Session November 30, 2019

https://media.pri.org/s3fs-public/styles/story_main/public/story/images/Hyder_AK%20(1).jpg?itok=Orj3EtM3

"I've been where I wanted to be all along," she told him.
by CT

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They cannot stay in the air, they are already beginning to descend.

By MD

It was Arnie the Architect’s dream to build floating structures. He researched the applications endlessly in his spare time, doing structural analysis, studying stress and load scenarios, testing the strength of various materials—even completing aerodynamic investigations based on Bernoulli’s equation. 

Arnie started small, building table and desktop models of assorted commercial and residential buildings. After many years, and much trial and error, he finally produced a system which enabled floatation for even very large structures.  He quickly patented his invention and began the tiresome process of attempting to construct and float one of his buildings in a town—any town.

In spite of impressive demonstrations for various developers, town councils, urban planners and other bureaucratic officials, Arnie was stymied at every turn. He couldn’t even float an idea, much less a structure. Developers were turned off by the expense involved; politicians feared the fallout—literally—which such a newfangled edifice might impose; environmentalists objected to the effects of floating buildings on air quality; and OSHA cited safety concerns for occupants of these structures as well as those who might venture underneath them. 

Discouraged, Arnie the Architect commenced traveling the world attempting to market and build a prototype of his marvelous structures. It wasn’t until he arrived in Sri Lanka that he finally found a group of Buddhist visionaries who were willing to take the chance on a floating temple.  Arnie hired some locals and the work began.

Many, many years went by while the temple was being built.  Arnie was an old man before he realized his dream of floating an architectural wonder of his own design. From his wheelchair, he gave the order to the workmen to engage the floatation equipment. Mesmerized, he watched the beautiful structure rise, with layers and spires piercing the sky as the breeze blew under the building and swirled around the statues and steps.  (It was then—seated in his wheelchair that he recognized he forgot to design for handicapped access. But no matter—Arnie swelled with pride at his own architectural accomplishment.)

He wheeled himself under the temple foundation and gazed upward. Almost immediately, gravity exerted its force on the pillars and statues. “They cannot stay in the air, they are already beginning to descend,” Arnie muttered glumly. The floating building gave a sudden gasp just as it plopped down on Arnie. He emitted his own great gasp and died, squashed like an insect. The gravity-bound temple was a fitting gravestone for the great Architect’s final resting place. 

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He lifts his sword into an upright and positive position and is prepared for action.
by BG

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The college sits just west of a massive wilderness area.

By CC

The college sits just west of a massive wilderness area. Thank God it’s no further, thought John Barker, sitting at a stop light waiting for a small hamster pushing a shopping cart to cross. The damn things took forever to get across the lane. He revved his engine a few times in hopes he would scare it into moving faster. These ridiculous college programs, he thought. It’s not enough to protect fire ants and make shoebill cranes into celebrities. Now they had to socialize hamsters into living in ideal no-waste tiny home green communities in the wilderness. It was pitiful to watch the small things laboring over their carts. He couldn’t imagine how they got them across the forest floor to their little hamlets deep in the woods where they would starve to death if left to their own provenance. College students clearly didn’t have anything better to do, he thought to himself, fuming. He scanned the foliage towards which the creature was laboring and thought he saw a pile of miniature shopping carts buried in the greenery. He shook his head in derision.

Finally the light changed and he accelerated through the intersection. It was going to rain soon. He gunned his old Nissan up the hill and into a parking space behind the mini mart where he worked. Before he got out of the car, he heard gunfire in the shop and quickly hunkered down, peering over the rim. To his shock, a hamster pushing a tiny cart filled with travel minis of whisky and vodka barreled out of the store and skittered across the parking lot before disappearing into a pile of brush. The store owner fired after it but his bullets went wide.

“Damn things,” he said to John. “Hope I didn’t scare you.” 

He handed the gun to John. “It’s your shift now. Happy hunting. Those little monsters feel entitled to anything they can carry now.”

Session November 2, 2019

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It appears that one man has emerged victorious from the struggle.
by BG

https://localtvktvi.files.wordpress.com/2019/08/gettyimages-505866994.jpg quality=85&strip=all&w=400&h=225&crop=1

The question that everyone is asking is how did he end up in the water?
by MD

Dear Rabby,

I have a cat. His name is Oscar. Sometimes he looks a little cross-eyed, but he’s really not. It’s just that he likes to spend hours in front of my fish tank watching my goldfish named Arthur. Oscar’s powers of concentration are nothing short of phenomenal, but Arthur is just as wiley. I believe now that Arthur is the cause of Oscar’s eye trouble; Arthur swims in ever-tightening concentric circles and, of course, after hours of watching this, Oscar’s eyes have acquired their inward inversion.

Here is my problem, Dear Rabby: My women’s club has several members of the  local chapter of PETA. In a very militant fashion, they have informed me that this interaction between my cat and my fish constitutes a very blatant form of animal cruelty for both of them. I thought I had cleverly solved this problem before the women’s club last meeting at my home by dunking Oscar in the fish tank to swim alongside Arthur. Oscar didn’t seem to mind—he kitty-paddled after Arthur in the tank, following the goldfish’s lead. I felt proud of the way I had addressed this so-called “animal cruelty” issue but the PETA group was still upset with me. The question that everyone was asking was how did he end up in the water? 

Dear Rabby, I don’t think I did anything wrong. What’s your opinion?

Signed,

PETA Persecuted

Dear Persecuted,

I think your best solution to this problem is this: Right before your next meeting, leave the door to your home open for your fellow members to enter, while you join your two pets in the fish tank. When they observe you swimming there with Oscar and Arthur, I suspect their concerns will quickly shift from the welfare of your cat and your fish to your own mental health. Problem solved!

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We must make up our minds to accept apparent chaos.
by RM

https://img.marinas.com/v2/7ecbdfcd9ce52ce21a0964e6795cbd980c04c59f0902809a9a6516efa8552509.jpg

Titus himself was definitely not a nomad but he came from that stock.

By CC

The Ballantyne Yacht Harbor had been in Titus’s family for 50 years now and he was getting tired of running it. It seemed like drudgery sometimes. However, there was a profit to be made, sure, as slip fees were unregulated and he could charge as much as he pleased and never run out of business. But the big profit was in the money laundering part of his operation. His little boat Sizzle made runs south of the border regularly and came back with many products other than fish. It was a good living, no doubt, and he had better job security than most in the business. Yet even this side of things was less exciting than it once had been. You can only have so much money until you recognize it’s made you no happier. And then it seems you might be happier if you only had more. But Titus was no fool. He would just make a few more runs and quit.

Titus himself was definitely not a nomad, but he came from that stock, so on Tuesday he set out sailing Sizzle on his customary long trip south of Ensenada, where he had a connection. After a few days he arrived. He tied the little boat off in the guest slip at the local marina, then went into town and had dinner at a little place he liked not far off the plaza. His connection came in shortly after Titus finished eating, and in short order blew Titus away with a shotgun before reaching into his rucksack for the pouch of cash.  

Sizzle sat in the water, rocking gently in the waves, until someone came by to untie the little boat from its berth. Sizzle slipped gently out of the marina, and into the ocean, where the boat found a nice warm current that carried it far out to sea.

Sizzle lived for 5 years just rolling on the waves peacefully under the tropical sun. Fish sometimes leaped onto her little deck where they were eaten by seagulls. Now and then a whale or seal would stick its head out of the water to watch the little boat bob around. One day a big storm came up and rolled Sizzle on her side. She floated like this for a few days and then quietly slipped beneath the waves. 

It took awhile for the little boat to reach bottom, but she landed upright on a patch of white sand. When the sun shone, its rays often reached the little boat, which was happy to see them. All stories end, and Sizzle’s ends here.

Session October 5 2019

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She is between the beginning and the end, outside of the process, and outside of time.
By RM

Miss Foxy-Moxy and Mr. Doggie Debonair were collaborators on a children’s nature storybook project together.

They, the co-authors, were between the beginning and the end, outside of the process and outside of time when they decided to take a break and relax from the stresses of creating a meaningful juvenile picture book.

Miss Foxy-Moxy decided that she considered Mr. Doggie Debonair a lot more than just an office collaborator on their book. So, at break time, she suddenly hopped upon his furry back and whispered in his big and long floppy ear. “Ohhh…Mr. Dee…” she hinted. “Let’s take a needed break. Let’s forget about working on our book for the rest of this afternoon and let’s go out romping around on the ride of our lives!”

He perked up and smiled with doggie joy, while showing his white canine teeth, his thick tail pounded on the office floor, he tilted his head upwards and gave out some quick yips – “Yes! Yes!” – hang on tight, Miss Foxy-Moxy – let’s prance on out of here!!!”

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Once, in the third month, I spent a period of abstinence in a friend’s house.

By MD

I am not an alcoholic, but after opening my Chicken Mercantile Emporium, I almost became one.  The first two months after my Grand Opening, I suffered through the apathy and miserliness of the provincial denizens of this small backwater town, and frankly, it was then that the stress of operating my little store drove me to drink. There’s no denying it—there’s great comfort to be found at the bottom of a bottle of Boone’s Farm Raspberry Apple Wine. Soon enough, though, I recognized the danger in this form of escapism and I applied various suggested remedies to stem the flow of this fruity tipple over my lips.

Hypnosis didn’t work, nor did aroma therapy.  Once, in the third month, I spent a period of abstinence in a friend’s house.  It was the end of the friendship, but not of my drinking.

Returning to my Chicken Mercantile Emporium after the month was up, I hit on the perfect solution. It was staring me right in the face as I approached the storefront, ready to spend yet another day sitting behind the counter, encountering not another soul, and fretting over my past due bills. There it was, right in front of me. The sign on the porch beckoned like a siren: Propane Sold Here.”

In a flash—and I mean literally—I opened the valves on all the propane tanks, sloshed kerosene over the wooden steps, dropped a lit match on the whole mess, and ran for my life.  The ensuing explosion blew me clear into the next block, but I watched with exuberance as my Chicken Mercantile Emporium burned clear down to the ground. 

I’m in prison now, convicted of arson and murder. (Did I mention that my aforementioned “friend” was dozing on one of the front porch rockers when I dropped the match? He never knew what hit him.)

Anyway, problem solved.  My Chicken Mercantile Emporium is a thing of the past, and so is my drinking problem.  I haven’t touched a drop and surely will not for the next forty years to life. I am not an alcoholic—but I almost became one.  

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Remember, the next time you’re out shopping, you don’t need one in every color.

By CC

Gwen wasn’t thinking clearly these days. Surely it would get better, wouldn’t it? It was the shock, that’s all. The shock of that awful cyber crime that ruined her credit. She had been the ultimate shopper, spending hours online clicking “buy now!” on Amazon, and wandering the malls, credit card in hand. But this juggernaut of consumerism had been stopped dead in her tracks by a criminal organization that stole her credit card numbers and ran her balances up to millions of dollars. Her husband used to tell her, “Remember, the next time you’re out shopping, you don’t need one in every color.” A tear fell from her eye as she thought about all the things she could no longer afford.

The gang of cyber criminals, the police told them, went by the name “We are the Hedgehog.” Obviously they were working from the dark web, down that dank wormy hole where the underground set lived their nefarious lives. Teams of cyber crime investigators were on it.

But little did they know that it wasn’t a gang of cyber criminals, wasn’t “We are the Hedgehog.” No, it was “I am the Hedgehog.” And his name was Rufous. The product of genetic manipulation in a nearby biotech laboratory, Rufous had been bred with human brain cells, and as soon as he became fully cognizant of who and where he was, he managed to ditch his pen in the laboratory and slip into the air conduits to the computer room. It didn’t take long to reroute the wiring and get into the mainframe, where it was a simple matter for his advanced intelligence to acquire and use credit card information. He began slowly but it soon became intoxicating, as he started ordering more and more useful tools for his eventual escape and establishment of an independent household. He had them delivered to an Amazon drop box in the nearest town then hired someone remotely to take them to a storage locker he’d reserved online. Soon he was telling himself, Remember, the next time you go shopping, you don’t need one in every color.” 

However one day he was caught out in the open. A white coated figure said, “Oh, there you are, you little bugger. I wonder how you’ve been surviving all this time.”  

“Have you never heard of grub hub you blinking idiot,” Rufous thought as he was scooped up by gloved hands. He would have to be more cautious when he escaped again later that evening.

https://www.througheternity.com/upload/CONF83/20190611/xmiths-about-gladiators-tSa-750X418.jpg.pagespeed.ic.oBsVTf7Lll.jpgBy BG

It was impossible for him to resist his surroundings.
by BG

https://i.pinimg.com/736x/f5/1c/71/f51c713105bd86931c0a8b85a73e5e35--old-school-house-school-days.jpg

Don't behave like the dog or pig who eat what chance brings them.

By CT

Session September 7, 2019

https://www.discover-central-california.com/images/boardwalk_morro_bay_marina_morro_rock.jpg

Oh! To talk with this magician who shot avenging cakes through space!
"You can turn around and give it to charity," they tell me.
by TNT

We were on vacation in California, and one place we walked was Morro Bay in Central California.  It was a pleasant excursion.  We had not expected the terrain to be so easy so we wandered leisurely, looking at the plants and the mountain ahead,

“Do you think we could climb it?”  I asked him.

“I don’t know—it’s not in my guidebook,” he answered.

We talked about trivial things we had seen on U-Tube, such as some crazy magician who did something very strange—what was it?

I answered, “Oh, to talk with this magician who shot avenging cakes through space.”

“WHAT?” He exclaimed, “CAKES?  Like Lil Debbie cakes or muffins?  Why?  Whatever was he thinking?  To send cakes to aliens as a ‘welcome to Earth’ gesture?  But Avenging?  Hey, that puts the whole perspective into another reality or emotional viewpoint. How weird!  Did he really?  Or was it a publicity stunt?”

I shook my head.  “I only heard half the story.  I think it was a trick.  He shot the cakes through a space warp cannon built by the US Military to defend Earth from meteors.”

“Well, that beats the heck out of nuclear space bombs.”

“Yep.  If they fall back to Earth unconsumed by the space goblins (in the warp), they can turn around and give them to charity.”

“Yep.  Somebody will benefit.”

We tripped along, giggling at the silliness of our talk.

Afterwards, my friend was supposed to meet me for dinner.  He didn’t arrive.  His motel room was empty, and his suitcases were closed.  I wonder if he found the space cakes and didn’t feel hungry anymore.

You never know with people.

https://squeaksandnibbles.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/07/can-hamsters-swim-MA-long.jpg

Anyone who has spent much time around young children has heard the famous words, "I'm bored!"
by RMAF

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The police had few clues as to where Tom might have gone after leaving Rosie's.
by MD

Rosie’s body was decomposed to the extent that the police were at first unsure whether the corpse was male or female.  The bullet hole in the skull, however, left no doubt as to the cause of death. The handwritten confession from Tom Clark, mailed to the department a few weeks after the body’s discovery, made it fairly obvious this was a murder…and Tom was the perpetrator. 

The confession made it clear that Tom and Rosie’s tempestuous relationship—known to the police and documented in various domestic violence reports from calls, initiated sometimes by Rosie, sometimes by Tom himself—had finally erupted into the shooting. The problem was that so much time had elapsed from the commission of the crime that the police had few clues as to where Tom might have gone after leaving Rosie’s. 

It was several weeks later, when Tom’s prop plane began circling the little island where Rosie’s body had been found by her cabin door, that the case reached its ultimate, inevitable conclusion. Round and round the plane droned in ever-tightening concentric circles as police watched from across the bay, speculating as to what action to take. When the antique plane’s engine began to sputter and stall, the officers wisely decided to let nature take its course. They observed dispassionately as the motor finally gave out and the plane crashed into the woods and exploded in flames, coincidentally not too far from where Rosie’s body had originally been discovered.

“Well, that’s poetic justice for you,” observed Sergeant Walsh to his captain.  “Rosie and Tom were both nut jobs, and what just happened here proves it.” 

“Right you are, Walshie,” the captain replied. “This is one for the books and we can consider this case closed.”

Sergeant Walsh, who was of a somewhat musical bent, subsequently composed the heartrending ballad “The Legend of Tom and Rosie.” He recorded it and sold the demo to Nashville Records, who signed him to a ten-year contract. The song went to number one on the country charts. Sergeant Walsh left the force thereafter and embarked on a singing career, touring with other one-hit-wonder crooners. Which just goes to prove that even if it’s a gruesome murder/suicide, you can never know how one thing might lead to another.  

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You may have mistaken me for tearful, but my eyes were watering of their own accord.

CC

He took his boots off and sat down on the bed.

“You may have mistaken me for tearful, but my eyes were watering of their own accord,” he announced to the empty room. 

“I don’t care what happens to you anymore. You know I never needed this job. I’m done with you and this place for good ,” he continued.

She was bad news. Her family were crooks. Apples don’t fall far from the tree. He figured the business was just a front for something dangerous. It was good to be out of it. But it still stung.

Later, after he had rested, he went to the kitchen to make soup. Rain was falling so hard it sounded like the house was under a waterfall. The windows streamed with water. Odd plinks and plonks reminded him of the leaks he’d never cared to seal.

Now he couldn’t afford to seal them.  But that wasn’t so bad. Something else would come up. He still had options. He fired up the computer and looked around at several job postings. When he felt better, he would call them.

Suddenly the phone rang. He looked at it suspiciously, then picked up the call.  “Howard,” he barked. 

“Hi there, Howard. A little bird told me you may be in need of a job,” said a male voice, smooth as treacle. 

“Who are you?”  Howard asked though he already knew. Hairs on the back of his neck stood up.

“A friend who runs a little business.”

“A friend with a little bird, huh,” Howard said quietly.

“We all have little birds, don’t we,” the man replied. “Sometimes we have the same one.”

Howard abruptly ended the call and turned off his phone. He knew the little bird pretty well. And now he could put two and two together. 

He ate his soup and thought about what to do. When the rain slacked off, he went back to the bedroom and put his boots on. He debated taking a weapon then decided against it. He didn’t really need one, after all. He could defend himself by other means. And it would just look bad, given the circumstances. 

He left his phone at home and set off on foot.  Clouds roiled and twisted overhead in the high winds of this storm. It would take him less than an hour to get there, and he would wait in the parking lot until she came out. He wasn’t sure what would happen after that, but someone else would be crying, that much he knew.

https://bouchieblog.files.wordpress.com/2013/03/ts4.jpg

I rode on with my son and a servant, to look for water and a grassy place where we could camp before dusk.
by BG

I rode on with my son and a servant to look for water and a place to camp before dark. We were loath to be anywhere near the plantation for fear they might come back. We arrived there after a day’s travel to take the family to the train where they would all journey to safety up north with my wife’s parents in New England. Thank the Lord! We got them out when we did. The three of us intended to return and move the remaining servants and workers along with what belongings and livestock we could transport to find somewhere beyond harm’s way. We were too late. From down at the entranceway we could tell something was wrong when we found the gates ajar. We flew down the front drive to find nothing standing as we drew up to the end of the majestic rows of trees. No house; no barn; no outbuildings! Burnt to the ground!! There was not a soul in sight either. All the workers were gone and not a chicken or cow could be found. We looked high and low for any sight of our possessions. Off near a charred willow tree, my son found the tarnished spoon my youngest daughter had used to feed her dolls with. I thought of her over and over at our camp while trying to rest and overcome the distress of find everything gone. The Lord did have mercy! We at least had the comfort of knowing that she, her sisters, and their mother, plus other loved ones were spared this sight. And of course, with the three us, all the family has remained safe. We would ride in the morning to join them as soon as possible.

https://dogsbestlife.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/08/babies-and-puppies-min.jpeg

A clock, on the other hand, can never be fully trusted.
by CT

Chloe peered into the crib.  Baby Henry and his pup Jojo were supposed to be napping.  Obviously that wasn’t on their agenda.  Jojo held part of the blanket in his teeth.  Both he and Henry exuded wide-eyed innocence.

In previous days, she had placed a clock in the crib, hoping the rhythmic tick-tock would induce sleep.  The results were inconsistent.

Hmmm…maybe a metronome.

She borrowed one from her music room and placed it at the end of the crib.  Within minutes Henry and Jojo slept.

  

In her kitchen, she sipped her herbal tea.

The metronome saved the day.  A clock, on the other hand, can never be fully trusted.

Session August 10 2019

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If this were a pessimistic tale it would end here.
by TNT

The Mithras we once knew and worshipped in forbidden secret ceremonies was no longer available for consulting in prophecy and wisdom.

Naturally, we wee all devastated. The books were elementary and the priest and priestesses of Mithras were long gone - either to the Inquisition (burned as heretics) or they went home to their cottages to stay with their grandchildren and play with their dogs or other domesticated animals. The Great Bull - the Wild, Horned Beast - shaggy as a muskox, huge as a primal prehistoric creature - were gone. It was sad to see the world change and no longer held as sacred in ancient magnificence. The majestic animals were extinct. The Gods no longer spoke to men. Even Pan was dead s it had been announced all over the Asiatic coastline and in all the Empires. The people who had once been so free to worship diverse deities and to think what-ever they wished to believe in - was imposed by the Cult of Jewish God and Constantinople - where the Emperor had dismissed 333 Bishops - kept for his own worship only 33 - who were sycophants and loyal to his doctrines - one of which was the worship and complete control of the autocrat and his family. It was the end of diversity and the beginning of tyranny.

The usefulness of a religion to influence and control the population was an idea that had begun the whole Papacy and Catholic - and Orthodox tyrannies - until, well, if this were a pessimistic tale it would end here.

But the French Revolution and the Enlightenment as the Democracy Ideal of the New World began Democracy (imperfect as it was and is). Democracy has still been under great stress now as corporations buy government posts and influence to overcome voters' choices.

https://www.wildandaway.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/10/full-moon-party-main.jpg

Some believe the Smithsonian has a huge underground warehouse in New York City.

By CC

The Full Moon Party – the World’s Most Infamous Beach Party – registered with the Federal Election Commission as a political party on the Harvest Moon of 2019. They felt passionately that the world needed a Full Moon Party as an alternative to the vicious, backbiting, even lethal war between the existing political parties. But they were all drunk when they decided this was a good idea, and hung over when they actually signed the papers, which made them less than attentive to detail. 

Nor were they a cohesive group. Many believed in UFOs, a few that the earth was flat, and some – to this day - believe the Smithsonian has a huge underground warehouse in New York City.

Their candidate for President in 2020 was Brock Stinson, who was quickly disqualified due to his egregious and obvious steroid use, which helped him get girls at their Full Moon meetings but damaged his credibility in debates.

They did not nominate a second candidate, and went back to the beach one night after Brock’s ignominious failure to sacrifice him and send his body out to sea on a flaming dinghy. They felt it a decisive moment in world history, as now there was no alternative to global annihilation. All they could do was party harder.

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They held up their goblets to offer a toast.
By RMAF

Ex-city girl turned jungle girl, Wanna Mate Badly, was lonely in the wild jungle after her airplane crashed into the canopy of dense trees many years ago.

Over the years, (she lost track of how many), Wanna has had many animal friends in the jungle. But one animal, had become special, a sloth, she named him, Mr. Slow Cum.

Over the long and lonesome years, they had become inseparable buddies. He had slowly become her special pal - a sorta mate, if you will. They had many good one-way conversations. Wanna was a good talker and Slow was a good listener.

After years of hoping and fervently hoping to get rescued by a pilot from the outside world, Wanna finally came to the conclusion that having Mr. Slow as a jungle mate was better than most of the men she had dated years ago when she lived back in the city.

Back in her smashed up air she still had a few unbroken wine goblets and a bottle of aged wine she was saving for a special occasion - like getting rescued. "Phooey on that idea," she scoffed. "The time for this wine to be enjoyed is now!" she shouted aloud. Slow jumped up and down in slow motion and clapped his furry paws and chattered with joy.

After Wanna finished reciting her made-up marriage vows and giving a slow kiss to her new furry husband, they held up their full wine goblets to offer a toast to themselves and to the energy spirits that lived somewhere near by them in the jungle.

Their honeymoon night was spent adoring each other while hanging upside down on a limb, holding hand and paws, admiring the full moon, making chattering love sounds, while eating green leaves, bananas and wild berries.

Suddenly, she smiled with giddy delight, as she thought to herself, "We are wildly elated! If only my ex fiancé back in the city, could see how happy we are now, how envious and jealous he would be!"

https://www.touropia.com/gfx/b/2016/09/Moai_statues_in_Rano_Raraku_Volcano-350x200.jpg

I knew instinctively that I would rest better that night.

by CT

    

The sea voyage to the island had been fraught with danger.

    

We were threatened by pirates, buffeted by heavy winds, and nearly swamped by huge waves.  None of us slept well, at any time.

    

When we landed at the island, I kissed the solid ground.

    

I stood and saw the solemn statues facing out to sea.  I walked to the nearest one and gently stroked the elongated face. Such peace I felt.

    

Evening came, and I sheltered beneath the face.  I knew instinctively that I would rest better that night.

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What was I going to do? I was only the babysitter.
By BG

The baby had been at me all day long. At first babbling incessantly…then shouts, then wails; followed by stomping with arms flailing, which progressed into circling around me…subsequently progressing into a war dance type of event which I thought would never end. I was then being pummeled by tiny little fists. What was I going to do? I was only the babysitter. I had no experience with kids of my own. They weren’t teaching me about non-verbal communication in language class over at the high school. My hourly wage did not include combat pay.

I thought about it, but ruled out calling the parents. I didn’t want to tell them about it because I didn’t want them to lose faith in me and not hire me again. I needed them as clients. I needed the money. I had just started my babysitting career.

Well, stiff upper lip as the Brits say…I’d just hang in until something came up to resolve what was happening.

Just then, the phone rang…the parents were checking in. I told them all was well. They sounded relieved and said they were so happy because they thought it would be a tough day since there was no ice cream in the freezer.

After they hung up, I quickly looked for an alternative. There wasn’t much around, but I did it. Not a peep, not a punch after that! The parents could do damage control later……….

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On the sea below, there are three sailing ships.

By MD

If the saying “a picture is worth a thousand words” were true, I wouldn’t be writing this now.

I didn’t want to bring the baby to work that day, but my sitter called in sick and I had no backup plan.  So I held her on my lap and my little darling served as a human laptop while my electronic laptop sat ensconced on my desk.  Balancing my daughter awkwardly, I set down to work on my research.

         

As most people know, six-months old is the time of teething, and sweet Hannah began that process as soon as I began to type. Teething is a painful endeavor, and my baby surely communicated her distress. In no time, she was squirming and wailing.  I tried everything I could think of to comfort her: jiggling, bouncing, stroking her cheek—nothing worked.

         

Exasperated, and certainly experiencing some pain of my own from sitting in my twisted, sideways position, I turned Hannah toward the screen and keyed up Google to search for children’s stories.  A likely one popped up almost immediately, complete with music and narration added to the colorful illustrations.  Hannah ceased her caterwauling as the melody started to play for my selection of “The Adventures of Skinny, The Naughty Ship’s Cat.” A soothing female voice opened the story with the words “One dreary day, little Skinny, the forlorn cat looks out on the shoreline horizon to see what might be out there.” Hannah’s mouth fell open and she gurgled with delight. She reached toward the screen as the narrator continued in a silky voice “On the sea below, there are three sailing ships.”

In the final analysis, it wasn’t much of a story. But it kept Hannah quiet, distracted from her pain. She fell asleep before it ended. So I shut it down, quietly, quietly, and finally went back to work. And that’s the thousand words that go with this picture, and now my own story is finished.