling this apartment complex home, even if it was temporary. Furthermore, the bubbly blonde leasing agent, dressed in a power suit and heels that looked like they could double as a self defense instrument, did little to inspire confidence in Marissa either. She was more of a no-nonsense sort of girl, at least publicly, the trait she assigned to the modest success she found at Youngs, Youngs, and Howard, the accounting firm she was now a remote account executive of. Marissa turned the key, and with that, Sheryl Crow’s voice stopped in the intro to Soak Up the Sun , and the toxic positivity and overly animated voice of their bubbly blonde leasing agent leaked through the opening doors of their Altima. “Hi! I’m Jenny Marshall. How’s it going y’all?” Marissa and Lexi looked at each other, and Marissa could actually hear her wife’s eyes roll. “We’re fine.” “Are y’all ready to see your new apartment? Lexi and Marissa right?” That’s incredibly presumptuous, thought Lexi. “It is. Let’s take a look,” said Marissa. “Right this way.” Lexi’s phone began to ring, and she was a little embarrassed that her ringtone was Taylor Swift’s Shake it Off. “I love that ringtone!” Jenny yelled. A smile creeped across Marissa’s face for the first time in weeks. Lexi just wished it wasn’t at her expense. Lexi lost a Super Bowl bet to Marissa and the payment was a year of a ringtone of her choosing. Knowing Lexi was somewhat of a music snob, Marissa thought it’d be a good idea to just go the T-Swizzle route. Lexi saw a familiar 830 area code flash across her Galaxy’s screen. The newly developed knot in her throat tightened like saran wrap over leftover potato salad, and she rushed to slide her red phone icon to the left. When she finally accomplished the task she looked up, and Jenny was unlocking the door to the show model. The door cracked open and the, let’s call it interesting, choice of decor did little to untie the knot in Lexi’s throat. In fact, it just tied another one in her stomach. She looked around the somewhat dated tour model and lamented what the actual apartments would look like. The sparse scatterings of cheap IKEA furniture served the same purpose that Marissa’s purchase of Spotify plus did in the wake of her depression. They both just took up space. “Your model is updated with new counters and cabinets,” Jenny said. “That’s a relief,” said Lexi. Jenny chuckled and led them into the master bedroom. “Your closet has been updated as well. In all the live models we got rid of the popcorn on the ceilings, unfortunately the owners don’t want to spend the money on a room that doesn’t generate income.” “Couldn’t you argue that this room generates income?” Marissa asked, rhetorically. “You could argue that.” Marissa followed Jenny into the bathroom and thought she saw someone familiar running through the hallway. She turned quickly to make out the figure, but when she wheeled around, she saw nothing. T-Swizzle began to play again and Lexi rolled her eyes and ignored the call again. This time it was a Virginia number on the caller ID, definitely a spam call. Lexi saw Jenny’s lips moving as Marissa ran her hand around the edges of the porcelain garden tub that was installed. The pristine white was a horrific contrast to the aging yellow paint job that started above the three feet of quartz tile. While Jenny’s lips flapped uncontrollably, Lexi’s gaze was fixed upon her partner’s left wrist. Peeking out behind her gray Liz Claiborne shirt, concealed beneath her Calvin Klein women's blazer, were wounds to her wrist. Remnants of her coping for the entire time that their house had been on the market. These past weeks had been toughest on Marissa. She lobbied hard to immediately list their house, located ninety minutes outside San Antonio, on the market. They had multiple offers and they were simply waiting on their real estate agent to do credit checks and verify offers with the lenders. In the meantime, it was just stillness, silence, and re-runs in the Riverwalk Marriott until they found a suitable apartment in the city. Marissa looked up and saw the look on Lexi’s face. Marissa felt the knot in her wife’s throat. Forever the empath, Marissa’s facade she hid behind for her career in corporate America was a well researched and thoughtfully developed alter ego. Lexi even called her Bizarro Dexter when she had a few glasses of Maison No. 9, Post Malone’s French Rose. Dexter of course is America’s favorite serial killer. In public, a happy go-lucky forensic specialist with a wealth of emotional understanding and depth, but in private a sociopathic anti-hero. Marissa of course was the opposite. At work she always kept her brow furrowed and jaw clenched and pretended she didn’t feel anything. At home...well…her wrist was a canvas to the depth of the very real empathy she couldn’t help but feel. This is why all of their friends called them the odd couple. Marissa being the duplicitous and bread-winning accountant was a fun contrast to the steadfast and somewhat standoffish creative that helped raise their son they adopted from a squawking newborn, to the vivacious and intelligent little boy that they love today. “Like this?” Lexi remembered hearing. “Yeah, just like that. Now use your legs first and flick your wrist like this.” Lexi said. Snapping her wrist, Jared smiled as he watched one of his moms release a basketball at the top of her mechanically perfect jump shot. That same shot was not only the thing that introduced Lexi to Marissa at the University of Connecticut, twelve years ago, but was the reason for the National Championship ring she wore around her neck on an understated silver chain. Lexi typically tucked it within her bra or underneath her workout top. Jared let his shot go next. Both shots found home and made that satisfying sound that they had bonded over watching a constant stream of San Antonio Spurs games together at home. He loved watching DeMar Derozan hit from mid range, and he was inconsolable when they let him go. “What do you think Lexi?” She heard, snapping out of her memory. Marissa knew when her wife was daydreaming. It was a habit she had mixed feelings about. She loved and admired her ability to withdraw from stressors with an ease akin to drawing breath. She hated it when she needed to get things done…like touring apartments and silencing babbling bubbly blondes. “Sounds great.” Marissa’s eyes narrowed as the generic answer was off the mark. “You think sewage backing up is great?” Lexi blushed and the knot that had been loosening, tightened up again. “Jenny, this was wonderful, we’ll call you later today after our next tour.” Marissa said. Jenny nodded and wished them safe travels. They got back in the car and opted to skip the remaining minutes of Soak Up the Sun, going for a few songs from Bloc Party’s Silent Alarm album instead. They finally found a Sam’s Club station and Marissa stood outside their car, scanned their Sam’s Club QR code on her phone, and began pumping. “Where are our seats?” She remembered Jared asking. “They're in the corporate suite. Momma’s job gives out free tickets sometimes,” she said. “When I’m in the NBA, you and Thompson can sit courtside,” he said out the window. Jared referred to his moms by their maiden names to avoid the confusion of who is called mom. “Who’s paying for the air travel?” She asked. “I don't know, Harold. You’re an accountant, figure it out,” he said. Marissa laughed…until she heard the incessant honking from a red, late 2010s model Mustang, coming from behind her. She snapped back to the present looking at the price display above the gallon read out said $55.30, an arm and a leg for a mere fourteen gallons of gas. Marissa rehoused the nozzle, and they began winding throughout the back corridors of the greater San Antonio area, avoiding the perpetual construction on I-35. They got through the selected Bloc Party songs and even Hotel California when they pulled into their last tour, further East down Wurzbach Ave. They opened the car and made deliberate steps toward the leasing office. This office was exponentially more welcoming than the last, although it was a little beyond what Marissa wanted to budget for. They opened the large glass doors at the entrance of the cozy colonial office built atop a gentle sloping hill. They entered the building and weren’t greeted at first. Marissa nodded toward some comfortable looking lobby furniture and waited for their 11:00 am appointment. The time ran by slowly as they sat in silence, an all too familiar sight these days, but right on the nose at 11:00am sharp, an awkwardly shaped rotunt gentleman peaked his head through the lobby entrance and broke the silence. “Lexi and Marissa?” He asked. “That’s us,” said Marissa. “My name is Peter, I’m the property manager at Hidden Oaks: Wurzbach, and I’ll be showing you our Sage suite today. Any questions before we get started?” Peter asked. Both women shook their heads. “Let’s go then girls.” Peter gave them time to get up and then led the way. His fashionable, yet oddly fitting pants hiked up off his Red Wing Oxfords revealing one Hufflepuff sock on his left foot, and one Slytherin sock on the right. “I like your socks,” said Marissa. “Thanks girl. I’m a Slytherpuff, no big deal or anything. The best part is, I have a pair just like it at home.” he said. Both women laughed. They took a stroll through the grounds, even seeing a fenced in half-court basketball court. Of course Lexi’s eyes were fixated. Peter picked up on it and highlighted it as a sales feature, as any good property manager would. “The court lights are on every night until 10:00pm, but the fitness center is 24/7.” he said. Marissa nudged her partner and gave an interested look. This surprised her. Here this place was two hundred dollars above budget, and she was now being sold to by Marissa and Peter. The three got into the showroom and this one was far more welcoming than the last. There was sturdy furniture in the living room, and the appliances looked like they were made this century. Peter outlined the openness of the kitchen, the valet trash and recycling pickup, and then took them into the master bedroom. There were Dutch shutters on the windows, which was a huge selling point for Marissa, who on the weekends, would routinely sleep in until two pm or so. In other words, it was perfect. “You like what you see so far?” Peter asked. “It’s perfect.” They both answered. “Good deal. One last thing, the second bedroom.” They rounded the corner out of the master bedroom, went down the real hardwood floors, and took a left into a bedroom decorated for a little boy. On the walls were Tim Duncan posters on the North and East walls. There was a twin size bed with storage underneath. On the west wall there was a Fender Squire and little practice amplifier. The color left Marissa’s face and Lexi grabbed her right hand as tightly as she could to let her know she was there, and they were fine. Silent tears streaked down their faces. “And of course you can use this as an office, it’s just decorated this way…everything okay girls?” Marissa couldn’t produce any language, or thought. “Yeah, we just need some eye drops.” Lexi managed to squeeze that lie through the Gordian knot that had developed throughout the day. “I am allergic to everything in Texas, I have some in my office.” Peter’s awkward frame was deceptively fast. They powerwalked back to the office. Behind the fervent pace that Peter set, Marissa followed, tears flowing, and in her hand was Lexi’s strong hand, guiding her through the parking lot. They got back into the office and Peter offered them a seat in luxurious leather armchairs, with ornate redwood arm rests. The office was analogous with Peter himself, a completely original and discerning person with diverse taste. There was a Pink Floyd poster, framed and signed by Roger Waters, the script read “the hostess with the mostest, love Roger.” There of course was a Hogwarts coat of arms desk toy, some perpetual motion desk toys, and in a case next to a small collection of antique coins was a green ribbon with some writing on it that was too small for Marissa to make out through her tears. The craziest part was the UConn Huskies pennant flag hung above his Pink Floyd poster. He rigorously dug through his desk drawer and produced some artificial tears. Marissa took them and dropped them in her eyes. Peter noticed Lexi’s eyes fixated on the UConn pennant. “You like the Huskies?” He asked. “I went to school there,” Lexi said. Marissa managed to pull herself together now that her eyes weren’t as puffy. “She played basketball there,” said Marissa. “Oh…my…god. When?” He asked. “2010-2014, but my Junior year I tore my ACL and was a bench player for my Senior year.” “You’re Lexi Thompson?” “Alexis Thompson-Harold,” she said. “You’re a local legend!” “You’re from Connecticut?” she asked. “Of course! Newtown.” He noticed Marissa calming down. “Do you think you guys want to call this place home?” He asked. Marissa’s newly found vision betrayed her. She looked around. She saw the posters of course, but fixated on the framed green ribbon, and the tears broke out again. “Aw, girl, what’s wrong?” Lexi wrapped her lanky left arm around her wife and kissed the top of her head. An incredibly easy feat with her height. She stood her six foot three inch frame up. “May I?” She motioned behind his desk. “Of course.” She took a few strides behind the desk and picked up the ribbon and placed it on the desk. It had a date, 12/14/12, in plain white block text. “That’s for my nephew…others made it out…he didn’t…” “And for our son…others made it out…he didn’t…” Marissa wiped away her tears, revealing the coping scars on her wrist to Peter and Lexi. Lexi couldn’t hold up any longer. She could not untie the Gordian knot within her throat, and she began to cry. “I think they may understand us here baby…” Peter rushed around the fine mahogany desk and had to jump up to grab Lexi’s neck to hug, pulled it down to his and Marissa’s levels and hugged them as tightly, with as much strength as his awkward little frame could muster.

rb6ebg

A Day In a Life

Michael July 4th, 2022​ Collage Counselor Office,​ ​        It's the first Monday of the month. Most Americans are now partying  or planning to. Most labors are given a holiday also. But not for us, not for the greatest  Collage Counselor office. Not the one where the greatest Ambrose work. Fine with me though. I don't have much to do outside the office. And I like when collage students look at me with wide eyes and hope that they may get enrolled in their dream collage. It makes me feel like a hero, even though it entirely depends on them. Even though I don't discuss it with them, I simply just arrange their files and work on it. But it still feels nice, to be appreciated. But not too much that you are the center of the attention. And not under-appreciated either. The office isn't my number one pick for a place to work in, but it's less crowded than other places I have applied into. No drama, no big evets, no gossiping. Just people working and chilling together from here and there. A calm atmosphere that it's almost ghosted. A place that will just fit for me. At least till I find a quitter place. "Michael!" I hear a feminine voice calling me out as I was about to enter the office. I turn around and see Sandy. The newest worker in here and probably the youngest. She moved with us 2 months ago. It's weird considering she is still in her junior high-school year. It's not an easy way to work here. Ambrose claimed that the office needed a young, fresh blood in it. Although I don't see how will that help. It's not our main aim to talk with the students, that's a counselor thing, we are simply his helpers. It's rare for us to completely discuss something with them. However, he might be right. We became more socially connected since Sandy came. "Let's get in together," Sandy said with her sweetest smile. I see no point in doing so, but did it anyway. Once we enter our office, only few employees greet us. I don’t blame them. I like people being understandable. What's the point of greeting me every-day if I'm gonna give you the same answer? However, that's not why they aren't greeting me. It's just July, summer is about to end. Tons of students who didn't make their decision yet, who got rejected multiple times, or who didn't hear back from any collages come here daily to see what are they gonna do with life. And we have to clean their messed up files. Sometimes I wonder how do they trust counselor so much? If they knew how to win in life, they wouldn't be here right? But I guess they just wanna catch any tiny hope. Like a drowning person who will catch in his hands anything to be saved. "Ugh! I told everyone to wear something American for the holiday. So we can enjoy tonight's freedom day," I hear Sandy ranting while putting my things on my desk. I forgot to mention, Sandy is also not my number one friend pick up. I don't necessarily like or dislike her. But she is the noisiest person around and I just want peace.  I think she forgets that she is the only minor in the office, most of us are already done with their twenties . Sandy keeps ranting for like good 15 minutes restricting me from working, until Selena, my desk mate, asks her "politely" to shut up because we have work. I like how straightforward she is. She also look a lot like me. She likes quietness. Too bad for our 3rd desk mate Sandy. The day goes by smoothly. Sandy keeps opening random conversation, forcing me to mentally note to get fired or change my desk. She leaves in the middle of the day however. She is trying to finish high-school in 2 years only and is taking extra classes at summer. Good dream I guess . I don't speak to anyone after she left. And it's not like I replied to her either. The breeze in the afternoon catches my attention. And I work with it. I listen to it closely as if it's the perfect peaceful melody ever. And it separates me from the rest of the world. Just like how I always wanted to be. Away, far away from people and all of their issues . My grand-parents always used to tell me to make friends. Not to isolate myself while studying. They even used to argue with my parents about it. My parents were cold as ice though. They told them that I am free to do whatever I want. I think I liked quietness because of them. "What are you thinking?" My desk-mate Selena asks. I wonder if "desk-mate" is a word? . "Is it okay if someone is completely isolated from people? He doesn't hate them, but he doesn't like interacting either," I ask watching her deeply thinking of an adequate answer to satisfy my "judging" gaze. She said that I always judge people silently. Not a 100% fact, but I could partly agree . Selena is a woman in her mid 30's, despite looking older. All of us actually look older by spending most of our time with the old workers whom most are dead or in their 70's. She have a purple, thick hair.  "A foolish mistake I will always regret,"  she used to say if someone asks about her hair. She can't afford losing her hair if she dye it black again. I think it's good. She looks adventurous with it, like a cool grandma in the future. I wonder if we will continue knowing each other till then . She is thin, very thin. Probably the most thin person around. But most importantly about her, is how smoothly our conversations always go. "Look," Selena says to grab my attention. "I don't think it's wrong, personal choice. But I guess he could give himself a chance to know people. Life is short, you understand?" I nod at her despite being un-convinced. If life is short, why would I wanna waste it on people and their issues?  Selena then offers me a ride home, but I live really close to work and rejected her offer. Plus, no matter how smooth our conversations go, I don't like riding partners. It always lead to awkward conversations that I avoid. Michael, July 4th night, 2022​ Block 18, Building 3, Apartment 6, Home​ ​      I slide my key through the door hole. Opening my apartment after a typical day at work. Just to look at the calendar and discover. I almost forgot . I go to the fridge, take out 1 spoon, one cup and one plate from the shelf. Search the drawers for a candle and a light. Go to the living room, light up the candle on the cake to sing a happy birthday. Happy birthday to me . My parents always supported me, but my mother always told me secretly to celebrate my birthday no matter what. She said birthday vibes will put you in good spirits, making you remember you exist for a reason. I guess she wasn't all-along a quite type after all. She did that to fit in with my father. Thinking about it now, it makes no sense of my mother's words. Looking around the apartment. I see no one around. No texts in my phone. Nothing. And it doesn't put me in bad spirits. Actually I lowkey enjoy it. Being alone, in silence. A man with his 30's ending. With no wife, kids, or friends. With nothing but himself. I guess that's how my life went by. I've never been into a fight, or any emotionally attached relationship except my parents. I've always been away from drama and people. But I guess that's what I've always wanted to achieve the most.  Peace. Just me. Living my life in utmost silence. Hiding in the shadows. Away from people. In this ghosted, drop dead muted apartment.

saz9if

Letters for Delores

Hannah opened another cardboard box and began unpacking dishes in her new kitchen. The boxes seemed to multiply in the moving van, and Hannah was starting to lose motivation. She poured herself a cup of coffee, wandered out of the kitchen, down the hall, and opened her front door. Hannah stepped out onto the stoop and, cradling her coffee mug in both hands, watched Philadelphia parade down her street. An elderly couple holding hands and walking their golden retriever made her smile. Give Max and her another fifty years, and that would be them. Max and Hannah were just getting started, married only six months. They had just moved into the city, where Max was teaching English Literature at Drexel. Hannah worked from home, a graphic designer who enjoyed the independence that freelancing brought. Sighing out loud, she spun on her heels and walked back into the brownstone. The boxes were probably still multiplying behind her back, and she couldn’t let that stand. She was halfway down the hall, back toward the kitchen, when she heard the mail slot on the door creak open and slap closed. The sound caught Hannah by surprise; their mailman usually delivered after lunch. Hannah turned to find a single envelope laying on the floor. She returned to the door, carefully bent over so as not to spill her coffee, and picked up the envelope. Hannah’s brow furrowed as she pondered what she held. The envelope was beige linen, high-quality stationery. There was no address or stamp on the front; just a single name written with what looked like a fountain pen in dark red ink: Delores . Hannah opened the door and stepped outside again. Looking to the left and right, she had hoped to catch a glimpse of the mystery courier. The shady street was quiet and empty. Hannah sat down on the steps, placed her mug down beside her, and focused her attention back on the envelope. Delores. A door opened next door, and a woman exited the brownstone. Hannah called out to her. “Excuse me, would you happen to be Delores?” “Nope. Sorry. My name is Sarah. Are you my new neighbor? I should have walked over and welcomed you to the neighborhood by now.” “No worries. Is there anyone named Delores living on this street?” “Delores? No. I had a friend back in school whose mom was named Delores. Don’t think I’ve ever met anyone else with that name. Hey, I’ve got to run now. Let’s grab coffee later this week.” “Sounds great,” Hannah smiled as her neighbor headed down the stairs and down the street. Her eyes turned back to the envelope in her hand. What does she do with this? There was no address on it, so giving it to the mailman later wouldn’t do any good. The dark red script on the front was so intriguing. Curiosity got the best of her. Glancing to her left and right like a guilty person, she turned the envelope over and, running her finger under the flap, opened it. Hannah pulled out a piece of paper that matched the linen envelope. She slowly unfolded the page. Written in the same ruby red, the brief letter pulled Hannah in. Delores, I’m so sorry. I should have been there. Can you ever forgive me? I’m lost without you. Joe Hannah looked up again, scanning the street. Whoever she expected to find was still nowhere to be found. Max walked through the door a few hours later, shedding his messenger bag, jacket, and shoes, leaving a trail from the door to Hannah. “Hello, my dear,” he said as he kissed his wife. “How was your day?” “Full of mystery and intrigue. Take a look at what came through the mail slot this morning.” She handed Max the letter. “This morning?” Max read the plea for forgiveness, and gave Hannah a puzzled look. “Did you look outside to see who was there?” “Yes! Like, 15 seconds after it hit the floor! There was no one on the entire street in either direction.” “Really? Wow…. that is  intriguing.” The next day began the weekend, Max and Hannah’s first in Philly. Unfortunately, with boxes still stacked as high as an elephant’s eye, exploring their new city would have to wait. It was time to settle in.  They decided to get an early start, and tackle one room at a time. Their bedroom would be room number one today. Hannah found the box with their wedding photos mid-morning, and was momentarily derailed. “Max, come look at this! Didn’t Emma look amazing in the bridesmaids’ dress? Do you think Chris noticed her?” “He walked her down the aisle. I think he noticed her.” “No! I mean, did he notice  her?” “Oh! I don’t know. You know Chris. He’s…” Just then, the couple heard the mail slot creak open and slap shut. They paused, staring at each other wide-eyed. “It’s too early for the mail, right?” Max asked. “Definitely.” They jumped up from the floor and ran into the hallway, but then were stopped short by the sight of what lay on the floor in front of the door. Another cream-colored envelope. Max ran to the door, flinging it open and dashing outside. Other than a couple boys dribbling a basketball on the other side of the street, there was nobody. Max backed into the door, turned to Hannah and shook his head. He closed the door slowly and bent over to pick up the envelope. He stared at it briefly, and held it up so Hannah could see it. In the same ruby red ink was Delores. They huddled over the envelope as Max ripped it open and pulled out the paper inside. Delores, Please! I can’t go on if you won’t forgive me. If I had only known… Joe “WHAT IS HAPPENING?!?” Max practically yelled. “I have no idea. This is crazy!” Monday morning, Hannah began work on a new graphic design project for a customer, but she was having a hard time concentrating on her computer. She kept listening for the mail slot. Three times, she got up from her desk and walked into the hallway to see if anything was on the floor. Each time, nothing. She took a break around lunch to make a sandwich. Hannah added a few fresh vegetables to her plate, and, without thinking, dragged a high-back chair into the hallway facing the door. She sat down, with the plate on her lap, and ate lunch while watching the door. She was crunching her last carrot stick when, quick as a flash, a letter pushed through the mail slot and fluttered to the floor. Hannah froze, holding the last remnant of the carrot stick to her mouth. She slowly put her plate on the floor, careful not to take her eyes off the envelope, lest it disappear. She walked to the letter on the floor and looked down. Facing up, the now familiar handwriting. Delores. Hannah snatched up the letter, then paused. She had promised Max before he left for class that she would save any letters for when he got home. But she couldn’t resist. She ripped open the envelope and and pulled out the letter. Max arrived right on time at the end of the day, and practically sprinted through the door. “Hannah! Did we get another one?” He rounded the corner into the kitchen to find Hannah clutching the open letter to her chest. “You dirty, rotten scoundrel! You opened it without me!” “I’m sorry. I couldn’t stand it. Max, you are not gonna believe this one!” “Let me see!” Hannah took a deep breath, and relinquished the letter to her guy. Delores, Why haven’t I heard back from you? You have every right to torture me, but I feel my life is wasting away with the waiting. If you are gonna push me away, I’ll understand. But at least let me explain. I knew I would never be able to give you the life you deserved, so I joined the army. I thought I would be able to come back from the war a hero, that I would finally, truly deserve your love. I tried to get back to you. With everything I had, I tried. I’m so sorry, my love. Can you ever forgive me? Waiting anxiously for your reply. Joe Max looked up from the letter and met Hannah’s stare. Neither broke the silence. Neither knew how to. What had they moved into the middle of? Hannah had the luxury of having the afternoon to process what they were reading. She spoke first. “Max. We have never found anyone near the door when one of these letters arrived.” Max was staring at the letter again. He slowly raised his eyes. “What are you getting at?” “He said he didn’t make it back to her.” “You think Joe is dead ? That he’s a ghost ?” “I don’t know! But I think he needs our help.” “This is nuts. This is really just nuts.” Hannah stepped across the kitchen and took the letter from Max. “Hear me out,” she said. “What if we wrote Joe back. As Delores.” “And say what ?” “Tell him he’s forgiven.” “Hannah, how, exactly are you delivering this letter? There is no address, and, so far, no person  to hand the letter to.” Hannah, paused, taking a deep breath. “What if we taped it to the door? Right above the mail slot. First thing in the morning. All of these letters come between 10 and noon. Our mail never runs until at least 3. If it’s not gone by 2, we’ll take it down and try again the next day.” Max just stood and stared at his wife. Had they both lost their minds? Maybe. But the idea was burrowing into his brain. “We have to try this, don’t we?” Max said. “We’ve always said we would embrace whatever adventure life brings to our doorstep. This adventure literally came to our doorstep!” “Can’t really argue with that. Okay, let’s do it. Let’s write this letter. Embrace the adventure.” Hannah scanned the room, looking for paper and pen. Finding both, Max and Hannah sat down at the kitchen table and began to write their letter to Joe. They spent the better part of the evening agonizing over the wording. Around 10pm, the had finished. They sat back from the table, exhausted. Max ran his hand through his hair, and said, “Okay, read it back.” Hannah stretched, picked up the sheet of paper, and began. Joe, I’m so happy to hear from you. Waiting is never easy, but the pain is eased at hearing from you now. Please allow me to unchain you from this: You are forgiven. That you would undertake such a noble task to demonstrate your worthy love was so unnecessary, but so romantic. And so very costly. Though I never knew what happened, I released you of the guilt soon after. How could I hold this against you, when I have been forgiven so much myself. My darling Joe, be free. Always, Delores Hannah set the letter back on the table. “What do you think?” “It’s a good letter. For two crazy people, it’s pretty good.” “We have  lost our minds, haven’t we?” “Oh, there’s no question. But I don’t have a class until after lunch tomorrow. So we will let this insanity take us through the morning together.” Neither Max nor Hannah needed an alarm the next morning. Max woke early, and found himself alone in their bed. He threw on a sweatshirt and a pair of jeans, and padded barefoot into the kitchen, where he found Hannah sipping coffee. “Couldn’t sleep either?” asked Hannah. “No way.” ”So, what’s our plan?” “What if we placed the letter halfway out the mail slot? That way, we’ll know when, if , it’s taken.” “Okay. That will work.” Where is it?” “On the counter there. I put it in an envelope this morning.” Max walked over and picked up the envelope. On the front, Hannah had simply penned Joe. Max carried the letter with two hands down the hall, with Hannah close behind. He opened the mail slot, placed the letter halfway through, and closed the door of the slot onto the envelope, holding it in place. Max then moved two chairs from the living room to the entrance of the hallway. They sat down with their coffee and phones and began their stakeout. Hannah tried to focus on social media, but every second her eyes were on her phone was a second that the envelope might disappear. She finally put the phone down and stared at the envelope hanging in the mail slot. Max was more successful at distraction. He was soon engrossed in an online article about the current drama going on in the Sixers locker room. An hour in, Hannah was starting to nod off, when the sound of paper being pulled through the mail slot, followed by the slap of the slot closing, snapped Max and Hannah’s attention back toward the door. It was gone. Max and Hannah sat stiff as starch, Hannah’s hand now gripping Max’s arm. Hannah was the first to move, preparing to bolt from her chair. Max grabbed her arm, holding her still. “What are you doing, Max? Let’s go look!” “Wait. Give him a minute.” “To what?” “To… let him read it.” Hannah started to protest, but realized that what Max said made as much sense as rushing to the door to catch someone who obviously was not there. As Hannah was processing this, Max got up and began walking toward the door. “You said to wait!” exclaimed Hannah. “It’s a short letter!” Max responded.  They arrived at the door at the same time. Max’s hand was on the knob, preparing to turn it, when he turned to Hannah and said, “I’m so glad we’re doing this together.” “Oh! How sweet!” Hannah swooned. “Yeah. No one can say I’m crazy if we’re both  in this.” “Okay, that’s not as sweet.” Max turned the knob and stepped back as he swung the door open. The couple stood and stared. There, right on the stoop, was a small mound of earth. Growing out of that soil, a single white flower. Hannah gasped. “It’s a rain lily!” “A rain lily?” “They bloom after the rain.”

efor2o

Remembrances

Remembrances          I am sitting in a restaurant overlooking the Kill Van Kull watching the tugboats pushing barges and tankers arriving and leaving. Waiting for the rest of my family to arrive to help celebrate my 75 th birthday I can’t help but wonder about how did I manage to live this long? Looking down I see the tracks of an old railway that no longer runs and waves generated by the passing tugs. My mind wanders back to days when I was young and I lived in a city that no longer exists that was surrounded by a country that no longer exists that in turn was occupied by a country that no longer exists.          The city was called West Berlin, the country called East Germany which was occupied by the USSR. There was an East Berlin but it did not have a wall surrounding it. I was there as part of an occupying force of American, British and French soldiers, selected by my fellow citizens to do my turn. We had the usual assortment of weapons, vehicles and impedimenta that armies in the 1960s had. The food at the barracks ranged from OK to good, breakfast being the meal that no one missed. It was the beer and the currywurst that stands out in my memory. Until the craft beer explosion in the nineties nothing rivaled what the gasthaus served, from the lagers to the unique Berliner Weiss. I have yet to find currywurst in America like I had in West Berlin.  When I returned to the land of the big PX, as we called the states, it was months before I could drink American beer again.          The British soldiers I met were fun to be with although they were quick with their hands if they felt insulted or misunderstood. We were amazed that we spoke the same language but said things differently. Their Yorkshire accent (I assumed they were from Yorkshire because that was part of the name of their regiment) took a little getting used to and they said the same about my New York pronunciations and choice of words. Our mutual understandings and misunderstandings waxed and waned over the course of the months and while friendly on the surface I always felt wariness on both our parts. Enjoy the moment but don’t get too close.  Then there was the Queens official birthday celebration at the Olympic stadium which started with files of British soldiers marching in and ended an hour later with warm, flat beer. It was a very different afternoon and an enjoyable one at that.          A big wave crashed noisily below me, the spray wetting the iron rails that hadn’t seen a locomotive in a long time. Then the water was calm again. I returned to my reminisces of when I was a young soldier in West Berlin, of how the army kept us busy. I marched in parades on streets that Hitlers army had marched in a quarter century before, fired weapons at ranges that had been used for hundreds of years and dug fox holes in the Grunewald where men had fought and died. I did this with men I never knew before I came to West Berlin and never saw again when I left.          I had grown up in New York City. I had learned early on that when something didn’t make sense the answer was that it was political. Now here I was in the biggest example of a nonsensical situation, West Berlin, encased in a wall and surrounded by a make believe country. To make matters worse Berlin Brigade was outnumbered by a factor of more than ten to one by the Russians and their allies. Beer here, beer here, try to find a real German girl among the displaced persons that had washed into the city. Make memories before you die because when you die you forget it all.          The last of my family was wondering in and finding their seats. The party would be starting soon and I wanted to relive one last memory of my time in Berlin Brigade and then put it back in its box and file it under things that I did when I was young. It was my twenty four hour turn at Spandau that is the most salient memory I have of my time in West Berlin.  Spandau Prison contained one crazy old man called Rudolph Hess, a war criminal left over from World War two. He was guarded by a platoon of infantry twenty four seven three hundred sixty five days of the year. The platoons were supplied by the great powers, as they were called, who rotated them in by the month at a cost of millions of dollars, francs, rubles and pounds. It was ludicrous to keep this man in a jail when he belonged in a hospital for the insane. Politics, dear politics, what would we do without you.          During one of my two hour stints of being locked in a smelly guard tower I saw Herr Hess walking in the garden, hands clasped behind his back inspecting the bricks on the wall like he was reviewing troops before a parade. The first sounds I heard were of his feet crunching the gravel. As he came closer to my tower I could hear him muttering, indecipherable sounds. Then he stopped and looked up at me. He kept staring at me, a cold penetrating stare from eyes set in a withered face that soon turned violent as if my face reminded him of when he was young and now he was not. He was all alone now, his fellow prisoners released. The world he helped create was gone, lost to the nations that now guarded him and would not release him.          A large container ship glided slowly past us, deep in the water, its deck brimming with boxes. As I greet my guests I am all too aware that I am now the oldest of our little tribe. I have seen more yesterdays than I will see tomorrows. The reminisces of long ago were fading again, mingling what was with what might have been.  I had gone to a city and marched in parades, drank good beer, developed skills that I had no use for when I left the Army and came home in one piece. I did not go to the jungle where the targets shot back. I could have but didn’t.  Back to the present with the smiling faces and the happy voices, taking mental pictures for future reminisces.   

ainfxt

Earthly Delights

“But moooom, I don’t want to!” Jessica cried out as she obediently held out her arms. Her mother placed a large dish of casserole carefully covered in tin foil in them. Jessica let out an annoyed huff of air.            “I don’t care what you want, Jessica. Mr. Flowers is in need and our duty is to be good neighbors and help.”            “What, so we’re like State Farm now? Like a good neighbor, the Richards' family is there?”            Jessica turned thirteen last week. How is it possible that the teenage attitude has already started seeping into her mind and spitting sarcastically back at her mother? Better nip that in the bud, she thought to herself.            “I like the sound of that,” she answered her daughter as she rolled her eyes. “And where is your compassion? He is an elder –whom I’ve taught you to respect—and he just lost his wife!”  “Like a year ago,” Jessica mumbled under her breath.            “Go,” her mother said sternly, shooing her brooding daughter out the door.            She wouldn’t be so bitter about bringing Mr. Flowers casserole twice a week if it weren’t for that fact that he was a bitter man himself. First of all, Mr. Flowers? Could there be a less perfect name for an unpleasant old crab? That would actually be more fitting: Mr. Crab. He just sulks in his home all day, glaring out his window and snatching at casserole dishes with his wrinkly liver-spotted hands without so much as a thank you. Then the worst. He just stares at her until she lets out a nervous, “ Well, goodbye ,” and makes her way off his porch, acutely aware of the old cloudy eyes watching her walk down the driveway back to her house next door. One time, she made the mistake of cutting through the grass between the two houses and he yelled, “ get off the lawn!” like any typical old geezer would. The stereotype is real, folks.            The casserole was uncomfortably hot on her arms, and she was already sweating from the midday summer heat. The sun shone down so that the sidewalk was even blinding, making her squint. A bead of sweat plopped from her chin onto the aluminum foil. Gross, she thought.            When she rang the doorbell, there was no answer. It sometimes took him a moment to wobble to the front door. She usually heard him stiffly lunging out of his chair with the aid of an audible groan of tremendous effort before the sound of socks sliding slowly across carpet could be heard approaching the door. Jessica sighed—annoyed—and rang the bell again.            Oh, man. He’s dead, Jessica thought, eyes growing wide. Right when her heart started to thump erratically at the thought of an ambulance wheeling out a black zipped up bag, she heard socks shuffling on the floor along with a mysterious clacking sound. She took a deep breath and composed herself as he fumbled the door knob on the other side, allowing it to slowly creak open.            “Hi, Mr. Flowers,” Jessica said in the fake, cheery voice she used on her mom’s friends when they tell her how big she’s gotten. Duh, that’s the point of puberty. Was I supposed to stay six forever?             She saw that he was leaning heavily on a large grey walker, two bright yellow tennis balls on the bottom of two of the legs. She looked back up at him and giggled nervously at his scowling stare.            “Mom made chicken and pea casserole for you,” she said, holding out the dish in her arms.            “Do I look like I have extra arms sprouting out of my head?” Mr. Flowers snapped, his voice gruff with what was probably a nap she interrupted. Not waiting to answer, he slowly turned his back, wheeling the walker around with considerable effort, “bring it in the kitchen.”            Jessica had never been inside Mr. Flowers home. Not even when the bubbly, chatty Mrs. Flowers was still alive. She would come over to mom’s all the time and share tea and scones and sewing techniques or whatever else old ladies babbled about. Mrs. Flowers probably kept this home spotless, but Mrs. Flowers hasn’t been alive in over a year. I couldn’t see Mr. Flowers doing any cleaning, especially now that he looks like if he bent down, he’d never be able to get back up again.            Jessica didn’t have time to imagine how horrible the house must stink, or dust and bugs and litter filling up the corners of his living room. Maybe dishes piled up in the sink and dirty litter boxes overflowing and making the house smell like ammonia. Wait, does he have cats? She followed him in.            It took her a minute to adjust to the darkness in contrast with how bright it was outside. Cautiously looking around, the small living room seemed to be in perfect order. Old antique Tiffany lamps on either side of a floral-patterned couch on one wall with a small wooden framed tv with rotary dials on the opposite wall. A heavy wooden coffee table with a small, dainty dish of Werther’s caramel candies in between. Cream colored carpet, with fresh vacuum lines. Who cleaned up in here? I should stop complaining about bringing over a casserole and start praying for whoever has to come here and clean under his supervision.            Jessica turned her attention straight ahead to the kitchen and her heart leapt, realizing Mr. Flowers had been glowering at her. She walked quickly to the kitchen counter and plopped the casserole down. Jessica had turned to say goodbye to him, but on the wall directly behind Mr. Flowers, a gigantic, beautiful painting had caught her eye.            “ Garden of Earthly Delights ,” she exhaled.            “Who painted it,” Mr. Flowers was quick to ask. He asked it in a way that felt like a pop quiz. He knew who painted it, and fortunately so did she.            “Hieronymus Bosch. He’s my favorite artist,” she snapped quickly back, straightening her posture.             “Hmph,” He scoffed. “So, you appreciate art too.” She watched him shuffle his walker to face the living room, and slowly walk off.            “I want to be an artist,” she said. He didn’t answer, but Jessica knew he heard.            “Well, goodbye Mr. Flowers,” she said, leaving him by the front door, feeling his scowl follow her all the way home. ---            Four days later, she brought the next casserole. Jessica didn’t moan and groan as hard to her mother about it this time. She was hoping for the chance to take a closer look at the inside of Mr. Flowers home. You appreciate art, too, he had said…implying that he as well appreciates art. What other remnants of art did he possess?            The metal clack followed by the shuffle of socks finally reached the door, and Jessica smiled at him as he opened it with his usual scowl.            “Baked Spaghetti,” Jessica had said.            Mr. Flowers didn’t respond. He turned his walker around and paced himself to the kitchen, Jessica following. She placed the dish carefully on the counter, and saw that the kitchen dining room table that was cleared away last week was now full of jumbled stacks of art.            “Wow,” she said, looking back at Mr. Flowers.            “You know what a conservator restorer is.” He had a habit of turning his questions into accusatory statements.            “Um, no,” Jessica said, looking from the table to him.            “I restored delicate artworks as a career. Mostly all renaissance. I restored all of those,” he jabbed a trembling withered finger to the table.            “Really?” she gasped, making her way slowly towards the table.            “Those are reprints. Obviously not the original pieces.”            The Birth of Venus, The Last Supper, The Girl with the Pearl Earring, American Gothic… all the art pieces I dreamed one day I could hold a candle to, and Mr. Flowers professional restored them? I flipped through the pile on the table, no longer thinking about his scowl behind me.            “What about that Garden of Earthly Delights on the wall?” she asked, looking back to him.            “That was the last piece,” he said, clearing his throat. “I retired early. My hands started shaking, I developed Parkinson’s. Couldn’t do it anymore.”            So that’s why he’d snatch casseroles from my hands, Jessica thought, feeling humiliated by her rude thoughts.            “Can you teach me?” Jessica asked.            “Hmph,” Mr. Flowers grunted. --            The rest of the summer, Jessica didn’t just go over to Mr. Flowers every few days with a casserole. She went over there every day with pencils and sketching paper. Mr. Flowers was a rough teacher. He was impatient, and along with Jessica’s impatience it usually led to arguing, yelling, and Jessica stomping out only to return after about ten minutes.            “No, no, no! That’s not what I told you to do!” Mr. Flowers would yell, looking at the poorly executed replica of the hands of Creation of Adam.            “It’s too hard,” Jessica would argue, slamming her pencil down and glaring up at him, “Can we start with something other than hands ?!”            “Once you understand hands, the rest will follow,” Mr. Flowers yelled, swiping the pencil back towards her. She sighed, mumbled a few words under her breath, picked up the pencil and tried again.            And again. And again. And again.            Failure. Failure. Failure.            “Isn’t restoring art just…I don’t know…sketching over where the artists paint has faded?”            “No!” Mr. Flowers yelled, slapping his walker against the floor. “How can you expect to restore a masterpiece if you can’t even get down the basics of art!”            It was a struggle all summer, but one late afternoon in early August, Mr. Flowers squinted his cloudy blue eyes at the hands drawn on Jessica’s paper.            “Hmmm…” he said. Jessica stared up hopefully.            “Is it good?”            “We will start on techniques of hair tomorrow.” ---            That year, following the summertime, Jessica learned that art conservation isn’t about just tracing over faded paint. It was how to strengthen a weakened canvas, handle water, fire, and insect damage, gently cleanse dirt and other soiling properties from the original piece, and integrate repairs to restore the artist’s original intent. Art restoration was like the superhero of the art world. Superman coming to save the integrity Mona Lisa. Spiderman rushing to the aid of Madonna and Child. Batman battling the mold off The Last Supper. Mr. Flowers was a hero, and he taught Jessica how to be one too. ---            “Mr. Flowers!”            It was the third ring of his doorbell, and no answer. She was a little earlier today than she usual came, but wanted to show him how she fixed the canvas he gave as homework to repair. You couldn’t even tell that there was once a hole in the lower right corner. Good as new.            No shuffling of socks or frustrated stamps of his walker.            After five minutes, Jessica jiggled the golden knob. It was unlocked. She walked in and saw Mr. Flowers napping on the floral couch, the tv quietly playing an infomercial on the exciting Slap Chop.            “Get up old man time to paint!” She chimed. Mr. Flowers didn’t move. He looked so peaceful that Jessica almost left, but…something was slightly off. He was as still as his paintings.            She gasped. ---            “Oh, honey, ” her mother gently combed a hand through Jessica’s hair as she rested it in the crook of her neck, tears falling down her cheeks.            Mr. Flowers had died peacefully in his sleep. Jessica couldn’t get over how the man in the casket looked very much at peace like the man on the couch that day. She always thought death was an ugly, gruesome looking thing. I guess it’s not always as gory as the movies, she said to herself.            She was in a state of shock, and the tears didn’t quite catch up until just now sitting at a large desk in a law firm, a rather stout man with a red puffy face looking down at her from his glasses.            “It clearly states here that Miss Jessica Richards is entitled to any of the reprints in Mr. James Flowers possession, but I highly suggest putting the one titled The Garden of Earthly Delights up for auction? Museums across the world would pay millions for this piece.”            “Are you telling me that’s the original? ” Jessica felt she could soon ask Mr. Flowers that question herself. She felt as if she were having a heart attack.            “It is. He was gifted the piece by a private seller after his many years of work restoring some of the worlds most renowned pieces. A notation here states Hieronymus Bosch was his favorite artist.”            Jessica couldn’t believe it. Nor could her mother.            “Well, if that isn’t the worlds biggest thank you for all those casseroles!” her mother laughed, dabbing the tears from her own eyes.            “I never thanked him for teaching me his craft,” Jessica sobbed with the sudden realization.            “Honey, you spent every afternoon with that man. Your company to him was so much bigger than a passing ‘thank you . ’”            That was that. Maybe a thank you wasn’t necessary when the time meant so much more to the both of them. Jessica smiled, giggling nervously as she turned back towards the attorney.            “It’s not for sale,” she laughed, blowing her nose and finally sending a silent thank you to Mr. Flowers. Thank you so much.

wefce0

Ain't Genealogy Great!

Ain’t Genealogy Great! (Based on a true story) Walter Hanson was from East Tennessee. He was a proud southern gentleman. Maybe not so proud of the south’s slavery history, but still loyal to the memory of his ancestors. Proud that his great-great-grandfather had fought in the Civil War for the South. Proud of the tombstone in the local cemetery that, while not marking the grave of his progenitor, it did commemorate the man’s loyalty to the south with the inscription, “Jacob L. Arbeiter, Cpl. CSA, 1834 – 1865.” Proud to be the great-great grandson of a Confederate hero. Walter was about to find out how wrong he was. Jacob Arbeiter was a German immigrant who had left Saxony in 1854 at twenty years of age and worked his way across the Atlantic on a ship of other poor immigrants. Landing in New Bern, North Carolina, he had sought some land of his own being offered across the Appalachian Mountains in Tennessee. There he settled and began to clear a small patch of woods for a farm. Not much land, but unlike Germany, it was his own. When the War Between the States broke out in 1861, even though most of East Tennessee was pro-Union, Arbeiter had apparently signed up with the Confederates as most able-bodied men of his little town had done. Even though the town wasn’t especially pro-slavery, it just seemed the thing to do, being a Southerner first and an American second. That’s the way a lot of the southern men felt. Five generations later, Walter still felt that way, and so he took pride in starting a genealogical search to learn more of his ancestors, especially the little town’s only Civil War casualty, a fate that had elevated Corporal Arbeiter to hero status in their eyes and cause a stone to be placed in their town’s cemetery as a memorial, even though his body was never recovered. Walter’s search turned up a disturbing fact. It turned out Walter’s great-great grandmother never married Jacob. Her child was, in the nomenclature of the era, a woods’ colt . . . an illegitimate child. Subsequent generations were all the result of proper marriages, but this union was a bit of a shock and embarrassing discovery. Nevertheless, Walter continued to ferret out as much information as he could find on Cpl. Jacob Arbeiter. There were mysteries surrounding the man. He found out through an old family letter written for Jacob by a literate fellow soldier and mailed from Vicksburg, Mississippi that he was about to be put on a steamboat to bring fellow soldiers home. Though the war had ended April 9, 1865, the letter was dated April 26. Why had he remained in Vicksburg over two weeks before heading home? Perhaps, the promise of a ride to Memphis was worth the wait? At least, he would have only the entire width of Tennessee to traverse once in Memphis and there were probably trains that were running in Tennessee to hasten the rest of his journey. But then, Walter found an old family Bible with the death date of Jacob inscribed, “April 27, 1865.” Along with that, in the margins of the Bible’s family tree page, Walter read, killed aboard the Sultana . “What was the Sultana?” Walter wondered. After some research, he found the answer . . . the worst maritime disaster in U.S. history. The paddle wheel steamboat Sultana while traveling up the Mississippi River, having just past Memphis a few miles back, exploded and sank killing an estimated 1,800 people! The Sultana was on its way from Vicksburg to St. Louis when, pushing against a flood-stage river, one of its boilers exploded. This caused the other two boilers adjacent to it to explode in fast succession. Normally, the boat had a legal carrying capacity of 376 passengers, but on this trip it was loaded with over 2,500 former Union POWs anxious to get home. “Wait! Union POWs? Then what was my great-great-grandfather doing on board? He was a Confederate soldier!” Walter immediately thought as he read the account. “And why would he be on his way to St. Louis instead of getting off at Memphis?” Recalling that most of East Tennessee was Union sympathizers, Walter began to wonder if the accounts of his war hero were wrong and went to a local Civil War cemetery where he was then living in Murfreesboro, Tennessee. In the Stones River Battlefield Park and National Cemetery, the superintendent had access to all Union soldier enlistments. Walter gave the man the name . . . Jacob L. Arbeiter, Townsend, Tennessee. “Found him!” exclaimed the super, after searching several records which had been conveniently computerized. “He enlisted in 1862 at camp Dennison in Ohio . . . Jacob Leon Arbeiter, Townsend, Tennessee, age 28.” “He must have been going back to Cincinnati to muster out. That was one of the places where he could get credit for time served in the army and document his eligibility for any back pay or future benefits.” The superintendent then did some cross-checking and found more information. “Uh-oh.” He muttered to Walter. It appears that wasn’t exactly the reason he was going back to Cincinnati. Cincinnati was also the major location of courts-martial both during and after the war. Corporal Arbeiter was accused of being a deserter. He had crossed the lines and surrendered to the Confederacy who put him into a POW camp near Vicksburg. When the war ended, he was still there and transferred to Federal custody. Evidently, he was being shipped to Ohio along with the freed POWs, not to muster out but to possibly be drummed out . . . or worse.” the superintendent sadly told Walter. “So, Walter mused, “his death in the explosion of the Sultana may have saved him and his family from the ignominy of his being hung. But what about the tombstone? I guess the townsfolk just assumed he had joined the Confederacy like all the other boys. His girlfriend probably explained his absence by telling folks he had left to fight in the war without telling them which side. Perhaps, she didn’t even know herself.” So ends the sad tale of a proud southern descendant of what was thought to be another Tennessee hero fatality of the “War of Northern Aggression.” Walter had found, instead of being the great-great grandson of a valiant Confederate soldier who died (probably of lingering wounds suffered in a late battle of the war), he was the great-great grandbastard of a Yankee deserter! And there you have it . . . the results of shaking one’s family tree. The unvarnished truth! . . . or do you? The trouble with genealogy is one gets so much of the who , what , where , and when , but very little of the why . Why did Jacob Arbeiter come to America? Why did he not do right by the girl he had made pregnant? Why did he join up with the Union when everyone in his town were staunch rebels? Why did he later desert? In Saxony, Germany, in the middle of the 19 th century, there was still a substantial feudal system. Lords and serfs. The serfs were technically free men, but they worked for a prince, or duke, or similarly titled landowner, living on their Liege’s land and working for him like a sharecropper. There was really nothing to look forward to but fathering more generations of workers for the elite. Even the name, “Arbeiter,” was German for “worker.” Jacob wanted to end that cycle. So, as a young man, he set out for America, the land of the free. Once here, however, he discovered it wasn’t free for all. There were no black slaves in Townsend where he had settled, but Jacob shuttered at the sight of them just a few miles away in Maryville. It seemed like he was looking back at his own history. Still, it was the peculiar institution of the South. Wishing to get along with his neighbors, he kept his revulsion to himself. When the war broke out, several local boys joined the Confederacy, but Jacob just kept working his little farm. It wasn’t until a year and a half later, in late fall of 1862, that a Union calvary division from Dennison, Ohio came through recruiting in the mainly sympathetic counties of East Tennessee. Jacob had a pang of conscience and felt he had to stand up for what he believed despite the beliefs of his immediate neighbors. His crops were all harvested, and what money he had from their sale, he left with the girl he was going to marry as soon as he returned. Yes, it was Walter’s great-great-grandmother. Neither knew at the time that she was pregnant with his child. He saddled up his horse and, unbeknownst to his friends, rode off with the Union troops. At the time, he thought the war would be over in a matter of months and he would be back in time for spring planting. The war did not end so quickly. Prior to the conflict, the southerners had boasted, “Just let them Damnyankees (yes, one word back then) come down here! We’ll whoop ‘em with corn stalks!”  They would soon learn the North didn’t fight with cornstalks! By late 1864, in a skirmish near Vicksburg, Jacob’s brother in arms and fellow German immigrant, Florian Muller, was gut shot. Jacob was by his side. Florian wasn’t immediately killed. He moaned and groaned pitifully until Jacob was so moved to help his friend that he rigged up a white flag, dropped his weapon, and carried the flag of surrender along with his wounded comrade to a medic’s tent within view, but across the line of battle. The Confederate doctor could do nothing for Muller except ease his suffering by giving him Morphine. He died within an hour. Jacob was taken prisoner. He was held by them until the Federal troops finally captured the holdouts near Vicksburg. Jacob, however, instead of being set free, was immediately arrested on the grounds of desertion. Others in his troop had reported seeing him waving the white flag and assumed he had merely chickened out in the heat of battle. “The coward gave up rather than fight!” his accusers said. So, there you have it. The why . . . Why Jacob Arbeiter hated slavery. Why he joined the Union instead of the Confederacy. Why he didn’t marry the girl who bore his baby. Why he was accused of being a deserter. Why he died on the Sultana.          Walter’s great-grandfather wouldn’t have been born out of wedlock had Jacob not impulsively volunteered to fight for the freedom of slaves. He would not have died on the Sultana, an accused deserter, had his fellow troops realized his actions that day of fighting were a mission of mercy for his friend. His mistaken tombstone would have had a different inscription, a different death date, a different military designation, and a beloved wife’s marker next to it. Yes, genealogy is great! But beware . . . the who , what , where , and when , are interesting, but sometimes the why is important, too!

bwy8b3

Hallowed Sound

Nate remembered one thing vividly about his first day there—it was quiet, too quiet for a teenager. Go a mile in any direction and there was hustle and bustle, but not here. Here the quiet was loud and that was unnerving. It was more than just the silence though. There was something else. Nate just wasn’t sure what it was. It might have been the gate, or the fence, or the fact that most of the neighbors were octogenarians. He couldn’t put his finger on why. He just knew he hated this new place. He, however, also knew he didn’t have a choice—he hadn’t been consulted. This was his new home, and the neighbors were who they were, so he decided to make the best of it.  Nate soon discovered that an advantage of the never ending quiet was it intensifies one’s ability to see. Yes, everyday noise crowds out so much sound. Important conversations are missed, but so, too, are gestures and expressions. When it’s quiet, you not only hear more—you see more. Before long, Nate had grown to embrace the quiet all around him. It was perfect for eavesdropping, and oh how he loved to eavesdrop and observe. The couple on the left were the Engleson’s, Jerry and Joanne. They had been married for 67 years and had a steady stream of visitors—three children, seven grandchildren and even five uncontrollable great-grandchildren. Jerry and Joanne’s oldest child Shawn was the most frequent visitor. Shawn suffered from a degenerative back condition, as he seemed to bend more than the willows that lined the streets. He also wept more. Nate would find himself getting frustrated by this tortured soul, his voice often muffled by tears. As a result, Shawn was a poor source of gossip. Sharon and Susan, Jerry and Joanne’s daughters, were much more informative. Nate was able to learn the history of the whole Engleson clan by quietly letting these two women talk. Jerry had worked most of his life for the Campbell Soup company, and Joanne, an elementary school teacher in her younger days, had stayed home to raise the children. Nate despised the Engelson’s great-grandchildren. They were hooligans in short pants. Invariably, while their parents were visiting with Grandma and Poppy, the little monsters would run around and tear up the grass. Nate had never really been concerned about grass, but he knew how important it was to his mom and dad. His parents would manicure it and weed it almost daily. Nate didn’t care about grass, but he loved his parents. They cared, so he did, too. The only other child in the neighborhood was right across the way. Her name was Tess, but Nate always referred to her as Contessa. She must have been a contessa because there was a never-ending parade of friends who came to visit her. Most of her callers had eminently forgettable names, but not her boyfriend—her boyfriend’s name was Thatcher. Nate thought that was the coolest name. Nate assumed Thatcher was her boyfriend because he always brought her flowers. When Thatcher came by with a group of friends, they would all sit around and tell stories and laugh or sometimes cry. However, when Thatcher came by himself, he would sing to Tess. He sang songs of love and beauty and forever. Nate never had a girlfriend himself, but when he would dream of what it would be like, he always imagined he would love her like Thatcher loved Tess. Nate’s neighbor on the right was Corporal Kevin Halston. Corporal Halston was 91 years old, and must not have had any family, at least none who visited. Nate only knew the few things he had heard from his mom and dad. Corporal Halston had served in the Korean war and, according to Nate’s dad, had received a Purple Heart. Even when Nate first arrived, he felt honored to have such a man as a neighbor. His parents must have felt the same way, as over time they began to expand their weeding operation. They didn’t make a big deal, and they never talked about it, but Nate was sure that, just like him, they were grateful for Corporal Halston’s service. There was a row of hedges in between Nate and the neighbors to the rear. The blockade limited Nate’s eavesdropping to the Bobbsey twins. They weren’t actually twins or even related, but they were both named Bob. There was Bob Granzow, a retired auto worker. His friends from the plant often brought beer and got drunk telling old lies. Bob no longer drank, but his friends would always bring Bob a beer nonetheless, even if it sat unconsumed. Nate loved to compare the friends who came to visit Bob Granzow with the ones who visited Tess. Friends were friends no matter how old or how young, and what held them together was always the shared stories. Nate was glad he got to listen to them all. The other Bob was actually a Roberta, but her family always called her Bob. She was 42 and like Nate, and Tess really didn’t feel like she belonged in the neighborhood. She had two children, a boy and a girl. Nate didn’t know their names, but they called Bob mom. Her ex-husband visited a few times, but he didn’t seem to like her much, and for some reason that made Nate sad. The best part about the new place was how it changed Nate’s relationship with his parents. Nate had been a little bit of a rebel, and like most teenagers, he had found it very hard to really talk to his parents. But now they talked almost every day. His mom loved to tell him stories about her life. Nothing was too mundane. “I went to the store for milk. I poured out the old milk—it was expired. I went for a walk today just to think.” Nate loved to hear his mother’s stories; in fact, he looked forward to them. His mom would also talk about important things like love and loss. Hatred and forgiveness. Grief and joy. Sometimes it’s hard for a mom and her teenage son to see eye to eye, but Nate’s mom had never given up on him. Now, Nate understood her love and was thankful for their increasingly strong connection. His dad, on the other hand, mainly talked about sports. There was a bond built between Nate and his dad that centered around baseball and football and hockey. Nate’s dad could talk endlessly about their favorite teams. There may be more important things in the world, but to a teenage boy and his dad, sports often filled the void. It was a father’s way to say I love you and I like you and even I’m proud of you while using none of those words. In the beginning, Nate didn’t like his new home, yet over time, he grew to love it. The quiet that was loud now swaddled him like a comforting blanket, and his neighbors and their families brought Nate great joy. A teenager's mind is often cluttered with things that seem to matter but don’t. They lose sleep over someone whose name they won't remember in a few years. They stress over acne and friends and family and school. Nate had been just such a teenager before he moved here, and now he felt as if he never wanted to leave. That’s what made today so jarring, Today Nate’s dad talked about his new job. Nate’s mom cried as his dad explained that they would have to move. They would have to leave Nate behind. Nate felt the pain in his dad’s voice and in his mom’s tears. He wanted to let his parents know it was ok, and that he understood. “We’ve talked to the Engleson’s, Nate,” his dad said, his voice cracking. “They have agreed to look after your grass. They even have offered to look after Corporal Halston as well. Isn’t that wonderful?” Nate watched as his mom broke into tears and as his dad held her tight to comfort her. When she finally composed herself, she made a promise to her son. “We’ll be back as often as we can. Just think of all the stories I’ll be able to tell you.” Nate wanted to hold his mom and tell her he was going to be alright, that he was happy. “I think he’s ok,” she said, turning to Nate’s dad. “I just have a feeling he’s at peace here.” No other words were spoken that day. For what seemed like forever, the three of them communicated in the silence. Then, just as she always had done, Nate’s mom bent down and placed flowers in front of her son’s headstone, being careful to touch his name as she did. Nate smiled as he watched them walk away, somehow knowing they were also going to be ok. When they were finally out of sight, he did as he always did. He sat quietly and listened.

gof1ti

The Holiday

So here it is again.It seems to arrive sooner every year. Didn't Halloween just exit? Now here we are again, she thought to herself. Black Friday. The day after Thanksgiving where seemingly every human is bound and determined to show how much they care in material form. It was all a sham, a way to force people into more debt. The only way to show you care is with some newfangled product, a luxurious piece of jewelry, all of which an average person on a salary could ill afford. That is, if you believed the retailers and the advertisements that play constantly during the season. It was not a new feeling for her. She recognized it as apathy. It was far too familiar for her this time of year. There was a time not too long ago, where she bought the hype. She endeavored to find the "perfect" gift herself many times. She felt the sensation of panic that would arrive every year when the hot gift would elude her clutches and the mad dash that would ensue, chasing frantically from store to store hoping to make it in time to find it. She remembered how much the season would bring joy, and how quickly that joy would be depart one or two stores in. It was designed to leave one perpetually exhausted, and stressed out. All for the smiles on a loved ones face. It was odd, how far removed from the person she was just a few short years ago. She remembers so vividly how her love of the holiday season was extinguished. It was the doll. A beautiful replica of her daughter, one designed to mimic the same qualities her beloved Ava shared. Beautiful strawberry blond hair, one that could not be replicated by a salon, and the smattering of freckles across the bridge of her little snub nose. It was adorable, and exorbitantly priced. Little matter though, that was the gift her daughter would love, and probably would become an heirloom later, for her own daughter someday. She knew she had to have it. The hunt for her daughters gift was over. She could not wait to see the joy on her daughters face on Christmas morning as she opened her gift. The anticipation of that day had her in knots. Oh she was so excited! This would be the best holiday ever. She just knew that it was going to be hard to top that one in future years. She seemed to walk a little straighter, confident in her purchase and in her daughters ultimate happiness. The pangs of joy she had then are now removed at the pangs of sadness and anger as she remembers how she found that perfect gift in the back of her daughters closet, casually tossed asunder with little care. She remembers the chip in its face, near the chin. Her heart seemed to shatter in that moment. It was that very same moment that she knew she was over Christmas. It wasn't so much the holiday she had a problem with, it was the rampant commercialism that became synonymous with it. You couldn't think of Christmas without thinking of your bank account, your credit card limits or your budget. she often wondered how we all got to this point. The spirit of the season was really all but lost. There was so much left behind and nothing gained by the consumerism. Traditions once cherished became disregarded, and it was all about what you can obtain. She had acquired a strange sense of guilt about her own childhood memories. Her fondness of those memories were now tempered with guilt when she remembered how her parents could ill afford to buy them fancy gifts, and yet they found a way. She thinks often of their own stresses of that time. Did they accrue debt because of them? When did buying them gifts become more important that food on the table? Strange, she doesn't recall Maslow's hierarchy of needs saying anything about gifts, either buying, giving, or receiving them. It was a strange place to be, doubting how much happiness was really there in her archives. Were her own siblings affected by that same guilt? Could she really be the only person on the planet that pondered this matter? She knew she wasn't yet she still felt singularly alone with this. She was very frequently chided by her sisters for her selfishness. It angered her a little that they would offer her that take. She really couldn't blame them though. They grew up in the same household. She still cherished the time with family, but these days felt a little different. She still celebrated the holiday, just not the same way she used to. Instead of buying gifts, she and her children would travel somewhere, spend a few days having fun, making memories. Sometimes they would go to the snow. They'd ski, drink hot chocolate, and sit around the fireplace telling stories. Other trips would have them at the beach, enjoying the surf, the sun, and the peace it offered. It felt as the holidays should feel. It felt comfortable. It renewed her and it brought back the joy she had lost during the holiday season. It gave her new memories, and new photos to add to her photo albums. It makes clear the mistakes she had made, and paves the way for correction. It is never too late to change and make new traditions. Her children were getting older and soon would be out of the house. She wanted to leave them something they would not have to unpack. They can take those memories and hopefully they could change their outlook and place importance on the things that really matter . She hoped she did not wait too long to bring them around to this way of thinking. She was pretty proud of them for not complaining or grumbling about her sudden about face. They had become accustomed to receiving gifts and they have seemed to take this all in stride, to their credit. It gave her hope that the holiday season she loves, can become the holiday season it was meant to be. A season of joy, hope and good wishes. She thought that starting here was a gift in itself. The very idea brought a smile to her lips.

wi1ho3

The Course of Silence

The Course of Silence Whenever he arrived, Hack found the outlying fairgrounds where he would be working and located the tents where the help stayed. Most times, though, he would pick out a little clearing in the woods nearby, where he could be by himself in the way he wanted to be, no braggarts abounding or drunk dutchmen acrobats or fights over women or with women. Then he’d look for a local structure (a barn was usually best, though he’d settle for an airy chicken coop, if need be, or even a low limbed elder, or willow) where he could fill his burlap with dirt and hang it to a rafter or a branch with the rope he always carried with him. Then, as quickly as he could, he would get himself into town to look for the library. And once there and settled, he’d set to his mission. Of course, it would have been easier to keep the past at bay had he chose to surround himself with people at a local church or tent revival or in one of many saloons or liquor houses dotting the fringes of every fairground town he knew. But the revival preachers would tell him to beg forgiveness and he didn’t want to be forgiven and the barkeeps would keep ‘em coming to help him forget and he didn’t want to forget. He didn’t want to forget not being able to feed his young wife and baby son. He didn’t want to forget stealing the fryer and being chased by the man with his squirrel rifle, nor deciding to turn, instinctively knowing the man wouldn’t shoot, and then pummeling him with his fists to the ground ‘til he couldn’t walk and a half mile away, tossing the man’s rifle to the woods. He never wanted to forget as they escaped town in a boxcar and less than forty-eight hours out, going over the Coolamee trestle works some time past midnight with a half moon and swaths of feathery cirrus clouds passing in the course of silence under it, his wife tumbling out with his baby boy in her arms, down, so very far down to the Yadkin River below. Her body washed up the next day, but he never saw his son again. He did not want to sit in a saloon amid the clamor of raucous voices, smoke and ugly frivolity, and try to forget it all in the slushy rambles of memory. And he did not want to wave his hands in the collective spirit of frenzied shouting, pretending all was well again with a God he knew, but not ever like that. He just wanted to be alone, the only sound, his internal voice reciting lines of poetry that tugged at his heart and bathed his mind. And so, the library. In every single town, the library. Tomorrow he could be in the booth as much as four or five bouts, so he would have to squeeze in his time in the small clay brick Georgian structure next to the armory. The bouts weren’t so bad in that he had entered the booths with his father when he was a teenager and made the old man enough money to keep him in the rot gut bought from vile men the back of mercantile and feed and tack stores. Hack had become more defensive over time to protect his body but, these days, when the fury was unleashed, he was hard to beat. Because the fair booths were the last vestige of bareknuckle, he had learned not to go to the head, so as not to break a hand. He had learned well the various ways to sneak in body blows and wear his opponent down. In each bout there was a time of two-step footwork and jabbing in the slow dance of prey. There was also a time however, different in different bouts, where his feet stopped and planted firmly, where his wide shoulders squared and the passion of his punches reached back to release his buried venom and aversion of the world. It was during this time that all went silent. It was the silence Hack longed for. And the only other place he could find it, including even his dreams, was in the stuffed chair of a lone corner of a town or county library, like the lone corner of the ring where he waited to do violence, where he waited for the silence. And the poor creature who paid fifty cents at the chance of winning twelve dollars, was rendered bruised, abrased and radically short of breath, at times with a cracked rib, puzzled at the force unleashed in a sudden transformation. Hack’s handler, Paddy Corcoran, the booth owner and barker as well, had to start supplying pony carts for the fighter and his family to be carried home in. And the sooner the combatant went down, the sooner Hack was back on mission in the treasured stacks. Before his father had absconded with him, the Sisters of Mercy had taught him in their academy in Cincinnati. Sister Mary Magdalene saw in Hack a lover of words, a little one with the soul of a poet. She took to tutoring him and found a voracious appetite for poetry, and even as a child, one able to sit in the silence and hear the flood of the language of the heart from a variety of men and women, most of whom long dead. Not long after he lost his family, he began extracting single lines of poetry that he could take out of the context of the opus, put in the small, leather, blank paged book he carried with him, and then live with, in the quiet, lines that said something of the power of love and something of desire and hope and faith. Something of survival. It had to do with looking underneath great suffering, to see what might be there. The Carter County fair would be five days right outside Elizabethton and so he wanted five lines to put in his book and take with him by the end of the week. Paddy had decided that keeping the booth opened into the night just attracted the volatile drunk miners from over Bristol way, who were going to be fighting somebody before the night was over anyhow, but who were not good for the gate, as opposed to the curious, sober farmers, coming round with their families in the daylight hours, who’d wrestled enough to wonder how they’d do against somebody other than cousins at the church picnic. They were good for the gate. Since he’d been reading his bible inside and outside the library, Hack’s first line was his favorite out of Psalms. It came from fifty-one: Make me to hear joy and gladness; that the bones which thou hast broken may rejoice. Hack had long liked that verse, though he hardly thought it possible to hear anything but his wife’s last fading scream in the night air.  But in the bout of the first morning, he had broken a big old famer’s rib, so it seemed just for all considered, to wish for something good to come of the pounding. Hack studied the words, said them to himself, sometimes even whispered them aloud to give them some slight bit of human resonance. And every set of words he chose, he chose to combat a broken heart, to hush the cacophony of despair, to land a right hook to his agony. And because of the good Sisters of Mercy, his understanding had a sophistication to it, a literary bent that brought him something, not peace, but a kind of engagement with the transcendent. Hamlet was his favorite play, and he read it in an evening’s sitting at the Carter County Library, by a back-of-the-building window that looked out at a stand of loblolly pine, a sweet librarian checking in on him every half hour or so. What he liked about the play and Hamlet himself was that the prince knew, youngster though he was, that he had to put things right in the kingdom and that to do that, he was going to have to kill the man in his mother’s bed. But here’s the kicker: he not only had to do the right thing, he had to do it for the right reason. He had to kill the usurping king, a man he hated. But he couldn’t kill him because he hated him, he had to kill him because it was the right thing to do. In the third act, Hack hears the villain king, Claudius, who murdered Hamlet’s father, say,                   My words fly up, my thoughts remain below.                                                                        Words without thoughts, never to heaven go. Once Hack knew he hated no opponent, his fists were like words that flew, and he could pound a man ‘til he dropped with a grunt and a thud and not even hear it. But his thoughts walked in a darkness and the sounds of words and laughter, of argument and proclamation, of prayer brought little relief. To Hack, Paradise had become a figment. He searched the flying words, however, and tried to flush away in the quiet, the murky gloom that soaked his thoughts. And when all is said and done, Hamlet himself, a martyr for the kingdom, a young man who did the right thing to the very end, says, And the rest is silence. Next day, Paddy upped the reward if anyone could just knock Hack down. Of course, he upped the fee as well. Hack had become Paddy’s most valuable commodity in his growing stall of booth bare knucklers. It meant that Hack wouldn’t be in the ring ‘til close to dusk. He got up early, made coffee on the campfire, stopped off at the workers’ concession tent to see if Janie Reid, the toothless, light-hearted cook with always a kind word had made up any hoe cakes yet. She had not, but she gave him a few pieces of fried up streaked meat to see him through the day. And then Hack walked on into town, passing over the covered bridge photographers came to take pictures of, the jailhouse, Veteran’s ballfield and finally, the library. There were times in the stacks Hack felt something personal and warm, hearing a woman’s voice from the page. The pitch he heard was not his wife’s but rather some female soul of the world, some anima who could console him like no man could. And once again, this day he found her, in a matron who prized her solitude, in another who sat in the silence. Of all he read during the course of an almost free day, he wrote in his book these lines of Emily Dickinson:                   Hope is the thing with feathers-                   That perches in your soul-                   And sings the tune without the words-                   And never stops-at all- Something more began to flow through Hack, something he could actually hear. He was beginning to understand something he had no words for. The tune was memory. The tune was his son in his arms and laying with his wife. The tune was the ram of another human at the mercy of his fist, power where there had been none. Something was beginning to move around inside of Hack, something with feathers. That evening he struggled a bit. It was as if he saw the fighter before him for the first time. His long reach took aim and jabbed and jabbed and jabbed and bam! the right hook! As the man in the ring with Hack was dazed, instinctively came his uppercut. As the man, a rather large fellow who was certainly no boxer, looked like he was about to fall, instead of finishing the job, Hack stepped back, and suddenly heard the crowd yelling, and Paddy adding, “Finish him off, kid! Go finish him!” Hack just stood there. He looked into the big man’s eyes and saw the wounds of many. The man looked back as if to ask, “What happened?” And he dropped all on his own, stunned and silent. Next day Paddy set him up with three fights early. And though he took them all, two of them were actually fights. Hack had to dance and finesse and hold his opponent’s arms down a couple of times. One lad was a pressman over in Kingsport and knew his job so well that boredom had set in with a rumble of energy. And when he happened to land a punch, Hack felt something he had rarely felt in the booths. Something came back to him in the end, however, in the wake of his own soreness and when the flurry finally came, even with a tinge of dizziness, the powerful young pressman went down. Another was an old miner who looked like he hadn’t felt a human emotion in years. He meant business. He needed the money. It didn’t help at all that Hack’s mind wondered. He tried to feel that thing with feathers and it almost cost him the bout. But suddenly silence floated in, and his experience and skill took over where will and ire had gone away. The next fight was a half drunk, life-of-the-party husband out with his weekend buddies without their wives, a braggart and a joke teller with a mean streak. Hack knew it wouldn’t take all that powerful a punch and he was anxious to get to town, so he took a head shot and knocked the fellow out in a minute. It was so pitiful, the crowd laughed like in a vaudeville show. Hack would be leaving town the next day, so he needed something for the night. He remembered Mary Magdalene speaking of an old monastery near where she grew up and how she would love to go back and visit it. And then he recalled her reciting to him aloud the poem commonly referred to as Tintern Abbey , and the near magical turns of phrase Mr. Wordsworth had strung together. He found in the stacks an old leather edition published in 1854, ornate and worn. On the title page it said in large type, THE POETICAL WORKS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. And then an inch below that in small type, POET LAUREATE, ETC., ETC. It didn’t take Hack long to sift from the bittersweet memories this line, the line for his book:                   While with an eye made quiet by the power                   Of harmony, and the deep power of joy,                   We see into the life of things. Hack walked back to his camp in the moonlight and saw the snaky shadows roam the road. He didn’t build a fire. He laid back in the moonlight and with a quiet eye he saw his wife and son as part of him, never to leave him, and there was a strange harmony about it. He saw into his life, and he knew the next day would be his last fight. Toward day’s end, with fights not much more than momentary scuffles, which weren’t good for the gate, Hack entered the ring and saw a young, bright-eyed boy, whom he imagined didn’t want to be there, but as was the case so often with young bare knucklers, they were taking blows for their families, to put meat on a table. The two-step began and Paddy was yelling, “Stretch it out, Boyo!”  Though reticent, the boy was powerful and moved with grace. They traded body blows but there wasn’t much to Hack’s punch. His movements were no longer purposeful. Fury was nowhere to be found in the booth. They went two rounds dancing and jabbing and dodging blows with a few landing, here and there. And then in the third, while Hack went through the rote movements of the waltz of the ring, the youngster squared up, stood like a city building, and got in touch with some inner force, a place where all his troubles rose up to. With a controlled rage the likes of which Hack had never seen or felt, the boy unleashed a barrage of punches, so quick Hack had no chance to counter. He made it through the round but could barely get back to his stool in the corner. Paddy doused him in water and had him take a shot of whiskey, slapped his face quick and hard, then gently, like a father putting a son to bed. “Do it, Hackie, you got this kid.” “Don’t worry, Pat. you can have my last twelve dollars.” Paddy didn’t know what he meant, but when he took the mallet to the milk container that made for a bell, Hack sat. He heard the jeers of the crowd, the anger of Paddy Corcoran. He saw the stunned face of the young boxer across the ring. The kid walked over to him. Hack put his hands out, palms up and the boy reached out to him and pulled him up. Hack marched him to center ring and lifted his opponent’s hand in the air, to a now appreciative crowd. And Hack heard the whoops and hollers, and he heard the young man say, “Thank you, boss.” Next morning, Hack made his way through town before hopping a freight alone. He was there when the library opened. He felt called to a writer he had explored before. Because he never knew his mother, Hack remembered feeling something when reading William Blake’s The Little Black Boy, whose mother is consoling him, helping him to know that his blackness is not as society sees it, that darkness turns to light in the realm of the soul. And very soon Hack took out his book, for the words of that mother were swinging at him from the page:                   And we are put on earth a little space,                   That we may learn to bear the beams of love

7l608u

The Death of Comfort

She looked back at her life, revisiting memories of her past in a photo album. She had a more nuanced perspective now however. All those memories, taunting her, reminding her of all that she once had that was now gone. That trip to Italy, those family beach trips, birthday dinners, all of them. Photos of a time that she had once looked so fondly at, now remind her that she mourns something that may have only existed in her mind. She knew that her circumstances were at least partly her fault. She had stayed too long at the party, because she had feared what she may have missed if she had departed too soon. There was a time when she had seen in his eyes, that which she now knows has always been true. Indeed, she noticed it often throughout the years. That the love of her life did not love her. Did he ever? Does he even know what that means? Why did she so willingly, deliberately ignore the warning signs? She knows, as she asks the question, why she chose ignorance. To ignore it meant life would stay comfortable. Nothing would change. Change itself requires discomfort. The one glaring truth now, that she is forced to reckon with, here in the aftermath, in the ruins of their life together, and in the trauma inflicted on her kids in the process, is that her comfort came at the expense of his own. She was the source of his discomfort. To acknowledge that even if only in her mind, loudly, is to know that this is a self-inflicted wound. A self-inflicted wound, now turned septic. Once in the hospital, after a serious, near fatal car accident she had seen in his eyes that faraway look that she had seen many times during their years together. A look that told his story without ever uttering a word. A look that said he would rather be anywhere but there. The level of disinterest that existed within them brought it to the surface. Still she chose ignorance. She told herself that nobody is happy in a hospital. Everyone has that look in their eyes in a hospital. Certainly he was happy at her survival. The miracle of that near fatal collision should have brought about sheer joy, yet it did not. She wonders now if he had wished things had turned out differently. She knows on some level that that certainly is not true, that nobody could wish for a death of a "loved" one, to avoid ushering in future confrontation, but the question tugs at her all the same. Despite her pain, and the mental fatigue brought about by that same pain, she knows better. She mentioned this to her sister in passing one day, shortly after the break up, and she said, “Well yeah, but he has always been like this”. That acknowledgement of what she had always known to be true, was like a slap to the face. It was said out loud, but felt much more on the inside. She knew that she had only herself to blame for her willful ignorance and the wreckage that came with it. She felt like a leaf now, at the mercies of ever changing winds. She was full of promise some days, and some days she was utterly lost. Some days she could move mountains, and some days she could not lift a finger. That is the way of things she supposes. Some days you are up, some days you are down. She knows that part of the reason she feels so lost and confused is how he left. When he left, he did it in the most disgraceful, disrespectful way. There is some small part of her that still loves him, and simultaneously finds him so contemptible though, because of how he left her. He had essentially ghosted her, and she hasn't seen him since their last encounter, nearly two years ago. She realizes that no apology will be forthcoming, and has to live with that. She will never get to utter her own apology to him, and she has many regrets about that too. No closure will be granted. She is one that needs closure. She wants to tell him and apologize to him for her own failings, and would like some acknowledgement of his own as well. She knows that day may never come. She is in fact, certain of that. She knows that when the time is right, she will forgive him. She knows that will not change anything between them, perhaps only making things less awkward and uncomfortable for them all in future events. Graduations, weddings and the like. Sometimes you cannot ignore things. Sometimes circumstances are not always avoidable. In due time, her own outlook will change. She knows this. It is an inherent rite of passage for everyone. She also knows that forgiveness, at least for her, is not absent of memory. Certain instances warrant some kind of closure, and to be ignored by the one she loved better than herself, the one she deigned to defer to at every turn, trusting him more than she trusted herself, is a betrayal nobody could really prepare for. Nobody would even expect that. She was ambushed by his absence, and left to tell her children the story of why. She herself did not know the answer to that question. Causing her to doubt herself could in and of itself make this act could almost unforgiveable. She will forgive because she knows despite this, she will still triumph. Even though she doesn’t know the how or when. She will forgive because she can’t stay there too long in her grief and anger. She will forgive because it is very necessary for moving on and moving ahead. Her forgiveness gives her a measure of closure, even if it is not the one she planned on. Life is never as clean or as pretty as one would think, and she knows this as surely as she knows the sun will rise. She knows now too, that to be uncomfortable, is to grow. There can be no growth when there is comfort. Plants that bloom biggest, and brightest, do so when that are pressed to do so. Growth begins when discomfort comes in. She knows this for herself, and she knows this for him too. Despite what had transpired between them, she loves him still, in a vastly different way. She has let him go, free to become who he was meant to be. Without her. And the same for her. She will walk a path that was foisted upon her, and she will make the most of her life. It is an enduring legacy that she will leave behind, and she will have become her best self because of her pain, and her discomfort. This is what growth, and ultimately, life has taught her. She will be okay in the end.  

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The Locked Door

I’m finally seen!! I was born and raised in the busy New York City. Never had to many friends, was never popular…even in high school. You know, the one no one wanted to pick to be on their team for anything. Yep, that was me. I remember I had a bad crush on Michael Nelson….boy was he fine. Talk, dark and muscles that were visible through his clothes, OH MY. On top of him being the eye candy of my High school, he was very smart, friendly and popular. One thing though……Michael never saw me, just as no one else saw me. Besides the 3 friends I had, by the way, they weren’t popular as well, I was pretty much invisible. I was never invited to go to the school events that most high school students enjoyed or hang out on Friday nights. It was always me and my same 3 girlfriends. I always felt hidden in blind sight. I was anxious for graduation, thinking I would soon be popular or at least have more then 3 friends. I ventured into visiting different places, trying to broaden my experiences…thinking I would meet new people and have more friends than I could ever imagine…..BUT NOPE! Still pretty much under the unpopular radar, I graduated high school. I held my head up high and walked across the stage with the biggest smile I think I ever had. I remember how I felt when I walked across the stage and no one cheered for me except my small family. It was almost like that thick tension when the “elephant” walks in the room. I couldn’t wait for this, would be happy occasion to be O-V-E-R. Afterwards, everyone was excited about the parties and celebrations they were going to have or either going to attend. I felt so empty, because I had no parties or celebration to attend. My best friend, Stephanie, her parents through her a graduation party and to my surprise; they added my name to her cake! I was sooo grateful and happy, that it brought a few tears. Within the next week, we started to plan the rest of our lives! Are we going into the Military, college or get a job…back then, everyone was going into the Federal Gov LoL. I decided I’d go to college and become a Psychiatrist. It was awesome! I was so excited! I’m getting my life together….starting a new journey. Along with passing my classes, my main objective was to feel popular, to be seen and just have people know who Denise Fredericks is. I wanted to finally not feel like I was locked up in an invisible bubble. College was going great, as far as academics was concerned BUT as far as popularity…NOPE! I’m once again, not noticed, unpopular and still feeling invisible. I decided to do something different. So I changed my way of dress and my mindset. Shortly after that, I gained 2 new friends…Gina and April. We had a lot in common and even had a class together. Gina studied journalism, she was an excellent speaker and coach. April was studied sports medicine and a part time sports coach. Needless, to say, these 2 ladies helped change my life. Gina and April had been attending the college for 2 years and had developed a nice realm of friends, whom they introduced me to. Things were starting to change for the better. As Gina and April introduced me to students on campus, I no longer felt so isolated. I also noticed, when I changed my mindset, I stopped thinking so hard about having friends and being popular. It seemed as though, it wasn’t as important. One Friday evening, Gina, April and I went to a book reading, something I had never done before. It was amazing! The writer had an absolutely perfect way of making his readers feel like they were inside of his mind. For the first time in my life, I tried mingling. Yes…me….mingling. I’ve always felt as though no one saw me and not to many people wanted to get to know me, so I stayed out of the way. Usually, when I tried to have even the smallest conversation, it almost always turned into silence….nothing but crickets. To much of my own surprise, I introduced myself to the author of one of the best selling books, not only did we discuss his amazing ability to tell a story. We also discussed my thoughts of a story, I would love for him to write. Tonight was different. I successfully got through the evening without wanting to leave or without feeling irrelevant. Besides, I thought, my hair is fierce, I had on my favorite Dolce & Gabbana perfume and the way I looked in my sexy ensemble was top line classy. There’s no way I was going to let this evening end without being seen. As the evening progressed, I was approached by several people from different backgrounds who had an interest in conversing with me! This night was amazing!! I finally felt like I belong. The feeling of being locked up and unseen had gone away for the evening. Little did I know, this book reading was the start of my life! The very next evening I was contacted by, Michael the...... WRITER from the book reading. Michael was very much interested in my story telling ideas. I shared plots, scenes, backgrounds and characters. He loved my ideas and wanted to get started right away with a new book. Although, I was 28 years old. I had never felt more involved with life as I felt at that moment. I went from being the girl no one paid attention to, to this dynamic young lady whose presence was requested by a top writer. Many doors of opportunity started to open up for me. My career, that I never dreamed of, was taking off. Even though I was studying to be a doctor, my once very small thought of getting one of my story’s published, even if I’m not the writer, was a dream come true. My life was becoming a dream and I was no longer feeling invisible. I graduated from college at the top of my class. I’m working towards getting my own practice. I’m on my second story with Michael, the first book sold 1 million copies! I’m no longer living behind the scenes or being unnoticed! My locked door to society has been unlocked with opportunities and happiness. By now you could guess that the writer was Michael Nelson, my crush in high school…..Yummmy.

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Talking to a statue

Do you remember how we took this photo? It was Halloween 2016 and we were already seventeen. But we still went Trick-or-Treating. We shamelessly took Oliver's toy bucket with us and filled it to the top with candy. We were young, almost children. And our friendship, so pure and innocent, reminded me of those watermelon ice creams, which we often bought at the roadside shop. They don't make it anymore but the taste is not forgotten. The streetlights burned dimly in the darkness, and the conversation of children could be heard far off at the top of the street. At the sound of their carefree laughter, suddenly something sad flew into my heart like a bird and desperately flapped its wings. A vague feeling of loss, that something intangible was forever leaving us. We walked slowly, your Harry Potter mantle hindering your hand movements as you were enthusiastically telling something. Your lips moved, but no sound was heard. Neither your voice, nor our quiet steps on the wet asphalt, and as if the guys at the top also suddenly subsided. This unpleasant thought was so strong that I could not concentrate and carefully tried to tidy up my head to find out what was missing. And found out. Youth was escaping us like thin silk slips from under the fingers. Next year we would be seniors and we would have to take the first awkward steps into adulthood: pass a bunch of exams, choose a specialty and a university. When I understood what feeling that was, the laughter of children began to be heard again. You looked at me excitedly and your eyes were huge as the light reflected in them. And I abruptly ran to the nearest lamp, shouting that the last one to touch the streetlight was a fool. Hey, youth, wait, we have not enjoyed you yet, you will have time to leave, slow down! I didn't have to look back to know that you were running behind, trying to overtake. We scattered sweets on the floor in the living room and sat watching a movie. We watched with the lights on so as not to be afraid of the dark. None of us knew that a camera was sent to us then. Mom, knowing about your fear of cameras, took pictures of us covertly. I'm glad she did it. We saw each other almost every day, but there are no photos other than that one. You would run away every time we tried to take a picture, too shy to be captured. In the photo you are laughing so carelessly, a young boy who had a whole future ahead of him. And for some reason I'm clapping, the Cruella wig slipped back a little. Someone who wasn't there at the time would have thought we were watching a comedy after seeing the photo. I don't remember what movie we watched, but I remember that you could not stop joking and making me laugh that evening. Oliver is finishing elementary school this year. You may still picture him as a slobbering two-year-old, but he's almost as tall as me. I rarely came home after enrolling at the University of Arizona, and the age difference did not allow us to become very close friends. I came every year when I was a student, for a few weeks between numerous summer projects and internships, and noticed how he grew. Life was rich and full of adventure. I volunteered as a guide through the painted temples of Laos, ran around with monkeys in Thailand writing articles about Thai myths, and admired colored windmills smelling tulips in Amsterdam during a study exchange. Then I got a job as a local reporter and moved to Hartford, met many people. Many stayed, even more left. Life has been like a succulent dinner, where they served both the first course and the second, but forgot to serve a dessert. Dishes, various and delicious. But I would rather exchange my second course with the watermelon ice cream from childhood, the taste of which I miss so much. Do you remember the first time you had a witness to your calamity? I realized I had been standing for too long in front of the door of your house, hesitating to enter, only when Mrs. Calvert from the house opposite came out to shout that there was probably no one at home, your dad at work, you long gone. I nodded to her. She didn't know that the front door wasn't locked, and I was trying to gird myself. The boys from your new company were too repulsive, and you were becoming more and more like them, heedless of school, snapping at everyone around and exposing needles like an angry hedgehog. Having braced myself, I went in. Do you remember how often we used to visit each other and it used to be as if we had two homes, two families? The same familiar walls with old European wallpaper, plants in pretty pots all over the house. Except the owner had been becoming more and more a stranger, hostile and unwelcoming. From your room a repeating banging noise was coming. Creepy and scary, like an alarm signaling the last seconds before death. Boom..boom..boom. My steps, stealthy and slow in the long corridor with the red carpet, my heart, echoing the sound. Boom..boom..boom. The framed photos on the wall, looking at me reprovingly, the sound getting louder as I came closer and closer. It was dark - the windows tightly drawn with curtains, the bed straightened, broken bottles and pills everywhere. And you were on the floor, leaning your back against the closet door, beating your head against it. I hate you. Because your ghost comes to me at night. He paralyzes me, stands over the bed and bents over my ear, whispering that I am to blame for your destruction. I wake up, and thoughts keep me awake. I hate you because you robbed me off of my best friend. A friend, with whom I had been sharing my secrets since childhood, when we met at the neighborhood pool. The children were saying you were weird and might not have loved your mom because you were laughing the loudest and playing cheerfully only after a few days she had been gone. The kids can be so cruel sometimes. But they were only kids to comprehend you buried your pain so deep inside. Only for it to resurface years after. The unprocessed emotions taking over you. I wonder why you never told me that and chose to blend in a dubious company instead, who taught you the only way they knew to handle the grief. Was I too careless? Was I a bad friend? Do you remember we met in Park-City after you had been released the last time? It was a little windy that day and the sky was grey with clouds. You looked healthier as you walked towards me, a big smile on your face. We chatted walking around the city. You complained about the annoying schedule but then added that the medical personnel were not as bad as at the Treatment Center in Nevada that you had stayed at the year before. I told you about my difficult college courses and funny professors. You laughed at my whimpering and cracked jokes. It seemed perfect and for a moment I thought the old you were back with me. As usual, two childhood friends hanging out and exchanging the news. But whole autumn spent in the rehab did not avail you. When I returned to Arizona the next morning, and was getting reprimanded for missing the student council meeting, a text message came saying you were in the hospital. You rolled papers for the grass you worship only after several hours after escorting me to the airport. That moment, the uneasy feeling first felt that Halloween came back, so much stronger and dreadful, it squeezed my chest and left me numb for a few days. It became clear that not only cheerful youth days had been lost forever, but my best friend of eleven years was gone too. I’d rather eat my soup with a fork or look for the sun at nights because talking to you is a harder work. Staring with blind eyes, deaf to my pleadings and numb, driving me to desperation, making me wonder if you even recognized anyone. Holding everyone at a shoulder length, cold and unapproachable. Our picture taken that Halloween evening is carefully kept in my wallet, the only memory left from you. Because the stranger with bloodshot eyes who does not hear a word I say is only a statue of who used to be my dearest friend.

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The Roar of the Crowd

When the crowd roared it washed over them like a wave, starting slowly and building to a crescendo. It wasn't just the sound of cheering, it was also the sound of the wooden seats snapping as people jumped up to get a better look at just how far the ball was going. The crowd could tell from the crack of the bat it was going to be a long one, and they needed to stand to see just how far the ball would go. Eddie wasn't inside the stadium to witness any of this. It was still the Depression and there wasn't enough money to go to every home game, even though he begged his parents. None of his friends’ parents had money either. So, the kids would hang out in the empty field next to the Stadium. They could hear the roar when the Yankees played well and could see the game in their minds. The crowd was cheering, the ball was sailing, the batter was rounding the bases. They didn't need a radio announcer to know what was happening. They could tell based on how long the cheering went on. Once, he and his friends circled the stadium to see if maybe there was an unguarded door they could slip through, but if there was, they couldn't find it. Instead, they made the empty field their own stadium. They would kick away the garbage, sending plumes of dust into the air. They marked where the bases were, where home plate was, and where the pitcher would stand. They took turns. It wasn't much of a game. There were only four, sometimes five, if they were lucky six, kids playing. But they got to practice pitching and hitting and running the bases while their heroes played next door. This day was special. DiMaggio was on his way to beating the all-time hitting streak. Would he keep it going? That morning Eddie grabbed breakfast, grabbed his bat and ball, and grabbed his Yankees cap. He yelled, "Bye Ma, see you later," and ran out the door. Eddie didn't bother with the elevator. He bounded down the stairs and out onto the sidewalk. If the guys couldn’t be in the stadium, at least they’d be at the field. He walked down the Grand Concourse to East 161st Street. As he passed the butcher and the hardware store he glanced in to see if anyone he knew was there. Someone opened the door to the bakery and the warm scent of bread baking enticed him but he hurried by. He passed the entrance to the subway that his father took downtown to work. He could hear the rumble of the train entering the station. Eddie wasn't sure which of his friends would show up today but it didn't matter. They'd divide into two teams and make a game of it. They agreed on the rules. The distance you hit the ball determined whether it was a single, a double or a triple. You had to hit it out of the field and into the parking lot to get a homerun.  Eddie met up with his friend Phil a few blocks away from the stadium. As they walked, they talked about the game they'd listened to the day before. Phil was Eddie's best friend. He was a great joker, a great ball player, and he was a head taller than Eddie. All the guys were. While they may have been bigger and stronger, none of them were as passionate as Eddie was about playing baseball. Baseball made Eddie feel six inches taller! He'd been practicing a new swing lately. It gave him more power, but less control. Nothing frustrated him more than striking out. Singles didn't get you the roar of the crowd so he swung and he swung hard. When he got to the empty field the sun was shining, glinting off the windows of the building across the street. Six guys showed up that day. Phil was pitching for the other team. Inside the stadium, the Yankees were playing the Red Sox. Every time it was Eddie's turn he imagined Phil was Earl Johnson. Eddie's new swing wasn't working for him. He couldn't seem to connect with the ball. When he struck out he felt as though he was letting his Yankees down. He imagined DiMaggio looking grim but saying, "Don't worry, kid, you'll get the next one." The more frustrated he became, the harder he swung. The harder he swung, the more he struck out. Phil was showing no mercy. Eddie could imagine Yankee Manager, Joe McCarthy shaking his head.   There had been no sounds coming from the stadium for a while. He and his beloved team were both losing. He hadn't connected with the ball once and from the sound of it, none of the Bronx Bombers had either. The kids could tell it was getting late because the sun was low in the sky. He and his friends needed to get home. Eddie had one more turn at bat. Inside the stadium, Joltin’ Joe was up at bat for the last time that day also. Was this going to be the end of his hitting streak? If he was as frustrated as the eleven-year-old in the field next door, he didn't show it. He stepped up to the plate. Phil and Eddie eyed each other. Eddie glared. When you're short you have to be tough. Phil shifted his weight, raised his throwing arm, then extended it and let the ball fly. As it came at him, Eddie focused. His held his head still and straight. He had both eyes on the ball from the moment it left Phil's hand. This time he waited. He waited a fraction of a second longer than usual. Then he unleashed the power of his whole body through the bat and against the ball.  DiMaggio too, eyed the ball and with the power and grace he had shown all season sent it soaring. The baseball flew over the outfield. The crowd jumped out of their seats screaming like one large, roaring beast. The sound of success reached the field next door just as Phil’s pitch connected with the sweet spot on Eddie's bat. As DiMaggio rounded the bases inside the stadium, Eddie rounded the bases in the empty field. Both of them were pumping their arms to acknowledge the roar. It was a great day to be a kid in the Bronx. 

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Autumn Rush

(Warning: Contains Death) I opened my eyes, and blinked painfully at the fluorescent light buzzing above me. It was quiet, with only the sound of a broom scraping trash into a dustpan echoing somewhere far off, and the sound of a floor buffer zooming across the floor even farther away.            I was flat on my back, and carefully tested my cognizance on how I landed in this position. My mind carried me away to just before 1 a.m. inside the mall, crammed elbow to elbow with eager strangers. Jingle Bells played on the intercom, tinsel and twinkling lights beaming joyfully from all the stores windows. Everybody I could see was giddy with excitement, all of us waiting for the stores to open their doors so we could buy everything off their shelves for half the price. I could feel bodies pushing and shoving in every direction, and I was anxious for the doors to open already just so I could have a little bit of space to move around.            “This is my first ever time out on Black Friday,” I said to the short, red-headed woman beside me, “I was hoping to get some candles from Bath & Body Works for my sister!”            The lady nodded with a quick smile. I could tell she was disinterested the way her beady eyes darted around the stores surrounding us, impatiently standing on her toes and leaning her head back to catch a glimpse around the bodies that towered over her. I kept talking in hopes that I could get my mind off the big burly man pushing against me from behind, stirring up the claustrophobia I never thought I had until now.            “My sister likes the floral scented candles, but I like the fruity ones. Maybe I can get candles for both of us! Is that wrong? Going Christmas shopping for family and getting yourself goodies too?”            She shot me a quick glance and a guttural “ha-ha” without so much as a smile.            “It’s 12:59!” Somebody shouted from the crowd, which was answered by an echoing stream of whoops and hoorays . The red-headed woman beside me squealed loudly and pushed her way to the front. Being so tiny, it must have been easy for her to slip between the cracks in the crowd. I had a little more fluff on my bones than she did, so I better not try to push my way through or else I’ll bounce back like a tennis ball on concrete. The sound of a heavy metal key and a glass door sliding open was the last thing I remembered.            Okay, Janet. No memory loss to report, now how about physical damage? I sat up slowly from the floor. No broken bones. No cuts or bruises or scrapes…actually I felt pretty good. Cautiously looking around, I saw that the mob was also gone. The store lights were dimmed and all the twinkling Christmas lights were off. The intercom no longer playing Christmas tunes.            Obviously, I passed out and missed all the Black Friday fun. What, did everybody just walk around me all day long? Nobody thought to check on the poor middle-aged lady flat on her back on the floor? Not even that red-headed lady beside me? She probably bought the floral and fruity candles I wanted and then hopped her tiny body over me rushing to the next store. Rude!            A gentleman walked past me towards the trash can, lifting the lid and using his gloved hands to push the overflowing trash down before twisting the bag into a knot. He didn’t even look at me! Is this a normal Black Friday thing? Just whatever bodies are knocked out on the floor, clean around them and they’ll eventually come to?            “Excuse me!” I bellowed as I lurched myself up to my feet. Instead of looking at me, he picked the heavy bag out of the bin and threw it over his back, walking away slowly under the weight of it.            Well then, I huffed to myself. I turned towards the exit of the mall, across the large food court and started making my way towards it. I’ll have to report this! To the police station or…or the mayor! I’ll talk to the news! Create an outcry! They can’t just leave a poor lady lying on the floor all day and strip her of her dignity. My purse could have been stolen!            I yanked on the doors, but they were locked. I twisted the little silver knob to unlock them, but they still wouldn’t open. There must be a special key of some sort. I’ll even report this to the Fire Chief. What if there was a fire and I couldn’t get out?            I pulled and rattled the doors loudly, filling the food court with its loud echoes. “Ugh!” I let out, throwing my hands up before turning and slapping them against my thighs. The janitor who had been carrying the trash bag dropped it and stared at me, wide-eyed and mouth hanging slack.            “Finally, I have your attention!” I snapped as I strutted towards him, “Could you please unlock this door?”            As he gazed on, I patted self-consciously at my short greying bobbed hair. I’m sure it was a mess after laying on the floor all day, but that wasn’t my fault. As I got closer to him, it was almost like he was staring through me, a look of horror as his face went pale and eyes glued to the doors, so round I thought they very possibly could fall out.            “Ben! Ben! ” He hissed, still frozen.            “What!” called out a younger man. The sound of the floor buffer stopped, replaced by the sound of heavy boots tramping along the floor. Ben rounded the corner, agitation clearly written on his face.            “The doors! They just moved, man!”            “Probably just the wind, David!”            “Nah, man. I saw it. That wasn’t the wind.”            “It was me!” I yelled out, completely flabbergasted by the idiocy unfolding in front of me. “You can’t ignore me forever!”            “This your first holiday season you workin’ here?” said Ben, his voice a little softer.            “Yeah, so?”            “This place is haunted ,” Ben said gravely. David tore his gaze from the doors to Ben.            “Whatchu mean? Don’t be tryin’ to scare me now.”            Haunted? I’m no slender lady, I know he saw me rattling those doors! I listened as they continued their chat and ignored me.            “Every Black Friday, somebody always ends up dying in here. These people…they are just that eager to get the sales they are willing to be trampled to death over them. At night, you’ll hear the doors rattle or light switches flip. The guy before you saw a table flying into those very doors last year.”            David’s eyes weren’t the only ones about to pop out now. I felt my own jaw go slack with fear.            “You mean somebody died here today?” I gasped. How awful!            David continued, his voice cracking slightly. “Who died today?”            Ben shrugged, “Some lady by the Bath & Body works.” He pointed towards the store opposite us, right where I was laying just moments ago.            “That’s wild, man,” David laughed nervously, rubbing a hand across his stubbled chin, “people dyin’ over their own greed. I don’t get it.”            “Yeah, well. No ghosts ever harmed anybody but they’ll spook ya now and again,” Ben shrugged, stomping his way back towards his floor buffer. “But it’s only tonight you’ll hear them wandering about. By midnight it always stops.”            He pointed up to a giant clock in the center of the food court. Ten minutes until midnight. Good grief, I didn’t want to see any ghosts. Time to go.            “Can you please open—”            I had made the motion to grab Ben’s arm sternly in an effort to finally get his attention, but my hand went straight through him. I watched as he jumped slightly and whirred around, goosebumps rising on his arm where I tried to lay my hand.            Wait… am I the dead lady?            There’s no way I was trampled to death.            Not me. I’m alive. I just came here to get candles for heaven’s sake!            I panicked, and tried again to grab at Ben…again, my arm went straight through him.            Again, and again, and again. I’d have better luck trying to grab ahold of smoke.            How is this possible? I panicked as a cold bead of sweat dripped from my forehead. What happens after midnight? Where do I go if I’m dead?            Six minutes now.            Can the heart of a ghost still feel panic? I jogged my way to the doors, thinking if I just broke free from the mall I’d be fine. I’ll have my life back! I can’t be dead; my mother and sister would be so disappointed. Who would take care of my poor cats for me? If I would have been a sensible woman in my prime, I would have married and had kids and they’d take care of my precious balls of orange fluff…maybe not though. I only adopted cats because I needed someone to come home to. If I had a husband or kids, would I even have cats?            Five minutes to go.            I gave up on shaking and rattling the doors. Looking back, Ben nor David where in sight. Maybe they thought I was an angry ghost…well I am, I guess. But not at them. Who am I mad at? The red-headed woman with the beady eyes for not stopping to check on me? The large man behind me? I presume he’s the one to have trampled me first. Ben and David for not unlocking the door?            Four minutes.            My perfect, younger sister for her comments yesterday over Thanksgiving dinner? “Ohhh, I would just love some candles! Bath & Body works has gotten so expensive over the years. My favorite Autumn Rush scent is being released for Black Friday only! If only I didn’t have these babies to look after!”            Do I blame her twin babies? No…that’s wrong. Her babies were annoyingly cute.            I suppose my mother, and her response to Abbey’s desire for Autumn Rush scented candles?            Three minutes.            I walked over to the Bath & Body Works and cupped my hands over the glass, peering into the dim and empty store.            “Janet, dear, why don’t you go Black Friday shopping tomorrow, hm? Find Abbey a nice gift for Christmas?”            Mother winked back at Abbey, who smiled smugly.            “Oh, mother. I’m not going out in all that craziness tomorrow! I’ll wait a week until things cool down.”            Abbey’s smile dropped, “Bath & Body Works always runs out of their Autumn Rush before it’s even midday on Black Friday.” She let out a sigh, turning her sullen eyes to her laughing babies smashing peas with their fingers on their tray. “That’s alright, don’t bother.”            Mother shot me a haughty look that meant nothing other than, your sisters’ husband is deployed, go get those candles and show her your support!            I rolled my eyes and jabbed a fork in my turkey. Abbey gets what Abbey wants. I always had a sneaking suspicion mother could never forgive me for not providing her grandchildren. Seeing how close she has gotten to Abbey since her double baby debut has only instilled this thought. Her eyes sparkled when she spoke to Abbey, and almost entirely deflated with boredom and exhaustion talking to her other, forty-two year old daughter.            Two minutes.            My eyes adjusted to the darkness in the store. Whatever chaos had ensued throughout the day, it didn’t show. The shelves had been completely restocked and floors cleaned. Green tinsel with red Christmas ornaments attached to small bottles of scented hand sanitizer decorated a large white tree. Pyramids of circular bath bombs and lotions on tables listing sale prices glared back at me. A row of sinks on a long marble counter lined by at least twenty different colors of hand soap.            One minute left.            I looked over at the far left corner shelf. A whole entire shelf of shimmering labels with large red and orange maple tree leaves fluttering in a blue sky. I squinted at the elegant, tiny red font: Autumn Rush. Black Friday had come and gone and here’s Abbey’s favorite candle…also in the forms of lotions, hand soaps, sanitizers, bath bombs, and body butters…all reading Autumn Rush.            “Oh, Abbey!” I said out loud, feeling anger well up behind hot tears.            Ten seconds.            I wasn’t just mad at her and mother, though. I was mad at myself for letting them push me around all these years. Always coming to their beck and call. If I would have just stood up this one time, I wouldn’t have been pushed around by all these strangers and trampled to death.            I sighed, pulling myself away from the window.            3…2…1….            ----------------------------------------------            “You made it David, first haunted Black Friday!”            David looked back at Ben as he locked the mall doors behind him. The sun was beginning to peak over the horizon, the cold sky cascading magnificent shades of pink and orange around them. “Yeah man, that was crazy. Any more haunted holiday stuff I should know about?”             “Nah,” chuckled Ben, walking to the parking lot with David. “That’s about it. You planning on sticking around or are you gonna quit like all the other chickens?”            “I don’t like ghosts, man…especially angry ones. Them doors rattling like that? Angry. Not sayin’ I’m gonna stay, but I’m not sayin’ I’m gonna go neither.”            “Whatever you do, don’t come to the mall for Black Friday shopping,” laughed Ben, waving goodbye before stepping into his small blue Honda.            As David climbed into his own car, he felt goosebumps on his arm again as he glanced back at the mall, the silhouette of a large woman taking form behind the glass doors, peering out at him. He blinked and she was gone.            “Yeah, I’m gonna quit,” said David to himself before starting his car up and pulling out of the lot.

avs17e

The Problem With Creative People

                    THE PROBLEM WITH CREATIVE PEOPLE            I happen to be one of those type people. Right now it is 2:15 AM…..yeah, I am one of those guys. For the past few weeks I have been working on a painting and hitting the sack at 4 or 5 AM with my dog Luther, he sticks around when I do this stuff. I also play the guitar and will start playing at midnight and go until I fall asleep on the instrument. Normally this is not a problem until I keep my wife Janice awake. She already has a problem where she gets up a couple of times a night to pee. Thank God that is not me; tomorrow she is going to get a cat scan to check that out.            Anyway I will stay up until the wee hours of the morning working on something like this story. For a few weeks I was working on a fake receipt to return a stereo to Target. This was an attempt to get over on them. I finally gave that idea up and dumped it at a store where I got a tax credit. When I get going though, I will put on some quiet music and type or paint. When I was working on the painting I would put on a cheap boom box which also I had gotten from Target. This worked well; I would put in something like Segovia or some classical music and keep going. When I was working on the painting this was the result of a photo I had taken in Key West about five or six years ago. The original painting had been printed out on and 8 ½ X 11 piece of paper and looked me in the face for several years. I finally decided to try to do this with watercolors. I have never been too good with that medium and the few good ones got sold off immediately. I had done that one using a photograph and carbon paper. I traced the design onto a piece of watercolor paper and then used watercolors and India ink to pull off the card. I have a friend who makes custom greeting cards by cutting out designs and pasting them to make 3D cards. Very cool stuff, her name is Janice just like my wife.            I have always been a creative type as my twin brother John. He is mentally retarded but the man makes the best abstract art work I have ever seen, he makes mine look like crap even though I have an art teaching degree. I can kick his ass with realistic work. I will stay up working on a website, or an idea for a painting or a piece of music. The only problem with the music is that it sometimes gets stuck in my head and I have problems getting rid of it. I have sort of solved that problem by taking deep breaths and thinking of good looking women at the same time. I am sure these women would feel a bit put off if they knew I was doing this. Right now I am in the back bedroom doing this; normally I would type on the laptop in the front bedroom but the LED bulbs kill any chance of Janice getting any sleep so most times she is back here.            When I had my first home in Beechwood NJ it was a small place 26 feet square and I am not a TV watcher. This is why we don’t have cable. When I lived there the reception was bad so when Lorraine moved out the TV went in the attic and I lived without it for the next two years by playing guitar all night or painting or doing some other kind of  artwork. Now I don’t really need money from artwork but I have a ton of old hardware that I am working with to make abstract sculptures that I am gonna put into art and craft shows or online stuff. It is a matter of getting rid of this stuff and at least making a few bucks while blowing off some creative juices. I had a friend of mine who used to do art work her name was Rose Brancati. I met her in college and dated her for a few weeks until I started with Lorraine. She turned out some incredible ink work and many times at night she would call me at midnight to talk about artwork, her problem is that she had gotten MS which left her with only the use of her left arm and her head. She was like that for at least 25 years and I would visit her and help her put work into senior art shows. The last thing she did was a drawing for calendars I still have this in my music books.            Speaking of music books I have played guitar since I was 11 and I am almost 76. I taught it for 45 years and have a bunch of videos on Youtube. I was doing that before and came up to the bed rooms and found Janice in the front one because I was being too noisy. In recent times I have built a PVC fence from fittings; and a stained glass window that went into the front of my home. Even when I was home I was always fooling around with some type of creative or technical work. When I was in high school I was into model trains. I have the set under my Christmas tree right now and in the next week or so that is coming down. I am also in a writing group this is not the first one I have been in. When I was in college I used to drag a guitar around so in between classes I could get in practice time.            I get this bit from people that I don’t get enough sleep. I am wide awake right now and I don’t see that is gonna change in the next five or six hours. From what I can see I will be here typing until the sun comes up.

mwnc0m

Soufre Metamorphica

It was after noon when the malaise set in. Perhaps it was just the first bites of lunch finally offsetting the morning's caffeine that triggered it or maybe it was just gonna be another one of those days. She could smell the faint odor of sulfur, and knew it was imminent, the associated wretch, and the coughing fit. A quick search revealed that she had forgotten to bring her inhaler this morning in an abnormal rush to get out the door. She ceased the rummaging through her purse with a sigh and mentally prepared herself. After the fit had subsided, Kate looked through the window at the bustling midday street, her lunch forgotten and her appetite greatly diminished. Were they really not aware? Surely they must be, everyone could smell it, right? But if anyone had become consternated by the odor of apricot and rotten eggs wafting in the air, they paid it no mind. Perhaps relegating it to a corner of their psyche, to be examined in the wee hours of a sleepless night. An examination into the unease of their day on Bazemore Boulevard. The sun streamed into her little office, illuminating the traffic-worn carpet and the decades old desk with the chipped maple veneer and the loose drawer pull, the tightening of which was on a long mental list of fixes needed. When Kate shuffled the papers on her desk she saw the tempests of dust motes alight, becoming airborne and floating through the shaft of the sunbeam piercing a gap in the drapes, before settling on the exposed ankle of the Maven of the Mall, as Kate Murphy was known. As her office was in the building at the fore of the Bazemore Town Hall Mall, Park, and Plaza, and with her outsized influence within said confines, the title seemed fitting.  Her thin, pale skin warmed quickly in the strong noon sun causing even more distress. The weather on this most glorious of days revealed more underpinnings of nausea for Kate. “But why are you all so unconcerned?” She wanted to scream at the passersby. “Is it really just me?” She wondered aloud. She marveled at the serenity with which everyone moved through the sound dampened glass. All moving to their own rhythmic beat, the music silent. Like an old film, the light flickering through the leaded glass, waiting for the script to appear, illuminating the plot and moment. She shuddered at the thought of joining them, of leaving her desk even for a second, despite the need for sustenance at this hour. She looked at the wilted salad in the tupperware resting on her desk, unappetizing as ever, and proceeded to find nourishment, if no enjoyment, in its contents. ***** The Boulevard had seen better days, of course. The refining process of the Alberta Tar Sands crude oil to gasoline rendered a cheaper, more abundant brimstone. Their pale yellow blocks stacked in lines of gigantic assemblages, standing like a phalanx of headless Egyptian Sphinx’, guarding the Canadian prairie from dangers both mythic and temporal. Those oversized bricks patiently awaiting a return of healthier prices. Along with the ubiquitous Chinese competition in all domestic markets, the glut doomed businesses around town to waning alongside demand for the labor intensive Appalachian sulfur that the Town of Bazemore produced. Between that and the costs of doing business these days, times were troubling.  The Corporation, of course, was steadfast as ever because the investment had been made. “We must see it through,” they had insisted. “Anything else would be folly.” In the recesses of her mind Kate cursed the audacity of these men bidding their wards to lug the ore from the hot and humid floor of the sulfur mine where the fumaroles spat and hissed sulfur dioxide and steam. The men fully cognizant to the danger in an errant arm or leg or worse. Those men who needed the buck more than their sweat and vitality. Returning from the mines aware that another day without being blown sky high on a pressure wave or being buried under a pile of rubble when one of the slag piles gave way, was a good day. To find the way to Elysium through the suffocating weight of the refuse of this ancient element was an indignity not worth bearing thought. The element was of utmost importance Kate well understood, gleaned from the frequent grandstanding of Mayor Bailey. She had witnessed him often enough, preaching the gospel of the mining executives, chortling to themselves appreciatively during their opulent country club speeches. She knew full well that copper needed the chalcocite and chalcopyrite, that zinc required the sphalerite, and the lead and the molybdenum mandated the galena and molybdenite found in the iron sulfides wrenched from the earth on the backs of the oxen-yoked men. These elements were vital to commerce, locally and globally. Vital indeed, she just wished there was another way.  “Perhaps…? No, that couldn't possibly…” Ms. Murphy mused under her breath. “Well, maybe it could… If only.” Realizing the folly of her optimism, she sighed heavily and turned back to her work. Any glint of hope driven from her thoughts by the recollection of her station. She was as indentured as those men in the mines. She had heard the rumors, of course, trickling down from the hemlock covered hills. Of kids gone missing, of the disfigurements. “Oh, the precious children,” the spinster thought with satisfying snark-laden heaviness. She had been at her post a very long time. Nobody truly believed the stories mind you, but then who could really be sure. Not with the prevalence of home birth and the resulting lack of birth certificates and Social Security Identification Numbers amongst a certain crowd. Rarely, if ever, would a bereft parent from The Ridge report a missing child that never existed in the first place. Not with the real-world ramifications of the action. There would be men in khakis and button down short sleeves and women with their sturdy shoes in floral print dresses and pastel sweaters arriving in silver Detroit sedans with adequate gas mileage and state plates. Well-wishing busybodies with their paperwork and their questions. “Asking about their precious little Johnny,” Kate spat into a sea of dust and sunbeams, her spittle hanging briefly on the shaft of light before snowballing through the air collecting dust and more as it plunged to the floor, creating a void itself along the way. In the hallway there was a clattering of something resembling a brace of broom handles falling against the cheap linoleum tiles laid out in checkerboard fashion along its length. Somebody had the nerve to jar her from her mindless reverie. “Probably that asshole Bailey running around the china shop, the bull he is.” Kate thought, “Looking for someone else to blame, in all probability.” Kate made a mental note to remain scarce for the rest of the afternoon. Not that she would deign to a too early exit, but if she busied herself until 4:50 or so and then left through the side door that would work. That side door providing such relief, currently propped open by a stantioned sign to let in the afternoon breeze. That warm finger of air moved marginally by the low speed click-click-clicking of the ancient fan stationed between the peeling crown molding and chipped plaster of the hallway ceiling. It appeared to Kate that one blade was still pulling at the web of an unfortunate spider, allowing for the dust to find purchase in its tangled entrails and to swirl in the void left by those cheap brass plated blades of pressboard. The hallway having grown quiet again, the sound of the wall clock beating tempo raised its stature in the new silence. The clock and the fan knew the ominous fate of the occupants of the municipal complex. They knew the obsolescence that would find them all in time. ***** As she stepped into the sunshine, Kate grimaced reflexively. She had intended to merely squint her eyes until the dilation of her pupils had dissipated. However, the late afternoon glare was more disturbing than expected and her functional contortion had morphed into a reflection of her true feelings on the subject. She didn't want to be outside, not with the sun, and not with this smell. “How can no one smell that?” She felt it welling up again. She hurried along at a too rapid a pace, closing the distance to her capsule of air conditioning and bench seats as quickly as possible. Upon entering she shut the door with a quiet thunk, her pulse beating heavy in her heart, her lungs straining at the exertion. In the sealed environment with the noxious odor of the town masked by the fir and cedar of her Town Car’s fragrance. It was still strong but somehow more palatable to her exerted lungs. In her car’s welcome embrace, she was saved from another coughing fit. Allowing her pulse to settle she forced her breathing to comply as well. The deep breaths soothed her aching lungs. Relief at last. Momentarily.  Almost as soon as she started the car there was a rap on the window, stern and urgent. “Crap, what the shit? You almost gave me an aneurysm.” She angrily hurled at her attacker, “Are you trying to kill me?” “Um, I am so sorry Ms. Murphy. I didn’t know if you had the car in gear or not. I, uh… didn’t want to get run over.” Jon Barton stammered into the ground, refusing to make eye contact with his victim. Kate could plainly tell he realized he was in the wrong. It was just… “It was just that Mayor Bailey gave me this envelope with your name on it and said to get it to you today. I had to… I mean, I tried to make it to your office before…” He trailed off, knowing full well the error of his ways. Never chase a woman into a parking lot, even if there is still 10 minutes left in her day. In his trembling hands, slightly damp from perspiration, resided a familiar shape. The manilla envelope he clutched held her worst nightmare, overtime. She drifted in thought for a moment, recalling her evening plans that were now doomed. The ice cream, her shows and the Pinot Grigio would have to wait, it appeared. “...and so he was hoping you could, you know, on your way home…” Jon trailed off again, belatedly realizing that his words held no audience with her. “Give it here,” she said with a deep sigh that conveyed her mood concisely. Snatching at the boy’s manilla package she started raising the window. Though there were no more words, the sentiment was clear. The AC had started to cool and there was to be no more chit chat. Without another glance at the lackey she backed out of her space, threw the car into gear and pulled out of the lot, hoping to avoid speaking another word today.  ***** As Kate had anticipated, the envelope contained a nasty little surprise. She knew it was due, the report from the State Medical Examiner, but she had wished to avoid this unpleasant task. The Errand-Boy to the Corporation was for some unwitting underling, not her. “I guess Bailey found his scapegoat.” Kate grumbled into the blaring radio, the adverts shouting right back at her. As she waited for traffic to move along the intersection where The Boulevard met I-67, she debated the next move. Most times, when overtime was “offered”, she would wait till the most inopportune time for her task to be completed. “Malicious Compliance, they call it.” Kate acknowledged to herself. She had surely mastered that art. If there were an Olympic competition for the sport she most assuredly would be in the running for a medal. But today there was a catch, the show she was rushing the afternoon’s work for wouldn't wait. “The Mid-Season Finale is worth a little hustle to catch live,” she reasoned. In pulling into a bleached and vacant parking lot on the east side of town, she moved decisively in her decision to compensate her inconvenience with a quick peek inside the package. She decided to ignore the pink Post-It with directives scribbled alongside the address for delivery. Ignored too were the block letters of “Confidential” on the face of the package. She tore into the bulky envelope, enjoying the subversive act of destroying such an easily replaceable item. Discovering what she expected, a gift from The Mayor, acting as Usurper of The Throne in this role, to his golfing buddies at the Roanoke Mining Company’s Board of Governors. It was a singular loose leaf atop a neatly stacked, collated, and clipped stack of papers. It was indeed the expected medical report, how Bailey got it she could only fathom a guess, Surely not by any reputable means. “Jezus Bob, what did you get yourself into this time?” She hissed. “And why the fuck did you drag ME into this?!” Her complaints were well founded, as this wasn’t the first time. Nor would it be the last, she understood. With that thought she pulled out of the lot and back onto the secondary arterial and moved towards the upslope that signaled the end of the valley. Towards the Eastern Heights. ***** “...and so you see,” the man at the lectern continued, “sulfur is the 10th most abundant element on the planet and is safe and nontoxic in most of its forms. It is only when we start handling it in mass quantities and transporting it large distances does it become perilous for humans and animals. The molten sulfur liquid will be held at 266° to 309° fahrenheit for transport, any temperature above that increases the danger for employees as it forms sulfur dioxide and becomes volatile.” “Oh great,” Kate exclaimed silently. “I interrupted.” She had arrived earlier than she had hoped. It appeared a training seminar was in session and now her presence had been witnessed. ”I should have taken a more scenic route.” Plausible deniability just flew out the window. With a small sigh she made her way to the man she needed to see. The man was standing at the back of the room, overly-confident, in a fine cotton shirt, crisp slacks and a power tie, the tie pin and cufflinks matching of course. The room with sparse and economical, plastic folding tables and dated cushioned chairs, with a bank of windows looking towards the setting sun, looking out upon an empire of blight.  A view to the west, down into the river valley carved from the basalt and limestone. The valley of Bazemore, named after the founder and first Chairman of The Board of RMC. His vision conveniently modified for the pleasure of the current governors. A bit of willful ignorance at the behest of their heirs and stockholders. She sidled up to Blake Everly, as the speaker layed into the thick of it. “...turns an orangy-red when in its molten state, now yellowing as it cools here. Now, please refer to the color chart in the info packet. You’ll see if you look…” Kate stopped paying him any mind when the lawyer spoke. “Mrs. Murphy, what a pleasure to see you again.” He said knowing full well her unease with being unmarried at her age. “I was told to look for you. I hope traffic wasn’t too bad.” Again, knowing full well the impossibility of that being the case. She said nothing and just handed him an envelope identical, down to the bold lettering on the front, to the one handed to her this afternoon by the Mayor’s lackey. He looked at it and said nothing in return. Just examined it a little too closely for her liking, A twinkle in his eye from sensing the truth at hand. With the business concluded, Kate turned to go, supremely unhappy. The dancing around her culpability was not amusing at all. He knew full well that she would say nothing, could say nothing, without admitting her own snooping guilt. And so she slinked out with her tail between her legs.  However, before she made any noticeable progress back towards her evening's rest, the most incredible sight met her eyes. As she made her way to the Lincoln waiting in the parking lot overlooking the bluff and with it the westerly view of the river valley amongst the blue ridges of ancient mountains ground to dust, something in the approaching dusk stopped her cold. Stretching into the distance a web of brilliant blue fire and the resulting gasses, usually near invisible in the daytime, the perpetual fires of the sulfur veins underlying the town were creeping like a vast tangle of varicosity into the darkness of the evening. Splayed out before her in unearthly blue and orange, the burning sulfur slowly spreading toward the far end of paradise. Turning the streets yellowy-brown with the poisonous gasses and blotting out the street lights, taking over their lighting duties with more ominous tones. Causing tear gas-like symptoms to the citizens caught unprepared, without a gasmask, respirator, or even a damp scarf or towel. The metamorphosis of the once pleasant hamlet was made complete by the noxious plumes. “Christ on a Cracker!’ The Maven of The Mall exploded, thinking of the inquiry to come.

3e7bru

The Lost Episode

This farmland is stationed in the middle ground between data and deduction, between thought and action, it lies at the summit of man's anatomy and the pit of his understanding. You are traveling into another dimension, not one located in a distant galaxy but rather nested at the base of every human experience. It is a region of analysis and interpretation. Journey not into the abyss of space and stars but into an imaginative exploration of our humanity. You are about to meet two farmers. Opolo and Cervell. They sow seeds, till the ground, and produce fruit unlike any apple you've tasted. Their land spreads out in grooves and pits beyond what the eye can see. Two farmers soon to be presented with a single seed. How they choose to cultivate it will determine the survival or destruction of more than just their land. The oblong seed came through the portal with a burst of light in the manner in which all seeds did. Cervell was still bent over the last pip, encoding its contents into the spongy surface of the field when he noticed the light. Opolo was already rushing towards it, eager to claim it as its own. Yet both farmers were well trained in the established protocols of the regions and tempered their enthusiasm by placing the seed atop of the pedestal-like structure that pierced light into the seed revealing its figures. The images danced within the capsule in vivid details showcasing what the optic department had gathered. Opolo and Cervell watched intently as the scene revealed itself for them. The boy and his father sat on uncomfortable wooden stools in the rundown corner store. The baseball game played out on the small television set that sat on the faded and sticky yellow counter. The boy, whose feet did not yet reach the lower footrest, and whose young attention span could not be kept by flashes of flags and high pitch singing, entertained himself by rocking his chair side to side thrilled by the possibility of falling. His father, who sat beside him, pressed his finger into the boy's thigh indenting his skin slightly with his nail, causing all movements to seize. His father's gaze trailed over to the glass door as the small silver bells that hung from it jingled weakly. Through the threshold entered a Black teenage boy dressed in a black sweater and blue jeans. The boy at the stool sat quietly, glancing up towards his father's face that now bore a grimace the young boy did not yet recognize. Looking back towards the new patron the boy noticed a hint of red poking out of the boy's sweater pocket. It was far too small for anyone other than a child growing up among candy wrappers to noticed. The teen walked through the aisles making careful selections as the boy's father paced back and forth at the front of the store. Finally satisfied, the Black boy approached the counter placing a bag of chips, a grape soda, and two chocolate bars on the counter. The boy's father, whose grimace had now morphed into an uncomfortable mixture of anger and disgust eyed the items without saying a word. The teen, who now stood directly next to the young boy, reached into his jeans pocket and retrieved a crumpled five dollar bill and held it out for the boy's father. Tapping his index finger on the counter the man indicated for the money to be placed down rather than handed directly to him. The Black boy not quite understanding the reasoning placed the money as he began to gather his now purchased items. He placed the candy bars in his sweater's pocket and held his soda with the same hand that now interlaced its fingers around the bag of chips. Extending his right hand towards the man the Black boy looked up absentmindedly awaiting a return. "What?" the father asked sternly. "I need a dollar back." the Black boy responded. "No. You owe me five dollars. That's what you gave me five dollars." "No, I only got four things. The chips, the soda, and the two bars. That's four dollars, I gave you five, you owe me one." The young boy at the stool, whose heart had begun to race though he did not quite understand why, knew enough about simple math to agree with the Black boy though he dared not speak. "What about the Skittles?" "What Skittles?" The boy at the stool immediately glanced at that Black boy's pocket remembering the hint of red he had seen. "The Skittles you're trying to steal." "Man, I came in with these. I didn't get these from you." "Yeah right, well you got them from someone you're going to pay for them." "Man, stop playing with me. Give me my change!" The insulted boy demanded, reaching towards the register to press random buttons he thought might open the cash drawer. With a crooked smile that suggested this was what the man had been waiting for he leapt into action. Jumping over the counter briskly. Attacking the young Black boy without mercy. Yelling racial profanities as he pinned the teen on the ground demanding that his son call the police which he eventually did once he was able to get his feet to move. Now the two white male cops were in the small space at the front of the store with a growing crowd of spectators gathering outside. The man and the teenager interrupted each other as they both yelled their version of the story. One however was able to do so with both his hands free. The young boy which had returned to his place atop the stool dug his finger nails into his thighs trying to keep his nerves from pouring out all over the scene. One of the police offers approached him gently. Picking him up and sitting him down on the worn out counter so as to be at eye level with the boy. Roughing up the curls of light brown hair on his head the cop closed in on the boy, lowered his voice, and asked. "What did you see, son?" This is was the precise moment the flare of light had illuminated the region Opolo and Cervell managed. The images inside the pulsating seed culminated there, as did most seeds, with two clearly defined choices and one looming decision. Opolo grabbed the seed and began to cross over the chasm that separated his field from Cervell. "Why do you assume it should be planted in your region?" Opolo turned around in genuine confusion over Cervell's question. "What do you mean? It's obvious. Do you really think that this one requires debate?" "Of course it does." Cervell answered, approaching the divide. "You can't just take it." "But the right choice is clear. We both saw him notice the red wrapper when the boy walked in. He knows the truth." "The truth is not worth more than his father." "What are you saying? Of course it is. The truth is more valuable than anything." "For once, Opolo, don't be so simple. You cannot reduce every moment to the here and now. This one decision can have a lifetime impact. His father is making a false claim, a claim that can end up getting him arrested, an arrest that Cravon will be blamed for. Think about what his father will do to him. Look at what he has already done to this other boy. If Cravon sides against him, he will beat him. And what's worst, Cravon will blame himself for all of it." "What kind of character are you building? Of course this will have lifetime implications, even the more reason why I should take, why we should make mark him as a person that does what is right even when it is difficult. If he is made complicit in this act you will set him on a course of destruction. This singular choice, this decision to willing omit or flat out fabricate a lie will mark him. It will curve his will towards what is convenient, towards what is wrong." "I am not senseless, Opolo. Of course I know it is wrong but the alternative is worst. This will be a simple guilt, a momentary lapse of judgement. One that he will feel shame for but can eventually surpass. What you are suggesting is for him to turn his back on a man that has proven himself to be careless and violent and unfortunately in control. We can't dictate what his father will do next, but we can protect Cravon from what we both know could be worst than guilt." "Guilt easily disregarded. He'll carry it around long after this moment. Rendering him useless to himself, imprisoning him in his own cowardice." "You don't have to make a hero out of him every time. What good did it do him when he stood up to that boy behind the apartment building? He hasn't recovered from your little spur of bravery." "What good did it do him to lie to his mother about the vase?" Drawing Opolo's attention to the seed he cradled in his grip, Cervell noted, "It is crystallizing. We must plant it before it cements above ground and he begins to grow accustomed to not thinking." "You're wrong on this one, Cervell. We have disagreed on countless incidents, perhaps disagreeing is our only purpose. But up until this moment, every decision, every call we've made has only hurt or benefited us in the end. This is the first time we have to decide on the fate of another. This is how we build his character." Looking across the vast expanse of ridges and grooves that surrounded them Cervell steadied his hands, "You may be right, Opolo, but in the end self-preservation will outlive character." And with this Cervell leaped towards Opolo, limbs outstretched towards the seed. Wincing backwards Opolo fell backward on his side of the chasm as the seed rolled into the abyss, out of the reach of both farmers. Years passed since the incident. The seed took root in the dark, isolated recess of the boy's mind. Without proper cultivation it grew as do most weeds, wild and rampant. Opolo and Cervel noticed when the first leaves began to pierce through the opening, but being so far from its roots all they could attempt to do was trim the portions of the plant within their grasp. Eventually the tree grew beyond their reach spreading above both fields, shrouding the land in perpetual shadows to the detriment of both lands. One day, the tree that grew from the depths of Cravon's mind began to bear a single fruit. This was not unusual, for larger trees did this all the time, especially one this size. Yet, what was interesting was the size and orientation of this one. Most fruits were perfectly round with a steady core that pulsated in predictive intervals like rhythmic drums. This fruit however was oddly shaped, with dips along its edges that gave it a deformed appearance as though the tree itself rejected it. Opolo and Cervell observed it as it grew larger and larger containing within itself images that concerned both farmers. Images that they could no longer argue about, or decide upon, for the fruit grew all on it's own. One fateful February evening, while the scores of a baseball game blared from a car radio, the fruit began to tremble. Its core, with its irregular beating, began to spin wildly. Opolo and Cervell stared in horror as the fruit, no longer able to contain its seed burst open, pouring out its content on the blood stained ground like a spilled bags of Skittles. Destroying Cravon and a different, yet very similar innocent Black teenager. Farmlands. Allocated spaces designated for the cultivation of things edible and things suggested. Some are emerald fields that stretch out across vast distances bearing exotic fruits and alluring vegetables. Most are tucked away nearby, beyond what the naked can eye can see and yet what is detectable to the senses. Forever growing and expanding, bringing to life actions that can create and destroy, in a region, a farmland known as the human mind. 

a8hatb

There Is No Try

“You’ll never know unless you try.” Mike’s mom said as she stood folding laundry at the kitchen table. “There’s lots of things I’ll never know, even if I do try.” Pleased with his quick response, Mike smiled and started for the hallway. His mom thrust a pile of folded tee shirts into his chest. “Think about it and don’t just leave those shirts sitting on top of the dresser.”  Mike knew his mom was right. But he also knew that if he gave in now, it would feel like her decision and not his to go on the interview. “Thanks.” “Nothing says thank you like actually putting the clothes away where they belong.” It wasn’t exactly a dream job, but then again, Mike didn’t know anyone who had a dream job. Or even a job they liked. Most everyone Mike knew and hung out with was doing something that led nowhere and impressed no one. It didn’t matter if they’d gone to college and dropped out, finished college or never picked up a book after high school. They all told the same story - paying off debt and trying to get together some money to move out on their own so life could begin. After Mike put the clothes in the drawers he picked out a pair of no-iron khakis and a light blue, button down shirt. He’d taken the civil service custodian exam thinking of it as a back-up to the back-up plan. He’d done well enough to get called six months later and was asked to come in for an interview with the head of buildings and grounds of the local school district. Forget about a back-up plan, Mike admitted to himself as he watched himself in the mirror buttoning his shirt, there was never any plan in the first place. There were thoughts, stoned conversations and internet searches about things he’d like to do, but those were more ways to pass the time than an actual plan. Mike came down the stairs, crossed the kitchen and headed straight for the basket with the car keys. “You should wear a tie.” His mom was still at the table. She was on to matching socks. “Mom. Please.” “Please what?” “I don’t need to be told how to dress.” Mike’s mom stopped searching for the match to the single white sock she held in her hand and stared at him. Mike timed his stare back just long enough that it would make her wonder if he was sorry for snapping at her. “Good luck.” she said and picked up the matching white sock.  The school was a ten minute drive from his house. Mike had given himself thirty minutes for the drive, plus parking, plus walking to the office, plus being early. But now he also had to get a tie. Mike crunched the numbers and decided to call his friend Jay who lived close to the school. On the third ring Mike decided that a tie was a nice to have and not a need to have. On the fourth ring Jay picked up and the tie was back to being a need to have. “Hey” Jay sounded distracted. “Hey. Real quick. Do you have a tie I can borrow?” “Sure. They’re mostly stained though. I’m sure my dad has a nice one. When do you need it?” “Now. I’m on my way to an interview and I forgot to wear one.” Mike was calculating the fastest route to Jay’s house. “Wait. Now?” “Yes. Now. I don’t care. Just something basic. Just don’t give me something Mr. Davis would wear.” Mr Davis was their sixth grade English teacher and wore ties decorated with cartoon characters. Jay chuckled and began to say “Do you remember” but Mike cut him off. “Please. I’m sorry man. But I kind of want this job and I’m rushing to get there. I’ll be out front in five.” “Sure. Whatever.” Mike pulled in front of Jay’s driveway. Mike thought about hitting the horn but then heard the creaking wheels and springs of Jay’s automatic garage door as it labored to raise each cross panel. Jay stood just behind the door, in the middle, with his arms raised and waving like a pro wrestler making his way to the center of a packed arena. Around his head Jay wore a solid blue neck tie. Jay remained in character and strode to Mike’s waiting car and leaned into the open window. “You want a shot at the belt?” “No. Just a tie” Mike said. “Huh. Here. Keep it.” Jay took the tie from around his head and tossed it into Mike’s lap. “Thanks. I’ll catch up with you later.” Mike looked in his rearview mirror and saw Jay still standing at the end of his driveway. He wanted to call Jay and apologize for having to leave so quickly but decided against it. Mike sat in in Mr. Zapelli’s office in a chair that possessed the integrity to withstand an atomic blast. Next door to the office was the boiler room and Mike could hear the humming of a motor and could not ignore the smell of heating oil. Mr. Zapelli walked into the room and Mike rose to shake his hand. “Hey Mike. How’ve you been?” “I’ve been good. I’ve been doing a bunch of different jobs. Trying to keep busy.” “Busy is good. Busy is what this job is. It’s always something.” Just then Mr. Zapelli’s phone pinged with a message and he held the phone up for Mike to see. “It never ends around here. Sorry. Just give me a sec. I need to write this person back.” Mike thought about the job  for which he was interviewing. He could deal with scraping gum off hallway floors or being sent to clean up after some kid who’d gotten sick after lunch. For three summers while in high school Mike worked maintenance at the middle school. He liked the outdoor parts like mowing the grass or painting the bleachers. Plus he liked bullshitting with the guys who worked there. Even though he was just teenager at the time, they spoke to him like a man. Mr Zapelli finished typing into the phone and set it down. The two men sat in silence for a few seconds and Mike began to think he should say something. Instead Mike sat listening to the the hiss of of a pressure release valve on a nearby steam pipe and stared straight ahead. Mr Zapelli broke the silence. “I know you can work. But this isn’t a summer job. This isn’t something you jump in and out if. The guys here work. They have families. Responsibilities.”  Mr Zapelli picked up a pair of pliers off his desk and inspected them as he spoke. “It’s a 40 hour work week and you’d start nights. You’ll never be rich, but you’ll have a pension and benefits. And if you have your head screwed on you’ll know that’s something.” Again. There was another pause and both men sat in silence. “So what’re you thinking?” “It’s not something I just want to give a try. It’s something I want to do.” Mike said and rose to shake Mr Zapelli’s hand

k089up

Swiss Army Man

Billy held the map in both hands. A trail of dots led his eye from one hand-drawn clue to the next. The dots and clues zig-zagged across the map from left to right and back until they stopped at the last clue. On the main floor above him, his mother and grandmother argued in muffled tones. It was always about something. Today, they argued about the same “something” that drove Billy to this basement after the funeral two years ago. Back then, he had found his grandpa at the workbench. The old man motioned him from the darkness of the basement and into the yellow glow of a single light bulb over the bench. In thirty minutes, Billy had learned that fathers die, mothers cry, and boys become men too soon. When asked how to become a man, his grandpa promised, “I’ll make you a map.” The doorbell rang on the floor above him. The argument stopped. Another casserole? Billy didn’t feel hungry even though he hadn’t eaten for two days. His mother called it grief and another step on one’s journey through life. Could the dots on his grandpa’s map avoid the grief? The first series of dots led to a small drawing of a red badge with a white cross inside it. Billy knew exactly where the clue would lead. The hutch above the workbench had the thirty slots and drawers, ten across and three down—each for a different tool. His grandpa had told him the tools he used the most were on the bottom row and easy to reach. The lesser-used tools were higher on the hutch and harder to reach. He opened the middle drawer on the bottom row. He found the red knife with its small badge and white cross on the handle—the Swiss Army logo. Billy had held the knife before. On each visit, he served as a messenger. His job was to carry tools between his grandpa, the hutch and household problems. But the knife was more than a solution to a loose screw or stubborn knot on a shoestring. It spoke to ownership. Billy found his grandpa's name etched on the font of the handle, WILLIAM. He turned the knife over and ran his fingers across the engraved letters of his father’s name, WILL. But the engraving ran more than four letters. He discovered his grandpa had added five new letters, BILLY. The knife was his. The living room door closed on the floor above him and his mother’s footsteps marched to his father’s childhood bedroom. Grandma Pearl’s footsteps retreated to a favorite chair. The old recliner stood like a sentinel between the basement and bedroom doors. Billy once tried to sneak around Pearl resting in that chair. It was after his grandpa had promised the map. He wanted to go to bed and dream about the map. But grandma stopped him. She wanted to be his “checksum” like she was for Will when he was Billy’s age. When asked the meaning of “checksum,” Pearl told Billy it was a mathematical process to fix potential mistakes. But they would use it differently. After every visit with his grandpa, she wanted Billy to “check” with her and “sum” up their conversations. Billy did. Grandpa’s trail of dots led Billy to the next clue on his map. He found the letter and number B5 in bold black ink. Again, he knew where to look. Billy counted two rows down on the hutch and five spots over. He rested the drawer on the top of the workbench, then reached inside. He found a green swatch of paper about the size of a postage stamp with saw-toothed edges. Grandpa had used a magic marker to change the color of the swatch to green. He whispered, “Bingo.” Grandpa had used the word “Bingo,” after they solved an impossible household problem with an unlikely solution—like the time they fixed a leaky pipe with nothing but Play-Doh. But Grandma Pearl said otherwise. During their checksum talk, she said folks yelled Bingo to end a game of chance. Grandpa had stolen the word from their church basement. But it was still okay to use and hoped there were no more impossible problems under her roof. Billy knew where the swatch fit. He placed the green paper cutout into the postage-sized hole in the map. The jagged edges lined up. With two solved clues, Billy followed the dots to the next challenge. He found a hand-drawn electrical outlet shaded in yellow. The road to manhood was pretty easy. He knew about the outlet. Billy turned on the radio near the edge of the workbench and listened to the lilting voice of a newscaster on a boring day. Then he unplugged the radio and moved it to the center of the bench. He cleared a path to a cubby hole in the hutch and found the electrical outlet with its yellow face plate. He plugged in the radio, toggled the on-off switch and heard nothing. The electrical outlet was a fake with no live wires connected to it. His grandpa had installed the box as a hiding spot. He told Billy that every payday, he would add a twenty-dollar bill to a roll of money hidden inside. And that he couldn’t open the box without his permission. During their checksum talk, Pearl told him that the fake electrical outlet was not the only secret hiding spot down there. In the basement, Billy tried to do the math—twenty dollars times twenty paydays. Or was it twenty dollars times a hundred paydays? He didn’t know. And how would he use the money? He tried to rub the sweat from his hands but the effort only spread the dirt and grime left from the mishap that occurred on long drive yesterday. It was the dirt and grime that helped him figure out how he would use the money. Billy opened his Swiss Army knife to the flathead screwdriver and guided it into the screw on the cover of the electrical outlet. But the screwdriver didn’t fit. Now, that screwdriver had fit every other electrical outlet in that house that wasn’t painted yellow. Why not this one? He looked closer with a flashlight. What type of screw is that? Over the months, his grandpa had taught him the difference between a flat head and Phillips head. But this screw was neither. It was star-shaped and too small for any tool on that bench. Perhaps his map could help? Billy held the flashlight over the map and pointed it towards the next clue. It was a drawing of a lock, the kind you found on a desk drawer. He tried to pull out the desk drawer beneath the workbench. It wouldn’t budge. He moved the flashlight back over the green swatch of paper. He held the flashlight behind the swatch and then whispered, “Bingo.” The dark green marker had covered the real clue, the letter and number written beneath it, A9. Billy climbed and knelt on the top of the workbench and reached into drawer A9. He found a small screwdriver with a star-shaped head. He also noticed the face of drawer A10 next to it was painted pink. It stood out like the flamingos in Grandma Pearl's front yard. He twisted the screw loose on the outlet and placed the screwdriver in his shirt pocket. He pulled the yellow cover away. There was no money roll. Instead, he found a stubby carpenter’s pencil and a key. Billy felt like a flat tire on a long drive—a feeling he just had the day before. On the main floor above him, a door squeaked open. Keys rattled. Footsteps led to the front door and ten-seconds later, an engine roared to life. Billy hoped his mom was going to see a mechanic. On the trip here, the car lunged to the left after a loud pop. He coached her to a stop on the side of the highway and waited for her hands to stop shaking. He told her it was going to be okay because the same thing happened to grandpa and him. They had a flat tire on their road trip to Arlington last month. For the next thirty minutes, Billy’s mother watched her ten-year old son change a flat tire. He explained each step out loud, the same way grandpa had explained them to him on the side of the road in Virginia. He sensed his mother’s pride as they drove away but knew replacing one bald tire with another was no bingo. The incident convinced him that his mother needed new tires and the money in the electrical box should cover their cost. But there was no money in the fake electrical outlet. Billy pulled out every drawer on the hutch but they were all empty. Empty? Not only was the money gone but so were grandpa’s tools. Maybe the map would explain the missing tools, but it didn’t. The trail on the map ended with a carpenter’s pencil and a rusted key. What was grandpa thinking when he drew the map? Billy looked closer at the pencil. He had seen it before on the trip to Arlington. It was dull and needed sharpening. The problem with this kind of pencil is that it wasn’t like a school pencil. Its cross section was shaped like a rectangle. It was ill-fitting in his small hands and wouldn’t fit in the round hole of a classroom sharpener. What about the key? It seemed tarnished and rusty as if never used. At one of their checksum discussions, Billy told Grandma Pearl that grandpa was going to make him a map on how to become a man. She smiled and called it a fool’s errand. When asked what that meant, Pearl told him that such a map was like a key in search of a lock in the middle of a lock factory. Billy held the key in search of a lock. But Pearl was wrong. He moved the stool back to gain access to the desk drawer beneath the workbench. It was the right-sized key but only the tip would fit. Billy inspected the lock with the flashlight. He found the broken half of another key lodged inside the chamber. A fool’s errand? Then he remembered the time he caught a splinter while carrying wood for fence repairs. Grandpa said there was only one tool in that whole basement that could fix a splinter. Billy picked up the Swiss Army knife and pulled out the tweezers. He shined the flashlight on the lock and gripped the edges of the broken key. With a gentle tug, the lock chamber was free like that splinter from the palm of his hand. He inserted the rusty key into the lock but it wouldn’t turn. He jiggled it, pushed it, and twisted it. But it still didn’t turn. He removed the key and tried to blow the rust off of it. It didn’t work. He picked up the pencil and tried to erase the rust away. It didn’t work. And then he remembered how his grandpa used the carpenter’s pencil on their visit to Arlington. Grandpa had placed a sheet of paper on the front of the gravestone of Billy’s father. Then he took out the stubby pencil and rubbed it back and forth across the paper. Billy watched as the pencil left a dark impression on some spots and a lighter impression others. His grandpa explained how the graphite in the pencil reacted to friction on the paper—the smoother the background, the darker the graphite. Since there was less friction when the graphite passed over the recess of the engraved letters, they appeared lighter. In less than two minutes, Billy had a sketched replica of his father’s gravestone. But he had no place to put it. Because after the funeral two-years ago, his mother refused all memories of his father in their house. Too much pain. Grandpa folded the piece of paper and placed it in his pocket. On Grandma Pearl’s lap, she told Billy that the relief sketch was her idea and she knew about his mother’s wishes. When he asked her if it was a “fool's errand,” she said no and that she would put it in a hiding spot in the basement that only the two of them could find. The memory of the friction effects of graphite on paper helped Billy understand what to do with the pencil. He rubbed the nail file on his Swiss Army knife back and forth across the pencil until the tip until the tip was narrow and sharp. Then he rubbed the tip of the sharpened pencil across the rusted key. With some encouragement, the graphite on the key loosened the lock. Billy slid the drawer open and blinked twice on purpose. Inside the drawer, he found all the tools that were missing from the drawers above the workbench. Grandpa would not allow this. Every tool had a place on the bench and it was not in the drawer. There was no such thing as a misplaced tool like there was no such thing as misplaced money? He placed the big tools on top of the workbench and then sifted through the small stuff reaching as far as he could into the back of the drawer. The roll of money wasn’t there. Since the lock was the last clue on his map, his journey was over. Billy decided to ask grandma about the tools but not until after he returned them to the hutch. It was the least he could do for the man who guided him through so many household problems and their solutions. He picked up the old filter wrench and placed it into drawer B2. This was the wrench they used twice to change the oil on his grandpa’s old Chevy. He placed the little oil can into the cubby hole at C7. Together, they had used the oil to remove the squeak from the hinges on the screen door to the backyard. He placed the tape measure into the drawer at C4. This was the same tape measure used to mark Billy’s growth on the side of the basement door. Each tool had a memory. His favorite memories were for the tools they used the most. They were easy to reach. The smaller memories were harder to reach but just as important. Billy thought about his grandpa’s paper map. Did he really need it? Wasn’t each little dot on the map really tracing his footsteps from that workbench to the next household problem? Did the steps to become a man stop at leaky pipes, splinters, oil changes and squeaky screen doors? Does a tape measure really measure the growth of a man? Billy had it all figured out. He crossed his arms over his chest as if satisfied with a job well done. Then he felt the star-shaped screwdriver in his shirt pocket. It belonged in A9, the drawer next to A10 and its out-of-place pink drawer. He climbed back onto the top of the workbench and replaced the star-shape screwdriver into A9. Then he opened the drawer at A10. Billy pulled out a cloth pouch slightly smaller than the drawer. It was cinched at the top with a thick piece of string. He recognized the knot immediately. This was not his first impossible knot. Six months ago, Grandma Pearl brought two pink flamingos home from Woolworths and hid them in a pillowcase in the basement. Grandpa found them. Like a hundred times before, his grandpa yelled “Billy” and told him to bring the Swiss Army knife. Billy found him in one of the darkest recesses of the basement. He held up the offending pillowcase and pointed to the impossible knot. He told Billy there was only one way through such a knot. The front door opened on the floor above him. He traced his mother’s footsteps from the front door to the reclining chair. The muted tones told Billy his mother and grandma put away “something.” He could tell by the sobs that his grandpa was right—fathers die, mothers cry and little boys become men too soon. But what about that pouch and its impossible knot? Billy inspected the pouch and its knot. There was only one way. He opened the blade on his Swiss Army knife and cut the string. Inside the pouch, he found a green magic marker, scissors with saw-toothed edges, a money roll, the sketched replica of his father’s gravestone, and a receipt for engraving performed a day after his grandpa died. The instructions on the receipt were to engrave the word BILLY on a little red Swiss Army knife. Bingo. 

j7kt18

The Bowtie

Peggy coughed lightly, fanning away years of dust from the crumpled box she retrieved from the dark, dank attic. This better be those Christmas lights or I give up, she thought to herself. Pulling frantically on the flaps, she was dismayed—but only for a moment—that no old Christmas lights or tree ornaments stared back at her.              Instead, a puffy dress—once beaming white, but now yellowed with age—sprang from the box as if it had been waiting to jump out and yell “surprise!” from behind a couch as the guest of honor at a party finally arrived. Well, it’s been waiting a long time. This box had been sealed shut for at least fifty-two years. Surprise!              That’s not what made Peggy chuckle of sweet memories, though. Her eye followed the hem of the button-down dress as she pulled it out, reminiscing on that wonderfully chaotic night.              How’s that for memory-strengthening, Dr. Dean! I’m a ripe seventy-two and I still remember my wedding! Ha! She felt a soft plop on her foot as she pulled her dress out and looked down.              “Oh, Bart ,” she smiled, picking up the bowtie.              She wanted her wedding to be perfectly romantic, as most young brides dream their wedding to be, and she remembered her father walking her down the aisle to her very soon-to-be husband, who was wearing the most atrocious silk orange and blue bowtie she had ever seen.              During her moment to share her well-thought-out and deeply romantic vows with Bart, she could barely utter three words at a time without giggling hysterically. The wedding colors were forest green and silver for heavens sake!              “Wedding nerves,” her auntie Clara had said knowingly, patting the arm of her own third husband and casting a dismayed look at the bride and her hysterics. She knew all about wedding nerves, apparently.              Bart smiled lovingly at his giggling wife, patiently waiting a whole five minutes for Peggy to finish her fit and dab her eyes with the kerchief the maid of honor graciously supplied.              It was a truly hideous tie, and even more so now. A few stains had distorted the color of the crumpled, silly looking thing. It was a hit at the wedding, though! Peggy’s side of the family and friends tilted their heads curiously at his decision, smiling funnily at him in his beautifully creased black suit and crisp white shirt. Was he mad for choosing such an outlandish bowtie? Was it an inside joke? A strange cry for help?              Bart’s family had smiled knowingly at him and patted him on the shoulder, giving him tender hugs and whispering words of encouragement.              “Nobody even notices it, dearie…not next to you and your stunning dress!” bellowed Peggy’s cousin Ann-Marie. Such an optimistic woman, even though it was an absolute lie. Everybody noticed it, and even more so when it was no longer secured in place along his neck.              A few drinks in her at this point, it was even more hysterical that it magically vanished ! She watched Bart in a new fit of giggles scour the floor with his mother and a few other relatives. It turned into a party game! Where’d the bowtie go? Who can find it first?!              They all ended up searching the place for it, completely ignoring the dance floor. Women lifted their long dresses as they tiptoed around, scouring the floor and men bent low to lift tablecloths and inspect underneath. Children were spoken to sternly, in case one of them had taken and hid it for their own little game. Seeing their innocence, they were then promised a prize to whichever child found it first. Their eyes dazzled with greedy excitement as they took off, pushing each other over and climbing on top of counters and peering into tall vases, determined to be the one to win the prize.              It was auntie Clara who eventually found it, gasping in disgust and horror as she lifted it in a ladle from the punch bowl. “Preposterous!” She had cried, sitting down crossly with her still empty cup.              “Wonderful luck!” Bart had said, pecking his new wife on the cheek as he placed the clip-on tie delicately in his tuxedo pocket.              Peggy ambled to the living room, cradling the old bowtie in her hands.              “Oh, Bart! Look what silly thing I’ve found!”              Bart, sitting in the sagging seat of his favorite Lay-Z-Boy chair one of their children had bought him for Father’s Day—Peggy couldn’t remember which of the three children. One point for you, Dr. Dean— glanced up from his newspaper. She plopped the bowtie on his lap, and he reached around his big belly to pick it up and inspect it closer.              “Amazing,” Bart had roared, a smile sweeping across his face as he flipped it in his hands, “I haven’t seen this in ages! Where did you find it?”              “In a box in the attic, looking for those pesky little Christmas lights! It’s been in there for fifty-two years, tucked in with my wedding dress! Can you believe it? I remember it like it was yesterday!”              “No,” Bart said to himself, lost in his own memories.              Now, Barts memories are sharper than Peggy’s. He knew she only knew it’s been in that box for fifty-two years because each box in that attic is labeled with the year in which it was stored. Peggy was so organized in her young adult days, chasing after their three children and preparing them for school and sports activities, running around town and launching charities and organizing parent parties. As the children grew out of their toys and clothes, Peggy placed them in a box and marked the year on the side with a big, fat, red marker.              Then the children flew the coop to assume their own adult lives, and Bart watched his wife slowly lose a few marbles over the last few years—Dr. Dean called it early signs of dementia—and he wondered just how much Peggy actually remembered of that day in 1969.              He watched his nimble, petite wife smile and saunter off into the kitchen, humming along to Jingle Bell’s as her short white hair bobbed along her chin, swinging to the melody .              Bart agreed the tie wasn’t the best-looking tie you've ever seen. A little tag on the inside, right next to the clip had a blue H.G. written in it. It had smeared, but was still legible. Henry Gert. The cozy little town of Yorkshire’s dentist. Loving husband to Beatrice Gert. Avid lover of baseball and pistachios. Bart’s father.              He was a spunky man, and loved to make his patients laugh. Especially the children who were scared of the tools on his dental tray. He would distract them with fun-colored bowties, one of which lit up when you pressed a button. Another spurted water if you squeezed a ball that you'd hide in the sleeve of your jacket. Bart’s favorite was one where you’d press the center of the bow tie, and it would start singing and dancing. Henry had died unexpectedly from a heart attack the year before he married Peggy.              Bart’s tiny mother had walked into the dressing room before the wedding, holding the bowtie with both hands and happy tears in her eyes. The shiny orange and blue bow was one of the tamest bowties his father had ever acquired. It was perfect for the wedding.              “Your father is here today and watching over us,” his mother had said, clipping it to the front of his collar, “and he is so proud of you.”              It earned a few chuckles here and there, and his lovely new bride giggled at the sight of it. Bart couldn’t help but smile at this. His father was always making people laugh. He really was there that day. He could feel it in each hug and smile from his family, all happy to see a bit of Henry on that joyous day.              “Where’d that eyesore go?” bellowed a drunk uncle of Peggy’s during the reception, pointing at his shirt front. He had looked down, and saw nothing but his plain black and white tuxedo. No bowtie. He searched with his mother, keeping a calm expression so as not to upset his giggly, bubbly wife. He smiled at her as he looked under tables and chairs. Soon, everybody was looking. And when Bart says everybody, he means everybody. In fact, his fussy Aunt in-law, Clara Dellatis—no, that was her second husband’s name—Clara Beatrude was the one to find it in the punch!              “Your father was the typical jokester, after all. Of course he would be playing a funny little game today,” his mother had said, dabbing her eyes gratefully as Bart cradled it in a napkin and stowed it carefully in his pocket. He pecked both his mother and bride on the cheek and smiled upwards, silently thanking his father for the wonderful addition to this beautiful day.              “Oh my goodness,” Peggy said, coming up behind Bart reclining in his chair, “I know that bowtie! You wore that at our wedding, didn’t you?”              “Yes, my lovely bride. I certainly did,” Bart smiled up adoringly at her.              “Ha! Amazing! Anyhoo , I think I’ll take a look around the attic for our Christmas lights!”              “That sounds wonderful, darling. Let me know if I can help,” Bart said as Peggy kissed him on his balding head and glided upstairs. He leaned back in his recliner, holding his bowtie in his hand as he presumed reading his paper, the front page a beautiful shot of this past weekends fourth of July parade and fireworks.              He smiled down at the memory his sweet wife had brought him, and silently thanked his father for being there that day, making it unforgettable. 

sp0ox1

Wins and Losses

As the sun set lower in the sky he adjusted the brim of his ballcap against it. The brim already soaked through with sweat, even though the game was barely half over. The day had been hot, and tiring, and the lasting heat was magnified by the sea of asphalt that surrounded the ballfield. The parks and diamonds and courts at the north end of town wouldn't have this issue. There are tall elms, oaks and pines, and expanses of grass, in lieu of the heat reservoirs of the pavement. There would be a working water fountain as well and the dugout was probably nicer in all likelihood. And who knows, maybe even some grass in the outfield? Not here though, no room in the budget, barely enough in there to chalk the foul lines. The early evening glare from the slowly sinking ball of fire hampered Bobby greatly as he peered in towards home. Whomever built the field had the diamond facing East- ish so that the batter doesn’t have to face into the sun at setting time. That, however, lines up the Right Fielder directly facing into the sun. No wonder the pros have those ridiculous flip down shades. “They look silly, doncha think?” Bobby had once been asked. Oh sure, the other team supposed he wasn’t all that great because he’s out in right, it IS where they put the weak links after all. Little did they know that he used to play college ball for a serious DII program. None of his new teammates knew that either though, in a cruel twist of irony. And so they planned on just lofting it into the sun and then start runnin’ like hell . Usually, the plan resulted in a surefire hit every time. So all in all, not a great place to be. Not terrible mind you, it was a game he was playing after all, it’s just he preferred to play Left Field, is all. Bobby was the new guy on the team, they had been a man down and his coworker reached out to see how he was occupying his evenings. He had demurred at first, white-lying about all the hobbies, house projects, and friends he had to deal with. But, the truth of the matter was, it was a nice way to preclude the thoughts of Beth from entering his brain. Or so he had hoped. It had been 19 days since she moved out. June the 12th was the day she split. For good this time, he knew in his heart of hearts.  And it had felt like a punch in his gut of guts. He hadn’t meant to stray, and hadn’t actually done anything. It was just that waitress slipped that little scrap of torn receipt paper with her number, AND a number of hearts, into his pocket and gave him a peck on the cheek. Surely that wasn’t enough to justify Beth’s running off with her boss, maybe she was just looking for an out? The smudge of the cocktail server’s makeup on his work shirt collar, and perhaps a whiff of her perfume was all Beth needed pack her bags and allow her twelve-years-senior boss to put her up in his condo across town. “At least, with that zip code there would be no danger of running into her accidentally.” Bobby had remembered thinking at the time. Clang! And the sound of the other team whooping and his teammates yelling direction filled the air. He was snapped back to reality by the sound of the aluminum bat striking the neon green orb that flew past him in the dusty outfield. As the lighting at some of these fields were suspect, the makers of the recreational product on display made the softballs HiVis Green. And Bobby now watched that ball streak past him, reminding him of tracer munitions cutting through Afghani twilight. That brightly colored ball, bouncing now all the way to the fence. One run had scored from his inattention. And now runners on second and third. He got the ball back to the cutoff man and resolved to keep his head in the game. “Focus dammit !” He scolded himself. This all was further proof that he had let Beth too close. She was the first he had let into his heart. And it felt as if she would be the last, as well. She had always held unnatural sway over him. Bobby watched the next hitter loft a popout to the right side of the infield. Pleased that he didn’t have to battle the sun for that one, Bobby scoffed to himself. “Ball diamonds should point East Northeast, huh? Obviously nobody asked the Right Fielder!” One man down. Another Clang! rang out in the early summer evening. And again the sound of cheers from the other team. A slugger, left-handed this time, had just knocked in the two runs that Bobby had allowed into scoring position with a drive that bounced once and cleared the fence. The now-runner had mishit it slightly but the low fences around the outfield made the line drive’s hop an easy double. That is a danger of Fast Pitch Softball; the speed of the incoming pitch can make it even harder to keep it in the park. Especially with these new CAD designed aluminum bats… Those bats could really “wallop.” That’s how Willy would’ve put it, not that he had approved of computer aided anything. “ Poor ol’ Willy… ” And just like that, Bobby found himself wandering through his thoughts again. Clang! And the hapless Right Fielder was again caught dreaming. This time though, his nearest outfield compatriot had been noticing his inattention and had come to his aid. The team’s aid in all reality. As the ball was lofted into the sun’s glare the Right-Center Fielder got on his horse , and took off on a beeline to the shallow part of the outfield that had been left unguarded by Bobby’s daydream. With a dive, a catch, and a roll, he tossed the ball to the second basemen and dusted himself off with a chuckle. Two men out. “You ain’t in the Beer Leagues there buddy. Get your head in the game!” Said the athletic young man, as he jogged back to his position, shaded slightly his way now. Bobby remembered being that brave once. Before he was sent to “The Sandbox” . The remnants of that sordid experience still clung to him during those hot, sleepless nights. Without her now. Those restless humid nights where she would come to his aid in the moonlight, awakened by his frightened tossing and turning. Holding him tight once he released himself from the nightmare. Comforting him as the faintest of breezes gently rustled the drapes. Now comforting somebody else, leaving him to face his demons alone. “Yes Sir. Cap’n, Sir.” Said Bobby, just a tad too quickly. It couldn’t be helped, it was the training, in there too deep. His subordinate tongue was in there deep too, a remnant from a childhood of questioning authority. Quit with that sass, boy! Bobby had let the self discipline of his tongue slip also, in addition to the long jogs that had been his daily habit. But then, she had been responsible for that too, hadn’t she? From all he could recollect, the early runs had gotten less and less frequent at her behest. Not that she wanted him out of shape, but knowing that a comfortable man is less likely to stray she worked on him subtlety. And in the mornings when he used to run laps of his neighborhood to try to escape the demons of his deployment, she would instead curl her nude body around his as he made to rise and pull him into a supine position for exercise of a different nature. All that was gone now. Just the memory of her to haunt his night-tortured soul, drenched in the sweat of his terrors. Nobody to hear the groans… No one to hear his sobs. Clang! Again the sudden noise brought Bobby back to the present. It was fortunate that the ball was hit towards him with a good amount of loft. Looking up, he could see that all he had to do to end the inning was to sprint to the spot that the wall would land. This , he knew how to do. That spot happened to be just at the base of the fence in deep Right Center, well over his neighboring outfielder’s head. He had practiced this very action so frequently in his youth the muscle memory just took over. He felt the familiar burn of his muscles exerting their power and relished the hint of strength hiding just beneath the surface of rust and inattention. Before the nightmares robbed him of his sleep, sanity, and motivation to do anything at all. He made the catch and flipped the ball to the umpire as he jogged past him in to the first base dugout. Always act as if you’ve been there before, son. Slightly winded from his busy half-inning he paused for a sip of something blue from the water jug before sitting at the end of the bench for a minute. He nodded slightly as his team said “Nice catch” and “Good work,” their enthusiasm slightly dampened by his previous gaffes. In his estimation, it was just a routine catch. Ever since he started playing ball, he had always been good at tracking the ball’s flight path off of the bat. He had spent so many hours as a youth chasing popups at Willy’s farm. There was a cobbled together baseball launcher that would simulate a specific flight dynamic, that the older man would deploy often. That machine, along with his meticulous positioning of Bobby in the dooryard during their drills, earned Bobby all that youthful notoriety. That fielding machine was Barnyard Mechanics at its finest. To start with he had just raided his parts pile, around the corner of the barn tucked under the eaves where it wouldn’t get rained on or covered in ice during the winter. In that pile he found an old bedframe that probably belonged to his wife’s mother or aunt or somebody. He utilized it for the tripod legs the contraption sat upon. Then he fashioned a cup from a coffee can and tack-welded it to a plate mounted on a swingarm attached to a pulley from a closeline. Next, Willy had taken the spring off the milkhouse door and used it to actuate the arm, his rationale being that anybody with good sense knew enough to close ANY door you walk through. A rope and a pin would work to trigger the whole situation. Yessir, the years of living in that old farmhouse had certainly taught unconventional engineering, among countless other skills, some pertinent, some not. Willy was his uncle’s neighbor, and by that designation he was either an Uncle or a Neighbor to Bobby, and with the title, all rights and obligations transferred in kind. As was natural for those parts in that bygone era, he took the matter seriously. Either role was of the greatest import to the raising of a boy in to a young man. Of course your neighbor would look out for you like an uncle, and of course your uncle lived out back, or around the corner. It was just the nature of things out in the sticks. All that was before Willy’s moods changed. Not sure what is was exactly, maybe it was pain finding purchase, maybe it was Reaganomics, or maybe it was NAFTA. But whatever it was, it hit Willy hard. Harder than most, and that was sayin’ somethin’! Suddenly cheers erupted around him, and he glanced up from his thoughts. The commotion allowed for the briefest of respites to gather himself for the moment at hand. As the 6th and 7th hitters in the lineup had done their work and became ducks on the pond, Bobby was up next. First though, he needed to find a bat that would fit his short torso and long arms. His legs were long as well, but that just made for a slow first step and nothing more. It wasn’t like it was the ninth inning or anything, but Bobby felt the pressure anyway. The pressure to perform. It was a strangely familiar feeling for one he hadn't felt in years. He remembered it clearly of course, but that was in college, the early part of it as well! But in this new town, this new team, these strangers, on this shabby field, he felt like he was trying out all over again. And in a sense he was, even in this little podunk league on the poor side of town. He felt he had to perform. He must succeed, for the team, for himself, for the memories of Beth… He just had to… And so he waited for his pitch. And when it came he made sure he did not miss. With a flash he leveled his club and made use of his naturally gifted quick wrists. It was funny that even now, even with the rust, all that natural talent was revealed in his bat speed. And with the pitcher smug at the point of release, he felt everything slow down. The large neon greeny-yellow ball now looked like the size of a beach ball. Luckily the flight characteristic of the softball remained as he met the path of the ball with the path of the bat and made the one leap out of the park. It was a rocket, from the crypt. From the vault of his past. He felt his spirits soar with the flight of that ball. All the turbulence of the past 7 months flew along with the otherworldly colored sphere rapidly shrinking into the distance. As he rounded third and headed back to the bench by way of Home Plate, he remembered that day when the State Championship was won by his bat, legs and glove. And as a sophomore no less! He remembered his teammates hoisting him and mobbing him in the field after “That Catch”, really just another of his routine flies to end the game. And he remembered seeing Willy in the stands grinnin’ like a fool. Reveling in HIS victory, and by his participation making it all that much sweeter. That memory along with the ice cream with the team afterwards. And then, his first sip of beer. Allowed as the season was over and the summer was just beginning and both needed saluting. Sitting with Willy under the eaves of his garage in a couple of shabby lawn chairs, hiding from the sun, finally feeling like a peer instead of a ward. Sipping milk from the teat of life . But all that was before the hospital. Before the Ol’ Man withered away to nothing. The now-ward, the former guardian, wore a weary look. This man a pallorous fraction of his past sum, once virile and strong, now just a frail echo of his younger self. Bobby had only seen him the once after he was admitted. Once was all he was allowed. It had broken Bobby when he got the letter, early into his stint, that Willy had passed. When the time had come, he had just given a squeeze to Beth’s comforting hand and closed his eyes and left. She relayed that his breath had gotten fainter and fainter until it had just stopped altogether. He had always resented her for that, even though he would have hated seeing Willy fade away into his grave. He would rather remember shaggin’ flies with his old friend, their ages four decades separated. He thought of that man now as he settled back into the dugout, in this moment of mediocrity, the bottom of the order in the bottom of the fifth. Willy’s words spoken in his mind as though the man were still live. “Well kid,” Willy would have doubtless said, “ya win some, ya lose some.” Bobby wiped a tear from his eye surreptitiously and glanced around to see if anybody had noticed. Nobody had. The game had moved on and again Bobby was just left at the end of the bench with his thoughts and a tie game. As if it didn’t even matter if he was here or not today. Maybe he should have just stayed in bed? "Ain't that the truth Pops!"

qhj7j3

Oh Bloody Hell!! Not shopping again!!

As we all know, Holiday shopping isn't for anyone. I should know. I cannot stand shopping. Especially for the holidays. You never know what to get or how much to spend. For example: Whenever I shop, I try to get cheap stuff. Simple, cheap slippers, Those cordial cherries, hickory sausage sets, etc. But, because I can't stand shopping, all those people, long lines, annoying Santa and the elves, etc, I'm getting gift cards. Plain and simple. But, being depressed doesn't help either. My marriage fell apart. I'm in an abusive relationship with a guy who is a pathological liar and thief, it's not easy. I'm stressed out so badly, I get constant headaches. Shopping doesn't help much. But at least I get out of the house and get fresh air. Going to the mall is a pain. Seeing all the happy families with fake smiles kinda gets to you when your own life is falling apart. I'm depressed and doing a great job of hiding it. And having to shop for the holiday meal, oh my GOD!! The glazed ham. The mashed sweet potatoes. Veggies. The dessert. Having to figure out who to invite and who not to have over at your place. But a good thing, NO ALCOHOL will be allowed. Then there is the gift wrapping if you do get gifts. Having to decide what gift wrap to get, careful not to offend anyone, and believe it or not, there are people out there that get offended if you choose the wrong wrapping paper. It's ridiculous. Then anyone wishing you "Happy Holidays' or "Merry Christmas" really doesn't care, it's just common courtesy to do it. In different households, there are different religions celebrating the holidays. The pets get fat on the food, while the kids have their expectations of getting what they want, and get very upset when they don't get what they demanded. The way I see it is, be grateful your getting anything at all. Holiday shopping isn't for anyone. Yeah, this story kinda got all messed up on the shopping and I apologize. But shopping isn't for anyone. I just cannot stand it, period. I have better things to do than shop. Parking is a nightmare. If you try to make it a day of it, you only make it worse. Trying to find a decent parking spot. Then giving money to everyone so they can shop. Then had to meet in a specific spot to everyone together to eat, gripe about what they couldn't afford, have to stay with family instead of hanging out with friends they saw at the mall and seeing stuff they want, but couldn't get. Shopping is physical and emotional and mental pain and lots of headaches. Back in the 1980s and 1990s, it was easier to shop. The kids back then appreciated the holidays. They didn't ask for much. But, still, Holiday shopping was a pain. The parents had to run after the kids all the time. Shopping was like a rite of passage for the girls. Going to the mall to do shopping was a rite of passage. You'd see all the latest toys, electronics, makeup, and accessories. But, then, it was shopping. Not many people loved it either. Having to deal with overzealous salespeople trying to make a commission on top of their hourly pay. Pushy ladies trying to get you to buy an outfit that is either ugly or too pricey. Then the Sales themselves were crazy. You had to buy certain items to get a percentage off, or buy one, get one half off or free, etc. People are pushy for certain things, keep hinting about items they wish someone could get, or dry hinting how they wish they could afford it but hoping it'll be a gift to them for Christmas. Christmas cards are the worst. You have to figure out what type of cat or dog card to get for a certain aunt or uncle. Have to think about what kind of baby card to get for the expecting parents you never knew were in the family, till they come to you, expecting handouts. Getting toys is a nightmare. Trying to decide on what "Hot Wheels" to get for your nephew or cousin. What "Barbie" to get that won't offend your sister or niece. And I have seen some of the "Barbies". They are getting very open-minded about how the "Barbie" is dressing, makeup, lifestyle, etc. And the parents love it or hate it. Everyone has an opinion about what the toys should be like or do, or say. what color or colors the toys should be, etc. The same goes for clothes. Should they get the short dress? Or a long dress? What shoes to go with the outfit. What earrings, necklace, bracelet, ring, etc. If you feel the need to dress up as a fashion model to do holiday shopping, don't go, it's a waste of time. All you do is exhaust yourself over nothing. Dealing with some of the greediest people who want to brag about what toy, out, electronics, cars, etc they got. Some people go shopping to brag about how much they spend. Me? I prefer to get $15-20 gift cards and let them get whatever they want. I don't care if they like it or not. They should be grateful they got anything at all. I'd prefer to stay at home and eat and watch movies than deal with people who feel the need to go shopping and spend money they don't have on stuff not worth the money. Hell. If I get anything for Christmas, I would be grateful. Because at least someone thought about me and cared enough to buy me something. Whether it was a card, a pair of slippers, a shirt, etc. I'm not greedy. Nor selfish or picky. Seeing the holiday decorations as part of shopping isn't all that great either. But, people love that kind of stuff. I don't know why. Shopping is just another excuse to go out spending money you don't have to get items you don't want to buy, but feel the need to so no one gets upset.

onfutv

Seriously?

Thanks a lot, America. Every single day I wake up and ask myself will this be the day. Will this be the day something goes wrong on my day to day walk of life being a black man. Will this be the day that I’m at the grocery store, while I’m in the produce section trying to determine which avocado is worthy of my toast in the morning and someone says something to me that will set off a chain of events that may end my life? Will this be the day I go to grab a shopping cart and unknowingly reach for a cart that someone else was reaching for and they get upset and want to harm me over something as trivial as a shopping cart? Is this the day that someone gets upset with me for asking politely if they could remove themselves from my personal space at the check out line because there is no reason at all for me to be able to feel your breath on the back of my neck. Is this the day that I crumbled up the receipt and toss it in a near by trash bin and a sales associate thinks I didn’t pay for a certain item so they chase me down and asks to see my receipt? Not even thinking about it telling them that I don’t have one and they call the police on me for not having proof of my purchase. Crazy right?! Crazy that someone even has to think about that sort of thing. I bet all of my white friends don’t even think about things like that. Ever. I tell you what I know to be true, this will be the day and every single day after it that I always have to shrink myself down to make myself seem less threatening to the older white couple on the cereal aisle. Or maybe as I’m reaching for a gallon of organic milk it’s not a good idea to make eye contact with that woman so always staying focused on what I’m here to do. That’s just the grocery store! How about you come along with me as I go about my every day life! You would be surprised, or maybe you won’t. I wake up in the morning and get dressed. Let’s talk about what I wear for work. I wear nice jeans, a nice button down and maybe a tie if I’m feeling myself that day. I would love to wear jeans that are distressed that have a few holes in the leg because that’s the style! You see them every where when you’re out clothes shopping. I don’t buy them because I don’t want to seem threatening in anyway when it comes to my wardrobe. Hoodies? Absolutely not. I’ve had the same hoodie for years that almost looks brand new because it’s never been worn. Flashy tennis shoes? Absolutely not. Someone might think that I’m in a gang if I have too many colors on my shoes. Speaking of gangs, I alway have on a belt for my pants so they don’t sag because I don’t want people to think that I’m in a gang! I also keep a belt in my bag and one at work in my desk just in case for some reason I slipped up and didn’t wear one into work. Back up belts! If something happened in the news the night before where some person of color was shot and killed for any reason I usually really amp up my attire the next day. A nice sweater vest with some khaki slacks and a matching Oxford shoe. Hair? Yeah, hair is a thing that I’m concerned about too. You know what I’ve wanted my whole life? Locs. I never was able to have them because my schools from grade school and up always had them on the list of “things that are not appropriate for this institution” in the student handbook. I was forced to have the same haircut for years of a simple close cut that never changed. I remember one summer I begged my Mom to let me grow my hair out so I could have an afro. I remember buying a pick and all the proper hair care products for my new obsession. I nearly cried when she told me she made an appointed me for a haircut the week before school. I was hoping she would forget but if you think a black Mother is going to forget something that might for any reason at all hinder your education you can forget about it. So alas I dawn a low cut so I don’t look threatening when I’m walking into lobby of my job. None threatening for when I make eye contact with the front desk security guard so he can feel safe to buzz me in so I can make my way to the elevators. Ugh, elevators. You know what I long for when it comes to elevators? Me being alone in them. If I’m by myself I don’t have to worry about having to make myself invisible. I don’t have to stand in the far right corner and worry if I’m making any of my coworkers uncomfortable. I don’t have to pretend to be looking at something extremely important on my cellphone so when the person enters the elevator they might think, “well, he’s clearly too busy to harass me so it should be fine for me to get on”. Don’t have to worry about a white woman clutching her purse because she’s afraid that I want her dusty bag filled with cough drops and and Altoids and an empty wallet that has more cat hair and receipts than money inside. Finally making my way into the office so I can greet people and happy and positive as I can because heavens forbid if I’m having an off day. My coworkers will immediately think I have an “angry black man” attitude which might lead to HR being called. So here I am, smiling from ear to ear telling people good morning and hope every one has a good day. Not being able to respond when someone is clearly disrespecting me or talking down to me because that’s also categorized as an angry black man attitude that can get a phone call from HR. Clean and crisp and smiling is how you will find me at my job. I have a meeting today with the leads of my department. I have to know my job and know theirs as well because I don’t want them to see me as lazy. That is a stereotype that is looked upon of people of color. Too bad I can’t receive money for two positions! I guess that’s another story! After work is done I need to head back downstairs on that elevator and try to get a cab. I don’t have a car because I’m living in a pretty big city. Public transportation is my way of getting from point A to point B. Hailing a cab can be tricky. It’s hard to get one right in front of my job so I usually have to walk a few blocks away to a busier street. There I wave my arms around like I’m bucking to be a bird in my next life. I’ve had a few taxi cab drivers look me dead in my face and drive off after stopping to pick me up. It’s pretty funny. A cab driver once gave me a hug because I tipped him. He told me “your people never tip!!!”. Yikes. The things we go through being black in this country are unbelievably ridiculous at times. I took a cab today because I wanted to get home in a timely fashion so I can make it to the gym. The gym is in walking distance of my apartment so it’s not too hard navigating the streets to get there. I use to jog to the gym with my noise cancellation headphones on until a police officer was trying to get my attention who was behind me. I spare no expense when it comes to good headphones. I’m a fan of the bass so I want headphones that deliver the perfect low end to my ears! As I was jogging I was blasting Fishbone as loud as possible and never heard him say a word. I was just in front of the door of the gym and I felt someone tug really hard at my arm. It caught me off guard so I turned around and saw it was an officer. My heart felt like it had dropped out of my chest and was running back to my apartment to hide under the bed! The officer immediately apologized to me and told me he made a mistake, I wasn’t who he was looking for. He also told me I might want to turn the volume down a bit so it wouldn’t happen again. I thought to myself, I’ll do you one even better, I won’t be wearing these headphones outside the house or the gym ever again. I won’t even explain me at the gym because it’s a lot like me in the elevator. In the corner trying not to draw attention to myself. Not getting too loud whilst lifting weights or grunting too much, invisibility is key. After the gym I usually will treat myself with a sugary cup of coffee and a scone from a coffee shop that’s on the way back home close to my apartment. I make sure I’m presentable after the gym as much as I can with workout clothes on. I wouldn’t want the patrons on the coffee shop to think I was an unkept man because that would surely lead to a police officer visit in which I would have to explain my situation which they probably wouldn’t listen to anyways. I’d surely get hauled off to the “pokey”!! Luckily I’ve been in the shop enough that all of the workers know me by name and great me with a smile when I do come in so I guess they can vouch for me if something were to happen. I don’t like leaving my odds blowing in the wind when it comes to my life. I know plenty of people who would think, “there is no way things like this happens to you every single day!”. Guess what? I’d love to say you’re right! It doesn’t, but I would be lying to you and I don’t think it’s okay to lie to people especially since the truth is the easiest story told. It’s very easy to tell a story about when I was a child walking around a local business that everyone went to for anything! The main reason myself and my friends went is for the stick candy they sold. It was like candy canes but they had no peppermint flavors and they didn’t have the traditional candy cane hooks. They had cherry, grape, orange and something that I’d imagine resembled lemon. One day we noticed that one of the sales associates were hanging around where we were. Being kids we didn’t know they were following us around to make sure we didn’t steal anything. We just assumed they were doing their jobs but as we got older it was pretty clear what they were doing. Once I figured out exactly what was going on I found myself less and less interested in going back. I even walked around many sections of the store to make sure I wasn’t being dramatic. I walked in, walked straight to the candy section and I saw eyes at the end of the aisle looking at me. Walked to a section of the store where I’ve gotten replacement bicycle inner tubes for when I had been too rough on my bike and I needed a new one. This time they were a little bit closer to me. Trying to play it off by straightening up a section of bicycle horns that ever kid eventually begged for to add to the noise pollution of your day to day bike rides. I walked quickly to the section that they sold shoes at to see if they would trip over themselves to get to that section too. I wasn’t there for more than a minute when I see the same sales associate tying laces of the shoes that were on display. That was my last day for that store. Never went back in there. As a matter of fact I don’t even know if the store is still standing and could care less if it’s not. That’s just a fraction of things that go through my mind navigating the world while being black. I wake up on a daily basis trying to figure out how to make it as easy as possible to get to another day. That’s half the battle, right? Survival! I wonder how many of my friends go through the same exact senecios. I try to remain positive because these stories can go really dark really fast. There’s only so much someone can take to stay out of the darkness of what if. My what is can be very frightening at times so there is no need for me to go too deep. As I fall asleep trying not to think about all the hoops that I will have to jump through the next day I force myself to push my thoughts aside to get a good nights sleep. Thanks a lot, America.

1s3ybf

I Miss My Peace

Every Thanksgiving our family near and far gathered to celebrate this American holiday. Pastures and woodlands spread over one hundred and fifty acres. Being from Houston Texas where there was never silence made this a small piece of country heaven. My grandparents lived on a small farm near Ft. Worth Texas. They raised about twelve to fifteen head of polled shorthorn cattle and tended four large vegetable gardens. He grew just about every vegetable and fruit that would grow in that climate. Two gardens were filled with a variety of tomatoes onions, squash, spinach and many other things I don’t remember. For a few years he grew peaches. Some I picked and ate in the shade after a hot day fishing for perch in the stock tank. He also grew about two acres of watermelons every year. These we enjoyed when we visited on Easter. My grandfather would pile them up in the backyard. We would come in from the pasture cut one open and eat the heart out of a perfectly ripe watermelon and throw the rest over the fence to the cattle who by now lined up and salivating in anticipation. Another garden he committed to vine crops; cantaloupes, cucumbers and all sorts of beans and peas. This garden he had a plan for though I never realized it. When he was in his eighties he slowly turned it into a blackberry patch. He told me one day he “mail ordered” some special blackberry vines. Every year he would plant another row until that garden was a “berry patch”. He lived to be ninety nine years old. Something I think he left behind for all of us. I believe it is still there although I can’t be sure. The farm has long ago been divided up, sold off and made into ranchettes. Many other things too that have faded from memory. What he did with all of these fruits and vegetables I’ll never know. I did know he gave most away to neighbors, churches and anywhere else there was a need. When the Thanksgiving meal began cooking in this small two bedroom house it filled with wonderful smells. If we were careful, sneaky and fast we could grab a piece of corn bread or other morsels left unguarded. It was also filled with love as all of my aunts, uncles, cousins’ brothers and parents filled it as everyone arrived. Some came as far away as Alabama. Normally my brothers, Steve and Rich and cousins Otis, Phillip and Jeff found entertainment all over the farm. Keeping ourselves busy fishing in the ponds, scaring up rabbits and roaming through the woods. Thanksgiving Day was special as we gathered around and said grace. No way could all of us sit at the main table so the older kids spread out across the living room and the little kids ate at the small table. Everyone found a place. After the meal we all drifted into two main groups. The women cleaned up, men and boys migrated into the living room to watch football where many fell asleep, in chairs, on the couch or on the floor, stuffed with good food. The women made short work of dishes and all leftovers were packed and divided among the families. Being in my early teens I avoided the kitchen and had no interest in football. Instead I donned my coat and headed for the middle of the woods. A large pasture spread between the house and the woods. A cold wind bent tufts of grass over. The tank rippled where the wind picked at it. A solitary duck tried to hide in the cattails floating in the cold water not wanting to be disturbed. He was safe because I had other things on my mind. All other animals, even the birds remained quiet. If any were around they didn’t make a sound. Probably preferring to stay warm where ever they were. When I reached the woods there were only a few briars on the edge to object. Half the trees had lost their leaves. The ground was covered with decades of oak leaves crisp enough to crunch underfoot and deep enough to hide your shoes when you stepped. I knew these woods well and walked straight to "my" tree. Bundling my coat tight I sat with my back against the tree and sat comfortably still. This is essential to finding my Thanksgiving peace. In the 60's there were no planes or trains on Thanksgiving. People didn't drive on the dirt road preferring to stay home, so no car engines either. I’ve never found a place since those days so close to home yet so silent. Closing my eyes listening became paramount. The cold breeze constantly blew the leaves on the ground each of which settle down further into its own spot but that wasn’t what I listened for. It also plucked them from their places in the trees. Focusing I heard the first tiny click. My peace was on its way. The first leaf fell through the cracks in my busy mind. After awhile I heard them fall in two’s and three’s. When my mind was receptive enough they fell like dry snow throughout the woods. Some near me then spreading out through the woods like a silent symphony. Only here at this time and in this place I felt perfect peace. It soaked into my soul, soothed my mind and healed my spirit. I stayed about an hour or so before my body became stiff and its complaints began to draw my attention. I rose completely refreshed and the sound of the falling leaves died. They still fell but had been quieted by my breathing. This time passed with time. Now the noise of trains and cars come frequently. Construction equipment fills the gaps of silence. The sound of constant encroaching progress. 1Every Thanksgiving I yearn for those times. I remember the silent yet temporary Thanksgiving peace I enjoyed fifty years ago. 

5en247

The Last Picnic

The Last Picnic            It was a beautiful day in early September, the kind of day his late father called a Glory Day, the requirements of which were a deep blue sky, if there were any clouds at all they had to be the soft, very white, billowy type, and the temperature neither too hot, nor too cool. Perfect picnic weather.            And a picnic was just what he had planned for himself and his sweetheart-wife of 47 years. Good years. Ladened, as the song goes, with happiness and tears. But even the tears were mostly tears of happiness, tears of shared understanding that, mingled together, became the agent and catalyst of an emotional epoxy, binding them all the more . . . one to the other.            But a solvent had slowly, insidiously dissolved the bonds of common memories . . .  a thief had stolen the most precious possession they had  . . . their mutual love. Alienation of affection , that's what his legalistic lawyer's mind would have called it, if it had been another man. But how can one fight disease?            He had always been the sick one. Born with a closed, undeveloped eye, this cruelty of nature wasn't enough. At eight, he had protracted infantile paralysis . . .polio. (Dr. Salk had not yet discovered his merciful vaccine.) He had recovered, but not without the further disfigurement of a lingering limp. He was certain she had not married him for his looks!    His weakened frame was susceptible to every flu virus and other communicable disease that came along. And she had been his Florence Nightingale, attending every need, never complaining . . . giving loving care that can only come from its namesake . . . love. Now, it was her sickness. And this time it was not a childhood disease. It was an old person's disease . . . Alzheimer's. Painless, but oh how she would rather have endured endless pain.            It began by just forgetting where she had left things, could have happened to anybody. Then she would repeat herself. "You just told me that 5 minutes ago", he would laugh. But, when she began going blank during her lectures at the university, it was obvious that something was happening to her. Early Onset Alzheimer’s, that was the diagnosis.            "What a shame,” her friends and colleagues whispered, "to lose such a scholar; she had such a brilliant mind."            "Yes. Had it been something else, any number of other calamities, she very well could have gone on teaching,” the dean lamented. "Well, at least she's got John. He makes a good living and can afford the best for her.”            Six years. That's all it took to go from lecturing college classes in philosophy to the blank, unrecognizing stare that greeted John each time he looked into her eyes. She could no longer even take care of her most basic bodily needs.            John didn't mind that. He would gladly take care of every need, no matter how menial or humbling. She would have done as much for him. It was the loss of companionship, the loss of that sympathetic vibration of two souls in tune with each other that had become unbearable. He was lovingly caring for her body, but where was her soul? Had it already been released? Was it still imprisoned within the irreversibly paralyzed mind?            They used to laugh, and love, and talk . . . hours on end. Only those who have experienced the inexpressible comfort of looking across a crowded room and catching the eye of their loved one and seeing the understanding smile break across their face can know the ecstasy of this companionship.            The smile still returns, but now a simple, child-like, trusting smile that is more involuntary reflex than recognition, and certainly not understanding.            Still, it reminded him of the good old days, days when they would pack a lunch in the woven reed picnic basket she had inherited from her parents, and take off for that special place, their place. Even into their fifties, they would return to the spot a few miles out of town where he had carved their initials in the Sycamore nearly half a century ago. Miraculously, the spot hadn't been encroached by the new subdivisions the ever-growing little college town had spawned. Each time they returned he had refreshed the carving so that now it still emblazoned a very mature creek side tree.            Now they return once more. It is their anniversary. He gets the basket out of the car, puts a quilt under his arm, and goes around to open the door for his wife.  Arm-in-arm they walk slowly down to the bottomland beside the creek. Under the Sycamore, he unfolds the quilt. A special quilt his grandmother had made it for him many years ago before her death. It had always lain at the foot of the bed in the guest room. Bright yellow scraps of old dresses had been lovingly sewn into interlocking circles representing rings. It had been her wedding present to the couple so many years ago. Too dear to be used, yet too proud not to be displayed, it was still in perfect condition. But today was a special day.            They sit down on the quilt. He spreads the contents of the basket, complete with real plates cradled in rattan holders, worn silverware and checkered cloth napkins.  They had always prided themselves in using the old utensils of the previous generation. Even the wine glasses were real... no plastic, no paper, no synthetics . . . except life . . . life wasn't real anymore.            Out came the fried chicken, baked beans, potato salad, iced tea from the old vacuum thermos bottle, everything they had grown to expect of a proper picnic banquet. He tied a cord around the wine bottle and dropped it into the stream to cool. Lastly, he reached in the basket and extracted an old turn-of-the-century book of poetry, the same book from which he had read on previous picnics, olive green with gold-leafed lettering on the cover, James Whitcomb Riley's Love-Lyrics .            They ate. He had to feed her between bites for himself, and give her drink, and wipe her mouth. He didn't mind. And he thought maybe she was enjoying it. Maybe she still remembered, somewhere deep within her, the earlier times, the happier times. And then he read.            He read aloud the poems to her: When She Comes Home ; Their Sweet Sorrow ; My Bride That Is to Be . Each seemed to suddenly have a new and deeper meaning than ever before.            Finally, his favorite, An Old Sweetheart of Mine                        As one who cons at evening o'er an album all alone,                        And muses on the faces of the friends that he has known,                        So I turn the leaves of fancy till, in shadowy design,                        I find the smiling features of an old sweetheart of mine . . .                        . . . When I should be her lover forever and a day,                        And she my faithful sweetheart till the golden hair was gray;                        And we should be so happy that when either's lips were dumb                        They would not smile in Heaven till the other's kiss had come . . .            Tears had formed in his eyes, just as they had many years ago when he first read her the poem. She smiled, but not a smile of understanding. It was more of a baby's smile of unconscious contentment. He could have read her the most grotesque of horror stories and produced the same result.            He got up and retrieved the wine from the water and poured them each a glass. Then, reaching into the basket, he withdrew one more item...a large bottle of pills . . .            "Here, Dearest, take some of these. That a girl. Want a sip of wine? Now some more of the pills. Socrates had his hemlock. I'm afraid I have nothing quite so legendary for you, my little philosopher. Save some for me!"            They laid back on the quilt. His arms enfolded her. She rested her head on his shoulder. They looked up at the sky, the clouds, the leafy arbor already beginning to show the signs of fall. He slowly focused on the spot where he had carved their initials so long ago, once again almost faded away by new growth.            He thought back over the years, the courtship, the elopement, their first baby, stillborn, doctors said "no more,” the church wedding renewal of vows they treated themselves to on their 25th anniversary, the trip to Europe. It had been a good life, all in all. It had been a full life. Perhaps, it should have ended a little sooner. How did that poem go about the athlete dying young? Oh, he didn't mean her life...he wouldn't have wished that on her. He meant his, so he wouldn't have had to witness her decline. But, then who would have taken care of her? His mind was getting fuzzy.            He counted it a privilege to be able to give back a little of the care she had so selflessly given him for over 40 years. Was he doing the right thing now? But, for over a year now her spirit has either been gone or trapped in a body that would not release it. "Oh, God! Forgive me, but I love her so!" Sleepy.... "Esmeralda, your Quasimodo will protect you."  Sleepy . . .            "Over here, Sheriff! Right where his note said!"            "Yep, cold as clay, both of 'em! Been here since yesterday, I'd say."            "What a shame. Nice old couple like that... Reckon why people do something like this?"            "Ain't it strange, looks like both of 'em have little smiles on their faces. Jes' laying there, all cuddled up together, like they's in their own bed at home."            "Looks like they had themselves a picnic 'fore they done it."            "Yeah, some picnic." END .

xc9js5

True Colors

“Hi, my name is Richard, but everyone calls me Ricky—I’m six and a half.” “Hi Ricky! I’m Jimmy. I’m six, too.” “I’m six and a half! I’ll be seven in September.” “My mom says I’ll be six and a half next month.” “Hey, we’re practically the same age.” ”That means we’ll be in the same grade. Are you gonna go to Faulkner Ridge Elementary?” ”I think so. Do you go there?” “Uh-huh. It’s close enough we can walk there. Do you want to be friends?” “Sure, I don’t have any friends here. That means you can be my best friend.” “Okay!” “Whatcha doin’?” “I’m catching salamanders.” “Cool. I love salamanders. Wait, what’s a salamander?” “I don’t know. It’s kinda like a lizard. There are a bunch of them here in the creek. I catch ‘em and put ‘em in this jar.” “They’re black. B. L. A. C. K.” “Yep, and a little slimy” “What do you do with them?” “I don’t know. I just look at them, then I let them go. I don’t think they like being in a jar.” “The lid on that jar is silver. S. I. L. V. E. R.” ”Ricky?” ”What?” “Why do you spell everything?” “I don’t know. Mostly I just spell colors. My dad says learning to spell makes you smart, and I love different colors. Don’t you?” “I guess so. I’m not a very good speller.” “My dad says you just have to practice. Your shorts are blue. B. L. U. E.” “My shirt is red, how do you spell red?” “R. E. D.” “R. E. D. I spelled red!” “Yes you did. See, my dad was right.” “Wanna help me catch salamanders?” “Sure, what do I do?” “You move the rocks, and I’ll scoop ‘em up when they come out.” ”Do I have to pick the rocks up?” ”Nah, just wiggle ‘em” “Ok.” “Where do you live?” “In that house right there, the white one. W. H. I. T. E.” “I live in the green one next door. How do you spell green?” “G. R. E. E N.” “G. R. E. E. N.” “My dad is really smart—he’s a dentist.” “A dentist, like for braces and stuff?” “No, that’s an orthodontist. My dad helps keep your teeth clean and fills cavities. What does your dad do?” “I don’t have a dad.” “Everybody has a dad.” “I had a dad, but he’s dead. He was a policeman. He died when I was two.” “Do you remember him?” “Nah, not really. My mom shows me pictures of him, but I don’t remember anything about him. He wore a blue uniform. B. L. U, right?” “B. L. U. E. don’t forget the E. “B. L. U. E. I told my mom I want to be a policeman, too.” “What did she say?” “She said I should be a doctor. I don’t think I can be a doctor—they’re way smarter than me.” “You can be a doctor. My dad said you can be whatever you want to be.” “Maybe I can be a salamander catcher?” “And I’ll be your helper. I'm Ricky the Rock Mover.” “Ha! You’re too smart. What do you really want to be?” “I’m going to be a dentist like my dad.” “Can I tell you something? You won’t get mad, will you?” “I don’t think so. What is it?” “I don’t like dentists. I’m scared of them.” “You don’t need to be scared. My dad helps people. If your mouth hurts, he makes it all better. Maybe you can come over to my house and meet my dad sometime. Maybe he’ll look at your teeth.” “I can ask my mom.” “Can I tell you something? You can’t get mad either.” “Sure, we’re friends, right?” “Best friends.” “Then let's make a pact to never get mad at each other. Is it a deal?” “It’s a deal.” “So what were you going to tell me?” “I don’t like policemen. My mom says you have to be careful around them.” “But policemen help people—they keep you safe.” “My dad says that, too, but my mom doesn’t like them.” “I’m not sure I understand. Sometimes parents are silly. Hey, do you want to switch for a while? I’ll move the rocks while you catch the salamanders.” “I’ve never caught a salamander before.” “You can catch one now. Are you ready?” “I think so.” “You got him! First try!” “I can’t believe it! Can I show my mom? She'll be so happy.” “I don’t know. Moms don’t like salamanders as much as we do.” “You’re right. She gets afraid easily.” “One day when I’m a policeman, I’ll come and talk to your mom and tell her not to be afraid of salamanders or policemen.” “That would be cool.” “Then we could have some ice cream.” “Ice cream is not good for your teeth.” “We need to keep our teeth white. W. H. I. T. E. Just like your house.” “You’re almost as good a speller as me.” “You taught me to spell and I taught you to catch salamanders" "Jimmy, I'm glad you were here today." "Me too but I’m going to have to leave soon. Are you ready to let the salamanders go?” “But why can’t we keep them?” “I tried to keep them once, but they all died. I don’t blame them. I wouldn’t want to live in a jar either.” “I guess you’re right.” “Want to meet here again tomorrow? We can catch more salamanders or pretend we are pirates or something like that.” “I’d like that. It sounds like a lot of fun.” “Bye, Jimmy.” “Bye!” * * * * * * * * * * “Jimmy, what in the world were you doing? You are covered in mud and soaked to the bone.” “I was down at the creek catching salamanders.” “You know I don’t like it when you go to the creek by yourself.” “I wasn’t by myself, Mom. I was with Ricky.” “ Ricky? Who  is that?” “He’s my new best friend. He and his mom and dad moved into the house next door. His dad is a dentist. He says I don’t have to be afraid of dentists.” “Next door? In the Johnson’s old house?” “Yes, he was teaching me to spell and helping me catch salamanders. He caught one on his very first try.” “Jimmy, what color is Ricky?” “What do you mean?” “I saw them move in. What color is his skin?” “He’s black, Mom. B. L. A. C. K. He taught me how to spell that.” “Maybe you shouldn’t hang around with him.” “Why? He’s my new friend.” “I don’t know. Your friends should be like you, do you understand? “I don't think so.” “We can talk more about it later. Right now go wash up for dinner.” “Okay, but wait Mom, guess what?" “What?” “I can hang around with Ricky. He’s actually just like me. We’re both six and we both like catching salamanders. We also like to pretend to be pirates. Anyway he’s my best friend, okay?” “O-okay.” “I love you, mom.” “I love you too, Jimmy.”

x6oyd2

Was it a lost Opportunity???

Was it a lost Opportunity ??? Is there a real answer when options are presented to an individual? What is the risk that’s entailed? What could be the remaining consequences? Well, I guess everyone could be faced with rare prospects opportunities once they are randomly introduced to us. And how will we react to it? Is one foolish enough to dive in without any knowledge of what they’re getting involved with? Is it a form of despair or haste ? Or is a passed opportunity can be forever lost without any possibility of re-occurrence? The Summer after graduation, I was more enticed with the idea of attaining full time work in a very weak employment market than anything else. Friends had firmly suggested to me that I should go and spend a few weeks travelling in Europe with the added likelihood of perhaps one day meeting a wife during my external learning from the classroom. My apprehension of this assertion had been very low and not subsequently interested for reasons which the accumulated education that I’ve lived through was more promising than this particular inception. Little did I know, there were three employers who had each possessed a copy of my university transcripts where I had been closely interviewed and requested to begin, immediately. Unknowingly, people around me had noticed a form of physical exhaustion that was surrounding me; friends had again tried to encourage me to take a vacation ever before beginning to work. Most had assumed if I was better rested and fully alert that I could start on the correct foot, so to speak. My fortay had been academics, not sociability when it came to the outside world. Within my past social record, I firmly remember that I could never been able to buy a date, let alone hold a solid topic in conversation with a woman without them having an ulterior motive that was always hidden from me. I’m more of a technical loner than a ’ people person ’. Aware that some human interaction is needed to try in getting one’s point across in order to reach some kind of distinct comprehension and social middle-ground, yet it doesn’t always work that way. Being difficult is not what I consider myself; ’ cautious ‘ is more like it for me. Besides the facts of viewing others from a distance how they had unruly behaved in their relationships where it lead to obvious separation is caused by greed, bias and stubbornness. Within our modern age of relevance and dangerous influences; most temptations seem never to be either heeded or avoided. Humanity is now found itself irreversibly stuck in the whole idea of Wide Indulgence where they assumed that they are entitled to everything that’s be presented before them, whether or not that they ever took the time to earn it. Why are all of the foremost available assets should be up for grabs without any dedication or devotion being put behind it. It’s extremely unfair as well as unjustified that a multitude take most things in our existence for granted. The most insecure popular conclusion is that no one wants to do without and feel like an outcast. Then again, who out there, is willing to make any serious attempts for any drastic changes for humanity to wake up and realize that they are headed into one-way grave with no survivors to bury them. As being reluctantly stringent as I was about this vague idea, I had received a plenty of encouragement and some financial backing, I had decided why not take a chance to go on a journey like this. It could be the only time that I could have available before I could begin work on permanent basis. With an itinerary in hand and luggage packed, I was swiftly being whisked away to the airport like an expendable package. Do any these poeple actual care what’s going to happen to me, next? Is it that they care about about helping me keep my sanity? Sometimes, it’s quite difficult to know what’s going on in the mind of others??? Or is it the fact they are falsing assuming that I might be covertly sadden? Anyway, this became my first European arrival had been in Lisbon, Portugal where I would begin my journey eastward right into Greece, then the return, home. Unknowingly, I found myself beginning to enjoy hearing about the wide history and meeting various people from different places on the tour bus. I had discovered that there was a whole lot more that I was currently learning that one would never hear in a classroom. Whence my arrival in Barcelona, Spain; I had met an American citizen named: Alicia that I had inadvertently initiated a friendship with her. With both of us being both foreigners travelling in a different country, let alone in an entire diverse continent; we each subconsciously had the notions of metamorphically letting our hair down to fully savour our vacation, together. When it does end; we’ll never see each other, again and hopefully each of us could leave a positive impression behind where enthusiastic memories can be held for one another to happily reminisce. During our time out together visiting extra curricular sites amid the tour’s free periods of relaxation; there was some distinct character feature that she possessed where it became a social nuance or idiom to me that was subtlely getting on my nerves; yet I was unable to readily identify it. Throughout the rest of our journey, I also got to meet and know everyone else at least once; to discover what kind of people that I was actually interacting with. Many had been very welcoming and there were those few which had been strictly left alone in the abyss of their own little world. Otherwise, when I alone, I was able to take of myself and inform of any data that I was seeking from its' natives. The solitude from others was certainly a very pleasant feeling. Holding the peace of mind and concentrating and appreciating all of the surrounding extrinsic features which I wanted to further learn about. Within all of the group activities which were occurring with this great journey; I did get to know a little more and learned from others how they think and react towards specific external events, behaviours and philosophies which they were compelled to encounter. This entire fantastic escapade had become a free and a well- earned education of its’own. I had not only been able to expand upon my social skills, this introduction to foreign cultures had become not only a wide learning experience, yet also an enjoyable one for me. I would not have known any of this, first hand, other than from books and movies. My current thoughts had now become intrigued with further curiosity and I was internally questioning myself - would I do this again??? When finally arriving in the nation of Greece, the group had visited the fascinating and historical towns of Olympia and Athens, as well to mentally soak up what was left in this European trek before everyone was ready to return, home into their separate ways. Once, the evening preparations were being processed for the next morning departure; Alice and I had exchanged addresses and phone numbers before lights out. Not everyone in the group were going to leave from the same airline or the same airport; there were many smaller parties broken down to be sent out in various directions. Upon the flight home, I was looking forward in going to work and begin making payments to cover all the needed expenses which I had made in Europe as well to think about rent money to be aside and to update my work wardrobe. Once I had arrived home, everyone who had encouraged me to go on this trip; they all wanted to know how much that I enjoyed being with people and visiting sites. Oh yes, the mandatory question had definitely bee asked: Was I able to meet someone special that could be possibly a part of my life. My endearing response to them was that I did meet up with someone quite pleasant, yet I had never wanted to discuss further of any private details. Intrigued and curious as they were, most people wanted to know if they would one day have the pleasure to meet her. I said ' Maybe '. This specific issue was not a priority in my life, yet my choice of employment was. After several grueling weeks of re-adjustments which had passed by; I had the chance to make a choice of a job opportunity that was more comfortable to me. Finally , the moment came that I could become quite relieved when I had finally found myself quite settled in a daily routine in my new apartment and acquiring the coping ability of dealing with my new workplace pressures. One Thursday evening at home, as I was feeling quite rested; I had random thought of calling Alicia to find what was she up to among the last few months. Fortunately, she was home and she was glorious happy to hear from me. It was really surprising how many would want to stay in contact with someone new after an enjoyable excursion. I had invited her to fly in for a weekend holiday and stay with me and she had agreed. Our pleasant conversation had lasted about 35 minutes before we decided to hang up. My only initial apprehension to see her had been my only thoughts when we exchanged numbers – I for one had been a very different person whose carefree behaviour had utterly relished the fun that I had on the tour. Now, I see myself in regular pace of life where my thinking had been a lot more serious and less entertaining. I had quickly returned to my former habits of living a methodical existence. Once we meet up again, each our of current situations could certainly redefine our characters for reasons our behaviours had become regulated in a normal procedure. Once the time had finally arrived for me to pick her up at the airport; I became anxiously nervous. An internal fear had now began to haunt me. In my mind, how do I keep her impressed without making an total idiot out of myself. Upon the moment of my terminal entrance, everything around began to collapse. An unforeseen omen had arisen from the despair; it was a feeling that I hoped that would never happen, but it did. It had begun with the difficulty of finding a parking space. Trying to seek out the foreign arrivals, I found myself at wrong end of the terminal. I had forgotten where the customs vicinity had relocated and then I then heard my name being paged over the loudspeaker. Knowingly, subtle humiliation was certainly out get me, now and there was no turning back. Sadly, I had to often fake my enthusiasm for my bewilderment. Once, I had found her, she was delighted to see me and my first thought was to kiss her as my greeting. My jacket was able to camouflage the dripping pores in my drenched up armpits. On the drive home, we we're still discussing her flight and we each other did in the past few months. Although, somebody had gotten wind of my current plans of inviting Alicia for the weekend. This is where a few friends of mine had ' just happened ' to drop by. Once, their curiosity had been fulfilled and introductions were made; this short gathering had began to slowly disperse for the evening. With the next morning arriving very quickly; I had to think about what am I going to do to entertain her, all weekend. As I drove around the city showing some of the historical sites; within her presence, I had become quite aroused when I was listening to hear her conversing speech. Obviously, I had become sexually attracted to this woman and my hesitancy was now interfering by negatively affecting my speech. This where my nervousness was rendering me to make all of kinds of verbal mistakes; such as not recently informed about the environmental changes which I thought I knew and what should have clearly known. I didn't realize that I had become head over heels for this woman and my inadequacy was damaging my verbal outtakes. My thoughts were caught up in a whirlwind. Mistakes were continuously being unmanageable where I could not do and say anything, correctly, no matter where we went and said. Alicia had abruptly stopped me in my step and wanted to have conversation with me in order to attempt to know why my behaviour had become unusually awkward with her. I sat there and I wasn't able to give her a straight answer because I was so very ashamed of my embarrassing conduct. It seemed that it I was continuously losing face with her. I was so socially uneasy with her that the fear of outright rejection was becoming quite imminent. Unfortunately, my self-humiliation was a lingering 'crash & burn' where I knew that I had inadvertently sabotaged a relationship I thought that I wanted. Subconsciously, my mind had furtively known that at that moment I neither mature enough nor was ready to be in a relationship. Ironically, my heart had been foolishly racing with so much angst. I was so eager and trying very hard to impress her and everything had simply backfired. These mixed feelings had certainly became a controversial issue that to be swiftly harnessed with reason. Well after our unsettling weekend meeting; I had driven her to the airport and I wasn't able to be 'man enough' to admit my true feelings to her, but I did say that I wanted to visit her at hometown; in hopes maybe that I could possibly better open up to her and fully explain my unexpected shame. Once, I saw leave towards the gate; for long time after that I was still quite upset with myself for being so stupid. She must have been very disappointed in me, believing that I was not the same person in Europe. Also, she must have assumed that I had been a total idiot and utterly wasted her precious time. Weeks later, this time it was my turn to visit her, I had no idea what to say because I was again, too ashamed of myself. It became the albatross hanging over my head for a very long time where I wasn't able to shake it off. During the time that Alicia had been showing me the sites around her town is what took me off guard, next. She readily had a racist remark when she had witnessed another couple who also enjoying the scenery; they happened to be interracial. My immediate, yet silent reaction to this unforeseen statement, had been that this was absolutely not the way that I was brought up. I was always told to only pass any kind of judgment when someone else strikes out, first. Upon the time of my departure, we did part ways, amicably. I had also knew that was going the last time that I'll ever see her. Despite each of our own insecurities and discrepancies, I must say that she was a good compatible friend, and yet some would adamantly say to me that 'it was never meant to be'. Regrettably in my awkward manner of 'angst & stupidity' that I had involuntarily treated her; I still wonder: What If? One day during my present time of happiness, I had decided to write one final letter to her to wish her very well and to the best of my ability; attempt to apologize for my poor behaviour to her and she had certainly deserved better. At the present moment, the past hold many good memories, yet it has become quite distantly irrelevant. Was I going to be one day forgiven for uncalled caginess? I'll never know. Just as long I tried to make amends, nothing else matters, now. My remaining two questions which were swirling in my mind have always been: Did I dodge a bullet? Could have we been able to make it, work?

u2r5v5

Follow in the right footsteps

Ida was the last born and the only one to be graced with life. The other five, one after the other, had slipped into the great silence, leaving an even greater silence behind. It had been painful to say goodbye and fold little hands over a heart that hadn't even been allowed to beat for more than a year. And Ida? Ida carried in her graceful self all the love, hope, tenderness, aspirations, and prayers that would otherwise have been bestowed upon six. Next week she would finally come home! It was a balmy evening in May and John and his wife Mary were sitting on the porch. -"You know who I saw a few days ago, Mary?" John said, "Jimmy!" Mary's rocking chair swung gently back and forth: "Hmm-m." She murmured. -"His wife Catherine went to school with our Ida." John continued. "Yes, I know," Mary replied, "How is Jimmy?" -"He feels bad!" John said as he curled his lips down. -"Oh? Bad? How come?" Mary stopped the rocking chair and looked concerned at her husband. There was a silence, then the words began to flow from John's mouth like a torrent of despair. -"He said he doesn't feel at home in his own house. Catherine never speaks to him. All he does is eat, put on his coat, and go to work. She never opens her mouth to say something nice ." -"So are her mother and her aunt. They are very frugal with words." Mary said. "Poor Jimmy feels very uncomfortable." John continued. -"I can imagine." Mary nodded. -"And when he tries to start a conversation with her, she keeps correcting what he says as if he were a rude little child. She always finds fault with his choice of words and language." John added. Mary resumed swinging in the rocking chair. She stirred a little restlessly: -"Is she sassy?" Mary demurred. "No," John replied, "She keeps correcting him. She claims it is for his own good. She says that distinguished language is important. When Jimmy sits at the table with her, he loses his appetite. Jimmy is not a man of big words, so now he just keeps his mouth shut ." -"That doesn't sound good!" Mary remarked. -"The last conversation they had together was about worms and insects. Jimmy hasn't been to school long, and he's uncomfortable with that kind of learned topics." John continued to chat. "Catherine has indeed been in school longer." Mary interrupted her husband. -"Jimmy said he wished his wife had never gone to school. Maybe that would have made his life much easier." Mary was plucking at a loose thread at her apron. "I don't believe our Ida would ever behave like that," she said softly. -"No of course not." John replied sharply. "I just hope she'll never be ashamed of us." Mary mused. -"Of course not." John asserted. His voice trembled a little. John turned his head to his wife, "You're not going to start worrying now, are you?" -"No of course not." Mary laughed confused, "Our Ida would never do such a thing. She´s a kind soul!" -"Come on sweetheart, it's time to lock up the house." John said, "When our girl comes home next week we should be well-rested." The days dragged on, and Mary was befallen with a curious restlessness -"John dear, I went to talk to Catherine's mother." Mary started. -"Oh." John said. -"Well, I was curious to know what kind of things Catherine values." Mary continued hesitantly. -"Why?" her husband asked in surprise. -Well, "Mary started with forced courage," It would be nice to know in advance..." She didn't finish her sentence. "I just happened to ask Jimmy the same thing this afternoon," John said excitedly. -"No, you didn't." Mary gasped. "Ida has been away from home for four years. For four years she has learned things that we will never understand, and I wanted to know what I could do to please our Ida when she comes home." John defended himself. -"Naturally." Mary nodded. "Four years already." "Maybe we can make it a habit to talk politely." John said frowning. -"Catherine's mother said her daughter hates abbreviations." Mary remembered. -"Okay, so use full words from now on, no more aints and stuff like that." John said. -"That's a promising idea," Mary agreed, "let's start right away so we're a little bit used to it when Iva comes home." -"Jimmy also told me he has to change for dinner." John continued. -"Oh?" Mary looked at her husband a little helplessly. -"Yes...she says that after a day's toil one should come to the table with a refreshed body and mind." John said thoughtfully, "He must wear black." -"Ahum... do you think we'll have to wear our fine clothes to eat too?" Mary asked uncertainly. -"Do not worry." John said, "It won't come to that. And if it does, our Ida will have to take us as we are." That night, John was fighting with himself not to wake his wife so he could ask her about his best outfit. He began to fear that he no longer had the appropriate collars for his good shirt. By five o'clock in the afternoon the next day, Mary put on her precious black dress. For countless years it had been sacred for church, weddings, and even funerals. John looked uncomfortable in his Sunday suit and stiff collar. The house had been brushed and scrubbed and was in a state of immaculate order. At a quarter to six, John drove to the station to pick up his daughter. Mary had opened all the doors and windows in the house to welcome her daughter. -"Mother!" Ida cried happily as she ran into the house. -"Oh, Ida! I'm so glad to see you." Mary shuddered excitedly. -"You look so good, Mother!" Ida cried, her face red and eager. -"Doesn't the house look good, dear?" Mary asked. John was wiping a bit of dust from his coat. He gave a savage tug at his collar and necktie. Ida sat around the dining table, eagerly launching an interrogation. That's a good sign, John thought to himself, all she seems to care about is my rheumatism, her mother's health, and how the horses are doing. "Now tell us a little about yourself." John interrupted his daughter. -“Oh yes," Mary agreed, "Tell us everything!" Ida stared at her mother in surprise and laughed happily: -"The rolls are delicious mother! The coffee tastes like nectar and the strawberries couldn't be more delicious." -"That is not what I mean." Mary said a little shyly. -"Oh, the cook doesn't like to be praised?" Ida giggled. "I have a job and a successful income! I am an illustrator. A teacher of mine had always encouraged me, and I followed his advice. I stayed in Chicago for a week with a friend and he helped me to distribute my work to reputable publishers. I have already sold quite a few works and have a very long list of orders. -"I'm so happy sweetie." Mary said. John started to gasp. Mary protested, but Ida insisted on wiping the plates and doing the dishes after dinner. At dusk, the family sat down on the porch. -"Look at that." Ida sighed, "Isn't that moon glorious? It's so beautiful and peaceful here." Mary shot a quick glance at her husband, then cleared her throat nervously.  -"You must know all about the moon right, my dear?" Mary asked. Ida raised her eyebrows: "Ah, there's a thing or two that is still a mystery to me," she replied with a whimsical smile. -"Do you know the names of the stars?" Mary insisted. Ida laughed aloud. She took on an attitude of mock delight: "Carbonous gemstone." There was a long silence. Ida kept her eyes on the clouds. -"Can you repeat that one more time?" Mary asked timidly after a while. Ida looked at her mother: -"What's that?" -"What you said about the stars." Mary clarified. -"Twinkle, twinkle, twinkle..." -"No" her mother protested. -"Carbonous gemstone." Ida repeated. -"Oh," said Mary softly, "Thank you." "I think I'll go to bed." John said yawning. The next morning, Ida wanted to help her mother with the housework, but Mary wouldn't hear of it. -"Leave that household to me. You go and sketch. I insist." With a playful pout, Ida tucked her sketchbook under her arm and left the house, and started to descend along the river. She met her father in the field. -"Working hard, father?" Ida said fondly. The old man blushed and put his foot on something crawling from under a rock. -"Father! Don't!" Ida cried, "You are crushing an animal!" Her father blushed even more. He lifted his foot and let out a resigned sigh. Ida bent down and gave the centipede a gentle poke with the pencil in her hand. -"Imagine we had so many legs and feet." Ida laughed. -"I wouldn´t dare to think about the bills of the shoes." her father sighed. He flung himself back at work and whistled a tune. While Ida's mother spent her time in the kitchen over a hot stove, Ida spent her days wandering through the woods and fields with a pencil and pepper in her hand. Mary was deaf to her daughter's protests. -"Household work is not for you child." Mary explained. The strain was beginning to tell on Mary. The work was no light matter, owing to her anxiety that her daughter´s pleasure should want for nothing. When the clock struck six in the evening, Mary took her black silk gown with the white lace collar from the closet and put it on with trembling hands. Dead tired and red from baking and roasting. Once dressed, she descended to the dinner table, where her husband would wait in his black coat and stiff collar. This is torture, John had told Mary, and her task grew more hopeless by the day. She could hardly bring herself to speak anymore. One day, after about a week, Ida came running into the kitchen - cookies were burning in the oven. She quickly took them out of the oven and flung the doors and windows wide open. -"Mother!" Ida cried. When there was no answer, she went looking for her and found her in her room in front of the mirror. Mary was crying. "Mother, what's the matter?" Ida asked concerned. Mary's hands were struggling with the lace on her spotless collar. She covered her face with her hands and sank into a chair by the bed. -"What's the matter, Mother?" Ida asked again as she hurried to sit next to her mother. -"Sorry baby," Mary moaned, "I can't. I've tried, but now I have to give up, I can't anymore." -"What can't you do?" Ida asked, "What do you have to give up?" Mary shook her head: -"Your father too," Mary sobbed, "He tries his best, but he can't pull it off anymore." -"Mother!" Ida cried impatiently, "Answer me! Tried what? Tell me what you are talking about!" Mary fixed her eyes on her daughter's troubled face and tried to tighten her collar one more time: -"Don't worry honey." Mary stammered, "It's nothing." she dropped her grey head on Ida's shoulder. Ida comforted her mother with loving pats. Mary told Ida what had been going on, right from the start. When she finished talking, the old woman was a little out of breath. There was a long silence, and she waited anxiously for Ida to speak. Ida sat with her lips together, staring at her mother. She didn't trust herself to open her lips, for she didn't know whether she was going to laugh or cry. Finally, her smile broke through her lips: -"Mother!" Ida began, "Did you think that dress and that stiff collar could make you dearer to me? Do you really think I'd love you less if you couldn't come up with big words? You have spent fifty years taking care of others, twenty of them of me. I've always been the apple of your eye, and now it's my turn: you are the apple of my eye. You and father. All is well mother, just as it is. Except that from next week, you will receive help in the household. A woman will come to help you every day." Ida rose and fastened her mother's lace collar. -"Mary!" John shouted from downstairs. -"YES John." -"Isn't it time for dinner yet?" he asked. -"Bless my soul." Mary sighed, jumping to her feet. -"Mary..." -"Yes dear?" -"I don't have a clean collar." -"Let it go for tonight dad!" Ida laughed. "Well, if you don't mind," John muttered. The two women heard a sigh of relief. -"Don't worry mother, I wasn't born to follow in the footsteps of a snob like Catherine. I'd rather follow in your footsteps. There is still so much I can learn from you. I follow your steps of virtue! "

gj66b6

Freedom?

This is a story of fiction, though it has racial undertones. As such, it may prove sensitive to some people. Meant to teach a lesson rather than spread racism, please excuse any portions that may cause varied emotions among readers. Freedom? “Back in my day, people had different colored skin which caused them no end of trouble.” My sister and I had settled into our pods in the common area of our dwelling. We were excited as our father had finally agreed to read to us from our Great Great Grandpa’s diary which had always held its designated spot under the glass table in our region’s library. It was one of the few items that had survived so many years so our father lent it to our library, where someone would, with white gloves on, flip a page every day. Some people made the trek to the library especially to read one of those pages. Though the photos had been taken of the entire manuscript, some got a bit of a thrill reading the words of Mr. John Williams, written in his hand and on the very paper that he wrote them. For most of them, it was the only paper they had ever seen, for it had been phased out soon after the death of my great great grandpa. Of course, though it was frail, my Dad was not refused when he wanted to borrow the book itself, as it belonged to our family. He thought reading from the original journal would do more to pique our interest and he was right. He continued, “I grew up on Claredon Street, which was just north of Central Street. My small town was sandwiched between two larger towns, though I am not sure how that came to be. I was around about 10 or 11 years old when I noticed, or actually was informed, by both my father and mother that I was not to go beyond the end of our block in either direction. They said it was for my own safety, but I was not sure what could be unsafe about scouting out the other streets with the intention of making new friends. From that day forward, looking for answers, I listened to every conversation my parents had, even if there was eavesdropping involved.” Father paused and looking down at us said, “I have read this whole diary and know what it says, but I do not want you two to be getting any ideas about taking a ride in your FX2’s without permission. Great Great Grandpa did his own exploring and without the permission of his parents. That got him into some trouble and I do not want you to put yourselves in the same situation. It is a big metropolis out there and I don’t want you getting into an area you don’t know or having a breakdown on the Spaceway.” We used our FX2’s to go to school or to visit friend’s houses. Everyone got them when they turned 14, which meant I had just gotten mine, but had little chance to try it out yet. I have to admit, I am intimidated by the Spaceway, an interconnected series of marked areas where you could travel almost anywhere you wanted. Father looked back down at the diary and continued, “My parents were speaking often about protests and which ones they were going to attend. My father refused to be treated unequally just because of the color of his skin and intended to make the lawmakers put that in writing. However, my dad also knew that things had been that way for as long as he could remember and was not optimistic about them changing any time soon. He loved to denounce the Jim Crow laws which meant he had to use public facilities separate from the whites, live in different towns, have his kids go to different schools and, even though voting was now legal for coloreds, most couldn’t vote because they couldn’t pass the literacy tests.” Again wanting to make a point to my sister and I, Father paused his reading and said, “Now, when Great Great Grandpa is talking about coloreds, it must be confusing for you, as you have always lived in this era where everyone has the same color of skin. However, it took generations to get here and a lot of trials and tribulations along the way. You see, the colors finally could take no more and the World Government had no choice but to intervene. That is why today, we have no color status. We are all the same, but we no longer use the term white to describe ourselves. Through the wonders of genetics, we are all equal though some might question that claim.” I had a bit of a hard time understanding what Father had said. If we are all the same color now, where did the coloreds go? Perhaps it will be in the journal, at least I hoped so. Father read on, “In the small town where we lived, we very seldom saw white people except on television and when they ventured south of Central Street to pick-up a good feed of ribs at The Rib Shack, though they never stayed and ate in the restaurant. One day, my dad was at work and my mom was busy with her social friends so, not thinking or really knowing what the big deal was, I set out to look for some friends in one of the towns that bordered ours. As I turned the corner of Claredon Street and walked to the next block, I sure could see a difference. In addition to a car in almost every driveway, there were nicer houses, neater yards. Walking further along, I saw some kids playing road hockey up a cul-de-sac and decided this would be a perfect opportunity to make some new friends.” Again, Father stopped in spite of my large groan as I wanted him to go on. He said, “Like I said before, I do not want either of you to just take off in your FX2’s. I know there is a whole universe, it seems, of kids out there who you could get to know, but you have your friends right here in our region. You also have more friends at school that you can spend your time with. You do not need to go looking for more. I know you might think differently, but there is no need to go beyond our boundaries. You have all you need without venturing out alone.” Like my great great grandfather, I could not see what the big deal was. Sure, I could get lost or need vehicular assistance, but surely those were the only dangers that should keep me from going and looking for those new friends that my great great grandfather set out to find so long ago. After taking a drink of water, Father continued, “As I approached the lively game of road hockey, every one of those kids stopped playing where they stood and stared at me. When I reached the net that was closest to me, I asked simply if I could join in the game. My request was met with blank stares so I asked again if I could join in. I told them I didn’t have a hockey stick, but I would be careful if I borrowed one of theirs. Apparently, that question woke up the biggest of the boys. He said, ‘What the hell are you talking about? No, you can’t play or borrow a stick. You’d just steal it. Now, go back to your own town nigger before I punch you in the head.’ I was shocked by his response. I just wanted to play and I had no intention of stealing a stick. To accuse me of that was mean and unwarranted. Especially troublesome was when he used the word nigger. In my town, the only person who could call someone a nigger was another nigger.” Father paused to take another drink of water then said to us, “You are probably wanting a little more explanation about this business. Well, since I didn’t live during that time, I can only go on what I have read, which sadly, is not much. After the Great War, not a lot remained of the earth’s populations and their possessions save for the stuff that survived the fighting and bombs. I do know, however, that name calling was one way to get another person angry. Though it was despicable, it went on for hundreds of years. Now, as the World Government has stated in their laws, you may only address someone by their name or title. I know you both have been taught about the discipline you would receive if you used an old slang term or invented a new one and I don’t want to have to go with either one of you to report to the Regional Council. I just want you to understand how different it was when your great great grandpa lived.” My sister and I both assured our dad that we would never think of calling someone by something other than their name or title, as we were anxious for him to get back to the diary. After clearing his throat, father kept reading, “Not wanting to be on the receiving end of a punch to the head, I turned away to walk back home. When they guffawed and directed more mean language toward me, my pace quickened for I did not want them to see the tears that were stinging my eyes. When I got back home, I plunked myself down behind the shed in our backyard. Though I did not actually cry, I felt miserable because my excursion to make new friends had gone so badly and mostly because of that awful word. I had heard my dad say that if anyone other than a colored ever called him a nigger, they better be ready to run because he would lay a beating on them if he could catch them. It wasn’t until a few days later that I got up the nerve to tell my parents what had happened. I knew I may be setting myself up to get in more trouble, but I wanted to know why things had gone so badly with those boys. Surprisingly, my parents were very understanding and I got some learning done that day. Dad did the talking while mom fiddled with the lace on her dress. Unfortunately, Dad did not provide what I thought to be a satisfying answer. He told me how it was best to stick with my own kind as trying to get involved with the whites would only get me into more trouble than I had already encountered. Other than that, he didn’t have much more to say. Sure, he had told me the way it was but he said he really couldn’t answer my main question which was ‘why’? To that, my dad just said that is the way it was.” This time, it was me who interrupted my father. I said, “Father, why were those other kids so hostile? It seems the only difference is that great great grandpa had dark skin and the kids had white skin. I can’t imagine what that looks like, but I can’t see why there would be a fight over it.” Father answered, “That is why we have preserved as much history as possible. So that never happens again. Even though the World Government says we are all equal, I have heard ramblings that in different parts of the earth, people continue to be divided by their race and nasty fights break out with major groups of people battling other groups of people, some of them with both skin color the same, which is why we do not go there. We are much safer here with our own kind, where skin color does not matter because it isn’t an issue.” I was a bit confused and alarmed that Father was confirming that there was this type of goings-on far below us on earth. We had not been taught this at school, but some of my classmates had heard their parents talking about it and now with my dad saying it, I knew it must be true. I wondered why they chose to stay on an earth ravaged by disasters instead of taking to the safety of the sky. Unfortunately, Father told us that he was not going to read anymore that night. It was getting late and he had an early morning start. He worked at an office where the time that you had to be at work was in constant rotation. As with all work places, it was evened out so employees did not have the same schedule for more than a month. This, the World Government said, was the kind of law that kept everyone happy with their jobs. Also, until you had proven yourself to a company, which meant working there for many years, you had to do the menial jobs, such as waste management, that most people did not like but which had to be done. Thankfully, those abject professions were mostly automated. I did not really know what to do with the information I had gotten that evening, both from the journal and my father. Yet, I decided right there curled up in my pod that I was going to look further into the World Government laws when I got older. I surmised that a lot of my investigating would have to be done with as much secrecy as possible, lest I rattle the Regional Council where I end up appointed to where I would live once I became an adult. Even if there was nothing there, nothing unusual about the World Government’s way of running things, I could not help thinking there was something that was not right. 

noajil

Simmering Below the Surface

           The soaring inflation threw my boyfriend into a drinking binge like never before, and when he kicked my low tire with his steel toed boot I knew he was smashed. “Lilly, were you drinking and driving? How did your headlights and windshield get shattered on your new convertible?             Sitting behind the steering wheel I raked my fingers through my new hairstyle emboldened with red highlights. “After I went to my hairdresser and stopped at the supermarket I hit a deer and crashed into a ditch. A farmer pulled me out.”            “Did you get your license from a Cracker Jack box?” Kent said. “Call your insurance company. They’ll tell you that your taste in electric cars is pathetic. I told you to buy a diesel pickup with a four-wheel drive, but oh no , you had to be a typical city slicker and buy a ragtop. Obviously, you think it makes you look sexy. Maybe if you got a facelift and a boob job I’d make love to you more often if you weren’t such a cold fish.”            I’d heard that before. Sometimes he even bragged about being the best lover, but I could contest I’d had better. “Maybe I’ll see a plastic surgeon,” I lied, stepping out on his driveway with a bag of beauty supplies for aging skin. “I’m certainly not getting any younger.”            “You can say that again.” He belched. “Where’s my beer?”            “It’s in the trunk with the groceries,” I answered in a calm voice, using the grey rock method as if I didn’t give a rat’s ass about anything.                   He retrieved the twelve pack. “Don’t just stand there like a bump on a log. Get the rest of the groceries.”            I stood on one foot. “I think I may have twisted my ankle when I got out of the car.”            “You’re such a klutz,” he said.   “You’ll use any excuse to get out of work. Just hurry. NASCAR is on right now. It’s your fault I missed the beginning of the race. I had to come out and get my own beer. If you had gotten home on time I’d be eating dinner right now. What are we having? You know how much I love a big juicy T-bone cooked on the charcoal grill. Did you get eggs and bacon for tomorrow’s breakfast? I like my eggs over easy and my bacon fried crisp. Don’t burn the toast either. Pancakes would be better. I hope you purchased blueberries and maple syrup. I got a craving for sweets.”                     As I limped into his farmhouse it crossed my mind to leave and go home, but I didn’t want to get pulled over by the cops or try to hoof it home on an injured ankle.                     While I was putting the canned goods away in the kitchen Kent put his beer in the fridge and again started in on me. “After NASCAR I’ll get out the lawn mower so you can mow my yard. You’ll like the new blades I purchased for it. It’ll do a real nice job for you. Maybe you oughta go mow that farmer’s property too. Obviously, you’ve been having an affair with him because I sure ain’t been gettin’ any.”                 His scandalous accusations repulsed me, so I tried to emotionally detach, but he kept rattling on and the more he flapped his lips the more anxious I became, but I reminded myself to stay calm and deescalate the conversation. “I tried to call you after I hit the deer, but you didn’t answer your phone.”            “I was taking a shower.”            His dirty overalls, unshaven face and greasy hair told me otherwise. “Why are you lying? You haven’t showered in a month.”            “When was the last time you took a bath, Lilly?”            “Why do you always have to project everything onto me when you’re intoxicated?            Kent leaned against the refrigerator. “You’re making a big deal out of nothing. If you’d stop nagging at me I might quit drinking.” He slammed down another beer and threw the can in the trash. “The kitchen would be cleaner if you weren’t so lazy.  And sanitize the fridge before you put away the groceries.  I worry that you might contaminate the food. I hope that farmer didn’t give you the flu or some other contagious disease.”            “Don’t be silly, Dear. You’re missing NASCAR.”                            Once he was in the other room I thought about all the self-help books I read regarding his Jackal and Hyde personality. I learned that his sadistic way of thinking was an act of psychological warfare to break me down and make me submissive. I used to believe that if I’d just toughen up and let his bad mood swings roll off my shoulders things would get better, but I’m beginning to doubt my ability to stay sane. Maybe he’s right. Perhaps I am losing my mind to Alzheimer’s. I’m certainly forgetful at times.            He shouted from his man-cave. “Hey, bring me a beer!”             I popped one open and spit into the can. The TV was so loud that when I limped into the smoky room he didn’t hear me sneak up behind him. He was lying back in his recliner and when I glanced over his shoulder he was sexting on his phone. “What are you doing looking at pornography?” I snapped, walking around the chair to face him head on. “Are you having phone sex and seeing other women?”                       He blew cigar smoke in my face and grabbed the beer. “You’re paranoid. I was only surfing the internet. I wanted to surprise you with some sexy lingerie.”             I backed away and waved at the smoke. Maybe he wasn’t right for me. Perhaps some hoe would suit him better.  “Don’t flatter me with lies or blow smoke at me. It’ll flair up my asthma.”             “Hey, Honey,” he said, as if he was innocent of any wrongdoing.  “How about you whip up a homemade banana cake with the mixer I bought you. Isn’t it a beauty? I thought you’d really like it. You know how much I love what my mother used to make. Have you started the grill? I’ll take homemade baked beans and French fries too. Now run along. You know how much I love your cooking. Now don’t overcook my steak and make sure the fries are brown and crispy. Put hot dogs in those beans too and cut them up into little bite-size pieces.   Before I forget, do you like that new vacuum I got on sale? I dropped some cookie crumbs on the carpet, so you’ll need to run the sweeper.”            Bowing to his needs was getting on my nerves. He made me feel like an unpaid servant, and I wanted to tell him I wasn’t his maid, chef or gardener, but I held my tongue. Instead, I changed the subject to keep the peace. “Have you seen my bifocals? I specifically remember leaving them on the coffee table.”            “Don’t blame me for losing them.  It’s your fault you misplaced them. You’d lose your head if it wasn’t hooked on.”            I ignored him and returned to the kitchen. As I mixed up the cake batter I added three bananas, a cup of salt instead of sugar and sprinkled in a heaping tablespoon of Cajun to replace the cinnamon. As I scraped the spatula along the side of the bowl I fanaticized adding rat poison. I even laughed about it, but then I shrugged it off. Maybe he was right about me being paranoid about infidelity, although lately he’d been preoccupied with his phone and working late.            When dinner was ready I turned off all the knobs on the stove and we dished up our plates.            In the den we sat down to watch NASCAR and I was glad to get off my aching feet. I could feel the swelling in my injured ankle, and my arthritics hurt too, but I ignored the pain. As long as I didn’t complain maybe he’d stop picking on me.  Today I felt like every bit of energy had been drained out of me and I couldn’t wait to hit the sack.            “Did you see that crash earlier?” Kent said. “It was awesome.”            “No, I missed it. I was busy cooking.”            He shoveled food into his mouth and spoke with his trap full. “You should plan things better. You always miss out on the best parts of the race.”            Here we go again I thought. “How’s your steak?” I asked nicely, pleased with myself that I was practicing the grey rock approach .            He stabbed a hotdog with his fork and bit off half.  “The meal would be better if you had cooked the steak over charcoal and cut up the wieners. If I hadn’t been so busy watching NASCAR I would have grilled the sirloin steaks; although I would have preferred a good piece of meat that wasn’t so tough, but then I’m not a tight ass like you.”             “Sorry dear, but my ankle hurts, and I didn’t have the energy to cook outside."           “You’re weak as an invalid. You tripped and fell against the car because you’re getting older, and your balance is off. I’m thinking about getting you a lift chair. You’ve been stumbling around like a drunken old maid.”            “Forget the chair. I’m middle aged. I don’t drink and I’m trying to watch my money.”            “You’d be better off watching your weight,” he said, slurping down the rest of his beer. “If your job was as strenuous as my farming you’d shed off the pounds.”            “You might be right.”            “Would you like a second helping? I’m gonna grab me some more grub. I hope it’s not cold.”            “No thanks,” I replied, sticking to my diet.            From the kitchen I heard him fumbling around and when he returned with another beer and a full plate of fries smothered with ketchup, he said, “You left a burner on, so I turned it off. Maybe without your glasses you couldn’t see what you were doing.”            “I specifically remember shutting off the knobs and I only use my bifocals for reading.”            “I’m starting to worry about your memory. You didn’t forget the cake in the oven, did you? It sure smells yummy.                     “Wait until you taste it. I made it just for you.”            “Thank you, Honey. I hope you’ll use my mother’s butter frosting recipe.”            After I removed the cake from the oven I grabbed a rolling pin and headed for the barn to feed his wild cats. When I returned my keys were missing from the hook and he was passed out in the chair. When I woke him he jumped up from his chair as if I had goosed him.                 “Did you see my keys hanging beside the garage door?” I asked. “I swear I hung them there.”            “Don’t accuse me. It’s not my fault you lost them. Look in your purse or your pockets.”            “I already did.”            “Then they’re probably in your ignition.”            “Whatever,” I sighed, changing the subject. “Your cats are fed; your milk cow is dead, and her calf is hungry.”            “That’s not funny! You’re always saying things to piss me off.”            “I’m telling you the truth. The cow kicked the bucket. Go look for yourself. It’s your responsibility to feed and bed down the cattle.”            When Kent returned from outside he was holding an empty whiskey bottle and was three sheets to the wind. “Lilly, the heifer would probably still be alive if you’d fed the cats this morning and checked on my livestock. Just think about at all the things I’ve done for you. I fixed the plumbing so you could do the dishes. I had a cow butchered so you could cook my meals. I let you pick out the stove when my old one took a dump. I even bought you a Betty Crocker cookbook for your birthday and for Christmas I gave you a new set of pots and pans. What more could you ask for?”                “Love and respect,” I spat back, forgetting about kissing his ass.  “I’m done being your punching bag! You need help. You need to return to Alcoholics Anonymous and do your Twelve Steps.”            “You’re making a big deal out of nothing. If you’d stop nagging at me I’d probably stop drinking.”                    “Nonsense! I stuck by your sobriety for five years, and now you’re back to slamming down a twelve pack a day.”            “You’re the one who needs to see a doctor. I swear if you don’t have Alzheimer’s you must be a closet drinker. You wrecked your car, left the stove on, lost your glasses and you can’t find your keys.”             “You’re right. It’s not you who’s at fault. It’s me. I’m the one with the problem. I should have left you a long time ago. You want me to believe I’m going crazy, but it’s all so clear now. You hid my keys and my glasses, and you lied to me about leaving the stove on. You’re most likely screwing around too.”            He threw my keys at me. “Get out! Leave before I throw you out!” He yelled, throwing his arms into the air like a deranged monkey.”            “I’m not going anywhere in my car. Someone is coming to tow it."      He shoved me against the wall and tried strangling me with his thumbs pressed hard against my neck. Fighting to breath I pulled out the rolling pin tucked inside the back of my loose-filling jeans and struck him hard over his head. As he lay unconscious on the floor I gave him a swift kick in the ass with my cowgirl boot and removed his pickup keys from his back pocket. “Thanks for the pickup. I hope you choke to death on that cake! I should have trusted my instincts long ago.” 

o5z2wc

Georgia's Hills

“That’s the Nights went out in Georgia, muhhhmm, blahh, hummh, that’s the night that they hung an innocent man”. Mary Beth couldn’t recall all the words to that classic song, so she kept repeating the words she did know, and blahh blahhing though the rest of it. She was trying to determine if she liked Reba McEntire’s version better, or whatever the name of the artist that sang it before, her was it maybe Vicky? She wasn’t sure of any of those answers, and she recalled how she would have solved this dilemma in the past. She would have pulled up her iPhone, or her iPad, or her laptop and looked up the lyrics and artist. But she wasn’t anywhere close to a hotspot and there was no cell service at her cabin. So basically, at this point she just began to make up her own words to the song, as she was humming literally to her own beat of the drum, she kinda figured this is what her grandma was talking about all those years ago. Her Grandma had told her that kids in the city had lost their imagination and that was the saddest effect of urban life that could have possibly happen. So here she was years after that conversation standing on the porch of that same cabin, watching the sun began to sit behind the hills. She was with her family in the far mountains of Georgia maybe four hours from Atlanta, but it felt like a million miles away, as she looked out into the vast Blue Ridge Mountains and heard nothing but birds, and the wind. There were no power poles, there were no cell towers, and at this point there was no other humans anywhere in sight. She had walked down from the cabin and found a tree that seemed to have formed into a shape of a seat, just perfect for her to crawl into and enjoy the view of the mountains. With some guidance from her uncle and some sense of direction she figured when she looked to her right, she was looking directly at the North Carolina state line. She imaged a few miles through the thick forest was the small town of Murphy, she recalled her grandpa making fun of the state Motto of North Carolina, “from Manteo to Murphy…” and of course she can’t recall the rest of the slogan or the reason for the slogan, but she recalled her Grandpa laughing at it each time they heard it on the truck radio. They always seem to hear it as they were driving to Murphy to go to Walmart and Lowes, that was the closest big town they had to their cabin, so they made a few trips there each time they visited with Grandpa and Grandma. Dang how she missed them both, but she was beginning to understand why they stayed out here in this remote town and remote cabin and never conformed to the world. Was she truly ready to give it all up and literally put roots down in a town disconnected from the world? Mary Beth’s Mom Ella had grown up just outside of the Cherokee Reservation in North Carolina, she had grown up going to public school, and having electricity and running water, but her family did live off the land. They grew large gardens that contained basically everything they ate, and filled their freezer full of deer, duck, fish, and an every so often a random bear. Ella was the first of her family to attend college and while she was there acquiring her teaching degree, is where she met her Mary Beth’s Dad, Ben. He was from Atlanta and after a short whirlwind of a romance Ben and Ella married and settled into the Buckhead section in the city, where they raised both Mary Beth and her two sisters. They all went to dance classes, and cheered in high school, and they all seemed to live an upper-middle class American suburban fairytale life via the recordings on the old VHS tapes in the closets. The only difference was Mary Beth never felt connected to that life. Sure, she loved to cheer, and she loved riding the MARTA down to the Atlanta Braves games with all her friends, but she never really felt connected. She felt more like she was just going along with what every else was doing and expected her to do.  It sometimes made her feel like she was living her life in a snow globe where everyone watched her every move and could at any moment pick her life up and shake it and she just had to deal with where the snow drifts landed. She never felt free, unless she was in Grandparent’s cabin in the backwoods of Georgia, that is where her soul came alive. Sitting in the tree she laid her braided hair back onto the bark and smelled the slight sweetness of a honeysuckle, and it took her back to the first time she every came to the cabin. After Ella had gone away to college her parents, Mary Beth’s Grandparents had decided to move out of their ranch style home in North Carolina and go back to their hometown of Piney Flatts a little spot of nothing on a Georgia map, but a large portion of their hearts. Her Grandparents had been in the cabin about four months the first time Mary Beth and her family made the trip to see them, it was also her tenth birthday, and she was overly excited riding behind her dad in his brand new Jeep Wagoneer. She recalled her dad and her two sisters making fun of the little café that stopped to eat out just outside the Clay County line. She recalls her mom not saying much, as she seemed to be torn between two worlds, just as Mary Beth was torn. She also recalls the feeling of belonging when she entered that café, the small countertop, the checkered board tabletop covers, the smell of cigarettes on the waitress breathes, and the sound of Willie Nelson coming from the small radio behind the cash register. She loved all of it, and she especially loved how she felt like she belonged there with Gwyn the waitress, and Jeb the local who was eating a French Burger at the end of the counter. Jeb talked the whole time to the cook about the bad winter that was being predicted for the mountains this upcoming season. She loved it and for the first time in her ten years she felt free. That was the first time she had ever felt free, but she didn’t know it at that time, and she wasn’t even sure what that feeling was, but she knew she liked it. From that moment on in her life when she felt confined or backed into a corner, she closed her eyes and tried to gain that same feeling, the feeling of freedom. As they drove along the two-lane road toward Piney Flatt’s she began to see less, and less houses and more open fields and She was listing to her Daddy complain about the muddy road full of potholes all the way from the café to her Grandparents cabin when she began to realize what was missing. There were no power poles after you took that last left-hand turn and started straight up the mountain to her Grandparent cabin.  There was nothing but the one lane road they were driving on, and trees. She rolled down the window, because she just knew if she did, she could smell the trees. She got just a brief sniff of the pine and oak when her dad told her to stop wasting air conditioning and roll the window up. She sits as still as possible waiting patiently for them to crawl up to the top of the hill so she could see the cabin. Finally, she began to see the chimney and behind it was the most beautiful view she had ever seen, miles and miles of nothing but rolling hills and beautiful blue sky. This birthday was the best one she had ever had and still to the day is the one that makes her smile the most when she recalls birthdays of the past. Her Grandparents had no power or running water in the traditional sense, they had a well that her grandpa had hooked up to the house that created a working faucet, bathtub, and toilet. They had also installed solar panel’s that gave them enough power to run a radio, a stove, and lamps. The cabin had been on the property since the early 1800’s but over the years so much heart and soul and work had been done to the cabin that it now barley resembled the same home on that tenth birthday party. That day her grandma had made her an angel food cake with strawberry jam in the middle, made from strawberries she had grown herself. That night after the party they all sat on the front porch and her Uncle Steve who had always lived on the mountain top close to the cabin, came over and he played his guitar. At that time Mary Beth had never heard any of those songs, since they she has memorized and sang to herself sitting in traffic jams in Memphis trying to pass some time. She recalls with a smile waking up that next morning to the sound of nothing. No cars, no TV, no lawn mowers, just the sound of silence. She loved that peaceful feeling and as the years went by, she continued to long for that peaceful sound of what she thought was nothing. went on and Mary Beth followed the ways of the world, college at Old Mississippi, became a Rebel cheerleader, went on to earn a law degree and marry a doctor and move into a large townhouse in Mephis. She played the part and day after day become more and more lost in the world that she felt was created from her not by her. Sitting in that tree feeling the warm summer breeze hitting her face she relaxed her shoulders a little more as she began to think about that day, she finally decided to find her freedom, or at least chase that feeling of freedom. She had just gotten home around 8pm, she had been working a good sixty hours per week for weeks on end, and she was feeling the wear and tear on her body. She just wanted to crawl into bed and sleep for a whole week, and she wanted a dog. She wanted a dog so bad she had picked out his name and even figured out where his dog bed would be in the house, but Jake said no to a dog. He was right, there were not home enough for a dog, but she argued that was the problem, they should be home more, and be together more, and be in the moment more, but that wasn’t something Jake was interested in. She was thinking of the dog’s name, probably Tucker, because she always loved that name. When she heard her cell phone ringing. It was her mom, she had news about the cabin and the land in the mountains, they were going to place her Grandparents old home place for sale, it was going on the market tomorrow. Her heart stopped and she stopped in her tracks. Without thinking without even realizing she was speaking, Mary Beth said “no mom it’s not on the market, its mine, I am going to buy it”. When she hung up the phone, she knew exactly what was going to happen over the next few hours, days, months, and even though it scared her to the core, it also made her smile. She was about to find her freedom again, and this time she wasn’t going to leave. As expected, when she told Jake he left that night, after packing his Ralph Lauren suits, into his Shinola bag, and drove away in his Mercedies, none of which were paid for, and none of which he could afford. She walked into her office three days later carrying a Vera Bradley bag which she had purchases at the outlet store, with all the money she made from selling all her Louis Vuitton bags, all her Jimmy Choo shoes, and every piece of furniture in her townhouse. She walked into her manger’s office in the middle of a meeting and gave them her notice that she was no longer their employee, and from this moment forward she was free. Lucky for her Jake had wanted to keep their bank accounts separate, so she could afford all the high-priced items she owned, funny thing is she never wanted them in the first place. also had also lived her life just as her Grandparents had taught her, she saved majority of her income, so when the time came, she could afford the cabin and the land in Piney Flatts without blinking an eye. She flew to Atlanta and drove up with her parent on the day she got to sign the papers on the purchase. They used a lawyer named Maverick Junior that had a tiny little office in a one room, three chairs, one desk office, with a sign above his head that said, “I’m the boss, only when my wife is asleep”. She found it funny and quicky, and one of the thousand reasons she loved this town. He had an old filing cabinet and a phone that reminded her of a episode from the Golden Girls from 1988. As they finished up the signing, he reminded her kindly that there was no power, phones, or city water on the land, was she sure that was something she could handle. She smiled and told him that was exactly why she was headed up that mountain. He smiled and picked up the old rotary phone and called up his boss, as she exited the door, she heard Junior say to her “baby I’m headed your way”. She smiled again, feeling more and more relaxed than she had felt in years. She started up sidewalk of the tiny little town and bought a few items she felt she would need. The general store was exactly what it said it was, it generally had everything you needed. Boots, batteries, bacon, seeds, flour, books, pottery, dog food, rat trapes, bullets, you name it, Piney Flatts General Store carried it. Mary Beth entered the door, and the bell rang above her as she entered the smell of tobacco, cedar shaving, and cookies hit her as she walked across the creaking old planks. The owner Mr. Holland came around the side of the building carrying a large bag of chicken food, he smiled and said, “oh Mary Beth, your grandma would be so proud of you”, as he walked behind the counter to get her order. Mary Beth had called earlier in the week from her parents’ home in Alanta to place the order. She had called at least six times before she got someone to answer the phone. Mr. Holland told her that he didn’t really see no need for an answering machine when she was placing the order, and he also had to call her back three times before the order was completed. The connection kept getting disconnected as they were working on the power grid in town so that brought everything to a halt. The power grid was just a locally power generator that was setup by a retired engineer about twenty years ago. Mr. Gee died about eight years ago, but the power grid he created lives on in this sleepy little town, and for that Mary Beth was grateful. She paid for her supplies with cash, as the general store only accepted, credit, as in Mr. Holland wrote down what was owned in a book, and as you paid it back, he kept track in his book, or cash. Since she didn’t want to start out owning anyone she paid for her order in cash. Mr. Holland’s son Ryan helped her carry all her supplies out to her brand new, well new to her, Ford Truck. She bought it from her grandpa’s old friend Rinn, he was in his own word “too damn old to drive that thing anyways”, It had a few dents and scratches, but she didn’t care, it was a far cry from her BMW she had in Mephis, but she knew the young fella that bought it from her would appreciate it much more than she ever could. She loved the old beat-up Ford, and had already named it Red. As she drove back up to the cabin, she began to think of how her world was going to be living all alone without a true link to the outside world. She had a CB radio left to her by her sweet Uncle Steve. She had broadband internet so she could have cell phone to reach the outside world and be able to watch TV if she so desired. The power she had was from the setup her grandpa had created years ago with solar panels and the rain barrels were already in place to help catch the water to give her plants and chickens. OMG she thought to herself I actually own chickens. She felt as if she was as prepared as she possibly could be mentally, financially, and physically. In her heart and her spirit, she had been ready since she was ten years old and first stepped onto that grassy portion of land on that hilltop. She smiled as she drove up to the cabin and saw her Tucker sitting there in the window seal waiting on her, she had finally found her home, she had finally found her freedom.

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Hear it all ticking away

What was the date? Lara paused her typing for a moment. She looked at her calendar, it was the fifth. In June. When did it become June? She stopped her work, stretching out her back hearing several pops caused after sitting in the same position for so long. Lara stood and went out of her room taking large steps to avoid piles of dirty clothes in the hallway. She made her way to the living room and sat on her couch with her legs folded in an attempt to try meditation. It was supposed to help your mind relax or something. Plus she had been doing online work for so long that she wanted, no, needed to take a break. What was the date? The thought echoed in her brain. How could she forget the date? She didn't even just forget the date she forgot what day it was. She tried deep breathing, but was interrupted by a tick tick tick . The old grandfather clock, tick tick tick, that stood hauntingly in the living room almost seemed to be glaring at her. What was the date? It seemed to say haughtily. Have you already stopped counting? She found herself staring at the old clock, tick tick tick, in her cat pajamas. The old machine was one of the few things that made any noise in her house and it drew her attention. Before quarantine, her old washing machine would rattle and crank sometimes occasionally getting on her nerves. She used it sparinglyNow that she was in quarantine she wished her new one would make some noise to give life. She chewed on her lip staring at the old clock ( tick tick tick ) as another minute passed. She could have figured it out if she wanted. It was Thursday, wasn’t it? She shook her head muttering to herself. Couldn’t be, her business meeting was on Wednesday and that wasn’t yesterday. Or maybe it was. What was the date? She sighed deeply, sinking into her couch. Lara had stopped counting when it started and all the days seemed to blur together now. She stood slowly going to the kitchen to get lunch. Her feet made a sound accompanying that tick tick tick . She grabbed some leftovers that were in a container along with a fork. Some rice and sausage from last week, ...maybe. She brought the container up closer removing the lid and sniffed the container just to be safe. Eh, they were still good. She went over to the sink where she had a silver kettle sitting close, she filled it and placed it on the stove. The stove made a tick( tick tick ) as she turned on the heat What was the date? She was annoyed with herself and angrily took a bite of the spicy sausage. She hated how the dates seemed to slip away from her. She hated how the clock managed to get underneath her skin. At the beginning of all this she had a firm schedule, but that sort of disappeared in a mess of all day pjs and brunches. P.M’s and A.M’s held no meaning. Netflix had become her signal to go to bed alerting her with the sign of “Are you still watching?”. What did the date matter? Who cared. Someone important said that time was irrelevant. Probably Einstein or Edison. No matter the amount she disregarded it, the question always floated up to the front of her mind, It felt like an itch she had to scratch; it was like an annoying tick ( tick tick ). Outside looked pleasant, she decided, with sunshine streaming through the windows. Green leaves were moving back and forth in the wind decorating her old tree. Lara decided to eat outside on her patio away from that gloomy tick tick tick . She took in a deep breath of the air when she sat in her patio chair. She needed this after being cooped inside. Screw meditation, sitting outside gave her peace. She enjoyed having friends over on the patio since her house could be such a mess. She felt little attachment to her house, but all the attachment she needed was on the patio. The floor was made of white stone with red making small patterns. Beams of wood with light blue paint that had begun to flake held up creeping vines that bloomed with large white flowers. Four gray chairs with small cushions were placed around the fireplace that was now full of ash during the day. Her garden had bright pink azaleas that sprouted blooms. All her friends would spend time there most of the time not having conversations, but just… talking. There was a difference between those two wasn’t there? There were points to conversations, talks were just there. Pieces out of time to just be. That’s what she needed. There would be fires when it got dark and she could make a mean hot chocolate. She smiled feeling warm when she heard the high shriek of her kettle. Once she took the kettle off the tick tick tick returned. All of the visits stopped since she was susceptible to the disease going around. “Try to stay away from people.” Her Doctor said. “Try to be cautious.” He said. She scowled taking the kettle off searching for a mug and chamomile. Cautious. She hated that word. Cautious meant she couldn’t see people. Cautious meant that her days were numbered and she had to be reminded of that fact. She always knew her days were numbered, but it got worse when she was alone. Here she was, being cautious. Alone. Lara walked back out with her tea. She took a sip of the hot liquid, it burned her throat as it went down. She grimaced and set it down on the ground. She continued eating her lunch waiting for her tea to cool down. This was a nice spring summer afternoon.          ( tick tick tick ) She leaned back into the chair feeling the sun, the heat of the mug in her hand, the wind on her face. She was going to just be.

5r00a4

I Remember Coretta

Harbor Island, Hillsborough County Florida - Early Spring, 1991           In 1991, I was a young mother of two, raising my children alone for the most part, and I was selected by the local child welfare agency to attend one of the most important seminars of our time. Coretta Scott King, and her daughter Yolanda were in Tampa teaching child abuse investigators about the necessity for special investigations of rigor and heightened awareness of children of color due to the staggering minimalization of black children in society. I had never thought about the need to prioritize investigations of physical abuse in black children due to severity of injury and probability of harm left undetected in the darkness of the child's skin.           Because of Coretta's tireless efforts, it was made possible for us to become a part of the Civil Rights Movement. It was not until we had dinner together at a restaurant on Harbor Island that our lives became intrinsically part and parcel of the totality of social justice and activism for all people, with acute attention paid to investigations of all children, especially to children of Color, Asian children, Latino and South American Children and Children of Color. The nature of child abuse and neglect investigations had to be realized, and the abuse of children had to be brought to the forefront of our concern and attentions.            Women who came from our time suffered great insult and injury, mine with a grandmother who could not be a schoolteacher after marriage, hers with marching with her husband, Martin in the beginning of their activism for the women's right to vote and participate in higher learning and so many other issues. We became friends, and I became more inclined to use skills that I had learned. Such skills remain a gift to me today. I had asked how to become a successful and attentive mother, alone at parenting for different reasons. My husband, long since gone- a veritable parlayer of explicit carousing. Her husband Martin was brutally murdered during his career for justice and freedom of and for all people.           Coretta filled in the humanistic blanks, and made it clear that emotional and cultural things heavily influence an investigator’s perspective. Added stressors would include the abrupt fact that negative, positive, accelerated, racist or even multicultural plurality that people liaison with can rub deeply against them. Even so, we must remain as inclusive and respectful as possible of everyone, including the “enemies and bullies.” Our children must learn that “We are all people of the same Creator.       In investigations or even interviews for the purpose of actual investigation or historical essay, always remember that If a child tells you he or she is being abused, take the situation seriously. If you think about it, there is so much to learn and so much to do to ensure the safety of an alleged victim of child abuse, or a person walking on the wings of the tightwire of time, desperately trying to be kind, respectful and attentive to all considered (growl) even the alleged perpetrator(s). I would always wear pants and comfortable clothing so that I could sit on the floor or on the grass outside.        Always encourage the child to tell you what happened. Focus on listening, not investigating, take good notes. Remind the child that he or she isn't responsible for the abuse and that the responsibility goes to the abuser. Be ready to repeat yourself. You might say, "I'm so sorry you were hurt," "I'm glad that you told me," and "I'll do everything I can to help you." Let the child know you're available to talk or simply listen at any time. If you are not in official capacity you must report the abuse to your local child protective agency or the police department. Authorities will investigate the report and, if necessary, take steps to ensure the child's safety. Ensure the child's safety by separating the abuser and the child, and by providing supervision if the child is in the presence of the abuser if possible. If the abuse has occurred at school, make sure the principal of the school is also aware of the situation.          Of the world of information on identifying abuse or neglect that I learned in that week, abuse investigations can be difficult, because careful evaluation of the situation, including checking for physical and behavioral signs, and coordinating the investigations such as those of the police may be involved in investigating issues of alleged or suspected abuse. Factors that may guide the case can include physical and exam, for injuries and neglect, medical records, developmental and educational history, Written description observation of the child's behavior, and talking with the child, using language that the child can understand. Written records of the observed behaviors between the parent/adult caretaker and the child are really appropriate.       Frequently during a physical child abuse investigation I have found that parents or caretakers who were abused as children are more likely to abuse their own children. A family history of spousal abuse also increases the likelihood of child abuse. Substance or alcohol abuse is another major problem for children, as well poverty. Real life child abuse investigations cannot be completed in 15-23 minutes as seen on TV or at the movies. Copious leads have to be researched. I cannot begin to remember all of the stupid, vengeful, and made up reports received and investigated by the authorities. Physically abused children may often cringe, side-step or even space away from the alleged perpetrator fearing something will set him or her off and thrust them into a literal “world of’ hurt.” You may have to reassure the child victim(s) that the abuse or neglect is not their “fault.”      With Coretta, and a reminder by the performance of Alicia Keys at the 2021 Super Bowl, I remember the lyrics of the Black National Anthem.  “Lift ev’ry voice and sing, ‘Til earth and heaven ring, Ring with the harmonies of Liberty; Let our rejoicing rise High as the list’ning skies, Let it resound as loud as the rolling sea. Sing a song full of the faith that the dark past has taught us, Sing a song full of the hope that the present has brought us; Facing the rising sun of our new day begun, Let us march on ’till victory is won. Stony the road we trod, Bitter the chastening rod, Felt in the days when hope unborn had died; Yet with a steady beat, Have not our weary feet Come to the place for which our fathers sighed? We have come over a way that with tears has been watered, We have come, treading our path through the blood of the slaughtered, Out from the gloomy past, ‘Til now we stand at last Where the white gleam of our bright star is cast. God of our weary years, God of our silent tears, Thou who has brought us thus far on the way; Thou who has by Thy might Led us into the light, Keep us forever in the path, we pray. Lest our feet stray from the places, our God, where we met Thee, Lest, our hearts drunk with the wine of the world, we forget Thee; Shadowed beneath Thy hand, May we forever stand, True to our God, True to our native land.”      In 2006, my husband, Michael, my youngest son, Steve, and I attended a speech delivered by Coretta at the University of Dayton. In 2009, Steve marched with me and my fellow Americorps members on the day which we now celebrate the birth of the Reverend Doctor Martin Luther King Jr. It was crazy cold that day, but we were mesmerized by the hundreds who marched across a weathered, crumbling bridge into the heart of Dayton Ohio. In my heart, I believe that the spirits of Coretta and Martin were with us on that day. Sources James, Timothy (Winter 2013). "The Story of the Black National Anthem, "Lift Ev'ry Voice and Sing", Written by James Weld on Johnson" (PDF). Selah . 1 (1). Archived from the original (PDF) on 16 February 2015. Retrieved 10February 2021 Child Abuse. Childhelp® Phone: 800.4.A.CHILD (800.422.4453) People They Help: Child abuse victims, parents, concerned individuals. Child Sexual Abuse. Darkness to Light Phone: 866.FOR.LIGHT (866.367.5444) People They Help: Children and adults needing local information or resources about sexual abuse. Family Violence. National Domestic Violence Hotline

j3putv

Bird flying

There’s no sound on earth quite like a bird flying into a sliding glass door. Unlike the white noise of mass extinctions and vanishing rainforests, the singular thud of delicate avian bones against shatter-resistant Duraplex glass is impossible to ignore. It's the sound of the natural and man-made worlds colliding, like the off-key fervor of a bronze temple gong struck by a fresh-faced initiate. Burt Frumbder was savoring the second sip of his first cup of coffee when this one-of-a-kind sound made him jump, spilling this same cup of coffee. He swore and shuffled to the kitchen sink, attempting to pat his grey sweatpants dry with a dirty dishcloth. After a few unsuccessful attempts to eradicate the stain, Burt noticed with a satisfied pursing of his lips, that the warmth of the spilled coffee almost felt good on his thighs. He shrugged and walked to the living room to investigate what exactly had caused the sudden noise. Had a bird flown into the sliding glass door a few days earlier, Burt might have spilled coffee on his laptop or phone as he skimmed through manuscripts and client emails at the kitchen table. But Burt had sent off his last round of edits on Monday and he wasn’t planning to log on for any new assignments or updates until this next week, at the earliest. It was Christmas, after all. He'd even left his phone charging on the bedside table to celebrate the sanctity of the season. Burt mentally congratulated himself on his "work-life balance." As far as Burt was concerned, the best week of the year was the four days from December 26th to Dec 30th. It was a dead time of year for work, which meant he could gorge on all the holiday sweets he wanted, binge Netflix for hours, and wear sweatpants all-day without any judgment from the people in his life who had "real jobs." Because they'd all be doing the exact same thing. His (admittedly small) list of clients — mainly vanished in the weeks leading up to and after the holidays only to return like a Mongol horde of motivated go-getters in late January. His inbox would soon be brimming with requests for notes and revisions from hopeful first and second-time novelists looking for miracles instead of copy edits. But he had a few more days until the flood of would-be Hemingways set out to subdue their New Year’s Resolution word counts with painful prose. As he walked into the living room, he could feel his carefree week slipping away. Burt glanced at the sliding glass door for signs of damage, not expecting to find any, and was surprised to see a single feather stuck to the glass. It was dusty grey, almost white, and about the size of a pinky fingernail. It fluttered lightly in the morning breeze, somehow cemented on the glass about six inches below eye level. Burt looked down to see the owner of the feather. He shook his head. The fist-sized bird was limp, his twig legs wilted like damp curly fries as he lay next to the faded “e” at the end of the rust-colored “Welcome” mat. Most people don’t have welcome mats in their backyard. But most people don't live in “the country” as Burt’s older brother, Chris and his wife Charlene call it. Burt was especially thankful for the doormats at every entrance when his rambunctious nieces and nephew came to visit each summer. Burt looked forward to those extended visits; chaotic five or six intervals in July that let him wonder if he’d have been a good dad without having to actually answer the question. Over the years, Burt had trained each youngster to wipe their feet before darting through the sliding glass door in search of a Capri Sun or juice popsicle — usually dripping wet from the pool or caked in mud from the hill at the edge of his property. Chris and Charlene hadn’t visited since Linda left. A flutter of motion at his feet caught Burt’s eye. Burt flicked up the lock and slid the door open with that familiar sci-fi movie sound effect — whoosh . The morning chill blew Burt's thinning shaggy brown hair back off his forehead. The bird, a common sparrow or finch, Burt could never tell the difference, was dazed, but obviously still alive. His wings fluttered as the groggy tried to process his current situation. (Despite Burt's ornithological shortcomings, he had come to the conclusion that the bird was male, mostly so he could stop referring to it as “it” in his head). Having made this first decision regarding the bird, Burt sprang into action. He dashed back into the kitchen to grab the coffee-stained hand towel. When he returned, the bird had managed to flutter itself all the way over to the "W," but didn't look ready to leave the doormat any time soon. Even this meager pilgrimage had left it exhausted. His cotton ball chest puffed and deflated in spastic panic. Yet the bird was unable to muster the energy to evade what he must have assumed was his imminent death at Burt’s descending hands. Burt smothered the bird with the kitchen towel, gently working the delicate bundle around in his hands until he felt the featherweight body settle upright in his palm. One toothpick sharp foot kicked feebly as the bird struggled to readjust itself in his swaddled prison. Burt peeled the fabric back to check on his panicked passenger. The bird was still hyperventilating in a noble attempt to cram in as many last breaths as possible. Millions of years of evolution informed every cell in his tiny bird body that each harried breath would probably be his last. Aside from this existential dread, the bird looked surprisingly unharmed. “There, there now, birdie,” Burt cooed. “You’ll be alright. We’ll fix you right up,” he promised and covered his patient back up. "You just need a little jolt to start the day," he announced his diagnosis. The bird was in no position to ask for a second opinion as Burt walked into the kitchen to administer avian first aid. This, of course, was not Burt’s first encounter with an injured bird. ** Burt's grandmother, Flo, had raised chickens. As kids, Burt and his brother had loved to feed and chase her birds across the yard. Despite the apparent risk that two unruly young boys presented to an animal a tenth their size, chickens are surprisingly capable creatures. They evaded the grasping hands of the Frumbder boys with practiced ease, until one afternoon when Chris caught a chicken daydreaming. Burt burst into his grandmother's kitchen with tears plowing crooked rows through the dust and dirt on his young cheeks. He didn't even need to ask for help. He just pointed outside and his grandmother rushed out with the confidence of a woman who had lost a husband in her 20's and then spent every day since then working a 40-acre farm by herself. She assessed the emergency with a measured glance and disappeared back inside. She emerged seconds later with an old army surplus wool blanket and corralled the injured chicken like a toreador  before bringing her captive inside. Burt still remembers the bundle of white tail feathers poking out of the blanket like frozen fireworks. His grandmother marched into the kitchen, turned on the big kitchen sink faucet, and dunked the bird (upside down) under the freezing tap water for a few seconds. Once the bird had a chance to shake itself dry, grandma fed it a spoonful of American corn whiskey and set it on the back porch. The only lasting consequence of the incident was a slightly less dreamy chicken. ** Burt looked down at the bundle clutched in the kitchen towel. He'd already completed step one of the prescribed regimen. But he was understandably nervous about step two. Giving a bird a bath is harder than you think, especially when that bird is the size of a golf ball and you’re clutching it in a coffee-soaked kitchen towel so it doesn't fly around your house. But his grandma had been pretty clear on the necessity of shocking a bird back to health with cold water after a traumatic event. "Birds, like a few young boys I know, need a good shock to the system when they're acting a fool," she'd said as she dunked the chicken under the tap. He remembered the wink she'd given him and the hint of a smile in one corner of her mouth that had dried his tears and made everything alright. Burt turned on the faucet and loosened his grip on his patient. He checked the temperature with one hand. Ice cold. He unwrapped the bird, clutching it like an arcade claw machine, and dunked him beneath the trickle of tap water. After what can only be described as five seconds of waterboarding, Burt concluded that his patient had been sufficiently shocked and was now safely on the mend. He swaddled him back in the kitchen towel and gently patted him as dry. The bird shook his head to rid himself of a string of water drops. He was ready for the third and final step in the healing process. Burt opened the cabinet above the stove and stood on his tiptoes to see inside. “I’ve got just the thing to get a little pep in your step,” Burt whispered to the damp bird. “Theeeeeeeere it is,” he crooned and grabbed a bottle near the back. “You're in luck, bird-o, my friend. Straight Kentucky Bourbon," Burt read from the label. "Aged three years. Huh. Good stuff. This will get you back in the game in no time." Burt wedged the whiskey bottle between his thighs and twisted the sticky cap loose with his free hand. The only problem now was calculating the proper dosage for his tiny patient. A sparrow ( or finch,  he conceded mentally) is a lot smaller than a chicken, after all. Burt opened the silverware drawer, searching for the smallest teaspoon he owned. He found it — a tarnished scalloped-shaped sugar spoon he’d inherited from that same grandmother. He took it as a sign and laid it on the counter. Burt poured a dram of whiskey for the bird and took a quick swig of medicine for himself. Bird doctoring was hard work this early in the morning. He put the bottle down with a clang and tipped his patient toward this last life-saving treatment, clutching the towel-wrapped bundle with both hands. Burt lowered his face down to watch. Would the bird drink any whiskey? Would it help if he did? How much whiskey did it take to get a finch (or a sparrow) drunk?" The puffy feathered head of the bird lowered to the brown liquid in the spoon. The toy beak opened and he flicked a few sips into his mouth with a twitch of his head. Then he drank a few more sips. “You’re doing it!” Burt whispered. The bird was in fact, "doing it" quite well. Burt had to pull the bird away from his medicine after a few more seconds before he overdosed. Burt lifted the bird up to eye level for a final inspection. "Looks like it's working." The bird rotated its head, in what Burt could only interpret as a genial drunk's easy agreement. Burt was tempted to give the bird another quick dip in the sink to sober him up but settled on a regimen of pacing the length of the kitchen with the bird clutched against his chest. He interrupted his vigil once to self-medicate with a few sips for himself. He'd done it. He'd saved this bird from certain death. He was a hero. Burt had never felt prouder. He rocked the bird gently, lulling it with his whispered plans for the new year. "Maybe I'll finally write a book this year instead of just helping other people write one," he announced to the bird. "I'll start in March, after the New Year's rush." He'd block out time in the mornings. He'd set an alarm and get out of bed a little early. He could knock out a few pages before he checked his emails every day. Nothing was going to get in the way of his book, not even that new client on the East Coast he'd just started working with. “This is my  year, Mr. Bird,” Burt repeated as he paced. He could do anything. His success with his patient was proof of that. Burt felt a flutter in his hand. The bird was struggling, trying to flap against a grip that had gradually tightened as he paced. “Sorry,” Burt whispered. "Let's get you back out there." The bird chirped impatient agreement. Burt walked back to the living room and opened the sliding glass door. The little grey feather was still stuck to the glass. He lowered his patient to the ground, unwrapping the towel like a picnic basket. The bird rolled to the side, righting himself with a quick burst of wing beats. He cocked his head and puffed his feathers against the sudden drop in temperature. The morning air was still brisk, even though the sun was starting to burn through the thin wispy clouds. It was going to be a crisp, clear day. Burt crouched on his heels, his arms wrapped around his knees. He watched the bird test his strength with a few exploratory wingbeats. Then, just as suddenly as he appeared, the bird leaped away in a blur of motion. Burt watched as the bird plummeted through two death-defying dips in his flight pattern, like a long lowercase m , and then the bird was gone, vanished around the side of the house. Burt picked up the dirty kitchen towel and gave it a shake. He closed the sliding glass door with a whoosh  and walked back to the kitchen rubbing his arms to ward off the chill. His coffee had gotten cold, and the kitchen counter smelled like whiskey. He wiped the counter with the towel and popped the coffee mug in the microwave. Burt stared out the kitchen window looking for sparrows. Or maybe finches. He could never tell the difference.

yztkwo

Best friends that have different personalities.

What will I do when my best friend and I have different thoughts, personality, opinion, likes, dislikes. On one side my best friend's name Jack is an introvert, and on the other side I am an extrovert. Hi, my name is Tom. I am 21 years old and today I am going to tell you a story about an introvert and an extrovert who are best friends. One day It was raining heavily when I saw Jack on the pathway along the street pleading for help. No one helped Jack because all of the people were busy running and getting into their own house for shelter, but I went out of my house, took some blankets and went to Jack. He was really cold. He was wearing a torn shirt and pants. His last word was "Please help me" when he suddenly fainted. I wrapped him in the blanket and took him carefully into the house. The house was warm so when Jack entered the house he gave a smile and closed his eyes. I thought that was a sign of relief. I laid him on the sofa, took an electric dryer to dry all his body and prepared hot coffee for him. I thought he would wake up after a few hours but he slept for a whole day and when he woke up he thanked me for saving him. I told him to live with me for a couple of days until he was totally fine. The next day he wore the same clothes that were dirty and torn. I gave him a pair of my clothes I just bought from H&M though he said "No, I don't need it". I forced him to take those clothes and wear the new ones. I also showed him around the house, where everything is in case he needed something when I was not there. I had an Idea and I excitedly said "let's go and have lunch outside today" We went to McDonalds and bought 2 normal burgers and French fries. It tasted really good. Later I bought him an Ice-Cream and there was one thing that I noticed, the way he was eating the burger and the Ice-CreamI knew that he had not eaten food for days. He again thanked him and then I said “Friends don't thank each other, they help each other”. Later that day I studied for my math test. He saw what I was doing and wanted to know more about it, so I involved him and told him everything about Math, Science, Social studies and English. He really likes to study. After a few days we did everything together. I told him how to use electric machines and how the bulb works. Every single day he became better and every day he learned something new. He asked so many questions that on his birthday I gave him a brand new Apple laptop. He was really happy. I also taught him how to play Minecraft. The most popular game and slowly we became best friends, but now the situation is not really good. After 1 year we both started to get fed up with each other because he wanted to eat alone, talk alone, wanted to be alone but I was completely opposite. One day I got 100 marks in my math test and I was so excited that I went to Jack and showed him. I was screaming like crazy because this was a really important test for my career. Suddenly a push came and I fell out of the bed laying on the ground. I was really hurt, I said "Help, Jack please help". No one replied. I stood up and saw Jack was really angry. He shouted and said "I am not going to live with you from now onwards, I hate you" I think he just wants to be alone. He left that day and I also didn't care. I am happy without him. I also don’t want any friend that doesn't talk to me. After a few days I again thought of Jack. I started missing him a little bit. Then I graduated and started looking for a good Job. I tried for months and then I finally got a job in California. I really liked that state. Days went, weeks went and now after a whole 3 years I was going to my office for the first time when I again saw the same Jack that I met 3 years back. He was wearing a good brand coat and pants with shades and an expensive watch. I walked towards him and said "Jack". He turned around and he was shocked. Tears ran from both of our eyes. He ran towards me and hugged me (That was unexpected). I hugged him too. I really missed him in the past 3 years and I think he did the same. He told me that he is sorry for leaving like that 3 years back and pushing me. I also apologized to him. From then on we became the same friends we were 3 years ago. He showed me his new house that was big and then I showed him my house that I just bought. It was of course not better then Jake's house but he liked it a lot. Then we decided to go back to where it all started. My old house in Virginia. I didn't sell that house so we could live there for a few days. We booked plane tickets that day and after a few days we finally reached Virginia. It was a tiring flight. I booked a cab and the cab took me to our old house. The memories came back, I remembered the first day we met. I unlocked the Door and saw the same house. We were really happy. That day we went to McDonald's to eat and that time he was eating slowly and with manners, I was really happy. He told me all the things he did after he left our house 3 year back. I smiled and we went back to our house. The moral of the story is that it doesn't matter if you are an introvert or an extrovert. Everyone has different personalities and that is fine. In our world there are different kinds of people and if they want to be alone and don't want to talk to anyone that is totally fine until unless they don't have any problem.

rrh5j0

A Farm Family and the Underground Railroad

A farm family and the Underground Railroad We read this, and like a Steven Spielberg movie, the scene opens to a view of today’s Sarcoxie, Missouri. It is a small town where everyone knows everyone in town and strangers are greeted with a stare. We see a few cars driving around the circular grassy center, and a few folks walking in and out of main street’s shops.   Then, the camera view raise up into the sky, looking down at the town slowly fading into the misty clouds, and the letters 1838 appear, puffs up like a cumulous, then seems to be blown away. The camera returns to the barren flatlands, with a few little shops under construction...   A horse drawn covered wagon rumbles into town. The driver stops a stranger and asks a question. The stranger spits some tobacco out so he can answer, says something and points down the dirt street. The driver, Tom, touches his hat in gratitude and prods his horses to go.   We see him come out of a building with a map that shows where his land can be claimed. He yells to his boys to get back in the wagon, as they wanted to look their new town over a little. He hears the girls squawking as the boys pull themselves in.   “Hey, looky here. We’re all tired, so settle down. Just up this road is where were abuildin’ our new farm.” John the oldest boy is 17. He lets out a whoop, loud as he can “YaaAHhooo!” and the younger kids join in, and Tom smiles.   He tries to imagine what his Polly would be a thinkin’ right now. They’ll have enough acreage here to call it a real farm. They had made the plans and paid the moneys, and then Polly comes down with something. They put off that hard travel hoping she’d get well, but Polly never got well. She died in her bed, there in Kentucky, the stain of a dried tear on her cheek.   “Hey now, get over here with some more of those posts” John is yelling at Dave and Brad, the young brothers. They lift up the boards so he and Jim can nail them together.  In the background, we see that the barn is built, and Tom is fixing a door on the farm house. It is set in front of a grove of trees that were there. In a following scene, the audience will see more wagons moving in, setting up their various properties. On of the new arrivals sees Tom and waves to him. He walks over briskly to shake Tom’s hand.   “Howdy do! We’re a settin’ up across the way from you. Well, dam! That is a great lookin’ barn you got there. You got niggers to help you out?”   Tom’s handshake goes a little limp, and he frowns at this new neighbor.  “NO sirree. Me and the boys got this put up, our ownselves. We don’t pine to own no people to do our work. That, to us, is a goddamned sin.”   “Oh, now hold on, I didn’t mean anything by askin’. Me and Beatrice, we don’t cotton to slavery, neither...I just wanted to make sure, that’s all. Hey, sorry, my name’s Frank. Frank Whitehead. What do you go by?”    “Well, now, that’s a relief. My name’s Tom. Tom Landers...those are my boys over there working the fence.” he turns toward where his boys are. “John, bring your brothers over here, now.” He turns back to Frank. “Soon as you get ready, I’ll see if my boys’ll hep you put up your farm and stuff.”    A friendship did descend on these pioneer neighbors, and as the month’s went by, they all helped each other putting their community together. One day as the sun is close to going down, Tom sees Frank along with Gil Platte and George Reynolds riding their horses up his long driveway.   “Hey, there, Tom. You know Gil and George from up the road. You got a little time to talk? I brought us a little nip of that real Kentucky stuff, well now, I mean, Gil had it. Okay if we talk out ta your barn, ‘ere?”   Tom says, “yeah, sure. Come on out. Bessie and Clara won’t mind us havin’ a little taste.” that was the name of his two milk cows.    Gil starts in. He kind of had a nervous, staring way of talkin’, with his eyes constantly looking around. “Tom, I been a talkin’ to my uncle Ferdie. Uncle Ferdie’s got hisself a church over thar at Carthage. He got to talkin’ with some a them Carthage folks, and...” he starts talking in a whisper. “Some a them folks wants ta hep out them niggers tryin’ ta get away, you know, not be slaves no more...”   Tom involuntarily jerks back, eyes widened, “Hey, hey, hey, hey. You better stop right there Gil. I was in town last week, and that sheriff, wa’el, he’s a watchin’, and I don’t doubt some’ons a payin’ him to catch runaways... and he’s got those rowdy boys from the Hancock ranch helpin’ him out. I heerd someone, I think it was that Earl somethin’ was tryin’ to hide someone. They stuck him in jail... I think he’s still a sittin’ in jail.”    “Earl got caught? Dam, I thought I heerd that. But doggone it, Earl’s not all ‘at smart, and is all a’time blabbin. So we ain’t a gonna be talkin’ to Earl none. Let me finish, and then you go and think it over. They’s talkin’ about setting up a trail of farms. They’ll be travelin’ only at night, and the the, they’re a callin’ em stations, are about 10 miles apart, sometimes 20. We hide ‘em out for a few days, and ‘en, you’ll get word of ‘bout when the pick up wagon is on its way to take ‘em to the next station. All at night. George and Frank here will do it, then the next time its me, and we’d like another place. That way old Sheriff Goosen don’t catch on. I’ve got my hidin’ place started. You just got to dig a pit, good to hold five or six to sleep in. It’d be good if you could provide for ‘em, too, just a little corn or some biscuits, you know.”   Tom is holding the little bottle, and hands it back to Gil without trying it. “Fellas, I really don’t know. Let me talk it over with the older boys, see what they think. If we decide to join in, I’ll send one a the boys over in a couple of days... okay?”    This was about 1851. Most of the talk was about the Mexican War, the Alamo in Texas, and all that new land in the west. There was also some talk about the Fugitive Slave Act, now supported by that new President Filmore. Some of his children were starting their own families, but were just starting their own farms. Most and their mates were still living at the Landers farm. It was good sized.... After the family meal, Tom wanted to have a talk with his older sons, and in the house, so the older girls and their husbands could listen.    Tom started in by saying, “ ‘some other farmers’ were talking about, helping those black folks escape to the north. We’d only do it maybe once a month, but if any a those slave people, like the sheriff and the Hancock hands ever found out, they might put us all in jail and burn our farm down. It’s risky. That danged Filmore even is a making people turn them black folks in or go to jail. But, it is the right thing for good folks to do, whatever the law says. I kind of think I like the idea of helping out...maybe if we hep enough out a those farms, that damnable business might even shut down. But, knowin’ the risks and punishments, and even losin’ the farm, you need to tell me what you want to do. Take a chance, or stay clear of it...” [here, the family talks in quiet tones, some of the family looking worried.  But then, the talk quiets, the heads nod in agreement. They all wanted to go along with their Pap. He was a righteous man.]   Tom sent Jim over to tell Frank that they wanted in. Jim has his eye on their young Susan too. He rode over and knocked on the door. Beatrice opened the door.    “Hey, thar Jimmy. What’r you a doin’ over here now?” there was a twinkle in her knowin’ eye. “Oh, howdy, Mrs. Whitehead. I’m supposed to ax Mr. Whitehead to come over when he can to talk to Pap. Oh, hi, Susan...” Susan kind of gives a forced smile than looks away. Later he found out she was sweet on Glenn down at the Murphy store.    Tom had put his pipe out and laid on the bed. He stretched his shoulders trying to calm a backache down. He reached over to grab the candle holder to blow out the flame. He heard a knock at the door. It was late and it was dark. He opened the door and peered out. A stranger moved into view. “How do. Is this thirteen?” This was his signal that a wagon was on its way. It was the first. “Yes. Thirteen blue shoes on fire.” Tom had that signal memorized. The stranger disappeared into the dark, and Tom heard his horse ride away. He went over to shake John and Jim awake. “There a comin’. We need to get ready.” The trio marched out to the barn with Jim holding the candle. “Keep that damned candle hidden, Jimmy...” Once inside the barn, close to where Tom did his leather work, they pulled the old carpet up off the wood platform exposing the pit. Then they waited just outside to listen for the wagon. Jim had to poke John where he sat. He had sat there and started to snore. “Whoa, hey there. Did I go to sleep? Sorry. Heard anything yet?”  Nothing yet, so they started talking about the corral they almost had finished. “That little corral for Nipsy... we need a little top cover to keep him out of the rain. He hates the danged rain.”  “Yeah, I know. That’s why I sawed them posts longer, so’s to set a little shelter roof on it. He’ll be okay.” Tom said, “Boys, hush up. I hear a wagon I think, comin’ down Rollins. D’ya hear it?” The boys strain their necks in that direction. “I heerd somethin’... could be a wheel creakin’...” Then it seemed to appear in the dark. The man on the wagon looked a little frantic. “I got ‘em here, under that there hay. It’s a female and a little boy. They’re okay, just get up down quick.” Tom blew out the candle but they could still see the pit. “Wha’s down deah?” the black woman said. “Nothin’, no spiders or nothing, just a hole...go on down that ladder so we can cover it up.” “I wanna see what’s down ‘ere....you got a candle so’s I kin see?” John whispers loudly, “No, get on down ‘ere, now. You gonna get us all caught.” So the suspicious runaway obeys and disappears into the dark of the pit. They hear her voice under the rug. “Does we get sumpin’ t’eat? We ain’t et all day...” John feels exasperated. “Don’t be talkin’ down there. We got some biscuits and cooked up some corn ears for you. Just hold your horses.”   “Momma, sumpin’ jez touched my arm. I don’t wanna be here in this dark!” John says, “You folks got to keep quiet. If the neighbors hear you, you’ll have to go back...” Then he heard the little guy crying, and the woman telling him to shut up or get smacked. John was thinking, “Oh lordy, I wonder if this was a good idea to get into...” Just outside the barn door, he heard of group of riders coming up the road. He could just hear the little boy still fussing. He stood frozen in the dark, and then heard the riders go by, on down the road.    The next morning, he handed down a bowl of oatmeal and a few cold biscuits along with a quart of water. “Don’t you have a spoon we kin use?” John was a bit abrupt. “No. We is out of spoons. I almost forgot, this here buckets for y’all to pee in or whatever. He hung it down and when she didn’t grab it, he just dropped it.  They could hardly wait for the wagon to come by and take these two to the next stop. It just so happened that a house slave, a heavy set black woman who called herself Wanda came in one night with a smaller black woman. After she settled in to the pit, she wondered: “you people seen a young nigga gal wif a li’l boy, maybe 2 or so come through heah?” John remembered. She then told them about Doris. They were from the same farm. What John heard Wanda tell him was that this young female slave, Doris, was a ‘house’ slave. Wanda looked up at John from the pit. She was talking in strong whispers. “Is ‘t okay iffen I ax you sumpin?  I kin tell you din’t care much f’ her. Doris. Can I talk? Now don’t ‘cha take this wrong. I jus’ feel ‘ike tellin’ you, is that okay? Doris was a good girl, ah mean, nice. She swept the manshunn, set the table, hepped make the beds, and sometimes had to get in bed with the old ‘master’. That happened every time his missus went to visit friends in the city. The first time he closed the bedroom door and told her to skin outa her duds, she din’t even know what he meant. She was barely 14 at the time. Just recently, she had heard them talking about her boy, little Isaac. They were saying that Isaac would be sold to their cousins down in Arkansas in a few weeks. Doris knew that it was Mrs. O’Keefe’s idea. Isaac did sort of have a resemblance to Mr. O’Keefe. To keep her boy, he was barely two, she had to run....she had t’give up her tolerable life.” John couldn’t help but enjoy listening to how this fat lady could tell a story. He also felt a lot more sympathetic to young Doris’ situation, and felt a little gloomy for how he had felt about her.    The next time the signal was given, a few weeks later, it was a fine old gentleman, so grateful for the help. He even acted surprised to get the butter and cheese biscuits. “God bless ye...” he said, I is so grateful for yo’ hep. Da Lord, he gonna smile on you mens.” When the wagon came for old Jesse, they were sorry to see him go. They had listened to him telling funny stories into the night. He could tell a story and it filled you with chills just hearing his descriptions. “Why, we even had us a fiddler sneaked oveh into our cabin area in the night. He called himself Bobby Sneaker because he was always sneaking off the Reynolds farm. That man could play any tune you could think of , an’ even them humms.” Jesse said, gesturing like he was playing that fiddle. “The next day, the whole crew, we was sleepy out in the fields...’til we hudd the whip crack...it was hard to quit the listenin’! The field boss, he weren’t too happy wif us...but nobody let on about Bobby Sneaker, no sir.” Jim stayed close to the barn door, listening for anything out there, but it was a quiet night. When Jesse got in the wagon to depart, Tom, John, Jim and even young Bradford all knew, they were going to miss him. Jesse, in his short time there, had been their friend.    Most of the time, the wagon brought one person over, but several times, there was a family. The most one night was five folks, including a really old grandmother. One of the most awful was Reuben Taylor. How he got away in his condition was amazing. He had been whipped so hard with an old bull whip that the Landers boys were just plain shocked when he pulled his dirty brown stained shirt up.    “Oh, my god, look at his back. Pappy, this feller needs to see Doc Seymoure...ohhh, oh, you can see here..ohooh god, one of his rib bones. This should be sewed up.” Tom takes a look and grimaces. “Well, we’ll do what we can, boys. Go ahead, get me down the leather needles. Up there on the top shelf. In that can. Yeah, that one. Jim, go get that salve from ‘Mandy. She knows where it is.” Reuben kept his chin tucked down against his breast bone and looked sad. “I thankee, yeah, man, do what you can...” Tom was skilled at making shoes for his family, but poking that needle in a living human made his hands quiver. He used the thinnest strips of cow leather he could cut. Poor old Rueben jerked every time the needle went through his skin, but he didn’t ever complain, just made a quiet sound in his throat. When the wagon picked him up a couple of nights later, he did feel a little better and even smiled through his pain and waved at the men before he crawed down under the wheat stems. Tom gestured to him, kind of a salute motion, and prayed that this nice fellow would heal up okay.   Tom looked up at the stars in the dark sky, and could picture his young sons needing to cut the corn and the wheat and get it all stacked up and in the storage. He felt tired, having to be up into the night and then having to work all day, and could tell it was hard on his boys, too. Their eyes were looking all sunk in and encircled in dark, and their mouths hung open all the work day long. “This ain’t easy, Lord. I jus’ hope we’s doin’ some good here...”

1g4yb5

What is in an empy room?

What is in an empty room? By Millenia Todd The day was hot, and I just wanted to stretch out in the bed, with no covers on and rest through to the evening. I had been especially lucky today which never happens to me. Earlier this morning I had stopped for a bite to eat at this diner down the road, from my mother's old place. I was just passing through going down memory lane as it were when my car was towed. I saw it moving past the diner window, so I dropped my spoon in the sweet and creamy chocolate sundae I was enjoying and took off after it on foot. I did not get far running down the gravel road because my ankles were no match for the rocks under my feet. A litany of colorful words passed through my lips as I headed back to the almost empty diner and my quickly melting ice cream. I wasn’t' sure what to do as I couldn’t afford both a room for the night and a tow. I considered calling my sister from a payphone, but I was sure she did not want to speak. We never get along it seems and now that mom and dad are gone, we have no reason to at all. Alone with my thoughts I was suddenly brought to reality by an older woman tapping on my shoulder. “Hi. I am Mabel Alister. I couldn’t help notice that you’ve been here at the diner for hours and well, I was wondering if you might need someplace to stay tonight.” It seemed as if my silent prayers were answered, and I took her up on her offer immediately. If I wanted my car back, I really needed to hang on to what I had. I introduced myself, shaking her hand readily. I hoped I would not embarrass her with my eagerness, but I could not contain it. She smiled brightly unbothered by my enthusiasm. “I live just up the road on the left. We will have to walk, but I rather enjoy it.” Her hospitality was much needed on my part. I have been carrying much upon my shoulders these days and was not sure I could take this blow financially. We left the diner and headed on foot less than a mile up the road, to an impressive looking country home. The yard was tended to lovingly and had a lady's touch to it, as red and pink roses were placed about perfectly. We entered the home, and it was just as beautiful as the outside. She showed me to a room at the end of the hall upstairs. “Ms. Alister, back there at the diner I was struggling with my thoughts on what to do next. I don’t know how or what I did to deserve your help, but I am thankful.” Ms. Alister smiled at me. I tried to guess at her age but could not. Barely a wrinkle graced her serene face, even though you could see the years behind her eyes. “Call me Mabel from now on. I feel we will become good friends. Now get settled in and meet me downstairs in an hour. We can sit and you can tell me all about yourself.” I feel like we have met someplace before, but where I know not. It is possible we have crossed paths when I visited mom before she passed. That time was hard enough that I barely recall anything or anyone but loneliness and sadness. The sun was headed down as I rose from the bed. A breeze coming through the window was stifling as I made my way downstairs to the open front door. Mabel was on the porch swing with two glasses of lemon iced tea nearby. She smiled immediately and motioned for me to join her. We sat for a bit watching the people pass and then she turned to me. “So, I haven't seen you around here before. Are you just passing through?” That was easy enough to answer. “Yes. My mother use to live here a while ago and I was just revisiting old memories. I didn't get to say goodbye and a crazy notion came over me to see her old place.” I took myself aback saying that aloud. I never talk about my feelings to anyone. My family says I need to accept that she is gone, and I have, but they prefer that my feelings are kept to myself. I began to apologize but then she says, “My mother lost my father when I was sixteen. It was all she could talk about for many years after. She encouraged all who knew and loved him to do the same, even if they didn't want to. She would get them to even when they didn’t know it.” she chuckled. “I’m all ears even if you don’t think you need it honey.” Something inside of me shifted when she said that. I began telling her all about how my father who was an absolute jokester and established businessman, who died from a fall in which he hit his head and that my mother died from cancer ten years after. My parents were older when they were blessed with my sister and then me. My sister did not understand me at all, and she would always seem argumentative. Mabel refilled our drinks and was pondering something when she asked, “Did your sister have a rough time with your mothers passing?” I shook my head “she said that mother and father would be together now and that things would be ok. She made me so upset by this as we were still young, and I needed them both still. I didn’t want to be alone.” “Hun, you aren't alone. You have your sister and now you have me. I am willing to bet on it that you and your sister could patch things up if you could just actually listen to what the other has to say. All relationships whether they be siblings, or couples need hard work and the want to have them flourish. You two need each other more than ever. Only you two can understand and help each other bear the loss you both feel.” What Mabel said is easy enough to see, but my vision has been so clouded. Not being able to say aloud how I feel has left me wandering unable to be comfortable in one place.  We continued talking like this on the porch until dinner, then it was time for bed. As I laid in bed I thought of my life as an empty room. Gone were the ones that had filled it and made it a home. Now I had Mable and with her help, hopefully my sister again too. I started to feel warm inside and to see I really was lucky. For the first time in a long time, I let that warm feeling remain in my chest to carry me through the night, and in to the next day.

n8gjbq

Digging Holes

You’re through to Summit Finance, my name is Dave. How can I help you today?”Another call. How can I help? Jesus Christ, I can’t help these poor bastards at all. I’m just digging the hole they’re in a little deeper. My computer screen flickers and a name appears. I’ve seen it before. One of our regulars. She wants more money. I check out what she has as collateral. This will be the last time I can help her out, otherwise, my boss will kick my ass. “Hi, Candy. It’s Dave.” Candy tries to tell me her problems. She doesn’t want to borrow anymore, but she has bills to pay. I think she’s trying to hold back the tears but she’s not doing too good a job. She says I have a nice voice. I do. My voice can charm snakes. The numbers are tight. A few more questions asked, ok. I say she can have the check and tell her to have a nice day. I put the phone down and look around. There are a hundred advisors here and we all have a story to tell, each tale more sorry than the next. We have quotas and targets and, like headless chickens, we dance around the screens, hitting buttons and achieving diddley-squat to the well-being of the world, always busy, always doing nothing. It’s not enough, though. The war boards flicker and tell us that there are forty-three people waiting. The war board never lies. The war board is God in a call center. The war board is omnipotent and always right. “Dave?” My team leader looks at me and glances at the war boards. I get the message. We all do. There are very few words of consequence spoken between the team leaders and the advisors. The team leaders speak in numbers and numbers is a foreign language. We, the advisors, we speak English, although section A deals in Spanish, too. There are a lot of Hispanics in LA who need us to dig their holes a little deeper. We're here to give them the shovels. I take another call. A guy called Russell wants $10,000. I ask him what for. He says he’s behind in his alimony and unless he finds the money, he’ll be thrown in jail. I'd like to think it’s a better alternative. He has no collateral. I ask him how he expects to pay it back. He asks me to trust him. He‘s not from Planet Reality. I stop digging his hole. He swears at me and I really hope he has a nice day. I think jail will improve his prospects. At lunch, the advisors sit together. We don’t talk much because we have nothing to say. Amir prays in a corner. He does that a lot. I wonder if he says a prayer for his clients. I chomp my way through pastrami and rye and drink a non-diet Coke. Carol is pregnant again. The boss won't like that. Sandy tells everyone about her boyfriend. He's in the Army, fighting in Iran. She asks if it's in Europe. I say it's close to. The war boards flash on red and we ignore them for as long as we can. My boss looks at me and smiles. He has spinach on his teeth. It improves his character a hundred percent. I’m tired. The afternoon continues in much the same way it always does. Working for a high-interest loan company is depressing. We are always high on the hit-list of consumer watchdog programs and the media hates us. I'm not proud of myself. People trust us too much, we, us, me, just a voice at the end of a telephone call. I'm a stranger who knows their secrets. Their life lies at my fingertips, all of it, down to the last detail. By four o’clock, I have reached my quota of loans. I’m not able to sell any more today. Our managers, the suits, decide on our quotas. I lean back in my chair and decide that's it. I can’t take anymore. I go over my crib sheet and study all my victims for the day. These are people who live in the city, my city, who try to survive each day without imposing themselves on others, people who just want to make it through to the Jay Leno Show. I deal with these people. People like Jonas Kite, a Vietnam veteran. He's 73 and in a wheelchair. We’ve given him $15,000, so he can live out his last years on a ventilator at the Sunnyside Nursing Home. He has a house that his relatives will find is not going to be wholly theirs when he dies. I hate my job. I look over each and every one of these people again. It's hot. Summit Finance doesn't believe in air-conditioning. I feel the sweat run down my back, my shirt is damp and I have a headache. My team leader comes over. "Good work, Dave. I see she's back for more." He points towards a clients' name who's virtually hocked her soul to the company. "Interest rates are increasing by one or cent next week," he adds. He's like a medieval torturer twisting the screws into a lost soul's body. He smirks like he thinks it's fubby and pats my back as he moves away. That's it, I think to myself. I go back to my desk. My fingers move over my keyboard as I decide to do one good thing. I use a code we are told about in training and also told never to use. It wipes their accounts clean. They are now in financial la-la land. Their holes are concreted over. In the morning, they will all receive emails to advise them that they have a second, third or fourth chance in life. They'll call up. My boss will check everything and have a heart attack. His boss will kick his ass so the heart attack may be the best option he has. I won’t care. I quit.

olcxdx

Style and profile are what matters

That’s the thing about this city. No matter how many times I drive through it or traverse it by foot, I get the same impression. This metropolis of the Southwest values style over substance. Straight south of us, about four hours away, is Houston, a place I don’t particularly care for, but one that does have a certain distinctiveness and flair. For one, officials decided long ago not having any zoning, which means, arguably, you could see a slaughterhouse right next to a senior citizen’s home. It’s the kind of quirkiness for which a number of Houstonians are quite proud. However, the city is also grounded in the oil and shipping industries, which give that city something of a blue-collar feel. Also, south of us, one will find Austin and San Antonio, two metropolitan communities with connections to Texas’ present and past. The former is home to the University of Texas and the state capital, and its life revolves around the burnt orange of the Longhorns and the “Eyes of Texas.” Thrown in a thriving music scene, and one will see what makes Austin tick. Within San Antonio, there remains what’s left of an old Spanish mission called The Alamo. It was there, the legend goes, that more than 180 Texians fought to the last man against Santa Anna’s invading army. Never mind that Texas was part of Mexico at the time, and in Santa Anna’ eyes, as well as many of his compatriots, the Texians he invited to settle the land were trying to steal it by force. Visit the Alamo City, and one will witness Texas pride at its peak, as well as a blended Tex-Mex culture. About an hour to our west is Fort Worth, also known as Cowtown. Don’t laugh, the residents of that city embrace the name, for it’s there are the Fort Worth Stockyards, to which cattle are brought for sale. It’s a link to Texas’ past, where, at least according to Hollywood, where the Lone Star State was home to nothing but cowboys and bandits. Fort Worth also has a true blue-collar feel, where getting one’s hands dirty and earning a living via back-breaking worked is not looked down upon. If you haven’t already guessed, my city is Dallas, commonly known as “Big D,” a metropolitan landscaped consisting of numerous streets, endless buildings, along with an Amtrak station. Yet, for all it has, Dallas truly has no substance. When one mentions my city to outsider, usually their first thoughts are of the long-running television series “Dallas,” in which oil men walked around the city wearing finely tailored suits and 10-gallon hats, and “Walker, Texas Ranger,” which featured a senior citizen beating up criminals much younger and bigger than him. In the more than 20 years of living in Big D, I have yet to encounter anyone matching the descriptions of either J.R. Ewing or Cordell Walker. Since its incorporation in 1856, Dallas has grown into a major metropolis that is home to a federal reserve bank, a major newspaper and multiple business and residential high-rises. However, even with all that, there is an emptiness to Big D, one that doesn’t exist in places like New York or Chicago. There, as well as in other small and large metropolises through the nation, one can feel their heartbeat and sense the fabric that ties the citizens together. Not so with Big D. Sure, Dallas has a lot going for it. There is the Texas State Fair and the original Cotton Bowl stadium, the latter of which hosts the annual Red River Shootout between Texas and Oklahoma. The stadium used to host the annual Cotton Bowl Classic every Jan. 1, but now that game is played in nearby Arlington at the home of the Dallas Cowboys. In a way, though, the Cowboys have been a good metaphor for Dallas, in that throughout their history, the so-called “America’s Team,” has placed more emphasis on style over substance, whether it was the polished looked of Tom Landry’s teams or the current regime of Jerry Jones, which features an emphasis on making money. Even their current stadium is pure Dallas, as it was built to house more than 100,000 people who can watch a contest in what’s best described as an athletic amusement park. The fact it’s located near Six Flags over Texas, an actual amusement facility, is quite appropriate. The Cowboys have much success during their more than 60 years of existence. However, more often than not, they’ve failed in crunch time because they had no solid core upon which to draw, much like the city they supposedly represent. In the 1960s, and in subsequent years, Dallas’ opponents often said if you figuratively “punched them in the mouth,” the Cowboys wouldn’t know what to do. There was truth to that, because the Cowboys, were more interested in looking good. They had to maintain their “style” above all else. Other teams, understood the final score was the most important thing, not how you looked getting there. While a one- or two-point win satisfied most competitors, Cowboy players and coaches, most of the time, viewed such triumphs with disdain, because they did not look perfect in achieving victory. Such is the way life in Big D, where being seen with the right people, wearing the right clothes and shopping at expensive restaurants and stores are musts if one if to be a true Dallasite. Let’s just say that Dallas does its very best to a southwestern version of Hollywood, although those television and movie portrayals would believe one to think otherwise. If you look good, stand tall and present yourself in an acceptable manner, you can make it in Dallas. Your true self is irrelevant. That’s why celebrities and athletes who speak their mind, or could care less about appearance, would never cut it in Big D. Here, one must look and act and certain way, not be true to one’s self. I could never imagine the late, great Ted Williams working or playing in Dallas. A solid celluloid example of Dallas-based thinking can be found in the Norris film “Lone Wolf McQuade,” arguably the inspiration for Walker Texas Ranger. In it, Norris plays a Texas Ranger willing to do what it takes to catch the villain, including the bending the rules. Most of all, he doesn’t mind being bloodied and getting dirty along with way. This latter point doesn’t sit well with his boss, who wants his Rangers to have a certain “style,” one that is presentable to the public. Results don’t matter, it’s how one looks doing them that counts. I’ll give credit to Dallas’ leaders, all the way back to the ones who were here before the city became incorporated. Over time, they made sure Dallas obtained everything necessary to make it major metropolis. It presents a skyline that’s impressive whether viewing it from ground or air. However, that’s all there is, because there isn’t much beneath. Perhaps that’s the way Dallas’ founders wanted, and, if so, they got their wish. After all, its style, not substance that counts, and Dallas lives by that motto every day of the week.

3x5eby

Havoc mind

I sat up and stared aimlessly at the empty space sadly ,the quiet house reminded me of the once filled Happy home . But just like that it all disappeared leaving me alone in the sad castle. They say "Happiness is spending everyday with the people you love".It was just like yesterday I could still hear mom's voice calling me for breakfast,Dad talking happily to his client on phone although his tone was serious but he had smile spread on his lip,Guess they were both talking about money. My brother Dieyi telling mum about his upcoming basketball game that week. It all disappeared within a twinkle of an eye, dad been sent to jail for selling drugs, mum still laying unconscious in coma , She slumped from shock , the shocking news of dad been jailed was too much for her health condition.  My brother suddenly left a month ago with his few of his belongings leaving me alone here confused and lost. I could remember the day before his sudden disappearance without a trace, was the day ,Doctor Zi called the both of us about how our mother's health was detorating and could be dangerous, if she didn't get surgery on time. The whole world suddenly became dark and cloudy,as we were both confused and no one and nowhere to go. That night my brother was on call with an unknown person, before I could even hear what they were talking about,he ended the call. He realized a deep sigh and tired shoulder dropped,I know he is also fustrated with the whole events,this cruel world filled with heartless people,those cruel relatives who would turn up on our doorstep and request for money and help from our parent,all turned us down now that we are in need.Guess that what people are,right . That night Dieyi called me to his room and told me" that a friend is doing part-time job and he said he would introduce him to his boss,so I can earn money for mum's surgery. Don't worry little sis everything will be back to normal,I assure you",he finished saying and patted my head. Since that night have not see his trace or heard from him.Things have become unbearable and my strength are failing each day ,my confused self prays and hope things would be better and go back to how it used to be. The havoc mind. Recalling the good old days,I never imagined things could turn out this way. I miss that nice woman with the nicest smile in the world,my mum's best spot is kitchen. My dad has always been a workaholic,who works day and night just to provide us with all we want. Little did we know dad was doing dirty deal selling drugs below for You Mafia gang ,the most notorious and evil gang in Asia. But why would Dad do something like that, I have always being proud of him. Before he was arrested mum already had suspicion on Dad's late night work , strange calls and messages,when confronted about it he would denied it and say he knows nothing about it. The whole mess and confused situation was started after his arrest,I don't know how to forgive him. Two weeks ago, I received call from hospital that someone paid for my mum's surgery,that was the happiest thing that have happened to me in months now. I could not express my joy and gratitude enough,"Everything is finally going back to normal",I cried out in joy. " If only brother could be here now with us",I thought sadly as I alarted from the taxi and rushed to the hospital. After Doctor Zi discussed with me about my mum's surgery that will be done the next day, I matched happily to the receptionist to ask about the savior but to my amazment,she said the man don't wish to disclose his identity,he just did for charity and don't expect anything else. This made me so happy and on top of the world,but there was still some shade of sadness. " How would have been if my brother Dieyi was here,I tried calling him but no avail he wasn't even picking up. Where could he be and how is he doing" this were thought that race through my mind as sat down on my bed staring aimlessly at the window. The day dark sky is covered with dark mist,my heart is covered by it right now and I can't think straight,a mind in havoc. Many times I just wish this is just a dream,I continue to stare at the dark night with a puzzled mind, praying silently for my brother to come. I finally laid back on bed and tossed up and down on my bed, before finally falling to sleep. The next morning,a delivery guy showed up at my door with lot of home appliance and electronics. "Wrong place",I said not interested as I try to close back my door. " Good morning,are you Miss Yu Lan,am asked to send this to you from JK agency" he stated "Sound more and more confused is JK agency not the ones that sponsoring Ariel Kpop idiols,then why are they sending things to my door",just before I could be brainstorming for possible answer. A call came in ," Are you Miss Yu, Dieyi's younger sister" the voice asked. "Yes,do you know my brother, please where is he",I questioned non-stop. " I am Dieyi's manager, of course he is doing fine,but presently he signed contract with our company to train as an idiol and in return we settle his finacial needs, like we payed your mom's surgery .There rules that our trainees abide to and that is not leaving the Star house without a proper leave. So he won't be able see you for now. You can talk to him on phone,am going to send you his new contact,so you could talk to him",he finished saying and ended the call. I don't know what to say or do,all I know is my heart is racing with joy. " Things are finally going back to normal and Happiness",I screamed for joy,am the most happiest person on Earth to here the joyful news,I am so so happy and proud of him. I can't wait to hear from me, looking forward in great anticipation to his call.Now I have a brother who is going to be an idiol.

98azqb

Waiting for Samuel Beckett

“You wanna do something fun?” “No.” “You wanna do something fun?” “NO.” “Why not?” “Because your idea of fun isn’t.” “Isn’t what?” “Isn’t fun.” “C’mon.” “No.” “C’mon.” “NO.” “Really?” “Really. Whenever we go out, I end up regretting it.” “You don’t.” “I do.” “C’mon. Fun. Let’s go.” “I don’t want to do anything fun with you because you have the boundaries of a rabid dog.” “Thank you.” “Your idea of fun is breaking things. Rules. Society norms. Girls’ hearts. Curfew. On more than one occasion, windows.” “That’s not always true. Usually true, but not always true.” “You remember last time?” “Yes.” “That was a nightmare.” “That was fun.” “That was pure hell.” “That was pure fun. Hey . . . you know that wasn’t ALL my fault last time.” “The fist fight or the car chase or the girl?” “Yes.” “Yes?” “All of that. Not my fault.” “How can you say that?” “How can I say what—” “How can you claim you weren’t at fault for any of it?!” “Well, I’m not at fault for most of it . . .” “How can you say that?” “Easily. The words just came out of my mouth.” “How can you think that?” “Logical deductive reasoning. Try it sometime.” “You were totally at fault. Including vomiting in that guy’s car.” “Jaigermeister and Red Bull is terrible together.” “You were ridiculous.” “I was a victim of circumstance.” “You walked into a bar, punched a guy, then stole his keys, his car, and his girlfriend.” “Yeah, that was fun. And she was lovely. It was a shame I had to leave her in a Wal-Mart parking lot with her boyfriend’s car.” “She called the police!” “That’s because you were getting hysterical. We were getting along just fine before you brought up her boyfriend. She did give me her phone number . . .” “We barely got away, you maniac. Her boyfriend showed up with the wrestling team—” “But we did get away . . .” “You need to get away from me.” “You need to quit being so boring.” “Boring is good. Boring people stay out of jail. Boring people live long enough to marry and pay taxes.” “Boring is crippling. See? You’ve been sitting on your ass all day in front of your sad computer in this depressing little dorm room. Throw on a clean shirt. Actually, I’ll throw on one of your clean shirts. Mine smells like a middle school gymnasium.” “Take that off.” “Nope. Let’s go. You wanna do something fun.” “No. Last time was the last time. And I think you are in need of some serious counseling. And while we’re at it, I will need you to quit eating my food and stealing all of my clean t-shirts.” “I cannot promise any of that. Sometimes I’m going to just eat your Hot Pockets and wear your Abercrombie & Fitch stuff since it looks infinitely better on me.” “You are a terrible person.” “Terrible beats boring, my man. Let’s go out and have some fun!” “Maybe if you took some personal responsibility and admitted you started that mess last time we went out, I would consider it.” “Nope.” “I was terrified the entire time! You smashed mailboxes with a baseball bat on the way home. Now, tell me again how none of that was your fault, either?” “That particular incident was just—a spontaneous reaction to stimuli.” “A reaction to stimuli? What exactly was the catalyst that drove you to smash them? Did they need smashing?” “They did. Call it a scientific experiment.” “Oh, please tell me. Explain the science behind decapitating mailboxes in a quiet college town. You do realize one of those mailboxes belonged to the Registrar.” “Actually, his box was the one I was going for. We had a disagreement over my student fees this semester. Lab fees or something . . .” “So what scientific theory were you proving, besides practicing your follow through?” “Oh, it’s an age-old quest—what happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object.” “Vandalism?” “Sure. Vandalism. Whatever you want to call empirical studies. I mean, that’s just science.” “That’s just you being a jackass.” “Look. The last time we went out, all of the events of the evening were not premeditated, so not all of it was my fault.” “You are pathological. Probably clinically insane on some level.” “No, I’m not. I assure you, I am quite sane.” “Then you are a psychopath.” “Most likely.” “Impulsive. Remorseless. Emotionally cold.” “Check, check, and check.” “Why do I hang out with you?” “Because I’m your roommate and I’m fun.” “You are not fun. You are dangerous.” “Same thing.” “Admit you were at fault last time.” “I will admit I made a few impulsive moves. In the future, I may choose differently, I agree. But that night? Not entirely my fault.” “Assault and battery? Grand theft auto? Kidnapping?” “Yeah, that was fun.” “That was NOT fun. Fun isn’t racking up three felonies.” “Fun is not staying home typing up a 1600 word essay for sociology class. That isn’t even a real major.” “Either is Communication, but you are rocking it with your 2.0 GPA.” “C’mon.” “No.” “You wanna have some fun. Let’s just go.” “NO.” “With your superior knowledge of human social behavior and patterns of social relationships, we can definitely meet some girls.” “I’ve taken twelve credit hours of sociology, so maybe lower the bar. I’m just a college sophomore with $17.00 left until the end of the month. I doubt the girls will be lining up to talk about Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs.” “$17.00 can go a long way to having a great time. I’ll add it to my bankroll, and we will get out of here and have some fun.” “For a total of . . .” “$17.00. I have nothing but a student meal plan card to last me until midterms . . . but I know where we can get some beer.” “Don’t say the kegs behind the fraternity house.” “The kegs behind the fraternity house.” “They said they’d kill us if they found us back there again.” “Only one way to find out . . . “ “All right. Let’s go have some fun.” (Author's Note: If Vladimir and Estragon were college sophomores . . . apologies to Godot!)

jrlm1p

Potholes

They say it’s the freeze-thaw cycle that makes the roads fragile and sends the concrete crumbling down toward the rivers. It opens up craters in the cliff-side highways, catches half-frozen tires and launches drivers into a frenzy of frayed nerves and foul language. And Gina always forgets. Zones out and lets her guard down, like she’s somewhere with an actual road-maintenance budget, only to be slammed back to reality. She’d thought, for second, that this time was it. That her elbows would freeze up, forget to keep the wheel turning, and send her car straight through the barrier wall and tumbling into the Monongahela. But it wasn’t. Not this time. This time, like every time before, she grits her teeth and turns the wheel, though she feels the lurch and the smack of the tires echoing all the way through her spine. And maybe, because she’s dramatic, she feels the ghost of the imagined impact, too. Pittsburgh sure has a way of welcoming its children home. Until the infrastructure of the city proper smacks you in the face, it’s not so bad a drive. Six hours from New York, where she lives now, to here, where she lived then. Hills and cows. Chance after chance to Call Now! 1-800-JESUSCHRIST, to Save her Soul. Maybe one day she’ll call. If she ever makes the drive again. Nobody lives here anymore; even her cousins have moved away. Mom and Dad, too. Aunts and uncles, flown south. Grandparents, golfing in the sky. Better to think of them and smile. Golfing in the sky. With all the Christmas trees they brought out to curbs over the years, all the turkeys they’d shared, and all the Easter eggs they’d never found. Birdying Hole 3 on the course of the lord. It’s only when she thinks of her grandparents that Gina believes in god. And not for any deeper reason than not being old enough, at 35, to really let them go. What would her siblings say, if she told them that? Lizzie would roll her eyes. Tim would just stare, waiting for the punchline. So when Gina arrives, last as always, she doesn’t tell them. The thing about Gina, and Lizzie, and Tim, is that they never age, emotionally speaking. Not permanently. As soon as they lock eyes on each other, it’s like all the work they’ve done to grow into real adults flies out the window. And they are ten, and eight, and five, and always will be, for the rest of their lives. “Let me guess,” Lizzie says, and Gina imagines her with her hair short and eyes big and mean like they were, “Got stuck behind a tractor?” They haven’t opened the unit yet. Its big orange garage door sits tight against the ground. Gina fishes the key from her pocket – no, her other pocket – no, that one – and tries to remember the breathing exercises she learned in that podcast near Altoona. “Actually,” Gina corrects, turning the key into the lock and pulling the door open, “I just didn’t want to come.” Lizzie scoffs. Tim still hasn’t looked up from his phone. Full-grown man, nearly thirty years old. “I’m just here for the card,” He says, like he can feel Gina judging him. The card. Jesus Christ. Long ago, when the three of them were kids, their grandfather had gotten an idea. Cheeks rosy from sherry and holiday cheer, he’d pulled them close and said, “I got a Honus Wagner card tucked inside my Bible.” One of those rare ones, he’d assured them. Worth a fortune. “There is no card,” Gina says. Just a bunch of dust and old lamp shades, by the look of things. And mothballs. Pittsburgh has always smelled like mothballs. Tim shrugs. They haul everything out, piece by piece, pile by pile. Down the hallway, into the elevator and out again, through the doors into a waiting van. Goodwill, Gina, Lizzie, Tim. Tim, Goodwill, Goodwill, Lizzie. Lizzie, Gina, Goodwill. The old grandfather clock that will cost Gina an arm and a leg to get to New York. The dining room table that Lizzie fought to keep, like its sharp corner hadn’t sent her to the ER for stitches as a toddler. A quilt, stitched by their grandmother on long school days, with the girls in school and Tim playing at her feet. It’s not a baseball card. But he folds it gently. Their parents used to take them here as kids. The Strip District, not the storage unit. Shopping for candy and knock-off Steelers jerseys, running wild through sidewalk throngs. The Strip District hasn’t been industrial for years, not really. But smokestacks still dot the neighborhood skyline. Against the cold air in the winter, dried out and frigid, the smoke hardly even looks real. Looks instead like it was drawn by hand, with love. Like an artist reflecting on misremembered days, when factory smoke danced and breathed with dignity. “Where do you think he hid it?” Lizzie asks as the hour ticks past six. The smell of pot trickles into their unit from somewhere around the corner. Maybe they should give up now, follow the scent and forget about Honus Wagner and pranks of Christmas past. “Hope they didn’t bury him with it,” Tim frowns, hands on his hips. “I hope they did,” Gina laughs. She can’t help it. Nobody laughs with her. Gina quiets her laugh into a smile and goes back to sorting. So many old memories. Scrapbooks and birthday cards. Wedding invitations and baptism announcements. Front pages of Superbowl wins and World Series pennants. How are the Pirates doing these days? Still losing? She remembers when they tore down the old stadium. The last game, and the fireworks. The Pirates lost to the Cubs, but at least it had been close. Anyway, it wasn’t the point. Now she doesn’t know a single player. Are her grandparents turning over in their graves? In the end, it’s Lizzie that finds the Bible, wrapped in a Roberto Clemente jersey in the very last box. She’ll probably hold it over their heads until they die. It’s that middle-child instinct: cling to notoriety. But for a moment it’s not the finder and the followers, it’s just the three of them. Sitting on the floor of a dusty storage unit in a dusty city, elbows touching like they’re huddled on the stairs, trying to overhear their parents gossiping. Wordlessly, Lizzie turns the Bible on its side. Out falls an envelope, clattering onto the floor. Tim flinches. “Better not have dented it.” “Shut up, Tim.” In their grandfather’s faded writing, his old green fountain pen ink: To My Grandchildren. Gina picks up the envelope and, carefully, breaks the seal. Tim and Lizzie lean in close. Their heads touch. Gina reaches into the envelope, and her fingers brush against plastic. “Holy shit,” She whispers. “Oh, my God, is it actually in there?” Lizzie presses. Gina takes a deep breath, and pulls the card into the light. Dear kids, Thanks for cleaning out the storage unit. Hope you don’t mind one last laugh. Love always, Grampy.

jw4dle

Outside My Window

Its 3am on a sleepless night. The kids are in bed, and my husband is snoring like a bandsaw. I fixed myself a cup of herbal tea, thinking that maybe it would help me relax enough to sleep. Insomnia is a usual event lately. I struggle often with this obnoxious, invading event. As the tea pot on the stove boils, the hissing sound brings me back from my thoughts about what will I do tomorrow. Which, by the way, was really today. I laughed quietly to myself. It seems like an every night event, but this night seemed more disturbing than the others before. My mind was racing wildly, and hopefully the tea will calm me enough to regain control of the pesky fleeting thoughts that keep me awake. With tea in hand, I slowly ambled over to the comfy chair beside the huge window we put in just last year. This home was what we always wanted, in the country setting, but I wanted more windows put in on the lower level, so we put in a large window facing east. As I held my tea in hand, I slowly sipped the hot flavored liquid, remembering with every sip the times I spent with my mother in her kitchen. These were good times, precious times, lost times. My mother had passed years ago, but the tea always reminded me of times with her. As I sipped, I looked outside. it was dark outside, but the moon was half full. I thought many times as I sat in this comfy chair that the moon was my mother looking down at me, checking on me, being near me but at a distance that emotions could only dream. My mother of course was a main character in my life. She was the strongest woman i have ever known. I wondered at one time if I would ever be like her, but our worlds were so different. The stars were at their glorious best tonight. It seemed like they were putting on a show all their own. I could see so many constellations, and that made me smile. During the day, I had a hard time sometimes finding something to smile about. But at night, the star lit sky in all its glorious beauty made me think that at that time, in the silence, all is well with the world. I opened the window just a crack, and felt the cool air of the evening. Its coolness against my bare arms sent small goose bumps. It was a good feeling. Breathing in cool , clean fresh air was one of the greatest things I do when I cannot sleep. It helps me to take a breath, relax, and enjoy the moment of stillness that I have found in this restless moment. To my surprise on this wakeful night, in the moonlight, I see movement. Usually I don't see anything. I am usually too deep in thought. But tonight, I was overjoyed. In the yard close to the house there was animals moving around. I wanted to see better by turning on the outside light, but the moon seemed enough at this time. It was a pair of raccoons in the outside water pool playing with the fish in the water. It was funny the way the fish scooted around just under the reach of the paws of the raccoons. You could hear them chatter in disgust at the antics of the fish. They soon became tired of the game and meandered on to another house I presume. Looking again, seeing more movement, there was a pair of deer, male and female, with two little fawns hiding in the shadows of the nearby trees of the boundary line. They were walking slowly, hesitant at the slightest sound. The adults tried to keep the fawns nearby, but they wanted to play. Loud grunts were heard, and the fawns obeyed, again staying close to their parents. The buck must have heard something, or smelled something, because they all hurried off back into the wooded area to safety. I laughed a soft laugh as one of the fawns stumbled and quickly returned to its feet, with mom pushing him forward. As the night sky changes, the moon was over the house by now, and the constellations were in rare view and sparkling stars put on a play. They twinkled on and off at first, but wait, that was no star but a jet from a nearby airport. I wondered where they were headed, to an exotic place like India or Tibet, or nearby like Mississippi or Florida. The excitement of the travelers to reach their destinations, but traveling at night they were probably sleeping, dreaming of their destination and the places they were about to discover. Or maybe reliving a time in their past at a school reunion or wedding of someone that had met their mate for life. So many events can happen, but least wanted was a death of a loved one and the funeral they were to experience. That was sad. I hope there was only happy things going on after that flight. Its now 5am, and my husband is up. "Have you been up all night?" he said quietly as he kissed me on the forehead. " Yes, I have been up again all night" I said as I took my last sip of the cold tea in my cup. This was getting to be a normal conversation lately. If I am not in bed, he knows where to find me. The dog, which slept all night of course, was in a hurry to get outside. I let him out the back door, hoping all the nighttime activities were done. It wont be long and the kids will be up, and my day will begin again. I love my life, my husband, and my kids. Sometimes there are times where life is difficult, and sometimes life is just 'life'. In all, I would not change a thing. I am glad we put in that window in the living room. It is a place where I can sit with my tea, day or night, and let my mind just do what it does best, to just think and observe life outside of my own.

yfd8zu

I'm April. I'm Four.

I’m April and I’m four. I like it out here on the porch in the sunshine. I can see all the birds and plants and trees and squirrels on my Daddy’s farm. I just sit here and smell the air and watch. I like it outside better than inside. So do my sisters, Maggie and Daisy. We share a room. Our room is where the warm stove is, so it feels good when it’s cold outside.  Sometimes we leave our room and get into bed with Daddy. There’s only one other room in the house and that’s the kitchen. Daddy’s cooking always smells good.  Daddy’s inside with my sisters. The doctor is there, too. I don’t like going to the doctor, but Daddy takes me for check-ups sometimes. I can tell when it’s time to go, so I hide under the bed. Daddy always finds me. Maggie is sick. She’s 14 and super smart. She’s way smarter than me and Daisy. But she can’t walk anymore. Her legs stopped working, so Daddy carries her. He makes a funny sound when he picks her up and walks weird when he carries her. She can’t go potty by herself anymore either. Daddy has to help her. Daisy’s not sick, but she likes to be close to Maggie because she always has to know what’s going on. Daisy can run faster than me and Maggie, even back when Maggie’s legs worked. Daisy can jump higher, too. One time Daisy was in Daddy’s garden and caught a rabbit. Me and Maggie were so proud of her. Daddy doesn’t like us in his garden, but he didn’t punish us. He took the rabbit from Daisy and cooked it. Daisy got to taste the stew first since she caught it. She hasn’t been able to catch a rabbit since. I’ve never caught a rabbit before, but I chased some. They’re talking inside about Maggie being sick. I can hear Daddy crying. He cried a lot when Mommy died. I don’t know why because she has been happy and free since she died. That was a long time ago and I don’t remember her much, but I remember her smell. She smelled different when she was sick.  Daddy talks to Mommy a lot. He’s silly because sometimes when he talks to her, she isn’t there, and sometimes she is there, but he doesn’t talk to her. Like when he cooked the rabbit stew, Mommy was standing behind him with her arms around him, but he only talked to me and Daisy and Maggie.  Mommy likes to sit in the rocking chair in our room. She smiles and talks to us. I like to get in the rocking chair with her. She tells me the same thing Daddy does, that I’m the little cuddler. They both like to kiss my head. I like that. Mommy is always happy now. She’s buried near the trees with other buried people. Daddy calls it a family plot. That’s a funny name. Trevor is buried there, too. Sometimes he’s with Mommy and he’s always so happy. He wants to play with me and my sisters. They remember him better than I do. Maggie remembers him best. Daddy and the doctor are coming outside. I don’t want the doctor doesn’t see me. He might want to look in my ears and open my mouth. They stopped on the porch, but I can’t tell what they’re saying. The doctor has his hand on Daddy’s shoulder. Daddy’s crying. Daisy just came out of the house. The screen door slams.  Maggie wants to die. She’s tired of being alive. Maggie wants to be with Mommy and Trevor. Maggie will come visit us after she dies just like Mommy and Trevor do. She will feel good and be happy and not be tired. She’ll get to use her legs, too. She wants to run with Trevor again. They used to do that a lot before Trevor died. Trevor was almost as fast as Daisy, but Trevor never caught a rabbit. Daisy and me want Maggie to be happy again. We want her legs to work, too, and not hurt anymore. Daddy’s just sad.  I heard him ask Mommy why she died and left him all alone, even though Mommy is around him all the time. So is Trevor. I wonder why he can’t see them like I can. Maybe he’s afraid to die. That’s silly too. He doesn’t know how free he will be. Mommy and Trevor are free. They feel good all the time and visit whenever they want. They never get sad or cry. They are always happy. They make me laugh and smile.  Mommy and Trevor love is different than my Daddy’s love. Daddy’s love is like sunshine. Mommy and Trevor love is like that, too but more. Sunshine plus running plus kisses on my head plus catching a rabbit. The doctor got in his truck. He’s leaving. Daddy and Daisy walk to the shed. I follow them.  “Hi Daisy.” I give her a bump.  “Hi April.” She bumps me back.  We follow Daddy. He starts digging with a big shovel. He uses his foot to push it in the ground. He digs and digs and keeps crying.  Me and Daisy follow him back to the shed. He gets a wheelbarrow and pushes it to the porch. He goes inside and I hear him make that sound when he lifts up Maggie. I see him come out of the house carrying Maggie. The screen door slams. He puts Maggie in the wheelbarrow. She’s still. Daddy puts his hand on her head. Then Daisy and me see Maggie. She’s with Trevor. They are jumping around and chasing each other. Mommy’s there, too, laughing with her hands on her knees. I look back at Daddy and he is pushing Maggie. I can see her long ears and tail over the side of the wheelbarrow. Then I look back at Trevor and Maggie playing. Trevor’s tail hits Maggie in the face and she laughs and chases him. She is smiling and her tongue is hanging out. Me and Daisy run to them. Daisy gets there first. Daisy’s a good runner. Mommy’s scratching me behind my ears and kissing my head.  I love when she does that.

nz25sq

February

On February 1, we got evicted from our house and we had to move into our car. So, that's fun. On February 2, we were driving around in our car, looking for an empty parking lot to stay in. My little sister was hungry. My dad told her to hush. She started crying, but we didn't have anything to eat. On February 3, because of what happened the day before, we went hunting for cash or coupons to get something to eat. My dad had found a 5 dollar bill, Mom came across a $1 bill, and my little sister even found a coupon for a box of Cheerios. I couldn't find anything, however, so that day so I didn't get to eat. On February 4, we still didn't have anything to drink. So with our remaining $3.50, I went into the store and bought a 2-liter bottle of Coke. Luckily, I got to eat that night and my parents weren't mad that I spent almost the rest of their money. On February 5, we got a parking ticket. The police officer was kind to us, however, because we were living in our car and let us go. We just had to be more careful where we parked next time. On February 6, my parents begged and pleaded with me to try and get a job. So we drove over to my friend's house because my friend's dad had a sandwich business. We explained what happened, and then asked if they would be willing to hire me. They said yes. On February 7, I got hired! And so, the stroke of good luck had started. On February 8, I realized that the stroke of good luck I was having was a fluke. I got fired. I was messing up a lot, not knowing what I was doing, and then, when a rude lady came up to me and said that I didn't make her sandwich the way she ordered it, I just lost it. Unfortunately, in the process, I lost my job as well. I had to call my parents to pick me up, and they weren't too happy about the whole thing. On February 9, my parents wouldn't speak to me. My little sister asked if I could play a game with her. I started yelling at her for no reason, and then my parents forced me into the very back for the day as punishment. Then, I found a piece of paper and a marker. I regret what I wrote to this day, but at the time, I was really mad, so I wrote: HELP! I HAVE BEEN KIDNAPPED! S.O.S! Some stupid lady saw that and took a picture of the license plate and my makeshift sign. Pretty soon, the cops pulled us over, and I had to explain. I went hungry again. On February 10, my parents were still mad and I got kicked out of the car. I had to be on my own, learn how to survive by myself, and if they ever didn't come back for me, at least I would have learned my lesson. So I walked to the junkyard, found a piece of cardboard and a marker, and then I wrote, Anything is Appreciated, Especially Food. I walked to the intersection and I waited. I didn't expect to get anything but I got 2 dollars, a Snickers, and a water bottle for my first day. However, I had to sleep on the ground that night because I didn't have a bed. On February 11, I got $5 and a stuffed teddy bear, which I promptly sold for $3, and a Clementine orange. Then with my 10 dollars, I proceeded to buy a $5 blanket and a $5 pillow, spending all my money but I didn't care. At least I had a place to sleep. On February 12, I was glad to have rationed my Clementine the day before, because I didn't get much, just a dollar or two. On February 13, I was getting sad. Besides the 12th, I had been getting stuff, but my birthday was coming in 2 days. I couldn't believe that I would have to spend my birthday poor and alone. I cried myself to sleep. On February 14, I got a bunch of candy because it was Valentine's Day, it didn't make me happy. I went to bed sad that night for the second night in a row. On February 15, I didn't want to get up. I wanted to sleep through the day. I wanted to make my birthday a different day. I wanted to be happy. But then, as the wind was blowing, a ticket landed on my head. Not just any ticket, though. It was a lottery ticket. And then, a car stopped. And another one. And another one. And soon, everyone came out of their cars and sang Happy Birthday. To me. I was crying so hard saying thank you, and it was awesome and I was finally happy. Then, to my surprise, a lady told me to get in her car. I did, and she took me to her house where she said I could stay for as long as I needed to. I had a huge breakfast, played games with her, and had fun. Then, at 7:00 PM, I turned the TV on and watched the lottery tickets. And they called my number. I don't remember much; I think I fainted or something. But, when I woke up, I was a millionaire. And the rest is history. ************ In the rest of February, I secured my savings in a bank, gave half my money to homeless shelters and charities, bought a mansion for my family, bought a private mansion for me, and bought a mansion for the lady who brought me to her house. I never went hungry again, my story was reported in the local and global news, I was pretty famous, and did a bunch of interviews with Oprah and Ellen DeGeneres and people like that. And I know that this is such a cliche, but, to be honest, I think the most important takeaway from my story is that, at the end of the day, we all lived happily ever after. And that is all that matters. THE END!

us539m

Paging Dr. Harris

Work was like any other day, daydreaming of a day I can get away from this work life. One would think I would be used to it, after all I have been here for fifteen years. My husband is always away while I work and then go home with the kids. I have three teenagers. My boys are loud, eat a lot, messy, and stink, but to their dad, they are good boys. Connor is my oldest at seventeen, Matthew the middle child, sixteen and Zechariah the baby, is only fifteen, They are good boys at heart, but I wished that I would have had a girl. I longed for my little princess, who would go get her hair and nails done with me. We are at the end of 2019, I’m so happy to see it go. My 40th birthday is coming up, and I’m not ready to let go of my 30s. John is planning a big party in Barbados and I can’t wait to go. We are going for two weeks this man never took a day off from work in the 25 years we have been married. My birthday and our anniversary is in the same week of May, so this vacation is well worth it. I wonder what made him plan this but nevertheless I’m happy. Working in the hospital is a pain, but I love my patients. They come in with cancer, but they are the bravest people I have ever met. As I'm sitting in my office, listening to the news I hear that a virus broke out in China. They are calling it coronavirus. "Oh Lord please don’t let that come here," I think, fearfully, "it’s killing them over there." I called my husband, who is a Neurosurgeon, to ask him what he thinks. "To be honest babe, I’m not sure what to think. I just hope it doesn’t come here." he sighs. March 20, 2020 rolls around and, it's here! Coronavirus has hit the US. I don’t know what to say. We'd have never thought it would come here. The impact was immediate. Schools have been shut down, supermarkets have no food in it, there’s no toilet paper in no stores and me and John have been working overtime. The kids stay with my parents because when we do come home we don’t want to expose them to COVID-19.  I have lost so many patient, and we have to work in the ER now, I have seen people come in and die within five minutes, people who died without their families by their sides, whole families not even knowing their loved ones are gone. I miss my boys, I can only FaceTime them and even that is short-lived. I'm being paged every five seconds. Outside of our hospital is a freezer truck full of dead bodies. One day, I ask my husband, already knowing the answer, "Does this mean we can’t go on our vacation, John?" He answered with a mournful and silent hug. The world had shut down. I miss my boys, severely, but for their safety I can only FaceTime them, and there's never enough time. I'm being paged every five seconds. I can’t use the bathroom without a code blue going off. I’m frustrated and exhausted. I haven’t slept in weeks. Our anniversary is here and our trip was canceled. I never cried so much in my life, but John tired his best to make it up to me by stopping by my office. He had got flowers and cupcakes and chocolate cover strawberries, my favorite, we both had been so busy, basically living in the hospital. We haven’t really seen each other, I barely recognize him. His face has so many lines from the masks we wear constantly. I have never seen him look like he'd lost a fight before and I'm sure I look the same. He gave me a kiss. Oh how I missed this man, he bent me over my desk pulled down my panties, cleaned me then he had his way with me, and I loved every minute of it until I heard the dreaded announcement blaring over the intercom. "Paging Dr. Harris! Code blue! Dr. Harris, cold blue!"  John got up and pushed me back down on the desk. He was still aroused. He opened my legs wide and bent down and lapped me up again. I could feel it I was about to explode all over his face. I’m trying to hold back from screaming his name. Then, he stopped. I was so close I knew I had to go but before I can fully sit back up he was inside me again. This time he wasn't  making love to me. I could tell that all of his anger, his frustration and his exhaustion fueled his thrusts. He pumped into me. The faster he went, the harder he was. My eyes rolled into the back of my head I can feel it, I'm about to come! I could feel my butt getting wetter, the desk was moving and John was finished.  I found my voice. "Babe, hand me that wet wipe, I have to go. I love you so much John." " I love you too, babe,"he breathed, as he kissed me and walked out the door.  Something is wrong with him, he is not himself, I sensed, but it could just be that we are under so much stress. The summer is here and we are still battling this virus. The city is under so much stress. We are either told to stay inside or to come and live at work. With the cops killing unarmed black men and women the US was under attack. Things were out of control. People wanted to feel normal again. I wanted to feel normal again. I missed being called mom every five seconds. I miss hearing John play with the boys out in the backyard while he grilled steaks. As of lately I had this knot in my stomach, along with this bad headache. One of the doctors who seen me asked me if I was pregnant. I just looked and laughed, replying, "Girl, I've been here at work! I haven’t seen home in a long time!" Sighing, she replied, "I suppose you're right, but I still think you should take one, to be sure." There was no way I was pregnant! Well, there was that one time way back in May, but I just couldn't fathom it.

trkpzs

Life Without Her

If you told me that the love of my life would be cursed by an ancient god years before our marriage I wouldn't believe you. But I wasn’t told that before I proposed to her I wasn’t told that before we had children I wasn’t told that until the god came to take her away Now I’m here Going through the same routine that we both went through Without her by my side I get up and head to the bathroom to start my routine Deep inside of me, I expect her to come in and nuzzle her chin at the crook of my neck as she usually does The brief minutes we have before the kids start waking up Just as I finished brushing my teeth the wailing starts “I’ll get Charlie you get Rebecca, dear,” I said almost instinctively before cursing It’s hard not to have her around anymore I don’t know how to do anything without her with me How do I raise two kids without her? How do I look at our daughter who is a replica of her whenever her mother showed me her childhood photos? One thing’s for sure is that ancient gods are jerks I sigh as I step out of the bathroom and rush to the room where the two children were crying for their mother. After I calmed Rebecca down she looked at me with bright blue eyes “Where’s mommy,” she asked making my heart stop for a minute before it started beating again Ever since she was taken Rachel had asked this question, “Remember,” I began mustering a cheerful voice. “Mommy is on a very important work trip that will take a long time for her to come back from. We’ll get to see her again shortly,” I paused before glancing at the crying form of Charlie, “could you help me get ready for today? You two will be going to Aunties while I work.” “Yay, Auntie Li,” the oldest cheered before pushing herself out of the bed and rushing to the bathroom Lisa Richardson A friend that she introduced me to A friend that we visited every day since she moved next door to us A friend that I continue to visit as if you were still around I grab Charlie part of me expecting her to take the responsibility away from me chastising me for stressing too much. She was the mother for me in our relationship, making sure I didn’t overwork myself whenever I stressed about the kids or work. And there she was stressing about the god who would take her away as soon as her life was happy and stable Questions run through my mind constantly from that night, the most pressing one being only a single word Why? After I changed Charlie’s diaper I take him to the kitchen and set him in the high chair before setting a bowl of Cheerios in front of him. “Make sure you eat something other than sugar Becca,” I called out to her as I heard her rushing back into the room I had just left. “Could you help me get Charlie ready as well,” I asked as I passed the room to get changed “Stop stressing my dear,” her voice said in the back of my mind as Rebecca answered with a nod and a smile. “You worry too much,” she would say as she’d usher our eldest child into the kitchen making sure she ate more than the sugary cereal that she favored so much “Come on dear,” I whispered, “Becca can handle it, I give her small tasks to do and she steps up to the plate just as you would.” I imagine how Rebecca will be when she’s an adult She’ll have my stubbornness while vaguely remembering the care her mother would give Each lullaby Almost every song is sung to her if I kept singing them Those songs became repetitive but I remember her smiling whenever we finished Her laughter whenever Rebecca jumped off the edge of the couch whenever the song had finished. I slide on my jacket as I look in the full-length mirror buttoning the middle button and adjusting the tie. She would always come up and fix the tie ever so slightly before either kissing me or grabbing a different tie from the closet muttering her disbelief about how I could wear a suit without being trans. Every day she would try to get me to wear a dress to work It feels odd without her pulling teeth for that even after a month with her gone It feels odd not having her laughter Her comfort Her aide Her at my side at almost every moment of each day She was my anchor each and every day We had our ups and downs but this could be the worst of it if she didn’t see the loophole I remember how she acted days before god took her from our bed She was distant As if she was getting me ready to not have her by my side But I’m clingy to the ones I love I won’t let them go even if it kills me But she convinced me enough to let her go so the kids didn’t go through what I did But at what cost I still see her in the kitchen when I walk out of the bedroom I see her looking up and smiling after her shoulders sagging seeing that I still didn’t put on a dress I can still imagine the cheer that she would give if I came out wearing a dress that was suitable for work “Mommy,” Rebecca’s voice sounded in my head, “are you okay?” I forced a smile as I realized a tear had rolled down my cheek, “Yeah little one,” I began, “just remembering a bad dream is all. You and Chuck ready to go,” I asked fabricating the cheerfulness that I started with Her face lit up, “Yeah,” she began before leading me to Charlie’s high chair, “Chucky even ate up all his Cheerios.” I grinned, I could almost imagine what my beloved would say if she were here. “That’s awesome,” I began as I looked at the sink, “did you eat some fruit with your cereal?” Rebecca nodded vigorously with a grin plastered on her face, “I ate an orange,” she began, “it didn’t taste good with toothpaste though.” I chuckled, “I guess that is something you’ll have to keep in mind, am I right?” Rebecca’s grin widened even more as she nodded, “Yeah,” she said before rushing to the door, “can we go now mom?” “Of course little one,” I said as I picked up Charlie after sliding my shoes on, “make sure you get your shoes on.” As I was working on getting Charlie’s shoes on him I watched as Rebecca struggled to get her shoes tied. “Mommy, I’m going to need help,” she said as I smiled, “can you do the bunny method that mom would do?” I chuckled as I remembered my wife walking down the hall to teach it to her, “Sure thing,” I began as I finished Charlie’s last velcro buckle before setting him on the floor. “You ready,” I asked as I took the shoe in hand “Yeah,” she said with a grin as I took her shoelaces and began the song “Bunny ears, Bunny ears, playing by a tree. Criss-crossed the tree, trying to catch me. Bunny ears, Bunny ears, jumped into the hole, popped out the other side beautiful and bold. Can you do the next one,” I asked her once I finished the song She nodded before taking the shoelaces of the other shoe that was already on her foot When she sang the song it almost sounded like my wife was singing it with her, “I’m done mommy,” Rebecca’s voice chimed in to bring me back to the present to see a perfect bow “Wow,” I began as I looked at her, “you’re a quick learner little one.” “I’ve had quite the teachers,” she said with a giggle as I arched an eyebrow, “you and mom.” I grinned, “Of course,” I said as I kept my heartbreak from showing, “come on, let’s go to Auntie Li’s.” “Yay,” she said, jumping up as I turned to get Charlie who started sucking his thumb. I opened the door letting Rebecca go ahead of me before I turned around and closed it behind me, being sure to lock it before I walked the path to Lisa’s house. “Hello old friend,” I began with a smile once she answered the door, “care to watch these wild ones for me while I work today?” “Is that even a question,” she began as she took Charlie from my arms, “come inside I need to talk to you about something.” I nodded as I walked in and sat down on the couch as she took the kids to the playroom that she had set up. “What’s up,” I asked once she returned “I think I should ask you that question,” Lisa began before sitting in a chair across from me, “how are you feeling?” I bit my lip, “Everything feels off,” I began as I looked at the clock. I had two hours until work so I could unload here. “It feels that she’s still here but I know that she’s with that god or something.” Lisa bit her lip, “I’d hate to tell you this Mic,” she began as she looked at me in the eyes, “but I knew about the curse.” “Neither of you thought to tell me,” I asked and she quickly responded “I suggested it but she batted it away saying that it keeps you away from her,” Lisa had said and I froze. “I kept telling her that you wouldn’t leave her for anything, I even suggested bringing it up to you to see if we could find a loophole together. But she declined it,” Lisa looked up at me with sympathetic eyes, “I’m sorry Michelle.” “You knew but you never went behind her back to tell me,” I began and she nodded, “I keep forgetting how strong your friendship was,” I muttered. “Y’all were like bread and butter,” I chuckled, “every morning feels the same until I realize she’s not going to nuzzle her chin in my neck. I imagine her coming up to help with the kids every day like she used to but it’s all gone now. I can’t imagine anything else, it still feels like she’s here,” I paused, “it feels like what I’m telling Rebecca is what I’m trying to tell myself daily. But every time I keep trying to tell myself that I remember that night where she was taken. Me waking up to an empty bed when she was just cuddling me moments before. I remember her begging me to let her go so the kids had someone to look up to. I swore to myself that I will never let them see the abuse that I saw.” “It’s going to feel a little repetitive until you accept everything,” Lisa said, “I had someone like that but I didn’t have children with them.” I looked up, “You did?” She nodded, “Years ago,” she began, “which is why Kylie thought it would be a good idea to give it a shot. She didn’t know that she would fall for you though,” she said after a pause I sighed, “Neither did I,” I began, “life without her just isn’t the same, it’s like a broken record repeating the same chords every few minutes.” “You’ll get the hang of it my friend,” she began, “I promise,” she paused to check the time, “you should get going. Collect yourself before you step into work today, I’m here if you need anything.” I smiled, “Thanks Lis,” I said as I stood up, “I’ll see you when I get off.” “See you then,” she said as she leads me to the door And with that, I was off to live the broken record life that I was left to live Who knows Maybe the record will fix itself in time.

1kg8ar

Memories

I can’t believe mom made me go. I really don’t need more time around my brothers. Those were the first thoughts that went through my head when we stepped onto the train station. See, I am now 14. My birthday was a few months ago, and I even have my driving’s permit. Unfortunately, this also means I can go to Grandma’s with my older and younger brothers without my parents. Josh is 16, and therefore has a driver’s license. He goes to South High School, where I will go next year, and is a part of the “cool group”. In Qitch, the rule is you have to be 14 to drive, permit, and 16 to really drive. It is a little different on the trains. You have to be 14 to go by yourself, and 16 to be able to have a younger person go with you, you being the “chaperone”. This is where James and Toby fit in. James is 10, this summer he turns 11, and he has to, of course, have a chaperone. He is super annoying, and if he is anywhere near my other younger brother, Toby, then they immediately start fighting. It is so stinking annoying. I promise sometimes you can’t tell who's older, besides the obvious size. Toby, who you might have noticed I stated earlier, is five. But, being the youngest, and having so many older siblings, he is very feisty. He always is coming up and hitting or pinching you. It is very uncomfortable. So yes, I am stuck with all of my brothers, no sister, all by ourselves for the few hour train ride. And not just a regular train. A really packed one. The ones where you can barely find a seat. And when you do, your shoulder to shoulder with someone else. This is going to be great . Another thing about Josh. He is like a smart aleck, and thinks he is above everyone else. Yep, mom, I totally think that you are right, and that this is going to be great. But you were right about one thing. There is no thing like hanging out with my brothers. After all this, I just realized that I haven’t told you much about me, except that I am fourteen and get annoyed by my brothers. Well, here. My name is Ella, short for Elanor. I know, right? Elanor? Seriously? That is one of the reasons that I tell everyone my name is Ella. Another is because I like hearing people call me Ella at school, since at home everyone calls me Elanor. Another thing about me is that I go to Golden Middle School, and you already know that I am going to South High School next year. I also love books. They are almost the only thing that calms me down after having to spend hours of time with my brothers. In fact, right now I have a Kindle in my hand. I pulled it out as soon as we found a seat. I got it for Christmas this past year. It was by far my favorite present, and it is great for traveling. I know this isn’t some Amazon Kindle commercial, but they are pretty awesome. I got the ad-free, 32 GB storage Kindle Paperwhite. At the bottom of each page there is a percentage, and choices between what page, how many hours or minutes left in the book, or how many minutes left in that chapter. I usually keep it on the percentage and how many minutes left in that chapter. Ok, now that I am done telling you about myself, and advertising, let's get back to the present moment. I have said that I am being sent to my Grandmother’s, who lives in the next state above, Louisiana. When most people think of a state named Quitch, they think of the middle of nowhere, or Africa. But, no we are just a state below Louisiana. It was found in the 2040, so it has been a civilization for about 25ish years. Not super long, but long enough. Anywho, here we were going to Grandma’s. I know I have made this sound like a horrible thing, and some of this is, but Grandma is really awesome. She gets what it is like to have so many brothers, and she makes all of the boys go sleep in the guest house, and I get to sleep in the room next to her’s, in her house. Also in case you didn’t connect the dots, my grandma lives on a farm. She has a bunch of workers to help, so she isn’t always busy. You might have also noticed that I said Grandma, not Grandpa and Grandma. That is because my grandfather died with cancer. He died when I was about 9, so didn’t know him very well. But, I do have some memories of him. Fishing at the lake, swimming, hiking, and sitting around the campfire after dinner. There are more. But they are more complicated than this one, and are harder to explain than those ones. Some of them are just smells. Grandma making her famous Peanut Butter Pie. Some of them are just tastes. Eating Grandma’s famous Peanut Butter Pie. Some are sounds. The crackling of the fire. The sound of the oven beeping. The sound of prayer leaving all of our lips in turn. And some are touching. Holding hands while we pray. The roughness of my grandfather’s hand joined with mine in comparison to Grandma’s soft ones. Anyways, after you heard about my grandpa dying, I bet you felt sad. Sad for me, sad for my parents, sad for my brothers, but most of all, I bet you felt sadness for my grandma. Sadness for her now that she is all alone. And you should. But my grandma doesn’t want it. She wanted to be alone sometimes at the beginning, but soon after she wanted people to comfort her. I pulled it out as soon as we found a seat. I got it for Christmas this past year. It was by far my favorite present, and it is great for traveling. I know this isn’t some Amazon Kindle commercial, but they are pretty awesome. I got the ad-free, 32 GB storage Kindle Paperwhite. At the bottom of each page there is a percentage, and choices between what page, how many hours or minutes left in the book, or how many minutes left in that chapter. I usually keep it on the percentage and how many minutes left in that chapter. Ok, now that I am done telling you about myself, and advertising, let's get back to the present moment. I have said that I am being sent to my Grandmother’s, who lives in the next state above, Louisiana. When most people think of a state named Quitch, they think of the middle of nowhere, or Africa. But, no we are just a state below Louisiana. It was found in the 2040, so it has been a civilization for about 25ish years. Not super long, but long enough. Anywho, here we were going to Grandma’s. I know I have made this sound like a horrible thing, and some of this is, but Grandma is really awesome. She gets what it is like to have so many brothers, and she makes all of the boys go sleep in the guest house, and I get to sleep in the room next to her’s, in her house. Also in case you didn’t connect the dots, my grandma lives on a farm. She has a bunch of workers to help, so she isn’t always busy. You might have also noticed that I said Grandma, not Grandpa and Grandma. That is because my grandfather died with cancer. He died when I was about 9, so didn’t know him very well. But, I do have some memories of him. Fishing at the lake, swimming, hiking, and sitting around the campfire after dinner. There are more. But they are more complicated than this one, and are harder to explain than those ones. Some of them are just smells. Grandma making her famous Peanut Butter Pie. Some of them are just tastes. Eating Grandma’s famous Peanut Butter Pie. Some are sounds. The crackling of the fire. The sound of the oven beeping. The sound of prayer leaving all of our lips in turn. And some are touching. Holding hands while we pray. The roughness of my grandfather’s hand joined with mine in comparison to Grandma’s soft ones. Anyways, after you heard about my grandpa dying, I bet you felt sad. Sad for me, sad for my parents, sad for my brothers, but most of all, I bet you felt sadness for my grandma. Sadness for her now that she is all alone. And you should. But my grandma doesn’t want it. She wanted to be alone sometimes at the beginning, but soon after she wanted people to comfort her. But now she is back to normal. Ok, well maybe not all the way back to normal. She works harder since Grandpa isn’t there. And she smiles less. But she is better now than she was, and wants zero sympathy. Trust me. I would know. We are almost there. I can feel it. I know this ride pretty well. And we are here. I had napped for the rest of the ride. We are all stepping onto the platform. I see Grandma’s truck in the lot. “Grandma!”, I yell when I see her. I run to her and throw my arms around her. Soon I feel my siblings arms touching Grandma and I. “Hey, sweet pea.”Grandma whispers in my ear. On the way back to the farm. I see a beautiful sunset through the window. And I am not so mad that mom made me come. All of those feelings have washed away. Now all that's left is happiness.

2oabs6

Devil's in the Apathy

Jerry, the owner of the last “restaurant,” is in a current state of embracing his alcoholism. He maintains the open/closed hours of the old fountain building. The few dollars he makes from his regulars each morning keep the beast fed. Most everyone else steers clear of the joint. This is the sort of place where “used to” is a word in the local dialect. Pronounced ustah, like “yous-ta.” Ustah is a mantra. Out of habit, or loneliness, or both; the same half dozen aging fellas show up to this sad hovel every morning, except Tuesdays when Jerry is closed, to serve themselves coffee and discuss how much things back in the day ustah be better as their neighborhood continues to decay around them. They have been walking through the doors of an ever-deteriorating building on a main street for who-knows-how-long to complain to each other about Obama and how lazy the teenagers are. The cheap wood paneling is adorned with dusty bric a brac and offensive political signs. The ice cream counter that ustah serve dozens of happy kids every day after school let out sits empty and unused. The pie case that ustah draw the gaze of hungry diners is missing panels of glass. Instead of classic homemade pies, these racks hold dusty 12-packs of soda. The fountain soda machine at the old fountain ustah work. There is no latch, nor lock on the ladies room door. This place doesn’t see many customers who are not old men. “Where’s Jerry?” inquires Bill Bill likes to maintain his mystique. He’s a smaller wiry guy. He has long wispy white hair that extends beneath his Indiana Jones adventure hat. Bill hates all things government and the theft that is taxes. Rather than pay the city for water and sewer, he remains disconnected. He is the kind of guy that chooses to use the taxpayer funded public restrooms that other people pay for in a small city park near his house, instead. A few people around have the idea that Bill ustah be some kind of mercenary. He’s mostly known for being a hoarder and using any available space someone he meets has to put, or otherwise keep, something. The entire back portion of the old fountain building ustah be a hopping nightlife spot with live music. Now, holds a vast collection of Bill’s and Jerry’s ex’s stuff. “He ran over to the store to get some sausage and eggs.” replied Joe Joe is a combat vet, times two, who found his grungy hole to wallow in. If you aren’t in his grouchy old man club and adhering to patriotic traditions he doesn’t have a kind word to spare. Not that he says anything kind about the companions in his daily complainers’ club meeting. He doesn’t say anything about them at all. Come to think of it. Joe just doesn’t like anything whatsoever, even worse if it’s new. “They don’t even do the prayer!” Joe was going on again about the younger Iraq war veterans at the VFW and how they reject the old traditions they ustah have in the fraternal organization. “Ready for another?” Bill asks, making the rounds with the coffee pot again in Jerry’s familiar absence. “Have you heard about that food truck ? I ain’t gonna eat there. It’s those libtards. They’re gonna take over the place if we let ‘em move in. Goddamned commies. This place ustah be like Mayberry. Such a shame.” responds Tom shaking his head. Jerry reappears behind the counter with a fresh plastic bottle of Black Velvet. He pours himself the last cup of coffee, tops it off with a couple glugs of BV and puts the empty pot back on the still hot burner. If there’s a roof with a blue tarp or a shack needing a new furnace, chances are it’s one of Tom’s cash cows. He collects monthly rents on any number of rundown dumps. His tenants include social security recipients who can’t afford anything else, sex offenders and meth dealers/addicts. A woman with an opinion? HoHO! Some man simply needs to get her under control. Tom cannot find a romantic partnership that he doesn’t feel he pays for. That suits him just fine! He already knows women only want his money and he prefers to feel like somebody owes him something. “I’ll be at the meeting tonight. I heard that Nazi bitch wants to put in some kinda educational garden. More liberal horseshit. I dunno, but I want to know why the fuck they ain’t fixing up the park and where the fuck my water bill goes. My buddy Tim don’t pay that much.” Bill complains as he refills the coffee pot. Everyone sitting in the mismatched splitting vinyl booths nods in agreement over their cups of coffee seemingly forgetting the great lengths Bill actually goes through to avoid that particular life expense. “Jerry! I paid for my breakfast an hour ago. For fuck’s sake! Do I hafta make it myself again?” Joe demands after several cups of coffee on an empty stomach. “You see this!?” Jerry asks with a buzz at 8am, setting a single bullet on the long unwashed counter. “This bullet is for Obama. I told the Secret Service that, too, when they came in after those fancy bicyclists musta complained. I told them like I’m tellin’ you. I got another somewhere ‘round here for you, if you keep up that bitching at me like some motherfucker.” Like every other morning, Jerry shuffles over to the griddle that’s been encased in grease for as long as anyone can remember Jerry owning the place. The surface has been scraped clean for cooking. All around the edges and overflowing a yellow bucket sitting in front of the visually unappealing and highly flammable commercial stove the grease accumulates. As he’s cooking the same breakfast for everyone regardless of what they ordered, smoke fills the dining area because the exhaust system has been broken for at least five years. Bill makes the rounds again and refills everyone’s coffees. Once everyone has their bellies full, they saunter off to begin their day after leaving cash on the counter. Nobody gets a check. Joe stays late and washes the dishes. He’s learned that if he wants something clean to eat off of, he better do that himself. And so he does. Everyday at this shoddy shithole, customers pay and put forth effort to keep it barely afloat. Later that evening, this loud yet tiny segment of voters attend various meetings to condone or condemn projects their fellow citizens put forth. They’ve been known to make people cry in public for daring to want to install nefarious features like a low maintenance pollinator garden. These are the angry voices volunteer council people in your neighborhood listen to on a weekly basis. The fact is, these are the people who bother to show up in this sad dilapidated space to yell for what they want to see. They always win by forfeit. Nothing improves. Volunteers on committees continue to wonder why small businesses have such a hard time here and nobody feels inspired to expend any effort whatsoever in the future of the neighborhood. The problem is simply unopposed ustah .

wsb5gv

The Perfect City

That’s the thing about this city, it’s everything an urbanite could dream of. A sprawling city crawling with diversity of all kinds. The people come from all walks of life, from everywhere in the world, all bustling about the city and heading to their set destinations. Stop and talk to any of them and you will learn something new and hear a new perspective. The people here respect diversity of thought too. Everyone has a voice and everyone can voice opinions without fear of being shouted down or harmed. The buildings are as diverse as the people, from towering skyscrapers to futuristic looking museums, and stadiums decorated in all manner of shapes and colors. Visit a modern museum or a classic art museum, whatever you fancy. Visit the grand science museum, with its ten floors covering all the sciences with interactivity and the ability to learn. The problem with most cities is the lack of fresh air and the lack of any semblance of nature, but not this city. Within this city lay three large indoor parks with glass ceilings that let in the sun but block out the sound pollution. Walk among the trees and ponds teeming with wildlife, while enjoying the quiet serenity of the outdoors. If that’s not exciting enough, then you can visit our theme park, packed with the fastest and most thrilling rides and attractions. At the edge of the city, the theme park is perfect for a day trip with friends or family and besides rides, there are games, shows, and plenty of dining options. Everyone loves an exciting sports game, right? Well, think of any sport and this city has it. Football, baseball, drag racing, cricket; you can watch any sport you want as you cheer them on from our modern stadiums. If you desire a more fantasy experience, then you must visit our video games store and pick from a variety of games to play with your friends or you can watch and compete in E-sports competitions. If you enjoy animals then you can visit our zooquarium, a one stop destination for viewing the wonderful and exotic creatures that humans share this world with. Don’t worry about the animals because our zoo has the highest rating in animal conservation and welfare. Our exhibits are clean and natural, giving the animals a sense of home, and our staff are of the highest quality. If you enjoy a more leisurely time, visit the city library, packed with a vast variety of books and magazines. Order a drink from the coffee shop and relax on a plush couch while you read an engaging book. You’ll never run out of things to do. Join a competitive sports league, hang out at the arcade, workout at the gym, or dance the night away at one of the many downtown clubs. Food is important, and this city is bursting with a colorful array of food choices; Hispanic, American, Italian, Greek, and a plethora of other food options await your taste buds. Whether you want fast food or a fine wine and dine, this city has it. Besides food, people want to shop. You can buy anything you want in this city. It has the latest stores and the newest products. Clothing stores line the city streets for you to choose from. From thrift stores to high-end designer stores, this city has an option for each person’s budget. Visit the three-floor technology store to enhance your life with computers, TVs, phones and much more. It’s a one-stop shop for your technology needs. You can also find furniture, jewelry, and toy shops throughout this city along with several other stores to shop at. Most people come here to visit, but if you desire to stay then this city has many apartments and condos to pick from and most of them sit high in the downtown buildings giving the owner a beautiful view of the city. Want to move in right away? You can pick from a wide range of furnished apartments, all unique in their style and set up so that none looks the same. Or maybe you want to design your own apartment. We have empty apartments to choose from and plenty of stores to furnish them with. If you plan to stay here for a while, we have a college downtown that anyone can join. If you want to learn something new or further develop your skills, our college offers a variety of exciting classes where you can learn to paint, write, or drive a manual, among the many other subjects it offers. College is a great way to meet new friends but if that is not your thing then you can join one of the many groups in this city. Join a knitting group, lacrosse team, or car enthusiasts club. We promise there is a group for you. Whatever you do here, we encourage you to make life-long friends that will make your visit to our city so much more memorable and we hope that you won’t visit just once, but make it a recurring vacation to meet with the people you love and make the most amazing memories here. We hope that you now understand why this city, our city, is the best city in the world. You can do whatever you want here and be the person you want to be without judgment. Just think of how wonderfully lost you’ll become while exploring the endless possibilities of this city. It’s not like anything you’ve seen and it’s more than anything you could imagine. Right now as you read this, we want you to jump into your virtual reality machine from wherever you are and come to our city. Help us thrive as we help you thrive. Escape the terrible, real world and spend all your time in a world where you will be satisfied and filled with joy. This is the true future in which everyone can have what they want. Come and be an integral part of World City. See you soon.

yhj464

My sweet girl

Madison was a fighter even from birth and through it all; her mother was always there by her side. "Mom, there's something wrong because I am hurting so bad and there is so much blood when I go to the bathroom." Her dad; like always just brushed it off and said that it was nothing but her mother knew something was wrong. "I am going to take off from work tomorrow and take Madison to the emergency room because there is something really wrong", but Madison's dad being the control freak said," No you go to work and I will take her". Madison's mom shot Madison a familiar that said he better because if he doesn't I will. The next morning, as Lisa struggled to to stay focused at work because deep down she knew that this was going to be the beginning of a long journey. Then the phone wrong rang and she could here the urgency in her husband's voice, "You need to come to the hospital because Madison needs you". Normally on a good day the trip was 15 minutes but that morning it took 7 minutes to the hospital. There on the bed was Madison; pale and weak. She was so frail and scared. Tears streamed down her face and Lisa's heart broke. "Madison, please don't cry;Sweet Girl. I promise that I will be with you every step of the way and I will make sure that you get the best medical care that money can buy". As Lisa struggled to comfort her daughter and trying to hide her fears; she wanted answers. "Where's the doctor? What tests have they done? Can they give her anything to make her comfortable?" It all unfolded so quickly, all the blood transfusions, the tests, the admission/release from the hospitals. The guessing games as to what might be going on with Madison but one thing was certain; Madison could not continue on the path that she had been for months. The final straw came one night when Madison was rushed to the Children's Hospital and again, they were offering a blood transfusion. Lisa had been in the medical field for many years and in her mind; new that the blood transfusions were like a patch, just temporary and hard decisions had to be made. " I want to speak with her doctor", Lisa told the nurse and as the nurse dialed the number; Lisa began to pray. "Dear Lord, all my life I have followed you and believed in you. I believe that this is another test of my faith in you and I pray that I am making the right decision because she is the air that I breath. Please heal my daughter." It seemed like forever but finally the nurse came into the room and handed Lisa the phone. All eye were on her and she knew that the words that was going to speak would be the hardest up until this point in her life. "Hi, this Madison's mom. I know that her health is fading and the transfusions just aren't working. Heck even the Remicade has not helped and I feel that if I choose not to give permission; I fear that we may lose her". Lisa could see the fear in Madison's eyes and then without hesitation," I have to put this situation in God's hands and I am giving you permission to operate as soon as possible". There were so many unknown's and there was no guarantee that the surgery would work but at least it was as start. That night was one of the longest nights for all parties because there was so much to do and very little time to get things done in. The surgery was going to be 8 hours and Lisa prayed that God would be with Madison and her team of doctors. The waiting room within itself was depressing but everyone had someone that they were worried about. Lisa's father in law had came to offer support but there was no comforting Lisa. She resented her husband for always brushing it off and refusing to believe that there was anything wrong with their daughter. So many fights and the wedge growing deeper by the minute. The night before the surgery they had argued and Lisa told her husband, "Well if you had done your job as a parent and got her medical attention when this first started maybe she wouldn't have had to have this surgery! If you had just taken her seriously and stop acting like you know everything; maybe she wouldn't be here in surgery but you had to have it your way! Your way almost caused her to die." There it was; the bitter truth! Lisa blamed him and resented him for his lack of concern. Nothing would ever be the same after that day. Madison came home with no colon or large intestine but in there place was an ostomy bag. Lisa hovered over her daughter in the days, weeks and months that came. No more transfusions and no more wondering what was wrong. They knew and thankfully the outcome was far better than they ever could have hoped for. Madison only 15 years old, not only accepted having an ostomy but she also used it as a tool to assist other kids that were struggling with Colitis and Chron's. Madison had a severe case of Colitis and just like with everything else in her life; she bravely faced it and never gave up. Eventually; Madison was able to go through a reconnection and it took. She was scared to think about her J pouch not working and if it didn't she was prepared to have a permanent ostomy bag. Thankfully after 1 1/2 years of struggle the bag was gone and Madison recovered. Unfortunately her parents didn't. They divorced the following year because it was struggling before Madison got sick but it was just too much for their marriage to with stand.

8dh5n7

Ellen's Decision

   The bus almost always came on time, but if it was late Ellen would still make it to work well before nine. She had never been late ever and was proud of that fact — eleven years of punctual, diligent, perfectly competent performance. She liked her job. It allowed her to buy decent clothes, go out with her girlfriends once in a while and take vacations to Vegas and the Bahamas. Her apartment wasn’t great, but in seven years she would own it outright. Every couple years she got a small raise.    At work that day she prepared for a birthday party in the conference room. Darla from engineering was turning thirty and Mike from accounting would be fifty three. Ellen had doubled her card signing and present pool duties. Darla’s card had a picture of a kitten with a pointy party hat sitting in front of a birthday cake. Mike’s card featured a baseball with birthday candles sticking out of it. Inside it were tickets for an upcoming game. They weren’t great seats, but Mike was the type to enjoy a game up in the bleachers. Ellen had made sure the fridge was stocked with Mike’s favorite lite beer and diet soda for Darla, whose gift had taken more forethought and consideration. Darla was significantly overweight, but constantly raved about her favorite restaurants, cooking shows and the food at weddings and other social events she attended now and again. A gift certificate to Darla’s favorite restaurant was the obvious and eventual choice, but Ellen agonized over it until the last minute, which was yesterday.    Ellen breezed through her morning paperwork chores, followed up on some malingering customer service emails and checked over the birthday cards. Everyone had signed except Alan, the boss, who was in his office down the hall. Ellen got up to bring the cards over to him but stopped after a few steps. Looking at the cards she saw plenty of room for his signature and a little note from him. He usually wrote things like “Keep it up!” or “Way to go!” and “Great Job!” Alan was a stupid, boring asshole who made everyone around him feel like crap. His insipid birthday comments were always seen as cynical, incisive digs as opposed to uplifting exhortations. Further, Alan leered in the most sublime and creepy way. His eyes always held for an extra second or two on breasts, bulges and butts. He smelled like wet cigars and orange juice, even though he didn’t smoke and, from the looks of him, seldom drank anything healthy. All these thoughts whipped through Ellen’s mind as her feet filled with stultifying dread. She ran through the eventual conversation in her mind.    “Excuse me, Alan?”    “Yes?”    “I was hoping you could sign birthday cards for Mike and Darla?”    He would turn from his desk, stare directly at her pussy, then up to her breasts, back down to her feet, shift quickly to her mouth and finally meet her eyes. “Another birthday party today?”    “It’s a twofer.”    He would repeat the examination of her body and motion for her to bring the cards to his desk. She would cautiously tread across his stale carpet and deposit the cards in front of him, standing as far away from him as possible. He would glance up, take a whiff of her scent, soak in the size of her breasts, glance down again to her pussy, pick his nose, grab a pen and sign the cards. She would thank him, remind him when the party was going to start, tell him what gifts she had decided on and take the cards back to her desk in the bullpen with the other low and mid level bureaucrats.    She never made it to Alan’s office and buried herself in work and party preparations. The cake was delivered and she checked to see that everything was spelled correctly. “Happy Birthday Darla and Mike!” was adequately written in bright green icing on an even sheet of white frosting. She tasked two interns to hang the streamers and balloons in the conference room and checked on their progress a couple times.    When lunchtime came around she and her best friend Louise took their regular walk to the small pizza place down the street, loaded their salad bar plates and sat down. When the waiter came and asked if they wanted their usual iced teas Ellen uttered a clear, “No.” Louise was startled. Ellen had never diverted from their routine, ever. Ellen felt her spirit rising above the table and could see the two of them from above. She focused on herself and heard her suddenly commanding voice say, “We’ll have a bottle of sangria, two shots of tequila and two of those fancy Italian beers.” Louise smiled and they settled into their typical litany of complaints about Alan.    At 3:58 fifteen people were crammed into the conference room. Mike and Darla stood at the head of the table, all smiles. They weren’t in on the joke, but Ellen knew they would appreciate it. An intern started lighting the candles and Darla asked with a tinge of dread, “Is Alan coming?” Another intern ran out to get him and the two of them quickly returned. Alan shot Ellen a dirty, quizzical look as he surveyed the birthdayscape.    Once all five candles were lit everyone broke out into the birthday song, but after the first verse everyone switched the lyrics. Instead of Happy birthday to you! everyone sang Alan is an asshole, Fuck You! Alan is an asshole, Fuck You! Fuck Alan he’s a shithead! Stop staring at women’s tits! The office workers repeated the song a few times, switching the final verse to various denigrations involving Alan’s creepiness, shitty attitude and incompetence. The final round ended with We’ve all signed a complaint with HR, so we hope you get canned! Darla and Mike blew out the candles together.    Alan stole a couple glances at the more attractive women’s breasts and slithered back to his office while the workers cracked beers and laughed.

vbq2s6

John Hanks, a Cousin

John Hanks, a Cousin By Kathleen M. Brosius “I do not think much of a man who is not  wiser today than he was yesterday.” Abraham Lincoln Rural life in Kentucky was difficult for folks early in the 19 th Century. Subsistence farming was the prominent way of life, and people worked hard hoping that after the family was fed, there may be enough crops to sell. The death of a child was common during those years. Children often lost a parent or both due to the hardships, as well. During this time, young John Hanks found himself alone, having lost both parents. In need of a home, his mother’s cousin invited the lad to live with them. The family welcomed the extra hand to help with the farming. Deep in the woods in a small log cabin in Knob Creek, Kentucky, young John found happiness; he and his cousin became best friends. Many times, the two were hired by nearby farmers to help out. They planted crops, helped with livestock, and outdoor chores. They built log cabins and cleared land of unwanted brush. The toughest, yet to them the most enjoyable, was spitting rails for building and for making fences. The money they earned was given the family to help with expenses. As teenagers, the cousins had grown tall and strong. The boys never had the opportunity to acquire a formal education. Young John was too busy with outdoor activities. His younger cousin did learn to read from the little bit of schooling he did have and by his mother and later stepmom. He read everything he could get his hands on from the Bible to Shakespeare. As they matured, the cousins went their separate ways, but always kept the close relationship. John hugged his cousin good-bye promising to keep in touch. “I’ll be back,” John promised. His cousin nodded and watched his boyhood friend disappear down the road. John loved boating and it was not long before he became an expert boatman. He was hired by a man in Illinois to ferry a shipment of goods from Springfield, MO to New Orleans. He visited his cousin and invited him to join him. “We will make 50 cents a day.” Abe answered, with glee. “Yes, John, yes. I will go with you.” Abe was tired of living in the woods. He was tired of building log cabins and fences. He longed for a different life, so he was eager to join his cousin. They bought a canoe and set off paddling down the Sangamon River. Abe complained during the whole trip, “This is the worst river, I’ve ever been on, John.” He added, “Look at the logs and boulders; and all the zig-zag turns.” But they made it. Both men were happy to finally realize that their first destination, Sangamon Town, was just up ahead. John had made arrangements to meet Denton Offutt, who had the goods ready and waiting for shipment. “We can pull in right over in that stretch of bank.” They paddled into shore, pulled the canoe up and into the weeds and walked to town. There, they met up with Abe’s stepbrother, John Johnston, who joined the group. Abe asked Cousin John, “What will we haul these goods with?” John said, “I don’t rightly know. I expect that Mr. Offutt has that all arranged. “I’ve worked on the longboats. I would assume that we’ll be cruising down the river on one of them.” At Sangamon City, they searched for Mr. Offutt. Nowhere to be found, they looked inside the local saloon. There they found the gentleman, his head nestled on his folded arms on a table. He apparently had enjoyed a night of card playing and drinking. Cousin John, remarked, “Well, looks like our boss man likes to party.” Abe added a colorful comment, sending laughter throughout the saloon. His long strides took him to the sleeping Mr. Offutt. “Excuse me, sir,” he said. “We’re here to take a load of supplies down to New Orleans.” Mr. Offutt jumped, stood, steadied himself and cleared his throat. Grabbing his hat, he slapped it on his messed-up head of hair and said, “Yes,” clearing his throat again. “Yes, I’ve got it already to go.” He straightened his back and headed for the door, the three young men from the hills in tow. Offutt cleared his throat again and began telling the young men his plans. “I don’t have a flatboat.” He continued, “I’m hoping that you fellas can build one. I’ll pay ya. Don’t you worry about that.” The three stared at each other, confused at this request. Where they would get the tools, and the wood, became their priority. John Hanks spoke first. “There’s a woods not too far from town. I remember seeing a good-sized patch of “old growth trees” just right for making a flatboat.” At the site of the trees, about seven miles northeast of town, the men began their work. Abe took charge. He was a natural leader. Having built log cabins and had once ridden in a longboat, he felt that the job wasn’t going to be so hard. The three cut the trees needed, used a local mill to make the lumber and set to work. After several weeks of toil, an 80’ by 18’ longboat was presented to Mr. Offutt for approval. The boat had a small cabin set in the middle. Abe pointed out, “It has a flat roof so that supplies can be secured on top.” Stepbrother John added, “Or one of us can sit up there, sort of, as a look out.” Mr. Offutt was impressed. He noticed the long poles protruding out of holes on each side of the bow of the craft, for steering; In the rear, the boat also had a rudder. The longboat was loaded with packages of slab bacon, sacks of corn, barrels of pork, live hogs, and other goods. The next morning, bright and early, Mr. Offutt and the three-man crew began the long trip to New Orleans. Abe, happy about the long-anticipated journey finally beginning, called to his crew, “We look like a piece of driftwood floating down a stream of newly melted snow.” He laughed as he said it, always ready to make fun of himself, his awkward ways, ill-fated clothing, and his accomplishments, with humble remarks. The passengers laughed with him. “I think that I’ll make a steamboat, to travel down these meandering waters, Abe,” Mr. Offcutt said. “And I will make you the captain.” Abe was pleased to hear of Mr. Offcutt’s confidence in him, but he didn’t dwell on the concept of becoming a captain of a steamboat. He longed for bigger things. He was a learned man and dreamed of becoming a lawyer, someone who would be able to help the people. The longboat was difficult to maneuver. The inexperienced crew did their best to navigate the winding stream. Approaching the town of New Salem on the Sangamon, the crew wasn’t aware that a mill dam had been built on one side of the river. Its purpose was to divert the fast-moving water to one specific area producing energy for a water wheel. The dam was almost invisible to boat traffic. The crew, not knowing this, ran smack into the dam. The boat got hung up, thus stopping short the longboat. Abe took charge and located a small raft from the towns people who had gathered to watch the “show.” The crew began transferring the cargo onto the raft. As the longboat grew lighter, Abe augured a hole close to the front of the craft to allow the rapidly sinking boat to relieve itself of river water. That being done, the crew was able to pry the boat free and maneuver it over the obstruction. Once reloaded with the cargo, down the river they once again floated. The townspeople were amazed at the tall, lanky fellow, who seemed to be a natural river boat man, problem solver, and leader. As were his crewmates, including Mr. Offcutt, They, as well as the people who had watched the scene, encouraged the young Abe to follow his dream in becoming a man for the people. Beyond the dam fiasco, the river continued to test the crew’s patience and ingenuity. Slow moving water over shallow areas, demanded the crew to be extremely cautious and aware of log jams and sunken sandbars. The meandering river produced sharp turns and jagged stumps that lay just below the surface, waiting to rip the longboat from bow to stern. As much as Abe’s hate for the Sangamon River grew, he appreciated how the challenge forced his cleverness and resourcefulness. The longboat carrying the crew, the boss man, and the cargo finally said farewell to the Sangamon River. A short trip down the Illinois River, and they entered the Mississippi River at Cairo, Ill. A short stay at Cairo, the crew resumed their journey to the South. The river took them by Vicksburg and Natchez, eventually to New Orleans. Once relieved of their cargo, the longboat was disassembled, the logs and lumber sold. They were paid what was promised to them plus a $60.00 each bonus. “Look at this,” John Hanks said, as he proudly counted his money. John Johnston agreed. He carefully folded his earnings and stuffed the wad deep into his pocket. “I am going to hang on to as much of this as I can,” he said. “When I get back home, I’ve got some bills to pay and a wife to fuss over.” He patted his pocket, a satisfying smile on his face. Abe’s attention had turned to a square in the middle of town. He had stashed his earnings in his pocket, as well, “What is going on over there?” he asked, turning toward his pals. The three of them followed the noise. They heard yelling and what sounded like an auction. Abe had never been to an auction. John Hanks had and knew what was going on. They pushed through the crowd, through people calling out questions, comments, and bids. They heard crying and cussing. They saw a line of dark-skinned people linked together by chains behind the center scaffold. “What is going on?” Abe whispered. He looked at his cousin. “What is this?” John’s answer appalled Abe, sending distressing emotions through him. It was his first sight of slave trade. After watching the spectacle, there was nothing that he could do that day, but from that moment forward, his quest was to stop this horrifying treatment of humanity. John Hanks became Abe Lincoln’s right-hand man in the campaign to carry him to the presidency. He later, with the help of his son, wrote journals recalling Mr. Lincoln’s life. John visited the White House several times and attended the President-elect’s inauguration. The next time he saw his cousin, his old friend, his President, was at the President’s funeral .  

ou91kx

A Copy of a Copy of a Poorly Copied Copy

The comptroller at the Union's Plans office was raised Christian, had graduated from Maryland State, and had the faith of a child in all things American. His accounting expertise landed him a job in Ann Arundel county, across the water from Easton: his most favorite town on the Western shore. He was all set up to live a good life, and had begun to do so. Accountability is the responsibility of accounting, but counting on accountants to be accountable bore upon him a contradiction in terms, both in law and fact. The union was required by law to employ him, and the union’s pension fund paid his salary; but he was not held accountable to the rank and file members. Instead, he had power to inflict upon members the fear of the IRS. On account of his faith and being so near Washington DC, he began to question internal polity. Began to donate money to the Cato Institute: a Libertarian think tank. Its quips and quotes provided him with percipience; but! Had he become part of "a multitude of new offices, (with) swarms of officers to harass...people and eat out their substance"? Accountability was becoming a double edged sword. It seemed to him that if three different tax experts were given the same tax avoidance scheme, which is legal, some would call it tax evasion, which is not. Then there was his own scare tactic to make union members cough up their guilt by sending them a letter; inside of which, was an opened envelope with a copy of a poorly copied copy of an IRS notice. Fear had been a great motivator. Union members accounted to his office their accounts, all on account of a letter with a dubious origin. On account of his guilt, he began to question his faith. And on account of his faith, his accounting practices lost accountability, but with a mortgage, kids and a new boat, accounting remained the means commensurate to the good life. Years later... The Baltimore Sun has a developing story about a union’s missing money. How much does the president know? Are unions corrupt? Who is accountable? How much did the vice president abscond with? The Sun’s reporter is one her first assignment. She’s from Iowa; has not been to the Eastern shore. She is young and beautiful and loves every minute that seems to be racing by in a fleeting moment of eternity. Now a helicopter is flying over a house: a mansion on four acres of prime real estate owned by the Marine Engineers Beneficial Association. The union's vice president has left the country, but the union's president remains inside the house. His name has been infamous among those who know but don’t tell. The union’s school is named after his predecessor. According to all of its accounts, the union's monies are accounted for. It's just that the amount that was stolen has yet to be counted; and the comptroller is on vacation. The short drive from Easton to St Michaels includes a stop at a wine bar then dinner at his daughter's favorite: The Crab Claw. Aboard the “Sound of the Music” three family/crew are glued to the TV. The view from the helicopter includes union members standing in a parking lot. It looks like they might riot; police are standing by. Jerry says, “I’m not going to be a part of this marriage if your father is a player in this mess.” “But mom, Dad said that you can’t always do the right thing.” Timmy is fourteen; wants to be a lawyer. “We’ll see what he says about this,” she says. Jerry is a country singer turned house-wife. She plays a guitar that’s always tuned, but lately, it has remained in its case. “Sometimes people do things that are not ethical, but stealing money goes beyond the pale.” Rebecca looks confused. She thinks her sister has done something wrong again, and now she’s going to get the whole family into trouble. “Mommy, will we have to go to prison?” “No sweetheart. This stuff has nothing to do with your sister. We are all safe from whatever daddy may have done.” “There’s daddy now! Rebecca says. She climbs off the chart table and climbs up the ladder, poking her head out of the hatch. “Daddy! Daddy! Daddy! Susan grabs her baby sister. “No! I want Daddy!!” He is standing in the parking lot with a cell phone pressed against his head. “He’s busy! Rebecca. Come, let's go inside. I brought some leftover crab for you.” As Timmy, Rebecca and Jerry pick-a-part their dinner, Susan is told to fuel up. “We will sail when the tide ebbs”. She is told.  The fuel dock is just across the slip. The father and daughter work together to shift the boat; a bow line is stretched to a far cleat. As stern lines are let loose, the boat is winched towards the fueling station. Before Jerry finishes cleaning up, Timmy has shifted all the fenders to the port side. Rebecca is sitting atop the house, watching. “Good job!! Susan and Timmy look at their dad, and glow, proud to be so handy. “Let me!” Timmy hollers. He pulls at the fueling nozzle. Susan holds on to it. The fuel tank is empty. The nozzle develops a static charge. “Timmy! Let your sister do her task. I need you to go down below and stow away all of your toy soldiers and help mom with whatever she needs. Susan, make sure the vent is open before we start the pump.” At the volunteer fire department, a call goes out. A black sedan enters the marina parking lot. The driver stops; watches the last of a small mushroom cloud disperse. He temporarily remains frozen, not knowing what to do, thinking that was far too close for comfort. Finally, follows behind local fire and rescue. The crowd grows along with the sound of sirens and the scene of flashing lights. The Baltimore Sun story finds an ending. “We will never know.”

lhd49b

Losing the Race

Have you ever been wrong about something but you were so convinced you were right so now you have to prove you were right in some way even if it takes all that you have in you. That’s what happens sometimes. So as a warning be careful what you say is right so you don’t get yourself in a bad or crazy situation. That’s how I got here, into this dare. It started out as a little friendly conversation… “Who do you think would win if we drag raced?” Lizzy asked speculatively. “Depends on what we’re racing.” Fitz replied. “Ok well what if I raced a Dodge and you raced how about we say a Lamborgini?” “Well then I’d win.” Fitz said. “You sure about that?” Lizzy was being a little cocky but that didn’t bother Fitz. She could be like that sometimes especially about competitive things. “Of course I’m sure. I know my cars.” Fitz said confidently. This is too easy. I thought how does she think she’s going to win in a Dodge? Little had I known that she had actually been doing her homework on this one. She knows I’m always up for a challenge and she also knew how to start a good challenge, which now I was second guessing if I could win this one. The pit crew was around me showing me how to buckle in and drag race the car. I never thought Lizzy could be this serious. But back to where it had started. Lizzy came running down the street at me the next morning like she always did every morning, but this time she had a little glint in her eye. I knew right away that something was up. “What do you have for me today? I can tell you are going to spring something on me.” “So remember yesterday when you said you would win in a drag race?” “Yeah, why?” Fitz said slightly puzzled as too why it was being brought up again. “Well I’m still convinced I would win.” There it was Lizzy needing too have the last word and be right. “No, there’s no way that could happen.” Fitz laughed because he thought it was just going to be the same conversation they had yesterday, but boy was he wrong. “Ok then prove it… I dare you to drag race against me in a Lamborgini so I can prove to you that a Dodge would win.” Lizzy was being very stubborn, she was also very convinced she would win. It startled me a little bit but it still didn’t seem plausible so I went along with it. “Ok, fine I accept.” I shouldn’t have accepted the challenge. I should’ve known better than to accept a challenge when Lizzy says “prove it”. I just never expected that she would actually find a way to make it happen. But by the end of the day she had drag racing lessons set up for us already for the following week. They weren’t anything major just teaching us the general basics so we knew what we were doing, we had to drive with an instructor and then they said that we were good to go pretty much! I don’t know how she did it that quickly but it was crazy how she was very prepared for it. I thought thoough that there was no way she would be able to get a Lamborgini, maybe a Dodge but definitely not a Lamborgini. I was wrong again because I am now sitting in the driver's seat of a Lamborgini Huracan, something I never thought I would ever do in my life. Lizzy pulled up next to me in a Dodge Demon, I never knew she knew so much about cars but now I was actually scared I might lose. My heart was racing as we pulled up to the line. My hands started getting clammy and sweaty, I was very anxious. We pull up to the spot where you start and I can see the lights and am getting prepared. The amber lights light up and I see them start too count down. One, two, and three, green! And off we go! I could feel the adrenaline pumping through my viens as my hands gripped the wheel tighter and we took off. I was doing so good or so I thought! I had started out ahead of Lizzy but realized she whipped right past me in less than a second later. I knew this dare didn’t look good for me. We hit the end of the track and she was definitely ahead of me, I lost the dare I was so sure and confident I would win. We brought the cars back around and when Lizzy got out of the Dodge Demon, you could see her face beaming with a smile that spread from ear to ear and she was glowing with happiness as she took her helmet off. She ran up too me so fast too rub it in my face that she had won, but I realized it didn’t really bother me because I had so much fun racing anyway. “I did it!” Lizzy was practically screaming with all of her excitement. “I know I saw!” “That was so much fun, we should do it again!” “Yeah we should! But before we do that again, how do you know so much about cars and drag racing?” “The track where we got lessons.” “What do you mean?” “My uncle owns that place and I have been hanging out there with my cousins since I was little. When you’ve been there long enough you start to pick stuff up!” “Wow I never knew that. That’s very interesting!” “Yeah thank you!” “Of course. Well now I know never to make a bet with you about cars again or I’ll just keep losing.” This was just all so crazy to me but I’m glad it worked out the way it did in the end because even if I didn’t win the dare I had so much fun with my best friend anyway.

23wtln

A Night Off

1 Katie happily pressed the send icon on her phone’s messaging app. She wouldn’t be seeing anyone that evening, let alone her friend Jessica. She’d already seen her twice in the last week, and that was plenty of Jessica.            She looked at the little bubble on the side of her phone’s screen. “Raincheck, already have plans tonight.”            And, to be honest, that was true. She did already have plans. She’d found that she best way to ensure time to herself was to put it into her calendar. Plans with myself is what she called them.            “You locking up tonight?” A voice over her cubicle wall asked.            “Nope, I’m just getting ready to leave.” She responded.            “Hey, before you go, can I get the key to the office supply closet? I need some staples and another red pen.”            Katie went into the next cubicle. “Sure.” She took out her office keys. There were a bunch on a large keyring. She selected the one for the supply closet and held it out to him. “Just be quick about it. I want to leave in a few minutes.” She listened as the jingling keys walked away.            “He’s gonna take forever, settle in.” Red sighed.            “Quiet.” Katie responded.            She looked at the time on her phone. Three minutes past four.            “You still have plenty of time. It’s not like you have a deadline.” Blue said. Katie didn’t respond. She was just anxiously excited for the evening to start.            She heard the jingling keys returning. “Here you go.” He handed her a jumble of keys.            “Thanks, Brian.” She said and took the keys from him. She shoved everything into her purse and headed for the elevators. She looked at her phone one more time as she waited for the doors to open. Six minutes past four. She shoved her phone in her purse. Finally, she thought, a night alone.            Of course, red and blue would be there, but they were always there. And, strictly speaking, they were more her than not her.            Katie took the empty elevator down to the parking garage. There weren’t assigned parking spots, but she found that everyone typically parked in the same spot anyway.            “Another point that humans are sheep.” Red mused.            “There’s nothing wrong with habit.” Blue responded. “Besides, nobody needs another thing to remember. It’s easier this way.”            “Fine.” Red conceded. “Humans are still lazy, then.”            Blue remained silent. “Nothing from you?” Katie asked blue expectantly.            “I mean, she’s not wrong…” Blue laughed.            Katie shook her head as she walked to where her car was always parked and glanced over to see Red grinning. She smiled to herself, climbed into the car, and made the short drive home in merciful silence.            2            Katie entered the kitchen through the back door of her house and started the oven even before she put her purse down. She was ready. She had a plan. She’d arranged the whole evening for herself.            She’d even go so far as laying out her pajamas on her bed. Her pipe was already packed on the counter as well. She was ready.            She took her pipe outside and sat down on a small folding chair in the grass. She had a small fenced in yard next to her garage. Katie pulled a lighter out of her pocket, held the pipe to her lips, lit the drugs, and inhaled. The hot smoke filled her lungs and she held her breath for a few long seconds and then exhaled. She repeated the process twice more until the contents of the bowl were spent.            “Well, that’s better.” Red said in a more relaxed voice than normal.            “No arguments here.” Blue said concurringly.            Katie remained silent watching the clouds drift by overhead. She needed this. She needed a break from…            “Don’t forget to put the pizza in the oven.” Blue said.            “Idiot.” Red added. Katie swatted at Red, but, of course, hit nothing. She went back into the kitchen and took a frozen pizza out of the freezer. She unwrapped it and popped it in the oven. “Timer.” Blue said. Katie set the timer for fifteen minutes and then went upstairs. She was feeling the effects of the drugs now as she made her way up the stairs. She was noticing things more; the smooth grain of the handrail along the wall leading upstairs, the dust in the corner along the floorboards as her stairs turned and continued to the right, the chipped paint on the edges of her bedroom door. On her bed, laid out, were a pair of light gray sweatpants and a light flannel shirt. She quickly changed and threw her work clothes in the hamper. One of her pant legs didn’t quite make it and was draped over the front edge. “Nice shot.” Red teased. Katie ignored the comment and went back downstairs thinking about the word hamper and where it came from. Hamper.  She thought. Hamper. Hamper.  “Do either of you know where the word hamper comes from?” Katie asked. “If you don’t, we don’t.” Blue answered. “Why would you even ask us something like that? What do you think we are, your personal search engine?” Red added. Katie rolled her eyes and opened her purse to get her phone. She sat down and unlocked the screen and saw she had fifteen unread text messages. “Well, that’s ominous.” Red said looking over her shoulder. “You should probably read them.” Blue said. “Why?” Red responded. “It’s probably nothing.” She opened the conversation and read the last few messages. They were from Brian, from work. “I need your help! Please!” Read the last one. The one above it said, “Please respond, I need them.” “Scroll up. What’s going on?” Blue said. Katie flicked the screen to get to the beginning. “Hey, I accidentally gave you my personal keys instead of your work keys. Can you bring them to me? I’m still at the office. I’m locked out of my car. I feel so stupid.” “You are stupid, Brian.” Red said. Katie ignored her and kept reading. “Are you getting these? I really need my keys. I’m supposed to pick up my sister’s kids from soccer. Please, I’m sorry for so many texts. I’ll make it up do you. Katie? You there? Hello? Please respond. I need your help! Please!” She looked at the word bubbles. They seemed to be popping off the screen. There was a third dimension to them. She could see shadows underneath. Then, at once, her eyes continued down, underneath the final text from Brian. Read 5:01pm. Red started laughing. “You dumbass! You’ve got your read receipts on!” Her laughter was maniacal. “Now what are you gonna do? Not get him his keys? He knows you read them!” “He’s typing another message.” Blue said nervously. Katie glanced and saw the three flickering dots. They disappeared and another message popped up. “Oh thank god you’re finally seeing these. I’m so sorry. I’m still at work. Can you bring my keys over? You’re a lifesaver!” “How are you going to get over there? You’re high as a kite.” Blue said. “Who said we’re going over there?” Red responded. “It’s his fault he’s an idiot.” “We all make mistakes.” Blue argued. “Yea but we shouldn’t have to fix someone else’s mistakes. That’s not fair.” Red said. Katie stared at the phone. Why her? Why tonight?  She exhaled, then pulled up the keyboard on her screen. The letters were floating. “I’ll be there soon.” She managed to type. “And just how do you think you’re going to do that?” Red asked. “You can’t drive in your condition.” Blue said. “I’ll take my bike.” “You think biking is safer?” Red said. “Aren’t you the one usually goading me into taking more risks?” “Yea, but not when those risks involve brain damage. I don’t want to deal with that.” “How thoughtful of you.” Blue said. “But I’m with Red on this one, this is a terrible idea. You’re going to get hurt.” “I’ll be ok. Don’t you two remember how many stoned bike rides we used to go on?” “That was fifteen years ago!” Red yelled. Katie was headed out the back door when Blue yelled, “Keys!” She’d almost forgotten the whole reason she was leaving. She grabbed her purse and rifled through it and found the keys inside. She slung the purse over her shoulder, slipped on some shoes, and went through her yard and into her garage. Her bike was there and she pulled it out into the driveway. The sun was still high enough in the sky that she shouldn’t have to worry about riding in the dark even on the way back. “Helmet.” Red said. “Look at you! Looking out for my wellbeing.” Katie mused. “More like looking out for my wellbeing.  Again, I’d like to submit, for the record, my objection to this little adventure.” “Noted.” Katie said and fastened her helmet. She climbed on her bike and set off down the driveway. She focused on the tree at the end of it, along the street. It was an old tree. A large maple. It was one of the things she liked most about her house. As she pulled past her fence and out onto the street, a car was headed right at her. She yanked the handlebars left and the car swerved around her, honking. She stopped and looked back as the car continued on down the street.” “We’re gonna die.” Red said. 3 Katie had managed to orient herself down the street towards her office. It was a ten minute drive, but that was going around the community college. She thought she could save some time cutting through campus on her bike. Her vision wasn’t blurry, but it wasn’t clear either. Things looked similar and different. More vivid and more abstract. “Oh my god you’re so high right now.” Red said. “Be quiet.” Blue snapped.  “She needs to focus.” Blue was correct. She did need to keep focused. Every building she passed, she started to imagine the classes that went on there. What were the lectures about? Were the students paying attention? And then Blue would calmly tell her, “focus” to bring her attention back to the ride. She passed a dozen students leaving what looked like a big library. They stared at her as she passed. “They know you’re high.” Red said. “They’re going to call the police.” “They’re college kids. They’re probably high themselves!” Katie responded. She kept her focus on the sidewalk in front of her. She was thirsty. Her mouth was incredibly dry and so were her eyes. She needed water. The wind in her face was making things exponentially worse. To her right was a practice football field and some tennis courts. “There should be a water fountain somewhere nearby.” Blue said. “You’re really going to stop somewhere? Just keep going.” Red said. “I’m so thirsty. I’m going to die without water.” “You’re being dramatic.” Red said, irritated. Katie rode past the football field, but there was no sign of a water fountain. It probably doesn’t make sense to have a water fountain there. They probably bring those big containers out to the field. The ones that they dump on coaches when they win a big game. Who started that? Whose idea was it to soak the coach like that? Now , sure, I mean, people know what it is. But what would it have been like for that first coach, the first one to get soaked? He probably had no idea what the heck was happening! Yay, we won the game! Hooray! What? What’s happening? Why am I wet? Am I supposed to be enjoying this?            “LOOK OUT!!” Red and blue both yelled in unison. Katie’s attention snapped back to see the chain link fence quickly approaching her. No. She was approaching it. She hit the brakes but it was way too late. She went wheel first into the fence and flew over the top of her handlebars. The fence stopped her from flying too far and the bike jumped up and hit her back as well. She crumpled down onto the ground with the bike on top of her.            For a moment she laid there, confused. Then she carefully untangled herself from her bike and stood up. She actually didn’t seem to be in terrible shape. She felt at her face. There was a little blood coming from her cheek where she’d scraped the fence, but other than that, she didn’t think anything was broken or torn. She picked up her bike. The handlebars were a little askew, but she figured she could fix that. She propped the bike against the fence and looked around. Nobody was nearby. Nobody saw her. That was probably for the best.            “You ok?” Blue asked.            “I think so.” Katie said glancing down at herself.            “Well look at that.” Red marveled. She pointed to Katie’s right, to a slender green water fountain.            Katie slowly walked over to it and drank angrily. She took big slurping gulps until she felt full and then stood up. She wiped the water and blood from her face with her sleeve. She felt better. She felt more with it, more in control of her mind. “I think I’m good. Let’s get this over with.”            She went back to her bike and straddled the front wheel with her legs. Then she twisted the handlebars to straighten them out. “Good as new.” She spoke.            “You’re delusional.” Red replied.            “Let’s go.” Blue added.            Katie agreed and she got back on her bike. She rode slower this time and made it off campus. From there it was just a few more blocks to her office building.            She rode down the sidewalk until she got to the first big intersection. She stopped and waited for the cars to pass, and then she continued. Down the next block, she waited again, and then crossed when it was safe to do so. She’d calmed down from the fall. She felt good again. She also felt high again.            At the third intersection, she stopped again. She looked to her left and saw the don’t walk hand up, so she stayed. “Why are you stopping?” Red asked.            “I don’t have the light.” Katie responded.            “Yes, you do. You’re going that way.” Red pointed in the direction she’d been heading. There was a flashing orange hand now.            Katie blushed a bit. “Sorry.”            “No need to blush. I’m as embarrassed as you are.” Red said as she crossed the street.            Finally, she approached her office building. She saw Brian waiting outside.            “Oh my god Katie, thank you so much.” As she got closer, he saw her face. “Woah. Are you ok?” He asked.            “Did you get hit by a car?” Brian’s dark one asked. “Are you ok?” His light one added.            “No. I crashed. I’m fine. It’s fine.” She rummaged through her purse and found the keys. “Here.” Katie reached out and Brian saw the blood drying on her hand.            “Can I take you somewhere? The hospital maybe?”            “No. Really, I’m fine.”            “SUPER high right now.” Red said.            “Hey!” Katie yelled at her.            “What, you’re always telling me that I should be more honest.” Red smirked.            “Oh god, really? And you rode your bike here?” Brian asked.            “I’m surprised you didn’t die.” Brian’s dark one said.            “That’s what I said!” Red responded.            “Really, I’m fine.” Katie said.            “Can I at least drive you home? You can put your bike in my car.”            “No, really, I’ll be ok.”            Blue interrupted, “a ride would be great, thanks.”            Katie gave Blue a look that said how could you do this to me? But Blue ignored it.            “I’ll take your bike.” Brian said. “And we don’t have to talk. I’ve…been there…where you are.” He continued. “Way too high to be out of the house.”            Katie smiled. They walked to Brian’s car, loaded up, and he drove her home.            4            Brian pulled his car into Katie’s driveway and helped get the bike out of the back seat. He walked it to her garage and then, before he turned, said, “see you on Monday.” He walked back to his car and left.            Katie exhaled. Home. Finally. And it was still light out. Still, plenty of time for a movie and…            “Oh shit the pizza!” Red yelled. Katie ran up the back steps and through open the door. She heard beeping. She smelled burning.            “Is that the smoke alarm?” Blue yelled. It wasn’t. It was the oven timer. She looked at the clock on the stove. 6:03. She opened the oven door and a big cloud of black smoke came billowing out. Now there was more beeping.            “ That’s the smoke alarm.” Red said, blandly. Smoke was billowing up off the pizza in the oven. She grabbed a plate and an oven mitt and slid the smoldering pizza onto the plate. She didn’t know what to do with it, so she tossed it into the sink and ran water over it. Now there was more smoke. The smoke alarm was still going off. It was getting hard to breathe in the kitchen.            Katie ran around opening windows all over the house. The smoke alarm finally stopped as the kitchen cleared.            “It’s probably going to smell for a while.” Blue said.            “Idiot.” Red added.            Katie sat down on a couch and leaned her head back. She just wanted one night by herself. Her housemate was gone for the evening, she had no other plans.            “Why?” Blue asked.            “Why what?” Katie returning the question.            “Why do you want a night alone so badly?”            “Because it’s hard. It’s hard to be on all the time. It’s hard to manufacture a personality constantly, to be someone constantly. I just want some time where I don’t have to be on. Where I can be nothing.”            “That’s dumb.” Red said, but Katie could tell that she didn’t mean it. Red agreed. They all did. They were, of course, all her.

4m0zuz

Is Our Government going to fall

It was Friday and the last day of school for the week. It was going to going to be thanksgiving soon and I talking about who was coming to out house with my friends as we walked to school. All of us were trying to think of all the good food we were going to eat and if we would be aloud to help with the cooking. Were we also making plans about what we could do over thanksgiving vacation. When we got to school it started like any other school day. We had lesson, went to lunch, and then recess. But everything was going to change once we all got back into our classrooms for afternoon studies. I think we were working in out math books when when the classroom opened and the principal came into our room. He walked over to the teacher and they spoke very softly for a few minutes. We all looked at each other trying to figure out who was in trouble. But from the way they both looked it seemed like something else was going on. "Class please form a line at the door. We are going down the hall to join the third graders." We all lined up at the classroom door. I was in second grade at the time and got a little excited because that was one of my brother's classrooms. We quickly walked down the hall and arrived to see the principal, teacher, and other student adding extra chairs to the room and the guidance counselor was wheeling in a TV. It was Friday November 22, 1963 at approximately 1:30pm. I went and found a empty chair next to my brother because I was starting to feel scared. The teacher asked for us to be quiet and turned on the TV. There was Walter Cronkite. I knew who he was because my parents would watch the news at home and they liked him. He looked really upset. " The President has been shot." I think I went numb. We had only been living in America for about three years and I was instantly thinking that a Coup was going on, Was he dead, who had done this, was a war going to start? All these questions filled my head as we watch replays of the the motorcade. Poor Mrs. Kennedy, this was awful, horrible, what was going to happen? I looked around the room. Some of the adults were crying. I wanted to go home really badly. I didn't think any of the other kids knew what a Coup was. I don't think they really believed it was happening. We sat and watched watched. Finally we heard the TV announcer say, " The president is dead." The he began to cry. We were allowed to go home early. I kept thinking back to my years in Europe were my brothers and I had been born. We had heard a lot about different government falling and most of the time it started with the assassination of the leader of the country. I kept wondering if we were going to have to leave America. When we got home my mother had the TV on. She looked so sad but I just went and sat down next to her. It was awful watching it all and hearing each and every detail. I wonder what would happen to Mrs. Kennedy and her two children. I wonder if someone was going to try and kill them too. Dad came home and I felt safe. He was retired Navy and I knew he wouldn't let anything bad happen to us. Then I felt guilty because our Dad was home and Caroline an John Kennedy would never see their dad again. Mom and I always looked at magazine picture of the Kennedy family. Caroline Kennedy was born a year after me while we were living in Holland. Everyone in Europe would talk about the Kennedy's especial Joseph and Rose Kennedy. John, her brother, was born in 1960 which was the year I found out we were living Holland and moving to America permanently. Interestingly enough both of them were born during the month of November which was the same month I was born in. However, they were born near the end of the month and I was born near the beginning. My brothers and I went to bed. The next morning we learned the the Vice President Lyndon Johnson, was now the president. It was a little confusing but as I listened to the news and the adults in the neighborhood talking I realized everything was going to be okay and that the Government wasn't going to fall. I was both relieved and sad. I like President Kennedy and his family. A lot of people in our neighborhood were Irish American and everyone was really upset. One of my friend told me he was killed because he was catholic. Up until that point it hadn't really registered that he was America's first Catholic president. I couldn't agree or disagree because being born in Europe I knew people would really kill someone just because of the their religion. I simply sat there at let my friend talk. I could see she was trying not to cry. Another neighbor said he was killed because of his father Joseph. She was telling my father the that Joseph Kennedy wore and an Irish curse and only his "sainted wife" would be able to save that whole family. It surprised me because I thought American only hated Jew. I didn't realize they hated Catholics too. I learned a bunch of new interesting facts about America that weekend and most of it was hateful. Really ugly Then I started thinking about all the people in leadership that had been assassinated since we moved to the US. Something certainly wasn't right in this countries political world. Since I was only seven at the time I was I problem that i knew I couldn't solve but it left a lasting impression that made me want to figure out what was wrong with this country

u6rcfx

Memories

Last year when my family got together for the holidays my great-grandmother sat at the table like she always did and just watched all of us. She never really says much to anyone, but I could tell when she began to get irritated at some of the things and conversations going on around her. When my cousins started complaining about how they did not get the exact new model of phone they wanted for Christmas she just shook her head, sighed and stared off into the distance. One of my cousins saw her shake her head at them and asked why she did it. Why didn’t she want them to have the best phones if they wanted them? My grandma just looked at him and reminded him that he did not actually need a new phone every year and as someone who grew up without such luxuries, she believed that if what you had worked and was still in good condition it should be good enough for them. They quickly lost interest in what she was saying and walked back to the other room rolling their eyes and not wanting to listen. I was curious about what she had said, and I asked her if she would mind telling me about her life back then. She looked at me and smiled and began to tell me how she was born in 1925. She was four years old when The Great Depression started because of the stock market crash in 1929. Investors at the time lost something like $30 billion dollars (the equivalent today would be near $396 billion). She told me that at that time, the country was classified as industries, such as the banking industry, railroad industry, lumber industry and other types. All the industries soon began to decline, and many were nearly going bankrupt. Banks all over the country began closing rapidly. Soon the businesses followed their example and because of this a lot of people lost their jobs. She said for a while it seemed like the whole country was out of work. It seemed so hard to believe how the whole country could have been out of work and I asked where her family lived and how they made do. She told me her family lived in a small town on a farm and pretty much just lived off the land. Her mother had a large garden and fruit trees that gave them plenty of fruits and vegetables. They even had chickens, pigs and goats for a while, too. She told me that her mother canned everything she grew, as well as the any meat they had. Her mother taught her and her siblings how to do these things as well while she was growing up. Money was very tight for the family and it was hard to come by. Her father would go to town and stand in line for hours just trying to get a job to bring in any extra money he could for the family, often if he got a job it would be hours of work for just pennies. She said he never complained much because he taught them that any money coming in helps. There were no steady jobs to be found anywhere and bartering with friends and neighbors for things you needed was quite common. She told me that no one had charge accounts, or credit cards. If you could not afford it, you did not buy it. They had a small farmhouse that did have running water, which came from a pump outside. They had a coal stove that they needed to heat up just so they could cook things. She told me that she and her siblings would walk along the railroad picking up any extra coal they could find just to bring it home to help some with the stove. Their house did not have a bathroom inside, so they had an outhouse they used instead. She told me how even though her family did not have much they considered themselves lucky just to still have a home. Many people had lost theirs due to not having money and ended up living in shantytowns in nothing more than shelters made from salvageable materials they had found including cardboard. These places were called Hooverville’s after President Hoover and they were all over the country. Some had a couple hundred people living in them and others had thousands. Even though her family did not have too much extra they still tried to share with some of the even less fortunate people in town. Her parents taught her that it was important to be kind to everyone. I asked her if she used any of the things she had learned through those years in her life as she was growing up or even if she still used them today and she told me why she does a few things people always look at her a bit strange for. While I was growing up it was normal to use jelly jars for drinking cups at grandma’s house because that is what she always had in the cup cabinet. She would always wash her used tin foil and Ziploc bags just so she could reuse them as much as possible before throwing them out. She told me that she was always taught to re-use, repurpose and recycle everything because you never knew when you would be able to get those items again. She asked, what was the point in throwing away something that was still useful? A few more tips she had for me were to save money for a rainy day and to never trust all my money to my bank. Always keep cash somewhere at home. She told me her parents often said they wished they had done the same before the depression hit. She said if you needed new clothes it was always better to go to thrift stores because not only are the clothes cheaper, but they are also often of better quality. She is convinced the clothing at sold at stores now fall apart to easily because they are so quickly made. She hugged me as I told her how much I appreciated everything she told me. She taught me a few lessons that day that I will use in my own life and pass down to my future children as well. I can not believe everything she lived through at that time in her life. I can understand why she is so smart and strong though. I am so used to the luxuries we have in the world today even with things going on that I do not know if I would be able to live the way they did during the Great Depression. I do know however, thanks to my great grandmothers’ story, that if our world ever gets to that point again, I may be able to figure things out. I could not believe it when she told me that it had been an exceptionally long time since she had talked to anyone about that period of her life. Apparently not many people in the family had asked her about it very often. I will always be grateful I took the time to learn about her life and let her teach me the skills of sewing, gardening and canning as I was growing up. I will always cherish those memories with my amazing grandma. 

j3ycun

Pondo and Sylvia

Pondo and Sylvia By Kathleen Brosius            He was a tall man, handsome and rugged. His black hair fell over his ears and his blue eyes sparkled, especially when he gazed upon his beloved Sylvia. Pondo, as he was called, was an old rogue to some. Careless in dress, stubborn to conform to the changing demands of society, he spent most of his time on the river bottoms. He was a commercial fisherman. He bought a plot of land with a gunnysack full of moldy muskrat pelts and $30. Called Mini Park , it was a place for commercial fishermen to store their gear, mend their nets and box traps and get out of a brewing storm .            Not far inland, lay the small town of New Albin, nestled close to the bluffs of Northeastern Iowa. The sleepy little town was content to watch the world pass by without too much involvement. But on Saturday nights the lights stayed on, the two taverns rocked, and the boys from the river came to town. They had worked hard during the week and loved to show off the bundle of money that their work rewarded them. They demanded the attention of the town's available girls. Some frequented the bars. A few refused to have anything to do with such places.            Sylvia was one such girl. Raised in a strict Methodist family, her father protected her from the scoundrels who "mocked the perfection that man was intended to be." Sylvia dutifully studied hard in school. She had worked herself through two years of college and earned a teaching degree. She felt prepared to enter her adult life, a professional, full of energy with the desire to teach the children of the world. Her blond hair was combed neatly away from her face, waves gently kept stray curls in place as it was caught in a bun at the nape of her neck. The style of the 1930's, she looked a picture of profession and content.            A rainy summer Saturday evening, Sylvia joined her friends at a local restaurant. They were sipping sodas at a table close to a window overlooking Main Street. The girls watched and giggled as several strapping young men stumbled and roared with laughter as they painfully removed themselves from a rusty old pickup.            The rain slid down the smooth glass in sheets, disfiguring the scene across the street. "Oh, I know who they are, they are the Crowley boys and the May brothers. They come into town every Saturday night. I think they spend the week down on the Islands. They live in some old shacks down there." Aileen was stretching toward the window to see more. “I adore those brothers of mine, but they can worry a girl." Aileen was the younger sister of Ronald and Leon.            Mae strained her eyes trying to see more clearly. She whispered, "What I wouldn't give to see where they live. Look at that Jeep or whatever it is. I think it’s Pondo's. Aileen, have you ever been down to his place? Oh, there's Joe Crowley and he's comin' this way.” Jumping up and grabbing her purse, she added, “He'll maybe come lookin' for me." she dashed toward the ladies' room to check her hair and makeup. Mae was the prettiest of the four at the table. Her dark hair was cut short and curled naturally around her face. Her blue eyes sparkled, and her full red lips curled up at the thought of Joe courting her.            Sylvia reached to tuck a loose curl back into place. As she watched the boys stumble across the road, she recognized Pondo. A soft blush began to creep up her slender neck, as she recalled their encounter, a year ago. She remembered the evening that Pondo walked her home. It had been a rainy night, as this night was. He wore the same yellow slicker.            She had prepared to leave for school in Nebraska. She had been sitting in this very cafe when he caught her eye as he passed. She had smiled and a moment later he was at her side. He bought her a soda, and they chatted and enjoyed their friends’ company until it was time to leave.   Pondo offered to walk her home. The rain had stopped, and they took their time, pausing at the Methodist church steps. Bashful, hesitant, but eager to pursue their relationship, they lingered as the sun dropped behind the hill that loomed over New Albin.            "Will you be coming home for Christmas Sylvia?"            "I don't know," she replied. "Tickets are expensive and I have to save for tuition and books." Pausing, she continued, "I'll try to come home. It's nice to visit with someone who knows who Kipling is. You've read so many books. I love to talk about the world outside New Albin and you know so much. More than I. You should be going to school, not me."            "No thanks," was his response. "I like to read, I like to learn about the world and what's in all those books, but no thanks to teachers telling me what to do, and tests to take, and especially to having to sit in stuffy school rooms all day. I prefer to be outside. On the river. In my boat."                       Having just gotten closer to him, she now was leaving the next morning. She had to go. She would not let anything stop her from finishing college. She eased herself off the wide cement step. Pondo, pulled her close. "Pondo, I have to go now," she whispered. "I 've enjoyed the walk and our visit, but please, don't make me wish that I were staying. I can't. I’m leaving for Lincoln in the morning. She pushed away. "I'm sorry, but I can't feel this way. Not yet." She turned and began walking away.            "Sylvia, wait. I'm sorry; I shouldn't have done that. Let me walk you the rest of the way. I won't stand in your way. I just want to know how you feel. We've known each other for a long time, since we were in Junior High. I've been watching you, waiting for a sign that you are interested. Well, I got that sign tonight. I don't want our relationship to be put on hold. I'll write. I'll come see you. I want you...Sylvie."            She turned and saw his blue eyes shining in the twilight. His dark hair tangled from the wind and rain. She never expected someone like Pondo to notice her. Yet here they were. They had just shared an intimate moment. She was afraid of what she felt. Confused, she stepped toward him. Stopping, she reached for his hand. "Pondo...Ronald..., I do care. I would like to keep in touch with you. And I will miss you." She looked into his eyes a long moment, then both allowed a smile to form on their lips.            Turning again toward home. They walked saying nothing. They exchanged a few letters and phone calls. Pondo traveled to visit Sylvia. She made it home for Christmas and their relationship continued to blossom. Pondo built his commercial fishing business with his brothers. Sylvia graduated and began teaching at a country school in Allamakee County. Their relationship grew and they found themselves deeply in love. They married in 1938 in Dubuque, IA. Her sister Goldie and her husband Dutch witnessed the ceremony.            He took her hand as their daughter focused the camera. Fifty years had passed. This was their Golden Wedding anniversary. A special cake was waiting on the table. A few greeting cards were scattered around a vase full of spring flowers. A pretty frame held a photograph. Pondo held her close, Sylvia’s arm circled his waist. They were young and beautiful. Sylvia picked the picture up and studied the two people looking back at them. “That was a long time ago.”            Pondo smiled and slipped his arm around her. I love you Sylvie. I always have, I always will. She lay her head on his shoulder and nodded. “Me too.”

8oooel

Thanksgiving with George Washington

“Everybody!! George Washington is here!” Lilly screamed, her usually quiet, sweet and serene voice was now loud and panicked. She whirled around, her long brown hair flying. Her light blue eyes scanned the table opposite of the front door. The long table was laden with creamy white plates on top of a lacy white table cloth. Orange, crimson, and gold paper napkins cheerfully sat on the plates, making the table feel as if it was a mirror of the multicolored trees outside. Candles surrounded the turkey, mashed potatoes, pudding, and assortment of delicious treats in the middle of the table. My family sat around the table- Grandma Jan, Grandpa Doug, Aunt Cassidy, Uncle Frank, their kids, Jenny, Jeff and Jessy. I finally saw my mother and father enter the room, pulling their chairs out and sitting down. They all wore masks, Covid is happening of course, and my family is huge on “safety first”. I whirled around as I heard a knock on the door. I flew it open quickly, about to welcome the famous George Washington graciously into our home, as my parents had instructed me of course. My words died in my throat as I saw what he was wearing, or, what he was not wearing. He had on a regular shirt, regular pants, regular shoes, even regular socks. He didn’t have a mask. I heard a gasp behind me, one of my family members must have spotted this too. I glanced at the huge sign saying, “Masks have to be worn on this property, cover the mouth and the nose.” I caught my voice as I heard my mother get out of her seat and grab the box of masks sitting by the front door. “Here you go Mr. Washington, sir.” She said, her voice, like Lillys, soft, calm and quiet. He stood there for a few seconds then eventually he carefully grabbed one, putting it on. A mask looked silly with his white, crazy hair and stern face. “Thank you.” He said in a deep voice, he sounded like he had a slight British accent.       ------------------------------------------ Me and my mother stepped aside, letting him walk in. Everybody stood up, saluting. I rolled my eyes, glad that I didn't have such a ridiculous reaction to the famous man not two steps before me. “Thank you for coming to our thanksgiving table sir-” My dad said, getting rudely cut off as George Washington grunted, “George.” Dad looked taken aback, “Umm, yes sir,” He took a second to gather himself before taking a deep breath and saying, “George, we are very glad to share this meal that has been prepared. Fun Fact- the men at this table made this food, not the women. We strongly believe that women should not be burdened with the weight of having to be the post of the family.” I glanced around at the rest of my family who were nodding vigorously while looking at George Washington- George I mean- who did not look impressed at all. He grumbled, “The women knew their place back in my day, they cooked, they cleaned, but we had mutual respect. You men do not respect women if you believe that they should sit with their feet up while you tend to their every need.” My head shot up- looking to see what my family's reaction was. The men looked shocked and sheepish, the women looked like they were about to go into battle and the kids had a look of shock on their face. Well, I assumed this, based on their eyes, I couldn't totally tell, because of their masks. Behind my mask was a look of amusement, my grin was so wide that the mask felt like it would burst. I believe that my family has the best intentions, but still, I did agree with George. “Well, lets eat.” My mother said, her voice slightly icy. We all sat down, put on the gloves that were set nicely beside our plate, and loaded our plates full of food. My mother continually reminded us that, “safety first” and “children should not fill their own plates because you are messy and irresponsible with germs.” I looked around, everybody ready and alert. My father motioned towards George, “You can go first sir.” He said, and he did the inevitable. He took his mask off. I heard a collective intake of breath around the whole table. I glanced at everybody's eyes. I quickly tried to save the day by doing what my father was wanting him to do in the first place. I slid the other mask by my plate onto my face. I masterly maneuvered it just right so that when I opened my mouth wide enough there was a slot where I could shovel food into my mouth. It only took a few seconds and I thought that it would help the whole situation, but believe me, it didn’t. “Lilly Elizabeth Roberts!!! You took your mask off while someone else did!! You are getting tested this very second!!” My mother screamed. As she said this she absent mindedly picked up her spoon and stood up, throwing it onto her plate. This would not have been a problem if her plate was empty, but it was overflowing with food. Mashed potatoes flew everywhere, gravy splashing all the way across the room, hitting the front door. The worst of it hit George Washington. I have seen dozens and dozens of pictures of him, I have read thousands of articles and books about him. All of them stated how amazing of a general he was. He led the U.S. in defeating the British, this man was one you do not mess with. I stared down at my plate, scared of what would happen next. It felt like minutes had passed. At last, what I heard surprised me so much that I fell backwards off my chair. He was laughing, hysterically. He slowly picked up his spoon, full of mashed potatoes and green beans, he flung it at her. Her face was full of shock for a few seconds, then she picked up the basket of rolls and started pegging people with them, laughing even more hysterically. We all were roaring with laughter now, flinging food everywhere! After ten minutes of ultimate chaos, including a sneak attack from General George and my cousins, Jenny, Jeff and Jessy, we were settling down. I went to the bathroom and pulled green, slimy goop out of my hair. I thought back to thanksgivings before George came. I was going to invite him back every single year, maybe even for Christmas. Who knows, he makes things more exciting around here. 

yy64k2

Snow Path Crossings

The doorbell rings. I walk over to the door, peep through the peephole, and open the door. “Ms. Chaise?” he says looking down at a piece of paper, “delivery for you from Cuddly Confections.” I know that, your uniform has given you away, I think. “Yes.” I pay the man and go back inside. The box is white cardboard with red lettering and patterns of flowers, hearts, and stars on it, characteristic decorations. It has been secured with clear tape. I put the box in the fridge. The digital clock beside the kitchen sink shows 2:53 pm, and the afternoon is chilly, and silent and still, blessings of the weekend. A nap would feel nice… I sit up in my bed and look at my mobile, it is just past five. I shiver and scuttle to the washroom and wash my face, then wear a sweater. I brew coffee and take out the box. In hindsight, I didn’t need the refrigerator for making the pastries cold in this weather. But when I open the box, there are no pastries at all. Disappointment is strawberry doughnuts for chocolate sprinkled pastries. Shit, should have checked the box before stuffing it in. I almost eat them, but then remember, quite vividly for I have been so many times, the price tags in the shop. The pastries were more expensive. Compromise on flavor and lose out on money? No. I chug my coffee – lava sinters my tongue – and I throw on a jacket and head out to try and return the items. The bakery smells pristine and it is warm with soothing yellow lights. “Hello, how may I help you,” says the man at the counter. He has on a green apron and a smile. “Hello…I have this,” I push the box forward and fumble for a receipt, “I ordered these pastries,” I say pointing towards the pastries visible through the glass enclosure, “But was sent these doughnuts instead,” I say opening the box towards the man, which looks like a little white Pac-man. “Hmm, you ordered these about three hours ago…” “Yes, could I get my original order? Or a refund?” “Just a moment…” he says and goes somewhere. He comes back with another man, elderly, but with a full head of hair (white), black moustache, and spectacles. “Hello Miss, I am Don Wittman, the manager here. How can I help you?” says the elderly man. “I’ve already told him how he can help me…” I didn’t understand the fuss. Why did he have to call this guy? “Uh, yes, so,” says the man, and he explains the situation to Mr. Wittman who nods along. “I see…that’s how it is…hmm.” He thinks for a while looking above my head. What’s above my head? Maybe he’s looking behind me. I look back and there’s nothing except the way to the glass doors out of the shop. “Okay, Miss. We can get you a refund.” “Why not give me the pastries instead?” “Oh, but those are to go out right now and our last pieces for today. Sorry…” “Ah, okay then, that’s fine.” I get out of the shop and figure out where the man had looked. Across from Cuddly Confections, which I just exited, is Baked Offerings. It has lots of woodwork and is smaller. I haven’t been there very many times. So that’s why he gave me a refund on a food item…well, at least the competition helped me. Too bad it doesn’t help Mr. Wittman because I still need those chocolate pastries. I get inside Baked Offerings.  There are two women in the shop, one behind the counter who greets me enthusiastically as I enter. Even I would be energetic if I were surrounded by baked gems all day. The other woman is much older than the first one and looks fidgety. She touches her hands together, fingers wrinkled like parrot legs, rubs her hands together. She gives me an appraising look. Trust me woman, I’m not here to window shop. I can see the pastries from here. “Can I have four of those,” I say. “Of course! Do you want it packed? And anything else?” The younger wench says. “No thanks, please make it to go…” I get back home and open up the box. I put on coffee again. Why must humans keep mirrors everywhere. I see one and see myself trapped inside. I run my hand over my stomach, then slightly lift up my top, and let it drop again. Saggy, I’m a pear. The coffee is ready, and I drink it and eat a pastry. After some time, I eat another. *** It is December and cold and the gods are preparing summer creations on their divine blackboards and the chalk dust is falling down on the earth turning it into a white counterpane for all things alive and dead. Port Washington, Wisconsin, where I live, has a festival every December. Not Christmas. They call it ‘The Snow Path Crossings’ and it’s tomorrow. *** There are lights and people. The lights are warm, man-made fireflies on poles. Where the illumination doesn’t reach, the snow has turned blue in the dusk. I hear laughter and talking and shopkeepers persuading. Somewhere an infant is bawling. People pass by left and right, most have steamy foods in their hands: coffee, tea, cocoa, corn, bagels, sweet buns. They expel steam from their mouths, too. I walk along and buy an espresso. I continue along and see a man playing the ukulele on a slightly elevated limestone platform and there are people gathered around the man, the couples hugging each other side by side, the ukulele gentleman smiling and singing. Further along. Oh, there’s Baked Offerings, I think, seeing the woman and the younger lady working with her at a stall they’ve put up. I walk up to them. There is no crowd here. Like their small shop. I see people going over to Cuddly Confections’ van that they’ve brought out here, which is standing a little way away from this stall. I did like the pastries; I’ll try something else now. “Hello,” I say. “Hi, how are you?” I see brownies and I melt. “Can I have two of those?” I ask, pointing. “Hello, could you give us a moment?” the older woman asks now, “we’re having a bit of a problem here…” “Oh, okay.” “We’re sorry, actually the power is out,” the younger one says. “The power is out?” I look around. There are lights everywhere. “Oh, I mean for this outlet,” she says pointing to the switchboards that are connected to the microwave and oven. She flips the switch off and on to illustrate. The woman who seems to be the manager is shouting at someone on her phone. Probably the contractor who got them this stall. People will buy only heated goods when their ears and faces are cold. I suspect they aren’t going to Cuddly Confections naturally, who would like to stand around in this cold? “I’ll be back,” I say and go away. This should not be happening to them. I walk over to Cuddly Confections’ van. “Hello, Mr. Wittman,” I say. “Oh! Hello er, Miss…?” “I’m Eleanor Chaise.” “Ah, yes, we have seen you many times, Miss. What can we get you today?” I decided to buy something first. “A brownie please.” “Sure, anything else?” “Yes. I need a favor. Baked Offering’s there has a big problem. Their power is out, and they can’t heat up any of their stuff, so no one is buying anything from them.” Mr. Wittman leans out of his Van and looks over. There the woman is still on the phone and is using her hands to effectively communicate her issue telephonically. “Can you help in any way?” I ask. “We have many customers here…” Yes, because you’ve taken all of theirs, I think. “It is a festival Mr. Wittman, please? Couldn’t you, like, sell their stuff out of your van?” “I suppose…” “Okay, I’ll tell them then,” I say and walk away. I don’t look back to see if he has anything else to say. What is the sin in having a stroke of bad luck? An old woman, an old man, both selling warm sugary love to others must have some understanding for each other. I tell the older woman at Baked Offerings and accompany her to the van to establish an understanding. The woman thanks me, bows her head a little as well. I slightly flush and feel warm despite the cold. The woman’s name, I find out, is Thelma Payne. I say it’s no problem and say goodbye. *** It is late January, I am sitting at a park bench, and now I see them walking slowly on the footpath, taking rounds together, Mr. Wittman, and Mrs. Payne. Sometimes she wraps her parrot legged fingers around Mr. Wittman’s hand and he smiles and clutches her hand firmly and gently. I look down and my hands are wrapped around a sweet bun. When will this sweet bun become a sweet hand? I look back up and Mr. Wittman is waving at me. Seeing him Mrs. Payne also turns and waves. I wave back and they get out of my view after a while. They’ve been here pretty often lately. My bun is half finished now, and on the way out of the park there is a trash can. I throw away the bun and get back home. The next day I try jogging. I encounter the new couple – I think I can call them that – every round. Although I can only do three rounds. When their creations are complete, the gods release the new and soft leaves, and the explosions in the sun burn it brighter and snowmen in driveways across America melt into water which is sucked up by the atmosphere and the days get rejuvenated and stick around for longer and the summer arrives like a relative long lost. June, and a month has passed since Baked Offerings cleared out and united with Cuddly Confections as Mr. Wittman and Mrs. Payne became ever closer. I walk by the shop now and peek inside through the glass and see a smiling Mr. Wittman and a flustered Mrs. Payne. There is a big queue. I focus on my reflection in the glass. Not so saggy anymore, Eleanor.

cdfqzp

An Unsuitable Season

By the time I stepped outside, the leaves were on fire. The bright leaves of ember which fluttered and scattered the sidewalks did not suit Mom being gone. Her death had come a season too early. It should have been winter, when the trees were barren and desolate of life; when everything once vibrant was drained of all substance.      “You need a jacket?” My little brother Garrett raised an eyebrow. He was always trying to take care of me; it made me feel like an insufficient elder.      “No, I’m fine,” I monotoned. I had gotten into the habit of giving short, painless answers; ones that didn’t invite more questions.      “Do you want to go somewhere to eat?” Garrett asked--his mouth trying to curve into a smile. "You haven't eaten all day."      “No, I don’t think so.”      His hand wrapped around my shoulder. “I think it’ll cheer us up.”      The concept of feeling cheery again was unfathomable. In fact, I had never been the cheery type. I didn’t love Christmas or carols; I found them mushy and disingenuous. I was a proficient pessimist and expected the worst from politics and people. So how in the world was I supposed to be cheery now, when someone who was always supposed to be there—wasn’t?      “I have to get going. I have work to do on the plane," I murmured, opening the trunk of my car and beginning to unload the leftover apple pie and pastries from the event. Mom hated waste, she had hoarded all things food; any molecule which was at all still edible she would store away and give us on another day.      “I really think you should take the next couple weeks off,” Garrett frowned. “You should stay with Judy and me for a while.”      The funeral had been in Maine, Camden; our hometown. It had been a seven-hour flight from California; and I wanted nothing more than to be back home, completely secluded in my studio apartment. Judy and Garrett’s home, which was our Holiday get together location, was a six-bedroom palace. I had always admired the place, but in honesty, I was jealous of how someone five years younger than me with a less competent job could be more successful.      “I can't. They're depending on me,” I replied, not being able to meet his eyes. “Besides, I don't want to be a burden.”      “You wouldn’t be!” Garrett cried, stopping me before I lowered myself into the front seat. “Look; I need you just as much as you need me. You’re really going to just go back to California and pretend like nothing happened?”      “That’s exactly what I’m going to do,” I said, my voice a little too harsh. I jerked around him; now in front of the steering wheel.      “Just delay your flight till this weekend; I’ll pay,” he pleaded; and for a moment, I felt bad for him. His face looked young again; his countenance lacking confidence; his eyes unsure and scared. But before I could truly pity him, I remembered my own condition; and how going home to an empty apartment was much worse than going home to a wife and two happy children.     “I can’t. I’m sorry. I’ll call you when I land, okay?”       That was the way we said goodbye. No hugging or good wishes; not even a pat on the back or a mutual warm expression. I pulled out of the church parking lot and watched my brother's figure disappear in the rearview mirror.      I had neither the decency nor the strength to wave a parting hand or turn around and tell him how good it was seeing him, or how much his presence had stopped me from breaking. I wouldn't tell him how his warm glances had got me through the funeral or how his reassuring tone had reminded me so much of Mom's warmness. I wouldn't tell him how much I missed him, and how if he had extended his and Judy's invitation a second time, I would have said yes. I kept driving.      Fall's leaves were not sympathetic. They danced around my car like orange and brown butterflies, taking off on their glorious flights to a new beginning. Sometimes they were so eager to lift off the ground that they got stuck in between my wiper blades.      I felt my body collapsing when I took the ramp onto the freeway. Every second I was getting farther and farther from my brother, from Maine, and everything that Mom was. The realization of returning to a life and a city I hadn't liked in the first place made me feel as though I was carrying out a life sentence.      Call him, I thought. Just call him. Tell him you want to stay. He would be happy about it.      I was in the midst of busy traffic now, everyone speeding and switching lanes as if they were on their way to meet with the president.      Just do it. Tell him you're not alright.      But, like you do when you're driving, my mind started drifting to the call, the call that had woke me up from my suburbian California slumber. The one which had brought my attention back to the trees and the way the sky looked, the one which had brought me back to life only to kill me.      Garrett had called at three AM. I always left my phone on; I was a diligent employee and had been summoned many times to the office chambers to do some extra filing. I had expected the call to be just like those aforementioned; but as soon as I picked up, as soon as I heard that voice--I knew something was wrong.      "Hi, uh--Elijah?"      "Garrett? What's going on? Why are you calling so late?"      Silence followed. I could hear every sound of my apartment. The fridge's humming, the clock's ticking, the dripping of the faucet. I asked again. "What's going on?"      It came out sharp and unbelieving, like a despairing whisper into the night. "Mom's dead." I knew what he wanted to hear. It's not true. You're wrong. You're dreaming. But I could provide no such answer.      " What?"      "She died two hours ago. Heart attack." He was crying now, his voice muffled; pathetic sounding.      But all I could see was her face; glowing there in the darkness of my room. Her two swirly brown eyes staring into mine, her cheeks playful, her smile optimistic. And then all at once, when my brother spoke again, she disappeared.      "Are you--Are you still there?" Garrett sniffled crazily, trying to keep his voice composed.      "Yeah,” I whispered, doubtful that he heard it.      "Are you still there?" Panicked, desperate. I wanted so badly to be able to calm him but all my senses had left me.      "Yeah," I tried to amplify my voice. It worked well enough.      "Are you okay?"      "I'm fine."      One week later, I took a flight to Maine. Garrett had begged me to come sooner, but I told him I had work. Work always got me out of things.      When Garrett invited me to his wedding in Maine, seven years prior, I told him I have work. I can't get out of it. After just being broken up with by my long time college girlfriend, I wasn't in the mood to see my brother and his perfect woman declare their love. If anything, I hated them for it. It was as if they had picked the date of my heartbreak on purpose; just to parade around their good fortune.      When Garrett had his first baby, Delilah, and told me to fly to Camden, I said I have work. I'm sorry.      I was a terrible brother. In all aspects, I had failed to be there for Garrett. I had envied his head and heart for too long; had taken pleasure in denying his demands. Mom had always told me that I was bad at making choices.      "You're too impulsive," she laughed. It was the last Christmas we had spent together. We had taken a morning walk (we were always the first people up).       "And too prideful. You make an impulsive decision, and then you're too prideful to take it back. It's a nasty combination" She said it with a smile.       I realized, sourly, that I was completing the same cycle all over again. In fifteen minutes I would arrive at the airport. It would have been far easier to keep driving, to take that plane to California, and go back to my dull, colorless life. To not have to deal with Mom through my brother or through all the memories of the town she grew up in.      But I thought about her, in those moments. I thought about her power, her bluntness, her reliance in me, and most of all--what seemed like her endless encouragement. She had never ended a call without saying, "I love you, sweetie." She had never left a get together without telling me in some way or another, "I'm proud of you."      I got off on the next exit.       I'll give you something real to be proud of, Mom, I thought. And then I drove back to Camden. 

ho8ld5

Smallest minds

Once, there was a girl named Madison. She was always scared to say how she felt. She always felt sad and frustrated because her mom never listened to her. Ever since her dad died Madison's mom wanted her daughter to live her dream, since she couldn't because her husband died from a gun shot. Madison's dad Bill, was walking from the store and was shot. She would try to tell her mom she didn't want to live her dream. She wanted to live her dad's dream and sing. Madison's mom Carla would not listen. She would always say " I'm so proud of you for living my dream". So, she never had a chance to say what she wanted to do.Madison thought to herself, " If only I knew how to say what I wanted to say". She would weep in the middle of the night wondering if her mom would ever listen to what she had to say. Most of the time she wept because it was because her dad died. In the morning her mom said," Sweetheart if you want to tell me anything you can." No you won't listen to me anyway." "Alright sweetheart if you need me I'll be here for you." "Whatever you say mom". said Madison. As she closed the door. About a year later Madison had turned twelve. Madison said," Mom it's my birthday and I wanted to tell you something." Madison's mom started to say," Oh that reminds me I'll." "STOP right there ever sense dad died you never listen to me anymore". Madison said, " I'm getting tired of this". Madison said." Just listen for one minute". "What I have been trying to say for the past two years is I don't want to live your dream". " I want to live my dream". Madison said. " "I want to be a singer in California." Madison's mom said," " Alright I'm sorry I just wanted you to live my dream so you wouldn't fell like you let your dad down." As she hugged her. Thirteen years later she became a singer and met a man named Kevin. They had four kids named Casey, Mike, Alice, and Jordan Casey was four Mike was six Alice was seven and Jordan was ten. As the children grew up they started to master their goals. Casey became a doctor, Mike became a case worker, Alice was a dentist, and Jordan became a private chef. AS all the children grew up they were all better at different things. Casey had a great sense of humor but, the more people she met the more things she started to figure out. She figured out that some parents didn't care about what their kids had to say. So she started a club called listen to me. The club was a group of kids that felt like their parents didn't listen to them. The kids told Casey how they felt and Casey had a idea her idea was to teach the kids how to tell their parents how they felt. Casey said," I'll tell you guys the story of how my mom got my grandma to listen to her. So the kids took her advice so of the parents listened some didn't. The kids who got their parents to listen left the club. There were about twenty kids in the group. She taught them how to get their parents attention. The kids got their attention by asking for help with their homework. Then they would tell them how they felt. One day all the kids came to the club and one girl came in crying because her parents wouldn't listen. Casey said don't worry it will be okay. The girl asked," Casey can you please come to my house and help me. Casey said," Alright I'll come at 4:00. The girl said," Okay thank you thank you." As she hugged her. So Casey came and talked to the girl's mom. Casey said," Hi it's a pleasure to meet you don't worry I'm not a case worker my brother is. Anyway I want to talk to you. "Not trying to tell you how to raise your daughter but, you might want to listen to her she wants to tell you how she fells." Thank you mam. For your time but I must go to my other job." The girl's mom Mrs. Sally talked to her daughter. The next day the girl Amy thanked Casey and told her that her that mom listened and told Casey that she had to leave the group because her mom listened to Amy. Meanwhile her brothers and sister had good jobs as well. Mike had a friend that couldn't speak up for himself. His mom would always say," I don't care it's not important." So Mike's friend helped out with Casey's group. When Casey was at her other job Mike's friend Jake would take over. Sometimes it was hard at their job. So they put up posters to get more help. The job got bigger so big that the kids were allowed to take the helpers to their house to talk to their parents. After that her job got so big there were Listen to me clubs all around the city. Soon Casey had children so her nieces and nephews took over Casey's job. To help the kids bond with their parents they made a parent fair you could have fun with their parents. They could draw and spend time with their parents. One month later they had a fun raiser. Some parents were on cupcakes. Others were on napkins, foam plates, foam bowls, punch, lemonade and different things. They threw the fun raiser so the kids could spend time with their parents. All the Listen to me clubs came together and took a picture together to celebrate twenty years of their job. Casey came that day and thanked everybody and the kids that came. Also the kids that used to come when they where kids came to celebrate with them. The kids that used to come brought cake, ice cream ,pizza, and soda to throw a party. Soon their job wore off so they sold the club but, Casey and her nieces and nephews still made sure that kids parents still listened to what they had to say and they lived happily ever after. The moral of the story is listen to your kids and believe your kids. Written by Naudia White I hope you like my story good luck everyone hope you win

407inv

The Inherited Gothic House

When Grandma left me an old Victorian house, I looked up at it, and it resembled that of the Addams family's home. Its colors were gray and white with black shutters. It was early winter so trees stood, bare and forlorn. Cardinals and black birds landed on them, turning to chirp at me as if teasing me. Squirrels ran to climb up the bark, carrying food in their swollen cheeks. Something about the house caused goosebumps on my arms. People warned me that it was haunted but I didn't care. I arrived there, planning to convert it to a bed and breakfast hotel. But I met a ghost named Jeffery, the first owner of the house from 1885. He nixed the idea and told me he wanted me to convert it to a boarding house for students because our house was located near the university campus. So I hired a group of contractors to do the job, and in no time, it became very popular with both professors and students. They hired catering folks to host parties now and then. Jeffrey was very happy. But we stumbled upon one problem: Cousin Thomas. He got angry and said he should get the house instead of me. Our family regarded him as a very unpleasant, rude guy who didn't go to many of our parties during the holidays, and he, recently divorced, got fired from his position as a manager of a local fast-food restaurant. He hired a lawyer named Mr. Janson. Mr. Janson came to my office in my house and told me, "Miss Elaine, your cousin is going to contest Grandma's will. See you in the courtroom soon." He gave me an oily smile and left. I didn't like this guy; I judged him as a slimy snake. I had to hire my lawyer, and his name was Mr. Henderson. He was very nice and sympathetic, and he looked concerned when I told him about Mr. Janson. "The lawyer your cousin hired is reputed to be the best in the real estate litigation, and he rarely loses his cases. But I'll try my best." This didn't sound good, I remembered thinking. But I hoped for the best when we went to the courtroom two days later. But Mr. Janson proved to be very good, and he argued that Cousin Thomas was the oldest son of Grandma's oldest son while I was the youngest daughter of Grandma's middle son. Also, he managed to produce documents to show that Grandma was in the last stage of her terminal breast cancer when she had drawn her will, and the series of chemotherapy sessions caused her brain to get confused. With this evidence, the judge declared the will as invalid and awarded the possession of the house to Cousin Thomas who gave me a malicious grin. Before I left the courthouse, Cousin Thomas ran up to me and looked at me with glee. "Now I got that house, I'll hire my friend, the best contractor in this town to change it into a first-class family house. When done, I plan to sell it to the highest bidder with a growing family for a few million dollars. Every one of it comes into my pocket, and I'll use it to book a cruise ride around the world!" He turned to gloat at me, calling me a big loser. He promised me that he'd tell everyone in our town about what a little foolish girl I had been to lose our family house in the courtroom. Dejected, I went home and had plain macaroni and cheese dish for dinner. When Jeffrey appeared out of air and saw my face, he asked,"Elaine, what was the matter? You looked sad." When I told him about Cousin Thomas and the upcoming loss of our house, Jeffrey's face twisted into anger, resembling that of a raging bear, frightening me. Seeing my expression, he rearranged his expression back to normal and apologized for scaring me. He floated to sit down on a chair nearer to me and put his arms around my shoulders. He whispered, "Elaine, don't worry. I have extensive contacts in the ghost community so I'll get someone to fix this for good. Wait and see what happens." Three days later, Mr. Henderson called me and said, "Guess what happened? Your cousin was driving home from a party, lost the control of his car and hit a tree. The police found alcohol in his bloodstream, measuring long above the legal amount. He's dead now so I'll have the court to revert the house back to you. My condolences about your cousin's untimely death." Shocked, I thanked him and turned my phone off. Cousin Thomas hated alcohol so much that he had never touched a single drop. How did he get drunk enough to get himself killed? Since I was the nearest relative Cousin Thomas had, I went to a local morgue and viewed his body, his face sporting a large, ugly wound across his forehead. When the coroner asked me if I had recognized him. I nodded, feeling numb. "Yes, this is Cousin Thomas. Please send him to a funeral home whose address I'll give you now." One week later, I hired a minister to do a memorial service for Cousin Thomas and invited a number of our relatives and friends. But only a few appeared. It turned out that so many people in our town didn't like him; someone told me that they held a secret party to celebrate the demise of my cousin the previous night. When I came home and used my smartphone to order my meal of a cheeseburger with fries with an orange soda, delivered to my front door, Jeffrey appeared to me. Cheerful, he asked me, "How's your day?" When I told him about what happened with Cousin Thomas, he smiled. "Well, an old friend of mine owed me a big favor and went to that party where your cousin was drinking his coke. He managed to get someone distracting Thomas, he poured half a tequila bottle into his drink. The coke disguised the taste so your cousin finished his drink." I shook my head, bemused. "So that was how Cousin Thomas got that drunk. I guess He got what he deserved." The ghost nodded. "I agree."

qdh5ca

Johnny and Sandy Went Apple Picking

One day Johnny got home from school on a Friday afternoon, he was in a rush to eat dinner. But the bus was taking forever. He told the bus driver to go faster and he was not going to do that so he wouldn't put lives in danger. He finally got home and he grabbed a plate and got a hamburger fries and chips. After he ate he asked if he can go apple picking tomorrow to start of the weekend right. His parents named Joseph and Michelle didn't care. So he texted his friend named Sandy and asked if she wanted to go pick apples her and her parents didn't care. So the next day he woke up and packed his bags. His mom asked him if he has water and things to not get dehydrated. He ignored her and walked out the door and his friend Sandy was waiting outside for him so he threw his bags in the trunk and they took off. The nearest apple picking place was about 4 and half hours away, so the just drove it. They stopped at the store to get snacks and drinks for the trip because they both forgot to pack some. They also used the bathroom and that took about 10 minutes. So then they kept driving and didn't stop until they got to the apple picking place. They got out and got there bags and baskets and they got to picking. About 2 hours in they were having to much fun and forgot to call their parents. So there parents kept calling and calling and so they called them back, and they were getting yelled at over the phone. They apologized and their parents were ok with them apologizing so they let them stay longer. Pretty soon it was getting dark so they called and asked if they can stay the night at a hotel. their parents asked why and then Johnny and Sandy said "we didn't get a lot and we wanna pick more tomorrow". Their parents said " yes that would fine be home by tomorrow night. So they went and got a hotel room and stayed up late because they were having fun. So they woke up and took a shower, brushed their teeth, and got ready. Then they left they called their parents to let them know they are on their way back to the apple picking place. So they got out of the car and went to go pick some more apples. Then the host of the place came up to the and asked them how many apples you plan on getting today. They responded " enough to make our families happy. So then they left and got home before dark. Johnny walked inside and then Sandy went home and Johnny's parents asked how many he picked he didn't know so he dumped them out on the ground and they counted them. Sandy walked inside her house and her parents asked the same thing so she dumped them out on the ground and started counting them. Johnny's total was nine hundred and seventy-eight. Sandy's total was nine hundred sixty-nine. So then they both had to many apples so they started selling them outside of their houses. The first day of selling didn't go as planned. They were upset because it didn't go well. Their parents told them everyone's first day didnt go well. So then they ate dinner and called it a night. Once they woke up and started selling apples again. They sold them from dusk till dawn and they were happy because they sold ninety percent and made about five hundred dollars. The they went to school the next day and then the teachers asked everyone how was their weekend and Johnny said "good i went apple picking and got home and sold a lot of them". Sandy is a in a different grade so instead of telling them she had to write it out. So she did and the teachers asked Sandy how much money did you end up making she replied " Almost 500 dollars". The teacher told Sandy to stand up in front of the class and tell the class how her weekend was and how much money she made. The teacher told the class that that is a good way to make money. Then Johnny's teacher told the class that that is also a good way to start making money. They got home and they wanted to go to the mall to spend some money. Their parents told them no they need to save it for the future. So they didn't argue. So they kept doing this for about a month as a routine and pretty soon they had about $3500. Sandy went and bought a new car. Johnny went and bought a car and bought some snacks. Their parents are proud of them. They went back to the apple picking place and then they each got free apples they got a total of five thousand. They also went and picked some more they left the apple place that day with four thousand apples each. Then the next day johnny couldn't sell his apples. Over the night he fell of his bed and got brain damage so his parents rushed him to the hospital and doctor said " im sorry mam but your son is bleeding out of his head and he will have to stay over night" his mom just broke down in tears and started praying to god. His dad sat right beside her and hugged they just sat their and cried the doctors found some apple juice in the room and gave it to Johnny and Johnny drank it once he woke up. His parents and his best friend Sandy they were just sitting there looking at him in tears and he drank some more apple juice and the brain stopped bleeding. Then they got home and johnny sold the rest of his apples and paid his hospital bill and now hes living like a king.

ggxft9

You Brought This On Yourself

The plan included five. One to make a diversion. Two to keep the people at gunpoint. One to shove the money into the bag. One parked outside as the getaway. I was one of the five who held a gun against a group of people. Some in their evening dresses, others in their black suits. I noticed a small child pressed against its mother. The mother held on tightly to her child as soon as we pulled out our guns. “Nobody move.” said Carter. He was the brains, our leader, in this operation. He aimed the gun with a steady hand, towards a man. The man’s jaw was clenched as he raised his palms slowly to prove his submission. Carter aimed his gun at the other people, the ones who were settling into shock. A robbery? In plain daylight? No. Not now. Not in this small town. I did the same as Carter, although my hands shook noticeably. Carter glanced my way, his eyes narrowed. He didn't trust me. Which was why I wasn't parked outside as a getaway. No, that was Ben. He was Carter's right hand man. Ben wanted to be a part of the robbery, in the action. But Carter had turned him down. He trusted him more than the rest of us. So he was outside. Waiting. Ruby always had a flair for the dramatics, so she was chosen as the one who would cause a scene, drawing away attention from at least one of the tellers. Ruby pretended to convulse on the floor. It was our best diversion yet. It had worked, drawing everyone's attention. We chose today because there were only two bank tellers. And few people. Only four today. Plus the kid. It was ten am. Let me backtrack to the beginning. I met Carter and his little possé a few weeks ago. I was with my friend Ella. She was sick with the flu, so she phoned me. Her parents were out of town. I was in her kitchen, preparing some food, when I heard a knock on her door. It was Carter- but I didn't know his name then. That's when I first met him. He was startled when he saw me. “Hello, my name is Carter. Is Ella here?” He was so cordial and polite and he was handsome. Naturally, I was flustered. “I'm her friend. She's sick right now.” I said. “I'm her cousin.” He said. “Carter.” He held out his hand to me and I took it. “I'm Grace.” I said. We held onto each other's hands for longer than usual. Now we were both flustered and I found it endearing. He had come around to drop off a post for Ella's parents. “I didn't know Ella was sick. I'll come over again and bring her something.” He said. I don't want to get into it, so the gist of the story was that Carter and myself spent a lot of time those few days together caring for Ella and then he introduced me to his friends. Ben, Matthew and Ruby. As I spent more of my time with them, I noticed odd things. They were roguish and believed themselves above the law. Ruby was kind to me at first, but the moment she noticed something between Carter and me, she shut me out. Ignoring me at times. And then Carter leaned in once, to kiss me and I backed off. He was offended that I had done that to him. So then he wouldn't stop. He had been with Ruby before, and Ruby had told me once that he lived an immoral life. Full of lies and deceit. “How did you even meet the guy?” She had asked. I hadn't replied. I was stunned and it had sent shivers up my back. One day, I walked to Matthews place, which was where they liked to hang out most. By then it was too late. I had spent weeks with them. I couldn't just disappear. They knew everything about me. I knocked on the door and there was no answer. I made my way down the steps and heard a car screech to a stop in front of us. They all poured out of the car. Carter was drunk with ecstasy. Pure glee written all over his face. Behind him, Ben and Ruby carried a plastic bag. Some money spilled out of it. They stopped abruptly as soon as they saw me. Ben and Ruby stopped smiling. It wouldn't take a genius to connect two and two together. The newspapers had news about recent robberies. And I had just caught them. “Grace.” Carter said, his smile was still there. Matthew shut the ignition from the car and stepped out. “Well you've caught us.” Carter said. His eyes shuttered then, the smile and ecstasy that was there only moments before was gone. He neared me and it took everything in me to not run away screaming. There was a reason they chose Matthews house. It was shoved in the corner of an empty and vacant neighborhood. The houses spread out by hundreds of feet. This was the country after all. And right now, there was no one else here. He placed his arm around my shoulder. And I clenched my jaw, to stop my teeth from chattering. “Stay with me, and nothing has to happen.” He said. And so I made it by a few more weeks, with the pretense that I was completely all right with all of this. They stole money from gasoline stations and a few family run stores and left a trail of threats in place. Which was why the cops didn't do anything or know anything about the group of five stealing money. My father was at work all day. And when he finished up he would go to bars. My mother was always with her friends and she could care less about anything. Her world fell apart when she found out her husband had been having an affair. And me, I was already an adult at nineteen. I worked as a secretary in an obscure newspaper column. Carter and his friends waited for me once I finished up. “New operation.” Carter said. He had come to resent me in the few weeks after I discovered them. He wanted me only because he always got what he wanted. And it infuriated him that I didn't give him what he wanted. “I'll be the getaway driver.” I offered, as Carter finished his plan. “Nice try.” He said. “No. Ben will be driving.” So it was settled. Fast forward to today, but a few minutes earlier. I had grabbed some of my mother's opiates and smash then with a rock I had found outside. Ben was a snacker. Especially when he was nervous. In front of the car he had a stash of chocolates. Hand made by his grandmother or something along those lines. I slathered some of the drug onto the chocolates. Unless he looked closely at them, which he wouldn't, they still looked normal. I brought them into the car and placed them in front of him. “Hey, thanks, Grace. You see, Carter? Without these, the operation is a complete fail.” Ben had said, once we were all in the car. Now, I hoped he was as high as a kite. All I needed was to shoot at Carter's leg and run out, take the car and drive up to my cousins up north. Write about it to my parents-maybe- and continue with my life. The plan wasn't a bad one. Ruby stopped convulsing and remained on the floor. “The girl needs help.” Said the man, as Carter aimed the gun at him next. The man was furious, but also afraid. “What are you going to do? There's nothing you can do for her.” Carter said. Then he turned his head for a second to hurry Matthew up. “Hurry it up back there.” Carter said. We only had two guns. Matthew had shoved both bank tellers to the group we were aiming our guns at. So now there were six people. Plus the kid. “Keep steady,” Carter said, sparing me a glance “My stomach.” Ruby started, moving quickly to an upright position. She ran to the restrooms. I stifled a smile. I had laced her drink with slow working laxatives. They finally took effect. The whole group looked at her, shocked. “She tricked us.” Said a man. He glared at the pair of us. “Just wait till the police--” “Shut up.” Barked Carter. The man shut his mouth. Now it was my time to act. I aimed the gun at Carter. “Run all of you.” I said to the people. They didn't wait, they scrambled out of the building. “Matthew-” Carter began. He was stunned. His body taut like a wire. “Shut up.” I hissed. “You brought this on yourself. I walked out backwards, facing him. There was no way I would turn my back to him.  “Lower your gun, or I'll shoot your leg, I swear-” I started. “ I'll kill you.” he said, with venom in his voice. “Drop it,'' I said, faltering. “You ruined everything.” he continued. I shot at the ceiling and that was enough to startle him and Matthew, who was still collecting the money. I ran out, my hand clenching the gun tightly. “ Grace, damn it.” said Carter as he ran after me. Ben was knocked out senseless on the driver's seat. With all the force I could muster I shoved him to the side where he landed unceremoniously onto the passenger seat. There was no time to shove him out of the car. Carter was coming. I aimed the gun at Carter and pressed on the trigger. My hand reverberated with the force of it. It left my head spinning as I climbed into the car, my entire body shaking.  I had shot his leg. He was crying out in pain. “Goodbye.” I said stupidly. I didn't want to go to jail. Carter's mouth was agape. He couldn't believe what I had done. He was crying out in pain. He was yelling obscenities and cursing me out. His eyes blazed with anger as I turned the keys that were ready for me in the ignition. Matthew had ran outside the building too now, with bags in hand. I slammed on the pedals. “When I get out, I will get you back for this- do you hear me?” he yelled as I drove away. I glanced at Ben's body. I could dump Ben's body in a street before he became lucid. After a few minutes I reached the interstate. Only then did my shaking hands become steady. And I allowed my tears to spill.

zxoe59

Jerrick's Journey

Back in the Day, Jarick was very good at math. Although he was very smart and good at school, he struggled socially. school years went on, he grew more and more into wanting to be an engineer. He was really into building and fixing things. He would take all the engineering courses in high school. He learned how different tools Works, he also learned how to program Electronics. He grew incredibly fascinated with that field. Never in his Wildest Dreams could you ever imagine doing anything different. As he started the process of picking and choosing what colleges to apply to and ultimately shows what school he wanted to attend, he made sure to pick a school with a great engineering program. Instead of weighing his options, He chose to attend the Arizona State Univerity to be an engineer. He went all-in on the thought of being an engineer. “Wow,” you said, as he couldn't believe he was actually going to get an opportunity to live out his dream. When he got to college he quickly began to start his classes in engineering. He loved it, he really enjoyed the people he was surrounded by, and he really enjoyed the experience. He thought to himself that it wouldn’t hurt his life if he took some classes to help himself socially. Those classes ended up being the best thing for him to do. In those classes he learned how to connect with people, he learned how to handle uncomfortable situations, and he learned how to talk to people he hadn’t met before. It was a skill that completely changed his life. He started getting more and more friends. He started going to parties. He started living his best life, and it was a huge change from his life before. As his first quarter of college was nearing the end, he had many friends, and he went from being a nobody to being one of the “popular” people. He was much happier with his life how it was but there was just one problem. He wasn’t nearly as interested in being an engineer anymore. He started to enjoy it less and less the more he realized he liked working with connecting with people and making relationships. This problem created problems with his parents because they were paying for his college to be an engineer, and now he doesn’t want to do that anymore. He talked with his parents and they tried giving him the advice to stick it out and just do what he used to love to do, but he couldn’t stand doing it anymore and decided to change his major. After long thinking, he decided to tryout business. He enrolled in all these economics classes, and business classes. He got very confused but he enjoyed the content more so he stuck with it. He finished off the semester in those classes, and he really enjoyed it. He was much happier at the end of the semester than he was at the beginning. One of the reasons he is happier is that with his friends he joined a gym, and started to get in shape. He really enjoyed doing that with his friends. He especially likes playing basketball, and he started to realize he had a hidden talent in basketball. To start off the second semester he really started to understand and grasp the content he was learning in his new business classes. He not only understood the classes but started to excel in them. As time started to go on, he applied for an internship at a company that sold sports equipment. He started studying prices and selling sales strategies so he got the internship. When he went for the interview he realized he was in a good position to receive the internship, and sure enough, he got it. Later that year he started going to the store to learn how the company worked, and he was most excited because he knew once the internship was over he would have a full-time job for the company. So he started to excel, he started to really understand people, and he started to really understand why people might want to buy things, he started to exploit that part of people. One day a famous basketball coach from the NBA came into the store and he went to Jerrick to talk to him about what he wanted to buy. It was Christmas time so he was looking for something for a gift for his kid. Jerrick helped him out, and the coach really liked him and asked for his name so every time he came back he would know who to ask for help. When he left Jerrick made sure to tell him that he’s a big fan and that he loves playing basketball. The coach left and went on with his day. Fast forward a year and the NBA team that, that coach was a part of was looking for new players, so they held a tryout. The coach remembered Jerrick and asked him if he wanted to try out. Jerrick didn’t know what to do he was so excited. He of course went to the tryout, and he not only played well but impressed the coaches also. After the tryout, the coach walked over to Jerrick to offer him a 10-day contract to see how he can contribute to the team, and after the 10-day contract, they would reevaluate to see if they will offer him a year contract. He started his 10-day contract and was playing out of his mind. In NBA games he was averaging 15 points per game and for that team, in particular, that is super good. He began getting media attention, and before people knew it he was an internet sensation. He gave the team and management nothing else to do but offer him a year contract. While they were negotiating, due to his social classes he took in college, and due to his business classes in college, he talked his way into getting $1 million dollars for the year. Never in a million years would he ever have thought that he would be in the NBA, he started his journey wanting to be an engineer, then wanted to be a salesman, and now he is in the NBA.

l001nr

The Challenge

Adam Adams picked up the microphone and stepped forward. “Hello and welcome to the Ho-Ho-Holidays Cookie Challenge! Today we have 3 teams determined to make the biggest cookie they can in 1 hour! And the winner of today’s challenge will win $10,000 to split between them and a set of these AMAZING spatulas! Ok, let’s meet our teams. From Philadelphia we have the Millwood Mixers . Kim, why don’t you introduce your team?” Kim leaned forward into the mic. “Hi, I’m Kim and this is my sister Carrie and my brother Ed. We love baking as a family and we can’t wait to bring home the $10,000!!! Woooo!” Kim smiled forcefully but that force never reached her eyes, which remained focused on something in the distance. Adam nodded several times, as though deeply invested in her story. “Ok, well, good luck with that! And now on to the next team, from Grand Rapids we have the… ” The host’s voice has gone beyond bubbly and entered the realm of the sugary ooze that creeps out of an overfilled éclair. Kim begins to let her thoughts drift towards that money. Will it be enough? What if they don’t actually win? What’s everyone going to say then? She tries to wrestle those thoughts away and remember what the chill Australian guy on her meditation app said… “be in the moment. Let the thoughts drift by like boats on a river…” Kim imagines her ex husband tied to the sail, as that boat hurtles towards a waterfall, soon to be a wet memory. She did feel better. She should really practice meditating more. Her attention snaps back to the present just as Adam points towards the workstations set up in the middle of the large stage, and clicks the stopwatch. “Your time starts…NOW!” Kim, Carrie and Ed run to the station, and huddle around the ipad containing their recipe for today. To be honest, they didn’t really need it. Kim had been forcing them to practice this each Saturday at Ed’s house, so no time was wasted. She had no room for error. They could bake a sugar cookie in their sleep. But this wasn’t just any sugar cookie. This thing had to be big. SO big they would need to create it in sections and then fasten it together with frosting and fondant. (Kim hated fondant, but who goes on a baking show and doesn’t use it? Absurd) Then they would need to assemble it on the table in front of the station. The decorating had already been planned out and assigned to each person, with Kim being the supervisor (of course) The design had already been decided and practiced on page after page of sketch paper until it was efficient and there could be no chance of anything going wrong. NO Room for mistakes, Kim thought. She glanced over at Ed. He was the weakest part of the team, he didn’t feel the same sense of urgency as she did. This was a game to him, nothing more. And Carrie…she would do whatever Kim asked, being the older sister still had some sway over her. But neither of them NEEDED this like she did. Kim adjusted the bowl of the stand mixer before scooping the measuring cup into the flour canister. She dumped the flour into the bowl, and scooped again. Her husband Jim had decided to leave. He stated it manner-of-factly, as if it annoyed him that he had to explain it out loud. Like he was bored with the idea. How long had he had the knowledge, come to grips with it in his own time? How long had he played out scenarios in his head, cried his tears until, finally, he could move on? And why did he expect her to just jump on board the speeding bus that had just crashed into her, knocking the wind out of her body? And oh, by the way, we really should sell the house. It would be best. For both of us. I’ve already come up with some ideas. More ideas. How long had these ideas existed? Why didn’t she know? Kim realized she lost count of scoops. She’d have to start over. Time wasted. This was not in HER plan. She dumped the flour and took a deep breath. The next time her mind drifted, she was smoothing cookie dough onto a pizza pan. Where would she live? It was obvious she’d have to go somewhere. But her job didn’t pay her enough to save anything. Would she have to borrow money from her parents at this age? She knew they’d help but there would be that LOOK, the one that would briefly appear on her mom’s face that said “we thought you’d be doing better by now”. Kim looked down at the uneven layer of cookie. She’d scraped one section right down to the metal pan. The part next to it was 3 inches tall. Kim rolled her eyes and and quickly evened out what she could before dashing to the ovens. They were already behind. Kim felt a bead of sweat run down her forehead and plop into her eye. The salt burned, and she felt her eye begin to tear up. Her hair was escaping from the elastic she had entrapped it in that morning, the heat from the lights causing it to become frizzy. She looked down at the cookie (can she still call it that?) It was inexplicably burnt and crumbly in some parts, and soggy in others. The fondant had ripped as they tried to roll it out, and then became lumpy as they hastily pressed it together to cover the top. There were large areas of naked raw cookie, unencumbered by fondant. Kim looked out of her watery eye, mascara joining with the salt and sliding down her face in a sticky charcoal trail. The other teams were still working, finishing up the last bits of embellishment before the judging started. She could sense them trying not to look, but when she glanced over at the tall guy from Team Bake , he met her eyes and quickly looked away. Even he didn’t want to witness this wreck. Kim felt her hopes at winning slipping away like that boat over the falls, except this time it was her that was on board and her ex was on the shoreline shaking his head. It was the pity on his face that enraged her. He never did believe in her. Kim reached out and broke a piece of cookie off and put it in her mouth. She stood there, thoughts drifting to what would happen now. Would she have to move back home? Rent a place of her own, some little apartment that barely contained one person, let alone someone with a whole life of THINGS beside her? But that life was over now. Kim reached out and absentmindedly picked off another piece of cookie and shoved it into her face. She slumped against the counter, and slowly slid down onto her butt, still chewing. And chewing. How was it chewy AND burnt? At the judge’s table, the 3 talking heads huddled together, casting concerned looks at Kim and the mucky station behind her. Carrie and Ed stood silently, unsure of what to do now that their captain had seemingly gone down with the ship. Carrie wiped her hands over and over on her apron, cleaning hands that weren’t even dirty anymore. Ed eyed the camera person’s equipment and wondered if he should get into photography. Kim saw designer shoes coming towards her in her peripheral vision. Adam had apparently been chosen to approach Kim and her Cookie of Doom. She heard him clear his throat and inhale deeply. “Hi Kim, how’s it going over here?” She looked up at him with wet, black stained eyes, unsure if he was being sarcastic or just oblivious. She saw the concerned look in his eyes, with a little bit of timid rabbit mixed in for good measure. He tentatively reached down a hand to help her up and she accepted gratefully. He felt a bit of sticky batter smear on to his palms, as he pulled her up. “So, uh…what’s your next move?” he asked “A studio apartment next to the bus depot, apparently” she answered. He looked at her, confused. “Look, Adam, let’s be real. This isn’t working. I mean, look at it…” she gestured towards the bloated corpse of sugar cookie on the table. “I have to go. I’ll figure it out. I mean, maybe I’ll like being on my own.” She untied her apron and let it fall on the floor. Looking around for an Exit, she remembered the door behind the stage, pointed out to her during the safety presentation that morning. She walked past the host desk, past the craft services table and the confused assistants milling around behind the stage. She pushed open the door and stepped out on to Melrose. The humidity was bad out here too, and she ripped the elastic out of her hair and shook her head. Deep breath in, like the Australian guy said, and away she walked. Alone but determined. 

xqojey

The Tragic Honeymoon

Janie McCrory This was supposed to be the happiest day of their lives, janie giggled and Shrieked as harry tickled her and smacked her from behind, she tried all her possible best to wiggle away from his mischievous touches but she was a second too late and he scooped her up in his arms. He looked her dead in the eyes and saw the glint of happiness and passion behind those green eyes and he knew just perfectly that she was the right choice for him  "I love you" he groaned, she was about to reply him back but he tossed her onto the bed, towered over her as she shrieked caught off guard and kissed her deeply without bothering for a reply back She swinged her arms around his neck and returned the tender kiss which grew more and more intense by the second. Harry cupped her breasts from her gown and groaned into her mouth as the fabric was a huge hindrance, he stopped the kiss, lifted her back off the bed and undid the bodice of the dress and grinned as the gown came off "do you like what you see mr. Mcrory, Harry licked his lips and kept grinning as Janie's soft and smooth skin came into light, I'm indeed one lucky bastard he thought as he resumed the kiss and fondled her breasts and she moaned into his mouth this time around savoring and enjoying every touch and kiss, her body was heating up and her pearl gate was getting moist.    Harry took his tux off and ripped off his shirt, he went in for another kiss but that was a ruse, he buried his head on her left breast and nibbled a little hard on the nipple, she gasped out, grabbed the back of his head for hin to continue, he made his way southwards for her pearl gate and that was when they heard the sound, it was a common sound but uncommon in a five star hotel suite, the sound was that of a cat meowing   They both looked at each other awed, "was that?" Asked janie, harry nodded "yes, a cat", harry redid his belt and tucked his erection between his legs which made Janie giggle. He breezed to the door and swinged it open but the hallway was empty, "there's nothing here" he said, before he could close the door the cat meowed again somewhere close, harry groaned and went in search of the cat.   There was nothing spectacular about the meow of a cat but it was oddly strange because the staff of the hotel colombes d' amour worked tirelessly around the clock to meet and satisfy their clients and occupants needs but he keeps on telling his dad and urging him for them to switch hotels for a while now but he remained adamant because the hotel was like a second home to them and there was around the clock security which harry didn't know of that his dad put in place already.   The sound was getting closer, a door opened behind him and janie spoke in a whisper "found it yet?" Harry glanced back and replied "not yet but do not worry your pretty head, this is your night, get back inside" janie smiled, bolted the door and jumped back on the king sized bed giggling like a kid. The sound was coming from the elevator and Harry pitied the poor animal, poor cat has been trapped in the elevator maybe for hours.    He pressed a button and the elevator doors swinged open but there was no cat, the sound came again and he realised it was coming from a recorder which was duct taped onto the elevator's wall "what the fuck"he muttered walking up to the recorder to switch it off. He pressed the power button with his index finger and something grazed the finger, "ouch" he said and examined the finger and it was bleeding, he sucked on it and that was when he realised too late how in the movies the antagonist makes use of poison of this type to kill his enemies leaving no trace, harry couldnt even finish his thoughts and he slumped to the ground flailing for a second and was still. Approaching footsteps were coming towards the room, thinking it harry, janie rushed to the door and swinged it open with her cleavage popping out a little too much from the gown, she became scarlet pink as she saw it was a hotel porter, she muttered an apology and shut the door with her eyes clinged shut, she smelled her before seeing her, she was putting on their cologne, their signatory scent, the cologne she bought for her which cemented their relationship but janie knew deep down she was going to break her heart, she knew deep down she was diverse and a bisexual which was a blessing but Jackie wasn't, she was only a lesbian, which was her curse and janie knew there wasn't a light at the end of the tunnel for their future but a marriage with harry McCrory, that was more than a light at the end of the tunnel.   She opened her eyes and jackie was seated at the edge of the bed in a sundress , "hello monkey" And she grinned, Jane had never seen this look on her face before and she knew deep down the meowing cat was her doing, "where's my husband?" Janie asked, jackie scoffed "y'all been married for two minutes only" janie added enough steel to her voice and asked again "where's my husband?", there was an eerie silence and jackie replied "dead" Janie's breath caught and she fell on her ass "I know you still love me, I know you was only pretending to enjoy his kisses and caresses" said Jackie and she walked up to janie to touch her hair "get your hands off me you sick bastard"   she yelled, jackie flinched, but she tired again to touch her, janie started laughing and raised her head up with her eyes filled with tears "don't you get it, I'm bisexual, I wasnt pretending shit with him, I never loved you, I only used you to pass time and to experiment, you are nothing" Jackie could see the finality in her eyes and hear it in her voice, she almost shed a tear but she held it like the iron woman she was, she was already anticipating this and the disappointment hit her like a freight train, she touched her hair again out of nowhere a hunting knife surfaced which glinted under the light and by then janie knew it was too late,  jackie buried the knife into her throat and watched as the life escaped from her Her body slumped to the ground and jackie escaped into the night happy and glad she performed the perfect crime because anyone who stumbles on the crime scene would believe janie killed herself after finding her husband dead and by then noone would suspect her and she would be long gone and by then it would be too late 

0cpwmq

where is my prince

the ball is coming soon and I get wait for my love to ask me out and She walked over to the window and reflected on her damp surroundings. I had always loved cozy San Diego with its wicked, witty waters. It was a place that encouraged her tendency to feel sleepy. Then I saw something in the distance, or rather some one . It was the figure of Artemis hills. Artemis was a spiteful friend with fragile fingers and skinny lips. I gulped. I glanced at my reflection. I was a brave, mean, whiskey drinker with wide fingers and blonde lips. my friends saw her as a glamorous, gorgeous god. Once, I had even made a cup of tea for a tan old lady. But not even a brave person who had once made a cup of tea for a tan old lady was prepared for what Artemis had in-store today. The clouds danced like partying horses, making me sad. As I stepped outside and Artemis came closer, I could see the warm glint in his eye. “I am here because I want some more Twitter followers,” Artemis bellowed, in a modest tone. He slammed his fist against Addison’s chest, with the force of 1795 rabbits. “I frigging love you, Addison Douglas.” Addison looked back, even sadder and still fingering the weathered piano. “Addison, let’s get married,” he replied. we looked at each other with ambivalent feelings, like two barbecued, better blue bottles sitting at a very admirable disco, which had piano music playing in the background and two deranged uncles thinking to the beat. Addison regarded max’s fragile fingers and skinny lips. She held out her hand. “Let’s not fight,” I whispered, gently. “Hmph,” pondered Artemis “Please?” I begged In with puppy dog eyes. Artemis looked stressed, his body blushing like a teeny-tiny, talented teapot. Then Artemis came inside for a nice glass of whiskey. Artemis Barker looked at the stripy blade in his hands and felt sleepy. He walked over to the window and reflected on his dirty surroundings. He had always loved beautiful Paris with its jealous, jittery jungle. It was a place that encouraged his tendency to feel sleepy. Then he saw something in the distance, or rather some one . It was the figure of Addison Douglas. Addison was a hungry academic with charming fingernails and pretty eyelashes. Artemis gulped. He glanced at his own reflection. He was a deranged, controlling, brandy drinker with curvaceous fingernails and skinny eyelashes. His friends saw him as a bloody, bumpy banker. Once, he had even helped a fragile chicken recover from a flying accident. But not even a deranged person who had once helped a fragile chicken recover from a flying accident was prepared for what Addison had in-store today. The sleet rained like walking cats, making Artemis worried. As Artemis stepped outside and Addison came closer, he could see the puzzled glint in her eye. Addison gazed with the affection of 7231 loving lonely lizards. She said, in hushed tones, “I love you and I want a kiss.”Artemis looked back, even more, worried and still fingering the stripy blade “Addison, let’s move in together,” he replied. They looked at each other with ecstatic feelings, like two funny, fine frogs eating at a very sympathetic birthday party, which had drum and bass music playing in the background and two rude uncles loving to the beat. Artemis regarded Addison charming fingernails and pretty eyelashes. “I feel the same way!” revealed Artemis with a delighted grin. Addison looked sneezy, her emotions blushing like a hurt, hushed hawk. Then Addison came inside for a nice glass of brandy. Rachel Noris was thinking about Addison Douglas again. Addison was a sinister academic with pretty eyebrows and spiky fingers. Rachel walked over to the window and reflected on her industrial surroundings. She had always loved quiet London with its knobbly, knobby kettles. It was a place that encouraged her tendency to feel surprised. Then she saw something in the distance, or rather some one . It was a sinister figure of Addison Douglas. Rachel gulped. She glanced at her own reflection. She was a clumsy, peculiar, brandy drinker with brunette eyebrows and ample fingers. Her friends saw her as an aggressive, adorable angel. Once, she had even helped a dizzy puppy cross the road. But not even a clumsy person who had once helped a dizzy puppy cross the road was prepared for what Addison had in-store today. The rain hammered like jumping hummingbirds, making Rachel fuzzy. Rachel grabbed a warped map that had been strewn nearby; she massaged it with her fingers. As Rachel stepped outside and Addison came closer, she could see the dizzy glint in her eye. Addison gazed with the affection of 6308 smelly prickly puppies. She said, in hushed tones, “I love you and I want to give a puppy.” Rachel looked back, even fuzzier and still fingering the warped map. “Addison, I just don’t need you in my life anymore,” she replied. They looked at each other with happy feelings, like two old, outrageous owls talking at a very tactless birthday party, which had trance music playing in the background and two modest uncles chatting to the beat. Rachel regarded Addison’s pretty eyebrows and spiky fingers. “I feel the same way!” revealed Rachel with a delighted grin. Addison looked barmy, her emotions blushing like a raw, raspy record. Then Addison came inside for a nice glass of brandy. After Addison was going the way Addison came back said do you won’t go with me and Addison am so sorry that I leave and so happy but do you want to see my gift give you and I have a puppy so she can remind you of me and when you feel say .Alison Khan had always loved picturesque Newton Abbot with its quaint, quirky quarries. It was a place where she felt angry. She was an arrogant, friendly, tea drinker with pointy lips and brown eyes. Her friends saw her as a drab, deep deity. Once, she had even helped a shallow puppy cross the road. That’s the sort of woman she was. Alison walked over to the window and reflected on her beautiful surroundings. The moon shone like walking puppies. Then she saw something in the distance, or rather some one . It was the figure of Addison Douglas. Addison was a hilarious rover with squat lips and charming eyes. Alison gulped. She was not prepared for Addison. As Alison stepped outside and Addison came closer, she could see the late glint in his eye. Addison gazed with the affection of 6470 wild pongy puppies. He said, in hushed tones, “I love you and I want I am sorry and here a puppy.”Alison looked back, even more, sneezy and still fingering the crumpled hawk. “Addison, I don’t have the money,” she replied. They looked at each other with anxious feelings, like two pongy, prickly puppies laughing at a very brave birthday party, which had indie music playing in the background and two delightful uncles partying to the beat. Alison regarded Addison’s squat lips and charming eyes. “I feel the same way!” revealed Alison with a delighted grin. Addison looked fuzzy, his emotions blushing like a rotten, round record. Then Addison came inside for a nice cup of tea. wait for the next story. the end 

dzhcv5

Another First Thanksgiving

I opened the closet door to find the stack of paper. All the colors of the construction paper; black, green, yellow, brown, orange, red, blue stacked in its dull rainbow.  In a small box were glue, glitter, ribbons, and scissors right where she left them. The day was a drab as the construction paper, gray and overcast with rain. Wet leaves sticking to the walkway, the dog came in from his venture in the rain only to shake the water everywhere.  I called his name; he looked at me as if asking if he had done something wrong. I don’t really know why I am doing this, it is rather silly. The truth is I wanted something normal, something in the rhythm of life that was ordinary in the wake of her death. I didn’t know you could miss someone as bad as I missed my mom. I was still mad at Lynn Stanly, just thinking about it made me angry. She had said, “I thought you would be past all this crying and being upset as much faith as you have.” It had only been six months and I was already a heap of emotions. She had to trot that out like there was a time limit on grieving. I paused in my response and said only, “She is worthy of my grief and grieving.” I then turned and walked away. Mother so loved to make her decorations for Thanksgiving. It always looked like a school classroom with the orange, brown, black, and yellow paper cut into leaves, pumpkins, pilgrim hats, and turkeys. I opened the package of the construction paper and sat down with a cup of tea spreading the paper out and looking at the colors. As I separated out some of the papers, there on a yellow sheet was a shopping list she had started. “Butter, eggs, milk, whipped cream, small ham, olives.” I guess she had started over on a new list when this one was packed away after the decorations were finished. My fingers outlined the letters on the soft paper, I looked to see if the ink came off, it did not. I thought of the countless times she had stood at the stove to cook and shine as she recreated the meals of our youth for us. I don’t know what it was about this time of year, but it seemed to be the best holiday.   I looked at the papers. Picking out an orange sheet, I folded it and cut out a rather odd-shaped circle. I thought, “Well, with a little work, this will make a fine pumpkin.” I got out the markers and set out to bring this pumpkin to life. Next was a pilgrim hat, black with a tan band across it to give it some depth. I then attempted a leaf, it was supposed to be like a maple leaf, but we didn’t have maple trees here, so I when with a strange kind of oak leaf, maybe it was poison oak when I was finished, I don’t know. Glancing over to the end table, there was a picture of mom and dad. She with that smile that was always so genuine. Pop was looking at her in the picture. His love, his life. After pop died, I didn’t know what she would do. It was months of grief for her. He had been all she knew for fifty years of marriage. Now she was gone. And I have to make these damn decorations for that dinner that no one wants to bother with. But if we don’t make these silly things, and make that endless chain of construction paper, it will be like death has won. And as I have known and believed, her life has not ended but changed. So this inevitable part of her life is part of the ongoing struggle in the wake of her death. As I sat there, I recalled the countless times she would sit at this very table, drinking her coffee, crossword puzzle in hand, always in ink, she was so proud of that, and a cigarette with the smoke making its signals from the ashtray. I was lost in those moments of thought. Tears weld up and I wiped my eyes. I took out some more of the paper and traced a turkey out as best I could, and began to cut. Snip, snip, and long cut around the shape. I paused and looked at it.  It looked more like a damn octopus than a turkey! I laughed at it and then began to weep. Deep sobs arose out of the depth of my broken heart. I, at last, got up and washed my face, told myself how silly I was as I looked in the bathroom mirror. There I saw my dad looking back at me, a younger face than his, but his all the same. Mom always said I looked just like my dad, followed with a smirk and a half-whisper “Whoever he was…” Just then the phone rang. It was my sister. She said “Helloooo brother.” In her chirpy way. “What ya doing?” I sighed and said that I had been working on some decorations for the dinner. She caught the masked strain in my voice and asked “Tough day?” I lied and said “No, it’s fine. Had a moment of inconceivable rage, cried hysterically--but got past it.” She chuckled, said she knew the feeling. We talked about the meal again, the setup, and the time. I suggested a later meal, so I could go to Church that morning, there was to be a Thanksgiving Eucharist at St. Luke’s at 9:00, I asked if she wanted to go. She said no, too much to get ready for on that day. I agreed and we set the time for 1:00 PM. I thought about just scrapping the whole thing with these decorations. I mean really. Who cares? ‘It’s about the food’ I thought to myself. I was just about to crumple up the ‘octo-turkey’ and caught myself. She would have made so much fun of this, it would have been a big joke and she would have insisted it be put someplace prominent so she could try to explain it to everyone. I put it aside and started cutting the paper strips to make a paper chain; that I could do without the need for creativity. It was getting dark. Thanksgiving was in five days. In my self-pity, I thought about the fact that here I was an ‘orphan.’ Some orphan… well established, good family and good family name. But when your parents die, that is what you are. I also thought of the man I had become because of my parents. They expected the better of us all, but as I was the eldest, maybe there was more I had to do for the ones to follow. I stepped out on the porch, the rain hitting the leaves and roof performing the ancient chant of praise to the Creator. I thought of what it means to give thanks and be thankful. I laughed at the times we were our best as a family. Like the time when the lights went out in a storm and we played games and ate popcorn by candlelight. I was so sad when the lights flickered back on and we went back to our rooms and left each other alone. Now, Mom’s death was like that, the lights going out. This would be the first time we would gather without her. I wanted it to be like that stormy night, with the distractions of our lives placed in the dark corners so we could be ourselves, to laugh and joke without the diversions of life getting in the way. I stepped back to the table with the scraps and looked at the paper chain I had started. A chain. Unbroken like the generations before us, each passing along their life to each of us. I took it and decided to add at least a dozen more links…

nsq9mf

Trees, Apples, and Love

“Hey, brat!” Brady says to me as he enters my garage. I’m playing my guitar so I can barely hear him, but I still can. “Hey, jerk,” I say, rolling my eyes, though I have a slight smile on my face. “So whatcha wanna do today?” Says Brady as he walks over to me and gives me a crushing hug; he knows I hate hugs. “Hey! Get off of me!” I yell as I try to push him off, but to no avail as he just brushes it off. “I was thinking we’d go apple picking,” Says a yawning Brady, who’s now clearly bored. “Yeah that’d be fine I guess, lets go now, I’m just finishing up my new song. Maybe I’ll play it for you sometime.” We walk out to Brady’s beautiful 68 Pontiac Firebird. (To be completely honest I’m in love with this car, it’s my absolute dream to have one. But Brady can never know that.) “What an ugly, douchey car you have Brady,” I say to him as I see a wave of hurt wash over his face. He just rolls his eyes and tells me to get in the car before he beats me up. I get in and the seats are heaven; no better than heaven. They are the most beautiful and comfortable vinyl seats I’ve ever sat in. Brady turns to me and asks if I am alright, as I was just sitting in complete silence since we got in. We were already at the orchard, “Yeah jerk I’m just thinking about how terrible this car is.” I say with a smile on my face. He softly smacks my shoulder as we get out and pay for two baskets to pick some apples. As we walk to one of the trees I notice that some of the leaves are already turning orange, bright fiery embers. I slightly smile as I turn to look at Brady, but he’s already gone up ahead, standing on a ladder picking apples. “How did you get up there in five seconds?” I say while Brady tries to throw an apple at me. But instead, he just falls off the ladder. I bust out laughing as run to Brady’s side while jumping in a soft pile of leaves. “Are you okay?” I say, laughter still in my voice. He just groans and turns over on his side, facing me. We’re inches apart now, as I just stare into his groggy eyes. He realizes how close we are and shakily gets up as fast as he can. He helps me up and punches me in the shoulder while calling me a brat. I just laugh and pick up my basket to pick some more apples. I turn to Brady just as he bites into a juicy apple. I can’t help but stare at him, soon enough I break my stare as he calls my name. He points to my left, where the sun is setting. He knows how much I love to watch the sunset. I think it’s one of the most beautiful experiences that anyone can go through. And sitting here with my best friend watching it go down, I know I’m right. We get out of the trees and sit on a blanket that somehow got in the middle of the orchard. I turn to Brady and watch his beautiful eyes, as they reflect the sunset with their own little twists on it. He watches me and puts his palm on my cheek. “Alyssa, can I tell you something?” I just laugh uncomfortably, and nod my head, not trusting my voice. “I think I’m in love with you” Those words “I think I’m in love with you” threw my whole entire world into a spectrum. I genuinely had no idea. I don’t even realize I’m staring until Brady calls my name. He clearly has hurt and worry in his eyes. “So?” He says, his voice faltering a bit. “You mean to tell me Brady Smith is sitting here, under apple trees, after we just picked them to tell me he’s in love with me?” I say in complete shock, though trying to lighten the mood a little bit. I don’t really want this weight on my shoulders. On the one hand, if I say I don’t love him back our friendship is over. On the other hand, if I say how I feel and we break up our friendship is out the window anyway. Like an animal with primal instincts, I just kiss him. At first, he’s off-put, but then he begins to kiss back and I feel my heart flutter. I pull back just enough to look at him and say “I think I’m in love with you too” with a smile. He starts kissing me again and I probably shouldn’t tell you guys what happens next if you know what I mean. The next few days were heaven as we went apple picking every day and made apple pies; my favorite. Love was blooming and it’s all because of the apple orchard where we went apple picking. Apple picking always was my favorite thing to do as a kid, it was one of the first things I had a choice in. I was able to pick which apples that I wanted, and when we were done my mother and I would always bake the sweetest apple pies, and top it off with our homemade ice cream, using our own milk from our dairy cows. Not to mention the way the leaves seemed to change colors while we were out there. I've always been fascinated by fall, it is my favorite season after all. "Hey, jerk!" I say shaking out of my dream-like state. "I want to sing you my song I was working on the other day," Brady complies and goes to sit down. He's frowning, clearly upset about something but that doesn't matter as the second I start singing he lights up with excitement and enjoyment. When I'm finally done singing about our experiences together he has a proud look on his face and calls me an angel. I can't help but smile as I'm ecstatic he liked it. I worked for a little over a week on it, which took a lot longer than usual. We share a long and passionate kiss as I set my guitar down, and when it's over I feel safe and warm. I've never been in love before this, and to be honest it's even better than a sunset.

cobghj

An Unwelcome Homecoming

Travelers don't typically fly from our small airport in Pocatello, Idaho. Sure, in recent years there has been an effort to pique interest by adding flights to nearby attractions such as Las Vegas or Jackson Hole, but most people will drive to Salt Lake City two and a half hours away to catch their flight in order to save a few hundred bucks. When I was 16, I had just finished my Junior year of High School. That year, I met Mar Ordi, and exchange student from Malgrat de Mar. A town in the Costa Brava area of Spain. We were wild together. There was some connection with her that allowed me to be the girl I felt most natural being. Light and carefree, unconcerned about how anyone might be perceiving me. Her father had come to the States to visit before Mar had to go back home. Jaume. He was a polite man, almost delicate. At least that is what I thought. 20 years later, I know that is not the case. Polite, yes. Delicate, no. He just had a very reserved way of presenting himself and I think he wanted to impress my parents. He had brought with him a beautiful figurine of a woman as a gift for my mother, that she displays to this day in her china hutch. I'm not sure if it was because he liked me, or if it was a request of my friend, but Jaume invited me to come to Spain that Summer and he was to pay my fare. Definitely not an offer I would turn down. And, not being familiar with the amount of money saved by flying from the nearest big city, he booked my flight out of Pocatello. That jet lag hit me like a ton of bricks and I remember having to sleep in the middle of the day. Spain is 8 hours ahead of us in Idaho. Plus, I took a little hit of some smoke that was offered to me, not knowing they mix hash with tobacco. It was just too much for my sensitive body. For the next 5 weeks, I ran around with my friend's circle of people. One of my favorite things was going into Barcelona with the mother of my friend's boyfriend. She took me to the Olympic stadium and to the museums Joan Miró and Pablo Picasso. Later in my trip, I also got to go to Girona with Mar and Jaume to tour the museum of Salvador Dalí. It is impossible to describe the impact that had on my senses. We ate pizza and paella and Spanish tortillas, which are made of eggs. We drank wine from the porrón and watched fútbol amongst cheering patrons. We swam in the ocean nearly every day. I met her mother with her odd theatre friends who explained to me why it was good luck to say 'break a leg' to an actor going on stage. We partied in the discos and lounged in the bar gardens. There is no drinking age there, and like I said, we were wild. We shopped. I would visit her at the stores she worked at. Her father owned perfume shops in three of the coastal towns. They were all fairly close and it was easy enough to catch the trains. One night we met a group of guys who invited us to a private estate up in the mountains the next day. Mar wasn't able to go, but I went anyway, because I had no fear. We had drank a lot the night before, and I was not well in the morning. But, when they showed up to get me, I went anyway. The drive was excruciating with tight turns winding up the mountains, trying not to throw up in the car. The host of the property greeted us with smiles, hugs and a huge plate of sausage that turned my stomach at the sight of it. Fortunately and gratefully, they led me to a quiet room and a bed all in white to let me sleep it off. I woke up to a European paradise. We went water skiing in a lake and swimming in a large pool overlooking a cliff. There was no end to the food and drink being passed around and I felt like I was in a dream. It was warm every day and every hour while I was in Spain, and I felt loved and accepted by everyone I met. All of those hugs and kisses flowing like the wine, people of all ages walking around half naked. Most people spoke English, even if just a little bit. So, it wasn't hard for me to get around on my own. I knew some Spanish, but not Catalán, so it was hard for me to understand. But, during my time there, I knew that I was absorbing the language as I began answering questions asked to me before I realized they were not asked in English. Finally, the day came for me to leave. I boarded the plane in a loose fitting, gauze like shirt and very short terry cloth shorts. My last night in Spain was spent at the disco dancing til the early hours of the morning. No sleep. So, out of the 24 hr flight, I was awake for maybe 3 or 4 of them. I remember how harsh the English language sounded to my ears when the flight attendant made her announcements. My birthday is August 4, and I had turned 17 in Malgrat de Mar. In Idaho, we have our hottest days in August, typically close to 95 degrees. So, even though it was dark when my flight landed a week later, it never occurred to me to even put on a light jacket. But, to my absolute amazement and almost disbelief, it was snowing when I exited the tiny aircraft down the built in stairway, and I was cold. It made me hate coming home.

kbjbb1

The Sweet Taste of Autumn

As we got into the car in the early morning, anticipating the long ride, we made sure to bring our morning coffee and some snacks to eat while traveling to the orchard. It seemed like both my oldest daughter and I have been waiting for this moment all summer. The trees along the side of the road was slowly turning the colors of fall, the reds and yellows glowing in the morning sun. As we started our journey, the streets were empty of cars, but inside the car there was laughing at each other, singing loud enough that we were sure the truckers that raced by us could hear us. This ride happened every year, and both my daughter and I enjoyed being with each other. We could talk about mostly anything from boys to school starting, to what college my precious daughter wanted to attend. Her testing scores were high, and I was proud of her. She had become a person that had her own opinions, and would take the world on by the tail and ride that ride to the end. As we finally approached the orchard, anticipation and excitement filled the car. Here we are, getting out of the car and into a world we knew so well. The trees were full of apples of all kinds, from Gala to Johnathan to Macintosh. How to choose? That was anyone's guess. Walking through the orchard down a lane in between the trees, the apples glistened in the morning dew. The wetness had made the skins sparkle in the sunshine. Both my daughter and I decided to get a variety of each, and went about using the provided ladders to pick our own. Laughing as we tried to reach a few that were really out of reach, we both realized that this would be a memory to be held close to the heart. This was a part of what life is all about, enjoying each others company and yet making so many decisions together. The ride home from the orchard seemed long and endless, but after awhile the silence crept in, making my mind and emotions run rampant. Here my child sits, not a child anymore, but a grown woman. She let her hair down and her eyes kept to the road, We again started to laugh, tell jokes that were somewhat not funny, and again sing out loud. I wonder how we both would be if we did karoke in our nearby church that has it every week. We would probably, at least I would goof up the song, and laugh histerically. It seems that this moment might be our last together, our last time of being mother and daughter. I wish I know what she was thinking about. All of a sudden I was thinking about the loss I feel once she went back to school, not being able to be near her as often. I thought about what she may become after college and who she will marry, if she does. I think about her having children, and being so far away that I cannot guide her during the first year of the child's life. She has grown into an exceptional person, unique in her own ways of thinking and doing. How will she survive this world, and the situations that may happen. I normally don't think about the evil in this world, but it is my baby, my child, that will be far away from me and my protection. That is the hardest for me to come to grips with. The thoughts of how I have raised this child into an adult, the things I hope I have taught her to help her along the way, and the survival skills like cooking together and doing laundry seems to overcome me, and I start to weep. My mind drifts back to the present moment, and I see she is looking at me with those sky blue eyes, the eyes that are like pools of clean water. She is smiling at me with the love between mother and daughter. There is nothing more precious than this. I know that I have never cried in front of her, so she probably thought that something was wrong. Her smile for a moment left her face, then a smile again when she saw that I was okay. There is such love between us. This love cannot really be broken, it is always living in each of us. It cannot be torn out or pushed away for the lifetime of each individual. It lasts all through eternity, even in death. I am proud of the woman my daughter is becoming. She is loud mouthed, opinionated, yet she knows what she wants and how she wants her life to be. She is a hard worker, a great decision maker, and a child I am proud to call my own. She in some ways mirrors me, my decision to have her was for the best. I will never tell her that she was a product of an assault on myself, because she is my life. She might be someday curious of why no father was put on her birth certificate, but when she is ready to know, and asks me why, I hope I will be strong enough to explain the situation as it was. At first when I realized after that tragic night that I was with child, I did not know if I was keeping this small being or giving it up. I was unsure if I could raise a child, I was really not a child myself, but there was so much of life ahead of me. But taking , after much thought and research, I decided. The final decision came with the first movement in my belly. That first sign of real life. I then did not care about anything except protecting this young being, even though it was going to be hard, but not too hard to endure to model and love a tiny being from birth to adult. So now here she sits, the daughter I love and adore. The orchard behind us, the memories in us, and the time well spent with each other. These days may end soon to be together, but I realize that I really did my best to raise her, to love her, to nurture her. Now it is her turn to live life the way she was meant to live, on her own terms. My job is done for now, but I feel that there is more times to come where the mother in me will be needed again. And I will happily accept the challenge.

1edehl

Migrating Bird

In the great country of America there is an animal, that resembles the nation. This animal isn't any ordinary animal it is a bird. The national bird is known to be called Bald Eagle it was adopted as a symbol of the United States in 1782 and was chose for its majestic beauty, great strength, long life, and because it's native to North America. This bird has great instinct when it comes to survival. When it gets colder they migrate to the southern areas of the region to mate and have nesting grounds. They eat fish, insects, and other things along the waters where they live. And as all of the facts have been stated, it takes you to a place deep into the Alaska wilderness where you can find many other animal and creatures of such. Although there are many eagles alike each other there is one special eagle that shares a great story. His name Eddie the eagle but his friends and family call him Ed. Ed is a young eagle native to Alaska he enjoys the beauty of summer in Alaska where he can hunt and eat the native salmon in the beautiful rivers and lakes. But where the real story begins is when Ed wakes up on a beautiful Saturday morning with the beautiful blue sky out. Ed's mother and his mother had been dreading this day as on the Sunday right after that day they would start what they call the great migration. It is a sensitive time for them as his father Eddie Sr. had lost his life protecting young Ed and his mother from a flock of vultures. It is a treacherous and dangerous journey where many eagle families fall apart. The vultures skinny and weak wait to prey down on them as they take their young and old across the country to the warm winter nesting grounds. They have firm belief in a place the eagles go when the leave the earth from which they soared the sky's of. A place so beautiful and so green so peaceful and safe. This is the place they call "The last Kingdom". In this kingdom they say all of the kings from the past look down on them and protect them through the dangers of their journey. Ed and his mom are strong believers in this as all of their ancestors and Eds father have looked over them as they made the journey. Ed had dreaded the end of the beautiful Saturday but it had come time to sleep. He had been sleepless through out the night. When the sun was coming up he decided to get up and watch one last sunset. After the sun came up his mother had told Eddie it's time. They both stood together and then soared into the beautiful Alaska sky's. They soared through the rolling mountains and the open lakes, through the raging rivers into a different setting where is always so new. A place with odd objects and creatures humans everywhere. Driving around and polluting the sky where they roam. Shinning weird things in their eyes known as phones and cameras. They soar into a big yard full of beautiful green grass and a big white building and an odd flying object controlled by humans. A human man in a suit walking out and greeted by other humans. They roam past that and find a place slightly less scary. Just plains and fields around for almost ever. They see some odd machines that move so slow and that are so loud. Ed tries to move on but his mom says they should stay for the night. They find an old human structure lined with the material they nest in. Old and creaky they managed to sleep well and warm. They had journeyed out at first light. And had found themselves nearing another place infested with humans. This is where it's hard for them to fly as these big towers are shooting sulfur and smoke into the sky making them feel sick. They near the end of the hard flight when abruptly. A great gust of wind pushes them down leaving them tumbling down towards the streets. Ed manages to stay up and tries to grab his mother with his talons but misses and she tumbles towards the ground. She hits her right side hard and yelps in pain. Ed goes to see if she is okay and discovers that she injured her right wing and couldn't continue. So they find a place that smells of fresh greasy food and stayed inside. They knew they had to make up time for having to stay behind. And the winter freeze would catch them so they had to go early. When Ed woke he saw that his mother looked worse. But he knew there had to be a way to get through this. Ed had to fly holding his mother and they barely made it out of the city limits. They were losing hopes when the great kings of the past granted them with a truck that had chickens in the back like humans the chickens respect the eagles and the chickens allowed them to hide among the group until they get far enough. They were approaching vulture territory where the migration grounds are just on the other side safe from the deadly birds. They all braced as they ventured in. They saw vultures circling around and they knew what was about to come. So Ed decided to save his mother and flew out of the coop to distract the vultures. And had got run down close to the migrating lands. He had done his best to fight them off and asked the great gods of the past to give him strength and when he asked it was granted he had fought them off and made it in he met up with his mother and she was proud. He had accomplished the great migration. He had soon remembered the great treacherous journey as the greatest accomplishment of his life.

kgod61

NOT the ´Funny One´

“Jack of all trades, master of none. Better than being master of one” she mumbles, pale brown hair knotted in her hand. Well, that’s just, excuse her french, bull shark! Cameron, Cammie to her friends, has always been completely average. In looks, intelligence, attitude, and talent. It was sickening. It was incredibly sickening because all of her friends were sickeningly talented. Ariana was an amazing gymnast. Alexie was an incredible athlete. Pamela was a beautiful singer. Alex was effortlessly beautiful. Jamie was stupidly smart. When people looked at others they had labels. Little titles, awards that they subconsciously give to each individual. Like when someone was walking down the hall and you notice them. You think, ‘Oh, that’s Jake the chess prodigy’ or ‘that’s Vari the class president’. But when someone doesn't have a label you latch to other things to identify them with. Like ‘that’s Katy with the cat-eyed glasses’ or ‘there's Manny with the sprained wrist’. When people looked at her friends they saw beauty, talent, excellence, and intelligence pouring from their perfectly small pores. When people looked at Cammie all they saw was ‘the funny one’. The Class Clown. Jokester Extraordinaire. Ms. Smiles-A-Lot. ...or even worse… ‘Noah’s little sister’. Right! If it wasn’t...bad enough she was a disappointment to the human population because of who her best friends were but she was disappointing because of her brother's sheer perfection too! Hmph. Whatever. Wait-! No! Not whatever! This was why she was doing this! Why she was still awake at 2 AM, sitting at her study with a list of hobbies she can improve on. So... Ariana was an incredible gymnast, heck she’s been practicing for ten years starting from when she was five... Maybe...Cammie was a natural? She could ask to go with Ari to her next practice, right? To at least watch and try to imitate. NOT the ‘Funny One’ Gymnastics Okay, Uhm...Alex was a very amazing athlete...so...Cammie could get in shape! Yes, Alex goes on jogs every morning (le shudder) and...Cammie can join in now. And eating healthier too! Cammie spared her late-night bowl of cereal a wince. She can eat healthier...starting tomorrow. Next on the list Get in shape Nice! What else? Pamela was a great singer...and she can't carry a tune. But..ooh! The senior from her Culinary Class gives free flute lessons! He said it was to help himself practice. She can ask Ms. Bernson if she can rent one...surely she won't mind since it's’ not like it's for the band or anything. Alex was beautiful... Maybe....Cammie can take better care of her skin and hair? And chose her clothes more carefully. She didn’t have to wear sweats all the time...or jeans either… Would it kill her to dress up nicely? And brush her ridiculously thick and frizzy hair- yes, yes it would. Brushing her hair had to be done straight after a shower or else it’s frizz central…. Alex brushes and blow-dries her hair every morning (which Cammie’s mom says is unhealthy for anyone that doesn’t have Alex’s hair type- which is extremely greasy). Alex could wash most mornings..and wear a nice dress and braid her hair neatly out of her face. Like Alex...yes..she could. Be beautiful And...finally...to be smart. She could do that. And really Cammie wasn't a bad student...she could pay attention in class if she stopped interrupting it. She could get better than C’s and B’s if she took notes and tried on her homework. Just..like...Jamie.   Be smarter She stared at the list and scoffed. What was she thinking? She can’t just say she wanted to do these things. She needed a plan of action, like with the flute lessons. After a bit of editing, the plan was soon...more like a plan… ---- NOT the ‘Funny One’ Gymnastics- to test if I have any control over these long meat sticks people call arms and legs. If not gymnastics, maybe dance, or… modeling? HAHAHAHAHA, just made myself laugh. Get in shape- maybe I have some hidden talent for track and field! Running with Alexie every morning. Be beautiful- wash my face, take care of my hair, and choose cuter outfits. Might need to go shopping. Maybe ask Alex for a makeover… Be Smarter- study, homework, no joking around in class- this might be the hardest. (and the last, one she didn't even dare let herself think about too much) Be like Noah AKA a snotty obnoxious good at everything obedient to a fault twit…..hardness level? 10000000000000000- ------- The first step is easy, mostly, sort of. Not really. Texting Ari was easy, getting her to bring Cammie along was also easy. But that was because Ari was a night bird and evening napper. She responded to Cammie’s text immediately. The first real step, however, was waking up in the ass crack of 5: AM to go on an ungodly run, was not. Not to mention she bumped into Golden Boy 2.0. “Where are you going?” Ah, Jake. “Jakie, why would you wake up at such a disgusting time of the morning?” Cammie shivered under her sweater. “I always wake up at this time to watch the sun. You are the pig who sleeps in for as long as possible.” Her eyelid twitches and she didn’t bother to stop the sigh from escaping her lips, “I’m trying to exercise more.” “Why?” Practiced head tilt, purposefully widened eyes. He looked irresistibly adorable...manipulative bastard. “Since I’m a lazy pig, remember?” Cammie grabs a water bottle and poked a finger at her little brother's soft cheek. He, like Noah, was also perfect. And she was also compared to her little brother...but she could never resent him the way she did Noah. “You jerk.” She peeks into her sports bag, just to double-check she didn't forget anything. There were whistles, an extra water bottle, and a jacket. Phone too, she was set. Good to go! “Until we meet again, weirdo” she ruffled her kid brother's head and his little hands latched onto her wrist. Big hazel eyes looked up at her, almost desperate. “What?” “You’re not running away, right?” She choked on air, quietly. She’d be dead meat if she woke up her amazing big brother, her mom would chop off her tongue and fry it into a hamburger. “What? No! I was joking.” She hesitates, “Why would you think such a thing?” Jake looked up at her, critically almost. Like scanning her for behavioral signs of lying. “You cried until 12: 05 AM last night.” “What-” “The walls are thin,” Jake said primly “don’t bother lying.” “Well-” “It was because of what mom said last night, wasn’t it?” Dammnit, the kid was a genius. But...Cammie was an excellent liar. Prodigy at lying, really. “Don’t be silly. It hurt my feelings a bit but I was crying because I was staying up too late watching sad movies.” He didn't seem to buy it. “I’m sorry for being so loud” Cammie apologized. She wasn’t. She had mastered the art of crying quietly. “You weren’t. I just suspected because your breathing was wonky. You simply proved me right.” ...little brat. She flicked Jake’s ear lightly, “Bye-bye, Jakie.” Jake simply huffed and crossed his skinny 9-year-old arms on the counter, waiting for the next early riser. “You better be back, or I'm telling mom.” ...Tch. Why was she thinking about dumb stuff like that? Uh...anyway, mission report. The job was fine, for the first two minutes. But then Alexie’s warm-up ended and Cammie was sweating, panting, and gasping- getting shape- that was harder than expected. The gymnastics weren't much easier either. It was hell. It sure wasn't some hobby you can casually take hold of. It was a lifestyle. It was the way you dressed, the way you are, the way you breathed, everything. It was definitely not a hobby. And Cammie was definitely not a natural. When she got home she glared at the list, specifically at the whole physical talent and gymnastic grace bit. Not that she was giving up on getting in shape, or in gymnastics, but...she was not in shape. That left beauty, smarts, and obedient twerpy perfection. Could these even be considered hobbies? Of course, self-care was a hobby. Studying was a hobby. Being ‘the perfect daughter’ could be a hobby. Really...she didn’t want to call the list what it really was.  She would be wasting time, she realized, if she did each one by one. Tomorrow she’ll jog (or at least do her best, fitness had to be earned) shower, pretty herself. When she gets to school she'll contact Flute Freddie and not interrupt class once. She’ll be everything. And she does. She goes on the morning jog, showers, and wears something Alex would have approved of. Flute Freddie was ecstatic to finally have a student. Ms. Bernsen was fine with letting her borrow one as long as she helped clean the band room after school every Wednesday. And during class, she bit her tongue. The entire time. She wrote actual notes- her wrist hurt actually- and she finished half her homework during class. The notes, the fun kind, she used to toss to her friends and get scolded for tossing were nonexistent. And when she got home she went straight to the room to finish her homework, helped her mother prepare dinner, and was silent. Hmm, maybe she can be Golden Girl 3.0. It was terrible. Her tongue actually hurt a bit for all the times she had to bite it to keep from laughing or saying anything sarcastic. Her wrist still hurt and the braid was unfamiliarly tight on her scalp. But...hobbies- yes, these were hobbies- weren’t acquired overnight. It took time. She can be that person. The one that could play the flute and run more than a block without getting winded. She could… … Ari touched Cammie’s brow, her silky hair slipping to frame her oval face “You...Cammie, I don’t think you were built to be a gymnast.” Cammie didn’t even like gymnastics, so...why did it still hurt to hear those words? “I-I think you’re right,” Cammie forced a laugh “but I totally rocked those costumes you people wear.” Ari smiled, obviously relieved that Cammie wasn’t offended, “You did! Do...you want to join me and my mom for Sunday yoga?” Cammie hugged Ari, pretending that her giggles were why her voice sounded weird “I’ll have to ask my mom! I hope so!” Ari looked startled, “What? Are you leaving?” Cammie nodded, still smiling “But-I mean, you can stick around. No one minds...we can-” Cammie thinks if she stays any longer she might burst into tears. “Eh, you actually reminded me about the Spanish quiz.” “...how?” Another laugh, another hug, walking away backward “Beats me but thank you anyway!” The tears fell when she was little ways away from the studio. It was silly, really. Predictable, even. Gymnastics isn't a hobby, it was life for some girls.. It was stupid to cry about something that was going to happen eventually. But it still hurt. It seemed to prove something she’s been desperately trying to deny, her lack of worth. Wasn’t that just it? If you had nothing to give...you were worthless? Wait-no, that was stupid. She was barely through the list. This was just one hobby… … “Hey!” Cammie poked Alexie’s cheek softly “You never said what your plans were.” Alexie scrunched her nose thoughtfully, “I didn’t? Well, I’m working out.” “I was talking about after your practice.” “I was too,” winked Alexie “I have changed my schedule a bit.” Ughhhhhhh, did this ginger really have to work out moooore? “Why?” whined Cammie “Why would you do that?” Alexie grabbed one of Cammie’s hands (their skinship was strong, it wasn’t uncommon to find them both cuddling and dead asleep during assemblies) and swung their hands. Up! Down! Up and- “I did that for us! So we can work out better.” Cammie choked, she did that a lot when she was surprised, “I’m working out this afternoon too?” Alexie swings their hands, “No, I just cut my run in the morning so it can be more like a warmup. I’m doing my workout in intervales. A briefer run in the morning, practice, then some stretching and weights at night.” Alexie was still smiling and talking and swinging their hands but Cammie had stopped paying attention. There was nothing accusatory about Alexei’s statement...so why did she feel so guilty? Like she burdended Alexei? It was because...she did, didn’t she? The salad she bought with Alexie earlier did nothing to settle her stomach...she could use some carbs...but no...better not. She had to be healthy. -- “About time you put in some effort,” her mom snorts, patting Cammie’s head “you used to look like a hobo.” -- “Paying attention to your studies?” her dad raises an eyebrow “about time you start taking after your brothers.” -- Ms. Russo looks at her, “Are you okay?” “I’m fine.” “Well… you have been a very good student recently…” “Thank you, ma’am,” Cammie didn’t have the energy to smile, or act like she wasn’t on the verge of tears... but somehow she did. “Well...if you need to talk just tell me. But I really like this new of yours-” She nods and packs up her stuff, Ms. Russo just blinks. “I better get going.” --- “Are you okay?” --- “Hey...Cammie? You seem a little tired , lately. Did you want to tone down the workout?” -- “You haven’t had breakfast- hey, young lady! Where do you think your going?” -- She...she doesn't know. These hobbies were draining her. But...a bunch of people like this new her...so...it was working. Studying, that wasn’t a real hobby, was it? No...none of this was a real hobby..right? She was just...so desperate to be better and hid her ugly insecurities under the guise of finding talent, a hobby. She’s done this before. Piano- abandoned. Dance- abandones. Photography- abandoned. That's why she stuck with it this time. Hoping that something will change. Staring at Flute Freddie she knew nothing has. “Ah- no,” Freddie corrects “here let me show you the song again. See how these notes-” He was so patient...a saint, truly. He looked... frustrated. It was in the crease of the brow, the slightly forced laugh. He had every right to be frustrated- she messed up on this part many times before. Freddie snaps his fingers, “You paying me any attention?” “No.” “...are you okay?” No. It was back. Tears tingled at her nose and burned her eyes, ugly sobs escaping her. Freddie jumps back. Cammie covers her face with her hands. Can she just...do something right? Have one thing she can be good at? Was it...was it so much to ask? Did she have to have this on top of her uselessness too? “Cammie?” Right. Freddie. But that didn’t sound like Freddie...she looked up and met big brown eyes. She glared at her brother “You're not Freddie.” “He called me,” said Noah, giving her a bar of chocolate “I suspected you might need this.” Of course he knew, of course he did. He was a genius. A frickin- “It’s back,” he whispered, on his knees in front of her seat “isn’t it?” Yes...her depression was back, full force. It has been for a while. “No...stupid-head.” Noah sighs, looking at her critically. He was also an athlete on top of being a genius. It makes sense that her big brother would be here after school but it was Monday and they don’t meet Mondays... Cammie looks away. “I’m going to sit on this chair,” Noah points at Freddie’s vacated chair “and wait until your ready to talk.” “I don’t like you” Cammie bit into the chocolate, tears still streaming down “so- don’t be nice or I can’t-” “I’m not going anywhere.” She scowls, but rests her head on the side of his bicep, “I….-.” ‘I miss you’ “I’m fine.” “I’m still staying here,” Noah whips out his laptop and starts typing. He was clearly willing to wait her out. That only made her cry harder.

g3e6st

My dreams

A deep sigh hit the air, Mason folded his arms and looked up to see the wooden restaurant sign that read Brook buffet. His arm slowly on cross before he pushed open the door and trailed inside to hear the chatter, laughing and the occasional tink from a fork hitting the plate he grew up with. He scratched the back of his head before making his way to the counter, he sat and waved tirelessly at the serving hatch, a smile etched across his face "Hey mom." He said. "Mason?" She asked. She walked out the door gaping and smiling, she leaned over the counter to embrace her son. "Why are you here?" "I would have been here sooner but I got caught in the lunch rush." He said, he patted his mother's back and chuckled before she let's go. "I came because I need to talk to you and dad, where is he?" "Getting change for the register, why do you need to speak with us?" "It's something I need both of you here for, I can wait until then dinner rush but could you get me a lemonade?" He asked. "It was a long drive from Dartmouth to here." "Alright, I'll get you a lemonade but you're telling me how college is going. You haven't called in weeks and I've been worried." She said, she made her way to the back. Mason sighed and leaned forward, propping himself up on the counter. He fidgets in his stool, his smiling fading once he spots the picture of him, his father and grandfather hung up over the counter. The restaurant had been in his family for three generations, his grandfather had started it after immigrating to America and his father inherited it. He remembered the picture being taken on his first day, he was twelve. "Here you are." His mother said, she set his lemonade down before leaning over the counter with a smile. "Oh thanks." "So how's college going?" "It's fine, two more years I'll have a bachelor in business." "That's good, are you playing basketball again this year?" "I hope so, school comes first."He said, Mason smiled again and reached for his beverage before taking a few sips. "You got that right." She said, she nodded and grinned before making her over to the tables finishing their meals. It seemed like yesterday he was doing homework at the counter before helping around, going outback after the dinner rush to dribble his basketball with his father. Getting in trouble every now and again for bouncing it in the kitchen and through the restaurant when they had customers. He would carry one everywhere he went and practice, going to the nearest courtyard to play everyday and even tried out for his school's basketball team. It was the only time throughout the year he wasn't helping clean the restaurant or waiting tables once he got to high school, it always put a smile on his face when he got to play. "They grow up fast." She thought, Mason was already in college and working hard for his education. She cleared a few tables with the staff and looked back to Mason who was staring off into space before going back to the kitchen, soon coming back to give him a refill. "So how come you haven't called lately?" "I've been busy thinking, planning mostly. Sorry I have called." Mason replied, he reached down and grabbed his phone to check the time before hearing the back door open. He peered through the serving hatch to see his father, his mother waves while he gives a big warm smile. "Honey look who's here." She said, Mason's father scowled before coming up to the hatch. His eyes widened, a big grin jumped off his face. "Mason!" He yelled, he came out of the kitchen with his radiant smile and made his way to the register. He put change into the register before leaning against the counter. "I can't wait to see you on tv again, it's almost our favorite season." "Yeah, actually I don't think I'll be playing for college anymore." Mason said, his mothers eyes widened before they narrowed. His father laughed, he began slowly scratching the back of his head. His radiant smile dissipated. "Wait why not?" "Well I've been thinking about my future and I don't want to continue working towards a bachelor degree in business, I don't want to run a business I want to play professionally." Mason said, he coughed and looked to his mother. She gripped onto the counter and looked between Mason and her husband. "Wait I thought you wanted to run the restaurant, isn't that why you went to earn a degree?" "Actually I didn't know what I wanted, I had to pick something and dad said business." "You want to try to play professionally like the Nba?" His father asked. "Actually I'm planning to try out for the G-league, I planned out my trip to hit as many different teams as I can." "Do you have money to travel across the country like that?" "Yeah, I saved up." "What if you don't make it?" His mother asked. "I thought maybe I'd try for the teams overseas if it came down to that." "You want to travel overseas to play basketball?!" "No, honestly I'd prefer to stay here but I'm willing to give everything to devote myself to becoming a professional. If traveling overseas is what I have to do then I'll travel overseas and fight my way back." Mason said. He looked over to his father who was nodding in agreement to his surprise. "Yeah alright, go for it." "Wait really dad?" "Yeah, you've always been passionate about it and it's not my place to stop you. If that's what you want to do then go for it." He said, Mason smiled while his mother became further bewildered. "You're okay with this?" "Absolutely, the restaurant will be here if he changes his mind." He said with a smile, Mason jumped up from his seat. His mother said and shrugged before heading off towards the kitchen. "You better call us twice a week minimum." She said before heading back in the kitchen, His father balled a fist and tapped his chest. "I named you Mason because I wanted you to be a hard worker, I know you can do it." "Thanks dad, I'll do my best." "Hey while you're here, want to help around the restaurant?" His dad asked, he pointed to the logo on his shirt then to the back."There's a spare uniform in the back." "Sure, I'd love to help."

lfhbak

Story 1

I woke up to my alarm beeping in my ear at 8:30. This morning I didn't get to wake up to my husband lying right by me. He usually works the night shift at the New York City Fire Department but this morning he got called into work due to his fellow fireman out being sick. I get out of bed and open my curtains. Today is a dreary day. Lately as I’ve been opening my curtains the sun beams in and fills my room with the sun rays. I flip on the TV in my room and turn to the news channel to see what has been going on in the world. As I am faintly listening to the TV I begin to get ready. After my shower, I throw on my low-rise embroidered jeans and pair it with a white tube top. I figured since it was a little chilly out I would throw on my jean jacket. I went into my kitchen to gather my belongings for work and grab some breakfast. At 9:00 I head out of my apartment and begin my walk down the elven flights of stairs. Once upon a time in a small town in Southern Indiana lived CinderJoe. He was your typical small town guy. Farming in the morning, cooking lunch, farming in the evening, and going home to cook dinner. The past few months he had been going out at nights to try and find a girlfriend. Although he was struggling to find one, he came across something that could be so good for him. There were posters posted all around the town as he was heading to the farm. These posters showed information about the upcoming hoedown that was to take place that night. The princess of their small town was going to find her prince charming by the end of the night. CinderJoe was so excited when he saw this information. He had to go. After staring at the poster for what seemed like thirty minutes, he headed to the farm to get his work done before he went home to get ready for the hoedown. While working, all he could think about was the beautiful princess of his small town. He wanted so badly to be her prince charming. CinderJoe realized he was getting no work done at the farm so he decided to call it a day and just head home and get ready for the big night. While he was walking home, he realized his boss probably called his evil stepmother and told her that CinderJoe did not complete any of the work he was supposed to for that particular day. His boss always calls her when he doesn’t finish his work because his stepmother does not let him go do anything when that happens. CinderJoe arrived at his house and saw his stepmother and two evil step brothers standing in the doorway with their arms crossed. It was the second I walked outside of my apartment building that I noticed something bad had happened. The look of fear in these people’s eyes as they run back into the apartment building has me terrified. I take another step outside and look up at the World Trade Center buildings. Nothing but smoke is filling the city and lathering the buildings. “Ma'am you need to find shelter, run!” A man dressed in uniform screamed to me from across the street. I run up the stairs in fear and make it into my apartment. I lock the door and hear the news anchor talking about a tragic event that has just taken place in my city. I set my purse down and run to the couch to see what is going on. “At 9:03 this morning United Airlines Flight 175 struck into The World Trade Center's South Tower. We have the New York City Fire and Police Department on the scene to keep our city safe.” Panic filled my whole body as I thought about my husband. I begin shaking as tears stream down my face. I try to calm myself down and tell myself he is trained at his job and knows what to do in these situations. I text him in hopes I get a response. As three hours go by, I am still checking my phone for a response from David. I am still perched in the same spot with my eyes glued to the TV in hopes of any update. Eventually after four and a half hours I got a text message from my husband. “Sorry to keep you so worried, I am getting released to come home in about an hour and I will be with you and surround you with comfort.” A wave of relief filled the whole room. I feel a big smile stretch across my face as I wipe away the tears that are still falling down my face. After the longest hour of my life, I hear the front door unlock. David ran in and hugged me as tears poured down his face. We both were shaking. “Sara everything is going to be ok. I am glad to be back home with you.” David said in a sigh of relief to be back home. “I want you home with me forever, David.” I cried to him. We hugged each other for a good two minutes and made our way to the TV to see if any updates had been released. “The counts we are getting from the department are telling us 265 total deaths on the four planes and 1,945 immediate deaths from the attack. Many people are in critical condition as we are trying to get them all help. This is a tragic event that our police and fire department are trying their hardest to handle.” The news anchor spilled all of this information as David and I looked at each other. “David you could’ve been one of those 1,945 people that were instantly killed.” I tried explaining to him. “Sara I am here now and that’s all that matters. I just witnessed something many people won’t ever have to go through and I’m going to need time to get over this. I saw innocent people jumping out of the towers as limbs were falling off of them. That is traumatizing.” He said to me in a worried tone. “I understand that, I am so glad you are ok and here with me now. Thank you for helping out our city and keeping everyone safe. I think you need to go lay in bed and I’ll cook you a good dinner.” I offered to him. “Thank you, Sara, I would love that.” He said as he hugged me and headed off to go lay in bed. An hour later I joined him with our dinner and we sat in bed eating with a movie on. David did not want to watch the news anymore as he was scarred from what he just had been through. 

hxrj6r

B&B

October had spread across the countryside painting the leaves in its wake. The crisp breeze rustled the already fallen leaves as they ventured out to the orchard. The local orchard, Bees and Blossoms, was less than a mile from their home by foot. Over the past twenty-five years that they had been married this back-wood walk had become a family tradition. She remembered when they had first found the “orchard” path the first year that they lived on Morningstar Road. She had spied the small wooden arrow when they came back from a grocery trip one Autumn day. Falling leaves and bare limbs revealed the weathered sign engraved with B&B. Its pointed end indicating an equally weathered path. In those days, the path was overgrown and ill-defined. Large stones littered the way and brambles would scratch their legs and hands making it seem as if they were on a real adventure. Back when they were younger and their love was new, they had adventured down that path not knowing where it led but confident in the notion that it would be worth trekking into the unknown. She reached for his hand several times to steady herself when she stumbled on the odd jutting stone. They stopped several times during that first walk, to look at the spectacular changing foliage, to investigate the stream that meandered alongside the path, and often just to stop and gaze into one another’s eyes. The excitement of the little adventure led to passionate kissing there on the unknown path in the middle of the woods on their way to an unknown destination. The end of the path was marked by a battered arch way with a wooden sign that welcomed them to the Bees and Blossoms Orchard. The Orchard spread out for as far as the eye could see and was ablaze with apples in every hue. It smelled of fermenting apples and was filled with people wandering down long rows with large baskets. The people stopped here and there to pick what they felt was the most perfect Crispin or Rome. She beamed at her beau and asked if he would like apple pie for dinner. As the B&B grew so did the crowd of people who visited the small country town during the Fall months. The locals knew that they only way to go to the orchard was to use the path. Over the years, their annual adventure thru the woods to the orchard had become more of a walk in a park. Their once hidden path was now cleared and well-marked for those who chose to walk their way leaving the car and need to park at home. It was no longer the adventure it once appeared to be but more of a marked the commencement of holiday festivities for their family for the past quarter of a century. Now as they made their pilgrimage, she looked at her husband, the hair at his temples had silvered over the years and the creases at the corners of his determined eyes had deepened. She giggled remembering how the children had used him as a jungle gym, a pack mule, and navigator all at once during these trips to the B&B. She mused about when their family was young, the children would plod along picking up every leaf, bug, and stone for proper inspection. In those days, their expedition would take upwards of an hour to make the 15-minute trek. The children delighted in running ahead, finding some treasure, and running back to the rest of the family to present their once-in-a-lifetime find. He chuckled as he recalled how the children would present her with their most precious finds hoping that she would deem it worthy of display. The bragging their children did if their stone or leaf made its way to the overburdened shelf in the family room was relentless. After all these years those stones, dried leaves, feathers, and delicate flowers still adorned that shelf. When the children are home for the holidays they still try and get Mom to declare an all-time winner, but she declines to answer saying that she loved all her treasures equally. Little did they know that her favorite was none of theirs at all. It was a small dried up daisy. The year she was 1 st pregnant, she waddled down the path determined to make it to the B&B so she could make apple pie for the soon to be baby. He had suggested that they skip the orchard that year, but she wanted her baby to taste the season’s 1 st pie even if was still in her tummy. He had stopped her along the path, in a puddle of sunlight, and told her that she was so much more beautiful then he had ever realized. He picked the flower and placed it behind her ear declaring her the most beautiful woman there ever was. That small dried flower was her favorite and it was tucked on that shelf, way back behind the rest. Those trips were different each year, sometimes filled with infighting and reprimanding, other times filled with laughter and good will. The thing that stayed the same was the delight that took over when they stepped foot beneath the archway. The B&B was a part of their family's magic, it's past, present, and future. That magic filled them up every year. As they made it to the Orchard he took her hand and led the way on their familiar route, stopping first to pick up their baskets, then plotting their course after consulting with the orchard owner who always knew exactly what was in peak season, and finally down the rows to find the most perfect apples. They sauntered down the aisles inspecting each tree and trying apples of different varieties. Twisting and pulling the best from the limbs of the tiny trees. Experience had taught them how to pick the tastiest fruit for their seasonal inaugural pie. She pulled the most perfect red delicious and thrusted it high in the sky for him to behold. They too had had a secret competition all these years, each claiming to know just apple was perfect. He walked over to her and pulled her close. He nuzzled into her hair and gruffly whispered, “of course the most beautiful woman picked the most perfect apple!”

iwdinc

A lack of courage

A Lack of Courage Todd Heath sat at the stool of the bar counter inside of Linda's Cafe. The A/C made it difficult for him to leave due to the humid weather reaching almost ninety five degrees. The server came around. "Can I get you anything more sir?" "No, thank you miss." Todd blamed himself for wearing a sweater that morning in the early hours. He could take it off however; it would just be one more thing he'd have to carry home. There was a couple in the far corner to his right in a booth, next to a window. They were having a discussion that almost sounded like an argument. The young blonde woman was dress in a blue t-shirt, and blue jeans. The man was dressed more professionally in a grey tux. "If you'd just quit the spending- "I'm not spending, Frank, I'm investing!" "More like spending Emma" "Seriously?” "Well sure, if you'd just quit the schemes you create, perhaps we could start saving for retirement for once. Look" Emma glanced out the window. "Emma" She looked back. "I know you're trying to invest into our future. But with each idea that you've had; whether it was selling silverware, or trying to sell wash machines, or even trying to operate an online business" He shook his head, as he thought in vain to be politely as possible. "Each one ended in failure" "But Frank- "Why not just get a real job?- "Get a real job?!" Frank knew it was hopeless. "I didn't mean that- "Oh really- "Will you just cool it-? "Cool it, while you tell me to get a real job that's only eight measly dollars an hour!?" Todd watched the two give up. Emma was the first to walk out. He wanted to say something. "Hey Frank" "What?" "Forget it" Shaking his head, he walked out. “Miss” “Yes sir?” “Can I get an iced coffee to go?” “Sure thing hun” Seven minutes later he was out of the café, with his sweater over his arm, exposing the red shirt as he drank his iced coffee. Walking down Madison Drive, he wished he was home already. The sweltering heat was already forcing to want to go back for another iced coffee. No. He told himself. Cold water will in the fridge. The conversation kept coming back to him. "Why not just get a real job?- "Get a real job?!" Frank knew it was hopeless. "I didn't mean that- The thoughts of his wife leaving him after he told her that several times, made him regret it. A black lab with no leash on walked up him. Kneeling down to pet it, he noticed the same young couple standing next to his apartment entrance, scrambling to find their key. Walking closer after a quick rub, he took out his key. “You folks live here too I see” “Yeah, you got a key mister?” “Yeah Frank” The fragrance smell coming from the tree that lined the sidewalk hit his nose. “That smell reminds me of my old place” “Yeah?” “Yeah, as a kid my grandad would grow oranges, and each spring I’d smell the flowers that came from the tree” “No kiddin” “Sure” Opening the door, he let them inside, but stopped Frank again. “Uh, just one thing” “Yeah” He was about to give an advice, but decided against it. “Forget about it” “Okay” Half chuckling he followed his wife up the stairs. Later that day sitting on the overhang outside his apartment, he could them arguing. Knowing that it was about finances, he walked back inside as the sun began to set. The next morning was quiet. He left his sweater home, while he made the run around the block. This time instead of a sweater, Todd wore black running shorts, and a red t-shirt. Spotting the black lab again, it began wagging its tail. “Good boy” He exclaimed running past it. The dog followed, it caused him to stop. He gave it a rub, and continued on. As he was nearing the corner of 442 and Walker Street, there was a man dressed in scraggly close that looked like they needed washing. Passing him, he could see the sign the read, hungry, willing to work. He stopped. The older man watched him. Raged filled his mind. How could anyone like him, just stand there at the corner, and beg when there are several businesses, looking for help. “You know mister” “Yes?” “Why uh- The man looked at him curiously. “Forget it” He resumed his run. The phone rang. “You can’t burn calories, if you’re always getting interrupted Todd!” “Yes?” He regretted answering the phone “Hey Todd” “Hey boss” “I’m sorry to call during your vacation, but is there any chance that you could come back early?” “Early?” “I’ll make it up to ya” Make it up to me? Forty eight hours of pto worked up, and now I have to stop and come back? “Why what’s going on?” “Well there’s been a mistake in the schedule, and there’s hardly anyone here?” “But can’t you – “No man, no one else is here” Letting out a sigh he was about to blurt no. Don’t get fired like that Todd. “Okay, but you owe me” “Thanks a lot Todd” He shook his head. “There goes my vacation!” He started running in rage back to his apartment. Chapter 2 Todd arrived at the hardware store. The parking lot was almost full, and he cursed there the nearest parking spot was right next to the entrance of the parking lot. Wearing his blue jeans and green vest advertising Jake’s Hardware, he walked in. Several groups of people were inside. “Hey, Todd!” Walking over he noticed the same couple from the day earlier, in a grouchy mood. “Could you help this gentleman out. He’s wanting a spare key made” “Sure Jake” Walking over to the machine, he introduced himself to the customer who was impatiently waiting. “I’ve been waiting hear for a half hour straight!” Sure you have. He didn’t dare say it. He might be liable to get fired for being rude. “Can I have the key sir?” Swiftly handing it to him Todd got to work. Five minutes later, the customer yanked the keys from his hands, and walked over to Jake to pay for it. How inconsiderate. Shaking his head, he still noticed, Frank and Emma were waiting in the paint aisle. “Can I help you guys?” Their faces lit up. “Hey it’s you, uh” Frank read the badge. “Todd” “Yeah, small world isn’t it. “You bet. Say can you help us out. We’re trying to find the right kind of color that would fit our kitchen” “I guess a light yellow tan would work, but I don’t really know what you’re tastes are though” “Emma, really likes pink, but I think, red would be better- “Maroon, or pink Frank” “Why not Burgundy?” The two looked at each other and nodded. “Sure Todd. Hey, thanks for the help” “Don’t mention it. Hey say uh,- He wanted to give Frank his advice about marriage again; however decided against it. Now what do I say. “Yeah?” “Good luck with the paint job” “Haha, yeah, thanks man!” Slapping his shoulder the two walked away after grabbing their paint. Later that afternoon, when the business was closing down for the day, Todd was checking inventory throughout the aisles. “Hey Todd, I appreciate you helping me out. I just don’t like being here alone when there’s a group like that. Especially when I have to open the register” “No problem Jake” “I want to make it up to you” “Okay?” “Take a couple of days off. It’ll be a full shift, the next couple of days” Better check who’s taking care of schedule. Todd quickly shook that out of his mind. Jake gave him a funny look. “Oh. It was just a stupid thought” “Oh, okay. Well, enjoy the rest of your vacation friend” “I sure will” He’d just opened the door to his apartment when he head Emma, and Frank at it again. “Why can’t I just paint this corner!?” “Because I need to roll the ceiling yet!” “I’m only trying to help- “The paint will only get on the paint after I roll it- “You always think you’re in charge don’t you? “Come on Emma, I’m just trying to paint, so we can move onto the walls- “Yeah right, you always want; to tell me what to do! Emma, why can’t you get a real job? Emma why can’t you stop the schemes? Give me a break!” “Emma!” A few minutes later he heard the door slam. He heard Frank curse, and he shook his head. Getting out left over pizza he turned on the television to an animal show about a vet going to farms, and ranches, to take care of the animals. An advertisement came up. It showed a couple in an argument. There was a man walking past who shook his head in grief. Not knowing how to help. The name of the company appeared on the screen that didn’t mean much. Todd could really relate with that commercial. “That’s a coincidence.” Getting up from the couch, he pitched the paper plate. There were a few magazines on the island in the kitchen he’d left open. A couple was wildlife, and the third one was wellness, showing a picture of a man in the wild outfitted with a backpack, dressed in camo. The bold letters read: Dare to believe. He flipped the pages. The next page opened was no picture, except, Speak Out. Hearing the sliding door to the overhang slam shut he immediately went outside. “Hey Frank?” Frank had to peer over the edge to look down at him. “What?” Taking a deep breath, Todd, finally mounted the courage. “I used to be married. I know I should mind my own business but- “Well you ought to!” “Just hear me out!” “Okay” Taking in a quick breath he started. “Life is too short, to keep on fighting. I said somethings that were really not smart. Things that broke up the marriage and that I now regret. Just- He didn’t know what else to say. “Just try to have understanding of where she’s coming from. You might regret it later on like I did” Frank looked away. “Thanks. I. It’s just hard man” “I know. If you just give her a chance, or at least be a bit more understanding of where she’s coming- “I got it buddy. Thanks” Frank disappeared when he heard the door slam shut from the hallway upstairs. Things were quite the rest of the evening as Todd watched his program. The following morning Todd was walking down to the first floor. spotting Frank, and Emma walking outside he called out. “Morning!” They both looked back and waived. Emma turned around, when Frank gave him a thumb up, and a wink. Nodding, Todd walking in the opposite direction, and began his jog.

7dvucv

As It Was by Angela N. James

Leslie darted out of the car before it was parked into the cabin fuming that he was not able to stay in the city with all the upcoming events he had planned with his friends. Leslie was beginning to drift away from the family. His mother thought it best for him to have some time away from the city and his friend, from all the bad influences to rediscover who he is as an individual. Abigail knew it was going to be hard for her trying to convince her son that the path that he was taking was the path of destruction. She wanted him to know that he is an individual and not the mirror image of what his friends thought but it was hard for her to get inside of her son's head while he was still in the city competing with the demands of his friends. She remembered when he was much younger coming up to the cabin; he loved it here. He loved going swimming and fishing with his dad when he was alive. To her it seemed like it was okay a few years after his father's death but instead of confiding in her, he seemed to take refuge and confide with his friends who were staring him the wrong way. Abigail has seen so many parents in the community making the 6 o’clock News because their children were no longer with them because of gun violence. Being terrified, she decided to be proactive and take him to the cabin. It was going to be the longest week of her life but she was still hopeful that Leslie would be broken enough not to continue on the path that he was heading. He struggled with the groceries from the car when Leslie came out of the cabin like a whirlwind yelling at her. “Did you even check to see if there was electricity here? And if there's no electricity what about the internet? And my phone doesn't even work. What is the sudden interest in having me in your life when all these months since dad’s death you have been buried in your books pursuing your happiness without me? “Please come and help me with the grocery then we can talk after supper.” “I am not staying up here with you.  Leslie, this is for your good. This is for our good we need to reconnect like we used to. Please come and help me with the grocery . so you knew all along that there was no electricity in the cabin?  I did not know there was not any electricity in the cabin. Didn't you see me go buying fresh meat and milk for the refrigerator? Had I known that I would not have spent my money and things that would go bad. Stop being hysterical. I need for you to be strong this time.  “I'm going for a walk.”  “Why are you being so difficult?  “Because you didn't give me any choice in the matter. There has to be a better way in getting my attention mom. You can't just decided to put my back against the wall expecting me to give you my undivided attention when you too had buried yourself in things that pleases you while I had to find ways in dealing with dad's death and you don't see me forcing your hand in dealing with the issue, then why are you doing this to me?  “I will call the electrician in the morning.”  “Can we not stay out here for the entire week. I will give you the weekend.  “When has it been this difficult for us to spend time together as we used to be together at this very cabin. I remember your dad going away on business trips and we would be here with a faulty electrical system and you did not become this hysterical.” Leslie slowly dragged himself to a car and took two of the grocery bags from his mom and took you to the cabin. Trying to lift his spirit, “the sunsets are beautiful here. Do you remember us going down by the lake just to look at the sun set? You used to love it.”  “I still do love the sunset but that does not change how I feel about coming here.” “I bought some books from the library that you always love reading. We can read together.”  “For crying out loud mom come on Let It Go! No TV, no Sports! and no entertainment. Just us and the woods and all the wild creatures that might be running around out there. You seriously did not think this through. “We need to have a serious discussion about where I see your life is heading and if we had stayed in the city you would not have listened.” “Deciding to kidnap me and bringing me here without being transparent to me should make all this go away? what about the part you play in me pulling away from you mom?  “You know I have tried on many occasions to talk to you but there's always an event or something that involves your friends. I've seen you lose friends to gun violence and I'm terrified that if I don't get your attention I will be one of those parents on the 6 o’clock News morning for her child and pleading to the community to come forward with evidence of what your killer is. I don't want to be searching for a killer who has murdered my son. I want my son to live and live a good life. You said I've buried myself in books but what I've been trying to do is to get a better job so that we can move out of that Community that has taken the life of so many young men your age so forgive me if I have not been doing such a good job multitasking. I am doing my best and I realized that it is not good enough until I can get you to be on board with me.”  “And once again you have decided on something that would affect my life drastically without asking me what I think about your decision. Moving out of the community will not help me. That's the community with all the memories of the things that I've done with dad. The community reminds me of the good times with my father and for you to decide that you're going to remove me from a place that is filled with his memory is very selfish.” “I need to cook these meats since we don't have any electricity. Your father was a wise man when he decided to put in a gas stove. look over there for your grandmother's recipe for cookies or cake; we have to use up the milk I have as much eggs as we can.” “Will they not all go bad eventually?  “You might have gotten your wish. Since there's no electricity here, our stay is as limited as long as the food will last.” “Mom you've made your point; you've got my attention. Now, can we just go back home? “You said the city is a place filled with your father's memory and you would prefer to remain in that community. Have you forgotten that the cabin is also filled with your father's memory and all the good things you date with him here? “You promise, when all the food is finished we go. “With that said, I am holding you to your word that you will not go into town to stock up on supplies.” “You have my word son.” “ And you got my attention.”  “So, what do you think about the idea of us leaving the city but in close proximity where you can still hang out with your friends? “If it gets me into a better school, I'm open for it.” “Let's get the fire going. It's cold inside here. You do all the baking now do the roasting broiling and all that jazz.”  “Do we still have that recipe? He was not much of a baker but he had ambition.” “He sure did son, he sure did. There was no shame in his game.”

71e86e

Apple Pickers

Alex Ramirez Apple Pickers One day on a sunny afternoon a kid named Bill went to school in a very happy mood because a special toy his mother has gotten for him has finally come in it is called the “Robot Blaster.” On the way to school in the early morning Bill sat in the backseat fidgeting with the toy like his life depended on it. His mother said” Billy are you having fun back there?” Billy replied” Yes mom but this toy is just so cool looking and amazing to play with.” They approved the school zone where it says slow down and Billy knew he got to see his best friend very soon. When Billy got out of the car he sat there and thought to himself about being one step closer to being a teenager as he was in 4th grade this year. He Walked into the school and locked eyes with his best friend Erick “ said Bill is that really you, I haven’t seen you in a while” Bill replied with “Yep, it's me and I feel like a toddler still so I don't grow or change that much.” Bill and Erick were both part of the cool kids group. I mean they did everything together in school such as sit by each other, get in trouble together, and even swing together at recess and you never knew if that was a bad or good thing. The next day at school a really cute girl came up to them and said” Hey there boys My name is Addison and I am the one and only girl president of STUCCO and sounds very weird but this weekend we are going apple picking and we would like you two to join us.” Bill seemed a little hesitant because he has really never been around girls that much except his mom but Erick “ said yes we will go” as fast as his lips could move and Addison said “ Great be here on Saturday Bus leaves at 2:30 P.M. For the rest of the day Bill stayed quiet because he was trying to prepare himself to be on the bus because the teachers were not the best to him. Wednesday comes around and Bill started getting picked on by this fat and ugly sixth grader named Rob. Rob told him to go to the restrooms at 3:00 because they were going to fight just because Rob wanted too and no teacher could stop it because it was in the bathrooms and they wouldn't know it was going on. Rob was sick that day so Bill was out of luck. As 3:00 came all of the boys were crowded up in the bathroom with all of their phones out none of them really thought that Bill would show up because you could tell Bill was really scared. He went into the bathroom and everyone started cheering because they knew that the fight was going to happen well turns out it wasn’t a fight it was more like a wrestling match because they really didn’t know how to fight. They wrestled around for about 3 minutes and they finally gave up because they knew they weren’t going to get anything out of this. Billy went back home to his mom with a couple bumps and bruises His mom said” Oh my god what happened?” Billy lied because if he told her then Rob would be really trying to go after him so he lied and said” Mom I just fell down some of the stairs” she was still worried and made him sit down and ice the whole night and he had to ice Thursday too. As Friday came around everyone that was going to pick apples was happy because it was their first field trip of the year. Billy asked Erick” Aren’t you excited? we are finally going somewhere together.” Erick was kind of pumped just they were a little nervous about all of the girls that were going. They both went home and knew they had to pack snacks and everything they both spent up until dinner time about what they wanted to pack for this trip. As the night came quickly around they started doing their night routine before it was their bedtime they both had the jittery feeling about going that they couldn’t sleep for a while but they eventually fell asleep. The day that they have been waiting for Saturday morning came they spring out of their bed and run downstairs to eat breakfast and start their morning and their mom said “ Bill you have to do all of your stuff that you do in the morning.” when Bill got to the school the bus was getting ready to leave so he was late. He quickly ran and got on the bus and Erick was already waiting for him in the back. Erick jumped up in joy as he saw his best friend soon enough they were on their way. Once they got there they both jumped out and the teacher said” Erick, Bill you need to calm down and wait for the rest of us.” they finally got to the tree and started picking those red juicy apples. They had finally filled their big tub that they had and started to walk back when Addison said ``You guys are already done helping us, we aren’t even half way.” they started helping them as they saw that the girls had a hole in their bucket that's why all the apples were falling out or they would’ve had a full bucket by now so they had to find some tape to tape up the bottom and they filled it up again. They all started walking back with the buckets and there was an anaconda right there in the front of the group that was staring into their soul. But the snake was no threat they waited there for 5 minutes while it past and all the kids have fun and none got hurt as they returned home to tell their parents the funny story that had happened.

j57gng

My Fleeting Heart

The knots in my stomach are so strong today that I am crouching over when I walk. My stomach hurts so bad, I am riddled with anxiety. I think I might throw up. I make my way to the bathroom mirror. Look at you yourself . Are you sure this is what you want? I ask myself . Yes. I know this is what I want- what I wish is that it were easy. But who would I end up if my dreams came easy? I think I’ll take a hot shower to calm down, have some water, and just take some deep breaths to try and relax. After my shower I lay in bed in the towel. My skin feels hot from the shower, but it feels good. I close my eyes. Breath. This is YOUR life. Do not allow yourself to feel this type of fear over someone else’s disapproval? At the end of the day, its you, and one day your partner and yalls children. At the end of the day you must go to bed happy with yourself! If you want any peace at all, you must have some bravery. Bravery to choose what is best for YOU, what will make YOU the make happy, what serves YOU? You are the only one who will be in your life for your entire life! You have the strength in you, now its time to challenge it! Oh, what time is it? Dawn. I fell asleep. I’ve been so exhausted with talking myself up to doing this. I’ll go check on the animals.  Its warms outside with a soft cold breeze. The sky Is beautiful and the air smells like sun flowers in a pale fog, and a distant campfire. “Nanner?” Ma calls out, “come on hunny, I made dinner”. “Coming, Ma”, I grab a few fresh eggs from the coop before walking in. They’re still warm . Chills . I’m instantly apparent to how chilly it is once I cuffed the warm egg in my palm. I hurry in the house. Mmm. It smells like broth; Ma must’ve made stew. Well, now’s the time , I think to myself. “Ma? “Paw?” I have an announcement”, I stare at them. My mouth is dry but they aren’t even looking at me or phased at all. “Okay, suga buga what’s that?”, Paw asks me. Here goes. “I don’t want to continue the Haliburtons Vet and Animal Rehab Center. I want to move to New York and study art at Juilliard”, I spat out. Paw chuckles. Ma dismisses my dreams with, “Hunny its good to dream big, but you know what is better? Stability and legacy. The Halliburton’s Vet has been this town’s only animal clinic for 84 years! It can’t just stop running- What will happen to all the animals?” “My acceptance letter came in yesterday and I got a full ride scholarship”, I say with a straight face. I instantly have their attention now. Paws fork dropped on his plate while him and Ma just stare at me with open mouths. I don’t even think they’re blinking. “Ma, Paw- I’m sorry but I don’t want to continue the family legacy, I want to start my own legacy. This is what I want, please try, and find support for me in your hearts! And besides Aunt Joys youngest son loves animals, maybe he can be the one to carry on the legacy in a few years when he gets older! It doesn’t have to end, and Ill train any of my cousins in the family to take over my job when I move”, I assure them. “Well”, Paw says, “congratulations?” Ma quietly agrees and we spend the rest of the dinner in silence. I guess I’m going to bed disappointed tonight. I knew they would be let down and maybe even ashamed, but I still had a little glimmer of hope that maybe they could understand me and support me. But no matter what, I promised myself that I would remain loyal to my dreams because if not, my life and my happiness will suffer. I know if their love is unconditional they will come around to see that I need this opportunity. Its morning. I smell blueberries and brown sugar, coffee, eggs, and more. I find myself following my noses’ lead to the kitchen. Ma’s cooking something good! It’s been a few days since I spilled the news, and she has hardly spoken to me. So, I’m surprised when she turns around from the stovetop to look at my sleepy self and say, “Oh good hunny, you’re up! I made you breakfast”! “Hm?”, I ask, “Ma you’re not mad at me anymore?” I ask, hopeful to hear a “no”. “Baby”, she says while bringing me a huge plate of blueberry pancakes, “I was never mad at you”, she rubs my head, “I was jealous of you!” “Huh? Jealous?” I asked, confused. “Yeah baby, I was jealous you had the courage to make your own dreams come true! You took charge of your own life, that is amazing! I wish I had the confidence to do that when I was your age. And I’m sorry I wasn’t more supportive at first. I’m excited for you, but I’m also nervous to see you move so far from your Paw and me”. “Oh Ma, I’ll come visit every holiday, you and Paw can come whenever you want, I’ll miss you both so much too, but I have to do this and I promise we’ll see each other and talk often! Thank you so much Ma for understanding, I love you! I’m so happy you were able to give me your blessing and support, that means the world to me”, I assure her. We smile and hug. Ma cries a little bit while we break away from our hug, she shoos me away to reassure me she’s okay, they’re just mom tears. Paw comes in the kitchen, “what smells so damn good?” We laugh and all join each other at the table. These pancakes are so delicious!

pehw48

Under the Willow Tree

Phoebe Tucker pulled her long blond hair into a tight pony tail - the morning promised nice hot weather, perfect for fixing up her new yard of the bungalow hobby farm she had just purchased along with several animals and two horses she wanted to train and show at the local fairs soon. Phoebe had dreamed of her own hobby farm and finally here she was, very ecstatic, the excitement in her blood energizing as she went to the barn. It was early, the sun had just risen over the Montana skies, pinks and orange hues of beauty, the air smelled of farmland and warm summer breezes. Phoebe began by sweeping the barn, then watering and giving her horses their morning mix of grain, listening to them munching in their stall pails. She then took each one out, on a lead rope, and let them loose in the small corral - she would work them after her chores were done. Butch, her border collie began to bark suddenly, Phoebe went outside to see what was going on to make him excited, he was a great watchdog, and her best friend. "How do you do ma'am, my name is Randy Orsen and i live next door, the yellow house down the road. Wondering if you need a handyman or anything i would be much obliged." and he took off his dirty cowboy hat, revealing thick wavy hair and big brown eyes. He was quite handsome she pondered, her heart skipped a beat. "Well, i just moved here and have a lot of chores to do, if you dont mind working half days and low pay? I would give you lunch too providing you do your work well enough." She added, leaning on her pitch fork. "Ok, i dont mind any kind of work at all. I got my truck and will come by first thing tomorrow? Own my own tools too i might add, so no need to borrow any. " He proudly said, nice white teeth glistening at her, his tall stance towering over her smaller heighted body. She stood up straight then, as if to prove she had to look taller than she was, well, what would she want with a farmer's hand anyway? She came here to escape the heart aches of romance from the city, and needed to focus on her and her animals. No way she would go for a ranch bloke even though he was drop dead gorgeous. And so, the next morning, he showed up as he said he would, and on time too. Phoebe told him she had to go to town to get supplies, he offered to go for her, knowing how the people were used to him and he could get a better deal than her at the co-ops. "It would be good for me though to meet them, i like to know who lives here and what's going on. Sorry, i can go myself." She answered back, not wanting to act like she couldnt handle her own affairs. "Don't say i didnt warn you, they like to take advantage of the newbies around here and charge more than they do the locals, its a bit of a gag with them." He chuckled, rubbing his chin in an absurdly arrogant way. Like he was warning her of danger or something else, she wondered studying him. She remained adamant about her independance and scoffed off to town anyway. The day grew warm as promised earlier, the haze now over the mountains hovering in hot dry weather. Phoebe made a nice pitcher of lemonade and ham sandwhiches with salad and waved to Randy to join her on the weathered veranda that also needed a new paint job. Randy drank the lemonade she offered right away, thirsty and then grabbed at the sandwhiches she placed in front of him, my goodness, he seemed like he hadnt eaten in days, and now as she did notice he was on the thin side. "So are you from around here?" She asked just for conversatin sake. "Nope, around everywhere, born in Nevada though. Came here five years ago stayed ever since." He said after his last swallow of food. he noticed how pretty she was, but he doubted a city girl like him would be his type, no way, he wanted a woman that could handle the rough country of Montana, a "real" farmer's wife, this gal was high maintenance, even down to her manicure, well the one she had last back at the spa at home. Phoebe left the law firm and bought the ranch, after an arduous case she had lost for a client went awry. The case had gone on for months, an attempted murder trial, the evidence lacking in submissability and was eventually thrown out, her life threatened. She had been thinking about the farm life before that however, but at the loss of the trial and threats she went ahead and bought this. "I know a place down by the creek you can go for a swim or try and catch a catfish or two." He suggested, getting up to get ready to leave for home. He would have preferred full time hours, he thought, the pay here would hardly make his own bills met. "Catfish eating is decent." He added, hardly thinking she would want to go fishing. "I might take you up on that if you're offering to assist me in the right direction? I hardly know where to find any place like that here, i just moved in after all." She reminded him. So, the following weeks they spent working in the mornings, and he did his job well, mending this, fixing that, painting her veranda too, a nice white paint that gave it a look that was inviting, and she added the flower hangers filled with wildflowers and impatients, her little farm was starting to look like home. After he left, she worked her horses, and by the end of the day she was so tired and sore all she wanted was supper and a soak in the big giant old fashioned iron legged bath tub. Then one fine hot day, he suggested they go for a swim. "The weather is fine enough - you look like you can use some cooling off too." He smiled at her, she had already gotten stronger looking and brown from the sun. Little splashes of freckles dusted her nose and face too, he thought she was adorable, he liked her and he was beginning to have new ideas about her. She was funny too, and they often chuckled together over her delicious lunches, he had never had such good food. "You must have been a chef back in the city." He complimented her steak and eggs. He licked his lips and drank her iced too or lemondade, whichever she made for the day. "No, but i was engaged to one back home, and i learned a few tips or two, i enjoy good food too, i believe eating is part of life's pleasures." She beamed at his compliments of her fare. "Let's go for a swim." He prompted again, hoping for a huge "yes", and she did give in finally. The creek was as beautiful as he said it was, and she could see the catfish jumping as promised, next time she would bring a fishing rod and try it. The afternoon went by so quickly, and the willow trees hung above them inviting, the moss beneath them soft and begging, Phoebe lay down against the giant tree and closed her eyes, happy and content. She then felt his hand on her shoulder, she opened her eyes to him bearing down, offering her a drink of water from his thermos. She drank in thirst, and handed it back to him. Randy continued to stare down at her, and then, he bent over and kissed her on the lips, much to her anger and surprise. "W..What do you think you're doing?" She belted out and pulled back in haste. "I dont think i gave you permission to kiss me." She scoffed embarrased now. "I am sorry, it's just that, well, I really think you are so pretty, and when you had your eyes closed, i thought, i am sorry, i really like you. A lot." He added and looked down at his feet. He never meant to hurt her, he had just been so lonely the last few years. Meaghan his last girlfriend, left him for another man after they'd moved in together, and had been cheating on him. Randy didnt give his heart out so easily. "I am not sure i want a relationship right now, and i hardly know you except for the work you do for me, and you were kind enough to bring me here too, i enjoyed our day very much. " She started, "But if you want to court me that is another thing altogether." Phoebe finished then, surprised at her own reaction. She had not expected this either, Jack Aslton got abusive with her, after the engagement party he felt he owned her, things went from bad to worse. Phoebe swore never to feel that way about a man ever again. Randy was a ranch hand, OMG, this could not be happening at all, but she liked him too, they were a good team together. "So, does that mean you will give it some thought?" He eyed her for any clue possible to hope for. "yes, i think we can figure a way to make this work, but give me time, i wont give my heart out so easily. " She warned him. "Well, ditto here, i have my own stories." He promised her, grinning from ear to ear, and the two of them sat under the willow tree, just talking and leaning against each other, as the Montana sun set behind the mountains vigorous color.

ddkppt

Third Time To Start Again

Trigger warning: violence, mentions of concentration camps “I don’t remember.” I chuckle to myself as I hear the words coming out of my mouth. Easy for me to say that. In all honesty, I don’t remember much at all. Pretty much just my name, age, and the address on my drivers license, which I haven’t lived at in years. I focus once again on the man in front of me. He says he knows me, says we worked together. He says “worked together” in a manner that sounds...off. Like we were partners in crime. But I don’t know him. I don’t remember him anyways. It’s been three years since I lost my memory. I’m forty two now. That’s thirty nine years of my life I don’t remember. Lost it all in a car accident. The doctors said I was hit by a drunk driver. Was comatose for a month. Woke up and now, three years later, I can’t remember a thing. Problem is, I don’t want to remember. Apparently I was successful before I lost my memory. In terms of money at least. I have enough to last me the rest of my life if I’m careful with it. Found that out when I got out of the hospital. So I spend my time driving around in a beat up old red van I bought. Traveling around the country. Doesn’t cost much to live when your just one man. Sometimes I’ll just buy ahead on canned goods and drive off down some old highway or up an old country road and after a bit pull off and camp out for a week or so. Watch the sunrises. Reds and yellows and oranges thrown up over the horizon in streaks. Watch the sunsets. Purples and pinks and sometimes even greens and blues smeared across the sky. Drink strong black coffee. Build campfires and watch the flames devour the wood and the shadows dance like puppets. During the day I’ll hunt. Or sit and read those fifty cent paperback mysteries you can buy at some gas stations or out of the way book stores. The kind of book with the greasy antagonist that always catches what’s coming to him in the end and broad shouldered good looking protagonist who gets the girl. Other times I’ll go into a little city or town and spend a week drunk at some sleazy downtown bar where cigar smoke is thick and alcohol is thin. Or go to a theater and watch a play. I’m a fan of plays for some reason. Shakespeare especially. I do it cause I enjoy the life I live. Nature and towns and people and life. If you can call what some of the people I meet do living. And because I don’t want to remember. I don’t want to remember my past. I know some terrible secret lurks in it. And I don’t want to know what it is. Guess I’m a bit of a modern cowboy. A modern drifter. Like John Wayne in all the old movies. The black and white ones that sometimes play on the small cracked TVs in the corner of a hotel lobby or that play on the TV of the lonely old man sitting in a nursing home waiting out his days in a thin gown and surrounded by steel and white and death. Anyways. The man in front of me. He wants to know something about someone. Another name from the past. Another face I can’t remember. Or maybe I can. I don’t know. Faces all become the same after a while. I shake my head at him. “Sorry. I don’t remember.” I say again. I turn back to the bar I sit at. Ignore him. Look at the drink in my hand. Bourbon. Swirl it around in the cup. Set it down without taking a drink. There’s laughter in the background. A girls laugh. No. A woman. Anyone in this kind of environment , no matter their looks, has the mind of an adult. Years of seeing things no human should see. Growing up in places no human should grow up in. The mans questions have stirred something in me. My drink no longer appeals to me, and I stand and make my way out of the bar. I payed beforehand. I step out into the night air. It’s raining. A light rain, the kind that catches the moonlight and dusts the street and throws the streetlights soft glow back up at you. Memories start moving in my mind like a nest of snakes. There’s a reason I live the life I do. A reason I travel the way I do. Never the same place twice. Yet somehow always the same faces. When you travel like I do, everyone starts to seem the same. People just stuck in a never ending circle. The Circle of Life. You come and you go and when you go if your important or big or a politician or something then you might get your name in a paper or book or even a movie about you. Although of course the books and movies never show the whole story. That’s just how we are. If your not a politician or some big important person you probably don’t get anything except a little epitaph on your grave. A few sad mourners standing around as they throw the dirt over your coffin. From dust to dust, as they say. Either way, big or small, important or not, when you go you make just a little ripple in the world. A little ripple. That’s it. All the years of your life spent meeting people and working and achieving goals and dreams, and when you go it’s just a drop in the ocean. Like the rain as it falls around me right now. A drop of rain. A memory pops into my head. A boy. He is standing next to a woman. The background around them is fuzzy. “Mom?” He asks, tugging at her hand. “Hm?” She looks down at him. They are both dirty and their clothes are dirty and thin. “Mom, where’s dad?” The boy asks. He can’t be more than eight. The woman’s face shows the answer. The dad is gone. Not coming back. “Your father is dead honey. I’ve told you this.” She says, her voice betraying itself. Cracking with grief. The boy starts crying. The memory ends as suddenly as it sprang to my mind. I know without a doubt that the boy in the memory is me. The woman is my mother. Another memory worms it’s dark little self into my head. The woman is being dragged away. By the men in uniforms. A crooked X marks their jacket.  No. It’s a swastika. The boy watches from the shadowed corner of the building he cowers beside. The woman fell that morning. She fell and she couldn’t get up. So the big men with guns came and are taking her away. Taking her to a place that will make her “better” they say, grinning as they do so. Sharing some dork secret. Some dark joke. The boy continues to cry. A blank space. The boy is strong. Physically and mentally. That’s why he has survived. They make him work. His mom worked with him but she fell and couldn’t get up and the soldiers with guns took her away to a place to get better and she never came back. That was a year ago. The boy is nearly ten now. And he plans his escape every day. Dreams of murdering the German swine who are responsible for his mother’s death. But he waits. He bides his time. Another blank space. This time is a year later again. The boy is in a truck. A German truck. There are four Germans in the truck with guns. And the driver. They are saying something. The war is over. The prisoners must die. There are two prisoners in the truck. One is the boy. One an older man. Maybe fifty. He is not related to the boy. He appears older than he is to the young eyes of the boy. The boys jaw clenches. He fingers something. It glints in the poor light. He lunges forwards. The Germans scream echos in the tight confines of the truck. I’m sweating. Or is it rain? I’m soaked. The rain is running down my shirt and face and hair. It’s in my shoes. I remember now. Some things. Things I hadn’t wanted to remember. The German concentration camp. My fathers death. My mother’s death. My escape. I don’t know what ever became of the old man who had been in the truck with me. Did he die there, in the back of the truck with a crazed eleven year old boy who killed five grown men with a kitchen knife he had secreted away? Or did he escape with the boy and die somewhere along the long hike to safety? He is like a glitch in my memory. I remember nothing about him after that quick flashback glimpse of him in the back of the truck. No matter. I don’t wish to remember. I stumble across the street. Alcohol once again sounds like a sweet release. Better to drown memory in fire. Maybe I’ll wake up and not remember anything again. I enter the bar I exited a few moments ago. A few people look at me. Not surprised to see me again. Wondering why I’m soaked. I ignore them. Make my way back to the bar. Order another bourbon. Drink it. And another. And a third. Someone says something to me but I don’t pay them any attention. Flashes of the few memories I just re experienced are like fireworks behind my eyes. The boy. The woman. The soldiers. The truck. The boy. The knife glinting as it plunges towards the German soldier. The screams. Gunshots. The boy, staggering out of the truck. My hands are shaking. The alcohol is not working. Not really anyways. I can’t forget. My hands are at my head. Grabbing it. As if holding my head in my hands and leaning my elbows on the table will somehow disconnect my brain and I can stop remembering. A girl is sitting next to me now. Asking if I’m okay. I don’t answer. Manage to stand. Blunder back out of the bar. My van is on the street corner. I make it to it. Fumble my keys out of my pocket. Open the door. Somehow I’m behind the wheel. The car is running and I’m driving. I laugh. I’m drunk. And I’m driving. How many times was I told never to to drink and drive. And I don’t even remember when I started driving. Wasn’t I hit by a drunk driver? Isn’t that how I lost my memory? The road is very curvy. Or maybe it isn’t. I can’t tell. Why is there a tree in the road? That’s not right. That shouldn’t be there. The red van sits against the tree. Or the tree sits in the van. The front of the van is wrapped around the tree. The man inside is unconscious. Sirens. Flashing lights. Voices. Bad jokes. Cops. Paramedics. The man is lifted out of the car. Put on a stretcher. “He’s lucky to be alive,” the nurse says. She is speaking to a paramedic. The one who brought in the man. A Dixie cup of lukewarm coffee is in her hand. “Tell me about it. Drunk as a skunk. Broken arm. Broken leg and ankle. Concussed.” The paramedic responds. They are standing in a hallway, just outside the mans room. “Yeah. He was lucky someone saw him wreck too.” The nurse says. “Mhm. The paramedic grunts. “Older man. Around eighty. Said he knew the wrecked man from a long long time ago. Said he saved his life, and he was glad to repay the favor.” “Oh?” The nurse questioned. “Yeah. Said the man saved him when he was just a boy. Said he saved him in Germany. From a truck full of German soldiers.” “Huh.” The nurse wonders aloud. “Well, it’s too bad.” “What is?” The paramedic asks. “The man in there won’t remember.” The nurse muses. “Won’t remember what?” “Anything. The old man who saved him. His past.  Nothing.” “What?” The paramedic says curiously. “Yeah. The wreck concussed him so bad he’s lost his memory. He woke up and couldn’t remember a thing. Not even his name.” The nurse explains. “And, according to his medical records, this is the second time that’s happened. Poor guy. First time was three years ago.” “Huh.” The paramedic mutters. “Guess he gets a third chance to start again.” 

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