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.

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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!"

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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……….

https://www.workitdaily.com/working-women-with-families/

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.

Session July 13, 2019

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When the cash was gone, it was gone, so I had to spend very carefully.

By RMAF

When my cash was gone, it was gone, so I had to spend what I had left very carefully. There was no great inheritance money for me from anybody. 

Although my late father was adventuresome and an avid hiker and climber who left me his gear and trip journal in which I have read over and over and memorized, I realized my inheritance was having a good Dad.

I had to spend what little money I had very carefully. I bought many plastic bottles of purified water and dozens of healthy dried fruit and nut energy bars and stuffed them along with my father’s trip journal and ashes into my father’s backpack and began our father and son journey into the Mysterious Mountains of Meandering Souls, Spirits and Minds. There, I will join my beloved Dad.

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There is no escaping the Barbarians

By TNT

There were many Chinese Emperors – some more ambitious than others. It was a mistake to give Marco Polo fireworks (gunpowder). It  was like selling nuclear bombs to Iran or North Korea (which the West probably have). The Ancient Chinese had Confucius and other wise and happy Buddha types to remind the Chinese of their ethics and duty. Of course there is no escaping the Barbarians. The Western Barbarians in particular. But I have heard of persecution of Tibet and they have killer smog in China, too. Emulating the Western Barbarians wasn’t the best idea. 

I rather liked the Maoists who made the rich plow fields and do the peasant jobs. I think we should emulate the Maoists and make the Koch Brothers and big CEOs of Corporations, Banks and other industrialists with salaries 200 times their workers to support their families on minimum wage flipping burgers and serving beer to their people. The Governors and the government, Senators, Congressmen, etc. could do with a healthy dose of hard work. Then they would be a little more in touch with reality.

And Presidents should have standards and ethics and a background in Land Management, Farming, and ecological knowledge. No more ignorant illiterate Presidents who have no ethics or standards of behavior. Presidents who are bought by corporations put shame on all Americans – Foreign and Native. 

Why don’t they elect a Native American like the Bolivian president? Or Chief Crazy Horse or someone else Native). The immigrants are the White People!

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Death is not the end, but a new beginning.

By MD

I never believed in reincarnation. The idea seemed too outlandish, too extreme. My philosophy in all things in those days was “once and done.” It seemed much more logical, more embraceable, even, to live life and get it over with. Who in their right mind would want to keep coming back, over and over, trying to correct mistakes and reconcile omissions from former existences? Certainly not me. Or it is “I?” That’s my point….one lifetime is enough to deal with the questions of grammar and who would want to have to relearn all that?

Well, if you haven’t guessed already, I’m writing this to tell you, dear Reader, I was wrong. My former existence was a tormented, painful time when I sought to end it all and good riddance. But now, in this new life, I know only beauty and joy. Look at my photo above. No, I’m not the bride or groom, so lovingly kissing by the shore. I’m a flower in the bride’s bouquet. Are you surprised, dear Reader, that I’m sentient? That I can write? Me too. And although my presence in this bouquet means that this new life of mine will shortly end, I now know for sure that death is not the end, but a new beginning. And I can’t wait to see what comes next.

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He lost her, eventually, about half-way along the bazaar’s alley.

By CC

It was hot in Alexandria, despite being on the water. His hat shaded his eyes as he looked around the parking lot. No, she hadn’t come back to the car. He’d had a bad feeling about this day ever since they woke up that morning. He couldn’t shake the dream of enormous sunflowers staring at him, an endless field of them under a hazy sun. And now Marjorie had wandered off again. 

This wasn’t new. She tended to explore, but now they were in a foreign country, a land with an exotic undercurrent, a dangerous subterranean tow. She was a slender, attractive foreigner in the eyes of Alexandrians, and that meant, to them, that she was probably wealthy. He headed back to the shops where they began their day. He'd lost her, eventually, about half way along the bazaar’s alley, but he wanted to retrace their steps from the beginning. Truthfully, he wasn’t sure just when he had lost her, or how.

Later that day he called the police and the American embassy, hoping he was just over-reacting, and maybe she had made new friends, or realized she was lost and was taking taxis all over town trying to find the hotel again. But, he sighed, that wasn’t likely. He didn’t want to leave the hotel in case she came back, but he couldn’t afford to stay much longer. 

He had fallen into the kingdom of uncertainty and confusion, where his only guides now would be his dreams. He forced himself to stay up many hours before succumbing to sleep, and whatever he would discover therein.

 

Session June 15, 2019

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It was just a flat stretch of road beside a row of small Dutch-style commercial buildings.

By BG

It was just a flat stretch of road beside a row of small Dutch-style commercial buildings. How the hell was I going to find this symbol written somewhere. It was a Sunday morning, nothing was open. All those places were locked up tighter than a drum at this time, and of course on a day when no one did business down here at all. The road was totally devoid of markings. There was no signage along the way either. What was I thinking, signing up for a cruise of the Caribbean with the Scavenger Hunt Club from our local area. It seemed like such fun at the time, a great way to meet other people and an activity that would give a different twist to exploring the islands. All went well on the first hunt which was on the ship. I checked that item off my list easily. This first island hunt was gonna be much more challenging. I traversed the area diligently to no avail. 

Along with finding nothing on the street, all the buildings were devoid of markings. So I sat down on a grassy spot on the opposite side of the road from the buildings. I then laid back looking up at the tops of them all. And wow, they were all ornately decorated up there past street level and I found my symbol up at the top of the building directly across from me. If I had only taken the time to lay down on the grassy spot and “daydream” right at the beginning, as the symbol said! I would have found it right off. There is definitely more challenge to scavenger hunts than I thought.

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He looks at it lovingly ,as if he were admiring its beauty.

By CC

It had bothered him for years, but he felt there was nothing to be done about it except change his attitude.  

So now he looks at it lovingly, as if he were admiring its beauty. But the key simply doesn’t work.

He carries it in his pocket on his commute, throughout the daily drudgery of his job, to the bar afterwards, and then sets it on his nightstand at night. 

The key, though it doesn’t work, seems to possess a totemic power that prevents him from just tossing it away. It means something to him. 

Eventually, he realizes that every day of his ordinary life is some kind of escape, though he isn’t sure what he’s escaping from. Then he learns what that is, and becomes enlightened. 

After becoming enlightened, he no longer cares about the key, and eventually it passes on to others, who may or may not be similarly affected.

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All paid bills should have been recorded in your actual spending envelope.

By TNT

Dear Ian,

I just saw a fishing boat and I thought you would like this. I know your last boat was lost when you had to go to the hospital with cancer. You survived, but your boat was lost. You told me it cost $3,000 to store it Did you have to pay for all your medical bills? How long were you in the hospital? You are better now, and I know how much you miss fishing. Personally, I hate fishing and get terminally sea-sick but this boat “Nordic Spirit” looks perfect for you. 

All your paid bills should have been recorded in your actual spending envelope. You could get a tax refund. A substantial tax refund! Then you wouldn’t be broke. I wouldn’t have to go to swap meets with you to sell my things to help you out. I didn’t have fun yesterday recycling and suffocating in your car while you try to get money from people who owe you. I’m like, why did I get rid of Joe – who bought me propane and cat food – for you? You have made a big mess just like he did. I’m not able to keep myself and someone else too. Thanks for fixing the toilet and septic (not a nice job) but I bought the parts at Home Depot for it. 

Yours truly,

TNT

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Supermarkets do everything they can to make us buy more than we need.

By RMAF

I love to go shopping. Antique stores, new stores, swap meets, thrift stores. Supermarkets do everything they can to make us buy more than we need – and I fall for their tricks every time I go shopping. I go in the store to buy about ten items on my list, and I go up to the cashier with a hundred times that. 90 of them I really could do without. But it is so much fun shopping! I love it! So I shop until I drop. Oh my aching credit card bills. 

May 18 2019 Session

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He felt too ill to drive to work that day.

By MD

Let’s face it. When Harry adopted Attila, he wasn’t too wise in the ways of the feline. The sturdy black cat, with the long, Michael Jordan-like legs, had appeared on his doorstep one morning and darted inside when Harry opened the door to discover the source of the interminable aggressive yowling which had awakened him from a sound sleep. It never occurred to him to name the feisty animal anything other than Attila – surely such ferocity deserved the appropriate, fear-inducing masculine name. And Attila seemed to settle into the name with ease.

You can imagine Harry’s surprise, then, when he awoke one morning a few days later to discover that Attila had given birth to two slimy kittens. As he watched his pet lick off the glistening goo, he felt too ill to drive to work that day. And he felt betrayed, as well. “Attila, you nasty animal, how did you let this happen?” The cat ignored him, as cats will do, and continued ministering to her newborn kits. So Harry poured himself a cup of coffee and, under Attila’s loud protestations, deposited each kitten in spare mugs as he pronounced gravely, “Attila, no matter your sexual proclivities, I’m not changing your name. I named you Attila, and Attila you’ll stay. And,” Harry gestured to the two mewling kittens, “your little black offspring I’m naming Genghis and the white one is Godzilla. Deal with it.”

And actually, the animals did. They grew and flourished in Harry’s home and soon exhibited the same tyrannical bellicosity as their namesakes. Harry lost his job but he enjoyed his life at home, catering to the dictatorial demands of his feline family.

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I feel that the language of recipes should reflect the visceral nature of cooking.

By CC

My name is Barquelus. My title is Chef for the Central Council of Penguins. My job, so far, has consisted of providing raw fish and raw crab cakes with seaweed garnish to the Council; so far this seems to have pleased them.

But I feel that the language of recipes should reflect the visceral nature of cooking. And one day a strange creature wandered in that could bring my philosophy to life!  I looked at the thing standing before me and thought – Humanus Gluteus Soufflé! Or, even more of a delicacy, Rack of Hand!

Clearly this kind of meal would impress the Council. But how to accomplish it without fire? Poking around the creature, which it seemed to find humorous, I located a lighter in one of its pockets. Good. I could get the clothes burning first, then one could only hope the fat would catch. 

But how to kill it first? I looked into the eyes shielded behind plastic goggles. My beak was long and sharp. If I could pierce the glass and then deep into the brain behind the eye, well, dinner would be on the table in a few hours!

The act took but a few minutes, as I had the advantage of surprise. I started the fire right then, but suddenly other humans came rushing over and started hitting us with cameras and their shoes. There were 7 of them, too many for us to take down.

In a rash move I snipped both its hands off and waddled away with them without being noticed in the general fracas. My plan could still work. Most of the Council had fled the scene and would appreciate a well presented and tasty Rack of Hand later, raw or cooked.

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Her mother’s eyes were blue, the same blue as her own. 

By CT

Teressa was an unusual bear. Her mother’s eyes were blue, the same blue as her own. Other bears mocked her, but she ignored them. She was special and she knew it. Her mother had passed on another quirky trait. Teressa enjoyed human companionship. Her favorite human was Josh. Whenever she saw him, she lumbered to him and covered his face with happy bear kisses. 

Josh secretly enjoyed the attention until the day she accidentally bit him and discovered he tasted like meat. He got away just in time. 

Teressa mourned Josh’s loss. Then Matt came along. Oops.

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This is a play performed for our benefit,

By BG

Madge was thrilled. She threw her arms open wide and pranced around the front yard like a school girl. Ever since she’d moved from the city, which had been a couple of decades now, she had not had her fill of cultural activities. She had missed them so terribly. Art exhibits, museums, symphony concerts and all sorts of theatrical events. Falling in love with Howard and accompanying him back to his middle of nowhere ranch was never to be regretted. Their marriage had been a wonderful fulfilling adventure together with really no time for the cultural stuff while Howard was still with her, but now it was different. He was gone and she was left alone in the sticks with very little to occupy her time. Her happy demeanor had begun to wane. Her family came to the rescue today as she received their news. A traveling theater company would arrive in the afternoon to set up for a performance. Madge’s son had let her know just now by phone: “This is a play performed for our benefit.”

Session April 20, 2019

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The Colonel did not merely dive backwards, but performed a somersault, entering the water head first.

By CC

He wasn’t a Colonel by rank, but by nickname, as the other Lemurs liked to poke fun at his pompous, pedantic habits. He was always the superior, always knew best. For example, at the pool the Colonel did not merely dive backwards, but performed a somersault, entering the water head first. 

Rufus decided to teach him a lesson. One day the Colonel approached the pool a bit earlier than usual; Rufus had already begun to drain it but now had to distract him while the last of the water siphoned away. “Relax,” he told the Colonel. “We’re all crazy. It’s not a competition.” 

“You little upstart,” shouted the Colonel, as he picked up Rufus and threw him in the now drained pool. 

The other Lemurs arrested the Colonel and he was tried in Lemur Court for lemurslaughter. However, the Colonel acted In Pro Per, arguing that Rufus had been plotting the Colonel’s death first, and won his case, throwing the entire community into an uproar.

The Colonel was shunned for a few weeks but eventually returned to his position in society. The other Lemurs stopped calling him Colonel, though. His name was just Burleigh henceforth. And they had an image of Rufus screen printed on T-shirts with his famous last words. The sale proceeds went to support Rufus’s small family.

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He carried the postcards around with him in his coat pockets.

By MD

Philately was too intense for Martin Van Der Peck, so he abandoned that hobby and started a postcard collection instead. At first, he asked the few friends in his social circle to send him postcards as they traveled. He soon realized that was a futile request, as his friends were just like Martin himself – mostly inert couch potatoes who never left home. 

“I’ll have to take matters into my own hands if I’m ever to acquire a respectable postcard collection,” Martin said to himself. “I think I’ll start by visiting Bala Cynwood.” It so happened that Bala Cynwood was simply the town bordering his own hometown of Gladwyne, but he was pleased to find a drugstore carrying postcards proclaiming in bold print “Welcome to Bala Cynwood, storm drain capital of the U.S.”

Martin Van Der Peck made it his goal to collect postcards from every small town in the United States. Middletown, Gladwyne, Wyomissing, Frontenac, Big Gap, Campo, El Cajon… he carried the post cards around with him in his pockets. 

Eventually, he invented specialized spectacles which enabled him to read the fine print captioning the back of each postcard. 

Unfortunately, as his postcard collection grew, Martin’s assembly of friends dwindled. You see, Martin Van Der Peck was an insufferable bore. The distinctive glasses made him immediately recognizable and avoidable, so Martin lived out his lonely existence, his coat pockets weighed down with postcards but no one to show them to.

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It was not until 1772 that the courts stepped in to question whether these little books violated the company’s monopoly.

By RMAF

In the mid 1700s, a book publishing company named Truth As We Perceive It had a monopoly on the series of supposedly non-fiction books Me and My Pet Dinosaur. Other book companies, jealous of their financial success, complained that the books were not true. They took them to court for fibbing, lying and duping the readers. This cut into the company’s monopoly and profits. 

What do you think? Could these tales of mobile, skeletal walker be true? Or were we readers just duped?

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He had become a rumor in the city, and no longer quite real: a figure one might hope to see only in the middle distance, in the hazes of heat.

By CT

Ronald strolled the length of the walkway. The ocean stretched to the horizon before him. The sandy beach twisted in the offshore breeze. He entered the Martello tower at the end of the walk and locked the door. 

Inside he arranged his things in precise order. He had everything he needed to leave the busy-ness of society and the city behind…except for food, of course. He formed the habit of walking to the village grocery in the evening, just before closing time. 

During the day, he meandered the shore line, seldom seen.

He had become a rumor in the city, and no longer quite real: a figure one might hope to see only in the middle distance, in the hazes of heat.

He liked it that way.

Session February 23, 2019

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I’ve lived most of my life in places that have a lot of wind.

By MD

When the boiler exploded on the Neptune and fire spread to the neighboring Poseidon, I wasn’t surprised. I’ve lived most of my life in places that have a lot of wind. What was surprising, though, was the way the Neptune’s captain lingered on the foredeck, surveying the smoke and the flames as firemen rushed to the boats cannoning water at the conflagration. I mean, the command that the captain must go down with the ship is well known, but that generally applied to a boat that is sinking, not burning up. And even though the gusting wind hadn’t quite spread the flames to the Poseidon, it was obvious the captain and crew were wisely in the process of departing.

“What about the captain standing on the deck there?” I shouted over the wind to a passing firefighter. “Shouldn’t he be ordered to leave?”

The firefighter didn’t break stride but yelled as he ran by. “That he is a she. The Mongolian Navy’s first female captain. She doesn’t speak English and doesn’t know she doesn’t have to go down with the ship.”

“Oh,” I said. I was gasping as I ran along beside him. “Stupid bitch. Isn’t that just like a woman. She probably feels it's what the man would do, and she’s making her statement for equality.”

We all watched as the captain caught fire from a blowing ember and was quickly consumed by the flames. 

“Well, at least she did her part for the women’s lib movement,” the fireman remarked. I had to agree.

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A keen ornithologist and egg collector, he watched birds in his free time.

By BG

Frankie grew up in a neighborhood right next to the airport. He spent hours laying in a chaise lounge on the roof of his apartment building staring up at the sky watching everything that flew by. 

Most folks figured he would become a pilot or maybe an air traffic controller. His family was very proud when he was accepted and went off to college. Life was very good. Frankie was an excellent student. He applied himself and got several degrees. Everyone in the neighborhood thought he’d never move back. He was destined for a career far, far away. What could he do in the city next to the airport with all those degrees? 

Everyone was so surprised one day when Frankie appeared on the news. He was introduced by the newscaster as a keen ornithologist and egg collector, he watched birds in his free time, and he was back in the area to save the birds from the airplanes. Oh, my!

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A yellow Labrador puppy ran out from under the cedars.

By CC

Jeremiah hated being called Jerry. The cataclysmic tantrums he threw if anyone made the error of using his nickname were the first sign of his dangerous temper. As he grew, incidents multiplied. He was written up countless times at school, sent to see counselors, therapists and pediatricians. Later he was prescribed medicine by psychiatrists.  

His favorite psychiatrist had a secret, embarrassing passion: He was an amateur parapsychologist. He had started with hypnotic regressions and ESP testing and moved on, by the time Jeremiah became his patient, to direct communication with the dead through a Ouija board. Jeremiah knew none of this. 

In a strange synchronicity, Jeremiah’s own oracle had begun coming to life. Three doll’s heads he had severed from his sisters toys and set on his dresser had begun to speak. At first they seemed to mutter amongst themselves, a sound he often confused with muted voices from the living room or kitchen. Occasionally he thought he could see eyelids moving up and down. Later he distinctly heard them conversing, asking questions of one another. He thought he heard, “His sister sure doesn’t think much of him.” and “A yellow Labrador puppy ran out from under the cedars!” and “He ought to kill that psychiatrist.”  Once they even said “Jerry is a jerk!” He punched his pillow one hundred times after that, but the doll’s heads were too fascinating to damage. Yet.

On his next visit with his psychiatrist, Jeremiah asked the doctor  “Why should you continue to live?” The implied threat flew right over the doctor’s head; it seemed congruent with such a disturbed young man’s diagnosis. He just smiled at Jeremiah while thinking with pleasure about asking his spirit guide what to make of it when he got home that night. Having received such an unsatisfyingly ambiguous response, Jeremiah pulled out his handgun and shot the psychiatrist. The sound was enormous in the small room. He got up and walked out.

At home, he went into his bedroom and shut the door. One of the dolls said, “That was stupid, Jerry.” Then he shot the dolls. Life would go on for him, but not them. And that was OK with Jeremiah.

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It was that midway point in the afternoon when there is a hiatus, a blank spot in time.

By JS

It was that midway point in the afternoon, when there is a hiatus, a blank spot in time. The words were not coming to me and my editor was expecting my first draft this evening. 

My daughter had been trying to persuade me to update to a computer and I was trying my best, but the words just didn’t flow when I stared at all that blank screen. 

And then there was “auto correct,” jumping about “correcting” words that didn’t need it, supplying unsuitable words that ruined my train of thought.

“But Mom,” my daughter argued, “it takes you forever to erase on that old Royal. And they don’t make carbon paper any more!”  Ha. Maybe it was no longer manufactured, but I know of several second-hand stores where boxes of carbon paper could be purchased – and cheaply.

Besides the rhythm of hammering those keys and throwing that carriage provided a rhythm for my novels. Except today. With the deadline almost here and the task of erasing yet another error – crumbs falling down into the keys – no wonder the keys kept jamming, ruining my concentration.

I gave up. Forget the editor. Forget the book. The ancient Royal and I would be on hiatus…a really, really long blank spot in time.

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She had always wanted a duck pond in he back yard.

By CT

When Hortensia moved to Samoa, she found a lovely home with an atoll-incased pond behind the house.

She had always wanted a duck pond in the back yard. The very next day, she thrilled at the sight of seabirds floating on the water.

One morning she stood amazed as she watched an orca breech the waters playfully. 

“Mmmmm,” she thought, perhaps my dream was too small. I now have a whale pond.