

La Verne Writers' Group

2018 Anthology

## Contributors:

## Don Ball Jonathan Chaus Sharri Cohen

## T.L. Eastwood Carol Elek Lisa Griffiths

## Sue Maywood Tamara Miller Holly Iris Scott

## Scott Skipper

## Plus non-member Sally Wachtel

Copyright 2018, 2011, 1987

All rights reserved

Smashwords Edition

ISBN 9780463510636

### This free eBook is intended for your personal enjoyment

### It may be shared as long as it is not sold or altered

### These are works of fiction.

### Any resemblance to events, places, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

### Cover design

### Scott Skipper

### Photo credit Holly Iris Scott

## Dedication

## We dedicate this anthology

## to our missing member, Don Ball,

## who passed away on April 4, 2018.

## Don was a great writer and poet.

## We miss him.

## La Verne Writers' Group

Table of Contents

A Death in Carolina by Scott Skipper

A Good Deed by Tamara Miller

A Sign of the Times by Sharri Cohen

Amelia Earhart's Final Hour by Don Ball

Anna by Holly Iris Scott

Another Home by Don Ball

The Battle of Bangor Bridge by Jonathan Chaus

The Bike Ride by Carol Elek

Blue Skies by Don Ball

By the Hair of the Dog by Sharri Cohen

Christmas Eve by Don Ball

The Closet by Lisa Griffiths

Day's End by Don Ball

The Decision by T.L. Eastwood

Dumpster Diver by Jonathan Chaus

The Final Chess Game by Jonathan Chaus

The Fountain of Puerility by Jonathan Chaus

Graduation at Putnam by Don Ball

Grandpa Sims' Farm by Tamara Miller

Ground Zero by T.L. Eastwood

Haiku by Sharri Cohen

The Happy Life by Don Ball

Hopscotch by Don Ball

It's Alive by Lisa Griffiths

Jack Ketch by Lisa Griffiths

The Joy of Christmas by Carol Elek

The Last Furrow by Don Ball

Live Until You Die! by Jonathan Chaus

Meant to Be Together by Sharri Cohen

Moon Over Bourbon Street by Lisa Griffiths

Mother and Daughter by Carol Elek

My Old Car by Don Ball

My Old Mule by Don Ball

Natalie Humming-bee by Sally Wachtel

On the Trail to San Wileo by Lisa Griffiths

The Patriot by Sharri Cohen

Perry by Don Ball

The Pigeon Problem by Jonathan Chaus

Retribution by Sharri Cohen

The Ride of His Life by Lisa Griffiths

Safe Haven Asylum by T.L. Eastwood

Sand Hill Cranes by Don Ball

Shooting Star by T.L. Eastwood

Slopes Too Steep by Don Ball

The Stainless Steel Coffin by Scott Skipper

The Story of Misty and Pepper by Carol Elek

Succumbed to the Sandman by Lisa Griffiths

The Time Shrink by Scott Skipper

Tracy and the Bomber by T.L. Eastwood

Waiting for the Bus by Tamara Miller

# A Death in Carolina

## Scott Skipper

Copyright 2011 Scott Skipper

Saturday, July 4, 1914

James Tomoney and James Shiver sat on the ground behind the colored lodge passing a glass-lined bag. The sun was about to set and the bottle was nearly dry. "Damn shame be the Fourth o' July without no fireworks," Shiver drawled as he pulled a pistol from the pocket of his shiny blue jacket and fired twice in the air.

Tomoney tossed the empty bottle toward the burning barrel and tried to shoot it with the revolver he took from inside his belt. "Laws," he said after his sixth shot, "I can't hit de side o' de barn today." He flipped the cylinder open to the left and pulled the spent rounds from it. A door at the back of the lodge opened as he pushed the last shell in place and closed the cylinder.

"Doan you boys be shootin' out here," Cap Robinson warned the pair.

"We's jus' celebratin' the Fourth o' July," Tomoney told him.

"Don't be shootin' out here, I tells ya."

"Well, den we's gonna come in der t' do our shootin'." Tomoney rose and pushed his bulky frame past the older man. Shiver laughed like a braying donkey and followed him into the lodge.

Robinson followed scolding, "Now, lookie here, you's can't be comin' in here like dat."

Tomoney ignored him and grabbed a wine bottle from a shelf at the back of the darkened room where the failing sunlight leaked in between the boards. He tossed it to Shiver saying, "Here, Jimboy, iffin ya wanna smell, drink Muscatel." Shiver caught it and brayed again like an infernal ass.

There weren't many people in the lodge hall. Fewer than a dozen black men sat around in their Sunday suits playing checkers and talking. All stopped to look at the distraction that entered from the back. Cap Robinson tried to get the bottle from Shiver but Tomoney brandished the gun in his face then grabbed a bottle for himself. They were flat pint bottles. The kind meant to be carried in the hip pocket of a gentleman's suit. He unscrewed the cap and guzzled nearly half of it, made a face then took aim at a picture on the wall and fired three times, hitting it once. That emptied the place. Robinson went out the back while all the rest crowded out the front. Tomoney stuffed another pint into his pants, straightened his shabby fedora, and followed the crowd through the door. He paused on the rickety stoop of the old plank building and began shooting at the broken down old brogues of the patrons who had just quitted the place. They scattered while he reloaded cackling about as foolishly as Shiver's braying.

Cap Robinson, peeking around the corner of the weathered gray clubhouse, saw Tomoney fire indiscriminately at his fleeing friends and quietly started walking down the dusty road toward Farmers where the sheriff lived. The day was just as hot and muggy as a day can get, the mosquitoes were rising, and he didn't relish the five-mile walk ahead of him. He hoped he could get a ride back.

Isaac was carving watermelons for the hoard of children who would bite out the heart, throw the rest in the bushes, then get back in line for another slice. "You young 'uns stop be so wasteful," Isaac warned them. "Eat it down to the rind, ya hear." But the boys just ate the heart and rejoined the line with juice still dripping from their chins. Isaac couldn't even remember half their names let alone which of them had already had a piece of melon.

Ida swung in a glider by the table where Isaac worked and fanned herself with an ivory fan that had come all the way from China. At forty-five and after twelve offspring—ten surviving—she was still a fine looking woman. Her auburn hair was pinned off her neck and her cool blue eyes had a sultry, heavy lidded look that she had perfected early in life. Her southern belle charms aroused Isaac just as much after twenty years as they did on the day he proposed marriage to the widow Parker.

There were forty-two Skippers at that Fourth of July supper and all manner of Potters, Liles, Hinsons, Bentons and Jacobs. It took eight big picnic tables to hold them all and a hundred and twenty pound hog to fill them. Even Isaac's sister, Alice, the twice fallen woman, showed her face with her two bastard girls. Rumor was that Blanche, the crippled one—having been born when her mother was fifteen—was the product of Alice being unable, or unwilling, to outrun one of her less upright brothers. Maggie, being whole and healthy, it was assumed whoever fathered her couldn't be closer than second cousin. Ida wouldn't even look at them.

The peace of the evening was punctuated by the staccato of firecrackers and the deeper boom caused by some boys who had gone down to the Carolina bay below the graveyard to stun bullheads with cherry bombs. When the wind was right Isaac thought he heard the sound of a Jews harp coming from the sharecroppers' shacks back where the slave row had been in the days before he was born. It seemed as idyllic a Fourth of July as there ever was.

G.W. Skipper was especially close to his uncle. He admired him for the fact of being deputy sheriff and hoped he could get the job when Isaac retired. Given that his grandfather, Lawson, had procreated across such a broad span of time, G.W. was only three years younger than his uncle. "Uncle Isaac," he said, "why don't you sit down and relax and let those young 'uns fend for their selves?"

Isaac licked the sweat off his handlebar mustaches and said, "It's been such a peaceful day I wouldn't want one of 'em to spoil it by cuttin' off his arm."

"That's a fact. Now, that's a fact."

Ida chuckled and said, "You just like playin' the head of the family and you know it."

"G.W.'s daddy's the head of this family and that I know."

"Maybe so but you take to it more than Sylvester does." Ida heard a giggle from inside the house. She looked through the gauzy drapes to see Kathleen's new husband, Arthur, giving her a squeeze. "Here now," she tapped the sill with her fan, "you two stop carryin' on so."

"Mama," her oldest daughter protested, "we _are_ married."

"Just the same, there'll be no such carryin' on in my house." Arthur sat up straight and folded his hands in his lap.

Caldwell Potter came onto the porch and pulled the straw hat off his long skinny head. "Mr. Skipper," he said, "I still want your bull to stand stud fer my prize cow."

"We talk about that some other time, Caldwell. I have taken this day off and don't want to think none about business."

"All right then. Okay if I come back on Monday?"

"That'd be fine. That'd be fine."

Isaac sat on the glider by Ida, crossed his legs, and interlaced his fingers. He tilted his head in thought for a time then called out to the darkness, "Did I ever tell you young 'uns what it was like the night they had the big earthquake down to Charleston?"

A voice in the dark said, "Tell it again, Uncle Isaac."

"Well, it was late summer and just about bedtime but I was down to the pond giggin' frogs when the ground started rollin' and the trees started shakin' and there's a big rumblin' noise. I didn't know what it was. Thought this might be Judgment Day, but it kept on more than a minute I reckon, and the water slopped right outta the pond. It sure stirred up them ghost lights. They was risin' outta the ground everywhere I looked. They's bubblin' right out the swamp water, and all that commotion made the frogs jump right onto the shore, and I was able to stuff my pockets full without even havin' to gig 'em."

Ida shook her head and smiled behind the fan.

"By the time I got back to the house all the girls, and Mama, was standin' in the yard prayin' in their nightgowns. Sylvester and Needham was makin' sure the house and barn wasn't gonna fall down. Y'all know how Daddy cobbled another room onto the place every time a young 'un was born. We didn't find out what it was for nigh a week when Everett went up to Farmers and got a newspaper. None of us had ever heard tell of such a thing before—"

G.W.'s oldest son, Jack—he was Ephraim but preferred Jack—vaulted all the steps in a leap. "Uncle Isaac," he cried, "there's a nigger calling for you."

"A nigger? Now, what's he want?"

"Says he needs to see the sheriff."

"Well, where is he?"

"Out behind the kitchen. Says he don't feel right comin' 'round the front."

"Go fetch 'im, Jack. Your uncle's tired."

Jack ran through the house instead of going around and he slammed the door in the process. Ida rolled her lovely eyes and kept fanning, however, she was relieved to note that the boy had enough sense to bring the nigger back around the house and not let him traipse through it.

"Mr. Skipper," Cap Robinson said, "you come quick. Der be a crazy nigger up at Northwes' and he like t' shoot up the place."

"He kill anybody?"

"Not by time I leave but he done wing a few."

Isaac drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. He patted his baldhead with his handkerchief and sucked his teeth while he thought about it. Robinson stood wringing his old felt hat in his sweaty hands and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Ida broke the tension. "Isaac, do you have to go out on the Fourth of July?"

"I reckon a nigger has to be brought to heel on the Fourth of July as much as any other day. I won't be long. You don't wait up now." Then he said, "Jack, you go get the T-Model outta the barn. G.W., you comin'?"

"I bet I am. I'll go fetch a gun."

Isaac stood like he had creaky bones. He ran his thumbs under his braces while he walked stiffly into the house. When he came out he was wearing his coat, badge, pistol and club. Jack had driven the Model-T right to the steps of the porch. It was clattering and reeking to high heaven. Cap Robinson made sure he had a place on the running board. G.W. sat beside his son and Isaac shook his head, walked around the car and climbed into the rear seat. He said somewhat pointlessly, "Jack, you drive." His own eldest son, L.T.C., might have come along but he hadn't been seen since he and Lydie James sneaked away to the privacy of the cemetery.

Ida called to him, "Don't you be late, Isaac, ya hear. You have to get up early for church—and be careful." But he couldn't hear her over the noise of the car.

"Boy," Isaac said to Cap Robinson who was perched on the running board and holding tight to the edge of the door, "you know who this nigger is?"

"I seen 'im a time or two. Name's James Tomoney."

"Tomoney? What kind of a name is that?"

"I reckon it mus' be a nigger name," Cap replied.

Isaac smiled, "I reckon yo're right about that."

Jack said over his shoulder, "I threw a piece of rope under the seat, Uncle Isaac, in case he done hurt some white folk."

"Boy, we're not gonna have no lynchin'—exceptin' he done somethin' real bad."

"Daddy said you used to have lynchin's all the time back in the day when grand-daddy was guardin' the chain gang."

"That was before I was sheriff. We're gonna arrest this boy and that's all we're gonna do."

Jack wouldn't relent. "We'll be out all night if we have to take him all the way up to Wilmington. Be a lot faster just to string 'im up and give the po' folk a reason to remember the Fourth of July."

G.W. spoke up. "Don't you sass your uncle or I'll give _you_ a reason to remember the Fourth of July."

"I was jus' teasin'" Jack grinned.

Cap Robinson listened with the whites of his eyes showing all the way around the irises.

When they got to Farmers Station, Jack rattled over the tracks and followed the right-of-way toward Northwest. The moon was just three days shy of being full. It lit the sandy road more than the headlights, and it made the shiny rails glow silver on the black bed of the cinders. Cap said, "Dis be sich a night I be surprised we doan see de ghost train."

"Ain't no ghost train," Isaac told him. "Folks hereabouts been seein' those fairy lights longer than there ever was a train."

Cap let go of the door with one hand and reached into his pocket where he stroked his rabbit's foot. "I reckon den the ghost light jus' keepin' up wid de progress."

The lights of Northwest became visible through the long straw pines and a black man came from the shadows, walking toward them with a kerosene lantern. Cap squinted into the darkness. "That be my cousin, Jasper. He 'uz at de lodge when Tomoney start shootin'. We ast him where he be now."

Jasper stopped and looked frightened when the car with three white men stopped next to him. It took a few seconds for him to recognize Cap hanging on the side. Isaac addressed him. "Boy, do you know where the nigger is who's been raising a rough house?"

"He quiet down a bit. Gone t' Medlin's t' get somethin' t' eat."

"Anybody else get shot?"

"Not dat I sees."

"Okay, then you get on home and stay outta trouble."

"Yessah."

"Jack, drive behind Medlin's and stop with the bumper up again the door. We don't want him seein' us and goin' out the back."

Jack did as he was told and Cap stepped off the running board to let Isaac open the door. Isaac said to him, "You come along and point him out to me."

Medlin's was a general store with a lunch counter at the back. It had electricity and when they looked through the window the dozen or so bulbs hanging from their cords lit the place well enough to reveal a sizeable crowd milling around the spectacle of a black man being served at a whites' only counter. G.W. said, "The damned fools is standin' 'round waitin' for him to start shootin' again."

Jack said, "I can't believe Medlin served him."

"I reckon Medlin ain't here. His nigger cook probably served him just to keep peace," Isaac replied. "You two stay behind me and keep your guns handy but outta sight. We don't want to start shootin' in there with all those people 'round if we don't have to."

As Isaac walked through the store he gestured sharply to people to get back and he took his club off his belt. G.W. and Jack followed at his elbows and Robinson remained a couple steps behind. The lunch counter only had five stools—just one was occupied—there wasn't anything behind it but a sideboard with a shoofly pie on it and a big old regulator clock on the wall that said it was eleven-thirty.

"Tomoney," Isaac said in a voice meant to intimidate. "You are under arrest for unruly conduct and attempted murder."

Tomoney didn't move for a second then he calmly turned from his biscuits and gravy. He raised his left arm as if to surrender but when he turned on the stool the pistol was in his right hand. Isaac raised his club, but Tomoney fired before getting bashed on the head. The impact of the bullet entering Isaac's left side snapped every muscle in his body limp, and the club, which only dented Tomoney's hat, clattered on the floor. Tomoney kept firing wildly. G.W. attempted to shoot but a slug hitting his gun knocked it from his hand, and the ricocheting bullet struck Jack on the temple, dropping him to the dirty linoleum. Another of Tomoney's shots hit G.W. in the hand and one hit Cap Robinson's scrawny leg shattering his thigh bone midway between the knee and hip.

Tomoney walked coolly toward the door reloading, and the only sound in the place was the ticking of the regulator clock. Then Tomoney began firing again and emptied his revolver by the time he made it through the door. G.W. recovered his wits when he saw the man was about to escape and ran into the street. A couple of wounded sat in the dirt and a white man came running with a shotgun in his hand. "What happened?" he asked.

G.W. snatched the gun from the man saying, "Let me borrow that." Tomoney had just about reached the tracks when he fired. The buckshot threw him across the rails where he landed spread-eagled with his face in the cinders. It was only a single-shot gun so G.W. gave it back to the man and went to check Isaac and Jack. Isaac was already dead, and Jack was unconscious. G.W.'s hand dripped blood on Isaac's face while he closed his eyes, then he took Jack's wrist to check for a pulse. Cap Robinson was whimpering on the floor when the cook brought a wet towel for Jack's head, which revived him, and a rag to bind G.W.'s hand.

The man with the shotgun came into the store and looked from G.W. to Cap Robinson. He said, "The other nigger ain't dead yet—shame nobody seen who done it. This one's gonna have to have a splint on that leg afore we can move him." Looking at G.W. again he asked, "Where you want us to take 'em?"

G.W. was trying to help his son into a sitting position leaning his back against the lunch counter. "Farmers Station," he said without looking. "Put 'em on the train in the morning for the hospital if they're alive—colored funeral home if they're not."

Jack was awake by then and stared in shock at his uncle's body. He said in a breaking voice with tears running down his cheek, "Aunt Ida's gonna skin us alive."

###

# A Good Deed

### Tamara Miller

My husband unexpectedly passed away two months ago while sitting on his recliner at our vacation mobile home in Parker, Arizona, along the Colorado River.

I love our place, with so many memories. I have to go back and face the scene to move forward. I've been putting it off, but yesterday I packed the car with our little dog, Kissy, to spend a week there. My husband never let me go alone because he worried for my safety on a four hour drive through the desert. Of course, my two children are the ones who are worried about me now, but I convinced them that I would call them from my cell phone as I made two stops at rest areas on the way.

Pulling into the mobile park my heart started to race and an uncontrollable flood of tears covered my face. Walking inside, the first thing I saw was his recliner where I had found him unresponsive. I curled up in it and had a total meltdown.

Taking a deep breath, I told myself I had to be a big girl and get a hold of my emotions. I unpacked the car and took Kissy for a walk along the river.

The next morning the sun was shining and the warmth felt good on my body, as I had my coffee on the porch, spending my first day here as a widow. Life would never be the same again.

It was mid-week so the park was almost empty. A young man and his dog lived in the trailer next to me. He was a worker in the park.

Across from me and three trailers down, lived a young couple that I had not met. As I enjoyed my second cup of coffee, the young girl walked by pushing a stroller with a baby. She smiled, and I smiled back with a 'good morning' greeting.

Earlier, I had seen a young man leaving their trailer for work. I assumed he was her husband.

Needing some groceries, I drove thirty-minutes into town to do a little shopping. I took Kissy for a short walk when I returned home, after I had put my groceries away. I sat on my porch with a cold drink and my Kindle on which I had downloaded several books. It was time to catch up on some of my reading.

I had only read one chapter when the young woman approached me, pushing her stroller. We introduced ourselves. Her name was Sky. She told me she was a descendant of one of the local Indian tribes.

"Are you going to town today?" Sky asked me. "I'm out of diapers and wondered if you could buy some for me?"

"I just went to the store this morning. I'm sorry."

"My friend has gone to work and won't be back until tonight. I only have two diapers left."

_Friend?_ I thought. _I guess he's not her husband._ Sky just stood there as if she was thinking about her dilemma.

_I really don't have anything planned today,_ I thought. _I should give her a ride to the store. I remember being a young mother and all the worries that came with having a small child._

"I will take you to the store," I offered.

"I hate to bother you, but I would appreciate it," said Sky.

"Let me know when you are ready."

"If we can go now, I'll just get my purse and the car seat."

"Yes, that will be fine."

Five minutes later, I met her at my car. "This is really a nice Mercedes," she said as she hooked the car seat in the back. She buckled her one year old little boy in place, and we put the stroller in the trunk.

Strangely, she got in the back seat next to her boy.

"Don't you want to sit up front?" I asked.

"No. I like to sit by my baby," replied Sky.

_I guess that's okay,_ I thought. I was just uncomfortable having her sit in back of me.

As I pulled out of the park onto the main street, I asked, "Do you want to go to Wal-Mart or the grocery store?"

"If you don't mind, I need to make a stop at my girlfriend's house. She owes me money, and I only have food stamps. She lives at the Blue Water mobile home park with her dad. It's on the way."

_Oh no,_ I thought. _Her story is already changing. I don't know this girl. Have I made a mistake by helping her?_

I made small talk as we drove. It was about fifteen minutes to the Blue Water Park. I was getting a little nervous, and my mind started wandering. _She is sitting in the back seat and probably has a gun in her diaper bag. She is going to shoot me in the head, take all my money, and steal my car. My kids will never find my body. Oh stop it! You have been watching too many Life movies,_ I told myself.

"Which trailer does your friend live in?" I asked, as we entered the park.

"Just go to the end of the street and make a right," Sky said.

When I turned right she said, "I thought it was right here, but I guess we are on the wrong street. Make a left up there." She pointed out the direction.

My heart was racing, and I had worked myself into what my grandmother called a 'tizzy'. _She probably took me here to make a drug deal. I think I'll tell her we are going home._

"Pull up where the red mailbox is. I think that's her place," directed Sky. When I stopped the car she said, "No, that's not it."

"Okay, Sky. This is what we are going to do. I'm going to give you ten dollars, and I'll take you to the store to get your diapers, and then we're going home," I said in my best take charge voice. I hoped she didn't notice my voice quivering, because now I was a little scared, but as the same time, I told myself I was overreacting.

"I appreciate that," said Sky as I handed her ten dollars and drove toward the market. Still thinking she could shoot me in the head. I didn't like that she was sitting in the back seat.

Parking in the Safeway lot, Sky got out of the car. "I'll be right back," she said.

_Her baby is asleep. I guess that's why she didn't take him,_ I thought. _She doesn't know me but trusted leaving him in my care. I'm just being silly with my thoughts. I'll be home soon and considered this a lesson learned. I hope my kids never find out what I have done. They'll never let me come to the river alone again._

I saw her diaper bag on the back seat. I couldn't help myself. I checked it to make sure she didn't have a gun tucked away. I felt a little ridiculous as I went through it, but was relieved that I didn't find one.

Ten more minutes passed, and my mind took off again. _Sky thinks I am rich because I am driving a Mercedes and that I'm a nice lady. She has decided to leave her baby with me to raise._

_I'll give her five more minutes, and then I'll go inside the store and look for her. If I don't find her I'll take her baby to the police station. I sure have gotten myself in a mess._ Then I saw her running from the store carrying about eight grocery bags.

Of course, the first thing that crossed my mind was that she had run out without paying, and I am now the get-a-way driver. Nearing the car she slowed down, and I was relieved that I didn't see anyone chasing her.

"I'm so sorry it took me so long," she said, slightly out of breath. "While I was in the store I thought I would buy what I needed with my food stamps."

I was so relieved, that I couldn't put her groceries in the trunk fast enough. I don't know what she had planned, but we were going straight home. I was a little embarrassed that I let my mind get so carried away.

We were home! I helped her unload her groceries. Her baby was still asleep. She thanked me and I said, "No problem." I locked my car and return to the safety of my mobile home.

It took me a while to calm down. I couldn't believe how upset I made myself, but did promise myself, no more helping people I don't know.

The next morning, I was having my coffee inside. For some reason I didn't want to go outside. Someone knocked on my door. It was Sky.

"Good morning," I greeted her.

"Sorry to bother you again, but could you give me a ride to my brother's house. He's not too far from here."

"I'm sorry, Sky. I really can't, I have a lot to do today." Just a little white lie.

"I don't know what to do. My friend said I have to get out of his house. He said if I didn't put out, I needed to get out. I thought he was a friend. Boy was I wrong."

"If he wants you out, can't he take you to your brother's?"

"He said he wouldn't. He had to go to work."

"I can call the park manager and see if they have another mobile you can stay." _This should not be my problem,_ I thought. _Her friend works for the park, let them straighten it out._

"Thanks. I appreciate your help. I'll check back with you later," she said and left.

I called the park manager and told them what Sky had said. I probably got him in trouble because he let someone live with him. The manager said he would take care of it.

Still afraid to go outside I sat on my couch, which faced their trailer directly, and waited to see if he left, or took her somewhere. In about an hour I saw the two of them with the baby leave. I sighed in relief, hoping everything was handled.

I tried to watch a little television to get my mind off Sky and her friend. But it didn't work. I soon saw the man come back to the trailer, alone.

He had a little dog and took him out for a minute and then looked toward my trailer. Like I said, my front room looked directly at his mobile.

_How come he is not at work? Did they fire him?_ I wondered. _Oh no, is he mad at me now?_

Again, my mind took off into the unknown. _He is going to break into my trailer tonight and kill me!_ I looked at my little dog and said, "Kissy, I'm packing up and we are going home." And, that is just what I did.

# A Sign of the Times

### Sharri Cohen

"Oh no Mazie! What are we going to do? This cannot continue, right?" Bluebell dropped her chin and poked her head through the thick shrubbery to look out at the pandemonium in front of them. "Look at this! It's crazy! We can't continue to endure this, right?" Her voice quivered. She could smell the distress radiating from her friends as they darted away from the herders biting at the back of their legs.

Mazie did not even bother to look at the chaotic scene. The barking and bawling had been going on for several minutes and managed to make a shambles of the bright, dazzling summer afternoon. Instead she chewed slowly and deliberately, while she pondered the situation. Then she spoke around her chomping.

"It's not like the herders are even good at their job. I mean look at us. They can't find us standing behind this lilac bush. What kind of scent hounds are they?" She spit the words out along with the cud she was working on. "We are big and black and white, the size of a small Volkswagen car..."

"Hey, speak for yourself! I am on an all grass diet, and I have dropped several pounds," Bluebell sucked in her breath to emphasize her svelte form; she bleated loudly backing out of the shrubbery. "You are the one who eats anything that isn't nailed down. Just yesterday I saw you eating the pie the authority-Ida left on the window sill, right? And, don't tell _me_ that incident didn't have something to do with this little 'party' we are having now. So I blame you..." She snorted, shaking her head trying to dislodge the branch wrapped around her ear.

"Please let me finish!" Mazie pounded her hoof into the hard packed dirt for emphasis. "As I was saying. We are goats, and we have rights. We need to let the authorities know we do not deserve this type of treatment. Being chased every afternoon by professional herders, shoved into a little group, then imprisoned in a small pen. This is very scary for some of the tribe. Why, last week Poppy was so frightened she couldn't give any milk! She was as dry as the desert. Her milk sack a barren wasteland, as dry as the Pepper Creek bed. What do you think of that?" Mazie squawked loudly over the frenzied barking from the herders.

"Poppy is a hundred in goat years. She hasn't given any milk since forever, right? The herders had nothing to do with it." Bluebell's ear was twitching continually trying to extricate itself from the lilac branch. Lavender petals fell in a shower to the ground, but the twig stayed firmly in place. "But you do have a point. We need to stop this bullying."

"Right you are. So let me think." She reached over to her friend's ear and put her teeth only around the flowering branch, pulling it into her mouth. She munched, letting the burst of fragrance hit her tongue. She sighed with pleasure. Her most intelligent thinking was done while eating. Maybe that's why she was always eating; to keep her brain fertile. The barking was fading into the distance, the tribe-bleating as well. Information was darting through Mazie's head as she reviewed and then dismissed ideas rapidly. Suddenly she raised her bony head, ears flapping excitedly, doe brown eyes sparkling.

"We need to let the authorities know how upsetting it is to be treated this way, Bluebell. I think I have a solution. It's going to take some group input to pull this off. It's daring and requires thinking out of the box. Come on! Let's go see the rest of the gang. I will explain when we are all together."

They skipped and hopped happily back to their home, anxious to put the plan in action.

The next day, farmers John and Ida stood contemplating the sign in front of them. It had been crudely nailed to the front porch post. Both people folded their arms, crossing them over their chests, heads tilted to the side as they read:

Pleese

NO

DAWGS

WER'E

AFRAAD

THE GOATS

"What do you think it means John?" Ida asked.

He scratched his chin, considering the sign, "It seems simple enough. It says the goats are afraid of the dogs. It appears they want to have us stop using the dogs to herd them."

"But John. How do you know it was written by the goats?

"It seems obvious Ida. They signed it and put a little hoof print next to their signature."

"But John! The goats?! Writing a sign? I mean they are goats." Ida shook her head in disbelief.

"Honey, of course it was written by the goats. Nearly every word is misspelled. Everyone knows that goats are notoriously bad spellers. Who else would it have been? Look at the way they fastened the sign up! They couldn't even drive a straight nail. There have to be at least five bent nails. Who can't drive a nail? A goat, that's who."

In the distance, but close enough to hear, stood the tribe of goats. As one they looked to Mazie when authority John censured the spelling.

"What?" Mazie looked in amazement at her friends. "They're surprised? We're goats, not Rhodes Scholars. They should be more amazed at our total awesomeness in managing the entire project, not worried about whether quadrupeds can spell. Did they bother to think about how hard it is to hammer a nail in with hooves? Geez! Where's the love from the authorities?" She stuck her nose in the air disdainfully, turning to stare balefully at the farmers.

Ida continued with her concerns, "Well, assuming they did manage to communicate their displeasure with the dogs, what do we do now? We can't let a bunch of goats push us around can we? And, I cannot believe I am saying this, it sends the wrong message to the rest of the barnyard animals. I mean, what next? The chickens start hoarding their eggs? No omelets for us? The sheep keeping their wool for their own winter sweaters?!" Ida was working herself into a grand passion, her left eye twitching.

"Maybe we could work out a compromise. It's always about communication." John started to say.

Ida's eyes bulged at this, and she enunciated the words "With. The. Goats?" John, these are creatures. WE are the superior race. We make the rules! Not the animals!"

Hearing this, Mazie and Bluebell snorted in derision, then went back to munching on Ida's hibiscus plant.

"I was just trying to find an arrangement, honey. One that works for both us and the goats."

"Who cares if the goats are upset? They do what we say, not the other way around." Ida pointed accusingly at the two goats near the porch. "Look at those two, Blasie and Barbell, eating my flowers. They have no discipline and need to have some controls in place. We need to provide that structure."

"Is she insane? It's Mazie and Bluebell." Mazie bleated and rolled her brown eyes at the farmers. "She can't remember all our names? She is hard to take seriously when she starts talking like she is the top of the food chain. We all know that position is held by the cockroach! Besides, what's wrong with a little compromise? No herders make for happy goats. It's a win-win for everyone."

"Right?" said Bluebell with a red flower hanging out of her mouth. "Who says we have no discipline? I haven't even touched her daisies and, I really, _really_ want to eat them." Turning her head away from the farmers, she whispered under her breath, "And I probably will."

"Well, John? What do you say?" Ida asked.

Scratching his chin and nodding his head John stated, "We will work something out to everyone's satisfaction."

"Un-stinking-believable! Who cares if the goats are pleased? Say this with me, John, G-O-A-T." she enunciated these last words through clenched teeth. "Tell you what. Why don't you have your precious Barbell make your favorite meat loaf? Hmm? How's that for an arrangement? Hey! Let's not stop there. Why don't you have her make your favorite rice pudding? Maybe Christmas dinner? Huh?"

Bluebell's head reared up in alarm, a half chewed daisy in her maw. "What did she say? I can't cook can I Mazie? Right?" Holding her hoof up she asked, "I don't think I can stir with these, can I? I don't think that is a good plan, is it? I think they need to come up with a better idea. Right?" she squeaked at Mazie.

Meanwhile, Ida and John turned to contemplate the goats who were now munching their way through Ida's favorite daisy planter. The goats, as if knowing they being discussed, looked at the farmers.

Mazie eyed Ida and John and bleated, " Hellooo authorities. We just better not see any more herders. Don't make us write another sign!" She turned to trot to the pasture, stubby tail swishing in the air, followed by her tribe.

# Amelia Earhart's Final Hour

### Don Ball

"Amelia, is your headset working? I have been trying to talk to you for the past ten minutes."

"Yes, Noonan. It is working now. The vibration had worked the plug out, and I didn't realize we were out of contact. Can you hear me?"

"Yes. We are coming up to a point that you should be able to see Howland Island or one of the small islands next to it. You might be able to see the communication ship the Navy sent over or any other ship or boat. Do you see anything but ocean, Amy?"

"No, Noonan. I know it is about time to see something, because I can see the fuel gauge is dangerously low."

"Let's keep this course for six more minutes. If nothing by then, we will turn north on a heading of 016 degrees magnetic, which should have us flying due north, and I will try to take a sun shot to determine latitude."

"Noonan, our six minutes are up.... I don't see anything. Should I make my turn now?"

"Yes, make your turn, but keep broadcasting your Mayday message. We will have to pick up some answer soon. How much fuel do we have left?"

"We have no fuel going by the gauge, but by my calculations, we probably have forty-five minutes left at the most."

"Amy, fly this new heading fifteen minutes and then make a 180 degree turn to head due south on 196 degrees magnetic. Have you heard anything on the radio?"

"No. I haven't heard a word. I will keep broadcasting. We're down to the fumes on fuel now."

"I did get a strong sun line with the sextant, but if it is correct where it crosses my dead reckoning position, it doesn't help, because it's location would put us 100 plus miles north - away from - Howland Island."

"Noonan, our fifteen minutes are up. Do you want me to make the turn south?"

"Yes. This will be about the last chance to get a sun line on this fifteen minute run. Sorry I got you lost, Amy. I just don't know where I made the error. "

"Noonan... The left engine just started missing a little. It's a bad sign. I must not have figured the fuel correctly. I have pumped it all out of the other tanks into the service tank so this is all we have. Start getting everything back there cleared for a water landing and then come up here and sit in the copilot's position. It's a safer place in a water landing. Bring your life jacket. No need to navigate now because we're going in here."

"Amy, that left engine is sputtering...it's going to quit. Oh, there goes the right engine."

"Hey Noonan, we are a glider now. Brace your feet on the panel; I am about to see how I do on my water landings. I did practice, but somehow now I wish I had done more. Oh no.............

# Anna

### Holly Iris Scott

"Hey, Mom. I have the date and time of Anna's surgery that you asked for," I said plainly.

"Okay."

I could hear my mother scrambling for a pen and a piece of paper to write on.

"Okay, I'm ready," she announced.

I read off the details of my wife's surgery like I was reading a story in the paper. I felt self-conscious, because I could hear myself trying not to convey any emotion, but why should I? She was having her right breast removed. They call it a partial mastectomy. Once she got the breast removed and a minimal regimen of chemotherapy, the doctor was sure that she would be fine. That was good news. Anna was going to live. Her mother and her baby sister weren't so fortunate.

I should feel something, but I can't. I was there when the doctor gave us the news. Anna was like an impregnable fortress. It was clear that she had done her research. She asked medical questions and listened patiently while the he provided detailed explanations. When he was finished, she asked more questions. The doctor threw a few jokes into his dialogue, and Anna laughed and glanced my way to see if I got the punchline. But I heard no words that day. I could only hear my heart pounding in my chest and the rush of blood racing through my veins causing me to break out in a sweat suddenly. Neither Anna nor the doctor noticed. I politely excused myself while they were talking and stepped outside for air; just a little air. I was choking on a range of emotions, but I had to stop. I had to be strong for Anna. If she wasn't falling apart, how dare I?

"Hun. Hun. Are you still there?"

"Yes, mom."

"I was asking how Anna was doing."

"You know Anna. She's always fine. She's a tough cookie. She's unsinkable."

"Are you sure?"

"Mom, I know my wife. If she wasn't okay, she'd tell me," I assured her.

"Is she okay with me being there for the surgery and helping out after? she asked in a worried tone.

"Of course. Why wouldn't she be?"

Mom made a few noises into the phone. I waited to hear her respond to the question. She took a deep breath. I was getting worried.

"Mom, are you okay?" I asked.

"No," she sobbed.

There were two women in my life that could make me come undone. Mom was one of them. I was really worried now.

"Mom, what is it?" She sobbed even more. What could it be? "Mom, please tell me what's bothering you?"

"I'm just worried about Anna."

"Mom, I told you she was fine. Don't worry about Anna. She wouldn't want you to worry like this. No matter how bad things get, she doesn't miss a beat. Sometimes she comes home exhausted from work, but she doesn't miss any of those outreach programs for children that she's involved in. I should get her a cape with a giant "A" on it. She rocks, Mom. That's why I love her. She's no drama queen."

Mom started making sounds, again, and this time, they seemed to denote that she was annoyed.

"Did I say something wrong?"

"You don't get it, do you?"

"Don't get what?" I asked.

"They are going to cut off her breast, Sean. She will have a cavity in her chest where her right breast used to be. This is devastating emotionally for a woman."

I didn't want to think of it like that. She was going to live. That was more important than anything else.

"Mom, she's going to live. That's the most important thing," I stated.

"To you! Have you asked her how she feels?"

I didn't like how she was questioning me. I have always been there for Anna! Had I suddenly become a bad non-supportive husband to the love of my life? I was there for Anna when she struggled to finish college at night because of her dyslexia. I was there for her when she found out that she would never be able to have children. I was there for her when she found out about the cancer in her breast. I loved my Mom, but she was never close to my wife.

"Mom, I have been there for Anna through everything, so please don't question me!" I spoke sarcastically.

"Sean, don't give her what you think she needs. Talk to her. I think you're assuming a lot. I saw this side of you when you found out she couldn't have children."

"This side of me! What side of me?!!"

"The side that refuses to feel anything. I loved your father, but I hated that side of him. I felt so lonely when he did that to me; his presence didn't help."

I was really mad now. I'd never talked to mom about the way she made Anna feel sometimes. I could tell that some of the comments that Mom made about us being a family of academics hurt Anna. Because Anna had learning difficulties, she struggled in school and barely graduated. She didn't go to college until she got a job that offered continuing education benefits. Anna struggled through it and passed. Mom didn't see the tears she cried struggling just to comprehend something. She would even brag about the girl she wanted me to marry who had earned her doctorate. Anna would smile, but I could always see the pain behind the smile.

Shortly after we found out that Anna couldn't have children, we had a yard sale to be rid of some things. Mom stopped by and brought a few things for us to sell. One of the items was a basket wrapped in cellophane full of baby stuff that she had purchased many years ago in anticipation of us having a child. She placed it in Anna's hands and requested that she sell it. Anna sat it among the wares to sell and quickly disappeared into the house. I wanted to follow her, but Anna liked to work things out on her own. A few minutes later, Anna returned, smiling and the embodiment of serenity.

She always had to be tough. Her mother was emotionally fragile, and she depended upon her a lot, especially after Anna's father left. She became the head of the house. Her mother took to her bed often, so she minded the household duties, and took care of her little sister.

I had always tried to be a safe haven. She wanted for nothing. I was with her when her mother and sister died. I was with her when she found out she couldn't have children, and I was there for the cancer too. How dare my mother accuse me of being an inadequate husband and friend to my wife!

"Mom, I'm not Dad! I've been there for Anna!"

"She needs more, Sean!"

"How dare you, Mom! You know, I've watched you hurt my wife many times with thoughtless words and actions, and I said nothing, because I didn't feel that it was my place to get involved. You've belittled her, and you've never really accepted her as my wife or your daughter-in-law, but you accuse me of being an inadequate husband! How dare you!" I shouted.

Mom sobbed miserably. I felt horrible. I took a long deep breath.

"Mom. Mom, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that. Please, Mom, don't cry."

I knew that I had wounded her terribly. How could I speak to my mother this way? What was wrong with me? She finally stopped sobbing. I was falling apart. I needed her to forgive me.

"I have been horrible to Anna, and I am ashamed. I have watched her be a wonderful wife, a dutiful daughter and sister, and take life by the horns and overcome near impossible odds. I envied her. I have always had a pampered, fairly easy life. This girl has had to struggle for everything, and she has succeeded. Instead of the empty acquaintances in my life, she has people around her who truly love her. I've allowed pride and jealously to stand between her and me for so long."

I was speechless. My Mom wasn't the apologizing kind. It always irritated me that she would never admit she was wrong, but she was baring her soul to me. I started to feel ashamed that I hadn't said anything to her when she insulted my wife.

"Your sister brought that ridiculous baby basket back to my house from Anna's yard sale. When Laila got to my house she was furious. We had words. That's why we weren't talking for a while a few years back. She brought me back to my senses. Finally, we made up, but Laila made me promise to make peace with Anna."

I was so at a loss for words. This was Mom unplugged.

"Mom, I want you and Anna to be close, but not because of a promise Laila made you make."

"No, Sean. I want to make peace with her, because I love her."

Perhaps, I heard her wrong, but she confirmed that my ears had not failed me.

"I love her, Sean."

A moment of silence passed between us. Despite her faults, my mother was a good woman. Her confession raised the pedestal that I have always had her on a bit higher. I wished she was here so I could wrap my arms around her.

"You're a good husband, Sean. Anna needs you to be her best friend right now, too. She's frightened, hun. I can't read minds, but if I were her I would be wondering if my husband would feel the same about me with one breast. It's tough enough for her not being able to bear children."

"Anna didn't seem overly upset about not being able to have children. She cried a little, but that was it. I think I was more upset about that than she was, but we carried on."

"Son, she must have been in agony. I noticed that she got involved with the outreach program right away. She's resilient, Sean, but she's flesh and blood. Did you try to hold her and talk to her?"

I had a lump in my throat. Had I been that blind or so consumed with my own disappointment that I ignored her pain? I tried to talk to her, but she changed the subject, and I went with it. I hadn't tried to hug her or hold her, because I thought she might not want that. Or was I afraid that this tower of strength I was married to would fall apart, taking me down with her? Isn't that what friends do when you fall down? Don't they get down into the mire with you, grab you by the arm, and help you back on your feet? Had I just been standing there staring at Anna sitting in the mud waiting for her to find her own strength to get herself up?

"Sean, I noticed that your relationship was different after Anna found out she couldn't have a child. You're losing her, hun. Get emotionally involved in what's happening to her right now. Grieve together, not apart. Cherish every moment you have together. None of us knows when our last moment will come. Leave nothing unsaid or undone. And for God's sake, go adopt me a grandchild so I can get rid of this stupid baby basket!"

Mom brought tears to my eyes. She was right. Our relationship had changed, and, as usual, I stood by waiting for Anna to carry on. The weight of her loneliness hit me head on. I needed to do something, but what? We did crazy things when we were younger, but we were mature, civilized people now. How could I reach this Anna? The Anna who did everything by appointment? The Anna who smiled no matter what? The Anna that I thought I could read so well? A baby? Adopt? I'd never given it any real thought.

"Mom, she mentioned adopting once but never said anything else about it."

"What did you say to her when she mentioned it?"

"Mom, I can't remember. That was five years ago," I lied.

"Sean, what did you say to her?" she probed.

I could never lie to my mom and get away with it. She was a living breathing lie detector. She told me a long time ago that my voice changed when I was lying. I guess I hadn't changed. I knew what I said, but I was ashamed to face it, but since mom had let her guard down, I guess it was my turn.

"I told her that it wasn't the same as having a child of our own."

I can't believe I said that to her. It wasn't in Anna's nature to fight when her heart was broken. Life had served up one disadvantage to her after another, and I had watched her humbly accept it. She must have accepted my response as another disadvantage forced upon her. Mom was quiet. I braced myself for what she might say to me. I was going to take it. I deserved it.

"Sean, _fix_ it." She spoke very gently.

"I don't know how." I spoke like a confused child.

"Yes, you do. Don't let the sun set without resolving this. Give her the child she has always wanted. Tell her that you love her, and desire her, and having one breast will not change that. Above all, remind her that best friends stick together through good and bad, that adversity draws them together, not apart. Get involved, Sean, and don't take no for an answer."

Tears fell involuntarily from my eyes. My heart hurt. I wanted to acknowledge what my mom said, but the pain stilled the words on my tongue. Anna. How could I have left her to the elements and emotional natural disasters of this life? I knew how. I put my pain ahead of hers. I could see her brown, exotic eyes in my head. They were always so gentle. When I thought back, I hadn't looked into her eyes for a long time. She hid them from me, because they betrayed her. No more.

"Okay, Mom."

"Okay, baby," she responded tenderly.

I was blessed to have such a mother.

"Son, I've gotta go. Call me tomorrow, and let me know how it goes, okay?"

"Well, I'm not sure if anything will happen today. She's working extra hours to train her back-up at work, and she's finishing off a bunch of projects before her surgery. I'm not sure today . . ."

"Make it happen!" she interrupted. "She needs you right now. Right now, Sean. Handle your business, son."

"Okay, Mom."

"Bye."

Mom hung up. What was I going to do? I convinced myself to just go see Anna and make it up as I went along, like I did when I was trying to woo her. That time seemed so long ago.

I picked up flowers and a stuffed animal for her. I can't remember the last time I bought Anna flowers. Today was a new day. Today I was going to get my wife back.

I pulled up to Anna's building and agonized in the car about what I would say or do. I was afraid of not being able to control my emotions. Anna was a master at controlling hers, but it was too late to turn back now, so I jumped out of the car and went inside. I nervously walked into the elevator and felt my heart pounding in my chest as I was lifted nearer to Anna's floor. My hands were cold and clammy, and my mouth was dry. I slowly approached the receptionist, and she looked at the flowers and stuffed animal in my hand. She smiled.

"Are those for Anna?"

"Yes. Can you let her know that I'm here?"

"Yes, I can."

I couldn't sit down. While the receptionist paged her, my heart started racing again. When she hung up the phone and looked at me, I felt my legs stiffen.

"Sean, your wife would like to see you in her office."

"Thanks."

I slowly walked down the hallway toward the woman that I loved. I don't think I was this nervous when I asked her out the first time. When I got to her office, I knocked softly, and stepped inside. She was talking with her assistant. Anna looked up and examined the flowers in my hand and the stuffed animal tucked under my arm. For a moment she seemed mesmerized. Her assistant stared as well.

"Kelly, can you give me a minute?"

"Sure."

Her assistant quickly exited the room. I was shocked that Anna's office was so full of flowers and cards. Mom was right. Anna was loved, and, I too, loved her fiercely.

I walked around her desk and stood over her. She looked up at me confused and bewildered. Those eyes of hers could scorch steel. I'd forgotten how lovely she really was. After a moment, I could tell that she was retreating from me. Her eyes flickered, and she tried to look away. I put the flowers down and the stuffed animal. She stood up and started looking at things on her desk. Without thinking, I reached out and turned her around to face me. Confused and frightened, she looked into my eyes briefly and then dropped her head.

I pulled her closer to me, and I could feel her resisting. My first instinct was to let her alone, but not this time, not ever again.

I gently drew her into my arms and drew her head against my chest and started stroking her hair. She stopped resisting me, but I felt her body tense and start to quiver. I knew Anna. Her body quivered when she was frightened. I gently kissed the top of her head over and over again.

"You are the most beautiful woman to me. The most beautiful part is inside of you. That's why I know that losing one breast isn't going to change the way I feel about you." I spoke consolingly.

Anna's body shook violently against mine. I felt the moisture of her tears seep through my shirt. The few times I saw Anna cry, she didn't make a sound. Her tears always broke my heart. Gently, I turned her face to mine. How beautiful she was, even when she cried. I held her face with both of my hands, and I felt her arms slowly go around my waist.

"We are going to get through this, Anna. Together. You're not just my wife, you're my best friend."

I tried to resist, but I couldn't. I wanted to kiss her. I felt like I hadn't seen her in a long time, but before I could move, she gently pressed her mouth against mine. I kissed her back, passionately. There was no woman on earth that could unnerve me by simply walking into the room. As far as I was concerned, she was the center of my universe. That's how I always felt, but I needed to tell her.

All too soon Anna pulled her lips away from mine. She held my face in her hands and looked at me for a moment. She giggled through her tears like a little girl and wrapped her arms around my neck and hugged me tightly. She let out a deep breath, and I knew that she needed me. I was the husband who loaned his strength to his wife when she needed it, protected his wife from the emotional monsters lurking around the corners of life and the husband that refused to be an unemotional bystander.

"Do you like the flowers?"

"Yes, I like the little stuffed elephant too."

She broke our embrace and picked up the elephant to read the bib around its neck. She started laughing.

"Honey, you picked-up the wrong toy. It says 'It's a girl' on the bib.

"It's not a mistake." I smiled, pulling her back into my arms with the elephant smashed between us.

She looked confused. I kissed her again, and she kissed me back. When I pulled my mouth away to look at her, she still looked confused. I felt life returning to our withered relationship.

"After your surgery, I want us to adopt a child, and I'd like us to pick a little girl. I've always wanted a child, and I've always envisioned it would be a girl. When you recover from your surgery, we'll get started."

The tears flooded her face and her arms went back around my waist as she held on tightly. She buried her face against my shoulder. We had so much to look forward to. Somehow, I felt that our lives were just beginning. A child. Anna and my kid. _Wow!_ I was exhilarated.

"I love you, Anna, and I will love our child."

"I love you too, Sean."

I was overjoyed to have found my way back to Anna, and I'd never let her go again.

# Another Home

### Don Ball

I was only thirteen, and wood-working was my hobby. I liked to make what-not shelves and other small wood toys for gifts. My small wood pieces were usually made from plywood that people had thrown away.

Eddy's Marine had given me a part-time job that I really liked. Eddy's main business was selling and servicing small outboard motors and boats. I liked to watch and sometimes help Ed make repairs on small engines, although my job really was sweeping.

I became interested in building a small sailboat after I found a _Rudder Magazine_ that had the plans for an 8-foot Sabot that could be built from one four-by-eight sheet of plywood.

As I started building my boat, I was amazed at how many people pitched in to help me. I think they were interested because a kid was building the boat. Every time I was stumped, Mr. Kune, a local friend who was also building a Sabot, came to my rescue and helped me through the hard spot. He showed me where to order a used mast, boom and sail, which really speeded up my boat project. He gave me enough sailing lessons that I felt confident to go sailing on my own.

When I was finished, I couldn't wait to haul my boat to the lake for my first sail. It didn't take very long to turn it over the first time, but, fortunately, I'd learned how to right the boat and get it sailing again.

Ed found me reliable enough that he would sometimes leave me in charge for a couple of hours, while he took care of some business. It made me feel important.

Unfortunately, while I was building my boat, I probably let my grades slide, although I didn't think I had. My Dad called Ed and told him I couldn't work there anymore until I got my grades up.

Ed called me into his office and gave me the bad news. He said, "Your Dad thinks, with your boat-building and other wood-working projects, you're too busy to study. I couldn't argue with him. I'm sure going to miss you. I know you'll need some money to help out your wood-working, so I'm giving you $36 severance pay. I sure want you to come and visit when you get a chance."

We shook hands, and I thanked him for all his help and everything he had taught me about boats and motors. I turned away because I didn't want him to see the tears dribbling down my cheeks.

Starting home on my bicycle, I was mad and down-hearted. The longer I rode, the madder I got. I realized that everyone knew but me that Ed was going to let me go. Mom and my brother Dean had been ducking around me for the last three days.

When I got home, Mom and Dean were not there, and I decided to move in with Grandpa and Grandma. They had told me several times that I should move in with them. I hunted up what clothes I had, along with my Coleman stove and lantern.

As soon as I got over being mad, I knew I would be hungry. I packed some cheese, eggs, and bacon with a loaf of bread into my boat. As I was going out the door, I found a sack of apples and a stash of potatoes to put in. I left a note for Mom saying, "I guess I'll move in with Grandpa and Grandma for a while." My dog, Spot, knew something was up, and he started walking with me.

Heading east, I pulled my wagon that I'd loaded with my boat and all my stuff. I turned north at Sikes Ranch. I could see the Berry house and the school bus on my left. I wanted to get away from their house because I knew if they saw me they would call Mom and tell her where I was.

I walked north until it was pretty dark, and I was glad Spot came along to look after me. He knew I was afraid of the dark. It looked like rain, so I unloaded the boat and turned it over. I propped the bow up with a big rock and made room for my clothes, Spot, and me. I dug a little trench so the water wouldn't run off the boat and then get in under me. It was quite a storm, with lightning and thunder for a long time, and then it rained hard. Spot kept shaking and whining, but he didn't run away.

Mr. Sikes was standing in the field close to me the next morning and said, "What are you doing out here on the road at this time of morning, Ted?"

"I didn't recognize you, Mr. Sikes. It's been quite a while since I saw you at the farm sale. It's nice to see you again. How's the family?"

"The family is getting along fine."

"You might not remember, but Mr. Kune and I sailed our boats on your lake two weeks ago. It's a lot of fun having two boats so that we can race."

Mr. Sikes said, "Yes, I remember seeing two boats on the lake; it was quite a sight. The next time you guys are on the lake, you might take me for a ride. I've never been in a sailboat."

"Sure thing, Mr. Sikes, I don't know when that'll be, but I'll make sure I take you sailing soon." As I loaded my boat on the wagon, I put my stuff in, and Spot jumped in as he barked at Mr. Sikes, who had a big laugh at how funny Spot looked riding in the boat.

My energy was fading late in the afternoon, and I could see the road to Grandpa's house. When I came to the filling station corner I slid and let the wagon pull me down the steep hill to the old bridge. It's not far from the bridge to the house and as I walked up it seemed very quiet. Spot jumped out of the boat and ran in circles, he was so happy.

Grandma came to the door, smiling, and said, "You brought your dog with you. We will have a lot of fun with him. Come on in. Grandpa has been a little under the weather, so things are not like we would like to have them when company comes."

"That won't make any difference with me."

"I mean we don't have anything to eat," Grandma said. "Grandpa was going to town today, but he just didn't feel up to making the trip."

"Don't worry, Grandma. I have some food left over. We can eat the bacon, eggs, and a little sausage. I've about half a loaf of bread that I didn't feed to Spot." He wagged his tail when he heard his name. I went out to the boat and brought in the food.

Grandma started putting wood in the stove. In a few minutes, I could hear the bacon sizzling. She said, "I'll take Grandpa some bacon and eggs after a while."

As soon as dinner was over, I climbed the few steps into the loft and made my bed on an old army cot. There was a little table next to the window, and I stashed some of my money and harmonica in the drawer. I was pretty tired.

I woke up a little late the next morning, and I was super hungry. I dressed and climbed down out of the loft. Grandma was waiting with a cup of hot tea, and I went in to get the grocery shopping list from Grandpa. He gave me a list and said, "Ted, we need everything, but for sure we want some flour and baking powder. Whatever you think you can carry home will sure help."

I said, "I don't know how long this trip will take, Grandpa, but you rest and maybe you will feel better today."

I was lucky and caught a ride into town. It didn't take long for me to pick up some flour, potatoes, baking powder, bacon, and a few other things I knew we could use. I got some Jell-O because I knew it was Grandma's favorite and loaded everything in the bags that she had sent with me.

It was a hard trip going home because the shopping bags were heavy, but after a couple of miles, I finally got a ride. They let me out at the filling station corner.

When I walked in the back door, Grandma said, "You will have to look at all this stuff, Grandpa. He has all kinds of groceries."

"Boy, this is great," said Grandpa. "Where did you get all of this?"

"I went to the grocery store you told me about. They were very helpful."

"It all looks good to me. We can use it."

Grandma said, "Grandpa got a ride to Roy and Julie's house and used their phone to call your mother. I knew she would be worried about you."

"Oh, what'd she say?"

"Well," said Grandpa stammering a little, "naturally she was disappointed in you leaving, but she said if you want to live here a while, it is okay with her. But you will have to go to school."

"Will I have any trouble enrolling at that Prairie View School?"

"No, I don't think so," Grandma said. "I know the teacher a little bit because I've seen her at Roy and Julie's house. I think she's some kind of kin to Julie."

"I'll go Monday and see if I can get started."

Grandma said, "You brought home some bread, so let's have egg sandwiches for supper."

On Monday morning, I got up early and put on my bib-overalls. Grandma said, "That's what all the boys wear to school."

Spot was jumping around because he thought he was going to go with me. I fed him a biscuit and finally convinced him he would have to stay home. I left a little early, even though Grandma had said school didn't start until 9:00 AM. I was glad I left early because the teacher was there, and we could talk.

The teacher said, "My name is Glenda Wilcox, but everyone calls me Miss Glenda."

She was tall and slender with a beautiful face. Her smile was wonderful, but I could tell she was all business, because the first thing she asked was, "How old are you?"

"Thirteen."

"Good. When is your birthday?"

"November the seventeenth."

"Great, you will be in with my eighth grade bunch. I knew you were coming today because Roy Dimes told me, but I didn't know what class to put you in."

Miss Glenda had one of the girls who came in step out of the door and give the bell several good clangs. Following the last student was what I believed to be the largest barn cat I'd ever seen. Following the cat was the strangest looking rabbit, with broad white feet, a heavy brown fur coat, and a white tail. I'd never seen a snowshoe rabbit before, but I was pretty sure I was looking at one. The cat climbed the bookshelves to the top and parked in a small cardboard box. She looked around at the class with a big smile. The rabbit practically hid in his spot on the bottom shelf in a wicker basket that someone had furnished for him.

Everyone sat up looking at the teacher with big smiles on their faces, and she said, "We have a new student today. This is Ted, and he will be with our eighth grade group." Everyone turned and looked at me with big smiles and waves. I gave a feeble smile and then a little wave. I knew I'd found my place and could make good grades at Prairie View School.

Miss Glenda came to me and, while handing me some books, said, "You should read chapter three in the history book first and then do page twenty in the math book. I don't think you will have any trouble with it. If you finish all that, look in our reader on page one hundred and sixty-four for the story on Hiawatha's childhood by Longfellow. I wrote the assignment down for you on that little piece of paper on top."

With those instructions, Miss Glenda went to her desk and gathered four very colorfully dressed first-grade students in the front row and engaged them in their lesson, while the rest of us were on our own.

Some time passed, I don't know how much, and I heard her say, "Rise, turn and pass." The first graders scurried back to their desks as the second grade came forward.

School went that way for each class while I absorbed myself in my assignments. About all I heard was, "Rise, turn and pass," when she finished with a class, and then she announced the next class to come forward. Sometime during the morning, she stood and announced, "Everyone can go outside for recess now."

This was my first recess at this kind of school, and I really didn't know what to do with myself. I thought the kids might start a ball game, but most of them just stood around in little groups. A few boys started to play with their marbles and two girls were playing jacks, but the rest were just standing around. Before anyone else could get anything going a student came out and rang the bell. We were all back at our desks waiting on the teacher and she stood and said, "Fourth grade come forward now." The rest of us went back to work on our assignments listening for the signal, "Rise turn and pass."

I got lost in my studies and time just zipped by because the next thing I knew Henry, one of the older students, on a signal from Miss Glenda, stood and said, "It's lunch time now."

I filed out with the group and sat around on the edge of the porch getting my lunch out. I started eating the bacon sandwich Grandma had made and watching the other kids giving little bits of their lunch to the cat and the rabbit. The cat wouldn't eat anything much, but the rabbit gobbled up about everything they offered him.

The little circus group started coming closer, and one of the taller kids, who I guessed was the leader, said, "I'm Chuck. Where do you live?"

I told them, "I live with my grandparents and my dog, Spot, right over there," and I pointed in the direction of the house. "I notice you have a cat and rabbit in the class. Where did they come from?"

Chuck said, "They both came from Mr. Dime's barn. He drove up in his big old truck, and, when he opened his door, they both got out. By lunch time they were hungry enough that we could feed them and they've been following us around ever since."

"What do you call them?"

Chuck said, "We call the cat Snorty, because she snores sometimes, and the rabbit is Bigfoot because of his big old feet."

"I wouldn't be surprised if you had a raccoon show up later today after he finishes his nap," I said.

They all laughed, and Chuck said, "We have a raccoon that visits once in a while. He lives with Charlie, but, if we're not careful he'll bite."

"What, no 'possum?"

All the kids laughed and Chuck said, "We have a 'possum living across the road in those trees, but he usually comes out at night. We feed him though, when we get a chance, and he's pretty friendly."

"Chuck, how about listening to my poem about furry animals," I said.

And they all said, "Yess..."

"Your cat's tail is furry," I said

And they all said, "Yesss..."

"And your puppy's tail is bare."

And they all said, "Yesss..."

"The rabbit has no tail at all, just a little patch of white hair." They all laughed as one of the girls rang the lunch bell.

After we were all seated and Snorty and Bigfoot had found themselves a new place to sleep, the teacher read us a chapter from the book _Tom Sawyer_. We worked through the afternoon just like the morning, including another recess that was too short.

Everything got real quiet the last 30 minutes, and I could hear the clock with its slow tick—tock—tick—tock... I think we were afraid if we made any noise Glenda would give us all some more homework.

Miss Glenda said, "Three-thirty, class dismissed."

Those kids went out of class like a tornado. Miss Glenda laughed.

When I got home I recognized our car in the driveway. Mom was waiting at the front door. I gave her a big hug and said, "Glad to see you, Mom."

Mom said, "I'm glad to see you. You didn't come home so I thought I should come and see how you're doing."

"Did Dean come?" I asked.

"No, he had too much school work to do. I see you have already started at Prairie View. Who is your teacher?"

"Miss Glenda Wilcox."

Mom said, "Oh yes, I know her."

"Let's all gather around the table for supper," Grandma said. "Grandpa caught some fish down at the creek today so it's nice and fresh."

Grandpa laughed, "Yes, and the big one got away."

Grandma said grace, and we started eating and visiting just like any other day. The fish and cornbread were really tasty. Near the end of the meal, Grandma passed around her special dessert, Jell-O.

# The Battle of Bangor Bridge

### Jonathan Chaus

It was a cold winter's day. Snow littered the ground making the landscape gray, the trees gray, the road gray and the sky gray. The war had been raging for years, at least it seemed that way to Johnny. He had been eight when it had all started. He hadn't understood why, only that it was awful. He'd lost friends but refused to cry anymore.

Today the war would end. He would end it. It was his birthday and as good a day as any to die just to end this war. He suited up. Put on his lucky shirt, the one with Yoda saying "May the force be with you" and covered it with a thick coat. Underneath his jeans he wore thermal underwear; if he was going to die today at least he wouldn't be cold. He told his Buddy what he planned to do as they walked together to the door. It was a one man job, so he walked out the door alone.

He made his way through the gray world to where he knew all too soon it might be over. His plan was simple, take the bridge and win the war. He got halfway there and fear tied a knot in his belly. He wanted to run, to flee, to hide, to let forward in the gray world to the gray bridge. Bangor Bridge was the key to everything, and right now it was controlled by the enemy.

Billy-Bob was said enemy. Billy-Bob was the bully of Bangor, and in the morning he stood on the bridge and would not let kids pass without giving up their lunch money. Billy-Bob was big, broad, and brash and liked to beat up those who paid up too slow. He'd moved into the town three years ago and quickly saw the strategic value of the bridge. For those kids who lived on Johnny's side it was the only way across except for a two mile detour to Skellars' Crossing. No, if you wanted to make it to school on time you had to pay the fine.

One kid had told his parents, which had stopped Billy-Bob's action for a week. But it went bad for the kid after that. Nobody likes a tattletale.

Johnny was there now. He stepped onto the bridge. He felt glad that he had made it to the age of eleven if he made it no further than that. Billy-Bob was standing in the center of the bridge, his arms crossed over his chest. He looked every bit of his thirteen years and then some.

Johnny looked up to say a small prayer and was surprised by a small glimmer of blue sky that seemed to wink at him. It heated his heart, and he knew he was doing the right thing. He moved to the center of the bridge and stopped a mere three feet from Billy-Bob. Billy-Bob stretched his hand out, palm up, and spoke in a deep thirteen year old voice, "Lunch money!"

Johnny's voice cracked, "No!" He tried again, "I mean - no!"

"In this world there aren't any second chances, Kid. Lunch Money! Now!"

"No," Johnny's voice seemed stronger.

Billy-Bob grabbed him by the collar and punched him in the stomach. Johnny's breath was knocked out of him, and his legs went weak. _Oh, no, I am going to die_ , thought Johnny.

Billy-Bob stepped on Johnny's back and pushed him into the icy snow that was still on the bridge. "You see kid. I don't like doing this really," Billy-Bob kicked Johnny in the side and then continued talking, "But if I let you slide then everyone would try to stand up to me, and it would be chaos. I like you, kid." Billy-Bob kicked again. "You've got a pair. But you see my point."

Johnny was preparing to get kicked again but the blow never came. He looked up and saw Sam walking toward them on the bridge. The look in Sam's eyes said it all. Billy-Bob was going to die. Billy-Bob saw the look, too, and stopped talking. He stepped backward, away from Johnny, as Sam moved toward him. Sam stepped over Johnny, and as Billy-Bob raised his hands and opened his mouth, a fist slammed it close, followed by a second that hit him square in the eye. Billy-Bob went down hard, tears flowed down his cheeks.

Sam turned around and walked back to Johnny and helped him up. Sam gave Johnny a sly smile. Johnny looked at Sam's pigtails and smiled back. He didn't really like girls, too much, but this one might be okay. She was really smart and kind of cute. Johnny blushed a little. He liked that even though her name was Samantha she preferred to be called Sam.

"You've got to do your research, champ. Billy-Bob's not allowed to hit girls." She turned and walked the rest of the way across the bridge.

Johnny stood erect and moved over to Billy-Bob and stood over him. Billy-Bob was wiping the tears from his eyes, and then he looked up at Johnny. Johnny looked at the pitiful site and spoke slowly, "You just got beat up by a girl! If you don't want everyone to know about it then you will never set one foot on this bridge again or steal anyone's lunch money. Do you understand? Just think of the chaos." Johnny smiled ruefully.

Billy-Bob nodded and lowered his head. Johnny walked off as the Hero of Bangor Bridge.

Sam, my wife of thirty years, often reminds me about who the real Hero of Bangor Bridge was. It keeps me humble.

# The Bike Ride

### Carol Elek

I grew up in Wickliffe, Ohio, a small town east of Cleveland. In the 1940's and 50's life was very different from today. Kids were outdoors most of the time, weather permitting. Winters could be viciously cold, mostly due to the winds which blew in off of Lake Erie. I remember several severe blizzards that caused the schools to close for up to a week. Drifting snow would pile up against buildings and sometimes come up to the window sills and even higher. Nothing could move at these times. Buses, trucks, trains—everything came to a standstill until the snowplows could push the snow to the sides of the roads, creating mountains of snow. The children loved it, but it was a nightmare for the parents.

In the summer, it was different. Once school let out at the end of May, we were outdoors from sun-up to sun-down. We roller-skated down the sidewalks, rode our bikes out of town into the woods, up hills, down hills, anywhere we pleased. And we never even thought of wearing helmets, knee-pads, elbow pads, or seat belts! We fell off our bikes, skates, scooters, etc. and got up, got back on whatever we had fallen off. I had many skinned knees and elbows and have the scars from them to this day. It was just one of the perks for being a kid in those by-gone days.

I remember one particular bike ride when I was twelve. My best friend and I were lying on the grass under a large maple tree in my front yard. We were a little bored - thought we had nothing to do. Our bikes were parked nearby on the front walk, hoping we'd hop on them and go someplace exciting. My friend's name was Ruthann.

"What do you want to do?" I asked. "We should do something. Are you bored?"

"Yeah, I am bored." Ruthann replied. "I just thought of this! You know that old deserted insane asylum up on the hill?"

"Yeah, I heard about that."

"You want to go see it?"

"I don't know! I heard that it's haunted. Kind of scary!"

"I heard that, too. Maybe we shouldn't go there," Ruthann said.

"My mother wouldn't like it if she knew we went there. But I won't tell her," I said. "Let's go!"

Ruthann hesitated for only a second, then she jumped up and said, "Come on!"

Eagerly, I hopped on my bike, Ruthann close on my heels. We headed for the insane asylum. It was located on top of the highest hill in town, which was about 100 feet, if that much. It sat in the middle of a dense grove of trees, now draped with vines of ivy climbing up the trunks and hanging from the branches. I had never seen it before and neither had Ruthann. Other kids had gone there, or so they claimed, and told stories about the place. They said they had seen things that they didn't want to talk about - scary things!

The road leading to the site was a paved two lane avenue lined with trees. Farms on each side made it a very inviting road to explore. Just before it climbed that huge hill, the pavement ended. Beyond it was a dirt drive leading up to the asylum's grounds.

Ruthann and I stopped at the end of the paved road and looked ahead into the gloom of the woods, which lay before us. "Are you ready?" I asked.

Ruthann just nodded her head.

"Okay, let's go. We need to be out of here before dark, you know."

"Yes, I know. It sure looks dark in there right now!" Ruthann started up the dirt trail, and I followed her.

The trail was fairly wide and smooth at the beginning, but as we rode further it narrowed down into one lane, then into a mere pathway. We dodged pot holes and ruts and, occasionally, a root of some tree or bush. Finally, we reached the gateway to the asylum.

There it stood before us. The grounds were surrounded by a crumbling stone wall, about six feet high. A rusty iron gate swung on its hinges; one-half of the gate was sitting at an angle, one end of it buried in the overgrown weeds, unable to move. The other half sounded out with eerie squeaking each time a breeze went through its wrought work.

We looked at each other and got off our bikes. Pushing them past the open part of the gate, we entered the grounds. The remains of the circular drive curved around what once had been a beautiful fountain. We leaned our bikes against the base and looked inside the bowl. "Oh yuk!" we said in unison. The water now was thick-looking like unset Jell-o, with scum and dead leaves floating on top. The fountain-head had been a sculptured angel with its wings spread, holding a ewer from which the water had trickled into the basin below it. Now the angel had lost nearly all of one wing and the other was covered with bird droppings so thick one could no longer see its beauty.

Undaunted, we passed the fountain and came to the main entrance of the building itself. It was a four-story concrete edifice with many of its windows covered with iron bars. Most no longer had glass in them. A few had the remnants of curtains, which made them look very ethereal as they softly blew in the breeze. The walls were covered with the same clinging vines which crept up the trees. In some places, the vines had broken through the walls' masonry and were growing into the building.

Suddenly, there was a rustling from the vegetation growing in what used to be a rose garden. A large rat scurried from the jumbled greenery, stood up on its hind legs and looked at us as if to say, "What are you doing here?" Then it turned and ran off toward the fountain and disappeared into the tangled weeds at its base.

"Whoo, whoo!" The sound of an owl seemed out of place this early in the day. All of a sudden, it swooped down from its perch in one of the trees near the building and flew past us, its wings narrowly missing our heads. It flew into the spot where the rat had disappeared and soon returned to its tree, carrying the rat in its deadly talons.

Just then, a huge gust of wind blew into the courtyard where we stood, blowing the curtains in the windows. A ghostly figure appeared behind one of the curtains, and, from somewhere inside the building, we heard a maniacal laugh echoing through the empty corridors.

"Run!" I shouted to Ruthann! "Run!"

We turned on our heels and ran as fast as we could to where we had left our bikes, but—THEY WEREN'T THERE!

"Aggh! Where are they?"

"Someone moved our bikes! Where are they?"

We ran, tripping and falling and getting up and running! Past the fountain, through the gates! No bikes! Where did we leave them? Oh help us someone!

Finally, we turned to look back toward the fountain, which we had just passed, and there they were, leaning against the fountain's bowl. We dashed back and grabbed them, hopped on, and pedaled as fast as we could to get out of there! We almost made it until I hit a hole with the bike and down I went! I scrambled to get back on the bike, looked for Ruthann, and spotted her by the gate, waiting for me.

"Hurry! Hurry!" She kept shouting to me.

I fumbled with the pedals and at last got them back in control. I whizzed past her calling back, "Come on, hurry!"

Somehow, we reached the paved road and just kept pedaling as fast as we could until we reached Euclid Avenue, the main highway.

We didn't stop until we arrived at Ruthann's house.

"Do you think we really saw something, or was it just our imagination?" I asked.

"I'd like to think we just imagined it, but I definitely felt something spooky there. I don't want to go back again, do you?" she asked.

"I'm not sure! It was kind of exciting, don't you think?"

"Yeah, in a way, but I was really scared." Ruthann said. "Are you going to tell your mom where we went?"

"No way! I'll be grounded for the rest of the summer if she ever found out!"

Ruthann laughed as she said, "Me, too! See you tomorrow!"

I waved as I turned toward my house. When I went inside, my mother said, "Hi, sweetie. Did you do anything interesting today?"

I answered, "Nothing special. Ruthann and I just went for a little bike ride on Ridge Road. We had fun."

# Blue Skies

### Don Ball

Blue skies go out to sea

It helps a poor sailor just like me.

The loons sing a lonesome song

But happiness cruises all day long.

When everything sails oh so right

Hope for our future is very bright.

Days go by with the blink of an eye

When you love your work, how they do fly.

The blue days can leave you alone

But there will be blue skies from now on.

Part 2 - Sailing on Tide

As you raise your sail to catch the wind

You only know where you have been.

Now the wind of destiny will handle your strife,

And fan your hunger for meaning in life.

There is no yacht that longs for the sea

That can sail like a book to far places for me.

Make her ship-shape when you're aboard

Don't forget your center board.

Boldly slipping the mooring of reading out

The prose shares some fear but little doubt.

Part 3 - Slacking Tide

Now you furl the sails of your mind

Without a dream voyage of any kind.

I won't grip the wheel in a howling gale

Nor feel salt spray whipping my sail.

Ambition called, and I let the strife

And my books give me my spark in life.

My books picture not my destination, but my fun

Routine shore duty, never again to shoot the sun.

And now I write just to help with life's scheme

In the safe Harbor for those golden dreams.

# By the Hair of the Dog

### Sharri Cohen

She was a bitch with a capital B. He did not miss that part of his marriage. He was glad Susan was gone.

"But you know what the worst part is?" Stan muttered to himself despondently. "Every night I come home to an empty house. I hate being alone. That's why I was willing to live with her sudden mood shifts, and downright mean attitude. But she wasn't willing to try to make it work. She just dumped me. Like I was garbage."

Shaking his head sorrowfully, Stan finished chewing and swallowing the last portion of his lunch. Rolling the balance of the sandwich back in the foil, he shoved it into the paper sack.

"Back to the grindstone," he said to himself, pulling out of the fast food parking lot and heading for his office. Pulling into his employees' parking lot, he hopped out of the car and trotted toward the factory building entrance.

Stan saw the dirty shaggy black and white curly-haired dog propped against the factory walls, the front paw held aloft in the air. He walked hesitantly toward the dog and stopped about five feet away.

"Hey, boy. Is something wrong with your paw? This is the second day I've seen you here. Where's your home?" As Stan leaned forward, the dog's lip curled upward and it growled menacingly.

"It's okay, buddy. I won't get any closer. What's wrong with your foot? Oh, wait. I see. It looks red and infected. Oh, stop the fussing. I only want to help. That must hurt!" Stan sneezed several times successively, violently.

The growling increased in volume, and the hound tried to limp off, but after several seconds laid exhaustedly on the concrete. It looked so defeated it tore at Stan's heart, even while he continued to have explosive sneezing fits as if to clear his nose. The dog was small, nearly skeletal and had a matted fur coat. Stan looked into those soft brown expressive eyes. Like he imagined Bambi's eyes would look.

"So what do we do now, friend? You don't want me to touch you. My allergies don't want me to get near you. If we don't take care of your wound it will get worse - so what to do? No. No, don't crawl away. You're okay. Where do we go from here?" He sighed. He knew what he was going to have to do, and he hoped he could do it without losing a limb. He reached into the brown bag he carried.

"You must be hungry. Right, boy? You've been here so long! Let me give you part of my sandwich." He held the small piece of roast beef in front of the dog, coaxingly. Reaching her head as far out as her canine neck would go, she snatched the food from Stan. "Here you go. Have some more."

Holding more beef bits in front of his new four-legged friend, he walked slowly backwards towards his car, being followed at a snail's pace by the dog. It tore at Stan's heart to see the canine in such obvious pain. The little guy was such a trooper!

Stan's wiped his runny nose with his sleeve, as the sneezing increased in intensity, and the mucus grew in volume. His eyes started to water, blurring his vision.

"Come on, boy. If I can work through these allergies I have to dog fur, you can work through your aversion to me. We will get your paw fixed, and I will take some pills to stop this stupid allergic reaction. It will be a win-win for both of us. Just get into the car for me. Ah, I'm sorry. I know it must hurt."

The dog crawled onto the back seat with the last bit of food in her mouth. She chewed slowly, swallowed, then sighed, and laid her head on her paws. She yelped, and lifted her inflamed foot out from under her muzzle, and huffed out another breath loudly. _She knew that Stan would help her, even if she did not want to be helped. She just wanted to be left alone, but it did not look like that was going to happen. Ah well, she would go along with the guy. He had kind eyes. She hoped the man would get some help for the snotty nose problem he seemed to have. And, she hoped the guy would look at the tag on her collar and see her name was Trixie. She hated being called 'boy'._

Stan consulted his smart phone for the nearest veterinarian. Having never had a pet, he'd never needed an animal doctor. Finding one close by, he started the car and took off. Using the car's speaker phone he called into his office. His administrative assistant answered his call.

"Hi, Leslie. I wanted to let you know I have a personal emergency. Yes, it just popped up as I was coming back from lunch. Please move my two o'clock manager's meeting to tomorrow, same time. Thank you, Leslie. No, I won't be back today. See you tomorrow morning." He pushed the speaker control end button on the steering wheel to disconnect the call.

Moving his car into the intersection, he glanced briefly into the rearview mirror to check on the dog. "Well, boy. How are you doing? We should have you at the doctor's shortly. We don't have an appointment, but I can't imagine they'll turn us away. You look pretty puny."

' _Puny'? That was outrageous. She was hungry for sure. She had a sore paw that hurt like the blazes. But she wasn't weak! What was with this guy? How could he be so critical? Here she was, bravely trudging on, and he was calling her names. And he didn't even have her name correct._

"Where is your family, boy?" Stan asked.

_Quit calling me boy!_ Scowled Trixie. _And for your information, they moved out of the state and just left me here. Stand up people, right? Let's hope they don't have any kids._

After what seemed like endless turns and stopping and starting, the car finally came to a halt.

"Here we are boy. Will you let me carry you inside?" Stan turned around in the front seat, looking down at Trixie and asked the dog kindly.

Sure. I can barely move now. So yes. Please help me.

"Please do not bite me, boy. I just want to help you."

You keep calling me boy and I might take off one of your fingers. But go ahead and pick me up. See? I'll shake my tail as a sign of goodwill.

"Hey. Your tail is wagging. That's my boy. Oh my. Did you just growl? So what is it? Are you going to chomp on me? Hey. There goes your tail again. Okay. Let me pick you up." Stan got out of the front seat and went around to open the back door. Leaning inside the door, the stench was so bad, his head reared back and slammed against the roof, he pinched his fingers over his nose.

"You smell rank, fella. We need to introduce you to some soap and water very soon. Let's go inside."

_Ha ha! You really have a way with words, Stan. Of course I smell. I've been living on the mean streets of Claremont for two months. Eating things, you wouldn't even pick up to throw away, you prissy little human. If my paw wasn't the size of a house cat, I would walk off in a huff. But since I won't be going anywhere without help, you may carry me,_ thought Trixie haughtily. She lifted her head and nodded slightly to him.

Stan reached in to pick up Trixie. He was surprised at her slight weight. Taking her carefully into his arms, trying to avoid touching her infected paw, he cuddled the dog close to his chest. Stinky or not he felt this deep obligation to see this dog taken care of. He had the feeling this dog was as alone as he was. Stan wasn't sure why he had this feeling but he did.

Trixie flopped her head against Stan's chest. She was exhausted. Taking care of herself had been tiring since her humans had abandoned her. The coyotes, speeding cars, vicious cats, and lack of food had worn her down. It would be nice to feel safe. Just then Stan wheezed out a sloppy sneeze into Trixie's coat. Her coat felt wet where Stan had rubbed his nose.

_Great! Now I am a canine Kleenex_ , thought Trixie in disgust.

"Oops. Sorry, buddy. These allergies are killer," apologized Stan as he entered the veterinarian's lobby. As he talked to the receptionist, and she agreed to work the dog into an appointment, Trixie listened to Stan's strong heartbeat against her ear. There was something so comforting about the steady thump, thump thumping. She wanted to let someone take over all of her troubles. What would it be like to wake up and feel safe?

Later, during the examination, as the doctor was moving his hands over the dog's coat, he found a collar and a dog tag hidden among the knots and tangles. Peering at it closely he said, "Well, it looks like your little girl's name is Trixie." At the sound of her name Trixie lifted her head slightly, and thumped her tail gamely.

"Girl?" Exclaimed Stan. "I thought she was a boy!"

"No, she definitely has girl parts," smiled the vet.

_Darn right I have 'girl parts'!_ Trixie thought indignantly.

An hour later they both left the animal clinic loaded up with antibiotics and with Trixie sporting a bandaged leg. Stan still carried her snug against his body.

"I'm sorry I didn't realize you were a little girl. And you are a poodle mix. That's fortunate for me. Well, for both of us."

Fortunate? Really? My other humans thought that I wasn't good enough to go with them. They called me a mongrel. Why are you happy I am part poodle?

"First it was great news that we can treat your infection with these antibiotics. Second, the doctor thinks I am allergic to something _on_ your fur, since poodle fur doesn't carry the dandruff that causes allergies," said Stan, sneezing loudly. "So giving you a bath should take care of my sneezing. That makes it a win for both of us!"

Hey, you just sneezed on me again. You realize that is not the proper way to treat a dog, don't you? I am not a furry snot rag. Though you seem like a great guy. I really wish I had met you when I was a puppy. Not now when I am such a mess. Who would want me like this? My old owners didn't want me. They said that I was something only a mother could love. I am not the perfect pedigreed dog. I'm just Trixie. Though that doesn't seem to matter to you.

"The doctor said," Stan continued, "that you look like you have been on the streets for a long time. So maybe you don't have any owners. Hmm? We'll give you a bath first, though. You know what that means, don't you?"

No more boogers in my fur?

"It means we will look for your old owners . . ."

_Oh, I hope not!_ Trixie thought with alarm.

"But if we don't find them, would you mind living with me?" asked Stan. He opened the passenger side of the car and gently deposited Trixie on the seat. He stroked her curly, matted head soothingly. "My house is big and empty. The backyard is huge. I would like to have you come home with me." He looked into her sweet, big brown eyes beseechingly. "Would you like that?"

_You want me, Stan? To live with you? To be with you?_ Trixie was astounded. She found it hard to believe that someone as kind as this human would open his life for her to join.

Giving her ear a small scratch, Stan stood up, closed the door, and walked around the front of the car to get into the driver's seat. Sitting, he buckled the seat belt and smiled. He recognized the emotion he was feeling. It was happiness. A sudden thought came to him.

"Hey, Trixie. I'm going to be living with another bitch again!"

She lifted her head when he spoke her name and focused her soft brown eyes on him questioningly. _That sounds rude!_ She thought.

"But you know what, sweetheart? You are the right kind of bitch for me," smiled Stan.

_Oh. That's okay then. I'll stay_ , sighed Trixie happily. Y _ou seem like the right kind of owner for me, too._

# Christmas Eve

### Don Ball

Christmas Eve, everyone said what a time to rejoice

Even the mice had a good time with their own little voice

Grandma, of course, had made sure that Santa Claus would appear

And we spent our spare time hiding gifts and having cider for cheer.

Grandpa came home quite Merry with a coke and some elderberry,

And had that look on his face like when the cat ate the canary.

He was polite after dinner and waited till we all went to bed

Before he slipped out to the car and retrieved special boxes, all red.

He lugged them back, making a colorful stack

It had all ready started snowing before he got back,

But as I peeked out my window, the white snow made the winter trees show

And Grandpa always left big tracks in the snow.

Spot wasn't any silly dog you see,

he found his good place behind the winter stove near the Christmas tree.

This was the first year Grandpa had enough money for gifts you see,

And he looked like a postman lugging whatever will be

I knew he was happy because he hummed all the way

Trying to think what he would say at the big dinner on Christmas Day.

He pulled out the gifts, but how the paper did tattle,

And I could see Spot look funny as it did rattle.

He stood on his hind legs so he would look tall,

And thought he was helping Santa place them all.

With his tail doing his swish-swash to stay out of his stall

And the good boys and girls always say Merry Christmas to all!

# The Closet

### Lisa Griffiths

It was in the summer of 1980 when I was twelve that something weird happened in my closet.

We lived in an old Spanish style house that was built in the 1920s. Although not everything worked perfectly, the house had lots of character. Or, at least that's what my dad always said. What I liked the best were the many skeleton keys that went with our doors. These keys all looked different and yet could be used on more than one door. Even the closet doors had skeleton keys.

My closet was not spacious, but big enough to keep my clothes, shoeboxes, and collectibles. It also had a small window in it that faced the backyard. I used to pretend my closet was a clubhouse, sometimes locking myself inside. Once, I couldn't get that darn skeleton key to work from the inside. I sat there for an hour trying to get out. I even thought of squeezing myself through the window to escape. My mom finally heard me calling and came to my rescue. She had me slide the key under the door so she could try. For some reason, it worked just fine for her. I got an earful that day about locking that door.

During that summer, my friends and I thought we were old enough to start going to the movies without our parents. That was fine, they agreed, but only appropriate films for our age. Then a movie called _His Bloody Hand_ came out in the theaters. Everyone was talking about how scary it was. We kids knew that this was a must see movie for us. But, how to convince the parents?

The movie was R rated, so none of us got the go ahead to see it. To say we were disappointed would be an understatement. My mom's excuse for why I couldn't go: "You'll have nightmares." That was obvious, but so what?

One afternoon, three of my friends and I got dropped off at the mall. We promised to stick together and call when we were done shopping. Of course, we didn't do any shopping. We asked some older girls to buy our movie tickets and get us into the show. Once inside the theater, we sat up toward the front. The place was packed.

For an hour and a half, that movie took the breath right from me. For a low budget film, it did a number on all of us. It was rare that we couldn't talk about a movie right after we'd seen it, but that was the case with _His Bloody Hand_. It was as if speaking about the movie would make it real, and no one wanted that. We all swore not to tell anyone what we'd done. Who wants to be grounded during the summer?

Later that night, as I was getting ready for bed, I paused at a noise coming from my closet. It was a faint humming sound. When I opened the door, the sound stopped. I looked around, and, not seeing anything, closed the door. I figured my imagination was getting the better of me.

During my sleep, I did have nightmares. They were short, like mini movies, but very vivid. I couldn't recall all of them the next day, but several involved running from someone or something. One stood out clearly: a bloody hand with a mind of its own was in my closet.

Upon opening my eyes in the morning, I was in a foul mood. I couldn't decide whether I was mad at my mom for being right about nightmares or with myself for letting the movie get to me.

I sat up in bed and stretched. My eyes automatically went to the closet on the other side of the room. The door was open. My heart actually skipped a beat. A voice in my head kept asking why the door was slightly open when it had been closed last night.

There was enough light filtering into the room that I could see everything. I scanned the room from left to right, looking for anything out of place. Nothing seemed changed. I slowly got out of bed and walked to the closet.

I could feel my adrenaline starting to work as my sinuses cleared and my feet were poised to take off running at a moment's notice. I reached for the door and opened it all the way. Nothing. Taking a deep breath, I left for the kitchen and breakfast, shaking my head at the silliness of it.

That night before bed, I conducted a rough search of the closet. I didn't see anything unusual. The window was open, as it always was in summer. The screen was still intact. I decided to close it, at least for tonight. I made a point to close the closet door with some force, pulling on the knob to make sure it wouldn't budge. Satisfied, I went to bed.

Again, I had nightmares. Again, there was a bloody hand in my closet, trying to get out. When I awoke the next morning, I was sweaty and exhausted, like I'd been running all night. I sat up immediately and looked toward the closet. The door was open half way. From my position on the bed, I could see that the window was also open. How on earth was this happening?

All the hairs of my body were standing up. I felt frozen to the spot but knew I had to get up and move. Looking around for something to use as a weapon, I spied a letter opener carved of wood on my desk. I made it to the desk in one leap and reached the closet in another, holding the opener like a dagger.

I suppose I wasn't too surprised that nothing was there. I opened up the window shades to let the sunlight in, perhaps warning any evil spirits to get lost. I even looked under my bed, but saw only my matchbook collection and some old shoeboxes.

Needless to say, I wasn't myself at breakfast, and my mom noticed.

"Aren't you hungry?" she asked as I picked at my oatmeal.

"No, not really."

I debated back and forth about coming clean and telling her everything. I just couldn't. I knew what she'd say to me, and I knew I'd get grounded. No, there had to be another way to figure this out. There had to be a logical explanation. Unfortunately, there wasn't one handy that I could believe in. It was time for a change in tactics.

That night, I checked the closet before going to bed. I even moved things around, looking behind containers of old school stuff and Barbie dolls. Everything looked like it always did. I made sure the window was closed before closing the closet door. This time, I locked it with the skeleton key. I then strung a ribbon through the key and promptly put it around my neck. Just to be safe.

It took me a long time to fall asleep; I was straining my ears to hear the slightest of sounds. When I finally succumbed, my hand was wrapped around the key.

This time, in my nightmare, I could sense the bloody hand right behind me as I ran down an endless hallway. I wanted to turn and face it, but couldn't.

My sleep had been fitful; I felt anything but rested in the morning. Taking a peek over the tangle of blanket and sheets, I saw that the closet door was closed. A warm feeling of relief swept over me. Now I knew the solution: just keep that door locked.

Pulling the key off my neck, I went over to unlock the door. I started to tense a little, not sure what to expect. When I opened it, the only thing I noticed were paint chips on the carpeting. I looked around at the shelves and the door jamb. Nothing. I took a look at the inside of the door and saw scratch marks near the base. I knelt down and put my hand over the marks, lining up my fingers with the scratch lines. Something made these during the night. I quickly looked up at the window; it was open.

I felt my stomach juices rising and bolted for the bathroom.

How could this be real? What could be done to stop it? Why was this happening to me? I hadn't done anything.

Oh, but I did. I went to see that stupid horror movie without permission. I should have listened to my mom.

I had to think of a way to stop this. I did have an idea. In all my nightmares, I'd been running away from something. But, in all the good books and movies, the hero doesn't run away. He has to face his demons. As bad as it might turn out, it just had to be done. Maybe it was time for me to face my fear. The thought scared me more than the movie did.

That evening, I prepared for battle. I lined up an array of talismans on my nightstand: a piece of Baltic amber from my grandmother, a wooden rosary received as a gift from an aunt in Mexico, a lucky silver dollar found at Disneyland when I was seven.

I closed the closet window and then the door. I locked it and checked the knob. Once again, I put the ribboned key around my neck. I got into bed and propped up the pillows behind me. The lamp by the bed was still on. All I had to do was wait.

After an hour or so, I found that I couldn't stay up. I'd heard no sounds coming from the closet. I finally turned off the light and closed my eyes.

_Scratch, scratch_. I could hear it and sat up, staring in the dark toward the closet. It came again. _Scratch, scratch_. The sound magnified in my ears and made my skin crawl.

I swung my legs off the bed, feeling for the items on my nightstand. I touched each one and whispered a prayer then switched on the light. It was now or never, all or nothing.

Slowly, I got out of bed. The scratching sound continued, with pauses in between. I found the letter opener on my desk and picked it up. It was from Thailand; my dad brought it for me when I was ten. It had a nice sharp point at the tip.

I made it to the closet door, pulled off the key and put it in the lock. When I turned the key, the scratching sound stopped. I held my breath for a moment and felt my heart beating a tattoo against my ribs. On the count of three. One, two,

THREE!

I yanked the door open with one hand, the other gripping the makeshift dagger. I let out a breath, but didn't see anything. Then it leaped at me.

A hand, twice the size of my own, reached and grabbed my throat. I dropped the letter opener as both of my hands tried to peel the bloody thing off me. I fell over backwards to the floor, twisting and thrashing my legs.

The strength of its grip was unbelievable. I tried desperately to free my throat, but realized I was failing. There was no air getting into my lungs; my eyes felt about to burst from their sockets. My body started to relax a little and one of my hands fell to my side. I touched the letter opener.

Something went off in my brain. I grabbed the opener and stabbed at the bloody hand on my throat. It was a lucky shot; the hand let go. I watched in horror as it tried to crawl away, the opener still stuck in it.

I jumped for it, using the full weight of my body to drive the opener in further. I don't remember how long it took for the hand to stop struggling. It seemed an eternity. Blood oozed from the hand, smelling slightly metallic, and soaked into the carpet.

It was done, I had done it. I rolled over on to my back and took a deep breath, thankful for the air, wonderful air. I felt my neck; welts were forming and it hurt. None of that mattered now.

I awoke the next morning in my bed. Opening my eyes, I stretched and heaved a sigh. Wait. What had happened? My hands went to my throat, feeling, probing. I couldn't feel any scratches. I swallowed; it felt normal.

I sat up and looked around. My nightstand still held the items that I'd placed there the night before. I looked at the closet door, but it was closed. How could that be? I felt and found the key around my neck. A glance at my desk showed the letter opener, sitting where it always did.

Getting out of bed, I went to a small mirror hanging above the dresser. The reflection showed a twelve year old girl with bed head and a confused expression on her face. There were no scratches or bruises on her neck, though.

Was any of this real? Maybe not. Maybe it was just a nightmare. I had to check the closet; what about the scratch marks?

I unlocked the door and looked, but they weren't there. The window was still closed, too.

My head swung around to look at the floor. I dropped to my knees, hands feeling the carpet, searching for that bloody spot. There it was. Not hard or sticky with dried blood. It looked as if it had been cleaned already. There was just the faintest hint of a stain.

# Day's End

### Don Ball

We can ride my old mule

Home from the school.

To find a fat rabbit

Before something can have it

Better check on the goose

Before she gets loose

The mule will still bray

At the end of the day.

# The Decision

### T.L. Eastwood

I have to give Alex an answer when I return, thought Jane. My solo trip is almost over; I have to make a decision.

The desert's stark beauty always calmed her and hiking in the early morning light always helped her answer life's important questions.

She sighed and went to tend the dawn fire. A log fell to the side as if trying to escape the orange-red flames that licked at it hungrily, and Jane thought, _My life seems like that right now. Alex and I were so careful. I never really considered the possibility of ever having to make such a life-altering decision. And, especially, not by myself. Well, this is getting me nowhere. It's time for a hike!_

The sun was just peaking over the eastern horizon as she slipped into her hiking boots and laced them up tight. She took a minute to breathe in the crisp morning air before picking up her staff and starting out across the sandy, rock-strewn ground.

Jane unconsciously hiked softly so she wouldn't disturb the waking desert. The ebony curtain of night drifted dreamily to the heavens and disappeared into a pillow of clouds as the sun continued its ascension. As the darkness faded into shades of pink and yellow, the night creatures ceased their labors and drifted lazily under the nearest boulders looking for the perfect place to sleep away the coming day. The tall, walking men of the desert came to a resting place, planted their roots deep into the soil, and became ordinary Joshua Trees once again.

The brightening sky held a faint glow of lavender as the western scrub jays flew from their nests in some nearby brush and scouted the ground for the slow moving night beetles and spiders scurrying for shelter. The faint knocking sound of a woodpecker emanated from a scraggly pine tree as it laboriously drilled its winter storage lockers.

Jane continued her walk until the sun cast a brilliant glow over the freshly awakened world. She saw a brown and white Greater Roadrunner amble slowly on the path in front of her. Staring upwards, she watched as a majestic Red-tailed Hawk hung frozen on the airwaves just above her head. A rattlesnake slithered to Jane's right looking for that perfect boulder on which to sun itself, and a Chinchook wriggled its way to a small rock on the opposite side.

Looking around her at the scrub brush and scraggly pines that had looked half dead just a few hours ago, Jane realized that even they had awoken, their leaves and nettles a vibrant green set against the brown sand.

_What a beautiful world,_ thought Jane, silently listening to the newborn sounds.

She almost missed the soft, high-pitched cry coming from a tiny nest sitting cozily in the middle of a small bush. Walking stealthily forward, she dropped to her knees in front of the shrub. There she saw two tiny Scrub Jays huddling in their bed, crying for attention. Overhead, Mama Jay circled, waiting for the interloper to leave so she could feed her hungry brood. Jane smiled at the beautiful, life-filled birds. She quietly backed a few feet away, and then stopped and watched Mama Jay swoop down and lovingly feed her babies.

_This has been wonderful, but I'd better head back,_ she thought _. Alex will be expecting me home before dark._

Jane returned to her trailer, smiling with contentment. She broke camp, the early morning visions of life still filling her consciousness.

The desert had given her a sense of peace, and, even though she knew her life was about to change drastically, she had made her decision.

"I can handle this on my own so, if Alex doesn't want to stay around, he doesn't have to," she told the desert, while pressing the gas pedal and heading for home.

# Dumpster Diver

### Jonathan Chaus

I never know what I'll find. Sometimes it is something awesome, like an old radio CD player that just needed a new antennae or a BB gun or a computer game, but tonight was different. Somebody threw out a dead body. When I opened the dumpster there was a strange smell, not that the dumpster ever smells nice. Actually, that's the hardest part of taking things home, the de-stinking of it. Fabric softener really helps. It took me a whole hour to clean the radio when I found that.

Dead bodies though, fabric softener can't help them. The two rules I have about dumpster diving are that I don't try to find the person that throws something out. That way they don't want it back, and I don't get embarrassed about finding it. The other is I don't call the cops. The cops always want to talk to your parents, and, since mine are foster parents, I don't need the headache.

So, what was I supposed to do with this body? It was a man in his mid-thirties, I guess. He looks a lot older than me. He has a nice suit on. It is too big for me, and I don't wear suits anyway. No wallet, but a few bills in his pocket that add up to forty-three dollars. I'm going to keep that. He has a bullet hole over his heart. The blood has spread all over the white shirt. His fancy shoes look like they would hurt to wear for very long.

It's a Tuesday. I don't usually go out on Tuesdays because the dumpster is emptied today at about four o'clock. I did though because through the thin walls I could hear that Dad and Mom needed some alone time. So, the dumpster was empty except for a few office papers, a card board box, and Mr. Suit. After I had searched him, I leaned him up against the box and had a staring contest with him. I lost. I looked at his face; it seemed familiar. Not bad looking, but he didn't have a career in Hollywood, for sure. His hands were soft like he worked in an office building shuffling papers, not digging ditches like Dad. I looked at this man for a while, I mean I really looked. I got the feeling I really wanted to know him. Too late. What was he doing here? He didn't belong out here. We didn't have rich guys out here very often. It wasn't that sort of neighborhood.

I started to get stiff sitting across from him, so I moved a little. The body moved too, which made me jump. Mr. Suit was still dead. That's when I saw it. A paper folded up in his coat's inside pocket. I reached for it and patted his other suit pockets in case I'd missed anything else. I hadn't.

"Maybe this paper will tell me who you are and what you're doing here, Mr. Suit," I said to the corpse.

I read the paper, and then I read it again. I realized why the face was familiar. The paper said this man was in this neighborhood to pick up his son who he hadn't known about until a month ago. He had looked all over for him and traced him to this neighborhood, and tonight he was going to take him home.

I sat back and looked at the man some more. What rotten luck. He looked nice, and he wanted to be with his son, and then somehow, he ends up dead. I couldn't stay there any longer, so I reached over and closed the dead man's eyes. I got out of the dumpster and looked back inside.

"Goodbye, Father, I wish I'd gotten to know you. Thanks for trying," I said, and then I walked away.

# The Final Chess Game

### Jonathan Chaus

The Government was bored. It had taken control of just about everything in every citizen's life. It gained so much control that there were only a few humanly body functions that the government didn't regulate. Since there was nothing else for the Government to try and seize control over, it got bored. The boredom didn't last long.

Me? I resented the all-controlling gaggle of goons that had rules for everything. "The citizens could not be trusted with their own lives. They are not smart enough to handle even the simplest of things without our guidance," they had said, and I took offence to that. I got in trouble.

I didn't like the idea that my wife and I would have to fill out a form and get it approved before we could make love. She didn't like it either. Talk about a mood killer.

I don't know how, maybe our phones or through the television, but they found out we were being amorous. I spent a week in the re-initialization program, at least that's what they called it since they had done away with jails years ago.

I did learn to play chess there, which was fast becoming a Government sponsored hobby. Very little violence ever happened while the citizenry was engaged in a game of chess.

I didn't stay out of trouble though. My best friend Hank and I decided it might be fun to play chess and have a drink at the same time. Since the Government controlled the distilleries and the sale of alcohol then priced it above what anyone, could afford we decided to make our own. We got drunk, loud and ultimately locked up. He and I played a lot of chess the next few weeks as we were re-educated to be better citizens.

The third strike, the one where they throw away the key, happened when my wife gave food to our downstairs neighbors who had two daughters and a third on the way. The Government rationed food perfectly so it was illegal to share it. Hank and I were together, playing a quick game when we heard the commotion downstairs. We ran down and found the Government Protection Agency hauling away our neighbor. The chief administrator was particularly brutal, so Hank and I stepped in. There were six of them and two of us, and it wasn't a fair fight. They had to call another twenty before we were subdued.

Word spread of the uprising and the Government had to do something. It took the two leaders of the uprising and decided that they would play a game of chess to decide which one would live and which one would die. They made it sound like there must have been a dozen dissidents and showed the pictures of our building, which they set on fire, burning; people still inside. That's what happens when governments get board. People die.

They made us play chess, Hank and me. Hank was a natural so I knew it wouldn't take long before I would be feeling the needle in my arm and the little burning sensation. The game started and I was holding my own, which I thought was odd. Then I knew something was up when Hank left his queen unprotected. Two moves later Hank made it obvious what he was doing when he opened his king up for checkmate. I looked at him and I knew. He nodded to me to finish it up; somebody had to be the winner. Since chess is a thinking game you get to take your time. If I made that move I got to live, and I would send my best friend to his death. If I made that move the Government kept its power. If I made that move I would be deader inside than the mummies in Egypt.

The administrating referee was starting to sweat. He could see the move. He cleared his throat as a little hint to get on with it. I did. I knocked every one of those chess pieces off the board and straight at him.

Well it didn't take them twenty guards to subdue us, but almost. It all happened so quickly that they forgot to cut the television feed to the country.

I can hear some noise outside, and I feel that little burning sensation in my arm as the administrating doctor empties the needle into it. I look over to my buddy, who is getting the same treatment, and nod. "Hell of a game," He says loudly as the noise outside has increased.

"Hell of a game," I respond smiling and close my eyes.

# The Fountain of Puerility

### Jonathan Chaus

"It's about time for the 4:14 flash, isn't it, George?" Sam, the oldest of the three men who sat at the bus stop, asked.

"No, Sam. Your watch is always fast. We have another three minutes," George said patiently as he checked his watch.

Fred Zimmerman, the third man at the bus stop, checked his watch, too. George was right; it was only 4:11. Fred watched the two residents of Puerility as they leaned forward on the bench and grew quiet.

He was from New York City and was intrigued by these 'Oldsters', as they liked to be called. In fact, the whole town had nothing but 'Oldsters' in it. Fred, even though he thought it strange, figured it was a retirement town and, that after awhile, all the people his own age would have gotten bored and moved away. The 'Oldsters' were nice enough; well, at least most of them, and Fred had spent one of the most pleasurable days of his life with them.

Life in New York City had become too stressful for him. He couldn't find work, he wasn't dating Marsha anymore, and his schooling was over until fall. There was really nothing for him to do, so, as he had often done before, he decided to take a trip somewhere he had never been.

The bus station had been crowded. He had looked at the destination board and the price to Puerility had seemed just right. He arrived the next day at 11:00 a.m., a little stiff, but rested. He'd spent most of his time talking to the 'Oldsters' who sat on benches up and down Main Street and in the town square. Most of them talked quite freely as though they were thankful for having a young man in town. Some, not many, refused to talk to him but smiled as he passed by as though they secretly knew something. A few of the 'Oldsters' said he reminded them of another youth they had known.

He liked the town, but most of all, he liked the town square. It looked like something from an old musical he had seen when he was a kid. It was pure Americana. In the middle of the square sat a fountain with a copper statue of a woman pouring water out of a vase. Fred could tell it was old, but it shone as brightly as if it had been cast yesterday. A copper plaque on the base of the statue read, "The Fountain of Puerility" and shimmered as brightly as the rest of the fountain.

Fred walked around the outside of the fountain, awestruck by its beauty. The statue seemed to smile at him. A few of the 'Oldsters' smiled, too. He started to feel uneasy and decided he would take the 4:20 bus back to New York City.

He made his way to the bus stop and sat down with the two 'Oldsters', George and Sam. Fred was once again ready to get back to the stress of the City after having had such a nice relaxing day.

"Look, Sam, there's good Ole Harold turning all the lights red at the intersection. Must be 4:14. The Flash should be along any second now," George said, as he looked past Fred, down the street.

"What is this Flash? And why is that cop turning all the lights red?" Fred asked, talking to these two men for the first time.

"You'll see, son." George said, without taking his eyes from the street. Fred looked at Sam and then glanced around and noticed that all the other 'Oldsters' were looking down the street, too. Even the police officer named Harold paid no attention to the intersection but looked on as intently as the others. Fred felt uneasy for the second time that day. Not knowing what to do, he looked down the street, too.

All of a sudden there came a thunderous roar, and Fred watched as the clouds parted in the distance and something fell from the sky. The buildings echoed the sound of a motorcycle down the street. Fred's eyes stared in disbelief, as he saw the black figure hurl past him. His head followed his eyes as he watched the figure flash by. The mysterious rider drove through the intersection and disappeared into the fountain.

Fred sat staring at the fountain, as life resumed its slow pace in Puerility. He was too deep in thought to notice that his bus had come and gone. He didn't even notice it stop or hear the bus driver honk at him. He didn't notice all the "Oldsters' had gone home to their warm houses. He was too busy trying to rationalize the irrational sight he had seen.

Fred sat there, occasionally looking up into the dark sky where the mysterious rider had come from or down the street into the fountain where he had gone. He didn't know that day had become night or that night had become day again. He didn't notice that the 'Oldsters' had come out again or that some of them shook their heads when they passed him. In fact, he was so inside himself that he didn't notice anything, until Sam's voice drifted to his ears.

"It's about time for the 4:14 Flash, isn't it, George?" Sam said.

"No, Sam. Your watch is always fast. We have another three minutes," replied George.

For the first time in his life Fred was truly horrified. He had heard of mass hallucinations in his psychology classes, but it was never like this. He suddenly wanted to get away, far away.

"Look, Sam, there's good Ole Harold turning all the lights in the intersection red. Must be 4:14. The Flash should be along any second now," George noted.

_No, this can't be happening. I've got to get out of here._ Fred jumped off of the bench. Across the street all the cars had stopped, and the 'Oldsters' were looking through their rear windows. Fred sprinted across the street and tugged on the first car door he came to, it was locked. He ran along to the next door and then to the next door. All the car doors were locked. The 'Oldsters', inside the cars, smiled at him and then returned to their vigilance, staring down the street.

Fred screamed as he heard the thunderous roar. Looking up, he saw the black figure falling from the sky. Running as fast as he could along the canyon of cars, he let out another scream that wouldn't stop. He could hear the motorcycle getting closer. Suddenly, he realized he could run no farther. He stood in front of the fountain. Turning around to look at the motorcycle, he froze in terror as he saw the face smiling at him through the black helmet, only a few feet away.

Sam and George sat back deeper into the bench and watched as the 'Oldsters' lined up to sip from the Fountain of Puerility.

"You know we've really got to stop this. That's 103 by my count," Sam said.

"It's 104, to be precise, and why should we stop? Look how much younger everyone looks. Why, you've already lost five years and you haven't even taken a sip yet," George replied.

Sam smiled and said, "Just a thought. Forget it."

"See you tomorrow, Sam."

"See you tomorrow, George."

# Graduation at Putnam

### Don Ball

The junior girls and their rose-covered arches

Help us start the journey with a special memory.

When we walk through the arches, we will never look back,

Only to the future.

But this humble graduation day will always

Be our treasury.

If you are fortunate in the journey, you will find your mate

Who knows your being, thoughts, and deeds,

So that, at the end, the true part of your self

Can be a spark for some

New beginning to treasure.

When you graduate into this world,

a spark of the School becomes part of you.

You travel the journey and are called on to use

this spark to demonstrate your love for others.

As you have been blessed, you will be a blessing for others,

And the spark of human kindness for their spirit to treasure.

In our graduation is a beginning, not a victory.

In our past harbors a future - except for God \- a total mystery.

In a cocoon are hidden promises of a monarch in a tree.

No matter how stiff the headwind,

life has prepared us to be strong

and this humble graduation day will always

Be our treasury.

# Grandpa Sims' Farm

### Tamara Miller

If you were to drive by the Sims' Farm in Tom, Oklahoma, most likely you would see Grandpa Sims, better known as Gramps, sitting on his rocker on his front porch wearing his bib-overalls. The farm house was quite a distance from the road, but he would always wave to the cars passing by, just in case it was someone he knew.

Although it's not a farm anymore, it's still referred to as the Sims' Farm. When Gramps was born in 1923, the farm had thriving cotton fields along with chickens, cows, horses, hogs, and mules. The mules were used to pull the wagon when the family went to church or town, and to plow the fields. That was ninety years ago, and there have been many changes since then.

While Gramps sat on the porch waiting for a car to go by, he stared at the barn _. It could use a paint job_ , he thought. Gramps helped his father build it, as much as a ten year-old boy could help. A lot of things had happened in that barn, some good and some bad, and some things only he knew, which he would take to his grave.

Gramps and his family still live in the Sims' farmhouse, except for his wife who passed away seven years ago. Originally, the farmhouse had a wood burning stove for cooking and heat, in the large kitchen. It had two bedrooms along with an outhouse in the back. As the family grew, part of the modernization included an indoor bathroom and a second story with two additional bedrooms.

Living in the house now is his daughter-in-law, Judith Diane, who married Gramps' son, Bobby Joe, who is deceased. She is now Gramps' caregiver and runs the household. Judith Diane is tall and wears her hair in a long graying braid extending to the middle of her back. She is a strong woman who once worked the fields alongside her husband. She is a wonderful cook and was seldom seen without an apron on.

Judith Diane's daughter, Mary Beth, and her husband, Billy Jack, also live in the house with their ten year-old daughter, Lucy Mae, who has sparkly blue eyes, and is an adorable bundle of energy. Mary Beth is medium-height with blond wavy hair. She is a school teacher in Tom. Billy Jack is a muscular six-foot tall man with dark hair and a bushy mustache. He manages the feed store owned by Grandpa Sims.

"Two more weeks of school Gramps and I'll be home for the summer," said Lucy Mae as she helped him walk from the kitchen to his rocker on the front porch. His once six-foot tall barrel-chested frame is now slightly slumped. He had been strong as an ox in his younger days but now his legs need help getting out of a chair. He still has a full head of hair, but it is snow white.

"That's good, Goldilocks," said Gramps. He never called her by her real name. He renamed her Goldilocks because of her blond curls. She likes her nickname because he had given it to her. She is devoted to him, and spends most of her time sitting on the porch steps asking him questions about his life and watching him nap in his rocker.

When he naps, he mumbles, and she tries to figure out what he is saying. Sometimes he jerks in his sleep and waves his arms yelling, "Stop," which usually wakes him up.

Gramps felt Goldilocks staring at him as she sat on the porch steps waiting for the school bus.

"What are you staring at, child?" he asked.

"When I get old, will I have hair on my ears like you Gramps?"

"I sure hope not. You are too pretty to have hairy ears," he said, and they laughed out loud together. "I think I see your school bus coming up the road."

Goldilocks turned to see the dust from the dirt road and the bus coming toward the house. "Guess I better head for the front gate," she said, and picked up her school books and her sack lunch and went to Gramp's rocker. "I'll see you after school," she said, and kissed him on the cheek and reached up to touch one of his ears, "I love you, Gramps, and I love your hairy ears." Flashing him one of her big smiles, she ran down the steps and along the front path to meet the bus. She thought his ear was soft but hoped she never had hair on hers.

"How are you doing, Gramps?" asked Judith Diane, as she came out to the porch to check on him. "I brought you a glass of lemonade." She sat the glass on the table next to his rocker. "Do you want your lunch inside or out here today?"

"I'll take it inside. Just come and get me when it's ready." She patted him on the shoulder and returned to the kitchen.

Ever since his heart attack five years ago he spent most of the day on the porch. After lunch he would go to his room and lay down for a nap and then return to his rocker to wait for Goldilocks to come home from school. The attack had slowed him down, and, at his age, he had become unsteady when walking. The doctor wanted him to use a walker or a cane, but he was too stubborn.

Later, Gramps saw Goldilocks running up the front path. "I'm home Gramps!" she shouted, just like every weekday afternoon. Reaching the top step, she ran to him and gave him a hug.

"Did you get some smarts today?" he asked.

"I sure did. I had a spelling test, and I got a hundred percent!"

"That's my girl."

"Let me go tell Grandma I'm home, and I'll be right back." She ran inside to tell Judith Diane that she was home from school and about her spelling test.

"That's good, Lucy Mae. It's good that we studied your words last night. I'm real proud of you," said her mother, reaching down to give her a hug. "Now go change your clothes."

By the time Lucy Mae returned to the porch, Gramps' eyes were closed as he took what he called a cat-nap. She brought him a fresh glass of lemonade and sat it on the table next to his rocker. She ran back to the kitchen to get lemonade for herself and then sat on the top porch step waiting for Gramps to wake up. He was mumbling and woke up with a jerk and an, "Ugh!"

"I brought you some lemonade, Gramps," she said, pointing to the glass next to him. "What were you dreaming about?"

Patting his hair in place with his hands and taking a sip of the lemonade, he said, "I was dreaming about my first horse, Shadow. He was born right there in the barn. It was just before winter, and my dad and I had finished putting the final coat of paint on the barn doors. We knew Maggie was about to foal. We stayed with her all through the night and by morning we thought we would have to call the horse vet for help, and then it happened. What a wonderful sight. Shadow's legs were so wobbly I thought he would fall down. But no, up he stood and looked right at me. Dad said he was mine, and I could name him. He was so small and his coat was gray, so I named him Shadow."

"Mom said I could have a horse someday. I hope it will be born here, too," said Goldilocks.

"It must be close to dinner, here comes Billy Jack up the road," said Gramps.

When he arrived home, the whole family ate dinner together. He had taken over all the responsibilities of the store after Bobby Joe's death. Gramps had bought the feed store after the bow weevils destroyed his crop of cotton, and it was too late to replant in time for the rains. He had to look for an alternative source of income. When old-man Wilson passed away, the previous owner of the feed store, his son put the store up for sale. The timing was perfect, so Gramps bought the store for a family business.

The next day when Goldilocks asked Gramps about his dream he shared many of his memories. "Your grandmother and mother were both married in the barn. We decorated it with streamers and covered the bales of hay with tarps. We roasted a pig in a pit, and many of the neighbors brought food. Some of the nearby farmers brought their fiddles and accordions and played music for everyone to dance. It was a great time. Those were wonderful days," he said with a sigh.

One afternoon, waking up from one of his naps, and before Goldilocks could ask him what he was dreaming about, he asked, "Do you remember your great-grandmother?"

"Yes, I remember her."

"Well, the first time I kissed her was in the barn, behind the bales of hay," he said smiling from ear to ear as he remembered his beloved wife.

"Oh, Gramps," she laughed. "Did your dad catch you? Did you get in trouble?"

"No, but after I kissed her she ran home. I thought she was mad at me, but I was wrong because she came back for more," he said, and they both laughed as Gramps slapped his thigh. Whenever he said something he thought was funny, he slapped his leg which made Goldilocks laugh even harder.

On Friday after school, as Goldilocks sat on the top step waiting for Gramps to finish his cat-nap, she heard him moaning. It sounded like a whimper. He was in some type of turmoil, and she thought maybe she should wake him up, but she waited.

She couldn't stand to watch him any longer and went to his side and tapped him on his arm. He woke with a jerk. She could see tears settling on his lower eye lids.

"Are you all right, Gramps?" When he opened his eyes he saw her frowning with a look of concern. "You scared me," she said.

"I'm sorry, darlin'. I'm okay."

"What were you dreaming about?"

"I don't remember," he said, rubbing his eyes and taking a drink of iced tea from the glass that was sitting on the table next to him. He did remember, but it was about something she didn't need to know.

"I think you were sad."

"Oh, now I remember," he said with a smile to erase her concern. "It was about my cat, Ginger. She was lost and no one could find her."

"Did you ever find her?"

"Yes, we did. She was hiding in the barn. She had given birth to a litter of five kittens. They were the sweetest baby kittens I had ever seen."

"That wasn't anything to be sad about, Gramps."

"It was only sad because I thought she had run away. Once we found her, I wasn't sad anymore." He couldn't tell her the truth. It was one of his recurring nightmares that had haunted him for years.

His son Bobby Joe was drafted into the Vietnam War when he was 22 years-old. He was a little bit taller than Gramps and strong from working in the fields. Gramps knew he would make a good soldier. Before he left to the war, he married Judith Diane. When he returned two years later, they moved to the farmhouse. Judith Diane became pregnant six months after Bobby Joe's return. Gramps looked forward to laughter in the house again. It had been too quiet with Bobby Joe gone.

Judith Diane gave birth to a girl and named her Mary Beth. Once again, life returned to Sims' Farm, but Bobby Joe had been withdrawn since his return from the war. His joyous personality was gone. Before he went to Vietnam, he was always telling funny jokes. At the end of a hard day's work in the field, he would pick up his guitar and sing. Since his return, he had not told any jokes, nor had he played his guitar.

After Vietnam, he went to work at the feed store with Gramps. He was a hard worker. On the outside he seemed very sociable, but inside he was confused. At night after dinner he would retire to the barn in solitude. Gramps and Judith Diane both talked to him to see if he would tell them what was bothering him, but he would answer, "Nothing's wrong. I just like to be alone at times."

Gramps would stay up at night until he could see the light turned off in the barn. One night he seemed to be especially tired and went to bed early. Being the first one up in the morning, he looked forward to having a breakfast cup of coffee with Bobby Joe and talk about plans for the day.

It was a Monday morning and Gramps was waiting for Bobby Joe to come into the kitchen.

Seeing Gramps at the kitchen table, Judith Diane said, "Bobby Joe didn't come in from the barn last night. Would you go check on him?"

Terror ran through Gramps' body. Knocking over his chair, he ran to the barn where he found his only son hanging from the rafters.

Hearing the horrifying screams coming from the barn, Judith Diane and Billy Jack came running. Judith Diane fell to her knees as Billy Jack cut down the rope that Bobby Joe was hanging from. That was the beginning of the nightmares.

Saturday mornings were Goldilocks's favorite time. She liked to lie in bed until the sun woke her up as it shined through her bedroom window. Getting out of bed, she brushed her teeth, and, still in her nightgown, she joined Gramps and Billy Jack at the kitchen table.

"I've got a crew coming over today. It's time to paint the barn," said Billy Jack.

"Um, that's good," replied Gramps.

"What color are you going to paint it?" asked Goldilocks.

"We're going to paint it brick-red," said Billy Jack.

After a few minutes and deep thoughts, Goldilocks said, "I don't understand. The barn is wood. Why would you paint it brick-red?"

Billy Jack glanced at Gramps with a smile. "That's just the name of the color of the paint. The barn doesn't have to be made of bricks," Billy Jack replied, smiling at Goldilocks as he stood up from the table and put his empty coffee cup in the sink.

Goldilocks still looked puzzled.

"Maybe there's a color called, redwood?" said Gramps.

"Well, that sounds like a better color," said Goldilocks.

Taking a second glance at Gramps, Billy Jack started to walk out the door. "I'll check on that," he said, smiling to himself.

Finishing her breakfast, Goldilocks got up from the table. "Come on Gramps. I'll walk you to the front porch. I'll put on some clothes, and together we'll watch them paint the barn." It was a full day watching the crew of five men set up the scaffolding and then the painters.

On Sunday morning, the ladies were busy getting ready to go to church. As they came out on the porch to leave, Goldilocks asked Gramps, "What are you going to do while we are at church?"

"I think I'll just sit here and wait for you to return and sing me one of the songs you learn in Sunday school," he said with a smile.

"I'll see you when we get back," she said. She kissed him on the cheek and ran to catch up with her mother and grandmother.

Gramps waved good-bye to the three as they pulled away in Mary Beth's car. Once out of sight, he sat in his rocker and stared at the barn. Slowly he drifted back into his memories and closed his eyes for the last time.

# Ground Zero

### T. L. Eastwood

Just another day at work,

The sirens wail their mournful cry

The newly homeless passing by

The spirits of the near and dear

Need no longer struggle with their fear

Just another day at work,

The acrid air smells of sulfur

The stench of blood and mortar

The blinding rain of ash and water,

Mixed with dusty light and milky powder

Just another day at work,

Broken windows and fallen beams

Step high and lightly across the seams

Pathways to the sky are broken

Words of commerce are no longer spoken

Just another day at work,

Nostrils filled with sooty glaze

Eyes peer through grime and haze

Pads scraped raw by rough terrain

Aching limbs no rest attain

Just another day at work,

Sniff this mound, is someone here?

Search that pile, is something there?

Too much ground to cover, will I be in time?

Could use more help from those of my kind

Not just another day at work,

Many have answered Valhalla's call,

And now serve within those hallowed Halls

Yet, glorious the sight

When one is found who has not given up the fight

Not just another day at work,

Too many have died, sentient beings everyone

With olfactory prowess, I'll search until the task is done

Too many are missing, loved ones are in doubt

With limbs of steel, I'll climb and dig 'til my strength gives out

Not just another day at work,

Hope and love shine from the volunteers

We smile and bark and try to hide our tears

As long as there is hope at all

I'll continue to answer humankind's call

# Haiku

### Sharri Cohen

Sunset was red and bright

Down went the sun, in with black

Night was dense and creepy

Wings beat frantically

Winds howl long, hard and brutally

Exhausted birds float away

Bunnies hop in spring

Grass and flowers hide their path

Enemies are thwarted

Clouds dark and ominous

The girl gapes at the sky afraid

Rain falls, she runs away

Sun shines too brightly

People very perky and cheerful

Monday's make me nuts

Tears form in my soul

Black pitch blankets the briny coast

The Valdez chugs away

# The Happy Life

### Don Ball

Don't get your

Tinsel in a tangle

It might go

Jingle Jangle

With no hope

Of a way to cope.

Work all day

Play all night

Always better

In the daylight

If you can

Don't be tight.

Now you keep

Everything clear and bright

And things will

Work out all right

Straighten your strife

For a clear and happy life.

# Hopscotch

### Chapter 6, Part 2, High School

### Don Ball

School was out for the summer. Paul and I were working for Joe Gibson as roustabouts in the West Edmond oil field. Mr. Gibson did not get the contract to mow around the wells. He did get a contract to furnish roustabout labor for Sohio, an acronym for Standard Oil of Ohio.

Mr. Gibson's foreman, Earl, brought a roustabout gang from Chandler that had several members of the high school's football team. The plan was to work them in the oil field to get them in shape for the fall season.

There was a country store across MacArthur Boulevard from Deer Creek School and it became our meeting place. Paul and I met Earl and the gang at the country store along with several other local workers. Bob Pate, Fines Sims, and Frank Long worked with us, and they lived close to Deer Creek. The school was two miles north of Edmond Road on MacArthur and very close to the Sohio Camp.

Sohio Camp was similar to Stanolind camp. It had about fifteen houses and an office, pipe yard, and several shop buildings. We worked for Joe Gibson, but our orders came from Sohio. The company wanted contract labor because it was cheaper than Sohio hiring people directly. They could hire us for a dollar an hour. That was forty dollars a week, not enough money to live on, but we were glad to make that much. Gasoline was about 20 cents a gallon.

We met at the school and got our orders. The group was usually divided into two groups of roustabouts. Bud Godso, from Chandler, usually took the football team and started dismantling a tank battery. Much of the time Paul and I would work for Bud. Earl would take several men and work on digging up pipe lines.

This crew basically was a football team, and they knew each other well. They played tricks on each other all the time. The rest of us were not safe from their shenanigans. We had to guard our lunch pail. If it got out of sight, you might open it the next morning to put your lunch in and find they had found some cow dung and slipped it into your lunch box.

One of the boys from Deer Creek always wanted to ride on the truck near the headache rack. The headache rack is the pipe structure nearest the truck cab that prevents large pieces of steel from sliding forward and crushing the cab. He would place his jacket near the rack to save his spot and put his lunch box on the jacket. When we drove in after work that evening, we passed close to his house. The truck would slow to a crawl, and he would hop off taking his jacket and pail in one smooth move. One particular day, the prankster boys had found some roofing nails and nailed his jacket to the truck bed. When he hopped off the truck grabbing his jacket, it flipped him onto the ground and tore several holes in his jacket. Everyone had a great laugh, but his jacket was ruined, and the fall could have injured him severely. I don't think the gang considered it a successful prank unless it came very close to a disaster.

Bob, one of the Deer Creek boys, drove his car to work and parked next to the school under some big elm trees. He bragged about his car until most of us were tired of hearing it. When we came back to the store after a hard day's work, I noticed everyone bought a Coke, drifted over to some lawn chairs in front of the store, and sat down. Usually everyone left in a great hurry. I could see by the look on their faces that something was up. I took a seat on the porch swing and decided to see what was happening. Bob went over to his car, got in, sat down, and started the engine. When he let the clutch out, the engine died. He started the car again, gave it a little more gas, let the clutch out, and the rear tire turned a little, stirring up a cloud of dust, and still the engine died. Bob got out of the car and started looking around and finally looked under the car. He found a chain that had been pushed under one of the large roots of the Elm tree and over the back axel, tight enough so the car could not move. The roustabout gang at the store had a big laugh, and then they helped get the chain from under the car. We had a summer of such shenanigans, and no one was safe or immune.

The Chandler football team won their state championship in the fall. Bud Godso was the leader, quarterback, heart and soul of the team. He was six feet five inches tall and weighed about two hundred and twenty pounds. He could run like the wind. I thought I would keep track of his career in college, but I never could find much information about him. Doc Gibson told me that Bud had gone to a college back east and played a while, but he got hurt and had to leave the game.

We did roustabout work all summer. In July, Sohio wanted two men to help in the pipe yard. Earl sent John Henry and me, supposedly, for a few days, and we spent the rest of the summer there. They had a stack of connections about twenty feet high that had been salvaged from various tank batteries, well heads, and pipe lines. These connections are nipples, short pieces of four to six inch pipe, that were connected to elbows, collars, tees, and flanges. Every time we could unscrew a nipple from a large flange, it saved Sohio about forty dollars. John and I would break out enough collars, tees, and flanges to fill a large steel basket about ten feet in diameter. The boss at Sohio would fire up a large tank filled with a caustic soda solution and lower the basket of parts into the solution for their overnight bath. The next day, we would stack the parts, which looked like new, neatly on shelves in the supply building.

John and I got to know Edward, the Sohio boss, well along with several other employees who worked in various departments in the pipe yard. Edward was very complementary to John and me and seemed to be amazed at the amount of work we could turn out. We could work fast enough to keep ahead on the connections, so Edward would let us help out in other departments. Edward came in handy the next summer when Mr. Gibson didn't get the roustabout labor contract for the summer. Edward tipped me off that a man in Edmond got the contract by the name of Leonard Bondurant. I was the first to apply and spent the next summer working for Mr. Bondurant.

Frank Long from the roustabout gang also had a job working for E. K. Gaylord. He managed and lived on Gaylord's farm. Gaylord owned several publishing companies, television stations, Gaylord entertainment, and several farms. Gaylord's farm was two miles west of Deer Creek School, and Frank was well known in the area. He asked John and I if we wanted to work on Saturday hauling hay. We jumped at the chance to make a little extra money and spent the weekend helping Frank haul hay. From then on, every time he got a contract to haul hay for some friends of his, he would tell John and I at the Deer Creek store in the morning. When we came in from work, the truck would be waiting for us, and John and I were on our own. Frank charged six cents a bale to haul most of the hay in the area, and John and I each got a penny a bale. For most hay, the truck would hold sixty bales. For every truck load of hay we hauled, I made sixty cents. Frank made four cents a bail for furnishing the truck. We hauled a lot of hay that summer. It made a miser out of me. Every time I bought a malt for a quarter, I would think that represented 25 bales of hay lifted off the ground, stacked on the truck, a truck ride to the barn, lift the bale from the truck, and stack it into the hay loft. It didn't seem worth the effort, but I did it.

Dad and Mom took Lindell to Creede, Colorado, for a summer vacation. Paul and I stayed home so we could work. The garden was prolific so we were left with the job of picking tomatoes and corn. We had many ears of corn, so we obtained instructions on how to clean and boil it. We boiled the corn, put it in a plastic bag, and stacked it into our new freezer.

We did use the pool, tennis court, and sailed some, but we were working so much that our heart really wasn't into recreation.

I was a junior when school started in September, and, although we enjoyed our work, it was a relief to have some spare time. I took the second year of Spanish, chemistry, English, American history, band, and a study-hall until baseball season started.

The band, that year, was small because they started a Junior High band. The eighth and ninth grade players we would usually have, made up the Putnam Junior High band.

I remember the Oklahoma City parade that started near the capitol building and traveled south on Broadway to Main Street and then west to the Municipal Building. This was a distance of about six miles. I remember Mr. Walker joking that we should all tune up differently so the band would sound bigger. We were proud of our little marching band, because we had experience, everyone knew their music, and we could play loudly. We got a first place award.

Our Putnam City high school football team had a good year, but Putnam didn't get into the playoffs. After some of the home games, we had a dance at the community center. Our swing band played for the dances and they were great. They were directed by Ramon Robertson, Bob Hepp played trumpet, Charles Payne and James Roberts on Sax, Earl Fuzzell on clarinet, and Dick Warren on drums. This was a new routine because Putnam never had dances after games. The only dance they had each year was the Junior/Senior Prom.

In the fall we had beautiful red, orange and yellow leaves, but by the middle of October most of the leaves had fallen. The black jack tree was an exception for it kept most of their leaves all year, only turning a rust color then brown in the winter and furnishing a rustling sound in a breeze. The air was wonderfully clear with a pleasant fragrance of new mown hay. The days were usually bright and mild, just made for being outside on the hunt.

Marion Salmon, Tom Fullerton, and I decided to go squirrel hunting. Marion was acquainted with a farmer who lived near the little town of Asher, Oklahoma. He would let us hunt on his land. Marion and Tom were fellow band members, and Marion was in my Sunday school class. We three were also involved in our night rabbit hunts that everyone called "jack lighting rabbits". I am not sure where the term comes from, but it must refer to a system where people sit on the fenders of a car at night while someone drives slowly. We shot any rabbits that showed up in the headlights Most of the time, we were hunting Jack Rabbits. The Jack was a large rabbit with long ears, and was considered a pest. That is probably where the term Jack lighting comes from. It was more than a little dangerous, but great sport. I don't know how our folks put up with the rabbit hunts, but it was very popular at the time.

We drove to Asher for our squirrel hunt. The temperature could not have been better, and the wind was calm. There was always the possibility of wind that can ruin your day. We found the farm where we were to hunt. The farmer and his wife made us feel at home and seemed more than happy for us to hunt. They even loaned us their dog and told us where to camp. We really didn't know how to hunt squirrels, but the dog didn't take very long to train us. We started by just walking along looking in the trees. We hadn't been hunting very long when the dog started barking. We took off running in the dog's direction and found the dog at the base of a tree looking up and barking with great excitement. It was not difficult to shoot the squirrel out of the tree, and the dog fetched our prize to us.

Hunting the rest of the day left us tired, so we set up our army cots and built a fire to fix dinner. Now this is what I call real camping. We had brought some hamburger to cook for dinner. The hamburgers were pretty good for kids cooking on an open fire with a skillet. The dog enjoyed the bacon that we gave him for his treat. He disappeared in just a little while, and I didn't think we would see him again, but he showed up faithfully the next morning. The visiting around the campfire was great, but I noticed we went to bed early. We slept pretty well until about four in the morning, when, in spite of the extra cover, we still got cold. Marion put more wood on the fire, and Tom went to the car. I went back to sleep with the warmth of the fire.

We woke early the next morning, and what a dirty worn out sight we were. We fried up the rest of the bacon with the eggs and made coffee. I think the cooking smell probably brought the dog back. We ate the cereal with milk and called it breakfast. The dog was ready to hunt.

We really didn't want to hunt. We were so tired, but since we were there we started doing our routine for squirrel hunting, and in a short while, we were running after the dog and having a wonderful time. We thought it was probably noon, and the wind was rattling the leaves, so it is time to go home. But, when we looked at our watches, it was just after ten. We laughed about our timing and decided to quit anyway. We were tired enough. When Marion dropped me off at the house, I was dirty and exhausted. Mom came to the screen door and took one look and said, "Look what the cat dug up."

Mrs. Heidbreder was our junior English teacher. We had to memorize two hundred lines of poetry for the year, and she set aside one day a week for us to write the poetry we had memorized. It wasn't as much fun as reciting the poem, but it was more efficient.

In March there were about eight of us that were accused of cheating on our book reports. Mrs. Heidbreder had a day set for the class to turn in their book reports. We wrote the report in class, but I think because the eight of us had reported on the same book, it caused suspicion. She talked to me after school. I assured her that I had read the book and told her all about it. I never heard anymore about the incident.

Dad was still working hard, but a new hearing about unitizing the West Edmond oil field was held. Unitizing the field had been discussed before, but no one thought such a complicated matter would ever happen. It would be the first unitized field in the United States.  
Unitizing the field would mean that the operator would produce oil from wells completed in the lower part of the structure. They could cap the wells in the upper part to avoid losing gas pressure. The gas pressure is the force that moves the oil from the formation into the well bore. Later, when the gas pressure has been depleted, it will make it easier to pressurize the producing zone with water for secondary production. Primary production using the gas pressure usually produces about a quarter of the oil, depending on the characteristics of the rock in the formation. Secondary production using water to repressure usually gets another quarter of the available oil.

Water flooding a producing formation would require an intense study of the production zone. Extra wells would have to be drilled to inject the water. Tank batteries flow lines and all production facilities would have to be realigned to accommodate the new procedure.

What made unitization so complicated for the producer of the West Edmond Field was that they would get all the oil receipts and pay the people that had drilled and completed wells in the Chimney Hill formation depending on how much of the producing zone they owned. The engineers claimed they could make a fair and impartial determination of ownership.

In February, the producers of the field decided to go ahead with the unitization. Stanolind was confident they would be chosen to produce the unitized field. They had more wells in the field than any other producer. After careful and extensive studies, Sohio was given the contract to produce the field. I was glad I had worked with the Sohio men in the summer and felt like I knew them. Stanolind was bitterly disappointed. It would take a year to shift all production to Sohio. Stanolind started shifting their labor force to other opportunities in the Anadarko basin in the western part of the state. Although they were already working in Carter and Stephens Counties in the southern part of the state, they started investigating the area with a little more intensity. Dad thought it would be sometime before we would have to move. I was concerned about finishing school at Putnam City.

Life went on at school. Most people didn't really understand what the articles in the paper concerning unitization was all about.

Every class had an assembly for the high school. Each class used their talent to put on a show. We used our Four Notes girls' quartet and piano duo, and built our show around them. I remember singing the school song with a group. Elaine Harris and friends did a skit poking fun at a western movie. They kept pretending to pull people along with a rope until they all fell on stage. It was funny at the time. There was a lot of seltzer water squirted around the stage by Gene Callahan, and we thought it was great.

The band and chorus put on a Christmas show that was more polished than the junior assembly. I was glad to be in the show because the band played Christmas carols, but it took effort to make the practices. We put on a performance for the elementary, junior high, high school, and the parents. The chorus sang Christmas carols, and the show was topped off with Santa Claus and his Elves coming down the aisle of the auditorium singing "Up on the House Top."

Paul was home for Christmas, and we went hunting a few times, but he also worked on the rod and tubing trucks regularly. Oklahoma University's football team was in the hunt for a National Championship. They had been invited to the Sugar Bowl, and the Oklahoma University band was going to New Orleans. When the vacation was over, Mom told me to drive Paul back to Norman. We got into the car, and, as I was driving, Paul was giving me directions. We drove almost to downtown Oklahoma City, and he had me park in front of a hock shop. He went in without saying a word. When he came out, he was carrying his clarinet. He explained that he was broke for Christmas and had hocked his clarinet knowing he could make enough money during the vacation to retrieve the horn. The band marched at the Sugar Bowl, and he used the clarinet in the marching band.

We had new neighbors that had moved in across the street, Mr. and Mrs. Smith. He was Stanolind's new office manager. The family moved from Monroe Louisiana to take the job. Mr. Smith had been working in Jennings in southern Louisiana before he moved to Monroe. The Smith family, like the Ball family, had moved every couple of years while working for Stanolind.

They had two boys. The older one was in the Navy, and Robert was my age and in the same grade, a junior at Putnam. Robert was a good student and made new friends right away. Bob had an accent, probably described as a southern accent but more often can be described as a Louisiana accent. The girls seemed to like his manner of speech. We roped him into duck hunting with Paul and me during Christmas vacation.

We also had two new girls in the camp, Jean Norberg and Erlene MacClain. Erlene's parents moved into the gatehouse after the Wileys moved to Pauls Valley. Jean was a good singer and was the featured soloist with Robertson's swing band. She got married to Billy Warren her senior year, and I lost track of her, but I knew her younger brother, Rod, at Oklahoma State.

The Rainbow girls had a dance in the spring, and Nancy Shelton asked me to go. Erlene asked Bob Starr, and we went on a double date. It was our first kind of formal dance away from school. I say kind of formal because the boys wore suits. The girls were really dressed special for the occasion, and we got each of the girls a corsage. The dance was held in a business building just off Thirty-Ninth Street. They played records for music and had dance programs. The boys had to go around with the program and trade dances with other couples until the program was full. We didn't know it then, but this little tradition would become standard procedure at formal or dressy dances. We danced till eleven and then took the girls to a teenage hang-out. We fumbled around with ordering and money and still had the girls home by midnight. Later in the spring I went to Nancy's home for a party, and we went to a school dance together, but we drifted apart. Bob and Erlene went together for several months, and we attended several dances and parties together. Every month or so, the Rainbow girls, De Molay society, or some school function would have a dance, and we would manage to be invited.

Nancy and I went to the Junior/Senior Prom in the Mirror Room of downtown Oklahoma City Municipal Auditorium. We had a good band again that featured our band director on trombone. Mrs. Beck brought spirit to the dance by having everyone do the Grand March. The class had done the Grand March one other time during the year at another dance so that practice did help. I have always appreciated that Mrs. Beck taught us because I catch little glimpses of people doing the Grand March in movies on occasions, and it helps that I know

what they are doing.

 This is a high school picture taken when I was about

16. You may notice the left ear has magically healed itself over the past eight years.

# It's Alive

### Lisa Griffiths

There is a universal rule that if you treat your stuffed animals and toys right, they will protect you while you sleep. But what happens when someone mistreats their teddy bear?

Sonja was spending a Saturday morning with her grandmother. It was not the way a twelve-year-old wanted to spend her Saturday, but Sonja's grandma was old and enjoyed these visits.

One of Grandma's favorite things to do was to go to yard sales. She and Sonja would walk the neighborhood, looking for unusual trinkets or old salt and pepper shakers to collect. Today, they were searching for a ceramic creamer with flowers on it.

It was a beautiful spring day with the heavy scents of jasmine and mimosa in the air. They passed several ranch houses, with a few Spanish-style ones here and there, finally coming to a yard sale in a driveway. After viewing the tables full of junk, Sonja said, "Well, Grandma, it looks like they don't have any creamers here."

"Yes, I suppose you're right." Grandma had the look of someone who was lost. Her eyes searched the tables again. "That is a shame. Is there anything you would like?"

Sonja looked around. She didn't have any binoculars, and there was a pair with the case included. The sticker read five dollars. "These are kind of neat," she said, picking them up.

Grandma was already walking away to another table filled with toys. She made a beeline to a group of stuffed animals. She picked one up and turned to Sonja with a smile. "This one's cute. Looks like he could use some love and a good home."

_She's really losing it_ , thought Sonja. Her grandma was talking as if the toy were a lost cat. Sonja thought the toy would need a lot more than love and a good home; she wasn't even sure what it was. It slightly resembled a bear, but it was a faded yellow and oddly shaped. One of the ears (were those ears?) looked like it had been sewn back on. The toy had definitely seen better days.

"Uh, I don't know, Grandma," Sonja said, but then realized it didn't matter, her grandmother was paying for the stuffed toy.

Grandma carried the bear (Sonja resolved to call it that) back to her house. "I just know you will take good care of him, Sonja. With some attention, this little guy will be so cute and cuddly again."

Sonja supposed the toy _had_ looked cute at some point, but it gave her the creeps.

When Sonja brought the bear home, her mom made a face. "What on earth is that?"

"Grandma bought it for me at a yard sale. I didn't ask for it. I think it looks kind of creepy."

"Well, it's not very hygienic to receive someone else's stuffed animal. But you can't throw it away. You know Grandma—she'll ask about it."

"What do we do with it?"

"Let's put it in a plastic bag for a few days, seal off any air and germs. I'll spray it with a little Lysol too, to freshen it up."

Sonja stared at the bear with its malformed ears and puke coloring—she didn't think Lysol was going to make any difference. That toy just gave her a weird feeling.

That night before bed, Sonja was cleaning up her room, putting clothes away. She looked around at her stuffed animals. Although she felt too old to play with them as she had when she was younger, she couldn't part with them. These toys had given her comfort over the years and helped expand her imagination. She'd done quite a bit of role-playing, from teacher to doctor to librarian, with her animals. Each one had the power to flood Sonja's memory with thoughts of how they came to be with her and the happiness she felt for them.

There was the ring-tailed lemur from her first visit to the San Diego Zoo. His name was Waldo. She had a Pooh Bear, Piglet, and Tigger that were still as soft as the day she got them. An assortment of bears took up a corner of her room: a black bear with a leather nose, a few traditional teddy bears in various sizes, and an array of panda bears, which were her favorites.

Sonja still had her collection of plastic horses on two wall shelves. She got a proud feeling when she looked at the mint condition of the Arabian and Clydesdale. They were well used but also well cared for.

Not one for playing with Barbies when she was younger, Sonja did have two or three soft dolls made out of fabric. One was a Holly Hobbie that had belonged to her mom. There was also an updated Raggedy Ann, and a blond doll with a dress of blue and white toile whose name was Gigi. Sonja's grandma had brought this one from a trip to Paris years ago.

Sonja made sure all her animals and dolls were comfortable before she got into bed for the night. She had woken up many times from a nightmare only to feel safe knowing her toys were watching over her. They were cute guardian angels.

"Good night, everybody," she said to the room as she turned out the light. Her last thought before falling asleep was the bear sprayed with Lysol in the plastic bag.

Sonja awoke the next morning with a feeling of uneasiness. It wasn't like the butterflies she got on the day of a big test or an oral presentation. It was more of a worried feeling, like something bad had happened.

She sat up in bed and looked around. The sun was filtering in through the sides of the shades on the windows. Things looked as they had the night before. She got out of bed, put on her robe and Mickey Mouse slippers, and headed for the kitchen.

It was still early and only her mom was up. The smell of pancakes hit Sonja as she walked into the room.

"Good morning, Sleeping Beauty," her mom said. "You're up early. We have lots of time before church."

"Mmm, I couldn't sleep. Something woke me up." Sonja looked around the kitchen, expecting to see the cause of her unease.

"Well, how about some hot pancakes to get your day started right?"

Sonja got herself a glass of orange juice and sat at the breakfast table. Her mom placed a plate of seven silver dollar pancakes in front of her. Sonja went easy on the butter but was generous with the syrup. The first bite was heaven.

"Mom, are we taking Grandma with us today?" Sonja said with her mouth half-full.

"Yes. Did you two have a good time yesterday?"

"Yeah, but I think she's getting forgetful. She put an opened jar of strawberry jam in the pantry. I don't know how long it had been there, but the color didn't look right. I convinced her to throw it out. How can she remember where she got some salt and pepper shakers back in 1975 but puts stuff in the pantry that belongs in the fridge?"

"That's just part of the aging process. We'll all be there someday. That's why it's a good idea to spend time with her. She enjoys the company of you and your brother, plus we can check up on her."

Sonja stuffed the last pancake into her mouth. "Well, maybe Peter can visit with her next weekend. I'm kind of tired of yard sales."

"Oh, speaking of yard sales, I found something strange with that toy you brought home," her mom said.

Sonja's breakfast was starting to knot in her stomach. "Uh, what do you mean, 'strange'?"

"I left the bag with the toy in it on the washer in the laundry room. This morning there was a good size hole in the side of the bag. It looked like something chewed it. I can't imagine we have mice."

_I don't think we have mice_ , thought Sonja, as her face went a sickly pale.

As the minister preached about being charitable, Sonja thought about the bear back home in the plastic bag. She felt it was charitable that her grandma had picked up the toy from a yard sale. She supposed it was now her turn to be charitable and give the toy a home. Her gut feeling about this wasn't a good one, and it wouldn't go away.

As soon as they returned from church, Sonja went to look at the bear. Her mom had double-bagged it, which made it look worse. She looked at the tattered toy and the sloppy stitches where the ear had been sewn back on and couldn't imagine how someone could hurt a toy. "What happened to you?" she whispered.

After three days without any "mouse attacks," Sonja's mom removed the bear from quarantine.

When Sonja came home from school that afternoon, she walked to her room to put her backpack away and froze as she saw the bear on her bed. She instinctively scanned the room to make sure nothing looked disturbed, but she didn't see anything out of place.

She gingerly reached her hand out to pick up the bear. At the touch, she felt repulsion and quickly snatched her hand away. _This is silly_ , she thought. She picked up the bear with determination and held it in front of her face.

"Welcome to your new home," she said. "You need a name."

Sonja thought about what to call the bear. The name Thrash came to mind, but that didn't seem fair.

"Well, you were very lucky that Grandma picked you up. I'll call you Lucky Bear."

With that, she made a spot among her other bears for the new toy. "This is Lucky Bear, everyone. Keep him company," she said and left the room.

Sometime late in the night, Sonja woke suddenly. She thought she heard something, a squealing sound. She held her breath and listened hard, but all was quiet. It took a long time for her to fall asleep again.

Sonja got out of bed the next morning to find her black bear's leather nose hanging on by a thread. She noticed that the other bears had been moved a little; Lucky Bear was nowhere in the room. She stood in shock for a moment. Then a feeling of panic tightened her chest, making her breathing difficult.

She scooped up the black bear and went to the kitchen. Her mom was making coffee.

"Mom," said Sonja with a tremble in her voice, "look what happened to my black bear."

Her mom took the bear, closely examining the nose. "When did this happen?"

"Just last night. It wasn't like that yesterday."

"Hmm. Maybe we _do_ have a mouse problem."

"Mom, I don't think a mouse did that."

"Then what do you think did?"

Sonja couldn't answer that question. She wasn't sure what had done that to her bear. She just knew it wasn't a mouse.

Her brother, Peter, came into the kitchen holding Lucky Bear. "Sonja, isn't this yours?"

"Yeah, where did you find it?" she asked.

Peter yawned and scratched his stomach. "It was at the foot of my bed. In case you haven't noticed, I don't sleep with stuffed animals." He then threw Lucky Bear at Sonja and walked out.

She caught it and stared into its face, her eyes widening with disbelief. "I didn't put it there, Mom. I swear."

"Sonja, don't swear," her mom said. "I'm calling the pest control today."

"What about my black bear?"

"I'll stitch the nose back on, don't worry."

Sonja couldn't help but worry. She reluctantly carried Lucky Bear back to her room. Instead of putting it back with the other bears, she set it on top of her dresser next to the lamp. Walking out of the room, she couldn't stop herself from turning back to take a look. Lucky Bear just sat there.

The toy was still sitting there when Sonja returned from school. The black bear was on the bed, its nose back on with her mom's careful stitching.

Before bed that night, Sonja said a prayer in her head. _God, if you can hear me, and I think you can, please watch over my toys tonight. They are good and make me happy, and I don't want anything bad to happen to them._

It seemed a lifetime until Sonja finally fell asleep. It wasn't long before she was awakened by a scraping sound followed by a _clunk_. She sat up quickly, her heart knocking wildly inside her chest, but was disoriented in the darkness. She leaned over toward the nightstand, fumbling to turn on the light. Once she switched it on, she wished she hadn't.

Blinking at the brightness, Sonja tried to focus on the scene before her.

Two of her horses were on the floor. Just beyond them were Waldo the lemur, a few pandas, and Holly Hobbie. Wondering what all these toys were doing in the middle of her room, Sonja took a moment to notice the pieces of red yarn strewn all over the carpet.

Lucky Bear was sitting on top of Raggedy Ann, pulling her hair out.

"Stop it!" Sonja cried.

Her shout distracted Lucky Bear, who looked directly at her. Although the bear had no eyebrows, Sonja could have sworn there was a look of surprise on its face.

In the seconds following Lucky Bear's distraction, Sonja's Clydesdale horse galloped over, turned around, and kicked the bear in the head with its back hooves. Lucky Bear was sent flying across the room, where he hit a bookcase and came to a crumpled stop. Several other toys dashed over to him, attempting to restrain the bear; a few managed to land some punches.

Sonja crawled out of bed and knelt beside Raggedy Ann. Picking up the doll, she rocked it in her arms and began to cry. Many of the toys looked around at one another, then silently made their way closer to her. The angry mob that had Lucky Bear dragged him over to where Sonja sat, moving him right in front of her.

Looking up, with tears spilling down her cheeks, Sonja asked Lucky Bear, "How could you do this? Why would you want to hurt another? You look like someone beat you up, so why do that to someone else?"

Lucky Bear's head dropped slowly. He looked even more disheveled, a new rip in his fur.

"You could have had a nice home here," Sonja continued. "We would have been good to you. I don't know what I'm going to do with you now."

Sonja's heart was hurting. She felt sick about what this bear had done to her doll. At the same time, if she abandoned Lucky Bear, how would he ever know what it was like to be truly loved?

Lucky Bear looked up at her, even reaching out an arm to touch Sonja's knee. The largest of the panda bears jerked him back.

"Watch him for me tonight," Sonja said. She suddenly felt tired and got into her bed, hugging Raggedy Ann close to her chest. She turned out the light, closed her eyes, and let out a slow breath still tinged with hurt.

The next morning Sonja woke and looked around her room for Lucky Bear. He was over in the corner, surrounded by most of her toys. She left Raggedy Ann on her pillow and cleaned up the yarn that was on the floor.

Kneeling down in front of Lucky Bear, Sonja quietly said, "I'm going to give you a second chance, because that's the right thing to do. If you don't behave, if you can't change your ways, I won't have a choice—you'll have to go."

Days passed with no incidents. Sonja was still slightly wary of Lucky Bear but felt secure in the fact that her other toys were watching him and would do whatever was necessary.

A month went by before Sonja found herself accompanying her grandma at another yard sale. She spotted a pair of salt and pepper shakers shaped like tabby cats.

"Grandma, take a look at these." Sonja waved to her grandma, who was digging through a cardboard box.

Pulling something green and fuzzy out, Grandma held up a stuffed toy frog. "Hey, Sonja, this one looks like he needs a good home."

Sonja froze for a moment, then relaxed. "That's okay, Grandma. I really don't need another toy. I have a lot already."

"Oh, okay, if you say so," said Grandma, looking a little dejected. "Maybe I'll take him home."

# Jack Ketch

### Lisa Griffiths

I shall be bold and call myself clever

As I make escape with a bag full of coin

Tis none my fault, no, not ever

That simpletons let their wares be purloined

I have no need for such stealth blade

My weapons be charm and wit

Here I am yet again having made

Off with the shillings of a local twit

Now to celebrate unscathed at ye old ale house

For a true thirst I have need

Tho I shan't be as furtive as a mouse

In disheveled disguise I take my mead

In crowded room luck lets me find

A table for to rest my golden weight

The innkeeper obliges me in kind

With tankard and bread with plate

No sooner I slake my thirst than came

A weary traveler the worse for wear

Looking to quaff, as I the same

And ambled over toward me near

"May I join ye?" he asks with a grin

"Aye, you may," says I, softened voice

"You look a tired soul, do sit in

I will pay, but what be your choice?"

Strong ale for him, he starts a talk

Of thrice escaping the deadly noose

He looks a fool, but I dare not mock

My scarf feels tight, I must make loose

Much sweat have I and ask his name

"Jack Ketch," says he, with eyes of blue

Now comes clear to me the end of game

"And I bear a rope made just for you."

# The Joy of Christmas

### Carol Elek

I love Christmas! My love of Christmas began when I was four years old and that love continues yet today. It's my favorite holiday season and includes the shopping, the decorating my home, wrapping the gifts, and planning and preparing the holiday feast. As a child, I thought of Santa Claus as a very magical being. My favorite Christmas story was, and I might add, still is, _Twas_ _The Night Before Christmas_ by Clement Clarke Moore. To me, this story signifies the way Christmas is supposed to be, even today.

Christmas in the 1940's was celebrated very differently from the way it is in 2015. Most children did not help shop for the tree, nor did they decorate it. In fact, they didn't even see the tree before Christmas morning. Santa came to the house in his sleigh with the reindeer pulling it across the sky and landed on the roof. If there was a chimney, he climbed into it and slid down to the living room with his huge bag of toys and, of course, the tree. If there was no chimney, he magically entered through a window. The children were supposed to be fast asleep in their beds before he arrived, you know.

Once inside the house, he put up the tree, decorated it, and left the presents under it. If he had a large item, like a bike or a doll buggy, he left it beside the tree. When the children awoke—usually very early in the morning—and entered the room, they saw the tree shimmering with fairy lights and beautiful, shiny ornaments and tinsel hanging from the tips of the branches like icicles hanging from the eaves after a snowfall. And the presents, all wrapped in beautiful, colorful paper and ribbons! It was a glorious sight to behold and took one's breath away at the amazing sight before them. It was magic! As a child, I gazed upon the scene in wide-eyed wonderment. Oh, to be a child again.

As we grew older, we went with our parents to pick out the tree, took it home and decorated it. When we asked why Santa wasn't taking care of the tree, they told us we were "helping him," as he had become very busy. There were more children in the world this year, you see.

When I was ten years old my parents thought it was time I learned the facts of Christmas. I was devastated. My fairy tale vision was a lie. The magic was gone! I still loved the beauty of the holiday, but it just wasn't the same. Don't get me wrong; I was always aware that the reason for celebrating Christmas was the birth of Jesus Christ, and we honored it by the giving of gifts. Still, the glamour and mystery had disappeared from the pageantry.

Christmas changed again when I became a teenager. Now, instead of toys, there were gifts of clothing, records, perhaps a portable radio, or record player, or even a Brownie camera. The holiday was not as exciting nor was it filled with the anticipation I had felt in my childhood.

I became an adult and married. A few years later I had three children, each one year apart. I enjoyed being a mother to these little darlings! They were a real joy to me.

And guess what happened? They brought all the wonder of Christmas back to me in a rush! I again felt the joy of the season in all of its glory! I became Santa Claus and saw the magic and anticipation shining in their eyes, as it had in mine all those years ago. They looked in awe at the shimmering tree and the piles of gifts under it. My husband and I told them the story of the first Christmas and its significance to the way we celebrate the birth of the Christ Child, so they knew it was not just about receiving gifts. I never had the heart to tell about the "myth". As they grew older and questioned me about Santa, I told them that he does exist. I believe that Santa Claus is the visible sign of the Spirit of Christmas and that he lives in our hearts. They accepted that explanation and still believe it today.

Many Christmases have passed since then, but I still enjoy the season. Perhaps not with the same intensity or ardor as I once did, but it's still there. I love having the entire family at my home for the festivities and the food, but some years I don't have the energy to put on an elaborate dinner any longer. Sometimes, I make it a very simple get-together, but with all the elements of a feast as in previous years. This past Christmas was one of those years when I chose to "go simple". I decided to have a prime rib roast and ask everyone to bring a side dish. I envisioned a lot less work with minimal cleanup in the kitchen. Everyone in the family thought this was a good idea.

Ten days before Christmas, I spoke to my adult granddaughter, Melissa, about who would be coming from her side of the family. She gave me a head count and told me that four people who usually came would not be there this year. I soon had a total of twelve guests. I had to order the roast for that number of people. Then I needed to find out what everyone was bringing as their side dish contribution and ended up with mashed potatoes from my son-in-law, Melissa's father, carrots and green bean casserole from Melissa, and dessert from two other people. Sounded good to me!

Two days later, Melissa called and suggested we draw names and only buy a gift for that person. By now, I had done all my Christmas shopping, but I agreed that would be a good idea. Grandmas could buy everyone a gift if they wanted to, couldn't they?

Two days before Christmas, Melissa called again. "Grandma, the Watsons just told me they would like to come for Christmas after all!"

"Well, I guess that's okay, but I have already ordered the roast for twelve people. There may not be enough for two more guests. Perhaps they could bring something—like some El Pollo Loco chicken?"

"I'm sure they can," Melissa replied. "What time do you plan on serving dinner?"

"I figure about 4:00 PM. That way we won't be too late for Santa," I answered.

"Oh, I'll be late then. I have to work until 5:00."

I had no idea anyone would have to work in a pizza place on Christmas! I sighed and said, "Well then, I'll push dinner back to 6:00."

Christmas day arrived. The roast was in the oven, emitting the delicious aroma that only meat cooking could emit. The table was set and things were humming along nicely. My guests started to arrive. My son-in-law carried in a large bag of potatoes and asked where my big pan was to cook them in. Melissa brought a bag of raw carrots and the fixings for green bean casserole, and the Watsons came in laden with every side dish El Pollo Loco had on their menu!

I now had a mess in my kitchen, the potatoes were boiling all over my stove, and pots and pans were strewn everywhere! The food from the chicken place needed to be reheated, but not in the styrofoam containers they came in, and—well, you get the picture! My simple, easy cleanup dinner had only been a dream and now it was a nightmare!

Eventually, Santa came and passed out the gifts. Dessert was served and then everyone decided that it had gotten late and they had to get home. My son and I finally went to bed at 3:00 AM after cleaning up the mess from my "simple, easy, no cleaning needed" party. Thank goodness, Kyle was there to help.

Despite the failure of my dream Christmas, I enjoyed the holiday. And, yes, I still love Christmas. But next year I'm serving cold cuts!

This story was originally written for my Creative Class in 2009. It was my first attempt at writing a story. It is a true story that actually happened several years before I wrote it. I had continued to host the event for several more years, but I am happy to say that I am now a guest while others host the party. I am truly enjoying my new role, and loving Christmas.

# The Last Furrow

### Don Ball

The big mules are harnessed and ready to go

In the early morning hours just before the snow

It's an intriguing odor of mules, feed, and hay

As they work up a sweat pulling all day.

The smell of the old crop and ground freshly plowed

Is mixed with leather harness and horse collar now

To give their own new pleasant aroma somehow.

Old Red and Kate stand quietly with great pride

For their boss gives them the feeling their job is dignified

They know it will be hard work, but the master indeed

Will take great care they get plenty of cold water and feed.

When they hear that familiar - get along now aye-aye

They march off bravely with head held high

Looking out to their world with a blustery sky.

As the day wears on and their toil is slow

They can still rejoice with little things like munching snow.

When the sun is high they know it's time for rest

With the fearsome monotony under conquest

If the boss slips them an apple it would be awesome

For as the light sinks slowly the plow gets tiresome

The furrows get longer before they hear gee or haw

And the plow lines get just a little more raw.

But every turn they make they seem to know

This will be the last big long furrow.

# Live Until You Die!

### Jonathan Chaus

There it was, it shouldn't have been there, some would say it couldn't have been there, but it was, and I was staring at it, and it was staring back at me. The dragon prow had lost its paint centuries ago. The hot sun had faded everything and partially petrified the wood. Several of the oars had broken and turned into dust, but four stuck out as though they were trying to cross the sea of sand and find their way back home. The shields on the side of the ship were faded and rotting too, and there were no longer sailing lines that ran up into the rigging. One lone figure sat at the helm, the bony fingers still gripped the tiller, and the armor hung loosely on the bones. The horned helmet sat proudly on the captain who surveyed the surrounding landscape through empty sockets.

The captain seemed to smile at me as a slight desert wind began to blow. He must have known I was the last of his descendents or the boat would have remained hidden. I stepped closer and looked up into a face that no longer held skin. The whiteness of the bone shimmered in the hot sun. The boat creaked, and the wind started to blow harder. It was getting late, and I knew I would never get out of the canyon before nightfall. I looked at Grandfather and spoke, "Permission to come aboard, sir?"

I know I didn't hear it, or it was the hard blowing wind, but "Aye," rang in my ears. I would not allow myself to show fear in front of this great adventurer, so I stepped aboard quickly. A great gust of sand blew over the ship making me cough and my eyes water. It was hard to breathe, and I fell to my knees. I moved behind a shield as the wind whirled around me and was able to fill my lungs with air. Words came to me again, "Good." The wind was roaring and, as I looked toward Grandfather, his arms fought the tiller, back and forth it blew, but he would not release his death grip.

The sand had now covered most of the deck, and, like a sinking ship, the boat was disappearing beneath its surface. I wiped my eyes and looked once more at the captain, the sand had surrounded him like a sea cloak.

"Sleep," was the next thing I heard, and, though I tried to fight it, the spell had been cast, and I drifted away under the blanket of sand. It was not how I wanted to die, but I was the last of his kin, and he had called to me. The ocean of sand swallowed us up together.

Sleep interrupted the silence with a dream so real that, if I were dead, this was Heaven or maybe Hell. I was on this boat traveling on the ocean as it would have centuries before. Strong looking men handled the rigging and plowed hard through the water with their oars. The ship rose to conquer every wave, and I chanced to look back to the helm and there sat the captain with one eye on me and a smile across his face. "Boy," he roared over the wind, "come here."

In my dream, if it was one, I dashed to the man as a wave knocked me off my feet and washed me along the deck. I could feel that I was surely going overboard when a strong hand grasped my arm and pulled me back on board. He sat me down in front of him and stared down at me, saltwater fell from his full beard. "Skinny," he finally said and looked back at ship and crew. "Is this what we've become then? You the last of my loins. Well? How are you to hold the tiller straight when the wind and sea want to sink you? How will you calm the men when they look to you for courage? They won't fear or love you like you are, will they?"

I looked at the men on the ship, every one of them knowing what to do and doing it fearlessly. They were almost laughing at death, challenging it. _Let come what may but death will pay a sweet price to take any of the captain's men. Why was I having such thoughts?_ I'd been dealt some tough blows lately. I'd found out I had cancer. I'd quit my job because I didn't want my final days to be pandering to people I didn't care about. My wife didn't like the thought of me going out on this search; she wanted me in chemotherapy and to have radiation treatments. I couldn't do it. I had seen others suffer. I had seen caregivers almost die. I couldn't do that to her. I loved her.

"One week is all I need, and then everything will be all right," I told her. She looked at me and knew I wasn't coming back. "I love you," I said as I kissed her at the door.

With tears streaming down her precious cheeks she whispered, "I love you, too."

I drove away and dropped the life insurance policy in the mail. She would be okay, after a while.

The Salton Sea had legends of a Viking ship that would occasionally be seen by people as they wandered through the desert. My family had a legend that we were direct descendents of a Viking captain that had sailed East and found a new land. His crew had left the ship when it was stranded in a desert and had walked thousands of leagues to find the great ocean East and return home. They loved their captain and did not want to leave him, but he ordered them to go as he felt something ill growing in him. He would miss his four sons, but they would know he had been brave.

A wave splashed me in the face. The captain looked down on me and yelled, "Here," He pushed the tiller to me, and I had to grasp it with all my strength. He stood and moved to the rail and took a piss. The boat rocked as I fought to keep her straight. After an eternity, he returned and looked at me without reaching for the helm and spoke, "Sick, bah, death, bah, life is what matters. You steer this boat right, we stay alive; you don't, we die. Strength, you have none in your arms and your puny body, it's here," he pointed to my chest and poked it hard, "this is where strength comes from." He poked again, "This is why we cross oceans and are alive. Live until you die, Grandson. Live until you die!" he yelled to the crew.

The crew took up the chant, "Live Until You Die! Live Until You Die!"

The captain took the tiller and a great wave swept up under the ship. The wind blew stronger, and the boat flew across the sea. The captain reached out his hand and drew me close, "Live until you die!" There was a loud roar as the wave crashed across sand and the speeding boat came to its final resting place.

I watched as the Vikings left the boat after clasping forearms with their captain and evaporated into the desert. The captain was there and smiling at me as I watched the centuries pass in a matter of moments. The glittering skull still looked on at me as I woke. The wind had subsided, and I was no longer covered by sand. I stood and knew the sickness had left me. I moved to the captain and hugged him, "Thank you, Grandfather."

"Live until you die!" he whispered back.

# Meant to Be Together

### Sharri Cohen

Butterflies flitted from bright orange marigolds to yellow daisies, wings flapping slowly in the spring morning. Bees hummed a tune as they floated in the breeze. He looked out his small window, resting his head against the bars. The outside seemed so far away to him, a place that represented freedom. Sunlight streamed into the narrow window, permitting a limited amount of light and warmth, leaving the room cold. Unless of course, it was the middle of a blistering summer. Then the room was steaming hot and sundown could not come soon enough. The sigh he took shook his entire body. He rubbed his face against the steel rods. Yup, he did not mind saying it. He was feeling incredibly sorry for himself. Where did he take such a wrong turn in his life? Was it the left turn he made at Orchard? Should he have made a full stop at the intersection—oh what was he thinking? This wasn't MapQuest. He needed to get serious about setting his life on the right path, but only if he could move past the old life changing mistakes he had made.

He walked to the other side of his cell. He never met his father, the sperm donor. He was told he looked similar to his old man. but who knew for sure? His mother was another story. Saying he had adored his mother was putting it mildly. She was a kind, gentle creature, always touching him, loving him. Recollections of his younger years floated in and out of his memory; walking in the woods with her, lying next to her at night and always feeling secure. She had named him Gunnar - he loved his name! She told him it was an old Nordic name meaning, warrior and suggesting strength. Mom would nuzzle his head at night, softly telling him he made her so proud. Those were his happiest times.

Laying down on the floor, he thought back to the time his life changed irrevocably, forever. The images danced in his mind. Closing his blue eyes, laying his head back, his blond bangs falling across his forehead, he remembered that fateful day. He was so young then, but in his memory were the echoes of his screams mingling with his mother's as he was yanked away from his childhood home, his mother, by strangers. He never found out why this happened, and he never saw his mother again. Gunnar's life had changed overnight. The first thing the strangers did was change his name. No more Gunnar. It is as if they wanted to erase everything about him. So what was his new name? Jimmy. What kind of a name was 'Jimmy?' He hated it! He never answered to it and would not acknowledge anyone who called him by that ridiculous label. Because, that is what it was. Just a label.

The sun went down behind the hills and darkness settled in his cell. He made himself comfortable in the confined space and settled down for the night. His last conscious thought was to start on a new path tomorrow. He needed to forge a way to a new future, and the change had to happen immediately.

"Jimbo get up. You have visitors." Growled the guard at the cell door.

Jimmy got slowly to his feet and glared at the man. Yawning and stretching, he walked to stand directly in front of the barrier protecting the guard. He shook his head and remained silent.

"For god sakes behave yourself this time! Do NOT attack anyone trying to get close to you. You need to find people, a family, to give you a home and to adopt you. We cannot keep you here forever. You are going to be too old for anyone to want to take you on. Please help yourself this time." By the end of the man's conversation, he was gripping the bars on the door. He really sounded so sincere.

Jimmy ignored him and walked to the window overlooking the back lot. He could see people trudging up the path toward the buildings he was housed in. He studied the group attentively. Most interesting to him were the three people in the lead. There was a man who looked as huge as a Humvee, weighing in at, probably, over 200 pounds and with a ferocious frown on his face. Uh oh. Not good. He looked like a mean one. The woman seemed kind of puny, and had trouble keeping up with the hefty man in front of her. There was a lot of panting going on and a sweaty face, with her little bunny steps. Wow. Someone needed 24 Hour Fitness. Then his eyes landed on the most interesting person in this trio. She was a slightly built girl who was probably around fifteen or sixteen years old.

She was moving fast, heading past what he assumed were her parents. As she cleared the man, he reached out and grabbed her arm. Their words drifted up to him, as he leaned closer to the window.

"Hold it, Maggie. Let me get there first. I want to see him, see his reaction, his attitude..."

"Daaad! Let me see him. We talked to the director about him. He needs a home. She said that he has been 'misunderstood', and he has not 'connected' with any of the other families. No one has seriously considered bringing him home. That is so sad. Isn't that sooo sad!" She yanked her elbow and broke free from her dad, darting up the hill.

Thinking about it, Jimmy agreed that it was, 'sooo sad!' This was his opportunity to make a new start to the future he dreamed about. He would be so very careful, no quick moves, no snorting conversation, no alarming behavior and nothing to upset her or them - best behavior only. He could do this. With his decision made, Jimmy watched them walk up to the building, and he moved to the front door. He took a deep breath and tried to put a smile on his lips. The guard opened the door and led him out into the corridor. The smile might not have been as comforting as he thought, because, as he looked at the assembled family, they backed up in unison. He lowered his lips and looked at the floor, hoping to decrease the tension level.

Maggie walked hesitantly forward, holding out her hand and touched his shoulder.

"Can we walk together? Just to get to know each other, maybe a little bit? While my parents talk to the director? Is that okay with you?" She asked sweetly.

He nodded and moved forward with her, walking side by side bumping companionably together. Maggie talked non-stop about her life, why she hoped he would want to join their family and how great they would be together. He stayed as quiet as he had decided he would and did not make any quick moves so as not to scare her. She seemed so compassionate and kind! So different from the people he had known at the institution. Even this early on, he had the feeling he would get along well with her.

"I think my parents are going to move forward with adopting you. They wanted to make sure we would get along. They just want to be able to trust that I would be safe with you. And I will! I do feel that we will be great together. Even though you are kind of big - what are you? Six feet tall? Your head is so high. That did scare them a little. You aren't very old, so you'll probably get bigger, right?" She did not wait for him to answer. " It does not matter. You seem very calm and nice."

He bumped her shoulder to acknowledge her statement, letting her know he had the same feelings regarding her. She continued to chatter on about a variety of subjects. Surprisingly, he found the sound of her voice comforting, rather than irritating, her rambling conversation interesting, and not boring. She seemed to be able to talk without any response from him, or anyone else for that matter.

Maggie stopped in the path and turned and looked at Jimmy.

"How about we go see my parents and see what is going on. Don't worry. I think this is going to go my way, which, I hope, is the direction you want to go in. I mean, you do want to go home with me, right? We could be together forever. Just the four of us. A family. What do you think?"

The ice encasing his heart seemed to be melting with every word she spoke. This had never happened to him before. Was it because he never felt anyone had cared about him since his mother?

Then Maggie made one final statement that would tie him to her for the rest of his life.

"Are you really attached to the name 'Jimmy'? They told us, my parents and me, that they gave you the name because they did not know what your birth name was." She reached up and took his cheeks in her palms, pulling his head around and looking directly into his eyes.

"Jimmy! James, Jim!" She shouted into his face. "See. You don't even react to the name. I bet you don't even like the name. You need something more impressive. Something - a name - that is as magnificent and glorious as you!"

He nuzzled his face into her hands, acknowledging her statements, trying to show her he agreed with her.

"We will think about it together, but maybe something strong, like Beowulf, or Cedric, or Ulric. Well, we will talk it over and can decide together." She dropped her hands, turned and walked toward her parents, he followed just behind her. They both halted in front of the group.

"Mom, Dad, he is wonderful, and he wants to be part of our family. He is so sweet." When Maggie uttered the word 'sweet', the director's eyes bulged, and she swallowed hard.

"Baby doll," said her dad, "we need to make sure that he gets along with you, and knows how to behave. If he wants to be part of our family, and the director has been extremely honest and said that he has not done well with other families, he has to make a huge effort to prove himself. She told us Jimmy has even been placed with a family and brought back due to his destructive behavior. Your safety is the most important thing to your mother and me." _No you don't!_ he thought as Maggie tried to interrupt him. "You are too important to us to take any chances!"

Maggie nodded her head, letting her parents know she understood how they felt. She turned to Jimmy and asked him, "Do you want to give it a try? What do you think? Can you be part of my family?"

He nodded, and they both moved toward the director. Maggie spoke to the woman.

"Okay, I brought my own saddle if you have a blanket and a bridle. We will ride in the arena for a while. He is going to be terrific. He's a good boy."

And so he was. After the ride, they trailered him back to their ranch. It was the beginning of a love affair that lasted for over twenty years between Maggie and Ulric ( a name he loved by the way!).

He was always a perfect gentleman with her and her subsequent children. He considered himself the luckiest horse on the ranch and in Wyoming, as a matter of fact. Maggie had been right. They made the perfect family. They loved each other until the day he left this earth.

The day he left his earthly home he met his mother in the heavenly plane. She was standing in a field of alfalfa waiting for him, her mane lifting in the gentle breeze. She tossed her head in excitement and trotted toward him. They met in the middle of the field stopped and rubbed their cheeks together.

"Mom, I am so glad to see you! I've missed you so much! Wait until I tell you what I did with my life."

"Oh, honey, I know. I have always known. You got the family you deserved and one that I always hoped you would have. They were wonderful people and Maggie loved you so much! That allowed me to wait for you patiently with a heart full of happiness. I love you, my son."

He put his neck over hers and gave her the horse equivalent of a hug. After so many years he was so glad to see her again. How lucky was he? They turned and loped into the warm afternoon day, together again forever.

# Moon Over Bourbon Street

### Lisa Griffiths

The full moon began its showcase just after eight in the evening. A small breeze barely made a dent in the sultry airs surrounding the French Quarter.

Vivienne Boucher was brimming with anticipation. It had been much too long since she'd last gone out to dinner, and she was quite hungry. But this was no ordinary night out for culinary pleasures; she was determined to find Mr. Right.

She picked a dark red dress from the wardrobe; its style and fabric made the most of her curves. The hem just above the knees and deep v-neckline gave ample clues as to what lay beyond the silk.

Soft curls of black hair framed Vivienne's porcelain face. Only the smallest application of makeup was needed to bring out her bright, brown eyes. A touch of rouge lipstick and a dab of rose oil were the finishing touches.

Happy with her appearance, Vivienne left her house and began walking southeast toward Bourbon Street. The _click-click_ sound of her high heels on the sidewalk echoed off the buildings. She had a noticeable bounce in her step and smiled at all who passed. Many people stopped to watch her go by, looks of awe upon their faces. An older gentleman strumming a guitar on a corner inclined his head, doffed his cap, and said, "How do, Miss Vivienne?"

"I am just fine this evening, Mr. Willy, and thank you for asking." Her smile widened, and her eyes shone bright. "How do yourself?"

"Oh, you know me, same 'ol, same 'ol. You sure look a sight tonight. You meetin' someone special?"

There was a flicker in Vivienne's eyes as she answered, "I am indeed, Mr. Willy, I am indeed." She waved a farewell and continued for three blocks to Bourbon Street.

Turning left from Iberville Street, Vivienne came to her first stop: Galatoire's. The restaurant was her favorite for its French cuisine. Although the place was full, she had no trouble getting a table by the window.

Rémy, the _maître d'_ , fussed over her. "Oh my, _Mademoiselle_ Vivienne, we are so very happy to see you this evening! I will personally be your servant tonight." His wide smile faltered somewhat after he said this last sentence, and he quickly followed with, "Pardon, _mademoiselle,_ I did not mean—"

Vivienne silenced him with her hand. "It is understood, dear Rémy, please do not worry." She gave an impish grin and a wink.

Rémy was visibly flustered but maintained his dignity. "And what will you be having tonight, _mademoiselle_?"

"If my lucky stars align, he'll be tall, dark, and handsome." She gave a throaty laugh as Rémy's eyes widened. "My apologies _, mon ami_ , I am giddy tonight. I will have the filet mignon _Clemenceau_ with asparagus _Hollandaise_. And a bottle of your _Rive Droite, Rive Gauche_ , please."

With a click of his heels and a bow, Rémy left to fulfill the order.

Vivienne relaxed in her seat and scanned the room. There were many couples dining at the restaurant; she was envious of their intimacy. It had been a very long time since she'd had a man.

Rémy returned with the bottle of wine and proceeded to open it with deft hands. The cork made a soft _thunk_ as it departed the bottle. He poured a small amount into the wine glass on the table and waited for Vivienne to taste it.

She swirled the wine, then sniffed it appreciatively. After a small sip, she smiled, and held the glass out for Rémy to refill.

"Rémy, my dear friend, I am just like this fine wine—I get better with age."

"I don't doubt that for a moment, _mademoiselle_." He left the wine at the table and went to check on the wait staff.

Vivienne enjoyed her wine, and the food that arrived soon afterward. The meat was perfection: quite pink in the center with an aroma of herbs. With each bite she thought of her unknown gentleman, wondering how he'd look, as she chewed slowly. Might she look for a blond this time? Or should she stick with the tried and true and pick one tall and dark?

She wasn't too particular about the looks of the men. but they had to be young and physically fit. She loved to touch his muscles, the tautness of the skin on his stomach. She must have gotten carried away with her thoughts and it showed in her eyes.

Rémy stood beside the table looking taken aback. "Is...is there anything, _mademoiselle_?"

Vivienne blinked a few times. "No, thank you, Rémy. This was a delicious meal. It is time for me to move on; the night is young but will not stay that way." She took one last sip from the wine glass and stood up.

The _maître d'_ walked her slowly toward the door, softly holding her elbow. She turned and kissed him on the cheek. He bowed and smiled.

"Always a pleasure, _mademoiselle_. Until we see you again."

" _Merci_ ," she said and headed east on Bourbon Street.

She made her way leisurely toward Jackson Square. She passed many bars and restaurants along the way; laughter and chatter mixed with music in the night air. A jazz band could be heard, it's saxophone seducing the crowds. Vivienne just loved the sound of the horns.

She caught her reflection in a shop window. Slowly she touched a hand to her face, feeling the smooth skin. She looked good for her age. _My face has aged well, she thought. But am I getting too old for this? How much longer can I continue this search for the right man?_

The sound of breaking glass brought Vivienne out of her reverie. A roar of laughter came from the nearest bar. She resumed her walk.

When she arrived, there were certainly many young men to choose from; they roamed the streets, shot pool in the bars, sat outside on the patios. She hardly paid attention to the stares that she received from the men, and a few women. She searched the crowds methodically, so very sure that she would know him when she saw him.

It didn't take long. He was leaning against a long oak bar at the Whiskey Sour watching his friends play pool. Vivienne made her way closer. A drunken college student stepped in front of her.

"Well, hello there, beautiful," he slurred.

Vivienne's eyes flashed dangerously as she fixed him with a look. He stopped short and backed away. She resumed her journey toward the young man at the bar.

He was tall, with a nice build, and looked very comfortable in his skin. His hair was tousled but not too long, a medium brown color to match his eyes. His skin was the color of coffee mixed with a hint of cream.

She was almost to the bar when he noticed her. He stood up straight and gave her a smile. She returned it with a slight nod. He walked the few feet to where she was standing and gestured toward a stool at the bar. She obliged and took her time, adjusting the hem of her dress as she seated herself.

"Hello," he said, his voice deep and easy going. Can I buy you something to drink?"

"A good red wine would be nice." Her eyes devoured him. His muscles showed prominently through his shirt. He had the makings of a week-old beard, and the pigment of his lips was a deep, healthy pink.

He ordered two wines from the bartender, paid the man, and handed one glass to Vivienne.

"Cheers," he said.

"A _votre santé_ ," she answered and took a sip.

"My name is Chris."

"I am Vivienne."

"That's a beautiful name. So French. Are you French?"

"I have been on occasion," she said slyly.

He raised his eyebrows and took a long drink of his wine. He found that he couldn't take his eyes off of her face. She was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen, let alone spoke to. He had to control the urge to reach out and touch her.

"Chris, shall we take a walk? Or will your friends miss you?"

He took another gulp of wine before answering, "What friends?"

Vivienne smiled and offered her hand. Chris took it, helped her down from the stool, and they left the bar. A few catcalls could be heard behind them.

They walked arm and arm along Decatur Street and veered right toward Jazz Park. Sitting down on a bench, they looked out onto the Mississippi River. She took one of his hands in hers and began to softly rub the inside of his wrist and palm. She could feel his pulse quicken.

He stared at her with his mouth slightly open, unable to blink. He shook his head.

"No?" asked Vivienne and stopped the rubbing.

Chris swallowed audibly. "No, please, I...it's wonderful. I just have to say, Vivienne, and I'm being very honest, I just want to touch you."

She looked directly at him and then put both her hands on the side of his face, pulling him closer. She didn't lower her lashes until right before their lips met, but Chris thought her eyes turned a different color.

They kissed softly at first. All sounds seem to come from far away. Sting's "Moon over Bourbon Street" could be heard playing faintly from a speaker nearby.

As the kissing intensified, Vivienne drew back. She was breathing just as heavily as Chris. His eyes searched hers for direction. She stood up and pulled him with her.

"Let's find somewhere more private," she whispered.

All he could do was nod in agreement. They walked a short way to an alley with weak lighting. It was empty except for some large trash bins. Vivienne pulled Chris behind one and they started kissing once again. Their hands began to explore each other's bodies.

She tugged at his shirt, which he quickly shed. She held him back to admire his chest. In one quick motion she had removed her dress and stood before him in a lace bra and panties.

He was speechless. He picked her up and held her to him while she wrapped her legs around his waist. He kissed her neck and said her name over and over.

Vivienne pulled his head up so that he was looking into her face. Her breath was ragged. Her eyes, showing a glint of red, held his own. She leaned forward and began kissing his neck in earnest. She moved along until she found Chris' pulse, which beat and beat.

Opening her mouth wide, Vivienne revealed her very white teeth; the moonlight shone particularly on a set of pointed fangs. She very precisely bit down onto a large vein in Chris's neck. She latched her mouth on the punctures and began to drink.

He let out a groan. He was feeling pain but was useless to do anything about it. He held her even more tightly, not wanting to let go. Soon, the strength would leave him and he would end up lying on the ground. His last thought was that of a beautiful woman with an irresistible smile.

Vivienne Boucher walked quickly past the Ursuline Convent. She normally did not like to pass by the place but felt the need to say a silent prayer for Chris. She looked up at the white cross atop the colonial building and wiped away a tear. She made her way back home, alone once again, but no longer hungry.

# Mother and Daughter

### Carol Elek

"You don't know anything, Mother! You are out of it! When are you going to catch up with the times?" Brianna screamed at her mother. She was always screaming at her for one thing or another. She simply did not like her mother.

Today, for example, 16-year old Brianna came down from her room, ready for school. She was a self-proclaimed "Goth" and hung out with other kids who were Goths. They wore black eye make-up, black lipstick, black nail polish, and freaky, dark-colored clothes. Their hair was dyed deathly black. They were aloof to everyone who were not Goths. Usually they hung in groups and just stood around, glaring at all the plain kids.

Brianna was dressed as usual in her Goth uniform, a pouty look on her face. Her mother came out of the kitchen and said, "Brianna, honey, breakfast is ready. I fixed waffles with strawberries. Your brother has already eaten and has left for school. You'll have to hurry."

"I don't want waffles with strawberries or without strawberries! I don't like breakfast, and you know it!" She went to the door. As she started to open it, her mother said, "You get back upstairs and change those clothes! And get rid of that make-up!"

Brianna glared at her, went out the door, and slammed it shut behind her. When she arrived at school, her friends called out to her, "Hey, Brianna! We're going to the mall tonight. A bunch of kids from Springfield High will be there. It'll be a blast."

"Yeah, I'll be there." She knew her mother would not allow her to go, but she had ways of going anyway. Her father was indifferent to what she did; he said it was a part of growing up. She was developing her independence. She liked her father.

That evening after dinner, which she picked at, she told her mother that she was going to meet some of her friends at the mall.

"Did you do your homework," her mother asked.

"I don't have any homework to do," she answered. "See you later."

"Now you just wait a minute, young lady! You are not going anywhere! It's a school night, and you have a 9:00 curfew on school nights. It's 8:00 now, by the time you get to the mall it will be time to turn around and come home. Who were you planning on going with anyway?"

"No one you know, MOTHER!"

That's when the shouting about her mother not knowing anything had begun. It ended with Brianna stomping off to her room, and her mother in tears, asking herself, _Where have I gone wrong?_

As usual, her father seemed oblivious to the commotion between his wife and daughter. He hated confrontation. He believed that children should be allowed to make their own mistakes and decisions for themselves. It made them stronger and more independent.

Brianna was a very beautiful baby. She had dark, curly hair and brilliant blue eyes. Deep dimples appeared in her chubby cheeks whenever she laughed or smiled. She had a great, bubbly personality and charmed everyone who saw her. She was popular in grade school, being liked by all her teachers, and was very intelligent. Then she turned 14. Everything changed. She became moody and withdrawn from her family, friends, and teachers. She grew sullen and fell in with the Goth group of kids. Parents became the enemy. It broke her mother's heart.

This particular night, Brianna was definitely going to meet her friends at the mall. They had planned on meeting at 9:00 and staying until the mall closed at 11:00. She silently opened her bedroom window, which was above the front porch. She stepped onto the porch roof and climbed down the lattice on the porch's side. She would return home the same way she had left.

In the morning, Brianna made her way to the front door, when she heard a moan and then a sharp cry from the kitchen. She listened for a minute and heard a loud crash and thud as if someone had fallen. She went reluctantly to the kitchen and found her mother lying on the floor, unconscious. A broken bowl was lying beside her.

"Mom! Mom! Are you alright?" She shouted. Her mother looked so pale and helpless. _Oh, God! Please don't let her be dead!_

Her mother did not answer but only moaned as if in pain. Quickly, Brianna pulled out her cell phone and dialed 911. The ambulance came in just a matter of minutes, and by that time, her mother had come to. She complained about excruciating pain in her lower right abdomen. The paramedics started an IV, gave her oxygen, then loaded her into the ambulance, and took her to the hospital ER. Brianna rode with her.

At the hospital, they immediately took her mother to surgery and removed her appendix, which had perforated, spilling infected fluids into her abdomen. It was a life or death situation.

Brianna's mother was in intensive care for 3 days, then in the regular surgical ward for another 7 days. At one point, doctors were afraid they were going to lose her.

Brianna sat by her mother's bedside constantly during the crisis. She began to think about what life would be like without her. Her mother always did so much for her family, taking wonderful care of her and her brother and father. She knew then, without a doubt, that she loved her mother and would be lost without her. She thought of how badly she had treated her mother and vowed to change her behavior.

Finally, Mother returned home, weak but cheerful and happy to be back. Brianna helped her up the stairs and made her comfortable in the big, soft chair she loved to sit in.

"Is there anything I can do for you, Mom?" she asked.

"No, honey, I'm fine. You have helped me a lot already. I'll just sit here and relax and enjoy being home with my family again."

"Mom, I'm so sorry for the terrible way I've behaved lately. I promise to be a better daughter to you. I love you very much." Tears rolled down her cheeks, filling those deep dimples that made her so endearing to everyone who knew her.

Tears were wetting her mother's cheeks also as she spoke. "I love you more than you could ever know, my darling daughter. I never stopped loving you, even throughout those terrible times."

Brianna kept her promise to her mother. She threw out her Goth clothes and bought more conventional teen-age clothing, changed her make-up and hair style and her set of friends. Two years later, she graduated with honors and entered college. Eventually, she became a Social Worker with a Master's Degree, married a surgeon, and had four beautiful children, none of whom became "goths".

# My Old Car

### Don Ball

Yes, my old car

It rattles and bangs

Its muffler even

Has some twangs.

I usually fill it

With drip

Oh, just enough

To make a long trip.

I take grandpa

To the domino place

Keeping him busy

So he saves face.

Now, I don't walk

Or thumb anymore

And my feet quit hurting

at the store.

The old car

She is slow to start

But when she runs

It tickles my heart.

Now I have friends

Keeping me happy

All caused by

My old jalopy.

# My Old Mule

### Don Ball

We can ride my old mule

Home from school.

To find a fat rabbit

Before something can have it

Better check on the goose

Before she gets loose

The mule will still bray

At the end of the day.

# Natalie Humming-bee

### Sally Wachtel

La Verne Residents' Writing Contest First Place Winner

On lovely Live Oak Canyon Road

in a blossom-filled backyard

with a rushing creek beneath a bridge

fit for a picture card,

there was a gorgeous garden

with flowering plants and trees,

where fruit would soon be growing

in the sunshine and breeze.

There were all kinds of melons and all sorts of berries,

various fruit trees from mangoes to cherries

with wonderful, colorful, bright blossoms showing,

and white-flowered vines where green grapes would be growing.

Now, way in the back where one barely could see

stood a tall, full and beautiful tangelo tree.

And, deep in the heart of this tangelo tree,

as tiny and precious as precious could be

was a hummingbird's nest with three eggs inside

covered with leaves and sweet blossoms to hide.

The nest was secured to a fork in a limb

and woven precisely from bottom to brim

with twigs and wild grasses, some wide and some slim.

While mother bird scouted for food all around

the swift, whirring bees kept the nest safe and sound.

The wild garden critters were happy to see

the sweet hummingbird and those big, buzzing bees

sharing the nectar from fruit plants and trees.

The hummingbird mother flew off one day

to a patch of wild flowers a distance away.

A boy was hunting for butterflies there,

leaping and waving his net through the air.

The day was quite sunny and cooled by a breeze.

She sampled the nectar with pleasure and ease.

By evening, though, she'd not returned,

which made one precious bee concerned.

"Who will watch the eggies - three?

thought dear, worried Natalie,

a sweet and loving honey bee.

Back and forth and back she flew,

wondering just what to do.

Then, Natalie flew to her hive

hoping to keep the eggs alive.

"We must all help protect the nest,"

she buzzed out loudly to the rest.

"The mother hummingbird is gone,

and all of us must carry on.

The eggs need warmth that we can give

to help the little chicks to live.

It's now our duty to defend,

as I whole-heartedly intend

to be the mother of these eggs,

and when each hatchling chirps and begs,

I'll gather nectar for the food

and hum just like the mother would."

The fuzzy bees within the swarm

joined 'round the eggs to keep them warm.

Natalie warmed them with her tum

while she practiced how to hum.

She practiced through the day and night

to get her humming down just right.

And, over time, with little resting,

all the while concerned with nesting,

she gave the eggs the best protection,

and mastered humming to perfection.

It was the hope of Natalie

to raise the chicks quite naturally,

as if their mother had been there

to give her eggs the proper care.

In just two weeks, though time did creep,

the chicks began to peck and peep.

Sweet Natalie got little sleep

humming to the chicks to keep

them hatching till they freely cheeped,

three tiny chicks in a nestled heap.

As their strength and feathers grew,

she did the things bird mothers do.

As they began to flap their wings,

she taught them most important things

like being safe, to stick together,

how to live through any weather,

when to chirp and how to hum

as their mother would have done.

She taught them how to eat and thrive,

and gave them knowledge to survive.

And, when the humming birds had grown

enough to fly off on their own

she thought and spoke it with a sigh,

"The time is near to say goodbye,

but I can't pass the final test

to teach them how to build a nest.

I can only build a hive, at best.

When these chicks are fully-grown

and want to raise chicks of their own

they won't know how to build a home."

No sooner than she said these words

when up flew mother hummingbird.

"Oh wow!" exclaimed sweet Natalie.

"You've come back just in time for me!

What happened Mother Bird, do tell?

It's such a joy to see you're well.

"Alas," said she, with great regret,

"a young boy caught me in a net.

I was in terror when he pounced.

I fluttered, struggled, strained, and bounced.

My heart was broken," she announced.

"What happened next? What took so long?

I feared that things went very wrong."

"He took me captive in a cage,

my children at the egg-let stage.

Then, taped it shut to keep me in,

but to my luck the tape was thin.

And though it took a while to do,

in time I pecked and nibbled through.

My babies surely would have died,

but you have kept them all alive.,

I thank you, Natalie," she said,

and graciously, she bowed her head.

Then Natalie buzzed happily,

"It was our pleasure, honestly.

They needed help and we were there

to share our love and give them care.

Giving love was sweet as honey;

a treasure beyond gold or money."

Natalie's love came back three-fold.

The worst turned best. This tale is told.

# On the Trail to San Wileo

### Lisa Griffiths

They left Córdoba at dawn under clear skies

South across the land of the Mexican Plateau

Just the four of them, insignificant in size

But pilgrims nonetheless on the trail to San Wileo.

With the Sierra Madre Occidental to the west

Majestic views were seen throughout the day

Pine tree shade beckoned their troop to rest

"Not yet. El sol is leaving," said José.

Turning east, they camped for the night

Among foxes, snakes, even armadillos

The flowering cacti were a beautiful sight

With sweet scents to tease the nose.

Joining the coyotes, the wind did howl

While the stars up above shown bright

Pilar was scared for pumas on the prowl

"I hope we make it safely through this night."

They rose early to cross the arid land

Plantas de las rodadoras passed them by

Their feet now callused and covered in sand

"Keep going, almost there," said Tomás with a sigh.

The heat behind them, they focused ahead

Sierra Madre Oriental stood grand in the east

"La Ventana and our patron saint," Maria said,

"are waiting! Three more hours at least!"

With the sun at their backs they reached the town

Each body weary but with hope in the soul

Passing the peasants and searching around

For the pathway with a colored banner on a pole.

A sign that they were in the right place

Wending along and now so eager to go

A spring in José's step and smile on his face

"Hurry, mis amigos, to the great San Wileo!"

Atop a high hill their saint did sit

His aura and presence could not be denied

Dark beard, simple clothes, lots of wit

Mixed with intelligence true and tried.

A rush of emotions, they fell to their knees

As the crickets sounded and the sky turned black

"Oh, San Wileo, answer our question please

Which should we choose: a PC or a Mac?"

# The Patriot

### Sharri Cohen

Bounding out of her jeep at the Morgan Hill Mall, checking to make sure she had the paper work needed to evaluate the store she was going into this morning, Shelly slung her oversized tote bag over her shoulder. Striding to the mall entrance, she heard strident cawing overhead. Looking up she saw a coal black crow. Wow, it was big, maybe as big as a condor! Looking closely, she thought it really should have been an eagle. They were more majestic. So, in her mind she made it an eagle. She had the impression the 'black eagle' dipped his wing to her in acknowledgment. Well if that wasn't a great morning send off! Smiling widely, she nearly danced to her first assignment, knowing there were blue skies ahead.

This job, on the surface, was rather mundane, and Shelly found it dull. The gist of it was, a store was assigned to her company, Mystery Evaluating Shoppers of Sonoma (MESS), for evaluation of all customer service aspects. This was all done undercover without the store employees knowledge. MESS paid well, but she did not feel that she worked to her potential. If it weren't for the real purpose of MESS, Shelly would have gone out of her mind. She understood, though it had never been specifically stated to her, that she was to keep an eye peeled for criminals, terrorists and the dirty, seamy and lawless underworld. She had to agree this job was the perfect cover. She was exposed to a variety of the population. She wasn't sure that everyone at her office understood or had been told about the true purpose of the company. No one ever talked about it. Maybe they did not have the security clearance for that type of knowledge. Probably only a select few knew.

Walking through the front door of Sam's Ammo, Guns and Bows, she nonchalantly headed to the bathrooms to do a quick assessment of the cleanliness. Both proved acceptable. Humming, she marked the appropriate boxes on her company form. Swinging her head around, she saw an elderly woman ask to see several guns in the locked case. To Shelly, the woman appeared to be surprisingly competent, handling the weapons as she balanced them in her hands. That, in itself, was suspicious. The woman did not look like she was strong enough to lift a feather pillow, let alone heft a hand gun. Just before Shelly would have turned away, she heard a portion of the conversation.

"How long is the waiting period before I can pick it up?" This was said in a trembling voice that matched the tight permed white hair. The surprisingly youthful looking hands clutched the pistol handle.

"California has a ten-day waiting period, and you look like you are over twenty-one years old so we are okay there," the clerk said teasingly.

"I'd like to get it today if I can," the woman said haltingly.

"No can do, sweetie. Rules are rules."

Shelly quit listening, instead really concentrating on the lady at the counter, her original purpose of evaluating the store now a distant memory. She dove inside a tent for cover and dropped to the canvas floor as the woman turned away from the weapon's display. Crawling to the mesh door on her elbows and stomach, Shelly watched her target's halting progress, pushing her walker out the front door.

Wait. Was the old broad favoring a different leg? Wasn't she limping on the right leg before? Puzzling. Erupting out of the tent door when the curly head disappeared out of sight, she headed for the exit. Ignoring the shouting behind her she charged ahead. Why was it her problem the tent collapsed? The tent stakes should have been sturdier. Probably an inferior design. Maybe that would go into her report. Besides, she had other fish to fry. The MESS agency needed to be given an update. This was obviously developing into a dangerous situation. It was too suspicious that the old lady was trying to avoid the waiting period for a gun. Trying to sweet talk the guy into forgetting the rules appeared very fishy.

She ran past the mall pet shop but skidded to a stop and stared into the window, her mouth dropping. _Oh my gosh! Is that an eagle?_ Peering closely at the sign on the cage she saw it said African Gray Parrot. The bird cocked his head and clearly said, "It's your day, baby." Shelly was enchanted. This was a positive sign for her. The only thing that would make it better would be if it had been a talking eagle. Optimistically she decided, in her mind, to make it an eagle, A meat eating eagle. That was better than a fruit eating parrot. More courageous. Braver. Like her. Turning, she rushed past the morning mall crowd and looked for a hiding spot with a clear view of her target. The alabaster column ahead would be a good spot to conceal her from view while she called in her report to her office.

Shelly hunched over her cell phone, her heart fluttering like crazed finches. She peered around the pillar at her quarry. The focus of her attention looked like someone's sweet old, white-haired grandmother in baggy pull-up capris and a loud multi-flowered top. On her feet were Keds tennis shoes with knee high nylons rolled up her legs. Shelly squinted her green eyes at the woman.

"'Sweet grandmother' my great aunt Fannie! Who would suspect her? Except for me? Was there ever a more obvious disguise?" muttered Shelly. "She's got the perfect cover. To the unsuspecting it looks like she should be baking cookies. Hah! Good thing I see evil everywhere. Nowhere can it hide from me! I'm like a weasel after a snake. Wait! That's not complimentary." She considered her problem. "Oh, I know! Like an eagle after a rat. Oh, that's better. That makes me sound majestic, soaring through the air currents, close to heaven, floating above the riff raff, looking for the criminal element, the foulest of mortals..."

Her voice had climbed higher and louder in volume, causing a young mother, holding a rosy cheeked toddler's hand, to look at her suspiciously.

"What are you gawking at lady? I am on official government business, so move along, sweetheart." Shelly made shooing motions with her hands at the woman. "I don't have time to deal with you right now. I've got an important phone call to make. My information needs to get to the highest levels." She scowled ferociously at the mother. The woman clutched her child to her chest and sprinted like the devil was after her, away to a safe distance.

Shelly dialed her cell phone using the phone number she memorized. She asked for her contact at the agency while lowering her voice to a scratchy whisper. She shoved her hand through her short chopped red hair, causing it to stick up riotously around her head.

"What? I can't hear you. Speak up. " said the operator.

"Let me talk to my 'handler'," Shelley said.

"What? I can't hear what you are saying."

"Well listen louder you ridiculous woman. I am trying to be covert. I have official business. Let me talk to my handler. The agent in charge." She looked quickly again at her target who was pushing the walker further away down between the stores, squinting her green eyes to focus.

"Your handler? You mean a manager? Who is that? I need a name."

"Well, it's Otto of course. Who else could it be?" Shelley was growing increasingly impatient.

"Madam, it could be one of any of the six managers we have here. Hold on please."

Otto came on the line a second later. "Will you QUIT calling me your handler? I have told you to just call me Otto. Why is it you insist upon referring to me as...?"

Shelly interrupted with a hiss into the phone, "The target is in my scope. The enemy is on the run," She tried to remember more espionage jargon from her beloved spy novels.

"What in heaven's name are you jabbering about?" Otto sighed exasperatedly.

"I am saying that I have discovered a possible saboteur during the course of my work." She spoke excitedly, her words tripping over themselves. "I finally accomplished our mission!" She was keeping an eye on her elderly obsession slowly making her way past the stores in the mall.

"Our mission?" He sounded confused.

"You know 'Operation Mystery Shopper?"

"Oh for the love of...Have you lost your mind?! There is no 'Operation Mystery Shopper'. It sounded like he was shoving his words past clenched teeth. "This is not a secret government agency. I am not your handler. I am your manager. You _are_ a Mystery Shopper. You are being paid to shop at companies that hire our services. You are to write up an evaluation of your experience and submit it to me. This is what you get paid for. You are not to spy on people unfortunate enough to come into your line of sight. I swear I would rather handle a rabid dog than try to continue to manage you."

Shelly, ever the single-minded idealist, ignored her boss' rantings. "So, I saw the suspect paying particular attention to the armaments in Sam's Ammo. Suspicious right?"

"Well, at least you were at the store we sent you to. It is unlikely she would be looking for a vacuum in a store with Ammo in the name, and she is a customer not a suspect..." Otto said.

"Yeah, she tried to buy a handgun, a Saturday night special, right in front of me! She did not want to wait the ten-day waiting period either!"

"Wanting to buy a gun is not illegal," Otto shouted. "Oh, man. I am absolutely losing my mind." He continued, "I am responding to you as if you are a rational thinking human being. Just. Do. Your. Job!" He shrieked like a train whistle.

"Okay already. Done. Doing my job. I will write up the evaluation. Geez. Mad much?" She huffed into the phone. "I will go back to the store and finish my...Hey, the suspect is headed to the Kitchen Magic shop. There's knives in there, right? Think of what she could do with a bread knife! I will contact you later. I might need to make a citizen's arrest."

She dropped the phone into her purse and bolted after her mark.

Otto screeched, "In the name of all that's holy she is not a suspect. Finish the report on Sam's Ammo and have it on my desk...Great, she's gone. Like talking to a wall. How much more can I take?" His voice sounded nearly tearful as he dropped the receiver on the cradle. Grabbing a hold of his emotions he bellowed out into the hall to the receptionist, "Get Tom for me. Tell him he needs to get to the Morgan Hill Mall and find Shelly. Bring her back to the office. We need to get to her before this agency ends up in court just because she cannot fill out a simple report like every other mystery shopper. No, she has to imagine spies and criminals everywhere."

Shelly ran, using a serpentine path through the artificial potted palm trees keeping her target in view. It wasn't hard. The florescent orange tennis balls on the front legs of the walker glinted under the mall lights. Her quilted handbag swung from the handgrips. The woman's steps were halting and her mobility appeared very impaired. Surprisingly she moved past the kitchen store. Shelly stopped next to a small palm and stuck her head through the fronds, studying the walker. It was the kind that had a seat that could be used when it was stopped. To her, the seat looked thicker than normal and the handlebars bigger. She needed to get closer.

The target, as Shelly liked to think of her, moved gradually toward the escalator. Shelly followed slowly. _Wonder why she is going up there?_ The second floor of the mall was mostly a giant food court. It was near lunch time, and the place was packed with business people, mothers with children' and older citizens socializing with each other. The white-haired granny appeared to be able to negotiate the moving escalator steps easily enough and raised the walker in one hand clearing the steps. That was a little mystifying wasn't it? The woman could barely push the apparatus when she was walking, but she could lift the entire thing in one hand to clear the escalator steps? Hmm. Exiting the moving stairs behind the woman, Shelly stayed hidden, darting behind various people. The direction they were going in was at the very front of the food court. Hunching behind a wheelchair-bound senior citizen, tooling along at a rapid pace Shelly got as close as she could to the woman.

Suddenly, everything began to move in slow motion. Like an old stop action cartoon, each moment frozen in her mind. The grandmother/target got to the front of the food court and deliberately turned, facing the huge seating area, her hand grabbing the seat of the walker, lifting it and pulling out a gun. Still unnoticed by the noonday throng, she raised the muzzle slowly pointing it straight ahead. Erupting from behind her hiding place, letting out a banshee roar, Shelly flew across the separating space launching herself into the air. Soaring the last five feet she slammed the terrorist in the chest, shoving the muzzle of the gun into her target, twisting her wrist, the gun clattering to the ground. Turning to grab the walker, Grannie seized the handle, attempting to yank out a dagger. Shelly, thinking quickly, picked up the gun, shoved her huge tote purse over Grannie's head and started whacking it violently with the butt of the gun. In the background she could hear the screaming and shouting of the crowd. Someone yelled they had called 911. Finally, the woman went limp. Shelly rolled off the body, putting her fingers against Grannie's neck and checked for the pulse, finding it still beating. Good. Standing, she left the unconscious body, with the tote bag still over her head, on the ground. The clapping and cheering of the surrounding people, flustered Shelly.

"It's okay everyone. Move along please. I was just doing my job. Just a simple agent doing her job. Protecting the public, with no thought for herself."

Her coworker Tom said, "Wow. Wait till Otto hears this! And correction, you weren't doing your job. I feel impelled to point this out just as Otto will to you. But you are a hero."

"Tom! What are you doing here? Oh, never mind. I really don't care." Shelly let very little surprise her, after all. She looked around her thinking that the outcome could have been very different. As she glanced to her left and saw a large sign depicting a huge American bald eagle, talons facing outward. It was perched over the California Adventure restaurant. Ah, an eagle. Yes, this was the sign that proved she was following the correct career path. Honor, integrity. and courage. That was her. Wait until she told her handler! A huge smile lit her face while she waited for the police. Her foot on the chest of the latest terrorist to go down, Shelly stuck her arms in the air, clenching her fists and cheered.

She loved being a mystery shopper/agent for MESS. She was helping make America safe, one store evaluation at a time.

Whoo Hoo!

# Perry

### Don Ball

Some might say Perry and I grew up together, but, actually, Perry's parents, Ed and Hazel Wimpey, farmed for a long time, and my father, Ace, worked in the oil field, so we didn't see each other except on family get-togethers.

I can remember visiting with the Wimpey's out in the country, west of Okemah, Oklahoma. They lived in the little bungalow-style rental that came with the farm. It was one of those old farm houses we saw as we drove down the highway and wondered who lived there. It had an expressionless face, only broken by a porch the full width of the façade. The few old wood sprays of decoration in the corners of the porch roof looked like an old church fan. This was an attempt by the builder to give the house a gingerbread appearance. It had high ceilings, which made it more difficult to heat in the winter but kept the house a little cooler in the summer.

The house had no running water, but it did have a sink built in to a little cabinet. The sink wasn't much, but it gave some place to drain the vegetables without going outside and to empty the glasses after dinner. The sink had a drain that went out of the house for about twenty feet, and it helped water part of the orchard. The water for dinner still had to be carried from a well that used a five gallon bailer and a sixty foot rope to haul the water to the surface. There wasn't but one other well for five miles, and it had water that had a bitter gypsum taste.

Even with the house being rather fundamental, the Wimpey's made us feel right at home. Hazel had curtains on all the windows. Some of the curtains may have been made from feed sacks, but the curtains were really nice and gave the house a real homey feel.

We spent some time hauling our belongings out of the car. It was just Mom and me and my two brothers Paul and Lindell. Dad always found some work he had to do, so he usually didn't go on these family junkets. The kids were all excited about picking a spot in the house to build our pallet to sleep on.

Paul, Lindell, and I were in a hurry for dinner. Not so much because we were hungry, but we wanted to get the dinner ceremony over with so we could have time to investigate the barn and the woods north of the house.

Ed finally came into the living room and collected us into the dining area for a major chicken dinner. We all found a place around the big round table. It was obviously old but still had a nice finish that registered the years of use and being well cared for. Ed's prayer was too long, but it gave me a chance to look the chicken, mashed potatoes, green beans, and light bread over. The meal was fun because Ed could tell good stories about the early days with Grandpa and Grandma. There was laughter and good-natured kidding about who would have to milk the cows. The kids all ate rather hurriedly, and we managed to excuse ourselves, which was easy because the folks were tired of us by then.

We investigated the barn, which was stacked half full of hay for the winter and had an odor of cow dung, feed, and hay all mixed together. It really wasn't a bad odor but was a strong, stale, heavy smell that assaulted our noses enough to be a little offensive, probably because it was something new to us. We jumped around the hay for a while and crawled through a tunnel Perry had built when the hay was stacked in the barn from the truck. The tunnel was dark, and we got the odor of new mown hay as we crawled along. It was a great tunnel that had twists and turns built in, and, about the time we started to be anxious and thought we were lost, a sharp turn brought us out within a few feet of where we started.

The sun was starting to go down behind the hills to the west, but we all wanted to go into the woods on the north side of the house.

Perry said, "These woods are special because there are a few pine trees intermixed with the native oaks and cottonwoods. The pine trees give off a special odor that make people feel like they are in Colorado. There are just enough pine trees for local people to gather pine cones and use them in their Christmas decorations, and some find small pine trees and use them for their Christmas trees."

Paul, Lindell, and I picked up a few pine cones along the way to take home. I asked Perry, "Are there any bears in these woods we should be worried about?"

He said, "We see little black bears once in a great while, but most of the time we just see their droppings and where they scrape on the trees. I don't have to worry though."

"Why not," I asked.

Perry said, "I know I can out run you three."

"I don't know about that," said Paul,

Perry said, "Well, I don't have to worry about you, Paul, as long as I can out run Don and Lindell."

I said, "Well, I know I can out run Lindell, so I guess I'm safe." I have been laughing about his joke ever since.

During our walk we did see a coyote and several big jack rabbits. We were starting to lose our light as the sun went down, and the taller pine and oak trees cast a deep shadow as the fireflies were starting to show their glow. We didn't see fireflies all the time at home so they were interesting to us, and Lindell caught one and held it with the other hand caped over it so he could see how much light the little firefly put out. It was getting dark enough now that we heard an owl hoot. We started to make our way a little faster back to the house before the folks became anxious about us. As we topped the last rise, we could see the house now, out in the open, and getting a little light from the sunset. The lamps were lit in the kitchen, giving off their yellow light. Lindell, walking behind me, gave an impatient little nudge to go a little faster.

As we approached the house, I said, "Do you smell that?" The smell of popcorn had drifted out of the kitchen and was assaulting our senses.

Perry said, "Yes, we raised the popcorn last summer, and it is really good. We will have to test it out before we go to bed."

We had our delicious popcorn and found our pallets on the floor. We were using kerosene lamps that gave a little light that mixed with shadows and made it kind of creepy. As we were about to go to sleep, we heard a loud screaming sound mixed with howling, which made our hair stand on ends. In unison we said, "Perry, what is that."

He said, "Oh, don't worry about that. It is just the scream of the mountain lions. They can't get us in here, but, if you need to go to the bathroom, don't go outside."

I said, "Oh, don't worry about that. I'm not going anywhere." I think they were probably coyotes, but Perry could always make a story better.

Years later, Perry came to the annual family reunion. After our dinner with all the other relatives, we relaxed and started visiting. I asked him, "What happened to your Grandpa Wimpey?"

Perry said, "Oh, that story is one of my favorites. He was really a wonderful grandpa. He looked after me, and made sure I had my dinner. Grandpa made things to keep me occupied by whittling out little toys like the trapeze man I played with so long. You just pushed on the two little sticks for handles, and the trapeze man would flip over the bar and do all kinds of tricks.

"In the late evening when all the chores were done, I remember we would often have snow on the ground in the winter. Grandpa could always find a few eggs out behind the barn to make a little snow ice cream. All it took was two eggs, sugar, vanilla and lots of snow. With a little popcorn to eat, to keep the snow from freezing the roof of your mouth, we could play hearts or pitch all evening long. Grandpa would say, "Radio, who needs one?"

Perry said, "Christmas was coming when I was about ten and grandpa realized there wasn't a gift in the house for me. Oh, Mom might have had a shirt or handkerchief for me, but nothing grandpa knew about, at least no toy. Grandpa had only a quarter, as they say, to his name. Times were really hard; in fact, we didn't have the money to buy his heart medication regularly. He couldn't stand it that I didn't have a Christmas present, so he walked to town and bought me a rubber ball for Christmas. The trip was twelve miles if you go by road. With Grandpa cutting through each section it might cut it down to ten miles one way. He had to dress warm, for it was a snowy day, and plan his trip to avoid his family. I know he had to walk by Uncle Johnny's house and climb that big hill west of Johnny's. The hill was probably slick because of the fresh snow. I know the last mile into Okemah is all up hill, which would have been a struggle for a man in his condition.

"He told me he looked around town a little and bought the rubber ball at the five-and-dime store.

"He sat down in front of the courthouse on the bench and ate his chicken he had brought from home. He thought he might see someone in town that would give him a ride home or at least part of the way.

"After a little rest, he didn't find a ride home, so, partly in disgust, he started walking home. He probably made pretty good time on the downhill part of the trip walking on the highway. I am sure he still had some hope for a ride, but, by the Mountain Grove School corner, he gave up and started cutting through the sections to save a little time. The walking was a little more difficult, but he could see Grandma Lester's house when he was in a clearing because the house is so high. He walked by Uncle Johnny's place, but no one was home, and he got home just about dark.

"Dad chastised him for doing such a fool thing. He died three days later, just after Christmas. I really felt badly about grandpa for a long time, but, as the years go on, I have come to realize what an important gift he gave me with his sacrifice. His love and hope for me showed in everything he did. I have always felt that I might be able to give a gift as great in my life sometime because of Grandpa's example."

It is wonderful the way Perry can remember the things that happened as we were growing up. Remembering the stories he told still brings a smile.

# The Pigeon Problem

### Jonathan Chaus

Charles Du Prey had to focus or all of his family would die. Sweat stood out on his upper lip and beaded on his nose as it always did in times of high stress; there hadn't been many such times in his quiet, safe life.

You see, Du Prey was a certified accountant with three wonderful kids, Tommy, age ten, Susie, age eight, and Molly, age six. He and his wife Teresa shared a precious love dating back to their high school years. They had a nice house in the suburbs, and their two cars, which they owned, were only a few years old. Du Prey made enough money that Teresa could be a stay-at-home mom. Life, in a word, was wonderful.

The call that had changed it all came early that morning. Du Prey had been planning to sleep a little extra because it was a Saturday and his fortieth birthday. His dreams were shattered by the phone's ring.

He picked it up and answered, slightly annoyed, "Yes?"

The assassin's voice was calm and self-assured, "Du Prey, I want you to listen very closely to me. Today I will kill your family one by one, in front of your eyes, unless that is, you can stop me."

Du Prey snapped fully awake, "What? Who is this? Is this some kind of a joke?"

"No, Du Prey, this is not a joke so listen very closely. This morning at 11:30 sharp you and your family will walk through the front doors of the New Standard Mall. Have your kids play in the play area, and let your wife wander around. You will take a seat on the bench near the koi pond. You will have fifteen minutes to find me, or your family will die."

Du Prey could not believe what he was hearing, "Why?" he barely squeaked out.

"Why not?" replied the amused assassin. "Do not tell anyone. Do not go to the police. If you do I will kill each of them one by one and there will be no way of stopping it." The assassin's sinister and self-confident voice resonated in Du Prey's ears. Then something strange happened, Du Prey could only guess, but the sound of the phone dropping on the other end of the line came to him followed by the muffled word "Damn" then, strangest of all, the sound of clip-clop, clip-clop, like a wooden shoe on a hard surface. The phone was picked up and the voice said, "Du Prey are you there?"

"Yes. I'm here."

"Good. Don't be late," then silence as the line went dead, but the silence didn't last long as a little person's, his daughters, scream came from the front door.

Du Prey was up in an instance and ran to the front door. "Daddy, look, a dead pigeon." Susie stood on the porch, pointing at the dead bird on the doorstep. "I heard your voice and...and...and ... I was going to get the paper for you and...and then I saw it," she said as tears streamed down her face.

Du Prey took Susie in his arms and gave her a big squeeze then scanned the street. He saw nothing out of the ordinary. As he carried Susie inside his mind raced, _Did he put the dead pigeon at the door to show he wasn't kidding? First a dead animal, then my kids and my wife...He knows where I live! He is showing me he can kill them any time he wants. Why is this happening? I have to go to the mall...but stay calm, don't scare Teresa._ He felt the panic seizing him and fought against it, none too well.

"Teresa, get the kids dressed. We are going to the mall," His voice cracked on mall, so he cleared his throat.

"The mall? You hate the mall," Teresa said, astonished.

Du Prey sat on the bench, as he had been instructed, and tried to keep an eye on his kids and his wife all at the same time. But on this Saturday morning, there must have been a thousand people, maybe more, enjoying the mall. It was the annual Mall Fair, with magicians, face painters and vendors handing out free samples of their creations. It was simply a nightmare for Du Prey.

_Think! Think! Think!_ Du Prey's mind shouted at him. _How could he do it? How could somebody murder my children and my wife in this crowded mall?_ Du Prey had never had to think this way. Being an accountant, one never thought of being murdered.

He focused his mind, and the sounds of the crowd faded away. Then it came to him. He realized he was thinking about it all wrong. Don't think like a victim, think like an assassin. His eyesight became clear. He could hear himself breathe and feel the beating of his heart. He could taste the staleness of the air in his dry mouth. He scanned the crowd. The sound of clip-clop came to him, but someone was speaking to him in slow motion and the sound stopped.

"What?" Du Prey asked, snapping out of his tunnel vision.

"Would you like to try some of my chocolate?" An older man asked, holding out a tray of delicious bite-sized morsels.

Du Prey reached for one. "No, no. The ones with the coconut on the top are better. Here try this one." The older man pointed to the coconut-topped candy.

Du Prey grabbed the one the man had suggested. "Thanks," he said and popped it in his mouth. _Maybe one of the magicians,_ he thought. _No!I know poison face paint had to be it!_ Du Prey stood up, almost knocking over the chocolate vendor, who was surrounded by chocolate lovers. Du Prey moved out of the way and looked for the face painting booths.

Clip-clop, clip-clop... The sound came from behind him. _It was the man with the chocolate, of course. The man could poison anyone, everyone loves chocolate_ , Du Prey realized.

Du Prey moved quickly to the man and stopped in front of him. "It's you!"

"Of course, it is, Charles. Three weeks ago, after the mystery dinner you and your wife attended, she signed you up with Murder Anonymous. We provide games like this for thousands of people. Most don't figure it out with only the phone clue, and we have to help them along. That's when most remember it's a game, and then they relax and figure it out. But you, you are impressive." The older man said smiling.

"But the pigeon?" Du Prey asked.

"Yeah. Nice touch, huh," the assassin said, taking off his apron.

Just then, Du Prey heard Teresa's voice, "Honey." He turned away from the man and saw her walking toward him, holding out a neon-yellow sheet of paper.

" _The pigeon problem_ ," the paper read. " _Due to the problem of infected pigeons, the city is starting an eradication campaign. You may find dead pigeons in the streets, please use gloves when disposing of them._ " He stopped reading.

"Teresa, you scared me to death. I didn't know that you signed up for Murder Anonymous," he said slightly angry, but still relieved.

Teresa looked confused and asked, "What are you talking about?"

"You know. Three weeks ago, when I took you to the mystery dinner, you signed up for Murder Anonymous to scare the devil out of me."

"I did not. You were with me the whole time. I mean it was fun but..."

"But this man said..." Du Prey turned and pointed toward the man that was no longer there.

The chocolate vendor/assassin/serial killer got in his car, took off the fake shoe, and decided which town was next.

Three weeks later a man, in a different town, lost his children and wife to poisoning. The man told the police that he had received a mysterious phone call that morning from a man claiming that he would kill his family. The police didn't believe him.

# Retribution

### Sharri Cohen

Tilting her golden blond head slightly she compared the photo she clutched in her small hand to the non-descript man sitting on the park bench. Her almond shaped, green eyes narrowed in concentration. She fingered the locket around her neck absently.

"Is it him?" Stella muttered to herself. "He's older, skinnier, and nearly bald. What's with the monk fringe he has going on?" She shook her head, "I need to imagine him with brown hair. He used to look like an angel." She shrugged. Holding the twenty-year-old picture closer to her face, she examined it closely. She had to be completely certain.

Tucking the photo into her backpack at her feet, Stella swung the bag over her shoulder. She left her position next to the tree and walked toward her target. Reaching the bench, she sat on the far end observing the small children playing on the jungle gym and in the sand. They were so innocent, never understanding the disguised perils that could be waiting in their playground.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the man turn slightly towards her. Ignoring him, Stella dug her phone out of her front coat pocket. Making sure to turn the screen away from the man, she answered an imaginary call.

"Mom, where are you? I've been waiting forever. An hour away?" Stella feigned exasperation, sighing, "Okay. Okay. I understand. I know it's not your fault. It's just there's my cheer leader meeting tonight. Let me call Becky and see if she can take me home. I'll let you know if she can give me a ride. Bye."

With a long drawn out sigh, Stella let the phone drop on her denim covered lap, she waited for her prey to bite. Ignoring him sliding closer to her, Stella groaned, gripped her phone again putting it to her ear.

"Do you go to the high school just around the corner?" he asked in a kindly tone of voice.

Stella wanted to laugh contemptuously at the jerk next to her. She knew she looked young enough, at first glance, to be in high school. She counted on it most of the time. Unless they noticed her world-weary eyes. Ignoring him, she deliberately turned away from him, started to dial, and then spoke into her home answering machine. "Hi, Becky. It's me, Randy. Can you pick me up at the park by school? Call me back and let me know." Ending the call and putting her phone in her coat pocket, Stella started to get off the bench.

"You know, while I wait for my daughter and grandson," the old guy waved vaguely toward the group of people near the swings. "I could drop you off home. Do you live close? I hate to see you wait here by yourself. It might not be safe in an hour after everyone goes home." He gentled his voice and softened his speech.

Sitting back down Stella, turned and looked at him. There were wrinkles around his watery, blue eyes and deep lines from his nose to his chin. What little hair he had was gray. He looked like those old dolls made from dried apples she remembered from her childhood. His wrinkles folded into each other. But the voice was the same and so were the eyes. She had heard that eyes were the window into your soul. Stella recognized a soulless bastard when she saw one. She knew, because she saw the same thing every time she looked into her mirror. And she knew this one, because she had met him. That was before her life had spiraled downward, ripping her sheltered life to shreds.

"Well, I would know if someone was dangerous," said Stella ingenuously. "You can just tell."

"Not always, Randy. Sometimes danger can come in a nice disguise. Do you want to have a ride? I don't have much time. Your friend hasn't called back," he pointed out.

Pretending to consider his offer, Stella chewed on her lower lip to portray indecision. "Well, you can drop me off at my dad's place. No one's there right now. He won't be home until tomorrow. It's just a few miles away. Okay?"

He tried hard to hide the triumph that glittered in his faded eyes. "Sure. My name is Mr. Ryan."

She now knew without a doubt that she was looking at her long awaited and elusive target. He hadn't even changed his name. "Don't you have to tell your daughter that you are leaving?" she said, as if she believed that.

"I'll be back soon enough." He gave a distracted wave towards the group and started off towards the parking lot. Stella stood up from the bench, grabbing her bag. She pretended to place her phone back in the front pocket of her coat, but instead fingered the syringe filled with a strong narcotic sedative. Nodding to herself she trotted off after Mr. Ryan.

The ride to the apartment house took very little time. Mr. Ryan stopped the car in front of the building. Peering to look out the passenger side window he said, "this looks like one of those rent by the week places. Is this where your father lives?"

"Yes, this is it. Well, ah thank you. . ." Stella started.

"Let me walk you to your place. This doesn't look all that safe," said Mr. Ryan. "I'd feel better about it."

_Yes, I bet you will, you pervert. Worried about my safety, my ass. This is like leading a lamb to slaughter,_ Stella thought to herself. Without answering him she got out of the car and walked to the locked lobby to let them in. Once inside she motioned him up the stairs and said, "My place is on the second floor, 2 A. Go ahead and I will get the mail. You can see me to my door, if that's what you want." She lingered at the mailbox stand then followed him upstairs slowly. Reaching into her pocket she palmed the syringe, uncapping it. Pulling her hand out, she held the hypodermic, hidden next to her side.

As they reached the landing, Mr. Ryan started to turn to Stella saying, "Let me walk you inside, since you are here alone. I can---awww," he grabbed his neck where Stella had plunged the fast acting sedative. "You bitch! What did you dooooo?" His eyes rolled back into the back of his head, and he dropped to the ground.

Mr. Ryan slowly came back to consciousness. His eyes flickered open. Confused, he found he could not turn his head, it seemed to be held in place. Trying to lick his lips, he realized that he had a gag in his mouth. His heart started to pound in his chest when he tried to move his arms and his legs and found he was immobile. In a panic he struggled to look around. Into his line of vision came the high school student, Randy.

"Omph!" He screamed, not able to make himself understood.

Stella wiggled her fingers in a wave to him. "Hi. Remember me? Your almost victim. But you might be confused, huh? Well let us take a walk back in our joint history shall we? Back to a time when I was young and innocent and you took that away from me. When my family was made up of a beautiful older sister and happy parents. . .when evil had not touched our lives. Until you moved next door, that is. . .Mr.Ryan.

Ryan's mind was still foggy, but he realized she clearly did not sound like a high school girl. In fact, as he focused on her face, she did not even look like a teenager. The woman looked vicious, cruel even. He could feel his breath coming quicker as the horror of his situation became clearer. He frantically fought his restraints, uselessly. Tears started to dribble from his eyes.

"Oh, this is so sad. Are you crying? Well, in a minute I will give you something to really cry about, okay?

But let's get back to our story. It has taken me a long time to find you," Stella said readily. "After you left my eight-year-old sister destroyed by your perverted actions, she was never the same. No one was. My beautiful, wonderful sister committed suicide six years after you disappeared. My parents never recovered from her death. They blamed themselves. They split up, and I had to deal with no sister and broken parents."

Ryan frantically shook his head in denial. _How could this be happening to me,_ he thought. No one had ever suspected his extracurricular hobby. He could feel his lunch trying to make its way back up his throat _. Oh my God. I have to reason with her._ He tried to look old-man pathetic, imploring her with his eyes to stop what she was doing.

Stella waggled her finger at him, "No, no. Don't deny it. The police always considered you a person of interest but could not connect the dots. But I did. Lucky you, right? I just followed the string of victims once I located you. You left casualties in your wake in every town you moved to. You became so arrogant you didn't even change your name. So, thank you for that, Mr. Ryan."

She jumped up and cheerfully said, "Well let's get on with it. Oh. I forgot." She pulled the locket from her neck and opened it in front of his face. "This was my sister. I wanted you to remember her, since I'll never forget her," she snapped it closed and straightened. "Well, let's get rid of that appendage you won't be needing anymore. On the plus side, this might not kill you, but," she tapped her forefinger thoughtfully against her chin, "I'm pretty sure you'll bleed to death before anyone finds you."

Taking a pair of scissors, she carefully slit his pants on either side of his hips down to his thighs. She ignored his attempts to scream and struggle. "You might want to be careful there, I don't want to accidently cut you," Stella said cheerfully. "Oh, wait. It won't matter in the end. So, continue if you want." She turned and picked up a pair of large pruners from the table. Turning back to him, she smiled evilly and said, "Let's begin shall we?

# The Ride of His Life

### Lisa Griffiths

With snow-capped mountains in his view

And the river Vindalälven so near

Comes the hunter in forest through

Striding confident and without fear.

He is Peter Forsberg looking for trout

Amid fragrant spruce and giant maple

To catch many fish he has no doubt

A feast to be had at the dinner table.

Hair of blond and eyes of blue

Evoke Viking ancestors of days past

His Lapphund, Thor, goes with him too

Who's as strong as he is as fast.

They claim their spot on the river's shore

Peter readies the bait; Thor checks for fowl

Storm clouds gather as birds of prey soar

The air is rent with a lone wolf's howl.

Thor looks to his master for a nod of ascent

"Go chase your beast but do take heed

Tis elusive quarry with much energy spent,"

Peter said. So Thor left with speed.

As time went by the wind grew stronger

Peter's quest for trout had taken its course

He called for Thor to not tarry longer

Looking along the bank he spotted a horse.

Eyes and coat as black as the devil's heart

With sturdy body and long, thick mane

It stood tall and proud with legs firmly apart

This gorgeous creature was far from plain.

With the fish all forgotten, Peter was awed

"I must ride it," he said in a daze

Moving closer with an expression so very odd

A deep yearning inside that now was ablaze.

The horse whinnied as he neared

It shook its mane and added a snort

Peter's hands trembled with desire and fear

This adventure he could no longer abort.

A touch of the beast sent shocks to the soul

Peter then leaped up to sit on its back

He could feel the two becoming a whole

Like an omen from Thor, the thunder did crack.

In a moment the horse took off on a run

With rider clinging, and feeling great fright

He yelled, "Enough! I want this done!"

Yet no one could help him with his plight.

The horse turned, setting sights on water of blue

Hard as he tried, Peter could not let go

As the swift running river came into view

He gasped and cried, "And now I know."

Twas the Bäckahästen, a truly evil steed

Taking Peter Forsberg toward certain death

No way to break grip or spell in his hour of need

So soon he'd be taking his very last breath.

Quickly, there would be no one left to save

Peter thought of his children and beautiful wife

This horse would drag him to a watery grave

And on the way give the ride of his life.

# Safe Haven Asylum

### T. L. Eastwood

Stonebridge is a nice, quiet, small town where nothing out of the ordinary ever happens. That's why we were flabbergasted when the old Safe Haven Asylum was shut down for cruelty to the patients. Doctor Wellington wanted to know if the brains of people with mental illnesses were different from the standard brain. So he was tying his patients to their beds and experimenting on them. And to be sure he was receiving the best results possible, he used no anesthetic.

I guess we might never have figured this out if old Mrs. Larity's miniature schnauzer hadn't gone hunting in the field behind the hospital and dug up an old thigh bone. My mother said that Mrs. Larity had fainted when Rolly laid his treat at her feet. Mr. Larity had to carry her to the couch and give her a shot of brandy before he called the local sheriff's office.

Mr. Larity followed Rolly for a week after that before the dog wandered back to Skeleton Haven, as the field later became known. Sheriff Dan was called, and his deputies dug up sixteen carcasses.

They put a picture of Dr. Wellington on display every night on the TV during the trial. He didn't look like the fiend they said he was. His face was old and slightly wrinkled, and his silver-grey hair made me think of my grandpa. But then, his picture looked through the screen at me. He had one green eye and one blue eye, which gave him a deranged appearance. I looked into those peculiar orbs, and I could feel my blood turning cold. I had the distinct impression that, if I didn't look away, I would turn into a giant popsicle. I shut off the set.

It didn't take the jury long to convict him of the slaughter. The judge sentenced him to the electric chair. He was fried three years later.

For a long time after all this excitement I wondered about the spirits of these dead people. I thought I could hear them whispering when the frosty wind blew in from the north. I thought I saw them flit from tree to bush to tree as they struggled to find the peace they were denied in life. I thought I smelled their putrid flesh when I walked near the river at sunset.

My mother told me I was overreacting, but I didn't think so. I was ten, and I was convinced that the spirits of the dead walked through our small town. That was when I started reading about the paranormal. It's a passion I retain to this very day. It's also a passion I share with a very good friend of mine. Jess and I met in school about the time Rolly was digging up his famous femur. I would help him with his homework, and he would chat about the unpublished, gruesome details of the Wellington case, which he wheedled out of his father, Sheriff Dan. This, of course, made us instant friends.

Jess considers himself a great amateur ghost hunter and had visited all the local haunted places. All, except one—the Safe Haven Asylum on Matasian Road.

He called me up a week ago and asked if I wanted to join him and Martin and Jane for a trip to the old hospital. Needless-to-say, I jumped at the chance. I put on a pair of jeans, my hiking boots, and my old Ghostbuster's t-shirt, grabbed a flashlight, and was waiting on my front porch when Jess pulled into the driveway in his beat-up Jeep.

"Hey, Tory! You look like you're ready to hunt ghosts," he said as he reached across the seat and pushed the door open for me.

"Yeah. You know I am. I'm hoping for a sighting tonight."

"And what are you going to do if we see something?"

"Talk to it."

"Yeah, right. That I gotta see," he said laughing.

Jess backed slowly down the driveway and headed toward the highway that led to the old part of town where the asylum was located.

"So, what makes you think this place is haunted?"

"Dad told me that some people tried to spend the night on the first floor last year. They didn't make it. They reported hearing screams and crying coming from one of the floors above them. They couldn't say which."

"Why'd they report it to the Sheriff's Office. Did they think your dad could arrest the dead?"

"You know, in Stonebridge, everyone depends on Dad for everything. It sure would be fun to watch him try and arrest some spirits."

We both laughed and then continued to discuss the possibility that the building might be haunted. The more we talked, the more excited I became. By the time we headed up Matasian Road, I was ready to see some real ghosts, or so I thought.

After a fifteen minute drive, we turned onto an old washboard road, and Jess did his best to hit every pothole on the short trip up the hill. I could see Jane and Martin sitting on the tailgate of Jane's pink truck as we approached.

"Hey, guys," yelled Jess as we exited the Jeep. "Everyone ready? I have my digital camera, tape recorder, and flashlight."

"Yep, all ready," said Martin.

"Yeah. It sounds like a real spoooooky night," giggled Jane.

"Okay, then. Let's go," said Jess.

We walked up the cracked cement that had been the sidewalk that led to the old, dilapidated, concrete building. The foliage had encroached and broken through the walls in several places; ivy crept up the sides, penetrating the walls and entering every available crevice. The once bright peach paint peeled off in long strips that, in the setting sunlight, looked like long tracks of tears. All the windows were broken, and the glass was strewn over the whole area like diamond incrusted plaster.

"Are you all excited? I'm excited," chirped Jane.

To prove her point, she began twirling in the fading light, and it seemed to me that her shoulder-length auburn hair turned a blood red.

"I have my flashlight," she said.

"Okay," said Jess. "Everyone stay close. It's going to be dark soon, and I don't want anyone getting lost in there."

We followed Jess through the broken-down front door. Once inside, the light faded to a dreary gray, and we all turned on our flashlights. We could see footprints and animal tracks in the grime, glass, and trash that bespoke of earlier visitors. Someone had brought crimson paint and applied it generously to the walls, which now bore the marks of every profane word ever spoken by the teenagers of Stonebridge.

"Do ya think we should take the elevator?" joked Martin.

Everyone laughed, and Jess steered us toward the stairs on the left side of the ground floor.

"Someone get something to keep this door open," said Jess.

Martin obliged and found a heavy rock just below the broken front window and placed it in between the door and the frame.

We were all in good spirits as we climbed the stairways from one floor to another. We prowled around, noting the same dingy gray color, shattered windows, broken furniture, and damaged walls on every floor.

The sun had departed, and the moon had not yet awoken. The air became colder as we rose from floor to floor. It was definitely not our usual fall weather.

"Okay," said Jane. "I like spooky but not creepy, and this is definitely getting creepy. Maybe we should go back down."

"No way!" I said. "I came here to see a ghost. Let's go up to the top."

"You heard her," said Jess. "Let's check out the sixth floor."

Our small troop bravely walked up the last flight of stairs, and Martin made sure the door was jammed open.

"Ooooh, this really is creepy," whispered Jane.

We surveyed the area through the dim light cast by our flashlights. On this floor the beds were still intact. The mattresses had deteriorated to lumps of cloth and rusty springs. Manacles were attached to each of the bedposts, one end open as if awaiting new patients. Several faded pictures still hung on the walls depicting bright, sunny rose gardens and beautiful streams.

"Okay, this is really scary now," said Jane. "Anyone else ready to leave?"

As if in answer to her question, there was a loud thud from the stairwell. Jane shrieked, and we all jumped. Martin ran to the door and said, "It's locked. I can't get it open!"

"Okay, here we go," said Jess. "I've got my camera and tape recorder ready. This is so exciting; I think we're really going to see something tonight!"

"Are you nuts?" screamed Jane. "I want out! Now!"

I could feel her quivering as I put my arm around her shoulders and tried to calm her down. "It's going to be all right, Jane," I said. "There's nothing here that can really hurt us."

As if to mock me, the room suddenly turned frigid. I could see everyone's breath as it turned to ice and hung in the air. The smell of formaldehyde and ammonia permeated the area. The atmosphere turned lethal. The metal beds rattled and swayed gently on the cement floor. The manacles, which had been dangling toward the ground, now moved leisurely to the top of the rotting bedding.

I could feel my eyes growing wider with each new development. I was still holding onto Jane, who abruptly began screaming. I was sure that her high-pitched cries could be heard all the way to the Sheriff's Office—or maybe I just hoped they could.

Jess yelled, "Tory, shut Jane up! She's going to scare away the ghosts."

"Stop being a jerk, Jess," I said. "She's terrified!"

"Okay, just calm her down."

"Come on, Jane, you're only making things worse," I said, shaking her hard enough to bounce her head from up and down.

"Stop that!" she yelled. "You're going to make my head fall off. And your flashlight is cutting into my shoulder!"

I stopped and removed the hand holding onto the light and said, "Okay, but you have to be quiet."

She shivered a little, and I wrapped my arm around her shoulders.

By this time, Jess had dropped his equipment bag and flashlight on the floor, switched on his microphone, and draped the recorder strap over his shoulder; he was excitedly snapping pictures as fast as he could.

"This is awesome!" he yelled. "Do you think I'll be able to sell my pics to Paranormal Monthly?"

"Jess, stop worrying about your damned pictures and help me find a way out of here!" yelled Martin. By this time, he had given up trying to open the door and was searching for another way out.

With Jane at my side, I ignored Jess and started to help Martin. Then I saw it—a milky cloud materializing near the window. Pointing my flashlight in its direction I yelled, "What's that?"

We all watched in horror as a head gradually appeared. Then, what looked like a body, weaved in and out of view. An arm slowly rose out of the filmy mist, and the unidentifiable apparition raised its index finger and pointed at one of the beds then at Martin. The bed frame shuddered, then raced across the room; the headboard pinned him to the wall. His flashlight made a loud clunk as it hit the ground and went out.

Someone screamed, and I realized it was me. Taking hold of my fear, I ran to him and tried to dislodge the bed, but, before I could manage it, one of the manacles floated out and grasped my right wrist. I screamed again and tried to pull my arm out of the restraint; it held me tight. I heard Martin gasping for air, and I redoubled my efforts. Instead of loosening, the manacle tightened until my blood could no longer pass beneath it, and my hand began to turn a ghastly pallid white.

The vision turned gradually toward Jane, who was now standing alone. Now hysterical, she was screaming at the top of her lungs.

The ghost pointed to another bed, which quivered then shot toward Jane like a high-powered bullet. It turned lengthwise and pushed her to the side wall, one of the manacles reached out and clutched her left arm. She squeezed her flashlight so hard the metal bit into the soft flesh of her right hand; her bright red blood oozed down her fingers and fell into the darkness. At that point, poor Jane couldn't decide whether to continue screaming or to begin crying, so she did both.

"Jess," I shouted. "That's enough pictures; we need your help! Hurry, Martin can't breathe, and Jane is going crazy, and I don't want to have my hand amputated."

Jess finally let his camera fall onto his chest and moved cautiously over to Martin. He tried calmly, and then frantically, to drag the bed away from him.

"Watch out, Tory!" he shouted as the apparition floated toward me. I could feel the temperature drop to sub-zero. It was a foot away when it stopped and glared at me. I was gazing into one green eye and one blue eye. My blood swiftly turned to ice.

"It's Dr. Wellington!" I screamed.

I could feel frozen needles penetrate my skin. I felt nauseated and terrified and helpless and inquisitive all at the same time.

He looked intently into my eyes. I had the uncomfortable feeling that he recognized me from that time long ago. And, for some reason, he didn't like what he saw. He placed his right hand inside his misty body and pulled out a razor-sharp scalpel. He brought it up to my eye level and unhurriedly moved toward me.

My blood froze, my heart hammered, my breathing ended. I opened my mouth to scream, but the sound froze in my throat. I was mortified. I knew he was going to hack open my brain. I knew I was going to die.

Jess turned from Martin and dashed toward me. He attempted to shove the doctor out of the way, but his hands simply sliced through the dense fog.

Jess always said his camera worked wonders. Maybe that's the reason he pulled the camera strap from around his neck, held on to it, and swung it through the specter. Unfortunately, this only irritated Dr. Wellington. He twisted his sinister shape in Jess's direction and pointed to the nearest bed.

I could see the horror in Jess' eyes as he backed away and screamed, "Stay away!"

I'm still not sure whether he was trying to help me or snap a picture, but Jess started fumbling with his camera and managed to set off the flash. The spirit suddenly dropped his arm and turned away from the light as if in pain.

_The light must hurt him_ , I thought.

Jess must have had the same idea.

"Tory, shine your light into his eyes! He doesn't like it!" Jess yelled.

I turned my flashlight directly at Dr. Wellington's head while Jess valiantly walked toward the drifting mist, shooting pictures as he went, forcing the light from the flash to penetrate the doctor's eye sockets as he moved to the window behind him. Dr. Wellington attempted to pass through the glass, but couldn't, and he screeched as if in excruciating pain. Then, he disappeared. The building, feeling a great deal of relief, shuddered, sighed, and quieted itself.

My manacle dropped off, and I was able to tug the bed away from Martin, who was very grateful to be able to breathe easily again. Jess grabbed his bag and flashlight and then released Jane, who was now merely sobbing, and we all headed for the door.

"Help me, Martin," said Jess, trying to yank the door open. The two men took a deep breath and pulled mightily on the door handle. It trembled, sighed, and opened just wide enough for Martin, Jess, and me to get our fingers around the door jam and pull. It opened sluggishly, a shrill whine coming from deep within its frame.

I'd like to tell you that we walked carefully down the stairs and across the lobby, and then sauntered to our vehicles, but I can't. Jess led the way, the light from his flashlight painting eerie shapes on the walls. We flew down five flights of stairs, darted through the lobby doorway, and bolted down the broken sidewalk.

We jumped into our respective vehicles, and the engines roared to life. Jess and Martin drove out of the parking lot and raced down the hill. We didn't stop until we were back in the main part of town.

At the local coffee shop Martin bound Jane's cut wrist with napkins. She smiled weakly and thanked him.

Jess and I, with shaking hands now being warmed by hot cups of coffee, simply stared at each other for a few minutes.

I sighed deeply and said, "Well, I think we're safe now."

"Yeah, it didn't look like the good doc could get through the window," said Jess. "I wonder why?"

"Don't go thinking up trouble, Jess. He can't get out and that's that. I don't want to ever see that awful thing again," said Jane.

"Me, too," said Martin. "I've had enough ghost hunting to last me a long while."

"Well, it was definitely an interesting night," I said.

"I wonder if my pics will come out all right," said Jess.

"That thing could have killed us, and all you can think about is your pictures? What's wrong with you?" asked Jane.

"I just want to prove that we saw him," said Jess. "Hey, I have another great idea. How about driving out to the old mining town next weekend? I hear it's haunted!"

"Come on Jane," said Martin. "I think that's our cue to leave. See you guys later."

"Okay, Martin," said Jane. "But you're not driving my truck again! I don't like the way you handled her."

Jane and Martin walked out the door arguing; Jess and I nursed our coffees for awhile.

"Well, are you ready for another hunt?" Jess asked me.

I thought about the night's events, the danger, the excitement, the unknown, and said, "Sure. What time do we leave?"

# Sand Hill Cranes

### Don Ball

I felt lost as I looked in the distance at some large birds on the other side of the lake. I thought they might be sand hill cranes, but I didn't know enough about them to make a good identification.

There was a scarecrow standing in the field when I woke up this morning. He had an old straw hat on that was too large and helped pin his ears to his head. The salt and pepper gray hair was looping around the brim, so it looked like a Frisbee. His bib overalls were a little long so the hem was frayed looking like unkempt grass. I knew laundry soap was hard to find because his overalls looked like they had never been washed. The shirt was a similar shade of dirty like the pants, and was made from some kind of cotton with a printed pattern that blended in with the dirt. The shoes were actually black and came up six inches high on his ankle. The black shine was long gone so the finish was starting to look somewhat fuzzy.

The scarecrow was very thin. If he lost any more weight he would have to carry a brick around to keep on the ground if we had any wind. He fulfilled his part by looking scary, but he broke the spell when he made a big smile and said, "What are you doing out here on the road at this time of morning?"

I said, "I didn't recognize you, Mr. Sikes. It has been quite a while since I saw you at the sale. It is nice to see you again. How's the family?"

He said, "The family is getting along fine."

I said, "I came over here to look at those big birds, but I don't know what they are."

Mr. Sikes turned to look at the birds and said, "I don't know what they are, but my daughter will know and I see her coming now in that Jeep."

As she drove up I recognized her from school and said, "Hello, Ann."

She said, "Hello Don, I bet you came over here to look at those big birds. Did you bring your camera?"

I said, "I brought my camera. A good bird watcher always brings a camera, so he can document his sightings. Your dad said you might know what they are."

She said, "Oh, yes, I know those birds, they are sand hill cranes. They come here to be next to the lake about this time every year. They don't appear to build nests here they just want to eat some of our corn and wheat to fill up for the winter. Get in and I will drive you over to a place where you can get in close for some good pictures."

"Thanks," I said as I brushed of the dusty seat and climbed in the jeep."

She said, "By, Dad, I will see you back at the house." as she let the clutch out and gave the engine enough gas to pin me back to the seat. She drove fast, raising enough dust that I was afraid she would scare the birds, but she circled around a small stand of trees and parked.

She said, "If you walk carefully through those trees, when you come out on the other side, you can hide behind some corn stalks that were left over and sneak up fairly close. They don't seem to be too afraid of people. I am going to leave you here to take pictures. I need to get home to meet the mailman. He is supposed to bring the clothes I ordered from Sears today."

I said, "Thanks, I can find my way back to the road, I will see you back at school next week. If my pictures win a prize, I will have to figure out some way to share it with you."

She said, "Never mind the prize, but I would like some of the good pictures you take of the birds. I will see you next week." She drove away in a cloud of dust.

# Shooting Star

### T. L. Eastwood

Willow still couldn't believe it. She had received the late night phone call. She had gone to the viewing. She had gone to the funeral. She still couldn't believe it. Her sister, her only sister, was gone.

Willow needed time to come to terms with the accident that had claimed her sister's life. Wandering through their lonely house didn't help; there wasn't anything there that didn't remind her of their time together. She remembered Amber listening to the stereo with her headphones on so she could hear every word; Amber drinking a beer on the front porch with her cowboy boots propped up on the wicker table; Amber lying on her bed, her fingers entwined behind her head, dreaming of life's possibilities; Amber walking, talking, breathing, living.

Sensing her turmoil, her best friend Cody stood by the front door entreating Willow to walk with him through the neighborhood park.

Cody enjoyed the beauty of the well-manicured vernal lawn, which was shaded by the gigantic oak trees. He listened to the rustle of the leaves blowing gently in the light breeze. High overhead, the birds chirped gaily, and, in the far distance, he could hear the sweet sound of children's laughter. Cody's joy and enthusiasm for such a glorious day was tempered by the sadness of his best friend and by the missing Amber, who usually walked alongside them.

Deep in dazed thought, Willow walked along the park path. She glimpsed the heavily shadowed grass and remembered the darkened funeral parlor where Amber had rested, the mellow flickering candlelight casting a preternatural pall over her cold body. She couldn't stop asking herself the same questions over and over again. She knew she would never know the answers to them, but she kept asking anyway. _Why had it happened? Why did Amber choose that day to go rock climbing? Why had she gone alone?_

Cody moved in closer to Willow, brushing her hand lightly. He knew she was upset and confused, but he didn't want to intrude on her reverie. He instinctively knew that she needed to come to terms with Amber's absence on her own. As much as he wanted to make everything all right again, the best he could do was comfort her as she fought through her grief.

Willow heard the soft trilling of the birds as they flew across the park. Gazing up at them, she wondered how high up the mountain Amber had been when her rope snapped.

Almost unwillingly, Willow allowed the memory of Amber relating one of her last rock climbing adventures to intrude into her sorrow. Her sister's face had glowed with an unearthly light as pictures of the pristine landscape, wildlife, and clear blue skies shown from Amber's luminous eyes. She had always said that rock climbing made her feel closer to the great Creator. _If she had been that close to heaven_ , thought Willow, _why hadn't the Creator reached out a hand to catch her?_

Out of the corner of his eye, Cody could see a family playing Frisbee in the open field. He stopped to watch and recalled the last time he and Amber had come to the park to play Frisbee. They had taken a short break after their game and had quickly fallen asleep, his head gently resting on Amber's stomach. When they awoke, the sun was sliding behind the mountains casting its dreamy shadow across the park. Amber had jumped up and started running for home.

"Come on, Cody!" she yelled. "Willow will be holding dinner for us. I don't know about you, but I'm starved!"

They had run so fast that they were both out of breath when they crashed through the living room door. Amber laughed softly as she related their story. Willow had shaken her head and smiled at her rambunctious sister.

"These things always happen to you, sis. But I thought you were smart enough to be home on time, Cody," said Willow.

Cody had hung his head, his best pitiful face pleading to be forgiven.

Willow laughed and simply said, "Dinner is ready, you two. Come on."

The sound of the playing children suddenly caught Willow's attention. She wondered how they could laugh and play as if nothing had happened. She thought, _Don't they know my heart is broken? Don't they know the world has stopped? Don't they know that my sister, my only sister, is dead? Don't they know that the Creator doesn't care?_

The two friends continued to walk to the center of the park. Coming to the end of the pathway, they walked across the sandy beach and down to the edge of the small lake.

The sun had started its slow descent, and the fading light bounced off the light blue water, sprinkling the surface with shimmering jewels. On the far bank, the mallards were contentedly diving into the depths, searching for tasty treats.

Cody sighed deeply, and Willow knew he was wishing that Amber was with them. Sometimes they would walk along the water's edge so Cody could get a better look at the ducks. He loved to watch them waddle onto the shore, pecking in the sand for mysterious edible treasures. Cody sat down and looked at Willow, unhappiness changing his lustrous brown eyes into dark pools of woe.

Willow looked at the dark water as it crawled along the beach. She reached down to feel the chilly water and thoughts of the cold, clammy grave inched furtively into her mind. She shivered as she stood, shaking her head as she mentally drove the thought away.

She turned her thoughts to memories of how much Amber and Cody loved to look for shells and interesting creatures in the water. Amber had a genuine respect for everything and everyone. She believed the world was a natural playground built for the pleasure of all sentient beings, and she would drag Willow along on many of her adventures. _What am I going to do now?_ Willow thought _. Who am I going to share adventures with? Who am I going to bare my soul to?_

Willow and Cody watched as the sun slowly closed his doors for the day, and the moon took his place, her gentle white light beckoning the stars to join her. The two friends ambled slowly over to the well-used park bench closest to the water.

Sitting and looking out over the beauty of the moonlit park, Willow began to let go of her grief, She felt the night air wrap its warm arms around her and hold her gently. She felt a sense of peace slowly envelop her.

Cody, sensing that Willow needed him, placed his head gently on her lap. She stroked his caramel-colored fur and looked into his large, loving eyes. Behind the curtain of dark brown lashes, Willow could see Amber and Cody playing together. She could see Amber rock climbing and, finally reaching the mountain top, surveying the beauty of the world around her. With tears cascading down her cheeks, she laid her cheek on Cody's muzzle and gave him a deep hug.

When she released him, Cody jumped up on the bench beside her and gave her a great big sloppy kiss. He didn't really understand why Amber wasn't with them any longer, but he knew that Willow needed him to be strong for her. As she stroked his back, Cody lay down and put his head on her lap. When she was ready, he would make sure they got home safely.

Cody's fur felt soft and warm under her hand. He always looked after her and made her laugh with his silly antics. With friends like Cody, maybe the world wouldn't be such a lonely place without Amber.

Willow saw a star shoot across the sky. Amber had always said that shooting stars were the Creator's way of telling family members that their loved ones had traveled safely to the other side and were happy. She suddenly knew that Amber was all right. She knew that Amber had entered a new world. She knew that Amber was joyously climbing the highest mountain she could find.

Comforted and serene at last, Willow and her best friend completed their walk and headed home.

# Slopes Too Steep

### Don Ball

My life flows on like a boat that creaks

As I start the day with hopes that weep.

Who would know the waters were so deep

And still, I work country with slopes too steep

Those whose future is like a dream

Their days hang on their strength so to speak

They may have trouble standing it seems

And still our farms to reap have slopes too steep.

As the sun sinks slowly without fuss

We reflect on our bright future that is so sweet

That our Mother and Father could see for us

And still I need our jeep for slopes too steep.

# The Stainless Steel Coffin

### Scott Skipper

© 1987 Scott Skipper

The odd story you are about to read is mostly true.

It is based on something that happened to a business associate.

Naturally, the names have been changed to protect the author as there are no innocent.

Be sure to read the newspaper clipping at the end.

"Did you get the front money?"

"This guy's all right." Lou Martinez was suddenly defensive. He had forgotten the certainty of catching hell for taking an order from a private individual without getting a deposit. He rallied a small defense. "He's not really an individual—he's a doctor."

"Do you ever remember me saying anything good about doctors?"

"Couldn't we just open an account for him?"

"Since when does opening an account guarantee getting paid?"

"We can check his credit."

"Accounts are for repeat customers. How much repeat business do you expect from a guy who wants a stainless steel coffin for his mother?"

"Maybe his father is still alive."

"Then don't you think his father would be buying the coffin?"

Martinez slumped a little in his chair. "Do you want me to tell him we can't do it?"

"No! I want you to get a deposit." After Martinez was gone from his office, Joe Fox reflected that he forgot to specify getting the front money before the work began. No one who wanted to put his mother in a stainless steel coffin with a glass lid should be fully trusted.

Martinez drove to Paramount after lunch. The same old black Chrysler Imperial was parked in front. He thought that was the kind of car that a doctor who hadn't remodeled his office in forty years had to drive, and seeing it, he felt relieved since he had not thought to phone.

On this second visit, the ambience of his surroundings grew clearer. The neighborhood was nearly all residential—old single story wooden houses with this isolated commercial building containing Dr. Noble, a shoe repair and a vague looking business that might be selling lampshades. The building was a sun-faded beige stucco with a kind of marquee, actually more of a conning tower, that held Dr. Noble's name in neon script above several decorative neon bands. The dirty glass tubes were protected by a grille of hardware cloth. The same wrinkled receptionist in an old-fashioned nurse uniform with a starched white hat pressed a button on a brown Bakelite intercom to announce his return. She let him into the doctor's office. He seemed to never have any patients.

"Yes, Mr. Martinez? Did we forget something?"

"No, not really. It's just that after I started checking on these materials I realized how expensive they were, and it's our company policy in cases like this to get a deposit to cover the cost of the material."

"Surely you had to know the cost of the materials when you quoted the price to me."

Martinez felt his face get red and he had to concentrate on not squirming. "Well, to tell the truth, I forgot to tell you when I was here before."

"I see, and your employer reminded you."

"Yeah, you might say that."

"I want there to be no delays, nor do I want you to have any concern about being paid. If you'll just wait a moment I'll have Miss Evans prepare a check. Is a thousand dollars enough?"

"Great."

Martinez stared at the ancient carpet striated with hazy winter light falling through the wide, fly blown slats of the venetian blinds. He didn't hear Noble talking to the old woman. The only sound was the gears grinding in an electric clock on the desk. Noble was gone for a very long time, and when he returned Martinez started at the sound of the door.

He held an envelope with green security paper visible through the glassine window."Here you are. Now, please no delays. You understand, I hope, how important it is to me that my mother be laid to rest as quickly as possible."

"We've already started," he lied. Then he grabbed the envelope and went to a dark and smelly beer bar for the rest of the afternoon.

Early in the morning, Fox heard Alice enter the outer office. There were some shuffling sounds, then, "Oh, my God." She came into his office holding a check in front of her."Have you seen this?"

"What?" She laid the check face down on the calendar desk pad in front of Joe Fox.

"Jesus Christ! Where's Martinez?"

"I haven't seen him. This was on my desk when I got here."

Fox took the check and stomped into the shop. Martinez was talking to the foreman, José, by one of the old wooden layout tables. José had an electric heater under his bench, they huddled over it gesturing at a piece of yellow quadrille paper.

"What's this shit?" He held the check in front of Martinez while the foreman grabbed the sketch and turned away from his boss's wrath.

"It's the deposit you wanted."

"Did you read what he put on the back of it?"

He read it, shrugged, and said, "It just says what we have to do."

"You mean you agreed to this?"

"All I agree to do was hermetically seal it with nitrogen inside."

"And how are you going to do that?"

"It's simple. We just glue the glass down with bathtub caulking. Then we put the nitrogen in through a fitting in the side."

"Then how do they get the old lady in?"

"Oh, well, I guess she's gotta be in it when we put the lid on."

José stiffened. He said, "Wait a minute. You mean we're gonna have a dead person in here when we're working on this?"

Martinez said, "It's no big deal. We'll take it to the funeral home. Maybe we can get the undertakers to put the lid on."

"You're out of your goddamn mind if you think an undertaker can do all this? How would we know it didn't have leaks? How would we know he got all the air out before he capped off the nitrogen? And how are _we_ going to cap it off? Are there going to be valves sticking out of this thing so some asshole can come along later and give grandma a little fresh air?"

Martinez thought for a second. "We'll have two fittings. We'll put the nitrogen in one and test what comes out of the other. When it's all nitrogen, we put a plug in it. The other end, we gotta have a valve. There's no other way. He'll understand that."

"How did you say you were going to test for pure nitrogen coming out? Doesn't it say here 'the internal atmosphere is to be 99.99% nitrogen?'"

"All nitrogen comes out of the bottle that pure."

"Right. And does it stay that pure after you shoot it into a box full of air, formaldehyde and old lady gasses?"

José made a face as Martinez said, "I'm sure there's some way to test it."

"No doubt. Did you put the cost of the test equipment into your bid?"

"I got plenty of money in it. Besides, I bid it in ten gauge, and I bought eleven gauge.He'll never know the difference, and the money we saved will pay for the testing."

José asked Fox, sounding uncomfortable and looking eager to leave, "Should I wait on this?"

"How are you going to start it? We haven't got the material yet."

"We got all kinds of eleven gauge."

"Are you telling me that sketch doesn't say that it's stainless?"

Martinez said meekly, "I was gonna tell him."

The foreman sucked his teeth and spit, "You mean this thing is stainless?"

"Would you bury your mother in a rusty box?"

A welder began backgrinding the first pass on a large pressure vessel. The vibrating scream of the grinder drove Fox into his office where he called Dr. Noble and found him to be a relatively reasonable customer. The doctor assured the owner of the metal shop that the atmosphere would be sufficiently inert if a slight vacuum were drawn in the coffin before purging it with two full bottles of nitrogen. However, no features could remain on the exterior; therefore, any valves had to be recessed and later sealed by welding covers over them and grinding the welds smooth, thus consigning the departed to eternity free of protuberances.

Fox clamped his molars and shook his head to free himself of his mental bent before he replied unctuously, "Very fine, Doctor, all that is feasible but how about the business of actually putting the body into the coffin?"

"Why should that present any problems?"

"Oh, no problems. We just want to make sure there aren't any—accidents."

"What do you mean—accidents? There had better be no accidents involving my mother's remains."

"Well, then I think it would be in everybody's best interest if somebody other than an apprentice sheet metal mechanic laid your mother in her final repose."

"I assure you that I will be right there to assist when the time comes. It can be no other way."

A Modern Metals truck brought the polished stainless steel sheets the next morning, and in the afternoon, on one of his inspection tours, Fox noticed José developing notches for the inside corners of the coffin by cutting pieces of manila folder. The following afternoon the coffin had been sheared, notched, and formed, and it was lying unceremoniously next to the welder who was completing work on the large tank for the refinery. The boss threw a fit at seeing hot balls of weld splatter falling on the PVC skin that protected the stainless steel's brushed finish. In another day and a half all the coffin's seams were welded. Fox insisted on assigning a journeyman to grind and polish the welds instead of the helper who would normally be stuck with the drudgery of restoring the grain to all the weld joints. It took two more days to complete the cosmetic work.

On Friday afternoon Joe Fox was examining the finished product with no little admiration. It was a beautiful fabrication. Double wall construction in the classic shape of coffins with the shoulder area wider than the head and feet. The fittings were set into tidy pockets with good fitting covers ready to be welded over them and the flange was recessed so the inch thick glass would fit flush. José had even thought to place the gas orifices where they would be hidden by the body.

Lou Martinez saw his boss with the casket and sidled close to fish for approval. "It looks good, doesn't it?"

"What do you expect? How does the glass fit?"

"I don't know. We haven't tried it yet."

"You mean to say that this box is completely done and nobody bothered to see if the fucking lid fits?"

It didn't fit. It was too big and the man from the glass company was gone until Monday. Fox drove home muttering.

Three martinis into Friday night, when his rage at Martinez was starting to dissipate, the phone rang. Its bell jolted the full length of his spine. He let it ring, but his wife answered it and, of course, it wasn't for her.

"Mr. Fox?"

"Yes."

"Are you the owner of Industrial Fabricators in Downey?"

Tentatively he said, "Yes."

"This is Julius Schaeffer from Schaeffer and Steinman's Funeral Home. You are, I believe, making a special casket for Dr. Noble."

"That's correct."

"Could you give me some idea when it's going to be ready?"

"Well, the metal work is ready, but we've had a little problem with the glass. It should be straightened out in a couple days."

"Meaning Tuesday?"

"More like Thursday."

Schaeffer groaned. "Isn't there any way to expedite that?"

"Is there some problem that I don't know about?"

"We're extremely anxious to move the Doctor's mother out of our mortuary."

Fox was getting nervous. "Is there a reason why you're so anxious?"

"Mr. Fox, the woman has been dead for three months and every single night Dr. Noble comes in and rubs her body with fish oil. He's making our employees uncomfortable."

Fox's reaction splattered the mouthpiece with saliva.

"Mr. Fox, this is a serious matter. I am appealing to you as a fellow businessman to help us get this off our hands."

"Why don't you just tell him to take his mother elsewhere?"

"That wouldn't be ethical. Can you imagine how we would look if people thought we might put their loved ones out in the street?"

"I'll do everything I can."

"Thank you."

"Oh, by the way, how did you find my number? I pay for it to be unlisted."

"Mr. Martinez suggested I call you."

In the morning Joe Fox went to his shop when there were no union men around and tried to tweak the coffin with furniture clamps. He hoped that by some miracle the size was right and the problem was in the angles. All he succeeded in doing was nicking a corner of the glass.

The glass man told Lou Martinez it would take a week to grind the small discrepancy from the edges of the plate.

"Why a week?" Fox demanded. "Didn't it only take three days to make it in the first place?"

"He says it's harder to shave such a small amount off the edges than to cut a new one. Do you want to get a new piece?"

"How much would that cost?"

Martinez had to ask the office manager. "Seventeen-hundred and fifty dollars," she said. "Should I order it?"

"Would you like to have a coffin shaped coffee table in lieu of a bonus?"

Wednesday afternoon Schaeffer called for Fox who was lingering late over lunch futilely wishing Lou Martinez had gone to work for his competition before running into Dr. Noble. Then he played with lovely visions of firing Martinez but it was not his true desire. Martinez was the same as all the rest and firing him would only necessitate finding, training, and ultimately hating his replacement. He never returned the call to Schaeffer.

Late afternoon clouds blew in from the Pacific and it was nearly dark when Alice buzzed him to say Dr. Noble waited in the lobby. Fox hesitated, slipping into his PR persona, most customers were a pain in the ass but one that rubbed fish oil on his mother's cadaver had to be dealt with carefully. He must not forget that the objective was to first be paid and then be rid of him.

After shaking hands—Fox thought he detected fish oil—and a rather mechanical exchange of greetings, Dr. Noble came to the point. "There has been an unpleasant turn of affairs. I have been forced to move my mother's body from the cold storage repository, so you can imagine my relief when Mr. Martinez told me that all was in readiness on your end."

"It is?"

"Well, he said that the glass was expected anytime and that everything else was complete."

Fox glanced at Alice for support. She was staring out the window. "I've been out and hadn't heard this about the glass," he told Noble. "Please, have a seat while I see where we stand."

Martinez was not at his desk. He kept moving steadily down the hall and through the shop door hoping to unload on Martinez before something defused his tirade. Of course there was the possibility that the glass was ready ahead of schedule, but that was way too fanciful to take seriously.

There was no Martinez in sight, only José and a helper, forming stair treads in the grunting old press brake.

"José, have you seen Martinez?"

"No, sir."

"By any chance has that glass been delivered?"

"No, sir," he chuckled, "but they did deliver granny."

"What?"

"The funeral parlor, they delivered the old lady."

"You accepted delivery of a corpse?"

"You said we were gonna put her in the box, so now she's here. Her receipt's on my clipboard."

"Where did you put her?"

"We put her up on the sheet rack so nobody would hit her with a forklift."

"I wouldn't have thought you could fit a casket on that rack."

"I asked the hearse driver about that. He said we were supposed to supply the casket. They brought her in a bag."

Dr. Noble didn't like his mother lying on a pallet on the top tier of the sheet rack, so José took her down with the forklift and placed her on his layout table. The Doctor unzipped the body bag to check her condition. That sent the entire crew running to the break area for an impromptu safety meeting. Fox felt his indirect labor rising.

He slipped away to call the glass company, and they told him Monday was the best they could do. "Look," he said, "I'll pay for premium time if you'll keep somebody over to finish it tonight."

The manager of the glass company said, "I'd like to help, but I don't think I can get anybody to stay over. These guys never want any overtime. I guess they get paid too much."

"How about this? Tell them I'll pay whoever gets it done fifty dollars cash when I pick it up, plus I'll pay you whatever your shop's premium rate is. It's a matter of life and death—mostly death."

At eight o'clock that night Fox couldn't stand being with Dr. Noble any longer, so he left him in his office and drove the flatbed truck to the glass company. They were still grinding the plate but he waited and an hour later took possession of the glass after giving the man his fifty dollars. When he drove the truck into the shop he found Dr. Noble fixing his mother's hair.

The doctor had a nice satin casket liner which he put under the body then Fox had to help lift her with the liner and put her into the coffin.

Something was bothering him. "Uh, Doc," he asked, "is she going to stay nude?"

"Certainly."

"Oh, Jesus."

Fox went to find the pendant control for the overhead crane and with a vacuum sheet lifter he brought the plate of glass to the coffin. Thank God it fit. He lifted it again and extruded a bead of silicon sealant all around the flange. It concerned him that the weight of the glass might squish a drop of glue off the flange and onto the carcass. Surely the good doctor would never consent to spending the rest of his days looking at his mother with a dollop of bathtub caulk marring her nicely oiled hide.

The sealing went well. "Okay, Doc, we can go now. There's nothing more we can do until the glue cures."

"We can't leave her."

"Why not?"

"Would you leave your mother unattended in a place like this?"

Fox had a couch in his office. He slept there. Dr. Noble drove his old Chrysler into the shop and slept on its back seat with José's heater blowing warm air through an open window. Alice woke her employer at eight-fifteen the following morning and gave him a cup of coffee. He immediately looked in the shop and found Dr. Noble sitting quietly at his mother's side. The crew had separated themselves from the little wake with a barrier of welding screens, so Fox sneaked unseen back to his office to drink the coffee and prepare himself to face the day.

Martinez called Alice to say that he was measuring a big job at the Chevron refinery and would be out of the office all day. Fox was happy to hear it and didn't even care if it was a lie. He had enough problems ahead of him without having to cope with Martinez.

Before wishing the Doctor good morning he confirmed his suspicion that nobody had secured the use of a vacuum pump. Alice got busy on the phone and after an hour announced her failure. No one in the greater Los Angeles area had a portable vacuum pump available to rent. He told her to keep trying and went to check on the nitrogen supply that was supposed to be kept on hand for the plasma cutter. There were two bottles of nitrogen on the loading dock but to reach them he had to squeeze behind the big tank which some dumb shit had left there instead of putting it in the yard where it belonged. The pressure vessel certification tag snagged his pants. He swore and wanted to fire whoever had so badly attached it. When he regained control he had an idea.

The tank was moved next to José's layout table. It was a large vessel and the stainless steel coffin looked small and vulnerable beside it. Electric blankets that welders use to preheat heavy parts were wrapped around the tank. An apprentice was given a big rosebud torch and told to wave it over uncovered portions of the vessel and even José's electric heater was commandeered to add a few calories to the job of raising a gallon of water inside the tank to the boiling point.

The surrealism of the scene, with the menacing cylindrical tank looming next to Dr. Noble and his old Chrysler while he presided solemnly over the shiny metal coffin, made Fox want to get out of the fabrication business. To divert himself he got busy plumbing the tank to one port on the casket and the nitrogen bottle to the other.

The union steward walked by and said behind his hand, "Let's see your union card."

Fox made a promise to himself that he would poison the man's burritos.

The apprentice had been told his job was to make steam come out of a valve on top of the tank and to tell them when it happened. The kid began to cheer. Fox heard the steam hissing through the barely open valve and wanted to cheer too, but he was trying to maintain a little professional decorum. He ordered the blankets and heaters removed, closed the valve and had cold water sprayed on the tank. It made a mess on the floor and irritated Noble when it splashed the coffin.

A vacuum gauge registered a few inches of mercury as the steam in the tank condensed to water. Fox opened the valve on the casket and the needle jumped then settled at a modest vacuum. "Look, Doc, your mother's in a vacuum. Now we add the nitrogen, right?"

"Actually, we should wait for several minutes to allow any gasses that may be trapped within her organs to escape."

Fox wanted to vomit.

While the departed was purged of foul airs, he disconnected the tank and put a gauge on the output valve so he could test for leaks when the chamber was pressurized with nitrogen. At last Noble consented and Fox cracked the valve of the first nitrogen bottle. The high-pressure gas blasted through the small, perforated area that José had concealed beneath the cadaver's shoulders lifting the body with a little convulsion.

The doctor nearly shit. "You've disarranged my mother! Her hair is mussed! Her mouth is gaping! Open the glass immediately!"

"You're out of your fucking mind. That glass is sealed for eternity. We'd have to cut through the side of the box with a plasma torch to get inside."

"Well, what are you going to do about it?"

"I'm going to complete the rest of the requirements of our agreement, you're going to pay me and get your mother out of here."

With thirty pounds per square inch of pressure inside the coffin, he waited half an hour without noticing any pressure drop. Then he opened the valve and continued with the nitrogen purge, trying to be gentle, but the inrush of gas made grandma hiccough again. The doctor couldn't bear to watch.

"Bring me a welder!" Fox called and set to disconnecting the bottles. As often happens, the escaping gas had chilled the fittings and frost formed on the valve and the wall of the recess. He wondered about that while the welder made the heliarc machine ready. Then he looked through the glass and thought he saw tiny beads of moisture on the inner wall of the coffin. The doctor was sulking in his car, so Fox didn't say a word.

Being a conscientious welder who always made a job last longer than it should, the kid wiped the frost from the recess before tacking the cover in place. Then he proceeded to weld all around it. Fox averted his eyes to avoid being blinded by the arc, when he looked, the last two inches of weld was glowing cherry red. A scared feeling hit him in the diaphragm. He jumped to look through the glass and damned if the heat hadn't radiated through to the inner wall and melted the satin liner. Worse! There were wisps of smoke rising from behind her head.

"What the hell is in there to burn?" he demanded while grabbing the welder by the arm and trying to keep his voice from Noble's hearing.

"Maybe some PVC was left on the inner wall but nothing should burn in that nitrogen."

Though he lacked the strength to explain, Fox understood that water, driven by the heat, had separated into its constituents, and that little bit of oxygen allowed the plastic film to smolder just enough to darken the glass and drop oily wisps of carbon on the dear lady's cheeks.

Noble sensed a problem. When he looked on the dirty face of his mother he wailed, "You'll pay for this! Open the glass, and let me clean her face. Open the glass, in the name of God!"

Fox's avarice was shrinking in relation to his discomfort. "Doctor, if you want your mother, pay me what you owe me, we'll stick her in your back seat and you can get the hell out of here."

"I'll not pay you a cent. You've desecrated the dead. You're the one who'll pay!"

"Then just get the hell out, and I'll put a lien on your mother." When the reality of what he had said struck him, he felt sick then he felt scared. Finally he knew what to do.

Lou Martinez's garage door was closed by a small padlock. Fox snapped its shackle with a bolt cutter and raised the door. He backed the flatbed to its threshold and lowered the lift gate with the stainless steel coffin on it. He slid it onto the floor as gently as he could, but the old lady was already thoroughly jostled. Then he knelt beside the casket and wrote a note on the back of Lou's final check:

The endorser accepts this as payment in full of all wages owed him and also accepts the stainless steel fabrication, herewith, in lieu of severance. All rights to collect the balance still outstanding from Dr. Noble are hereby assigned.

# # #

The following article was released after this story was written. I had completely forgotten about it until rummaging through old files. It makes a perfect postscript.

# The Story of Misty and Pepper

### As Told By Misty Katz

### Carol Eleck

My name is Misty Kitty Katz, and I live with my adopted sister, Pepper Kitty Katz. I am a proud princess of Russian Tsars. I have absolutely no idea what Pepper's background is, except that she was picked up on the streets of South Pasadena and that she bugs the heck out of me all the time. Well, maybe not all the time, as there are moments when I really do care about her.

Pepper came to live with me and the two humans with whom I share this home. (I'll tell you more about them later). Pepper is a strange little creature. She is black with beautiful—oops! Scratch that! Her eyes are green. My eyes are amber and they are just gorgeous! Oh, and my coat is a lovely shade of gray with hints of blue.

Okay, back to Pepper. She was only one year old when she came here. She is a common street cat. She won't talk about her background, and no one knows what kind of cat family she had. When the humans brought her home, she was shy and sort of depressed. I felt sorry for her, as there was a rumor that she was pregnant when the Animal Control people found her. They operated on her and took her babies away from her. So I decided to take her under my paw, so to speak. She thought I was her mother and I taught her everything she knows about living here. We don't go outside and I'm okay with that. It's rough out there—bullies all around, mean humans who would hurt us, or even worse. We have a nice home and feel safe and the humans take good care of us. They feed us and give us toys to play with and there are big windows and doors where we can sit and watch birds and lizards and those unfortunate cats who have to be outside where danger lurks.

The first thing I did when I met Pepper was to tell her my rules. I said to her, "Pepper, here are my rules: Rule #1: The humans are mine. You are not to play with them or talk to them-EVER! Rule #2: The toys are mine. You are not to play with them or touch them-EVER! Rule #3: The house is mine. You may live in the big room with the humans' bed in it. You may sleep on the bed with me, or under it if you prefer. Rule #4: We are fed twice a day in the kitchen, and there is a bowl of kibble on our outdoor viewing table in the living room. You may eat whenever you wish, but not when I'm eating. Do you understand?"

Pepper answered, rather meekly I thought, "Mew."

"Good! Now come here and I'll give you a bath."

As time went by, I realized that I actually like having Pepper around. We cuddle together during our naps and play together with some of my toys. One of the humans gave me some ping-pong balls to chase around, and I love them. They are light and roll easily, even on the carpet. I taught myself to play soccer with them, and I can get those balls rolling fast and furious! It's so much fun! The humans will even play with me. I roll a ball to their feet, and they laugh and throw it back to me. I love it when they throw it high in the air, and I leap and hit it with my paw. Pepper just watches. She knows her place.

Let me tell you about my humans. The lady human found me in a cubicle in a pet store. I was napping, lying on my back with my hind legs out straight and my tail between them. I was so comfortable. The lady thought I was very cute! I had been "rescued" from a place that I don't remember. I don't know what "rescued" means.

The lady brought me to her home, and I was afraid of the big space and a man human who lives here, too. He was big, and he scared me. Right away I found a place to hide in and stayed there for a long time. The lady brought me food and water every day and put it where I could see it and eat it when I got hungry and thirsty. She was nice. I would explore the place when both of the humans were asleep. After a while I decided it was safe 'cause no one chased me or hurt me. So one day I ventured out of my hiding place.

Both of the humans were happy to see me. I jumped onto the lady's lap, and she hugged me and petted me. It felt wonderful! I decided that it was a pretty nice place and I settled in. Now I own it!

I'm going to tell you more about Pepper and me. I really do like her, and sometimes we chase each other around the house. First I chase her, then she turns around and chases me back. We often sit next to each other at the open door and watch the birds outside or just feel the fresh air on our faces.

But sometimes Pepper gets on my nerves. She sneaks around and plays with my spinning toy—actually, she's pretty good at it—when she thinks I'm asleep. She can hit my ping-pong balls good, too! Then I get angry and have to shove her away from the toys. She gets sad and sometimes cries. Then I feel bad for doing something mean to her, but she broke Rule #2.

Many years have gone by, and we are no longer kittens. Pepper and I are now adults. She has become less dependent on me, and I notice that she is more assertive.

That cat doesn't listen to me very much anymore and even tells me off if I try to scold her. She no longer follows any of my rules. I used to sleep next to my lady human at night, but one night Pepper was in my place, so I had to push her out. She wouldn't leave, and we had a big fight right there on the bed. Pepper won, and I'm so embarrassed!! Now she gets to sleep next to my lady human every night, and I have to sleep on the cushion on the cedar chest. It's not right!

Pepper is afraid of the man human. She runs away from him and hides under the bed. I'm sort of afraid of him too, 'cause he's big and makes loud noises when he walks—CLUMP, CLUMP, CLUMP! But I don't run from him. I rub against his legs to make him feel like I like him. He gives great belly rubs!

I have one last thing to say about Pepper—I'd miss her very much and would be very sad if she went away.

# Succumbed to the Sandman

### Lisa Griffiths

Should have listened to what my father said

His words of wisdom fell on deaf ears

"Stay away from Red Glen or you'll be dead."

But I was young and had no fears

He tried and tried to make me understand

The evil that lurked beyond the trees

"A spirit," he said, "who commands the sand

"And brings the strong down on their knees."

Still, I was brave or so I thought

With wit and strength to spare

His admonitions were all for naught

With youth, I have no need for care

Came the day curiosity took hold

So through the woods I did go

To prove a point it must be told

No fear of spirit I would show

Many miles walked and the sun did set

The wind did howl and air felt crisp

My eyes and yonder firelight met

"Oh my," I said, "a will-o-the-wisp!"

I followed it and off it led

To the glen of red and all its glory

My heart began a thump of dread

"This can't be real, it must be story."

A man stood before me made of fog

His voice quite charming, it dripped with honey

And beckoned to me from across the bog

"I'll give you gifts and lots of money."

He walked atop the marsh I saw

And waved me to come closer

My brain did seem in need of thaw

A part of me cried, "No, sir!"

But on I walked, yard by yard

Then sand turned liquid in short span

Sinking softly, no longer hard

I had succumbed to the sandman

# There Are No Glass Cookies

### Lisa Griffiths

It was a cold Saturday in the winter of 1976 when Lizzie accompanied her grandmother to the local public library. The library, built in the early 1950s, was a modern building—all angles and glass. It had two levels, with stairs that appeared to be floating.

Lizzie loved these trips. Her grandmother watched Lizzie two weekends a month just because. They would walk to the grocery store, the library, and sometimes take the bus downtown so Grandma could pick out some beautiful fabric from the bolts at the yardage shop to make a dress for Lizzie.

As soon as they entered the library, Lizzie's heart swelled with joy from the aroma of old books. Her mother would complain about the smell, saying it was too much like an attic or some hidden chamber of a house long forgotten. Lizzie never thought of those things; for her the scent represented something exciting, tangible, mysterious.

They went to the children's section first, where Lizzie picked out three books: two were paperbacks that were written for kids her own age of eight, one was a picture book titled _Never_ _Talk to Strangers_. She realized that she was too old to be looking at such a book, but she fell in love with the illustrations.

Next, they walked up the stairs to the section that was Grandma's favorite—mystery books. It took Lizzie's grandma a while to make it up the stairs, but she always refused to take the elevator. "When I can't take a step on my own, I'll take the darn elevator," she would say in an ornery tone.

While her grandmother searched the shelves, Lizzie walked along the rows, her head tilted up to see the books above. She came to the end of one row and turned the corner to walk down the next. She was distracted for a moment by the cluster of squishy orange chairs grouped around a low, round table. This was where the adults could sit and relax and read.

There was only one person occupying a seat, an old man with white hair and a beard. He looked up from his book, stared at Lizzie for a minute, and smiled. She found that she could not look away. Her eyes were frozen, locked on him; she wanted to blink so bad that it hurt.

"Where's your grandmother?" he asked, his voice the sound of dry leaves rubbing together.

Lizzie thankfully tore her gaze from him and looked down at the books in her arms. She was just about to answer his question when she saw the picture book with an elephant pushing an ice cream cart on its cover. _Never Talk to Strangers_.

Without looking up, Lizzie turned quickly to the left and ran up another row. She found her grandma after a minute and came to a halt at her side.

"For heaven's sake, Lizzie, you know better than to run in here," Grandma said with a frown.

"I'm sorry. Can we go?"

"Almost, I'm looking for Grafton. The books are alphabetized, so you can help me."

They searched the shelves and ended up in the row next to the chairs. The old man was gone, to Lizzie's relief. He gave her the creeps. But while Grandma was looking for a title beginning with an H, Lizzie looked closely at the chair that the old man had used. There was something shiny and round on the seat. She slowly walked over and picked it up, looking around to make sure no one saw her. It was the size of an Oreo cookie, but heavy like glass. It was clear but with a tint of amber and had a symbol carved across the top.

"Okay, Lizzie, found it. We're done," came Grandma's voice.

Lizzie quickly pocketed the glass cookie.

Nearly a week went by before Lizzie realized something wasn't right. She had hid the glass cookie—whatever it was—in her room; every time she took it out to hold and admire it, a guilty feeling washed over her. _I shouldn't have taken it_ , she thought.

But she was helpless to let it go. It grew warm in her hands and seemed to pulse with energy. And, perhaps strangest of all, good things began happening to her.

Because of her shy and quiet nature, Lizzie sometimes got picked on at school. It was usually by a group of mean girls who made the rounds during recess, saying rude things to the other kids as they walked past. One girl in particular didn't like Lizzie one bit and would strike up a chant that the rest of the girls would follow:

"Lizzie Borden took an axe and gave her mother forty whacks..."

On those days, Lizzie would turn her face away and pretend not to hear it. Not long after finding the glass cookie, though, the mean girls began their singing as they walked by, and instead of ignoring them, Lizzie looked straight in their direction and told them to shut up in her mind.

And they did.

It was as if someone had stolen their voices; they coughed and gagged but could no longer chant. The looks on their stunned faces brought a smile to Lizzie's lips.

Old Mrs. Traylor, Lizzie's cranky, heart-of-stone teacher, took a turn for the worse one day. With only a handful of students that she really liked, Mrs. Traylor was mean and rude to the rest. She constantly made comments and comparisons, holding up Lizzie's paper to show the class "how atrocious handwriting can be without practice."

During one of her many rants about what a waste of time most of her students were, Mrs. Traylor found something negative to bring up about them. As she droned on and on, a thought occurred to Lizzie. _Why don't you just go away, you mean lady?_

Mrs. Traylor stopped midsentence. She swayed on the spot, gripping the chalkboard tray for support. She left the school soon after, feeling ill, and didn't return the next day. The substitute teacher was sweet, energetic, and had only constructive criticism to dole out.

At home things were different. Lizzie's parents hadn't changed, but her little brother had. Normally, Alex was a typical five-year-old: happy, inquisitive, active. In the last week, he wasn't any of those things.

He began stuttering, taking up to a minute to spit out the words. He seemed frightened of every sound in the house. At night Lizzie could hear him scream as a result of the night terrors that now plagued him.

"He's coming, Daddy, he's coming out!" Alex would cry.

"Who's coming? There's no one here," their father would say. But Alex never said who "he" was.

His behavior affected the entire household: their father was up every night trying to calm him down, their mother was on the phone with the doctor, and Lizzie was worried about her little brother and wondering why he could be doing all of this so suddenly.

Yes, something wasn't quite right. Although the mean girls at school were leaving her alone, Lizzie found that just about everyone else was too. Kids would look in her direction only to walk away quickly after making eye contact. Even the teachers seemed to avoid her when possible, like animals that sense when one of their own is damaged in some way.

Twice she felt the urge to throw out the glass cookie. But every time, she'd change her mind and admire it instead, running her fingers over the smooth surface. Somewhere in her brain was a voice yelling, but it was so faint she really didn't pay any attention. Sometimes the carving on the top would glow; it was then that Lizzie could clearly make out what it was: the head of a goat.

Two weeks after the trip to the library, Lizzie was fast asleep in her room. It was well past midnight, and she was dreaming of making a snowman in her backyard. The snow was hard, but she kept at it until soon she had the base of the body well formed. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a blur; turning in that direction she watched a small, dark creature trying to hide behind the oak tree. Its movements were jerky and furtive. She couldn't tell what it was until it finally came out and in front of the tree.

It was hideous to look at—a beast with red eyes and skin like a roasted pig. A smile revealed pointed teeth.

Lizzie wanted to scream, to run, but found herself rooted to the spot. As the monster made its way slowly across the snow-covered ground, she began to cry. The tears were hot on her frozen cheeks.

With an all-over shudder, Lizzie woke up. She could hear herself breathe as well as the ticking clock and the thunder of her heart. Blinking a few times, she looked over to the wall opposite her bed where her nightlight was plugged in; it was round with an image of Snoopy and Woodstock on it.

Something was obstructing the shine of the light; it was blobby in shape. Once it moved to the side, Lizzie could see that its outline was fuzzy and dark in color. When it moved, its feet made a shuffling sound upon the floor.

Yes, Lizzie could tell now that it had feet. She sat up in her bed, opening her eyes as wide as possible, trying to see what was now coming toward her. With terror in her heart, she tried to scream, but nothing came out. In her mind, she said _No!_ over and over. Shaking her head, she thrust her hands out in front of her for defense.

The blob shuffled closer now, breathing heavily. As it drew near, a strange thought came to Lizzie. _That thing looks like..._

Alex!

It was Lizzie's little brother, sleepwalking in his footed pajamas.

"Alex, wake up!" she hissed.

"Why, Lizzie?" he croaked in a very unnatural voice. "Why did you take it?"

"Take what?" she asked, although deep down she knew the answer.

"He's coming, Lizzie. I can't keep him in."

When she thought about it later, she had no idea what made her do what she did. It came from the depths of her backbone and gut.

Leaping forward, she grabbed Alex's shoulders in her hands and shook him. As dark as it was, Lizzie knew his eyes would be red. As hard as it was, she knew she'd have to stare straight into them.

"I don't know what you are," she growled, "but you leave my brother alone. I'll destroy that glass cookie, and you'll never see it again."

Alex's shoulders became hot to the touch as some physical struggle took place below his skin. Lizzie refused to let go, no matter how much her hands felt like they were burning.

Suddenly, the bedroom light came on, and Alex went limp. Their father stood in the doorway, rumpled from being roused from sleep.

"Lizzie, what's going on here?" he asked.

Alex looked like he was going to collapse; Lizzie kept a firm grip on him. "I think Alex is sleepwalking. He scared me."

Her father walked over and knelt beside Alex. "Hey, kiddo, let's wake up and get back to bed."

Slowly, Alex opened his eyes. Lizzie's heart leapt to see that they weren't red.

"What happened?" he asked as he rubbed his face.

"You were taking a stroll in your sleep," Dad answered. "Come on, I'll tuck you back in bed." He picked up Alex; the boy closed his eyes and sighed.

"Dad, is it okay if I sleep with the light on?"

"Of course, Lizzie. Thank you for being such a good sister to your brother," he said and left the room.

Lizzie felt guilty hearing her dad's praise. Was she really a good sister? Wasn't it her fault that Alex was like this?

She didn't sleep anymore that night, keeping sentry by staring at her bedroom door. There were no more visitors. She was quite alone with her thoughts and knew what she had to do.

The next day was Saturday, and Lizzie was spending the weekend with her grandma again. She had finished reading the checked-out books and asked if they could visit the library.

"Of course, dear," said Grandma. "I've finished with my books too."

The distance to the library was only three blocks, but with every step, Lizzie felt as though she were walking through thick mud. The glass cookie was in her jacket pocket, weighing her down.

The wind picked up velocity as they neared the library, pushing Lizzie and her grandma in the opposite direction.

"My goodness, there must be a storm coming," said Grandma.

Lizzie squinted her eyes, put her head down, and trudged on. It took some effort, but they finally made it across the threshold of the library.

After returning their books, they went to pick out new ones. Again, they started in the children's section, where Lizzie picked out three books: one about the Greek myths and two by Judy Blume.

They climbed the stairs to the mystery book section, Lizzie's heart beating faster with each step. The glass cookie grew hot in her pocket; she thought it might burn a hole right through. As Grandma searched for a new book, Lizzie tentatively approached the squishy orange chairs.

The old man was there, a large book in his hands. He looked up and smiled at Lizzie. "I believe you have something of mine," he said.

She reached into her pocket and slowly pulled out the glass cookie. It was glowing and almost too hot to handle. With all her concentration, she walked toward the old man, extending her hand, and practically dropped it in his lap. He caught it with ease and tucked it into the inside pocket of his tweed coat.

"What's the matter, Lizzie, cat got your tongue?" he asked. "After all, I'm not really a stranger. You know who I am." He smiled wide to reveal very pointed teeth.

If Lizzie could have fainted and gone to another planet, she would have in a heartbeat. She settled for the next best thing and ran in the direction of her grandma, who was calling her name.

She never saw the old man again. She made it her rule not to take anything that didn't belong to her. And...she never talked to strangers.

# The Time Shrink

### Scott Skipper

© 1987

The counselor's alien presence was more unnerving than they had expected. Its grayish skin had the texture of a troglodyte salamander, and his head was much too large, with a bulbous brainpan tapering to a small, pursed mouth. The eyes were blank, black almonds that gave the clients to think that their souls were being x-rayed.

"You are Phillip and Jennifer, correct?" it said, paying no attention to their obvious discomfort.

Jenny was timorously clinging to Phil's back. She said, "That's right."

"Please sit down and tell me why you are here."

Phil began to recite the plea they had rehearsed. "We think this could be a good relationship if we just knew what we know now a little earlier on, so if you will put us back before the serious problems began, we'll take it from there."

"And you have a specific date in mind?" The shrink's eyes never moved from a focus between the two and slightly over their heads.

"Sure. New Year's Day two years ago," Jennifer offered.

The alien spoke in a bored monotone. It was hard for its clients to remember that it was the product of biological differences and not disinterest. "You understand, I am sure, that for reasons of professional ethics, I must gather enough background information to be able to arrive at a concurrent conclusion."

Phil reflected that that was more like a professionally ethical way of saying, "Prolong the session enough to pad the fee before sending them back in time." But he feared the shrink could see his thoughts, so he tried to banish it from his mind.

Hoping to be frugal with the mindboggling price per hour, they had practiced responses to questions they expected the alien marriage counselor would ask. Phil proceeded to recount how, after many years of occasionally stormy, but fairly happy marriage, Jennifer had grown cold and withdrawn. Their sexual relationship grew steadily less fulfilling until it vanished altogether. This put Phil in a vulnerable position when a woman in his office made romantic overtures. Eventually, Jennifer got wind of the affair and contacted a divorce consultant. They thought, however, that their marriage was worth one last try.

The shrink said, "I see." It paused, unblinking, until the human couple was thoroughly uncomfortable, then continued, "Do you not think that the reasons for the sudden change in Jennifer's affections are rooted in some dynamic from much farther back in your relationship?"

"Oh, not really," Jenny rose to the bait. "You see, I know now that I was having a hormonal imbalance. It's perfectly normal for women of my age, you know, but mine was real severe. See, now I'm taking pills that my gynecologist gave me."

"I see. And your feelings of coldness are gone? As well as your lack of sexual interest?"

"Oh, yes," she said, and Phil nodded concurrence.

"Hmm, and since you know this imbalance is coming, you will see the doctor and get a prescription before the onset of alienation. Furthermore, since the affair has yet to happen, there will be no feelings of resentment and guilt to contend with."

"Exactly." Phil smiled broadly feeling that his problems were already behind him.

"Well, I cannot see a reason to try anything but the simplest solution first, so you shall return to two years in the past. However, my experience has taught me that landing on a holiday is a poor idea, because the slight disorientation resulting from temporal dislocation compounds with holiday stress. Besides, your gynecologist will not be in his office."

Phil, since he was getting his way, was agreeably disposed. He said, "We defer to your greater wisdom, but first I'd like to know how much of our future we will remember."

"It is fairly selective, and everyone is different. You will be able to call upon much of your future experience for insight, but the finite details of how you acquired that wisdom will not be clear. You will not be able to predict the future, nor will you know definitely that you have already lived in the future. Now, please step into this chamber."

He led them through a metallic hatch and closed it behind them. Instantly the walls became indistinct.

Phil became aware of himself shaving. He was getting ready for work, feeling tense and frustrated. When he thought of Jenny a spike of anger leaped in his brain waves. She was still asleep as he slipped out of the house.

That evening Jennifer told him that she was sorry for the way she had been acting. "I'm going to make an appointment with the doctor. Maybe this mood I'm in is something organic."

Phil was not ready to release his anger, but he felt satisfied that she was making an effort.

The medication was genetically engineered to be free of side effects, so she did not grow a mustache as Phil had been dreading. It took several days for Jennifer's endocrine system to assimilate it, but after that she was her warm and responsive self again. In fact, the imbalance must have been operating at a low level for years, because her sexual appetite was stronger than it had been since puberty. Phil was ecstatic.

On April fifteenth, when it was customary for businesses to give employees a half-day free to stand in line to pay their taxes, the woman in Phil's office made her move. She came onto him sensually and without compromise. She touched his hand, looked him hard in the eyes, and made her needs known. They both paid proxies to stand in the tax line and went to a motel.

Eighteen months later, Phil and Jenny crept tentatively into the marriage counselor's office. The alien said to Phil, "You look more haggard than the last time I saw you."

"I've been burning the candle at both ends."

"Well, please sit down and tell me what I can do for you."

Phil said, "We want to try again starting from the summer five years ago."

"I thought as much," the alien said remaining impenetrable.

"You see, our marriage is kind of fragile. We need to guide it around some rough times, and if we were at that point in our lives, I would choose to take a job with a different company so that I could never meet the woman that I've been having an affair with. Then our marriage would be stronger when we arrive at the present time."

"What makes you think there will not be some other woman who tempts you?"

"Won't I retain the wisdom of later experience to prevent me from making such a terrible mistake?"

"Perhaps."

Jennifer said, "We've discussed this for a long time, and we're convinced that we have the tools to make our marriage work if we can just avoid the bad luck we've had. After all, Phil wasn't the one who initiated the affair. He was really victimized by that woman."

The alien groaned.

Phil rolled off Jennifer, breathing hard with his heart racing, and he heard her say, "I think I'll see a doctor."

"What's the matter?"

"Oh, nothing really, but I just can't seem to have an orgasm. I'm afraid you're going to have a heart attack for trying. Maybe it's something that can be fixed with hormones.If you get a new job tomorrow, and I get this little sexual dysfunction straightened out, won't it be like a whole new beginning?"

"Jenny, I haven't decided if I'm going to take this job yet, but if you think you have a problem, I'm all for you seeing a doctor."

"I don't know why, but for some reason, I'm certain you're going to take this job."

Phil indeed got the job, though he thought that he could have gotten more money if he had kept looking. Jennifer got a prescription for a new drug to correct her hormonal problem. It worked wonderfully, and their sex life developed a vigor it never had before. It was unfortunately rather short-lived.

Jennifer started taking jabs at him for not being aggressive enough to suit her. Phil grew defensive and insecure. He accused her of being ungrateful, unloving, unfaithful, and insatiable. She spent less and less time at home. Eventually they separated.

When Phillip and Jennifer arrived at the alien marriage counselor's office, they came in separate cars. The alien said with resignation, "Please sit down and fill me in on your situation."

Jennifer explained, "We've been separated for almost a year, and we've decided that we ought to either get it worked out, or get a divorce. If we could just go back eight years, we might have a chance to avoid the mistakes that finally destroyed us."

"I see," said the alien glancing at the clock, "and you were about to tell me what those problems are."

"Yeah. You see, Phil got stuck in a demeaning career that stifled his emotional development and crippled his self-image, which had an emasculating effect. I naively blamed myself and tried to help by taking drugs to correct a serious imbalance in my hormones. Then Phil felt threatened by my sexual appetite on hyper drive, and, eventually to fulfill my own needs, I started having an affair with the doctor. All this could have been avoided. So, if we went back eight years, I could find a lady gynecologist, and Phil could shift his career goals toward something less debilitating."

Phil had nothing to contribute, though he thought he saw weariness in the alien's fathomless eyes.

The shrink drew a heavy sigh, and said, "We shall see." It temporal-ported them without further discussion.

The next time they entered the shrink's office, Jen had an extremely severe haircut, wore loose jeans, a leather vest and a tank top. Phil had a scar below his right eye. He dressed and presented himself like a man defeated.

The alien said, "I wish I had eyebrows so I could raise them. What an interesting couple! Please sit down and tell me about yourselves."

Phil let it out in a rush. "Several years ago my wife went to a female doctor to solve a female problem that she thought she had. Well, she got solved all right. The doctor seduced her, and the drugs she's been taking turned her into a dyke. Anyway, I've tried for years to be patient and convince her to get therapy, but it's no use."

"I see. And how do you think I can be helpful?"

"Please, put us back ten years. Neither of us had ever looked at another person then, or taken an endocrine manipulative drug, and we're resolved to never go there again."

The pulpy gray therapist said, "How could it get any worse, but before you go, how did you get that scar?"

Jen spoke for the first time. "I decked him."

The alien possessed tremendous patience by human standards, but over time it came to dread the arrival of Phillip and Jennifer. As they walked through his office door it thought it knew what to expect.

Phil didn't give the counselor a chance to speak. "Look! We've talked this through, and we've decided that we are hopelessly incompatible. We should never have gotten together, and we don't want to waste any more energy trying to save this relationship. All we want you to do is send us back to before we got married, and we simply won't do it. That's all."

Jennifer interjected, "That's right. We know now that our lives would have been better if we had gone separate ways."

The alien took a deep breath from a cylinder of his home-world atmosphere. It didn't like its clients to see it do that, but it helped it remain calm in times of stress. It said, "I'm afraid that I cannot do that."

"Why?"

"It violates the therapists' code of conduct."

Jennifer started to cry. "Doesn't it violate your code to give up on people who need your help?"

"I am afraid that I have helped you all I can."

"You haven't done shit!" Phil's face flushed with anger. "We're desperate. If you can't help us we're going to the divorce center."

"I am sorry that you have been unable to resolve your differences, but there are some things that professionalism will not permit me to do."

Jennifer and Phillip did indeed go directly to the Bureau of Divorce. When the property settlement clerk called their number, they presented him with a certified list of assets for division.

He examined the list and said, "I'm afraid your liabilities are somewhat greater than your assets. But we can do an equal division of debt, and each of you can execute a note for the outstanding balance."

"What are you talking about? We have plenty of assets." Phil was enraged. Jennifer just looked scared.

The clerk fumbled for a piece of paper in their file. "This document was served on our office the day before yesterday. It attaches your account to satisfy a jointly incurred indebtedness." He slid it across the desk.

The letterhead said, "Cyclic Solutions—Alien Temporal Therapy." Below it was a statement of fees for numerous therapy sessions. The balance was astronomical.

# Tracy and the Bomber

### T. L. Eastwood

"You're going to do what?" asked Nancy. "You are going to give up a good position with good benefits to do what?"

"See, this is why I didn't tell you before," said Tracy patiently. "I knew you would be upset. I've been taking truck driving lessons for the past three months. I passed and can now drive 18-wheelers!

"Lessons? You mean you've actually been driving those big trucks? How come I didn't know?"

"Because I took the written part on Thursday nights after work. I had to study all the DMV regulations and learn how to keep the truck logs. Saturday mornings, you know, when I told you I had to work, I took the driving portion. I drove on the streets and freeways, learned to hitch and unhitch 24, 36, and 48-foot trailers, and to back into simulated loading docks."

"You mean you lied to me? You're supposed to be my best friend. How could you do that?"

"I'm sorry, Nancy. I just knew you wouldn't be happy about this. But it's something I really want to do. I know I'm a great legal secretary, but I'm tired of sitting in an office. I want to travel, spread my wings. You know, join the modern world. After all, it's the 80's, and other women are getting work in all sorts of jobs."

"Tracy, good jobs like yours are hard to find; you can't just walk out!"

"Yeah, yeah. I know. But that's just it; it's just a job, and I'm tired of it."

"But, don't you have to get a license, pass a physical, and other stuff?"

"Yeah. I had to see the school's doctor before they would let me into the driving program. All he did was check my heart, make sure I could walk, and see if I was breathing. Needless-to-say, I passed. I got my Class 1 driver's license last week."

"But, what kind of job will you get? Will you be working in Los Angeles?"

"Like I said, I want to travel. I'm hoping to get a cross-country run. That way I can see a lot of this beautiful nation—and get paid for it. What can be better than that?"

"But, Tracy, that means you'll be gone a lot of the time. Who am I going to talk to if you're gone all the time?"

"Hey, I'm sure there are pay phones at every truck stop, so I can call you from wherever I am. It'll be great!"

"Okay. If I can't change your mind, you'd better call me when you get a job."

"Nancy, Nancy," yelled Tracy when she heard her friend's voice on the phone. "I found a job! I am going to be driving shotgun for Bob Green. He drives all over the states. My first job will be to Washington DC. Isn't that terrific?"

"Are you sure about this? And why do you need to take a shotgun?"

Tracy laughed and said, "That just means that I will be a co-driver. And, yeah, I'm sure. This job looks like exactly what I need right now. After all, I want to travel and explore and have fun as long as I can."

"We'll see. I can't understand how you can be happy driving around all the time. And what makes you think this Bob is a good person?"

"Well, I talked to several other drivers who made it abundantly clear that they hired women because they made excellent bed warmers. Bob isn't like that. He seemed genuinely concerned about my driving skills and that, if he hired me, I would work for him for a while."

"Why, has he lost a lot of workers? Are you sure he's not a psycho?"

"Oh, Nancy. Sometimes you're just too cautious. Besides, this will be a great job for me, not you. You're the couch potato, and I'm the one who's always going somewhere. Remember?"

"All right. But is he at least decent to look at?"

"He's quiet and not bad looking, as long as he keeps his cowboy hat on."

The two friends laughed and Nancy asked, "When are you leaving?"

"Wednesday. I don't know how long I'll be gone. I'll call you when I can and, definitely, when I get back."

"Okay. You know I think you're nuts, and I'm going to worry about you while you're gone. You be careful!"

The long blast of an air horn made her jump, and she watched as the giant Kenworth slowly came to a stop. The cab was white, and the design on its side reminded her of waves crashing against the California shoreline. It was extra wide to accommodate the sleeping compartment. Hitched to the bobtail was a light blue 48-foot trailer bearing the electronic insignia of World Wide Movers painted in dark blue and white.

Tracy climbed onto the first step and opened the door, tossed her duffel bag on the floor, and hopped in. The cool cab offered some relief from the blistering June heat.

"Hey, Bob, how are you? I see you picked up the trailer already."

"Yeah. We have to be in DC in three days."

"Oh. That'll be a quick trip. What are we hauling?"

"Displays and animated equipment for the Smithsonian."

"The Smithsonian? Great!"

"Yeah," said Bob and put the big truck into first gear.

They crawled forward as he quickly went through the first four gears. "I'll get us through the Cajon Pass and across the border. We'll stop for dinner; the night shift is yours."

"Sounds good to me."

The rig moved slowly at first; Bob continued to move the shift up several more levels. It only took fifteen minutes to reach the I-10 where he maneuvered up the ramp and into the traffic flow heading toward the I-15.

The engine hummed gently as it effortlessly made the transition and climbed the pass toward the I-40. Bob didn't want to talk, so Tracy melted into her seat, listening to the soft country sounds of Eddie Rabbit and Charley Pride. Every so often she would hear other truckers conversing over the CB radio.

They stopped in Searchlight, Nevada, and visited the diner at the local truck stop. Tracy found it an interesting place. Pictures of truckers standing next to their rigs adorned the walls. Male truckers in all colors and sizes sat in dark brown painted chairs in front of tables that were covered with red and white checkered tablecloths. Most of them were dressed in the requisite jeans and t-shirts, cowboy boots, and cowboy hats. There were only two other female drivers, who Tracy guessed were wives driving with their husbands.

All the waitresses wore tight jeans and tighter red t-shirts with white lettering proudly proclaiming that they loved Jimmy's Quick Stop Truck Stop.

The atmosphere was loud and boisterous. Men talked about their loads and told off-color jokes; laughter bounced off the dirty white walls. Hoping for bigger tips, the waitresses flirted with the truckers, smiling sweetly, sitting on their laps, kissing their ruddy cheeks, and taking long walks through the parking lot.

"Hey, ya'all," said a buxom waitress, handing them each a menu offering good home-cooked meals. "Name's Tina. What'll you have?"

"I want the meat loaf with a side-salad and iced tea," Tracy told her.

"Loaf, potatoes, corn, all smothered in gravy, and a coke," said Bob.

"Okay, back in a jiffy," said Tina.

While they waited for their meal, a tall trucker with brown eyes, a bushy moustache and beard, and a large belly that hung over his belt buckle walked over to their table.

"Hey, Bomber! How's it going?" he said.

_I wonder if that's his radio name_ , thought Tracy _. I know all truckers have one. But why is Bob called Bomber, and why didn't he tell me?_

In response, Bob growled and waved him away.

The big man laughed and said, "I see ya picked up a new girl."

Tracy felt her skin crawl as the man looked her up and down. _What does he think I am? A prize turkey?_ she thought. _Maybe he's never seen a real woman before!_

"I'm the Blue Rooster, honey. They call me that because my blue baby kicks up a huge dirt tail as she goes flying by." He chuckled and went on. "What's your handle, honey?"

She hesitated then said, "I don't have one. I don't know how to choose one."

"Most of the time someone gives it to you," growled Bob.

"Yeah, honey. I mean, with those boobs of yours, you could be called Headlights," said the Blue Rooster as he roared with laughter. Then, turning to his buddies at a table behind him he asked, "What do you think, guys?"

Tracy was so embarrassed she couldn't turn to face the men. Her face grew redder and redder as she listened to their guffaws and indecent comments about her breast size.

She was about to say something to them when she heard Bob say, "Just ignore them, and they'll quit after a while. But then, maybe you'd better get used to it. That's a damned fine handle, and they'll probably tell everyone. Headlights, I like it."

Tracy was trying to think of the perfect retort when Tina brought their meals. By then, the other drivers were devouring their own food. Relieved, she turned her attention to her surroundings, soaking up the new and exciting atmosphere.

When they finished eating, Bob paid the bill and, as they left the diner, she heard the Blue Rooster yell, "Nice meetin' ya, Headlights!"

_Hmm_ , she thought. _If I respond, he'll keep yelling; if I ignore him, he'll go away—I hope._ With her head held high and her eyes straight ahead, she walked through the door. Outside, Bob threw the keys at her.

"Your turn to drive," he said. "My turn's after breakfast."

"Breakfast? I thought we are only supposed to drive for eight hours at a time."

"I told ya. Have to be in DC in three days. We don't have time to screw around."

"What about our logs? Won't they say anything when they inspect them?"

"Let me worry about the damned logs. If you're driving with me, you're driving twelve on and twelve off. Got it?"

"Yeah."

She began to wonder about Bob. Why was he called Bomber? Why did he think Headlights was a fitting handle? Quelling her misgivings for the moment, she jumped into the driver's seat. Bob took the second seat.

"All right," he said, "let's go."

Tracy turned the key and, as the big engine roared to life, her apprehensions about her boss disappeared. She felt the power of the 305 horsepower Cummins engine as it idled gently, her right hand lovingly stroked the gearshift, her right foot sat comfortably on the fuel pedal, and her left foot sought out the clutch. She gently pushed on the gas and slowly let out the clutch. The behemoth roared to life, inching forward slowly. She double-clutched and the truck was in second. She moved slowly clearing the conventional Freightliner on her right and began her left-hand turn, which brought her in line with the exit. After a gentle halt, she turned right and headed for the I-40 on-ramp. She double-clutched through the gears to fourth, then adjusted the switch on the side of the stick that enabled her to continue up-shifting. She entered the I-40 hoping the traffic would allow her to run through all twenty-one gears.

When they were heading east at a nice comfortable 55 miles per hour, Bob said good night, stepped between the seats, and crawled into the bunk. He pulled the curtain shut before he turned on the light.

She ignored him, instead paying close attention to the road and the vehicles surrounding her. She felt the power of the engine run through her as she held the large steering wheel with both hands. She really liked the cab-over trucks because she sat so high above the world that she felt she could reach out and grab a handful of the pearlescent clouds above her head. It also meant that she had to be careful not to get too close to the little vehicles below her. She was afraid they would disappear from her view, and she would roll over them without knowing it.

The light went off behind the curtain. She could hear Bob snoring, so she turned the radio up to cover the sound. _So far so good,_ she thought and settled down for the long drive.

The powerful Kenworth ate up the miles as she traveled across Arizona and New Mexico. Tracy sang along to the country tunes and watched the shadowy gray landscape pass by. She enjoyed the beauty of the crisp fuchsia rays as the sun slowly rose before her. However, by the time she crossed the Texas border at 6:00 AM, the brightness stung her bleary eyes. Tracy put on her sunglasses and pulled down the sun visor, but nothing helped. She had been driving for twelve hours and had been awake for twenty-two; instinctively, she drove a little slower.

She heard sounds from the bunk and knew Bob was awake. She had to pee, and she hoped they were going to stop soon. As she thought about a bathroom, a hot meal, and a hotter shower, a horrible, acrid odor came from the sleeping quarters.

_What's that?_ she thought. _It kind of smells like . . . No. It can't be . . ._ ; _this truck's not equipped with a bathroom. What is he doing?_

"Roll down your window," he yelled.

When it was completely down, Bob, holding a large plastic bag filled with yellowish liquid, stuck his hand through the opening and gave the bag a toss. Horrified, Tracy watched through the large side-view mirror and saw the tiny bomb hit the windshield of the small car in the lane to the left of her. It broke open, and the offensive fluid covered the glass.

_Yuck; what a pig,_ she thought. _I guess now I know why they call him Bomber!_

Bob crawled out of the bunk and back into the passenger's seat.

"Roll up the window now. Can't cool the outside. Looks like we're on schedule. Truck stop's about fifteen miles up the road. I'll tell ya where to get off."

With the smell of urine suspended in the air, she simply nodded and kept driving until Bob pointed out the off-ramp. She drove the short distance, parked near the pumps, jumped out, and ran for the nearest bathroom to relieve her own bladder while Bob had the station attendant fill the tank, then got a table in the café.

"Boy, am I tired," she said, sitting down.

All she wanted to do was sit and enjoy her breakfast; however, Bob was in a rare, talkative mood. "I like this place. There are less God-damned Mexicans here."

Tracy choked on her eggs and said, "Excuse me?"

"I don't like dealing with the damned wetbacks!"

Putting down her fork and looking straight at Bob she said, "I didn't realize you had a problem with Mexicans."

"Not any more than I have with the Niggers or the Chinks. They're ruining our country. We whites ought a run them out of here or throw them on reservations like we did with the red skins."

Tracy stared at her plate, moving her hash browns with her fork.

"What's wrong with you?" Bob asked.

"I guess I just didn't realize how prejudiced you are."

"I'm not prejudiced. It's just that they need to stay in their own place. Like you."

"What does that mean?"

"Why the hell do you think I hired you?"

"I thought it was because we got along, and I could drive your truck."

"Yeah, but mostly because you're white and female."

"Why female?"

"Because, Headlights, your kind know how to keep the rig clean."

"Oh," was all she could muster. She pushed her plate away from her. _Now, I REALLY need a shower_ , she thought.

"Do they have a place to clean up?"

"Yeah, in the back. We only have twenty minutes left; better hurry."

She ran for her duffel bag and headed for the bathroom. When she stepped into the tiny stall, she found a coin machine attached to the pipe where the hot and cold knobs should have been. A small sign said that each five minutes of warm water would cost her a quarter.

"Crap," she said to the walls before she wrapped her towel around herself and went to her locker to get some change. She spent a dollar trying to get as clean as possible. She thought, _I better hurry,_ as she quickly dressed. _If I'm not back in time, he might leave without me._

Sure enough, he was just turning the key in the ignition as she opened the door and threw her gear on the floor.

"Time to go," he said, pulling the truck into the traffic lanes, heading east on I-40. Tracy realized that he hadn't bathed when a whiff of unwashed body odor hit her nostrils.

_Uh oh,_ she thought, as grim reality hit her _. A man who's not bothered about his pee christening someone else's car probably doesn't bathe very often._

"You'd better get some shut-eye," he said. "You're up again after supper."

"Sleep sounds good," Tracy said. There was only twelve inches of space between the seat and the bunk. She stepped gingerly between them and climbed on to the comfortable full-sized mattress. Sitting on the edge, she wondered if Bob had gotten any urine, or anything else, on the sheets. She decided not to risk it and covered them with one of the two blankets. Then she lay down on the first blanket and covered up with the second.

_What have I gotten myself into?_ she thought. _I'm not sure about this guy any more. What if he wants to see how his new 'girl' does in the bunk?_ _Maybe I should leave him at the next stop. A_ rguing with herself, she continued _, You know that's not possible. You don't have enough money for a bus home. Besides, he hasn't done anything except irritate you. Yeah, I guess that's right. It's good experience so I guess I'll stay with him for a while longer._

I knew I shouldn't have had that glass of orange juice, thought Tracy, wondering when they were going to stop. If I don't move, maybe my bladder won't hurt so much.

She peeked out the curtain and saw that the sun was getting ready for bed. She had no idea where they were. She tried to read the freeway signs, but they flashed by too quickly.

Bob saw her through the rearview mirror and said, "Good, you're awake. There's a truck stop on the Oklahoma/Arkansas border. We'll stop there for supper."

"Okay," Tracy said and closed the curtain. When she felt the rig slow down and ease off the interstate, she climbed into her seat. Bob pulled to a halt by the fuel pumps and turned off the engine. Once again, Tracy made a mad dash for the bathroom while Bob fueled the truck and then went to the café.

After dinner, Tracy took control of the Kenworth. A bone-deep weariness was setting in, and she was afraid that the soft purr of the engine might lull her to sleep. Bob's low snoring filled the air, so she turned up the radio. She changed the channel until she heard the hard rocking sounds of Van Halen.

"There," she said to herself. "This music will keep me awake."

She drove through Arkansas and parts of Tennessee before the pungent odor of sour ammonia again wafted her way. Without being asked, Tracy rolled down the window. She purposely kept her eyes straight ahead so she wouldn't see another poor commuter being assaulted by Bob's revolting bomb.

After climbing into his seat, Bob yelled, 'What's that crap?"

"Oh," said Tracy. "I forgot to change it back. I just needed the loud beat to keep me awake."

"Well, put the damned thing where it belongs and leave it there. This truck only listens to two kinds of music—country and western!"

She dutifully changed the channel while Bob directed her to their next stop.

Tracy could hardly keep her eyes open as they ate their meal in silence.

When they finished, she left to take a quick shower. She spent an extra quarter and let the warm water run down her tired body and thought about the trip. _We should be in DC tomorrow morning. I wonder if we'll have time to look around. I hope Bob's not intending to make a fast turn-around and get back to Covina in three days. This trip has been really exhausting, but that would be totally grueling!_

Her time ran out, and the water stopped; she jumped out, got dressed, and made a mad dash for the truck. She jumped inside just as Bob was putting the rig into low gear.

Tracy stayed in bed until Bob pulled off the freeway.

At dinner she tried to find out if they would be able to see the museum.

"Don't know," he said. "I'll ask when we get there."

"Have you been there? What's it like?"

"Yeah. If we can get in, you can look for yourself. You talk too much, Headlights."

Tracy remained silent for the rest of their meal, after which they headed for the truck where she took her place behind the wheel.

The sun was just peaking over the horizon as Tracy drove east on US-50 heading for Arlington. The instant her nose smelled the pungent odor of sour ammonia, she knew it was time for the morning commuter bombing.

The deed done, Bob crawled into his seat and said, "When we hit the road after breakfast, you need to stay up; we're about ten miles from the Smithsonian."

After their meal and Tracy's shower, they were on the road again.

Doing her best to stay awake, she watched the scenery flash by. Bob finally turned off the interstate and headed down a residential street. She was fascinated by the small brownstones, which she had only seen in movies. The buildings were squished up against each other with brick steps leading to the front doors that were disgorging people.

Bob rounded a corner and stopped in front of a set of tall black iron gates. He showed the guard his delivery papers and was ushered in. This area looked like all the other buildings Tracy had seen with a back entrance loading dock. Bob got out and went to talk to one of the guards. When he returned, Tracy asked, "Do we have to unload?"

"No. Their dock staff'll do it."

"Can we wander through the museum while they're unloading?"

"No. Museum's closed; they won't let us in. Are you getting out?"

Tracy only hesitated a second. "No. I'm having a hard time keeping my eyes open. So, if we can't see the museum, I'm going to bed." He climbed out for the second time, and she slid into the bunk and was instantly asleep.

When Tracy awoke later that night, Bob was just pulling into another truck stop.

At dinner she said, "I see we're already on our way home. Do you think we could stay off the freeways for a little while so we can see some of the country?"

Bob gave her a nasty look and replied, "Well, Headlights, just how do you expect me to make any money that way? We'll be home in three days. If you want to sightsee, next time take a bus!"

She didn't ask him anything else.

The trip home was the same as the trip out except for the noxious perfume of Bob's unwashed body and stale urine that became stronger with each stop. Since he insisted that the air conditioning remain on all the time, the only relief to Tracy's overloaded senses was at meal times when she could open the doors and let the fresh air wash over her.

They reached Searchlight, and Bob took the wheel. Crossing the California desert Tracy heard a familiar voice coming from the CB.

"This is the Blue Rooster; that you, Bomber?"

Bob growled and ignored the question.

"Hey, Bomber. How's Headlights doing?"

_It sounds like I have a handle. I'll admit it's a little risqué but maybe it means they'll accept me,_ Tracy thought, a smile brightening her face.

Bob turned down the volume and continued the trip to Covina.

They pulled up in front of her apartment building, and Tracy grabbed her duffel bag.

"Well, Headlights, I suppose you want to be paid."

Tracy laughed, saying, "Yeah, that would be nice."

"Here you go," he said, handing her $200 in cash.

She climbed out of the truck and stood on the step so she could see his face. "Thank you for the experience, Bomber, but this isn't going to work out for me. I wish you luck finding a new partner."

She closed the door on the bomber's scowling face, and walked to her apartment.

"Nancy! I'm home," Tracy said when she heard her friend's voice on the phone.

"So it would seem. I thought you were going to call me from the truck stop?"

"I wanted to, but I didn't have time. You won't believe the trip I've had! Bob isn't the nice guy I thought he was."

"So, what happened? Tell me everything."

"Well, to begin with, his handle is Bomber because he likes to pee in a bag and throw it out the window! And he never took a shower! And! The men at a truck stop gave me a handle—Headlights! Can you believe it?"

"Yes, I can believe it! I have to say I'm happy all this happened to you."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, if it was such an awful experience, now you can quit driving around the country with some guy you don't know and get back to the important things—like finding a good paying job close to home."

"You know, Nancy. Bob might have been a smelly jerk, but I can't even begin to tell you what it's like to sit in a big rig and feel the power run through you. I drove nights, and they were just mystical. The sky was gorgeous and, out in the country, a gazillion stars hung overhead. In the daylight, I managed to see a tiny bit of the country. I just loved the driving!

"I think, this time, I'm going to look for a woman driver. I've heard there are a few out there. I'm sure I can find one who drives by the rules and bathes regularly."

"What are you talking about? What about a good stay-at-home job? Renting a bigger apartment? Buying a new pair of shoes?"

"You can have all that, Nancy. Right now, I want the beauty of the world and lots and lots of adventure."

# Waiting for the Bus

### Tamara Miller

Nancy and Victor stood at the curb, waiting for their son to arrive on the bus. Victor had his arm around Nancy's shoulders. She seemed a little weepy anticipating seeing her son again.

"Get a hold of yourself. You know he will be upset if you're crying," said Victor.

"I know. It's just that so much time has passed. You know how I worry about him."

"Smile, it just turned the corner."

They waited as the bus slowly approached. It parked near where Nancy and Victor were standing. Nancy watched every passenger, every face, as they exited. The last five passengers departed. None were her son. She rested her head on Victor's shoulder as she let out a sigh.

"Maybe he'll be on the next one," said Victor, trying to console her.

"I can't stand the wait." She dabbed her eyes with a tissue. "I wonder how long it will be?"

"I don't know. There's a bench over there. Let's have a seat and wait." He held her hand and together they sat down.

"Where did we go wrong?" asked Nancy. "I don't think we were too strict with him, and his friends seemed like nice boys."

"Being a star athlete, I would have thought he was getting additional guidance from his coach to keep him on the right track."

"I guess it wasn't enough." Nancy wiped her eyes again as she remembered an early morning call.

The phone rang. Nancy rolled over in bed and looked at the clock on her nightstand. It was two in the morning. It rang again. She grabbed it trying to keep it from waking Victor.

"Hello?" she said in a sleepy voice.

"Mom," said the weak voice on the other end of the phone.

"Stephen is that you?" She waited. "Stephen?"

"Yes. I need help." The last word trailed off.

"Stephen?"

"Mom, come get me."

"Where are you?"

"Downtown."

"Where downtown? I need more information than that." She waited. "Stephen, are you all right?"

"Across from the fire station."

"Where?" She had to ask again because his words were weak and not very clear.

"Phone booth." Click!

"Stephen? Stephen?" No answer, so she hung up. She turned to see if Victor was awake. He wasn't. _Should I get him up?_ she wondered. _If I do, he'll be angry, and I don't want to deal with him now. I'll leave him a note in case he wakes up before I get back._

She slipped on a pair of sweatpants, a sweatshirt, and her tennis shoes. Looking in a mirror, she ran her fingers through her hair and then grabbed her purse and car keys. She quietly backed the car out and headed for town, in the direction of the fire station.

It was early Saturday morning, and it had been raining. The fire station was not in the best part of town. She saw a few beer cans carelessly thrown in the gutter in front of one of the local bars.

Driving slowly, she saw the fire station ahead and started looking for a pay phone. There was one next to a Circle-K market. Getting closer, she thought she saw a body lying on the ground with bare feet sticking out of the opened door of the phone booth. _Is that Stephen? Has he passed out?_ She parked directly in front and jumped out of the car, leaving the engine still running. She rushed toward the body.

"Stephen! Stephen!" she yelled. _It's him!_ She pulled on his arm trying to lift him into a sitting position.

"Mom?"

"I'm here."

"I need help," he said, starting to cry.

"Can you stand up?" He didn't answer, but slowly struggled to stand, bracing himself against the frame of the booth. "Here, lean on me. I'll help you."

"I need help, Mom. I need help," he slurred.

"Okay. I'm here. We'll talk in the car," she said, helping him into the passenger side. She went around to the driver's side, and turned off the car engine. "Are you drunk?"

"No. Sort of."

"Then what is it?"

"Drugs and booze. Bad drugs."

She gasped, again. That was the farthest from her mind. _Drugs? What kind?_ That scared her. "What are you telling me?"

"I'm hooked on coke, and I can't stop."

At Christmas time she had noticed he was extremely thin. When she mentioned it to him he said he had been working long hours and didn't have time to eat. After high school, he enrolled in college, but after a year he dropped out. He got a job on a construction crew and moved into a house with two other boys who also worked for the same company.

Nancy knew she had been losing touch with her son, but figured it was part of his being on his own. They talked on the phone once a week. Until Christmas, she had not seen the change in his physical appearance.

They drove home in silence. She periodically looked at him as his head bobbed back and forth. Parking the car in the garage she went to his side to help him walk into the house.

Stephen was having a hard time holding his head upright and his eyes kept closing. "Let's go inside and talk about what we need to do."

He sat holding his head in both hands as he rested his elbows on the kitchen table while Nancy put on a pot of coffee.

While drinking their coffee, she said, "I need to wake up your dad."

"Oh, Mom. He's going to kill me."

"No he's not. Because you are asking for help, he'll be understanding."

"No he won't. He'll be so disappointed in me."

This was no time to discuss her husband's reaction, this was a family emergency. Stephen sipped on his coffee while his mother went to get his dad.

"He's going to kill me, I know it," Stephen whispered. _I'll just have to face it if I want help._ "I have to stop," he muttered.

Much to Stephen's surprise, when his father entered the kitchen, he went to Stephen and gave him a hug. Stephen tried to look away as he saw tears pool in the bottom of his father's eyes.

"We're here for you, Stephen," said his dad. "We'll get you help. We will do this together."

Nancy wasn't going to waste any time. She knew this was something they couldn't handle alone. She took out the yellow pages and looked for an addiction center. She found one about ten miles from where they lived. She called them and explained the situation. They told her to bring him in tomorrow morning.

"We can't wait until then. We have to come now," said Nancy.

"I'm sorry, we can't help you until in the morning." Nancy banged down the phone in frustration. She called the next one on the list and they said to come right in.

"Come on, Stephen. I found a place. Are you coming with us Vic?"

"No you can take him. I'll wait here." _I can't stand the thought that I've failed my son in some way. Is it my fault that he is an addict? Not my son_ , he thought. Hearing the car leave, he went to his easy chair.

Visions of Stephen's childhood raced through his mind. _I was his Little League coach, and harder on him than the other boys to avoid being accused of favoritism. He was a gifted player at an early age. As he grew I was glad to turn his coaching over to the Senior League managers. Nancy and I enjoyed sitting in the bleachers as he quarterbacked the high school football team to victory. We were proud parents. There were never any signs of drug or alcohol abuse. Or was there? As loving parents were we too blind to see_. _Where did I go wrong_? he wondered as he let the tears flow freely down his face.

Stephen was quiet during the drive. When they located the facility, a chill ran through Nancy's body. It was a three-story concrete building surrounded by a heavy chain link fence. _It looks like a prison_ , she thought. _I can't leave my son here_.

As they sat in the car, Nancy asked, "What do you think?"

"I think it looks scary. Like an asylum."

"Me, too." She started the car. "I know where to go." She wasn't going to call them first and take the chance that they would tell her not to come until the next day.

Charter Oak Hospital was the sign out front. Nancy had seen advertisements on television that told about their drug clinic. She parked the car.

"Come on, Stephen. Let's do this." They got out of the car and hugged each other. Holding hands, they walked through the entrance. They were directed to a waiting room. Nancy and Stephen continued to hold hands.

After thirty minutes they were called to meet with one of the counselors. Everyone was very nice, and Nancy felt good about the decision she had made. Stephen didn't talk during the admitting process unless he was asked a question. After all the paperwork was completed, they were escorted to the addiction wing.

They entered through two locked doors. Both Nancy and Stephen looked at each other. Nancy could tell by the look on Stephen's face that he was scared _. I hope he's not going to back out_ , she thought. The whole thing was making Nancy uneasy. _I guess this is what other parents do when one of their children is in serious trouble._

The counselor took them to a room where Stephen was given a hospital gown to change into, and Nancy was told to take his clothes home. Someone else met with them and went over the process and what was to be expected. Nancy was told she could not come to visit him for two days, due to the required one-on-one sessions that needed to be done.

Nancy kissed her son good-bye. When she reached her car she broke down in tears. She sat there and cried for thirty minutes. Outside, Charter Oak looked like a hospital, but inside where Stephen was, it was a lock-down prison.

When she returned home, she could hardly stop sobbing as she relayed to Victor what had transpired. Victor just listened, still unable to accept that his son was an addict.

"Here comes another bus," said Victor. "Let's go across the street where the passengers will be getting off." They stood on the curb, Nancy leaning against Victor as he held her close under his arm.

Victor tightened his grip on his wife as they watched each passenger step off the bus. "There he is," she whispered. She gasped seeing him. She hid her face on Victor's chest holding back her emotions. She turned long enough to see Stephen try to walk with ankle shackles on and his hands cuffed.

_Why are they treating him like that_? she wondered.

_My son, my son. How could this be?_ thought Victor. Their eyes met.

Stephen mouthed, _I'm okay._ Then to himself, _I hoped that my parents would never see me like this._

Nancy and Victor waited for the bus to leave before they crossed the street to enter the courthouse. Victor shook his head in wonder as he read the lettering on the side of the bus: Los Angeles County Sheriff.

The End

### If you enjoyed these stories, you might like to find more of the authors' works.

**Jonathon Chaus** is a California native who loves writing. His works include screenplays, short stories, and novels. His love for adventure carries over into all of his works, which are usually fast paced action adventure stories. His love of writing is only overshadowed by his adoration of his family and his passion for sailing. Jonathan Chaus is currently working on a spy series featuring his hero Jonathan Trent.

**Toni L. Eastwood** , a native Californian, is an English and Creative Writing professor whose love of nature and animals is reflected in her work. Ms. Eastwood enjoys writing for both children and adults. She has completed her first children's novel, _The Adventures of Dru and Chy_ , and is currently working on her first adult novel.

**Lisa M. Griffiths** grew up in Altadena, California. The combination of avid reader, with a fondness for the macabre and being scared, naturally led her to start writing. She began writing fictional stories and poems in her teens. The stomping grounds of her childhood neighborhood have proved to be inspirational as well as great backstory.

She has written and published a collection of spooky bedtime stories. Creepy Shorts is intended for those who prefer to be kept awake, wondering what's out there.

www.lmgwrites.com

Facebook.com/LMGwrites

**Tamara Miller** wrote her first novel, "Family Forever" five years ago, which is now a five book series. Growing up in Pomona, California, she writes about real places and real people. Her writings are geared to family relationships and how they work through conflict to maintain the family unit.

Currently she is writing a non-fiction book, "What The Hell Just Happened." Tamara will take the reader on an emotional roller coaster ride about when he found her husband, of 58 years of marriage, unconscious in his favorite chair.

**Holly Iris Scott** grew up in Los Angeles, California. She attributes her love of reading and writing to her parents who insisted on regular quiet time for reading and bedtime stories. The books she read and her life experiences fed her imagination. As a result, she began writing at 13 years old. She enjoys writing short stories, poems, lyrics, plays, novels and studying the Vietnamese language and culture.

Holly has published a short story, several poems and wrote and performed a song for the movie soundtrack Western Skies. With her work, she documents the human experience of love, loss, tragedy and redemption.

Holly lives in La Verne with her sister and best friend Ericka and her Tabby cat named Phat Tina.

**Scott Skipper** is a California based fiction writer with a broad range of interests, including history, genealogy, travel, science, and current events. His wry outlook on life infects his novels with biting sarcasm. Prisoners are never taken. Political correctness is taboo. His work includes historical fiction, alternative history, novelized biography, science fiction and political satire. He is a voracious reader and habitual and highly opinionated reviewer. Learn more at www.ScottSkipper.com Follow on Twitter @SSkipperAuthor and Facebook/ScottSkipper

Learn more at: <http://www.lvwritersgroup.com/>

