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Mielikki

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Mielikki 2

Yardstick

Topaz looked through the peephole. There was no one there, despite the door having been knocked on seconds earlier. He pushed open the door--and pushed something over. Down the steps of his front porch rolled a little wire cage with something small and green inside of it. It was cheeping. “Oh my God,” he muttered. “Andy! You did not!” “Mom doesn’t want it anymore!” screamed Andy’s voice from the driveway. “That’s not my problem! What the heck am I supposed to--” “I don’t know; it’s a green-cheek conure!” “What?” A pause, and then: “The green-cheeked parakeet or green-cheeked conure is a small parrot of the genus Pyrrhura, which is part of a long-tailed group of the New World parrot subfamily Arinae! The term conure is often used for this parrot and its relatives in aviculture! It is native to the forests of South America!” “What the heck, Andy!” Topaz ran down the porch steps, just in time to see his sister sliding into her car. “We could’ve talked about this, you know!” “COVID!” “You literally went to a wedding last week!” Andy just grinned crookedly and swerved out of the driveway. “See you New Year’s!” she shouted through her open window. Shaking his head, Topaz walked back to the front door, muttering “Republicans,” as he went. He knelt at the base of the steps and looked inside the cage. Evidently unhurt, the soft green and gray colored bird was chirping softly, looking suspiciously at him with its beady black eyes. “What the actual heck, Andy,” Topaz said exasperatedly, gently picking up the cage and bringing it inside. “What am I supposed to do with you?” Topaz set the birdcage--upright, this time--on the kitchen counter and peered at the bird. “I guess you need a name, huh, little guy.” Topaz sighed. “Well, it’s the twenty-first century, I’ll let you decide. To the right for girl, to the left for boy.” The bird stood stock-still. “Non-binary, then. So, what about… Taylor? Everyone says that name is gender-neutral, but I’ve only ever heard of Taylor Swift.” Topaz sighed again. “Look, little dude, I really don’t know what I’m supposed to do with you. Here, Taylor doesn’t fit--what about, like, Laundry or Yardstick?” When the bird fluffed its feathers indignantly, Topaz replied, “Well, I really have no other idea, so let’s just go with Yardstick, okay, bud?” Yardstick consented with the click of their beak. “Great. Now… what do you eat? Hey, Siri,” Topaz dictated to his iPhone, “green cheek conure diet.” “Green Cheek Conures should be fed on a quality South American pellet…” “Fantastic.” “...and given daily fresh fruit and vegetables.” Topaz walked across the kitchen and hesitantly opened the fridge. It contained three half-gallon jugs of milk, a carton of eggs, a loaf of bread with just the ends and crusts, kombucha, Coke, tortillas, chicken fried rice, and a singular rotting banana. “I don’t suppose you like pretzels, do you?” Topaz called sarcastically over his shoulder. “Because that and tortilla strips are all that’s in the pantry.” Yardstick chirped encouragingly. “Well, at least this means I won’t be spending the holidays alone.” Topaz was in a peculiar situation. He owned a house, for some reason, which he lived in by himself, though no one knew quite why. His only sister, Andy, was in college, and his parents lived three hours away. Topaz saw his family about once every three months, and to the extent of their knowledge, he had no friends and hardly ever left his house. No one knew where his money came from, but he had a lot of it, despite the scarcity of the fridge. Topaz shut the refrigerator door and went back over to where Yardstick was scratching the floor of their cage. Slowly, he unlatched the little door and swung it open. After a moment, Yardstick hopped onto the granite countertop and regarded Topaz with a wide round eye. “Have I introduced myself? I’m Topaz, by the way. Weird name, huh? Talk to my parents. You’ve already met them, anyways.” Topaz sighed, gazing longingly at Yardstick. “Well, I guess we’re in it together now, little guy. Want to go for a walk?”

cs4vzu

Just Another Typical Love Story

June 23, 2017 “Hey, Harper?” “Yeah?” “I really, really love you.” Harper turns from where he’s watching the sky and smiles at me. God, he’s gorgeous. He just sits there, grinning, for a few moments before leaning into me and saying, “You too, Therly.” I look back out at the ocean. Waves lap lightly at the peaceful shore. Sunrise is just beginning, staining the horizon with orange, and I’ve never really liked that color, but today it’s the most perfect thing I’ve ever seen. Everything for the past few weeks has been perfect, really. I’ve always wanted to do something like this; I’ve always wanted to run away. I’ve always wanted to spend nights, giggling, alone in the desert. I’ve always wanted to jump into the ocean at 11 p.m. I’ve always wanted to snuggle in the backseat and listen to music turned all the way up and swear and wear whatever I want and bleach my hair and run on train tracks and drive all night without stopping and have a real conversation and sleep in a car and do all of the million incredible things we’ve been doing every single day. Our car is parked in the lot of this California timeshare. The car used to be blue, but we’d hung out around a spray paint shop until we found an adult who would buy some for us, then stained the whole thing black. And hey, we actually did a pretty good job. Oh, and we changed the license plate. It’s not valid, of course, but who’s gonna check? Harper yawns. “D’you think anyone will realize we’re not supposed to be here?” I glance around the empty shoreline. “Nah, two teens sitting on the beach at 6:30 a.m.? What’s sketchy about that?” Harper makes a pffing sound and falls back onto the sand. “So, what’s on the itinerary for today?” I lay down beside him. “Idk, I was thinking maybe KFC?” Harper snorts. “Ah, yes, the most important of all, KFC--how could I forget?” I whomp his stomach. “Shut up.” Harper shakes his head, further entangling his thick brown curls in sand. “Fine, then, I’ll decide. Do you want tooo… I don’t know, go swimming? Buy some stupid inflatable rafts at 5 Below and off, off into the sunset…” He waves his hand vaguely at the sea. I laugh. “Sure thing, pal.” “Oh, so we’re pals now, are we?” asks Harper, pretending to be hurt. “We’ve been on the road for two weeks, and you’re breaking up with me already?” I roll my eyes, then roll over until I’m practically on top of him. I hope he catches the mischievous look in my eyes before I press my lips to his, silently giggling. Harper puts his arms around my neck. Harper was my first kiss, and I guess I’m hoping my last. I’ve had a lot of practice over the past fortnight. I know you’ll just roll your eyes at our stupid cheesy teenage love story, but this is real, I know it is. I love this boy with all my heart. He’s kind and funny and brilliant and he makes killer crepes and I love him enough to run away with him. Not like, “Haha, let’s elope,” but actually, I did. He’s that perfect. I pull away from him and smile. “So, it’s a plan, then?” “Mhm,” Harper mutters. I think he forgot what we were talking about. To be honest, so did I. We sit back up, my head on his shoulder, and continue watching the sun rise. It’s almost completely above the horizon when we hear someone shout, “Hey!” We stumble into a standing position and frantically locate the source of the noise. It’s a cop car, driving along the deserted beach. Right towards us. “Hey, you kids!” Without speaking, we both take off running in the same direction. In typical angry-old-man-cop fashion, the police officer shouts, “Get back here!” We’re almost to the timeshare. Barefooted, we sprint across the parking lot, hidden by shrubbery. I can hear the police car so close behind us. In just a few seconds, we’ll be in view. We reach our black car. Harper reaches for the keys in his pocket, but I hiss, “There’s no time for that!” I dash to the other side of the vehicle, drop to my stomach, and wiggle under. Harper follows almost immediately. A car door slams. The policeman comes running into the parking lot. From what I can hear, it sounds like he’s looking around. “Blasted teenagers,” he mutters, maybe ten feet away from our hiding spot. I squeeze even further under the car and pray he won’t find us. Eventually, I hear him walk back to his car and drive away across the sand. Harper and I wait a few more minutes to be sure, then crawl out from under the car. Harper gets in the driver’s seat, and I climb over him to get to mine. The passenger side door hasn’t opened for months. Don’t ask me why, okay? It’s not like it’s my choice. Although I don’t mind crawling across Harper’s lap as he laughs and playfully berates me. I think Harper thinks everything about me is perfect, too. But, gosh, he really is flawless. His hair is dark brown and impishly wavy. He’s got this beautiful smile with teeth just white enough to be believable and just a little less than straight (the teeth, not Harper--I’m his girlfriend), so not like frightening symmetry and blinding whiteness, but not yellow and crooked. He had braces several years ago, but he doesn’t wear his retainer anymore. And that, if you ask me, is a perfectly reasonable decision. I’m… not so sure about myself. I’m (mostly) Native American, but I’m normal. Before Harper and I ran away, I lived, in San Francisco, in a house, with my parents. And I went to school and my parents had regular jobs and I’ve never set foot inside a tipi in my life. Is all this really that far-fetched? But here’s the thing. I “look white.” Or at least, people assume I am. When I tell them I’m indigenous, they usually just end up calling me Indian. I’m not, though. Harper is Indian. There’s a difference. I wish people would understand that. I sigh and turn on the radio. “Thunder” by Imagine Dragons comes on. I nod along to the lyrics as Harper pulls out of the parking lot. I don’t ask him where he’s going; that’s part of the fun. The windows are down, of course. I wave my hands in the wind and lean out of the car, occasionally, when I want to see how badly I can tangle my straight hair, laughing as it whips across my face. We drive along for maybe ten minutes, me leaning out the windows like an exuberant puppy, until we pull into the parking lot of a Target. Harper cuts the engine and looks over at me. “What do you say—bathroom break, grocery shopping, then eat breakfast on the roof of the car?” We fistbump. “Sounds like a plan, stan.” Thirty minutes later and we’re walking out of target, pushing a cart with at least eight or nine bags inside. We pay in cash everywhere—both our families are well-to-do, but Harper’s dad is like, uber rich. As part of our plan before we ran away, Harper withdrew money from his bank account that was supposed to be for college and savings and other bs stuff like that, without his dad noticing. We keep it, all in twenty dollar bills, in an envelope in the glovebox. We picked up a lot of snacks like chips and Coke, but we also have a large plastic cooler in the backseat that we refill with ice from random gas stations for stuff like fruit and ice cream. Which we eat a lot of, by the way. Ice cream tastes so much better under the stars. After putting our groceries away, Harper and I share a bag of pretzels and a 2-liter of Dr Pepper on the car’s roof. We get lots of odd looks from people, but do you think we care? Yeah, we don’t. We’re done with the pretzels and it’s drivetime again, on the freeway this time. Harper’s pushing 75, 80 mph. He’s not stupid, of course; but everyone else is going practically that fast too. And what would be the fun in driving if you couldn’t feel the wind rushing rapidly by your face? I bounce back into my seat contentedly and roll up the window. I swat wild strands of hair out of my face and look over at Harper, laughing. “I love you,” I tell him again. Harper grins and turns his face, slightly, to look at mine. “Love you--” he begins. Hey, that’s kind of dangerous. Once he begins turning, I frown and say, “Harper--” I look out the windshield. We’re drifting into the right lane, right in front of another car. I scream, “HARPER--” And then we start to spin. June 23, 2017 “I think she’s waking up!” I moan and flutter my eyelids open. I’m in a--hospital?--in a bed, lying down. Mom and Dad are sitting by my side, their foreheads creased in worry. “Oh, thank God,” Mom cries and takes my hand. “Therly? Are you all right? It’s your mom, sweetheart.” “M-mom?” I stammer. Everything aches. I swallow. That hurts too. “How did you find me?” “You got in an accident, sweetie. When you ran away, and left your phone and everything at home without even leaving a note--we thought you were dead, oh, praise God…” Dad picks up for her. “You were recognized by one of the paramedics. We came right away. We’re so glad you’re safe, Therly… you could’ve died…” I scream. Mom looks up from where she was stroking my hand and gasps. “What’s wrong? Are you in pain? Should we--” “Harper,” I sob. “Where’s Harper? Is he okay?” I struggle to sit up. Dad pushes me back down onto the bed. “Hey, it’s okay, Therly--” “No, it’s not!” I scream hoarsely. “Where’s Harper?” “He’s dead, Therly,” Mom whispers. I think my heart stops beating. And now I’m thrashing, screaming, kicking and biting and yelling and crying, crying, Harper, Harper, where are you Harper, Harper-- June 27, 2017 We live in a lakefront house. Did I ever mention that? I was discharged from the hospital--some time ago--I can’t keep track, I can’t remember. I think Harper’s funeral is this Saturday. Or maybe it’s next--I don’t know. I don’t really remember anymore. I’m at the edge of the dock in our backyard. It’s--I don’t know, ten p.m.? Earlier? Later? I got into the backyard through the house’s back door. There’s only one of them. I told my parents I would be out for fifteen minutes, so, although they’ll monitor the front to make sure I don’t sneak out, they won’t check back here. I think. I look at the lake’s still water. The moon is a waxing crescent tonight. It’s beautiful. The white light reflects in a jagged, watery line across the lake’s surface. It looks so calm. So quiet. I shift from my seated position until I’m on my stomach and reach the three longest fingers of my right hand down to touch the water. It’s so cold. Or warm. No, I think it’s warm. I shift my glance from the depths beneath me once more to the enchanting reflection. It’s really quiet tonight. No crickets, even. Just water. And light. I scooch forward a little more until my whole torso is hanging off the dock. I slip both my hands into the water. I feel something in it. I don’t know what. But I do. I move forward further off the dock--deeper in the water--until I’ve fallen, quietly, into the lake. My head is submerged in water. I look up, and through the surface I see the moon. It’s really beautiful tonight. And then I close my eyes.

95pfrw

Childish Behaviour

Kelly Alaniz 11/27/2020 Prompt # 69 Childish Behavior.  I've always been amazed at the fact there is one rotten apple in every family. In mine, it is my older sister. I will call her "Mona" because she always has something to complain and moan about in addition to acting very childish. I'm not kidding. My sister could find something to complain about if someone handed her a golden bag with a million dollars in it. She would have a tantrum because there might not be enough coins in it. But, she's always been a moaner as far back as I can remember. Our mom always made excuses for her first born daughter. I was number three so it seemed as though I was invisible. Although there were seven of us we all knew "Mona" was mom's favorite out of all of us kids. There were three boys and four girls in our family and it was almost as though The rest of us kids didn't exist. The boys in my family didn't seem to care much because dad was always taking my brothers fishing, camping, or to baseball and football games, stuff like that. Mom was always doing things with her precious "Mona" like going shopping, going to hair appointments, or out to lunch while we three girls were left to clean up the house. We did the laundry, cooked, washed dishes, swept and mopped the kitchen floor after dinner each night. Our older sister was always busy doing something else and couldn't be bothered to help with chores. We were also expected to have our homework done, take our baths and get ready for bed. Mind we only had one bathroom in our house so it was an ordeal every night waiting our turns. Did I mention that "Mona" always got her bath first in addition to being the first in line for everything. "Mona" also got pretty much anything and everything she wanted. It was so maddening because she got that self satisfied look on her face and always had some snarky comment that she evidently thought would put the rest of us kids in our place. The only reason as far as i could tell why our mom mollycoddled and gave in to "Mona" was because of the epic tantrums she threw whenever she didn't get her own way. I have never met anyone that could scream longer and louder than dear sweet "Mona." One time mom had taken all four of us girls shopping for school clothes. Mom also wanted to check out the new mall that had just opened downtown. There we were walking around looking at the window displays when "Mona"let out a piercing scream and ran towards a clothing store that catered to teens. She was babbling something about a purse that was on display. Sometimes "Mona" pitched her fits just for attention so it was hard to know if it was for the purse or she just wanted to create a scene for attention that day. Of course my sister managed to draw the attention of several shoppers passing by including our mom who rushed to "Mona's" side to calm her down. To this day I cannot understand my older sisters need to be the center of attention. God knows she always had mom's attention. This must sound like jealousy on my part but it isn't. It is simply a question of why on earth have six more kids that my mother barely acknowledged if "Mona" was the fair haired child. Normally this wouldn't be a big deal in a smaller family but there were six more of us waiting to have just a few minutes to talk to mom. We complained about "Mona's childish, inconsiderate behavior, and her answer was the same every time. "Tough that's just the way it is get over it." This didn't sit well with us girls, but there was nothing we could do about it. We tried to think of something to distract "Mona" but it's illegal to use dynamite on a family member. We would just have to think up a less violent idea. Mom and "Mona" were close, they did everything together. It was as though they were best friends instead of mother and daughter.  Mom was only fifteen years old when Mona was born. I guess the short age difference made them feel like besties. For example, at family get togethers during holidays especially "Mona"would be second in command as far as helping our mother hostess these events. Days before the event "Mona" was too busy to help out with cooking and baking. She always had other commitments somewhere else. Funny how that always worked for her. If one of us other girls told mom we had a prior commitment during holiday preparations we were met with, "absolutely not young lady." "If you know what"s good for you cancel it." "I expect you to help with the holiday preparations." I loved baking so I really didn't mind helping with the food. I often thought it was really unfortunate that my older sister didn't help out in the Christmas duties but she had always hated cooking. She acted as though housework and cooking were beneath her. So, my two sisters and I grew closer because of the time we spent together. Besides it was worth watching the guests devour our hard work and the compliments were nice. "Mona" would always show up just in time to eat dinner with us and I secretly revelled at the pouty look she always got on her face when the compliments on our food started to flow. The attention she so badly wanted was not on her at that moment. However, "Mona" always found a way to regain the limelight such as during opening our presents. I watched this scene play out so many times growing up I actually got anxiety before we even cleared the dirty plates and leftovers off the dining room table. It was always somewhat of an ordeal because we three girls minus "Mona" had to perform our after dinner routine washing dishes, putting everything away, sweeping and mopping the kitchen floor. I have to admit we kept that kitchen so clean you could eat off the floor.  While we were doing our after dinner chores the adults would gather in the den for after dinner drinks and "Mona" was always included because she would throw an awefull tantrum if she felt snubbed. Mom didn't want to be embarrassed in front of her guests by an 18 year old childish daughter so once again big sister got her own way. Finally we girls were allowed to join the guests. As we walked in, there was my sister sitting on the edge of our large coffee table in the middle of the den. She had on a beautiful emerald color dress with matching necklace and drop earrings. It went nicely with her hair color which was naturally red. I recognized the dress from the display window at the mall we were shopping at for school clothes. There "Mona" was installed on her throne with the peons at her feet. She absolutely glowed with joy at the attention she was receiving along with that condisending smirk on her face. I always wondered what it would be like to slap that look off "Mona's" face just once. Instead I ignored her which seemed to annoy my older sister even more. I hoped she would throw a fit so all our relatives could see what a conniver she was. Unbeknownst to all of us then, we were in for the temper tantrum of all time. A super melt down "Mona" style. It began shortly before we settled in to open presents. I'm surprised I didn't see it come over my sisters face. Here's how it happened. Mother stood and raised her glass for the Christmas toast which was a tradition before we opened presents. The problem was it took the attention away from my sister. After the toast we gathered around the tree and before I could say anything my mom nominated me to hand out each gift. That was mistake number one. Mistake number two was my fault for not handing "Mona" her present first. So, when I finally did give her a present I saw that the smirk had left her face only to be replaced with darkness and daggers flying from her eyes. They were directed at me and i shivered but kept handing out presents. Finally, everything was distributed to family and friends so one at a time I got to choose who would be first to start opening presents. Mistake number three was just made and I glanced at my sister who's face was pinched and beet red with anger. She was just on the edge of a fit. Our mother saw it too and was already headed over to "Mona" in hopes of avoiding the evening's entertainment. I slunk back towards the kitchen door in case a fast escape was called for. All the sudden one of my cousins let out a cry of joy upon opening her present which of course everyone turned to look at. The oohs and aauws did it plus the fact that the gift was the exact same purse that "Mona" had coveted at the store in the mall the day we went shopping for school clothes. It started with a low moan which quickly turned into a high pitched scream and then developed into a kind of shrieking growl! Mom just missed grabbing "Mona" by the arm when she lunged at our poor cousin. At that point I knew my sister was showing us all her true demented self. I felt sorry for my mom briefly but she had a hand in letting "Mona" walk all over her. I did however feel sorry for our guests for a few minutes having to witness my sisters meltdown. But, I also felt a bit guilty for wishing my sister would reveal her true self. As I watched from my safe vantage point, my sister was still screaming incoherently while ripping the purse away from my cousin. Then she doubled up her fists and started beating my poor cousin who went down quickly. People were gasping in shock, screaming, running for the nearest exit, and some were trying to pull "Mona" off my cousin to no avail. She was like a madwoman and so far out of control someone called 911 and the police showed up. My sister was eventually subdued and removed from the festivities. It took five police officers to gain control of my sister that evening. She was still screaming and kicking as they took her away. Our guests were in shock and everyone took their unwrapped presents and left quietly. My mother had retreated to her bedroom in shame and embarrassment while my dad played gracious host. We never saw my sister again and were not allowed to speak her name in my parents presence ever again.i later heard from another family member that "Mona" had required heavy sedation upon arrival at a hospital they had taken her to that Christmas night. She just wouldn't calm down. Eventually my sister was put in a mental hospital as she had had a complete break from reality. This was too much for my mom to endure and she was never the same again. My dad was strong enough to care for mom and us kids. I think he did the best he could under the circumstances. Evidently "Mona" required sedation everyday or she would scream about her purse being stolen. Finally, about two years later my sister killed herself over that dam purse and my mom died from a broken heart.

zo5ov9

Cookie Exchange

The Cookie Exchange “Hey Kevon, thank you for coming,” Venia said as she opened her bakery shop door. The gentleman greeted Venia with a big grin. He came in and took off his jacket. Kevon said, “Your sign said closed. I hesitated for a moment. Then I remembered you said the shop had not officially opened yet. So you're hosting a “Cookie Exchange” tomorrow? How will that work since your the owner of a Cookie Bakery?” Venia took the mans jacket and hung it on coat holder. She held her arm out to lead him to her unusual black and gold edged counter. Venia said “My cookie exchange will be as different as my bakery. All the invited guess will bring their favorite baked cookies. I will bake my cookies tonight, using my secret ingredient. My cookies will be placed in the mix with all the other cookies. Not me, but each guess will blindly taste all the exchange cookies. After a nice cookie feast, they will vote on their favor one. The winner will be an honor guest on opening day. Their cookies will be sold. The winner will collect 100% of their sales. I will take nothing.” Kevon nodded in approval. He said, “That's an excellent ideal. You'll build a great connection with the community. Glad you invited me to see your bakery for our first blind date.” Kevon took a seat and rubbed his hand over the beautiful counter top. “Yea, this is my place.” Vena said as she poured some international coffee for her guest. “Like I said when we connected online, I still felt embarrassed. Looking on a dating site for company still feels awkward. I was not sure about you at first. So I kept our date a secret.” Kevon said, “I know how you feel. I didn't tell anyone myself. If our date goes bad, no one will know. You and I know business folks like us, have to be extra careful. So many people want to take everything you work so hard for.” Vena nodded as she took a sip of coffee. She stared at her guest for a moment. She took another long sip and smiled. Venia said, “Call me a dreamer, but I believe someone out there could be the very ingredient I need to uplift my life.” Kevon nodded. “I feel the same way. As you know I have a start-up Accounting business. I am so glad to see someone is till interested in start-ups. It seems the only way to build real wealth these days. Tell me about your bakery.” Venia came from behind her counter. She carefully pulled off her colorful apron. Venia said, “Lets start with this apron. I designed this picture when I was a young girl. Twelve years old in fact.” Venia proudly laid her apron on the counter top. She said, “Its my original drawing of this bakery. If you look closely some lines are not straight. I kept this in my dresser drawer. I believed one day it would happen. I had the picture printed on all my aprons.” Kevon said “So you were always a visionary?” “Oh yes! I was determined to create a unique taste. It had to be different. I needed a new tasting cookie. I was always in the kitchen coming up with different flavor cookies.” Venia paused as she look out of the window. The sun was barely picking through a large gray cloud. It started to rain. The street lights began to click on. One by one the lights brighten up the street. Venia said, “A year of ago, I put my life savings into this place. Even tho I was short on my main unique ingredient, got my license to open. I gathered all my recipes. Brought this place, and all you see in here. I should have been nervous but I wasn't. I am here. I am ready. My Cookie Bakery will open tomorrow.” Kevon gleamed. He said in excitement, “So show me around!” Venia quickly wiped the counter. She said “Just what I was wanting to hear. Come on back let me show you the kitchen.” Both of them walked thought the steel double swinging doors. Inside it looked like a professional kitchen. Metal center island. Multi double ovens. Industrial appliances. Large colorful mixers, and blenders all around. Venia said, “Were hitting it off well for our first date, don't you think?” Kevon touched her shoulder and smiled. He said, “I'm glad I came. Your much prettier in person than over the internet.” They both laughed. Venia said, “How about you and I make some cookies together?” In excitement, Kevon untied his tie and rolled up sleeve. “OK whats first?” Venia pulled down some bowls and open some maple drops. With her handy white towel, she pop him on his thigh. She said, “Hey, my handsome helper can you go through that metal door by those stairs and grab the brown flour on the very top shelf?” Kevon grim, “Why sure boss. I'll get it and be back in a jiffy.” Kevon eagerly walked to the door and went in. Kevon yelled back. “Hey where is the light, its dark in here!” Venia yelled back, “Go in a bit more and you'll see a large bright orange button on the left side. Push the button and the lights will all pop on.” Vena quickly ran to a lower cabinet on her right side. She bent down and reached way in. Venia stretched in as far as she could and in pulled a lever. The metal door Kevon went through slammed! Immediately Kevon yelled in agony, “Help me, Help!” Vena ran over to the metal door and locked it. Kevon's voice quivered with horrible screams. The air was filled with cries and painful moans. One last time Kevon screeched out a horrible yell, “Noooo!” Then there was silence. “Crunch. Crunch. Grinding, then mixing sounds came from the room. After a few minutes Venia ran downstairs. She opened up a concealed panel, and went inside. Up against a low ceiling wall there was a spout. She grabbed a jar and pulled the lever. Substance filled her jar. When it was full, she twisted the cap tight. Venia did a little dance as she made her way up the stairs. In the man kitchen, Venia opened the jar and took a long whiff. She went over to her center island and prepared her batter. She scooped out a tablespoon of the textured substance from the jar. “Just a scoop will do.” She tasted her mixture. “Hum, so tasty. A winner for sure!” Venia hummed as she stirred in some added in flavors. She spoon her dough on the cookie sheet, and placed it in her warm oven. Twenty minutes later she pulled them out and tasted her cookie. “Now that I have more of my secret ingredient, I'm ready for opening day!” Lupe Fuller email: [email protected]

jy402a

The promise

It was a silly document left in a tiny envelope. Left in his mother's desk, a document he found years later as he was rummaging through the attic. She had gone to soothsayers, palm readers. All to no avail. His carer told him also of the time when she became rather desparate and she'd gone to Japan specifically for readings of leaves at the bottom of a tea cup. All foretold of a beautiful child. A male of course, an only child to carry the family name. Nice promises, but not easy for her to achieve as she was a childless young widow. Her husband taken from her too quickly. A terrible road accident, a huge tractor making a wrong turn and hitting his small car, the policeman said, cap in hands and pain in his eyes. She now faced a dire future, rather bleak and filled with mediocrity. Thus she was not in ''high demand'' from the very few men around. So she saved and saved and one day she decided to leave the place in care of a friend and discreetly go to a near-by town. Young, healthy and determined to find a companion in a short time. Perhaps it is that desperation makes us do desperate things. She dressed as in fashion, but dared to show a somewhat indecent bit of cleavage, sat at a café, occupied herself with writing notes in regard to the novel she intended to write someday ( a gloomy affair with witches and demons) and pondered about that future when a nice young man approached smiled, and asked her if she'd like a bit of company. Charming, handsome and bold. Lovely. (That he was bisexual she did not know of course and would not care). So they talked, liked what they heard and ended up at his hotel. Such was her aim. Alas he was a cheat and did not intend on anything long term, never mind marriage. She had some regrets as she had in retrospect and in regards to her upbringing been a bit too forward, but nonetheless the gift was that she discovered that she was pregnant. Indeed, as she lived in a rather remote area there was not much commérage, she was able to find a nice birth lady and have a lovely child. All the readings had told of great things to come, of a bright future, health, wealth and success, and so she hoped for her little bundle of joy as she pampered him every day of his young life. Unfortunately she herself was of generally poor health (coughing blood and all the rest) and passed away at a relatively young age, leaving him in the charge a nice carer. From the height of his ten years, so shy, living in a far off village, he wished to believe what was in the note, while a few tear flowed down his cheeks. How could any of these things come true? He and his carer lived in the wilderness and all he could see was a future of taking care of a few chickens and hens and a few pigs. That was certainly not heaven on earth. But his mother had also been very thrifty and saved for him for the moment when it came time for him to leave. His carer had never told him of this, but one day, she saw him rather depressed . He always had his eyes in books and of stories of distant and wonderful places and csstles and lovely princesses. Had she taken a closer, she might have noticed his preference for lofty romantic stories, operas, ballets and mythologies where Valkyries and goddesses ruled. She found him to be a rather strange young man. Perhaps a bit frail, but she knew this would not last though so the moment approached when she had to tell tell. He was, as her mother wished, made for a brighter future. She approached him, told him of the purse and the immense possibilities. Needless to say of the joy in his eyes, bright lights. Castles and romance and chivalry. From then on he hardly could sit in place. In time she made arrangements with friends she knew...who also were able to take care of the young man in the nearby city where the chosen academy was. They tought they were doing the best, though the reality turned out to be slightly different. For the monent his carer had a small suitcase packed and ready the hour he would leave for the academy. She made sure that he had enough warm clothings. (Little did she know that he had also packed a few items having belonged to his mother). Great promises. The years went by. But little John never felt quite good with who or what he was. He saw lots of therapists, psychologists and one thing became very clear. John, as in his every day appearances preferred to be Amanda. The years at the first academy were hard. It did not help that a few priests had roaming hands...especially at night in the dormitories. He was traumatised by the idea of having to take on old man in his mouth, as the boy next to him did every night. The boy seemed to like perhaps also because it gave him an extra chocolate bar on occasion. During the day some leered at him, wishing him to serve mass so that he could feel comfortable with the Nothing worked. For some reason they did not abuse and left him generally alone. Except for some psychological pressure. Develish. They nerver did like his attitude either though , and in the course of these difficult years he moved from one academy to the next. Friends of his carer did not understand - or could not understand his pain and discomfort. Until. Until one day, he took a scalpel, hurt himself in the worst way, was rushed to emergency.....and then they decided to comprehend. So, after years of transformation (s)he became Amanda. Amanda was now healthy, had a successful career as a lawyer, but no children in sight. Even the soothsayers and palm readers she saw detected none in her future. She also eventually went to Japan for a special tea leaves reading, but to no avail. But a bit of happiness she found in Osaka as she met the man of her dreams. As it turned out, her mother's own readings were partly right and partly wrong, a partial success for a mother with the name of Cassandra.

0406k8

The Backward bullet

Gage Williamson was sitting on his bed in a small wooden room. It had only little lighting coming from the far most window. He sat wearing a black suit with a black tie, tears dripped from his eyes, wondering how his life could have such a tragedy, no matter how small it was compared to other people. He remembered how he had been on the sidewalk across from the local pub. A whiskey bottle was in his hand half drunken, And he felt as sick as a dog. He barely remembered hearing from his best friend's parents, how Marcus was dead. The last time he had seen him was right before he was murdered. He had gone inside the grocery store to check out some materials for a homemade pizza for one of his DnD campaigns. He remembered talking with him at the deli to see if he had any pepperoni, and then going to the pub for DnD. He owned the place, making it very easy to get together with his friends. After the campaign, they all had one too many that night and Gage ended up outside. Now he had just come back from the funeral, it was a terrible and gut wrenching thing for Gage and Marcus's family. He had heard something rather interesting from the newspaper the next morning, about how the bullet that killed Marcus matched that of a derringer pistol. He had thought that it would be best if he simply remained here forever and never came out of his little hole. Something glinted in the corner of his eye near the window, he walked over to a loose floorboard underneath the torn wallpaper on the wall to the right of his bead. He picked up the floor board and moved it to the side. Inside was a shoe box, and a loaded derringer pistol. Gage leaped back screaming at the sight. Dried blood splatter covered the pistol, and it had several small bullets scattered around it. Gage immediately got back on his feet reassuringly he thought to himself, ¨This must belong to the killer, he must have tried to frame me, as long as I go into the police station now, I can tell them what this is doing here, yes, what a good idea¨. Gage picked up the gun slowly, and put it in a plastic bag. He then proceeded to get in his car, and drive to the nearest police station. On the way he saw several police cars blare their sirens as they raced to the opposite direction of Gage. Finally after much panic on the way, he stopped and parked at the local police station that had been investigating Marcus's case. He walked inside the building, hearing an oddly familiar ring as the doorbell swung. When he walked in, there was a police officer looking down at his phone on the service desk. Gage walked up to the police officer. ¨Sir, I am here to talk about the case of Marcus Fletcher.¨ The police officer looked up from his phone and gazed at Gage for a couple seconds, he then opened his eyes wider in shock, and yelled ¨GET ON THE FLOOR NOW! PUT YOUR HANDS UP INTO THE AIR!¨ ¨What did I do? I am so sorry for whatever I did, please sir what is going on!?¨ The officer put handcuffs on Gage as he laid on the floor. He then began to prop him up and search him. The officer grabbed the gun from Gages left jacket pocket. He set it down on the counter and pinned Gage down with one knee. Other officers that had come in all began to talk on their radios for back up. Several minutes later Gage was moved to a desk where he was chained up. In front of him sat two officers that seemed to be in his forties working on a laptop. The other was a young man around Gages age staring at him. The man spoke, ¨I am officer O'Connor, and this is officer Waller, we want to talk to you Gabriel about the gun you brought in today.¨ Gage stood up in his chair, panic blaring from his expression,  ¨I brought it in, because I think someone is trying to frame me! I swear I have never done a terrible thing in my life, ask my neighbors, friends, family please!¨ ¨STOP LYING!¨ ¨I'm not I swear, please sir I swear!¨ Officer O'Connor rolled his eyes as he paced back and forth in front of Gage, Officer Waller spoke up through O´Connors mumbling. ¨So you are saying that you did not shoot Marcus Fletcher?¨ ¨Do you know who I am, I WAS HIS BEST FRIEND! And now you want to accuse me of killing him?¨ ¨Look here sir and tell me what you see, OK?¨ The officer turned the computer showing Marcus checking out some items at the deli. A man with a black sweatshirt walked up to the desk in the footage, and pulled out a gun. Everyone in the Deli began to duck and run, but before Marcus could duck in time, a bullet was loosed into his shoulder. The man went behind the counter and the cameras switched to show Marcus staring at the man on the floor. The man walked up to Marcus and started to speak to him. Marcus then screamed as the gun was shoved in his mouth, and the trigger was pulled. After the man went to the register and stole the entire drawer. He ran with it out of the store, ran around the building and before he ran out into the woods, his head starred at one of the cameras, showing a bloody face that looked exactly like Gages. ¨That isn't me, that can´t, I know it looks like I did it, but I-¨ The officer immediately shut the Laptop, and backed away, officer O'Connor went to the back door with officer Waller, but before they went, ¨O'Connor quickly said, ¨Thank you for your time.¨ Four months later… Carolina Williamson was sitting at her son's dining table, she was originally coming over to visit her son, and had decided to make herself comfortable by watching the news on his TV. She sat in horror as she sat watching a trial with her son in the seat for the accused. She started to walk to his bedroom, prompted to see if there really was any other possible evidence of this accusation against her son. The sweet Gage she had raised to be a wonderful boy, that never caused trouble for her. When she opened the door, she found a removed floorboard on the ground, in the place where the floor board should have been, there was a box. She opened the small shoe box, and inside was several notes. She picked up the very top envelope and started to read the message. Dear Gage, Unfortunately, I have been the only one to notice your problem, not to mention the only one to start to take care of this. I, Ethan Hunt, your other in our split thanks to your case of D.I.D. have murdered Marcus Fletcher. I came to him in the deli of Seattle local grocery store, looking specifically for a man that I knew named Marcus Fletcher, I shot him in the shoulder, and then through the mouth into the skull. I then stole one hundred and eighty two dollars and sixty four cents from the register. My reasoning was to scare the living daylights out of my twin Gage, so that when he goes into that courtroom, he will lose, and I will be shown to all other dangerous people wherever they lock people like us in. I will take out all who believe to be better than me at my job there, and become your worst nightmare. Sincerely: Ethan Hunt.

y7983d

Hunter Street

Hunter Street was empty on this brisk Sunday evening— apart from two souls, a man and a woman, walking toward each other.            It was 6 PM, just as the sun was setting— painting the sky with its glorious mural as it fell out of sight. He gazed up, excited by the sunset. ‘It’s perfect!’ He thought, as his eyes shifted from the sky to the landscape of autumnal leaves covering the ground where they walked. A gust of wind seemed like his perfect excuse to reach into the pocket of his wool coat unassumingly. As he did, the fingers of his right hand clasped around what was inside, ready to pull it out at a moment’s notice. He rubbed his finger back and forth along the soft, navy blue velvet of the tiny box. A chill raced down his spine. His heart raced in anxiety and anticipation. A small smile settled across his face. He continued to walk forward toward the girl. He was so excited to get to her, so he picked up the pace. As he did, he studied her. His eyes traced up and down her body, from the rips in her jeans to the soft curls in her hair. He locked eyes with her, his smile only growing as he took note of her wide eyes. ‘Yes, she’s so excited. I can’t wait.’ **********            It was 6 PM, just as the sun was setting— abandoning her as the night chased it from the sky; betraying her to the darkness. She glanced up, worried as the safety of the light quickly fleeted. ‘Perfect,’ she thought, as she rolled her eyes and walked through the pile of leaves strewn about the sidewalk. A gust of wind seemed like her perfect excuse to reach into the pocket of her black jacket unassumingly. As she did, her fingers tensed around what was inside, ready to pull it out at a moment’s notice. Her thumb slid back and forth along the safety clasp of the pepper spray on her keychain. A chill raced down her spine. Her eyebrows furrowed in anxiety and anticipation. She continued to walk forward toward the guy. She dreaded reaching him, but she couldn’t cross the street. As she walked, she noticed his eyes on him. She watched as he surveyed her body. She made the mistake of gazing into his eyes, and hers grew in fear at the familiar menacing madness that lay within his. ‘I need to get out of here.’                       The only sound was the rustle of the leaves in the wind and the stomp of the heels of her boots against the pavement. As they exhaled into the silence, their breath pooled in front of them, then slowly drifted off into the night. They both walked silently toward one another, each with their hands gripping the objects in their pockets. He stopped a foot away from her. She wanted to continue walking. But her body halted: paralyzed in fear. Her grip tightened around her only defense. As did his left hand. “Beautiful night, isn’t it?” She gave a weak nod. He continued to talk. It was their first face-to-face conversation. He knew it needed to go well. “I’ve been watching you.”            “I know.”            “You’re beautiful.”            “Thank you.”                       “I need you to do something for me.”            “What is it?” Her heart raced as he stepped in closer. She shuddered as she gazed nearly straight up at him.            “Marry me.” It was at this point when he swiftly pulled out his left hand. She was staring down the barrel of his silver gun. Its colors mocked the shining stars in the night sky. Her hand tensed around the pepper spray, but she knew it was too late. Any movement and she was gone.            “Please... put down the gun.”            “MARRY ME.” His voice echoed down the silent street. She hoped someone heard. But the words just rang in the silence, echoing as the leaves continued to dance in the wind. His voice was more stern this time. It was not a question. She cowered as his body began to shake with anger.            “Please...” Her voice cracked, and her vision blurred as the tears began to pool in her eyes. He pulled out his other hand, revealing the navy-blue box. She looked down as he fumbled to open the box while continuing to hold her at gunpoint. Her eyes widened, as an idea popped into her head. **********            “I’ve been watching you.” This was it. His first words to her.            “I know.”            “You’re beautiful.”                       “Thank you.”            “I need you to do something for me.”            “What is it?” He took a few steps closer: finally, so close to the girl that he loved so. He smiled as she looked up at him.            “Marry me.” It was at this point when he contemplated which hand to pull out of his pocket. As he saw the hesitation in her eyes, he decided on the left. This was it. His final option. There was no room for choice. No room for error.            “Please... put down the gun.” But he couldn’t do that.            “MARRY ME.” His body began to shake. This was it. No more time for options. He finally had her.            “Please...” Her voice cracked, but he didn’t notice. He needed to do something. He pulled out his other hand and fumbled with the box until he propped it open with his thumb. Her eyes widened. ‘Yes. She loves it.’            “Well?” She held out her left hand, still leaving the right hand in her pocket. “Put it on.” They both looked down. The small diamond shone in the moonlight. She wondered where he got it. **********            “Well?” She held out her left hand, and he set his gaze upon her ring finger, stunned, yet excited by her compliance. “Put it on.” They both looked down. He could only imagine how the small diamond he stole would look upon her finger. Though only a few seconds passed, it felt like an eternity. ‘I finally got her. This is it.’            Quickly, he fumbled to try and pull the ring from its resting place. But it was firmly nestled in the box. He looked down at it, questioning if putting this ring ion her finger was worth putting his gun away. He looked from the ring to her freshly manicured hand, then into her eyes. He found his answer in the unwavering confidence that lay behind them. ‘She loves me.’ He pocketed his gun, slipped the ring from its holder, and bent to get on one knee. He held her hand, but just as he began to slip the ring on her finger, he screamed out in agony. **********            He fumbled to try and pull the ring from its resting place. But, as she had hoped, it was firmly nestled in the box. She watched as he looked at her-- determined to maintain some semblance of the facade she hoped would protect her. Though her heart was pounding, she stared at him with icy eyes, trying to keep her extended arm from shaking. Her fingers, once again, tensed around the last line of defense that lay in her pocket. As he pocketed his gun and prepared for his marriage proposal, she sighed a quick breath of relief. She looked down at him as he bent to get on one knee, wondering if she should continue to pretend or perhaps just run. But when his cold fingers clutched her extended hand, a chill raced down her spine. Without any more hesitation, she pulled out the pepper spray.            As she launched her defense, he lost his balance-- collapsing to the ground. But he didn’t let go of her hand. Instead, she fell with him, as pain shot up her arm from where he pulled her down using the ring that he managed to finish slipping on her finger. She couldn’t bring herself to look at it, but she could feel the blood trickling from where the ring dug into her finger. Instead, she flailed her arms in a desperate scuttle to get free of his firm grasp around her wrist. But his grip only tightened. Soon, she couldn’t tell if the blood pumping to her flushed cheeks was from her valiant fighting or from his nasty punches. She needed to stop but merely panted and continued in her pursuits. That is until shots were fired. **********            She pulled out the pepper spray. He screamed in agony, lost his balance, and collapsed onto the ground. But she was his, and he refused to let go of his fiancée. After all, he did put the ring on her finger. As he fell, she fell to the ground with him. He could only think of one reason why: ‘she regrets the pepper spray and is bending down to help me.’ His mindset, however, quickly changed as she began to flail her arms at him. His confusion quickly turned to anger. ‘That was no way to treat your future husband.’ His grasp around her wrist tightened. ‘She must be punished for her behavior.’ He swung his arm-- aiming at her face. They continued on like this. He was so determined to capture what he thought was his, that he didn’t notice the clatter of the gun falling out of his pocket. Then, shots were fired. ***************************************************************                And, just like that, Hunter Street was silent once more— apart from the rustle of the leaves and the tiny clatter of the diamond ring that rolled into the gutter. A pool of blood collected as the man and the woman on hunter street lay atop one another. All that was left of their story was a gun, a small tube of pepper spray, and a small, blue box. The world would never discover the years of lurking, peering, and following that it took for them to end up here, on this street. But the world would miss her.

l5gkc9

Making Memories

Frank Scott had been looking forward to tomorrow, a Saturday, for seven years now. His son, Peter, would now be old enough to continue the Scott Family Tradition; the handing down of one of his favorite childhood toys to his children. He was as excited to hand down the toy that had brought him so much joy as Peter was to turn seven.            His wife, Brandi, knew a few of the toys that Frank had enjoyed when he was a kid. Her mother-in-law had been more than generous with stories about Frank’s younger days, such as the day he had finally solved the Rubik’s Cube for the first time. “He strutted around like he had just figured out the impossible” she had said. But Frank wasn’t talking so Brandi had no idea which toy Peter was going to receive.            Brandi rose early Saturday morning to make a special birthday breakfast for Peter, he had requested cinnamon french toast and sausage. As she was preparing the batter, Peter walked into the kitchen.            “Good morning mom” he said.            “Good morning birthday boy” she beamed back at him. “Do you feel seven now?” she asked.            “Aww mom, you can’t feel your age.”            “Give it time Peter, give it time. Once you get to my age, you will have an entirely different view on that.”            “Hey, where is dad?”            “He left early to pick up a few things. He’ll be back in time for your birthday breakfast, don’t you worry about that. And speaking of your breakfast, how about you go get cleaned up so you can eat.”            “Ok, mom.”            A few minutes later, the sound of the front door opening announced Frank’s arrival home. Carrying a few nondescript bags in one hand, he walked past the kitchen, looking in as he went by.            “Well, it looks like you had better hurry up and get washed up for breakfast, young man.”            Peter disappeared down the hall while Brandi began cooking breakfast, filling the kitchen with the aroma of cinnamon french toast.            An hour later, breakfast was finished and the dishes washed and dried. Frank gathered a few wrapped packages and brought them to the living room for Peter. Looking at the boxes, Peter thought about what his father might have gotten him for his birthday. He really wanted the new PlayStation console that all of his friends had gotten for Christmas this past year. As he looked at the presents, none seemed to be the right size for a PlayStation.            “Before you begin tearing into things Peter, I have something to tell you first” Frank said. “You are now seven years old and, as is the tradition in the Scott family, I am passing down to you my favorite toy when I was your age.”            “Ok, dad” Peter said a little unsure, as his mind raced to think of what that might be. He wasn’t sure that either of his parents had any “cool” toys when they were his age. There were basic, early versions of the game consoles that he enjoyed with his friends, but he had no idea what they were or what kinds of games they had. He had seen something called an Atari 2600 once when he was in the attic looking for his Christmas presents.                     “Here you go” said Frank, a smile on his face reaching both of his ears as he passed a large, rectangular package to Peter. “I hope you have as much fun with it as I did.”            “Thanks, dad” Peter replied as he began tearing the wrapping paper off. “Oh, it’s…..a train set” he said, the dejection in his voice was obvious.            “It’s not just a train set, it’s a Lionel Santa Fe train set. This was one of the best available when I was your age.”            Sitting on the couch, afraid for what might come next, Brandi saw the disappointment in Peter’s face and the complete lack of comprehension in Frank’s. Hoping against hope that there would not be hurt feelings with either of the men in her life, she watched nervously, knowing that she would be consoling at least one of them sooner or later.            “But dad, it’s still just a train set. You set up the track and it goes in a circle. What is fun about that?”            “What is fun about that?” Frank said, his voice rising with each word, “I’ll tell you what’s fun about that.”            “Frank, honey, why don’t you go out for a walk” Brandi said.            “Yeah, that’s probably a good idea.”            As Frank left for what she hoped would be a long walk, Brandi began thinking about the best way to confront the logic of a seven-year-old in this situation. Peter did have a point, it was just a train set and it did go in circles, ovals, or however the track was laid out. For a seven-year-old, how much fun was there in a toy that traditionally gets its most use at Christmas time, which was still months away.            Frank left the house at a quick pace, better to get the anger he felt brewing out sooner rather than later. Something about walking briskly when he was mad helped the anger to dissipate quicker. He didn’t know why and if he really cared to find out, he could probably search the web and find some over-priced self-help book that would explain it to him.            As he walked, the purpose in his stride lessened as his frustration eased. Kids today are too caught up in technology, he thought. If there is a power outage that lasts for more than a few minutes, they don’t know what to do with themselves. Where is their imagination and creativity, he wondered? When he got back home, he would sit down with Peter and have a good talk about not just the train set, but also about his dependence on video games for entertainment.            Finding Peter in his room, a sullen look about him, Brandi said “Would you like to tell me about it?”            “What’s there to tell mom? I was hoping for the latest PlayStation console and instead, dad gave me his old, used train set. What am I going to tell my friends at school on Monday when they ask what I got for my birthday?”            “Tell them the truth.”            “Yeah, that I got a crummy old train set.”            “Peter, first of all, don’t you think you are being a little hard on your father just because you didn’t get what you wanted? Second, the attitude you have right now is not how your father and I have been raising you. You are basically throwing a tantrum because you did not get what you want. Have you stopped yet to think about how you made your father feel? He chose this particular toy from his past, something that has been very special to him, to give you to.”            “Oh” Peter said.            “Yeah, oh is right” Brandi replied. “Come on, let’s go watch a movie.”            His anger and frustration walked off, Frank returned home and found Brandi and Peter watching Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl in the den.            “Hi dad.”            “Hi Peter. Listen, there is somewhere that I would like to take you. Would you mind finishing your movie later?”            “Sure. Where are we going?”            “It’s another birthday surprise.”            A brief look of concern crossed Brandi’s face, mouthing “are you sure” to Frank so as not to be heard by Peter.            With a relaxed smile on his face, Frank just nodded and speaking with his eyes, implored her to trust him.            Once everyone was in the car and headed to the surprise destination, Frank considered his options to begin his conversation with Peter. He wanted him to understand that while there was nothing wrong with video games, in moderation, they weren’t the end-all means to entertain oneself.            “Peter, I know you were disappointed in opening my old train set, but I want to explain something to you. You and your friends have a great time playing video games together and everything, but I didn't want to see you have to have video games to make you happy and have fun. There are other things that, at least in my view, are more beneficial to you in the long-term than playing a few video games.”            “Like what dad? The games are cool, sometimes you get to blow things up and the explosions are really neat!”            “Well, how about reading a book for instance.”            “That isn’t much fun.”            “Why? Because you don’t get to blow things up?”            “Well, yeah.”            “Ok, I understand that watching things blow up can be fun to watch but, after you have played a game a few times, you always know what is going to happen, right?”            “Yes.”            “Well, what if you had to create the whole scene in your mind, as you see it.”            “What do you mean?”            “For example, an author writes about a building being blown up, for construction purposes, let’s say. Now, as you read what the author is telling you, you form a picture in your mind, right?”            “Yeah, I do.”            “Ok, well guess what. The picture that you form is different from the picture that your mother or I form reading the same words. Whereas in your game, if your mother or I played the same game, we would see the same scenes you see. No one needs to use their imagination because the scene is being presented to you right on the TV screen.”            “Where are you going with this” Brandi asked.            “Ok, I think I understand what you mean dad.”            They came to a stop outside a large, two-story house in a neighborhood that was unfamiliar to Brandi and Peter. At the curb, there was a mailbox with the name Williams affixed in stick-on letters.            “Where are we” Brandi asked?            “This is Bob’s house. You know my co-worker Bob and his wife Sandy; you’ve met them a few times.”            Bob answered the knock at the door an ushered everyone inside. “Does this have anything to do with what we talked about at work yesterday” Bob asked?            “Yes, it does. It pretty much went like you thought it might Bob.”            “I tried to tell you.”            “I know, I know. I think you have the key here though.”            “Ok, well, if you and Peter will follow me to the basement, I have something to show Peter.”            “Aren’t women invited?” Brandi asked with a grin on her face.            “Of course, of course. Doubters one and all are welcome” Bob responded with a laugh.            Leading the way, Bob flipped on light switches as they descended the stairs to the basement.            “Whoa!” exclaimed Peter. “What is that?!”            “That my son, is what you can do with a model train set when you use your imagination.”            Before them lay a vast, small scale landscape complete with buildings, cars, trees, bushes, street signs, people and nearly anything else that you could imagine. Running around the entire landscape, past the city and through a tunnel, was a miniature train.            “Bob has been interested in model trains since he was your age. I was too, when I was your age and still am. I haven’t taken it to the level that you see Bob has though. Take a close look, to build something like this takes a lot of time, energy and patience. The attention to detail that people like Bob put into their layouts is amazing. In fact, Peter, sometimes train layouts like this are used in movies.”            “No way! Really? This is so cool!”            “I have to agree” Brandi chimed in, “it looks very impressive when set up like this.”            “Thank you” Bob said. “One of my favorite parts of model trains is that you can choose whatever era you like, do a bit of reading about the time frame and then you just put your imagination to work and build your layout to match what you see in your mind.”            “Can we build this at home, dad?”            “We’ll see, we need to check with the boss first” Frank said with a chuckle and a wink at Brandi.            “I think maybe we can work something out. This was a nice surprise for him Frank.”            After a few hours of questions, examination of Bob’s train layout and securing the promise of technical assistance with their own layout, the Scott’s headed home. Both Frank and Peter were happy and excited in their own way at how Peter’s seventh birthday had turned out.

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By Any Other Name

It was adorable, the way she sat there working her way through her letters with chalk on the antique ‘silent book slate’ I made for her from a mini chalkboard. She didn’t need to practice the alphabet; she had learned to read and write over two years ago, but her penmanship was improving, so I didn’t say anything. She was dressed in the white ‘nightdress’ I had made for her in the fashion of the seventeen hundreds. My little Betty is lucky I like crafting. Oh, right. She asked to be called Elizabeth since that’s the name of the main character’s best friend in her favorite series, the American Girl Felicity books. It’s really nice to see someone so young interested in history, but no one her age does it quite like Elizabeth. She’s read every single Felicity book that American Girl has put out over the course of their three reboots, and she does her best to live them. “Elizabeth, dear, it’s time for bed.” I tried to speak formally when I could because she loved it so much. “Yes, Mother.” She jumped to her feet and did her best imitation of a curtsy, and then turned to erase her slate and put it and her chalk away. She picked up the small battery powered candle lamp that my mother somehow found for her seventh birthday last week, and balanced it carefully as she walked up the stairs. She had known better than to ask for a real candle holder, but this suited her just fine. I briefly wondered how long this would last, and if I should be looking up renaissance camps just to see if my husband and I could afford the costs. I had previously thought that perhaps we could take her to a renaissance fair instead, but I didn’t like how they had turned into a ‘how low can I wear my dress without being indecent’ contest. Then again, perhaps the renaissance wouldn’t be exciting for her. After all, Felicity and Elizabeth weren’t born until the late seventeen hundreds. The next morning, when Betty came downstairs, I was getting off the phone. Drew was making toast. Elizabeth looked from me to her father, smoothed out the yellow dress she had chosen to wear to school, and shook her head. “You and your newfangled inventions.” We all laughed. She learned that word from her grandmother, who liked to complain about how fast the world changes. Elizabeth smiled proudly and sat down at the table. “Please pass the orange juice.” “Are you sure you don’t want chocolate milk?” I was drinking some, and somehow it would feel less childish if my child had some too. “Mother, the technology for that didn’t exist yet. Felicity and Elizabeth didn’t have chocolate milk. May I have orange juice?” “Of course.” Drew answered for me. He got the carton from the fridge. “What are we going to do with that child?” Drew asked as I walked back inside after dropping Betty off at school. I shrugged. “She’ll probably grow out of it. At least she’s not obsessed with a time when they believed children should be seen and not heard.” Drew nodded thoughtfully. “Maybe we should see about a camp for her. A normal one, where she can make friends that are both from this century and not fictional.” We had heard a lot about her ‘best friend Felicity’, but she had also said she hadn’t met her yet because Felicity and Elizabeth don’t meet until they’re nine in the books. “Perhaps we should.” I responded. “On that note, I think we both should be heading out now.” When I picked Elizabeth up from school later that day, she was quiet the whole ride home. I had to keep checking the mirror to make sure she was still there, and hadn’t slipped away at the last stop sign. But she was still there, buckled despite the fact that they didn’t have cars, much less seatbelts, in the seventeen hundreds, and staring silently out the window. “Elizabeth, how was your day?” “Shannon said I’ll never meet Felicity. She said she’s not real.” She spoke quietly, as if she wasn’t sure she wanted to be heard. “Is Felicity real? Or is Shannon right?” “Sweetheart, there are lots of people named Felicity in the world. Felicity Merriman may not have ever lived, but you’re not Elizabeth Cole. You’re Elizabeth Clark. So maybe in a couple years you will meet Felicity Morris, or Felicity something else. Maybe Felicity won’t even be her first name, but you will meet someone eventually who will be as good a friend to you as Felicity was to Elizabeth. Okay?” I pulled the car into the garage and then turned to look at my daughter. She nodded. Over the course of the next week, I never once saw her writing on her little slate. She wore more modern pajamas, and she accepted chocolate milk and things like that that hadn’t existed in the eighteenth century. I thought perhaps her phase was over, that Shannon had forced Elizabeth to outgrow her cute olden day phase much too quickly. And then one day I was sewing a new skirt for Elizabeth in a simple modern style when she walked hesitantly into my office. “Mother?” she began, “would you teach me to sew?” “Elizabeth, you’re much too young to use a machine. Maybe in a few years if you’re still interested.” “What about with just a needle and thread. They didn’t have machines yet back then.” I smiled, oddly happy to have my daughter sound like she wished once again to be in the seventeen hundreds. “Are you sure you won’t hurt yourself? Needles are very sharp.” “So I’ll use a thimble,” she offered, “please?” “Elizabeth, thimbles are extremely annoying to try to work with. I don’t know how to use a thimble.” I thought for a bit. “I can start you with crocheting or knitting, and then you could use a yarn needle to sew yarn patches together. Yarn needles are bigger and they’re not sharp because the holes already exist, but it’s the same technique. Would that do for a start?” “Thank you, Mother. Can we get yarn in red, white, and blue?” I smiled, “That’s very patriotic of you. Got a specific project in mind?” My little girl nodded happily. “An American flag.” “Okay, I’ll pick some up tomorrow. Do you have any homework today?” She shook her head, and then headed for the doorway. Elizabeth stopped and turned back to face me. “One more thing,” she said. “Could you call me Betsy?”

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