| You Don't Say! |
Art by Wendy Whittingham
 |  |  |  |
| THE CAT NAP A Short Story By Joe Perrone Jr. © 2010 Joe Perrone Jr. All Rights Reserved |
The hot sun beat down upon my exposed neck like a blast furnace. I wanted to move, but didn’t dare. Something deep inside, something primal,
told me I had better remain where I was – or else. I pressed my body closer to the hot, steamy earth, and smelled the fetid aroma that permeated
the soil, and clung to my flesh like a damp blanket. I knew that if I so much as twitched a muscle, took even the smallest breath, it would know, and it
would find me.
I had been holed up in the shallow furrow of plowed earth for so long that I felt as if I had become part of the moist, loamy soil that lay black and
rotting around me. Revolting, yet welcoming all the same, with its offer of safety. How long had I been here? It seemed like hours. I couldn’t recall
when the nightmare had begun – or where, or how – it just was. I thought back to the beginning; when I had first felt its presence – the beast.
Was it in the bedroom? Or had it been on the porch, as I lay beneath the old chaise lounge, protected I thought by the irregular striped pattern cast
upon me by the dank, rotting strips of canvas that covered the rain-swollen wooden frame, bent by years of exposure to the sun, wind, rain and
snow. It had been the perfect retreat. I’d be safe there, I had thought. But, wait, maybe it had been the bedroom, after all; that was where I spent
most of my time, curled up against the soft, down pillow, that smelled of geese, and reminded me of ancient times.
Never mind where the nightmare had begun, or when. It was real, and it was happening now. I trembled almost imperceptibly, and took shallow
gulps of air, trying not to reveal myself to it – the beast. Slowly, cautiously, it began to move away, making low, rumbling noises that reverberated
along the ground, as it crept silently toward the farmhouse, and away from me. With each passing second, I felt relief wash over me, like layers of
an onion peeled slowly away from its core. My breathing became regular, and I almost felt like I wanted to pant, but couldn’t. In exaggerated slow
motion I opened my eyes; first one, then the other, peering about with anxious anticipation. I didn’t dare to move. What if it had just moved away a
short distance? Then what? It surely would return and tear me limb from limb, jaws stretching wide, teeth bared, gleaming fangs exposed, shiny
white with saliva, with its huge, swollen, red tongue slashing wildly from side to side. I couldn’t risk it. I had to remain in place; but, for how long? My
body ached from inactivity, my joints burned, and my fur felt like the shell of a roasted peanut.
I decided to take a chance. Like a turtle, I swiveled my head from side to side, half expecting the beast to appear, but praying that it wouldn’t. I
gulped air furiously, straining to inflate the fleshy bellows that would fortify my blood, permitting me to make one last, furious rush to safety. This was
it. With every ounce of strength I possessed, I launched myself from the ditch. My legs churned like pistons. My arms pumped furiously, slashing
the air in a desperate attempt to maintain the delicate balance between running and falling. The farmhouse grew closer, and for a brief moment I
permitted myself to think the unthinkable – that perhaps I would actually escape. I might make it back to the porch and the inside of the house –
maybe even back to the safety of the bedroom, and my pillow.
That’s when I heard the unmistakable sound of its howling voice, screaming like a banshee, as it closed on me like a runaway freight train. I turned
my head and gasped. It was almost upon me. I could hear it snarling, feel its hot breath enveloping me like a noxious cloud, and I forced myself not
to inhale the smell of dead animals, liver, kidneys, chicken and pork bi-products, and all those natural ingredients that made up its diet – of canned
dog food. It may have had a name, this canine monster, but to me it was just one thing – it was the beast. And it was snapping at my heels, its
saliva spraying the back of my legs, as I sprinted headlong toward my goal.
Then, as if by magic, the farmhouse appeared. Had I willed it to be so? I couldn’t be sure. But, it was there. And, there too, was the little opening –
designed just for me – with its small, transparent, plastic flap, hinged on top, beckoning like the open doors of a cathedral. Sanctuary! In a single
bound, I leaped at the door, and felt my head smash against the acrylic surface of the flap. It gave, and swung inward, and I shot through, first my
head, then my body, and finally, my tail. There was a violent crash, and the door shuddered, but held fast, as the beast slammed into the surface. It
collapsed in a heap just outside, and for a moment was still. Then, I heard it sniffing around the opening, scratching at the impenetrable surface of
the door, and I felt a shiver of fear run through me, then relief, when I realized that it couldn’t possibly gain entry. Finally, whining with frustration,
and panting from exhaustion, the beast slinked away in defeat, and I felt myself relax at last. I trotted through the kitchen, and on into the bedroom
in the back of the house. The door was open, and I peered inside, half expecting the beast, but realizing that that was impossible. With a sigh of
relief, I lay down upon the bed, curled up against the safety of the ancient down pillow, and closed my eyes.
A moment later, it seemed, I awoke, and looked down at my companion, sandwiched peacefully between my legs. The little Calico purred, and
rubbed insistently against me. I reached down, and patted her gently on the top her head. She purred louder, seemingly relieved of some
unspeakable burden. Then I heard a noise at the bedroom door. It was my wife. She walked in, sat down next to me on the bed, and caressed my
forehead.
“So, did you two have a nice little cat nap?”
I felt a stirring next to me, looked down at my furry companion, and our eyes met in mutual understanding. I smiled, started to speak; then stopped.
What’s the use, I thought, you’d never believe me anyway.
THE END
.
told me I had better remain where I was – or else. I pressed my body closer to the hot, steamy earth, and smelled the fetid aroma that permeated
the soil, and clung to my flesh like a damp blanket. I knew that if I so much as twitched a muscle, took even the smallest breath, it would know, and it
would find me.
I had been holed up in the shallow furrow of plowed earth for so long that I felt as if I had become part of the moist, loamy soil that lay black and
rotting around me. Revolting, yet welcoming all the same, with its offer of safety. How long had I been here? It seemed like hours. I couldn’t recall
when the nightmare had begun – or where, or how – it just was. I thought back to the beginning; when I had first felt its presence – the beast.
Was it in the bedroom? Or had it been on the porch, as I lay beneath the old chaise lounge, protected I thought by the irregular striped pattern cast
upon me by the dank, rotting strips of canvas that covered the rain-swollen wooden frame, bent by years of exposure to the sun, wind, rain and
snow. It had been the perfect retreat. I’d be safe there, I had thought. But, wait, maybe it had been the bedroom, after all; that was where I spent
most of my time, curled up against the soft, down pillow, that smelled of geese, and reminded me of ancient times.
Never mind where the nightmare had begun, or when. It was real, and it was happening now. I trembled almost imperceptibly, and took shallow
gulps of air, trying not to reveal myself to it – the beast. Slowly, cautiously, it began to move away, making low, rumbling noises that reverberated
along the ground, as it crept silently toward the farmhouse, and away from me. With each passing second, I felt relief wash over me, like layers of
an onion peeled slowly away from its core. My breathing became regular, and I almost felt like I wanted to pant, but couldn’t. In exaggerated slow
motion I opened my eyes; first one, then the other, peering about with anxious anticipation. I didn’t dare to move. What if it had just moved away a
short distance? Then what? It surely would return and tear me limb from limb, jaws stretching wide, teeth bared, gleaming fangs exposed, shiny
white with saliva, with its huge, swollen, red tongue slashing wildly from side to side. I couldn’t risk it. I had to remain in place; but, for how long? My
body ached from inactivity, my joints burned, and my fur felt like the shell of a roasted peanut.
I decided to take a chance. Like a turtle, I swiveled my head from side to side, half expecting the beast to appear, but praying that it wouldn’t. I
gulped air furiously, straining to inflate the fleshy bellows that would fortify my blood, permitting me to make one last, furious rush to safety. This was
it. With every ounce of strength I possessed, I launched myself from the ditch. My legs churned like pistons. My arms pumped furiously, slashing
the air in a desperate attempt to maintain the delicate balance between running and falling. The farmhouse grew closer, and for a brief moment I
permitted myself to think the unthinkable – that perhaps I would actually escape. I might make it back to the porch and the inside of the house –
maybe even back to the safety of the bedroom, and my pillow.
That’s when I heard the unmistakable sound of its howling voice, screaming like a banshee, as it closed on me like a runaway freight train. I turned
my head and gasped. It was almost upon me. I could hear it snarling, feel its hot breath enveloping me like a noxious cloud, and I forced myself not
to inhale the smell of dead animals, liver, kidneys, chicken and pork bi-products, and all those natural ingredients that made up its diet – of canned
dog food. It may have had a name, this canine monster, but to me it was just one thing – it was the beast. And it was snapping at my heels, its
saliva spraying the back of my legs, as I sprinted headlong toward my goal.
Then, as if by magic, the farmhouse appeared. Had I willed it to be so? I couldn’t be sure. But, it was there. And, there too, was the little opening –
designed just for me – with its small, transparent, plastic flap, hinged on top, beckoning like the open doors of a cathedral. Sanctuary! In a single
bound, I leaped at the door, and felt my head smash against the acrylic surface of the flap. It gave, and swung inward, and I shot through, first my
head, then my body, and finally, my tail. There was a violent crash, and the door shuddered, but held fast, as the beast slammed into the surface. It
collapsed in a heap just outside, and for a moment was still. Then, I heard it sniffing around the opening, scratching at the impenetrable surface of
the door, and I felt a shiver of fear run through me, then relief, when I realized that it couldn’t possibly gain entry. Finally, whining with frustration,
and panting from exhaustion, the beast slinked away in defeat, and I felt myself relax at last. I trotted through the kitchen, and on into the bedroom
in the back of the house. The door was open, and I peered inside, half expecting the beast, but realizing that that was impossible. With a sigh of
relief, I lay down upon the bed, curled up against the safety of the ancient down pillow, and closed my eyes.
A moment later, it seemed, I awoke, and looked down at my companion, sandwiched peacefully between my legs. The little Calico purred, and
rubbed insistently against me. I reached down, and patted her gently on the top her head. She purred louder, seemingly relieved of some
unspeakable burden. Then I heard a noise at the bedroom door. It was my wife. She walked in, sat down next to me on the bed, and caressed my
forehead.
“So, did you two have a nice little cat nap?”
I felt a stirring next to me, looked down at my furry companion, and our eyes met in mutual understanding. I smiled, started to speak; then stopped.
What’s the use, I thought, you’d never believe me anyway.
THE END
.
FRIENDS & WRITERS by Karen Elizabeth Rigley Writing can become, ah, a bit of an obsession. Quiz yourself to see if you have a balance or if you are socially-impaired like me.Where did the myth of lonely writers come from? Real life. Probably mine. The weird hours, concentration and total submersion into our craft, take a heavy toll on our social lives. Friends are very annoying when they interrupt a creative roll, so we tend to brush them aside. It's hard for them to understand why we rarely return their calls, why we decide not to attend that new movie we've been waiting to open, or why we forget to come over when promised. "But I'm writing," we plea. "You can write later," they reply. It's especially difficult to sustain friendships with nonwriters, let alone nurture those friendships. Here's a quiz to see what kind of a friend a writer makes. Take it and see how you rate. 1. Your friends ask you to go to a concert with them. Do you: (a) attend the concert (b) beg off to meet a deadline (c) buy postage instead of a concert ticket 2. You invited a few friends over on the evening of the fifteenth. At eight P.M. you are: (a) putting the last minute touches on the hors d`oerves (b) scooping papers and manuscripts off the furniture (c) still in your robe, fingers flying over the computer keyboard as you swear at the doorbell 3. Your best friend calls to cry on your shoulder. What do you do? (a) say come on over(b) make soothing sounds over the phone as you continue typing(c) interrupt to brag about your latest sale 4. You're meeting your friends for lunch at a cozy restaurant in the mall at noon. Noon finds you: (a) greeting your friends and waiting for a table (b) in the bookstore across the mall setting up a book signing(c) home eating tuna fish and editing a final draft 5. You've just emerged from a long writing binge and suddenly feel very lonely. Now you: (a) go to a movie with a friend (b) call a few friends and find they've moved away (c) write an article on lonely writers SCORE: 5 points for every (a) answer 2 points for every (b) answer 0 points for every (c) answer 22-25 points -- TRUE FRIEND (obviously not a writer) 15-21 points -- OKAY PAL (you must not have deadlines) 9-14 points -- SOCIAL CATERPILLAR 0-8 points -- LONELY WRITER *** Karen Elizabeth Rigley is an internationally published multi-award winning author/poet/designer. Karen is recognized for her ability to touch readers with her myriad of stories, articles, scripts and poetry. She’s a member of Science Fiction & Fantasy Writers of America, IWWG and Sister’s in Crime. She was editor/director of Writer's Rainbow.Her work’s appeared in: Chicken Soup for the Soul: Love Stories, Underwired Magazine (Sept 08), On the SingleSide, Magic, The Magic Within, Grit, Science Fiction Review, ComputerEdge, Andre Norton’s TALES OF THE WITCHWORLD (Volume Three), CATFANTASTIC Edited by Andre Norton & Martin H. Greenberg, CATFANTASTIC II and CATFANTASTIC III, Romance Writers Report, RhymeTime, SouthWest Writers Workshop, Science Fiction & Fantasy Workshop, Inkling, Keystrokes, MysteryTime, Housewife Writers Forum, Strange Wonderland, Today’s Woman, Stuff My Ear Magazine, WritersReign, Today’s Writing Community, Warrior Wisewoman 2, etc. |
Excerpt from Just Breeze The halls of Whispering Springs Middle School rang with laughter, joking, and teasing. High-pitched chatter and friendly shouts of greeting ricocheted off the walls. Locker doors clanged open, clattered shut. A banner reading GO COYOTES fluttered from the ceiling. The smell of freshly waxed floors stung my nostrils. I sighed. My first day in eighth grade started out the same as seventh grade, sixth grade, fifth grade, and all the way back to kindergarten. Unless a new student had enrolled, I was still the tallest person, boy or girl, in my whole school. And my feet ... I yanked open the locker door and stuffed my gym shoes, or rather my canoes, inside. I wasn't about to let anyone see they'd fit an elephant, with room to spare. My feet were trying to set a record for gianthood and doing a good job of it. Turn green with envy, Sasquatch. I bet your feet never grew two sizes in one summer. I made a mental note to walk carefully so not to tromp on other kids' toes and break their bones. Eew. Painful. During the summer I actually had believed that when I reached the magical number thirteen, I'd be transformed into this gorgeous, teenage creature, like my sister Sara, seventeen, soft, wavy hair, size-six feet. I'd been thirteen two whole months now, and I'd changed all right, but not in the way I had in mind. Take my mouth for instance. *** Title: Just Breeze Author: Beverly Stowe McClure Publisher: 4 RV Publishing LLC Reading Level: Ages 9-12 Illustrator: Aidana WillowRaven 196 pages ISBN: 978-0-9840708-2-4 About the Book: Just Breeze FRIENDS, ENEMIES, ALIENS, AND PRINCES: JUST ANOTHER DAY IN MIDDLE SCHOOL Eighth grade starts out the same as every other year for Breeze Brannigan. She's still the tallest student, boy or girl, in her class, wears shoes that would fit an elephant, and her smile reveals dazzling braces that blind everyone within ten feet. Then she meets Cam, the new boy in school who speaks with an accent and must be from another planet, for none of the earthling boys she knows are so polite. He also has a secret, a secret that could mean life or death for Cam and his mother and that Breeze must help him keep. |
Seeley and the Grantuff By Linda Bond Chapter 1 Seeley mermaid was fed up. Her sister, Retishella was in town buying new clothes. “I’m sorry that you always get Retishella’s hand-me-downs” her mother had explained gently. “She’s growing so fast at the moment and scarce gets any wear from her clothes. I’ll give her old ones a sparkle clean before I hang them up in your wardrobe, they’ll be like new.” Seeley realised she couldn’t argue against the practical wisdom of her mothers words and nodded her agreement, but on the inside she was screaming “it’s not fair!” Just because Retishella was a little bit older than her she got everything new and Seeley ended up with cast offs again. Seeley realised her mother might notice the envious blue colour or the flashes of red anger that sparked in her hair and eyes, so she shook her hair and concentrated until they started to change to a calm green. Feeling proud of herself for having learnt to disguise her feelings so quickly, she stared out of the cave door. There, sniffing and poking around the back entrance to the cave was one of the cutest creatures she had ever seen. It was large and flippery like a seal with green puppy dog eyes and orange skin that twinkled with baby blue star-shaped splodges. Seeley picked up a colisca from the dinner table. The cucumber-shaped sea vegetable was one of their pet lobster’s favourite treats and she wondered if the creature would like it. She offered the long green colisca to the creature, which cautiously entered the cave to sniff it and took a small bite before grabbing it off her and swallowing it whole. “Oh, you’re hungry!” exclaimed Seeley as it pushed its brown velvety nose into her hand to ask for more. Seeley sang the creature a soothing song and stroked a blue star splodge on its head. It didn’t complain so she tickled it under the chin. It purred and a stream of glittery bubbles surrounded them both. Seeley giggled and tried purring back, but all she did was blow bubbles. The creature purred again, looking playfully at Seeley as if teasing her for not being able to do something it found so easy. “That’s really hard to do, show me how,” ordered Seeley, putting her hand on the creature’s throat to try and work out how the sound was made. The creature snorted its amusement and purred twice as long and loud as before. Seeley concentrated hard and forced a low, loud blooping sound from deep down in her throat. “Snort, snort” the creature lifted its head and shook with laughter at the mermaid’s pathetic attempt to purr. “There’s no need to laugh at me like that” Seeley complained, taking a deep breath to hide her embarrassed tears. “Purr,” she blew the breath back out. She paused for a moment, and then a broad grin broke over her proud face. “Purr, purr, purr” she repeated over and again, “see, I can do it too!” The creature seemed just as excited about her new skill as she was and rubbed affectionately against her tail, purring with her. She reached out a hand and stroked the smooth skin down the back of its neck. She wished she could keep the creature; she would ask her mother and promise to look after it. That would show them she was just as grown up as Retishella. Seeley’s mother was outside the front door of the cave tending the breakwaterweed beds when she noticed the shadow of a huge creature overhead. As it got nearer, her hair turned dark blue with fright. She realised she was staring at the powerful fins and huge purple bulk of a female grantuff. She had heard of these creatures, but she didn’t think they existed in this ocean. This one must be lost. This time of year they should be on their way to the grantuff feeding grounds in the Torzig Ocean. By the frantic, searching movements of the grantuff, Seeley’s mother knew something was wrong with the creature and was anxious to get out of its way. When she saw the pouch on its stomach she realised what the grantuff was looking for. Somewhere nearby was a baby grantuff and its mother had to find it. The instinct to protect their young was strong in this species and Seeley’s mother knew that this creature would think nothing of destroying the mercave and everyone in it in the search for her lost baby. The grantuff was heading straight for her cave. Seeley’s mother had to think of something fast. She swam through the front door calling, “Quick, everyone, in the blue cave,” and she pointed to the small inner cave where they kept their food. Retishella and her brothers Jofin and Tomlid didn’t need telling twice. They sprinted into the blue cave and crouched behind the door together in a huddle. Through a crack in the door they could see the mother grantuff poking its black velvet nose through the window of the cave. It was trying to get in. “Mother, where’s Seeley?” asked Retishella, desperately feeling around in the dark for her sister. They peered around the door of the blue cave and saw Seeley and the baby grantuff by the dinner table, blissfully unaware of the trouble that was coming. The mother grantuff had stopped trying to get in by the window opening and had found the door. As she squeezed through it she cracked the stone and took part of the wall with her. All she knew was that her beautiful baby was being held prisoner in this place by a fish girl and she wanted her baby back. “Seeley, watch out!” shrieked her mother, and as Seeley looked up the mother grantuff pushed her up against the wall and biffed her out of the way with such force that she flew through the window opening and landed with a heavy crash against the rocks outside the mercave. The mermother screamed. The mother grantuff looked around, startled by this sudden noise, screamed back, tucked her baby safely in her pouch and after once more squashing her great purple tail getting out of the cave door, swam swiftly off into the distance. They quickly splished over to Seeley, who had a nasty looking cut on her head, oozing blue blood, but other wise she seemed OK. Their hair flashed orange with relief. She could so easily have been killed. |
| CATWALK by Kathie Freeman |
This book is entirely a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any real cat, either living or dead, is purely coincidental, accidental, and unintentional.
Copyright 1998, 2002
May not be reproduced in whole or in part without express written consent of author. All rights reserved.
Chapter 1 - The Newlyweds
Heaven knows, I never intended to be the rambling kind at all. I would have been perfectly content to live out my entire life in one place, with a single
family to love and care for me, instead of wandering about the country like some feline vagabond, depending on my wits and the kindness of
strangers.
Certainly nothing in my early history indicated that my case would be exceptional. The circumstances surrounding my birth were sadly typical;
indiscriminate mother, anonymous father, just one of five unwanted kittens in an unwished-for litter, doomed from the start to be the unfortunate
subject of one of those universal classified ads; "Adorable kittens, free to good home", that sort of thing. Of course, female kittens aren't easy to find
homes for, even for free, so my sister and I eventually wound up in the local pet store, but there too, we were pretty much overlooked for a long time.
Then one day a pretty girl about five or six years old skipped into the store. Dark brown curls bounced below a blue knitted cap, and the matching
blue sweater hung carelessly off her shoulders. She marched straight over to our cage and poked her fingers through the wire mesh, trying to touch
my sister's tail. Sister swatted at her fingers with one tiny forepaw and the girl laughed. Her parents hurried over to see what mischief their daughter
was getting into. Frowning at us, the mother took her hand.
"Come on, sweetie, let's go," she urged. "We still have lots of shopping to do." When the child failed to respond, her mother attempted to lead her
away, but the result was instant rebellion.
"I want a kitty!" she wailed, clinging to the wire with her free hand. Her parents glanced at each other nervously.
"You don't need a kitty, sweetheart," her mother coaxed. "You already have a parakeet and three goldfish. Come on, now, we have to get you some
new shoes."
"I don't want new shoes!" howled the defiant child. "I want a kitty!" Her father tried to pry her fingers loose from the wire, but she hung on ever tighter
and shrieked at the top of her lungs. "I want a kitty! I want a kitty!" The parents began to get desperate.
"Darling, that's a girl kitty. Now we don't really want a girl kitty, do we?" her mother pleaded. "Now please be a good girl and we'll go to another pet
store and find you a nice boy kitty, okay?"
"I don't want a boy kitty! I want THAT kitty!" Her parents looked at one another in despair, each hoping the other had an idea. Neither did. Resigned,
they called the manager, who'd been standing nearby pretending not to notice the disturbance. He opened the cage door and put my sister in a
small box with holes in it. Then he added a bag of cat food to the sack containing the bird seed and fish food the parents had already bought. That
accomplished, the family exited the shop, the victorious brat skipping along proudly carrying her latest trophy, with her miserable parents following
along behind, totally defeated.
The next day was a long and lonely one for me. So was the next day and the next. The manager gave me a rubber ball with a bell inside to play with,
but it wasn't nearly as much fun as wrestling with my sister. Nobody paid much attention to me anymore, and it began to look as if I would be there
for a long, long time.
A week or so later an attractive young couple wandered into the shop. Sound asleep when they first came in, I woke up when the puppies in the next
cage started yipping. The young lovers strolled about the store, their arms wrapped around each other, looking at all the different animals in their
cages. When they finally arrived at my station I was just stretching out my muscles from my nap.
"Oh, Sam," the woman cooed, "isn't he adorable? Just like a little grey tiger."
"He's a she," corrected Sam, checking the sign, "and yes, she's adorable." Feeling playful after my nap, I chased my tail around a few times and
batted my ball across the cage. It buried itself under the shredded papers and I dove in after it, emerging nicely decorated with a sprinkling of
confetti. The young woman bounced up and down and giggled.
"That's what I want," she sighed, "that darling little kitten."
"Are you sure that's a good idea, getting a female, I mean?" Her companion looked rather doubtful. "What happens when she grows up and starts
having kittens of her own?"
"That's not going to happen," she insisted. "I'll keep her inside. She won't be any trouble at all, you'll see." She snuggled closer to her husband and
hooked her thumbs into his belt. "Please, please, please? It's my birthday, and that's what I really, really want, please?"
Sam laughed and kissed her forehead. "Okay Beth, if you're sure that's what you really, really want."
Together they picked out some cat food, a red rubber ball, and a blue catnip mouse, while the manager folded out another box with holes. I was on
my way to a new home.
* * * * *
"Have you decided what you're gonna name your little mischief-maker?" Sam was stretched out on the couch with his head nestled in Beth's lap. She
had her legs tucked up under her, and was twisting a lock of his jet-black hair around her fingers while I engaged in a thorough exploration of her
empty book bag on the coffee table. She giggled at his description of me.
"Mischief-maker, huh? I'll show you who's a mischief-maker!" She rumpled his hair and pulled a big handful of it down over his eyes. He reached up
and pulled her head down for a kiss.
"You didn't answer my question. What am I supposed to call the little monster? 'Hey you'? Or how about 'Yo, cat'?"
"Of course not, silly." Beth tilted her head to one side so that her long, blonde hair brushed his face. "How about 'Panthera Tigris'? That's the
scientific name for tiger."
Sam laughed. "So why not just call her Tiger?"
"No, Tiger's too common. I'm going to call her 'Thera'."
"Thera." Sam shook his head. "No good, no good at all. Sounds like a name for a planet, maybe, or a new kind of vitamin. I like 'Tiger' better."
"You're terrible!" Beth jumped up from the couch, dumping poor Sam onto the floor.
"Just for that you can scrub your own back tonight." She flounced into the kitchen and started banging around with the pots and pans. Sam sighed.
"Come here, Tiger." He reached into the book bag and tickled my belly. I nipped his fingers and he chuckled. "You really are a tiger, aren't you?" He
rolled my new ball off the table and across the room. I charged after it as it bounced off the bookcase and into the hall. I batted it back into the living
room, and Sam and I took turns knocking it around until Beth called him to dinner.
The next few days were rather confusing, with Beth calling me "Thera", and Sam calling me "Tiger", but before too long Beth gave up and started
calling me "Tiger" as well. After that it was easier.
My new home was small and cozy, with hardwood floors instead of carpeting, and a few small rugs scattered about. That was okay with me, because
wood floors are great for running and skidding, and the rugs were neat to crawl under or roll up in. I did wish, though, that my sister could have come
with me to this new place. It would have been so much more fun to have someone my own size to chase and wrestle with.
The young newlyweds were a study in contrasts. Sam was tall and dark-haired, quiet and muscular. His wardrobe consisted of blue jeans, denim
work shirts and sturdy high-top boots, and his transportation was a beat-up old pickup truck. Beth was short, blonde, and blue-eyed, a bundle of
dimples and giggles. She rode a little motorscooter to her classes at the local college, and she seemed always to have a book in her lap.
Some evenings after dinner the two of them played music and danced and cuddled 'til all hours of the night. Other times they played games like
Monopoly and Scrabble on the floor in the living room. I enjoyed the games, too, but I made up my own rules. My strategy was direct and simple. I
just charged into the middle of whatever game they were playing and scattered the cards or game pieces to the four winds. Since they never could
figure out how to put everything back where it had been, I won by default.
Early one Sunday morning Sam stood in front of the closet with several neckties in his hand, trying to decide which one to wear with his one and only
suit. I jumped up, snagged a pretty blue one and hauled it into the bathroom.
"Hey, come back here!" he hollered. He chased after me and cornered me behind the toilet. "Give that here, you little beast. Beth'd skin you alive if
she saw you with that! That was my birthday present last year." He pulled another one out of the bunch and dragged it across my back. "Here, you
can have this one. Come on, trade, okay?" He eased the blue one out of my claws and wound it around his hand. "You're going to get me in big
trouble, girl."
The new tie soon became my favorite toy. I'd trail it around the apartment with Sam chasing me, then he'd snatch it away and drag it into another
room with me galloping along behind, trying to get it back. It was a great game.
Months passed. The days got shorter and the nights a lot cooler. The leaves on the tree out by the street turned brown and fell to the ground. The
sky turned grey and cloudy, and a sharp, cold wind blew the dead leaves into the gutter and down the street. At night I had to crawl under the
blankets to keep warm. Down at the bottom near Beth's feet seemed to be the best place. Her feet were nice and warm, and she didn't kick around
all the time like Sam did. No matter how cold the weather, though, the little apartment always overflowed with warmth and love.
* * * * * * *
One chilly evening the young couple went out shopping after dinner, and returned with, of all things, a tree! I thought they had lost their minds.
They'd had plants in the house before, it's true, but those were just small potted plants that sat on the coffee table or dangled in macrame hangers
in the windows. This tree was almost as tall as Sam himself, and it had no pot nor soil at all, just a little stand cobbled together from two pieces of
wood.
"Okay, where do you want it?" Sam's voice came from somewhere behind the quaking green boughs.
"Over there, in the corner," Beth pointed, as though her husband could actually see her. "Wait a minute. Let me move the small bookcase." Sam
dropped the tree with a thud.
"Holy smokes, that thing is heavy!" He flopped on the couch and propped his feet on the coffee table. Beth scowled and he quickly put them on the
floor. "Do you know where the decorations are?"
"Of course I do. You just get that wooden thing off and get it in the stand." Beth brought out a box filled with all manner of bright, shiny objects, and
the two of them began hanging them on the tree. It looked like great fun, so I decided to pitch in and help out. I could only reach the bottom
branches, but I managed to knock three of the balls onto the floor before they ran me off. Peeking into the box, I spotted a long, glittery tinsel rope,
kind of like a silvery snake. I hauled it out and headed for the kitchen, trailing it behind me, but Sam cut me off at the door. He pried the "snake" from
my mouth and carried it back into the living room. He started winding it around the tree, and immediately I pounced on the other end. That's when
Beth put me in the bedroom and closed the door!
When they finally let me out again the transformation was astounding! Red and gold and silver ornaments dangled from every branch, and a parade
of colored lights blinked on and off. The exotic smell filled the apartment and excited my curiosity, but when I chewed one of the branches it tasted
awful and made me sick. I swatted at one of the red balls, but much to my disappointment it didn't come off this time. It was tied on with a piece of
yarn instead of a hook.
From that day on it seemed like there was always something going on in our little home. The evenings were filled with visitors, and the talking and
singing and eating lasted until late at night. Every day the cards piled up a little higher on the table in the corner, and fancy wrapped boxes nearly
overwhelmed the hall closet.
The whole apartment fairly floated with all the delicious smells coming from the tiny kitchen, as the happy pair baked cookies and cakes and
cinnamon-scented loaves, all of which they wrapped in foil and blue ribbons. Some they gave to the many friends who came to visit, and some they
took away in Sam's truck. Everyone seemed unusually good-natured and excited, as if any day now something wonderful was going to happen.
Finally the big day came. Sam and Beth brought out all the packages from their hiding place in the closet, and a spectacular pile they made. Big
ones and small ones, square ones and round. Beth opened the smallest one first.
"Here you go, critter." She threw me a brand new catnip mouse. Then she and Sam proceeded to unwrap all the other packages under the tree.
Soon the floor of the living room was littered with paper and ribbons and empty boxes. What an opportunity! I jumped into a pile of red paper, and it
made a wonderful rustling sound. I slithered under a big sheet of blue paper and carried it across the room with me. I raced back and forth again
and again, jumping and rolling and tearing. Sam and Beth were both laughing at me, but I didn't care. I hopped into one of the big boxes and
burrowed under the wads of tissue inside. Then I jumped out and back in again. This was the most fun I'd had in months!
Next I tried a smaller box, but I couldn't get all the way inside that one. My front half was in, but my hindquarters still hung out, so I pushed it until I ran
into a wall. At least I guess it was a wall. I tried to back out, only to discover that my front half was firmly wedged inside. I kept backing up, turning this
way and that, but still I was a prisoner. Finally I bumped into the coffee table and the box came off. Sam and Beth were lying on the floor now,
laughing until the tears came.
I plowed through the pile again, seized a long piece of red ribbon, and took off into the kitchen. Sam chased after me, but I was too quick for him this
time. I doubled back between his feet and zoomed down the hall into the bedroom. Under the bed I dove, the one place I knew he couldn't follow. He
reached in as far as he could, but I scooted out the other side and dashed back down the hall to where Beth waited, propped up against the couch.
She was laughing so hard I was afraid she would hurt herself. I draped the ribbon across her lap and rolled against her leg.
"Silly Tiger," she giggled. "Silly, silly girl." She tied the ribbon into a huge, floppy bow around my belly, and I tumbled and rolled, trying to dislodge it.
"All right, that's enough," Sam laughed. "Don't tease her too much." He untied the ribbon and rolled it around his hand. Then he began to pick up all
the torn paper and ribbons. He gathered up all the empty boxes and bags and stomped them into one big box and put it out for the trash man. I was
really sorry to see it go. It had been the perfect pussycat playground.
We had a long, miserable, rainy winter that year. For three full months it seemed as if the sun had completely abandoned us. Eventually, though, the
storms subsided and the sun came out. Blessed, glorious sunshine! The poor, bare tree out by the street suddenly burst into a cloud of pink
blossoms, and a hundred butterflies appeared and fluttered from flower to flower. The days were warm, the sun shone most of the time, and even
when it did rain, it was a soft, gentle rain that made the flowers grow instead of beating them down into the mud.
Every morning, even before daylight, a mockingbird outside our bedroom window woke us all with his good-morning song, his way of telling every
other bird in the neighborhood that this was HIS territory, and they'd jolly well better stay away. He and his mate were building a nest in the tree
outside, and a family of squirrels kept popping in and out of a hole in the trunk. The whole world seemed to be fairly bursting with new life.
About this time I began to get some spring feelings of my own. I didn't know what it was, exactly, just an odd sort of restlessness inside me that made
me want to get out and roam. The big black tomcat from up the street seemed to sense it, too, and every night he showed up to serenade me
through the window. I wanted very much to go out and join him, but I couldn't open the door by myself, and Beth and Sam simply refused to let me
out. No matter how much I begged and pleaded, they always said "no".
Once I got really upset and bit Beth on the ankle, not very hard, but she got mad and swatted me away. I didn't really wanted to hurt her, I was just
so frustrated I didn't know what else to do. After a time the strange feelings went away and I felt like my old self again. It was quite a while before
Beth would cuddle me again, though.
Something else had changed, too, something between Sam and Beth. They smiled at each other a lot more, an "I've-got-a-secret" kind of a smile,
and it seemed as if they never stopped hugging each other. Soon Beth started to get a little bit round around the middle. She wasn't getting fat,
exactly, but each time I went to get on her lap, there just wasn't as much lap as there used to be. This was odd because Beth had always been kind
of a health nut, and she still did just as many exercises as she always had, maybe even more, but it didn't seem to make any difference. She just
kept getting rounder and rounder.
Soon it was summer, and the hot weather kicked in for real. The apartment got dreadfully stuffy during the daytime, so they always left the bathroom
window open so I could lie on the windowsill and get some fresh air. At night they opened all the windows and set a fan on the floor to draw the cool
air inside. Now, instead of sleeping on the bed with them, I sacked out on the floor next to the window. It was cooler down there.
Sam and Beth had been making some pretty substantial changes in the room across the hall from where they slept. It had been Beth's sewing room
and library, but now they put up new curtains and silly wallpaper with rabbits and rainbows all over it. They brought in new furniture, too, a rocking
chair and a small dresser, and a little bed with railings all around. I naturally assumed it was for me, but every time I jumped into it they tossed me
back onto the floor. There were toys, too, a huge box full of them. Dolls, stuffed animals, and big plastic blocks in bright colors. When it was all
finished they closed the door up tight.
Beth had stopped going to classes, but she still read a lot, and when she wasn't reading she was sewing. I liked having her home all the time, but
she never seemed to have time to play with me like she used to. If I brought my catnip mouse and laid it in her lap, it was always "Not now, Tiger" or
"Can't you see I'm busy now?" Well, when was she ever NOT busy anymore? I tried playing by myself, but it just wasn't the same.
Then one day something happened that changed all of our lives forever. It didn't seem all that important at the time, but I can see now that that was
when the trouble all started.
I was kicked off the bed rather rudely that morning by Beth, who was obviously very excited about something.
"Wake up, Honey." She shook her husband's shoulder violently. "Come on, wake up. It's time."
"What time is it?" He rolled over and looked at the clock. "It's only two-fifteen. I don't have to be up 'til six. Go back to sleep." He rolled over and
pulled the covers up over his head. Beth shook him again.
"Sam, wake up! We have to go to the hospital. Come on!"
"The hospital? Now?" Sam was suddenly wide awake. "Are you sure?"
"Of course I'm sure! Come on, get dressed." She threw some clothes onto the bed and pulled a small suitcase out of the closet. Sam was rushing
around looking for his shoes, and Beth kept saying "Hurry up!" It was all I could do to keep from being trampled to death. I finally decided that under
the bed was the only safe place for me. They made a couple of phone calls and took off without even having breakfast. Luckily I still had some dry
food in my bowl from the day before, so at least I didn't have to go hungry!
Sam came home late that afternoon, much more tired than usual. He opened a can of cat food for me and went in and flopped on the bed. He didn't
even bother to eat or shower. I expected Beth to come home any minute and start their dinner, but it was well past six o'clock and she still hadn't
shown up.
Sam woke some time after dark and fixed himself a cheese sandwich and a glass of milk and carried them into the living room. I put my paw on his
knee and meowed and he took me on his lap and gave me a bite of cheese. Then he scratched my neck and between my shoulder blades and all
down my back. I hadn't had that much attention in a long time, and I really soaked it up! Beth still wasn't home when bedtime came, so I curled up on
the pillow beside him to keep him company. The apartment seemed so cold and empty without her there.
Morning came, and still no Beth. Sam fixed breakfast for both of us, and went out for a while. He came back a couple of hours later, happier than I'd
ever seen him. How could he be so cheerful when our beloved Beth was missing? I was really worried. She'd never been gone like this before.
Sam and I spent a lot of time together in the next couple of days. I'm sure he must have missed Beth just as much as I did, but he didn't seem at all
worried about her. Then one afternoon he brought her home again, and I assumed everything would get back to normal. I was wrong. Nothing would
ever be the same again
| For Red River Writer Every Natural Fact: Five Seasons of Open Air Parenting, By Amy Lou Jenkins Excerpted from the chapter Close to Home |
This morning a buck with just an inch of antler crossed in front of our car, grabbing my line of sight with his intent dark eyes and reminding me that
my eleven-year-old son and I were overdue for an outing. Nature came to get us. DJ claimed the buck stared directly into his eyes as he passed,
but I swore he glared into mine and even turned his head back over his shoulder to maintain eye contact as he traveled from parkway to suburban
lawn. His interest in us evaporated as his front hooves hit the curb. We kept watching him, unaccustomed to seeing a slow-moving deer so near.
Usually they bolt across our road or stand statuesque for a moment before darting back into the veil of trees and shrubs. This buck seized our
attention and then became oblivious to us, as if we didn’t exist in the same dimension.
Later that day, we crossed the black-top road, and I silently recalled the mess we’d seen there on an evening dog walk last month. Perhaps DJ did
too; his eyes focused on the same stretch of blacktop that revealed nothing of prior events, not even a faint stain. That night a possum laid split
open on the street and seven nubs of babies crossed the road ahead of the body, recreating an image of the impact. DJ had bent over one of the
nubs, shook his head and ticked the roof of his mouth. The mamma and her scattered pearls were gone by morning.
There’s a man in Milwaukee who drives an old truck under contract with the county and picks up offensive refuse that can be handled by one man:
dead dogs, raccoons, and all manner of carrion and objects dumped on the street. I saw his picture in the paper a few autumns ago when he found
a garbage bag holding a cold newborn baby with a smidgen of cry left in her. He called the Rescue Squad. She lived. I wonder if now that man
thinks of the baby girl, in a warm home, her light brown hair grown in. She’s got to be walking, already talking like crazy, now almost ready for
kindergarten. I wonder, as he scoops up death with his dark flat shovel, if he looks for life, if he turns his head and bends so that his ear grazes
each found garbage bag and if he stops to weigh discarded parcels with his large worker hands, and if sometimes he tears open bags of litter
dropped in arrogant thoughtlessness--just in case. I’ve never seen this man who works vampire hours, but I recall the strange reinterpretation of an
American Gothic picture: man, upturned shovel, pickup truck.
His services may not be needed so close to our woods. Our small road kill is always gone by morning. When a deer dies, we have to call the DNR,
and the carcass may sit a few days. For our smaller corpses, foxes slip out of their dens under cover of night, spill down the curb like quiet dark
shadows and, with their sharp canines and incisors, drag the unsightly dead out of sight and into the woods we were about to enter.
We found a trail after crossing a secondary stream. We shoved and jostled, competing for the lead spot on the trail, which was too narrow to allow
us to walk abreast. I took a wide step in front of DJ, cutting him off with my leg, and ran ahead. Low to the ground, I spotted two triangles of reddish
tan fur. Oh, ears, I thought, and a head, but the body flattened, so the whole thing looked like a red fox rug lying askew on the forest floor,
assuming the entire width of the trail. For a second I was fascinated, but then repulsed by busy maggot eyes and black carrion beetles feverishly
animating the fur with their group undulations. Flies formed a buzzing helmet-like force field around the death. I realized I hadn’t breathed and
couldn’t inhale. I ran back on the trail; maneuvering around DJ, I said, “Euww, I don’t want to be near it.” I didn’t want to smell the rotten pungency
either. A few yards behind my son, I turned around.
He’d taken steps toward the carcass, closer than I’d been, and stood transfixed at the consummation of this body. “Dad and I found a deer in here
last year, but it was just bones. It wasn’t gross like this fox.”
I’d acted like a girl, and DJ knew it was his job to be my antonym. He calmly walked back to join me in the place I’d found my breath.
“Mom, how do you think he died?
“Don’t know, but foxes in the wild only live about five years. Usually they crawl back into their dens to die.” I told him what I knew, but not what he
asked.
Brownbird’s Luck by Kriss Erickson. Deila wanted to see. She left the shutters open in her room that night, watching the fields until she dropped into sleep. She had a dream she'd had many times, but clearer this time than before. She was standing in a meadow, lush with grass and splotched with flowers. Painted daisies, buttercups, bluebells, hollyhocks, primroses, and dozens of flowers that Deila couldn't name surrounded her. There were so many flowers that she couldn’t move without stepping on them. The flowers’ perfume and glowing colors made the place seemed unreal even as a dream. It was a green, fertile place, totally opposite of the flat, arid land she knew. Deila stood in the middle of a circle of strange, tall people with long hair the color of wheat-gold, bronze-gold, beaten-gold, and white gold. She was taller in the dream, too — nearly as tall as Mr. Hiles — for she stood at eye level with them. The strange people danced, humming a melody that seemed to thrum from their skin, as well as their noses and mouths. She watched them unafraid. In some odd way, they were more familiar to her than the flatlander farmers and children she’d grown up with. She stood calm and still while a handsome young man with wheat-gold hair placed a silver cloak around her shoulders. The youth wore a golden collar, reminding Deila of the finery worn by Belden noblemen. The cloak was finely woven mesh that warmed her skin yet was cool to the touch, like metal. It fitted itself around her arms and waist, then closed tight, forming an impenetrable barrier. A word trickled through her mind. Chain mail. Had the strange people said that, or had she imagined that the shirt was a type of mail from her history lessons? The shirt tingled against her skin as if alive. She lifted her arms, spreading her fingers before her face. The people answered her gesture, spreading their slender fingers before their angular faces as if forming masks. The handsome youth swept his arm to the sky. "Go." “Go?” She moved her hair aside to be sure she’d heard correctly. Did they want her to leave? Had she done something wrong? Her tresses felt odd. She pulled a hank forward, then dropped it in alarm. This wasn’t her hair! This hair was thick and wavy. This hair was the burnished gold of autumn wheat. This wasn’t her limp, brown hair. She pushed it back, frowning as her fingers felt something sharp. A leaf caught in her tresses, perhaps? No! Her ear. Wait. This wasn’t her ear, with its oddly bumpy shape. This ear was smooth and its top came to a definite point. She looked up, her mouth forming words of wonder without sound. The young man wearing the golden collar smiled and pushed his hair aside so she could see that his ears were pointed too. "You are one of us," he murmured. He unbuttoned the top two buttons of his gauze tunic, turned, and showed her the back of his left shoulder. A little white scar, shaped like the crescent moon, marked his smooth flesh. Deila pushed back her tunic, but her left shoulder was bare. "It will come," the elf said. "Be ready. Now go. Seek your gift." Deila blinked. The elves were replaced by a night sky sprinkled with stars. A crescent moon, heading toward the full, floated overhead. A pure white unicorn galloped into view. It reared and neighed, the curve of its horn matching the crescent moon's shape. She woke, right hand clutching her left shoulder. She pulled her hand free and felt her ears. Bumpy and irregular as always. She lit her candle and sat, looking into the small mirror on the wall above her greasewood dresser. Her face was round as ever, her dull brown hair hung limp and straight to her elbows. She reached for a comb, then stopped. Something was tapping on her window. She'd fallen asleep with the shutters open, and little white moths bumped across the glass, attracted by her candlelight. She heard another noise. A horse's whinny. She looked toward the barn. A strip of gray lit the predawn sky. The whinny sounded again. Was it Molly? Or … or the thing Mr. Hiles had spoken of — the dark creature that wandered the night, stealing flesh and blood and leaving only the hides of its victims? Something glowed in the fields, as if someone was moving through the flax holding a lantern. The tall stalks parted. Was the sharecropper coming to speak with Da? No. The glow was too big to be a lantern. Another fire? She shivered. Blinked. Rubbed her eyes to make sure she wasn't still dreaming. The glow took shape, becoming horselike, its rider holding a flaming sword. No, there was no rider—the sword grew from its head. Wait — there were two shapes — one gold, one silvery white. The gold shape slipped into the barn, opening the locked door with a touch of its horn. The other stood guard. Deila heard another whinny. This time it was Molly's neigh. |
| High School Heroes by James Mascia |
Prologue
February
I wasn’t supposed to be dead by the end of my sophomore year! I had plans: get a car, go to college, attend prom wearing an outrageously
expensive prom dress.
Faced with my imminent destruction, I saw just how unimportant all those things really were.
I could hardly see in the dark room. He… no, IT was in there with me. They weren’t coming to save me this time, not after all I’d done to them. There
was nothing to stop it from tearing me limb from limb.
Why me? I asked myself for the thousandth time. Why did I have to be blessed with this curse?
Because, I always answered, you’re just that lucky.
School was supposed to be the safest place a person could be. That obviously wasn’t true of my school, not when things like that thing were
crawling around in its bowels.
Its low growl came from a spot by the door, my only escape. It was just toying with me. It could smell my fear. It knew what I was thinking.
Isn’t that ironic?
It was closing on me. Getting ready for the kill. Needless to say, I wasn’t ready to die. What fifteen-year old is? Still so much to do.
I couldn’t take it anymore. I crawled out from my hiding place and stood, trembling.
I never really thought of myself as a hero, but I really wished I was one just then. At least then I’d have the courage to take this thing on.
I looked into its face. I was looking at death. Mine. The thing made a noise, a sort of chuckle. It brought itself to its full height. Then all went black.
February
I wasn’t supposed to be dead by the end of my sophomore year! I had plans: get a car, go to college, attend prom wearing an outrageously
expensive prom dress.
Faced with my imminent destruction, I saw just how unimportant all those things really were.
I could hardly see in the dark room. He… no, IT was in there with me. They weren’t coming to save me this time, not after all I’d done to them. There
was nothing to stop it from tearing me limb from limb.
Why me? I asked myself for the thousandth time. Why did I have to be blessed with this curse?
Because, I always answered, you’re just that lucky.
School was supposed to be the safest place a person could be. That obviously wasn’t true of my school, not when things like that thing were
crawling around in its bowels.
Its low growl came from a spot by the door, my only escape. It was just toying with me. It could smell my fear. It knew what I was thinking.
Isn’t that ironic?
It was closing on me. Getting ready for the kill. Needless to say, I wasn’t ready to die. What fifteen-year old is? Still so much to do.
I couldn’t take it anymore. I crawled out from my hiding place and stood, trembling.
I never really thought of myself as a hero, but I really wished I was one just then. At least then I’d have the courage to take this thing on.
I looked into its face. I was looking at death. Mine. The thing made a noise, a sort of chuckle. It brought itself to its full height. Then all went black.
| WHEN FAIRIES SNEEZE By Sarah Simmons |
Long ago and far away there was a very special garden filled with very special flowers. These flowers had been named and colored by the fairies.
Every year, a fairy was chosen to create a new flower and decide what color it should be by sprinkling magic dust over it. Some of the flowers
included a yellow rose, a purple violet, and an orange lily.
This year was Pansy’s turn. She was so excited, and her wings glittered silvery sparks in the sunlight as she flitted from flower to flower.
“Oh, Titania! Look at this one!” she cried, spying a pink petunia. She darted over to the blue larkspur. “And look here!”
Titania, queen of the fairies, smiled gently at Pansy before saying, “Pansy, dear. You must pay attention. If you don’t sprinkle your magic dust over
the flower just so, surprising things can happen.”
Pansy nodded her head and tried to listen, but it was so hard! There were so many flowers to choose from that she was afraid she wouldn’t be able
to make up her mind. Finally, as the other fairies gathered around her in the center of the garden, Pansy chose a flower with overlapping petals and
a small dot in the center. While she tried as hard and as fast as she could, she couldn’t decide on the color. Afraid that the fairies would get
impatient as they waited, Pansy hastily gathered a large handful of magic fairy dust from her bag, even though she wasn’t ready.
All of a sudden, a twitch and tickle in her nose stopped Pansy. She tried to keep it in, but a large, loud sneeze sent her spinning backward. Magic
dust flew everywhere, coating all the flowers.
The fairies gasped. Pansy stared, shocked at what she saw. All of the flowers in the garden had turned red. There were red daisies. There were
red lilacs. There were even red daffodils.
“Oh, dear!” Pansy cried. She gathered up another handful of magic dust, but once again she felt the same twitch and tickle. She sneezed even
harder, spreading the magic dust over the flowers again.
“Pansy!” the distraught fairies huffed. “Stop!”
Pansy could only stare. Now the flowers were rainbow polka-dotted. There were polka-dotted tulips. There were polka-dotted lilies. There were
even polka-dotted violets.
“Oh, dear! Oh, dear!” Pansy gathered yet another handful of magic dust, and again, she felt the same twitch and tickle. This time she sneezed the
hardest, spinning round and round in circles. Magic dust settled over every flower.
“Pansy!” the fairies puffed. “Stop! Stop!”
Pansy’s hands closed over her face. She couldn’t look at the plaid snap-dragons, the striped peonies, or the plaid and striped buttercups. With
tears in her eyes, she turned and flew away as fast as her silvery wings could carry her to a secret hiding place in the garden.
Titania found her by the sun lit stream under a shelter of leaves that had fallen from the trees. Her wings drooped, her head hung low, and she
hiccupped as she sobbed.
“I’ve ruined all the flowers,” Pansy wailed.
Titania smiled gently at Pansy, and reached to stroke her hair. “No, Pansy. You’ve created a very colorful garden, even if a bit different than what
we’re used to.” Titania stopped and handed Pansy a small blade of grass to wipe her eyes. “The only problem,” Titania continued as Pansy blew
her nose noisily, “is that the other fairies have worked hard to choose their own flowers. They might not have wanted them to be so… so plaid.”
“Or striped?” Pansy asked.
“Or striped,” Titania repeated, smiling even more gently.
“But what can I do?” Pansy moaned.
“You must fix things. Only your fairy dust can return the colors of the flowers to what they were.”
“But the fairies will laugh at me.”
“Of course they won’t,” Titania assured her. “They understand. And when you are done, you still must choose your own flower and colors. It’s an
important decision, and you must take great care.”
Pansy brightened considerably, and felt much braver. She smiled at Titania, and felt braver still. “All right. I’ll go back.”
She followed Titania to the center of the garden where the colors from the mixed up flowers were bolder than the rainbow.
Pansy went carefully from flower to flower, changing the vivid colors back to their original hue with the fairy dust. The other fairies clapped and
cheered for her.
Then she turned to her own flower, still unnamed and colorless. She thought how beautiful some of the flowers had looked with more than one color
on them, and after carefully deciding on her favorite color combinations, she pulled out her last handful of magic fairy dust and began to sprinkle it
just so, as Titania had showed her.
Carefully, carefully, the magic dust settled over her flower, chasing the white away and leaving a splash of purple and yellow over the petals, with a
smiling, sunshiny face in the center. And when Pansy stepped away, she said in a loud, clear voice, “I name you… a pansy.”
The Adventures of Little Munch by Glen Bear Smith |
Prolog
First of all everyone calls me “Little Munch”. Life for me began with a thump.
“What—what, whoa, what is going on here?” I hollered as I was dropped on the ground.
Let me just open my eyes and see, “Holy Cow! Right there in my face was this big black thing with two holes and just above it two big brown eyes.”
“Hello there dear,” came the sweetest voice I ever heard. Come to think of it, it was the first voice I ever heard!
“Whoa—what, who are you?” I cried.
“Why I am your mother, dear. My name is Penelope. You are my new baby son. Your name is Beauregard of Hensley, the IV. Your father is the most
famous bull in the world. Beauregard Sr. is the champion of all the Black Angus bulls in the world. He is the king of bulls.“
“Where am I? How did I get here? I’m really afraid, Mother,” I said.
Mother then begun to lick my body clean from top to bottom and her tongue and touch were so nice. I smelled her breath and knew she was going to
be around for a long time.
“Come on now, dear, try to stand," said mother.
“Whoa there, Nelly,” I said. My knees were sure wobbly, but something deep inside me made me stand up. Then I found the best part of mother. It
was at the other end. Lunch! It was milk right from the factory and oh it was so delicious.
I really think I am going to like this. Mother is really cool.
Chapter 1
Munch Meets the Farm Animals
“Momma what was that terrible noise? It scared me.” cried Little Munch.
Penelope leaned down and licked the face of our little hero and said, “It is okay my son. It is only Johnny. He is the head rooster here on the farm.”
“What’s a rooster Momma?” was Munch’s quivering question.
“Why he is just a big, loud chicken. See all of those brown and white birds over there all pecking at the ground and clucking to each other? Those
are chickens, said Momma. Why that big old brightly colored guy is just the farms alarm clock. He lets us know when it is time to wake up.”
“Do you want to go over and meet him?” asked Momma.
“You bet was his eager answer. Right after I have my breakfast.”
Little munch sure loves milk; and just like all children, he drinks milk so that he can grow up to be big and strong like his daddy, Beauregard Sr.
Now that Little Munch was finished with his breakfast he licked his chops and laid down in the warm sun.
His Momma came over and licked his face and said, “Okay baby, now let’s get over there so that you can meet Johnny.”
“I don’t know Momma, he sure looks mean.” said Munch
“Nonsense honey, look how much bigger you are than him, and besides you are the son of Beauregard Sr. No one here dares to be mean to you.
Beauregard is the king of all the Black Angus bulls” said his Mom.
Our little hero took off running and jumping just like all new babies like him do, and ran right up to Johnny and said, “Hello Johnny, I am Beauregard
of Hensley, the IV, and my father is the most famous bull in the world Beauregard Sr. He is the champion of all the Black Angus bulls in the world. He
is the king of bulls.”
“Cock a doodle doo was the loud reply of Johnny. Hey everyone come over here and meet the new little prince master Beauregard of Hensley, the
IV.”
Turning side ways and talking out of the corner of his mouth so that the other farm animals could not see his embarrassment, Munch said softly,
“Please just tell them I am Penelope’s son. You are embarrassing me.” said Munch.
“Well okay little fella, if that is what you want. Everyone come quickly and meet Beauregard’s son.” said Johnny in his most polite southern voice.
Slowly Little Munch lifted up his head to see a gazillion animals running right at him.
“Whoa there Nelly,” said the baby calf as he ran around behind his mother. Now looking out under her belly he looked over the crowd that came to
meet him.
“Come on out of there now boy and meet your neighbors,” said Johnny.
After a reassuring glance up at his momma, he slowly walked up beside Johnny and said, “Hello everyone I am Beauregard of Hensley, the IV, My
father is the most famous bull in the world. Beauregard Sr. is the champion of all the Black Angus bulls in the world. He is the king of all the bulls.”
Cautiously they all came forward and began to introduce themselves. There were hundreds of chickens, bunches of ducks and geese, three cats
and their kittens, three dogs, seven horses, some pigs and nine calves that looked just like himself. There was one that really stood out.
Munch walked up to the calf and said, “ W..Who are you?”
“Oh silly I thought you knew, I am Melissa. I am your sister. We have been waiting a long time to meet you.”
Having said that she took him all over the farm introducing him to every creature and they ran and jumped just like children everywhere do.
After a while there was a feeling in his tummy that he had never felt before. “My belly is growling at me. said Munch. What is wrong with me?”
“OH, said Melissa. I know. You are hungry. We had better get you back to your Mother.”
Now that was the first thing that this crazy female said that really made sense. Soon Little Munch was safely back with his momma having lunch. Oh
how he loved a bunch of lunch, so sweet and creamy.
After lunch Munch lay down for a nap. He sure had a big morning. Lying there in the sun, he was soon fast asleep. What a day.
Munch Meets the Farm Animals
“Momma what was that terrible noise? It scared me.” cried Little Munch.
Penelope leaned down and licked the face of our little hero and said, “It is okay my son. It is only Johnny. He is the head rooster here on the farm.”
“What’s a rooster Momma?” was Munch’s quivering question.
“Why he is just a big, loud chicken. See all of those brown and white birds over there all pecking at the ground and clucking to each other? Those
are chickens, said Momma. Why that big old brightly colored guy is just the farms alarm clock. He lets us know when it is time to wake up.”
“Do you want to go over and meet him?” asked Momma.
“You bet was his eager answer. Right after I have my breakfast.”
Little munch sure loves milk; and just like all children, he drinks milk so that he can grow up to be big and strong like his daddy, Beauregard Sr.
Now that Little Munch was finished with his breakfast he licked his chops and laid down in the warm sun.
His Momma came over and licked his face and said, “Okay baby, now let’s get over there so that you can meet Johnny.”
“I don’t know Momma, he sure looks mean.” said Munch
“Nonsense honey, look how much bigger you are than him, and besides you are the son of Beauregard Sr. No one here dares to be mean to you.
Beauregard is the king of all the Black Angus bulls” said his Mom.
Our little hero took off running and jumping just like all new babies like him do, and ran right up to Johnny and said, “Hello Johnny, I am Beauregard
of Hensley, the IV, and my father is the most famous bull in the world Beauregard Sr. He is the champion of all the Black Angus bulls in the world. He
is the king of bulls.”
“Cock a doodle doo was the loud reply of Johnny. Hey everyone come over here and meet the new little prince master Beauregard of Hensley, the
IV.”
Turning side ways and talking out of the corner of his mouth so that the other farm animals could not see his embarrassment, Munch said softly,
“Please just tell them I am Penelope’s son. You are embarrassing me.” said Munch.
“Well okay little fella, if that is what you want. Everyone come quickly and meet Beauregard’s son.” said Johnny in his most polite southern voice.
Slowly Little Munch lifted up his head to see a gazillion animals running right at him.
“Whoa there Nelly,” said the baby calf as he ran around behind his mother. Now looking out under her belly he looked over the crowd that came to
meet him.
“Come on out of there now boy and meet your neighbors,” said Johnny.
After a reassuring glance up at his momma, he slowly walked up beside Johnny and said, “Hello everyone I am Beauregard of Hensley, the IV, My
father is the most famous bull in the world. Beauregard Sr. is the champion of all the Black Angus bulls in the world. He is the king of all the bulls.”
Cautiously they all came forward and began to introduce themselves. There were hundreds of chickens, bunches of ducks and geese, three cats
and their kittens, three dogs, seven horses, some pigs and nine calves that looked just like himself. There was one that really stood out.
Munch walked up to the calf and said, “ W..Who are you?”
“Oh silly I thought you knew, I am Melissa. I am your sister. We have been waiting a long time to meet you.”
Having said that she took him all over the farm introducing him to every creature and they ran and jumped just like children everywhere do.
After a while there was a feeling in his tummy that he had never felt before. “My belly is growling at me. said Munch. What is wrong with me?”
“OH, said Melissa. I know. You are hungry. We had better get you back to your Mother.”
Now that was the first thing that this crazy female said that really made sense. Soon Little Munch was safely back with his momma having lunch. Oh
how he loved a bunch of lunch, so sweet and creamy.
After lunch Munch lay down for a nap. He sure had a big morning. Lying there in the sun, he was soon fast asleep. What a day.
| WUFFY IN THE WOODS by K. E. Rigley |
Wuffy liked sunny days. Today was sunny and bright with white puffy clouds in the blue sky. Birds sang. Wuffy felt happy, so he went for a walk in the woods. He strolled through the trees and past a berry bush. There he saw a log. He sat down on it. “Who’s there?” asked the log. “What?” Wuffy cried, jumping up. “Logs don’t talk.” “I’m not a log.” Out popped a chipmunk from the end of the log. “Oh, you scared me,” said Wuffy. “I’m sorry.” The chipmunk smiled. “My name is Chipper. Do you want to be my friend?” “Sure,” Wuffy answered. “Want to go for a walk with me?” “Okay.” They laughed and ran through the woods together. “Who? Who?” called an owl from high in a tree. “I’m Wuffy.” “And I’m Chipper.” “Why are you in my woods?” the owl asked, staring at them through big blinking eyes. “We are going for a walk,” Wuffy answered. “Want to come with us?” Chipper asked. “No. You woke me,” scolded Owl. “I sleep in the day.” “We didn’t mean to wake you,” Wuffy said, feeling bad. “We’ll be more quiet,” Chipper said. “See that you do,” Owl grumbled, before tucking his feathers and closing his eyes. Wuffy and Chipper tip-toed away trying not to giggle until they were far from Owl. Soon they came to a bubbling brook. “I’m hot. Can we play in the water?” Wuffy asked, swishing his toes in the cold brook. “Let’s step on the stones and go all the way across.” Chipper scampered onto a big stone in the water. Wuffy followed. “Whoa! These are slippery.” “They are.” Chipper jumped to another stone to stay ahead of his friend. “Whoops!” Wuffy waved his arms as he started to slip off the rock. SPLASH! He fell into the water. “Oh, look at you.” Chipper started to laugh, then he slipped, too. With another big splash, he landed by his friend in the water. “Stop that,” scolded a bear cub. The bear held up his empty paws. “You scared my fish away.” “We’re sorry, Bear,” Wuffy said. “We didn’t know you were fishing,” Chipper added, as they climbed out of the brook. “We’ll go somewhere else to play.” “See that you do,” Bear grumbled, looking for another fish. “Okay,” they said together. They moved along the grassy bank away from the little bear. Then Wuffy looked at his friend and giggled. “You’re all wet.” “So are you,” Chipper said with a laugh. They both shook the water off just like a wet puppy would do. “Hey, you got me wet,” a bunny said, as he popped out of his hole. “Sorry,” Wuffy told the bunny. “We didn’t know you were there,” Chipper said. “Do you want to play with us?” “No thanks.” The bunny wiggled his pink nose. “It’s dinner time.” “Then we’d better go home,” Wuffy said, sad to end his adventure. “See that you do,” Bunny scolded, before popping back into his hole. “Okay,” Chipper agreed, following Wuffy. At the edge of the woods, they stopped by Chipper’s log. “Should I come see you again tomorrow?” Wuffy asked his new friend. “See that you do,” Chipper answered in a silly voice. “See that you do,” Wuffy repeated. Then the two friends giggled so hard, they fell down laughing. The End |
| TUMBLEWEED by K. E. Rigley |
“Thanks for the ride.” Jared stared out the stranger’s car window, trying to ignore the pungent cigar smoke stinging his eyes and nostrils. He knew
he should be careful about hitching rides, but he was tired, chilled and this sedan had been the only vehicle by in hours. Wind howled and moaned
outside the car with temperatures dropping even lower as desert night crept closer.
He told himself that he should feel lucky the guy had stopped. Dangers awaited unprepared travelers out here in the middle of nowhere. Jared
shifted slightly in his seat, his near empty wallet poking him as he adjusted. His dad had sent bus money, but he’d spent it. Most of it, anyway.
Besides, this wasn’t the first time he’d hitch-hiked home from college.
Barren landscape whizzed past as the red sedan raced down a ribbon of highway. A hawk silhouetted against the cloud-laden sky dipped and dived
in protest against the invasion of car and roadway. Jared felt a deep kinship with the hawk. He also resented the noise, pollution and destruction of
nature. Even that moment he sensed the intrusion of civilization upon the twilight purpled wilderness where nocturnal creatures stirred camouflaged
by sagebrush and deepening shadows.
Windgusts swept dust and tumbleweeds across the desert, occasionally obscuring the road. Jared sighed, finally realizing how much he had missed
the magnificent desolation of the sprawling Southwest. He’d enjoyed his freshman year at the university, but itched to get back to the ranch. He
shared a spiritual link with this isolated land; a world away from city traffic, smog and sirens. He’d had enough of too many people, too many
buildings and too much noise. Maybe he wouldn’t return to school this coming fall. Here, he found harmony. Here, he belonged.
A coughing spasm hit him. He covered his nose and mouth with a hanky and pressed his face to the cool smooth glass of the window. His cough
subsided as he inhaled the filtered air to screen away some of the smoke. The cigar smoke was bad, but the salesman’s driving was even worse.
Stomach lurching, Jared felt shocked and horrified as the stranger purposely aimed for two defenseless rabbits, frozen on the highway by advancing
headlights. In that instant, a tumbleweed appeared from nowhere to knock into the front fender, making the car just miss the innocent creatures.
Jared uttered a silent prayer of thanks.
A tumbleweed twirled and rolled, racing along with the car as the cigar smoking driver swerved the vehicle across the center line. C-R-U-N-C-H.
The weed was pulverized. Jared tensed, wishing for the courage to get out and walk. At least it wasn’t a rabbit this time.
More tumbleweeds danced alongside the sedan as if laughing at the driver’s tactics. Jared thought the car would smash another weed, but a rabbit
dashed out into the road ahead of them. The driver aimed straight for the rabbit. Fortunately, it was spooked by the tumbleweeds and skittered
away.
Whew! Jared couldn’t handle killing any animal. What had he got himself into? No ride was worth this. “I want out,” he announced, surprising
himself as much as the driver. “Stop right here and let me out of the car.”
“What? You crazy, kid?” The man breathed dragon breath from the cigar as he spoke. “It’s night, a storm’s brewing and we’re way out in no man’s
land.”
“I’d rather be stranded in here, than spend another minute in this car with you,” Jared retorted, certain this man typified everything rotten, defiling
nature and not giving a damn.
“Something wrong with my driving?” the stranger snapped, cigar dangling from his thick lips as he jerked the wheel to crush another tumbleweed
under the tires.
“Yeah.”
“Squeamish about a few bunnies?” The guy laughed cruelly. “Where’s your sense of sport, kid? It’s just weeds and dumb animals.”
“Let me out.”
“Don’t be a fool. The desert’s dangerous.” As the man spoke, he drove recklessly, weaving the vehicle back and forth across the lanes to chase
the tumbleweeds.
“I’ll take my chances. Just stop.” Jared was alarmed to hear the urgency in his own voice. He wanted out so badly, he considered bailing out of the
moving car. For a moment he thought he might have to try, but the driver slammed on the brakes.
“Okay. Get out, you little creep. Let the rattlesnakes keep you company.” Then the salesman grabbed at Jared’s knapsack, but the boy pulled it
out of the car as he jumped out and slammed the door.
The car screeched off, flipping gravel as it peeled out. Jared watched the automobile streak down the highway, an army of tumbleweeds scurrying
along behind it until they all disappeared into the silvery dusk, leaving the youth standing alone.
“I’ll be fine,” he whispered to himself.
Wind whipped dust and debris to blind him momentarily. Cold nipped through his denim jacket and jeans. He could taste the taste the dirt. By the
time the dust cloud cleared enough for him to see, a huge gray semi-truck roared to a stop, shaking the ground.
The passenger door flipped open and Jared peered up into the now lit cab. A scruffy, bearded trucker grinned down at him. “Howdy, son. Want a
lift?”
“Sure. I didn’t even see you drive up.” Jared suddenly hesitated. “You don’t smoke cigars do you? Or run over rabbits?”
The trucker let loose a hearty belly laugh, brown eyes crinkling below hairy brows. “Not me. Hop up, boy. It’s no night to brave the elements.”
A deafening crack of thunder punctuated the trucker’ words and icy raindrops plopped onto his face as Jared scrambled into the rig. “Thanks for
the ride, Mister.”
“What comes around, goes around,” the trucker bellowed, revving the engine. Instantly, the big rig rumbled down the highway.
“Look ahead,” Jared yelled. “What’s that?”
The desert landscape was cloaked in night shadow as they zoomed closer with headlights illuminating the sight, still, he could identify the object. A
red sedan, covered by tumbleweeds, had crashed into an outcrop of boulders off the roadside.
“Hey, that’s the car was just riding in! It’s totaled,” Jared cried, realizing he would’ve been inside if he hadn’t demanded on getting out when he did.
That weirdo had probably aimed for another poor rabbit and lost control. For one moment, Jared wondered if the driver had felt the same panic as
the terrified rabbits had. He shook the thought away, sickened as they drew even with the wrecked car. What an impact! It looked like crumpled tin-
foil.
The huge truck roared on past. Tail-winds sent tumbleweeds flitting away into the desert as if they were celebrating the crash. Jared could
understand. That cigar-puffing salesman wouldn’t crush anymore tumbleweeds. Or rabbits.
He felt a pang of remorse as the accident scene dropped behind them. “Stop! We’ve got to do something. Maybe that guy’s hurt.”
“See how that car was smashed? Nobody survived.”
“But I’ve got to try and help him.”
“Trust me. It’s too late now, son.”
“We have to do something,” Jared responded, his stomach wrenching into knots.
“Don’t worry. I’ll call in the accident.”
“Good,” Jared muttered, trying to cope with an avalanche of emotion. The storm escalated around them, whipping the desert as wind buffeted the
truck cab and seemed to whistle, “Justice, justice.”
The wind silenced as the trucker’s deep voice rumbled over the airways, “Control, this is Brer Rabbit. Tumbleweeds got another one.”
***
| The Real Reason the Wolf Tried to Eat Little Red Riding Hood by Peggy Greene |
Jeremy was a very handsome wolf in adulthood, but he never quite got over having been the runt of the litter. His mother tried to make him feel
better about his being small, but it was a big litter, and by the time he got to eat, there was very little food left for him. His older brothers were
particularly mean, and they picked on him if he tried to sneak in for an early feeding. They would nip him, and no amount of his mother’s consolation
could make up for the lack of food.
Thus the Jeremy grew up with an inferiority complex. Did I mention that his brothers Alfred and Hugo also taunted him that Jeremy was a sissy name
which made matters even worse. Frankly Jeremy survived to adult wolfhood only by being very sneaky, and it became a way of life to him. It made
his mother sad.
Jeremy’s brothers grew up to be very tough, but they were kind of dumb too. Jeremy’s sneakiness kept him and his mother well fed with the
chickens from Farmer Hood’s chicken coop. No matter what, Farmer Hood could just not keep Jeremy from stealing his chickens. Alfred and Hugo
on the other paw were both wearing buckshot from the farmer’s shotgun, and they were very skinny from subsisting on grubs and rodents.
Jeremy had caught up in growth with his other brothers by eating all that chicken, but he still felt inferior. When Hugo got outsmarted by the three
little pigs, it was Jeremy’s turn to laugh at his brother, and when Alfred ran from Peter’s gun with a cork in it, Jeremy couldn’t resist bragging about
his success with Farmer Hood’s chickens. The only problem was that Farmer Hood gave up chicken farming because all the stealing made it
unprofitable. Just when Jeremy thought he had a life’s profession, he and his mother were getting hungry again.
When Alfred and Hugo caught Jeremy dressed up in a sheepskin to make a try for Mary’s little lamb, he knew he was really in for it unless he could
pull off something spectacular. Jeremy was desperate; his brothers’ guffaws were awful. What could be more spectacular for dinner than a juicy
little girl in a red riding hood? So Jeremy began to stalk her, and he knew just when she would go to Grandma’s house in the woods. Little Red
Riding Hood was so nice to her grandmother that Jeremy felt bad about needing to eat her, but he put that out of his mind. Business was business,
and that was that.
Twice he tried to surprise her, but that girl was spry. Each time she outran him. Admittedly he was getting pretty weak from hunger, but it still
embarrassed him. He was not about to risk Alfred or Hugo seeing him outrun by a slip of a girl so he decided to wait outside Grandma’s house. He
rang the bell to see if Grandma was home. Surprisingly, she opened the door. He was just so famished that he jumped on her and gobbled her up.
She was old and chewy without much meat on her, but it was still food. He was just finishing up when he saw Little Red Riding Hood coming up the
path, so quick as a wink, he kicked the bones under the sofa, threw on Grandma’s nightgown, and jumped in bed. Grandma’s night cap and glasses
were on the night stand so he clapped them on.
Well, you know the rest. Little Red Riding Hood was not fooled for a minute. She caught on to his gambit and was off like a flash. Jeremy got
tangled up in Grandmas’ nightgown. He forgot he was wearing her glasses and ran into the doorframe, and the nightcap fell over his eyes.
Disoriented and still belching Grandma, he was a sitting duck for that hunter in the woods. As the hunter fired his gun, Jeremy thought how sad it
was that his career was being ended by one spry little girl.
| KLYR Breaking News Bulletin by Peggy Greene |
Jim Kibble here with a late-breaking KLYR news bulletin. General Alert. This just in. We have a ninth reported case of a robot gone berserk. All
are products of the Ultra Lifestyle Manufacturing Company. Barbara Bingley, a woman in East Orange, New Jersey, was chased out of her home
early this morning by a Better-Than-Butler robot named Jeeves. Mrs. Bingley claims that Jeeves who had served them for years, suddenly took
offense at being called stupid. Jeeves was in hot pursuit behind Mrs. Bingley when he failed to stop for a red light and was hit by a taxi cab, to the
great relief of Mrs. Bingley who has been hospitalized with head injuries.
Ultra Lifestyle, better known as ULM, is issuing a recall of all Better-Than-Butler robot models with serial numbers beginning QX5962 and all Duly-
Dutiful-Dog robot models with serial numbers beginning QX7742. The company has identified the problem as a transposition in the metal semi-
conductors used for the cooling of the robots’ intricate computers.
Normally the computers are cooled through what is known as the Bridgman Effect, also known as the Internal Peltier Effect. This phenomenon uses
two metal semi-conductors of differing anisotropical crystal materials. These crystals pass an electrical current from the higher temperature to the
lower metal temperature, and this creates a heat sink to keep the robots’ powerful computers cool. However, if the metals are reversed, the current
actually creates heat. The reversal appears to have occurred although it has yet to be explained.
Company spokesperson, Alma Doolittle declined to respond to the rumor that a disgruntled employee is responsible for deliberately switching the
essential metals. She also discounts claims that a Better-Than-Butler model took offense at the owner’s tone of voice before actually pushing its
owner off the balcony into a swimming pool during her early morning massage. The woman from Tampa, Florida, claims the robot then plunged into
the pool after her, and the electricity from the fuel cell gave her a brief but terrifying shock. She is threatening a class action suit.
Ms. Doolittle expressed concern that a Duly-Dutiful-Dog named Fang failed to respond to the fingerprint password entered by its owners which
caused the robot to attack them, despite repeated voice commands. Ted and Elmira Zoonlikker of Grays Lake, Illinois, were rescued by the police
and required emergency room treatment. The device gave the police a lively battle before being subdued. Mr. Zoonlikker suffered severe gashes,
and he will require several weeks of therapy.
In fairness to Ultra Lifestyle, most reported cases of robotic failure that this reporter followed up, merely resulted in a cessation of the robot’s
functions due to the meltdown of a memory chip.
Ms. Doolittle claims the inventions are sound if built correctly, but that an additional fail-safe circuit will be added to all robotic units to prevent any
such future misdirected activities. She pointed to the lifetime warranty of each ULM unit as evidence of her company’s confidence in their products.
Customer satisfaction has remained high over the years for the company’s labor saving and safety devices.
The thermo-electric coolers also have proven safe in the past, and ULM is currently investing $100 million in solar-powered jumpsuits and other
outdoor wear that will be cooled by the same Internal Peltier Effect process. In these times of soaring outdoor temperatures, such wear will no doubt
provide welcome relief for essential and enjoyable outdoor activities.
The KLYR staff joins ULM in wishing Mrs. Bingley and the Zoonlikkers a prompt recovery. Please refer calls regarding robot safety to 1-888-ULM-
HELP.
This has been Jim Kibble with a KLYR Late Breakings News Bulletin, and I would like to add our reassurance concerning ULM robots. Robbie our
ULM cameraman has always performed perfectly, according to program. It is absurd to think these devices are capable of feeling offended at the
mere. . .
Robbie, what are you doing? Robbie, be reasonable. Oh my God, Robbie. . .stop! Run, everybody, run! Somebody call Security! I’m out of here!
| RATS |
The grasses and flowers before them trembled for a moment. The boys stopped and looked at each other as if to confirm this, neither sure whether
it had been real or imagined. But then it came again. This time there could be no mistaking it, the grass was trembling. Even the ground was
vibrating! Ahead of them came a rustling in the grass, and faintly, almost out of human hearing range, a high pitched squealing. The grass before
them rippled, as if moved by some unseen force. Like a path, where an invisible entity was advancing towards them, flattening the blades before it
as it came. The squealing became a shrieking. Louder, and more intense as the invisible force progressed towards them. And there just before
them , a rat, but such a rat as they had never seen before. Larger surely than a cat. Coarse, dark brown fur matted its body; a cord like tail trailed
behind it, scaly and muscular, not some useless appendage. But worst of all was the head, large and pointed; two mad reddened eyes glowed like
hot coals, and teeth,…no! ‘TEETH’!…Large, sharp, yellow teeth. Surely teeth like that could make a meal of two boys in no time at all.
The boys took a step backwards as the rat emerged from the grass. But it was followed. Not by one rat or two, but a torrent of rats. They poured
from the grass in their thousands, a dark river of dirty brown fur flowing around them, leaving them stood holding fast to each other like an island
midstream. Relentlessly the rats flowed by, not pausing, not deviating, intent only it appeared on fleeing in a desperate panic. On and on they came.
Over the boy’s feet. In-between their legs. Rats in every direction, clambering over each other in their mad flight. The boys each wondered what it
was the rats fled from, or too?
Unknown to them, the Rats were hell bent on a mission to escape from the triangle. The Rats knew that whenever anything entered the triangle, that
for a short time after, a ‘gateway’ remained open, leaving a passage back to the ‘real’ world.
And then, as suddenly as they had appeared, the rats were gone; all that remained to give any sign of their passing was a broad path of trampled
grass, and rapidly fading squealing. The boys stood in silence for a moment, looking at each other wondering how such an enormous pack of rats
could appear from nowhere, and then disappear so quickly.
The rats continued on their mad relentless charge, sensing the opportunity. Knowing that with the entry of the boys into the triangle, there in lay
their freedom. They fled, sensing their chance, up the valley side, and into the forest itself, an unstoppable brown tide. As the rats advanced, so the
forest wildlife before them fled, but the rats were not interested in foraging for food, only their freedom. They sped on through the forest until at last
they came to the great briars. With no hesitation they plunged in, regardless of the savage thorns tearing at them. Under branches, over branches,
they were unstoppable. As they passed through the vicious tangle of thorns, so a change came over them. At first it seemed just a trick of the light.
They began to loose substance, become transparent. And then gradually, loose form. And as they became more ghost like, there appeared here a
flash of red as from a coat. The sparkle of brass buttons. A musket barrel. A black cross belt. And then even this was gone, leaving small wisps of
smoke or fog, glowing from within, which was soon whipped away on the breeze leaving a cloud of dust that gently settled on the floor. As the rats
had passed through the boundary of Tanglewood, so they passed out of reach of the enchantment that had held them.
Excerpt from a chapter of the novel Tanglewood Forest. The book is intended for children age 10 to young-adult.
Author Bio - Dione Morrison
I was born and raised in Syracuse, New York. I have enjoyed adventures, while traveling abroad. I later married a man from Southampton, England.
Ever since I could remember, I could be found with a pen and pad in hand creating stories influenced from my active imagination. While raising my
children I would read to them and their friends the Tales I have written for their amusement. I have always encouraged them to view the world with
open eyes and to continue on a course towards their goals. I was raised in an atmosphere where supernatural was real, and Legends and lore a
possibility .with strong family ancestry in Scotland, England and Ireland.
It was a natural course for me to pursue writing what I love, fantasy and fiction. I have received merit in poetry with publication in a book of anthology.
I am attending a local colledge for my Associates in English literature- Liberal-Arts. My hobbies include restoring my historic home, gardening,
decorating and the great outdoors. My greatest passions are foremost, my family, Horses and my dearest companions a Labrador and boxer.
You Gotta Respect That! By Marla F. Jones |
“These pictures are U-G-L-Y! We have the worst hall decorations of any school in the state!” complained Cammie as she rushed to P.E. with her
friend, Twyla. “Who are these old people anyway?”
“You don’t know who they are?!” exclaimed Twyla, looking up at the old photographs and paintings in the hall. “My dad told me all about them when
we came to Parent Night last year. They were…..” BRRINNGGG! The tardy bell rang as Twyla started to explain.
“Oops! We gotta go or we’re gonna be late! See you after class!” Cammie said as the girls hurried into the gym.
Cammie wondered about the pictures all through gym class. When P.E. ended, the two girls headed back down the hall to their homeroom. Twyla
stopped and pointed at one of the pictures.
“This is a picture of Franklin Roosevelt,” she said. “He helped a family put out a fire then went swimming to cool off. The next day he got sick with
polio and was paralyzed from the waist down. But that didn’t stop him from becoming the President of the United States!”
“No way!” said Cammie.
“Yes way!” responded Twyla. “He was in a wheelchair most of the time after that. And this guy, President James Garfield, was born in a log cabin.
He worked his way through school by tutoring younger children and working as a janitor. You gotta respect that.”
“Wow. I can’t imagine wanting to go to school that bad,” replied Cammie.
“And this guy is President Harry S. Truman,” said Twyla. “He had to wear thick glasses when he was a kid and he wasn’t allowed to play any sports
because he was sick all the time,” said Twyla. “I bet everyone at his school thought he was a nerd!”
When Cammie left school that day, she jotted down the names of two more people in the faded hallway pictures. She planned to do some
investigating tonight.
The next morning, Cammie greeted Twyla as they headed down the crowded hall to the gymnasium.
“You were right! Last night I googled Chester Arthur and Abigail Adams,” said Carrie. “President Arthur had to move seven times as a kid. I hated it
when we had to move!” said Carrie. “It’s hard to make new friends.”
“I know! I’ve moved twice. It’s weird to think that our presidents were once kids like us,” agreed Twyla.
“And this lady with the funny bonnet on, Abigail Adams, she was the wife of the second president and mother of the sixth president! The article said
that she wasn’t afraid to express her opinion,” continued Cammie. “I don’t think women got to say much about important things back then. But Mrs.
Adams believed that women should be able to vote and that slavery was wrong. She let people know what she thought. I do respect that!”
“They look so different from us in their funny clothes and hairstyles,” Twyla giggled.
“I wonder what they would think of how we look?” asked Cammie. “Do you think they’d laugh at our funny clothes?”
“I’m sure they would wonder about Mikey Donovan’s spiky mohawk ‘do,” giggled Twyla. “Even though he is the smartest boy in fourth grade!”
“I guess you can’t judge someone by how they look in an old black and white picture,” said Cammie. “Especially if it’s hanging in the hallway of our
school!”
The End
| Under the Toadstool by Natalie Williams |
Shackles never went in for my sort of wing. I was a blue spot, and proud of it. My mother always said blue spots were proud, honest and hard-
working. Shackles was a rainbow speckle, and way out of my league, but then again I was hard working and would never give up on my dream of me
and Shackles sipping the fern dew on a bright morning, together with our little ones, but we would never fly together. She was a prince’s daughter
and I was a common garden variety dream-filler named Spearheart.
We were known by the animals and creatures of Faywair and Bluecotton as the Dreamers, and we lived under the Toadstool. The Dreamers were
light winged fairie folk who were responsible for the hope and light of the world. We were narrow minded folk though so we never saw what hope or
light we ever gave since we did not venture any further than the Toadstool. We knew of the other fairie folk that inhabited the Bluecotton but we
were self-important enough to realize we were the most valued of them all.
Faywair and Bluecotton were lands that had been living since the beginning of time itself. They were spun by the weavers of the skies; breathing
thread that wafted down like snow to the earth. When the thread floated down to the ground, it bound itself to the water and the air and formed these
lands and everything in it. The Weavers’ breath was the purest form of magic and whatever they thought was instantly alive.
It was a blustery but warm sun-day. I’d been doodling all day in the misty part of our leafy cottage, with a fine-tipped heart’s wish trying to create new
filler for a dream I’d been muddling with. Tomorrow was the new dawn; the day when all fairie folk came together to wish in the new time when new
dreams were born. The weavers would send down new threads for the earth to knit, and new dreams would be born. The best dreamer would be
chosen by the Arch Prince Fairie to venture out to human kind to fill the dream they’d wished for.
I knew that common blue spots like me would never win the wishing contest, but all the same, I spent sun-days and moon-nights muddling over my
wish. I was too proud and hard-working to waste my moments drinking the dew. On the morning of Wishing Day, Faywair and Bluecotton were filled
with hundreds of blue spots, brown tails and many other fairie folk. I hustled into the red velvet pavilion with my father and mother trailing behind me.
The Fairie prince wore a gown made of sunshine, sewn together with pink blossoms and old wishes. His crown was fifteen Starlings singing in the
New Dawn. I could hardly take my eyes off Shackles, she was the best of the rainbow speckle, and they were very few to be known. Her wings were
reflections of the best rainbows that could be caught, and her eyelashes were the smallest white stars. She was beautiful.
The noise and clang of the fairie folk turned to silence as the Prince raised his hand.
“What a new Dawn we shall have, my brothers, my sisters.” He smiled. The crowd shouted in applause and threw their violet wreaths in the air. “It
has been many moons since I have looked forward to the new Dawn as much as I have this sun-day, but I say to you, the Weavers are stirring. It is
said from the bottom of Faywair to the clouds of Bluecotton that we shall walk full-breasted into a new dawn. The Weavers have not created for so
long now, we fear that their breath may have run out, but I tell you, I have seen things in my wishings that I dare not speak of, but as surely as these
violet wreaths will touch our earth I assure you the Weavers have not breathed their last breath, and we shall see in the fullness of time what they
have imagined for us.”
The air and earth was thick with his words.
“By the end of the moon-night we shall know who shall fill the dream of the new Dawn for us, and when it is dreamt and born we shall have the new
Age. With the power of spring and Starlight, I ask you who shall to let loose your wishings. May the best wing bear us all.”
This was my first wishing ceremony since I had come of age. Mother and father did not wish this sun-day, but they looked down as I held out my
hand with the sunlight sparkling down on my wish. Mother patted me on the head, cooing to father how proud she was for my trying. My wish was as
true as a blue spot, and I let it loose in the wind. It sailed higher and higher with all the wishings to the top of Bluecotton until I could not see it any
more.
It was with the Weavers now.
The Wishing Day was spent in merriment. We sang the songs of old dawns and new wishings until moon-night arrived. A great arc of light stepped
down from the dark sky, amber-gold and one small wish dropped down and fell into the Prince’s open hand. The wish was glowing red light. The
Prince threw it into the sky and it froze mid-air, held up by the magic of the weavers ready for its telling. It split open and red lightning snaked out and
lit up the moon-night. The red light sank down and down until it sat deciding where it would fall, above the heads of all the folk what watched it.
Suddenly, it shot down, buzzing as it went and dropped right on top of my head.
“The Weavers have chosen. Come forward, little one. You will fill the dream of the new Age.”
I walked forward, and as I did I heard my mother and father crying out in shock. All the fairie folk were in an uproar.
`It cannot be a blue spot`, they cried. `What a travesty, a tragedy. `
`He will be killed. `
`What have the Weavers been thinking? `
The Prince patted my head. “We cannot question the Weavers; perhaps this is the new Dawn that will change us all. We cannot break the wishing.
Let him fill the dream, we cannot know of it.” As quick as that, he tapped me on the wing and the red light above me dropped into my hands. It was a
tiny goblet, and inside I could scarcely believe it. It was my wish, walking and breathing inside as alive as I was.
He tapped my wing again, and I was transported deep into Faywair, into the forest. It was a mangled clearing. There was no one around me, but my
wishing lit the moon-night. I was afraid and alone. I did not know of this place.
From deep within the wood grove, I heard a deep voice. It sounded like the wind of a thousand wishes. “Let us see the wisher’s wish.”
An echo answered, “Let us see, and let us see.”
A Musgrove scuttled out from the under grove. He bowed, “I am the echo. You are in the Weaver’s circle. This is a place between Faywair and
Bluecotton, between all things. You are the first of the fairies to speak here, so choose your speaking wisely.”
“Tut, tut Musgrove. You are scaring the poor fellow.” A flash of light, and I was blinded but as the moments passed, I began to see a creature, as
fine as paper, but as liquid as water pouring down a pane of glass. “I am the water Weaver. You have been brought here because you must explain
your wish before it is woven. We have not seen a wish like it before, and although we will weave it and make it true, we must first understand your
wishing. Speak, little one, don’t be afraid. Drop the wish into the ground here, where the light of the moon hits the leaves and earth. “
“Blue spots are proud and true, water Weaver. I am pleased to meet you. My wish is simple, but it is true. I mixed in the belief and pride of the blue
spot, and inside a tiny hole I gathered Shackles, and her rainbow speckle. I threw in the wind, the water, Faywair and Bluecotton, the land and you
Weavers, wishing day and all my hopings for the new Dawn.”
“What a credit you are to all blue spots, little one. Speak on.”
“That is all I have to say, I have no way with words as you do Weaver.”
“So it is little one. You shall have your wishing. Let it be done.” The Weaver’s light began to heat up the air.
The Musgrove nodded and scampered back into the undergrove. “Let it be done” He whispered.
All the Weavers hummed the new Dawn song, “let it be done.”
As the air began to get hotter and hotter, I saw the blue in my wings begin to fade, and then my wings dropped off. My eyes began to lose their
petals. My legs grew larger and larger, until I towered above the Weaver and the Musgrove tutted in the thicket. “We shall all be killed, we shall all be
killed.” My wings on the floor turned to dust, and the dust leapt inside the thicket, hiding away from me. My hands turned from pale blue to pink. My
throat was sore, and I swallowed. “What’s happening to me, Weaver?” I cried out, and my voice had changed. It was deeper, I was a formidable
beast.
The Weaver rose above me, into the Bluecotton and patted me onto the head. “Little one, you have been combined with your wishing. You are the
new Dawn. Go now, full-breasted.”
It was dark again, and I wandered out the clearing. My wish had been woven, and I was the new Dawn? I could not have dreamt this, but what was I?
Who was I? Where was the Weaver?
I had so many questions, but in the fullness of time they were answered. I was lost in the forest and fell fast asleep. Sometime in the moon-night I felt
a tickle on my face and there was Shackles.
“Spearheart Blue spot, you have done it! You have brought in the new Dawn. The Weaver returned to my father some hours ago, and told us but I
had to come and see it for myself.”
Quite cross and perplexed, I could not see why she was so excited. “See what? This is hardly what I’d call a wishing.”
“Don’t you see, blue spot! Look!” She pointed into the pool of water on the forest floor beside me. The sun-day was wakening and stared hard into
the watery mirror. Pressing away the leaves and mud, I started! I touched my face with my hands. My face! My hands!
“What am I?” I cried. My eyes were red. I jumped up agitated, and Shackles squeaked and flew away.
“You are human!”
It was true. I was human. Shackles told me the Weavers had seen the truth of my wishing, and woven it. With it, the new Dawn had come and so I
was born: the first of us, the first of them; fairie and human as one. I could never return to Bluecoat, but in the clearing in the wood grove I could see
my family. I would tell the legends of Faywair and Bluecotton, and travel the world with the heart and magic of fairies and weavers.
Sometimes Shackles would tend to me in the night, and leave one of her flowered stars as a message on my pillow from my fairie family.
John Spearheart is my human name. You may wonder or dream to ask what my wish was, and I cannot say, even now, what it was. It was more than
me, little blue spot that I was.
| American Education: The Media Effect by Kenneth Weene, PhD-- |
The educational level of the United States is slipping. Measures such as percentage of high school students graduating, achievement on
standardized tests (especially in math and science), and portion of population attending to college all show the slipping of American education in
comparison to the rest of the developed world. Even as we become more and more dependent on technology, it appears that America is becoming
less able to compete in a technological world.
Of course, we continue to have many fine universities in which the highest levels of science, math, and technology are pursued. Often, however, the
best students in those colleges are from overseas. Worse, the work done in those universities is becoming farther and farther beyond the
comprehension of our citizens.
As a grandparent I watch the decline with concern; into what kind of economy will my great-grandchildren be born? How will my grandkids make a
living? And what are they learning in school right now?
The crisis in education has become a time bomb. How long do we have before out country will no longer be competitive, will no longer provide the
innovations that fuel economic growth and power? More importantly, what can be done to turn this problem around? More and more, these
questions have become part of the public discourse.
There is another question that has risen to the fore: Who’s to blame? Inevitably, we demand to know who’s at fault, at whom we can point the
accusing finger – as if such faultfinding actually makes a difference.
The list of the accused is long: teachers, unions, the government, lack of funding, school administrators, and on and on. However, there has been
one category notably missing from that list, the media. Yet, the media, especially the broadcast media, has been a major contributor to our national
educational crisis.
How? By taking no responsibility for its role as the auctioneer in the marketplace of ideas. Why should children think long and hard about their
educations when they see sports and entertainment as the quickest routes to fame and fortune? Throw a ball, shake your booty: entertain and make
millions.
Why should parents insist on their children doing homework – homework which often makes the parents themselves feel inadequate – when they
can settle for a patina of knowledge garnered from television channels that offer simplistic information in hour format? The premium channels that
offer such educational programming are well-intended, but if my eight-year-old grandchild can understand the program, how well can it actually be
presenting the complexities of a topic.
And why should anyone take education seriously when – under the guise of fairness and balance – talking points and slogans can pass as
meaningful discussion?
Auctions can be very exciting events. The pace and competitiveness energizes not only the participants but also the watchers. However the
marketplace of ideas has lost that energy. Instead Americans are being lulled by the circus of the media, especially television and radio. The people
in charge of the circus pay premiums for the distracting and ephemeral, and that feeds the disinterest in serious discussion and exploration, which
are the bases of real education.
Are we as a society afraid of presenting more demanding media content? Are we afraid of refusing to pay the high salaries to sports and
entertainment figures and reserve that honor for those who create new ideas and wrestle with the basic issues of science, math, social studies, and
literature? Of course we are.
Part of that fear is within the media – a fear that nobody would watch and therefore that advertising revenues would go down. So the media moguls
continue to spend wildly for entertainment even creating a talent drain in other countries.
I suggest there is a second fear, one which is less obvious. Just as the ancient Romans tried to keep the populace focused on the Coliseum, just as
the Third Reich tried to keep the German people focused on the Jews (and Gypsies, and others), and just as the British government tried to keep its
citizens preoccupied with the growth of Empire, the governing group within the U.S. wants to keep its citizens diverted. And let’s be honest, serious
intellectual study is not diverting.
When the media collectively starts taking responsibility for encouraging intellect instead of diversion, when it takes an industry-wide interest in
encouraging thought at a level at least equivalent to entertainment, that will begin a major improvement in the role of education. Instead of
encouraging its audience to not think, the media will then be challenging them to process ideas and information. The motivation to do that is a key
incentive to learn and to study.
standardized tests (especially in math and science), and portion of population attending to college all show the slipping of American education in
comparison to the rest of the developed world. Even as we become more and more dependent on technology, it appears that America is becoming
less able to compete in a technological world.
Of course, we continue to have many fine universities in which the highest levels of science, math, and technology are pursued. Often, however, the
best students in those colleges are from overseas. Worse, the work done in those universities is becoming farther and farther beyond the
comprehension of our citizens.
As a grandparent I watch the decline with concern; into what kind of economy will my great-grandchildren be born? How will my grandkids make a
living? And what are they learning in school right now?
The crisis in education has become a time bomb. How long do we have before out country will no longer be competitive, will no longer provide the
innovations that fuel economic growth and power? More importantly, what can be done to turn this problem around? More and more, these
questions have become part of the public discourse.
There is another question that has risen to the fore: Who’s to blame? Inevitably, we demand to know who’s at fault, at whom we can point the
accusing finger – as if such faultfinding actually makes a difference.
The list of the accused is long: teachers, unions, the government, lack of funding, school administrators, and on and on. However, there has been
one category notably missing from that list, the media. Yet, the media, especially the broadcast media, has been a major contributor to our national
educational crisis.
How? By taking no responsibility for its role as the auctioneer in the marketplace of ideas. Why should children think long and hard about their
educations when they see sports and entertainment as the quickest routes to fame and fortune? Throw a ball, shake your booty: entertain and make
millions.
Why should parents insist on their children doing homework – homework which often makes the parents themselves feel inadequate – when they
can settle for a patina of knowledge garnered from television channels that offer simplistic information in hour format? The premium channels that
offer such educational programming are well-intended, but if my eight-year-old grandchild can understand the program, how well can it actually be
presenting the complexities of a topic.
And why should anyone take education seriously when – under the guise of fairness and balance – talking points and slogans can pass as
meaningful discussion?
Auctions can be very exciting events. The pace and competitiveness energizes not only the participants but also the watchers. However the
marketplace of ideas has lost that energy. Instead Americans are being lulled by the circus of the media, especially television and radio. The people
in charge of the circus pay premiums for the distracting and ephemeral, and that feeds the disinterest in serious discussion and exploration, which
are the bases of real education.
Are we as a society afraid of presenting more demanding media content? Are we afraid of refusing to pay the high salaries to sports and
entertainment figures and reserve that honor for those who create new ideas and wrestle with the basic issues of science, math, social studies, and
literature? Of course we are.
Part of that fear is within the media – a fear that nobody would watch and therefore that advertising revenues would go down. So the media moguls
continue to spend wildly for entertainment even creating a talent drain in other countries.
I suggest there is a second fear, one which is less obvious. Just as the ancient Romans tried to keep the populace focused on the Coliseum, just as
the Third Reich tried to keep the German people focused on the Jews (and Gypsies, and others), and just as the British government tried to keep its
citizens preoccupied with the growth of Empire, the governing group within the U.S. wants to keep its citizens diverted. And let’s be honest, serious
intellectual study is not diverting.
When the media collectively starts taking responsibility for encouraging intellect instead of diversion, when it takes an industry-wide interest in
encouraging thought at a level at least equivalent to entertainment, that will begin a major improvement in the role of education. Instead of
encouraging its audience to not think, the media will then be challenging them to process ideas and information. The motivation to do that is a key
incentive to learn and to study.
| Brownbird's Luck by Kriss Erickson |
Deila wanted to see. She left the shutters open in her room that night, watching the fields until she dropped into sleep.
She had a dream she'd had many times, but clearer this time than before. She was standing in a meadow, lush with grass and
splotched with flowers. Painted daisies, buttercups, bluebells, hollyhocks, primroses, and dozens of flowers that Deila couldn't
name surrounded her. There were so many flowers that she couldn’t move without stepping on them. The flowers’ perfume
and glowing colors made the place seemed unreal even as a dream. It was a green, fertile place, totally opposite of the flat,
arid land she knew.
Deila stood in the middle of a circle of strange, tall people with long hair the color of wheat-gold, bronze-gold, beaten-gold,
and white gold. She was taller in the dream, too — nearly as tall as Mr. Hiles — for she stood at eye level with them. The
strange people danced, humming a melody that seemed to thrum from their skin, as well as their noses and mouths.
She watched them unafraid. In some odd way, they were more familiar to her than the flatlander farmers and children she’d grown up with. She stood
calm and still while a handsome young man with wheat-gold hair placed a silver cloak around her shoulders. The youth wore a golden collar,
reminding Deila of the finery worn by Belden noblemen. The cloak was finely woven mesh that warmed her skin yet was cool to the touch, like metal.
It fitted itself around her arms and waist, then closed tight, forming an impenetrable barrier.
A word trickled through her mind. Chain mail.
Had the strange people said that, or had she imagined that the shirt was a type of mail from her history lessons?
The shirt tingled against her skin as if alive. She lifted her arms, spreading her fingers before her face. The people answered her gesture, spreading
their slender fingers before their angular faces as if forming masks.
The handsome youth swept his arm to the sky.
"Go."
“Go?”
She moved her hair aside to be sure she’d heard correctly. Did they want her to leave? Had she done something wrong?
Her tresses felt odd. She pulled a hank forward, then dropped it in alarm. This wasn’t her hair! This hair was thick and wavy. This hair was the
burnished gold of autumn wheat. This wasn’t her limp, brown hair.
She pushed it back, frowning as her fingers felt something sharp. A leaf caught in her tresses, perhaps? No! Her ear. Wait. This wasn’t her ear, with
its oddly bumpy shape. This ear was smooth and its top came to a definite point.
She looked up, her mouth forming words of wonder without sound. The young man wearing the golden collar smiled and pushed his hair aside so
she could see that his ears were pointed too.
"You are one of us," he murmured.
He unbuttoned the top two buttons of his gauze tunic, turned, and showed her the back of his left shoulder. A little white scar, shaped like the
crescent moon, marked his smooth flesh. Deila pushed back her tunic, but her left shoulder was bare.
"It will come," the elf said. "Be ready. Now go. Seek your gift."
Deila blinked. The elves were replaced by a night sky sprinkled with stars. A crescent moon, heading toward the full, floated overhead. A pure white
unicorn galloped into view. It reared and neighed, the curve of its horn matching the crescent moon's shape.
She woke, right hand clutching her left shoulder. She pulled her hand free and felt her ears. Bumpy and irregular as always. She lit her candle and
sat, looking into the small mirror on the wall above her greasewood dresser. Her face was round as ever, her dull brown hair hung limp and straight
to her elbows. She reached for a comb, then stopped. Something was tapping on her window. She'd fallen asleep with the shutters open, and little
white moths bumped across the glass, attracted by her candlelight.
She heard another noise. A horse's whinny. She looked toward the barn. A strip of gray lit the predawn sky. The whinny sounded again. Was it
Molly? Or … or the thing Mr. Hiles had spoken of — the dark creature that wandered the night, stealing flesh and blood and leaving only the hides of
its victims?
Something glowed in the fields, as if someone was moving through the flax holding a lantern. The tall stalks parted. Was the sharecropper coming to
speak with Da? No. The glow was too big to be a lantern. Another fire?
She shivered. Blinked. Rubbed her eyes to make sure she wasn't still dreaming. The glow took shape, becoming horselike, its rider holding a flaming
sword. No, there was no rider—the sword grew from its head. Wait — there were two shapes — one gold, one silvery white. The gold shape slipped
into the barn, opening the locked door with a touch of its horn. The other stood guard. Deila heard another whinny. This time it was Molly's neigh.
Kriss Erickson has been a freelance writer since 1981, with over 1,000 published pieces to date. She escaped the cult her parents joined when she
turned 40. Kriss also creates watercolor, colored pencil and acrylic paintings in nature and energetic themes. She is an Usui Reiki master Teacher
and lives with her husband of over twenty years and her teenaged son on a quiet wetland/woodland area.
| Add your HOT web link Intro Offer - $10 yearly |
Friends of Robin Falls
Gift of $1 to Robin Falls
| Little Rockin Roger & the Magic Glass Guitar _-By Benjamin Moores-_ |
| Sneak peek at a new book for children, "Have You Ever Had a Boy- Yoing Fight?" by Ginny Karoub. |
Sneak Peek into Beverly's new YA Historical |
Title: CAVES, CANNONS AND CRINOLINES
Author: Beverly Stowe McClure
Publisher: Twilight Times Books
Young Adult, historical
ISBN: 1-60619-112-8
On Thursday, May 21, 1863, a mortar shell rips through the wall of fourteen-year-old Elizabeth (Lizzie) Stamford's bedroom.
Afraid their home is no longer safe, her mama, Susan, rushes Lizzie and her younger brother, Nathan, to the cave, where
she plans to live until the siege of Vicksburg, Mississippi,ends. Lizzie, however, has her own plans: to enlist in the
Confederate Army and help drive General Ulysses S. Grant and his Yankees into the Mississippi River. Her older brothers,
Joseph and Willie, are in Virginia, fighting for their cause. Can she do any less? But Willie's death in battle, Joseph's return
home, wounded, bitter, and filled with guilt, and a young Yankee whose life she saves make Lizzie question whether there is
a right or wrong side to this so-called Civil War.
Author: Beverly Stowe McClure
Publisher: Twilight Times Books
Young Adult, historical
ISBN: 1-60619-112-8
On Thursday, May 21, 1863, a mortar shell rips through the wall of fourteen-year-old Elizabeth (Lizzie) Stamford's bedroom.
Afraid their home is no longer safe, her mama, Susan, rushes Lizzie and her younger brother, Nathan, to the cave, where
she plans to live until the siege of Vicksburg, Mississippi,ends. Lizzie, however, has her own plans: to enlist in the
Confederate Army and help drive General Ulysses S. Grant and his Yankees into the Mississippi River. Her older brothers,
Joseph and Willie, are in Virginia, fighting for their cause. Can she do any less? But Willie's death in battle, Joseph's return
home, wounded, bitter, and filled with guilt, and a young Yankee whose life she saves make Lizzie question whether there is
a right or wrong side to this so-called Civil War.
Benjamin sent this excerpt while his book was a work in progress. I am proud to announce that it is now finished and available at amazon.com.
| WIP sent by Author Tommy Batchelor |
Middle Grade Novel
Ages 10-14
No Title
The last shadow figure followed Kathryn though the dark into the opening. The old dog saw this: Sally knew for sure. We are not alone.
“Let’s go find Tony, Sally!”
She squeezed between the stones getting to the other side from the right side. Hearing something fluttering in the dark; she moved quickly. The
stones were cool to her touch as she reached the hole in the wall.
It was bigger than the first opening, and she was able to walk through to the other side.
She jumped when she knock another web from the opening;
Sally had come up beside her and licked her hand. She thought for sure; a spider had fell off the web onto her hand.
Kathryn reached down petting the top of Sally head. “Sorry Sally! You scared me! Can you show me the way Tony went from here? Can you do that
for me?”
Sally understood as she already started out thought the cave; turned to the left, with Kathryn close on her heels. Sally had to backtrack right; then
she turned to the right between a series of large piles of rocks that had slid down the side of the walls.
The next fifteen minutes seemed like hours to Kathryn as she followed the dog back and forth though the cave, Sally cannot seem to make up her
mine; which way she needs to go, Kathryn thought!
Finally, Sally comes to rest on the right side of a rock formation, which seemed to lead to a dead end.
“Why did you stop? Are you lost, too?” Sally turned to look at Kathryn and she barked as if to say… he is here!
Kathryn step up to the right side of the rocks and found the small path that led around. If she had not pulled back at the last second, she would have
fallen off the edge of the cliff into the dark abyss. Below on the cave floor next to the wall. Laid a barely burning torch.
“Whoa, Sally! Is this what happen to Tony? He must be down there hurt or something.”
She yelled down into the dark,” Tony, are you down there!”
Kathryn thought she could hear something moving around in the dark. Kathryn sure hoped it was Tony. If not, she was in big danger. She had no
weapons to defend herself from wild animals
The third shadow joined with the other two. They watched the kids and waited!
……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………
“Hey, Kathryn is that you, Tony answered.”
She was still angry at him for leaving her alone, “No, it’s the Easter Bunny; I was just hopping down the bunny trail!”
“Well, Mrs. Easter Bunny; put down your basket of eggs; I could use some help down here.”
“Are you hurt, Tony.”
“Nothing major, just a few scrapes and a small cut. I’m going to toss my torch about ten to fifteen feet in front of me. Tell me if you see the same
thing I’m seeing.”
She watched as Tony released the torch; it flipped over two, three times in mid-air before it hit the ground. It lit up a circle of light up to ten feet.
What she saw froze her in place.
Ages 10-14
No Title
The last shadow figure followed Kathryn though the dark into the opening. The old dog saw this: Sally knew for sure. We are not alone.
“Let’s go find Tony, Sally!”
She squeezed between the stones getting to the other side from the right side. Hearing something fluttering in the dark; she moved quickly. The
stones were cool to her touch as she reached the hole in the wall.
It was bigger than the first opening, and she was able to walk through to the other side.
She jumped when she knock another web from the opening;
Sally had come up beside her and licked her hand. She thought for sure; a spider had fell off the web onto her hand.
Kathryn reached down petting the top of Sally head. “Sorry Sally! You scared me! Can you show me the way Tony went from here? Can you do that
for me?”
Sally understood as she already started out thought the cave; turned to the left, with Kathryn close on her heels. Sally had to backtrack right; then
she turned to the right between a series of large piles of rocks that had slid down the side of the walls.
The next fifteen minutes seemed like hours to Kathryn as she followed the dog back and forth though the cave, Sally cannot seem to make up her
mine; which way she needs to go, Kathryn thought!
Finally, Sally comes to rest on the right side of a rock formation, which seemed to lead to a dead end.
“Why did you stop? Are you lost, too?” Sally turned to look at Kathryn and she barked as if to say… he is here!
Kathryn step up to the right side of the rocks and found the small path that led around. If she had not pulled back at the last second, she would have
fallen off the edge of the cliff into the dark abyss. Below on the cave floor next to the wall. Laid a barely burning torch.
“Whoa, Sally! Is this what happen to Tony? He must be down there hurt or something.”
She yelled down into the dark,” Tony, are you down there!”
Kathryn thought she could hear something moving around in the dark. Kathryn sure hoped it was Tony. If not, she was in big danger. She had no
weapons to defend herself from wild animals
The third shadow joined with the other two. They watched the kids and waited!
……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………
“Hey, Kathryn is that you, Tony answered.”
She was still angry at him for leaving her alone, “No, it’s the Easter Bunny; I was just hopping down the bunny trail!”
“Well, Mrs. Easter Bunny; put down your basket of eggs; I could use some help down here.”
“Are you hurt, Tony.”
“Nothing major, just a few scrapes and a small cut. I’m going to toss my torch about ten to fifteen feet in front of me. Tell me if you see the same
thing I’m seeing.”
She watched as Tony released the torch; it flipped over two, three times in mid-air before it hit the ground. It lit up a circle of light up to ten feet.
What she saw froze her in place.
Bardsham’s Tale |
His parents had their own troupe of traveling players, The Mangonel Circus. That was his real name, too. They played in public for money. They
juggled and danced on cords strung high above the streets. They performed a skillful whip act with your grandmother holding up things like flowers
or torches that your grandfather snipped the heads from or extinguished with a snap of his whip, until finally she held a jeweled ring lightly between
two fingers and he snatched it without her fingers even moving — snatched it and with the same movement sent it into the audience, where a fight
inevitably broke out over its ownership. It was a cheap ring, but a dazzling trick. The way your father told it, no one had ever seen such skill before
Mangonel. There was quite a bit of sleight of hand in among the crowd, too; and which had to be done most carefully if they wanted to avoid any
trouble. The boy — that is, Bardsham, your father — he had a natural dexterity. Right from the time he could walk, he could steal coins from
between your fingers and you wouldn’t feel so much as a breeze — just like his father did with that whip. Plus he was so sly that anyone would have
sworn he’d been across the avenue the whole time. He was a child, none too large, and who noticed him down around their hips when people were
doing handsprings on a rope way up there?
The family did not overlook his talent. They trained him and trained him until he had the most skillful fingers in the world. His only limit then was how
much he could make off with before the weight of his boodle pulled the pants off him.
One night another member of the troupe, a fellow called Peeds, took sick an hour before the performance. Peeds was the Mangonel shadow
puppeteer and a great favorite of the boy’s as well as of the audience’s. Bardsham had heard Peeds’ stories hundreds of times, and was always
transported by them. He sat through every rehearsal, absorbing all the details like any small child. Like you. When he wasn’t outside fleecing the
audience, he even sat in the dark booth with Peeds. Mind you, he wasn’t supposed to be in the booth at all. His father had a temper to make your
uncle look positively unassertive. But the boy took risks. And he and Peeds were friends.
So, Peeds took sick and there was nobody could do his part. Your grandmother sometimes narrated a tale for him, but she knew nothing of the
puppetry itself. Nobody else had paid any attention to his old stories — they had their own acts to develop and refine. The family needed an act to
link the other acts together — that’s what Peeds did with his stories, his puppets. He moved things along from the jugglers to the knife throwers,
weaving the distance between the two with some tale that touched both. The boy decided to risk punishment. He confessed to his parents that he’d
been studying with Peeds and he could do the act. He swore he knew it by heart. They didn’t have time to argue or fight or punish him — not right
then. So they capitulated. That was when Bardsham the Great was born.
He’d followed how Peeds used colors to change mood, how he spun the lantern, the different ways he moved figures off the screen. For the rest —
what he didn’t know — he had the instinct to invent.
His mother came up with the name. She told him, years after, that she had walked out to the end of the dragon beam of the span where they were
performing, stepped into the bowl and asked the gods for the name, and it had come to her right then and there. During his performance, she stood
outside the booth, telling the stories where they needed narrating, doing the introductions.
The thing about puppeteers is they’re invisible. Never seen. All you see is the handiwork, the skill. So any story she fabricated about Bardsham, it
was the real story. Who he was, where he’d come from. Anything she felt like adding. If the story changed from night to night or span to span (as it
did), that only added to the mystery of him.
It all began as a single provisional performance, but poor Peeds never recovered. He got sicker and thinner, till there was nothing left of him. On his
deathbed he bequeathed young Bardsham all of his puppets, his tools, his stage. His stories.
From then on, the boy spent less time thieving from the audiences and more listening to them tell the stories of their spans, their people, their
families. He did something no one else had ever thought of — he started collecting the heritage of Shadowbridge. Diverse elements he folded all
together, making something that had never been before. It was a great giant of a story, a spiral of a tale, just like Shadowbridge itself, all linked and
spun together into something bigger than any of us can see. Except for Bardsham. And such vision, you know, it makes you a little bit mad.
His father was none too happy about losing his talented little thief permanently. But he was no fool either. The Shadowplays of Bardsham were soon
bringing in the largest crowds. Nevertheless, pig-headed creature he was, he insisted that while the other acts went on, the boy must mingle with the
crowd. After all, they didn’t know who he was. He was a stranger, still small. And still a skilled pickpocket. But it was a risky and foolish proposition.
Anyone could see that sooner or later the child would be caught. What pickpocket hasn’t been? And there were spans where the authorities cut off
fingers if not a whole hand as punishment. The circus would lose far more than their little thief if that happened…
Gregory Frost writes:
This is a snippet from my novel SHADOWBRIDGE. It's a fantasy novel for mature YA and older readers, published by Del Rey (Random House)--the
first half of a duology that resolves in the book, LORD TOPHET.
This segment is from a tale in which my heroine, Leodora, learns about her long-vanished father from his closest friend, Soter. Here we're in a world
of endless spiraling bridge spans, all linked together above a world ocean. Each span is culturally unique. Each sports what's called a Dragon bowl,
a sacred space where sometimes the gods grant wishes and bestow life-changing gifts upon the citizens.
Sometimes the gifts prove to be curses instead.
This is a snippet from my novel SHADOWBRIDGE. It's a fantasy novel for mature YA and older readers, published by Del Rey (Random House)--the
first half of a duology that resolves in the book, LORD TOPHET.
This segment is from a tale in which my heroine, Leodora, learns about her long-vanished father from his closest friend, Soter. Here we're in a world
of endless spiraling bridge spans, all linked together above a world ocean. Each span is culturally unique. Each sports what's called a Dragon bowl,
a sacred space where sometimes the gods grant wishes and bestow life-changing gifts upon the citizens.
Sometimes the gifts prove to be curses instead.
| Addison Apple in…SNACK ATTACK By Marsha Cook |
Hi! My name is Addison Apple, and have I got a story for you!
It happened with very little warning. Mom and I were having breakfast. There we were, face-to-face for our usual stare-out.
She would stare at me, and I would stare back at her as I lifted my spoon to my mouth, ready to eat my oatmeal. It was
usually too thick and too gooey. I didn’t like oatmeal, no matter how good it was for me. Cookies are good for me. Candy is
good for me. Anything is better for me than oatmeal.
Mom picked up her spoon and took a spoonful of oatmeal. “Well,” she said, “your turn.”
Mine didn’t go down so easily. But after playing with it in my mouth for a while, it finally went down. All the way down!
Then the phone rang. I was happy as could be. Mom wasn’t paying any attention to me. She was busy talking on the phone - and I was busy trying
to figure out how to get rid of this gooey, chewy, slimy dish of oatmeal!
Along came my doggie, Sammy. He didn’t look hungry, but I knew he was. He looked at me and I looked at him. I took the dish of oatmeal and put it
on the floor. One…two…three… The oatmeal was gone and I was finished. I was free! It was all over. No more oatmeal. Another day, another dish of
oatmeal for Sammy.
By the time Mom was off the phone, Sammy had licked any trace of oatmeal off his face and scooted away. I was well on my way, pretending that I
ate all my oatmeal. The only problem was that I was hungry.
“Well, I guess it couldn’t have been all that bad,” Mom said as she was cleaning up the table. “You finished it all.”
“All gone and ready for school,” I said as I reached down for Sammy’s paw and said, “Thank you.”
“I’ll be waiting for you in the car,” Mom said, right before she went out the door.
I peeked outside the door, making sure the coast was clear so I could have myself a little snack. I tiptoed over to the cookie jar and stuffed as many
cookies into my mouth as I could. Everything was going pretty well - up until the cookie jar fell and cracked into millions of little pieces.
Mom honked the horn. I didn’t know what to do. If I told Mom before going to school, she would be mad and I would be late. If I was late, my teacher
would be mad. So I decided not to tell Mom until after school.
When I got home that very same day, Mom was waiting for me at the kitchen table.
“Hi, Mom,” I said, as I gave her a big bear hug. (That worked sometimes). When she didn’t smile back, I knew why.
Mom looked at me and I looked back at her. “Did you have anything to do with the cookie jar breaking?” she asked. “Was it you or Sammy?” I looked
down, and there was Sammy. He looked at me with the saddest eyes ever.
I was just about to turn myself in when Mom looked at me and asked, “If you had a son who never, ever liked his breakfast, lunch or dinner, what
would you do?”
I thought about it for a very long time. About a minute. And then I answered. “I would let him pick out his own food. After all, I know what I like and
what I don’t like. Don’t you think so?”
My mom didn’t say anything for a long time. “Maybe you’re right. When you get up tomorrow morning, you can pick out your own breakfast,” she
said. “As a matter of fact, you can pick out your own food for as long as you want.”
“No way!” I said, wondering if this really was my dream come true. Mom nodded her head. “You’re on your own.”
I was so happy, I could barely speak. In fact, I could hardly wait to go to bed so I could wake up and eat whatever I wanted.
| ©2009, Jessica Coulter Smith Writing as Jessi Coulter Heart’s Desire, a YA Paranormal Romance WIP |
Chris advanced on Skye until her back was against the locker. He put an arm on either side of her, pinning her in place. She had no way of
escaping. Just as he started to lean in to kiss her, he felt someone tap him on his shoulder.
“What?” he asked turning to face the interloper. He pierced the intruder with a glare.
“I believe she said no,” Morgan answered quietly.
“And just who the hell are you?” Chris sneered, eyeing the new guy from head to toe. “In case you weren’t aware, Skye and I are an item.”
Morgan grinned. “Are you sure about that?”
Skye used the distraction to slip under Chris’s arm. She quickly put some distance between them, moving to stand beside the new guy. She didn’t
know who he was, but he had excellent timing. If he hadn’t come along right then, Chris would no doubt be pawing her at this very moment.
Morgan reached out and took Skye’s hand, a current running through both of them at the contact. If Morgan was surprised, he hid it well.
“Come on, I’ll walk you to your class,” he said, giving her hand a gentle tug.
Skye smiled her thanks and walked off with him, leaving an angry Chris glaring after them.
* * *
“Thanks… for what you did back there,” she said after they were a few feet away.
“No problem,” Morgan murmured.
“I’m Skye by the way. And the jerk back there was Chris,” she jabbered, trying to fill the silence. Her body was hyper aware of the hot guy holding
her hand, more so than it had ever been of any other guy before.
Glancing at him from the corner of her eye, she almost stopped breathing. He was easily the most gorgeous guy she’d ever seen. He topped her
five-foot-one inches by over a foot. He was tanned with sandy brown hair shot through with golden highlights. His chiseled features made her
mouth water.
“I take it you used to date,” Morgan commented.
Skye nodded, pulling her gaze from his face before she was caught staring. “Until I caught him making out with one of the cheerleaders. I told him it
was over, but he refuses to listen. He thinks he’s god’s gift, or something along those lines.”
Morgan grunted in response.
“He wasn’t like that when we first started dating,” Skye said, trying to explain away Chris’s behavior.
Morgan gave her a skeptical look. It was his experience that guys didn’t change. She could delude herself all she wanted, but Morgan would bet
money that Chris was the same guy he’d always been. She’d just been blind to his faults.
“Where exactly are we going anyway?” Morgan asked, looking around the hall.
“Oh, um, two doors down on the right. I have English next,” Skye answered.
Morgan grinned. “That makes two of us.”
He continued holding her hand all the way to the classroom. While he might have seemed impervious to the contact, he felt as if he’d been struck by
lightning. He’d been warned that it would feel like this, but it had still taken him by surprise – she had taken him by surprise. Her fiery red hair, pale
complexion, and bright blue eyes drew him in. He wanted to run his hands through her hair to see if it was as soft as it looked. Her scent beckoned
to him, making him want to breathe her in.
As they approached the door, he dropped her hand and motioned for her to go in ahead of him, her scent teasing him again as she passed.
Morgan fought the urge to pull her back into the hall, pull her into his arms, and kiss her senseless. The moment he’d caught her scent he had
wanted to claim her as his mate. Seeing her pushed against her locker by her Neanderthal ex-boyfriend had made Morgan see red. He’d wanted to
rip the guy to shreds and had barely contained his anger, holding back a feral growl he had barely contained the animal lurking within him.
Following Skye into the classroom, he grabbed the empty seat next to her. Setting his books down on the desk, he glanced her way and caught her
watching him – again. He’d been hyper aware of her during their walk to the classroom, had seen every glance, every smile. It was flattering that
she was as drawn to him as he was to her. Did she feel the pull too? Or was he just an oddity – the new guy in school?
He flashed her a grin and faced forward as the teacher stepped into the room.
| Author Freda Roberts |
Angels At My Side
It’s a heartwarming rhyming children’s book.
Just open the pages and have a look.
It is about a young girl named Emily.
She keeps the Angels busy as you will soon see.
When you finish the book you will find,
Emily has an Angel that’s one of a kind.
Once the pages are opened wide,
A great mystery awaits inside.
The book holds a treasure chest,
With the love of Angels you are always blessed.
It’s a heartwarming rhyming children’s book.
Just open the pages and have a look.
It is about a young girl named Emily.
She keeps the Angels busy as you will soon see.
When you finish the book you will find,
Emily has an Angel that’s one of a kind.
Once the pages are opened wide,
A great mystery awaits inside.
The book holds a treasure chest,
With the love of Angels you are always blessed.
| BOBO RACES ON ‘‘THE TRICKY TRIANGLE” by Concetta M Payne |
BoBo the Race Car was a little disappointed that for all his efforts to prepare for last year’s race were not enough to put him in the Victory Circle. But
this year was going to be different!
He called all his friends asking them if they were going to compete in the Pocono 500 Race. His friends Big Foot and Saber were getting very
excited about racing on the “Tricky Triangle” and were all ready to sign-up!
The race cars heard many stories about how “tricky” the Pocono Raceway really was. It was a most challenging race track compared to the other
tracks on which they had competed. They practiced everyday doing lap after lap, making those “very tricky” turns as fast as they could.
All the race cars were ready for the big event. As the Pace Car left the track they all sped off gaining more speed. Bobo was entering his final lap
when all of sudden he was faced with a VERY SERIOUS PROBLEM!! DOES BOBO’S DREAM FINALLY BECOME A REALITY?
| The Asquinn Twins and The Exchange Student by Grace Books (one of a series for birth to eighteen years of age) |
Chapter One
The Exchange Student
1978, Forest Lake, Ontario, Canada
I watched the small red and silver jet. The aircraft approaching the strip for a landing also captivated my twin, Ted, standing beside me. The pilot
circled the small craft around the airport once, and then approached the landing strip losing its first level of altitude as it started its final descent,
then a loud resounding crunch as the wheels touched the runway. The engine whined as the pilot geared the plane down and started taxing toward
the airport terminal.
I said, "We'll soon get to greet him. We'll soon meet the exchange student."
Ted rubbed his hands in anticipation. "I can't wait."
"Come on," I said. "Let's hurry inside and meet Greg."
I led the dash around to the front entrance. Ted followed as I tore inside and joined Dad in the airport waiting room. My younger adoptive sister, and
two adoptive younger brothers, a foster sister, and Mom waited at home. The attendant rushed to open the gate and the ramp for the passengers
brought along side the plane, and then a stewardess appeared in the doorway. She stood there greeting the passengers. One she favored with a
wide smile and sent him on his way. He looked to be about my and Ted's age- nice- looking fifteen- year- with clean-cut dark brown hair. That must
be Greg, I thought. "There he is," I said out loud. "Just in time."
Greg walked across the tarmac, through the door and into the waiting room. He sorted out his luggage from the carts brought in from the cargo
portion of the plane.
"Come on," I said and made my way to Greg's side. Ted and Dad weren't far behind.
"Greg Freeman?" Ted said.
"I'm Greg Freeman." He glanced first at Ted then me.
"I’m Korah Asquinn, this is my twin brother, Ted." I turned to Dad.
"This is my Dad, Eric Asquinn. Dad, meet Greg Freeman."
Greg shook hands with Dad. "Mr. Asquinn, I am delighted to meet you."
"Let's get Greg home now," Dad said.
When I arrived at the maroon-colored full-sized van, Ted settled in the seat beside dad while I sat behind him. I made motions with my hands to get
Greg's attention and patted the seat beside me.
"Sit here," I said.
"Sure thing," Greg agreed and sat down beside me on the outside seat.
"Now we can talk," I said. "You applied for the position of exchange student. And here you are, on the other side of the world, in another continent
without a clue what'll happen next. Wow. What do you think of our country so far?”
“I've never seen such trees,” Greg said
"They're important in the forest industry. There's a pulp and paper mill."
"That's where paper is made," Ted inserted.
"But don't worry about the smell a plant like that produces," I said," the factory is over one hundred miles away."
Ahead a sign saying, FOREST LAKE- FOUR MILES, loomed up in front of us along side the highway. Dad slowed to make the turn onto the smaller
gravel road.
"We'll soon be home," I assured the Australian.
Dad drove along Golden Ridge Circle Drive where it started when the road entered Forest Lake. He drove along the main travel- way where the
town snuggled up against a horseshoe-shaped rocky and forested ridge. He followed the road between the line of houses and the railroad tracks
running by the outside of the town.
I glanced at Greg, and then Ted and I looked at each other. Dialogue that only twins can share passed between us. We smiled at each other, and
silently told each other that Greg was an all right kind of guy and we'd enjoy hosting him for the school year. I wondered what Greg thought as he
stared at the expanse of sparkling blue waters of the lake that extended outward before him beyond the tracks. He didn't say anything; he just
stared. The lake remained in view all through the drive, even when Dad drove into our driveway and parked, the blue of the water could still be seen.
Dad parked, and then the side doors swished open.
“We’re home,” I called in a loud voice. Everyone piled out.
"Boys, carry Greg's luggage inside," Dad said before I could dash off.
Eleven -year- old Jordie appeared at the back of the van as I set Greg's luggage on the ground.
"Can I help?" he said.
"You can help me carry in luggage," I said.
As Ted extended one hand, Jordie reached for the same piece of luggage, but Ted's hand touched the handle first. Jordie glared at him, but Ted did
not release the suitcase handle. Jordie backed away a step, whirled and ran toward the house. With a puzzled frown, I watched as Jordie climbed the
steps to the door and disappeared inside. The door clicked shut behind him. Ted picked up the suitcase and followed me inside. The rest of the
family waited in the living-room. I stopped, setting the suitcase on the floor. Ted did the same. Mom and the others sat, but stood up when I entered
with our guest. I turned to the line and began introductions. "Greg, this is my Mom, June Asquinn."
Mom smiled at Greg. "Welcome to Canada."
I continued the introductions, "This is our sister, Leah, Delicia, and our younger brothers, Jordie you've already met, and Berre. Everyone, meet
Greg Freeman."
Greg smiled at Shelly, Jordie and Berre, and then turned shyly to my sister, "Hi, Leah,"
"Hi." Leah said.
Greg turned to Ted and me again, " I'm thrilled to live with your family for one school year."
"Thank you," I said. My brother beamed at Greg.
"I'll leave you boys alone to get better acquainted,” Dad said.
Greg smiled appreciatively at Dad.
BUY This Print Book At: http://www.lulu.com/content/paperback-book/the-asquinn-twins-and-the-exchange-student/8179381
E Book: http://www.lulu.com/content/e-book/the-asquinn-twins-and-the-exchange-student/8180950
The Exchange Student
1978, Forest Lake, Ontario, Canada
I watched the small red and silver jet. The aircraft approaching the strip for a landing also captivated my twin, Ted, standing beside me. The pilot
circled the small craft around the airport once, and then approached the landing strip losing its first level of altitude as it started its final descent,
then a loud resounding crunch as the wheels touched the runway. The engine whined as the pilot geared the plane down and started taxing toward
the airport terminal.
I said, "We'll soon get to greet him. We'll soon meet the exchange student."
Ted rubbed his hands in anticipation. "I can't wait."
"Come on," I said. "Let's hurry inside and meet Greg."
I led the dash around to the front entrance. Ted followed as I tore inside and joined Dad in the airport waiting room. My younger adoptive sister, and
two adoptive younger brothers, a foster sister, and Mom waited at home. The attendant rushed to open the gate and the ramp for the passengers
brought along side the plane, and then a stewardess appeared in the doorway. She stood there greeting the passengers. One she favored with a
wide smile and sent him on his way. He looked to be about my and Ted's age- nice- looking fifteen- year- with clean-cut dark brown hair. That must
be Greg, I thought. "There he is," I said out loud. "Just in time."
Greg walked across the tarmac, through the door and into the waiting room. He sorted out his luggage from the carts brought in from the cargo
portion of the plane.
"Come on," I said and made my way to Greg's side. Ted and Dad weren't far behind.
"Greg Freeman?" Ted said.
"I'm Greg Freeman." He glanced first at Ted then me.
"I’m Korah Asquinn, this is my twin brother, Ted." I turned to Dad.
"This is my Dad, Eric Asquinn. Dad, meet Greg Freeman."
Greg shook hands with Dad. "Mr. Asquinn, I am delighted to meet you."
"Let's get Greg home now," Dad said.
When I arrived at the maroon-colored full-sized van, Ted settled in the seat beside dad while I sat behind him. I made motions with my hands to get
Greg's attention and patted the seat beside me.
"Sit here," I said.
"Sure thing," Greg agreed and sat down beside me on the outside seat.
"Now we can talk," I said. "You applied for the position of exchange student. And here you are, on the other side of the world, in another continent
without a clue what'll happen next. Wow. What do you think of our country so far?”
“I've never seen such trees,” Greg said
"They're important in the forest industry. There's a pulp and paper mill."
"That's where paper is made," Ted inserted.
"But don't worry about the smell a plant like that produces," I said," the factory is over one hundred miles away."
Ahead a sign saying, FOREST LAKE- FOUR MILES, loomed up in front of us along side the highway. Dad slowed to make the turn onto the smaller
gravel road.
"We'll soon be home," I assured the Australian.
Dad drove along Golden Ridge Circle Drive where it started when the road entered Forest Lake. He drove along the main travel- way where the
town snuggled up against a horseshoe-shaped rocky and forested ridge. He followed the road between the line of houses and the railroad tracks
running by the outside of the town.
I glanced at Greg, and then Ted and I looked at each other. Dialogue that only twins can share passed between us. We smiled at each other, and
silently told each other that Greg was an all right kind of guy and we'd enjoy hosting him for the school year. I wondered what Greg thought as he
stared at the expanse of sparkling blue waters of the lake that extended outward before him beyond the tracks. He didn't say anything; he just
stared. The lake remained in view all through the drive, even when Dad drove into our driveway and parked, the blue of the water could still be seen.
Dad parked, and then the side doors swished open.
“We’re home,” I called in a loud voice. Everyone piled out.
"Boys, carry Greg's luggage inside," Dad said before I could dash off.
Eleven -year- old Jordie appeared at the back of the van as I set Greg's luggage on the ground.
"Can I help?" he said.
"You can help me carry in luggage," I said.
As Ted extended one hand, Jordie reached for the same piece of luggage, but Ted's hand touched the handle first. Jordie glared at him, but Ted did
not release the suitcase handle. Jordie backed away a step, whirled and ran toward the house. With a puzzled frown, I watched as Jordie climbed the
steps to the door and disappeared inside. The door clicked shut behind him. Ted picked up the suitcase and followed me inside. The rest of the
family waited in the living-room. I stopped, setting the suitcase on the floor. Ted did the same. Mom and the others sat, but stood up when I entered
with our guest. I turned to the line and began introductions. "Greg, this is my Mom, June Asquinn."
Mom smiled at Greg. "Welcome to Canada."
I continued the introductions, "This is our sister, Leah, Delicia, and our younger brothers, Jordie you've already met, and Berre. Everyone, meet
Greg Freeman."
Greg smiled at Shelly, Jordie and Berre, and then turned shyly to my sister, "Hi, Leah,"
"Hi." Leah said.
Greg turned to Ted and me again, " I'm thrilled to live with your family for one school year."
"Thank you," I said. My brother beamed at Greg.
"I'll leave you boys alone to get better acquainted,” Dad said.
Greg smiled appreciatively at Dad.
BUY This Print Book At: http://www.lulu.com/content/paperback-book/the-asquinn-twins-and-the-exchange-student/8179381
E Book: http://www.lulu.com/content/e-book/the-asquinn-twins-and-the-exchange-student/8180950