 
The Art of Roddyism

By Roddy J Dryer

Copyright 2013 by Roddy J Dryer

Smashwords Edition

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Introduction to

The Art of Roddyism

Wow, you really made it this far? Hmm, that's odd; most people wouldn't crack into an anthology, particularly one written by some unknown, if they were threatened to be forced into a ballerina outfit that was three sizes too small, hogtied and then air dropped into a prison shower.

I suppose it's because it's free. People would stand in line to watch the above threat carried out on just about anyone if the event was free, even if they kind of liked that person. Particularly if the unfortunate party was rather vocal in their objection. But since you're here, I would like to inform you that I will do everything I can to ensure you found this worth your time.

After all, I think that if you gave this unique omnibus a chance, you just might find something in here to your liking. Here you will find twelve shorts of mine and I can honestly say each of them had a reason to prompt me to see to their creation. A few of them were for loved ones (is it arrogant of me to write a story for someone as a present? Yeah, bite me...), triggered by some notion the said loved one would find something enjoyable and heartfelt in the story. A few of these were goaded by something significant, like a horrific event or memory, or perhaps a wondrous event. And then, there is a couple or so that just popped up out of the blue. One of these is particularly important to me, since one of these short stories prompted the creation of my favorite of my novels, named Tangled in Climbing Nightshade. I'll explain later.

I think just about every writer gets to a point where their first anthology is in order, or at least there's a culmination of work allowing for an anthology at all. I suppose I am the latter, since I just can't say with confidence there were be another in the future. There might be, but I just can't predict such a thing. Now, some can, since they're the sorts who crank out the short stories as their primary outlet in writing, but I am not that guy. I simply found I like the novel length more. Hey, they say it's easier to write a letter than it is to write a postcard. The thing is, the full-length work allows for more expression whereas the short story forces one into a little box. But, as you can see, sometimes it only has to be but so big. Sometimes, less is more.

If you've made it this far, I really hope you take the time to check out at least one or two of these short stories. Hey, you just might discover a particular favorite. You might find one that sticks with you because there was something in there striking a chord. After all, we all have a favorite song, favorite celebrity, favorite pair of jeans, and favorite skeleton in the closet. If you do happen to come across a favorite amongst these, I would appreciate it if you let me know what it is and why. Such things make me feel better about myself.

A few of the ladies might like A Day at the Beach, while the fellows might find a laugh within the span of The Dirty Underground. My colleagues may find Heavy Traffic to their liking, while the dog lovers might enjoy Our Bonding Moments. Amends and Amendments was one sort of ripped from the headlines, since it is a culmination of a few stories I've seen on those chum-in-the-water news magazine shows such as 48 Hours. And for my writing compatriots, there is Gatekeepers of the Dawn.

I can honestly say I've rather liked some anthologies. They allow one a glimpse into the psyche of the writer. They help with a short attention span by giving less to chew on. They provide smaller doses one can enjoy when time is limited. And if you think about it, if you have a favorite or list of favorite TV shows, then the anthology is clearly for you, since each episode is quite like a short story. To go even further, for those of you with an eReader (so nice, aren't they?), the anthology provides something you can read in full while on a break.

So, if you would be so kind, proceed and enjoy. As I said, please let me know if there are any particular gems you prefer, or if there are any you don't. But mostly, let me know if you found one done poorly, as that is what's most important to me. You may not like Amends and Amendments, but I do not want you discovering I did a bad job at writing it. But mostly, just enjoy. These are just short stories and this is just fiction writing; you're really not supposed to do much more than just enjoy.

I chose this story to be the first among these dozen because it was really the first of the bunch. Crystal Flowers was my first published story, and my first publishing success. Now, this wasn't a tremendous success since the publication, called Short Stories Bimonthly, looked as though it was something cranked out on the publisher's kitchen table. But, and I think this is a fair but, I found this publication via the Writer's Digest Writer's Market and submitted the work like I would to any of the bigger publications.

This story started out as a simple gift to someone; someone who is an ex-wife. My second wife, I do believe. I was looking for a gift for Christmas, and looking hard. She was someone who could be difficult to please, but I tried. Eventually, I purchased this crystal flower I found on one of those carts one sees along the hallways of the mall. It was rather pretty and well made, but I didn't think she would find it and of itself satisfactory. So, I wrote a story to add to the gift. I thought I would make up some history of where it came from. It was all imaginary and she'd know that, but this was about the thought.

Surprisingly, when she received both, they were received with little fanfare and she eventually griped about the story.

While I quickly lost interest in her opinion, I still rather liked the story, so I worked on it and this is what turned out. I felt it was good enough to give a try for publication, even though I had no publishing credits. So, I threw it out to a number of publications and one of them bit.

This story was first published in February of 2001, so it has been some time, and I believe I have improved in ability by a degree or two. But still, I will refrain as best I can from modifying the original story, as perhaps this could demonstrate a subtle line of improvement over time on my part. I can tell you that while it had been years since I looked at this story, once I started reading through it, I saw numerous things I would do differently today. But still, I rather liked it.

Whether that...woman, liked it or not, I do hope you find it to your liking.

To add some historical perspective, the mythical land in this story is named Velopia. When I was sitting there and working on this, I wanted to come up with a land named uniquely, and struggled with that. I was looking at the walls, reciting, 'Walland, Wallistan, Wallville,' and so forth. Then I saw a box of envelopes, and went through the same process. After several minutes of ideas such as Envelopolis and Enveloville, I settled on Velopia.

Crystal Flowers

I am writing this as my final task for seeking absolution from a heinous crime I committed so long ago. I am hoping this confession absolves me from the guilt and pain I have suffered at my own doing. Before I go on, allow me to introduce myself. My name is Victor the Wizard from the Velopian Mountain of Bad. I want to confess to you how I committed the world's worst act of genocide.

Many years ago there once existed an island named Velopia. Velopia was a lush, tropical island capped by an enormous dormant volcano. Though rather quiet historically, Velopia was rather well known by those in the gemstone trade. Until I came along, the only thing known about the Velopians was that they dealt in gems. This is because the Velopians kept themselves rather secluded from the rest of the world. Partly to protect their means of income from intruders, but mostly to protect and preserve their culture and way of life. As a matter of fact, it was my job as a Wizard to ensure this. You see, I was a member of a band of Wizards that were dispatched by our Lead Council to protect their culture.

Understand, I cannot go into great detail about the council or my Wizardry, but suffice it to say that we had a job that allowed us to view and protect one of the last great civilizations from days of old. Looking back, it's truly mind-boggling how I came to hate them so much.

Velopia was the home to one of the most loving and peaceful peoples ever to exist. Although they worked very hard at their main form of trade, they had such a ceremonious culture. They loved to celebrate what seemed like everything. They were, in fact, very beautiful. They had strong, lean bodies and long auburn hair. Dressed in cotton and hide by day for labor, at night they wore silk and lace to celebrate what they cherished most of all. Life, love, and beauty.

I could go on about the culture of Velopia, but I wanted to concentrate on a particular facet of their culture with which I became most intimate.

Back in the days when the first Wizards from the Lead Council came to Velopia to watch and preserve its people, they were so delighted by them that they secretly bestowed upon them a special gift. As I said before, the island had a dormant volcano. This was a dark and foreboding mountain, so the Velopians avoided it except to mine. This was how we Wizards could work secretly. But what the Wizards did for the Velopians was cast some wondrous spell on the meadows that grew all around the base of the Velopian Mountain of Bad. Within these meadows there grew some of the most beautiful flowers found anywhere. The Velopian men would give these flowers to the young women they loved.

The spell was, if a man picks a flower from the meadows for a woman he truly loves, and she truly loves him, the flower will turn to crystal in her hand. Immortalizing its beauty and sealing within that beauty a symbol of their eternal love for each other. And the people did find them amazing and beautiful.

Once the flower was placed in her hands and did turn to crystal, it would become brightly luminescent, warm, bright and beautiful. As a crystal flower, its stem would be perfectly clear, with a hint of green in any leaf, and the flower itself would contain the rich colors of the original, but translucent, allowing the light to pass. It would seem masterfully carved from their finest gems, with a beauty unsurpassed by any stone from the earth.

When the miracle of the flower took place, word traveled fast. The people of the island loved to celebrate the true love shared by two young lovers. There would always be a grand celebration held by the families of the two involved, and people from far and wide would joyously send their love with gifts and wishes of happiness.

Secretly, within me, I hated it.

I hated it all, after a while. I despised their seemingly perfect lives, their simple wealth, and their carefree existence. I cared for them at first, of course, when I was first given this assignment. By eventually my rage, jealousy, and disgust took over. It consumed my love for them, and my mercy.

And since I am here to confess my sins, I must openly say that it was those infernal crystal flowers I loathed like nothing else. Thankfully, they didn't appear commonly. In fact, they were rather rare. But every time a new crystal flower came to the Velopians, my body lurched with such a fit. It was as if my sanity went to shift from its precarious base.

It is for this reason I set out to destroy them once and for all.

At the time I had no idea how I would work towards a sense of victory over the flowers. But as a Wizard, I was privy to a plethora of information that few others knew. By doing the proper research, and by the Velopian people feeding my passion for those flowers' demise, I knew I would soon be able to find the panacea of my gloom.

Part of my duties, given to me by the council for the benefit of the Velopians, was to maintain a certain amount of volcanic activity with the Mountain of Bad. This helped to facilitate mining by keeping the rock easier to burrow through, and it helped to maintain a comfortable climate on the island, with moderate warmth and humidity. I could cause favorable conditions through manipulation of certain factors within the mountain, which benefited all Velopian life, Flora and Fauna.

It was here, performing tasks that generated a favorable amount of heat and geothermal pressure, that I devised the idea that would bring a sweet and fitting conclusion to the meadows at the base of the volcano.

Word came buzzing through my band of colleagues about the latest episode in the saga of the crystal flowers. Just the previous night, two brothers had placed a flower from the meadows into the hands of the young women they each loved. The two young women were sisters, and twins. And yes, the flowers turned to crystal. There were festivities planned unsurpassed by any before them.

I could barely contain myself, I was so enraged. Yet I did not want to expose my lowly feelings to my peers whom were all above such pettiness. I did not, however, know how to find peace of mind with these blasted Velopians freely benefiting from our work and toil. But I would, and soon.

I decided that I would destroy the magical meadows that very night.

I wasn't fluent in the ancient ways of dealing with a volcano such as the Mountain of Bad, but my passion took precedence over my reason and I utilized all the means available to me to create a method to spill over the destructive molten rock within. I seemed so sure I could bring about an eruption that would reclaim the base of the mountain to the ownership of the volcano by engulfing the meadows to their very last stem.

I knew that the Velopians were gushing all over each other in their ecstasy to celebrate. It made me cringe. Across the land they ceased work for the day, and everyone celebrated the miracle squared. Their revelry continued well into the night, but the two couples went home early, anxious to cozy by the fire. The irony was delicious.

Delicious because I had plans for a fire to get cozy by. Although the work I had set out to do was meticulous and complex in its purpose to transmute certain elements within the volcano, I at the time felt I had all my steps followed precisely. Now it was simply a matter of setting the gears into motion.

However simple, I erred.

That night I set out to make history in Velopia. By climbing to the top of the mountain, I was where I could set my magic in motion. It didn't take long. Within an hour of frantic-paced work, I could smell the burning earth beneath me and feel it tremble with what seemed the same amount of rage that was ready to erupt within my soul. I, through magic afforded to only those of my stature, fled from the mountainous fury and watched from above.

I saw the mountain explode with a rage unlike any it had ever possessed before that night. Molten lava poured freely down the mountainside and red-hot boulders reached for the sky. It was then that I saw with terror that something had gone horribly wrong.

Lava ran down all sides of the volcano, flowed across the magical meadows within moments, and continued forth. The rolling waves of molten rock consumed everything in its path as it roiled mindlessly towards the people of Velopia. Most died in their sleep. The rest died in terror, as they were overtaken by the volcano's merciless sweep.

All of Velopia was destroyed! All it ever was, consumed by the vomit of the Volcano of Bad.

Even at the time of this writing I cannot find words to describe how it made me feel. I thought I had gone mad. I was screaming throughout the ordeal, begging it to stop. I tried all manner of spells and invocations I could think of to stop the insanity. But Velopia was doomed, and me as well. No longer protected by my magical shroud that shielded me from the catastrophe of my own creation, I plummeted downwards onto Velopia to experience my doing firsthand.

I came down upon a jagged cliff side just beyond the reach of the lava itself, but close to its heat. The noise was deafening as the raging planet spewed forth its blazing ejaculate upon all under my ward. I could feel my skin blister from the heat of the lava in my proximity, and my lungs felt afire. I tried with all my Wizardly might to rise above and away from the madness, but with no success. Crashing down onto the rocks and rolling into a pocket where I bounced my head off a rock and fell limp into the cooling ash, I passed out and remembered no more.

What must have been hours later, I awoke, wet and freezing, lying face down in the mud and heavy rain. Pushing myself up onto my hands, I noticed the agony within my head and body. The wind and rain were intolerable, so I crawled into a nook for what shelter it provided. The morning's dawn was imminent.

Realizing what all that had put me there, I felt my heart jump into my throat. Screaming, "No, please God, no!" I crawled to the edge of the precipice to look down on what I prayed was not real.

My prayers were not answered. What used to be a living and vibrant land filled with beauty and promise was now volcanic rock. Velopia was dead.

I cried myself to sleep, despite the pain in my burned and battered body.

When I woke, the day was bright and clear. There was a warm, southerly breeze, but otherwise complete silence. I looked out onto the scorched landscape, which was black, puddled, and ominous. It went on to the sea. It was almost surreal in its stark contrast to the beautiful sky, and that sunk home for me the scope of my sin.

I made my way down the mountain and out onto the ashy plains. I was crying and pulling my hair as I screamed for anyone's response. In a fit of panic, I tried to run and hide in shame. After several minutes, I had no more breath or strength, and collapsed into the jagged rocky virgin soil, cutting my hands and knees. I was crying out loud, despising myself for what I had done. Running my bleeding hands through the previous night's fallout in despair, I saw a glimmer in the black.

Through the dust, I saw what was glimmering before me, yet I could hardly believe it. I picked up and held in my hands a crystal flower! It was beautiful, and despite the night's trauma, it was perfect and unharmed. I stood up amazed. I was sobbing, but heard my name over the din of my misery.

"Victor!"

I looked up in terror, only to find all the members of my band of Wizards standing there. I was nearly contorted with fear. They didn't seem angry with me, but stood there looking at me as if I were a dull child who had accidentally killed a small animal.

I had nothing to say. I was spent. I hung my head and walked towards them. Once I was in front of Ian, our leader, I fell to my knees and bowed my head. I held out the flower to him without looking up.

At that moment, Ian closed my hand around the flower and put his hand on my head.

He said to me, "Victor, do you know why this crystal flower has survived the onslaught you have unleashed against it?"

I was confused. "No, Master, I have no idea. Master please, let me tell you, all of you, just how-"

"SILENCE!" Ian ordered. Resuming, he said, "Because of the magic and purity of love which created it, it has risen above the madness and tragedy that you have created, so it could shine in the warmth of the sun."

Not feeling worthy of comment, I simply said, "Yes, Master."

"Victor the Wizard from the Mountain of Bad of Velopia, you are hereby excommunicated from the World of Wizardry. You have betrayed all the information given to you. You will pay for what you have done. Victor, look at the crystal flower in your hands."

I did as I was instructed. Then Ian continued. "You will find all the remaining crystal flowers existing in the rubble that is now this island. Then you will travel to all the corners of the earth, telling the world's peoples of your sins, and you will offer freely all the crystal flowers to those who can show true appreciation for them and their meaning. After that, you will publish your confession for all the world to read. From there, I don't care what happens to you."

I looked up and said, "But-"

They were all gone.

I searched the island completely and found one hundred more of the crystal flowers. I gathered them up, wrapped them individually in silken fabric, and put them into a satchel to protect them. I gained passage from a passing ship and started on my quest. I traveled the world, travelling nonstop and telling my story. Most thought I was just an old fool, but they all appreciated the beauty of the Velopian Crystal Flowers. Eventually, I gave them all away.

The crystal flowers have been passed to all those who recognize the value of love and devotion, and I hope they will be seen as a true sign of the power of love, hope, and joy over the power of hate, jealousy and petty rage.

I have followed my final instructions and have written my confession. I apologize to the world for stealing from all of you a place in your world that was free of decay and bubbling with life, love, gaiety, and remarkable beauty- Velopia.

While it may appear the work I am presenting here is being presented in the order everything was published, I don't intend on doing that. But this next one I wanted to place here because it was my second publishing success...in the exact same publication the prior one was published. That's right, it was Short Stories Bimonthly. The first one was in February of 2001 while this story was published in April of 2002. I believe the publication is now defunct.

I was trying to get more work published after the first one took, which did somewhat surprise me, but I was running into one wall after the next. Finally, I tried this magazine again and, voila, it was accepted. But it just didn't feel the same as the first time did. I felt I was spinning wheels and on a plateau. But I wasn't; I never achieved true hard-print publishing again.

But honestly, I just quit trying with hard-print. The whole online thing, while seemingly a publishing copout, offered readers hitherto unattainable by many writers, so I went in that direction. I have published online well over two hundred articles and short stories, and my four books are almost primarily available there. There has been a long-standing attitude that the only true publishing is in print, and while it seems there is a bar there to get over, to me the point had always been a readership. I would have enjoyed being in print and selling hoards of copies of books and such, but I don't have the educational and vocational background to get there. Despite the numerous methods of publishing availability, getting into print demands certain criteria. More often than ever before, today's agents and publishers want all kinds of kudos, including higher education directly for creative writing or literature, and certainly want credits in print. Just about anyone could do this if they pushed enough and kept at it, but it just didn't feel worth it.

I don't know; I could have been wrong.

But I went the way I did and many have achieved incredible success in online content writing. Some are making a living at it. I could have tried, but pursued my novels with high hopes. Since those high hopes have been dashed and the novels have sold virtually nothing, my professional aspirations for writing have been demoted to hobby.

For the time being.

I'm not giving up; it's just that I don't know what else to do.

But I can do this anthology, so here it is.

This next story plays off the title, and to be honest, I don't recall where I got the idea from. I might have seen something on TV, but I just don't remember. Anyhoo, here it is.

I do recall enjoying it and finding it devilish fun to write. Have you ever been at a point where you needed a hand but were alone? Well, you likely just had your hands full. How fortunate you really were...

Needing a Hand

After all that had happened, it was amazing that Craig made it into the house. It was actually amazing that he made it to the house at all. Craig Braudway was woozy and stunned from the trauma and blood loss. He still maintained the presence of mind, however, to be concerned enough about how this would affect Janie and the boys. That concern would deepen the longer he took to find help, and the longer the crimson trail behind him got to be.

Craig looked at the door with relief when he saw it was left open. He left it open to allow the fresh air in, but sometimes the wind manages to pull it closed. Once he was inside, he had a difficult time seeing, not only because of the blood in his eyes or their need to adjust to the dark, but also because he had no way of turning on the lights. Janie just insisted on those pull chains, thinking they were so 'today'. But he really wanted the lights on, since even though it was only late afternoon, it was always dark in the house.

Janie had spent hundreds on these imported, elaborate heavy curtains, which she kept tightly drawn. Craig wasn't sure he could get even if he could get the curtains open, so there was no way he was going to stain them with blood. Janie would just kill him anyway.

But he knew he needed to get to a phone immediately. Even just a little light would help him find the cordless, but the damned pull chains were just out of reach of his clenching teeth. That may have been a mixed blessing, since his teeth were so badly knocked loose, he wasn't sure if he could bite down on any pull chain.

So Craig searched as best he could in the dim light for the cordless phone, but it just wasn't in sight. He knew that the way the cordless phone gets used, it could be anywhere between the kitchen and the garage. After looking in the places that would have been the most likely hiding places for the phone, Craig gave up on finding it. He just didn't have time for Hide & Seek, so he knew he would have to get to his desk phone. The only trouble with the desk phone was that it was on his desk. And his desk was in the den on the far side of the upstairs hallway.

Craig navigated around the furniture in the dark. He winced at every bump against the furniture, knowing the blood stains would be severe. Once at the bottom of the stairs, he looked up to the top and wondered if they had always been that steep. Perhaps his perception was a bit skewed because of the injuries accompanied by the low light, but the stairs seemed to be nearly vertical. Trying to ascend the flight without losing his already precarious balance, Craig scaled the stairs one step at a time while sliding his back along the banister and wall. He was staining the wallpaper horribly, as if his body was being dragged along the wall by a truck. But he had no choice but to hug the wall, because to fall now would ruin everything.

By taking it slow and careful, Craig eventually made it to the top of the stairs. But as he stepped past the top stair and was on the second floor, he stepped on, of all things, one of Jacob's Tonka trucks. Craig's unsure and wobbly step sent the foot-long front loader tumbling down the nearly vertical stairs. Craig nearly followed it, but instead he fell to one knee. He felt the jolt through every injury he had sustained, and even thought his teeth would pop out. He yelled out in misery.

Craig knew he needed to get back to his feet, but it had proved difficult because once he tried to regain his footing, he realized that he had given his ankle a painful twist. But he did manage with a bit of determination and care to get up, and once he did get back up he peered down the hallway to where his desk would be.

His den was at the far end of the hallway, which seemed so far away. As calmly as he could manage, Craig limped down the hallway towards his only means of communication with the outside world. It seemed that he had been travelling the hall for quite some time, and the far end was losing him in the dust. The fog, he realized, was the blood mingling in his eyesight with the dark. He turned to see how much ground he had covered, and he saw the bloodstained carpet would have to be replaced.

Craig finally made it to the other end of the hallway and, upon reaching the door to the den, tears started welling up in his eyes. That's because once he made it to the den's door, he remembered that it was locked. He had recently started locking the door to keep the boys out, since one night Mikey just had to play with the computer, and succeeded in destroying weeks of work in just a few short minutes. That incident caused Craig to cry for the first time in well over a year. This was the second.

Since he now knew he couldn't use the key, even though it was hanging right there on a nail, Craig realized the only way in was to break in. With the door being rather thin, he felt a good one-two-three would get him through. But he had to stop and consider how best to employ that good old one-two-three with his unique situation. Craig didn't dare use either shoulder, so he decided he would back into the door with what he thought would be sufficient force to pop it open.

Craig overestimated the strength of the door. He took a few steps away from the door, turned his back to it, and rushed back to hit the door with the bulk of his weight. He thought it would just pop open and all would be well, but instead he went way off balance. Craig stumbled back with no way to keep his balance and crashed to the floor. He wound up on his back under the desk he was trying to get to. The fall was hard and it took the wind out of him. On the floor, he saw nothing above him but stars, and he wondered if he was going to make it.

If he was going to survive, he knew he would have to stay focused. Still on his back but trying to regain his wits, he used his heels to dig in and pull his body from under the big oak desk. Once he saw he was clear of the desk, he forced himself to sit up and then brought his feet under himself to get back up on his feet. To maintain his balance, he used his bleeding head to gain leverage on the edge of the desk. He hoped the bloodstains on the finish wouldn't be permanent as he got back to his feet.

That was a mistake. He must have stood up too fast, because once he was to his feet he started seeing stars again. Apparently he had lost too much blood, so all sense of balance left him as he swooned and then fell to the floor again. The fall sent shards of pain through his many wounds, and now he was face down on the floor and on the edge of unconsciousness. The surviving instinct in him told that if he lost consciousness he would surely die. He forced himself into anger by yelling, pumping his adrenaline. He coached himself to stay alert and conscious to fight the pain and focus on life.

He was fully conscious, but still face down and sobbing from the agony. Craig tried to regain his focus on the situation and resumed his pursuit for the phone. He knew that he would have to get off the floor and into the desk chair, so with another one-two-three, he rocked his body until he was on his back. This caused the pain to electrify his already horrific wounds. He stopped for a moment and screamed in anger and agony. Craig regained his composure after venting and thought only about reaching the phone. He got to his feet like he did before (more bloodstains on the finish) and fell into his chair. Seated and out of immediate danger, he took a moment to catch his breath. He truly wished that for just this one time, Jacob's game would end early and they would come home to help him.

After catching his breath, Craig knew he would have to get busy in calling for help before he got too relaxed. He kept the presence of mind to realize that if he passed out he would bleed to death. The phone was right there, three feet from where he sat. All he needed to do was call 911 and help would be on the way.

Yeah, just call 911.

That would take a little ingenuity and a lot of patience. He knew he would need some sort of tool to achieve this, so he searched the desk for what would serve his needs. He spotted his Mont Blanc Meisterstück right by the phone. Since the pen was just out of reach of his tongue, he laid his bloody forehead on it and pulled the pen towards him to where he could get a hold of it.

Craig clenched the pen in his broken teeth, which was excruciating. The taste of blood made him nauseous, and with the pen in his mouth he drooled blood down his chin and chest. Avoiding the pain and nausea the best he could, he tried to press the button on the phone marked SPKR. After a few frustrating attempts causing a lot of pain, Craig got a dial tone. At hearing the monotone sound, Craig perked up and started feeling that he would really make it after all. Being careful not to mess anything up, he ignored all the pain he felt and pushed the buttons, 9-1-1.

After a ring, Craig heard, "911. What is your emergency?"

Craig dropped the pen and it fell past his racing heart to his lap. With his face badly swollen and beaten up, he said, "Pleathe! I need emergenthy help! Oh God, I have a bad head wound and, and..."

"Take your time, sir," he heard from the phone, "and tell me what has happened."

"Okay, I have a very thevere head wound and I have thevered both my arm near the thoulder! My armth are gone and I have bled tho much blood!"

Despite being seated, Craig felt his balance start to fail. "I was working on the equipment in the barn..."

Bea, the operator on the line, felt the color rush from her face. She could tell this man was at his last moment. "Sir? Where are you right now? Can you tell me exactly where you are?"

She had on her monitor the caller's name, number and address. She set into motion all necessary actions to dispatch immediate help, but she wanted to keep her caller on the line and talking.

Craig had lost his focus. He realized he was swooning, so he sat up straight to regain his composure and said, "I need an ambulanthe! I need help now. I...bloooood...ohhhhhh..."

"Sir? Sir? Sir, please! Mr. Braudway, I need you to talk to me! It is vitally important that you stay with me. Help is on the way right now. Do you understand? Mr. Braudway?"

A moment later, she heard him fall to the floor.

That story, Needing a Hand, was my second publishing achievement and likely one of my better ones, since I had to compete against numerous other submissions for the space. This next story is none of that, since it has never been published until now, and has only been read by the one for whom it was intended.

This is my latest short story and was written for my wonderful wife, Mary. It is here via her permission, as it was truly a gift to her and therefore her property.

I have written a number of stories for various people, including Crystal Flowers. But throughout the years, I have never done such a thing for Mary. While she was never a jerk about it, one could tell she recognized that out of several people in my life, she was among those who had not received a story written just for her. Since we're married and all that, one would assume this was something I would address.

Well, the thing is, I wanted to do something just like that for her for years. But the other thing is that these stories don't just pop up on demand. Maybe they do for other writers, but for me, it can be a struggle. I thought about it and thought about it for years, with nothing coming to mind I thought would be worthy. But as we approached our tenth wedding anniversary, I knew I wanted to do this quite badly.

I failed to create any such thing for our tenth anniversary and I was disappointed. But shortly after our tenth, we were at Downtown Disney during the Festival of the Masters and looking through the various artists and their wondrous work. This is when I met Teresa Merriman.

Teresa Merriman is this sweet woman who is the founder of Mind's Eye Journals. She makes these glorious hand-made books that are simply to die for. It was when I saw one of these that I knew what I wanted to do for Mary on our next anniversary.

I couldn't buy one of the many glorious books Teresa had there at the time, since, like always, I was broke. But I was determined to do what I thought was the perfect thing, which was obtain one of these books eventually and hand write a story for Mary within it. You see, we were married on Mary's birthday, so the deal is that I provided a separate gift for each event. She gets a birthday present and an anniversary present, and these are to be distinctly different. I wholeheartedly concur.

But I decided I would sort of blend the two gifts this time, with one complimenting the other. I had long considered buying Mary jewelry made from sea glass, since sea glass was something she found pretty. Thus, the idea for the story was born.

I found this glorious pendant made from sea glass and decided it would have a history behind it; much the same way the crystal flower did for what's-her-face. It took some time and I had to beat my head against a few things to shake the creativity loose (because I am a truck driver and not allowed to utilize recreational drugs to prompt creative ideas, I have found a lot of blunt-force trauma to the skull works almost as well), but eventually a story unfolded.

On our anniversary, I presented her with the hand-made book with the story I wrote for her within it. I informed her that once she read through the story, she would know exactly what her birthday present would be. She would just have to fight through my horrible handwriting.

She found both gifts to hit the spot just fine. This is the story I wrote for the love of my life.

A Day at the Beach

Because of the early hour, it wasn't difficult at all to find a great parking place near the beach; a place they sought for the soothing of their souls. The time was indeed early, being merely several minutes before the actual sunrise. While the eastward direction displayed an azure sky promising a wondrous daybreak, the western sky was still rather dark, with several stars and distant planets twinkling their last hint of radiance before giving in to the morning sun.

While the four grown-ups in the van looked forward to getting to the cool sands and gentle surf, it was a bit of a struggle motivating the two little ones to stir.

"All right, kids," their mother, Samantha, said as she gently unfastened the child restraints. "We're here at the beach. We really are."

Their young son, eight years old, felt a twinge of motivation, both at the sound of his Mom as well as the gentle waves and the cries of a gull. Aaron's eyes opened wide, and although he rubbed them with two fists to battle the sleep, his motors were already humming to the promise of open space and sand.

Their little girl, Suzie is her name, who was six, wasn't so ready despite the fact that she was the one jumping with glee the night before, anxious to make sand castles and feel the rush of the waves roll her over. It was funny to watch this with her, as it always frightened her somewhat, but yet she still enjoyed it. The sleep held her a bit tighter still as it always had, blessedly, but she resisted the embrace of Morpheus more as her mother's hands untangled the straps.

The children's father, Jonathan, helped his mother out of the car while Samantha attended to the kids, and his Dad, Joe, who drove them to where they were, surveyed the scene, as though this was his place while everyone else attended to the mundane things. There wasn't much to bring, just a few beach blankets and one folding chair along with the few plastic toys the kids could play with in the sand, but Dad was on point and wouldn't be distracted.

Carol came around the van to help her daughter-in-law with the sleepy beauty, but the little one was fighting the restraints in order to get out by the time her grandmother got there. It seems Morpheus was done.

"Ready to go, shark bait?" Grandpa Joe said to the boy, whose springs were wound tight at the sight of the bit of surf he could see under the gaining twilight.

"Sure am, Gramps!" he exclaimed, bouncing for the word to go.

"Hang on, there buddy," his father stated while he grabbed the few things he could carry. "Wait for us."

That order bled some of Aaron's steam, but he was still clearly anxious to bolt once the word came. Once his little sister's feet were on the ground and everyone was out of the van, it was time to traverse the boardwalk to the actual beach. The timing couldn't have been much better, as the sun, still well out of sight, promised an arrival right on time.

The van was locked and they were on their way, so the boy's Dad said, "All right, kiddo. Go for it, but be careful."

The boy blazed down the boardwalk as though he was there to make a rescue, quickly reaching the sand. He was kicking up a dust trail like a dune buggy through the Sahara, and before anyone could say shark bait, he was in the water. The little princess still had her mother's hand, but Mom could tell she was being gently tugged towards the cool sand.

Our couple, Joe and Carol, fell back as they watched the progeny move ahead, holding hands and easing along the boardwalk, taking in the scenery. After all, this was their goal, or, at least hers. Today is her birthday, after all, and all she asked for as a present on this day was a pleasant time with family while surrounded by the one place she found the most wondrous and serene. This one place is the beach.

Carol truly loved the beach. She'd never been one to fall in line with the drama of showing off the bikini, although she didn't mind when she was younger; her love was for the sounds, the fragrance of the salty waters, the warm (or cool) breezes, and the promise of it being the one place where life's difficulties were not allowed. The beach offered tranquility to all five senses, bringing a quintessential peace to the mind and soul. Her only particular was she preferred the beach either early in the morning or late in the day.

"It's going to be a beautiful sunrise, I think," she said as she looked over the scene.

It was indeed pretty. The indigo skies waned to the oncoming blue while the waters shimmered with the heightening brightness. There were a few boats way out, with a couple sailboats and what looked like a yacht far towards the horizon. The sea birds were on patrol for their breakfast, providing to the ambiance, and the sands were free of debris unless one counted the several starfish now retreating as the twinkling stars they came to pray to did the same. Yes, it was a pretty sight.

"I guess it all knew you were coming and didn't want to disappoint," Joe said to her, allowing some of his softer side to show.

"You didn't say anything, did you?" she joked.

"I didn't need to. Everyone knows perfectly well this is the day to show off."

Theirs were the last feet to reach the sand, and they found the sand was so comforting under their soles. They looked towards the kids and grandkids, seeing their son ventured into the shallow water with his boy while his lady sought for the mysteries hidden in the little shells peppering the landscape.

This family wasn't the only one in view. There were a few young couples in sight here and there, a few older couples, too, and one young family playing with a tiny little girl who made it clear she did not, did not, want to get her feet wet anymore. But the population was sparse, as was any noise outside the sounds native to this unique setting.

Indeed, the beach was quite exclusive and this distinctiveness was much of the draw. It was a meeting place for this world's two worlds; where the sea met the land and they shared a peaceful accord. The sun worshippers, barely dressed, relaxed and played only a short distance from where the dolphins danced, and the occasional hammerheads lurked. Their worlds were so different, yet so close, like the dimensions of length and depth. This was the one place where two different worlds, completely different and in no way combined, peacefully agreed on a line in the sand.

Carol watched the family for a bit, but wanted to find her way to where she liked to be once the sun finally peeked to greet. She walked down the beach to just a few feet from where the rolling waves crept up, and then sat down. Here, she would enjoy all of it up close. There were the sounds and smells of the waters right there without the distraction of the wet and cold, and the idyllic setting was literally encompassing.

This was where everything came together for Carol. The promise of the life-giving sun, so close and yet so far, would shine down upon the borders of the two living atmospheres of this unique world, where so much life found home.

Joe sat down next to her and took her hand, and they watched, waiting. The sun barely peeked at first, but quickly occupied center stage and gave witness to all before it, emanating life-giving power, warmth and light for all to behold. They watched a last starfish work its way back into the surf, recognizing it spent yet another night pondering on the twinkling stars so far above, wondering if that's where he would be when he was no longer here.

"None of us ever truly know, do we, my little friend," Joe said as he watched the starfish disappear, now holding his lady's hand a little closer, noticing their long shadows became more pronounced as the sun eventually presented itself in all its glory.

Such a moment occurs over a matter of a few minutes, but resides in its own magnificent wonder. To see the sun rise yet again from over the oceanic horizon brings them together with those who have witnessed just that since the dawn of time, so Joe and Carol loved sharing this moment together.

But once the sun was there in full brilliance, it was time to embark on another enjoyed pastime, which was seeking shells and the ever-elusive sea glass. They both rose to their feet while their son and his family enjoyed their time splashing and building the next great castle of sand; the perfect place for a little girl to dream of the castle she hopes to behold some sunny day.

"I can't help but to wonder if there's some place along this beach where that perfect little piece of sea glass will show itself, you know?" she asked as she looked. "That one wonderful piece I found had to be just beyond the sea grapes for, well, who knows how long, waiting to be found. I kick myself so much for losing it."

"I'm sure it will turn up sooner or later," he said. "You probably put it somewhere so it would never be lost and just forgot where that was."

"My mind is going, but it isn't gone that much," she responded. "So it just means we'll have to find one that's even better."

"Then a better piece is what we'll find. I have no doubt of that."

She wasn't genuinely fretting over the lost piece, but she'll never forget it. It was so much just the right size and shape, and the cobalt blue color, common in the day when the bottle was lost at sea by some seafaring adventurer hunting whale or dreaming of buried treasure, was exquisite. The years of tumbling and working through the sands as it sought the shoreline provided great character and untold stories to the piece...no, she would never forget it.

They enjoyed their time together while walking and searching along the warming sands, and before long there were others coming to partake of the beautiful day. There were families, couples, and a few lonesome souls accompanied either with a sketchbook, a good read, or more commonly these days, something like a Kindle. Off in the distance, someone brought rise to a kite resembling something like one might see in a science fiction movie.

While Carol watched through the sands and shells for anything that might catch her eye, she also watched the world come alive with people visiting the beach, with either blankets and umbrellas and some with boogie boards, and one surf board. Joe never understood how these tame waves drew the wannabe surfers out, but then, the beach was a place to rejoice in the moment, regardless of how. This wasn't a location of logic, but of emotional centering. After all, if it wasn't for the peaceful harmony offered, this borderline of two worlds would be fraught with danger; the danger of being eaten, broiled, or drowned. This serene, diplomatic phenomenon furthered the wonder, and the draw, so long as one knew the rules.

"Now, this isn't a bad piece of glass," she said as she picked up a slightly worn green piece of sea glass.

"No, not too bad," he said, although they both knew he wouldn't recognize the good from bad in such a thing. "But I think it seems obvious it was once a Heineken bottle, lost by someone more interested in the bikinis than the collectibles."

"Yeah, but a few more years in the sands and it will be as stunning as anything in a bikini," she said as she gave it a good toss back into the waters. "When it comes back, we'll see what we think of it then."

She used to carry a small pail with her to collect the treasures of shells and glass, but since she had so much in jars and cups at home, lately it's been a search only for the finest pieces, and only the finest of the finest would be brought back in the palm of her hand. After all, it wasn't so much of a genuine search for actual treasure that motivated her; it was the search for the serenity the beach offered early in the morning, when the sun wasn't too hot and the sounds were limited to the waves and delighted children.

By the time she had a good handful of choice pieces, they turned to see they had wandered down the beach quite a ways from their kids. They could still see them from where they were, though. They could see they were enjoying their time here, too, which wasn't surprising. Their son so loved coming to the beach since he was far younger than his little girl was now.

But the beach was something all of them learned to enjoy in doses. While they used to spend a good deal of the day on the beach, they finally recognized the sun held little patience for those who pushed their luck. Sunburns, they eventually learned, can be rather troublesome for those with lingering Irish roots.

The plan was to enjoy the eastern beach until the sun reached high enough to get confident in its dominance; once that point was upon them, they would retreat to the shadows.

"I suppose we'd better turn back," she said.

He had thought so for a few minutes by then, but knew well enough to know the decision was hers to make. They both knew they would linger long enough for the children to come to terms with the promise there would be another beach to enjoy, once the sun traveled to the other side of the sky. This lingering was a renewed quest along the beach already searched, as anyone knew elusive treasure eluded even the sharpest of eyes, and neither of them knew anyone with eyes so sharp.

Apparently, their eyes weren't incisive enough, since they saw or found nothing worthy of interest along the way back. But once they were close enough to their son and his family, the unspoken understanding that it was near time to move on was acknowledged. While they approached the brood, the plastic toys were gathered and the blankets rolled up. Everyone knew the deal and was good with it; there was still the pursuit for more exciting adventure to be had this day, and this beach was just the start.

"Do you nefarious plotters have something in mind from here, or are we just winging it?" Carol asked.

"Honestly, we're just winging it from here," Joe said. "We didn't see the point in following some grand map; it isn't as though we could get lost."

Moving westward in order to be on a western beach, regardless of which one it was, that evening in order to see the sunset, was the primary motivator. After all, this was about enjoying the day and the beach, but everyone knew there was no enjoying the beach all day. Like all good things, the beach is best in doses. Besides, in Florida, seeing the sunrise and then sunset on the beach requires little more than the effort it takes to throw a party.

"We gonna get some lunch, Grandma?" Suzie asked as she brushed the sand from herself. "You think we can get smoothies?"

There was the one smoothie and this one was hooked. "We'll see, sweetie. I'm sure we'll come up on one sooner or later."

They left the beach and made their way to the van, looking around to find the shower. There was no doubt it would be cold, but ridding the little bodies of sand and salt would assure a better ride, as those things can lend to serious discomfort when allowed to linger.

"Wow! It's cold, Mom!"

"I didn't doubt it for a moment," she said.

Once everyone was fairly clean and dry, they moved on for more fun and adventure, and something to eat and drink. The day started with little more than coffee for the adults, and the kids wouldn't take in anything before loading up in the van, as they were still immersed in slumber. But now, motivators were different, so they sought to appease the new angst. The intent was to find a simple place nearby, either a beachside diner or even a simple Denny's or IHOP would do.

"Does anyone have any suggestions for some eats?" the old man asked while driving.

Getting some breakfast, or brunch, depending on how one looked at it, was something he wanted to accomplish and get behind them quickly rather than ponder on it. This was due to the goal of making it across the state in order to be there for the sunset while on a west coast beach. Sure, they had hours before sunset would even be on their radar, but his better half and he know all too well just how time can fly. It didn't seem like that long ago when they were newlyweds enjoying their first sunrise on the beach (it was Cocoa Beach and she remembers it like it was yesterday), but it had been some time, since it was well before their son, now a father of two, was so much as a glimmer.

"Pizza!" was a cry, almost in perfect harmony, from the two little ones.

Their mother said, "It's a little early for pizza, don't you think?"

Her son said, "It's lunch time somewhere, Mom."

The boy's father had to smile and say, "That one's bound to be a lawyer, I think."

While the lad presented a compelling argument before the court, the jury had other menu ideas in mind.

"While pizza certainly does sound enticing, I was thinking we might go for something south of the border," his grandmother said.

Because this was her day more than anyone's, the thought of Mexican rang well with everyone, including the pizza lovers.

"Tacos!"

"I hate to be a pain, but I'm not sure what we'll find in Mexican at this hour. It might work well for dinner, but right now might be a little early," Jonathan said.

"I suppose you're right," she said. "There's bound to be a Denny's or IHOP close by. I think I would like Mexican later on, but not all day. If I did that, I'd know about it tomorrow."

"With all of us in the van, we'd all know about it!" chimed in a rascal's voice from the back, inspiring giggles.

"That's enough out of you, young man," his mother said, but with a grin.

First assumptions were correct, and it wasn't long before a Denny's came into sight. Denny's was a preferred choice for an informal breakfast since it was rather laid back, demanding no pretension. The menu was simple and offered something for everyone, including decent coffee and plenty in terms of American breakfast choices, available all day.

It wasn't long before breakfast was placed before all, and they were all hungrier than they first thought. But once they were a few bites in, thoughts drifted somewhat into the future.

"So, just what are we planning to do once we get out of here?" the birthday lady asked. "Or is it some sort of secret."

"Not really," her other half answered. "We know we want to be on the western beach before sundown, but other than that, we're winging it. So, do you have any ideas of what it is you want to do? It is your day, lovely lady."

"I have what I wanted right here," she said, meaning it. "But about half way across the state, we could stop by in Old Town, there in Kissimmee, and wander around for a bit. There are the shops and things, and some fun the kids would enjoy. But before that, we could look into some of the window shopping around here."

"That sounds like a good time, Mom," Jonathan said.

"Yeah. We haven't been by Old Town in a while," Sam agreed.

The two younger ones were oblivious in their syrup-laden pancakes, offering only syrup-laden smiles.

She truly had all she sought, right there with her. The children were enjoying their breakfast while their parents sipped their coffee and looked through the paper placemats detailing what was in the vicinity. Her husband, enjoying his coffee while holding her hand, appeared so content in the moment.

She gently let go of his hand and reached into her pocket for the few treasures she brought from her search along the beach. Within the handful were a small count of rather pretty shells she felt would go well in her collection at home. But she pulled from the handful four small pieces of pretty sea glass she found and then put the shells away.

"Those are nice, little pieces, Mom," her daughter-in-law said, admiring what she found. "One can only imagine what stories they might be able to tell about their travels back to the shore."

After wiping an excess amount of syrup dripping from his daughter's little chin, her husband said, "Well, if I know my sea glass, that little green piece was lost at sea about fifty, no, seventy five years ago, off one of the last pirate ships tossed and sank just off the coast, ravaged by a hurricane none of them saw coming."

Aaron looked in wonder and then said, "Gee, do you really think so, Dad?"

"Absolutely," he said with confidence. "The ship's captain, Rasmussen was his name, hastily scribbled a note before the ship was sunk, detailing for anyone who might find the note stuffed in his green bottle of rum, the names of the scurvy dogs who served him well aboard their doomed ship. He didn't want their histories lost to the Davie Jones' Locker, but just before he could toss the bottle in the sea, a stormy wave tossed the ship to the starboard. He tried catching the bottle before it escaped him, and while grabbing for it before it was gone, the metal hook that was his left hand shattered the bottle. His historic note fluttered away in the storm, and just a moment later, their pirate ship was overturned. That's why we only know of Rasmussen, since all other hands' names were lost forever."

"Too cool," the boy said, finding new wonder in the otherwise obscure piece of sand-scarred glass.

"You and your fantastic stories," his mother said with a smile.

"What about that one, Daddy?" Suzie asked, now curious and pointing at a small, brown piece.

"Oh, that one," her grandfather said, stealing the show. "That one is the only piece left from a mysterious ship lost at sea well over a century ago. The ship was destined for the lost island of the mermaids, determined to prove once and for all that the mermaids told of in myth and legend were all too real. Do you remember what happened on that ill-fated, stormy night?"

"I think so, Dad," the children's father said, running with it. "The story goes that even though the seas were high and the winds threatened to dash the schooner into the rocks, the crew was sure they could see dozens, maybe hundreds of beautiful mermaids swimming all around the ship.

"Now, the thing is, it turns out the storms were not the true cause of the ship's loss. Oh, no. Legend has it that when a sailor looks into the alluring eyes of a beautiful mermaid, he's instantly hypnotized by her magical gaze. So, with mermaids all around their vessel, before long, all hands on deck were lured away from their posts, captivated by the spell cast on them by the magical sirens of the sea. If my understanding of the story is right, the ship went out of control and crashed on the rocks of Mermaid Island, and even today those poor sailors are held captive, forever doomed to serve the mermaids who rule them.

"That one little piece of glass was the only thing able to escape, coming back here to tell the tale."

"Wow!" was the response from the gullible waifs, wide-eyed and slack-jawed.

"Okay," their matriarch stated. "I think that's enough history lessons from the peanut gallery. Let's get out of here before it gets any deeper."

Once they left the restaurant, they decided they'd leave the van parked where it was and simply wander around the block before moving on. They left the restaurant lot and took a left, looking around as they did so. The children's parents held the hands of the little ones, with their father taking his little girl's hand and Mom holding her son back and out of traffic. Carol and Joe fell back a few steps, holding hands and content to follow along.

None of them were looking for anything particular, except to spend the quality time together. However, if anything jumped out, vying for the attention, they would happily succumb to the draw. There were the standard fashion shops, with mannequins wearing next to nothing in the windows, displaying their awkward mechanical joints while the beach fashions hid naughty parts clearly absent.

"If I saw that bikini on one of those young girls on the beach, I think even I would blush," their son said as he held his little girl's hand. "I think you could hide the thing in her fist and not know it was there."

"Yeah, just wait until that little girl of yours is anxious to put it on and parade it up and down the beach," his father said. "If you think that day isn't coming, I missed something in your upbringing."

He smiled and said, "Well, I have a decade or so before it's a major concern, so I have time to brace for it."

"The decades pass fast, so don't ponder for too long," Carol offered. "Hey look. There's a shell shop. I wonder what part of the world their shells came from; I doubt they came from anywhere within this part of the world. I haven't seen a shell on these beaches big enough to hide that bikini in, ever."

"Who knows, Mom," Sam said as she restrained the anxious boy. "They might have some samples of nice sea glass in there."

"Yeah, they might. Why don't we go in and check it out."

It turned out the good-sized shop had a wide variety of all sorts of things. There were shells galore, of all sorts, shapes and sizes. Indeed, it wouldn't take much to assume such large and beautiful shells would never be found on these populated beaches, but some of the smaller and tiny shells, equally pretty, could be spotted on occasion, perhaps after a powerful storm. And yes, there were numerous samples of very pretty sea glass waiting to be admired.

Gramps displayed some chivalry and took his grandson by the hand so the ladies could look and admire without concerns and distractions. His son looked over the wares with his daughter, who was awed by some of the large conches and their singular designs.

"Good morning, everyone," a nice lady said from behind the counter. "If there's anything I can help you with, please just let me know."

"Thank you, dear."

"I can't help but to think a lot of this sea glass is counterfeit," Carol said to her son's better half. "They probably have a tumbler in the back, operated by a couple of dumpster divers looking for choice pieces tossed in the trash the night before. But then, some of these are really nice."

"Yeah, the real ones are likely now the jewelry for sale," she said. "But somebody loved them, because some of these are so pretty."

"Yes, they are. But they only make me miss this one piece of sea glass I recently lost," Carol said. "It was probably the best piece I've ever seen let alone had. He thinks I just put it away and forgot where, but I'm stumped by it. Believe me, if you'd seen it, you'd know why I can't imagine myself losing it."

"I'm sorry, Mom. I hope you find it."

She sighed and then said, "Yeah, so do I. And when I do, I can tell you it won't be lost again."

The men were clearly not too interested in the shop, mainly because there were no swords or guns for sale, although they noticed some little works of art made entirely of shells and looking like women with shells for bikinis. There were also little trucks and cars, miniature homes and cottages, and a good number of various trees, all made with care from otherwise forgettable little shells.

"While a lot of these shells are certainly unique, I can bet you'll like the rock shop at Old Town. There are all kinds of interesting things to see there."

"Is that a hint, young man?" she asked as she glanced from Joe to Sam.

"Not at all, my dear," he said. "You ladies look around to your hearts' content. I merely wanted to offer the information in the spirit of being cordial. You know, good customer service and stuff."

"Uh huh."

"Well, I think we should move on, anyway," she said. "Nothing is jumping out at me in here."

But they didn't leave empty handed, mainly to offer a bit of business to the otherwise quiet shop.

"If you two see a shell or something you like," they said to the kids. "We might be able to pick up one thing for each of you."

Suzie quickly spotted a large conch she really liked, and her brother grabbed, for reasons nobody knows, a small bag of sand dollars colored different colors with something likely to be food coloring.

"And you want that, for what?" his Dad asked.

The boy shrugged, clearly not having an answer other than he wanted to grab something. He was told he could have something, and while it seemed nothing in there jumped out at him either, he wasn't about to leave empty handed.

"I dunno. They're kind of neat."

"Okay," his Dad said as he took the small treasures and went to the register.

"Will that be everything?" the nice lady asked.

"Yes, I think so."

"I saw you admiring some of the sea glass. There isn't anything among the choices you might like?"

Carol stepped in and said, "To be honest, there is a piece of sea glass I once found on the beach, and it was just glorious. But apparently it wasn't that glorious, since I managed to lose it somewhere. But I just don't feel right taking in another piece until that one's found. I'm just being weird, I know, but there it is."

"That isn't weird at all, my dear. I once found a dried, dead starfish that I thought was the prettiest example I've ever seen, yet managed to break it," she said. "So, because I had the best and broke it, I won't allow myself to get another one. We believe the poor thing came out during one clear night with all the others; you know, to worship the stars along with the rest. It ended up tangled in some litter on the beach and couldn't make it back to the water."

"Well then," Joe said. "Now the others come out at night to ponder on it as it twinkles to its kin below."

"I suppose it does," she said with a smile. "I hope you folks have a marvelous day."

"We intend to do exactly that. Good bye to you and good luck."

The troupe thought about making it around the block, but decided against it. They went back to the van, loaded up, and made their way down the road to merge on and then traverse the length of I-4.

"All right, everyone," their pilot said. "We're now en route to the wondrous Old Town as our first choice for our first stop. Please place your trays up and your seats to the fully upright position. This is your captain speaking, and we'll soon be at the speed limit, so please relax and enjoy the ride."

Suzie had a look of puzzlement on her face, catching the attention of her mother.

"What's wrong, sweetie?"

While the little one whispered, she did so just loud enough for everyone to hear.

"Mommy, the tray on my car seat doesn't move at all, and nobody else has one."

This brought a sweet chuckle to everyone, knowing full well they'll never forget this little quote from an innocent mind.

As their van moved down I-4 from its beginning, they recognized there was little to see through that particular stretch, other than billboards and the ever-present lumbering semis, so someone found it a good time to reminisce.

"Mom wants a lovely day with her family for her birthday, and I think that's such a sweet and great idea," her son said. "Dad, once your next birthday comes up, what is it you would like?"

"Hmm," he said in thought. "I'll have to think on that some. Once upon a time I would have liked to have spent the day hiking the trails in Asheville, but the level ground of Florida combined with the fact that the warranty ran out on these knees long ago has me searching for another idea. Maybe we'll go see the keys."

"Oh, that's a marvelous idea," his lovely bride said. "The wheels are officially turning as of now."

"How about you, son? What's been running around in your mind?"

His wife answered for him. "Well, if his last lurid idea is still with him, he's hoping Charlize Theron will approach him with a note in her hand, with the note being written in my hand, saying, 'Have a happy, happy, happy birthday and tell me all about it tomorrow."

His mother huffed in mock disgust and said, "That is not the young man I raised, I can tell you that!"

His father laughed out loud and said, "No, that's the young man I raised. Ha! Now I'm jealous."

"Well, I won't hold my breath on that," Jon said, blushing some. "I suppose I could settle on a nice cruise or a few days in the Bahamas."

"Oh, yeah," Sam said. "Whichever one we don't do on your birthday, we'll do on mine."

"I wanna go to Sea World on my birthday!" Suzie said from the back. "Maybe Shamu would help me blow out my birthday cake."

"You might want to consider a backup cake should that occur," her grandfather said. "He has a tendency to make things a bit soggy. How about you, Shark Bait?"

"I want to climb the Himalaya Mountains for my birthday, Gramps. Doesn't that sound cool?"

"Wow, and I thought my idea was a bit out of reach," his father said. "It does sound cool, but I was thinking somewhere in this hemisphere might be a better place to start. We do have an Everest nearby, and that's one in the Himalayas, you know."

Gramps there took Carol's hand and said, "Now, how did we end up in Florida with all these mountain climbers in the pack?"

"Because there are no beaches in the mountains, dear."

"No, I suppose there aren't any of those," he said. "Well, there might be the best of both in Hawaii, from what I hear. Maybe that's what we'll do for your next birthday."

"Wouldn't that be nice," she said. "But those are some big plans."

"Yeah, they are that. But still, we should check into it sometime."

By the time they were passing over the St. John's River Bridge, traffic congestion picked up by a few degrees.

"What kind of license plate is that, Grandpa?"

"Uh, I think it looks like a cheap steel, if I were to guess from here."

"I think he means which state does it come from, smart guy." She replied to the boy with, "Wow, if my eyes are still working like they should, I think it said from Alaska. Wow, but they've come a long ways. And in a Subaru station wagon, too? They're stronger and more patient than me."

"Why don't you count and point out the different license plates you see, son?" Sam said. "You just might see a few from other than these parts."

"I would, but I can hardly ever read the states," he said. "Some of them are hard to pronounce. Except for the ones from New York and New Jersey. Those ones are easy."

As they drove through Orlando, everyone did see quite a few license plates other than from Florida, although there were plenty of those. They were thankful this day wasn't among those known as among the peak tourist season, but tourists would be seen any day of the year. This blessed fact helped them make it through the Orlando area with but a few occasional taps on the brakes (mostly along Fairbanks Curve), and those were mainly because of the odd slowpoke who clearly had few clues as to what the speed limit was for.

Once they were through Orlando, it wouldn't be much longer and they'd soon reach the exit for the Kissimmee/Celebration area, and Old Town wouldn't be much further from there.

"Has Old Town changed much over the years?" Jon asked while his son examined passersby for their license plates. "I can't remember the last time we were there."

"A couple of the shop names might have changed in order to protect the innocent," his father said as he drove. "But otherwise, I doubt the place has changed much at all in ages. I imagine the predictability is one of the draws."

"Are you going to ride the Sky Coaster with me, Grandma?" her grandson asked, now bored with license plates. "You might get a free ride since it's your birthday."

"Well, since I was hoping this wasn't going to be my last birthday," she said, "I think I'll pass."

"But Grandma," her husband said as he squeezed her hand. "You're not going to pass up on a free ride, are you?"

"If I get a free ride on the Ferris Wheel, maybe I'll consider that, Mr. Knievel," she said. "But you can have my free Sky Coaster ride, should one be available."

"Yeah, Grandpa! You and me will ride it!"

"There's likely a height restriction for that contraption, my boy," Grandpa said as he exited from the highway and onto Hwy 192. "One of us is bound to be too tall."

They parked in plain view of the Sky Coaster, which demonstrated a daring young couple seemingly swinging to their certain deaths. The young woman screamed as though she was being chased by an axe murderer, even though her beau is strapped in right next to her. He was quite silent, but probably more frightened than his lady.

"Aw, Grandma. We have got to do that!" the boy said.

"We have got to do no such thing, young man," she said as she took in the mass of the attraction. Truthfully, she couldn't see the attraction; she assumed you could obtain the same results by sitting down and quietly eating bad shellfish.

"How about you, Gramps? Are you going to ride it with me?"

Gramps looked up at the young couple now tick-tocking to a halt, their ride done and now officially in the annals of personal history. It appeared as though their cages were rattled some, but they did look as though they were glad they paid well over a hundred and fifty dollars for the experience.

"Sure, boy. Let's go do it right now; we'll get it out of the way and it'll be done."

The other adults looked at him as though he was suffering classic stroke symptoms.

"Dad, you're not serious. I mean, look at that thing."

"Aw, stop being such a bunch of weenies. We'll take a look at it, is all. There might be height restrictions and he won't be able to go." Gramps looked to the boy and said, "If you just can't do it because of a height restriction, you'll just have to cowboy up and cope, got that?"

"If I am tall enough, you'll have to saddle up and be ready to ride."

"So, what you got now, cowboy?" Grandma said. "Boy, the trick on those measuring sticks is to push up with your toes."

Gramps wouldn't be deterred, so he said, "Come on, troops. The ones who don't ride have to bask in the glow of those who do. But...maybe it would be a good idea to stop by the facilities before strapping in. Just thinking of the spectators, you know."

"You've always been the one to think it through, clearly," Carol said. "I'm so glad I brought the video camera. This is footage we'll surely want to keep."

"Oh, this is just too awesome!" the boy cheered.

"I think you're a kooky head," pointed out his little sister.

"As long as boys are in your life, kooky headedness is something you need to get used to, little darling," her mother told her.

After a well-planned, and desired, stop at the restrooms, the troupe moved towards the Sky Coaster, with most of them wondering why. Everyone knew when Gramps allowed a hare-brained scheme to get through the filters it's best just to strap in and hang on, but this time they all had to wonder when someone was going to step up and call this off. Yet, Gramps supposedly still had his wits about him, and nobody wanted to just out-and-out let the boy down, so now this is simply an attraction in and of itself.

As they approached the check-in window in order to see this through, everyone took notice of Gramps eyeing the featured attraction, now able to take in a more accurate measurement of just how enormous the thing really is. But his gait showed no signs of doubt, mainly because such a thing would never be allowed, and he confidently approached the counter.

"Good morning, young lady," he said to the girl behind the window. "We've just come up to see how long it might be before this young man is tall enough to ride this crazy thing. He has it in his head it's something he wants to do."

"I guess we would have to check to be sure," she said. "But he looks tall enough to me, you know, from looking at him from here. If someone wants to ride with him, you could do it right now. There isn't even a wait."

"Well, isn't that more than marvelous," Carol said. "Let's check that height and then get on up there, boys."

"Will you be riding with them, ma'am?"

"Don't be silly, dear; this thing is for crazy people far younger than me. I'm merely here to witness this."

"So, I'm not too tall or anything like that? I'm glad the boy is tall enough, but there are no other restrictions I should know about?"

"None I am aware of, sir."

"Well, space cowboys," Jon said. "Are you two ready to make it happen?"

"You're not going to allow your wimpy Dad to back out of this here, are you, boy?"

"Hey, how did I get caught up in this?" Jonathan asked.

"Come on, Dad! You'll have a blast, I promise!"

"Yeah, Dad!" Gramps said. "The more the merrier. We'll show these ladies why we wear the boxers around here."

"I should've seen this coming," Jon said.

Before any of them knew it, the two and a half men were being hoisted to a height of three hundred feet in order to plummet on a cable between the two A-frames, where they would be unceremoniously released to swing to a stop.

"So, there it is. A picture-perfect representation of how crazy men can be. The two who know better won't say anything, and the one who thinks this is a good idea truly thinks there are giant robots from outer space bigger than this thing running around the city. The middle one didn't even want a part in this, yet there he goes."

And it was just like they thought it would be; the crane winched the three nuts to the top, and then some mechanical release sent the three generations swinging to what appeared to be certain death. Judging by the screams, at least two of the two and a half felt death was coming right at them.

"And what we women do about it is right here, too. Men have been acting like crazy fools since the dawn of time, but they somehow make it go like they thought it would, sometimes and after a while. And here we are, silently watching and wondering if this is the time, the time when we would see this fool ride the wave to his own demise. But I'm sure they're not hauling bodies out of here on a daily basis, so my treat was being able to watch them do this when they know they don't want to. Also, when they're done...their reactions afterwards are often worth the most."

It wasn't long after all and the three of them were being unstrapped.

"Their reactions?" Sam asked.

"Oh, you know. They range from an expression of it was no big deal to I can't wait to do that again. But now that the fool I married is getting long in the tooth, he might shrug it off with something like, eh, it isn't nearly as bad as they make it sound. Something like that."

As the three daredevils approached after their death-defying stunt, she asked, "So, was it worth the power bill's money to do that?"

"I can't wait to do that again, Grandma! It was too cool!" shark bait claimed.

"I don't know; it was no big deal," the boy's Dad said.

"Eh, it isn't nearly as bad as they make it sound," Gramps pointed out. "But we can chalk it up as done and accomplished. What's next? Oh, the rock store. Is the beer tent near there?"

Grandma looked to her daughter-in-law, who wore a subtly surprised expression.

"I would say it comes with age, but those things become all too predictable long before you're no longer comfortable in a bikini."

They walked along the corridors between the stores, allowing the children to ride some of the rides, most of which were simple carnival-type rides. Grandma did follow through and ride the Ferris Wheel with her grandchildren, and they enjoyed that very much, judging from the smiles. Afterwards, the three girls browsed through the fashion shops while the men perused the martial arts store, but they all took notice of the magic shop, wandering in to be amused and amazed.

"Good afternoon, everyone," the storekeeper said. "If there's anything I can help you with, please don't hesitate to let me know."

"Thank you, sir."

Our couple held hands while browsing through the various books, doodads, and numerous card tricks available in the store. Their kids and grandkids looked through the stuff displayed in the clear counter, seeing various bells, whistles, smoke and mirrors for sale (at an incredibly high price), all with the purpose of amazing wannabe magicians with fun tricks they can use to fool and amaze their friends and family.

"Is there something in here I can do to make it look like I disappeared?" shark bait asked, mesmerized by the possibilities.

Suddenly and seemingly out of nowhere, the shopkeeper was right there next to them.

"Oh!" Sam exclaimed, stunned by the man's suddenly close proximity.

"So, you must be a budding and promising new magician, is that right?" he said to the boy, who was also taken aback.

"Yeah, that would be really cool."

"I might have just the thing," he said as he walked towards the counter, where they all thought he was originally.

The tall and very pale man picked up an ornate box and removed from it what looked like an old bed sheet. It was white (or once was, but was now discolored and gray). He brought it, balled up instead of folded, to where the family was.

"This, my friends, is a magic sheet, once used by Harry Houdini during some of his finest and yet most private shows. Sure, he had the typical performances where he did his daring escapes, but when he was commissioned to perform for VIP's, this sheet helped him with his most popular and amazing feats."

"Did he now?" Gramps asked, unimpressed.

"That he did," the shopkeeper said. "This was his most treasured item, which he kept hidden and secret until he passed it on to me, as I was his favorite apprentice."

"His favorite apprentice, you say? Wow, you look good for your age."

"So it would seem," the shopkeeper said. "Would you like to see a quick demonstration before you make any firm decisions?"

"Sure!" the boy said, excited to see something, anything magical.

"Watch this," the man said as he allowed the balled up sheet to open up to the floor. "Now, before I proceed, do you see the shop right across the way, the candle shop?"

They all looked and there it was, with all of these ridiculously intricate candles for sale.

"Can't miss it," they said.

"Okay, what I'll do is merely drape this sheet over myself, and once it drops to the floor, looking as though I am no longer under it, look to the candle shop across the way, okay?"

"That would be a neat trick," Carol said, now looking forward to the show.

The shopkeeper simply draped the sheet over himself, as though he was dressing in a silly ghost costume. But once the sheet settled over him, it suddenly collapsed to the floor in a heap, clearly with nobody under it.

It in itself was a stunning sight, but once they saw the man was obviously gone, they all looked to the candle shop across the way, where they saw the shopkeeper standing inside the store, looking their way and waving.

"Totally awesome!" the boy said, grabbing for the sheet.

His father took his hand and pulled him from it, now not wanting this trick in his precocious son's hands.

"So, what do you think, folks?" the shopkeeper said, now actually coming around from the counter rather than from the shop across the way.

"Dear God in Heaven," the birthday lady breathed. "That's truly amazing! How did you do that?"

"Alas, young lady, a proper magician never tells his secrets, that is, unless the price is right," the shopkeeper said. "So, all I ask for this magic sheet is one thousand dollars."

"I'm sorry, sir, but we're not people prepared to pay something like that."

"Before you decide, what would you say to a demonstration with, perhaps, one of you?"

"I'll do it!" the boy cried. "I'd love to do it!"

"No, you won't," Jon said, now impressed too much for his son to partake.

"Then how about you, sir?" the shopkeeper asked.

"So, I'll end up in the candle shop, I assume?"

"You can actually go wherever you desire, my good man. This is how I would suggest you do this. Once you go to wherever you desire, pick up something there and then close your eyes. Click your heels together three times while your eyes are closed, and then you'll be here with us again. There are other ways to return, but the heel method resonates with most people. What do you say?"

Now doubtful, he said. "Okay, sure."

"Since you're sure," the shopkeeper said, "all I need you to do is focus on where you desire to go while I place this sheet over you. Now keep in mind, you won't want to linger, as the power of this can fade in time. Besides, there are people here waiting for you. Are you ready?"

Refraining from rolling his eyes, he said, "Let's go for it."

A bit pensive, Carol watched closely as the shopkeeper placed the sheet over her son. While the supposed illusion she'd witnessed with the shopkeeper suddenly transporting across the way into a neighboring shop was impressive, she didn't truly believe the story being told before her, and she wondered if all of this was for her benefit.

But when her son's form suddenly disappeared underneath the old sheet, she was rather unnerved.

"Hey, this looks like he's gone!" Sam said, seeing the empty sheet fall to the floor in a slump. "Where's my husband?"

"I must confess I truly do not know, as he didn't mention his destination before his sudden departure," the shopkeeper said. "Would you care to see another illusion while we wait for his arrival?"

"I think I've been more than impressed," Gramps said. "That's a hell of a trick, but I mean it when I say I just don't have the money you ask for. But I do look forward to hearing what the boy has to say when he returns. I thought you'd be just card tricks and plastic trolls floating on a thread."

"I assure you, I have plenty of that in here, along with instructional DVDs on how to shred and restore newspapers, always popular, and DVDs instructing one how to appear to levitate. There's plenty for everyone and business does rather well. But this magical sheet of Houdini's, while impressive, has enjoyed no takers."

"A grand demands a certain passion and degree of confidence, I would assume. But I've seen the torn and restored newspaper trick, and I kind of..."

Suddenly, while Gramps talked of how impressed he was with a trick he'd once seen done in a bar, his son suddenly appeared beside him, and then promptly fell to his knees and then against him, looking as though he just rushed out of a freezer after having been locked in there for an hour.

He was shaking violently, with severe ice and frost built up in his hair and through his eyebrows, and even his clothes looked frozen stiff.

"Oh, my God!" his mother exclaimed. "Are you all right?"

Her son looked up with a shocked expression on his face, still shivering violently, seemingly stunned by his surroundings.

"What...what in the hell...is the deal with that sheet?" Jon asked with chattering teeth.

"It is as claimed," the shopkeeper said. "Might I ask where you chose to go?"

Jon, still shivering, accepted a hand from both his wife and mother in order for him to find his way to his feet. While he seemed to have the strength to stand, he still looked dreadfully cold even while the frost and ice melted from him in the Florida warmth, even despite the shop's air conditioning.

He put out his hand, presenting an ice-covered stone. His father took it from him, but had to pass it from hand to hand, as it was that cold.

"Where did you get this, and what happened?" Joe asked as he examined the jagged stone.

"Dad, I went to...oh, my God...I went to the top of Mount Everest," he said.

"What?" was asked by several there.

"Oh, dear," the shopkeeper said. "I suppose I should have offered some warning about going anywhere potentially hazardous. But all seems well now. So, what did you see?"

"I couldn't see much, but...oh, I'm still so cold...but the moonlight allowed me to look around before the cold and lack of air nearly overpowered me," he said, still chattering his teeth. "I can tell you there were others there, and seeing me in t-shirt and shorts made them scream. I felt frightened, so I grabbed the nearest thing that would move and clicked my heels as you said.

"Sir, that sheet of yours is too dangerous for you to be doing this," he said, still holding himself to seek the warmth. "My God, I just don't know what else to say."

"It was rather impressive in its day, and I do not know where Harry got it," the shopkeeper said. "Just a few weeks before he died, he asked that I burn it. I tried, but it will not burn. It will not tear, either. I've been told it can only leave my presence if I honestly sell it. Until then, I must bear it, and everything else. Ah, I can tell you life is not as short as some claim.

"I do know, however, that today is your birthday," he said as he looked to the shivering man's stunned mother. "I also understand you desire to visit the rock shop down the way."

"I don't know how you know that, but yes, that's right."

"Well then, let us all find our way there."

The shopkeeper then unfolded the sheet and swirled it all around them. For the briefest of moments, all any of them could see was the sheet being fluttered before them, but once it settled down before the shopkeeper and he quickly folded it up and placed it under his arm, they all suddenly noticed they were no longer in the magic shop, but in the center of the rock shop.

"Hey, how did we get in here?" Suzie asked, looking shocked.

"Yeah," Gramps breathed. "What just happened?"

"You enjoy your birthday, young lady," the shopkeeper said with a pleasant smile. "Oh, and as for your precious piece of beautiful sea glass; I'm sure your lovely eyes will gleam as it does once you see it, which will be very, very soon."

He looked to Gramps and gave the subtlest hint of a wink, and then said, "I do hope all of you have a marvelous day, and I am sure you'll enjoy the beach and the sunset this evening, while the starfish appear to pay homage to their twinkling brethren above. I must go and attend to my shop, but I wish all of you the most wondrous of days. Goodbye."

And with that, the magic shop's keeper left them and wandered out of the rock shop.

They all looked at one another in wonder. "What just happened?"

"Hey, Grandma," Suzie said. "Look at all the pretty sea glass they have in here!"

"I'm sure it's lovely, sweetheart," she said, still quite distracted and amazed. "But I can't find it in myself to look at much of anything at the moment."

"I think the chill over me is giving way now," her son said, still rubbing his arms. "The time is getting on, so maybe we should consider getting out of this creepy place and moving towards the beach? Wow, but I could use some sunshine right about now, and maybe another one of those beers."

They moved as a family with a purpose, this time moving along the western corridor, which was out of sight of the magic shop. The time was getting to where some dinner would be a good idea before reaching the beach, where the official itinerary of the day would come to an end to see the completion of an astounding day.

"What are we going to do for dinner, Gramps?" Suzie asked. "All of you looking so excited makes me hungry!"

"Circling the world and reaching its highest and lowest points does give a guy an appetite," her Daddy said. "Okay, what would it be we would not want for dinner?"

"I've already been thinking through this," the birthday lady said. "If there's one thing I know that offers something for everyone in the crowd, even the hungry little ones, it is some good Mexican. And I just happen to know of a very nice place near to here."

"Then, please lead the way, our Sherpa guide to the land of salsa and the burrito," her husband said.

"All we need to do is move west a little, just a couple miles past I-4," she said. "It's down there not far from where the lovely orchid store is; we ate there once, Grandpa, after leaving the Animal Kingdom. I never forgot the fajitas, and I certainly recall the Margaritas."

"Margaritas? Oh, lead the way, dear lady!"

By the time the van was back on highway 192 moving westward, everyone's appetite for some good dinner was growling. It was nice to know they only had mere minutes to drive in order to reach the restaurant. But it was during this short trip that their mountaineering son needed to verify a few things.

"Love, could I see your smart phone? I need to look at something."

"Yeah, hon," Sam said, pulling it from her bag. "Here you are."

He looked consumed as he browsed on the clever, little device. But it was only a few moments and his expression changed from one of being in the zone to being in disbelief.

"Mom, you need to look at this."

He reached over the front seat with the phone. "Take a look at this picture and tell me what you see."

Carol examined the picture, not sure at first of what it was she was seeing. And then it dawned on her; this was someone she'd recently met.

"You cannot be serious. I could be wrong, but I would swear before a jury that the man in this picture is the same gentleman running that magic shop back there," she said. "But this looks like a rather old shot. Who is that in the picture with him?"

"You don't recognize the man in the photo with our esteemed magician?" he asked. "Why, that is none other than Harry Houdini, Mom. And take a closer look and tell me what that is tucked under Houdini's arm."

His mother looked closer at the photo, and the closer she looked, the harder it was to believe what she saw.

"That's rather difficult to believe, dear," she said. "This must be one of those doctored pictures."

"Okay, but for whose benefit? And just so you know, Houdini died in 1926, and this picture is labeled as being taken in 1922. And I would swear before a jury that what is tucked under Houdini's arm in that picture is the same old sheet we enjoyed back there. This says the gentleman's name is Eugene Reynolds, who's supposed to be, according to the article, one of Houdini's most promising apprentices."

"Let me see that," Gramps said, despite the fact that he was driving.

Gramps looked at the picture closely once he was stopped at a traffic light. He handed the phone back with little to say, but did offer, "So, what was it really like, up there at the top of the world under a darkened sky lit with the light of the moon?"

"The sight in that light was surreal, I can tell you that, but it was so cold. But what I'll never forget is the reactions from the two people who saw me. I couldn't see their expressions because of their goggles and such, but they acted like they saw a ghost."

"Okay, this has been quite the festive birthday, I must say. I've seen my boys fly, one of them reach from sea level to the highest point in the world, in seconds by the way, and now I get to see an animated and rather portly Statue of Liberty holding a sign informing us about the price of a Chinese buffet," she said. "Have I forgotten anything?"

"Seeing the starfish reach for the stars above has always been a big favorite of mine when it comes to the beach," Sam disclosed. "I can't help but to wonder what it is that goes through their minds."

"It is an amazing sight, isn't it?" our birthday lady said with a smile.

"Is that there the restaurant you were talking about?" Gramps asked.

"That is it, indeed," she said. "And it doesn't look like it's too crowded, either. I have a good feeling about this place. I think everyone will come to like this little restaurant. Wow, but their fajitas are to die for."

Gramps parked the van and everyone got out rather unceremoniously, what with this leg of the trip being just minutes long. They could see the adventure with the magic shop's shopkeeper was still a focal point in their son's mind, but at least his chills and frost were gone.

"I would imagine you've worked up quite the appetite," Carol said, "what with your magical, whirlwind adventures."

"I'm still reeling, Mom," he said, looking rather serious. "But I have to say that I experienced something today I never would have imagined. If I seem caught up in it, I do apologize, but I just can't believe it. I did it and I was there, on top of the world, and I just can't believe it."

"It's hard for any of us to get our heads wrapped around, but I'm just glad you're okay," she said. "So, how is that appetite?"

"It's another shocker, but I'm hungrier than I've been in a long time. I would've thought food would have been last on the list, but the smell of the food coming out of there has me drooling."

"Just don't drool on the waitress," Sam said. "These days they get kind of funny about things like that."

"Don't drool on the employees," he said, enunciating as if to devote to memory. "I think I got it."

They were greeted by a rather lovely young lady as soon as they walked in. "Good afternoon, everyone, and welcome to Pueblo Diablo's. My name is Margarita. Am I right in that there are six of you?"

"Yes, dear. My husband and I have been here once before, and I've been bragging about how wonderful I thought this restaurant was to the others."

"Well, then we'll be sure to see to it all of you will have marvelous stories to tell after tonight's experience," Margarita said.

"You don't have any magicians on hand, do you?" Gramps asked.

"Umm, no. I do apologize."

"No, no. We've had enough magicians for one day."

Margarita looked a bit confused, but then said, "I once had a deck of cards that could make all the different cards turn into the four of clubs, but that's about the extent of our magical talents here. But I think you'll find our menu items quite enchanting."

"That would be awesome," her son said.

Margarita smiled and said, "Right this way, please."

The family received a wonderful table, a round table, in one corner of the restaurant, allowing ample space for everyone to sit and enjoy. Carol and Joe decided they would share the fajitas while Jon decided on a stuffed burrito. Sam chose the chimichangas and the two children were having the Pueblo tacos.

"I am certainly looking forward to this meal," Carol said, "but once we're done, we should get going if we're going to make it to the beach before sunset."

"Roger that," Gramps said. "But I think we should have plenty of time so long as we don't lose track of time."

The waiter, named Jose, returned shortly after taking their orders, with some chips and salsa. "Could I interest you with something to drink?"

"I'm thinking margaritas for the adults and some lemonade for the children, along with some water for everyone, as well, if it wouldn't be too much trouble."

"It would be a pleasure," Jose said. "I'll be back in moments."

"I have to say that this has been quite the extraordinary birthday today," she said. "I want to thank all of you for that. And you two have been very well behaved today, which I very much appreciate."

"We promised Mom that we'd do our best today, Grandma," Suzie said. "And today has been a lot of fun."

"Yeah, so maybe we could go back to the magic shop sometime, and maybe I could go somewhere under the sheet?" shark bait asked.

"You can file that under never happening, my boy, so you might as well let it go," his father said. "That is going to remain a once in a lifetime thing, just so you know."

"But you got to admit, it was really cool," Aaron said. "And you and me, Grandma, will have to ride the Sky Coaster sometime."

"I think I would rather get under that sheet, to be honest," she said. "Although the sign didn't say it, I can tell you there is an age limit to that, and I'm a bit too old. I've been too old for that since I was your age."

Just about then, their beverages arrived, with everyone getting glasses of ice water along with their ordered drinks. While the children turned to their lemonade right away, Jon quickly downed his margarita in nearly record time.

"Okay, I think I really needed that," he said. "Maybe one more, at least, since I'm not driving."

"Magical teleportation takes a lot out of a guy, I take it," Gramps said. "To be honest, I'm at least as fascinated as he is."

"If I knew it was going to really work, I would have chosen somewhere else. Wow. If I knew it was going to really work..."

"The world is so full of so many amazing things, you know," Carol said. "I can't imagine anyone ever living long enough to know what they all are."

Before much more time passed, they could see Jose and another helping him approach with their orders.

"I'm telling you," Carol said. "You're going to be quite happy with your meals. Do you kids really like tacos? These might be a little different than the ones from Taco Bell."

Shark bait suddenly looked up from his lemonade glass (he'd drained it) and said, "What do you mean different? Isn't a taco a taco? They're not made of fish sticks, are they?"

If the boy was famous for anything besides his affinity for adventure, it was his marked dislike for fish sticks. Nobody could really blame him for that.

"No, they're made basically the same way, and yes, a taco is a taco," his Grandmother said. "But these are sort of, well, special tacos."

"These tacos are officially endorsed by SpongeBob Squarepants, just so you know," his father told him. "Taco Bell tacos are something he would never allow in the Krusty Krab, but these tacos would easily rank on their menu."

So, that was that. This little white lie would ensure the tacos would be scarfed down with no trouble. His wife gave him a subtle evil eye for the fib, but she knew as well as anyone that sometimes certain motivators were a good idea.

Jose and another waiter placed their orders before them, and did so without any concern he might place a plate before the wrong person.

"I must ask that you please be careful with the burrito and fajita plates, as they may still be quite hot," Jose said. "I do hope you enjoy."

"Thank you, Jose. I'm sure we're going to love it."

"Jose," Jonathan said. "Could I trouble you for another one of these?" he asked as he held up his margarita glass.

"Absolutely. Would anyone else like another?"

"I'll refrain, since I'm the designated driver. But please bring another for the other adults," Gramps said. "And since I see we're out of lemonade, I think we need another round of those, too."

"I'll be right back with your drinks."

The day worked up quite the appetite in everyone, and the kids didn't seem to have any issues with the tacos, regardless of who sponsored them.

"Wow, this burrito is amazing," Jon said while passionately digging in to his meal. "I didn't know how hungry I was."

"Traveling so much does tend to work up an appetite," Gramps said.

"I guess it does," his son said through yet another mouthful. By then, he was actually more than halfway through his meal. "How are those tacos, kids?"

"They're awesome, Dad!" Suzie said, also through a mouthful. "Like I always say, SpongeBob knows his stuff."

"I can see those fajitas hit the spot," their daughter-in-law said while looking to Our Couple.

"Oh, I must say, they're to die for," the birthday lady said. "I am so happy that we chose to come this way for dinner. This is a birthday meal to remember."

Smiling, Gramps reached over and took her hand. "A birthday meal to remember is something you should enjoy for many, many birthdays to come."

"Thank you, Dear."

Just about the time everyone was done with their meals, Jose returned and asked, "I see the meals were enjoyed. Were they everything you hoped they would be?"

"More than that, my good sir," Gramps said. "We'll be sure to recommend this place as much as we can."

"Thank you so much for that. Could I interest anyone in some dessert?"

As soon as that was said, Gramps looked at his watch. He then said, "I think we have the time, but we do have somewhere we have to be soon, and it's on the west coast. What would you suggest?"

Jose leaned in some and said, "My friends, here at Pueblo Diablo's, we make the finest fried ice cream you can find, anywhere."

Jon said, "Well, I can tell you they don't have anything like that on top of Mount Everest. I was there earlier today, and all I saw was desolate surroundings under the moonlight, along with a few frightened climbers. No fried ice cream."

"On top of Mount Everest? You must have been by the magic shop at Old Town," Jose said.

Looking surprised, Jon said, "Now, how did you know that?"

"Oh, that fellow in there has been trying to sell that sheet for a long, long time. You'd be surprised how many people choose to go to the top of the world. As for me, I simply went to visit family in Mexico City, although I was only able to stay for a few minutes. Alas, I wasn't able to buy the Houdini sheet; once you have it, time ignores you until you can sell it to another. So, fried ice cream for all?"

"Doesn't frying it make it all melty and stuff?" shark bait asked.

Jose allowed a smile and said, "No, we have magical ways of frying it and still keeping the ice cream cold."

"Well," the boy's father said, "we've had enough magic for one day. How about the typical fried ice cream?"

Jose then laughed and said, "I do understand that. But since you were there at Old Town, did you get the chance to browse around the rock shop? They have wonderful selections of geodes and certainly some beautiful sea glass."

"We were going to browse through what they had, but we were running out of time," Carol said. "You see, we intend on finding our way to the beach in order to see the sunset. We spent the day of it today, and we saw the sunrise this morning. And besides, until I find the piece of sea glass I lost somehow, I just can't find it in my heart to look at any other pieces. I couldn't tell you why, but the piece I lost was somehow magical on its own."

Jose smiled and said, "I have no doubt it will somehow make itself found very soon. I'll go get those desserts now, and I'll be right back."

Jose was quickly out of sight. While waiting for their dessert, Joe said, "Once we get through dessert, we'd better hit the road. We won't have much time if we're going to enjoy what's left of the daylight before the sun sets."

"From here, about how long does it take to get to the beach?"

"If everything moves through rather smoothly," Joe said. "I'd say maybe an hour and a half, but maybe as long as two hours. If we figure on two hours, we'll have a little time to wander and get wet before the sun dips for the night."

"Will we be there long enough to see all the starfish come out and pray?" Suzie asked.

"We sure will, my dear," Grandma said. "Watching the starfish reach for the stars in wonder has long been one of my favorite things at the beach during sunset."

"What do you think they're thinking about?" Aaron asked.

"Nobody knows, shark bait," his grandfather said. "But if I were to guess, they probably want to talk to those they lost, hoping to know what the ocean looks like from way up there, and are there any stingrays."

"Stingrays? Do stingrays eat starfish?"

"I'm not sure, but I think so," Grandpa Joe said. "But apparently not very much, with how many are on the beach at any given time."

They talked about the day and what the upcoming days would be bringing soon, and before they knew it, Jose was there with their desserts.

"I do hope you enjoy the dessert, everyone," he said as he placed them all around. "And this one was made with the special birthday girl in mind."

Jose placed one of the desserts before Carol, with a small birthday candle within it.

"Now, how did you know it was my birthday? Who mentioned it?"

Everyone at the table looked around at one another, with no obvious signs anyone there made a mention of it.

"Here at Pueblo Diablo's, secrets are few and far between. I hope you find the dessert to your liking."

There was no problem there. Everyone enjoyed the fried ice cream, relished it, in fact, particularly the two children. Although little Suzie wore more of hers than she managed to get in her mouth, the look on her face indicated this just might be a new favorite.

"Wow, what a meal," Jonathan said, patting his belly. "We will certainly have to remember this place when we're down this way."

Minutes later, Jose presented the check to Joe, who promptly paid for the meal with a card while handing the tip to Jose in cash.

"Thank you so much, sir. And I truly hope all of you enjoy the rest of your evening. I understand the sunset at the beach is expected to be particularly lovely tonight," Jose said. "We hope to see all of you again soon."

"Thank you, Jose. It was even better than we expected, and our expectations were high. You have a wonderful evening."

Minutes later and everyone was piling into the van in order to make the final journey of the evening.

"Okay," Joe said as he pulled back onto highway 192 in order to reach I-4. "Are we ready for the beach?"

"We're ready, captain."

Just moments later and the van was up to highway speed, moving southwest on I-4.

"Even if there's a tangle in traffic, which I don't expect," Joe said, "I think we should make it to the beach within two hours at the most. That should be plenty of time to get in some sand, surf, and a little bit of sun before it retires for the day."

Even though they'd only been rolling for what would amount to several minutes, both children zonked out in the back seat.

"I hope it won't be difficult to put them down for the night if they get too much sleep now," Carol said.

"I don't think it'll be too bad; their clocks are set for sleep once their heads hit the pillow," Samantha said. "Besides, I won't let them get in but a bit of a catnap, anyway. Just enough for a reboot is all."

It had been quite a full day and everyone was rather relaxed after the meal. Joe took Carol's hand while he drove, and Jon and Samantha chatted about their upcoming daily challenges while watching to make sure the children didn't sleep too deeply. And before anyone realized it, they were merging off from I-4 onto I-275.

"It won't be long now, gang," Joe said.

"Hey, kids," Sam said. "We're almost there!"

The two children suddenly sat up straight in their seats, eyes wide as they looked for the signs of impending beach.

"Where? I don't see it."

"I said we're almost there. It won't be but a little longer, so nap time is over."

From there, it was merely dealing with the lights and some traffic while they traversed the last few miles before finding the beach of their choice. And, as though they had planned it all along, the sun was rather low in the sky, but still bright enough to offer warmth and stark shadows, as well as the promise of all the fun and relaxation for which the beach is so famous. Joe found somewhere convenient to park and shut down the van.

"Okay, everyone," he said. "This is the last major leg of the trip, except for the drive out of here. Are we ready to go?"

"Ready, Gramps!"

The scene was eerily similar to the one from the morning, where they all filed out of the car and to the beach in similar fashion, including shark bait tearing up the boards in his quest for the sand and surf. The only marked difference was there was bright sunshine, although for just a little while more.

"The birthday lady and I are going to walk up the beach in search of treasure to plunder while you guys enjoy," Joe said.

Carol and Joe walked hand-in-hand northward along the beach, watching for notable shells and anything else that might catch the eye.

"This was such a marvelous birthday, dear," she said as they walked. "I truly appreciate it and want all of you to know I thank you for it."

"The pleasure was to be had by all, love," Joe said. "And yes, it was a good day."

Carol was looking, but she wasn't really going for anything in particular. This specific beach populates heavily at times, largely because it is pretty, but also because a lot of people live nearby and the waters are shallow for quite a distance out, allowing for plenty of space for the swimmers and boarders, and occasionally, the sharks.

The shadows were getting longer and longer as they took in the ambiance, with the rolling waves crashing in while young children squealed with the delight of it. The breeze was actually exceptionally pleasant, with the gulls thinking so, too. The sun gently warmed without warming too much, residing at the point where the light was reddening the sky and casting such a light below.

As she walked while holding Joe's hand, and Joe seeming content enough to do just that, there was a moment of reeling in some of the years, with thoughts fleeting back to memories of a young, young Jonathan, younger than Aaron, when Joe was a strapping young man, bulletproof and unstoppable. Since then, the ups and downs, the successes and failures, the laughs and sorrow, have accumulated into something known as a good life. Of course Carol knew there were fewer years coming than had gone by, but she also knew such a thing was only dreaded by the greedy and those in denial. She knew all people had but so much time, some more than others, and then the next adventure was to arise.

So she took in the moments as they came, knowing they would not return again for another year. Well, honestly, there were at least another five birthdays to enjoy, and if there was one truly strong and vital family tradition enjoyed, it was the celebration of the birthday. After all, while some mope with the surrendering thoughts in thinking a birthday is another day closer to the last, they fail to recognize the accumulation of the moments to reflect on and celebrate. So, Carol looked forward to every birthday she knew of, seeing each as its own veritable holiday.

"We're losing the sunlight, Love," Joe said. "We should get back to the kids before Mr. Sunshine goes feet-wet."

"I suppose so, Dear," she said. "And if I know my sunsets, this one looks like it promises to be exceptional."

They turned and walked towards the following generations, wondering how it would be for them. Joe and Carol both knew that as the world shrank and the population grew, it all became that much more complex. But they knew that if times past and history offered anything, it was that the ups and downs were assured. There would be the days when Aaron would struggle with his coming of age being such a steep climb, and little Suzie would seek to mend her broken heart yet again. Jonathan and Samantha would see the rigors of middle age as not as bad as everyone says it is, and then they would soon enjoy grandchildren of their own. It has been as such since time immemorial.

And throughout all that time, there were but a scant few who could enjoy a sunrise or sunset on the beach. And for those who could enjoy both in one day? They knew they were truly blessed. To enjoy the sunrise or sunset on the beach, where this world's two worlds come together in peaceful accord, is in itself a treasure to behold, and might just be a rare event not just here, but throughout the universe. Carol knew such was a moment to cherish, and would again in mere moments.

By the time they reached the rest of the family, the sun was just barely dipping a toe into the waters, testing the chill. They took one another's hands and watched as the sun gained confidence in the water's coolness while slowly dipping in. Dusk darkened to night just as slowly.

Then, just as the last hint of the sun was out of sight and the night was officially upon them, the first signs of the stars were coming into view. Well, the first star wasn't that at all, of course, but the lovely lady of planet Venus. However, the distant stars soon appeared after allowing the lady to enter first, and then within moments, the starfish emerged from the waters in order to pray to those above.

While those remaining on the beach were far less than there were when they first arrived, those remaining found a sense of wonder and peace while watching the starfish. Of the five arms of the darling creatures, two reached for those above, making those observing this wonder if this was a reach for understanding, peace, or perhaps desperation. Nobody thought anyone could ever truly know what went through the minds of the tiny creatures as they sought to be closer to their celestial brethren; the reach seemed either loving or forlorn, nobody knew, but the easy sway they performed lent one to think they experienced only wonder.

"Hey Mom. Look at that."

None of them noticed little Suzie had pulled away until they saw her join the starfish. It felt wondrous and peaceful to join her (carefully, so as not to step on anyone) and then sway in harmony with the little creatures. Suzie first reached her arms to the sky, swaying with the praying starfish who so desire to know what's next, but soon the entire family did so, having no clue as to why but enjoying it all the same. Thus, like the sunrise and sunset themselves, enjoying a prayer with these sea creatures right where the two worlds met brought all of them such joy.

The stars grew in number and eventually everyone felt as though they were intruding on something unique to the starfish and their kind, so the family stepped back, allowing them their moment.

"While this has been just a magical day, I think it's about time to bring it to an end," Carol said. "But I am so glad we came out here. Wow, but there were a lot more praying starfish than normal. What a sight!"

"Yeah, it was that," Joe said.

"But we have such a long drive to get back home, so perhaps it would be a good idea to get it started," she confessed.

But there were other confessions to offer. Joe said, "Well, the drive isn't quite as far as you might think, Love. Since we knew we might be here rather late, we decided to get a hotel for the night rather than trudge all the way back home."

"We're just minutes away from a hot shower and cozy bed, Mom. Happy birthday."

***

It really was just minutes, and after they checked in, Jon and Sam went to their suite with the yawning youngsters while Joe and Carol found theirs nearby. They had showered and got into bed, settling in with some television before surrendering to the arms of Morpheus yet one more time.

"I can't tell you enough, Joe, how much I enjoyed this day," Carol said. "It was more than I could have hoped for."

"I'm glad for that, Love," he said as he leaned over and gently kissed her. "But I have one more little thing to give before it all ends."

He reached over by the nightstand and picked up a small box.

"I thought we agreed I wouldn't get anything today but a wonderful time with family, sweetheart," she said. "You didn't need to buy me one more single thing."

"Well, I stuck to the agreement, as this is something I didn't buy, and it's something that's already yours."

Joe handed her the pretty box, and when she opened it, she saw the most magical and amazing thing she'd seen all day.

"Joe," she breathed. "I think you've outdone yourself."

The most beautiful and exceptional piece of sea glass she'd ever seen, and then thought she lost, was now transformed into a glorious pendant. It was wrapped in golden wire to hold it firmly close to the heart, even though it had always been there since Carol first saw it. But now, after touched by the love of her life, it could forever remain next to her, and in a fashion sure to be admired by everyone who saw it.

"So, you like it?"

With a tear and overflowing sense of love, she looked to him and said, "I just love it. This has to be the sweetest thing you've ever done. Thank you so much."

This next story is a story about a man and his dog. I think most people could relate since most people have had a pet they've loved, and lost. Many of us have had several pets over time, some of which are so memorable.

When I was a boy, I recall having a dog I found wandering, likely dumped, and kept him for a couple years or so. He was some obnoxious hound named Rusty and wouldn't ever shut up, but he was mine. Well, those people who were there while I was growing up decided the noise was out of bounds and eventually took the dog and dumped him somewhere else. But that hit me hard and, amazingly, they somehow felt bad about it and got me another dog. Wow, but this was such a wonderful thing.

They came home with a pup who was some sort of retriever mix. What was awesome was that while he would be the family pet, the animals were mostly my responsibility. The pup was named Laddie and he proved to be one of the best friends I've ever had.

I worked with Laddie continually during the summer after we got him, which was sometime during the Spring if I recall right, and by the time he was about a year old, he was in integral part of my life, and would be until I lost him to adulthood. I say that because I went into the service after high school and never really found a situation where I could get him back. My promise to us both was I would get him when I was settled in and I would be there with him until he died many years later. I wanted him to be happy.

That never happened. The most wonderful dog I had ever known died alone, in the snow. His body was found, as I understand it, in a snow bank. He was old, it was said.

This has forever pained me and always will. What goes on in this bullshit world that leaves such options the only ones left?

The only other dog I took to so closely was a greyhound I named Buck. I picked up Buck for a nominal fee from one of the numerous dog tracks here in Florida, and brought him home. He wasn't integrated into a home; I got him straight from the track, with him knowing nothing else.

Wow, but he was a project. I thought I knew a few things about dogs, but he was so unique (as all greyhounds are, compared to other breeds). But I worked with him incessantly over the years and he was a really good dog. But he did not like kids.

I promised to be there for him, too, and wasn't. He died with family, which was good, as Mary was there. But I was picking up a load of Gatorade in Dallas when I was called and informed he had died. He lived a good life, but was always a solemn dog.

This story is for those who had known love and bonding with a pet, only to feel the pain of the bond broken.

Our Bonding Moments

I think that I should point out right away, the accident happened right before my eyes. I just happened to be looking out the window at that moment; my intent was to see whether the mailbox flag was up or down. You see, I was antsy over a letter that I was expecting, or hoping for I should say, from an old army buddy. I looked to see the flag's position and witnessed my dog get hit by the UPS truck instead, but I never received that letter. I suppose that you could say this is a story about who your friends are.

Running into Aaron Thomas and his family was pure, dumb luck. They were on vacation, we were on vacation, and I spotted him in the crowd. Only he and I knew each other, so the ladies had never met before, let alone the kids. But once the introductions were done and out of the way, they got along fine by talking about the things that women and kids talk about these days. As for Aaron and I, well, we used to get into bar fights together, prowl the Red Light districts together, and while on guard duty in the dark of night, confess the fears we had as kids. Aaron and I were great friends while we were stationed in Germany, swearing that if we ever saw each other again, we would catch up.

I spotted him on the far side of that silly elephant ride placed right under the blazing sun behind the park's big castle. I have to say this; I think people would stand in line for a short stick in the eye. I could not see the draw to this ride, even for the kids, but there we were, along with scores of other people who waited for some mysterious reason. Anyway, I was there with Mary and the kids, wondering why anyone with any sense would stand under that hot sun for two torturous hours to ride some moronic contraption for what couldn't be more than two full minutes of going around in circles when I noticed Aaron wondering the same thing. I'm aware of the fact that I was supposedly in the happiest place around, but seeing that guy was the highlight of my day over anything else, even getting my picture with the 'cartoon character' who would end up Playmate of the Year.

I circled around the ride, avoiding the piles of stale popcorn and abandoned sticks of ice cream and closed in on my old friend from behind him. A part of me expected him to spin around with some sort of hand-to-hand combat maneuver and crush my larynx, what with me sneaking up on an Army veteran and all that, but hey, we were artillery. We didn't crush larynxes in our line of work; we just usually talked really, really loud.

I pulled up next to the unsuspecting tourist. "You know," I said as we watched the fiberglass pachyderms fly in circles, "I've been on better rides along the Reeperbahn."

He looked at me out of the corner of his eye, had that moment of recognition and said with a big smile, "Well, hey there!"

The moment was really cool. He and I shook hands and embraced, worked our way through the obligatory so-how-have-things-been-since-I-saw-you-last oration, and then made nice introductions all around between our two families. The kids, his and mine, didn't seem to appreciate it much, since this was cutting into their day, but all of them took it well. As I said, the two ladies seemed to hit it off and I appreciated that, since a woman's ability to get along with other women can affect political ties between nations, let alone friends and neighbors.

For the record, I want to point out that I did not intend to pair our vacation with their vacation. I wasn't contemplating the idea to switch hotels so we could be in adjoining rooms with the Thomas family. Hell, I didn't even want to hang out with them at the time, knowing that we had some sort of itinerary and assuming they did, as well. My solitary aspiration was that we could get together for dinner one night and that's about all. Just sit down and catch up on things while we meandered back and forth to the buffet. Hell, I even said that I would spring for it.

What took place was Aaron gave me some flaccid excuse about these tickets they had so they could dodge the line of some ride, so they had to run. But hey, he said, give me your address and we'll correspond to find the time to get reacquainted. It seemed plausible since we discovered that we lived less than a five-hour drive from each other. The idea was to set aside a day for some fishing or golf. I liked the idea of that, but we're going to exchange addresses? Damn, pal. You don't have a phone?

My card had all of that information, so I handed him that and said, "All right, Aaron. Well, it's been great running into you, pal. But hey, why don't you give me your phone number and I'll give you a call sometime. Or, you can call me; my number's on the card."

The guy fed me some story about how they were between phone companies at the time and without a phone. I would tell anyone else that they were dumb as a rock for not saying 'bullshit' right on the spot, but all I did was mutter, "Oh, okay." Aaron said thanks for the card, that he would write me soon and then we would get caught up from there.

Deflated, I said, "Okay, Aaron. Well, don't be a stranger."

"Back at ya, man."

Brooding on it, I assumed that Aaron either kept his past from his wife or he just didn't want to rehash those old days after his formal domestication. I don't know. I don't think they ever rode that elephant ride, but they were there watching it for some reason. I do know that Aaron's old idea to get caught up seemed to wane, but I had my hopes up as I checked the mail for that letter for a while.

That particular time while checking for the letter, I noted the flag was still upright and that my bills were still available for blatant theft by any passing check washer. That's when it simply happened. Earlier that morning, when I walked out there to place the outgoing mail in the mailbox, I must have left the gate open just enough for Presto to squeeze through and wander headlong into mortal danger. Oh, by the way, Presto was my four-year-old Harlequin Great Dane, who was really a great dog.

When I first got Presto, I truly did listen to all the unsolicited warnings about getting a dog of that breed. Later on, I wondered why I listened to anyone at all.

"Oh, man. These things turn into murderous monsters in a blink of an eye. Do not ever trust it around your kids."

"They're a heart-break breed, man. If he lives to be eight, I'll mow your lawn for you that entire summer. Yeah, I'm that confident."

"I hear that they love to eat linoleum and wallpaper. You are fully insured, right?"

"Rumor has it that males of this breed are prone to spontaneous canine combustion, dude. If I were you, I would tie him up outside, away from the house."

I could go on with these lovely quotes, but instead, allow me to entertain you with the list of breeds owned by the Samaritans who warned me out of the goodness of their hearts. Here we go: two Cocker Spaniels, two Dalmatians, a Pit Bull for Christ's sake, a Mastiff, a Rhodesian Ridgeback, and three Beagles. To be honest, I like the Beagle as a dog, but Great Danes don't howl throughout the night at every little thing that moves in the breeze. As for the rest of these breeds, one has to wonder if some people really do come from Mars, don't get caught up on all the cautions upon their arrival, and overlook the memo that lists the breeds that are truly dangerous. If I'm not mistaken, those cute Cocker Spaniels have torn open more fingers than all other breeds combined. Can you imagine a guy warning me to watch my kids around my dog while his seven-year-old daughter is standing next to him with a Pit Bull pup cuddled to her chest? I tell you, the headache medication business will be a sure thing for eons to come.

Presto is named such because when I brought him home to surprise my family, I had him in a big box that originally contained a microwave oven. My brilliant idea was to set up a Dad-sized magic trick for everyone and spring the dog to their utter delight. Instead, all their commotion around the moving box prompted the uneasy pup to break out of the box before their eyes, and before I was prepared to Razzmatazz.

"Uh...Presto!" I said, weakly.

"You're amazing," Mary said, flatly.

To my dismay, the kids chimed right in with the, "Come here, Presto! Come on, Presto! Don't pee on that, Presto!"

I wanted to name him Sterling. To me, he looked like a Sterling. Hell, I would have settled for Spepper before Presto. No, wait, nevermind. I have to take that back. Spepper is officially the world's stupidest pet name. Naming a cat Mr. Socks isn't as bad as naming it Spepper. If you know anyone with a pet named Spepper, egg their car.

Presto didn't have a chance. There he went, galloping into the street with his nose to the ground, having a blast doing something that he knew was wrong. I know that for a fact, because I've seen him eye that open gate while I was standing there.

"Don't even think about it, stupid."

That would be all it would require. He would tuck his tail and slink away from the gate, all two hundred and twenty pounds of him, knowing full well that anything beyond that gate without a leash was off limits. But that day, I was looking out the dining room window, ever so gently pushing aside Mary's orchids so that I could get a clear view of the mailbox. Then, just as I said, it happened right before my eyes.

The guy driving that UPS truck didn't even slow down. He barreled over Presto and just kept going, as if running over dogs in the street was part of the daily routine. I can't help but to wonder if they keep track of the points. I saw it happen, my jaw fell slack and an instant later I was rushing out the door, across the yard, through the gate, up the driveway, prepared to do...I had no idea what I was going to do. I just know that I've come to adore the big idiot and it tore my heart right out of me to see what I saw.

"Presto! Presto? Oh, damn. Come here, boy."

He didn't come to me. He growled, struggling as he pulled his broken body out of the road.

I knew immediately that it was over for Presto. A few years ago, my neighbor accidentally ran over his Great Dane while backing out of the driveway. The dog's name was Hemingway because they thought he had extra toes, but what they saw were those dewclaws. Not everyone can be a genius, I suppose. Their cat had something like eight toes on one foot. I thought that was creepy, but they couldn't shut up about it. The difference between Hemingway's accident and Presto's was that they broke Hemingway's hip under their Lincoln Navigator. They way I see it, that's a mighty big vehicle to be running over family pets with, but I guess that it was a better choice than their Corolla. The Corolla would have jammed the beast under the car, likely suffocating it while it soaked in its pain. With that enormous Lincoln, it was a nice, clean break coupled with a lot of howling. After a few visits to the vet's office and a whopping four thousand dollars later, Hemingway was back out there, drooling on his own feet while lazing in the shade of the Lincoln.

Presto didn't have it so nice. Before I went through the gate, I could see that he was disemboweled. He toiled to pull his shattered body out of the road, but I think he was running on instinctive reflex only. He had nowhere else to go.

By the time I joined him by the road, he just made it to our mailbox. It startled me to see him snarling at me as I approached him, but I assumed that getting hit by a truck could incite a foul mood. I once got bumped by some fool in the Wal-Mart parking lot who backed out of a spot without looking. I was going to let it go, since I was wearing dark clothes at dusk, but he had the nerve to lay it on me, so I kicked off both of his rearview mirrors, cussing about he apparently had no use for them. After the second mirror, he chose to drop the subject and quietly drove away. As for Presto, my concern was what I was going to do for him if I couldn't get near him. That, I had to figure out. I couldn't just leave him there and do nothing.

My grandfather once told me, "Boy, a man never lived that possessed the level of loyalty any dog has. So you be good to that dog. By trying to reach the level of loyalty that a dog has naturally is what makes a man worthy of the dog's company."

Weeks before he said that, he had a wink/nudge comment about Hawaiian women. I was fourteen when he told me all that, but it's a whole other story. It never mattered anyway, since I've never been to Hawaii. I just thought I would cover the span of Gramps's thoughts and philosophies.

Gramps was referring to this mix-breed pup that I received for my birthday. The stupid dog swallowed my Swiss Army pocketknife and died inside a week. I didn't admit to anyone that the dog ate my knife, which was sticking in a stump while I searched for a stick to whittle when he found it, so they felt sorry for me when the dog kicked and got me another one that next weekend. I named him Wrangler (because I was wearing a pair) and he lived to be sixteen years old. I strived to be worthy of his company throughout his lifetime and believe that I did okay. Wrangler tried to crawl into my lap the day he died. He was so old, so I stayed close to him as much as I could during those last few days. He made it into my lap and then let go. We were pretty sure that it was just natural causes. I'll bear a scar on my soul for all time because of that day.

I knew that Presto was finished. In another four years, I would be mowing my own lawn. Yeah, I was that confident. I thought about going in the house and getting my pistol, but I couldn't leave him where he was. If I went into the house, retrieved the pistol and then came rushing out to commit an act of mercy just to find him dead, I would know that I was never worthy of the presence of Presto. Besides, the report of a pistol in this liberal neighborhood would have people watching me through their curtains for ages.

I fought the tears when I said, "Oh, God. Presto, I am so sorry. If I could help you, bud, I wouldn't do anything else."

He just stared at me, frightened and shivering violently, growling with his cockles on end.

I dropped to my knees and shuffled in a little at a time, closing the distance, wanting to help. I thought that I showed that, so I was shocked that Presto actually tried to lunge at me with bared teeth. But he couldn't get anywhere. My initial diagnosis was that his spine was broken somewhere near the hips. He must have sensed that he's not going anywhere, because the brutal pain in his eyes hurt us both so much every time he tried to move. Now in the softer, cool cushion of the St. Augustine grass, he decided he had gone far enough.

"Come on, Presto. It's over, man. Let's just make the best of it, okay?"

I leaned forward, keeping my balance with one hand while offering the back of my other hand to him. My idea was that if he could just smell it, then he might realize that I only meant the best. He looked at my hand as I slowly closed in, snarling the entire time. I don't know if I saw this in a movie or something, but I had it in my thick head that as soon as I was close enough for Presto to bite, he would soften and lick my hand, whimpering for that last moment of love and support. I swore on the salvation of my soul that he would have just that, but he chose to sink his teeth into my hand instead.

The closer I got, the louder his growls were, getting more intense with every passing second. Then with all the might that he had left in him, he lunged forward and took hold of my hand. I'm sure that it goes without saying that it hurt like a bitch. I dropped my head down and yelled out, feeling things go awry in the hand that helped the other one make me a decent living. However, I did not pull away, nor did I react in angry defense. I merely winced in pain, groaned out my own agony and accepted this fate.

After a few quick, harsh breaths, I wiped the tears from my face and looked up to Presto to see my hand still in his mouth, just beneath the look of confusion and dread in his eyes. The moment was vivid for a variety of reasons, but the subtle fear in me was stunning, since I've never had a reason to fear this dog before. He and I have roughhoused in the backyard countless times since he was that leggy, oafish pup. As he got older and stronger, I've trusted him to be right when he's knocked me down, dropped his weight on me and then bit onto the back of my neck. We've long had a close connection and knew when to say when, with a long-standing, adequate level of interspecies communication.

I had that and more with Wrangler. There was never any actual language between us or stupid catch phrases like we all saw Tarzan mutter to the jungle fauna. I have always thought that was the dumbest thing going, even if I did like the Tarzan movies for everything else. Between Wrangler and me, there was an understanding that we each could convey in one way or another. I can't explain it so I won't try, but I knew when Wrangler wanted something and often what he wanted. I could tell when he wanted to go to one of our swimming holes, for example, and even which one he desired to go to at the time. Over a span of years, a bond developed, a special love, and therefore a level of communication beyond the sit-stay parallel.

Despite the wounded hand, I felt no deep fear of Presto. Hell, how could I fear a paraplegic dog who wallowed in his own guts? My fear was that he might cause me irreparable harm, but he let go of my hand instead, allowing us to enjoy our pain together.

I pulled the bandanna off my head and wrapped my hand with it. As I tied the impromptu bandaging with one hand and my teeth, I could feel my pulse pounding through my hand as it swelled right before my eyes. I knew it would require prompt medical attention, but that would have to wait. I eased closer to Presto and sat down beside him, giving a lot of trust still. For reasons of which I'm not sure, Presto resigned to the fact that I wasn't going away, so he accepted me.

I placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Oh, Presto. I am so sorry."

There wasn't anything else I could do for him, so I knew I wasn't going anywhere until the end. I made myself comfortable in the grass next to Presto and gently stroked him while he whimpered and panted. Man, but his panting was so heavy. I assumed that once the shock of the impact was now past, Presto's adrenaline flow eased back and allowed a free flow of intense pain. I felt so horrible while I sat there, helpless, and Presto enduring the sheer agony of his injuries as he trembled under the warm sunshine.

Without fail, every passing car slowed to peer at what my dog and I were doing by the road. Some just gawked and then moved on, leaving me with the impression of their momentary, sympathetic expression. I supposed that paramedics must steel themselves against this irritant, and why not, since there isn't much else those passersby have to offer. I've been told that people gape at an accident scene, hoping to see blood. No, I believe that many look to see the blood they hope isn't there. That's most people, I think. Yeah, they look intently with the desire not to see the gore.

So, there were those kinds of people. Then, of course, there were those who felt compelled to stop and say something.

"Oh, my God. Is everything okay?"

You must be a moron.

"Did your dog get hit?"

You must be a genius.

"Is there anything we can do?"

"No, but thanks for asking. I think that we'll just have to wait this out."

"I'm not meaning to sound mean, mister, but I have a gun if you think that would be for the best. I'm just saying."

"Thanks for offering, but it can't be that much longer and it'll all be over. We don't get enough quality time, anyway."

On that point, I was correct. It wasn't much longer. Presto's tension eased, his breathing settling down bit by bit as the minutes ticked by. Perhaps it's the grace of God that pain eases when it's a moot point. I know that there's no reason for this sort of pain. I've heard stories of people who survived attacks from large predators and noted that one actually settles into a state of peaceful surrender while being mauled. As bizarre as this might sound, I can't think of a more miraculous element of God's mercy than that.

While Presto may have felt this sweet mercy of God, I did not. It hurt me terribly when Presto fought the pain to pull his body to me. He struggled with all of his remaining strength to nestle the deepest part of his chest across my lap and bring his big head close to me. I simply hugged him close to me and comforted him the best I could. I felt him pressing his head to my ribs when the waves of misery came in, but that tide came in shallower and slower with the passing moments. Soon, he was relaxed and almost comfortable as I stroked his bloodstained, monochromatic coat.

I knew the moment was close when I could perceive the distance looming in his sad eyes. His viscera dried in the sun, having died sometime before he did. I prayed that this knowledge would not haunt my sleep. The touching moment was when, just as he seemed so far away, he reached over and licked my injured hand. He gently stroked those wounds in time with my stroking his head and back, with ease and love, along with the desire to comfort. Presto and I never had the level of communication that Wrangler and I had, but it was obvious that he felt remorseful for the attack. Moments later, he found the strength to lift his big head, lick me easily on the face, and then drop his head onto his crossed paws.

I know that this may sound like New Age kookiness, but I will swear until my dying day that I witnessed his soul leave his body and drift away. It was similar to the shimmer of heat that hangs just over the pavement and, for an instant, caused my view of the mailbox to waver. After that, I was a sweating man sitting in the grass by his mailbox with the mangled remains of his dog draped across him. That's what Mary found as she drove up just moments after I saw the spirit of Presto exit the scene.

Less than an hour later, I buried Presto in the backyard. Mary and I explained the situation to the kids later that night, telling them that it was an accident and no one's fault. My son asked me about my hand and I told him that dogs could be dangerous when they're hurt. I didn't tell the boy that I worked past the danger of Presto and found a place by his side. I withheld that information just in case he ever witnessed such an accident and thought he could repeat the good luck. That boy inherited my level of good sense, so I fear for him a lot.

That night, after we had all gone to bed, Mary and I talked about the incident, discussing whether we should get another dog. I've heard so many people assert that they would never adopt another pet after enduring the heartbreak of the loss of their pet. I've heard people state this after the death of an animal that was nearly old enough to vote. I've always found this position a mystery, since we all know that a pet's life span is but a minute fraction of our own.

Over the next few days, I searched the papers until I found someone selling Harlequin Great Dane pups. I called, set up an appointment to visit and inspect the litter. The breeder's name was Charlton Bremen and about the nicest guy one could meet. He was taller than I was and very robust, probably in his late fifties or early sixties, appearing very strong and confident. His hair was slicked back and he carried with him that level of ease common among larger men. Charlton said that the females were $1700.00 and the males were $1300.00.

"Are the parents on site?" I asked. I don't know why I asked that, since I knew more about homeopathy than I did about dog breeding, and I'll have to look up homeopathy in the dictionary after I tell my tale. I think that I once heard someone ask that question regarding pups of this caliber. Thinking back, I believe that I heard it in a movie.

"The Dam is here, but the Stud is owned by an associate," Charlton said.

"The Dam...what?" Yeah, I can be that clueless.

Charlton smiled the smile of one who held great patience for the daft and said, "These days, the female is called a Dam rather than a Bitch. A Dam mothers a litter of pups, while a Bitch holds the weekends with your pups hostage."

"I think I got it," I said, smiling.

I asked Charlton about his name, because I have no couth, and he said that he was indeed named after Charlton Heston, but only because his mother liked the name. Heston was too young at the time for that much of a following, but it was a good, strong name, she had said. We got to talking over some coffee and I told him the story of Presto. After that, I rambled on about the story of Wrangler. I told him that my first vehicle was what it was because of my dog. I never mentioned anything about my grandfather, though, Scout's Honor.

Minutes later, Charlton wandered among the pups, picked up a male and brought it to me. He handed me the dog and said, "My friend, this dog is from me to you. He's the one I would pick for myself, so I'm picking him for you. There ain't no charge for that there boy and I ain't discussing it."

Stunned, I asked him why.

"Son, it ain't often enough these days that someone comes along who is worthy of a dog and has a dog. I can see that you're among the worthy ones. It would ease my mind knowing that this boy is going to a good home where he'll be welcome for a lifetime."

I tried to offer the man something, but he wasn't having any part of that. Finally, I told him that I once saw something about these rescue organizations for various breeds, including this one, and that I would donate the value of this pup to that cause. Charlton nodded and smiled, saying that would be fine.

The both of us enjoyed another cup of coffee and then I had to be getting home or else Mary would have to wait to start dinner. After a sincere handshake, I said goodbye to Charlton and was soon on my way home with a drooling pup scampering around in my backseat. I smiled as I watched through the rearview mirror the leggy goober try to get his whole self onto the shelf under the rear windshield. That smiled waned while the fool licked and licked the glass.

I was determined that I was getting my way when it came to the name of this pup. He would be known as Sterling.

Okay, if anyone found that story a bit difficult to swallow, being rather graphic and emotionally charged, then just you wait, since this next one has all that and so much more. But I have to state that this next one is a big favorite among these. I don't know if I have one ultimate favorite, but I have a couple I am glad I wrote. Our Bonding Moments is none of these to me and, while I like it, I find it rather forgettable. The story was okay and I made the point I sought to make, but it just isn't historically important. But this next one? It clings to me like a wet raincoat in the driving rain. In thirty eight degree weather.

This next story isn't just a great story, but quite telling of what we as humans are. Some might read this and think I'm the sick bastard, but this isn't really the stuff of just my blunt-force-traumatized head. Nor was The Egocentric Predicament, although I was criticized for being over the top with that. I didn't create the species, boys and girls. I just report my findings.

This next one was a story I somehow created after hearing some crazy stories about things people have done to other people, even when those committing these evils were never seen as evil by those who knew them. We hear the story of some monster breaking into the bedroom window of a little girl, taking her from her bed and dragging her far away. Far away, alone, cold and scared, she's brutally raped by an unseen monster. Then, after her world is turned upside down by this, she's sat up in order for the monster to have a convenient way to cut her throat so deep that her head is nearly cut off. That, or she's buried alive.

And when the monster is discovered? He's a local family man, respected in the community and has three daughters of his own.

There are so many of these heinous stories that they actually have a TV channel of their own.

Ain't it great to be human?

I could stick to writing stories about fun moments and romantic interludes. I could write about children frolicking in the sun-drenched meadows, laughing shrilly as they romp in the grass with the playful puppies.

Fuck that. That isn't humanity by any stretch of the imagination.

But we recognize the anguish. We know humanity can be capable of great dreams as well as nightmares, so sometimes there are those who show regret. The dude known as Son of Sam is now reported to be a very nice man, trying to get past what he once was.

During one of these news magazine shows, there was a horrific crime committed by someone who killed, tortured and mutilated the body of a little boy. How horrified everyone was when they found out who did it. It was another one of the neighborhood's little boys. I would like to know where the story went, as I heard this many years ago. But the kid, a man now, might be out there, free, living with this. Those two fucks who lured away and killed a little boy in England were later freed after having their identities changed. It was assumed they were too young and had too much life left to have it squandered in prison. It was assumed they might be better people now that they've had time to think about it.

We could say the little boy who was tortured to death has no options, but this is too obvious to mention. Do we look at those who did wrong and then want to do right and say, let's see how it goes? I don't know; read on and decide for yourself.

Amends and Amendments

Joshua stood proud as the auditorium's stage reverberated under his feet; all from sheer excitement exuded the instant the capacity crowd heard the final count. Once Colin Reynolds accepted defeat in the election race and stated his worthy opponent, Joshua Hayes, is now Mayor of Vestal, the place pulsed with the thrill of the moment. Everyone was on their feet, hugging, shaking hands, or jumping in place with their trigger fingers tugging on their raucous air horns. To anyone seeing the spectacle and knew these people and this town, they knew these people wanted to celebrate a moment that brought the sleepy town alive and was still good news.

Joshua recalled seeing over the years numerous mayors stand where he stood, which was poised at the podium before the people of Vestal, his hometown. As a boy, he accompanied his parents into town as they joined the township in greeting the latest incumbent, regardless of their vote. It's the way the town of Vestal is, and was, since time immemorial. Now with his hands on the podium, he felt all the charges claiming him an overachiever come to pass. For many years, Joshua evoked his fifth-amendment rights when he heard those trumped-up charges made on his behalf, but the silent treatment can only go so far, much like the denial of a toothache. Everyone in Vestal knew Joshua had accomplished more in his life than most people, and certainly more in that time than anyone else his age. Caught up in the heady moment, he stood at the podium, surveying his family, friends, neighbors, and now constituents, finally ready to take things to the next level.

The noise was awesome in scope as everyone cheered his success. In a way, he found it anomalous they would act this way, as would many of them after the din of exhilaration eased off. After all, no one, including him, was surprised Joshua won the election; everyone knew he would win the moment he hinted interest in the position. Even Reynolds knew Hayes was a sure thing. Colin stayed in the race only because he made it clear he long desired the post, probably since adolescence, and hoped Joshua would understand. Truth be told, he hoped Joshua would wait to run until the next election, just for his sake. The word on the street was Colin wanted to start a political career locally, and then hoped to move to Washington where he could sell his soul for a profit. Running his old man's discount tire store was not what Colin wanted to define his existence. Joshua considered stepping back for Colin, but he knew now was his time to do this, and for several reasons. Besides, they're both still young men with entire futures to create. So once Joshua's name was on the ticket, Colin remained only because he never quits anything, which was part of the reason he still runs his father's tire store. Joshua wondered what Colin would think when he, taking part in a ceremony tolerated while the candidate stepped behind the curtain and voted for themselves just to emerge to the ultimate bullshit applause, voted for Colin Reynolds.

Joshua couldn't vote for himself and sleep well with the decision; he had become too decent a man to do that. He knew far too much about this shoe-in incumbent to vote the man into power, regardless of the fact that he's that man. He voted for Colin because when his candidacy was announced, it was the second time in his life Joshua turned Vestal right onto its ear. The thing is, if Vestal knew it was Joshua who did this the first time the town was shaken to its core, his life would be so different.

He was eleven years old when another long, boring summer vacation commenced, condemning Joshua to seeking out a purpose for sharing in the existence of every sweaty, passing summer day. Sure, the days were beautiful, warm, breezy, and filled with the smells and sounds of nature at its best, but how far can the smell of peppermint and the songs of birds and cicadas go when boredom bubbles like a sewage backup. For Grandfathers working on flower gardens just for the purpose of battling Japanese beetles for the spoils, it's all fine, but not when you're eleven years of age with other adventures to seek. Ever since that fateful summer, he's been condemned to live with the regret of what he sought, and has prayed for the forgiveness Reverend Sumner claims God grants all of his children. Joshua wondered if Reverend Sumner's strength as a man of God would hold if he knew more about the history of Joshua Hayes.

The conflicting nature of the election's winning moment strained Joshua because everyone knew, even him, he would be an outstanding mayor. He would do his best and his best was more than most could find in themselves. Everyone who knew him knew this, but no one knew Joshua strove to become the best person possible almost since the day he became the worst person ever. Yea, the act of reparation would forever leave a bitter taste on his tongue, because everyone recognized him for the wonderful boy and then man he would become, but they never knew exactly why. He knew everyone looked upon him with pride, admiration and respect, all without having a single clue as to how much they despised him. When they looked at him, they didn't see the fiend that cast a dark cloud over Vestal that's hung there since he hoisted it at the tender age of eleven.

Joshua held up his hands to the animated gathering congesting the outgrown auditorium, gesturing for his moment to speak. They honored his request quickly, being so anxious to hear what was to be said by one who promised to be placed among Vestal's most honorable, prestigious and historical figures. He fought the tears, hating the fact that if they only knew...

"Thank you so much, everyone! Really, I appreciate it. I really do," he said into the microphone, his hands up and out in an indication to occupy the spotlight.

Once the throng hushed, their hearts raced as they stood on their toes or dangled from their seat's edge, eager to hang on every word uttered by the man who they believe earned the right to be considered among the finest of all Vestalonians. The origin of the word, Vestalonian, somehow was lost in the annals of time, but local historians agree it was coined by Arthur Segal, one of Vestal's founders shortly after the Civil War. It's doubtful Segal ever imagined what horrors his town would hold, because if he did, if any of them did, none of this would exist. One thing's for sure, Joshua knew; the origin of the town's name meant nothing anymore, for there was nothing of it chaste any longer. No, the innocence of the town of Vestal was gone.

"To all of you, my family, friends, neighbors, and fellow Vestalonians, I cannot thank you enough for this vote of confidence. I can promise you that, among a great number of things, I'll strive to earn each and every vote. I will do everything in my power to ensure you never regret placing my name on the mayor's office door."

They were hearty in their applause, and at least in this thing, he agreed with them. He would do everything in his power to ensure he is the finest leader Vestal has ever seen. He knew what the town wanted, and after doing a lot of homework throughout his campaign, he discovered that he would be able to bring Vestal a vast majority of it with few obstacles. He saw what most suspected in many politicians, which is that a lot is not done because so many politicians have personal futures to protect, but Joshua Hayes's ulterior motives are far beyond the realm of politics. In fact, he was confident that someday, public buildings would bear his name; he had so much on his plate he knew he could accomplish. He could never do less and hope for God's forgiveness, knowing only God has the strength of character to forgive one such as him.

Joshua would never know his own forgiveness and for an instant, a fleeting instant, Joshua looked at the adoring crowd and saw an angry mob, just as it should be. In that instant he imagined them rushing the stage, clamoring up the edge in order to clutch him with the free hands not holding spiked clubs or flaming torches. The sound of mayhem replaced celebration, and skewed grimaces replaced expressed elation. He gripped the podium with sweating hands, resisting the impulse to flee from the stage. It's an impulse that's lurked behind him for more than twenty years.

He deterred his urge to escape by confronting and then pushing aside those dark memories. He's faced those recollections innumerable times over the years, confident that he's forgotten nothing, what with having to meet with those images during every waking moment and each vivid nightmare. God damn it all to Hell, he thought; it's just that...if only Vestal had not been so boring.

As a child, he enjoyed many of the same things all young boys enjoyed, such as a good game of ball, Cowboys and Indians, Army, or the occasional game of Tag, depending on who was watching. What he despised was how the vast majority of Vestal's children whisked away in a mass exodus, marching to some summer camp before the summer vacation was a mere two weeks old. Joshua didn't take well to the isolation, resenting the fact that the majority of those in the ranks contained everyone in his target demographic. He also resented his absence in those ranks because of his father's meager salary. When many spoke of Joshua's accomplishments, he harbored seething umbrage when they talked about how he did so much while having far less to work with than the others of his generation, as if that had anything to do with it.

The adults in his family, such as his parents and grandparents, noticed Joshua took the conviction of another summer confined to solitary rather hard, but deep down they knew he was a good boy. While his chosen method of occupational therapy was difficult to confront, they justified their inaction with the solace that those creatures existed with no souls and therefore were not truly alive, according to their interpretation of the Scripture.

Young Joshua felt motivated to leave home, and bed, for that matter, only by the basic desire to see blood. He never vandalized, spread graffiti, or took what was not his, being a good boy; he merely hunted down, tortured and killed all the animals he could find within a five-mile radius of home. They appeased his anger and loneliness, gave the day a sense of purpose, and fulfilled some primal, predatory need. He often came home for supper, smiling and content, and he never argued about needing to bathe. He ate all of his dinner, even the vegetables, and demonstrated good manners to all of his elders. Despite the extra effort required to remove the stains from his clothes, Joshua's mother found no need to complain about her little boy.

For Joshua, there were plenty of moments of excitement and delight during those dog days, and he believed he could have his cake and eat it, too. His Grandfather once told him that good men take lemons and make lemonade, then proceeding to say what he meant. Joshua quickly caught on that you make the best of what you have, so he relished in seeing the squirrels, chipmunks, woodchucks, stray dogs, cats, or whatever else he caught writhe in pain and sing out their agony, as if they truly felt it. But they couldn't feel it, according to the wise, such as Grandpa, because only the soul felt such things and those beasts, everyone knows, have no souls. Besides, the odd hobby kept the boy from the genuine sins plaguing the big city's children, with their sex, drugs, and rock and roll. So, just bite one's lip and look away while Joshua fills his days with the blood of the pests and strays. It keeps him out of trouble and it minimizes the rummaged garbage cans during the dark of night.

In the wooded area just behind the elementary school, beyond the broken fence and past the creek that only flows during the spring thaw, Joshua assumed the role of King within his kingdom of lesser creatures, dumb beasts and pests. Rare were the days when he surveyed this realm during the hot summer, because it was dark, humid, and consisting mostly of his lowest subjects. They plagued him so when he occupied his throne, offering no satisfaction when he crushed them. They never screamed or bled; they merely rolled over and kicked their numerous, skinny legs. However, every so often came something that compelled King Joshua to reoccupy his lands and recline once more at his humble throne.

Fate sometimes presents more than the mere squirrel or some other rodent caught in a snare. Occasionally, a stray or dumped pet might fall for his coos and scratches behind the ears; wondrous specimens promising unruly screams, telling facial expressions and a lot of blood. This time it was a mother cat and her kittens, all old enough to find unending interest in their world, earning Joshua's center of attention. Since he had to work for them, investing both time and energy for nearly a week, they were a special treat lured in with feigned kindness and wholesome food. The young boy smiled his knowing smile while stroking the nervous mother's pelt or scratching the ears of the suckling kits.

The day came when she finally gave her trust, purring with each stroke along her shiny coat, giving him the opportunity to snatch her by the scruff of the neck and stuff her and the brood into a pillowcase. He found great pleasure in the weighty, wriggling sack as he trekked to his Dominion of the Murky Shadows, where the felines and their fate would come together. His imagination sparkled with so many delightful ideas as he smirked and giggled along the way to their final place in this world, roughly bumping the sack against every tree, light post, and mailbox along the way. The better ideas made him laugh out loud.

He dismissed the sweat in his eyes and the gnats buzzing around his head while he invoked so many imaginative ways to unleash his brand of cruelty upon the feline family. The mother, whose cries fed his quest for power and control, struggled against her bindings as well as the duct tape forcing her eyes open. Young Joshua was proud of that particular detail, ensuring she witnessed every kitten's turn before her turn, the last turn, arrived.

"I hope you're enjoying every second of this, nice cat. But don't feel left out, because your turn will be here soon enough. It's just that mothers sacrifice for their children so much, so you should sacrifice your turn for your children. So, lay back and enjoy the show, sort of like a soccer mom."

Joshua must have been inspired that day, coming up with stunning ideas and clever innovations, ensuring both the maximum pain and the greatest life expectancy. It was amazing what one could do with a cheap, home-repair tool kit, a child's tackle box and some kite string. The intriguing sensation of new tumescence was bolstered with the shrill screams of the little ones who honored their king with so much expression. It intoxicated the king, and this adrenaline-charged intoxication changed Vestal forever. Well, the intoxication accompanied by little Timmy Mathers and his brand new soccer ball.

Joshua spotted Timmy kicking his ball along the sidewalk bordering his kingdom and Vestal, and it made him think of his lost soccer ball. His ball saddened him since it was lodged in a crevice of the roof where no matter what he threw at it, he couldn't break it loose. Dad and Grandpa wanted to get it, but they said they no longer trusted that old ladder after being left out all winter. Time and weather also took their toll on the ball that was once round, shiny and new, reducing it to a dull, sagging mass. It died of neglect and exposure, surrounded by the sun-baked corpses of Frisbees and boomerangs that suffered similar fates.

King Joshua, gifted with the clarity of mind that comes with the fresh blood of minions, saw the opportunity to gain another ball, round, shiny and new. Filled with the rush of vibrancy as the narcotic of fresh blood wafted through his flared nostrils, he weighed the options of obtaining a replacement for his dead ball. After all, in his monarchy, to the victor goes the spoils.

"Timmy? Oh, Timmy?" Joshua begged as he wiped the blood onto the seat of his pants. "Here in the trees, Timmy. I've got something for you!"

Panting as he spied the boy through the trees, Joshua licked his lips and smiled when he saw the boy stop and pick up that pretty ball. Wow, he thought, that ball might have come from its box that very morning, it looked so good. In his state of mind, he saw a way to part the kid from his ball and convince him he still got the better part of the deal. He grabbed one of the few remaining kittens and held it aloft by the tail, giving it a shake to rattle some noise out of it. The kitten mewed on cue, catching Timmy's attention.

"Hey, I can hear you got a kitty-kitty," Timmy said, bouncing on his toes to get a better view into the trees.

Timmy was a bright boy of six years whose father was a prominent veterinarian in town before losing his life in an accident along I-88 while rushing to a cow delivering breach. Dr. Mathers was an integral part of Vestal, despite the common conception about the status of lesser creatures, since he was well educated, fiercely intelligent, and seen as quite handsome by most. The graphic accident tore at the soul of Timmy's mother, but she was smart enough to know that such tragedies are a part of life, at least leaving her with the son of her best friend. Timmy looked so much like his wonderful father, especially when he smiled, and she saw her husband every time Timmy laughed, and in that she found joy.

"Hi, can I pet your kitty-kitty?" Timmy asked into the shadows, stuffing his ball under one skinny arm.

"Why, of course you can, Timmy," Joshua alleged from the shadows. "Why don't you come in here so you can pet the kitty-kitty."

"Where are you? I can't see you," Timmy said while struggling through the brambles and high weeds, trying to reach the trees. "Why do you have a kitty in there? The bugs bite in there."

"A lot of things bite in here, Timmy. Say, that sure is a nice soccer ball you got there."

"Thanks. Oh, hi Josh! Yeah, my Mom gave it to me for my birthday."

Timmy worked through the high weeds and the thorny blackberry bushes, which can be quite full and tasty during the summer, when they're not picked clean by the birds, which was now the case. Since Timmy was left with nothing but the thorns, he frowned to the trouble, but he was motivated by yet another mew from the kitty-kitty. Once in the trees and past the dry creek bed, Timmy was close enough to get a clear view, allowing his eyes time to adjust to the murky shadows. He stopped a few yards from Joshua and his docile servitude, confused by what he saw.

"Hey, what's wrong with those kitties, Josh?"

Conjuring his finest cunning, Joshua thought of the perfect explanation. He perused his collection of trophies scattered about and wondered if he could induct a young knight who'll help ensure the sanctity of the monarchy. Joshua wasn't exactly sure what Timmy could or would do, but it might be fun watching him try, and it would be amusing to see the expressions on both the kittens and the boy. Besides, it was unlikely Timmy would be lured off by summer camp for another two years or so.

"Timmy, I'm helping these kitties go to a better place. You see, they were really sick and had to be put to sleep. Hey, your Daddy was a veterinarian, isn't that so?"

Timmy's smile faded and he looked to his feet. "Yeah, but my Mommy says he's in Heaven now."

"Gotcha. See, this is great, because now you can learn to be a vet just like your Dad, helping me send these kitties to Heaven so they can be with him. I bet your Dad would love to have some new kitties to treat up there in Heaven, wouldn't you? I'll help you with all of that, Timmy, and all it's going to cost you is one soccer ball."

"But I don't think that kitty's very sick, Josh, and you shouldn't be holding it by the tail," Timmy said, his smile replaced with a disapproving scowl. "If it's sick, you're not being very nice to it."

"But Timmy, it's very sick. It's so sick that it has to be put out of its misery, and it needs to see the vets in Heaven. You can bet that soccer ball your Dad would put it to sleep if he saw it like this, so now you can be the vet just like him, and put the poor thing down. Timmy, I'll let you, no, I'll show you how to send this kitty right to your Dad, okay? All I ask for is that soccer ball. It sounds like a deal to me."

Timmy wasn't going for it, judging from the look on his face. "Why don't you let me take it to my Mom, Josh? I bet she can make it all better. She might be an accountant and not a vet, but my Daddy used to say she's as good with animals as anyone he's ever known. He said all that before he moved to Heaven."

After Timmy's account of his father's opinion, both boys heard the mother cat let out a low growl, renewing her effort to break free. Timmy hadn't noticed her until then, but once he did, he saw how she was bound. That was all it took, because although he was only a boy of six years, he inherited his parents' sensitivities as well as their intolerance for cruelty. Timmy pouted for an extended moment, his bottom lip quivering just a bit, and then he yelled out, "You're being mean to these kitties, Josh!"

The accusation, despite its verity, angered Joshua. "Look, these kitties are very sick and I am their doctor. Do you want to help your Dad and these stupid cats or not?"

"Yeah I want to help them, but not in here," Timmy said while swatting at the mosquitoes swarming in for fresh blood. "All right, Josh. I'll give you the ball if you give me the kitties. Here, you can take it."

Timmy dropped the ball, urging it in Joshua's direction. For a slight moment, Joshua considered the offer as he eyed the ball. After all, his entire motivation for inviting Timmy to his domain was that ball, but then he looked to his subjects. This summit between Timmy and him was not a debate about trade. There would be no bartering, and the time for diplomacy had passed when Timmy made accusations and demands. While it was true Joshua wanted the ball, he knew leadership required the courage of one's convictions. That meant he had to set the right example in front of his subjects. Eyes narrowing, Joshua saw Timmy in a different light, seeing a trespasser on his lands, but no knight.

"Just never mind, Timmy. You can take your ball and go home. The cats belong to me."

Timmy's face twisted and he yelled, "You're being mean to these kitties! You hurt all of these baby kitties and I'm telling my Mom."

Raising his voice, Joshua declared, "These kitties are mine and I'll do whatever I want." He still had the same kitten by the tail, so he held it out for Timmy to see and said through clenched teeth, "But if you want this one, fine. You can go get it."

With a sneer, Joshua tossed the cat in front of him and punted it into the trees. The mother cat howled out to the sight, sending a thrill through Joshua. The real satisfaction of the moment was the solid connection he felt, even if he only made contact with the kitty-kitty's head. He smiled wide while watching the kitten spin away from them, its limbs wheeling loose as it loped through the branches and out of sight. It made no sound, so Timmy felt compelled to scream out for the cat as if he took the brunt of the boot.

Timmy's screams were shrill enough to rattle the bones in Joshua's head; even more shrill than the mother cat as she cried out for her babies. The whining surrounding Joshua took from him all the satisfaction he received from the sight of the freewheeling cat, and that made him see it as a life wasted, or worse yet, time wasted.

Joshua spun around. "Shut up, you little brat! Timmy, you had better shut your mouth!"

Timmy wasn't going to shut up. He stood there with eyes wide, his screams gaining in both pitch and volume as those wide eyes consumed the horrors before them. Normally, Joshua savored the screams of his subjects, but this intruder's wailing went straight to his nerves. It worsened when the mother cat, writhing at her bindings, screamed in harmony with the snot and then pulled a leg loose, allowing hope to seep in. That brand of insolence was banned long ago, as well as Joshua's patience for it.

Having endured more than enough aggravation, Joshua grabbed the Daisy air rifle he kept handy and then shot the mother cat in the back of the head. Grandpa was so understanding when he gave Joshua the air rifle for his birthday, thinking, correctly, every American boy has to start somewhere in his ever-expanding gun collection. Instantly, the cat's body went rigid and her jaw hung askew from the sudden trauma. That silenced the feline, but Timmy strove to make up for the lost voice, shrieking as if he was also shot. Angry, Joshua considered pumping the rifle and blasting Timmy in order to give him something to cry about. Instead, he gripped the rifle by the barrel and swung it like a bat, tagging Timmy just over one eye.

Timmy went silent instantly and down just as fast. He writhed stiffly, working his mouth, but at least his audio was muted. After seeing the wide laceration on Timmy's forehead bleed into the boy's blond mop and then the earth underneath it, Joshua rubbed his smooth chin, wondering how much weight he put behind the swing. He stepped over Timmy and looked down on his prone, writhing figure, almost expecting to see those long, skinny legs grappling for air, much as the other bugs do in this position.

The next day, Joshua's thinking was much clearer and he recognized the gravity of the situation, but the moment he saw the blood flow from the gash, contrasting with the boy's fair skin and golden locks, he felt something most wouldn't feel. Already heady from the excessive blood lust administered that day and in recent days, the intoxicating effects impaired Joshua's judgment, making the moment good. Yes, it made the moment good, feeding Joshua some cruel, savory delight in seeing Timmy's limbs quiver like that.

"You should have done as you were told, Timmy," Joshua breathed, stepping over his latest quarry to take in the new highlight of the day. He ran a forearm across his sweaty brow and licked his lips, savoring the subtle taste of blood in the air.

Throughout the years, Joshua struggled to understand the complex nature of humanity's emotional panorama. He wondered how good, smart people ended up addicted to drugs, as if there were some underlying benefit no one recognized, or a glitch in the instinct system that somehow fooled that aspect of nature, much in the way the Pitcher Plant or Venus Fly Trap lures in unsuspecting prey. He knew numerous disciplines struggled to understand the nature of man, but as a layman in a unique position, he perceived a clue few others could conceive. Be that as it may, what occurred with Timmy for almost two hours after the blow to the head must be categorized as surreal. People can down too many drinks at a party and end up naked in the pool with people they normally dislike, only to agonize over it for days afterward, wondering how any of them will ever face each other again in the same way. The humor in waking up to say something like, "Hey, these aren't my underwear," has a short shelf life.

Joshua's assumption was once he passed some unseen point of no return, his reasoning, if there was any, must have been- why not just go all the way? The detachment he felt during the ordeal was mysterious; a detachment he experienced with most victims, but hitherto never recognized until that very last victim was less like the others and more like him. In this, all the blood lust was much like an addiction and he was much like an addict; so the first thing one must do is admit they have a problem.

The time with Timmy inspired some screeching from time to time, which only served to top off the buzz, but soon came the moment when Timmy screamed no more, accentuating Joshua's elation. The irony of humanity's multifaceted emotional spectrum was that forevermore, whenever he recalled the images burned into his mind that day within the shadows of oak, pine and birch, his throat tasted of bile. Another aspect of artificial euphoria is the mind retains few complete memories while high, being content with foggy snapshots until the very end, where every detail is perceived through a full field of vision. For Joshua, the view illustrated Timmy's body pulled up a tree, with one of the severed limbs rotating slowly a few feet away as it dangled from a strip of Timmy's shirt. The sight of the first birds onto the scene added to the macabre ambiance.

It was difficult to stand at the podium of Vestal as mayor, living the lie and accepting the tradition that, ever since the gruesome murder of Timmy Mathers more than twenty years prior, addressing the crime became part of the Vestalonian election process. Joshua held up a quieting hand to his constituents, appealing for his moment to continue.

"While it's wonderful for all of us to relish in this joyous event, we are aware of the unique aspect to the mayoral election in Vestal. This aspect brings pain to all of us, but through facing these discomforting feelings, we confront our responsibilities as people, parents, and community leaders. These responsibilities protect our children, community, and respect for law and justice."

He allowed for dramatic pause and then continued. "Almost twenty-five years ago, Vestal endured a horror no place on God's creation should ever face. The summer before the election of that year, little Timmy Mathers was murdered under the cover of shadows behind the elementary school that still stands and educates our children today. That heinous crime took from us a little boy, and took from us the peace and tranquility we all thought Vestal shared as a community. It's taken a long time to regain some of the peace and calm we once had, and we do not have all that we did. Everyone then went to the polls with this heaviness on their hearts, and that electorate had to ask much more from the elected leadership. Further, that leadership felt compelled to find untried methods to seek justice for the victims, who, I should point out, was all the townspeople with a conscience. As I said, this has been going on for more than two decades, and since this perpetrator has yet to be found, Vestal has lived under the shadow of the crime for all these years. We all know we will never regain all of that peace and tranquility until this criminal is brought to justice. For some of us, this burden has been so heavy."

Joshua felt the guilt bubble up when he looked down to Timmy's mother, Mrs. Trisha Mathers. She's been confined to a wheelchair since two years after Timmy's murder, having lost her spirit for life after suffering her second horrible loss. It hurt like a knife to the chest when she looked at him with pride, love and hope, knowing she felt confident the mayor's office finally held someone with the ability to catch a killer. It stung to bear an expression that demonstrated yes, I am the man you seek. It stung a bit more to face the fact he would do everything to prevent what Vestal sought, because he knew he could never face justice now. With forensic and investigative proficiency being what it is today, Joshua Hayes knew it was time to serve a tour of duty in Town Hall in order to ensure he would never have to face those disappointed and horrified expressions. It's been too long, he's accomplished too much for himself and everyone else, so he needed a place where he knew with confidence the search truly ended without any doubt.

But nothing ever brought Vestal together like the collaborative effort to seek justice for Timmy and Trisha Mathers. However, none of the prior efforts solved the crime; they never so much as achieved a significant lead. Looking back, Joshua surmised that the investigators of the time must have been ignorant fools denying what was directly in front of them. Joshua removed the fresher feline corpses from the scene before sneaking out of the woods that afternoon, but he left behind so many other bodies of evidence in varying stages of decomposition. Apparently, the severity of the crime suggested a perpetrator with far greater strength and cruelty than some young boy. It also suggested one with a sickened mind and cold heart, not merely a bored, precocious kid. The inabilities within the minds of some people disappointed Joshua, although he recognized that few would have his level of understanding. It took considerable effort on his part to stifle his anger for the people he looked to for guidance then and, when he felt weakened by the disillusionments of life, he saw blood on the seats of their pants, too.

"Every mayor in office since that time has sworn to Vestal and his God that he would do everything to bring the criminal to justice," he said to a still and sober audience. "Joshua Hayes will be no exception. Today's forensic and investigative specialists bring more to the table than ever before. The sweeping hands of justice reach so far that now there is no corner of the globe that is out of reach. My staff and I will pursue every avenue of approach and every possibility to ensure this tradition of searching for an unknown killer ends with my administration."

That did it. Everyone was back on their feet and the pandemonium of expressed emotion swirled through the auditorium. He meant what he said, just not in the way he would prefer, for the sake of Vestal. Joshua affixed his best smile and looked down to Timmy's Mom. He saw in her sunken eyes the pride and affection she's felt for him ever since his own mother took Trisha's hand and stood by her, all those years ago and throughout the years ever since. He couldn't count how many times Mrs. Mathers looked at him so fondly, stating that should Timmy have lived, she could only hope Timmy would have grown to be as good a man as Joshua Hayes. How many times has he knelt before her wheelchair and felt her warm embrace, feeling her love while she held her son's killer. Just as many times, he has rushed to the back porch or the bathroom to set free her fine cooking.

The day after Joshua changed the course of Vestalonian history, he remained indoors and huddled in front of the TV, hiding from those sweeping hands of justice. Later that afternoon, Timmy's remains were discovered, although the police and most of Vestal had been searching since the prior evening. Many people were infuriated that it took until the next day to find Timmy when he was less than a mile from home, but everyone who passed near him missed him because of the gloom and the foliage. When the organized search party moved into those trees the next day, they were led by the smell and the birds. It didn't take long for the news of the discovery to spread far and wide through the neighboring counties and then the state, eventually consuming a radius of hundreds of miles in less than a day. The once sleepy town of Vestal was wide awake for all the wrong reasons, and aghast because of it.

Everyone talked about it. Over the next several days, Joshua hung low and out of plain sight, waiting for the moment when the police cruisers would swarm the house, their rotating lights illuminating the quiet street in flashes of red and blue. He imagined a team of officers forcing him into a cruiser while the townsfolk stood along the cracked sidewalk and sneered the freak as it was being hauled away for crushing under the gavels of justice. What he didn't know for a fact his imagination made up for, and throughout the years he learned what he imagined was only slightly more drastic than the facts.

Joshua's parents feared for their son, appreciating his willingness to remain indoors. In fact, they assumed the frightened expression on Joshua's face was fear for his safety. Every parent in the region, which was a region spreading across several states over just a few days, feared for their children. However, it wasn't the fear in the hearts and eyes of the people that struck Joshua; it was their loathing for the monster loose in their world. Over a span of days, weeks and then beyond, he held his ear to a door, hearing what people said about him.

"What in the world turns someone into the monster that does things like that? I just don't get it. You know, I can see being desperate and holding up a liquor store, but what sort of hell spawn lures a child into the shadows and...Jesus. Oh, Jesus, God in Heaven."

"I thought I reached the age I am today with a better handle on what the world is, but I have been so wrong. I thought I knew evil during the days of the war, but I have never imagined anything like this. Never in all my years have I heard of such actions by Satan, and now I wonder what other horrors Satan has in store for our world."

"I know there is evil in the world, but what happens to a human being in their life that turns them into something capable of such evil? What horrors must a person face in order to make them do these things? My God, please help us understand so we can avoid this evil before any more children are hurt."

"What did that is not human!" it was said accompanied with a fist to the table. "For reasons we'll never know, there are those born among us that are not like us, and they're not human. This is the reason we should never tell our children there is no such thing as monsters. They need to know monsters are not ugly, hairy beasts with big claws and dripping fangs, but look like nice people and are far more sinister than any monster in any movie. Nobody will ever live long enough to convince me that a human being committed this crime. This was not done by a criminal, people. Criminals steal cars and wash checks. They don't do...that. Monsters do that."

One of the most difficult things took place weeks later, the weekend after the elections. All of Vestal came together yet again, offering solidarity to Trisha Mathers. Everyone gathered in the community center, pledging unconditional support to her, promising that she will never face mundane challenges before her quest was complete. Everyone cried, expressed severe anger and found it acceptable to speak their minds, lest a monster be in their midst. The things Joshua heard about himself never escaped his thoughts or dreams, not even once.

The pivotal moment came during that event when Joshua would have to face Mrs. Mathers and offer his sympathies. It turned out that since Trisha was close to his mother, the two of them knowing each other since childhood, the moment when they would come face-to-face was inevitable. But, what took place no one saw coming.

Despite Joshua being almost twice the age of Timmy, Mrs. Mathers chose to see much more of her son in Joshua than he desired, and she felt compelled to express it. He just wanted to stand in front of her and say, honestly, he was sorry for what happened and that he wished she might find the strength to be happy again some day. He hoped only for a teary nod and mumble of thanks, but those hopes were dashed. As soon as he was near her and they made eye contact, she swooped in, scooping him up in a severe embrace.

She held him tight for almost a full minute, and then loosened just enough to face him and say, "Oh, God. Joshua, please promise me you'll grow up to be the best man you can, okay? My little Timmy will never have that chance, even though I was confident he would best his father, regardless of how daunting the task. So now, I would like to see you and all of Vestal's children find a way to a beautiful life."

"I promise that I'll be good, Mrs. Mathers."

"Joshua, everyone in town has offered me the world, but I don't need any of that. My husband left me financially secure. What I no longer have is a child to love, so if I might be so daring, I would ask that Vestal allow me to share my love with their children. That would give me more than anything else."

Trisha was in tears again, as was everyone within earshot. Naturally, they agreed to honor her request, and Mrs. Mathers has been known as an angel by every child born in town since Timmy's death. She's had at least some involvement in the concerns for every one of Vestal's children since her tragedies. It was the oddest luck that Joshua became the poster child for her affections, though. That, or poetic justice.

"One more thing, Joshua Hayes. I ask that you be the greatest man you can throughout your life. Do your best in school and everything else you do, give to your family and community, and be a hero among your peers. Through this," she managed, sobbing by this point, "you can avoid the touch of Satan upon you and you'll never become like the demon that took from me my precious little boy."

Oh yeah, that statement stunned the hell out of everyone who heard it, not the least of which was Mrs. Hayes. But no one would ever call Trisha on it, not after such a dramatic display of emotion. Once more, she tightly embraced Joshua and cried on his shoulder, burning an unforgettable image into the mind of every witness to her desperate desire for sanity. However, the act seared no mind as it did her son's killer.

She released her hug and held Joshua by the shoulders, pleading, "Promise me, boy. Oh, Joshua, please promise me these things!"

He felt things inside him come undone as he looked into her tearful eyes; sure that God Himself purged the Devil from his soul. He felt the evil he had in him could never rise again, and his emotional bearing teetered because of it, but he held it together just enough to cry in harmony with her and say, "Yes, Mrs. Mathers. I promise you these things."

Although no one there would have held the young boy to such lofty convictions, Joshua placed complete conviction on his promises, and those convictions were the only thing in existence influencing him more than his guilt and shame. He'd heard far more than enough of what he knew he was by that point, having no doubt of the evil within him when held by the mother of a child he knew in a way so wrong. But when she released him and locked her loving gaze upon him through flowing tears, Joshua Hayes became something else.

The incongruity hurt like a bullet, because over the years and throughout all of his accomplishments from his teens and to the present, he stood tall before Mrs. Mathers, along with every Vestalonian, undeserving of their pride and admiration. Deep inside, he knew he was the festering sore that never scabbed, spilling lewd infection through the streets of Vestal, yet they perceived a hero who exuded everything marvelous coming from the highest ideals of humanity. The more Joshua accomplished, the more he renewed his conviction to his sacred promise, and then the more he knew what he was now was because of what he was then, and the culpability mounted higher with each ribbon, trophy, and then parchment.

Standing at the podium and accepting recognition for yet another of his innumerable victories, he looked to the withered shell of what used to be Trisha Mathers, once a striking and vibrant woman, and he saw love and high regard for him in those dull, sunken eyes. It became a tradition with her, he's heard far too many times, that she clung to life only to know in her broken heart that Joshua Hayes kept his promises.

"I'll say this again, just so everyone knows that I mean what I say," he said, despising the deceit that spewed from him. "I will devote every possible opportunity to assure the criminal who cast this dark shadow over Vestal pays for this crime to the fullest extent of the law. As God as my witness, and you, Dear Mrs. Mathers, I will ensure that this...monster, answers for this crime! Further, if he can hear me right now, I want to remind him the day will come when he will stand before his God. He may have evaded the long arm of the law thus far, but he will never evade his Creator!"

The roar through the auditorium was so fierce that he could feel it in the stage. Despite of whom he was, Joshua appreciated the approval of Vestal and he knew this was a good town filled with good people, although there was only one person among them he sought to please. He looked to Trisha Mathers and saw approval in her gaunt expression.

How gently she cried while looking up to him, able to muster the strength to release her clutched hands and blow him a loving, motherly kiss. He felt relieved to see her find occasional moments of happiness through his deeds, and it helped a little. Indeed, out of the scant few things a man like him can do to give back to God's world, such as being the man she asked him to be, was giving Trisha as many moments of happiness as possible. Of course, this was mere consolation, not nearly as good as the convicted criminals who stood before a victim's mother and apologized for their heinous crimes just before being hauled away to prison. At least they had the courage to face who they were and the people who knew it.

The thing was, it was all he could do without going to the authorities and confessing to everything. There was yet one more regret for Joshua Hayes, because if he went to his parents that day and told them his tale, he would have faced incredible judicial admonishment, likely throughout the remainder of his childhood; but it all would have been over by the present day. Ironically, however, he had no doubt he would have been nothing in life except a man wandering through a life he didn't have the courage to take, accepting one pointless job and place in life after the next, scoffed by humanity for what he was. He would have been allowed to live and wander only because society prevents the people from executing true justice.

So, it seems his silence and life-long private trial is the only true measure of justice, since only Joshua Hayes can give Vestal what they need most to live through this unendurable act. His personal guilt, personal judgment, and then execution of sentence are the only genuine acts of justice, because what would have society's law done about the crime? They would have tossed him into juvenile detention, where the low-life guards would have tortured him the way they do all the other convicts of such a pathetic method of righteousness. Then he would have been forced to endure a life of endless scrutiny, being hawkeyed by the law until he died, which would have been a day celebrated by all who recognized a monster when they saw one.

Giving Trisha Mathers a reason to live on was his finest triumph in life, since only he could do this. After all, the only thing she had before he got involved was Timmy, and he took that from her. This was so obvious to him, although everyone else on Earth must be veiled in mystery and confusion as to why things are if she was to know any peace and happiness whatsoever. But he was the one who felt confusion when he saw her drop her twisted hands into her lap and, with grace, place her chin on her chest and slump in her chair. The confusion was quickly replaced with terror.

The din or the horde faded to a hush while he focused his attention on the woman whose life he destroyed so long ago. Joshua is among the world's few people who recognize the finality of death with more confidence than most, and he felt the same undoing within him he felt the day she crushed him to her breast all those years ago. He knew what he saw in that old wheelchair, but couldn't accept it. He couldn't accept it because he still lived on, and he always knew that when she died, his sentence was over. Her passing was his parole, yet he was the single member of the parole board knowing that he had no right to parole. He always knew that would be the worst thing, since he would be a man without justice in his life; he would have to wait until he died and then faced his Creator, just as he said to the throng who had yet to know a corpse sat before them.

"Mrs. Mathers? Oh Trisha, please," he said, his voice trembling as he leaned forward to see her, and therefore into the microphone. The message was then clear to everyone nearby because they all rushed to her when he gushed, "Oh, God in Heaven. Trisha!"

The scene wavered as his eyes welled with tears, seeing several people rush to Timmy's Mom, knowing everything was being done while his mother knelt and patted Trisha's lifeless wrist and so many others reached for their cell phones. There was nothing more he could do for or to her, so he subtly reached up and turned off the microphone. Once again, he was surrounded by so many, yet so alone.

He looked to the God he knew despised him for what he was and said, "Please know that I am not a monster anymore. I promised those things and I am not a monster anymore."

Okay, I think it's time for some relief, don't you think? This next one was another story written as a gift, and is a feel-good story. I wrote this one for my daughter, Sierra Jade.

When I wrote this, I was broke. MC Hammer broke. I couldn't hit the dollar menu at McDonald's without regretting it. And it was time for Christmas.

I couldn't get Sierra anything worthwhile because I didn't have a dollar to spend. Thanks to the economy and the political corruption decimating it, I couldn't buy my daughter a Christmas present. But I was determined she wouldn't go giftless, so I was determined to write her a story just from Dad. This story is that story.

While there's some drama involved, this is written to be sweet and heartfelt, and feel-good. I hope you readers like it, and I hope she loves it as much as I dreamt she might. It wasn't a stretch to create, since it is a story about man driving truck and trying to get home to the family important to him. While I can't seem to get to Sierra, as she lives in Texas while I am stuck in Florida, the thought is there and my love for her spans the miles.

Regardless, this story is all hers and I hope she likes it. Who knows, it might prove to be something she'll read fondly years from now.

Thinking of His Daughter on Christmas

Ridge Hayward pushed it into tenth gear as he moved south on the highway, gaining speed and passing the rented RV full of some family off to who-knows-where. He figured he would be home in about three or four hours, five if the traffic bogged down anywhere, and he might actually get to take a shower tonight. That in itself would be enough for Christmas for now. This night was Christmas Eve and tomorrow was the day everyone always thrilled to reach, but he just wasn't feeling the spirit. It wasn't that he didn't want to, but things have been tight, troublesome, and difficult, and because of that he'd rather work on the problem rather than pretend for a day those problems weren't the 800 pound gorilla in the room.

The problems weren't all that recent, though, with things for him and the family leaning down for a while now as a result of the recession affecting so many bottom lines. If the economy is moving less, his truck moves less, and it is really that simple. The last two years saw a significant drop in miles and opportunities, and if he had the choice, he would park the truck and do something else. But something else was something a whole lot of people had to get used to not having, so he was supposed to feel grateful for having this. But costs keep going up while income keeps coming down, and Sadie, his seventeen-year-old daughter, was about to embark on her life, looking just around the next bend to her college years. That was something he looked forward to, since he vied for seeing someone in the Hayward family break the blue collar hamster wheel and actually get somewhere. But if momentum wasn't to be lost, he couldn't afford to sit and idle; he needed to be back in the seat and moving, ASAP.

He wanted to be home for Christmas Day, but not for any longer than that. In fact, if he had the choice, he would be back on the road the following morning, early, running ahead and putting miles behind him and into the draining accounts. To be honest, if Sadie wasn't there, he wouldn't have come back home at all, but wished Carol a marvelous holiday cheer with her folks. But the truth was that Sadie might not actually be there in Christmases of Near Futures, so being there now meant something more than just a day off.

He didn't want to seem or feel like a Grinch, but it was hard to feel the season's miracles when the creditors and mortgage company constantly called and whined about late payments. It was bad enough that he couldn't afford any quality gifts for Carol or Sadie, and he knew that what he could afford to buy were things that, should he receive them, would meet sincere gratitude and then never be looked at again. But that wasn't how he was allowed to treat his cell phone, now ringing yet again, and he lost count of how many times he wished such technology never existed.

He felt for his Bluetooth gizmo to ensure it was in place, and then looked at the phone to see who might be calling. If it was family, he'd be glad to answer, but he was in the mood to provide an earful to anyone who might be calling about bills on Christmas Eve well after dark. Sadly, such a scenario no longer seemed outside the realm of possibility. He had never found total comfort in being on the phone while operating an eighteen-wheeler, but these Bluetooth things make a big difference. Besides, it wasn't driving in the winter weather that bothered him, and the highway was quite clear of ice and snow, but he was running quite light with a wagon full of only goose down. The trailer was completely full and still only a few thousand pounds at most, so he felt conscious about being light where things might be slick.

He looked at the phone and saw it was home. He answered, "Hey there," thinking it would be Carol on the phone.

"Hey there yourself, Daddy," Sadie said. "I'm calling to see when you think you'll be home."

"I think I should be there sometime between the fifth and seventeenth of February, give or take," he said, trying to lighten his mood. "Definitely before the Mayan calendar runs out."

"That's very funny, funny man," Sadie said. "Do you think you'll be home tonight or tomorrow morning? Mom wanted to make something nice for tomorrow's breakfast if you'd be there for that and we both have something special for you. So, when are you going to be home?"

"It likely won't be before midnight or so, since the day got started late. But I think I should be there before Santa shows up with his sleigh full of goodies. I was thinking I'd likely park right out front when I got there, so is there anything parked out front I should know about?"

"No. Mom's car is in the garage and mine is where it's been since it broke down, so there's plenty of space for that behemoth of yours. We'll settle for seeing St. Nick on the tube, Dad; we just want to see you home safe and sound."

"I will be there as soon as I can, and you don't have to wait up for me if you don't want to," Ridge said.

"I'll see how I feel," Sadie said. "Just be careful. Mom sends her love."

He said he would be careful and he meant it. He's had this particular truck for just a couple of years, and when he bought it, he was making enough money to think he might be able to pay it off fast. But it wasn't but a few months after getting it and it seemed he was barely making enough to cover the essentials. If the thing wasn't his bread and butter he would just turn it over to anyone who would take over the payments and then never look back. But instead, he's supposed to feel lucky that he's able to do this much.

He figured that he had maybe a few more hours on the road at the most and somewhere around one hundred and seventy five miles to go. Ridge hated the thought of it, but until something popped up, he just might be home and parked until after the turn of the year. At this time of the year, the most popular freight out there was the cheapest freight, and he wasn't sure if he could do little more but break even with that. So the choice was meager pay and moving during a time when most people drove the worst, or sit and not get paid at all. Deal or no deal, there buddy.

After listening to an audio book to pass the time, Ridge saw his exit coming up, letting him know that he was about to embark on the last leg of his trip. This was when going home felt like going home. Once he was off the interstate and moving along the highway he's known since he was a boy, it wouldn't feel like work anymore. It was the last stretch and just a matter of time before he would feel comfortable somewhere other than his truck.

But knowing those roads as well as he did, he knew he would have to take it easy along those winding curves and rolling hills. After moving along the country highway now for some time, without the benefit of the street lights or wiggle room of the wider roads, he felt comfortable in knowing what to do and how to do it, what with knowing these routes all of his life. He was particularly aware of slowing down with a load as light as this one when passing near the Macinerny Farm. Just past the dead John Deere tractor that's been a landmark in Henry's front lawn for more than two years now, the turns get tight and the hills swoop up and down, and then there's a tight right directly followed by a steep drop of more than what has to be ten feet, followed by a sharp left. That particular mile of roadway has claimed the cars of many strangers new to the area as well as the foolish daring of teenagers who have been there long enough to know better.

Ridge slowed it down, knowing exactly how to negotiate the turns and hills in any weather, feeling the need to go slow with this light trailer. Once he was passed Henry Macinerny's farm and approaching the Nussbaum Orchards, the road pulled out a little straighter and he could gain some momentum. It felt a lot like business as usual as he slowly rounded the sharp right towards the dip ahead, making Ridge notice the lack of weight behind him just when he came around the bend to see Ralph, Henry's stupid St. Bernard, standing there in the middle of the road.

"Oh, you have to be kidding me," Ridge said as he tried slowing for Ralph, who didn't have the sense to move.

Normally, Ridge would feel obligated to move right through any animal in the road, regardless of speed and the animal in question, knowing full well that a big truck doesn't maneuver around much of anything. But despite how dumb Ralph can be, everybody had a soft spot for the fool, and anyone knows it would break Henry's heart to see the dog go down, particularly on Christmas. So Ridge gave a gentle tug on the air horn and then stabbed at the brake easily, hoping to coax Ralph out of the way and slow enough for Ralph to have the time to move. But Ralph didn't move.

Ridge stepped on the brake a little harder, thinking he might have to stop and tell the moron dog to move it, but what happened was far from expected. With the truck kinked to the right and coming up on the decline, the tires broke loose on the icy roads despite his going slow. The nose sloped down the start of the hill and the trailer's tail end came around to see what was going on, sending the entire rig easing off the side of the road. Under most conditions at this speed and situation, the truck might do nothing more than just ease to a rough stop, but the ditch is a bit deep before reaching the decline in the road and the load is too light to weigh things down, so once the rig reached the ditch, it abruptly caught some traction and eased right over and laid on its side.

Ridge felt his body instinctively tense to the drama, noticing there was finally something dramatic enough to motivate Ralph to get out of the way. It was almost all a scene in slow motion as the sudden grab of traction on this particular lean in the road was just enough to motivate the truck to lie down. Ridge instinctively tried moving away from the fall, but he was belted in with the seat belt, so there was nowhere to go. Because the heat in the truck worked as well as it did, Ridge wore nothing more than a light sweater while driving, so he didn't have anything on that would hinder his movement but that seat belt. But once the truck abruptly stopped on its side and lay down on the crusty ice and snow of this rural ditch, there wasn't much to keep Ridge from feeling the impact of the bump as the entire driver's side of the truck slammed down, breaking out his door window and driver's side windshield.

Once the maneuver was over and things came to a stop, Ridge tried easing away from the painful side of the truck where it also happened to be far too cold.

"Man, you really have to be kidding me," he managed to say.

Because the accident wasn't genuinely serious or at a significant speed, Ridge's momentary fright and concern quickly turned to anger as his thoughts ran a quick diagnostic of what just happened. What just happened was going to cost him money he simply didn't have and there was nothing he could do about it. The damage to the trailer would likely only be mostly cosmetic, and the same thing for his tractor, with the potential for some structural damage here and there. The goose down would be fine as long it didn't get wet, and things were likely too cold for that.

He needed to get out of the truck to see what happened and then make some phone calls. That's when he saw how complicated things could get, really fast. Ridge was practically laying into the snow and ice on his left side, but he was trapped. His left arm and leg were pinned down with his weight on the door, and the seat belt held him fast. He was twisted over but his right arm was free, so he tried reaching over to unbuckle the belt and then be able to crawl out where the windshield once was. That's when he heard a low growl.

He looked ahead to see Ralph looking in through the windshield, growling at him and baring his old, yellowed fangs.

"Ralph, I am already at the point where I am going to slap the taste right out of your mouth, so you better quit while you can," Ridge seethed at the irritating dog.

Once Ralph realized it was a familiar voice, he eased up and wagged his considerable hind end, and even tried working his bulk in through the open windshield. But Ridge wasn't in the mood to play with this enormous dog, and certainly wasn't in the mood for that tongue on his chilled face.
"Out! Get out!"

Ralph felt a bit stunned by Ridge's seemingly inexcusable bad mood, so he pulled back and out of sight. Once Ralph was away, Ridge tried fumbling against the seat belt lock, but he was twisted in a way where he couldn't reach it. He couldn't twist enough to his right what with his arm and leg pinned down to the left, so he was quite trapped. Debris and all sorts of things that were on the seat, floor, and bunk lied all around, but he couldn't find anything sharp enough to cut away the seat belt. He had a sharp pocketknife in his pocket, but it was his left pocket, which he could feel soaking through because of the snow and ice.

Ridge had to stop and think. His situation, he knew, was really bad with the damage and complications here on a Christmas holiday, but now he felt genuine concern for the present because he was almost literally tied down in a snow bank while not dressed for the situation. He was wearing the light sweater and a simple t-shirt under that, and his blue jeans. Already, what with being mad and nervous, and now rather concerned, he started shivering and his teeth chattered.

He struggled hard against his bindings, but he was held in such a way that kept him from huddling in to guard from the cold. It was almost as if he was held back and open, as if a joking wrestler held him to bare his midriff open to receiving a slap to the belly. The trembling picked up in intensity as the cold raced through him fast, and to add to the problem, his left arm and leg began cramping as he resisted the cold ground to his left.

The Charley Horse tearing into his leg and severe spasms paining his shoulder made him cry out, and Ridge knew he would have to relax and lie into the cold coming in through the broken window in order to ease those agonizing muscles and prevent further injury. But the shaking was getting quite uncontrollable and the fear worse. Also, his situation was getting far more desperate. The safety glass shattered into smithereens, not allowing any significant cutting edge to tear into the seat belt, and he had no idea where his cell phone might be. He knew his Bluetooth thing was gone and out of sight, likely dumped into the snow.

He felt around him, hoping to come across the phone, but to no avail.

"Help! I need help! Is anybody there?"

He wasn't hearing anyone other than Ralph fumbling and sniffing around, blissfully unaware of the gravity of the situation. And as his teeth chattered hard and the cold weighed in on him to the point of becoming frightening, Ridge realized that he was quite alone and could be for some time.

Carol and Sadie wouldn't expect him for more than a couple more hours at the soonest, and even then they might not suspect a problem for well over a couple hours after that. And that's only if they waited up for him. It's more than possible they might have turned in, content to see him upon awakening on Christmas morning.

It quickly past becoming frightening, and as the trembling and teeth chattering became more involuntary and painful, Ridge became aware of real concern and fear.

His concerns quickly turned to Carol and Sadie, both of which he knew relied on his ability to do the right thing and take care of business. But lying in a snow bank while tied down into a seat within a truck that wasn't going anywhere anytime soon, he wasn't doing the right thing or in control at all. All he was able to do was watch what might be his life flashing before his eyes.

The fear deepened as he felt his concern for Sadie grow, and his love for her became so apparent. Ridge felt angry and despondent enough with the situation being this ugly, but how much uglier it could get before sunup really scared him. With this night being the one it is, there might not be anyone coming through to see his overturned truck for hours and hours. Then, once they did recognize the accident for what it was, they would have to endure coming to his side of the truck, likely finding him frozen and quite dead.

So often, he thought about the future and why he pursued it like he has. But when all things are equal, it seemed so easy to find concern only in the financial aspects of life, and how he had to keep going to spin the hamster wheel that much faster, hoping to pull in enough funds to somehow feel he might actually be getting ahead. He wanted as much as possible in terms of comfort and hope within his family, and he particularly pined for a better future for Sadie. He was a truck driver like his father, and his grandfather, who was a mason feeling glad enough he could attain that, felt his son was going places in a world where truckers would make a world of difference in a shrinking world. But Ridge wanted more for Sadie, and he so often felt so grateful that she looked far enough ahead to see what was really out there.

His gratitude for her ambition, an ambition that attained superior grades and a wide open future, so often reached a point of feeling a long-endured battle is nearly won within the Hayward clan. The cycle is broken and the future broken open. Sadie's plans to attain a remarkable education, all but ensured thanks to so many scholarship opportunities and open invitations, thanks to her remarkable achievements in her scant seventeen years, provided Ridge and Carol the tranquility they needed to feel for the future. They worried not for themselves, but felt a great peace in knowing Sadie would soon hold the reigns of her future with confidence and aplomb.

While the severe shaking and the pain in his body gave way to the severe hypothermia sapping his strength and ability to escape, he found a surprising calm in knowing that once Sadie found a way to come to terms with her father's passing, she would achieve heights unseen by any Hayward before her. The snow and frigid winds numbed his face and extremities, but could not stop the smile from overcoming him as he looked past the dark, wintry weather and into a scene of such elation and success as Sadie moved across a stage, clad in cap and gown, to receive a diploma of endless opportunity and inviting futures of glory and adventure.

Things were so quiet and Ridge no longer perceived a sensible passing of time on this moonlit Christmas morning now arrived, and his severe shivering seemed to push away the quiet desperation and concern for self preservation, and he felt the December cold move into the depth of his being. Somehow, the realization that this is what it is for what it is worth seemed appeasing. He had read and heard talk of people being attacked by a Tiger or Bear, and as their bodies were rent and broken by the savage mauling, they found a surprising sense of peace and surrender as the assured end was near, lending so much faith to the philosophy that death is not something to fear. Their rescue from certain death gave peace and ease to untold amounts of people who continually wonder what it would be like, and now that Ridge felt the life drain away into the dark and cold, he felt his concern for mundane issues like money and work drift away, making room for what's truly important, like love of family and the urgent desire for the happy future of children grown and gone on their own.

An assessment of one's life also reaches one at the end, and Ridge felt confident that he kept the most important loose ends pulled tight enough. His life insurance would make enough of a difference to pay the bills, so Carol wouldn't have to endure that hardship. It would be hard enough on her and Sadie to live with the fact that Ridge died when and where he did, but luckily the pain would remain only within the heart and not the wallet. It was a shallow reprieve, but so much better than the alternative, because these last moments would otherwise arrive with so many feelings of failure and sadness rather than longing, melancholy and surrender.

But he had the surrender as the feeling in his body subsided to the unendurable weather, and Ridge Hayward knew he tried his best. He lived his life as best as he knew how and always tried doing the right thing. He brought no harm and no foul, not even to Ralph, and he hoped Sadie would move forward to find the world before her, and Carol would find the strength of character to again know happiness and content. Being widowed could never be fair, but the Hayward family coped with what little fairness the world allowed and accepted it.

Now, as he felt the end so close and saw the light approach, Ridge felt a sudden sense of peace and even warmth come to him. The light closed in and he was sure the love of God closed in, too, and he surrendered to going home, only asking that he be allowed the chance to look in on Sadie from time to time, and see that she lived a life of happiness and comfort.

Barely able to move his mouth or jaw to utter much of anything, he tried stating, "I am ready for you, God. I hope you find me worthy of your trouble on this night celebrating the life of your Son, and I hope you find it in you to allow me the same for my beautiful daughter. My arms have been held open against my will, but they willingly remain open to embrace your love and grace."

The light closed in and even filled the disarray and coldness overcoming the cab of his truck, and then, to Ridge's surprise, the overwhelming light separated into two distinct points, and then stopped just short of overcoming him entirely. And that's when he thought for sure he heard the unmistakable sound of a car door opening.

"Daddy! Where are you, Daddy?"

Ridge somehow felt a tug back into reality, and he was sure that was the voice of Sadie, but in a desperate tone he had never heard before and wished to God he would never hear again.

"S-s-sadie?"

Just moments after seeing the brightness of the headlights and then hearing the car, Ridge held firm to this last ray of hope as he witnessed Sadie drop to her knees and peer in the cold cab to see her father there, looking out to her.

"M-merry Christmas, Sweetheart."

"Daddy, you hang on, okay? We're going to get you out of there."

He saw Sadie jump to her feet and he heard her yell, "Mom, call 911 right now! He's in here and I think he's alive, but we need help now!"

Ridge could hear Carol pleading with emergency services and explaining the situation as she approached the truck, and she managed to maintain her emotional demeanor until she came to her knees and looked in on him, trapped and on the edge of death.

She wiped at her tears and said, "Good God, Ridge. Please hang on. You are almost out of there, so you hang on, do you hear me?"

"I don't know how else to say this, Carol, but you need to cut me loose, okay? I need you to cut me loose."

With that, her tears turned to sobs and she cried, "I'll never do that, Ridge Hayward! I will not get this close just to see you gone, do you hear me? Do you?"

"Jesus, woman. What the hell are you talking about? I'm trapped in here by the seat belt and I need you to cut me loose. Find something to cut this seat belt."

She blinked and looked stunned, but then rushed to her feet and moved out of sight. It wasn't but seconds later and she was back with a pocketknife.

"I'm sorry, but I don't think I could do it myself anymore," he said, feeling the shuddering return. He was so uncomfortable but he thought it was a good sign. "Could you reach in and just slice through this belt?"

Carol got down and her knees and said to who was on the phone, "Hold on for a moment. I need to set the phone down and cut this belt holding him."

Carol set the phone down and worked her way in through the opening where the windshield was, and with a simple move, pushed the little blade right through the belt. Ridge was able to move his right arm towards his left and the way he was held twisted upwards was no longer holding, and he yelled out.

"Ridge, I'm sorry," Carol said, putting a hand to her mouth.

"No, I'm okay," he said, shaking uncontrollably. "I...don't think I've been seriously hurt. I was just held like that, in this cold, for so long."

"Ridge, the man on the phone, he's at the 911 call center and wants to know if you think you might have any serious injuries."

Ridge was trying to move only a little at a time. He knew he wasn't seriously injured, but potentially frostbitten and in the last stages of hypothermia, so still quite confused. Once the restricting belt was cut and he could move some, he tried lying down against the door in such a way that would allow some circulation back into his arms. Both felt restriction because one was held by the belt and one by his weight, and the cold may have caused him enough freezing that would prevent proper circulation. But even with all that was going on, he believed his restricted blood flow kept his blood at center mass and warmer, which would move warm blood into his extremities now that restriction is freed. He also believed that it was going to hurt. A lot.

"Frostbite and hypothermia, but that's it."

While Carol explained what she knew to the guy on the phone, Sadie came over and said, "I have the car as close as I can and the heat is going. Daddy, we need to get you out of there and get you warmed up. Mom, are they sending an ambulance?"

"Yeah, one is on the way. Sadie, see if you can help him out of there."

Ridge moved a little at a time, feeling the blood flow again, and also feeling the pain that was symptomatic of frostbite. He refrained from yelling out too much, not wanting to frighten the two girls any more than he already has. But it was a difficult process and he realized it would likely be awkward at best even if he wasn't tied down before. Lying against the broken window and the door, and with his feet trapped under the dash and steering wheel, it was a struggle to move away from all of that. He tried moving up, which was now along the ground, towards the roof of the cab. That area just might allow him enough room to turn some and then be able to crawl out the hole where the windshield was. But moving up there also proved difficult because of all the debris lying around there. When the truck tipped, everything that was loose was thrown there, and now he had to work his way through it. But just the act of being able to move some helped, although his shivering slowed him, as did the screaming pain in his feet and hands.

"Dad," Sadie said. "What can I do to help you?"

"Sweetheart, I think you already saved my life," he said. "Now, I just have to get through this stuff and get out of here."

It took Ridge several more minutes to maneuver out of the truck, but once he was lined up for where the windshield once was, it was simply a matter of shimmying through. Now motivated with adrenaline and the love of family, Ridge found the strength to escape the truck and try to gain some footing. Sadie moved to one side of him and Carol to the other, and they each placed a cold, numbed arm around them.

"Okay, let's do this nice and easy," Carol said.

Helping him to his feet, he felt the pain enter him as he regained an upright position and somehow he felt colder than he had since the accident. Ridge yelled out a bit to this situation, but quickly assured them he was okay. The car was only about fifteen feet away, so they slowly moved towards it and then once they were next to the car, Sadie had her father brace against the car so she could open the passenger door.

Ridge eased into the seat and felt the wondrous heat coming through, and once he was seated, Carol quickly moved around to the driver's seat and Sadie moved into the seat behind her. Because he was not dressed for the weather and his coat was amongst the mess in the truck, the heat from the car found him fast. He needed that if he was going to reverse the condition of hypothermia. Now, it was just a matter of time before the ambulance showed up.

Still shivering but feeling the warmth come to him in steady waves, he asked, "How did you two know I was out here? It's now just about three in the morning."

"I fell asleep," Carol said. "But she came and woke me up, telling me you weren't home yet."

"I knew you should've been home hours ago, and when I didn't see you," Sadie said, "I got worried more and more. Before long, I couldn't help but to think something was wrong. When you didn't answer your phone after we tried calling so many times, we knew we had to come looking."

It did make sense to Ridge. He had his Bluetooth receiver turned on, so he only would have heard the phone ringing through that. Once it was gone, there was no way to respond. If it hadn't been knocked away, everything might have been so different.

Carol opened a thermos and poured a cup. "This is hot coffee. Drink it slowly, okay?"

She eased the cup into his shivering hands, seeing she only put a small amount into the cup, or otherwise he would likely wear it.

"I waited up for you because I told you I had something special for you for Christmas," Sadie said, "and I couldn't wait to show it to you."

"Sadie, that's marvelous, but you didn't need to get me anything," he said, still sucking in all the warmth he could and steadily sipping the warm coffee.

Carol and Sadie looked at each other and then Sadie said, "Actually, this was something you needed to see, and I've been chomping at the bit for you to see it. But it isn't here, so I'll explain."

He sipped more coffee and actually started feeling so much better. Now, the gravity of his situation started coming to him, and he looked over to his overturned truck and listened for the ambulance, all of which was going to add to a significant amount of money he knew he didn't have.

"Across the kitchen table, I have a lot of information coming from several different schools, as well as scholarship information detailing how just about all of my education will be paid for," Sadie said. "I wanted you to see how much assurance and opportunity was there and how so many of my likely expenses are going to be covered. I wanted you to see that and have it for Christmas because I know how much it meant to you that I had the chance to succeed. Daddy, I know it's why you've been doing all of this and ending up like this, and I just couldn't wait for you to see your hard work has paid off."

It was then that Sadie started crying, and she said, "But now this happened. Everything you've worked for is now in jeopardy and the truck is wrecked, and you've been hurt."

Still shivering, he found the pain in his hands and feet quite intense but he didn't think there was any severe damage done. And that was the thing; while he and his truck took some damage, he really didn't think there was anything there that couldn't be recovered from.

"Honey, if there's anything you should know, it is that I'll be okay and so won't the truck. It looks bad because it is on its side, but it just laid over because of the hill. As for me, I'll be okay, which is all thanks to you. And knowing that you have these opportunities to move on with your life as opposed to worry about me and my truck is the finest Christmas present I could ever hope to receive."

Ridge took another few sips of his coffee before continuing, and then said, "If there's anything I've learned here, it is that there's nothing more important than family. The reason we work like we do is for the family, but none of it matters if family doesn't take the priority. Your Mom and I have worked hard with and for you in order for you to be this far, and seeing you get that far is more rewarding than you can realize."

"Your Dad is right, Sadie," Carol said. "Look at us now. We're sitting here on the side of the road, out here in the middle of nowhere, only because of our love of family. If we didn't have that love, this could have gone in a very different direction."

They could hear the ambulance approaching, and within moments they saw the flashing lights. It was likely going to be a long night, what with having to go to the hospital on Christmas and then recovering the truck, but if there was one thing Ridge and the Hayward family recognized, it was that as long as they were in it all together, they wouldn't have any of it any other way.

That last one was written for my daughter, featuring a trucker as a character. This next one also features a trucker. But it was written for my colleagues.

The last one was sweet and, while somewhat dramatic, was about a trucker and his daughter.

This one fits into that same description, should one remain rather general. Our protagonist is in a hurry to reach his daughter; much like Ridge was in the story above. But the reasons have virtually nothing to do with the holidays.

I come up with the idea for this story basically from a bad attitude and a general disdain for cubicle dwellers. My issue was that, at times, it seems these office drones (did I say that out loud?) expect the driver to know everything, all the time. They're expected to be more perfect and knowledgeable than God, yet are expected to accept little more than scorn.

Now, I don't harbor disparagement for all office personnel; that isn't the case and I was even one of them myself on a few occasions. But it seems as though we've all come across the miserable shit who doesn't do anything but pilot a desk and cannot ever spell correctly (that pisses me off) and thinks that because he works in an office, he is far above you and you must, must, must accept his condescension. He thinks your truck can outdo the Starship Enterprise and that you, well, you are wholly magical...all thanks to him. It seems he is obligated to be as rude as possible, and you're going to toe his line, or else.

And they wonder why trucking employment has such a transient nature.

Many of the office personnel are good people and their jobs are just as essential as the drivers'. They're simply cranking out the day just like anyone else, making a living and wondering what tomorrow brings. But while every bunch of drivers possesses the know-it-all who's seen it all, virtually every team of office personnel has that irritable dipshit with the Petri dish-shallow personality and the notion the world revolves around them.

These people prompted the creation of this story's protagonist.

This was one of the more difficult stories out of the bunch collected here, and it was almost not written several times. I wrote it, put it away, threw it away, rewrote, and the process repeated for quite some time. I sought a particular goal of a story perfect in the way I imagined it, but honestly, never quite got there. I wanted the story to allude to something without giving up the plot, yet it couldn't leave the reader confused and likely to quit. I think I might have come close, but then, not quite. But with that being said, I think the story was good enough to keep.

I hope you like it. Unlike our hero, I don't know if you will or not.

Heavy Traffic- a Trucker's Short Story

Jacob was sound asleep in the bunk of his new Peterbilt truck; so new, in fact, he still wasn't sure where everything was except that new truck smell. He was snoring like a chain saw, knowing his weight was catching up to him; he was struggling with bouts of sleep apnea and other obvious symptoms of his weight and degree of fitness, and worst of all, his age. Hell, Jacob knew his level of fitness was about zero, so he promised himself he would do something about the problem. He would, because when he sets his mind on something, it's all but really done. But for quite some time, it's simply that he let go of the fact that he let himself go. But come on, he's coming up on seventy and still has to think of the kids. Jacob's been playing Santa for a few years now and he doesn't want to put that at risk. Because if there's anyone they want being Santa, it's Jacob Dunhill. He looks and sounds so much like Santa once he's done up in that red garb, and nobody knows the kids better. In fact, he spooks some people with how much he can tell about the children's, and their parents, real hopes for Christmas.

He was sleeping off a hefty meal he enjoyed at Josie's Truck Stop before he came by the yard. He was determined to do something about his fitness level and his weight, but wanted to enjoy one last hurrah. He didn't want to shake the Santa image, not even the hair and beard, but he wanted to carry it all well. He'd be heavy, but strong and enduring, so he enjoyed a good meal of home-style southern cooking at Josie's and decided that from here forward, meals would be healthy enough to make his doctor happier. But his slumber wasn't to last, since he was awakened by something serious going on, and it wasn't indigestion.

Jacob sat up quickly, looking around and momentarily confused by his surroundings. His truck was still new enough to him that looking at it first thing upon waking caught his attention. But he was awake quickly enough to dismiss the sleeper berth, pull back the leather curtains and look out into the dark parking lot of the terminal where he was due to pick up a load going to Sacramento once his ten hours were up. He looked forward to that, in fact, since Sacramento was a good haul from Atlanta. He was looking forward to it because the miles were great and the load was light. The entire trailer was full of goose down for pillows and the load's net weight was maybe a few thousand pounds. It'd be easy driving and easier yet on that new Cummins engine. However, once Jacob pulled on his pants and shoes and stepped out of the truck, he realized his goose down run to the west was no longer in his cards.

The air was cool and crisp, what with the autumn season setting in. The stars fighting through city's light pollution of northern Atlanta were twinkling and the air was moved by only a slight breeze. Jacob stood as still as he could and raised his arms gently; what was going on was faint, but he could tell it was serious enough to warrant his concern. Then he could tell that it was something being kept from him, although the effort to do so was failing. He tuned out the mundane environment and gave his attention to what woke him.

Jacob's mouth nearly fell open when he realized the serious nature of who was being affected. He had to think quickly and act fast if he was going to resolve a crisis before it was too late, and he looked at his watch. His ten-hour break was over within the hour, which was something that eased his mind some, but there was still the issue of going west when he now knew that he must move south. There weren't many other drivers parked on the yard at the time, perhaps only between thirty and forty, so Jacob looked across the several rumbling trucks harboring drivers sleeping it off, readying themselves for a new day. He reached out with a hand and gently watched his outstretched hand pass by the trucks, some running and some not, determining loads, options, and driver demeanors. One of these guys would surely have what he was now looking for, so he scanned for options. Jacob's concerns bubbled up and he felt his breath catching as he passed over more than two dozen trucks, but then came across a potential solution he couldn't pass up. Without missing another moment, he moved quickly towards the truck in his sight and pulled his cell phone from his pocket. He knew that Martin, the midnight oil dispatcher, was in there on the computer and frustrating the hell out of himself because he just can't beat the computer chess game no matter how low he sets the level.

"This is Martin."

"Martin, this is Jacob. Say, listen, I was just chatting with Sam Dunham, who's the driver in truck 13545. He was telling me that tooth of his is really starting to bother him and he's looking forward to a run heading west so he can see his dentist. He lives in Sparks."

"Yeah, so?"

Sometimes, the attitudes of virtually every moron they place in dispatch grinds at Jacob's wealth of patience. "The point, if you'd take the time to minimize the chess game and take a look, is that my load is going his way. Not only that, but the load he'll be taking delivers in Tampa tomorrow morning, and I need to head that way. So, what I was thinking was that these could easily be swapped. Sam is coming off his thirty four in three hours. My ten is almost up. I'll have Sam get in touch with you so you know he's okay with that, too."

Jacob pressed the End button and concentrated on motivating Martin to cooperate, or otherwise the guy would resist just because. By the time he was done with Martin, he reached truck 13545 and knocked on the fender. He hated it when someone knocked on the side of the truck by the sleeper berth to get a driver's attention. He knew Sam would hear a knock on the truck virtually anywhere, so he figured a knock on the fender wouldn't be too intrusive.

After an extended moment, a relatively young, lanky driver appeared from the bunk and made his way to the driver's seat.

He rolled down the window while rubbing an eye and said, "Yeah, what's up?"

"I'm sorry to bother you, driver. My name's Jacob and I have a favor to ask. If I understand things correctly, you were saying to someone last night that you wanted to get west so you could see a dentist. Well, I'm on a load heading to Sacramento, and it's a load of goose down, so it's about as light as you can get. But I need to get to Tampa."

The driver looked at Jacob with a brash combination of confusion and suspicion. He was relatively new to the company, Jacob gathered, and kept to himself. But Jacob also noticed that a few key words pinged on the young, struggling driver's mind.

"No, I haven't said any of that to anyone, but I do have a back tooth giving me some hell, although I don't get how you would know that."

"The thing is, I would like your run and I thought you might like the miles," Jacob said, concentrating on the driver's resistant cooperation. "If you decide you would rather head west instead of to Tampa, where I know you'll sit at the San Antonio flying hook for a day or two waiting on a load simply because this company struggles to get out of Florida, just shoot a message on your computer and let dispatch know. I'll let them know I'd like to get to Tampa. Thanks, driver, and sorry to bother you."

While walking back to his truck, Jacob looked around to see if he could work out which trailer was the load to Tampa, and he spotted what he assumed was correct. He considered moving in front of it but realized that both Martin and Sam needed a bit more motivation, so he stopped and placed his hand on his head, and concentrated. After what was about a minute, Jacob was pretty sure he had a message on his computer stating his load has been changed.

With that part of the problem settled, he still had to figure out exactly what it was that was going on. There was a reason he needed to get to the Tampa area, but he just couldn't quite see it. He knew his daughter, Angela, was working in Tampa, but it wasn't enough to go on other than as a motivator. Was she in trouble? He could see she wasn't hurt other than her usual solemn demeanor, and she wasn't threatened as far as he could tell. There was a new fellow in her life and it appeared he was a decent guy, so it wasn't that. Jacob bit his lip over it, because he knew he needed to see Angela and work out whatever this was, but he had to see her to do it. Bizarre as it was, he had to be there.

He got up into the truck and started it up. The new Pete purred nicely as he built up the air pressure; he drained it the night before more as a matter of habit than anything else, content to run a fan as opposed to idling the engine or running the generator. He turned the radio off, not wanting to hear George Noory discuss some issue revolving around Area 51 at the moment; he needed to concentrate on the mindsets of both Martin and Sam if he was going to see this through. His onboard computer lit up and bleeped, letting him know he had a message. He already knew it was new load information, so he didn't need to look at it just yet. He stepped on the clutch and pushed it into third, and then rolled towards the trailer that Sam was originally supposed to pull. He smiled to the thought of Sam's bewilderment, what with Sam still sitting there wondering what he must have said out loud to let on about that tooth bugging him. It wasn't hurting too much yet, but he knew he needed to see Dr. Gutenberg before it got that bad.

Jacob hooked to the trailer and updated his logbook to where it needed to be. He had everything ready except for the paperwork itself, so once the truck was ready, he stepped out and walked over to the dispatch window, seeing Martin sitting there in a cloud of gloom, just like most every dispatcher does who works that soul-sucking, drone's job.

Martin slid the window over and said, "The driver in 13545 is all bound up with trying to figure out what he said near you, because he doesn't get how you knew about him, but he's glad to get the run. I thought you told me you two talked about it?"

"Did I say that? I must've been thinking of someone else," Jacob said as he took the bills from Martin. He quickly scanned them over to make sure everything was in place, and they seemed okay. Once he had the bills in hand, he realized that the driver who dropped the load on the yard blew off weighing the load of furniture and left the drive axles a little too heavy. He wasn't worried about the Florida scales, but the two Georgia weigh stations he would go by might be of concern. He'd look at it when he got back to the truck and see what he'd have to do.

"Oh, just to help you out," Jacob said before leaving Martin to himself, "you're a bit weak in using your knights, so sacrifice them to take out the bishops that plague you. That might get you a win."

He couldn't help but to smirk at Martin looking at him that way as he walked off with the bills. However, the moment of amusement wasn't good enough to keep his mind from the pressing issue of what he was sure was Angela, so he tried working out what was getting to her, because he knows this is her, whatever this is, but he just couldn't see it. That, for Jacob, is just too weird, so he notched up his pace. Whatever the mystery was, it wasn't mysterious enough to keep from him that he needed to hustle. He was in enough of a hurry to second guess his concern about the trailer and the weight. Jacob looked down the road to see if the scales were enough of a concern or not. He could see the second scale was closed due to the road construction that likely wouldn't be done until the year 2063, but that first scale he'd come across...it was closed, too, but he couldn't see why or for how long. It didn't matter, though; it was time to roll.

Normally, it would be quicker to roll around the I-295 Atlanta loop by going west, since that way was just a little shorter and traffic often leaner, but looking that way, Jacob could see there was a Swift driver on his way to get in a battle of wills with a J.B. Hunt driver near exit 55. The issue was sure to slow things down too much, so Jacob decided to follow the loop the other way. He knew he would have to take it slow near the entrance ramp to I-20, thanks so much to the Doofus in the Chevy pickup who doesn't have the balls to tell his girlfriend he knows about Jeff, so he'll feel it necessary to text her while rounding that curve of the entrance ramp.

A few miles before reaching I-20, Jacob slowed enough to bring it to eighth gear just long enough to allow Doofus to get through. He knew he'd irritate the young lady coming from Marietta because he'd force her to watch how she was driving rather than fix her makeup, but it would only be for a few seconds. He counted to ten and then mashed on the fuel to get up to speed, confident that the rest of his way down to I-75 should be smooth.

It was as smooth as he figured it would be, and the merge onto I-75 was no trouble. Now, it was simply a matter of making it down I-75 all the way to the I-275 into the Tampa area, which would unfortunately be congested when he got there. He didn't need to foresee that; in fact, nobody needed a crystal ball or a psychic hotline to know that area would be bumper to bumper late in the afternoon.

However, he could tell that once he made it past Macon, things would clog up here and there, particularly when he reached the road construction near the Tifton area. Jacob concentrated on what was ahead, trying to work out the best way to keep going as fast and efficiently as he could, since he knew time was of the essence. The load itself wasn't any trouble, albeit a little heavy despite being just a load going to the IKEA distribution center in the Tampa area.

Jacob left Atlanta behind him, seeing just up ahead that a new Camaro, one of those done up to look like one of those in the toy movie, was about to cut in front of the Oakley tanker making his way back to Florida. It wasn't going to happen until he reached the Jackson area, where the gathering of truck stops often slowed things down, and he still practically had the Atlanta loop in his fender mirror that was slightly out of adjustment. He'd wait a few minutes before warning the Oakley driver about the Bumble Bee wannabe because the driver would likely forget, what with how wrapped up he is into his audio book from Dean Koontz. But he would have to warn him, because the Doofus in the Camaro, despite being nearly thirty, didn't have the mental wherewithal to recognize his car couldn't do what the car did in the movies. If Jacob didn't place his head's-up to Oakley, the alternative would potentially tie up that area's traffic and Jacob couldn't afford that.

He pushed to see what was going on with his daughter, and as usual, Angela was resisting him. Angela's two brothers took after their mother, so the issue was far from concerning when it came to whatever they were up to; dear old Dad had them pinned and caught before they hardly got into whatever nefarious mischievousness was running through their fevered minds. But Angela had Dad's way of seeing things, so she was far more difficult to decipher. It only got worse as she got older, since she worked out her ability to keep to herself quite well. Jacob could see well enough to know that he didn't have to worry about her and that her intentions were always admirable, so he tried to be the better Dad and not pry too much. But this was different.

So as he passed by the idiot who was sipping on the tall beer he'd just stolen from the convenience store two exits back, which was a dumb thing he justified because he spent all his spare cash at the Burger King drive-thru on crap his doctor said would kill him if he didn't change his ways, Jacob tried working his way into Angela's frame of mind. He just couldn't place his finger on it, but he knew there was something important enough, urgent enough, to coerce him to forego a run west for a run, any run, into the state of Florida. Freight out of Florida was bad enough before the economic downturn, but now with the recession in play, the likelihood he'd turn over another 34 hour restart just waiting on a preplan was high. But this was his daughter and she's now built the highest wall she's ever built between them. There was a reason for that and Jacob was afraid.

There were other times she's given such resistance, but these were mostly through her teens. Just like any other teen, she was simply trying to find her place in her world. But for reasons Jacob found odd, Angela found her perceptive talents an awkward hindrance rather than a benefit, so she tried going past them to be like the other kids, and it usually backfired on her. By the time she graduated from high school and entered college, she accepted her genetic coding, but with a grudge. He just couldn't understand her resistance and angry concern; it wasn't as if she was born with extra fingers or something gaudy that could be noticed by the other kids. But she wanted to see what they saw and hear what they heard, and that was that.

"Hey," he'd tell her. "Don't your brothers make it clear enough that's rather overrated?"

He chalked her misery up to being a teenage girl, which tempted him to tell her that made her like all the other kids, but he didn't think it would help. Besides, by the time she was a college sophomore, she found herself just fine and did well socially, academically, and daily. Sometimes she whined about what she learned from the lessons of other students, but he told her simply that learning it the Dunhill way was still learning it, so it isn't as if you're cheating. He told her that you're just sort of double-jointed in a way few others are, so just accept it for what it is.

She eventually came to terms with things, even if she didn't completely accept them. But that's okay; he'd rather look like Kevin Costner than Santa, but it is what it is. However, Jacob's concerns now were that the grudge Angela harbored about the Dunhill's bizarre double joint was becoming a distraction she would no longer endure.

The two dozen miles have passed since he noticed the mile-wide gap in the judgment of the idiot who spent his college fund on a car he saw in a movie, so he pulled his CB mike to him and said, "Hey Tanker, watch for that yellow Camaro about to dash in front of you when you come up on that highway entrance. You can't see it from where you're at, but I can see him bee lining right for your right steer tire. Give it a few seconds and slow down just a bit."

"Thanks, driver," Oakley said as he slipped in another CD.

Jacob saw the tanker ease back just enough to allow the idiot in the overpriced car to learn a hard lesson. He was about to make slight contact with the guardrail and knock his driver's side headlight just far enough out of adjustment to continue reminding him how dumb he is all the way to the day when he finally works up enough money to get the car into the body shop. Jacob dismissed it as a nonevent for him, despite the thing happening close enough to Oakley to give him a good scare.

"Thanks for telling me about this moron, driver," Oakley said. "He would've ruined my day."

"He would've ruined the day for about nine of us, not to mention the cost in precious time to everyone behind us."

Jacob left it at that as he concentrated on what was coming up. He saw that the weigh station coming up a few miles ahead was going to open up after all. Looking into it, Jacob saw he didn't have much to find concerning, since they were only opening it for show for some bigwig wanting to spend the taxpayer's money to his liking. Unless a truck's weight was way over, they were just going to wave everyone through with a green arrow always aiming to the highway. Seeing the weigh station would do nothing more than cut his speed in half for a minute or two at the most, Jacob focused his attention on his daughter.

But it just wasn't working. If Angela had one talent just like so many other twenty-somethings in the world, it was cloaking her intentions whenever the parents were in the picture. Well, if she was involved in twenty-something behavior, he wouldn't be so concerned. But out of this haze he could secure that her matter was more than partying or something lurid; this was an issue of life and the future, and he wondered if either of those, or both, were in question. He doesn't just jump out of a deep sleep and into a moment of confused fright over a hangover or one night stand. He pushed harder on the accelerator and found he already had it on the floor. There was nothing else he could do but ride and wait.

He reached into the cubby hole above his head and pulled out his Bluetooth headset. He normally didn't like to talk on the phone while he drove and he certainly avoided holding the phone to his ear, but at the moment he felt this needed to be done. He fitted the clever little device over his ear and enabled it, and then flipped open his phone. Being careful, he searched through the few numbers he had, which were a precious few, and he found his daughter's number. There wasn't much that needed to be said, since he was sure she knew what he had to say, anyway.

"You need to let me in, sweetheart. You know I can help you."

He was hoping to say more than that when she answered the phone, although he was pretty sure she would not answer. He felt confident she received the call and refused to answer; after all, how many women her age don't have the phone within reach at all times? He saw she watched it ring with whatever wacky ringtone she chose for her father and then let it go quiet, untouched.

He also suspected she did so through a wavering image, set askew with tears of sadness. Jacob wished he had some idea as to what was wrong.

Several minutes after he made the third attempt on the phone, he removed the headset and placed it on the seat next to him just before slowing for the weigh station. There were quite a few trucks pulling in before him, which wasn't a big deal since none of them would be stopped or even so much as diverted to sit on a static scale. He did roll his eyes, though, wishing that everyone understood the sign that said 30 MPH meant just that instead of being some sort of code to slow down to fifteen. There was nothing more to do but cope with it and get through, and then climb the slight hill of the Macon I-475. The sight of it reminded him why he likes these Petes; they're not so likely to slow to seventh gear and under thirty for a hill like this or worse, all the while screaming and cooking hot.

While passing some of the other trucks, particularly the handful of old flatbeds pulling their construction materials and whatever, he looked ahead to the Pilot at the 146 exit, wondering if he could get in and out of there. Jacob recognized he still had a long way to go and knew it wouldn't benefit a man of his age to push too hard without some personal fuel. Besides, the truck would need some fuel sooner or later, anyway. While this was too early to fuel the truck (he saw he had well more than half a tank and wouldn't have to worry for hours, perhaps until the Flying J in San Antonio or maybe the Petro in Reddick) it wasn't too early to fuel himself. He felt he might benefit from some coffee and something to eat, but he needed to be quick. In and out and back on the road would be the only viable option.

While he rounded over the hill with the sight of I-75 falling from his mirrors, he looked ahead to the Pilot there at the 146 and wasn't sure he felt comfortable. It wasn't too bad in there, with no serious lines at the pumps and only a few trucks lining the hill in and out (a few of them couldn't find any parking and a few didn't have the skill to park in the available spaces they saw), but the locals in their four-wheelers were taking up a lot of time getting their coffee, cigarettes, and gas. Jacob still had a few miles to go, what with just getting on the I-475, so he didn't have to make that decision quite yet, but he didn't want to waste any thought on it, either. With every mile left behind him as he approached the Sunshine State, his trepidation and gloom spread. With each mile left behind him, his awareness that something was very wrong grew more confident.

Jacob stayed to the left, continuing to pass his slower colleagues as they worked their heavy loads through these rolling hills of asphalt. There were those with lighter loads and stronger engines staying with him and ahead of him, and most of them were grateful that the sun rose high enough to be out of their eyes when they peered into that driver's-side mirror. It was going to be a nice day, for the most part, although he wondered if there could be some afternoon showers once he reached the Tampa area. If so, they could affect his trip and everything else. He'd have to know what to do when the time came.

But he didn't know what that was now, and Jacob was afraid.

He and the other drivers were approaching exit 3, knowing that a few would be pulling off the highway. A few would be going west towards Columbus, while a few others into Macon for deliveries. The fellow running for Roehl just ahead of Jacob silently reminisced about the exit and when he went either east or west some years back from this very exit, when he was running on a dedicated account for Circuit City, and how the Macon store was one of the worst in their chain. Jacob shrugged it off, not getting the concern. Roehl had a load of tires going somewhere (he was checking his notes for directions) and did a two-gear drop as he pushed into the deceleration lane just before Jacob came into sight of him.

At least things were moving well through the bypass, and Jacob and the others were merging back onto I-75 and into an area where things bogged down some due to the construction. It only slowed some, partly due to the flatbed driver pulling sheetrock, the old Detroit screaming, and him putting up with his wife bitching on speaker phone about that son of theirs and how he quit his job yet again. Jacob worked to the right, putting on his right blinker and getting out of the way of heavier, faster traffic, and he knew he'd be happy with this new Pete for some time.

Just a few minutes later and Jacob was coming off of exit 146, confident enough to stop after all, seeing that the fourth pump at the fuel island was the one to pull into since the Schneider driver was just topping off and heading north with a load of water, likely to be pulling out just as he pulled up. Jacob took the right towards the Pilot, feeling amused by the handful of younger drivers and their active imaginations as they left the highly advertised strip club, one of them far leaner in the wallet, wondering how he was going to explain the loss to his wife. He was thinking what he'd have to do the next week to make up for the loss, actually considering selling his watch to a buddy who admired it.

Jacob made a tight turn down the slope into the truck stop, giving a thankful wave to the driver who stayed to his right so Jacob could move in past the several trucks stacked along the entrance, one of them wondering if he could afford losing the time on the road to get his A/C fixed, and another looking at the left side of his trailer where he clipped a concrete barrier in Chattanooga, wondering if he could get away with dropping the trailer with the slight damage, scolding himself for his bad habit of following too close.

Just as he rounded the entrance and the pumps came into sight, Jacob slowed down and slowly rolled up behind the Schneider, seeing the guy was just finishing his log before pulling out. Just before Jacob had to bring it to a full stop, the orange trailer's brake lights illuminated for a moment and then went out, and then the truck started moving. Jacob followed the truck through the pumps and parked ahead far enough to let the harried driver just merging into traffic from the I-475 exit 3 get behind him and get his fuel, knowing the guy's concerns about running out of fuel were unfounded. It was just his fuel gauge and he'd likely make it to Tifton if he had to. Jacob shut it down, reached behind the seat for his travel mug and stepped out of the truck.

He huffed a bit as he climbed the stairs up to the store entrance, pulling the top from his travel mug to see if he should bring it in for a rinsing before topping it off. Because he was in a hurry, he thought it'd be okay and he bee lined straight for the coffee, where he added the desired amount of Half & Half and Hazelnut creamer before topping it off with a robust Sumatra blend. The crowd wasn't too bad, although the cashier was considering blazing out of there to never come back if one more of those dirty truck drivers looked at her that way. Jacob prepared two breakfast sausages on the stale rolls, knowing that her bigger concern and source of anger was that her husband didn't look at her like that anymore and she didn't know why. Well, she knew why (the man was gay and couldn't admit it to himself, mostly because of his upbringing) but refused to acknowledge it.

Once he had what he wanted, he pulled his Driver Payback card from his pocket and got in line to get out of there. He waited for the fellow to thumb out the dollars and change to pay for his gas and breakfast tornados; the guy was picking up these things and other junk food with cash so his wife wouldn't see his transactions on their bank statement. Jacob had to shake his head and wonder at the guy, since the latest heart attack, his third, was one he barely survived. Jacob was quite confident the guy wouldn't survive the next one, which would be just after his daughter's seventh birthday.

Once the coronary in the making was out of the way, Jacob placed his coffee and sausages on the counter. "Good morning, dear," he said to the cashier.

"Good morning," she said, hardly registering she said anything at all.

She rang up his stuff and he held out his driver payback card for her to swipe once she was ready. She quickly took it from him and swiped it, and then within a few seconds handed it back to him with a receipt. Jacob wanted to tell her that she needs to find a way to move on with her life since her husband is cheating on her (as they spoke, although he would never say that), but she already knew that.

He said, "Thanks and have a good day," and left her with that.

He would have liked to have a few minutes to impress upon her a way to shake loose the husband that was a husband no more, but he just didn't have the time. There was another life out there that meant a whole lot more to him, and he knew that life, his Angela, needed him now more than ever. He made his way quickly out the door, down the stairs and to his truck, which he reached just about the same time he polished off the two lackluster sausages. At least he didn't need to bring any remnants of them with him; he had his coffee only, and it had a place all its own right there by the A/C controls.

He placed his coffee where it belonged and cranked the engine. No sooner did the gauges find their proper places when Jacob had the truck in third and he was pulling out. He wanted to second-guess his decision not to top off with fuel, but he knew he'd be better off getting fuel in Florida, having that much more when he needed it later. It was just that he knew once he reached Florida, and then the Tampa bay area where Angela lived, he'd have that much more of an understanding of what's going on with her, and he'd likely feel far less time for mundane issues such as fuel in the truck. But, time fueling now equated to time fueling then, so it really wouldn't matter much. He got on it and got out of there and back on the road.

Once he reached the speed limit and set the cruise control, Jacob took a few healthy sips from his coffee, which was actually rather good. He wasn't a coffee connoisseur, but he knew shitty coffee when he tasted it, and he's tasted that far too many times. Pilot seemed to really get it right with the coffee (they ought to, considering how much they advertise it) and by the time his mug was half gone, he was glad he stopped. The breakfast sausages weren't so ad-worthy but they gave his stomach something to do, allowing his mind to focus on other concerns.

He had some concerns. Although he couldn't decipher any details, he knew Angela started this day with both a sense of decided peace and acknowledged despair. She wasn't in the mood to talk about it, particularly with her father, but she had a firm decision to which she held firm, although she was still despondent about some...thing. He couldn't work it out and he felt anxious that he couldn't go any faster. Whatever it was, he found it somewhat bizarre that someone with her talents would be at her wit's end over anything; she shared many of his talents and he usually saw his way through difficult situations with considerable aplomb. But he knew he couldn't expect his daughter to mirror his life exactly and honestly felt that it'd be better she didn't. But still...what was this? Yes, she complained about not being like the others when she was in her mid-teens, but all teenage girls find something to agonize over. The point was that she found a way to fit in, just like all successful people do.

Yet despite being successful, she was always a rather solemn girl. Jacob merely considered that part of Angela's makeup; some people were a bass and some a tenor, and others sopranos. While many of Angela's friends were effervescent and gabby, she was seemingly composed and thoughtful. Or, that's what he always thought. Yes, he knew that she longed to be like the others and wished her singular aspects were impinged upon another, but that's how all unique people are when they're young, and it is just that simple. People who are double jointed or extremely flexible amuse their friends when they're young, but eventually find a path benefited by the features, or they simply dismiss them until they're needed. People with an extra finger may hide the extra digit when they're young and meeting new people, but may come to find they have an extraordinary advantage with the guitar. Sure, the people you see with unique talents and gifts in the movies always consider their gifts a curse; it adds to the drama and pulls a thirty minute story into a ninety minute story. But sooner or later, these people find their curses to be gifts after all, seeing the thorn bush harboring such lovely and fragrant roses from time to time.

However, Jacob knew there were those out there who could not come to terms with who and what they are. Stephen King exposed us to Carrie, allowing us to see someone who could not face who they really were. The world saw this in Jim Morrison during his heyday. Morrison was a creative genius harboring a brilliant mind, but that mind was not unlike a pit bull dragging a forty-foot chain through a crowded park. Morrison merely wanted to be a puddle-shallow narcissist and just couldn't do it while his supreme mind was off the leash. He tried leashing it with vast amounts of drugs and alcohol, only to find it propelled his mind and then separated itself from him.

Angela never seemed to be at such odds, though. While she was never as appreciative of her family traits as her father, she did find a way to incorporate them into her life. Because Angela had these abilities along with a graceful beauty and calm demeanor along with a gift to place others at ease, she's succeeded well in the world of real estate. Jacob was always proud of her for that. He found a way to employ his talents best while negotiating a rig over the highways, and found that particularly adventuresome when he was a younger man. But once he reached an age where the options to seek another trade were limited, he wondered if he hadn't secured himself into too small a box. He succeeded as a truck driver and had done well as a result, but there were surely other options. Some options that might have allowed him to be there in the lives of his wife and children more than just occasionally and never enough. Options that would have allowed him the time to teach Angela how to maximize her family traits. Options that didn't have him viewing the world through a literal and proverbial row of windows.

But if there was one thing he succeeded in teaching his children, it was that everyone is here to find their own way. Childhood is a mere preparation for what comes after it, so it should not define the person, but rather be their foundation. If there are places within that foundation showing weakness or erosion, then develop the strength of character to mend where mending is necessary. Patching and mending will be a part of life, and we all must accept that there will be the day when it will all come down. Mortality is the ultimate gift of selflessness we all possess; we all have our time, and then we relinquish it forever so others may have theirs. It was thinking of these lessons Jacob provided to his children when that thought nearly propelled him off the road.

The philosophical reminiscence apparently placed his mind in a moment of accordance with his estranged daughter, and he witnessed something frightening. This was not the direction Angela was pursuing as a matter of patching the holes, was it? Dear God in Heaven, was it?

He picked up his Bluetooth headset and worked it onto his head. He then picked up his cell while watching the traffic slowly pull away from him on this blessedly open road of Middle Georgia's I-75. It only took a fraction of a second to find the number he sought, and then he pressed Send.

He made it to the voice mailbox, which he knew would happen despite his wish it would not, and he said, "Angela, you know I can help you. You have to know that a final solution is nothing more than an absence of recognized options, and we both know you have more options than most. I know you know I am watching, so I want you to call me right away. Bring down this wall, Angela, and allow me in to help you."

Luckily, the time of day was where Jacob and everyone else on the highway filtered quickly through the road construction. While he was motivated to power off the cruise control, he didn't have to sacrifice much momentum. Like him, everyone around him was on their way to somewhere, although some destinations were more important than others. Two miles ahead, there was the honeymooning couple who needed to pay more attention to the road than each other, but they weren't too much of a danger quite as yet. Just a few miles ahead of them, there was a large conversion van full of excited kids and two frantic parents on their way to the Florida theme parks. A couple of miles behind Jacob there was a man old enough to be his father racing towards Naples, on the way to make the most important business decision of his life. Within sight of him, Jacob spotted the frightened young woman on her way to her doctor's office, reticent about discussing the options, or lack thereof, regarding her breast cancer. Her tears blurred the road, but she was really trying to be careful.

Like all of them, Jacob had somewhere he had to be. He felt the anxiousness of the businessman and the cancer survivor, but noted the lack of anxiousness within the little boy so looking forward to seeing the Orcas so close up again. He sensed the tension in the pack, but Jacob felt alone in his mortal fears as he mashed the accelerator to the floor and reset the cruise control. He still had hours to go, and as each mile fell behind him, it felt as if they only moved up ahead, closing in and raising the walls between him and what might be his most important endeavor ever.

The anxiety and rising fears helped him pass the time, showing only the mercy of not making him count the seconds passed as he finally reached the realization that crossing the border into Florida was imminent. There were still a few miles to go, but not enough to add up to anyone's significant commute, and he looked ahead for any potential concerns along this section of the Sunshine State. The Agricultural Inspection station, which he found to be a particularly annoying aspect of Florida's Department of Transportation and a waste of the taxpayer's money, was moving along well enough. It often clogs up when those working the station catch the mood and decide to earn their wages, which only leads to stagnating the momentum of scores of people who try to earn their money at all times. Thankfully, this was a day they just wanted to talk celebrity gossip and wave through virtually every single truck meandering its way down their alley.

Just past the inspection station, the weigh station was also moving comfortably. It was too early to tell if Jacob would have to rest on the static scale or move on through, but none of it had him concerned. As far as weight was concerned, Florida weigh stations are always open, yet among the more liberal in the nation when it comes to weight. No state out there allows many exceptions for being over gross, but Florida's acceptance of 44,000 pounds on the trailer or drive axles was easy to work with. If he concentrated on it, he could probably manipulate the situation and get the green arrow pointing the way back to the interstate regardless of his weight, but his concerns were rather distracting.

He watched the Valdosta Pilot go by and he briefly considered pulling in for another quick bite and a coffee refill, but he saw the place was too busy. Just a shade over ten miles ahead was the Flying J, which Jacob could see was not crowded and actually rather quiet. He watched people come and go while the occasional truck lumbered onto the fuel island while the handful of drivers watching the clock out on the lot coped according to their individual demeanors. Once the miles moved behind him and he was at Georgia's last exit, he'd pull up to the Flying Hook's pumps and step inside for a required restroom break and another quick bite. His doctor told him it was better to consume more meals that were small as opposed to a couple large meals. He was pretty sure the doctor meant they should be wholesome meals, but truckers find nutritional options rather limited and often prohibitively expensive. Such was not a present excuse for him, as he saw the truck stop's dining options were quiet, but his watch told him his options were diminishing with every mile.

He switched off the cruise and eased off the highway and down the exit ramp, and then navigated the truck to the last pump on the island. It was quiet and he wouldn't be in the way, so he simply shut it down and went inside. He made his way into and out of the restroom as quickly as he could, desiring to keep this stop short and to the point. The body's functions were mainly appeased, but he felt some caloric intake would keep his mind on track. He considered another coffee refill but settled on water. Once he had his water in hand, he looked around to see what might go well for a quick bite and saw they had a display offering Johnsonville sausages, right next to the coffee. They also were offering their usual offer of two slices of pizza for five bucks, but he didn't want that. He didn't really want the sausage, either, but he knew they were tasty. They offered two for three bucks (not a deal in his eyes) so he took it.

He actively dismissed the concerns of those in the store, feeling grateful there weren't a lot of people in there to distract him. The cashier seemed nice but was lost in some daydream about a boy in a boy band; a boy that was almost young enough to be her son, which oddly thrilled her. Her fantasies weren't too lurid, thank you, but Jacob saw her sweet tooth could easily get her in trouble. But Miss Sweet Tooth was the worst of it, and he gobbled at one of the sausages while making it back to the truck. He didn't want to bring the second sausage in his new truck, but didn't want to waste time, either. Crumbs and such attract bugs, so he normally was very careful about what he ate in the truck. If he wasn't pressed for time, he'd likely lean against the fender and finish the food before getting in the truck, but time was in fact pressing.

The sausage lay in the bun nicely and he gently sat that on the seat next to him while he dropped the water next to him on the floor and fired up the truck. He released the brakes and pushed the clutch pedal to the floor, and then he pulled it into gear. He reached over and took a mouthful of the sausage and then released the clutch enough to pull forward, swinging the wheel gently to the right and heading for the exit.

It was maybe two or three minutes later and Jacob was crossing the Florida state line. He still had a good distance to go before reaching the Tampa area, but now it was just a matter of miles and hours. The load he pulled wasn't scheduled for delivery until the next day (which meant Sam would've nursed his tooth for another pointless, low-paying day, anyway), so Jacob wasn't worried about the load at all. At this point in time, the load was something merely tugging at his progress, and then not really, what with everything being virtually all downhill from there, except for a few minor spots. Rather, Jacob's concerns were all personal, revolving only around his daughter, whose resistance was weakening as the proximity between them closed.

Except for the weigh station and pointless Agricultural Inspection station, there was virtually nothing out there between where he was and down well below I-10. There were a few fellows on their motorcycles a little farther ahead, but only one of them actually wanted to go where they were going. Three of the guys wanted very little to do with their destination, but the one guy who did so seemed to be the leader of that pack and apparently had some score to settle. It was pathetic that the score was with his stepfather, who was an old coward who could no longer pose a threat. The pack leader didn't know what he truly wanted to do; he just knew he wanted that old bastard to know that, should he want, he could do whatever he wanted and get away with it. It was shallow and pitiful, but the guy couldn't shake loose the old, ugly memories. They were ugly, Jacob saw, replete with abuse and meanness, but they were from so long ago.

Jacob didn't want to have any of that bouncing around in his head, so he turned on the radio and listened to the political rambling. Miles went by as he listened to the drama and vitriol supposedly consuming so much time and effort within the bipartisan governmental construct, and several more miles zipped by as he had explained to him and all the other listeners just what should be done to solve these almost insurmountable crises. By the time he was coming within view of the Gainesville area, he switched his satellite radio to classical music and settled into the sound of Bach's fifth Brandenburg Concerto.

The music was a good idea and helped Jacob keep focused on the job at hand as he gained more of an uncomfortable understanding of Angela's situation. The gap of space and time was closing, between them and what they both felt they had to do. Jacob felt both despondent and desperate, partly because Angela did, but also because Angela shouldn't. The hour was approaching early-to-mid afternoon, and he was just above Gainesville. By the time he reached the Tampa region, the hour will be rush hour, and the dichotomous gap between progress and anxiety will likely be extreme. He can't do anything about the time, but he might be able to work with the traffic. He'd hate it to come to that, but the issue is getting frantic.

Yes, the issue is getting frantic, but he is yet to know exactly why. As he approached the Reddick Petro, he looked at his fuel gauge and decided he'd wait until San Antonio. Although there were miles to go, he could see the traffic in and out of the Petro was lean, and he likely could get through quickly. But he could also see things were the same down in the San Antonio Flying J, where he felt happier about getting in and out for fuel. He didn't like the looks of the two Pilot truck stops there at the 358 in Ocala; they were always busy and the area bogged down. Besides, by the time he reaches the Flying J, he should be well close enough to know what brought him all this way, and he might be able to bring it under control before it gets out of control.

The area was ripe with team spirit, college-age angst, and a lot of hilarity, so Jacob found himself struggling to focus on his issues. Negotiating the roadway in a big truck wasn't a problem; in fact, it was one of the few things in his life he found deceptively simple. It was just that he was working towards an unbreakable link between him and Angela, but these anxious scholars had so much more on their minds than their studies and a lot of it was disturbing. Mostly harmless and humorous, but disturbing. Then there was the fact that Angela was being resistant despite the futility of it. They both knew that once he was closer, he'd breach all barriers and know everything. It seemed that for the both of them, time was of the essence.

The situation really bothered him, partly because it's been a long time since Angela's allowed her unique hereditary traits to get to her. Now that he was this close, he was at least able to work out that these concerns were the issue bringing him into Florida. Being brought into Florida was another thing that bothered him; the population density and cacophonic manner of thought within Floridians only served to distract him from what he needed to know. This was likely why Angela chose to move to Florida, he realized once he thought about it. She knew her old, fuddy-duddy father would resist the freewheeling demeanors of Florida, despite how many of them were of his generation. He did and always would, partly because getting through all the haze was so hard. Besides, Florida wasn't easy on truckers trying to make a living. He was sure he'd end up pulling a wagon full of water, either from Zephyrhills or Niagara, out of the state. It wouldn't matter which one, since they both suck.

Getting into the calmer mindsets around Ocala helped some, but Jacob still had a ways to go. He could almost see the gloom surrounding Angela's mindset all the way from there, and he still had over a hundred miles to go. There were a few Swift drivers making their way back to the Ocala terminal and taking up space on the road, although one of them had made up his mind that this was the last time for him. He had already cleaned out his truck at one of the rest areas near Gainesville, with the help of his wife who was worried about where he might go for another job. The guy had a few ideas lined up, apparently, but Jacob noticed he wasn't making up his mind. He also noticed the problem was within the guy's head, not entirely the company for which he works. Yea, but patience is truly a virtue, particularly for truck drivers.

The other fellows were merely coming in for some home time, except for one, who was coming in for a reason that he didn't know. Well, he was a fairly new driver, and they're bringing him in for a drug test. Based on what Jacob could tell from the fellow, the drug test was going to end up being largely a waste of the company's money, since the guy took his job seriously. The driver seemed like a smart guy, albeit rather young, so he'd soon recognize that when they're not telling you why they need you there ASAP, peeing in a cup was surely in the near future.

Elsewhere in the smattering of traffic, people were merely getting to and fro, including an anxious young woman on her way to a romantic rendezvous with a man she knows she shouldn't see. She's driving okay, but her mind is filled with reasons why she should just stop and turn around, yet also with feelings keeping her from doing so. Jacob looked into this stud for a moment, seeing an arrogant ass that should be at work and earning the money he needed to catch up his mortgage rather than luring impressionable, needy girls to seedy motels.

Jacob normally didn't like getting involved with other people's issues, particularly when he had his own, but he quickly grabbed a copy of an old bill of lading he didn't need, and then his map. He placed his hefty map on the steering wheel and then the bill on that (the only real reason he ever needed the map was for a makeshift desk) and then grabbed a Sharpie from the handful of pens in the cubby above him. He scribbled out a quick note and then tossed the map into the bunk.

The nervous, little lady was at least two miles ahead, so he coaxed her into slowing down some so that he could catch up to her. He goaded her into slowing down in order to listen to something on her radio, which helped because she couldn't think of a single reason why she'd be interested in hearing what some talk show host would say, and that alone slowed her down some. She listened to the rhetoric and rambling of the guy as he went on and on about how reality shows were not unlike professional wrestling in their level of reality, and she was clearly not giving a single damn about it. But that was fine, since she slowed down enough for him to catch up with her.

Jacob pulled into the far right lane, leaving her two lanes over to his left. This was helpful if she was going to see what he wanted her to see. Otherwise, he'd be too high up for her to notice him at all. Once he was lined up with her little VW Beetle, he gave a subtle pull on his air horn in order to get her attention. She looked his way quickly but then away, so he pulled a little harder and for a little longer. She looked over and noticed him looking at her, which kept her looking long enough for him to hold up his impromptu sign.

He is married.

Once he knew she saw it, he pulled it back and wadded it up, and then threw it behind him. That was good enough, apparently, because she fell back, and then in his rearview mirror, he saw her exit the highway and follow down the exit with the intent of turning around and never going back. He felt a little sad for her because now she has herself convinced that her emotional state must be some sort of beacon everyone can see and she needs to get in control.

The truth is the guy isn't married. He's divorced. This sort of thing is largely why, but the guy has bills and child support, all of which he's placing on the back burner in order to meet with the pretty yet vulnerable women he likes to seduce.

Jacob shook off the concern and focused back onto the task at hand. He had the weigh station coming up and didn't want to end up pulling onto the static scale. He wasn't worried about his weight, but the time lost was something he didn't want to give up. With his focus on the situation, he pulled onto the ramp going into the weigh station and slowed to the prescribed 45 miles per hour. He rolled over the sensors in the roadway, concentrating on the fact that he needed to move on. He was glad that he did so, because if he had not, he would be pulling in to have his weight checked, and the rookie officer in there was looking for a good candidate for his chance to go through a thorough investigation now that he had all the steps memorized. For a brief moment, he had his eye on Jacob's new truck, so Jacob focused on him.

As Jacob pulled back out onto the highway, he smiled yet felt a little ashamed of himself; the arrogant officer who had his investigative skills at the forefront of his mind now doubted if he knew just how to begin.

In a matter of minutes, the entrance to the beginning of the Florida Turnpike would be coming into sight, giving Jacob a sign that his destination was approaching. He felt that since he was this close, he should have a better idea about what was going on with his daughter, but he still couldn't gain a focus on her. She was resisting him, of that he was sure, and it pained him to experience it. Like all fathers, his daughter went through her series of phases where she didn't want her parents involved with whatever her issues were at the time, but this is different. First of all, her teens are way behind her. She's a grown woman who shouldn't have to worry about what her father says or thinks. She should be able to pursue a career in the porn industry if she chooses. But if there was anything he did know, this was a lot more serious than some interest in something she might find meeting with Daddy's disapproval.

Once the Florida Turnpike entrance was falling away in Jacob's rearview mirror and he was rolling into a span of I-75 that didn't offer much of anything to see other than the boring billboards up for rent, Jacob reinvigorated his efforts to get into what was going on within the mind of Angela. But try as he might, she was doing a fine job of keeping her thoughts to herself. Well, if he couldn't accomplish anything from where he was, he knew he'd be where she is within a couple hours or so. Once they were with each other, face-to-face, she wouldn't be able to keep anything from him whatsoever. He didn't want this coming to that, though. In fact, he would rather any of these sorts of problems handled while he was going elsewhere in the country other than Florida. The fact that he was now in the central part of the state jabbed at him; but his displeasure didn't come near close enough to his concern for his daughter. He pushed his luck with the speed limit.

As he passed by exit 301, Jacob noticed a driver struggling within the Wal-Mart Distribution Center. The poor guy was trying to find an empty trailer he could connect to after dropping the trailer he brought in. Jacob was aware of how common it was that Wal-Mart had a penchant for filling the trailers of outside carriers with their excess pallets. Jacob had to smile when he saw the guy found a trailer only half full of pallets, deciding to back that trailer to a Wal-Mart trailer and sling the pallets to their rightful owners. Just as he saw the driver put his truck in place to make his impromptu transfer, Jacob looked down to see he was desperately low on fuel. It was a good thing he only had about fifteen miles to go to reach the Flying J and top off.

He looked ahead to see how things were going at this particular truck stop, and it appeared to be moving well. It was still too early in the day for the place to start filling up with trucks coming in to park for the night, and there weren't all that many drivers at the pumps. That was a good thing, because Jacob was feeling too anxious to harbor any patience for getting slowed down just by getting some fuel. He wanted to get in, fuel up and perhaps grab a quick bite and something to drink, and then get moving.

In fact, he decided that he would drop his trailer there and move on to see Angela without the load. The load doesn't deliver to Tampa until the next morning anyway, so he would only be coming back there for the night. This way, he could bobtail to see his daughter and reserve his parking space for the night. Flying J frowned on anyone dropping a trailer and claimed they'd have one towed if it was dropped without authorization, but Jacob was confident he had a way around that.

After the last few miles past and Jacob pulled down the exit ramp towards the Flying J truck stop, he looked ahead with an attempt to get one more glimpse into Angela's situation. He left her away from the central focus of his thoughts for many miles now, hoping the break from the push would somehow let him have the necessary insight once he tried again. He hoped to slip in through the side, in a figurative sort of way. As the light turned green and he made his left towards the truck stop's entrance, he discovered that he indeed made some progress. However, it wasn't progress that he appreciated by any margin. In fact, it only made him worry he was far from being timely. In honesty, he feared he was too late.

Apprehensive and somewhat frightened, Jacob pulled into the truck stop and drove towards the fuel pumps. There were plenty available and from what he could see, parking was even more plentiful. For that he was grateful, because now he was certain that he did not want to be held back by that heavy trailer. Jacob needed to move and move as quickly as he could, and likely where a trailer wouldn't go easily. He wasn't precisely sure where Angela would be in Tampa; he had never actually visited her since she moved to Florida.

He pulled into the pumps and shut the truck down. He stepped out quickly after checking his mileage, and then placed the pump nozzles in place for his two tanks. He ran his card and got the procedure going, and felt anxious to fill those tanks. Fidgety, he cleaned the windshields, windows and mirrors while the tanks were filled, needing the moments to pass.

"Come on and let's go," he mumbled at the tanks as they filled at a pace too slow for his liking.

In fact, these pumps push a volume approaching and sometimes exceeding fifty gallons a minute, so the amount of time to fill the tanks ran in proportion with how long it's been since he's last done it. Jacob came close to running his tanks dry on this run, so displacing the empty space with fuel would take several precious minutes.

By the time he had his glass and windshields clean, the tanks were topped off and he was ready to move out. He wanted to rush away from the pumps and go find a parking space, but he needed to retrieve his receipt inside and place the notion that he would drop his trailer. He didn't want to take the time to work out the trailer being dropped, even if just for a little while, but he wanted to place the bug in some heads that it was dropped in the unlikely event it somehow became an issue. To do that, he simply needed to see some faces and make a connection. So he pulled ahead from the pumps and then shut it down. He rushed from the truck and went inside as quickly as his aging trucker's body would allow.

He stepped in and saw there was no line at the fuel desk, which was another blessing.

"Hi there," he said. "I just need a receipt for pump nineteen."

With a smile, the young lady at the register handed him his receipt and said, "There you go. Have a great day."

"I'll try. You do the same," he said as he looked around at the few employees in sight, making sure they were given the mental note that his trailer would sit alone for at least a while.

He left the store knowing his day was only getting worse, so he moved as quickly as he could. Jacob climbed into the truck and pulled ahead, already having a good idea of where he wanted to park and drop the trailer. Just ahead, at the first left-hand turn within the parking area, there was often plenty of parking in that particular area during this time of day. It was close to the store so it filled up fast, but he saw a few spaces were available about the time he noticed the driver struggling with pallets at the Wal-Mart DC. He moved into position and quickly backed the truck into place, and after setting the brakes, he jumped right out. He dropped the landing gear as quick as they would go, pulled the fifth-wheel pin and then pulled the lines as he made his way back to the cab. Feeling that time was of the essence, and it was, he pushed the shifter into fourth and pulled away quickly.

All of a couple minutes later and he was gearing up quickly to reach highway speed as he resumed his trip southbound on I-75. He had never been down to visit Angela since she moved to the Tampa area, so he didn't know exactly where she lived or where she worked, but at the moment he could see she was in a fair-sized office building a couple miles outside the Tampa International Airport. Her building wasn't enormous from what he could see from there, maybe fifteen stories high at the most, although he wasn't in the mood to count, and it was the typical modern appearance of a lot of tinted glass and bright steel. This was one of the few good things in the situation, since he'd have to recognize the building once he got there, which shouldn't be too hard, as a lot of the surrounding buildings are mostly several years older and looking it.

The problem at the time was that he had over thirty miles to go and traffic was building up.

Jacob only had about ten miles to go before reaching the I-275 loop into the Tampa area, but he'd still have close to twenty miles to go from that point, and he could see traffic congesting to a thick pain in the ass right around the Busch Boulevard exit. He had no choice but to continue another several miles past that point in order to get to where Angela was. In fact, now that he was this close, he saw he had to go past where I-4 began and clogged up everything like a bad drain, and then proceed downtown.

Getting there quickly enough with his Pete and without the heavy trailer was far from the issue; the issue was simply space, time, and Floridian motorists. He was moving just over the speed limit and knew he could until he reached I-275, and would still be able to cruise well for several miles more. But looking that far ahead, he could see things were bogging down somewhere near Fowler Avenue, and they only got worse from there.

Driving those last few miles of I-75 before reaching I-275, Jacob's desperation made him really consider how this was going to have to be done. He normally didn't like doing anything that might draw too much attention and place on him too bright a focus from those around, but this just might require some deft maneuvering. This was not an issue of getting some load there on time; this was an issue that he now recognized as a matter of life and death.

While pushing for those last miles, he tried so hard into seeing why Angela's situation seemed so dire, but he just couldn't see into it. Angela's emotional state has been a despondent jumble, likely for days now, and working through all the dark, murky feelings has somehow proved too elusive for even one such as Jacob. However, he knew with confidence that if he didn't get there to personally intervene, like right now, he could very well be too late to do anything at all. It was that bad, so he could not afford these people being in the way.

Once he merged onto I-275, Jacob through all modest concerns to the roadside and concentrated on as many minds as he could for several miles ahead. He didn't like manipulating the public at large for virtually any reason, and he honestly thought he would never have to do it, but he never, never suspected that his beloved daughter would reach this state of mind. He had no choice but to do everything within his power to save his child, and it was just that simple.

Jacob pressed into the traffic for at least as far up as I-4 that there was a large motorcade of limousines and police cruisers pushing through at high speed. For the first couple of miles ahead of him, the impression wasn't difficult to push on those within that radius, but it did get murky further ahead. Heavy traffic meant more minds to influence, and that meant he really had to focus like he had never done before. They not only had to recognize the need to see the motorcade and get out of the way, but they had to be influenced to resist the urge to take advantage of the cleared pathway as most of the traffic merged onto the roadway's shoulders. If any significant amount of them did that, Jacob knew he'd be forced to pinpoint those resistors, which could cost him the influence on everyone else. If that happened, he could very well bring traffic to a standstill, or in a worst-case situation, a pileup, and that would be the end of the road for him and his daughter.

As far as he could see visually, motorists were heeding his needs and pulling off the road. But farther than that, beyond his line of sight, he could see the sheer population density was having trouble with working out what they needed to do in order to clear his path. He didn't fret too much about and held the faith that he would be able to impress the proper decisions on the confused once they were in sight. By then, they would see the speeding limos, police cruisers and motorcycles, and know enough to get aside far enough not to get hit. Of course, there was nothing more than a Peterbilt 379 bobtailing its way through, but such a thing was nothing but a minor detail. In fact, Jacob quickly realized he needed to continue the false impression up to a mile behind him, just in case some joker back there wanted to take advantage of the space and blaze through.

He tried to avoid thinking about what he'd do once he was off this limited-access highway and actually on the downtown streets, where there were actual intersections and traffic lights. From what he could see, Angela's building was but a few blocks from the highway, so he knew he'd be in the last stretch once he made it through this mess. Could he manipulate the intercity traffic and the traffic lights, too? He might be able to do that, but not without drawing in a lot of unwanted attention. He can't manipulate the planet, and for that he's been thankful.

He also knows he cannot focus on Angela and her needs while dealing with an inordinate amount of heavy traffic running around his truck and through his mind. Jacob concentrated on maintaining his mirage for the sake of the motorists around him until he reached his desired exit and then let it go. He knew traffic would unsnarl through the I-275 loop within a matter of minutes, and it was far from his concern, anyway. Presently, he focused on getting through the next few intersections and to where his troubled daughter was suffering from...from what, he just didn't know.

Rather than manipulate those sharing these roads with him, Jacob focused on trying to influence the traffic lights to his benefit. Hell, the police do it all the time, with whatever transponder they possess that allows them to do it for no particular reason. For him, the issue was that any influence he might have on the traffic lights cannot cause a troublesome chain reaction beyond his present route. He couldn't be so selfish as to do anything that might cause an accident, regardless of how dire his pressing crisis might be.

Now that he was this close to Angela, and she knew of his proximity, too, Jacob could tell she was picking up some sort of pace. She was vigilantly preventing his prying into her affairs, but she just can't hide the emotional distress. Being family of such close ties, some things cannot be hidden. As he worked his way along in traffic, moving up and down the lower gears and causing a slinky effect in traffic not meant for such a vehicle (he was grateful for the decision to drop the trailer), he worked hard at keeping a sense of patience within his daughter, hoping she might see to reason once she sees him.

It did appear his efforts were paying off, since now that a few blocks and a minimum of disgruntled motorists were behind him, he could actually see the office building where he was sure Angela was right at that moment. He didn't know where she was in the building or even what exactly she did in there, but he could tell from the emanations surrounding it that it was what he's been trying to reach for so many hours. He felt as though he was chomping on a bit as he patiently waited for this one last traffic light to turn green and he could reach the parking lot.

The light did change and Jacob had but one more traffic challenge to cope with, which was that he had to cross the divided road, what with his destination being to his left. That was an easy one, though, and with a dismissive wave of his hand, he was able to bring the oncoming traffic to a halt, although a number of the motorists in the traffic wondered why they were stopping even while they were doing it. Jacob simply didn't have the time or the inclination to provide a worthwhile reason. Besides, he simply needed to pull into the parking lot and they could proceed on with their lives.

Jacob pulled in and found a reasonably suitable place to park his truck and shut it down. He only took up two parking spaces in a place where well over two dozen were empty, so he was far from being a hindrance to anything at this point. From there, Jacob's only concern in the world was his daughter, where she was, and what she was doing, or planning to do.

He ran his hand across his field of vision where the medium-sized office building glinted in the Florida afternoon sunshine, trying to work out where Angela might be in there. That's when he realized the easiest way would be to call her and tell her he's outside and on his way up. Jacob pulled his cell phone from his pocket and punched in her number, and then waited for her to pick up.

She did not pick up. It rang until it went to voicemail, but he's close enough to her to know that she looked right at the phone and saw who was calling, and then chose to set the phone down and walk away from it.

"For the love of God, Angela. What is going on? Where are you?"

Before he could enter the building, he needed to know which floor she was on, and for that he would need to search for her from where he stood. Once he knew what floor to reach, he could feel his way through from there. But then, what floor Angela was on was made all too clear, not just to him, but everyone around.

What had to be an entire office floor's worth of furniture, file cabinets, computer desks, copiers, cubicle dividers, and even several water coolers burst through numerous large windows on the fifth floor. These things burst through the windows and into the air with enough force to make one think they were at terminal velocity when they hit the glass. But what brought Jacob's heart to his throat was that his daughter, Angela, was among the debris bursting through, and then plummeting to the ground, scattering across the lot.

Jacob heard numerous people scream all around him as they bore witness to a sight that must have been beyond the belief to every one of them. Most would have thought it was a bomb blast if there was a sound of explosion, but there was not. There was only the sound of breaking and shattering glass, and then the shrill scream of Angela as she fell. Her screams were stopped only by her sudden impact with the roof of a car parked below.

"Oh, Jesus God."

People rushed to her aid, and Jacob moved towards her as quick as he could. His adrenaline allowed him to move much faster than one of his age and condition normally would find appropriate, and then a simple manipulation of the minds there allowed him free passage to Angela without resistance, hesitation, or hindrance.

His tears came fast as he saw her partially pushed through the roof and windshield of the car, but he could easily tell from her emanations that she somehow survived the fall. Her body was broken and she suffered immense internal injury, but she looked right at him as he approached, although she did not move. Once he was within her reach, he stopped, not sure if he could move her safely or not because of her injuries, but he took the risk of gently taking her hand and placing his head, his mind, close to hers.

Through raging tears, he asked her, "Why? Angela, why did you do this? You know that I could've helped you. We all suffer with the pressures of this gift, but we've all told you that you do get through it. The entire family with this has told you so many times that it does get better. For the love of God, this was not the answer."

Her emanations and mental powers were fluctuating in such a bizarre manner now. The pain and severe injury she endured has her mind going wildly, likely because she's in shock. Windows on the lower levels of the building and nearby cars were cracking and shattering, and Jacob could hear the metallic rumpling of nearby car bodies as Angela's raging psychic pressures crumpled in fenders and doors, broke most of the glass in sight, and caused most of the nearby people to pass out. Jacob saw a lot of bleeding from noses and ears, and worked quickly to stop the damage and reverse what he could.

And then it all stopped.

"Oh, Daddy. It can be stopped," she said, looking stunned, yet somehow delighted.

Her mouth was agape as she looked around, although her mangled body would allow her to do but so much.

"I can see it all now, Daddy. There really is a blue sky, and I can see shadows, and I can hear birds, and horns, and I can hear only the sounds of the city right here. I can hear those people crying, but I can't see them except for their expressions. It's all gone! The haze, the pressure, the endless waves of thoughts and emotions from the world over. I don't have any of it, and Daddy, it's all so beautiful!"

Jacob cried aloud, seeing and feeling his beloved daughter dying before his eyes. There was nothing he could do for her; he didn't need any particular ability to see she was on the edge of death. It was only through her gifts, her curses, that she was able to survive such a fall up to then. But for the moment, the only thing that mattered was that there was nothing he or anyone else could do.

"I know, sweetheart. The world is such a beautiful place, with its smells, sights, and sounds. I am so glad that you're able to experience what they experience every waking day, even if just for these few fleeting moments," Jacob said, trying to control his tears. "I only wish you could have somehow seen the beauty this world offers everywhere, the way they see it. Angela, I love you so much."

Jacob wasn't sure at all if she heard what he said. Looking at her, he could see she was gone. Her eyes were blank and dead, but he could see in those dead eyes the childlike wonder she used to convey when she was little. He did envy her, in that her wish to know the world the way everyone else does came true, if only for a few precious seconds.

With nothing more to offer or gain, he turned and walked back towards his truck. Saddened and still in tears, he impressed upon everyone there that he never was. Broken down and despondent, he climbed into the truck and started the engine, and then after releasing the brakes and pushing it into fourth, he eased into traffic in order to make his way north to the Flying J in San Antonio.

This next one is a bit dramatic while meaning very little. I rather like it for the tongue-in-cheek effect, but it isn't going to change any lives. Some of these stories are heartfelt and might linger with the reader for some time. This next one probably just isn't one of those stories.

I wrote this story with my fellow aspiring writers in mind. Those of us who struggle to write, for whatever reason, struggle with finding an audience (there might be three people on the planet who will ever read this passage) and certainly struggle with finding success. The thing is, there are just so many writers out there that it seems the people who do not write are the minority.

There are those who take it seriously and there are those who just pursue a hobby during their free time. We have writers we admire (I am a big fan of many, but would like to mention Chuck Palahniuk) and we have writers we don't like.

Until Book 7 is out, and very good, I hope Jean M. Auel suffers from intense irritable bowel syndrome forever.

I sought to be flowery and literary in this story, although it isn't common for me to do so. Here in this story, we have a writer who seeks acceptance so that he can succeed and be accepted. We all write for various reasons, but we all want to be read. We all endure the hardships resulting from the effort, but this guy really feels it.

I wanted it to be a fun read, so I hope you enjoy it.

Gatekeepers of the Dawn

Yea, my quill quivers in my trembling grasp, and the words now blend together on the parchment as the words flow from fevered mind to gnarled hand. Oh, but there are now so many, so many words and I can barely control the spill of ink as I write what my mind sees. My writing hand is something of a claw to me now, but it must continue forth, pulling from my tormented mind the tales springing from some abysmal unknown of my sub-consciousness.

The candles are nubs, and the flickering flames are quivering as my hand does in this chilled, post-midnight breeze. I hear the wolves and other creatures of the night in the distance; these walls and curtains offer only the illusion of protection from the predators among us. My hand drives the quill ahead as I smear the chilled sweat from my brow, and I look to the window fast, watching for the dawn.

Stones, skulls, as well as other remnants of the lost, weigh the tales down, preventing them from a fate unknown if they were to scatter into the winds of reckoning. I scribble my thoughts, my emotions, and my fears quickly, lest the dawn passes me by, and I must wait for other dawns to come. Verily, I allow many, many dawns to pass as I unfurl the sagas twisting through my heart and soul. This tragic fact offers no solution, though, and I feel moments missed that could never return. Therefore, I drive a numbed hand ever onward.

I give my faith to the appearance of the dawn, confident it will come again tomorrow, and the morrows beyond. My teeth, the precious few remaining in this skewed maw, chatter as the night's last winds curl over my scarred, bare back. The torn skin crawls as the fog does over the moonlit meadows, and the snarls hiding within them. Alas, this life is destined for a purpose, for why else would I have it? The winds of fate dropped these quills before and onto me, dipping their points into my sweat and blood, making it apparent I am to flow from and through them. From there, the only other way out is down, so I accept the challenge to appease the Karma.

When I smear away the dribble from my chin with an ink-stained wrist, I look to the east, where the dawn illuminates the lands beyond the raging volcanoes, and I know my destiny lies over there, somewhere. For there, there in those lands beyond the fiery mountains, lies the haven of the tellers of tales as told in legend.

I, and those of my ilk, vie for this sanctuary of the Tale Masters; but we on this side of the range know we must appease the Gatekeepers of the Dawn. These keepers of the word, these Agents guarding the gates to printed success, must be gratified, or else the taleteller risks banishment to the abyss of the slush pile. There, the rotting corpses of failed quill-tenders amass to fill the chasm, and the Gatekeepers exhibit their jealousy, and want to fill it, too. The gagging stink fills it instead, awaiting displacement with my body, should the Gatekeepers desire.

I examine the work before me, dotted with tears and droplets of sweat, just moments after I scrawled the last line. Is it finished, is it done? Ay, I must concede there is no more; I searched and searched, and can find no more. I stand and turn, wincing into the light pouring over the range and through the plumes rising from Hell's fire. Grasping the stick that holds my body to my scarred feet, I commence upon the journey yet once more to the merciless Gatekeepers. Alas, I have long lost count as to how many times I have treaded this lonely path.

Beyond the refuge of my station, the journey is long, and full of peril.

Clutching the tale close to my racing heart, I start out once again, where I can see, so far, far away, the towers of the Gatekeepers of the Dawn.

The sands of time blast my thrashed hide, burying so much grit and pain into the open wounds while I struggle forth, securing the pages of this latest tale close to my breast. Above me, the allies of the Gatekeepers circle and soar, those shufflers of the slush pile, and though they are so high above me, I can feel their gaze piercing into me. Occasionally, I feel their dribble trail into a tender sore, stinging as it wells. Then, above them, cries the thunder.

It begins slowly as it always does, but inevitably the torrent wails, and the cold, driving rain clears away the sandy scabs, exposing the lashes to the torrent, where I feel fresh pain sear. Pain or not, agony or bliss, I must protect the viability of this manuscript, and its blessed ink.

"You may torture me as you always do, Searing Fate, but I will not falter in my quest! I will not taint this work!"

I feel the clutch of pages pressed to me, and know they are safe...for now.

I clamor over the dried bones of lost brethren, quickly praying for their souls. Once upon a time, they too worked under the dark, stormy night, fantasizing of the golden horizons, where they ride off into the sunset and live happily ever after. But no, they were not to know such fate, and their brittle bones pierce me, tear my knees, and even seek to tear the beloved tale from my embrace in a last-ditch effort for one more chance, even though their souls must admit they have penned their last queries and synopses. Ay, I may trip over the sheer numbers of them, clamoring for a place to tread, and if I fall, I can take refuge in the faith that one can continue forth on knees and elbows, regardless of injury or flesh lost.

I need to stop and breathe once and again, but just to retain enough air to keep going. I might peel the remaining scabs and suck upon the ooze for nourishment, for so often now, my brethren and I can afford no other sustenance. I push and kick away the dried bones, the reddened earth, and rotting flesh of the Ever-Rejected, and peer forth to where I can see the Robed One, far, far away.

"Oh, may I reach you this time, thou Patron Saint of Crossed-Arm Stare and the Glance Down One's Nose. May I find the holy opportunity to place my carcass under your thumb!"

As I fight the tide of probability and forge ahead towards the apparition of shallow promise, I glance to my right, and to my left, although I seek the strength to do anything but that. For to my right lies the urban sprawl, offering from its spewing stacks the Disgorge of the Hourly Wage, where monotony sucks the soul dry. The ennui pulls the soul and mind away as a thread from a sweater, unraveling the sanity of the local population, leaving it to clog the sewers, and therefore fill the urbanity with filth.

And to my left? Oh, to my left there lie all else mundane, including the summer vacation, with its fishing poles, long lines to shallow amusement, and marital contracts with fine print no male is allowed to peruse. There lie the picnics at the lake, where droves of ants seek to steal what there is of that pathetic distraction, too. There lies the sweet temptation of the line of credit, the rented RV, and the introductory interest rate. There lie the temptresses who hang upon the poles while one drinks away the paycheck promised to, well, the land of the Ivory Towers and their competitive wages.

This life, the only one to give and the only one given, must attune to the passions raging through it. Isn't that correct? Doesn't that make the most sense, even to us who fail to comprehend all the signs, hoping to clear the path with drive-thru meals, rum and imbibed narcotics? Then my heart runs uneven as I glance to the flowing robes of the gatekeeper, who...who seems to beckon me, yet once more?

Other than the shimmer of the robe under the moments of sun through the smog, and the ripple of said robe as the winds race from here to there, the Gatekeeper of the Dawn remains still, stoic, motionless, and void of any sympathy.

My filthy, wretched, stinking body crawls forth to the feet of the hallowed Literary Agent, this gatekeeper, and I am in awe just from his mere presence in proximity to mine. I inch forth as I drag my bloated belly along the ground, amazed that the dogs of doom are not racing in to drag my carcass from his feet. I find a suitably low place to stop and collapse, and I think through every utterance before I speak to this Sage of the Written Word.

"Oh, Gatekeeper," I cry through the sobs, "I am once more honored to occupy your presence without the gnashing jaws pulling me to the shadows of anonymity once again. I know you are in charge, thy hopeful agent. You are in control. I know you hold the conch and the keys to the refuge I hope to realize. I know I must fellate your every particular, relishing my slightest chances. I know I must be confident in the knowledge of my favorite color if I'm to avoid having my remains cast to the left or the right."

I shuffle forth and...and I see the feet of the gatekeeper before me. The image wavers as the tears well within my unbelieving eyes, and I find it hard to believe I made it this far yet again. With the use of my hair, what's left of my rags, and my own tongue, I wash the feet of this phantom with my tears as he stands unmoving above me.

I see his feet are washed, and I dare find my way to my torn knees. I dare not look to his face, although I am confident it is invisible through the hooded robe. I merely pull the manuscript from where it is seized to my sunken chest, and I hold it aloft above my bowed head and bent back.

"I freely hand this to you, Gatekeeper, praying it will impress and sing with the trumpets of the angels, lest my pulverized cadaver lubricates the way for the less-than-ideal. I know you will do the right thing."

I feel the tale ripped from my grasp, and I instinctively glance there to see the bony hand pull away the work of my heart and soul, and I realize I've lusted for this moment for longer than I can remember.

"Please, impress your point that you wield the sword of success, as that point may pierce our hopeful hearts if I disappoint by any degree. Impress upon me the point that you police the sanctity of the publishing universe, and that if you were not vigilant in your quest, utter second-rate chaos would inflict those hallowed lands, spewing the blood and offal of mere amateurs and their minions through the gilded avenues of literary excellence. I would not, with intent, allow such a thing from me, and neither would you."

I lay my forehead to the ground, and anyone around might hear the hurried, whispered prayers uttered from my cracked, bleeding lips while the only other sounds are the winds, the howling of the rejected, and the turn of the pages of my tale as the Gatekeeper thumbs through at his easy pace.

Moments pass, and then minutes. Verily, these minutes are agonizing in their length of time, and hope simmers up. Could he accept this work? Might he hold it aloft, and possibly bear his smile upon this mere...writer?

I hear the pages, turn, turn, turn and...and then I feel my face pushed to the mud as the gatekeeper's boot drops upon the back of my neck.

I can only imagine what's wrong, and I squeeze my eyes shut. I have been armed with cheap food, undercooked fries, store-brand coffee, Little Debbie snack cakes, the herbs nurtured in the grow house around the corner, rum and who knows what else in order to wrench free the tendrils of imagination. I worshipped from the bibles of King's 'On Writing', The Elements of Style, and miserable Mailer's, ''The Spooky Art'.

But what else could...then I hear the building moan of the Gatekeeper, and I feel the steel toe of his boot to my obvious ribs. I hear his whispered raging, and then I look to see why.

The Gatekeeper of the Dawn holds the last page of my tale to my face, smearing it with my blood as he jabs his quill into my thinning scalp and then circles a line in the tale's very last paragraph.

All I hear him murmur is, "Misplaced Modifier."

Suddenly, the sky splits open with a fiery rage, lightning, thunder, and torrential rains as the Gatekeeper scatters my manuscript to this deluge. The pages, all of them, flutter out of sight and away forever, and I see my heart, soul, body and mind torn from me, and they are tainted.

Then, just out of sight amidst the smog, begins the snarls and growls.

The wraiths of the Gate come forth, with smoldering irons in hand as I try to scurry away. But there are too many. Ay, there are so, so many.

My pleads fall upon deaf ears as they sear my flesh with their irons, and I bear forever branded upon my flesh the one word I feared more than any other in life.

REJECTED!

Despite the raging gales, I hear nothing but my sobbing sorrows. I look towards the Gatekeeper of the Dawn, this Phantom of Fate, this Apparition of Hopes and Dreams, fearful he may point to the left or the right.

I see his skeletal hand come from the folds of the robe, and see it slowly rise up, and then one long finger points to my fate.

He points to my lair. He points to my station!

Now, I am free to scurry. I call back as I tear my flesh on the broken bones of the forever rejected, and I say, "Thank you, beloved Gatekeeper! Thank you so much for this chance to continue on my quest! Thank you for giving a shred of hope that my pathetic existence has the right to prove its value to you yet once more!"

Suddenly, I am given the opportunity to see one beam of sunshine blast through the storms, and shine down upon the Gatekeeper of the Dawn as he resumes his static pose, waiting for the next teller of tales.

By that night, I find my way to my abode, where my items of no value, not even to the creditors, pawnshops or dealers, lie just as they were when I felt a twinge of hope within me, seemingly so long ago.

I reach up and touch the desk, feeling the curled pages of notes and thoughts. But I haven't the strength to resume just now. Crawling with the few fingernails I have left, I scamper to the rum, hookah, convenience store sub sandwiches and the Sun Chips, pledging to start over tomorrow.

Tomorrow is another day when I may begin a new work emitting from my heart and soul. It may prove to be a work worthy of the Gatekeeper, and he may not scatter it to the winds, but may clutch it to him, confident that he may find within it a suitable fifteen percent.

The bottles are empty and the hookah is cold, and I am so tired.

"God, may I find the strength of mind and body to write another tale, and may this one appease the world, and may my place in the universe be for more than mere grease for the machinery that drives the market economy forward. So mote it be."

I slump into the corner and for a few hours, I know nothing more.

Now, that last little story was a whole bunch of cheer, now, wasn't it? Such is the life of the writer who has yet to get there. Who has yet to appease the Gatekeepers of the Dawn. Well, I doubt one would ever get there after writing stories such as the one coming up.

Not that this next story is a bad one. I wouldn't include any truly bad work within this omnibus; disturbing and outrageous, perhaps, but never poorly done. It's just that this next one isn't for everyone, and regarding those who whom it is intended, shame on you.

This story was inspired by an overheard conversation between my Mother-In-Law and Sister-In-Law; they were discussing their bewilderment about where these boys keep getting these magazines.

The boy in question, my 11-year-old nephew (today, a young man and father of three), was caught with a couple of old Hustler magazines and a Jenna Jameson DVD. I must admit, I was a tad jealous about the DVD, since it was some sort of 'Best of' thing. While overhearing this discussion, I recalled my own mother having a similar discussion with my grandmother and her sister, my aunt, all of them wondering where the boys got all those magazines, and my aunt admitting she suffered the same problems with her sons, my cousins. I also recall several friends bummed out over their mothers finding their reading materials, no matter where they stashed it.

We didn't have DVD's back then, and the nice ladies had genuine staples right through the middle.

These discussions had the ladies admitting they've discussed this with others, all of them wondering what sort of insipid network is out there, supplying these young boys with this filthy trash. It appears these conversations have spanned the generations, seemingly with no proper answers in sight.

Okeedokee. It's time to set the record straight...

The Dirty Underground

Tommy sat up straight, one hand on his bookbag and the other comfortably on his thigh, watching through the bus's stress-fractured window as the neighborhood passed by, house by house, mailbox by mailbox. He watched but didn't really see, since his mind was on everything he had to get done before calling it a day. He had his math homework, which didn't concern him, knowing it was just a matter of filling it out, but he also had the history homework. It was an essay on the Nineteenth Century's Gilded Age. He rolled his eyes over thinking about that many hours gone by, particularly with everything else that had to be done on this day. Tommy didn't want to think about the past when the future was weighing down on him as if his bookbag had twice the books within it compared to now.

The houses skimmed by as if they were on those flipping cards/ moving pictures his Grandfather was so good at making on 3x5 cards; all in a blur yet discernible all the same. He saw the McGill's house, which was impossible to miss since it was closest to the color of Pepto Bismol, which they got away with since they were on the HOA Board, whatever that was. Grown-up crap, to be sure.

It was something for the neighborhood to get out of bed for, since everyone loved talking about it when they saw it. Whenever Tommy was in the backseat of the family van and both his parents were up there in their bucket seats, listening to the oldies, they always had to comment on it.

"Getting away from the traditional white seemed fine, but...why Pepto Bismol?" Dad would ask.

"Pepto Bismol sounds like a satellite city of Bogotá," Mom would say, every time, without fail. She always smirked and then giggled without fail at her own joke, too. This wasn't the only one, either. Mom didn't exhibit much sense of humor, but when she did, it appeared it was for her benefit first. Anyone else could join in if they desired. To date, the number of those joining in seems to be zero.

Anyway, no one else laughed or really got it, Tommy supposed. Regardless, seeing that shade of pink was a tell-tale sign that his bus ride was just about over. He looked ahead and out the bus's windshield where he could see Mom's cow-colored mailbox (a pattern inspired by the box their computer came in, not the bovines wandering through Aunt Judy's back field, out in the sticks, amidst the fragrances of nature) and then felt the momentum of the bus ease back while Mrs. Stevenson played with the bus's air brakes with one toe. He gathered up his Spiderman bookbag and Ironman lunchbox, waiting for the bus to come to a stop.

The bus stopped and he stepped out, wincing a bit to the bright afternoon sun and the swirling dust angered by the big, ugly yellow machine. He threw his bookbag over his shoulder, took his lunchbox under one arm like it was a book, and stepped away from the bus as he heard the creaking, squeaking bus doors snap shut, and then the acceleration of an old Cummins diesel engine. The bus caught his eye as it drove off, and he looked at it just for an instant. Then he looked up the driveway and to the house, thinking about what had to be done before bedtime. That's when he saw Mom standing by the front door, her hands on her hips, and with blazing eyes over tear-streaked, rosy cheeks. It was the classic Mom, 'Oh, I am not happy' posture, and Tommy looked at the bus again, seeing his only practical means of escape anger the swirling dust all the way down the road. A sudden crease appeared on Tommy's forehead. He knew that Mom's look meant doom for anyone who said the wrong thing, so he chose not to say much.

"You okay, Mom?"

She didn't say anything, but through glaring, bloodshot eyes and with one finger gesturing, 'Come hither, boy', she said all she had to in order to make her point.

Tommy stopped in his tracks, eyes wide, pulse accelerating, and although he didn't have the first clue as to what was going on, he knew the score all the same. He gestured with a head shake.

'Um, I don't think so.'

Mom's arms went stiff along her sides with fists clenched tight enough to warp a baseball and she yelled, "Get your scrawny butt to your room right now, Mister. MOVE IT!"

She took a step away from the front door and released the clench in one fist just enough to raise a trembling finger towards the door. With the tremulous digit aimed at the door and her brow brought low over red, blazing, watery eyes, Tommy suspected Mom's fraternal twin was none other than the Grim Reaper. The notion inspired some strategic thinking, which had him moving slowly and adjusting his bookbag and lunchbox, up until he got within about ten yards from the door, and then he moved like the wind.

It seemed like a clever maneuver when he was up to it, but his strategy was thwarted by a whack to the back of the head that sent him sprawling across the kitchen linoleum and his Ironman lunchbox spinning wildly underneath the dining room table in the next room and then out of sight. Appearing as if he suddenly developed a dozen more skinny-kid limbs as he scrambled up the stairs, Mom was right there on his heels. But even with her right there, he narrowly escaped the whoosh of her grasping hand and rushed into his room and slammed the door, forcing all ninety pounds of him to it, exasperated and struggling for breath.

Panting and rubbing the stinging spot on the back of his head, his breath suddenly caught the instant he saw the state of his room. It looked as if a tornado raged through there, that or Hurricane Mom; always a category 5 storm with eyes like those. His mouth fell open when he saw his bed all in pieces like that, with the bed-frame separated away from the headboard, and the mattress askew, surrendering in one corner. The dresser was on its side, and each of the five drawers were scattered to the far sides of the room, except for one peeking from under the mattress in the corner. The contents of these drawers, however, were scattered everywhere, with frightened and exposed underpants and socks everywhere, wondering what was going on.

Tommy's expression was one of severe trepidation until one eye caught sight of the likely culprit; he spied a pile of mysterious shreds, difficult to identify at first but separated from everything else in the room, alone and under the one bright lamp still working and upright amidst the cacophony of strewn furniture, just a mere few feet from the enormous pile that was once the entire contents of his closet. A close look revealed to him what it was, particularly since the bright light highlighted the excess amount of flesh tones displayed on all of those glossy pages.

"Oh, no."

Suddenly, the door he barricaded with all his might was blown open by an immense force sending him toppling to the floor. Once the concussion of the force eased and he was able to raise his head, getting to his elbows in his instinctive quest to detect what just crashed his world, he saw through all the angered, swirling dust, the force. Mom was standing there in the wide open doorway, with the light from downstairs silhouetting her stance of squared shoulders over firm footing.

"Oh, yeah."

Tommy scurried like a beach crab rushing for the safety of the crashing waves as he braced his body against the only bare spot of the bedroom wall and said, "Aw, Mom! This just isn't what it looks like, Mom. If you would just let me explain!"

She moved over the floor as if she never touched it and within a microsecond stood poised over her powerless quarry, saying, "Don't you even try to tell me what this looks like, you little pervert! I suspected for a while now, but now I can see you're nothing more than a disgusting little pervert, just like your brother!"

Raymond was Tommy's older brother, his senior by just under twelve years, and now away in college. The story, as he understands it, was that when Ray was a boy, Mom constantly dealt with finding these sorts of magazines hidden in Ray's room, this room back then, under the bed mattress or stashed under something or other in the back of the closet. He's overheard Mom talking about it with Grandma on the phone, both of them stumped about where the things come from, and Mom just getting madder about it, since Dad didn't seem to possess the same level of concern, if his smirks were any indication. The thing was, Tommy knew this pile of shredded magazines under interrogation was not his. He really didn't know such paraphernalia was around the house anymore, and certainly not in his room.

"Now Mom," he said with his hands out, gesturing for a moment to speak, "these things are not mine. They got to be Raymond's. I mean, Jeez, where am I going to get them. I mean, I'm only eleven."

"I don't have the foggiest idea of where you nasty little boys get these filthy magazines, but when I do; rest assured that when I do, there will be HELL TO PAY!"

She narrowed her eyes to steely slits, stooping over her victim like a Velociraptor about to make the first fatal bite, and dropped her tone to a hardened whisper. "Speaking of hell to pay, just wait until your father gets home."

Of that, Tommy had little concern. It all depended on how much the issues cut into Jeopardy and Wheel of Fortune. Dad took missing the final Jeopardy question or the final spin rather personally.

Mom stood up straight and pointed one quivering finger down at him and said, "You're going to clean this room up, young man, and until I give you the word, you will never leave this room. I want this room spotless and perfect, EXCEPT, I don't want your dirty fingers touching that pile of smut. I want the evidence untarnished so your father can see what you've been studying instead of your homework."

Her tone softened and her eyes welled up once more, and then she said, "When he gets up here you can try your pathetic excuses on him, if you dare."

She turned and stormed out of the room, slamming the door as she went. His autographed picture of Hulk Hogan fell from the wall. The glass of the picture frame cracked and then fell over onto its face, down for the count. You could count to three or one hundred, but the match was over. The bell had wrung.

Hearing Mom flee down the stairs in desolate tears, Tommy rolled his eyes and stood up, looking over the room to assess the damage. He knew he had to get the room cleaned up (yet another task added to an already long day) but at that moment he knew he had bigger fish to fry. The fact that Mom trashed the closet was bad enough, but if she was one degree calmer than she was, she might have seen the closet for what it really was. But a peek in there told him she recognized no such thing beyond her repugnance for the shredded periodicals on the floor. His head fell a bit, and a sigh of relief escaped his lips. He took in a second wind and entered the barren closet, took the clothes rod in hand and gave it a firm counter-clockwise twist. The back wall slid up and out of sight, revealing a stainless steel elevator door.

Tommy cleared his throat and then said, "Thomas Jefferson Weiss. Seven. Gamma. Epsilon. Seven."

An electronic tone chimed and the doors opened. He quickly stepped into the open elevator and placed his thumb on the laser scanner.

A female but computerized voice said, "Identification confirmed. Good afternoon, Tommy."

"Distribution level."

While the elevator descended the twenty floors, Tommy leaned against the wall with his eyes squeezed shut as he thought fast about what he had to say. He knew he would need to be clear, concise, and unassailable. Standing tall and accepting the challenge for what it was would be the standard while before the multitude; there was no other way to accept this and expect to win. He moved to the center of the elevator, calm and confident, and once the elevator stopped and the doors opened, he stepped forward with purpose and a spring in his step.

He walked quickly across the platform built high over the excavated area, now about three times the size of a jetliner hangar after the recent expansion project was completed. Above him, the rough earth ceiling was fitted with in intricate latticework of support beams, conduit lines, PVC piping of various colors containing miles of copper and fiber-optic cable connecting his baby to the outside world, and innumerable lines supplying water and electricity. The deep and wide rank and file of high-output LCD lanterns cast exquisite radiance over everything below them, leaving no shadow. Tommy stood at the podium overlooking scores of hardworking boys two stories down, where he saw them bustling with precision as they packed magazines, video tapes and DVD's into boxes and crates, which were placed on a spaghetti bowl of conveyor systems where gallant volunteers loaded the product onto trucks, trains, vans, and two helicopters. He felt a moment of pride swoop through him as he saw things down there were going far better than they were twenty floors up. He tapped the microphone to see if it was on.

"Gentlemen, may I have your attention, please."

Everyone stopped where they were in order to see what Tommy Weiss, the Chairman and Chief Executive Officer (CEO) of The Dirty Underground had to say. All were motionless and a hush blanketed the site.

"Gentlemen, I am here to inform you that it seems a new challenge has presented itself to our mission at TDU Industries," Tommy said, allowing the echo of his voice to fade. "My friends, colleagues, and associates, it appears Mom has discovered unaccounted-for product in my personal quarters."

Even from where he stood, he could hear the gasps. There were hushed cries of, "Oh, no," and "God, help us," as well as similar emotional outbursts. Even the conveyor systems seemed to whimper their concern as they screeched to a halt. Tommy was sure the stockholders in the bunch would harbor the greatest concern.

Allowing for a dramatic pause, Tommy held up an assuring hand and said, "Gentlemen, please be advised that I am not the one who left the product unsecured. With that being said, I will take charge of this situation and address it until it meets with everyone's highest level of satisfaction. Until then, you have my deepest apologies for this crisis, and you have my word as your CEO that I will give this issue my undivided attention until it is resolved."

Another pause, and then Tommy exclaimed, "Isaac! I need Johnson, Tyler, and Fitzsimmons to meet me in the conference room five minutes ago! I also require Housekeeping to report to my personal quarters to ensure it is brought up to the highest Mom standards. Make sure they know to give the project 100%, because she is as mad as a hornet. Further, I want a 20% increase on all levels of security overseeing all outbound shipments until things are back to normal.

"As for the rest of you, I only ask that you continue with the wonderful job that you've been doing. By doing that, you will have a direct hand in seeing this problem solved as well as ensuring the future and prosperity of TDU Industries. Rock on, guys. That is all."

"Rock on!" emanated from below.

Tommy smiled widely as he saw the crew below resume their labors with renewed vigor. But he knew time was of the essence and he turned quickly and entered the elevator.

"Administration level," he said, and the elevator continued in its descent. It was a mere eight floors, but he pursed his lips with impatience.

When he exited the elevator, a series of laser and electronic scanners screened him for any signs of contraband, including combustibles and explosives, regardless of his identity and position, as he moved towards the retinal scanner. As is appropriate, he placed his forehead on the foam rest and focused on the blinking, red dot. Within a moment, the door slid up and out of the way.

Tommy was impressed to see his three generals were already seated around the large, round oak table. Lining the walls and surrounding the table of the ornate conference room were several laser-carved, white marble statues of many of history's finest Centerfolds, including Marilyn Monroe, Valerie Mason, Karen McDougal, Pam Anderson, Heather Kozar, and Carmen Electra. There was a well-lit statue of Anna Nicole Smith, now adorned with a neon halo.

The walls were adorned with high-definition, backlit interpretations of several other high-profile Centerfolds, such as Brande Roderick, Daline Curtis, Kara and Kelly Monaco, Vanessa Gleason, Hiromi Oshima, Jayde Nicole, and Sara Jean Underwood, among several others.

"I can't stay for too long, Tommy," Johnson said. "My parents think I'm in bed with mono."

"This had better be good, Weiss," Tyler said with his arms crossed before him. "I'm scheduled to go to Disney World with my Grandparents."

"It isn't good at all, Tyler," Tommy said with a growl. "How about you, Fitz? You got any personal tragedies you want to share?"

"Nope. I'm on board with anything you need, Boss, as usual."

"Good. Gentlemen, I didn't call you in her on such short notice because I was antsy to pass out bonus checks. We're here today because...because Mom discovered product in my quarters," Tommy said, wincing in anticipation of the response.

Tyler jumped to his feet, tumbling over his chair in the process, which bumped into Anna Nicole's statue, causing it to slightly tremble. Her halo went slightly askew.

"Oh, come on, Weiss! What are you doing up there? Please, Tommy. Please tell me she didn't find that elevator. I told you it was a bad idea."

"No, it was nothing like that. She emptied the closet and still didn't find the elevator," he said, regretting the admission. "She simply discovered and destroyed some outdated and discontinued inventory."

While righting his chair and Anna Nicole's halo, Tyler muttered, "Oh, is that all."

Tommy's eyed narrowed as he said, "Listen up, Mouseketeer. This is not some typical setback. This doesn't equate to inventory shortage or an escalation in transportation costs; this could amount to something very serious and pose a long-term hardship for TDU Industries. The loss of the product is regrettable; I will admit to that.

"But understand when I say this," Tommy hissed as he patted his skinny chest. "I am not the one who left the inventory unsecured. I am confident Raymond left the magazines well-hidden but at risk to exposure several years ago."

Tommy turned to Fitzsimmons and said, "That's why I called you in here. That inventory was the property of TDU Industries and I want it back."

Fitzsimmons sat up straight and said, "I'm on board with anything you need, boss."

"Isaac will have a drive containing files of inventory I want replaced," Tommy said. "I need you and your team to infiltrate The Mansion again to secure replacements. Is there a reason you cannot make that happen right now?"

Fitzsimmons scratched his head and sighed, saying, "It isn't going to be easy, boss. They beefed up their archival security by more than half after our last full-scale raid. I told you then, Tommy, and I'm going to tell you now; we got too greedy too fast."

Just under a year prior, former general Jamie Steven's little sister and some of her snooty friends infiltrated TDU Industries. They planted malicious viruses in the computer systems, and with the proper placement of remote controlled incendiary grenades, destroyed years of work, caused extensive damage, and the loss of 37% percent of inventory. The fire suppression systems caused another 28% loss of inventory. The corporation's stock fell more than 40%, and Tommy nearly lost his position to Tyler.

Tommy was unflinching. "If I thought it would be easy, I would get Friedman's team to do it. I want to know if you can do it."

After an extended moment, Fitzsimmons looked to his lap and uttered another sigh. At last, he said, "Yeah, I can make it happen. But I'm going to need a submarine and a helicopter."

"They're yours. Why are you still in here?"

Fitzsimmons jumped to his feet while pulling his two-way from his belt. While rushing out of the conference room, he said, "Fitz Team. Code Six. Condition is Foxtrot, team. Let's go, guys. This is not a drill."

Seconds later, he was gone.

Tommy stood up, leaned over and placed his hands on the round table. He looked at his remaining two generals and said, "Gentlemen, this is not about Miss June or Miss February. Mom nearly succeeded in bringing down TDU Industries when Raymond was at the helm. While I am holding complete authority, I am deeply concerned that Mom's position could undermine my ability to control this operation with the level of attention and certainty it requires daily."

"So you need us to save your skinny ass again; is that what you're saying, Weiss?" Tyler said.

"In a nutshell, hotshot, yeah," Tommy said. "Tyler, I'm only going to say this once. If it wasn't for me and my taking your swollen head under my wing, you would still be buying photocopies with your lunch money. If it wasn't for me, you would still be climbing the trees across the street from the McGillicutty's house, trying to sneak peeks of their flicks through your Dad's old binoculars. How about this, pal? If I go down, you're going down with me. There. Do you feel better now?"

While Tyler remained unresponsive and merely squirmed in his chair, Johnson asked, "What exactly can we do, Tommy?"

"Okay, look," Tommy said, taking his seat again. "If I can get an operative to Raymond and somehow get him to own up to the discovered product by confessing to Mom, it could back off the pressure and secure my position with Mom once again. But he has to confess to leaving the stuff there and state I am but an innocent bystander. I can't think of anything else right this moment."

Tyler finally had something to say that wasn't snide. "We could probably do that, Tommy, but everyone in that college is twice our age or more. I just don't see how any of our spooks could blend into such a mature environment. Now, I'll take a close look at my people, but-"

"That might not be necessary," Johnson said, going wide-eyed. "I think I just might have another solution, guys. Tommy, Raymond is at Florida State, isn't that right?"

"Yeah, so?"

Johnson spun around in his chair. "Computer. Screen up."

After hearing a series of precision gears whine as they accelerated in speed, and then a series of bleeps and tones as the TDU servers came online, the three boys watched a 70 inch plasma monitor rise up out from the floor near the wall. Once the computer monitor was fully raised, it then telescopically moved forward and within excellent viewing distance from the three TDU officials. A cursor shaped like a bikini-clad hourglass blinked in the upper left-hand corner on the otherwise blank screen.

"Computer," Johnson said. "Access the D'Lorenzo file."

After a few blips on the screen, a 3-D picture of a thirteen-year-old boy named Reginald D'Lorenzo appeared on the screen. Beside his rotating, 3-D bust, scrolled a list of detailed information outlining Reginald's impressive education, operative experience and his mission success report. The mission failure report only featured 'N/A'.

Tyler snorted and said, "Okay, so who's the Momma's boy?"

"Gentlemen, allow me to introduce to you, Reggie D'Lorenzo. Boy Genius, Child Prodigy, the youngest American to hold a Medical Doctorate, and...Computer, stop scroll," Johnson said. "And also a Florida State student."
Tyler's jaw fell slack. He caught himself and closed his mouth again.

"Tommy, this guy is among my better spooks," Johnson said. He turned to Tyler and said, "You always wanted to know how I obtained the college cheerleader shower scenes. Well, meet the man behind the hidden cameras in place throughout every single sorority dormitory on that campus."

In chorus, Tommy and Tyler went, "Whoa."

Johnson took a hit from his inhaler and then continued. "I'll contact D'Lorenzo and pass on to him the pertinent information. But keep in mind, guys, that this is dicey. Raymond is a legal adult; therefore he must not have any direct knowledge of TDU Industries or our operation. There are laws, you know."

"Well then," Tommy said, undaunted. "He'll just have to get the job done indirectly, won't he? Look, one way or another, Raymond has to take responsibility for his faux pas. I would contact Raymond myself and work this out, but if Mom found out I did that, she would think I was coaxing Ray into taking my fall for me, and my credibility would be irreparably shot."

"Don't worry, Tommy. I really trust this guy. He's a good operative and he has a good head on his shoulders. This looks like our best bet," Johnson said. He pulled from his inhaler once more.

"Well, then. Good," Tommy said as he stood up. "Do what you need to do and make it happen just like you said you would. I need you to keep in touch with me, but for right now I have to get back to my quarters before Mom finds out I'm not there. Call me if you have to, gentlemen, but don't make me call you."

Johnson and Tyler nodded as Tommy left the conference room and got back onto the elevator.

"Ground level."

While the elevator ascended, Tommy leaned against the wall with one hand over his face as he considered the worst-case scenario. He knows that if Mom restricts his mobility, it will negatively affect his ability to oversee operations of TDU Industries. Tommy realized that if it came to that, he may have to temporarily turn over all leadership to Tyler. The thought made him shudder.

The elevator slowed and then stopped. Tommy considered working Mom's maternal instincts by telling her he needed to go to the bathroom. It wouldn't be a lie, and he wanted to see her personally and gauge her present state of mind. He hoped she would see to reason and just calm down. While he stepped out of the elevator and was now away from direct operations, he found it hard to grasp how things can go downhill so fast. Being lost in thought was probably why he was so stunned to feel Dad's heavy hand come down on his shoulder the instant he emerged from the closet. He wet his pants.

Dad said, "What's going on around here, boy? Hey, no hug for the old man?"

Tommy's eyes went wide and he said, "Now, Dad. I can explain everything."

Tommy hoped his father didn't notice the spreading stain on his pants, but he certainly noticed how well Housekeeping took care of things. The room never looked so good, and he admonished himself for leaving the closet without noticing its state of repair.

"Ah, so you can explain everything. Is that so?" Dad asked while trying not to let on that he noticed the spreading stain on Tommy's pants. "Well, since your mother informed me she found all these magazines taped to the bottoms of your dresser drawers, do you have an explanation for that?"

Tommy thought, Come on, Ray. That's so B-movie bad. Then he said, "Dad, I have never pulled the drawers all the way out of the dresser before. I just have never done it. You know, that dresser was Raymond's long before I ever got it. Mom was saying something about how she always had a problem with Raymond and these things, so maybe he put these there long ago and forgot about it."

Tommy saw he was gaining some ground; a shadow of doubt crossed over the old man's face.

Through historical records, Tommy knew that Dad founded TDU Industries a long time ago, but back then it was merely the guys passing magazines back and forth to each other while out on their paper routes. That was a long time ago, and things have changed a lot. Without Dad's knowledge, Raymond was recruited into the modernized TDU, but it was Tommy who brought the company to the 21st century, and the new millennium.

Dad walked over to the pile of evidence and began a thorough inspection, looking for dates on the covers of the various magazines that still had covers. Tommy noticed right off that Grandma raised no fools. Tommy didn't know anything about the magazines, but he noticed the picture quality, the accentuated picture gloss and even saw a lot of staples. Oh yeah, these were old magazines, all right.

"Tommy, I'll let your Mom know I think these were Raymond's magazines and not yours," Dad said. "I'm pretty sure each one of these is older than you are." Dad looked up at Tommy and said, "That's the truth, isn't it?"

"Stick a needle in my eye."

"All right, boy. I'm sorry your Mom freaked out on your room so bad, but she has a sore spot when it comes to this sort of thing."

"It's okay, Dad. I get it. If it helps, I can tell you with certainty that I will never have anything like this in this house. You can take that to the bank," Tommy said.

For a fraction of an instant, Dad looked at Tommy as if there was something wrong, but then he shrugged it off and looked over the room. He said, "If your Mom did to this room what she said, you got it picked up rather quick. I'll go talk to her, pal. Don't worry about it."

As soon as Dad walked out of the room and closed the door, Tommy fell back onto the bed and placed both hands firmly over his face. "That was way, way too close."

With no time to lose, Tommy quickly changed his pants and watched his TDU phone closely while he moved as fast as he could through the homework he needed done. He was irritated, because he hoped to get everything done in time to get some time on Guitar Hero before bedtime, but no sooner was he halfway through the work when there was another knock on his door.

Through clenched teeth, he said, "It's open."

It was Mom. She sheepishly put her head around the door, and he could tell right away how well she thought the room looked since the last time she saw it. Dad would never have guessed the state of the room based on what he saw, and Tommy speculated that was a good thing.

She played with a fingernail as she sometimes does when nervous and asked, "Say, uh, can I talk to you for a second, buddy?"

He smiled his best boy smile and said, "Why, sure Mom!"

She suddenly rushed into the room and scooped Tommy up in a big bear hug, and said through flowing tears, "Oh, Tommy, Tommy, Tommy, my poor little boy, my Tommy. You could never know how horrible I feel for the way I treated you, my poor boy. While I'll never forgive myself for what I've done, I do hope you can find it in your heart someday to forgive me, my precious son."

Her tears calmed quickly and she said, "Damn, boy. Look at what you did to this room. You're amazing."

But then the tears came back on and she said, "Could you ever forgive me, sweetheart? I should have known all along that a sweet angel like you would never associate with the smut your brother ogled in the night. If you cannot find it in yourself to forgive me, Tommy, I will understand."

"Mom, of course I forgive you. I don't blame you for being mad about all that," Tommy said. "Besides, if it wasn't for all of that, I might not have ever gotten such great hugs from my favorite Mom like I am now."

He mentally slapped himself on the back for that one.

She hugged him tighter and cried even louder. Then she finally put him down and wiped at her eyes. She said, "Your father told me what he thought, so I called Raymond and talked to him about it. You should know he was falling all over himself while begging me to apologize to you for both of us, since he said he could remember taping those magazines to the bottoms of the drawers so many years ago. Then he got to laughing about when I told him how mad I was."

Tommy thought about D'Lorenzo and his mission, and then thought,

It just keeps getting worse and worse, doesn't it?

"Believe me when I say that I promise I will never, ever snoop around in your room or stuff ever again, okay Tommy? I can see now that I don't have any reason to do that."

He smiled his best smile and said, "Thanks, Mom," but wished hard she would get out.

"Okay. Say, why don't you come downstairs and I'll fix you some supper. Whatever you want is on the menu," she said, sniffling.

"Okay Mom, but give me a little while, okay?" he asked. "Um, I still have some things I want to get to in the closet."

"Oh, I couldn't be more proud of you. All right, you do what you have to do, but once you're done, you come and get me and I'll make whatever you want for dinner. Deal, or no deal?"

He smiled and said, "I'll take the deal."

She planted yet one more kiss on his forehead, and then left the room. The door was closed for no more than an instant when Tommy was in the closet and had the back wall out of the way.

"Communications level! Priority Speed!"

The sudden whoosh of the elevator descending nearly pulled him off his feet and he had to take a few quick breaths to prevent passing out. But it was adrenaline that had him going now, and once the doors of the elevator rushed open, Tommy rushed out and directly into The Tower.

This is not an actual tower, but The Tower is actually a highly advanced Communications Center, based in part on communications departments Tommy and his teams have investigated and back-engineered in the past, some of which were operated by NASA, International Airports, and The Pentagon. While Tommy demanded that The Tower be as compact and centralized as possible, it still ended being of considerable size and requiring a dozen volunteers to operate. Due to the advantages of today's technology, they were spared the need to develop their own dish and satellite array field since they successfully tapped into the ones used by NASA. This worked to Tommy's advantage, since they were able to reprogram a Dutch communications satellite and reprogram it to function only for TDU as well as reprogram it to maintain a geostationary orbit directly above their physical location. Lucky for Tommy, The Tower is led and controlled by Isaac.

Isaac approached the instant he saw Tommy and said, "Hey, what's up, Boss?"

Still struggling to catch his breath, Tommy managed, "Isaac, I need you to get me Johnson, toot sweet, now, PDQ and yesterday. No kidding."

Seeing the urgency in Tommy's eyes, Isaac turned to the console behind him and entered a short series of keystrokes on the keyboard. "All right, Tommy. Johnson is getting a priority message to call into here right now. Is everything okay?"

"We'll know when Johnson calls."

For more than a minute, Tommy paced through The Tower, agitated and impatient, questioning things he saw over the shoulders of several volunteers, until the Red Phone rang.

Tommy picked up the phone and said, "If you're not Johnson, you're fired."

"Tommy, calm down," Johnson said. "My operative is on his way right now to deliver the message; that's if he hasn't done it already. I mean, he accepted the mission over ten minutes ago and he's right there on the same compound. Chill out, dude. This cat is hereby in the bag."

Tommy placed the Red Phone on Speaker and fell into the nearest chair with his head in his hands. "I know you're going to hate me for this, Johnson, but I need your operative to abort the mission. Mom contacted Raymond directly and the appropriate information has been relayed. If your operative makes any undue contact with Raymond regarding this subject, it could arouse suspicion. We don't need Raymond receiving redundant information and wondering why or where it came from."

"You know, Tommy, I think this is where Tyler would say you're more trouble than you're worth," Johnson said, making Tommy frown since he could hear the smile in Johnson's voice. "Hey, I'm sending the 'abort mission' message right...now. He is receiving this message as we speak, Tommy. Now, if he's already made contact, I don't know what to tell you. But I should know something in a matter of minutes. I will call you with a mission status report the moment I have it."

Johnson hung up the phone. Tommy still had his head in his hands.

Reggie was moving quickly over the rooftops, thankful that dusk was but moments away. Dressed in his favorite Ninja attire, from the black mask all the way down to the Tabi boots, he followed the electronic signal toning in his earpiece that led him on a beeline towards the GPS locator within Raymond Weiss's cell phone. Within a minute after accepting his mission and quickly exiting the cafeteria just seconds after his little carton of milk delivered the message and then self-destructed, he programmed his I-phone's GPS locator to synchronize with Ray's, and then it was a matter of getting there.

He regretted leaving the scene in the cafeteria, particularly since the eruption of chocolate milk was awkward at best and he was raised to be tidy. But he needed to make it to the custodian's closet and make his way into the A/C shaft in order to gain his stash of mission materials within this compound sector, particularly since the mission priority was urgent. Four minutes after receiving and accepting the mission, Reggie was moving across the rooftops in full Ninja regalia, with all of his electronic devices either in his small backpack or his utility belt, having crossbow with winch and cables installed secured to him via sling over his shoulder.

Reggie was relieved that he thought of placing high-speed pulley systems on camouflaged tight wires between the buildings all over the compound. He would reach the end of a building, jump out to take hold of the electronic, motorized cable-traveler mounted there and, because the cable-traveler's handles were fitted with sensors able to determine identity via the mitochondrial DNA released in the sweat of Reggie's hands, they immediately propelled towards the next rooftop. Within seven minutes, Reggie made it from the cafeteria to the library where, according to his tracking system, was the location of Ray's phone and likely Ray himself.

Moving fast, Reggie powered out the mounting screws over the rooftop A/C duct access with his battery-powered drill/screwdriver, and then dropped down through the shaft. He had already programmed his tracking system to display a schematic of the library A/C ductwork on the interior of his glasses once his tracker was within ten meters of the library, so negotiating his way through the system was simple.

Nine minutes into the mission, Reggie removed the grating from the A/C duct high in one corner of the library and through the use of electronically controlled suction cups on his hands, knees and Tabi boot toes, he was able to quickly move across the library, sight unseen. He had Raymond Weiss in visual contact and the tone from his device was a continual sine wave and therefore no longer required. He powered the tracker down and watched closely to determine the best method to deliver the message and accomplish his mission.

Mission requirements state he must not contact Raymond directly or allow any communication that could potentially track to knowledge of TDU Industries. Raymond is an adult and he would be legally obligated to report such activities being conducted by minors. What to do, what to do...

Reggie, now hanging inverted from the ceiling by the suction grip of his boots, scanned the library for any obsolete cell phones he could quickly hack into and access for a surreptitious text message to Raymond, who was sitting with Cindy Jones from the cheerleader squad. He found three, one of which was Cindy's. He was glad he recognized that, since it would have looked awkward coming from her cell when he, and Ray, could see she sat there with her hands on the keyboard of her laptop.

Another belonged to the maintenance man working on the lighting over the far quadrant of the library, which was a blessing since those lights have been cutting in and out for over a week, which is notoriously distracting.

The maintenance man's phone was a Nokia from 2001. Reggie would need to be closer in order to gain access to the device's limited abilities and gain the number. To move quickly, he pulled his crossbow from his back and fired a fine-gauge wire towards the side of the library where everyone could see the crack of the guy's ass where because his shirt was too short and the guy was tying a line underneath a row of computers.

While lowering from the ceiling by the wire fitted into the ceiling directly above the guy with the plumber's crack, Reggie was twelve minutes into his mission and losing patience. He gritted his teeth as he lowered a little more and then a little more, placing his mission at risk through exposure with the potential of being seen by anyone who happened to look his way.

"Who keeps a cell phone that old," he muttered, straining for the number. He decoded five out of the seven, but still...

He got it. Reggie reversed the power winch in his utility belt and was back on the ceiling. He retrieved his cell phone, programmed it to transmit a text message through the Nokia, and then punched in his message.

'CALL MOM. TOMMY GOT INTO TROUBLE.'

That should be enough. He didn't want to be revealing, but he wanted enough to prompt Raymond to call out of concern or at least curiosity, and the number wouldn't be traceable to TDU. The message was typed in and Reggie's thumb was on the 'send' button.

A bead of sweat rolled forward from under the Ninja hood and slightly stung Reggie's eye. He took the moment to wipe it away before it could drip from his head and drop onto or near the student's below and capture their attention. Then, just before his thumb was back on the 'send' button...

In his ear, Reggie heard, "Abort Mission."

It was in the computerized voice identical to the computer voice used in The Tower and throughout the TDU complex. He entered a code to authenticate the message. Within thirty seconds, Reggie D'Lorenzo received authentication and aborted his mission. A minute later, he and all of his gear were back through the A/C ducts, on the roof, and making it back to the cafeteria.

After what seemed like all night, the Red Phone rang.

"This is Tommy."

"My spook aborted his mission before completing it, so you're good to go, Boss," Johnson said.

Tommy sat back in the chair and looked to the ceiling in relief. He didn't know everyone in The Tower was relieved, too.

"Thanks, Johnson. I appreciate your help with all of this," Tommy said. "I guess you should get back to bed before your parents figure out you're not so sick after all."

"Actually, I am in bed. I'm watching the live-feed D'Lorenzo set up for me from the sorority house," Johnson said. "It's good to have friends with technical skills."

A few minutes later, Tommy was standing at the podium on the Distribution level, tapping the microphone.

"Gentlemen, may I have your attention, please."

Far below, Tommy could see everyone froze and provided their undivided attention.

With a smile, he said, "I am happy to inform you that the temporary setback experienced before has now been resolved and business is back to normal. Through the efforts and expertise possessed by the corporate team, the technical prowess of the staff, and because of the untiring dedication of each and every one of you, TDU Industries will succeed for yet at least one more day."

The unanimous expression of cheer and relief emanating from the crews below washed over Tommy like a warm shower. He thrust one small fist into the air.

"Rock on, everyone!"

From below: "Rock on!"

Less than ten minutes later, Tommy was padding downstairs in his sky-blue pajamas and Spiderman slippers, feeling a gouging rumble in his thin belly. He rounded the corner and stepped into the kitchen, hoping Mom didn't forget she would make him whatever he wanted. He could scrounge if necessary, but he was hungry now.

She saw him as soon as he was in the kitchen, and she said, "There you are, buddy. I was thinking you might have fallen asleep. I know you usually like toasted cheese sandwiches and tomato soup when dinner's late, so I made some of that. How does that sound?"

As soon as the aroma of the soup and sandwiches wafted under his nose, he had to tilt his head back to keep from drooling on his shirt. "Oh, Mom. That's awesome."

"Do you have anything else you have to do, pal?" she asked.

"I got the room all squared away, so now I just need to finish up a little of the history homework and I can call it a day," he said. "I was hoping to beat a level on Guitar Hero, but it can wait."

"You go upstairs and do whatever you have to and want to do," she said with a loving smile. "I'll get this together and bring it right to you; how does that sound? I'll even make sure it gets up there with a little something special," she said with a wink.

A little something special was sure to be her world-famous brownies, which could make a chocolate addict sell a vital organ. "Aw, thanks, Mom! You're the greatest in the whole world, Mom, no matter what Dad says."

They both giggled a bit over the long-running gag and he rushed upstairs to see Housekeeping took care of the details, including the history essay. He looked at his Mickey Mouse watch, which had Mickey pointing out the time was quarter to nine. He stood there for a moment, looked over the room and the homework, feeling no choice but to admit it was all done. There it was, well before nine in the evening, and his day was done. Sure, the stress level went beyond the daily average during a few odd moments throughout the afternoon and evening, but for the most part the day went rather well. He smiled and felt officially clocked out for the day.

Tommy was well into a brand new level on Guitar Hero when he heard a knock on the door.

"Come on in, Mom!"

She entered the room with a large tray chock-full of so much steaming deliciousness, and his mouth watered even more. He put down the guitar and looked at the tray of food like someone who hasn't eaten since the weekend before last.

"This tray works best when you're relaxed and in bed, there pal, so you had better make yourself comfortable," she said.

Tommy sat down on the bed with several fluffed pillow behind him while Mom placed the tray full of glorious dinner in front of him. He was so anxious to dig in and refuel, but he had his priorities.

He looked to her with his best loving look and said, "This is so awesome, Mom. You really are the best in the whole world."

"Only because you're the best in the whole world, my precious boy," she said as she gave him a loving kiss on the forehead.

She stood up and said, "Now, you eat and relax for the night. You've done enough for one day and more than you should have had to. When you're done, just put the tray in the hall and I'll make sure to come and get it before the night's over."

With a mouthful of sandwich, he said, "Thanks, Mom."

As soon as she was gone, he powered down Guitar Hero and said, "Computer. Screen up."

Tommy refueled on Mom's exquisite tomato soup and toasted cheese sandwiches, while taking an occasional nibble from the plate of brownies Mom made like no one else ever could. The 70 inch plasma bleeped and whirred, and then displayed just what he wanted to see most. He picked up the remote and flipped through the various scenes brought through the live-feed from the hidden cameras Fitz and his team placed throughout The Mansion and the Playmate dorms.

"Florida State sorority house. Whatever, Johnson," Tommy muttered as he laid back and took another bite of his steaming toasted cheese sandwich.

Well, I think the last story demonstrates independent thinking, ambition, and some good old fashioned problem solving on the part of our protagonist, and these things should always be encouraged from the children. Now, there may be those who disagreed with his focus, but as it was already pointed out, who knows where these boys come up with this stuff.

This next story focuses on a story I wrote while thinking of the next generation. I don't exactly recall where I got the idea, except that it was prompted by another writer. I was at this writer's group here in town (the shimmering metropolis of Groveland, FL) during this short amount of time I attended these meetings, when a man, whose name I now forget but I think it was Joe, read something he wrote. He was quite the senior citizen and likely in his eighties, but nice and one of the better writers in the group.

Joe got me thinking of a nice, reminiscent story of family, with the one telling the tale being one from perhaps Joe's generation. I wrote the story and read it for the group the following week. I told Joe he prompted the tale, and I think some of them found it okay.

Some of this story was pulled directly from memory, as I still remember so vividly the moments when I brought Sierra Jade, my oldest daughter, from the delivery room to the nursery. They cleaned her up and handed her to me, and it was for me to carry her to the nursery. I'll never forget the awesome moment because I, right there, discovered what love really meant, and I was so amazed that I held my child in my hands for the first time. I recall feeling concerned I would not be as impressed when I held Margaret, my younger daughter, but I was equally thrilled.

My next most vivid memories of the kids? When they hit about age 100 days and showed their first signs of awareness. Their bright eyes looking right at you...and then the little gummy smile. Maybe it's because I'm a guy, but for me, these were the most miraculous moments of all.

Strangely, I wrote this rather quickly, read it for the group, and then after placing it online, I promptly forgot about it until I decided to do this little project. It seems okay, so I hope you find it to your liking.

Another Generation

After having been at the hospital for a number of hours I had to struggle to count, it required most of those hours for me to realize I was, in fact, enjoying myself. Now, it wasn't as if I was here with the guys and giving support to a buddy who did something stupid and now we're all here wishing him well but also making sure he knew he could never live this one down. I wouldn't need any amount of time to recognize I was enjoying that. No, I was here with a lot of family, many of which (okay, most of which) were as pleasant as chewing on tin foil. My two sisters-in-law rattled from the head incessantly; about what, I couldn't say, and I doubt they could either, if forced the question. My sister was present, as was her husband, who was either too good to talk to anyone or too shy- no one was sure which it was, and either too good or too shy to pursue an answer. My daughter's husband, Doug is his name, was there with none of his own blood to rally or aggravate on his side, and he seemed fine with that. There were a few others I took pleasure in regarding as nonexistent, and there was someone I really didn't know.

We ate an unremarkable lunch in the hospital's cafeteria, which had just about all of them whining-both about the food quality and the price- but I found it just fine. This is a hospital the way I see it, not Olive Garden, where everyone spent too much the night prior. Here in this ornate cafeteria, I had a simple tuna salad sandwich, a bag of Sun Chips that were rather pricy, and some mixed fruit. My wife had what I did except her sandwich was a BLT that she liked, and everyone else had whatever would make them the most miserable. They all sat too close and whined about how far they would have to go for a cigarette. Yet, for some odd reason, I was having a good time.

In honesty, I knew why I was in such good spirits despite the company, and when I gave it some thought, I had to shake my head in wonder with these people and how they were so insufferable. Admittedly, it was good we weren't on a stranded bus teetering on some foggy, mysterious edge; the vast majority of them would have to go out the window and over the cliff for the sake of the rest. No, no, everyone; don't risk your conscience. I'll take this one for the team and do the tossing.

We were there because my daughter and her tolerant husband were expecting their first child, and like any minute. Well, the story from the medical staff went that it could be any minute, but like so many of my daughter's supposed tragedies, particularly during her teens, she had everyone on edge but with little to show in terms of good reason. A nurse occasionally caught up with us with an update, as if it made any difference.

"Folks, while this is an unusual case, labor demonstrating a coming and going of this sort is not unknown, nor is it any cause for alarm. It simply appears the family's newest addition hasn't decided when to show up. But rest assured that mother and baby are doing fine, and the doctor is confident the time for the new arrival is imminent."

My wife's older sister, Dot, responded with, "See, I told you Isla was having a girl. She can't make up her mind and appreciates being fashionably late. I knew the way she was carrying these past couple of months that it would be a girl."

I just rolled my eyes, thinking if this little one had the proper insight, she or he would have snuck out in the middle of the night and ran for the border. But honestly, most of these ruminations on gender and other aspects went past or around me, since I was enjoying the anticipation of my first grandchild. Sure, I passed some time with the outdated magazines or watching for the pretty nurses, because everyone knows there's just something about nurses, but mostly I enjoyed the moments as they came and went.

I enjoyed these moments because the entire day reminded me of when my daughter was born, and that was a day I would never forget. Sure, this hospital, with its colors other than white, bronze sculptures, parquet floors, potted tropical plants and a seemingly less-than-sterile environment is a big step away from the stringent place where Isla was born, but the basic flavors were much the same. This hospital demonstrated far less white and far more human thought and emotion, but it really didn't matter. What was truly and deeply there was the joyous anticipation for the miracles of life (at least here in the Maternity Ward) and that was good enough for me.

I must admit that my first time around at this was far scarier, since then I was just as young and almost as naïve as my bride, and while we knew what caused this pregnancy thing, we were nonetheless caught by surprise. The work days were a lot longer then, and the paychecks were proportionately smaller, but we were still excited. Then when that day came and we arrived to the hospital, I was buzzing with imagination and my thoughts ran wild. It was odd, really, since I knew exactly what to expect, yet had no idea.

Miriam didn't make anyone wait for long, though. Our lovely daughter was born almost exactly two hours after we parked the car, quickly changing everyone's lives forever. While I won't be there to see my grandchild born (I tried convincing this daft boy that he should be in there, but some men just aren't cut out for it, and it certainly wasn't a place for me) I was there to see Isla come into this world, changing it entirely.

How amazing it is that we can learn some of life's lessons so easily. When I witnessed our daughter's birth, the nurses attend to her with cleaning and weighing along with all of their other prodding, I found my vision wavering as the tears welled. But when they turned to me, holding her out to me so I could carry her to the nursery, I wiped the tears fast and put out my hands.

I'll never forget what it was like. I turned and went in the direction they guided me to go, but I couldn't take my eyes away from my little girl. She was this tiny, wriggling body with no clues, but she was so perfect, and then it just hit me. During so much of my young life I wondered about so many things, including the mystery called love. I thought I had some handle on it, but I never really knew and never assumed I would. I just chalked it up to one of the world's great mysteries, like Bigfoot or something. But when they placed my daughter in my arms for the very first time, I knew exactly what love is, and I've kept that knowledge close for all these years. Throughout this day, despite some of the company, I felt that memory surround me like a breezy, autumn afternoon.

There are the other memories, too. Those first ninety days were all but a horrid nightmare, what with the colic and the frantic nights. The terrible twos came along, as well as the rest. We endured the stages all parents endure, but we enjoyed watching this little girl grow up to be a strong, vibrant woman. Sure, she tried everyone's patience and often scared us half to death, but here we are on this day, to witness what life is, come full circle.

"Folks, we think this is it," the pretty nurse with the green eyes said. "Everything is as it should be and they're as ready as it goes."

I felt so much peace and ease during that next hour, even with the lunatics carrying on all around me. For a lot of the day, my son-in-law hovered around everyone, obviously feeling uneasy about giving any one person or group too much or too little time. But in this eleventh hour, figuratively and almost literally, he hovered close to me.

"Your time in the wings is about to end, there buddy," I said with a nudge.

He smiled and mumbled something, but I could see he was anxious. I often wondered about him over the past year, but he seems like a good guy with a good head on his shoulders. He has all that better than I did; everyone on my wife's side thought I was either a loser or derelict who would surely break her heart. Here we are, nearly twenty-five years later, and I still detect that aura of distrust from many of them. But I've developed a subtle fondness for their dubiousness, mainly because I experience a shallow but fulfilling sense of pleasure whenever any of them get knocked back by one of the plethora of ailments plaguing them so regularly, particularly the ones that stain their bedclothes.

A nurse came in sight, wearing that knowing smile. She looked at Doug and said, "She's asking for you."

"That's your cue, pal," I said with a gentle elbow.

"So, what is it?"

"When can we see?"

The rest of them cackled on for several minutes before the nurse guided this bumbling entourage to the viewing window where we could suitably annoy all the other families. I brought up the rear, taking in the sight and journey towards the nursery, faintly smelling all the wonders I detected more than two decades prior.

While we waited, the group buzzed about what the baby might look like, as if it might look like something different than the common baby, and then out of the corner of my eye I saw the father approaching.

Again, I felt a tear build in the corner of my eye, because I knew what he felt, and I knew he felt it just based on his expression. He was gently crying and not trying to hide it, and I could see this young man just discovered the true meaning of love. He could hardly take his eyes off the squirming little thing bundled into his arms, but when he did, he looked up to all of us as if he wanted everyone to know. And then he looked at me.

I blinked away the tear wanting to escape, and I subtly nodded. He pursed his lips into a knowing smile despite the rush of emotion he felt, and he nodded back. Then he looked back to his baby before the tender, patient nurse indicated she had other things yet to do.

With only a slight reluctance, he eased his child into the nurse's arms and took a small step back.

My wife knocked softly on the window and shrugged, as if to say, "So, what is it?"

He mouthed, "I have a daughter."

Just then, another nurse approached and said, "I know that everyone's excited to see the new mother and baby, but she needs her rest for now. The doctor wants to limit her visitors for the night, but said it would be fine for everyone to come see her in the morning. But she is asking for her parents."

I took Miriam's hand and said, "Well, shall we?"

When we walked into the delivery room, we saw our radiant daughter lying back, easily sucking on some ice and looking worn out. But when she saw her mother, she quickly patted the moisture from her lips and put her hand out for her mother. Miriam let go of my hand and took our daughter's, and they shared a silent moment only they could understand.

But in this moment, I had mine, too, as I recalled Miriam doing much of the same thing when her mother stepped in after the delivery. There are a few subtle differences between this day and when Isla came to us, but they made little difference, and it was good enough to see there will be more life and love shared by yet another generation.

This next story is just what the title says; it was a birthday present to an old friend. The guy who was the focus of the story is someone I've known since 1977. The two characters in the story are not accurate reflections of us, but I wrote this thinking of old friends while wondering what it might be like to reach the golden years while still retaining childhood friendships.

Happy Birthday, Old Friend

He stood outside the hospital, in the smoking area they still keep and maintain in this day and age. He puffed on his pipe and the stale tobacco he had left for it, having since all but quit smoking some time ago. He saw the various people having their cigarettes, but he was the only one smoking a pipe. In fact, he had been the only one who smoked a pipe there in quite some time. He knew that because the pretty nurse smoking her long, skinny cigarette got to talking to him about it. She was fascinated, told a story about her Grandfather and his pipe, and she was even more fascinated that his pipe was older than she was and still among his newer ones. He was happy for the conversation because he wanted to get inside so much, but somehow didn't. He knew what was in there would be painful, and talking to this young, pretty nurse was not painful in the least.

She finished her cigarette, said her polite and pretty goodbye and then went inside. He needed to do the same thing, he knew, to go inside. It was, after all, what he wanted to do and why he came all this way. He just wasn't sure how to go about all of this. A public transit bus pulled up and dropped off a busload of people, many of which looked like they worked at the hospital, but not in scrubs. There was a picture of a sneaker on the side of the bus emblazoned with an advertising caption. Just do it. It was good advice.

Walter Spry went inside and approached the desk. He thought about trying to hide how he felt, but decided against it. He merely maintained his composure like a gentleman. "Miss, could you please let me know what room Merrill Pryce is in, please?"

She asked, "What is your relationship with the patient, sir?"

"I'm his brother, Miss."

There, it was done. For whatever reason, he agonized over that little lie ever since he saw the hospital while driving up, and during his entire smoke with the pretty nurse who, thankfully, wasn't here at this particular desk. Now that he said it, "I'm his brother, Miss", it just didn't feel like any sort of lie. It was the truth. It was the gospel trust, ever since they split their thumbs with their pocketknives and sealed the deal in blood. Many boys of their generation made such pacts; it was the thing to do then, so many fellows did it, even though the Blood Pact rarely lasted beyond the teen years for most of them. For Walter and Merrill, that bond has only strengthened over the decades.

Softening right away, the nurse said, "Of course, Mr. Pryce," as she came around the counter. The look in her eyes wasn't comforting, although it seemed the hospital only hired pretty nurses based on what he had seen so far. "You are aware of your brother's present condition, is that right?"

He didn't see any reason to correct her assumption regarding his last name, so he left that, but said, "I just flew in from Portland, my dear. I don't have all the details."

"I should tell you he hasn't responded well to the medications and his condition has deteriorated. I am sorry for that." She placed a sympathetic hand on his forearm and said, "Please follow me. I'll take you to him."

While he followed her, he quickly wiped away a tear, hoping she could be wrong in her nurse's diagnosis. He told himself not to forget discussing things with a doctor before he left the hospital, such as the various doctors they passed by as they traversed the unusually long corridor. It was dressed in much the same shade of white as the nurse, and seemed to go for over a mile. They finally came to a room where the nurse stopped and turned to face Walter before she opened the door. He steeled himself to whatever she may need to say, lest she assume he wouldn't be able to accept it.

"May I ask when you saw your brother last?"

Without being able to make eye contact, he said, "It's been a few years now, I'm afraid." Admitting that came with a pang of guilt. "With me out in Portland on a fixed income, I don't get out this way as much as I would like. And then since my wife passed, I tend to lose track of time. Why do you ask?"

He had to ask that, but he wasn't sure if he really wanted to know, yet he had to, but there was no way he wanted to, but he didn't have a choice. That was among the worst things of this. That, and having to admit so many things that come and go after this many years pass by.

She spoke in a subtle hush for some reason, saying, "Mr. Pryce, your brother has lost a considerable amount of weight, and you'll notice a yellow tinge to his skin, which is caused by the liver complications. I felt it would be proper that you be prepared for that, and other things."

She pushed the door open and stepped aside with a compassionate smile, and said, "I don't know if he'll be conscious or not, but you can feel free to stay as long as you like."

Returning a somber smile, he said, "Thank you, Miss. You're very kind."

He gestured as if he would walk in as she walked away, but he felt the need to watch her walk down the corridor as he worked up the courage to so much as face Merrill's direction. But he knew what he was there for, so Walter stood tall and stepped into the dark room as if he was there time and time again. But he wasn't, so it took his breath when he stepped around the curtain to see Merrill surrounded by a latticework of line and tubes originating from humming machines and clear bags dripping mysterious fluids.

"Oh, God," Walter muttered as his hand rushed to his mouth. "Oh, God in Heaven."

Merrill simply didn't appear alive, and there was the smell of death. Walter knew there were those who died in stages, were surrounded by the scent of death but not quite yet dead, and he long ago prayed neither he nor anyone he loved ever experienced such a thing. He made that prayer the day he saw a man going through it, and then saw the look in the man's eyes. The man seemed as if he pleaded for an end. Here in the hospital, in this room, the scent told a tale, but the machines and dripping bags informed Walter he wasn't too late. Like the scent, they too had a tale to tell, yet the bags hung solemnly as they fed their sad story's hopes, drop by drop, through the lines and into Merrill's taut, yellow skin.

Walter saw the room waver through the welling tears and then felt his knees weaken. He moved into the chair closest to the bed, but sat quietly and slow, lest he startle anyone, even himself. His eyes traced along the length of his old friend, wondering where the burly body was, that once was, under the thin cotton sheet. Another tear escaped and traced its way down Walter's craggy face as he gazed at Merrill's face, partially hidden under the plastic oxygen mask. The reality of the moment was so bitter, no matter how much the two men tried to sweeten the blow with so many jokes about their looming mortality for more than two decades.

"Damn, but I am so sorry I couldn't have come sooner, Merrill," Walter said as he gently laid his hand on the thin arm of his friend. "I couldn't be sorrier than I am right now."

The arm he touched was no longer the 'python' Merrill said it was long ago. It was no longer the python that threw a fastball that once broke a catcher's wrist. The pythons were replaced by what looked like dry bone wrapped in sun-dried, yellowed cellophane.

Apparently, the warm, living touch of Walter's hand on Merrill stirred some life into the pending corpse, with Merrill showing signs he would rouse into consciousness and confirming Walter's hopes that he wasn't too late. Merrill's lips parted and he took in a rasping but deep breath from under the oxygen mask. Then two yellowed, bloodshot eyes revealed themselves and turned to meet Walter's gaze.

Trying to smile through the oxygen mask and the grimace, Merrill said, "Well howdy there, Goober."

Pushing away the tears, Walter said, "Howdy do, Doofus."

The two men have hung onto those immature labels for most of their lives, feeling brought back to the simpler days when they sought out trouble and adventure along the lonely, dusty roads of Laredo, Texas. Through their silly monikers, they could recall the days of taunting snakes and lizards, daring each other to get a little closer, come on, just a little closer, to risk getting that angry bite.

"Come on, I dare ya, Goober," Doofus used to say.

"Yeah, well I double-dare you, Doofus," Goober would reply.

"Aw, you're just yellow."

"I'd be a lot more than that if that damned thing got me on the hand, you son of a bitch!"

Laughing and loving that carefree life, they would wander forth in search of better things to do, or worse, if the mothers' opinions meant anything. Yet, Goober and Doofus were two boys whose innocence of the world knew adventure and mayhem going no further than risking being but slightly late for lunch and dinner, coming home to fuel up and then getting back into it. They would be filthy, yet warranting the smiles of their mothers who knew they were great kids who someday would grow to be strong men with nothing yellow in either of them. At that moment Merrill was so yellow in color, but Walter knew Merrill had long ago made their mothers proud, since he hung in there with the dignity and courage that defined who he was throughout a lifetime.

"How are you doing, old friend?" Walter asked.

"I think I'll be all right, Walter, once I shake this bug," Merrill said.

While Walter knew this was far worse than any bug, he wondered if Merrill knew the same thing. There had been rumors buzzing around about Alzheimer's from the various fools in Merrill's bloodline, and precious few of them knew anything about old age. The youthful never get the hint that the mind is far from the first thing to go.

"I'm sure you'll kick it, pal," Walter said.

"So, other than the damned fool notion of coming out her to catch my bug, what brings you into this neck of the woods, Walter?" Merrill asked while trying to stifle a cough, but couldn't.

Walter pulled a few tissues from the flowery dispenser on the nightstand, wiped the hint of dribble on Merrill's chin and said, "I was of mind to come and see you, and then there's been the stories that the girls at this college in town are particularly sweet at this time of year. What do you say we go pick up some chicks?"

"Give me a couple days, and then we'll impart upon them the wisdom of our years, if you know what I mean," Merrill said through a straining smile. He then eased back and said, "It is good to see you, Walt. It's been a few years now, ain't it?"

"I know it's been a couple years more than it should have been, old friend, but them corn-fed northwestern girls have been keeping me busy."

"Oh, I'll bet Sarah's got a clenched fist for you," Merrill said, but then caught the callousness of it and said, "You know, I shouldn't say that. Sarah was the world's finest catch, Walt. You always did know how to pick 'em."

Sarah died almost five years ago, and Merrill took it just as hard as Walter, if not worse. At the funeral, Merrill was wracked with sobs and such hurt for the loss of his old friend. Many people there worried that Merrill would find the punch or the bar, since he usually hid his feelings behind a few pounded down, but during Sarah's funeral, he conducted himself like a gentleman truly harmed. Over the years, Merrill and Sarah acted like they were very much brother and sister, they had become that close. They loved each other, and Walter loved them both more for it.

Merrill had never been so lucky in love, barely making it through five wives and just as many divorces, with the last one leaving in a rage just fifteen years ago. After that nearly turned into a newsworthy event, Merrill decided the problem was mostly him, so he officially retired from family life. He had his old buddies, Jim Beam and Jack Daniels, who made wives and friends so jealous.

"I know I was far more the luckier one between her and me," Walter claimed.

Claim as he might, anyone who knew him knew that wasn't true. Walter cherished Sarah, and over the years he worked so hard and sacrificed so much to ensure she had whatever she wanted (which was truly not very much) and then went out of his way to make sure she never knew how much he put into it. She always did, but he rarely found out. When he lost her, he lost so much of what made life worth living.

"You know, Merrill, you didn't do too badly with that first one of yours," Walter admitted. "I don't think there was a guy in the state who wasn't bitter jealous, including me."

"Yeah, she was a looker, and a darling," Merrill said, looking back on fonder, happier days. "But you know she couldn't cook to save her own life. It was the beer, peanuts and pretzels that kept the weight on me through that spell. You know, I was sort of hoping you would forget about that little period in history, Walt."

"I ain't forgetting nothing, you son of a bitch," Walter said with a laugh. "That includes the stunt you pulled on me, pal."

The one who was supposed to meet her on the blind date was Walter, but his dilapidated Ford wasn't going anywhere with him standing in the rain with the broken fan belt in his hand. Merrill actually had the gall to drive up to Walter, find out the situation, say he would take care of things, and then went on that date in Walter's stead. Despite the slight twinge of guilt he felt, he and Sandy hit it off really well.

"Ah, she was my first war casualty, so what's a guy to do," Merrill said with a shrug. His very first letter he received during his time in service was a 'Dear John' letter from Sandy. The very first one.

Walter always knew she was the only one out of the entire bunch that Merrill truly loved, so there was no surprise that all of the other marriages failed. That letter ending their relationship in such a way hardened something in Merrill's heart, Walter knew, and then it festered and spoiled a fair amount of the stuff around it. Every wedding after that attended by Walter and other friends came with bets of longevity. Walter won three bottles of Crown Royal with Merrill's third marriage, but he never let Merrill find that out.

"I was just glad I was there to see you through it, Merrill. By God but those were tough times during the war. We lost a lot of good men, and a lot of good kids, too."

"I never told you this, Walt, but during that war I fell to my knees and prayed to God, telling him that if anything happened to you, I would make sure He regretted it."

"Well, he always knew you were a man of your word, so thanks for sparing my life through Divine Intervention. But maybe you could've added a clause about being difficult if I lost any body parts," Walter said, waving. He lost most of his pinkie in the war to a stray round, and he never forgot how lucky he was.

"I've been difficult enough to afford the Good Lord your hand to the wrist, pal. Besides, I always sort of liked it this way, since I always know it's your hand I'm shaking when it's dark."

That got Merrill laughing, and then into a coughing fit that had him grasping the oxygen mask in one hand and the pain crawling through his belly with the other. It took Merrill nearly a full minute to get the fit under control.

"Just take it easy, Merrill."

Once Merrill got his breath back, he said, "Well, I suppose you worked out that this ain't no bug, Walt. The old liver's quitting on me, which pisses me off, what with how good I've been to it, and I am allergic to most of these newfangled medications. I could run on with a list of other problems taking me a little at a time, but you can see the result. You didn't think I was losing my marbles, did you?"

"I knew you lost those that day Billy Stockburn cracked you in the head with that rock," Walter said with a struggling smile. "So you've been short a few shooters for over sixty years."

"Yeah, but I made sure the bastard got his, though," Merrill said. "I nearly bit that fool's ear clean off. Ha! Uhhh!"

Suddenly wracked with pain, Merrill face and body twisted from the torment raging through him as his body writhed in the bed and the coughing fit threatened to steal so much more time. Walter stood up and placed both hands on his old friend, trying to calm him down.

"You just take it easy, Merrill. You just relax. There should be no reason to get so riled up." It was obvious the pain was wracking Walter just as hard as it was his old friend.

After needing well over a minute to cope with the fit and the pain, Merrill was finally able to calm down and relax, grasping the oxygen mask over his face and breathing deep while his tears fell into his white sideburns.

"I'm sorry, Walt, as I ain't meaning to scare you," Merrill said as he wrapped his hand around Walter's liver-spotted wrist. "My old friend, I think you owe me a dollar, because I'm winning this bet and you know it. I'm going first and that's all there is to it."

"Come on, Merrill. Once you get over this, you'll have plenty of life in you yet," Walter said, wanting to believe it.

"Now, what in the hell is the matter with you? Everybody else can smell the death that's in me from two doors down, and I know you're one of them," he said while still clutching Walter's wrist. "But it's all good, you know? I've lived a good, full life and didn't deserve to do it. If you don't believe that, I can give you a few names to call who'll vouch for me."

Merrill finally eased his grip on Walter's wrist and continued. "The thing is, Walt, I did have a good life and only a few minor regrets. I know I regret not keeping in better touch with you over these last few years, but here you are," he said, blinking away the tears. "Always know I became a better man than I would have if you weren't there."

Fighting his own tears, Walter said, "Aw, Hell. It was you who taught me how to live life to the fullest. If it weren't for you, I never would've asked Sarah to that show. If it weren't for you, I never would have invested that money into the airlines. If it weren't for...if it weren't...oh, damn!"

Walter came to his knees beside his brother, taking his hand and said, "Merrill, you have been there for me my whole life. The whole thing! It hurts me so bad to see you like this. What will I have in this world without you, old man?"

Merrill clenched his teeth and took Walter's hand tight enough to give him pause. "Now, you listen to me, you old fool. You have two wonderful daughters and who knows how many grandkids who think so much of you. So you have a lot more in this world than this old fool lying here in his own shit."

Then, almost instantly, Merrill relaxed his grip and expression, suddenly looking peaceful and kind. "I will tell you this, Walter. It's because of you that death ain't took me yet.

"Just look at me, Brother. I've been dead for a while now, but I just couldn't let the Good Lord take me until I saw you one last time. Hey, you've been there my entire life, too."

Walter wasn't sure if it was his tears playing with the lighting in the room, but he witnessed Merrill light up with peace, grace, wisdom and noble serenity. Although his body was but a shadow of what it once was, his eyes blazed with all the spark and shimmer of the mischievous boy who once stole his Uncle Jack's truck and drove it to Galveston to spend the night with the woman who claimed his virginity.

"Now I've seen you, Walter Spry," Merrill said calmly and clearly. "Now I can tell you that you've been my best friend, my brother...and you've been my hero."

"Oh, Jesus God," Walter breathed.

Still smiling but barely audible, Merrill said, "I love you, dear brother. I'll be seeing you again soon, but not too soon. You still have a few things to take care of before we meet again. I'll be rooting for you, and I'll be watching."

Right after saying that, Merrill's smile relaxed a bit and his eyes looked slightly away. A moment later, the blips and beeps of the various machines lining the walls went flat, whining in their all-too-familiar mourning cry.

A few days later, Walter made polite conversation with the small handful of people who found the time to attend Merrill's funeral. There were a few surprises, like seeing two of Merrill's ex-wives show up to say goodbye. One of them was Muriel, Merrill's third wife, who showed up with her third husband, who obviously only attended for the food. But the other ex was Sandy, Merrill's only real love.

Walter remembered well the doll she was when she was nineteen, and for a woman of her age, she still looked radiant.

"Oh, my word," she said after Walter walked up and introduced himself. "I remember you now. I was supposed to marry you instead of that old fool, now wasn't I?" she asked with a sparkling smile. Softening, she said, "It must be a wonderful thing to have a friend for all those years, Walter. You were both very lucky in this."

"Thank you, Sandy, and thanks so much for coming," Walter said, genuinely pleased that she was there.

"I have to admit something to you, Walter," Sandy whispered, leaning in close. "I had to come to this. Merrill Pryce was the only man I ever loved in my entire life. I once let some blue-eyed charmer talk me into thinking otherwise, only to lose him in the war, too."

Walter felt himself go misty after hearing this. "Oh, my dear, I know for a fact that he felt the same way about you. He remarried again, and again, and then yet again, but each of those marriages was doomed because none of those women were you.

"But what about you, Sandy? Did you remarry after your fallen soldier?"

She blinked and dabbed away a solitary tear and said, "No, dear. I never did. I once went back to Merrill with the intention of throwing myself at his feet, but when I saw him, he had that hussy there on his arm. I turned around and never went back."

Walter shook his head, wondering about the unfairness of the world. He knew quite well that Muriel was one of the worst things that ever happened to Merrill. If Sandy had mustered the courage to be noticed by Merrill, simply spotted from across the way, things for both of them would have been so different.

"Sandy, the two of them never went beyond being friends and lovers. They were fond of each other, but they both strayed eventually. Hell, Merrill went to her later wedding, or one of them, anyway."

"And so it goes, in this crazy world," she said with a smile. "Would you care for some punch, big boy?"

"It's a date, little lady."

Later that afternoon, various people managed to give their little speeches of kind words for Merrill Pryce. They all stood under sunny skies on that pretty, breezy day, waiting for the inevitable moment when the casket would be lowered into the ground and they could go their separate ways. After quite some time, it was Merrill's turn to speak. He asked that he have the last word.

"Good afternoon, everyone," he began. "Today we say goodbye to a man who we all know could be harsh, coarse, and sort of prickly. Yet, all of us knew he tried to be fair, honest, and hold onto the courage of his convictions through the various tests placed before him by the Good Lord. Sure, the man developed a fondness for his drink, but he wouldn't falter in his principles and he always stood up for what he thought was right.

"What some of you may not know is Merrill and I have been friends, brothers, and partners in crime since we were both very young boys. We weren't nothing but two scoundrels chasing lizards and snakes over the dusty hills and dry creek beds of Laredo. We saw each other grow from boys to men and go through all that came with that, including the horrors of war.

"Merrill and I went through spans of time over the years where we didn't see each other, but we've always kept in touch and we always found the time to speak to each other on our birthdays. Before you saw it coming, a quick phone call on someone's birthday would turn into hours of delightful conversation about times gone by, and times to come. Over the past couple decades, we both set aside money to cover those long distance bills, and then over the past couple years we bitched about the balls these phone companies have to call anything long distance, what with satellites and all that."

A few laughed and some expressed their agreement.

"I can tell you that we never went more than a few years without seeing each other. One would visit the other, and the boys in us would burst forth while we reveled in each other's company. I have to tell you, those were magnificent times. So magnificent, in fact, that we would always promise each other that separation of our bond would never again last so long. Alas, the realities of life always tested our resolve.

"But we never missed calling on a birthday. Not since we were in our teens have we missed making a call on a birthday. Today is Merrill's seventy-sixth birthday, and I would not have missed it for anything in the world. Not for anything in the whole world."

Walter stepped away from the podium and approached Merrill's casket. He said, "Even though I'll miss you to the end of my days, I'll never forget the friend and brother you've always been to me, and I can promise that for as long as I'm alive, I'll never miss your birthday. I'll come back to this spot for as long as the strength is in my body, and we'll talk about the good times. But when I no longer have the strength to get back here, I'll look forward to the moment when we meet again, Merrill. Then we'll watch over the young ones and laugh as we dare each other to risk the bite of the snake."

He laid one hand on the casket and said, "Until that time, Happy Birthday my dear brother. Happy Birthday."

I left this next story for last, not because it's the best of the bunch but because it has a certain place with me. You see, when I wrote this story, I rather liked it and sought traditional publication for it. But nobody would have it and I relented to placing it online like everything else.

But I always remembered the reasons given for its rejection, and the reason was something with which I vehemently disagreed.

Okay, do you recall how the story, Needing a Hand, ended? The last thing the 911 operator heard was Craig's body falling to the floor. I ended the story right there, not allowing anyone to know how it turns out when the emergency services arrive, or whether Craig works out an acceptable life minus two rather important limbs.

That's known as an Open Ending.

I rather like the open ending in a short story because it allows the reader to imagine this is not the end of the story; it's just the part of the story we were privy to. The reader then can imagine what might have gone on afterwards, allowing themselves a moment to ponder on their own version of the story.

So, Left Hanging was written with the intent of having an open ending, and even the title was created as thus in order to represent the idea. You, the reader, is left hanging on what might be going on after the last sentence of the story. The reader is left to wonder and then go on with their own version, allowing their imagination to create all sorts of mayhem.

I thought this was a good idea. The prospective publishers at various literary magazines disagreed. The few that responded stated the open ending was awkward at best, since it doesn't allow the reader to know what happened.

Duh. That was the fucking point, retard.

Well, my nature wouldn't let it go, so I decided I would finish things up for the characters in this short story. Now, the later story is my favorite of the novels I have written to date. My novel, Tangled in Climbing Nightshade, isn't a continuation of the following short story. I wrote Left Hanging with the intent of leaving the reader hanging on with what might have happened and clung to that. But it did continue on with these characters because, I thought, if you want a final ending, then I got one for your ass.

For those of you who have yet to read Tangled in Climbing Nightshade, it is a rather dark, suspenseful story focused on the tragic end of a family annihilated by Familial Suicide, which is the act of a family member going bonkers and then killing everyone in the family, including the children, before committing suicide. Come on, everyone's heard about such stories on the news. So much so that it's fair to state the act is almost a fad.

This short story is rather different than that. Drama ensues, but I intended this story to be more fun than shocking, so proceed comfortably.

Left Hanging

Judy Kidde was so nervous and so excited all at the same time. The moment was a big break for her reporting career, but she still couldn't believe what it was she saw up there. Making sure her appearance was just what it should be before she went on the air, she tried focusing on her reflection in the news van window, bobbing her head up and down, side to side, trying to block the morning sun, trying to get that perfect view. She did what she could and then decided what everybody else thought was right, she looked fabulous.

"Are we ready to do this, Ricky?" she asked as Ricky focused the camera on her while keeping the gathering crowd visibly behind her.

"Yeah, Judy. We're good. We're just waiting on the word."

"Okay, now remember," she said, taking charge of everything she could, "pan up to the guy as soon as I mention this hoard, got that? I want the viewers to see what I'm talking about as soon as I mention why we're...all right, Ricky, let's do this."

"Three...two...one..."

"This is Judy Kidde, speaking to you live from the corner of Broad Street and Cleveland Avenue in Endicott. Ladies and gentlemen, as you can see, a large crowd of curious people have gathered here at this intersection to see something unlike anyone in this town has ever seen before. There, about one hundred feet or so directly above the intersection, a man just appears to be, well, floating there, with no explanation as to how or why."

Ricky had focus on the guy by the time Judy mentioned how high off the grown he was, and Ricky couldn't help but to watch the fellow with wonder. His equipment would allow him to read the year stamped on a dime from quite a distance, so he looked for whatever it was that kept the guy up there and just couldn't see anything. Besides, the guy had to be close to a hundred feet up, and in this town there isn't anything else that high, other than maybe a cell tower or something. There was nothing like that around here, so the guy would have to be supported by something rather than hanging from anything; he was by far the highest thing within at least a mile. And he was directly over the intersection.

"This suspended man was first noticed about two hours ago by a resident on her way to the K-Mart, and now scores of people have gathered to take a look for themselves. Various authorities including the fire department have been arriving on the scene in order to take charge and find a solution to this unique problem, but since they have to assess what that problem is, they're joining the people in looking at a spectacle that, frankly, no one has ever seen or heard of before."

County Sheriff Kevin Sealy had long since activated his lights and siren while trying to get through traffic to that particular side of Endicott. He weaved in and out of the traffic that could let him pass and traversed medians, curbs and sidewalks where it couldn't, but with his face twisted in bewilderment. That was because, try as he might, he just couldn't picture what it was they were trying to say.

"Come on, Mike," he said over the radio as he swooped past a small straight truck featuring an enormous red dot reading 'Circuit City', leaving him momentarily wondering how times like these could kill a business like that, which left him momentarily wondering where the truck was going. "The guy can't just be floating there, for Christ's sake. Are you sure he's not on a cable or something connected to the power lines? I mean...I mean, come on now."

"Oh, I am telling you, Sheriff, "Deputy Mike Rice said."This guy has to be at least fifty feet above the power lines. I mean a good fifty feet above their highest point. To be honest with you, Sheriff, the guy has to be the highest thing within a couple miles. He's way over these maples, I can tell you that."

Getting closer, approaching the scene, Kevin tried to get a glimpse of what was going on, but he couldn't see anything through the colossal maples and oaks, even with their leaves mostly gone. He turned his focus on the ground and snaked his way through the disarray, looking for a place to park.

"Mike, tell me right now that you're doing something about crowd and traffic control," Kevin said as he slammed the door to the cruiser he was forced to leave parked in the middle of the road.

"Sheriff, I have twelve guys directing traffic from this location from at least a mile out in each direction, not that it would matter a lot since everyone catching this on the news is parking at K-Mart and walking over," Mike said. "News travels fast these days. I've got a few officers with me working the crowd, too."

"All right, but we're going to have to get these people and all these cars out of here, particularly if there is an emergency," Kevin said over his radio as he approached the scene. He looked up to see what everyone was watching, and then through the network of naked branches he saw what they saw. He stopped, put his hands on his hips and muttered, "Well, I'll be damned."

It really did look just like they were saying; the guy just seemed suspended there about a hundred or so feet over the street. For an extended moment, Kevin surveyed the crowd, wanting to see if anyone looked like they might have a clue as to what was up, but all he saw was astonishment and amusement. People were looking and pointing, some of them laughing, but nobody looked out of place while trying to blend. There was no obvious sign of foul play down on the ground. He looked up at the center of attention, trying to get a look at the man of the hour to see what might be on his mind other than the obvious. While the guy didn't look panicked and wasn't screaming, he did look nervous and shaken. He kept clutching at his coat as if he had nothing better to do. Kevin knew it had to be frigid up there.

Kevin knew he was going to have to take charge of things and get that guy down, so he scanned the crowd again and spotted Don Bassell, Fire Chief. Kevin made a beeline for Don, but Don kept his eyes on the man above and never saw Kevin coming until he placed a hand on Don's shoulder.

Don looked to see who was there and said, "Hey, Sheriff. What do you make of that?"

"I was hoping you could tell me something, Don," Kevin said, looking up.

Don pulled off his helmet and used the edge of it to scratch into his thinning hair, a sheen of sweat there immediately giving off a hint of steam in the dank cold. "I don't have the first clue, Kev. We're hoping to get close with the ladder so we can at least talk to the guy. I'm thinking he should know something we don't. As you can see, we set up the net just in case the guy comes loose, but I got to say that I cannot see what is keeping him up there."

Within a few minutes the ladder truck was on the scene. It took some doing to get the truck through the multitude of both people and cars parked askew as people abandoned them in order to see something before they were too late. They were wrong to think they would miss something, since the suspended man hasn't changed since the first sighting. But they eventually got the ladder into position, even though they knew it would not reach the height necessary to make contact with their mark. There was no reason to have a ladder truck in Endicott that could reach beyond six stories. But they could get close enough to open a line of communication, so that is what they did.

"I've made some calls to County, Kevin, so there's a bigger truck on the way. But it might be over an hour before it gets here," Don said.

"I appreciate that, Don," Kevin said as he stepped onto the ladder truck and started his ascent to the man of the hour. "In the meantime, let's see if our friend here might tell us something we don't know."

Kevin began his steady climb up the ladder, already nervous about the height after less than twenty rungs. He's never been one to be nervous with heights as long as there is plenty to hold onto; he trimmed a lot of trees in his days as a younger man, before joining the force. But in a tree there were plenty of handles, even if you fell. On a ladder like this, you have but one thing to grab and if it gets away...he dismissed the thought and continued upward. Once he was near the ladder's highest point, he took hold and looked up to who was looking down at him.

Even in the open breeze, Kevin thought he was in decent earshot, so he said, "Good morning. I am Kevin Sealy, the Sheriff of Broome County. I want you to know that we're doing everything we can to get you down from there safely. But until that happens, would you mind telling me how in the hell you got up there?"

Although the suspended man kept looking down at Kevin, he could tell the man was nervous about the height, and likely the attention, too. The man said with a nervous laugh and a hint of English accent, "Good morning, Officer. I do apologize for the commotion. I am not exactly sure how I ended up here, but to explain, the most I can tell you is that I simply drifted up here from the corner."

Kevin blinked. "Oh. You drifted up from the corner. Okay. Sir, may I ask your name?"

"Why certainly, Officer. My apologies. My name is Peter Volans. Once again, Officer Sealy, I do apologize for this. I would imagine you would have better things to do in your busy day."

"Perhaps," Kevin said, "But I am not exactly sure what it is you're apologizing for, Peter."

"Well, I did not intend to float up to this location above the street, and I certainly did not consider drawing such a crowd when I got up this morning," Peter said.

A line creased Kevin's forehead. "Well, I guess this just goes to show how the day can be full of surprises. You know, since people around here aren't used to other people just floating around, it does tend to catch the eye when it does happen. That doesn't seem surprising, does it, Mr. Volans?"

With a bit more of nervous laughter, Peter said, "I do apologize, Officer. I am a bit frightened and nervous, so I do not believe I am being clear. Please understand that this sort of thing is rather new to me, as well. You see, I am new to this area and I merely wanted to explore the town's quaint library. It was a book that I found in your library that has something to do with this, I think."

Now pointing, Kevin said, "Are you trying to tell me you learned how to do...that, at the library? Mr. Volans, I have lived in this county my entire life and I am sure I have been to every library in the county. I am quite familiar with the Endicott branch, so I feel confident that we don't have books out there teaching people to do what you're doing."

"I assure you, Sheriff, I did not seek to learn any such thing," Peter said. "I believe it is more accurate to say this is a consequence of something I read. To be honest, I didn't believe the book was in any way authentic, but one of those 'for entertainment purposes only' sorts of things."

"Peter, what in the hell are we talking about? What is the name of this book?"

"The book in question, Sheriff, is entitled, 'Volan's Guide to Mind Over Matter'. Because the title bears something resembling my name, it caught my eye. Because I am in town on business, I am a Travel Writer, but waiting for the skiing season to move into full swing within a couple weeks, I have little to occupy my time, so I tend to wander and read. Not both at the same time, to be sure, or at least not very often, but I wander through the day and read during the evening. Anyway, I signed out the book and left with it. I was thumbing through it as I wandered along, and by the time I reached this corner, I came across the chapter on Levitation."

Kevin's mouth fell open and he slowly shook his head. He muttered, "You have to be shitting me."

"I was stopped at the corner, waiting for the traffic to clear," Peter continued, "and I read into the chapter while I stood there."

Taken by the bizarre humor of the situation, Kevin asked, "So, do you recall what some of the other chapters were about?"

Peter, now caught up in the conversation, placed a finger to his lip and said, "Now let me think. I recall seeing a chapter on Telekinesis, one or two on Mind Control, and I saw an interesting chapter on the subject of Pyrokinesis, which is the power of starting and controlling fire with your mind. There were several others, but I do not recall what they were about."

Kevin felt something pull in his gut. If someone can levitate, what in the hell else could they do? Things weren't so funny, anymore. "Peter, listen to me. I want you to drop that book down to me, okay? I might need that book if we're going to be able to help you."

In his mind, Kevin begged. Please have that book, Peter. Please, oh please.

"Well, I do apologize, Sheriff, but I no longer have it."

Kevin gently placed his forehead on the metal rung before him and squeezed his eyes shut. "Of course you don't have it," he whispered to himself. "That would be too easy and convenient."

Kevin looked up and said, "What happened to the book, Peter?"

"To be honest, once my feet came off the ground and I started rise in the air," Peter said, "I dropped it in a panic. A young lad I would assume to be about twelve or thirteen picked it up. He looked at me as if he had seen a ghost. Anyway, once he looked at the book and then looked at me, he tucked the book under an arm and ran off in that direction." Peter pointed down Cleveland Avenue.

Kevin couldn't get down the ladder fast enough. "Rice! Rice, get over here right now!"

Deputy Rice came running and once he was there said, "Go ahead, Sheriff."

"I want you to listen to me very closely, all right? Spread the word around to every officer you can reach in the region and tell them to watch for anything weird going on. I mean anything."

Rice pointed up and said, "You mean, weirder than that?"

"Now Mike, how in the hell am I supposed to know? Worse than that is my concern, so make sure nobody is making any goddamned assumptions. There could very well be somebody around here who can do more than just float." He pointed right at his deputy and said, "I mean it. I want everyone on their toes."

Without saying anything else, Kevin went back up the ladder to Peter.

"Peter, didn't that book give you any idea on how to come back down?"

"No, I am afraid it did not," Peter said. "I never got that far. I think I was just reading along and came up on the levitation chapter. I should assume I might have been reading aloud."

"Well, do you think you could remember what you said and, uh, you know, just try to say it backwards or something?"

Peter laughed again and said, "I am confident I could not do that, Sheriff. The words were in a language I did not recognize. I know several, including Latin, but I did not recognize this language, making me assume it was mere gibberish. I think that assumption was misplaced."

That got Kevin laughing, too. He took a moment to absorb the situation, and then looked up to Peter and said, "Peter, we have a higher ladder truck on the way, but it might be a while before it gets here. Until then, can you think of anything at all that might be helpful?"

Sounding frustrated, Peter said, "Sheriff, I do wish that I could be of better service, but it is as I said. I was merely reading from that book, a book I found in your local library, and I..."

"Yes, Peter?"

"Sheriff, I am quite sure there was another book identical to the one I signed out," Peter said, sounding hopeful. "Yes, I am quite certain of it. It was on the shelf right next to the one I picked up."

"Don't move," Kevin said to Peter, holding up a hand. "I will be right back." He found himself clamoring down the ladder once more.

Peter said, "I believe I will be here when you return."

Once he was near the ground, Kevin yelled, "Rice! Rice, get over here right now?"

"What's up, Sheriff?"

"All right. I need you to go up to the library and get a book for me. The title of the book is 'Volan's Guide to Mind Over Matter'. I need that book right this minute," Kevin said.

The look Rice had said, "For real?"

The look Kevin returned confirmed, "For real."

Rice turned and said over his shoulder, "I'm on it, Sheriff!"

While the deputy sped away, Don Bassell approached and said, "You've been up there awhile now, Kevin. What's going on up there?"

"You got a smoke on you, Don?"

"Uh, yeah," Don said as he reached into his coat for a pack of Winston's and his Zippo. "I thought you quit a couple years ago."

Kevin lit a cigarette and inhaled deep. "That's right."

By the time he finished his fourth cigarette, Kevin heard the sirens of the approaching ladder truck from Binghamton. For the first time of the day, a genuine smile spread across his face when he saw his deputy coming down Broad Street and the big red truck coming up Cleveland Avenue. Also for the first time since the start of the day, he thought he might get through this with a happy ending.

Deputy Rice ran up with the requested book in his hand and gave it over. Kevin said, "Christ, Mike. What in the hell took you so long? That library isn't even three blocks away."

"Well, shit. I didn't know where the book was on the shelf, Sheriff. I had to look it up in the card catalog, and I'm not used to this newfangled computer version," Mike said.

Kevin rolled his eyes and said, "Why didn't you get Angie to help you? She is the Librarian, you know. Nevermind, at least we have it. Let's just get a hole made for this truck to get in here. Do you think you can do that?"

"Yeah," Mike said, irritated. "I think I can do that."

Less than ten minutes and another cigarette later (Don had a spare pack on him) the truck was in place and the ladder rising to meet Peter Volans. Once everything was in place and ready to go, Kevin stuffed the book in his coat and began his climb to meet the suspended man. He felt that same nervousness about the height he felt before, and this time it was a little surreal once he got past the barren canopies of the oaks and maple trees. But Kevin let all of that go once he was literally within a few feet of Peter.

"Okay Peter, let's see if we can do anything to get you down from here. It feels good not having to yell."

"I agree with you, Sheriff."

"I have the book in hand, so maybe we can get this over with before Fox and CNN show up. So, what do we do now?"

Peter said, "My guess is that we open the book to where I was. I tend to memorize my page numbers since I'm often required to set a book down to tend to other matters, so I know I was on page 203."

Kevin turned to page 203 and then looked back to Peter. "You know, it looks weirder to see you floating like that from here than it did from down there, and that looked pretty odd. Okay, we're on 203. You're right, this is arcane, so what are we looking for?"

"I really don't know, so if you don't mind, perhaps you should hand the book to me before we both float away," Peter said.

That was motivation enough for Kevin who moved to hand the book over. But before he actually placed it in Peter's hand, he asked, "If we make contact, do you think it could make a difference? The net is in place in case your spell is broken and you fall, but I don't want the entire ladder truck rising up."

Peter shook his head with a smile and said, "I really do not know. I still don't know what put us in this situation to begin with. Let's find out, shall we?"

Kevin handed the book over without any changes and both men were visibly relieved. Peter tried scanning through the pages of the chapter he was reading, but did so silently, so as to not exacerbate the state of affairs. Left to himself, Kevin looked around.

The view from that particular height, that angle, was so bizarre and foreign to Kevin. He had been over the town numerous times in a helicopter, but that was always at a considerably higher elevation. This elevation was truly reserved for the birds. He was quite literally looking down at the old building most longtime residents still refer to as Phillies, but the K-Mart parking lot and building were so clearly visible. Although actual downtown Endicott was a ways off and therefore Kevin couldn't see anything more than the skyline of those three or four story buildings, he could easily make out what used to be the IBM complex. He looked the other way and saw the medical building far off and up on the hill, which used to be a hospital and where he was born. Because of that fact that most everything was draped in a blanket of white, the contours of everything were clear and crisp. From high above, such nuances were hardly noticeable, but from a hundred feet it was easily the most striking feature of the panorama.

"While things have been difficult, you've been privy to quite a view, Peter. Do you see that old building on the hill way over there? That was the old hospital way back in the day. I was born there."

"Sheriff," Peter said with but a scant glance to anything but the book (he had been looking at all of it for some time), "I sincerely hope this is as close as we ever get to a hospital before this is all over and we're laughing about it over a pint. With that being said, I do hope that you understand I never would have placed us in such a precarious spot should...I...have...known. Dear God."

Kevin looked at Peter, whose demeanor and even complexion faded horrifically. He saw Peter was looking into the near distance with dread in his eyes, so Kevin took a firm grasp on the ladder and turned to see what he Peter was seeing.

Kevin had to take an even firmer grip to the ladder he held, and suddenly the height was considerable while his entire world tilted. Off in the distance, in the K-Mart parking lot, they could see as many as a hundred cars, vans, and pickup trucks circling far above the parking lot as if they were caught up in a giant tornado. On the ground, at the base of that tornado, they saw one person standing there, turning in unison with the swarming automobiles.

Sheriff Sealy hugged the ladder tight in the open space above the town and muttered, "Dear Jesus, God in Heaven."

"Sheriff, I do believe that is the young man who ran off with my library book."

Just as they witnessed the spinning automobiles burst into flames individually as they circled the border of their tornado under the guidance from the teenage boy in control, Kevin and Peter saw several CNN news vans come into view as they approached from highway 26.

Well, that's it, dear Readers. Or, is it?

No, it isn't, really. I mentioned before that I have out there my favorite of the novels I've written, which is Tangled in Climbing Nightshade. I am quite proud of the work I've done with that book, so I hope you check it out. It is available here at Smashwords, and is just $1.99. Believe me when I say that if you've read this to this point, you'll be glad to pay the nominal price, if you haven't already. I am confident that, should you like suspense, you'll enjoy that book.

My first novel is one called, The Egocentric Predicament. I am also proud of that one, too. It was also a dark story, with the theme of it focused on the tragedy known as Human Trafficking. I believe Human Trafficking is among the most heinous of human crimes, yet it is also one of the most prolific, with just about the entire world supporting it. The crime literally forces the victims to be little more than cattle and it is truly almost cannibalistic in nature. While we have been taught slavery was abolished by Lincoln (in America), the act of human slavery is more prolific and profitable today than it has ever been in all of human history. It's just that since forced labor isn't as easy to cause, sexual slavery is easy to make happen, is very profitable, and has an enormous market. In fact, while most people think it would be horrible for a six-year-old child to be forced to weave blankets, they all find it funny that the same child would be raped fifty times a day on those blankets, while some monster reaps the profit. Yeah, humanity's just awesome.

This exists all around the world and all the world's authoritive powers support it with verve. They say they don't but I say they're lying. The truth is that Human Trafficking and sexual slavery stimulates the economy far too much to shut down, and since these authorities are allowed to spend the tax payers' money for their own whims, they freely stimulate themselves with it, too.

Isn't humanity a wonderful thing?

My third novel was lighter in scope and written with the intent to be a feel-good story. For those of you who know me, you know I make my living as a truck driver. My novel entitled, A Trucker's Tale, is dedicated to those who do that work. I can say I am also proud of that work, as well. I worked hard at doing it right, and I think it is a good story. The story is about a trucker and his adventure, but it can easily be enjoyed by anyone.

Hey, people enjoy stories about cops without being cops, right? People enjoy stories about serial killers without being serial killers, right?

A Trucker's Tale is also available here at Smashwords and is also $1.99. Get your copy while supplies last.

For those of you who are so curious as to what else I've done, I recommend you merely punch my name, Roddy J Dryer, into your search engine of choice and browse at your leisure. I have written hundreds of articles online, touching on various subjects. I have written extensively for the online magazine, The Examiner, as an Orlando Hospitality Examiner, covering mostly my travel writing for Walt Disney World.

You see, I worked there for nearly 12 years and have been immersed in Disney life since 1992 all the way to now. My wife works there. All my wives have worked there. I know it well and have written extensively on my spin on the place, which is approaching it with a strategic perspective in order to gain the most enjoyment. I don't know how many articles I wrote there on that subject, but some are with The Examiner and some are with Yahoo! Voices.

For Yahoo!, I have written numerous articles. I have written elsewhere, too, as some of these content sites come and go, and some I've abandoned. I like Yahoo! and continue working with them.

So, you have plenty of Roddy's writing to keep you busy, dear Reader. Should you become of fan of this writer's work, I can say you won't be disappointed. I can say that, for now, the fan conventions might be quiet and somewhat lonesome. There might be, well, five of you. If the five of you get together, let me know and I'll show up for photo ops and to sign your stuff. If you do this, would I have to bring my own beer? I'll work the grill, if you like.

For those of you who made it this far, I so appreciate that. I'll never understand God's little game, but I have long felt it was put on me by God to write and write a lot. I don't understand, since while I have pursued writing and then pursued a readership, the readership has not been a lot of people. Perhaps the time has yet to come.

Until then, it's just the few of us showing off what we do. I can show you the writing, you can play your guitar, or show your drawing, or how you can shoot any goat or dog and perform emergency surgery right on the spot in order to save the life. Perhaps you're double-jointed, or maybe you know a card trick. If you can swill a 12-pack and then juggle chainsaws, you'll have my attention.

If I don't have to bring my own beer, I prefer Miller Genuine Draft.

C'ya,

Roddy
